"All the great gladiators left," Arack said wistfully, his eyes looking back to that glorious time. "Danark the Hobgoblin—as vicious a fighter as you'll ever come across. And Old Josepf One-Eye. Remember him, Raag?" The ogre nodded sadly. "Claimed he was a Knight of Solamnia, old Josepf did. Always fought in full battle armor. They all left, except me and Raag." A gleam appeared deep in the dwarf's cold eyes. "We didn't have nowhere to go, you see, and besides—I had a kind of feeling that the Games weren't over. Not yet."
Arack and Raag stayed in Istar. Keeping their quarters inside the deserted arena, they became, as it were, unofficial caretakers. Passers-by saw them there daily— Raag lumbering among the stands, sweeping the aisles with a crude broom or just sitting, staring down dully into the arena where Arack worked, the dwarf lovingly tending the machines in the Death Pits, keeping them oiled and running. Those who saw the dwarf sometimes noticed a strange smile on his bearded, broken-nosed face.
Arack was right. The Games hadn’t been banned many months before the clerics began noticing that their peaceful city wasn't so peaceful anymore. Fights broke out in bars and taverns with alarming frequency, there were brawls in the streets and once, even, a full-scale riot. There were reports that the Games had gone underground (literally) and were now being held in caves outside of town. The discovery of several mauled and mutilated bodies appeared to bear this out. Finally, in desperation, a group of human and elf lords sent a delegation to the Kingpriest to request that the Games be started again.
"Just as a volcano must erupt to let the steam and poisonous vapors escape from the ground," said one elf lord, "so it seems that humans, in particular, use the Games as an outlet for their baser emotions."
While this speech certainly did nothing to endear the elf lord to his human counterparts, they were forced to admit there was some justification to it. At first, the Kingpriest wouldn't hear of it. He had always abhorred the brutal contests. Life was a sacred gift of the gods, not something to be taken away just to provide pleasure to a bloodthirsty crowd.
"And then it was me gave ‘em their answer,” Arack said smugly. "They weren't going to let me in their fine and fancy Temple." The dwarf grinned. "But no one keeps Raag out of wherever he's a mind to go. So they hadn't much choice.
" 'Start the Games again,' I told 'em, and they looked down at their long noses at me. 'But there needn't be no killing,' I says. 'No real killing, that is. Now, listen me out. You've seen the street actors do Huma, ain't you? You've seen the knight fall to the ground, bleedin' and moanin' and floppin' around. Yet five minutes later he's up and drinking ale at the tavern down the block. I've done a bit of street work in my time, and . . . well . . . watch this. Come here, Raag.'
"Raag came over, a big grin on his ugly, yellow face.
" 'Give me your sword, Raag,' I orders. Then, before they could say a word, I plunges the sword in Raag's gut. You shoulda seen him. Blood all over! Running down my hands, spurting from his mouth. He gave a great bellow and fell to the floor, twitchin' and groanin'.
"You shoulda heard 'em yell," the dwarf said gleefully, shaking his head over the memory. "I thought we was gonna have to pick them elf lords up off the floor. So, before they could call the guards to come haul me away, I kicked old Raag, here.
" 'You can get up now, Raag,' I says.
"And he sat up, giving them a big grin. Well, they all started talking at once." The dwarf mimicked high-pitched elven voices.
" 'Remarkable! How is it done? This could be the answer—' "
"How did you do it?" Tas asked eagerly.
Arack shrugged. "You'll learn. A lot of chicken blood, a sword with a blade that collapses down into the handle—it's simple. That's what I told 'em. Plus, it's easy to teach gladiators how to act like they're hurt, even a dummy like old Raag here."
Tas glanced at the ogre apprehensively, but Raag was only grinning fondly at the dwarf. "Most of 'em beefed up their fights anyway, to make it look good for the gulls—audience, I should say. Well, the Kingpriest, he went for it and"—the dwarf drew himself up proudly—“he even made me Master. And that's my title, now. Master of the Games."
"I don't understand," Caramon said slowly. "You mean people pay to be tricked? Surely they must have figured it out—”
"Oh, sure." Arack sneered. "We've never made no big secret of it. And now it's the most popular sport on Krynn. People travel for hundreds of miles to see the Games. The elf lords come—and even the Kingpriest himself, sometimes. Well, here we are," Arack said, coming to a halt outside a huge stadium and looking up at it with pride.
It was made of stone and was ages old, but what it might have been built for originally, no one remembered. On Game days, bright flags fluttered from the tops of the stone towers and it would have been thronged with people. But there were no Games today, nor would there be until summer's end. It was gray and colorless, except for the garish paintings on the walls portraying great events in the history of the sport. A few children stood around the outside, hoping for a glimpse of one of their heroes. Snarling at them, Arack motioned to Raag to open the massive, wooden doors.
"You mean no one gets killed," Caramon persisted, staring somberly at the arena with its bloody paintings.
The dwarf looked oddly at Caramon, Tas saw. Arack's expression was suddenly cruel and calculating, his dark, tangled eyebrows creased over his small eyes. Caramon didn't notice, he was still inspecting the wall paintings. Tas made a sound, and Caramon suddenly glanced around at the dwarf. But, by that time, Arack's expression had changed.
"No one," the dwarf said with a grin, patting Caramon's big arm. "No one . . .."
"Him new man," grunted Raag, jerking a yellow, filthy thumb in Caramon's direction as the big man stood next to him. It was Caramon's introduction to the "school." Flushing, acutely conscious of the iron collar around his neck that branded him someone's property, Caramon kept his eyes on the straw-covered, wooden floor.Hearing only a muttered response to Raag's statement, Caramon glanced up. He was in a mess hall, he saw now. Twenty or thirty men of various races and nationalities sat about in small groups, eating dinner.
Some of the men were looking at Caramon with interest, most weren't looking at him at all. A few nodded, the majority continued eating, Caramon wasn't certain what to do next, but Raag solved the problem. Laying a hand on Caramon's shoulder, the ogre shoved him roughly toward a table. Caramon stumbled and nearly fell, managing to catch himself before he smashed into the table. Whirling around, he glared angrily at the ogre. Raag stood grinning at him, his hands twitching.
I'm being baited, Caramon realized, having seen that look too many times in bars where someone was always trying to goad the big man into a fight. And this was one fight he knew he couldn't win. Though Caramon stood almost six and a half feet tall, he didn't even quite come to the ogre's shoulder, while Raag's vast hand could wrap itself around Caramon’s thick neck twice. Caramon swallowed, rubbed his bruised leg, and sat down on the long wooden bench.
Casting a sneering glance at the big human, Raag's squintyeyed gaze took in everyone in the mess hall. With shrugs and low murmurs of disappointment, the men went back to their dinners. From a table in a corner, where sat a group of minotaurs, there was laughter. Grinning back at them, Raag left the room.
Feeling himself blush self-consciously, Caramon hunkered down on the bench and tried to disappear. Someone was sitting across from him, but the big warrior couldn't bear to meet the man's gaze.Tasslehoff had no such inhibitions, however. Clambering up on the bench beside Caramon, the kender regarded their neighbor with interest.
"I'm Tasslehoff Burrfoot," he said, extending his small hand to a large, black-skinned human—also wearing an iron collar—sitting across them. "I'm new, too," the kender added, feeling wounded that he had not been introduced. The black man looked up from his food, glanced at Tas, ignored the kender's hand, then turned his gaze on Caramon.
"You two partners?"
"Yeah," Caramon answered, thankful the man hadn't referred to Raag in any way. He was suddenly aware of the smell of food and sniffed hungrily, his mouth watering. Looking appreciatively at the man's plate, which was stacked high with roast deer meat, potatoes, and slabs of bread, he sighed. "Looks like they feed us well, at any rate."
Caramon saw the black-skinned man glance at his round belly and then exchange amused looks with a tall, extraordinarily beautiful woman who took her seat next to him, her plate loaded with food as well. Looking at her, Caramon's eyes widened. Clumsily, he attempted to stand up and bow.
"Your servant, ma'am—” he began.
"Sit down, you great oaf!" the woman snapped angrily, her tan skin darkening. "You'll have them all laughing!"
Indeed, several of the men chuckled. The woman turned and glared at them, her hand darting to a dagger she wore in her belt. At the sight of her flashing green eyes, the men swallowed their laughter and went back to their food. The woman waited until she was certain all had been properly cowed, then she, too, turned her attention back to her meal, jabbing at her meat with swift, irritated thrusts of her fork.
"I-I'm sorry," Caramon stammered, his big face flushed. "I didn't mean—”
"Forget it," the woman said in a throaty voice. Her accent was odd, Caramon couldn't place it.She appeared to be human, except for that strange way of talking—stranger even than the other people around here—and the fact that her hair was a most peculiar color—sort of a dull, leaden green. It was thick and straight, and she wore it in a long braid down her back. "You're new here, I take it. You'll soon understand—you don't treat me any different than the others. Either in or out of the arena. Got that?"
"The arena?" Caramon said in blank astonishment. "You— you're a gladiator?"
"One of the best, too," the black-skinned man across from them said, grinning. "I am Pheragas of Northern Ergoth and this is Kiiri the Sirine—”
"A Sirine! From below the sea?" Tas asked in excitement. "One of those women who can change shapes and—”
The woman flashed the kender a glance of such fury that Tas blinked and fell silent. Then her gaze went swiftly to Caramon. "Do you find that funny, slave? "Kiiri asked, her eyes on Caramon's new collar.
Caramon put his hand over it, flushing again. Kiiri gave a short, bitter laugh, but Pheragas regarded him with pity.
"You'll get used to it, in time," he said with a shrug.
"I'll never get used to it!" Caramon said, clenching his big fist.
Kiiri glanced at him. "You will, or your heart will break and you will die," she said coolly. So beautiful was she, and so proud her bearing, that her own iron collar might have been a necklace of finest gold, Caramon thought. He started to reply but was interrupted by a fat man in a white, greasy apron who slammed a plate of food down in front of Tasslehoff.
"Thank you," said the kender politely.
"Don't get used to the service," the cook snarled. "After this, you pick up yer own plate, like everyone else. Here"—he tossed a wooden disk down in front of the kender—"there's your meal chit. Show that, or you don't eat. And here's yours," he added, flipping one to Caramon.
"Where's my food?" Caramon asked, pocketing the wooden disk.
Plopping a bowl down in front of the big man, the cook turned to leave.
"What's this?" Caramon growled, staring at the bowl.
Tas leaned over to look. "Chicken broth," he said helpfully.
"I know what it is," Caramon said, his voice deep. "I mean, what is this, some kind of joke? Because it's not funny," he added, scowling at Pheragas and Kiiri, who were both grinning at him. Twisting around on the bench, Caramon reached out and grabbed hold of the cook, jerking him backward. "Get rid of this dishwater and bring me something to eat!"
With surprising quickness and dexterity, the cook broke free of Caramon's grip, twisted the big man's arm behind his back and shoved his head face-first into the bowl of soup.
"Eat it and like it," the cook snarled, dragging Caramon's dripping head up out of the soup by the hair. "Because—as far as food goes—that's all you're gonna be seeing for about a month."
Tasslehoff stopped eating, his face lighting up. The kender noticed that everyone else in the room had stopped eating again, too, certain that—this time—there would be a fight.
Caramon's face, dripping with soup, was deathly white. There were red splotches in the cheeks, and his eyes glinted dangerously.
The cook was watching him smugly, his own fists clenched.
Eagerly, Tas waited to see the cook splattered all over the room. Caramon's big fists clenched, the knuckles turned white. One of the big hands lifted and—slowly—Caramon began to wipe the soup from his face.
With a snort of derision, the cook turned and swaggered off.
Tas sighed. That certainly wasn't the old Caramon, he thought sadly, remembering the man who had killed two draconians by bashing their heads together with his bare hands, the Caramon who had once left fifteen ruffians in various stages of hurt when they made the mistake of trying to rob the big man. Glancing at Caramon out of the corner of his eye, Tas swallowed the sharp words that had been on his tongue and went back to his dinner, his heart aching.
Caramon ate slowly, spooning up the soup and gulping it down without seeming to taste it. Tas saw the woman and the black-skinned man exchange glances again and, for a moment, the kender feared they would laugh at Caramon. Kiiri, in fact, started to say something, but—on looking up toward the front of the room—she shut her mouth abruptly and went back to her meal. Tas saw Raag enter the mess hall again, two burly humans trundling along behind him.
Walking over, they came to a halt behind Caramon. Raag poked the big warrior.
Caramon glanced around slowly. "What is it?" he asked in a dull voice that Tas didn't recognize.
"You come now," Raag said.
"I'm eating," Caramon began, but the two humans grabbed the big man by the arms and dragged him off the bench before he could even finish his sentence. Then Tas saw a glimmer of Caramon's old spirit. His face an ugly, dark red, Caramon aimed a clumsy blow at one. But the man, grinning derisively, dodged it easily. His partner kicked Caramon savagely in the gut. Caramon collapsed with a groan, falling to the floor on all fours. The two humans hauled him to his feet. His head hanging, Caramon allowed himself to be led away.
"Wait! Where—” Tas stood up, but felt a strong hand close over his own.
Kiiri shook her head warningly, and Tas sat back down.
"What are they going to do to him?" he asked.
The woman shrugged. "Finish your meal," she said in a stern voice.
Tas set his fork down. "I'm not very hungry," he mumbled despondently, his mind going back to the dwarf's strange, cruel look at Caramon outside the arena.
The black-skinned man smiled at the kender, who sat across from him. "Come on," he said, standing up and holding out his hand to Tas in a friendly manner, "I'll show you to your room. We all go through it the first day. Your friend will be all right— in time."
"In time." Kiiri snorted, shoving her plate away.
Tas lay all alone in the room he had been told he would share with Caramon. It wasn't much. Located beneath the arena, it looked more like a prison cell than a room. But Kiiri told him that all the gladiators lived in rooms like these.
"They are clean and warm," she said. "There are not many in this world who can say that of where they sleep. Besides, if we lived in luxury, we would grow soft."
Well, there was certainly no danger of that, as far as the kender could see, glancing around at the bare, stone walls, the straw-covered floor, a table with a water pitcher and a bowl, and the two small chests that were supposed to hold their possessions. A single window, high up in the ceiling right at ground level, let in a shaft of sunlight. Lying on the hard bed, Tas watched the sun travel across the room. The kender might have gone exploring, but he had the feeling he wouldn't enjoy himself much until he found out what they had done to Caramon.
The sun's line on the floor grew longer and longer. A door opened and Tas leaped up eagerly, but it was only another slave, tossing a sack in onto the floor, then shutting the door again. Tas inspected the sack and his heart sank. It was Caramon's belongings! Everything he'd had on him—including his clothes! Tas studied them anxiously, looking for bloodstains. Nothing. They appeared all right . . .. His hand closed over something hard in an inner, secret pocket.
Quickly, Tas pulled it out. The kender caught his breath. The magical device from Par-Salian! How had they missed it, he wondered, marveling at the beautiful jeweled pendant as he turned it over in his hand. Of course, it was magical, he reminded himself. It looked like nothing more than a bauble now, but he had himself seen Par-Salian transform it from a sceptre-like object. Undoubtedly it had the power to avoid discovery if it didn't want to be discovered.
Feeling it, holding it, watching the sunlight sparkle on its radiant jewels, Tas sighed with longing. This was the most exquisite, marvelous, fantastic thing he'd ever seen in his life. He wanted it most desperately. Without thinking, his little body rose and was heading for his pouches when he caught himself.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot, said a voice that sounded uncomfortably like Flint's, this is Serious Business you're meddling with. This is the Way Home. Par-Salian himself, the Great Par-Salian gave it to Caramon in a solemn ceremony. It belongs to Caramon. It's his, you have no right to it!
Tas shivered. He had certainly never thought thoughts like these before in his life. Dubiously, he glanced at the device. Perhaps it was putting these uncomfortable thoughts in his head! He decided he didn't want any part of them. Hurriedly, he carried the device over and put it in Caramon's chest. Then, as an extra precaution, he locked the chest and stuffed the key in Caramon's clothes. Even more miserable, he returned to his bed.
The sunlight had just about disappeared and the kender was growing more and more anxious when he heard a noise outside. The door was kicked open violently.
"Caramon!" Tas cried in horror, springing to his feet.
The two burly humans dragged the big man in over the doorstep and flung him down on the bed. Then, grinning, they left, slamming the door shut behind them. There was a low, moaning sound from the bed.
"Caramon!" Tas whispered. Hurriedly grabbing up the water pitcher, he dumped some water in the bowl and carried it over to the big warrior's bedside. "What did they do?" he asked softly, moistening the man's lips with water.
Caramon moaned again and shook his head weakly. Tas glanced quickly at the big man's body. There were no visible wounds, no blood, no swelling, no purple welts or whip-lash marks. Yet he had been tortured, that much was obvious. The big man was in agony. His body was covered with sweat, his eyes had rolled back in his head. Every now and then, various muscles in his body twitched spasmodically and a groan of pain escaped his lips.