"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 guardsdon'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 cl.u.s.tered about, staring at a body lying on the ground.

"Sometimes," Nelk was saying, "there are those who do not make it to the Games."

THE BOY! was Arryl's first thought.

"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."

HOLY ISTAR! Arryl thought bitterly. There was no choice. The Oath and Measure demanded he protect the innocent from harm. "I agree, providing you personally guarantee the boy's life."

"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 guard to explain to an annoyed Arack that there had been a mistake. The dwarf evidently did not like mistakes. He lit into the hapless guard commander with a tongue that lashed out as hard as his fists. Tremaine could see that Arack's anger was genuine. This helped convince the knight that the boy would indeed receive lighter punishment.

"I gave you my word," said Nelk.

It was on that same day, shortly after the boy's removal, that the swordmaster issued his challenge to the knight.

Sylverlin watched the two duel with avid, jealous attention. He did not interrupt, but stood patiently by. Nelk finally called a halt. "What is it you want, Sylverlin?"

The tip of the snaky human's sword pointed at the knight. "I've come for him. I need to see if he'll be ready for the Games."

Arryl, still burning over the half-elf's murder, started forward. Nelk darted between the two.

"He'll be ready. I will see to him."

"You?" Sylverlin scowled. "You're mistaken, friend Nelk. This one is definitely mine."

"It is you who are mistaken, friend Sylverlin."

Sylverlin glanced at the wary knight. "A pity," he said, shrugging. "I'd hoped that our blades might cross. Now, no such luck. You'll be dead before I get the chance."

Arryl would have replied, but Nelk was quicker. Hebrought the mace around and pushed the swordmaster's blade away. "Never wish ill, Sylverlin. The G.o.ds have a habit of returning such wishes to their makers."

The serpentine fighter laughed, bowed mockingly to the knight, and left without another word. Arryl was barely able to restrain himself from charging after.

"He has marked you for his own sport. This changes everything," Nelk muttered.

Tremaine studied the elf's features. A sense of foreboding washed over him as he noted his companion's dark expression. "What do you mean?"

"Sylverlin has never really cared about those I choose to fight. But you, Knight, are something special to him. He hates your kind and always has. He murdered the last knight quickly enough. Some say he is one of your cast- offs. Who knows? The only man he wants to fight more than you is me and that is forbidden to him. Sylverlin never argues with Brother Gurim."

Arryl stared. "I am to fight you in the arena?"

"You MUST fight me, human!" Nelk paused, then quickly whispered, "I could not save the half-elf, but I might be able to save YOU, Knight of Solamnia!"

At first, Arryl thought his ears had betrayed him.

Nelk gave him a barely perceptible nod. "I can save you from the arena, Arryl Tremaine, just as I have saved others. You won't be the first."

Tremaine had already had enough treachery. He pulled away from the elf. "I will not fall prey to any more traps set by Brother Gurim! Give me to Sylverlin, who does not pretend to be other than he is! He still owes for Fen Sunbrother's life!"

"This is not a trap! I have saved others and, if it had been in my power, I would have saved even the half-breed!

Listen, for I doubt we will have long to talk! There is a way for you to escape the arena and Istar, but to succeed you must put total faith in me!"

"Why should I?" Arryl scoffed.

Nelk dropped his mace, reached out, and grabbed the knight's sword by the blade's sharp edge.

"Are you mad?" Arryl s.n.a.t.c.hed the weapon back, but blood was already streaming from the wound in the elf's palm.

"Watch," Nelk commanded. His eyes closed and he whispered something. Arryl felt a tingle in the air.

The elf's wound began to HEAL! First slowly, then with ever-increasing speed, the deep cut closed and sealed itself. A scab formed along the wound, but it only remained a moment. In the matter of a breath, a thin scar was all that was visible of the cut, yet Nelk was not finished. Even the scar dwindled away, ever shrinking until the only evidence of the self-inflicted injury was the blood that had stained the elf's hand.

Nelk wiped his palm on the sleeve of his shirt. "You're a cleric of Mishakal!" Arryl gasped.

"I serve the G.o.ddess."

"But ... your maimed arm ..."

"I chose not to heal myself in order to hide the fact that the G.o.ddess still favors those who keep the true faith. Have Brother Gurim perform the same miracle and see if he can heal himself. You will find that the inquisitor seems to belacking somewhat in his faith, or perhaps his G.o.d lacks faith in him." The elf eyed his companion. "Will you listen to me now? Will you believe in me?"

Tremaine lowered his sword blade. "If I thought my sentence just, I would still ignore you, but there is no justice in Istar." He shook his head. "And little faith, other than yours. What must I do?"

Nelk nodded his approval. "Sylverlin is eager to match blades with you, but I have been granted the right to face you in the arena. When open combat begins, we must be certain that Sylverlin does not come between us. The battle must be my mace against your blade." Nelk shook his head.

"Always before I have trusted my skill, never mentioned my plans to those I rescued for fear they would weaken and betray us both! This situation with Sylverlin, though, and your own worthy abilities, have made this change necessary. I find I must trust YOU, Knight!"

"What about Sylverlin? He cannot be allowed to go unpunished for what he has done!"

"Leave the swordmaster to me. The time is fast approaching when he and I will clash. He might call me friend, but there is no love between us. We are marking the day. You might wish his death now, Knight, but rest a.s.sured I have prior and greater reasons than you. What concerns us now is making certain that it is we two alone who face each other during the Games. No one else must be allowed to come between us."

Arryl was still not pleased about leaving Sylverlin to the elf, but Nelk WAS a cleric - a true cleric. "I will abide by your decision, but tell me, why do you risk yourself here? Why do you do it?"

The elf considered his answer well before giving it to the knight. "Because there is a balance to maintain ... and Istar threatens to tip it too far the wrong way."

"Very well, then. Tell me now your plan. What happens when we come to blows?"

Nelk tapped Arryl's chest with the tip of his mace.

'Then, while the crowd and Brother Gurim watch, I will kill you, Sir Knight."

So EAGER FOR BLOOD!

The day of the Games came too soon, yet not soon enough. Arryl stood in the line of anxious gladiators, his eyes scanning the packed stadium. Istar seemed especially eager to watch the blood flow this day. Tremaine had heard rumors that HE was the attraction. It had been rumored that a Knight of Solamnia was among the fight ers. Despite the fact that his armor was still a prize of the city guard, he had no doubt that most of the crowd had picked him out already.

Across from him stood Nelk ... and Sylverlin.

The Kingpriest's box was filled, but the holy monarch himself was absent as usual. Today the box played host to a group of men garbed in identical silver-and-white robes. In the center sat the only one wearing gloves, Brother Gurim.

Arryl could not clearly make out his features, but he guessed the senior inquisitor had a smile on his face. For Gurim, all was right in the world. This day was to mark yetanother triumph.

Arryl wished he could drag the false cleric down to the field and tell him the truth.

The tournament had been played, the exhibitions had finished. All that remained was the final ma.s.s combat. A free fight, in which a man could only hope that he survived the time limit. Arryl heard some of the prisoners plotting desperately to keep in the back, away from the rest of the combatants. Their plans collapsed when Arack informed them that hesitation would not save any man here. The archers on the walks had orders to shoot any gladiator who shied from battle. The prisoners had to fight. As long as they did, they had a chance. Arack emphasized the last, and the prisoners looked more hopeful.