Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [96]
The Torgun wondered if they had heard him right. Their eyes widened, their jaws dropped. They looked at each other. They looked at Skylan for confirmation. He kept his face straight, giving away nothing of his feelings.
Sigurd, who had been lying unconscious on the ground, started to groan, putting his hand to his ringing head. Grimuir went to help his friend stand. He muttered something.
“Huh?” Sigurd grunted. “Our weapons? The fools are giving us back our weapons?”
Skylan could have kicked him in the head again. Sigurd shook off Grimuir’s aid and staggered off to join his fellows.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Keeper grinned at them. “You will be armed, but only during the game. And you will use your weapons with Aelon’s sanction. Try attacking me, for example, and you will feel Aelon’s wrath.”
Skylan glanced down at his bandaged arm. When the tattoo didn’t sting and burn, it itched. He could attest to Aelon’s ire and he had to concede that the god knew how to make his presence felt. Still, Skylan’s heart soared. He would be armed. His men would be armed. Someday, somehow, with Torval’s blessing, they would find a way to use their swords to escape this place.
Keeper launched into an explanation of the game. The ogre pointed to the center of the playing field that consisted of a circle blocked out in concentric squares, large on the outside, becoming smaller and more numerous in the center. Six enormous boulders, equidistant from each other, stood around the circle’s outer boundary.
“The priests light a bonfire in the center of the field. The object of the game is simple. You must capture the fire. As I say, the object of the game is simple,” Keeper repeated. “The playing of the game is not.”
The Torgun shook their heads. How difficult could it be to capture a fire?
“I am your chief—” Keeper began.
“Like hell you are,” Sigurd said, his words muffled by blood from his broken nose.
“—whether you pissants like it or not,” Keeper continued. “I am your chief because I have been a participant in this game for many years.
“Many years,” Keeper repeated, his voice hardening. He glanced at Skylan, perhaps recalling their conversation of yesterday.
The ogre was silent, his face shadowed. Then he shook himself, like a wet dog, and went on to describe the rules of the game.
He is thinking of what I said, Skylan realized, smiling inwardly. He can no longer eat his dinner with the same enjoyment. Every time he chews a mouthful, he remembers that he is eating his master’s table scraps.
An elbow jabbed Skylan in the ribs.
“Are you listening to this bullshit?” Bjorn asked.
“I heard it yesterday,” said Skylan.
All about each player being able to move so many squares at a time, in one direction at a time. Each player could move only when told to move, each could fight only when told to fight.
“Bullshit, as you say, my friend,” said Skylan loudly.
Keeper stopped talking.
“All we have to do is capture the fire, right?” Skylan said. He gestured. “Give us shields and swords, and while our foes are dancing from one square to another, we will capture the goddam fire.”
The Torgun laughed their agreement.
Zahakis left off lounging and stepped forward.
“That was how the Para Dix was played long ago,” he said. “Men killing each other, blood covering the playing field. The spectators quickly grew bored with what was little more than an organized brawl. Now we have the rules as Keeper explained them.”
“I think this young man finds it hard to play by the rules,” Keeper said, eyeing Skylan.
“You obey their rules,” Skylan said. “And you have grown fat and happy in the land of your enemies.”
Keeper’s plump cheeks quivered in anger, his small eyes narrowed. He clenched his fist and took a step. Skylan braced himself for the blow. Slowly and with an effort, the ogre regained control.
“You will find the game demeaning,” Keeper said, his gaze on Skylan though he spoke to all of them. “You will find it hard to bear. You will hear the audience jeer and call you names. They will