Time of the Twins

“‘Give me your sword, Raag,’ I orders. Then, before they could say a word, I plunges the sword in Raag’s gut. You shoulda seen him. Blood all over! Running down my hands, spurting from his mouth. He gave a great bellow and fell to the floor, twitchin’ and groanin’.

“You shoulda heard ’em yell,” the dwarf said gleefully, shaking his head over the memory. “I thought we was gonna have to pick them elf lords up off the floor. So, before they could call the guards to come haul me away, I kicked old Raag, here.

“‘You can get up now, Raag,’ I says.

“And he sat up, giving them a big grin. Well, they all started talking at once.” The dwarf mimicked high-pitched elven voices.

“‘Remarkable! How is it done? This could be the answer—’”

“How did you do it?” Tas asked eagerly.

Arack shrugged. “You’ll learn. A lot of chicken blood, a sword with a blade that collapses down into the handle—it’s simple. That’s what I told ’em. Plus, it’s easy to teach gladiators how to act like they’re hurt, even a dummy like old Raag here.”

Tas glanced at the ogre apprehensively, but Raag was only grinning fondly at the dwarf. “Most of ’em beefed up their fights anyway, to make it look good for the gulls—audience, I should say. Well, the Kingpriest, he went for it and”—the dwarf drew himself up proudly—“he even made me Master. And that’s my title, now. Master of the Games.”

“I don’t understand,” Caramon said slowly. “You mean people pay to be tricked? Surely they must have figured it out—”

“Oh, sure.” Arack sneered. “We’ve never made no big secret of it. And now it’s the most popular sport on Krynn. People travel for hundreds of miles to see the Games. The elf lords come—and even the Kingpriest himself, sometimes. Well, here we are,” Arack said, coming to a halt outside a huge stadium and looking up at it with pride.

It was made of stone and was ages old, but what it might have been built for originally, no one remembered. On Game days, bright flags fluttered from the tops of the stone towers and it would have been thronged with people. But there were no Games today, nor would there be until summer’s end. It was gray and colorless, except for the garish paintings on the walls portraying great events in the history of the sport. A few children stood around the outside, hoping for a glimpse of one of their heroes. Snarling at them, Arack motioned to Raag to open the massive, wooden doors.

“You mean no one gets killed,” Caramon persisted, staring somberly at the arena with its bloody paintings.

The dwarf looked oddly at Caramon, Tas saw. Arack’s expression was suddenly cruel and calculating, his dark, tangled eyebrows creased over his small eyes. Caramon didn’t notice, he was still inspecting the wall paintings. Tas made a sound, and Caramon suddenly glanced around at the dwarf. But, by that time, Arack’s expression had changed.

“No one,” the dwarf said with a grin, patting Caramon’s big arm. “No one...”

6

The ogre led Caramon and Tas into a large room. Caramon had the fevered impression of its being filled with people.

“Him new man,” grunted Raag, jerking a yellow, filthy thumb in Caramon’s direction as the big man stood next to him. It was Caramon’s introduction to the “school.” Flushing, acutely conscious of the iron collar around his neck that branded him someone’s property, Caramon kept his eyes on the straw-covered, wooden floor. Hearing only a muttered response to Raag’s statement, Caramon glanced up. He was in a mess hall, he saw now. Twenty or thirty men of various races and nationalities sat about in small groups, eating dinner.

Some of the men were looking at Caramon with interest, most weren’t looking at him at all. A few nodded, the majority continued eating, Caramon wasn’t certain what to do next, but Raag solved the problem. Laying a hand on Caramon’s shoulder, the ogre shoved him roughly toward a table. Caramon stumbled and nearly fell, managing to catch himself before he smashed into the table. Whirling around, he glared angrily at the ogre. Raag stood grinning at him, his hands twitching.

I’m being baited, Caramon realized, having seen that look too many times in bars where someone was always trying to goad the big man into a fight. And this was one fight he knew he couldn’t win. Though Caramon stood almost six and a half feet tall, he didn’t even quite come to the ogre’s shoulder, while Raag’s vast hand could wrap itself around Caramon’s thick neck twice. Caramon swallowed, rubbed his bruised leg, and sat down on the long wooden bench.

Casting a sneering glance at the big human, Raag’s squinty-eyed gaze took in everyone in the mess hall. With shrugs and low murmurs of disappointment, the men went back to their dinners. From a table in a corner, where sat a group of minotaurs, there was laughter. Grinning back at them, Raag left the room.