Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

Caramon’s face grew grim.

“You mean that’s where we’re going?” Tas turned to the dwarf, his eyes wide. “We’re going to be gladiators? And fight in the arena, with the crowd watching and all! Oh, Caramon, think of it! The great Games of Istar! Why I’ve heard stories—”

“So have I,” the big man said slowly, “and you can forget it, dwarf. I’ve killed men before, I admit—but only when it was my life or theirs. I never enjoyed killing. I can still see their faces, sometimes, at night. I won’t murder for sport!”

He said this so sternly that Raag glanced questioningly at the dwarf and raised his club slightly, an eager look on his yellow, warty face. But Arack glared at him and shook his head.

Tas was regarding Caramon with new respect. “I never thought of that,” the kender said softly. “I guess you’re right, Caramon.” He turned to the dwarf again. “I’m really sorry, Arack, but we won’t be able to fight for you.”

Arack cackled. “You’ll fight. Why? Because it’s the only way to get that collar off yer neck, that’s why.”

Caramon shook his head stubbornly. “I won’t kill—”

The dwarf snorted. “Where have you two been living? At the bottom of the Sirrion? Or are they all as dumb as you in Solace? No one fights to kill in the arena anymore.” Arack’s eyes grew misty. He rubbed them with a sigh. “Those days are gone for good, more’s the pity. It’s all fake.”

“Fake?” Tas repeated in astonishment. Caramon glowered at the dwarf and said nothing, obviously not believing a word.

“There hasn’t been a real, true fight in the old arena in ten years,” Arack avowed. “It all started with the elves”—the dwarf spat on the ground. “Ten years ago, the elven clerics—curse them to the Abyss where they belong—convinced the Kingpriest to put an end to the Games. Called ’em ‘barbaric’! Barbaric, hah!” The dwarf’s scowl twisted into a snarl, then—once more—he sighed and shook his head.

“All the great gladiators left,” Arack said wistfully, his eyes looking back to that glorious time. “Danark the Hobgoblin—as vicious a fighter as you’ll ever come across. And Old Josepf One-Eye. Remember him, Raag?” The ogre nodded sadly. “Claimed he was a Knight of Solamnia, old Josepf did. Always fought in full battle armor. They all left, except me and Raag.” A gleam appeared deep in the dwarf’s cold eyes. “We didn’t have nowhere to go, you see, and besides—I had a kind of feeling that the Games weren’t over. Not yet.”

Arack and Raag stayed in Istar. Keeping their quarters inside the deserted arena, they became, as it were, unofficial caretakers. Passers-by saw them there daily—Raag lumbering among the stands, sweeping the aisles with a crude broom or just sitting, staring down dully into the arena where Arack worked, the dwarf lovingly tending the machines in the Death Pits, keeping them oiled and running. Those who saw the dwarf sometimes noticed a strange smile on his bearded, broken-nosed face.

Arack was right. The Games hadn’t been banned many months before the clerics began noticing that their peaceful city wasn’t so peaceful anymore. Fights broke out in bars and taverns with alarming frequency, there were brawls in the streets and once, even, a full-scale riot. There were reports that the Games had gone underground (literally) and were now being held in caves outside of town. The discovery of several mauled and mutilated bodies appeared to bear this out. Finally, in desperation, a group of human and elf lords sent a delegation to the Kingpriest to request that the Games be started again.

“Just as a volcano must erupt to let the steam and poisonous vapors escape from the ground,” said one elf lord, “so it seems that humans, in particular, use the Games as an outlet for their baser emotions.”

While this speech certainly did nothing to endear the elf lord to his human counterparts, they were forced to admit there was some justification to it. At first, the Kingpriest wouldn’t hear of it. He had always abhorred the brutal contests. Life was a sacred gift of the gods, not something to be taken away just to provide pleasure to a bloodthirsty crowd.

“And then it was me gave ’em their answer,” Arack said smugly. “They weren’t going to let me in their fine and fancy Temple.” The dwarf grinned. “But no one keeps Raag out of wherever he’s a mind to go. So they hadn’t much choice.

“‘Start the Games again,’ I told ’em, and they looked down at their long noses at me. ‘But there needn’t be no killing,’ I says. No real killing, that is. Now, listen me out. You’ve seen the street actors do Huma, ain’t you? You’ve seen the knight fall to the ground, bleedin’ and moanin’ and floppin’ around. Yet five minutes later he’s up and drinking ale at the tavern down the block. I’ve done a bit of street work in my time, and... well... watch this. Come here, Raag.’

“Raag came over, a big grin on his ugly, yellow face.

“‘Give me your sword, Raag,’ I orders. Then, before they could say a word, I plunges the sword in Raag’s gut. You shoulda seen him. Blood all over! Running down my hands, spurting from his mouth. He gave a great bellow and fell to the floor, twitchin’ and groanin’.

“You shoulda heard ’em yell,” the dwarf said gleefully, shaking his head over the memory. “I thought we was gonna have to pick them elf lords up off the floor. So, before they could call the guards to come haul me away, I kicked old Raag, here.

“‘You can get up now, Raag,’ I says.

“And he sat up, giving them a big grin. Well, they all started talking at once.” The dwarf mimicked high-pitched elven voices.

“‘Remarkable! How is it done? This could be the answer—’”

“How did you do it?” Tas asked eagerly.

Arack shrugged. “You’ll learn. A lot of chicken blood, a sword with a blade that collapses down into the handle—it’s simple. That’s what I told ’em. Plus, it’s easy to teach gladiators how to act like they’re hurt, even a dummy like old Raag here.”

Tas glanced at the ogre apprehensively, but Raag was only grinning fondly at the dwarf. “Most of ’em beefed up their fights anyway, to make it look good for the gulls—audience, I should say. Well, the Kingpriest, he went for it and”—the dwarf drew himself up proudly—“he even made me Master. And that’s my title, now. Master of the Games.”

“I don’t understand,” Caramon said slowly. “You mean people pay to be tricked? Surely they must have figured it out—”

“Oh, sure.” Arack sneered. “We’ve never made no big secret of it. And now it’s the most popular sport on Krynn. People travel for hundreds of miles to see the Games. The elf lords come—and even the Kingpriest himself, sometimes. Well, here we are,” Arack said, coming to a halt outside a huge stadium and looking up at it with pride.

It was made of stone and was ages old, but what it might have been built for originally, no one remembered. On Game days, bright flags fluttered from the tops of the stone towers and it would have been thronged with people. But there were no Games today, nor would there be until summer’s end. It was gray and colorless, except for the garish paintings on the walls portraying great events in the history of the sport. A few children stood around the outside, hoping for a glimpse of one of their heroes. Snarling at them, Arack motioned to Raag to open the massive, wooden doors.

“You mean no one gets killed,” Caramon persisted, staring somberly at the arena with its bloody paintings.

The dwarf looked oddly at Caramon, Tas saw. Arack’s expression was suddenly cruel and calculating, his dark, tangled eyebrows creased over his small eyes. Caramon didn’t notice, he was still inspecting the wall paintings. Tas made a sound, and Caramon suddenly glanced around at the dwarf. But, by that time, Arack’s expression had changed.