Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

This ploy was only partly successful, because he found himself staring into the stands—right into the eyes of many admiring and beautiful women, who were obviously trying to capture his attention.

“We’re on again,” Kiiri nudged him, and Caramon returned thankfully to the ring.

He grinned at the Barbarian as the tall man strode forward. This was their big number, and he and Caramon had practiced it many times. The Barbarian winked at Caramon as they faced each other, their faces twisted into looks of ferocious hatred. Growling and snarling like animals, both men crouched over, stalking each other around the ring a suitable amount of time to build up tension. Caramon caught himself about to grin and had to remind himself that he was supposed to look mean. He liked the Barbarian. A Plainsman, the man reminded him in many ways of Riverwind—tall, dark-haired, though not nearly as serious as the stern ranger.

The Barbarian was a slave as well, but the iron collar around his neck was old and scratched from countless battles. He would be one chosen to go after the golden key this year, that was certain.

Caramon thrust out with the collapsible sword. The Barbarian dodged with ease and, catching Caramon with his heel, neatly tripped him. Caramon went down with a roar. The audience groaned (the women sighed), but there were many cheers for the Barbarian, who was a favorite. The Barbarian lunged at the prone Caramon with a spear. The women screamed in terror. At the last moment, Caramon rolled to one side and, grabbing the Barbarian’s foot, jerked him down to the sawdust platform.

Thunderous cheers. The two men grappled on the floor of the arena. Kiiri rushed out to aid her fallen comrade and the Barbarian fought them both off, to the crowd’s delight. Then, Caramon, with a gallant gesture, ordered Kiiri back behind the line. It was obvious to the crowd that he would take care of this insolent opponent himself.

Kiiri patted Caramon on his rump (that wasn’t in the script and nearly caused Caramon to forget his next move), then she ran off. The Barbarian lunged at Caramon, who pulled his collapsible dagger. This was the show-stopper—as they had planned. Ducking beneath the Barbarian’s upraised arm with a skillful maneuver, Caramon thrust the dummy dagger right into the Barbarian’s gut where a bladder of chicken blood was cleverly concealed beneath his feathered breastplate.

It worked! The chicken blood splashed out over Caramon, running down his hand and his arm. Caramon looked into the Barbarian’s face, ready for another wink of triumph...

Something was wrong.

The man’s eyes had widened, as was in the script. But they had widened in true pain and in shock. He staggered forward—that was in the script,too—but not the gasp of agony. As Caramon caught him, he realized in horror that the blood washing over his arm was warm!

Wrenching his dagger free, Caramon stared at it, even as he fought to hold onto the Barbarian, who was collapsing against him. The blade was real!

“Caramon...” The man choked. Blood spurted from. His mouth.

The audience roared. They hadn’t seen special effects like this in months!

“Barbarian! I didn’t know!” Caramon cried, staring at dagger in horror. “I swear!”

And then Pheragas and Kiiri were by his side, helping to ease the dying Barbarian down onto the arena floor.

“Keep up the act!” Kiiri snapped harshly.

Caramon nearly struck her in his rage, but Pheragas caught his arm. “Your life, our lives depend on it!” the black man hissed. “And the life of your little friend!”

Caramon stared at them in confusion. What did they mean? What were they saying’? He had just killed a man—a friend! Groaning, he jerked away from Pheragas and knelt beside the Barbarian. Dimly he could hear the crowd cheering, and he knew—somewhere inside of him—that they were eating this up. The Victor paying tribute to the “dead.”

“Forgive me,” he said to the Barbarian, who nodded.

“It’s not your fault,” the man whispered. “Don’t blame yoursel—” His eyes fixed in his head, a bubble of blood burst on his lips.

“We’ve got to get him out of the arena,” Pheragas whispered sharply to Caramon, “and make it look good. Like we rehearsed. Do you understand?”

Caramon nodded dully. Your life... the life of your little friend. I am a warrior. I’ve killed before. Death is nothing new. The life of your little friend. Obey orders. I’m used to that. Obey orders, then I’ll figure out the answers...

Repeating that over and over, Caramon was able to subdue the part of his mind that burned with rage and pain. Coolly and calmly, he helped Kiiri and Pheragas lift the Barbarian’s “lifeless” corpse to its feet as they had done countless times in rehearsal. He even found the strength to turn and face the crowd and bow. Pheragas, with a skillful motion of his free arm, made it seem as if the “dead” Barbarian were bowing, too. The crowd loved it and cheered wildly. Then the three friends dragged the corpse off the stage, down into the dark aisles below.

Once there, Caramon helped them ease the Barbarian down onto the cold stone. For long moments, he stared at the corpse, dimly aware of the other gladiators, who had been waiting their turn to go up into the arena, looking at the lifeless body, then melting back into the shadows.

Slowly, Caramon stood up. Turning around, he grabbed hold of Pheragas and, with all his strength, hurled the black man up against the wall. Drawing the bloodstained dagger from his belt, Caramon held it up before Pheragas’s eyes.

“It was an accident,” Pheragas said through clenched teeth.

“Edged weapons!” Caramon cried, shoving Pheragas’s head roughly into the stone wall. “Bleed a little! Now, you tell me! What in the name of the Abyss is going on!”

“It was an accident, oaf,” came a sneering voice.

Caramon turned. The dwarf stood before him, his squat body a small, twisted shadow in the dark and dank corridor beneath the arena.

“And now I’ll tell you about accidents,” Arack said, his voice soft and malevolent. Behind him loomed the giant figure of Raag, his club in his huge hand. “Let Pheragas go. He and Kiiri have to get back to the arena and take their bows. You all were the winners today.”

Caramon glanced at Pheragas for a moment, then dropped his hand. The dagger slipped from his nerveless fingers onto the floor, he slumped back against the wall. Kiiri regarded him in mute sympathy, laying her hand on his arm. Pheragas sighed, cast the smug dwarf a venomous glance, then both he and Kiiri left the corridor. They walked around the body of the Barbarian, which lay, untouched, on the stone.

“You told me no one got killed!” Caramon said in a voice choked with anger and pain.

The dwarf came over to stand in front of the big man. “It was an accident,” Arack repeated. “Accidents happen around here. Particularly to people who aren’t careful. They could happen to you, if you’re not careful. Or to that little friend of yours. Now, the Barbarian, here, he wasn’t careful. Or rather, his master wasn’t careful.”

Caramon raised his head, staring at the dwarf, his eyes wide with shock and horror.

“Ah, I see you finally got it figured out.” Arack nodded.

“This man died because his owner crossed someone,” Caramon said softly.

“Yeah.” The dwarf grinned and tugged at his beard. “Civilized, ain’t it? Not like the old days. And no one’s the wiser. Except his master, of course. I saw his face this afternoon. He knew, as soon as you stuck the Barbarian. You might as well have thrust that dagger into him. He got the message all right.”

“This was a warning?” Caramon asked in strangled tones.

The dwarf nodded again and shrugged.