Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

With a grimace, he forced his eyes to open. At first he saw nothing, then as his brain oriented to the dim light he began to take in his surroundings.

He lay on a pallet, clad in his shirt, chain hauberk, pants, and boots. The links of the chain mail, pressed against his naked flesh, were very uncomfortable.

With a grunt, he forced himself to sit up. His head ached. The pallet bed lay in a small room empty of furniture. His sword and staff leaned against the corner by the door. He noted no other ornamentation, although his eyes registered something amiss.

He lurched to his feet. The blood drained from his brain and he teetered on the verge of passing out. Drawing on his training, he forced himself to retain consciousness, putting all his effort into willing his mind to focus. He swayed for a moment more, and then lurched and put his hand against the wall for support.

His head pounded, and every time he moved in the slightest, it felt like a load of bricks shifted around in his brainpan. He ran one hand across the back of his neck, stretching. It did little good.

He leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing heavily, and came to the conclusion that being semi-delirious with his weapons in hand was probably safer for him than being semi-delirious unarmed. With heavy, limping strides he shuffled his way to his sword and staff, accompanied the sound of metal rattling across stone. He paused. Looked down. He saw a cuff of iron around one ankle, fastened by a long chain to a stone set in the center of the floor.

He stumbled toward his weapons, only to be reined in at the last moment by the manacle, his fingers a mere foot from the grip of his only defense. His hand flew to the small of his back, only to find that his dagger, too, was missing. He looked at the door and finally realized what his subconscious mind had noted all along. The door had no latch.

He was trapped in a cell.

And then it all came back to him-killing Jolieni, being ushered from the field blinded by his tears, then being attacked by the guards with their blunt forked spears that wracked him with agony every time they touched him. He’d fought, pain and fear and anguish driving him on, but he wasn’t even sure if he’d managed to land a blow on any of them.

Now he understood the burning pains he felt. He ran his hand down his tunic and found a small charred hole situated over one of his burns. Whatever elemental magic was imbedded within those cleft polearms, his chain mail had done nothing to protect his body from it.

Slowly he peeled off his tunic, and then his chain hauberk. It grated across his wounded ear, eliciting a hiss of pain. He let the armor fall to the floor. It half covered his foot.

Caged.

Just like Torval had been, he was certain of that. Caged and forced to fight in the arena for the amusement of others. The promise of repatriation twisted into a never-ending nightmare of mortal combats for the benefit of the heartless.

He turned around and surveyed his room anew. A bucket sat against one wall, a second lay across from it. Slop and food, he assumed. The walls were of windowless stone. There was nowhere even to sit but the pallet. No decoration of any sort, save the words “Ajiuss Aeyliros” scratched into one wall. He presumed it was a name. Either that, or an elven epithet.

Torval had suffered for years like this. Two long years of brutality. Cimozjen looked about. With his belt, he could probably figure out a way to hang himself, deny his captors the satisfaction of any further entertainment from him.

But if he were to do that, he would fail in his sworn goal. His friend Torval would remain unavenged, and his own last act would be one of defeat. He wouldn’t even be dying for anything, just dying against something he did not want to endure. Just like Jolieni, with her bitter face and her pointless suicide that he knew would haunt his nights for months.

No, he had to hold on. He had to play his part and wait. He had an advantage that Torval didn’t. He had friends on the outside who knew his situation. Four hadn’t been allowed into the building, and hopefully Minrah had escaped their clutches as well. She was clever. All he had to do was wait until they figured out a way to set him free. Which, he admitted, might take weeks, even months.

In the meantime, he had to survive, and, to the best of his ability, avoid any more killing. He was here to free his fellow prisoners, not to murder them. And the other warriors, the ones who opted for this dangerous sport, they probably did not know that people like him were held in bondage.

For him to survive, though, he’d have to fight. He’d have to cause needless pain on people who knew not the extent of what they were doing or, worse yet, shared in his cruel fate. He’d have to do the bidding of his captors, or at least appear to be doing so … if there was truly any difference.

He hated the feeling of being trapped. He’d had the feeling before, prior to being captured, and it had not ended well then, either. At least this time he had a better inkling of what he needed to do to get out of the situation. Somehow he had to keep winning … without killing his opponents.

If he could help it.

He hung his head.

And there, thanks be to the Host, he saw his holy symbol still dangling about his neck. With a grim half smile, he grasped it in his right hand. And for the first time in twenty-two long years, he prayed for his own healing without a trace of guilt.

Pomindras snarled and tore the broadsheet from the pillar where it had been tacked. Ignoring the shouts of the other commoners nearby, he quickly folded it up and stormed away.

His fury propelled him to the walled compound that served as his family’s residences and halls of business. Guards opened the door for him that he might not have to break stride. His heavy boots clomped up the central stairway and down to the end of the wood-floored hallways until at last he reached the grand suite that overlooked the serene Aundair River.

He was admitted immediately.

A large, gilded desk polished to a mirror sheen dominated the room. Behind that desk sat a large overstuffed chair, so grand in design that it nearly rivaled a throne. At the moment, that throne showed its back to the door, turned as it was to face the panoramic windows that had been opened at the rear of the room. The view out the windows showed the dawn unfolding on the cityscape below and the countryside across the river.

Pomindras stepped into the suite and around the desk, stopping near the huge chair. He bowed to his master. “Something I think you should see, lord Rophis,” he said.

Rophis neither turned his head nor answered, but simply held out one hand.

Pomindras placed the broadsheet in his grasp, saying, “About halfway down, lord.”

Rophis unfolded the broadsheet and read.

Bound by Iron

A True Adventure in Betrayal, Murder ,

and One Man’s Quest for Vengeance

Part the First

Scribed by Minrah Penwright, Who Has Seen All that Has Transpired and Swears to Its Veracity

This is a tale of sacrifice and loss, blood and woe, betrayal and redemption; and you, dear readers, may yet play a part in the final act in which, we all fervently hope, shall at last be had the wrathful vengeance for illicit wrongs done to untold innocents guilty of no crime other than wishing to be returned home after the armistice that concluded the Last War .

Our story, dear readers, begins some seventeen days prior to this, in the city of Korth, near the harbor on the left bank of the Karrn River …

The Dragon’s Trail

Sul, the 1st day of Aryth, 998