Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

He looked back to Kraavel. “Lie still!” he whispered. “Play dead!” Cimozjen clutched his holy symbol, concealed beneath his body, with his right hand.

“But Mozji,” pleaded Kraavel, “the bleeding, it-”

“Let them pass by, and then I’ll heal you! Just hold on for a few moments!” He didn’t mention-couldn’t admit, not aloud-that he feared the Aundairians might stab him as he lay there, and he wanted to save his healing for himself, just in case. He didn’t want to die, not here, not like that, not stabbed to death while feigning to be a corpse. He felt the fear, he felt the dishonor, and he was ashamed.

“Mozji, I’m so cold …”

“Hsst!”

Cimozjen lay still, one eye peering through the crook of his dead foe’s arm to watch the progress of the Aundairian spearmen. He steeled his mind, bracing himself to feel a stab wound, willing himself not to react to the pain, preparing his soul to pray for his healing even as the cruel blade was withdrawn from his torso. Concealed beneath his prone body, the telltale glow of his holy symbol would not be noticed, and he might survive the encounter.

The Aundairians moved past, never closer than thirty paces to one side. Cimozjen heard them talking quietly, their accented words a strange murmur in the settling evening.

After they passed, after the tension eased from his joints and limbs, Cimozjen began to move, carefully, quietly. He found his dirk still embedded in the chest of his foe and gripped it, then crawled stealthily over to where Kraavel lay.

“Hsst! Kraavel!” he whispered. “They’re gone!” He pushed Kraavel over to get a better look at the wound, but his friend lay limp. His undamaged eye was dilated, staring nowhere. His half-open lips looked faintly blue.

As the sun set over the last battlefield of the Iron Band, Cimozjen stared into the face of his friend, abandoned by an act of cowardice to die a cold and lonely death.

“I am so sorry, my friend,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.” He began to weep, silently. “And I swear, never, ever again.”

A Crash of Iron

Wir, the 4th day of Aryth, 998

Pomindras rose. “Lord, I should be going. I’m due on the clay shortly.”

“You enjoy that, don’t you?” asked Rophis, slurping away the last of his wine. “Who is it this time?”

“Some stiff-necked youngster who wants my shield,” he said as he carefully hefted his prize possession by the straps and slung it over his back. The gold rim shone beautifully, while the black boss remained as black as midnight. “He challenged me, can you believe it? Bah. Odds are as long as I’ve seen them, but I’ll still chain myself up, just in case the lad gets a lucky strike in.”

“Pomindras, while you’re down there, sign that bugbear up with the family. I liked his style.”

“If you insist, lord,” he said. He picked up his sword by the scabbard and trotted to the stairwell that led to the arena.

The bugbear looked around. A sea of faces-yelling, cheering, clapping-surrounded him. It was a new experience. He looked down at the thin blade in his hand. It was so small compared to his great axe, but in the right hands, just as deadly. Perhaps even deadlier. It was all so confusing, the noise, the dealings, everything but the arena. For a moment, he wished he were home.

One of the doors to the arena opened and a trio of workers stepped out, unarmed and dressed in simple peasants’ attire. They walked over to Cimozjen’s body. One hand was still clenched over his heart, and the other still tightly held to his staff. Blood trickled down the links of chain mail to form a small pool on the clay.

One of the workers continued to walk across the plaza to pick up Cimozjen’s sword. The other two moved to recover his body. They each grabbed one heel and started pulling, and as they dragged him across the field, friction slowly drove his arms over his head. It almost looked like he was cheering another victory.

“Hey,” said the trailing worker, the sword slung easily over his shoulder. “He ain’t lettin’ go of his stick!” He chuckled a little at the oddity.

One of the other workers called back to him over his shoulder, saying, “That’s why it’s called a ‘death grip.’ He’ll drop it soon enough.”

They dragged Cimozjen’s body out of the arena. The third worker trailed close behind with the sword, and as he grabbed the latch to close the door behind him, he noticed that the bugbear had followed them. “Hey,” he said. “You’re supposed to go out that other door.” He pointed across the arena with his empty hand, then started to close the door.

The bugbear reached out and grabbed the edge of the door.

“Hey!” yelled the worker. He raised his voice and spoke more slowly. “Go to that door. Understand? Not here. There.” He pointed again. “That door. Go. This door, no!” He took a moment to turn to his companions. “Hey. Did you hear that? I rhymed!”

The bugbear yanked the door open and stepped in.

“Hey!” yelled the worker. “I said the other door!”

The bugbear closed the door behind him.

“Now look, you nit-brained-”

The bugbear kneed the man as hard as he could in the gut. The worker gagged with the impact, nigh to vomiting, and doubled over, whereupon the bugbear slammed one heavy fist onto his back just between his shoulders.

Cimozjen jerked into motion. Still clutching the staff tightly in his hand, he lanced it like a spear at one of the people dragging him and smacked him at the base of the skull. Stunned, the man let go of Cimozjen’s leg. The other turned. Surprised to see the corpse moving in such an animated way, he also dropped Cimozjen’s foot in surprise.

Cimozjen, in an awkward position at best, nonetheless swung his staff to strike the worker on the knee, temporarily hobbling him.

The bugbear leaped over Cimozjen and grabbed the two startled workers. They clearly had no fighting experience, and in a few swift breaths the bugbear had them both pinned beneath his burly arms. He squeezed the air from them until they both went limp, then banged their heads together a few times for good measure.

The bugbear turned to see Cimozjen had regained his feet. “That was easy,” he said.

Cimozjen laughed darkly. “For you, maybe, but I was the one that got stabbed.”

“I have been damaged many times.”

“That’s true,” said Cimozjen, “but I think it feels different to creatures like us, Four.” He picked up his sword. “Got my knife?”

Four handed Cimozjen his blade, then looked at his extended arm. “How do I get rid of this fur?” he said. “I do not like it. It is not me.”

“It’s just a visual illusion, Four. Your body still feels the same beneath it. It’ll wear off sooner or later. I hope.” Cimozjen sniffed and looked around. “So how do we get out of here?”

“We do not,” answered Four.

“What is going on?” said Rophis. “If they need to fight, put them in the pit!”

He stood and turned to find the source of the ruckus that had seized an entire section of seats somewhere off to his right.

There, near the entrance, it seemed a number of the audience had broken into a brawl. He strode toward the disturbance, waving several house guards to follow. Curiously, the crowd seemed to be evading the mischief, instead of feeding it.

But then he saw two unexpected things that put everything into perspective.

He saw the hobgoblin that Cimozjen had bested three days previous, and beside him the lad who owed them a few years in the arena after his evisceration. And he saw the rich blue tabards of the Aundairian soldiery.

They were forcing their way in to the arena, arresting as many people as they could and driving the rest before them like cattle. The two turncoat pit fighters were gesturing in Rophis’s direction, searching the crowd for familiar faces.