A second inquisitor spoke. 'Arryl Tremaine, you are charged with preventing two members of the city guard from performing their duties. Further, you assaulted and injured both soldiers.'
'This is preposterous!' Tremaine retorted. 'They were beating an unarmed man senseless! When I called to them to stop, they did not identify themselves. They attacked me! I defended myself!'
'Where is this third man?' asked the same cleric.
'I…' Tremaine had no answer. His only witness had vanished during the struggle. 'How could I know these men were guardsmen? I am innocent! This is madness!'
'None of us are truly without sin,' the center cleric intoned. The third inquisitor, who had not spoken yet, nodded agreement. The spokesman added, 'And you of all people, Knight of Solamnia, should know that ignorance of the law is no excuse. Think of the chaos if we allowed that.'
For Arryl Tremaine, the world ceased to be. All that existed for him were the three men and their incredible accusations. What was HAPPENING here?
They took him then, realizing he was weakest at this moment. Two guards caught hold of his arms and pinned them, while two more clamped manacles around his wrists, ankles, and throat. Arryl was too proud to resist; against so many, his struggles would have been useless. In less than a minute, the knight was shackled.
'Arryl Tremaine,' said the inquisitor, 'you have been found guilty of crimes against the laws set down by the Kingpriest of Istar and Paladine himself. To argue against those laws is to argue against your very faith.'
Arryl said nothing, his mind dazed as he tried to understand what was happening.
'You are hereby sentenced to the Games, there to train and fight for your eventual freedom… if Paladine deems you worthy of salvation.'
The Games? As with everything else, even Arryl's sentence bordered on the absurd, the unbelievable. The Games were death itself, senseless, bloody conflicts that were against the laws of Paladine, as set forth in the Oath and the Measure.
'Place him in a cell for the night and see to it that he is sent to the arena first thing in the morning,' the inquisitor ordered. Brother Efram bowed. To Arryl, the inquisitor said, 'May the Kingpriest watch over your soul, Sir Knight'
The three hooded clerics rose. Arryl shook free his guards' hands and marched out, glaring balefully at the inquisitors. His mind noted and locked on one feature concerning the third inquisitor, the silent one. Arryl tried to hold back to get a better look, but the guards shoved him toward the doors.
Nonetheless, Tremaine was certain that the third inquisitor — and ONLY the third inquisitor — had worn a thin, elegant pair of gloves.
Arryl Tremaine stood outside the tall walls of the arena, staring at it with disgust and loathing. Until his misguided pilgrimage to Istar, he had considered the Games the one aberration, the one pit of darkness he had been willing to admit existed in the holy center.
Certainly he had not thought to ever find himself inside, sentenced to fight for a crime he had not committed. Now he was just one among a group of dour men, standing in a wagon that had drawn up just outside of the stonework leviathan. The arena looked massive enough to seat every citizen of Istar. From where he stood, he could see a portion of the field where men killed one another for the amusement of the masses.
In Istar, holiest of holy places.
'Step down, step down!' ordered an ugly, scarred dwarf, who apparently was in charge of the arena. 'My name is Arack. This here is Raag.' Raag was an ogre. Yellowish of skin, he was taller than even the tall Tremaine and had a warty face that Arryl doubted even the proverbial mother could love. The ogre was the most monstrous thing the Solamnic warrior had ever come across.
The knight, with his proud air and stiff, upright stature, stood out in comparison to the slouchy, slovenly half-dozen others. Most had the hang-dog expression of long-time felons. Arryl took an interest in only two — a boy dressed in motley, who obviously had no idea what was going to happen to him, and a half-elf, whose face was that of a man who knows he is doomed. Having studied the rest during the short, bleak trip from his cell to this place, Arryl guessed that most would not survive long enough to win their freedom.
Arryl Tremaine glanced about and grimaced at the ex terior of the arena, adorned with the benevolent visage of the Kingpriest. Brother Gurim came immediately to mind.
Brother Gurim. The rat-faced cleric was responsible for his being sentenced to this place, of that Arryl was certain. A night in a dank prison cell had been long enough for the Solamnic warrior to question the law and authority by which he had been judged. Something was amiss. It was too coincidental that the same man who had spoken to the young knight only a day prior, and who had overheard what Arryl was forced to admit may have been injudicious remarks about Istar, should be one of the inquisitors at his sudden, mad trial.
Marble masks lined the arena walls, each visage gazing down in sculpted tenderness upon the monarch's spiritual children when they entered on the days of the Games. Through the open gateway Arryl could see the faces that adorned the inside of the arena. Probably the countenance of each succeeding monarch replaced that of his predecessor. Not at all to Arryl's surprise, he saw very little tribute to Paladine.
Once again, Tremaine wondered whether Istar, stronghold of Paladine, had forgotten exactly who it was its citizens were supposed to worship.
'You there!' The dwarf walked up to him. For one of the hill folk, Arack was surprisingly lean, like a small cat. Knowing the strength of Arack's kind, Arryl wondered if he could take the dwarf in combat. One did not gain authority in an arena without some prowess. 'Which are you?'
'I am Arryl Tremaine.'
'The knight.' The dwarf looked him over, pausing at one point to eye Tremaine's flowing, well-groomed Solamnic moustache. 'Yer in good shape. Last o' yer kind I saw looked more like a merchant man than a fighter. Round as a tub.'
Raag laughed. Arryl kept silent, figuring the dwarf was only trying to provoke him into a fight.
'I understand you took on two of the city guard,' Arack pursued.
'I did what I thought was right. I did not know they were guardsmen,' Arryl replied sternly.
The dwarf snorted. 'Yeah, that's what they all say!' Arack pointed the knight out to the other prisoners. 'Ya see this man? Fought the city guard. Beat 'em. both… and bare-handed, yet!'
There was a subtle movement away from the Solamnian, as if anyone who had crossed the guard was unclean.
'What's yer best weapon?' the dwarf asked, all business again. His eyes sparkled with some scheme.
Arryl had the uncomfortable feeling the scheme involved him. 'Sword.'
'Just that? 'Sword,' he says. Any particular type of sword?'
'Broadsword. Short sword.' Tremaine decided not to tell him more.
Scratching his chin, Arack considered. 'You'll be going to Nelk's bunch, then.'
'I will not fight. I will not become a part of this barbaric ritual! This place, these Games, are an affr — '
'You'll go to Nelk's group, whatever you end up doin'!' That was the end of the discussion, as far as Arack was concerned. He stepped away from the knight and moved on to the half-elf, who was surreptitiously observing the Solamnian.
Arryl Tremaine knew that arguing would be a waste for now. He kept quiet, turned his mind to other matters. He wondered what Master Brek would think when he did not return. It occurred to him that maybe the innkeeper knew exactly what had happened to the knight, perhaps had had a hand in it.
The fight… outside the inn… No, Arryl couldn't believe something so monstrous, not even of Brother Gurim. The knight wondered about his belongings…
MY ARMOR! Arryl was horrified that he could have gone so long without thinking of the armor passed down from his grandfather. 'Master Arack!' he called.
The dwarf glanced over his shoulder. 'What do you want, Sir Knight?' he asked with a sneer.
'My armor! What has become of it?'
'The guard'll return it to ya, if it's decided ya should wear it in the arena! Now keep yer place!'
The city guard did have his belongings, then. Arryl was most concerned with the armor. Those who had seen him ride into Istar in full armor might have thought him an elegant, rich knight, but the truth was that, while the House of Tremaine was not poor, like so many of its cousins, it had learned to be frugal. He had been fortunate in
