“Fair?” Bastard paused a moment before it spoke. “I care not for your knightly concepts of justice and fairness. The Lord of Blades demands retribution for such transgressions.”
Kandler extended his open hand toward Bastard. He saw only one chance here, and he needed the warforged at ease enough for it to work. “I understand your situation, and I think you understand ours. Maybe I have another solution.”
Bastard shook his head. “The solution I have is fine.”
“I’d like to ask for a trial.”
Bastard cocked his silvered head at Kandler. “You are a breather. You have no rights here.”
“A trial by combat.”
Bastard cocked his head the other way, never taking his eyes from Kandler, then he threw back his head and laughed. It sounded like a hammer tapping an iron mug of mead.
“You have strong metal, breather,” Bastard said as he brought his head back down again. “But tell me this. Why would one of us risk his life to give you a chance at freedom?”
“Sport,” said Burch. All eyes turned to the shifter, who shuffled his feet a bit when he noticed everyone was watching him. “People are bored here. They want action, need distraction.”
“Why would you say that?” Bastard asked, his sapphire eyes narrowing at Burch.
Burch squinted out at the arena all around them. “Training grounds don’t have stands.”
Bastard stared at the shifter for a long, quiet moment then turned to Kandler. “Who would you like to fight?” he asked. “Do you think you could defeat me?” The warforged leader preened, the dim light reflecting off his polished spikes.
“I’ll fight anyone you like,” the justicar said. Kandler to suppressed a shudder. He had just opened the door for the warforged to do with him as he liked. He was less concerned about Bastard’s mercy, though, than in buying Esprл and Xalt more time.
“Yes, you will,” said Bastard. “I have made enough concessions today.”
Kandler stood like a stone and waited. Sallah shrugged the warforged hands from her arms. Burch gazed out over the arena, and Kandler followed his eyes. No one had left the place since the prisoners had been taken, and none of the spectators spoke as they waited to learn what would happen.
Bastard picked up the golden horn that stood on a small, handsome table next to his chair. He put it to his mouth and spoke to the crowd, the horn amplifying his voice so that those in the arena could hear his every word.
“The breathers we captured petitioned the Lord of Blades for the right to trial by combat! As his lieutenant, I have decided to grant their request!”
The crowd erupted in cheers.
“Should I be worried that they’re so happy about this?” Kandler asked Burch.
Bastard looked back at the justicar then continued to speak into the horn. “If their champion wins this fight, they go free.”
The crowd booed.
“If our champion wins, they die.”
The cheers returned louder than ever.
Bastard turned to the justicar. “How are you called?”
“Kandler?” said Sallah. “Who said that he would be our champion? It should be me.”
The justicar glared at the lady knight. “You’re a fine knight,” he said, “but I’m a better duelist.”
Sallah scoffed at that. Bastard ignored her and said to Kandler, “How many people have you killed in a duel?”
Kandler looked at Burch. “What would you say?”
“I lost count a while back. A score? More?”
“More, I think.” Kandler looked at Sallah tenderly. “People find out you’re something special, they come looking for you.”
“You are the breather champion,” Bastard said. “Kandler, is it?”
The justicar nodded, avoiding Sallah’s frustrated gaze.
Bastard spoke into the golden horn again. “The breather champion shall be Kandler!”
The crowd booed.
“The warforged champion shall be Gorgan!”
The assembled warforged roared so loud that even Bastard covered his ears.
“Who’s that?” Kandler asked. “Gorgan?”
Burch jerked his head at the arena. Kandler watched as one of the titans lumbered out into the middle of the floor and raised both of its weapon-hands in the air, soaking up the audience’s cheers.
Chapter 51
When Te’oma reached the arena, she knew she d found the kind of trouble she’d been looking for. As she emerged into the arena, the roar of the crowd nearly stunned her senseless, but she managed to keep her wits about her. She reached out with her mind to her cloak, and with each step across the sawdust-covered floor her wings unfurled further.
By the time the changeling reached the center of the arena, the batlike appendages had her aloft. Before anyone in the arena could do something about it, she was soaring over their heads, the beating of her leathery wings pulling her higher into the sky and over the arena’s far wall.
As Te’oma banked down over the roofs of the warforged apartments beyond the arena, her mind wandered back to the day her patron had granted her the privilege of being bonded to her bloodwings. At first, the idea of being bonded-physically, mentally, and permanently-to the fibrous, living creature had repulsed her. She had heard tales of others whose bonding had not gone so well. Symbionts of that sort possessed their own animal intelligence, and sometimes their will proved more powerful than that of their hosts. As a psion, Te’oma had trained her mind to be dominant over all of those around her, but being attached to a symbiont potentially meant fighting that battle every hour of every day for the rest of her life.
Fortunately, Te’oma’s bloodwings had been young, fresh, and pliable. They had submitted totally to her will, so much so that they were even willing to shrivel up into little shreds concealed beneath her shirt when she so commanded.
Te’oma hung low over Construct, working her wings hard to move slowly. She had seen archers lining the arena’s upper bleachers. If she could stay below their line of sight, she would be unassailable.
As she flew, she reached out with her mind, scanning for the thoughts of the one she hunted-Esprл. She knew the justicar wouldn’t have abandoned the girl long before entering the arena to rescue his friends, so she guessed that Esprл was nearby. The shifter and knight had been with him, but not the warforged who had burst into the apartment. That meant this warforged was most likely with Esprл.
Thoughts of all sorts flitted through the changeling’s head. Nearly all of them came from nearby warforged who were wondering what was happening in the arena. Te’oma discarded these thoughts as she encountered them. She found them uniformly cold and lifeless. Humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, and especially the halflings were a jumble of thoughts, emotions, desires, all mingling together like a muddied pool. Warforged were more like a stream-just as many particles perhaps, but all separate and flowing in the same direction. She found their single- mindedness disturbing.
After a few minutes, she risked swinging around closer to the stretch of open area that skirted the arena, and she heard a young girl’s mind cry out-Kandler!
The changeling smiled. She looked down and saw the warforged with the dirty white tabard standing next to the elf-girl as they leaned against an empty merchant’s stand. They gazed up at the arena’s wall, allowing Te’oma to glide in silently and land on the next street over. As she willed her wings to return to their cloaklike guise, she pulled out a black-bladed knife and listened, then slipped into the merchant’s stand via its rear counter.
“I’m sure your stepfather will be all right,” the warforged said to Esprл. “We just need to wait here to find out for sure.”
