The Reign Of Istar (6 page)

Arryl stared. “I am to fight you in the arena?”

“You MUST fight me, human!” Nelk paused, then quickly whispered, “I could not save the
half-elf, but I might be able to save YOU, Knight of Solamnia!”

At first, Arryl thought his ears had betrayed him.

Nelk gave him a barely perceptible nod. “I can save you from the arena, Arryl Tremaine,
just as I have saved others. You won't be the first.”

Tremaine had already had enough treachery. He pulled away from the elf. “I will not fall
prey to any more traps set by Brother Gurim! Give me to Sylverlin, who does not pretend to
be other than he is! He still owes for Fen Sunbrother's life!”

“This is not a trap! I have saved others and, if it had been in my power, I would have
saved even the half-breed! Listen, for I doubt we will have long to talk! There is a way
for you to escape the arena and Istar, but to succeed you must put total faith in me!”

“Why should I?” Arryl scoffed.

Nelk dropped his mace, reached out, and grabbed the knight's sword by the blade's sharp
edge.

“Are you mad?” Arryl snatched the weapon back, but blood was already streaming from the
wound in the elf's palm.

“Watch,” Nelk commanded. His eyes closed and he whispered something. Arryl felt a tingle
in the air.

The elf's wound began to HEAL! First slowly, then with ever-increasing speed, the deep cut
closed and sealed itself. A scab formed along the wound, but it only remained a moment. In
the matter of a breath, a thin scar was all that was visible of the cut, yet Nelk was not
finished. Even the scar dwindled away, ever shrinking until the only evidence of the self-inflicted injury
was the blood that had stained the elf's hand.

Nelk wiped his palm on the sleeve of his shirt. “You're a cleric of Mishakal!” Arryl
gasped.

“I serve the goddess.” “But ... your maimed arm ...” “I chose not to heal myself in order
to hide the fact that the goddess still favors those who keep the true faith. Have Brother Gurim perform the
same miracle and see if he can heal himself. You will find that the inquisitor seems to be
lacking somewhat in his faith, or perhaps his god lacks faith in him.“ The elf eyed his
companion. ”Will you listen to me now? Will you believe in me?”

Tremaine lowered his sword blade. “If I thought my sentence just, I would still ignore
you, but there is no justice in Istar.” He shook his head. “And little faith, other than
yours. What must I do?”

Nelk nodded his approval. “Sylverlin is eager to match blades with you, but I have been
granted the right to face you in the arena. When open combat begins, we must be certain
that Sylverlin does not come between us. The battle must be my mace against your blade.”
Nelk shook his head. “Always before I have trusted my skill, never mentioned my plans to
those I rescued for fear they would weaken and betray us both! This situation with
Sylverlin, though, and your own worthy abilities, have made this change necessary. I find
I must trust YOU, Knight!”

“What about Sylverlin? He cannot be allowed to go unpunished for what he has done!”

“Leave the swordmaster to me. The time is fast approaching when he and I will clash. He
might call me friend, but there is no love between us. We are marking the day. You might
wish his death now, Knight, but rest assured I have prior and greater reasons than you.
What concerns us now is making certain that it is we two alone who face each other during
the Games. No one else must be allowed to come between us.”

Arryl was still not pleased about leaving Sylverlin to the elf, but Nelk WAS a cleric - a
true cleric. “I will abide by your decision, but tell me, why do you risk yourself here?
Why do you do it?”

The elf considered his answer well before giving it to the knight. “Because there is a balance to maintain ... and Istar threatens to tip it too
far the wrong way.”

“Very well, then. Tell me now your plan. What happens when we come to blows?”

Nelk tapped Arryl's chest with the tip of his mace. 'Then, while the crowd and Brother
Gurim watch, I will kill you, Sir Knight."

*****

So EAGER FOR BLOOD!

The day of the Games came too soon, yet not soon enough. Arryl stood in the line of
anxious gladiators, his eyes scanning the packed stadium. Istar seemed especially eager to
watch the blood flow this day. Tremaine had heard rumors that HE was the attraction. It
had been rumored that a Knight of Solamnia was among the fight ers. Despite the fact that
his armor was still a prize of the city guard, he had no doubt that most of the crowd had
picked him out already.

Across from him stood Nelk ... and Sylverlin.

The Kingpriest's box was filled, but the holy monarch himself was absent as usual. Today
the box played host to a group of men garbed in identical silver-and-white robes. In the
center sat the only one wearing gloves, Brother Gurim. Arryl could not clearly make out
his features, but he guessed the senior inquisitor had a smile on his face. For Gurim, all
was right in the world. This day was to mark yet another triumph.

Arryl wished he could drag the false cleric down to the field and tell him the truth.

The tournament had been played, the exhibitions had finished. All that remained was the
final mass combat. A free fight, in which a man could only hope that he survived the time
limit. Arryl heard some of the prisoners plotting desperately to keep in the back, away
from the rest of the combatants. Their plans collapsed when Arack informed them that
hesitation would not save any man here. The archers on the walks had orders to shoot any
gladiator who shied from battle. The prisoners had to fight. As long as they did, they had
a chance. Arack emphasized the last, and the prisoners looked more hopeful.

Arryl could have told them the truth. They were doomed. Most were unskilled fighters, even barring the days of training. They had learned
enough to hack and slash, but the skilled fighters were few and far between. The masters
of the Games did not want their hand-picked gladiators killed.

Arryl knew the outcome, having been forewarned by Nelk. The skilled fighters had already
been picked out by the veteran gladiators. Two, even three, would converge on the
newcomers while the rest took on the other prisoners. It might look as if the sides were
even, but the experience and brutal skill of the gladiators would almost immediately turn
the tide in their favor. The crowds would cheer because most of their favorites would win
and no one would pay any mind to the dead, who were convicted criminals, anyway.

Sylverlin was grinning with anticipation. Nelk was eyeing Tremaine with an almost
indifferent expression. He had armed himself with a sinister-looking ball-and-chain mace
that gave him almost half again the reach of his other weapon. Tremaine was somewhat
startled by the change, and tried not to think of what an accidental blow might do to him.
His only protection lay in a rusting shield, his sword, and his skill.

The horns sounded their death knell. The gladiators charged their chosen opponents. They
all avoided the knight, knowing he was reserved for Nelk.

All except Sylverlin. He ran up behind Nelk. Tremaine shouted a warning.

The elf turned. Sylverlin shot past him, sword ready. “You are mine, Knight!” Sylverlin
hissed.

Tremaine moved to meet him.

Nelk ran up alongside his friend as if he now planned to join Sylverlin in the duel
against Arryl. The spiked ball of the elf's mace swung back and forth, a wicked-looking
pendulum. It grazed Sylverlin's leg.

The swordmaster howled in pain and collapsed into a writhing heap on the now-bloody
surface of the field.

“The goddess has blessed it,” said Nelk, smiling at Arryl. Nelk was on him, mace cutting a
deadly arc. The one-armed elf moved with far more speed than the Solamnian was expecting,
struck at him with lethal skill. Had he not trusted Nelk, Arryl would have suspected that
the elf was indeed trying to kill him!

Arryl brought up his sword and jabbed, keeping the other at bay, as they had planned. Nelk
nodded and, his back to the crowd, he winked at Arryl. The two circled one another,
feinting strikes, but, as far as onlookers were concerned, they were too expert to fall
prey to such tricks. The crowd cheered.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Sylverlin appeared. Sword raised, he headed for Nelk, prepared
to stab the elf in the back.

Arryl had no time to shout a warning. Nelk could not have heard him if he had. The knight
thrust forward. Nelk reacted to the attack by stepping aside, still unaware of the true
danger. Sylverlin's blow caught the elf's shoulder, but Nelk's movement left the human
gladiator open to Tremaine.

The knight's blade sank to the hilt in Sylverlin's stomach. Arryl jerked his sword free.
Sylverlin slid off the blade to the ground.

Arryl heard a rattling sound behind him. Instinctively, he started to turn, and forced
himself to stand still. This was Nelk's plan.

A thick chain wrapped around his throat. Arryl pretended to struggle to free himself, then
suddenly realized Nelk wasn't pretending to kill him!

The crowd had hushed, breathless with excitement.

“Sylverlin was mine!” Nelk shouted loudly, and wrenched the choking chain tighter.

Once more, Arryl thought, my beliefs have been betrayed ... and this time it will be fatal.

He tried to lift his sword to strike the elf, but he lacked the strength. The blade
slipped from his nerveless fingers. He tried to speak, to curse Nelk, to plead. All that
escaped his lips was a pathetic gasp.

The dying knight saw the silver-and-white figure of the senior inquisitor rise to his feet
in anticipation.

The chain crushed Arryl's windpipe. Bone crunched;

the pain was horrifying. He fought to breathe, but he was choking on his own blood. He
staggered and would have fallen, but the cruel chain held him upright. He saw the stands
and then the sky, and then he was falling. Fire burst in his eyes, his head, his lungs.
When the flames died, darkness.

“Trust in me,” a voice whispered ... and laughed.

*****

When Arryl woke, he realized two things.

The first thing was that, despite the knowledge that he had died, he was not dead.

The second was that he was lying on his back in a field that must be far from the arena,
for he could neither hear the crowds nor see the high walls.

Dazed and confused, his hand instinctively reaching for his throat, Arryl sat up. He was
well, whole, no trace of injury. Just like the cut on the elf's hand ...

Arryl looked around, saw Nelk seated astride a tall black horse. In his hands, he held the
reins of Arryl's own horse. Armor - his grandfather's suit of armor, packed neatly and
strapped to a packhorse - glinted in the sunlight.

“The terror of death must have been worse for you than for most of the others I've brought
back. I wondered if you were ever going to wake up.”

Brought back! The knight stood. He glowered at the amused elf. “What do you mean, brought
back? You killed me!”

“Yes. Then I brought you back to life. That is within my powers as a true cleric.”

“You are NOT a cleric of Mishakal!” The knight recalled his last thoughts. “You told me
you were a cleric of the goddess!”

“Ah,” said Nelk cunningly. “You never asked WHICH goddess!”

Arryl reached for his sword and immediately discovered that it was not at his side.

Nelk held up the scabbard and weapon. “YOU chose to make me a follower of the gods of
good, not me. I am not a cleric of Mishakal, true. I am a servant of Kinthalas, whom you
term Sargonnas.”

SARGONNAS, consort to the Dark Lady, Takhisis, Queen of Darkness.

“Why did you bring me back?” Tremaine demanded suspiciously. “Why? For what purpose?”

Nelk considered the matter. “What I said to you in the arena holds true, Knight. There IS
a balance to maintain, though I must admit the Dark Lady would like to see it shift in her
favor. I do what I can to help those I think will aid the cause. Those I rescue are beholden, however little they may realize, to my own patron.”

“You expect such thanks from me?” Arryl asked harshly.

“I expect nothing. I find it amusing to think that a Knight of Solamnia, imprisoned by the
Order of Paladine, owes his life to a servant of his god's eternal foe.”

Tremaine could not deny what the elf said, but he was determined that neither Sargonnas
nor Takhisis would ever own the knight's soul. He would die first... again. “I am not your
slave, dark elf! Give me my sword and we will fight. Fairly, this time.”

“I will return your sword, Sir Knight, and the rest of your belongings, which took some
doing to procure. As for a battle, that may yet be what the future holds for us, but not
now. I will not fight you. And I do not think you will strike me.” Nelk tossed the sword
to the knight.

Tremaine caught the sheathed blade, but did not draw his sword.

“If it will ease your conscience, I have no hold over you. You may continue your way, free
once more, but with perhap's a little more understanding of the world.” Nelk smiled. “You
have my word.”

“What happens now? Where am I?” Arryl asked gruffly. His greatest desire at the moment was
to return to the master keep of the knighthood and reorient his own beliefs. The world
that once had been black and white had become too complex, too gray.

“We are a half-day's ride northwest of Istar, a safe place, though we should not stay too
long. You need to be on your way, and I have to return - ”

“You are RETURNING to Istar? To the Games?”

“Of course. I was on leave of absence to take Sylverlin's body to his kin,” Nelk said
grimly. “His kin were jackals. They enjoyed what was left. You did me that favor, Knight.
Sylverlin had discovered my secret and threatened to reveal me. Sylverlin is dead and my
secret is safe ... for a time. Only you know that I am a cleric, and I doubt you would be
willing to inform Brother Gurim, would you?”