Bound by Iron

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

The Sharper Weapon

Zor, the 26th day of Sypheros, 998

Minrah awoke from her meditation before dawn. She rose, stretched like a spoiled cat, and sauntered over to the window, her bare feet making no noise as she walked. She pulled the curtain back and gazed at the sky, and her keen elf eyes noted the faintest lightening in the east-a slight warmth that crept beneath the cloud cover, the subtle promise of the coming dawn.

She turned and padded quietly over to Cimozjen’s bed, then drew up with a gasp. “Four?” she whispered. She heard the construct shift slightly. “Where is Cimozjen?”

“I presume he is still in the building where we left him.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” she said weakly, “because I more or less figured that the fights between folks would, I don’t know, just be fights or something. Like wrestling match with swords. He was supposed to teach Jolieni a lesson about swords. No one was supposed to get killed …”

“Why would you think that?” asked Four. “I killed countless people in the arena.”

“Sure, but you were a prisoner. They didn’t care if you lived or died, so having prisoners fight to the death was fine.”

“As a prisoner, they owned me. Would they not wish their property to remain undamaged?”

“Yes …”

“So if destruction of their own property was acceptable, why would it be unacceptable for non-prisoners to fight to the death?”

“Just … because! It’s not the way they’re supposed to do it!”

“If they had skilled warriors as prisoners, why would they waste them fighting each other, and not free people? And if they wished their slavery to remain unknown, why would they treat any duel differently from any other?”

Minrah tugged at the hem of her jersey, face flustered. “Because that’s not what I thought the challenges were all about!” she wailed.

“What evidence or experience did you base your conclusions on?”

Minrah rounded on her companion. “Quiet, Four! We can’t waste time thinking about that sort of stuff now! Don’t you understand that? There are more important things. We have to find out what happened to Cimmer. If he hasn’t come back, then something really dreadful happened, like he got badly injured.” Her fury spent, she turned and paced helplessly, twisting her fingers around each other. “Or maybe he’s dead. We need to go back and see.”

“We cannot do that,” said Four. “They will not allow me in the building, so that is a part of the adventuring that I cannot participate in. But we can go back to the door together, if that is your wish, and then you can explore inside some more.”

“Without you?” whined Minrah.

“They will not admit me,” he said. Then, with his voice altered to imitate the doorman, he added, “ ‘We do not allow their kind in here. You will have to leave it outside.’ ”

“Fine,” said Minrah. “Let’s go.”

They wended their way back to the entrance to the arena. The rain had stopped some hours before, and only an occasional drip fell from the eaves overhead. Four concealed himself in the alley, while Minrah hesitantly stepped up and knocked. She waited.

And waited.

With a nervous glance in Four’s direction, she knocked again. Waited. Paced, her fingers writhing with impatience and dread. Finally she stopped and turned in Four’s direction. “Why won’t they answer?”

Four stepped out of the shadows. “Perhaps you are too timid in your knock,” he said. “Your muscles and bones are not particularly robust, and are thus ill-suited to making enough noise to attract the attention of the occupants. Permit me to demonstrate.”

The construct walked up to the door, battle-axe in hand. He hefted the weapon and slammed the butt end of the weapon hard into the door. Wham! … Wham! … Crack! And with the last blow, the wood of the door partially buckled under the impact. The warforged inspected the dent and the small split on the wood, nodded in satisfaction, then stalked back over to his hiding place, leaving Minrah staring agog after him.

The view slit in the door slammed open. “Hey!” barked a voice. “What in the ashes do you think you’re doing?”

Minrah whirled back around, and the eyes in the view slit grew wide. She gathered her frazzled wits and smiled as sweetly as she could, given her mental state. “I’m sorry, what was your question?” she asked, stalling for time.

“You-uh … you?” asked the doorman. “Um … you knocked?”

“Why yes, yes, I did. I … had to leave early last night. I wanted to follow up on how things developed.”

“Well, um … almost everyone’s gone, but … um … wait just a moment.” The view slit closed much more gently than it had opened, and after a short time, the door swung wide to admit her.

Minrah stepped in hesitantly, faking a smile that shone bright and warm in contrast to her chilled and fearful heart.

“Ah, Minrah Teamaker,” said a gentle voice, “it is you after all.” She turned and saw the purser from the betting window. He snapped his fingers once, sending an aide running down the hall, then he reached one hand out to her. She extended her hand and he took it and kissed it gallantly.

He smiled and bobbed his head. “I was beginning to fret about your absence,” he said. “The audience departed many bells ago, and you are the only one not to collect her winnings.”

“Winnings?”

“Indeed. You fared quite well this day. Your sole wager bore fruit, and I am pleased to give you your harvest. Quite a crop, if I do say so myself.” Just as he finished his words with a smarmy smile the aide returned, bearing a pouch and a small piece of paper curled tightly and tied with ribbon. The man turned, took the two items from the aide, and presented them to Minrah.

Amazed, Minrah reached out and took the bag. It sagged over her slender hands, heavy with coin. Her fingers clenched, gripping some of the coins through the coarse cloth. She shifted the bag to one hand and took the proffered curled paper. “What’s this?”

“A certificate for the balance of your winnings,” came the reply. “We’ve found that most of our clients like to have the security of a Kundarak-notarized promissory note, but still retain a portion of their winnings in ready coin for various means of immediate celebration.” He chuckled.

“Why … thank you,” said Minrah.

“No, we thank you, dear one, for patronizing our establishment. We do hope that you will choose to return soon.”

“How is Cimozjen?”

“Who?”

“The, uh, the person whom I was lucky enough to bet on. The fighter.”

“Ah. Obviously, he won, but beyond that I am afraid I do not know.”

“But he lived?”

The man shrugged, still wearing his insincere smile. “It is likely, although in fairness I must advance the possibility that he suffered what we call a ‘simultaneous finish.’ In those rare events, the house pays to the side that the judges deem to have prevailed, the actual results notwithstanding. And I find I must also add that even if I did know his status, it is against house policy for family members or employees to discuss or theorize about the health of any competitors. We must maintain our propriety and neutrality, and cannot be thought to be tampering with the odds by means of idle speculation. I suggest you watch the boards; if his name appears, you may draw your own conclusions.”

Minrah nodded, trying not to let her disappointment cross her features. “I see. So … when might I be able to come back? I’m not fully acquainted with your schedule.”

“The second night hence,” said the man with an eager bob of the head. “It’s a smaller event, but should provide quality amusement nonetheless. I’ll be sure to hold an excellent seat for you.”

Minrah smiled as best she could and clutched her winnings to her breast. “I thank you. I shall see you then.”

“So is Cimozjen dead?” asked Four. He had started to ask the question just after Minrah had left the building, but at that time she had silenced him with a gesture. She had led Four to several temples, the House Jorasco compound, and the undertaker’s, all the while demanding his utter silence.

Back in their lodgings, the warforged reckoned it might safe to try asking the question again.

“No,” said Minrah, slouched in her chair. She spoke in a distracted monotone around her thumbnail, which she chewed on as she thought. “I don’t believe he’s dead. Whoever these people are, they kept Torval alive for years, so I don’t think they’d be so clumsy as to let an old warhorse like Cimmer die. Even if he did anger them as he is wont to do.”

“So you believe he is captured?”

“Yes, I do. It was pretty clear from the way the customers behaved at the Flagons that the fighters were free to leave after the fights ended, was it not?” She leaned forward and gestured toward the window. “I mean, look at that snub-faced Jolieni. She barged in swinging a bag of coin and crowing about her victory and ready to celebrate. She was letting herself be carried on the emotion of a fresh victory, probably no more than an hour before.”

Minrah sagged back into her chair and pulled her legs up. She steepled her hands in front of her face, as she continued. “So if Cimmer suffered nothing more than a light injury, he’d have returned. If he were badly hurt, he would have been taken to a healer’s, or he would have healed himself, and again he would have come back. If he were killed in a fair duel, there’d be no reason to hide the body like they did with Torval. So the only reasonable assumption is that he’s being held in slavery, just like you were, or his friend Torval. Which is illegal by the Treaty of Thronehold.”

“You two released me. I am sure we can do the same for him,” said the warforged. “Just tell me what to do.”

“I don’t know.” She sat for a while longer. “If we’re to figure out what to do, we need to know for sure who’s behind this. Which house it is.”

“Is it not House Ghallanda?”

“That was Friar Hannel’s guess, but I’m not so sure he’s right. I don’t put much stake in his read of people, you know what I mean?”

“What does it matter which house, if they are breaking the law?”

“Because it’s someone that has some sway with the Sentinel Marshals.” Minrah shifted in her chair so she could drape her head across the back and look at the ceiling. “Remember how they released Rophis and Pomindras and kept the others? That means it’s someone the Marshals fear, or someone who had some sort of political sway over them. The Marshals have a reputation as being the toughest, most dedicated, law-upholding hunters in Khorvaire. They’ve got license to operate across the continent, regardless of sovereignty, and they still swear their duties to the Galifar Throne. So whom do they have to be afraid of?”

Four held up his palms in resignation. “I do not know. What houses exist?”

Minrah drew a deep breath, then sat up and swung her legs off the chair. “Let’s see,” she said, and began ticking the houses off on her fingers. “There’s Vadalis, but they deal with animal husbandry and the like. They seem an ill-suited choice to care for and transport prisoners. There’s Ghallanda, who has the mark of hospitality. They are as good a choice as any to care for prisoners as they bring them home, and they’d also be interested in putting together an entertaining evening of pit fights.”

“I thought you did not like pit fights.”

“I’m being sarcastic, Four,” she said, rolling her eyes. She drew a deep breath and blew a stray lock out of her face. “Hmm. House Kundarak, well, they’re deep into their lending and coin-counting. Would they support gambling? Sure, if there’s money to be made. But transporting prisoners? No. I just can’t see them guarding something they can’t lock in a vault. Then there’s Jorasco, but their house code would not allow them to participate in what we’ve seen here. They are required to render aid and succor.”

“Might not they send fighters against each other, then heal them afterwards?” asked Four.

“It’s conceivable, Four, but we should start with likely. While someone in the Jorasco family might possibly do something like this, it goes counter to the house’s charter, and if it were ever found out, the whole house would suffer.”

“I see.”

“Sivis. They have the mark of scribing. I doubt they’d take the job, and I damned sure know that no one would trust gnomes to transport prisoners back home. Those crafty little leeches would wring every piece of information out of them. House Cannith-they’re the ones who made you and the other warforged-not only is this not their strength, but they’re no longer unified. If one branch of House Cannith tried to transport prisoners, the others would try to assassinate the lot of them, just to make the first side look bad.

“Orien runs the lightning rail. I could see them being called on to transport prisoners, because the lines stretch all across Khorvaire. Lyrandar is another possibility. They have the airships, which would be a natural means of transporting prisoners quickly, and without the traceability that the lightning rail has. But I can’t see any compelling reason for either house to fail to transport someone. They stake their reputations on safe deliveries, after all.”

She paused, drumming her fingers. “With their mercenaries, Deneith has probably the best capability of safeguarding people, plus they rigidly hold to their neutrality in matters of state. But as with Orien and Lyrandar, their dependability is paramount to them. If someone hires mercenaries, they need to be certain those mercenaries will show up.

“Who else?” she asked, pulling her index finger down. “That’s nine. I’m missing four more. Ah. Medani. Theirs is the Warning Guild. They’d be another good bet for keeping people safe, and less obtrusively than Deneith. And I suppose that their powers of detection might make their covert fight nights a little safer for them. But again, when the prisoners didn’t show up, that’d be a black mark on their reputation. And there’s Phiarlan and Thuranni, the shadow guilds. But they’re spies, so again, I can’t see anyone trusting them with prisoners any more than they’d trust the gnomes.

“That leaves … um … House Tharashk. I’d suspect their Finders Guild would be better suited to finding prisoners than transporting them. So where does that leave us?”

Four shifted. “You indicated that Ghallanda would be the most likely to create an arena, Lyrandar and Orien would be the most likely to transport, and Deneith and Medani would provide the most protection. That seems to give us little information.”

Minrah rose and started pacing. “Well, let’s see. Ghallanda is a halfling house based in Gatherhold.”

“In my time, I did not take note of any halflings. Those who unlocked my home or repaired me afterwards were always humans.”

Minrah stopped her pacing. “Always?”

“Always.”

She started pacing again. “Come to think of it, everyone that I can remember at the wagers window was a human, too. And so was the door guard. So that narrows things down, now doesn’t it?”

“So which houses are human?”

“For starters, Orien is a human house.” She stopped pacing at the window and looked out at the streets below. “And it’s based in Passage. Now that is curious, is it not?”

“I do not know,” said Four. “What do you see out there?”

She turned and sat on the windowsill. “Passage is a city southwest of here. So we have a human house-and humans were the ones who handled you as a prisoner-and it has its prime estate right here in Aundair. The arena we saw in Karrnath-where we found you-was on an Aundairian merchant ship. And that explains why the Sentinel Marshals were so circumspect. House Orien holds Queen Aurala’s ear, I’m sure, and more important, they could deny the Sentinel Marshals access to the lightning rail, which would greatly impede their work.” She smacked her fist into her palm. “Now we know what we’re up against. And if we can convince House Lyrandar to provide assistance to the Sentinel Marshals-maybe free passage on their airships or something-then the Marshals can make a move against House Orien without fearing the cost to their mobility. The Marshals uphold the law, Lyrandar gets to see their rival take a punishing hit, and we get to spring Cimozjen from their grasp.”

“That sounds good to me,” said Four. “But how will we get the attention of a dragonmarked house?”

Minrah spun, smiled, and produced her quill pen.

Cimozjen returned slowly and painfully to consciousness. His every joint ached, several muscles twitched and spasmed, and raw sores itched at several places across his skin.

He tried to remember what had happened. He’d been having dreams, nightmares of a treacherous cloudburst, being jolted, flashes of lightning coursing through his body as he tried to attack the armored thunderheads. His sword falling to earth from nerveless hands.

With a grimace, he forced his eyes to open. At first he saw nothing, then as his brain oriented to the dim light he began to take in his surroundings.

He lay on a pallet, clad in his shirt, chain hauberk, pants, and boots. The links of the chain mail, pressed against his naked flesh, were very uncomfortable.

With a grunt, he forced himself to sit up. His head ached. The pallet bed lay in a small room empty of furniture. His sword and staff leaned against the corner by the door. He noted no other ornamentation, although his eyes registered something amiss.

He lurched to his feet. The blood drained from his brain and he teetered on the verge of passing out. Drawing on his training, he forced himself to retain consciousness, putting all his effort into willing his mind to focus. He swayed for a moment more, and then lurched and put his hand against the wall for support.

His head pounded, and every time he moved in the slightest, it felt like a load of bricks shifted around in his brainpan. He ran one hand across the back of his neck, stretching. It did little good.

He leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing heavily, and came to the conclusion that being semi-delirious with his weapons in hand was probably safer for him than being semi-delirious unarmed. With heavy, limping strides he shuffled his way to his sword and staff, accompanied the sound of metal rattling across stone. He paused. Looked down. He saw a cuff of iron around one ankle, fastened by a long chain to a stone set in the center of the floor.

He stumbled toward his weapons, only to be reined in at the last moment by the manacle, his fingers a mere foot from the grip of his only defense. His hand flew to the small of his back, only to find that his dagger, too, was missing. He looked at the door and finally realized what his subconscious mind had noted all along. The door had no latch.

He was trapped in a cell.

And then it all came back to him-killing Jolieni, being ushered from the field blinded by his tears, then being attacked by the guards with their blunt forked spears that wracked him with agony every time they touched him. He’d fought, pain and fear and anguish driving him on, but he wasn’t even sure if he’d managed to land a blow on any of them.

Now he understood the burning pains he felt. He ran his hand down his tunic and found a small charred hole situated over one of his burns. Whatever elemental magic was imbedded within those cleft polearms, his chain mail had done nothing to protect his body from it.

Slowly he peeled off his tunic, and then his chain hauberk. It grated across his wounded ear, eliciting a hiss of pain. He let the armor fall to the floor. It half covered his foot.

Caged.

Just like Torval had been, he was certain of that. Caged and forced to fight in the arena for the amusement of others. The promise of repatriation twisted into a never-ending nightmare of mortal combats for the benefit of the heartless.

He turned around and surveyed his room anew. A bucket sat against one wall, a second lay across from it. Slop and food, he assumed. The walls were of windowless stone. There was nowhere even to sit but the pallet. No decoration of any sort, save the words “Ajiuss Aeyliros” scratched into one wall. He presumed it was a name. Either that, or an elven epithet.

Torval had suffered for years like this. Two long years of brutality. Cimozjen looked about. With his belt, he could probably figure out a way to hang himself, deny his captors the satisfaction of any further entertainment from him.

But if he were to do that, he would fail in his sworn goal. His friend Torval would remain unavenged, and his own last act would be one of defeat. He wouldn’t even be dying for anything, just dying against something he did not want to endure. Just like Jolieni, with her bitter face and her pointless suicide that he knew would haunt his nights for months.

No, he had to hold on. He had to play his part and wait. He had an advantage that Torval didn’t. He had friends on the outside who knew his situation. Four hadn’t been allowed into the building, and hopefully Minrah had escaped their clutches as well. She was clever. All he had to do was wait until they figured out a way to set him free. Which, he admitted, might take weeks, even months.

In the meantime, he had to survive, and, to the best of his ability, avoid any more killing. He was here to free his fellow prisoners, not to murder them. And the other warriors, the ones who opted for this dangerous sport, they probably did not know that people like him were held in bondage.

For him to survive, though, he’d have to fight. He’d have to cause needless pain on people who knew not the extent of what they were doing or, worse yet, shared in his cruel fate. He’d have to do the bidding of his captors, or at least appear to be doing so … if there was truly any difference.

He hated the feeling of being trapped. He’d had the feeling before, prior to being captured, and it had not ended well then, either. At least this time he had a better inkling of what he needed to do to get out of the situation. Somehow he had to keep winning … without killing his opponents.

If he could help it.

He hung his head.

And there, thanks be to the Host, he saw his holy symbol still dangling about his neck. With a grim half smile, he grasped it in his right hand. And for the first time in twenty-two long years, he prayed for his own healing without a trace of guilt.

Pomindras snarled and tore the broadsheet from the pillar where it had been tacked. Ignoring the shouts of the other commoners nearby, he quickly folded it up and stormed away.

His fury propelled him to the walled compound that served as his family’s residences and halls of business. Guards opened the door for him that he might not have to break stride. His heavy boots clomped up the central stairway and down to the end of the wood-floored hallways until at last he reached the grand suite that overlooked the serene Aundair River.

He was admitted immediately.

A large, gilded desk polished to a mirror sheen dominated the room. Behind that desk sat a large overstuffed chair, so grand in design that it nearly rivaled a throne. At the moment, that throne showed its back to the door, turned as it was to face the panoramic windows that had been opened at the rear of the room. The view out the windows showed the dawn unfolding on the cityscape below and the countryside across the river.

Pomindras stepped into the suite and around the desk, stopping near the huge chair. He bowed to his master. “Something I think you should see, lord Rophis,” he said.

Rophis neither turned his head nor answered, but simply held out one hand.

Pomindras placed the broadsheet in his grasp, saying, “About halfway down, lord.”

Rophis unfolded the broadsheet and read.

Bound by Iron

A True Adventure in Betrayal, Murder,

and One Man’s Quest for Vengeance

Part the First

Scribed by Minrah Penwright, Who Has Seen All that Has Transpired and Swears to Its Veracity

This is a tale of sacrifice and loss, blood and woe, betrayal and redemption; and you, dear readers, may yet play a part in the final act in which, we all fervently hope, shall at last be had the wrathful vengeance for illicit wrongs done to untold innocents guilty of no crime other than wishing to be returned home after the armistice that concluded the Last War.

Our story, dear readers, begins some seventeen days prior to this, in the city of Korth, near the harbor on the left bank of the Karrn River …