Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

He took a sip of his drink to wet his throat. “At the same time, the nations were starting to stand down their armies. Thousands of veterans and, better yet, those who’d stood guard for years and never gone to war, all were turned loose with nothing to do. So I thought to bring the two together. Slowly but surely I eliminate the people entrusted to our … how shall I say, ‘hospitality,’ and I get to evaluate the former soldiers. The novices died. The very best, we recruited into our mercenaries. If they refused, we arranged for them to fight one of our best prisoners. And no matter what happened, we made money by means of gambling.”

“Ah,” said Cimozjen. “Death by commercial enterprise.”

“I suppose you could put it that way. But what is a mercenary house other than commercial killing?” He took another sip. “With my plan, I recruit away the very best of everyone’s armies, deaths erode away their manpower, and my house even gets gambling revenues. Over time, my enclave grows richer, and eventually there will be no army with any experience left in Khorvaire … but ours.” He spread his hands helplessly. “You see how brilliant it is?”

“I must admit, it has a vile beauty to its completeness,” said Cimozjen.

“I do not understand,” said Four. “I never fought in the War. Why was I used?”

Rophis waved a hand dismissively. “Please, there were plenty of your kind still warm from the forges at war’s end. No one wanted your kind any more, so the Canniths gave us a good price the day before emancipation. Now be a good little whoreforged and shut your jawbone.”

He set his glass on the end table and drummed his fingers twice on the polished wood. “As I said, I was not expecting to see you here today, but I hope I have shown myself to be hospitable. I am also forgiving. You fought quite well in the arena, Cimozjen Hellekanus. You are a valuable warrior, and I would be most pleased were you to choose to join one of my house’s mercenary companies. I do believe you’d have command potential, and your wages would reflect that.”

“I want the arena combats to end,” said Cimozjen. “That would be a suitable step toward justice for Torval.”

Rophis leaned forward. “Weren’t you listening?” he said reasonably. “Why do you think I told you all that I have? To show you that you cannot win. You cannot stop me or my plan. We have enough momentum now that we can continue the fights without the prisoners. Even if you were to bring everything I said to the chronicles, no one would believe you in the face of Minrah’s story. Plus, as I warned a few moments ago, you’d earn the wrath of a dragonmarked house, and that leads to a short and painful life.”

Cimozjen curled his lips into a snarl. “Then I shall kill you to and put an end to this.”

Rophis sagged, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “Your anger is blinding you. You can’t stop it. I can’t even stop it now, and I started the damned thing! The arena has been running for two years here in Aundair, a year in Sharn, and as you may have deduced, I recently introduced it to Korth. The wheels are well in motion, and it is far too late to stop the cart. Within five years, arenas will be in operation across the continent, and in ten years, I’m sure we’ll be able to operate in the open.”

Cimozjen’s hand twisted on the hilt of his sword. “If I cannot stop the arena, at least I can get revenge on you for the pointlessness of Torval’s death. Arm yourself.”

Rophis sighed, clapped his hands on his knees, and stood. “You still don’t grasp this, do you? This is has nothing to do with you personally, or even with your friend. But perhaps you can understand that your friend did not have the pointless death that Quardov and others like him wanted. I made sure of that. His fighting gave other veterans like him something to do. His fighting helped build my house. In fact, you yourself helped further my goals in the arena. By so rapidly becoming such a hated fighter, you increased attendance and gambling income. My house made a lot from you and your friend, whatever his name was.”

Cimozjen drew his sword.

Rophis shook his head. “I was afraid you’d feel that way. But according to Minrah’s writings, you’re an oathbound, aren’t you?” He walked over to Cimozjen and turned his back, his hands clasped placidly in front of him. “Go ahead, my fellow Karrn. I am unarmed. My back is turned. I cannot stop you. Strike me down.”

There was a short silence, the only audible sound that of Cimozjen’s breathing.

Rophis chuckled. “You can’t stop the arena, Cimozjen. You can’t even kill me, the one man you hate most. You may as well just leave and go home.”

“You’re right,” said Cimozjen. He lowered his head. “I cannot kill you.”

Cimozjen and Four backed out of the receiving room, bowed, and closed the doors quietly behind them. The door guards on either side scowled, but Cimozjen touched his brow in deference and said, “We know the way out.”

Nonetheless, one of the door guards escorted them down the hall to the stairs and across the lobby of the building.

The pair walked across the courtyard toward the gatehouse.

“I just realized something,” said Four.

“What’s that?”

“Do you remember the coins that the strange people gave me when they took me out of my home?”

“How could I forget?” said Cimozjen. “They sent you off with several hundred in mixed coinage dangling from a burlap bag around your neck. What of it?”

“Minrah bet them all on your victory in the arena the first night.”

“Did she?” Cimozjen snorted derisively. “At least she bet on the winning side.”

“She did,” said Four. “But she never gave me back my coins.”

“She kept-argh, I tell you the truth, Four, we are the better for her absence.”

Four looked at his hands for a moment, then curled them into fists. “I wish to have a new name now,” he said.

“Oh? What would that be?”

“Free.”

Cimozjen smiled wistfully and clapped the warforged on the shoulder. “It’s a good name, all things considered.”

They passed through the gatehouse and into the city’s streets. Cimozjen paused, unsure which way to go now that his crusade of the last few weeks had so abruptly ended.

“Pah! Some bodyguards you are,” called one of the gate guards. “Your patron left a good while ago.”

“She decided to contract with your house, instead,” said Cimozjen.

“Hullo, warforged,” called the other guard, “I thought you had a battle-axe when you came in.”

“I did,” he said. “I left it with Rophis.”