Time of the Twins

He lifted an ornate shoulder guard from the bag and began strapping it onto Caramon, working around behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on the buckles.

“This is made out of gold,” Caramon said slowly.

Pheragas grunted.

“Butter would stop a knife sooner than this stuff,” Caramon continued, feeling it. “And look at all these fancy do-dads! A sword point’ll catch and stick in any of ’em.”

“Yeah.” Pheragas laughed, but it was forced laughter. “As you can see, it’s almost better to be naked than wear this stuff.”

“I don’t have much to worry about then,” Caramon remarked grimly, pulling out the leather loincloth that was the only other object in the sack, besides an ornate helmet. The loincloth, too, was ornamented in gold and barely covered his private parts decently. When he and Pheragas had him dressed, even the kender blushed at the sight of Caramon from the rear.

Pheragas started to go, but Caramon stopped him, his hand on his arm. “You better tell me, my friend. That is, if you still are my friend.”

Pheragas looked at Caramon intently, then shrugged. “I thought you’d have figured it out by now. We use edged weapons. Oh, the swords still collapse,” he added, seeing Caramon’s eyes narrow. “But, if you get hit, you bleed—for real. That’s why we harped on your stabbing thrusts.”

“You mean people really get hurt? I could hurt someone? Someone like Kiiri, or Rolf, or the Barbarian?” Caramon’s voice raised in anger. “What else goes on! What else didn’t you tell me—friend!”

Pheragas regarded Caramon coldly. “Where did you think I got these scars? Playing with my nanny? Look, someday you’ll understand. There’s not time to explain it now. Just trust us, Kiiri and I. Follow our lead. And—keep your eyes on the minotaurs. They fight for themselves, not for any masters or owners. They answer to no one. Oh, they agree to abide by the rules—they have to or the Kingpriest would ship them back to Mithas. But... well, they’re favorites with the crowd. The people like to see them draw blood. And they can take as good as they give.”

“Get out!” Caramon snarled.

Pheragas stood staring at him a moment, then he turned and started out the door. Once there, however, he stopped.

“Listen, friend,” he said sternly, “these scars I get in the ring are badges of honor, every bit as good as some knight’s spurs he wins in a contest! It’s the only kind of honor we can salvage out of this tawdry show! The arena’s got its own code, Caramon, and it doesn’t have one damn thing to do with those knights and noblemen who sit out there and watch us slaves bleed for their own amusement. They talk of their honor. Well, we’ve got our own. It’s what keeps us alive.” He fell silent. It seemed he might say something more, but Caramon’s gaze was on the floor, the big man stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his words or presence.

Finally, Pheragas said “You’ve got five minutes,” and left, slamming the door behind him.

Tas longed to say something but, seeing Caramon’s face, even the kender knew it was time to keep silent.

Go into a battle with bad blood, and it’ll be spilled by nightfall. Caramon couldn’t remember what gruff old commander had told him that, but he’d found it a good axiom. Your life often depended on the loyalty of those you fought with. It was a good idea to get any quarrels between you settled. He didn’t like holding grudges either. It generally did nothing for him but upset his stomach.

It was an easy thing, therefore, to shake Pheragas’s hand when the black man started to turn away from him prior to entering the arena and to make his apologies. Pheragas accepted these warmly, while Kiiri—who obviously had heard all about the episode from Pheragas—indicated her approval with a smile. She indicated her approval of Caramon’s costume, too; looking at him with such open admiration in her flashing green eyes that Caramon flushed in embarrassment.

The three stood talking in the corridors that ran below the arena, waiting to make their entrance. With them were the other gladiators who would fight today, Rolf, the Barbarian, and the Red Minotaur. Above them, they could hear occasional roars from the crowd, but the sound was muffled. Craning his neck, Caramon could see out the entryway door. He wished it was time to start. Rarely had he ever felt this nervous, more nervous than going into battle, he realized.

The others felt the tension, too. It was obvious in Kiiri’s laughter that was too shrill and loud and the sweat that poured down Pheragas’s face. But it was a good kind of tension, mingled with excitement. And, suddenly, Caramon realized he was looking forward to this.

“Arack’s called our names,” Kiiri said. She and Pheragas and Caramon walked forward—the dwarf having decided that since they worked well together they should fight as a team. (He also hoped that the two pros would cover up for any of Caramon’s mistakes!)