guard to explain to an annoyed Arack that there had been a mistake. The dwarf evidently did not like mistakes. He lit into the hapless guard commander with a tongue that lashed out as hard as his fists. Tremaine could see that Arack's anger was genuine. This helped convince the knight that the boy would indeed receive lighter punishment.
'I gave you my word,' said Nelk.
It was on that same day, shortly after the boy's removal, that the swordmaster issued his challenge to the knight.
Sylverlin watched the two duel with avid, jealous attention. He did not interrupt, but stood patiently by. Nelk finally called a halt. 'What is it you want, Sylverlin?'
The tip of the snaky human's sword pointed at the knight. 'I've come for him. I need to see if he'll be ready for the Games.'
Arryl, still burning over the half-elf's murder, started forward. Nelk darted between the two.
'He'll be ready. I will see to him.'
'You?' Sylverlin scowled. 'You're mistaken, friend Nelk. This one is definitely mine.'
'It is you who are mistaken, friend Sylverlin.'
Sylverlin glanced at the wary knight. 'A pity,' he said, shrugging. 'I'd hoped that our blades might cross. Now, no such luck. You'll be dead before I get the chance.'
Arryl would have replied, but Nelk was quicker. He brought the mace around and pushed the swordmaster's blade away. 'Never wish ill, Sylverlin. The gods have a habit of returning such wishes to their makers.'
The serpentine fighter laughed, bowed mockingly to the knight, and left without another word. Arryl was barely able to restrain himself from charging after.
'He has marked you for his own sport. This changes everything,' Nelk muttered.
Tremaine studied the elf's features. A sense of foreboding washed over him as he noted his companion's dark expression. 'What do you mean?'
'Sylverlin has never really cared about those I choose to fight. But you, Knight, are something special to him. He hates your kind and always has. He murdered the last knight quickly enough. Some say he is one of your castoffs. Who knows? The only man he wants to fight more than you is me and that is forbidden to him. Sylverlin never argues with Brother Gurim.'
Arryl stared. 'I am to fight you in the arena?'
'You must fight me, human!' Nelk paused, then quickly whispered, 'I could not save the half-elf, but I might be able to save you, Knight of Solamnia!'
At first, Arryl thought his ears had betrayed him.
Nelk gave him a barely perceptible nod. 'I can save you from the arena, Arryl Tremaine, just as I have saved others. You won't be the first.'
Tremaine had already had enough treachery. He pulled away from the elf. 'I will not fall prey to any more traps set by Brother Gurim! Give me to Sylverlin, who does not pretend to be other than he is! He still owes for Fen Sunbrother's life!'
'This is not a trap! I have saved others and, if it had been in my power, I would have saved even the half- breed! Listen, for I doubt we will have long to talk! There is a way for you to escape the arena and Istar, but to succeed you must put total faith in me!'
'Why should I?' Arryl scoffed.
Nelk dropped his mace, reached out, and grabbed the knight's sword by the blade's sharp edge.
'Are you mad?' Arryl snatched the weapon back, but blood was already streaming from the wound in the elf's palm.
'Watch,' Nelk commanded. His eyes closed and he whispered something. Arryl felt a tingle in the air.
The elf's wound began to heal! First slowly, then with ever-increasing speed, the deep cut closed and sealed itself. A scab formed along the wound, but it only remained a moment. In the matter of a breath, a thin scar was all that was visible of the cut, yet Nelk was not finished. Even the scar dwindled away, ever shrinking until the only evidence of the self-inflicted injury was the blood that had stained the elf's hand.
Nelk wiped his palm on the sleeve of his shirt. 'You're a cleric of Mishakal!' Arryl gasped.
'I serve the goddess.'
'But… your maimed arm…'
'I chose not to heal myself in order to hide the fact that the goddess still favors those who keep the true faith. Have Brother Gurim perform the same miracle and see if he can heal himself. You will find that the inquisitor seems to be lacking somewhat in his faith, or perhaps his god lacks faith in him.' The elf eyed his companion. 'Will you listen to me now? Will you believe in me?'
Tremaine lowered his sword blade. 'If I thought my sentence just, I would still ignore you, but there is no justice in Istar.' He shook his head. 'And little faith, other than yours. What must I do?'
Nelk nodded his approval. 'Sylverlin is eager to match blades with you, but I have been granted the right to face you in the arena. When open combat begins, we must be certain that Sylverlin does not come between us. The battle must be my mace against your blade.' Nelk shook his head. 'Always before I have trusted my skill, never mentioned my plans to those I rescued for fear they would weaken and betray us both! This situation with Sylverlin, though, and your own worthy abilities, have made this change necessary. I find I must trust you, Knight!'
'What about Sylverlin? He cannot be allowed to go unpunished for what he has done!'
'Leave the swordmaster to me. The time is fast approaching when he and I will clash. He might call me friend, but there is no love between us. We are marking the day. You might wish his death now, Knight, but rest assured I have prior and greater reasons than you. What concerns us now is making certain that it is we two alone who face each other during the Games. No one else must be allowed to come between us.'
Arryl was still not pleased about leaving Sylverlin to the elf, but Nelk WAS a cleric — a true cleric. 'I will abide by your decision, but tell me, why do you risk yourself here? Why do you do it?'
The elf considered his answer well before giving it to the knight. 'Because there is a balance to maintain… and Istar threatens to tip it too far the wrong way.'
'Very well, then. Tell me now your plan. What happens when we come to blows?'
Nelk tapped Arryl's chest with the tip of his mace. 'Then, while the crowd and Brother Gurim watch, I will kill you, Sir Knight.'
So eager for blood!
The day of the Games came too soon, yet not soon enough. Arryl stood in the line of anxious gladiators, his eyes scanning the packed stadium. Istar seemed especially eager to watch the blood flow this day. Tremaine had heard rumors that HE was the attraction. It had been rumored that a Knight of Solamnia was among the fight ers. Despite the fact that his armor was still a prize of the city guard, he had no doubt that most of the crowd had picked him out already.
Across from him stood Nelk… and Sylverlin.
The Kingpriest's box was filled, but the holy monarch himself was absent as usual. Today the box played host to a group of men garbed in identical silver-and-white robes. In the center sat the only one wearing gloves, Brother Gurim. Arryl could not clearly make out his features, but he guessed the senior inquisitor had a smile on his face. For Gurim, all was right in the world. This day was to mark yet another triumph.
Arryl wished he could drag the false cleric down to the field and tell him the truth.
The tournament had been played, the exhibitions had finished. All that remained was the final mass combat. A free fight, in which a man could only hope that he survived the time limit. Arryl heard some of the prisoners plotting desperately to keep in the back, away from the rest of the combatants. Their plans collapsed when Arack informed them that hesitation would not save any man here. The archers on the walks had orders to shoot any gladiator who shied from battle. The prisoners had to fight. As long as they did, they had a chance. Arack emphasized the last, and the prisoners looked more hopeful.
Arryl could have told them the truth. They were doomed. Most were unskilled fighters, even barring the days of training. They had learned enough to hack and slash, but the skilled fighters were few and far between. The masters of the Games did not want their hand-picked gladiators killed.
Arryl knew the outcome, having been forewarned by Nelk. The skilled fighters had already been picked out by the veteran gladiators. Two, even three, would converge on the newcomers while the rest took on the other
