Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

“Oh, then I guess it was a coincidence,” she said. She managed to signal one of the serving girls to bring Boniam another drink.

“What was?”

“We were ambushed that very night,” said Minrah, matter-of-factly. “Assaulted by a small band of brigands as we walked home.”

Boniam reared back, then his temper took hold. “Filthy goat-whelps!” he slammed his fist on the table. “One thing I can’t stand, it’s them who beat up weak folks for fun or purses! Uh, no offense.”

Minrah giggled. “Don’t fret your words,” she said. “I know I don’t cut a terribly frightening profile. But my friends were plenty big enough.”

“Do tell.”

Minrah described the events of the battle as well as she could remember them, which was not overmuch, considering she’d spent most of her time hiding her face. As she recounted the tale, she looked intently at Boniam’s face, but saw not a flicker of recognition or duplicity in his expression, just a righteous indignation at robbery and those who make it their profession, and a cold glee to hear the fate of those that had perished. And, judging him to be concerned with the brutalities of war rather than the subtleties of deception, she decided he was truly ignorant of his role in the events.

Boniam’s next drink arrived, and Minrah flipped a copper crown onto the serving girl’s tray.

“Oh, hey, you don’t need to be paying for my drink,” he said. “I only spoke in jest.”

“It’s not a problem in the slightest,” said Minrah. “As I said, I’ve done well.”

Boniam winced. “You should probably be saving it to pay for healing, though,” he said. “Seeing what happened to your friend last night, I don’t think it’s very kind of you to spend it so freely. Unless the two of you aren’t involved any more …” A vague, confused look of hope crossed his features.

“What happened?”

“You didn’t hear?” He grimaced. “Folks say he got the business end of a broadsword the other night, fighting one of his zombie countrymen. Cut him up good before he put a dagger in its brain.”

Minrah gaped. “Oh my word,” she said, putting a hand to her mouth. “I hope he can hold up. I knew we were running out of time.”

“Time for what?”

“When’s the next, um, fighting thing at the arena?”

“Tomorrow night. Should be plenty of time to hire a hospitaler mage.” He glanced around the tavern at the other warriors. “And I’d suggest you do so. Looks like we’ll have a full slate.”

Minrah sucked on her lips for a moment, her troubled eyes darting around the table. At last she made up her mind. “Boniam, you seem like a decent man,” she said. “Direct, honest.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you ever broken someone’s trust?”

“Of course not.”

“Have you ever told someone a secret told to you in confidence?”

“No. Uh, well, not since I was a child.” He shrugged. “There was a time I didn’t know better, but not since I became an adult.”

Minrah stared into his eyes. “Never?”

He thought for a moment. “No, I never have,” he said plainly. “Why?”

Minrah grimly blew a stray hair out of her face and signaled for more drinks. “Because I’m about to tell you the terrible truth.”

The next day was bitterly cold and windy, but Minrah did not spend it waiting in their suite. Four followed her around the entire city as she wandered aimlessly, unable to sit still for more than a few moments.

Sunset found them sitting at a roadside table in a small courtyard. Minrah picked at some food that had long gone cold in the wind.

Four looked at the small potion in his hand, a colored glass bottle sealed with wax that bore the Aundairian royal sigil. The clerk had said it was magic.

“What am I to do with this?” he asked.

“Four, just-!” She held up one hand, seemingly cutting off her own tirade. She growled. “I’ll tell you when it’s time, got it? In the meantime, just be quiet and let me think!”

“Why are you so unsettled?” asked Four. “Your visit with the Aundairian authorities went well, did it not? They said they would launch a raid at our discretion. And Cimozjen is still alive, is he not?”

Minrah sagged, then looked up and smiled wanly. She tossed her fork to her plate. “It’s the waiting, Four. I’d hate to see it all slip away at the last moment. There’s a lot that could go wrong, but so much that could go right. I just want everything to turn out.” She stood and wrapped her cloak around her. “I’m just anxious, that’s all.”

She walked down the street toward the riverside.

Four followed, wondering if she were concerned more for Cimozjen, or for the story she’d been writing.

“Cimozjen the Black, the Killer from Karrnath, defender!” bellowed the barker, his arcanely amplified voice cutting through the ambient noise. At the heels of the introduction rose a rash of hisses, catcalls, and even the occasional supportive cheer.

Cimozjen didn’t care. Let the crowd think what they wanted to think. If he made a name for himself in the arena, be that name honored or infamous, it would only make it easier for Minrah or Four to find him and set him free.

He stalked into the arena, holding himself proudly. Even as a gladiator and a slave, he was determined to uphold the honor of the Iron Band and to win every fight that came his way. Only through survival could he possibly make his holy retribution for his fallen brother, and only through survival could he continue to defy those who held him against his will.

Freedom. The first thing he’d do would be to get a decent meal. The gruel they fed him tasted like the underside of a hard-ridden saddle.

He wore his chain mail, padded beneath by his tunic. He wasn’t sure why they let him keep it. He still didn’t have a helm, nor did he think they’d ever give him one. He had his sword in hand, his staff in his off hand, and his dagger concealed at his back.

And he had a seven-day growth of stubble across his chin, slowly forming itself into a beard. He did not relish the thought of using his sword-or worse yet, his heirloom dagger-as a razor, but his other options were slim.

He pulled his attention back to the present, shoving away thoughts of food and hygiene. He had someone to fight. And, unfortunately, someone he might have to kill. He knew that, given his nickname and the reputation he’d backed into, anyone he faced would be unlikely to give him any mercy.

A bugbear entered the far side of the arena, holding a massive double-bitted battle-axe. The creature was large, six feet tall, covered with a coarse dark-brown fur. Large goblinoid ears propped out to each side. The one on the right had a pair of silver hoops run through two piercings, the one on the left was tattooed with a pair of runes or symbols that Cimozjen couldn’t read at that distance. It had small eyes that seemed to glow with anger. Its muzzle was pronounced and powerful, reminiscent of the bear for which the species had been nicknamed untold ages ago. It wore a breechclout and a pair of heavy leather straps crossed across its breast, but no other clothing or armor.

Cimozjen closed the gap, sizing the creature up. It likewise stepped closer, walking upright rather than using the bandy-legged gait Cimozjen had expected.

Cimozjen stopped. He cocked his head, inspecting the bugbear’s features more closely. He smiled. “You have experience in the arena, I see,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the crowd.

The beast raised his axe and spun it about its haft, then stretched its arms out to the side. “Silence!” it bellowed in its gravelly voice, and the crowd obeyed. “Cimozjen Hellekanus,” the beast continued, shouting. “I bring a message to you from Tholog. He remembers your deeds in this ring, and tonight he wishes to see you die.”