Knights: Book 02 - The Hand of Tharnin (25 page)

"Say a prayer here to whatever god you serve," said Tolus. "Ask him to keep your soul, so you don't leave it in the arena."

Timlin thought of the Divine Essence, but it didn't seem like much of a god to him--just a frightened young creature beneath Dremlock. Then an image flashed though his mind of the Great Light that hovered above Stormy Mountain, and he said a prayer to it, asking it to guide him on whatever path he took.

Tolus patted him on the back. "I wish you luck, boy."

Timlin was pushed beyond the door, and his Flayer was slapped into his hand. Then the men departed, slamming the iron door behind them.

Timlin stood in a square room, lit by torches, that resembled a pit with walls of stone and a sand floor. Benches stood atop the walls, lined with spectators who cheered, laughed, and booed him. Some were so drunk they could barely sit up. Timlin was sickened by the sight of them--their grinning faces and the bloodlust in their eyes. Some held bags of coin, ready to make bets. They seemed like heartless beasts to Timlin, caring only for their own pleasure. He found himself hating the world and wondering why there had to be so much cruelty.

Another iron door opened and a large Jackal Goblin was herded into the arena. Immediately, it fixed its evil gaze on Timlin, the muscles rippling in anticipation over its spotted, furry body. Its clenched fists uncoiled to reveal long black claws, and its drooling muzzle split open in a grin. A sleek and immensely powerful beast, it eyed Timlin with eagerness--thinking the short, skinny lad would be easy prey. The aura of the Deep Shadow emerged from it to make Timlin's thoughts all the more gloomy--to sap his will and defeat his spirit.

But Timlin was well-trained to resist that aura, and he adopted a sideways, defensive posture with his legs apart for balance, the Flayer twirling swiftly in his fingers a few times to intimidate his foe. His keen eyes took in everything--the size of the arena, the strength and probable speed of his foe, and even the sand that might be used to blind his enemy.

"I present Timlin Woodmaster," Tolus called out from above, for the benefit of the crowd. "Former Divine Knight of Dremlock and a former thief and assassin. He has killed more than twenty men in his young life."

Some in the crowd cheered, and some (who obviously didn't believe Tolus' boasts) booed and spit into the arena.

Timlin didn't let Tolus' lies shake his focus. He channeled his sorcery into his blade and it burst into green flames. As the Jackal leapt in for the kill, Timlin was ready. He sidestepped the beast and slashed a smoking wound in its shoulder with his Flayer. The Jackal let out a screech of rage.

A Jackal was a powerful Goblin. With teeth and claws that could easily shred flesh--as well as a cunning mind and immense strength and speed--they were one of the most feared creatures in the land. They also possessed extreme tolerance to pain. Timlin knew the shoulder wound would not slow the beast.

But the Jackal was a creature of the Deep Shadow first and foremost, and the more ugly its mood, the stronger its evil aura became. Timlin's focus waned for a moment, as feelings of despair overcame him. The fire in his dagger died out. Then his training took control and he calmed his mind, letting the aura of the Deep Shadow pass through him like wind through grass--telling himself it could not harm him. Once again the Flayer burst into flames.

Enraged, the beast drove at Timlin in a blur, its claws ripping at his face. Timlin deflected the claws with his blade, and the Jackal retreated a bit. It glowered at Timlin with hatred, then threw back its head and howled.

Timlin used the opportunity to lunge forward and slash at its throat, but the beast dodged the strike. Somehow it ended up behind Timlin, and instinctively, the former Squire ducked as claws ripped through the air where his head had been.

Timlin wheeled around and plunged his blade into the Jackal's heart. The stench of scorched fur and flesh filled the air. The Jackal tried a weak swipe with the last of its strength, and then it collapsed and lay still.

Timlin sheathed his Flayer and stood waiting, while the crowd cheered. At last, Tolus and the two men with crossbows entered the arena. Tolus nodded to him and smiled. "Good work, lad. A quick kill over a strong foe."

Timlin gazed down at the dead Jackal. He knew it would never end. Soon he would be forced to kill or be killed by humans, while the vile people sat drooling for bloodshed above. How many would he have to kill over the years?

"Just hand over that blade," said Tolus, his eyes straying nervously to Timlin's sheathed Flayer, "and we'll get you back to your cell. You fought so well that I think you'll have a thin quilt waiting for you to help keep you warm."

Timlin's mind was in the dark place again--the place from his youth. Calmly, he stepped toward Tolus, drew his Flayer, and held it handle first toward the man. As Tolus reached for it, Timlin leapt around him and shoved the dagger against his throat from behind. Tolus cried out for help.

"Stay away or I'll kill him!" Timlin warned the two guards. Those who remained in the crowd above went into a frenzy of boos (and a few cheers), but Timlin ignored them.

"This is futile, boy," said Tolus. "If you kill me, my guards will kill you. Give up and this nonsense will be forgotten."

"Take me out of here," Timlin ordered.

"Never," said Tolus, his Dwarven voice becoming a rumble. "Go on and kill me, then. And my guards will end your miserable life."

Timlin considered it, but his will faltered. Finally he threw down the Flayer and shoved Tolus away from him.

Tolus whirled around and pushed Timlin to the ground. The Grey Dwarf was seething with rage. Tolus and the guards then proceeded to beat Timlin severely, until the young man could barely move. Then they dragged him back to his cell.

***

Over the next few days, Timlin was groggy from the beating and spent a lot of time sleeping in his cell. He ate a bit of moldy food and drank some stale water. He dreamt of escape and would periodically awaken to the disappoint of realizing he was still in his cell. Occasionally he would hear other prisoners shout or men talking in the hallway, but he was too groggy to care what they were saying.

At last he felt good enough to stay awake during the daytime, and he washed away some dried blood from a head wound. He spent the day meditating on restoring his body to full health. As the day wore on toward evening, the guard brought dinner, which for Timlin meant more food that was barely edible. This time, though, the meal was particularly rancid.

"Feeling better, huh?" said Oaran. "Well, you won't feel very good once you hear what I have to say."

"I have to fight you, right?" said Timlin, knowing from the look on Oaran's face. "Tolus wants me dead."

"Yes, he wants you dead," said Oaran, sighing. "I told you not to disrespect him. Even worse, you put a dagger to Tolus' throat. Now you've got to kill me if you want to live, and that's not going to happen."

"I'm sorry," said Timlin. "I don't want to fight you, either." He felt utterly defeated, almost wishing the beating had killed him.

Oaran slammed a tin cup down, splashing water. "Why did you have to go and do that, boy? You're good with the blade. You could have won your battles and your freedom. Now I've got to take your life."

Timlin said nothing. He didn't have a good answer.

"The battle is scheduled for after dinner tonight," said Oaran, glancing down at the platter of food in front of him. "It's your last meal, so eat up."

Timlin glanced down at his bowl of swill. "You've got to be kidding. This is my last meal? I'd rather die hungry."

Oaran slid his tray closer to Timlin--a tray covered in meats, fruits, and vegetables. "Take what you want."

Timlin's eyes widened. "I thought you weren't sharing with me."

"It's different now," said Oaran, a look of pity on his face. "None of that matters now. Don't you understand, lad? You're going to die tonight!"

Timlin stuffed the delicious food in his mouth and washed it down with milk from a pitcher. He didn't want to think about anything but savoring the meal. He ate until his belly hurt.

But once he was finished eating, reality set in. One of them
was
going to die. Timlin was not convinced it would be him, but in order to survive he would have to kill a man whose only desire was to see his family again. Suddenly, Timlin's stomach wasn't handling the food very well and he had to struggle to keep it down.

"What if we both refuse to fight?" he said.

"Then they will kill us both," Oaran said gloomily.

"I won't kill you," Timlin said. "It's not right."

"Well, I will do what I must," said Oaran. "It's nothing personal. Every man has a right to protect himself and try to survive."

At last Tolus and the two men with crossbows led them from their cell. They dealt aggressively with Timlin, watching his every move. Timlin felt the two slaves might have a chance to escape if they fought together, but he could see by the subdued look in Oaran's eyes that it wasn't going to happen.

The two men were shoved into the arena below the noisy crowd. Timlin was given his Flayer, and Oaran was handed a short spear with a long tip. The crowd booed Timlin and cheered Oaran.

"My good people," Tolus called out from above. "The little fool there who assaulted me the other day must now meet his fate--at the hands of our champion Oaran! Rest assured that he will die. But I am fair as fair can be, and should Timlin Woodmaster happen to somehow defeat Oaran, his crime will be forgiven."

The crowd went into a frenzy of boos directed at Timlin. "Cowards!" Timlin shouted at them. In return they spit wine and ale at him. Timlin was shaking in rage, fear, and disgust to the point where he felt like he might fall apart. He struggled to remember his training and calm himself.

"Let the battle begin!" Tolus roared.

Instantly Oaran lunged for Timlin, almost catching the former Squire off guard. But Timlin's reflexes were too swift and he sidestepped the thrust. He kicked the spear away, but Oaran retained his grip on it.

"Stand still and I'll make it quick," Oaran said. "You won't feel much pain. Just close your eyes and let it be."

In response, Timlin shifted into his defensive posture, raising his burning dagger. Oaran's eyes widened at the sight of Timlin's sorcery.

"The Divine Fire!" Oaran whispered in awe. Then his eyes narrowed. "Your tricks won't help you, Timlin. Let me end your pain!"

Timlin stood like a statue, waiting for Oaran's move.

Oaran hesitated, then swung the spear at Timlin's head. The blade ripped through the air inches from the lad's face. Timlin dropped to the sand and kicked Oaran's legs out from under him, then leapt quickly back to his feet. But Oaran scrambled up just as quickly, and once again they circled each other.

"I won't kill you," said Timlin.

In response, Oaran drove the spear at Timlin's chest. Timlin again sidestepped it, and this time he cut the weapon in two with his burning dagger. Cursing, Oaran dropped the useless handle and grabbed the tipped half from the sand. Oaran's spear was now just a few inches longer than Timlin's Flayer.

Oaran's face was pale, and his shocked eyes revealed his thoughts. He'd won dozens of battles over the years, but now he realized he was hopelessly overmatched. Timlin was simply too swift and too well trained for him. In fact, Timlin was better at fighting an armed man than he was at fighting a Goblin. As a Blue Squire, he'd been trained extensively in weapons combat, and his sorcery guided his movements and enhanced the deadliness of his blade.

Timlin was equally shocked--to find out how well Dremlock had prepared him for a situation like this. He felt like he was toying with Oaran, and his confidence soared. He simply knew he could not lose.

With a desperate howl, Oaran drove in on Timlin with his half-spear. Timlin easily evaded the bumbling, desperate move and, letting the fire die in his blade, he slammed the pommel of the Flayer against Oaran's head. Oaran fell to the dirt and lay bleeding, a foggy look in his eyes.

The crowd sat in stunned silence at the sight of their fallen champion. A few who had dared to bet on Timlin cried out in delight.

"Well done, Timlin," Tolus called down. "Now kill him before he recovers."

Timlin sheathed his Flayer. The crowd booed.

"This is a fight to the death," Tolus shouted. "People have good money at stake. If you don't finish him, I will have both of you killed."

"I won't do it!" Timlin shouted back. "Not for a bunch of cowards." He wondered if this was the end for him--if he would soon lie riddled with arrows and bleeding out his life. He was terrified, but determined to fight to the death.

His face crimson with rage, Tolus and his men came down to the arena. Tolus strode up to Timlin, shaking his fist at him. "Lad, you better finish Oaran off. This is your last chance to win your freedom. Otherwise, I'll take both of you back to your cell, and tomorrow I'll throw both of you in here with some Ogres!"

"Take me back to my cell," said Timlin.

"You'll regret this tomorrow," said Tolus. "Dying at the hands of an Ogre is a terrible fate. Think carefully."

Timlin said nothing, but Tolus' warning made his legs want to buckle. The Ogres would tear them to pieces. Yet Timlin's mind could not be changed.

"Then I truly pity you," said Tolus.

***

The next day, Tolus warned them it would now be
two
days before they were thrown to the Ogres, and that they would not be fed but could have stale water. After that, the Grey Dwarf didn't show himself again.

Oaran was enraged at Timlin. "You little fool! You had a chance to finish me and save yourself. Now we're both going to die."

"I couldn't do it," said Timlin, shrugging.

"Tolus would love to keep you alive," said Oaran. "But you're dangerous and don't follow his orders. I'm dead no matter what, but if you can convince Tolus that you're sorry and beg for a second chance, he might well grant it."

"It doesn't matter," said Timlin. "I just can't bring myself to kill people in the arena. I don't want to die, but I guess I'd rather die than murder people."