Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

“So I figure I’m giving the Dark Six something they care about, which is prayer and worship-at least when they listen to me. So we have an understanding, the Six and I. They give me what I need if they’re in the mood, and when they do I’ll give them what they need, which is another follower, someone who recognizes who and what they are: those betrayed by their siblings in a grab for power.”

“And once you die,” asked Four, “they do not leave you in emptiness?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea. But I figure they’ll reward those who helped them. It’s in their best interests, after all. They need more power to overthrow the Host, so they’ll probably train me to be in their army.”

“So you would fight on their behalf?”

“Not on a gnome’s bet,” she said. “I wouldn’t risk getting destroyed for that lot. They’re just as selfish as the other gods … as anyone else, for that matter. Sure, I’d scout for them, but let them fight their own wars. That’s what I say. Honestly, why should I risk myself for someone else? I sure can’t think of a reason.”

Four said nothing, but the rest of the way back to their suite he pondered how much her attitude differed from that of her companion, who remained behind in the building, facing the unknown.

As Cimozjen considered his options, Jolieni leapt to the attack. With her left hand, she flung an object at the ground, which burst with a flash of fire and a loud crack that cut through the crowd noise. Flustered, Cimozjen blinked rapidly and backpedaled, but felt her thrusting sword strike his abdomen.

Jolieni’s sword broke a link of his chain and cut through his skin, but the iron held otherwise, turning what could have been a lethal blow into a sharp jab that sent him stumbling. She struck again, a glancing thrust that ran along the links of his chain and tore the side out of his tunic.

Eyes still dazzled by the flash, Cimozjen swung a desperate overhand blow while still backpedaling, his staff hand held high to protect his face. He felt it strike something, so he struck again, but missed her entirely. Just to be safe, he swung upward with the inside edge of his sword, again catching nothing but air. Then at the last moment, he saw her thrusting again. He ducked his head to the side, and her blade traced a deep cut across his left cheekbone and took a cut through the curl of his ear.

Years of training and experience kicked in. Knowing that the thrust had left her extended and open, Cimozjen swung his left arm wide, placing the staff in a position to keep her sword arm out of the battle as long as possible. He stepped in and swung his sword low, striking her a solid blow on the ribs with the hilt of his sword, then swept his staff in, fetching her a blow on the side of the head. He pressed forward, pushing into her to knock her to the ground, but as she fell, she managed to trip him up. He stumbled over her and she kicked at him, sending him to the ground. His sword caught the clay awkwardly and, off balance as he was, he lost his grip as he fell.

He rolled away, clutching his staff, and rose to his feet as fluidly as his aging joints allowed. He blinked several times rapidly, glad that the lingering glare from the flash was fading. He considered unleashing his staff to the fullest, but decided against it, confident that he could still defeat Jolieni without killing her.

Jolieni stood opposite, still holding her sword, but not in the same martial stance she’d been in earlier. She rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand, and then the other with the back of her wrist. Cimozjen wondered whether she was daubing at sweat or tears.

He charged, swinging his staff overhand. She raised her sword to parry, deflecting the swing to her left, but Cimozjen used the shift in momentum to swing the staff around and strike again with the other end. She blocked that swing, and the impact jarred Cimozjen’s hands as it drove the sword down. He swung again and again, sweeping the staff around to strike overhand with either end in turn, beating down her defense.

At the last, she abandoned her attempt at defense and lashed at Cimozjen as the metal-shod staff came down. He struck her squarely atop her shoulder, and her blade caught the heel of his hand where it held the staff. Between the wound and the impact, Cimozjen lost his grip on the staff, but his powerful blow drove Jolieni to the ground. With a flick of her sword she spun the staff off her, and it landed close enough to her that any attempt to recover it could be lethal.

Instead, he stepped back and recovered his sword, for he had planned his angle of attack to drive her away from his primary weapon for just that purpose.

She started to rise as he grabbed his sword, so he lunged in and slashed at her ankle. The impact knocked her foot out from under her and set her down, supine. She started to rise again, but he stepped over her, planting one leg firmly on the blade of her sword. He inverted his grip on his sword and held it to her throat, one hand on the hilt and the other flat against the blade to steady it.

The yells and whistles of the crowd, which had been a fairly steady roar, began to pulse.

Cimozjen saw that Jolieni’s face was indeed spattered with tears. His heart hesitated with compassion, but then he disciplined himself to end the combat. It was truly the most merciful thing to do. “Yield!” he demanded.

She squeezed her eyes, trying to blink away her tears. “Give me Killien back!”

Cimozjen shook his head.

The pulsing noise became gradually comprehensible. “Kill her!” chanted the crowd. “Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!”

“Rotting bastard!” She kicked at him to free herself, but he pressed the blade to the skin at the base of her neck.

“Yield, for the Host’s sake,” he shouted. “You fought well, but you’ve lost! Yield with honor!”

Her mouth worked for a moment, the noise of the crowd sounding like nothing so much as a vile, monstrous heartbeat. She gritted her teeth. “I’m sick of this,” she spat, and she shoved at Cimozjen’s foot where it stood on her sword. His foot slid down her blade, throwing him off balance.

His sword plunged into her naked neck.

The crowd roared so loudly that Cimozjen couldn’t even hear himself scream.

The Sharper Weapon

Zor, the 26th day of Sypheros, 998

Minrah awoke from her meditation before dawn. She rose, stretched like a spoiled cat, and sauntered over to the window, her bare feet making no noise as she walked. She pulled the curtain back and gazed at the sky, and her keen elf eyes noted the faintest lightening in the east-a slight warmth that crept beneath the cloud cover, the subtle promise of the coming dawn.

She turned and padded quietly over to Cimozjen’s bed, then drew up with a gasp. “Four?” she whispered. She heard the construct shift slightly. “Where is Cimozjen?”

“I presume he is still in the building where we left him.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” she said weakly, “because I more or less figured that the fights between folks would, I don’t know, just be fights or something. Like wrestling match with swords. He was supposed to teach Jolieni a lesson about swords. No one was supposed to get killed …”

“Why would you think that?” asked Four. “I killed countless people in the arena.”

“Sure, but you were a prisoner. They didn’t care if you lived or died, so having prisoners fight to the death was fine.”

“As a prisoner, they owned me. Would they not wish their property to remain undamaged?”

“Yes …”

“So if destruction of their own property was acceptable, why would it be unacceptable for non-prisoners to fight to the death?”