Prodigal Sons Page 8

  That man would surely be my death, I knew, even before he started shouting, drawing the crowd around us. I apologized profusely to my new friend Kerban, whose ears, I now saw, had slight points to them. His diadem glimmered brightly and I felt ashamed that my companion so disturbed and belittled my gracious new companion. I helped Kerban up by clambering off of him, and he was as shocked as I to hear Phargas’s accusations.

  “Violators!” Phargas yelled. I supposed the local rabble expected all disturbances to be their entertainment, as many paused to surround us and listen to Phargas continue. “I demand the Law of Grievance! These two would violate our Fifth Freedom, and I demand recompense! The black one there tried to bewitch us with magic and capture us for some nefarious purpose!”

  I would have asked Phargas to explain, but the rabble overwhelmed my questions. The press of the unwashed closed in on all of us, all yelling, “To the arena!” I felt faint as the odors and bodies of the crowd pressed in, their voices screaming, “No mercy for slavers!” or “Blood must answer!”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “You expect me to believe our new friend Kerban clouded my mind? Preposterous! My wits are inviolate.” Honestly, Phargas generated the most outrageous excuses for his own boorish behavior.

  “Not to the mace that just missed you back there, they’re not,” Phargas replied. “Nor to that half-elf and his magic circlet. He’s not our friend, but what he is, we’ll find out.”

  "Ullorth Ungin is benevolent—and woe to those who say otherwise."

  A filthy mob herded us through the streets, eager to see us “settle a grievance on the sand” rather than discuss it like the gentlemen we were. The rabble’s shouts drew mounted magistrates who kept the pairs of us flanked by horsemen. The senior officer—obvious in his rank by the fact that he alone had a civilized manner and a shaved chin—rode in the center. The mob celebrated as it surged forward toward the largest edifice in sight, its curved walls towering above all other buildings.

  The guards directed us and our uncloaked companions around the arcing edge of the arena. The two lesser guards, Kerban, and his servant went into one opening, its gates clanging shut behind them. The magistrate commander used his horse and the crowd to move us toward a much farther gate. He leaned down and whispered to us, “We been watching that Kerban for a time. What you two did to anger a Daggermark assassin, I don’t know, but—”

  Phargas replied louder than necessary. “You mean word hasn’t spread yet of Ollix’s slaying of the heinous despot Baron Addelworth? It was marvelous to view, his valiant duel to save the virtue of an honest tavern maid from Byrtol’s lascivious clutches. ’Twas his loathsome opponent who destroyed the site of their battle by fire rather than allow it as a monument to his defeat. Ah, pride…”

  Phargas spun this tale and the crowd around us ceased its caterwauling to listen. Truly, I had no idea Phargas was such an accomplished liar. Did that make him less of a priest, or more? The tales he wove were flattering, to be sure, but I doubted we’d incurred the wrath of both Daggermark’s poisoners’ guild and its assassins’ guild. Still, I admired his skill, and it occurred to me that he’d be perfect to transcribe my report for the Pathfinder Chronicles. Before I could mention the idea, however, we arrived at the next gate leading into the arena’s wall. The crowd now buzzed with my name and various tidbits of our alleged feats, with folk even taking wagers on the street for some unspecified reason.

  The magistrate leaned down again and smiled. “Lucky you knew the Law of Grievance, so as to make it a public fight rather than a private assassination. May your luck continue.” He motioned us through the gate, which rattled shut behind us, leaving only a noisome tunnel ahead. Phargas and I moved silently toward the light at its end.

  It was then I took my first look at the Arena of Aroden, albeit from its gravel and sand, not the nobler box seats from which I’d hoped to view it. In truth, it looked little better than the dead god himself—shattered weapons, random bones, and pools of blood littered the sands, the only clear area a level track around the arena’s edge and a stone platform in its center.

  The stench of drying blood clung to me even over the choking dust as another crowd of filthy, malodorous commoners surrounded us, all jabbering away. Finally a massive, leathery man approached us, his body a tangle of old scars. “My name is Pit Master Makoa,” he said. “As aggrieved parties, you choose the platform; your opponents choose the stakes to end the grievance; the crowd chooses the weapons. What say you?”

  Phargas seemed engaged in staring about the arena so I took to bargaining with the man. “Platform? Are we to perform something? I’ve nothing prepared…”

  He shook his head, muttered beneath my hearing, and said, “Platform—how do you want to duel? On foot? Riding? Chariots? No boats—the pools are leaking.”

  Phargas asked, “Do we—”

  “Oh, yes! Chariots!”

  The big man turned on his heel and yelled to the arena. “The aggrieved have chosen chariots!” The crowd, swelling as the mobs from outside flowed into the stepped seats, roared its approval. Phargas hissed at me.

  “Tell me you can drive a chariot, Ollix, please?”

  “No, I just always wanted to ride in one.”

  “So we have to fight—”

  From the other end of the arena, a cry came up. “The challenged have chosen death to settle their feud!” The crowd roared louder still.

  “—to the death on a vehicle you don’t know how to operate?”

  “To the death?” Perhaps the priest’s suspicions about Kerban were not so far off mark after all. “Say, Phargas, why should I drive the chariot?”

  Phargas clenched his fists, and whispered, “Because I’ll be busy asking Desna to spare our miserable lives and casting spells to keep us traveling in her name!”

  Magic! Of course. Let Phargas handle the brutality. “Very well. I shall drive, and you shall dispatch these betrayers. How hard can it be if servants can do it constantly?”

  Makoa addressed the crowd again. “What weapons settle these matters?” A cacophony of shouts filled the air for a few moments, until an undertone began. Soon, many voices chanted together, “Desna’s Choice! Desna’s Choice!”

  As this crowd participation seemed to have little bearing on me, I turned toward the chariot and horses some of the others were leading to us. Before I could step onto the chariot, three men stepped in my way. I turned to Phargas, only to find another three surrounding him. Makoa approached us all, undoing a small purse from his belt. He said, “Leave your weapons, cloaks, and shirts here as collateral. Then draw a coin from my bag.”

  “I hardly think I’ll just—” Phargas’s elbow in my stomach prevented both words and breath.

  “Fine, I’ll draw for both of us,” Phargas said as he undid his cloak. By the time I drew a steady breath, the priest had stripped off his tunic and left his staff and daggers atop his clothes. He reached into the old man’s bag, drawing two coins. The old man looked at me and said, “Strip, grievant, or my men will bare you more than you might like.”

  Phargas said, “Ollix, they might damage your noble attire in the process.”

  I submitted to the indignity, though I refused to rush and further ruin the worn fabrics.

  The two large coins had marks to exchange them for random items in the armory. Soon, a runner came out and handed me a much-scored longsword and Phargas a round metal shield rather worse for wear. Looking across the arena, our opponents held a long chain and a spear.

  From somewhere, a crier called out, “The race continues until the grievance is met! Take to your chariots!”

  Phargas shoved me forward. “Run, Ollix!” Why he assumed my grasp of the obvious was less than his vexed me greatly, but I took his advice nonetheless.

  Within a breath, we both stood in our chariot. I slid my sword into a scabbard at the vehicle’s front, then took up the reins as we each hooked a foot into the loops on the floor to help us maintain our footing. It seemed no di
fferent than driving a small wagon, so I immediately snapped the reins and got the horses moving. Standing up while driving horses felt far different than I expected, and only the chariot’s front kept me from leaping forward with our team.

  Phargas muttered something then rested a hand on my shoulder. “The Song of the Spheres smiles on you, Ollix.”

  Oddly heartened by this display, I replanted my feet, shifted my grip on the reins, and leaned, pulling the chariot to the left toward the cleared track. It all seemed simpler, easier to gauge, and I understood how to work the reins to increase the horses’ speed. I was thankful for my natural competence as Kerban’s man drove his chariot directly toward us, one hand on the reins and the other brandishing his spear.

  “Now to trim the odds a bit,” Phargas said, and he began new prayers. I snapped the reins at the horses, increasing their speed while cutting a sharp turn that took us directly across our foes’ path. Their horses protested and cut to our right to avoid colliding. The driver stabbed at us with his spear as they pulled alongside. Then Phargas pointed at him and ended his prayer, and suddenly the spear slipped from the man’s grasp.

  At the same time, Kerban shouted, “Ollix, why must we fight? Slow your horses, and we can be friends.” I noticed now that the glowing bronze in his eyes wasn’t from the sun. He was fighting to get into my mind. I responded by pulling to the right, banging our wheels against theirs and forcing their chariot close to the stone dais at the center of the track. That pushed them behind us as I pulled around the obstacle.

  To my left, I saw an opportunity and instructed Phargas to hang on as I pulled the team off the track and toward the arena wall. “Use the decor to our advantage!” I called.

  Phargas looked agog a moment, then spotted what I had and smiled. He slid his shield onto his back while I drew my sword with my left hand and eased the chariot parallel with the wall. Kerban shouted, but by the time they neared us again, I had my target in sight and the chariot mere finger lengths from the wall.

  “Ready, Phargas? Grab it when it’s free,” I warned.

  He smiled—a rare enough sight these days—and nodded, both hands at the ready.

  I lashed out with my blade, using our speed and direction to help the cutting. My sword parted the bottom of a long banner set onto the wall, and Phargas grabbed the loose edge as we passed. “Got it!” he yelled, and I yanked our horses to the right across Kerban’s path. The banner tore free and billowed behind us like a sail. The crowd howled its approval even as Phargas let go of his ragged end, letting the banner fall directly over Kerban’s driver. The banner pulled their chariot into the wall, its wheel screeching in protest as Kerban fought to free the driver’s face.

  Now, with our foes occupied momentarily, I steered our chariot toward a cluster of weapons and body parts abandoned in the sand. Some nearby spectators screamed for Phargas to take up a sword. “You can grab something to help end this, I suppose?” I asked Phargas.

  In response, he snatched up a staff missing a spearhead, then began another prayer as I urged the horses back up to speed. From across the arena, Kerban’s chariot barreled toward us.

  I maneuvered us alongside, shifting my sword into my right hand to allow me to attack. Kerban saw this and began swinging his long chain in response. “Phargas,” I said, “I hope your next spell has some bang to it.”

  I held out my sword as their chariot bumped ours, hoping to hit either opponent. Instead, the chain rattled around the sword and my arm. I looked at the half-elf in surprise, only to see the chain writhe with snakes whose fangs locked onto my arm! Kerban’s laugh sounded louder than even the chanting mob around us.

  Instead of helping me, Phargas leaned over the front of the chariot and ended his prayer by shouting at Kerbans’s horses. The horses’ screams of terror echoed my own as I threw down my chain-wrapped sword with all my might, hoping to shed the snakes as well. The sword’s weighted point dug into the sand as Kerban’s chariot veered wildly away from us. His laugh suddenly turned into a scream that lasted only a breath before the crowd’s cheer drowned it. I saw only the spray of blood as our weapons stayed behind, lodged in the gravel, along with Kerban’s arm.

  The panicked horses obeyed no reins or commands, and soon the chariot flipped over, bucking Kerban out onto the sand. The bloody smear beneath the overturned chariot told us his driver’s fate. The crowds cheered the blood and won wagers, but everyone’s attention snapped toward a loud trumpet.

  We pulled the chariot to a halt near the trumpeter, who now waved a blue banner. An ornate carving high up on the wall showed a trio of crossed swords, though the many silks and tapestries shading the box above it suggested a place of wealth and honor. A dwarf clambered up atop the wall and bellowed, “All rise to honor Tymon’s Champion, Ullorth Ungin!”

  The Champion was a massive, barrel-torsoed half-orc with tusks and long olive hair—hardly a sign of good breeding, even if martial prowess had earned him the rulership here. His wealth was evident in his clothing, companions, and cultured accent.

  “What grievance these men wrought outside the walls of Aroden’s arena has been settled on the sand,” he intoned. Ullorth’s eyes briefly darted to Kerban’s arm lying in the dust, his chain still wrapped around my former weapon. “As victors, you claim their goods left in collateral, of course. And yet, gossipmongers tell us of more renown here before us. Gentles and bloodieds, I give you our victors—Lord Ollix Kaddar of Kadria and his faithful companion Phargas!” The crowd’s applause was polite but ignoble in volume. This reaction seemed expected by the Champion, who turned his focus directly upon us, motioning us closer to the arena wall for a private audience.

  “I commend you,” Ullorth said in quieter tones. “By removing those assassins, you have done Tymon a service. Word had it Kerban and his associate had plans to assassinate some highly placed citizens here. It would appear we owe the Pathfinder Society a debt—one which can be easily repaid by purchasing your freedom from indenture, I suspect. However, you may want to avoid Daggermark for a while.”

  Before we had a chance to reply, Tymon’s Champion leaned back and shared our conversation with all nearby. “A question, Lord Ollix! Would you say that the Second Freedom is a great thing?”

  “But of course. All civilized men do.”

  Phargas whispered, “Careful, Ollix. We don’t—”

  I waved him off, eager to show this barbarian what educated nobles knew. Ullorth continued.

  “What would you do to an oathbreaker?”

  “As the Freedoms demand—oathbreakers die. How is a matter left to the servants or the bloodthirsty.”

  “Would you be willing to enforce that vow?”

  Phargas elbowed me in the back. I shoved him back and then said, “I strive to enforce all the River Freedoms, sir, regardless of situation, circumstance, or poverty.”

  The hulk’s teeth fanned in satisfaction, and he spread his arms wide. Were it not for the odors on the arena’s floor, I would have fallen prey to the Champion’s effusive musk. The man-mountain addressed the assembled.

  “Tymons, I give you Lord Ollix Kaddar, the new commander of the Vermillion. This man of honor shall lead that company against Razmiran’s oathbreakers, who violate our peace and our lands! All who fight for Tymon today and survive become bloodied tomorrow!”

  I had no wish to be awash in blood of any kind, but the crowd’s reaction suggested it was a good thing. Then again, their entertainment left their morality a bit suspect.

  Behind me, Phargas sighed.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  "Some folks never know when to let go."

  As we marched out of the gates of Tymon toward Razmiran, I couldn’t help but note how little the motley forces of the Vermillion resembled their dazzling name. All were indentured servants, working off their contracts, or else Tymon citizens looking to improve their lot by fighting in the arena. Alas, all but Phargas, myself, and one other had yet to win such a battle.

  Khurris had previously been the
group’s commander, and one might assume he resented my usurping his command, yet he understood how to address one of my rank and seemed grateful for my noble leadership.

  “When it’s a choice between dying today and dying tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll take tomorrow. But make no mistake, that’s why we’re here—we’re expendable, and Ullorth loses nothing by sending us out to fight the Living God’s forces. He keeps Razmiran on its toes and keeps the Champion looking good.”

  “Personally,” I responded, “I have little desire to fight a god or any who answer to him, Khurris. Any of the Vermillion who wish to do so have my permission. Otherwise, feel free to follow us until we’re out of sight of the city, and then urge the men to do as they see fit.”

  Khurris and Phargas gasped in unison. “Sir,” the Tymon asked. “Surely you don’t mean to desert. Aren’t you afraid of being branded an oath-traitor?”

  “Not to mention incurring the wrath of a very large and powerful enemy?” Phargas added in a whisper.

  “Tish-tosh, men,” I laughed. “I gave no oath to that malodorous man-mountain, so I can’t possibly be breaking one. Surely you see that.”

  The road on which we marched crested a pair of hills, then met the road leading west toward Razmiran. “Once we’re past the crossroads, you men are free to live as you will. It matters not to me, for I’m bound north for Solanas!”

  Phargas’s face darkened. “Ollix, perhaps you should keep your destination quiet,” he whispered.

  Khurris asked, “Why Solanas, sir?”

  “Simple,” I replied. “I must report my deeds to the Pathfinder Society lodge there.”

  Khurris scurried back and whispers began buzzing among the ragtag column. Alone for the moment, Phargas stated his opinions plainly.