Time of the Twins

Kiiri laughed at his blush, but Caramon saw in her eyes that she wasn’t kidding and he was suddenly accutely aware of her femaleness—something that had never occurred to him in practice. Perhaps it was her own scanty costume, which seemed designed to reveal everything, yet hid all that was most desirable. Caramon’s blood burned, both with passion and the pleasure he always found in battle. Confused memories of Tika came to his mind, and he looked away from Kiiri hurriedly, realizing he had been saying more with his own eyes than he intended.

This ploy was only partly successful, because he found himself staring into the stands—right into the eyes of many admiring and beautiful women, who were obviously trying to capture his attention.

“We’re on again,” Kiiri nudged him, and Caramon returned thankfully to the ring.

He grinned at the Barbarian as the tall man strode forward. This was their big number, and he and Caramon had practiced it many times. The Barbarian winked at Caramon as they faced each other, their faces twisted into looks of ferocious hatred. Growling and snarling like animals, both men crouched over, stalking each other around the ring a suitable amount of time to build up tension. Caramon caught himself about to grin and had to remind himself that he was supposed to look mean. He liked the Barbarian. A Plainsman, the man reminded him in many ways of Riverwind—tall, dark-haired, though not nearly as serious as the stern ranger.

The Barbarian was a slave as well, but the iron collar around his neck was old and scratched from countless battles. He would be one chosen to go after the golden key this year, that was certain.

Caramon thrust out with the collapsible sword. The Barbarian dodged with ease and, catching Caramon with his heel, neatly tripped him. Caramon went down with a roar. The audience groaned (the women sighed), but there were many cheers for the Barbarian, who was a favorite. The Barbarian lunged at the prone Caramon with a spear. The women screamed in terror. At the last moment, Caramon rolled to one side and, grabbing the Barbarian’s foot, jerked him down to the sawdust platform.

Thunderous cheers. The two men grappled on the floor of the arena. Kiiri rushed out to aid her fallen comrade and the Barbarian fought them both off, to the crowd’s delight. Then, Caramon, with a gallant gesture, ordered Kiiri back behind the line. It was obvious to the crowd that he would take care of this insolent opponent himself.

Kiiri patted Caramon on his rump (that wasn’t in the script and nearly caused Caramon to forget his next move), then she ran off. The Barbarian lunged at Caramon, who pulled his collapsible dagger. This was the show-stopper—as they had planned. Ducking beneath the Barbarian’s upraised arm with a skillful maneuver, Caramon thrust the dummy dagger right into the Barbarian’s gut where a bladder of chicken blood was cleverly concealed beneath his feathered breastplate.

It worked! The chicken blood splashed out over Caramon, running down his hand and his arm. Caramon looked into the Barbarian’s face, ready for another wink of triumph...

Something was wrong.

The man’s eyes had widened, as was in the script. But they had widened in true pain and in shock. He staggered forward—that was in the script,too—but not the gasp of agony. As Caramon caught him, he realized in horror that the blood washing over his arm was warm!

Wrenching his dagger free, Caramon stared at it, even as he fought to hold onto the Barbarian, who was collapsing against him. The blade was real!

“Caramon...” The man choked. Blood spurted from. His mouth.

The audience roared. They hadn’t seen special effects like this in months!

“Barbarian! I didn’t know!” Caramon cried, staring at dagger in horror. “I swear!”

And then Pheragas and Kiiri were by his side, helping to ease the dying Barbarian down onto the arena floor.

“Keep up the act!” Kiiri snapped harshly.

Caramon nearly struck her in his rage, but Pheragas caught his arm. “Your life, our lives depend on it!” the black man hissed. “And the life of your little friend!”

Caramon stared at them in confusion. What did they mean? What were they saying’? He had just killed a man—a friend! Groaning, he jerked away from Pheragas and knelt beside the Barbarian. Dimly he could hear the crowd cheering, and he knew—somewhere inside of him—that they were eating this up. The Victor paying tribute to the “dead.”

“Forgive me,” he said to the Barbarian, who nodded.

“It’s not your fault,” the man whispered. “Don’t blame yoursel—” His eyes fixed in his head, a bubble of blood burst on his lips.

“We’ve got to get him out of the arena,” Pheragas whispered sharply to Caramon, “and make it look good. Like we rehearsed. Do you understand?”

Caramon nodded dully. Your life... the life of your little friend. I am a warrior. I’ve killed before. Death is nothing new. The life of your little friend. Obey orders. I’m used to that. Obey orders, then I’ll figure out the answers...