Death Mark

by Robert J. Schwalb

  Tithian, too, seemed surprised by the offer. “Master Vordon,” he began, “your … aid … is appreciated. It is most unexpected. Tyr thanks you for your pledge.”

  Thaxos inclined his head and stepped back. He then stooped to confer with a halfling dressed in a uniform similar to the one he himself wore. People closed around the merchant prince and blocked Korvak’s view. A moment later, Thaxos was gone.

  “This will be enough for today,” said Tithian. “Rikus, I will leave it to you to assemble your forces. If what the scouts have reported is true, we will not have long before Urik is at the Caravan Gate.” He stood and stepped down from the dais, heading through a side door to his private chambers. Rikus and Sadira followed him.

  Korvak rubbed his hand over his mouth as he reflected on the situation. It seemed the rumors about the war were true. Tyr would field an army to fight Urik. Korvak knew Tyr had little hope of beating back Urik. Urik had the greatest army in the seven city-states, their endless soldiers armed with weapons ripped from their considerable obsidian mines. Worse, Rikus was no general. He was a slave, a gladiator, and nothing more. His talents lay in single combat. The fat templar was right. A gladiator would know nothing about leading an army. Not even his companions and fellow rebels would be of much use there.

  Then there was the matter of Thaxos Vordon. Merchant houses avoided entangling themselves in wars among the city-states. Throwing in their lots with one or the other was bad for business. Also, House Vordon was in financial straits. Korvak knew there must be another motive, yet he could not see it.

  “What are you doing here?” said a familiar voice.

  Korvak looked around then down. Master Astini glared up at him, fists resting on wide hips.

  “As I was saying, Master Astini, I would never have left the important work you assigned for me had not the servant come to fetch me. He claimed you yourself had called, knowing my expertise on the subject of Urik,” explained Korvak to the rotund templar.

  He did his best to keep his eyes on Astini’s desk, examining an unpleasant paperweight made from a child’s skull. It might have been a halfling’s, but Korvak knew Astini’s tastes enough to dismiss the thought.

  “I sent no servant,” said Astini, a frown creasing his features.

  “Well, master, if you didn’t, someone did on your behalf,” said Korvak. He paused for effect. “Do you think someone wanted me away from the vaults?”

  Astini, who had been pacing with his arms folded behind his back, stopped and turned his piggish face toward him. “You are clever, Korvak, too clever by far.”

  “Why, Master Astini, whatever do you mean?” he said.

  “I am sure the guards I instructed outside the hall’s doors were also instructed to let you pass?”

  “I imagine so since they made no effort to stop me or my servant from entering,” he said, the lies coming easily.

  Astini watched him, looking for any sign of deception, but evidently found nothing. The templar fell into his chair. “So given your vast knowledge about Urik, have you any opinions on the matter?”

  Korvak, of course, heard nothing the scouts had reported. He kept his ignorance to himself lest he cast doubt on his story. If he had been summoned, surely he would have been there from the start. He opted for a different approach. “I found Vordon’s offer most surprising.”

  Astini screwed up his face. “Why? He was extending the same service he had offered since Tithian came to power.”

  “True. Of course. However, I am also sure you have considered Thaxos Vordon gains nothing by surrendering his soldiers to the king.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” asked Astini, his confusion plain.

  Korvak hid a smile at his better’s ignorance. “House Vordon has done nothing but suffer since the final days of the late king’s reign.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “What does Vordon want more than anything?”

  Master Astini shrugged.

  “He wants the mines reopened, and I’d be willing to bet my cassock he also wants slavery reinstituted. He’s been helping Tithian quash the riots and keep the peace to gain his confidence. This must be why his soldiers still patrol the streets along with the templars and Rikus’s gladiators,” explained Korvak.

  “Yes, yes, I know all this. Get on with it,” said Astini.

  “Tithian promised to reopen the iron mines, and though he has not yet, it is just a matter of time,” said Korvak.

  Astini raised his hands to say he wasn’t following Korvak’s reasoning.

  “So what does Vordon get out of this? What does Vordon gain from handing over his soldiers? Two thousand soldiers, if I am correct, accounts for every sword and spear he has in the city. What about his caravans? Does he not need guards for them? Also, with the city emptied of warriors, would not his own troops be better positioned to grow his influence in the city?”

  “You are looking for treachery where none exists. Tithian has renewed Vordon’s contracts with the crown, thus giving them sole control over the city’s iron exports. Perhaps this is Vordon’s way of thanking the king for his generosity,” said Astini.

  “Perhaps,” said Korvak. “But remember, Tithian’s been dragging his heels on the iron matter since he took the crown a year ago.”

  Astini ignored him and said, “As for his soldiers for his caravans, it will take time yet for work to resume in the mines, so no caravans will be heading out anyway. Furthermore, Vordon’s gift pleases me. It puts him back in his place and out of city politics. A merchant house has no business policing the streets.”

  “I am shortsighted, Master Astini. I thank you for your wisdom,” Korvak said without meaning it.

  Astini’s eyes glittered. He wrung his fat hands and peered up at Korvak, who was still standing. “You don’t believe anything I’ve said, do you?”

  Korvak said nothing. He was prepared to go back to sorting scrolls. He weighed several things he could say, but instead chose silence.

  Astini raised a hand. “We both know there is nothing in there worth stealing from the vaults. You are far too clever to be locked away in some dusty, old room. And you have talents useful to the templars, talents you could use to get to the bottom of this ‘conspiracy’. Your concern about losing Vordon’s guards intrigues me. We shall need templars to fill their boots. I think a patrol in the Warrens would suit you. A little contact with our finer citizens might do you well. Report to Master Dark for your assignment.”

  Korvak bowed. Getting out from the vault was just what he wanted. Being in the streets would give him a chance to look into the merchant prince and see just what he was up to. Also, if he was reading Astini right, he had room enough in his new position to gather what information he could. He bowed to his master and walked from the chamber. He needed more eyes, he reflected, as he walked out from the office, and he knew just the pair he needed.

  Loren stood in a shadowy hall, waiting for his turn to die. A muted roar sounded, a murmur in the stones, and sent the gladiator’s stomach leaping and sweat beading on his tanned, scarred skin. Loren had fought in the arena many times, and Nibenay’s people seemed unmoved. The fight before him was different, for the people shouted for him. If he won, he would be free.

  He was not alone in the small, bare chamber set aside for arena gladiators. Two hunched slaves stood on either side of the double doors, awaiting the order to pull them open. Skulls, scalps, and other trophies hung from the wood, good luck charms most gladiators touched on their way out to the pit.

  Loren’s partner leaned against the far wall. Aeris was short, slight, and seemed out of place in the arena. He wore ill-fitted, studded leather armor, a cap one size too big, and he was examining a large glove bristling with spikes. He looked up to Loren and said something, but the noise from outside drowned out his words.

  Loren could feel the old fear worming through his guts. He had survived some two dozen matches in Nibenay without being maimed or killed, an accomplishment in its own right. Each time he wa
ited to fight, he felt the same dread chewing inside him, a flutter in his stomach, and slight dizziness. They were fears. They fled before any actual work had to be done.

  Any other match and Loren could tell himself he had a good chance at winning. The arena masters hated it when prized gladiators went free and made it their task to kill anyone who got too close. Nibenay was no different from any other city-state in the Seven Cities. The gladiator’s life was short and brutish and almost always ended bleeding out on crimson sands to the crowd’s roars.

  Loren checked his gear for the tenth time. He knew it was fine. The armor fit as best as he could make it. The weapons he carried were loose in their scabbards. Another examination would do nothing to prepare him further, yet he checked himself again. He started at his feet and worked his way up. Old, scarred, brown shells clacked as he loosened and retightened the straps on his armor. Like Aeris’s armor, Loren’s was sized for someone else, someone dead, he was sure, given the crude stitching holding together obvious cuts and tears. He pulled off the helmet, more a mask, and ran his thumb along the toothy protrusions marching in a line from the crown to the neck’s nape. Loren tossed the helmet aside. The small eyeholes would ruin his peripheral vision.

  The arena master assigned weapons and armor to each gladiator based on the contest’s theme. The heavy armor held no clues about what Loren and Aeris would be fighting, and the weaponry proved as mysterious. The quartermaster had handed him an alhulak, just one more of the ridiculous, flashy weapons popular in the fighting pits. The alhulak was not much more than a grapple attached to a short rope. Loren shrugged. In his experience, a weapon was as good as the hand using it. He hung the rope loop, tied with a knot he could undo with little work, on his weapon belt and drew a heavy stone sword from the scabbard hanging against his back.

  Loren smiled at the rippled blade. He had chipped the blade to razor sharpness, giving it an almost serrated appearance. Heavy and ugly, the arena master hated the sword and told Loren so at every opportunity. It was the one thing Loren owned from his time in Tyr, and he refused to give it up, killing two guards and enduring thirty lashes from a templar. The first match in Nibenay ensured he got to carry it for the rest of his career. He took eight heads and won the day, all with his sword. Even if he didn’t use it, he was never without it in battle, a concession from the arena master to Loren’s stubbornness.

  When Loren slid the blade back into the scabbard, Aeris came forward so they could talk.

  “I hate this,” said Aeris.

  Loren offered him a grim smile. “You always say that.”

  “Yeah. And I always mean it,” he said. He sopped sweat from his forehead with a filthy rag.

  “You may be the worst gladiator I’ve ever met, Aeris,” said Loren.

  “What gave it away?” said Aeris. “Is it my delicate body or my utter lack of talent for shit like this?” He raised the spiked glove. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “You? I have no idea,” said Loren. “I suppose you should tie it on your arm. You will have to do more than slap your enemy, though. The spikes seem to be on the back of the hand rather than the palm.”

  Aeris grunted. “Five years, Loren. We’ve been doing this for five years.” The half-elf shook his head. “I have no idea how I’ve made it this long.”

  “Me either,” said Loren.

  Aeris looked up. His usual sarcastic smirk was gone. “Thanks.”

  Another roar shook the room.

  “For?” said Loren, looking at the doors.

  “You know. For watching my back. For keeping me alive. You didn’t have to.”

  Loren snorted. “I owed you. I was just a new guy from Tyr. Strange city. Strange customs. You had been here a while already. You knew what to do, where to go, what friends to make, and who to avoid. I suppose I had to repay the favor in the arena.”

  Aeris smiled again. “A human watching out for a half-elf. Who would have believed it?” Aeris brushed lank auburn hair from his face and ran his hand over his stubbled mouth. His elf blood revealed itself in his thinness and his angular features. His ears, slightly pointed, stayed hidden beneath his hair.

  Loren never put much stock in bloodlines. In his experience, the pure-bloods were some of the worst folks out there. Half-elves had it bad. Humans and elves didn’t get along as a rule, so a merging of the two was tantamount to abomination. Loren could remember several occasions where other human and elf gladiators refused to share tables with Aeris, even though they themselves sat together, or times when some tough guy thought to show off by pounding on the half-elf. Loren always intervened when he could, and the barracks soon figured out Aeris was off limits.

  Loren clapped Aeris on the shoulder. “Just a few more minutes.”

  “Wonderful. Just a few minutes left to live, then. Too bad there isn’t a pretty girl here to take my mind off my impending death.”

  “Don’t worry so much. We’ve done this before.”

  “Right. Just a few more murders and then it’s all whores and broy going forward,” muttered Aeris.

  “Hey, at least they didn’t make us run the tunnels.”

  “Yeah, and that worries me,” said Aeris. “I’ve seen a couple of gladiators make it this far, and each one of them had to run the labyrinth below the arena before they went free. None of them made it, or made it intact. So there’s some game being played here. Something is not right.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It won’t matter if we’re dead. One step at a time, right?” A bell sounded deep in the complex, alerting the door guardians the time to open the gate was at hand.

  “You ready?” asked Loren.

  Aeris checked his equipment. In addition to the armor and the spiked gauntlet, he carried a mean-looking crescent axe with a wide bone blade strapped to a wooden haft.

  “What am I to do with this?” he said, raising the axe.

  “Swing it,” Loren offered. “Hold it by the wooden part and try not to cut yourself.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “But I’d rather use this instead.” He hooked the axe to his belt and pulled the crossbow he had slung over his shoulder. He loaded the weapon and cranked the bolt back. “I like to avoid face-to-face confrontations when I can.”

  Loren grinned but became serious when struck by a thought. “No magic.”

  “I would never,” said Aeris.

  “I am serious. You’ve used spells a few times in the past. Today is not the day. The arena masters are looking for any excuse to fill us full of arrows. They don’t like it when their slaves go free. They will see a big, flashy spell reason enough to take us both out.”

  “Right, right. I know the story. Nibenay and his brides alone wield magic. I, as you can see, am not the sorcerer-king nor a templar, and yet I can still do this.” He snapped his fingers, and a small ball of light appeared in the air over his hand.

  Loren felt a weird twinge in his stomach as if something had just grabbed his innards and gave them a twist. “Knock it off Aeris.”

  The light winked out.

  The bell rang again. The slaves stepped forward and grasped the heavy stone rings. They strained against the doors’ weight. Each one had been a gladiator. Loren knew them both. Utek, the brawnier of the two, lost his right arm to a tarek’s axe, and poison blinded Analla. As neither could fight, the masters assigned them to menial tasks until they could no longer work, at which point they were denied food and water until they died. Most gladiators too maimed to fight killed themselves.

  Bright light flooded the waiting room. Deafening noise followed. A short passage led to a lowered bone portcullis. Beyond it waited the killing floor. From their vantage, they could both see the blood-spattered wall ringing the sandy floor and the crowded stands rising above it. As the portcullis began to rise, Loren and Aeris checked themselves one last time and started walking toward the arena.

  When they emerged into the bright light, the crowd greeted them with a deafening roar. Common folk and nobles alike leaped to their f
eet. Some shook their fists in the air. Others waved banners. Loren raised his fist in answer, and they responded with even greater excitement.

  Although Loren had fought there many times in the five years spent in the city, the arena’s size always impressed him. The arena was more like some massive crater, the bottom at least three hundred feet below the rest of the city. The upper stands started at street level and worked their way down to about twenty feet above the floor. Columns stood at various points in the stands, offering shade to the spectators who could afford it. Wide staircases cut through the middle of each side and in the corners. That offered easy passage in and out and provided something of a market for merchants to peddle refreshments, food, and odds for betting. The arena’s size and simplicity concealed the massive complex required to house the gladiators and their barracks, infirmaries, armories, training grounds, and more, all underground, all out of view.

  Looking at the crowd, Loren felt as if all of Nibenay had come to see him fight and, perhaps, die in his final contest. The mob was hungry for blood.

  As attention shifted to Loren and Aeris, another match was dying down. Across the arena floor, parti-color dancers were working to entertain the waiting crowds. The jaz’zt dancers dazzled their audience with bright costumes and complex acrobatic stunts so beautiful and so striking, one almost missed the flashing knives they used to dispatch their unwilling partners—the criminals and lesser warriors tossed out to die on the dancers’ blades.