Time of the Twins

He sat in troubled silence for so long that the young acolyte cleared his throat as a subtle reminder of his presence three times before the cleric noticed him.

“You had another task for me, Revered Son?”

Quarath nodded slowly. “Yes, and this news makes this task even more important. I wish you to undertake it yourself. I must talk to the dwarf.”

The acolyte bowed and left. There was no need to ask who Quarath meant—there was only one dwarf in Istar.

Just who Arack Rockbreaker was or where he came from no one knew. He never made reference to his past and generally scowled so ferociously if this subject came up that it was usually immediately dropped. There were several interesting speculations concerning this, the favorite being that he was an outcast from Thorbardin—ancient home of the mountain dwarves, where he had committed some crime resulting in exile. Just what that might have been, no one knew. Nor did anyone take into account the fact that dwarves never punished any crime by exile; execution being considered more humane.

Other rumors insisted he was actually a Dewar—a race of evil dwarves nearly exterminated by their cousins and now driven to living a wretched, embittered existence in the very bowels of the world. Though Arack didn’t particularly look or act like a Dewar, this rumor was popular due to the fact that Arack’s favorite (and only) companion was an ogre. Other rumor had it that Arack didn’t even come from Ansalon at all, but from somewhere over the sea.

Certainly, he was the meanest looking of his race anyone could remember seeing. The jagged scars that crossed his face vertically gave him a perpetual scowl. He was not fat, there wasn’t a wasted ounce on his frame. He moved with the grace of a feline and, when he stood, planted his feet so firmly that they seemed part of the ground itself.

Wherever he came from, Arack had made Istar his home for so many years now that the subject of his origin rarely came up. He and the ogre, whose name was Raag, had come for the Games in the old days when the Games had been real. They immediately became great favorites with the crowds. People in Istar still told how Raag and Arack defeated the mighty minotaur, Darmoork, in three rounds. It started when Darmoork hurled the dwarf clear out of the arena. Raag, in a berserk fit of anger, lifted the minotaur off his feet and—ignoring several terrible stab wounds—impaled him upon the huge Freedom Spire in the center of the ring.

Though neither the dwarf (who survived only by the fact that a cleric had been standing in the street when the dwarf sailed over the arena wall and landed practically at his feet) nor the ogre won his freedom that day, there was no doubt who had been winner of the contest. (Indeed, it was many days before anyone reached the Golden Key on the Spire, since it took that long to remove the remains of the minotaur.)

Arack related the gruesome details of this fight to his two new slaves.

“That’s how I got this old cracked face of mine,” the dwarf said to Caramon as he led the big man and the kender through the streets of Istar. “And that’s how me and Raag made our name in the Games.”

“What games?” asked Tas, stumbling over his chains and sprawling flat on his face, to the great delight of the crowd in the market place.

Arack scowled in irritation. “Take those durn things off ’im,” he ordered the gigantic, yellow-skinned ogre, who was acting as guard. “I guess you won’t run off and leave yer friend behind, will you?” The dwarf studied Tas intently. “No, I didn’t think so. They said you had a chance to run away once and you didn’t. Just mind you don’t run away on me!” Arack’s natural scowl deepened. “I’d have never bought a kender, but I didn’t have much choice. They said you two was to be sold together. Just remember that—as far as I’m concerned—yer worthless. Now, what fool question was you asking?”

“How are you going to get the chains off? Don’t you need a key? Oh—” Tas watched in delighted astonishment as the ogre took the chains in either hand and, with a quick jerk, yanked them apart.

“Did you see that, Caramon?” Tas asked as the ogre picked him up and set him on his feet, giving him a push that nearly sent the kender into the dirt again. “He’s really strong! I never met an ogre before. What was I saying? Oh, the games. What games?”

“Why, the Games!” Arack snapped in exasperation.

Tas glanced up at Caramon, but the big man shrugged and shook his head, frowning. This was obviously something everyone knew about here. Asking too many questions would seem suspicious. Tas cast about in his mind, dragging up every memory and every story he had ever heard about the ancient days before the Cataclysm. Suddenly he caught his breath. “The Games!” he said to Caramon, forgetting the dwarf was listening. “The great Games of Istar! Don’t you remember?”

Caramon’s face grew grim.