Роджер Мур - The Reign of Istar

The Games at this time consisted of both live combat and tournament battle, with more of the former than the latter. The difference between the two was that “live” combat usually meant “live” death as well. Tournament battles were fought between gladiators of exceptional skill, who were too valuable to let themselves get killed, and generally ended when one of the men was disarmed. None of the prisoners were to be a part of those tournaments. The Games Arryl and his fellows had been chosen to play would be very, very real.

Raag led them into the arena and out onto the field. The sound of two weapons ringing against one another was almost deafening. A group of fighters—obviously veteran gladiators—stood in a circle, cheering on two combatants. The battle sounds stirred something inside Arryl. He craned his head to see. It was evident from the frequency of the strikes that here were two opponents who not only fought with speed, but with skill.

Despite the noise, someone noticed Raag’s approach. It paid to notice the ogre before one became a temporary obstacle in his path. The gladiators gave way for the oncoming ogre. Arryl made a quick study of the men. Hardened fighters all, but lacking in the grace and elegance of a knight. If not for the arena, many of them would have ended up mercenaries or highwaymen. More than a few had probably worked as one or both during the course of their lives.

Raag, gruff as ever, turned to Arryl and pointed at the duelist to the left.

“Nelk. Arack say, you fight with Nelk.”

Arryl stared, amazed.

Nelk was an elf.

A maimed elf. Arryl wondered about the sort of elf who would deal in death, decided he must be a dark elf, one of the outcasts of elven society.

Tremaine studied Nelk. He seemed no different from the few elves the knight had met, except that the arrogant, delicate features were marred by a sardonic twist of the mouth, as if Nelk—that could not be his true name—had seen too much of the world and not found it to his liking. But he handled a mace with a skill becoming that of a Solamnic master, a necessary skill, since the elf lacked the lower half of his right arm and could not, therefore, have used a shield to any real purpose. His natural grace and agility also served to compensate for his physical handicap.

Nelk’s opponent was a human, a thin, brown-haired man who both looked and moved like a snake. He fought with a sword and Arryl, who took an instant dislike to the serpentine man, grudgingly had to admit he was skilled.

It was a strange duel, mace against sword. Both men were caught up in their practice and it was evident that here were two masters. Arryl forgot his troubles, watching the two skilled fighters at work. Although Nelk had only one arm, his mace was nearly three feet long. He moved with a speed that few humans could match. His heavier adversary compensated for a lack of elven speed by utilizing both sword and shield as few men in the knighthood could have managed.

The weapons clanged together again and again, never remaining motionless. Each time one duelist seemed about to break through the defenses of the other, a counterassault brought them back to their standoff.

Then, Arryl saw the human make a blunder. An overextension of his arm left his side vulnerable. It was a very slight mistake, but a master such as Nelk should have been able to capitalize on it easily.

Nelk ignored it. The gap in the human’s defenses vanished instantly. Once again the two were on even footing.

“Hold, Sylverlin!” The elf stepped back, still guarding himself. His serpentine counterpart did the same. Both men saluted each other, then smiled grimly. Nelk was not breathing hard at all; his human adversary seemed only slightly put out by the strenuous activity. Arryl silently applauded their abilities.

Turning, the elf eyed the newcomers. The rest of the gladiators melted away as he walked over to inspect the small group Raag had brought him. “What is this?”

“Arack said,” was all the ogre commented.

“Mine, then.” The elf surveyed the trio of prisoners. He seemed amused by the boy, and sneered at the half-elf. Most elves—even dark ones—looked down upon halfbreeds as being less than either of the two races from which they had sprung.

Nelk paused when he came to Arryl. “You are a fighter, I see.”

“Solamnian,” Raag offered.

“Ah. The knight,” said Sylverlin, coming up behind.

Both instructors studied Tremaine with interest.

Tremaine straightened. “I will not fight in your Games.”

“Won’t you?” Nelk shrugged. “We’ll see. Arack gave you to me and that is all that matters.”

“Too good for us?” Sylverlin hissed. He even sounded like a serpent.

“Arack waits,” Raag grunted.

Satisfied that Nelk was now in charge of the three, the ogre turned and departed without another word. Nelk watched him go, seeming to appraise the ogre’s every movement.

“He’d still beat you, my good friend,” the reptilian man commented offhandedly. “Raag’s quick in the head when he needs to be, not to mention having a skin as tough as a breastplate.”

“I am well aware of both my limitations and his, Sylverlin. Best to worry about your own. If we had been dueling to the death, I would have crushed your rib cage after that last ploy of yours.”

“You mean the opening I left? Wasn’t a mistake, my good friend.” Sylverlin bowed in mockery to Arryl, then slid off in the opposite direction Raag had gone.

“I knew it was not,” the elf commented with a wry smile, his voice loud enough for the knight to hear. “Why else would I have avoided it?” The elf’s slanted eyes returned to Arryl. “As for you, you will fight, human. You will fight for the simple reason that you will die if you do not. You … and others because of you.” His glance went, as if by accident to the half-elf and the boy. “For now, you should get something to eat, I think. You will need your strength today. That is a promise. Go with them.”

He pointed to several gladiators who leered at the newcomers and made crude comments about “last meals” Arryl stiffened and reached for a sword that wasn’t at his side. Nelk laughed and sauntered away.

The half-elf leaned toward Arryl and whispered, “They will kill us on the spot if you choose to give them trouble now! Best to live and find a better moment, human!”

Tremaine reluctantly gave in and started walking. The half-elf’s words made sense to him, but he wondered exactly when that better moment might come. Escape seemed impossible. The arena was well protected; archers and sentries were everywhere.

An indrawn breath from the half-elf made Tremaine shift his gaze. “What is it?”

“The senior inquisitor is up in the stands with the arena masters!” his companion muttered. “Pray he is not here concerning us! If so, we go from having

little chance to none!”

Following the direction of the other prisoner’s eyes, the knight focused on a man who had been watching the duel between Nelk and Sylverlin from the stands.

Brother Gurim!

Arryl Tremaine tripped and nearly fell. He stared and stared at the rat-eyed priest. Arryl was certain now. He had stepped into a nightmare whose master was the gloved cleric.

Was this truly what Istar had become?

Sylverlin marched Arryl out into the arena after the meal and handed the knight a sword. Arryl dropped it at the man’s feet. Sylverlin told him to pick it up. Arryl told him the same thing he had told the elf earlier: “I will not fight.” The knight fully expected to be beaten or tortured. Sylverlin clenched his fist, seeming to enjoy the idea.

“Leave him be,” ordered Nelk. He made Tremaine stand aside while the elf took the half-elf and the boy and added them to another group of mixed unfortunates. Sylverlin glowered, obviously disappointed. He obeyed Nelk, however, though he flashed the elf a vicious glance that Nelk saw but ignored. The abandoned sword remained at the knight’s feet, as if a challenge of some sort. Arryl folded his arms and stood unmoving the rest of the afternoon.