cautiously at Tremaine, who nodded in return.
'What did the Cursed One want of you?' Fen asked.
Arryl's brow knitted. 'Cursed One?'
'You don't know what 'Nelk' means in Elvish, do you? Never mind. Did he threaten to have you beaten?'
'He said nothing of that, but I think something is going to happen soon.'
The half-elf shook his head. 'And you'll just let it happen to you! You'll take their punishment… or the axe if they decide you're not worth the time. Mark me, Tremaine. Brother Gurim has let you live this long for a reason. He has a reputation for playing games with his victims.'
'Is he really that bad?' the boy asked shyly. It was the first time Arryl had heard him talk. 'But he's a cleric!'
'Yes, he is,' Sunbrother snarled. 'So?'
'Do not frighten him unnecessarily,' the knight warned.
'You there, breed!' One of Sylverlin's trusted gladiators struck Fen on the side of the head. 'The guards don't like quiet talk! Get movin'. Arack'll count all those swords before he lets you back out of the storeroom!'
Fen Sunbrother staggered beneath the blow, grimaced, and moved on, his younger companion struggling to keep up. Tremaine thought over the half-elf's warning, but remained unmoved. He could and would continue to resist, despite whatever punishment Nelk or — more likely — Sylverlin decided to mete out.
Arryl stared at the cleric, trying to will the man to meet his gaze. Not once, however, did Gurim glance at him. The inquisitor knew the knight was watching him, was deliberately ignoring him. Arryl felt his temper rise. The cleric was baiting him, and it was working.
The conversation between the gladiators and the cleric was short, which might have been good or might have been bad. Nelk and Sylverlin returned to the field. Brother Gurim, accompanied by his two large shadows, departed the arena. Nelk's countenance was carefully indifferent. Sylverlin gave Arryl a serpentine grin.
Nelk did not talk to the knight again that day. No one spoke to Tremaine or asked him to pick up the sword. A decision had been made, obviously, and the instructors were only waiting for the proper moment to carry it out.
That night, Arryl Tremaine made his peace with Paladine. He did not expect to live out the morrow.
Arryl was certain of his fate when the groups were rearranged. The half-elf, the boy, and most of the veteran gladiators were sent to the opposite end of the arena in order to commence with a series of practice duels. Nelk, Arryl, and a much smaller but distinct group remained in the area where the knight had stood the day before. Nelk was instructing the group in the uses of a mace against a sword. He seemed preoccupied. Tremaine guessed something of far greater import had possession of the elf's thoughts.
Nelk ignored Arryl, save to tell him where to stand. From his vantage point, the knight could see clearly the elaborate box set aside for the Kingpriest. Fen had informed him that the Kingpriest seldom appeared at the Games, but that other high-ranking clerics often sat in the box.
He was not very surprised, then, when Brother Gurim and his two acolytes entered the box only a couple of hours into the day's training.
The senior inquisitor seated himself in the very center of the box and, looking rather bored, settled himself to observe the practice. His hood had been pulled back. As with the day before, he seemed to pay no attention to Arryl. The cleric was intent on watching Sylverlin's group.
Nelk ordered one of his subordinates to take over. His eyes flashed to Brother Gurim, then to Arryl. The maimed elf, mace still in hand, walked slowly over to the knight, who regarded the elf with cool disdain.
'I tried to warn you,' Nelk said in a low voice. 'He knew all along that it would be useless to threaten your life, but he enjoys his own games almost as much as he does those in the arena.'
'What do you mean?' Tremaine frowned, convinced it was a trick.
'One way or another, he will make you do what he wishes, no matter how many lives it costs.' He glanced in Sylverlin's direction.
Arryl understood. Fear gripped him. He stared at the large group on the opposite end of the field. The gladia tors clustered about, staring at a body lying on the ground.
'Sometimes,' Nelk was saying, 'there are those who do not make it to the Games.'
'Blessed Paladine!' He started to run, but the elf's foot tripped him up.
Arryl tried to regain his feet, but found the hooked and jagged head of the elf's mace against his throat.
'It's already too late, Sir Knight. It was too late before I even started to speak.' Nelk stepped back and allowed Arryl to rise. Several gladiators from Sylverlin's group were heading toward them, carrying a limp form.
'It seems there's been another training accident,' Sylverlin shouted jovially.
The victim was not, as Arryl had feared, the boy.
'Fen Sunbrother,' he murmured. Part of the half-elf's body had been covered by an old, stained cowhide, but blood had already seeped through it. Arryl guessed he had died instantly.
Nelk called out, 'What happened?'
'What always 'appens?' retorted the lead gladiator, a grizzled bear of a man with scars all over his arms and face. ' 'e fairly threw 'imself on the blade! 'e was warned about movin' like that, but 'e wouldn't listen!' As an afterthought, the bulking figure added, 'Master Sylverlin couldn't 'elp but run 'im clean through.'
Sylverlin!
The head of Nelk's mace rested, as if by accident, on Arryl's shoulder. The knight took the hint and watched in impotent rage as the gladiators carried the body from the field. Tremaine's gaze shifted to where the senior inquisitor sat. For the first time, Brother Gurim stared back.
'Accidents could happen at any time,' Nelk was saying casually, 'especially to those who are not familiar with weapons. Take the boy, for instance…'
The knight turned sharply. 'You wouldn't!'
'He would,' the elf replied, indicating Brother Gurim. 'Can you stand by and let others die because of your stubbornness?'
The Oath and Measure of the knighthood said otherwise. To allow others to die in his place would be tantamount to cowardice.
'The boy can be saved,' Nelk said softly. 'Brother Gurim wants you, not him.'
To prove that a cleric could make a Solamnic Knight yield his principles. To make a knight bow to the cleric's will. Brother Gurim's countenance might be expressionless, but his eyes were not. The senior inquisitor would order the boy's death if Arryl rejected his demands.
Arryl turned away, faced Nelk. 'What will happen to the boy?' the knight asked.
'A mix-up. He should have been sent to work cleaning the temple floors for a month in order to make his penance. These things happen.' Nelk shrugged. 'Sometimes the mistakes are rectified, sometimes not.'
'It will be guaranteed. I swear to that. You have not dealt with the eccentricities of the inquisitor as I have. He will be happy to give the boy back his life, if only to prove how benevolent he can be.'
There was relief in Nelk's eyes, a strange thing, the knight noted. The elf removed the mace from its resting place and, turning it upside down, sank the head into the dirt.
It was a signal, a signal of Arryl's defeat. The moment the mace touched the ground, the inquisitor rose and departed the arena. No backward glance, no lingering. Brother Gurim had seen his adversary bend knee to him and that was all the cleric wanted. For now.
The maimed elf smiled. 'Pick up your sword and join us. I want to see what you can do.'
Tremaine knelt and picked up the sword that had been handed him each day. They will see what I can do, he vowed. He had been forced to this decision, but now that the barrier had been breached, he had no intention of holding back. The gladiators would see what it was like to face a true knight.
Brother Gurim would see what being a Knight of Solamnia truly meant.
Nelk made certain Arryl was present when the city guard marched the boy away. It took some time for the
