Murmuring a frantic prayer for salvation, Cimozjen felt his own blade pierce his skin, then slide into his chest.
“Ooohhhhh,” said Rophis with mock pity as the bugbear drove the dagger into Cimozjen’s chest up to the hilt. He poured out the rest of his wine on the floor, spattering the stone with red. “I guess that’s that.”
Twenty-two years earlier:
Cimozjen fought the return of consciousness. He fought against the rising awareness of pain, the disorientation that muddled his brain, the stench that assailed his nose, but he had to yield before the persistent awakening.
He opened his eyes, and found himself face to face with a dead man, open blank eyes staring through him into eternity. Is that me? he thought. Then he saw the small dragonhawk emblem on the front of the man’s helmet, and he remembered him. He remembered seeing that look on the man’s face as Cimozjen’s dagger slipped between the plates of his mail and into his heart, the look of surprise, dismay, betrayal, defeat. His mind began to piece things back together, unfolding the memories of the last stand of the Iron Band.
He moaned softly, an indulgence he granted himself, an admission of the aches that held his body and by no means a plea for help. How he’d managed to remain alive, he had no idea. Perhaps he had been struck across the helmet, or perhaps a horse had knocked both him and his final victim down. It mattered little. He was alive.
Slowly he raised his head. Viewed from the ground, the battlefield was an endless badlands of broken armor and broken bodies, the only vegetation the blades and spears that rose from the carnage where they had been planted. Overhead, the sky grew gradually darker as the sun sank toward the horizon.
“Mozji …” said a voice, so weakly it was almost a whimper.
Cimozjen turned his head to see Kraavel lying some five feet away, clutching a wad of bloody cloths to his abdomen just below the ribs, pressing it tight with both hands. His face was ashen and drawn.
“Mozji,” he gasped, “it won’t stop bleeding. Heal me.”
Cimozjen turned his head to scan the area. A few Aundairian litter crews worked the battlefield, looking for the injured. Nearby, a pair of desultory spearman stalked about, searching the field. As Cimozjen watched, they stopped. One of them nudged something with his boot, then the other plunged his spear downward. A hand briefly shot up from the ground, then fell limp. The Aundairians continued their hunt, drawing closer to where the two Karrns lay. Dread seized Cimozjen’s heart.
He looked back to Kraavel. “Lie still!” he whispered. “Play dead!” Cimozjen clutched his holy symbol, concealed beneath his body, with his right hand.
“But Mozji,” pleaded Kraavel, “the bleeding, it-”
“Let them pass by, and then I’ll heal you! Just hold on for a few moments!” He didn’t mention-couldn’t admit, not aloud-that he feared the Aundairians might stab him as he lay there, and he wanted to save his healing for himself, just in case. He didn’t want to die, not here, not like that, not stabbed to death while feigning to be a corpse. He felt the fear, he felt the dishonor, and he was ashamed.
“Mozji, I’m so cold …”
“Hsst!”
Cimozjen lay still, one eye peering through the crook of his dead foe’s arm to watch the progress of the Aundairian spearmen. He steeled his mind, bracing himself to feel a stab wound, willing himself not to react to the pain, preparing his soul to pray for his healing even as the cruel blade was withdrawn from his torso. Concealed beneath his prone body, the telltale glow of his holy symbol would not be noticed, and he might survive the encounter.
The Aundairians moved past, never closer than thirty paces to one side. Cimozjen heard them talking quietly, their accented words a strange murmur in the settling evening.
After they passed, after the tension eased from his joints and limbs, Cimozjen began to move, carefully, quietly. He found his dirk still embedded in the chest of his foe and gripped it, then crawled stealthily over to where Kraavel lay.
“Hsst! Kraavel!” he whispered. “They’re gone!” He pushed Kraavel over to get a better look at the wound, but his friend lay limp. His undamaged eye was dilated, staring nowhere. His half-open lips looked faintly blue.
As the sun set over the last battlefield of the Iron Band, Cimozjen stared into the face of his friend, abandoned by an act of cowardice to die a cold and lonely death.
“I am so sorry, my friend,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.” He began to weep, silently. “And I swear, never, ever again.”
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
A Crash of Iron
Wir, the 4th day of Aryth, 998
Pomindras rose. “Lord, I should be going. I’m due on the clay shortly.”
“You enjoy that, don’t you?” asked Rophis, slurping away the last of his wine. “Who is it this time?”
“Some stiff-necked youngster who wants my shield,” he said as he carefully hefted his prize possession by the straps and slung it over his back. The gold rim shone beautifully, while the black boss remained as black as midnight. “He challenged me, can you believe it? Bah. Odds are as long as I’ve seen them, but I’ll still chain myself up, just in case the lad gets a lucky strike in.”
“Pomindras, while you’re down there, sign that bugbear up with the family. I liked his style.”
“If you insist, lord,” he said. He picked up his sword by the scabbard and trotted to the stairwell that led to the arena.
The bugbear looked around. A sea of faces-yelling, cheering, clapping-surrounded him. It was a new experience. He looked down at the thin blade in his hand. It was so small compared to his great axe, but in the right hands, just as deadly. Perhaps even deadlier. It was all so confusing, the noise, the dealings, everything but the arena. For a moment, he wished he were home.
One of the doors to the arena opened and a trio of workers stepped out, unarmed and dressed in simple peasants’ attire. They walked over to Cimozjen’s body. One hand was still clenched over his heart, and the other still tightly held to his staff. Blood trickled down the links of chain mail to form a small pool on the clay.
One of the workers continued to walk across the plaza to pick up Cimozjen’s sword. The other two moved to recover his body. They each grabbed one heel and started pulling, and as they dragged him across the field, friction slowly drove his arms over his head. It almost looked like he was cheering another victory.
“Hey,” said the trailing worker, the sword slung easily over his shoulder. “He ain’t lettin’ go of his stick!” He chuckled a little at the oddity.
One of the other workers called back to him over his shoulder, saying, “That’s why it’s called a ‘death grip.’ He’ll drop it soon enough.”
They dragged Cimozjen’s body out of the arena. The third worker trailed close behind with the sword, and as he grabbed the latch to close the door behind him, he noticed that the bugbear had followed them. “Hey,” he said. “You’re supposed to go out that other door.” He pointed across the arena with his empty hand, then started to close the door.
The bugbear reached out and grabbed the edge of the door.
“Hey!” yelled the worker. He raised his voice and spoke more slowly. “Go to that door. Understand? Not here. There.” He pointed again. “That door. Go. This door, no!” He took a moment to turn to his companions. “Hey. Did you hear that? I rhymed!”
The bugbear yanked the door open and stepped in.
“Hey!” yelled the worker. “I said the other door!”
The bugbear closed the door behind him.