CHAPTER 7

Caramon's cold statement woke the kender up quickly.

"M-murder! I—uh—think you ought to think about this, Caramon," Tas stammered. "I mean, well, look at it this way. This Fistandantilus is a really, really good, I-I mean, talented magic-user. Better even than Raistlin and Par-Salian put together, if what they say is true. You just don't sneak up and murder a guy like that. Especially when you've never murdered anybody! Not that I'm saying we should practice, mind you, but-"

"He has to sleep, doesn't he?" Caramon asked.

"Well," Tas faltered, "I suppose so. Everybody has to sleep, I guess, even magic-users—”

"Magic-users most of all," Caramon interrupted coldly. "You remember how weak Raist'd be if he didn't sleep? And that holds true of all wizards, even the most powerful. That's one reason they lost the great battles—the Lost Battles. They had to rest. And quit talking about this 'we' stuff. I'll do it. You don't even have to come along. Just find out where his room is, what kind of defenses he has, and when he goes to bed. I'll take care of it from there."

"Caramon," Tas began hesitantly, "do you suppose it's right? I mean, I know that's why the mages sent you back here. At least I think that's why. It all got sort of muddled there at the end. And I know this Fistandantilus is supposed to be a really evil person and he wears the black robes and all that, but is it right to murder him? I mean, it seems to me that this just makes us as evil as he is, doesn't it?"

"I don't care," Caramon said without emotion, his eyes on the mace he was slowly swinging back and forth. "It's his life or Raistlin's, Tas. If I kill Fistandantilus now, back in this time, he won't be able to come forward and grab Raistlin. I could free Raistlin from that shattered body, Tas, and make him whole! Once I wrench this man's evil hold from him—then I know he'd be just like the old Raist. The little brother I loved." Caramon's voice grew wistful and his eyes moist. "He could come and live with us, Tas."

"What about Tika?" Tas asked hesitantly. "How's she going to feel about you murdering somebody?"

Caramon's brown eyes flashed in anger. "I told you before— don't talk about her, Tas!"

"But, Caramon—”

"I mean it, Tas!"

And this time the big man's voice held the tone that Tas knew meant he had gone too far. The kender sat hunched miserably in his bed. Looking over at him, Caramon sighed.

"Look, Tas," he said quietly, "I'll explain it once. I-I haven't been very good to Tika. She was right to throw me out, I see that now, though there was a time I thought I'd never forgive her."The big man was quiet a moment, sorting out his thoughts. Then, with another sigh, he continued. "I told her once that, as long as Raistlin lived, he'd come first in my thoughts. I warned her to find someone who could give her all his love. I thought at first I could, when Raistlin went off on his own. But"—he shook his head—"I dunno. It didn't work. Now, I've got to do this, don't you see? And I can't think about Tika! She-she only gets in the way . . .."

"But Tika loves you so much!" was all Tas could say. And, of course, it was the wrong thing. Caramon scowled and began swinging the mace again.

"All right, Tas," he said, his voice so deep it might have come from beneath the kender's feet, "I guess this means good-bye. Ask the dwarf for a different room. I'm going to do this and, if anything goes wrong, I wouldn't want to get you into trouble—”

"Caramon, you know I didn't mean I wouldn't help," Tas mumbled. "You need me!"

"Yeah, I guess," Caramon muttered, flushing. Then, looking over at Tas, he smiled in apology. "I'm sorry. Just don't talk about Tika anymore, all right?"

"All right," Tas said unhappily. He smiled back at Caramon in return, watching as the big man put his weapons away and prepared for bed. But it was a sickly smile and, when Tas crawled into his own bed, he felt more depressed and unhappy than he had since Flint died.

"He wouldn't have approved, that's for sure," Tas said to himself, thinking of the gruff, old dwarf. "I can hear him now. ’Stupid, doorknob of a kender!' he'd say. 'Murdering wizards! Why don't you just save everyone trouble and do away with yourself!' And then there's Tanis," Tas thought, even more miserable. "I can just imagine what he'd say!" Rolling over, Tas pulled the blankets up around his chin. "I wish he was here! I wish someone was here to help us! Caramon’s not thinking right, I know he isn't! But what can I do? I've got to help him. He's my friend. And he'd likely get into no end of trouble without me!"

The next day was Caramon's first day in the Games. Tas made his visit to the Temple in the early morning and was back in time to see Caramon's fight, which would take place that afternoon. Sitting on the bed, swinging his short legs back and forth, the kender made his report as Caramon paced the floor nervously, waiting for the dwarf and Pheragas to bring him his costume.

"You’re right,” Tas admitted reluctantly. "Fistandantilus needs lots of sleep, apparently. He goes to bed early every night and sleeps like the dead—I m-mean"—Tas stuttered—"sleeps soundly till morning."

Caramon looked at him grimly.

"Guards?"

"No," Tas said, shrugging. "He doesn't even lock his door. No one locks doors in the Temple. After all, it is a holy place, and I guess everyone either trusts everyone or they don't have anything to lock up. You know," the kender said on reflection, "I always detested door locks, but now I've decided that life without them would be really boring. I've been in a few rooms in the Temple”—Tas blissfully ignored Caramon’s horrified glance—"and, believe me, it's not worth the bother. You'd think a magic-user would be different, but Fistandantilus doesn't keep any of his spell stuff there. I guess he just uses his room to spend the night when he's visiting the court. Besides," the kender pointed out with a sudden brilliant flash of logic, "he's the only evil person in the court, so he wouldn't need to protect himself from anyone other than himself!"

Caramon, who had quit listening long ago, muttered something and kept pacing. Tas frowned uncomfortably. It had suddenly occurred to him that he and Caramon now ranked right up there with evil magic-users. This helped him make up his mind.

"Look, I'm sorry, Caramon," Tas said, after a moment. "But I don't think I can help you, after all. Kender aren't very particular, sometimes, about their own things, or other people's for that matter, but I don't believe a kender ever in his life murdered anybody!" He sighed, then continued in a quivering voice. "And, I got to thinking about Flint and . . . and Sturm. You know Sturm wouldn't approve! He was so honorable. It just isn't right, Caramon! It makes us just as bad as Fistandantilus. Or maybe worse."

Caramon opened his mouth and was just about to reply when the door burst open and Arack marched in.

"How're we doing, big guy?" the dwarf said, leering up at Caramon. "Quite a change from when you first came here, ain't it?" He patted the big man's hard muscles admiringly, then—balling up his fist—suddenly slammed it into Caramon's gut. "Hard as steel," he said, grinning and shaking his hand in pain.

Caramon glowered down at the dwarf in disgust, glanced at Tas, then sighed. "Where's my costume?" he grumbled. "It's nearly High Watch."

The dwarf held up a sack. "It's in here. Don't worry, it won't take you long to dress."

Grabbing the sack nervously, Caramon opened it. "Where's the rest of it? he demanded of Pheragas, who had just entered the room.

"That's it!" Arack cackled. "I told you it wouldn't take long to dress!"

Caramon's face flushed a deep red. "I—I can't wear . . . just this . . ." he stammered, shutting the sack hastily.”You said there'd be ladies . . .."

"And they'll love every bronze inch!" Arack hooted. Then the laughter vanished from the dwarf's broken face, replaced by the dark and menacing scowl. "Put it on, you great oaf. What do you think they pay to see? A dancing school? No— they pay to see bodies covered in sweat and blood. The more body, the more sweat, the more blood—real blood—the better!"

"Real blood? Caramon looked up, his brown eyes flaring. "What do you mean? I thought you said—”

"Bah! Get him ready, Pheragas. And while you’re at it, explain the facts of life to the spoiled brat. Time to grow up, Caramon, my pretty poppet." With that and a grating laugh, the dwarf stalked out.

Pheragas stood aside to let the dwarf pass, then entered the small room. His face, usually jovial and cheerful, was a blank mask. There was no expression in his eyes, and he avoided looking directly at Caramon.

"What did he mean? Grow up? Caramon asked. "Real blood?

"Here," Pheragas said gruffly, ignoring the question. "I'll help with these buckles. It takes a bit of getting used to at first. They're strictly ornamental, made to break easily. The audience loves it if a piece comes loose or falls off."

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 cos tume, 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!)

The first thing Caramon noticed as he stepped out into the arena was the noise. It crashed over him in thunderous waves, one after another, coming seemingly from the sun-drenched sky above him. For a moment he felt lost in confusion. The bynow familiar arena—where he had worked and practiced so hard these last few months—was a strange place suddenly. His gaze went to the great circular rows of stands surrounding the arena, and he was overwhelmed at the sight of the thousands of people, all—it seemed—on their feet screaming and stomping and shouting.

The colors swam in his eyes—gaily fluttering banners that announced a Games Day, silk banners of all the noble families of Istar, and the more humble banners of those who sold everything from fruited ice to tarbean tea, depending on the season of the year. And it all seemed to be in motion, making him dizzy, and suddenly nauseous. Then he felt Kiiri's cool hand upon his arm. Turning, he saw her smile at him in reassurance. He saw the familiar arena behind her, he saw Pheragas and his other friends.

Feeling better, he quickly turned his attention back to the action. He had better keep his mind on business, he told himself sternly. If he missed a single rehearsed move, he would not only make himself look foolish, but he might accidentally hurt someone. He remembered how particular Kiiri had been that he time his swordthrusts just right. Now, he thought grimly, he knew why.

Keeping his eyes on his partners and the arena, ignoring the noise and the crowd, he took his place, waiting to start. The arena looked different, somehow, and for a moment he couldn't figure it out. Then he realized that, just as they were in costume, the dwarf had decorated the arena, too. Here were the same old sawdust-covered platforms where he fought every day, but now they were tricked out with symbols representing the four corners of the world.

Around these four platforms, the hot coals blazed, the fire roared, the oil boiled and bubbled. Bridges of wood spanned the Death Pits as they were called, connecting the four platforms. These Pits had, at first, alarmed Caramon. But he had learned early in the game that they were for effect only. The audience loved it when a fighter was driven from the arena onto the bridges. They went wild when the Barbarian held Rolf by his heels over the boiling oil. Having seen it all in rehearsal, Caramon could laugh with Kiiri at the terrified expression on Rolf's face and the frantic efforts he made to save himself that resulted—as always—in the Barbarian being hit over the head by a blow from Rolf's powerful arms.

The sun reached its zenith and a flash of gold brought Caramon's eyes to the center of the arena. Here stood the Freedom Spire—a tall structure made of gold, so delicate and ornate that it seemed out of place in such crude surroundings. At the top hung a key—a key that would open a lock on any of the iron collars. Caramon had seen the spire often enough in practice, but he had never seen the key, which was kept locked in Arack's office. Just looking at it made the iron collar around his neck feel unusually heavy. His eyes filled with sudden tears. Freedom . . . To wake in the morning and be able to walk out a door, to go anywhere in this wide world you wanted. It was such a simple thing. Now, how much he missed it!

Then he heard Arack call out his name, he saw him point at them. Gripping his weapon, Caramon turned to face Kiiri, the sight of the Golden Key still in his mind. At the end of the year, any slave who had done well in the Games could fight for the right to climb that spire and get the key. It was all fake, of course. Arack always selected those guaranteed to draw the biggest audiences.Caramon had never thought about it before—his only concern being his brother and Fistandantilus. But, now, he realized he had a new goal. With a wild yell, he raised his phony sword high in the air in salute.

Soon, Caramon began to relax and have fun. He found himself enjoying the roars and applause of the crowd. Caught up in their excitement, he discovered he was playing up to them— just as Kiiri had told him he would. The few wounds he'd received in the warm-up bouts were nothing, only scratches. He couldn't even feel the pain. He laughed at himself for his worry. Pheragas had been right not to mention such a silly thing. He was sorry he had made such a big deal of it.

"They like you," Kiiri said, grinning at him during one of their rest periods. Once again, her eyes swept admiringly over Caramon's muscular, practically nude body. "I don’t blame them. I'm looking forward to our wrestling match."

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 . . ..

Repeating that over and over, Caramon was able to subdue the part of his mind that burned with rage and pain. Coolly and calmly, he helped Kiiri and Pheragas lift the Barbarian's "lifeless" corpse to its feet as they had done countless times in rehearsal. He even found the strength to turn and face the crowd and bow. Pheragas, with a skillful motion of his free arm, made it seem as if the "dead" Barbarian were bowing, too. The crowd loved it and cheered wildly. Then the three friends dragged the corpse off the stage, down into the dark aisles below.

Once there, Caramon helped them ease the Barbarian down onto the cold stone. For long moments, he stared at the corpse, dimly aware of the other gladiators, who had been waiting their turn to go up into the arena, looking at the lifeless body, then melting back into the shadows.

Slowly, Caramon stood up. Turning around, he grabbed hold of Pheragas and, with all his strength, hurled the black man up against the wall. Drawing the bloodstained dagger from his belt, Caramon held it up before Pheragas's eyes.

"It was an accident," Pheragas said through clenched teeth.

"Edged weapons!" Caramon cried, shoving Pheragas’s head roughly into the stone wall. "Bleed a little! Now, you tell me! What in the name of the Abyss is going on!"

"It was an accident, oaf," came a sneering voice.

Caramon turned. The dwarf stood before him, his squat body a small, twisted shadow in the dark and dank corridor beneath the arena.

"And now I'll tell you about accidents," Arack said, his voice soft and malevolent. Behind him loomed the giant figure of Raag, his club in his huge hand. "Let Pheragas go. He and Kiiri have to get back to the arena and take their bows. You all were the winners today."

Caramon glanced at Pheragas for a moment, then dropped his hand. The dagger slipped from his nerveless fingers onto the floor, he slumped back against the wall. Kiiri regarded him in mute sympathy, laying her hand on his arm. Pheragas sighed, cast the smug dwarf a venomous glance, then both he and Kiiri left the corridor. They walked around the body of the Barbarian, which lay, untouched, on the stone.

"You told me no one got killed!" Caramon said in a voice choked with anger and pain.

The dwarf came over to stand in front of the big man. "It was an accident," Arack repeated. "Accidents happen around here. Particularly to people who aren't careful. They could happen to you, if you're not careful. Or to that little friend of yours. Now, the Barbarian, here, he wasn't careful. Or rather, his master wasn't careful."

Caramon raised his head, staring at the dwarf, his eyes wide with shock and horror.

"Ah, I see you finally got it figured out." Arack nodded.

"This man died because his owner crossed someone," Caramon said softly.

'Yeah." The dwarf grinned and tugged at his beard. "Civilized, ain't it? Not like the old days. And no one's the wiser. Except his master, of course. I saw his face this afternoon. He knew, as soon as you stuck the Barbarian. You might as well have thrust that dagger into him. He got the message all right."

"This was a warning?" Caramon asked in strangled tones.

The dwarf nodded again and shrugged.

"Who? Who was his owner?"

Arack hesitated, regarding Caramon quizzically, his broken face twisted into a leer. Caramon could almost see him calculating, figuring how much he could gain from telling, how much he might gain by keeping silent. Apparently, the money added up quickly in the "telling" column, because he didn't hesitate long. Motioning Caramon to lean down, he whispered a name in his ear.

Caramon looked puzzled.

"High cleric, a Revered Son of Paladine," the dwarf added. "Number two to the Kingpriest himself. But he's made a bad enemy, a bad enemy." Arack shook his head.

A burst of muffled cheering roared from above them. The dwarf glanced up, then back at Caramon. "You'll have to go up, take a bow. It's expected. You're a winner."

"What about him?" Caramon asked, his gaze going to the Barbarian. "He won't be going up. Won't they wonder?"

"Pulled muscle. Happens all the time. Can't make his final bow," the dwarf said casually. "We'll put the word out he retired, was given his freedom."

Given his freedom! Tears filled his eyes. He looked away, down the corridor. There was another cheer. He would have to go. Your life. Our lives. The life of your little friend.

"That's why," Caramon said thickly, "that's why you had me kill him! Because now you've got me! You know I won't talk—”

"I knew that anyway," Arack said, grinning wickedly. "Let's say having you kill him was just a little extra touch. The customers like that, shows I care. You see, it was your master who sent this warning! I thought he'd appreciate it, having his own slave carry it out. Course that puts you in a bit of danger. The Barbarian's death'll have to be avenged. But, it'll do wonders for business, once the rumor spreads."

"My master!" Caramon gasped. "But, you bought me! The school—”

"Ah, I acted as agent only." The dwarf cackled. "I thought maybe you didn't know!"

"But who is my—” And then Caramon knew the answer. He didn't even hear the words the dwarf said. He couldn't hear them over the sudden roaring sound that echoed in his brain. A blood-red tide surged over him, suffocating him. His lungs ached, his stomach heaved, and his legs gave way beneath him.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the corridor, the ogre holding his head down between his knees. The dizziness passed. Caramon gasped and lifted his head, shaking off the ogre's grasp.

"I'm all right," he said through bloodless lips.

Raag glanced at him, then up at the dwarf.

"We can't take him out there in this condition," Arack said, regarding Caramon with disgust. "Not looking like a fish gone belly up. Haul him to his room."

"No," said a small voice from the darkness. "I-I'll take care of him."

Tas crept out of the shadows, his face nearly as pale as Caramon's.

Arack hesitated, then snarled something and turned away. With a gesture to the ogre, he hurried off, clambering up the stairs to make the awards to the victors.

Tasslehoff knelt beside Caramon, his hand on the big man's arm. The kender's gaze went to the body that lay forgotten on the stone floor. Caramon's gaze followed. Seeing the pain and anguish in his eyes, Tas felt a lump come to his throat. He couldn't say a word, he could only pat Caramon's arm.

"How much did you hear?" Caramon asked thickly.

"Enough," Tas murmured. "Fistandantilus."

"He planned this all along." Caramon sighed and leaned his head back, wearily closing his eyes. "This is how he'll get rid of us. He won't even have to do it himself. Just let this . . . this cleric . . .."

"Quarath."

"Yeah, he'll let this Quarath kill us." Caramon's fists clenched. "The wizard's hands will be clean! Raistlin will never suspect. And all the time, every fight from now on, I'll wonder. Is that dagger Kiiri holds real?" Opening his eyes, Caramon looked at the kender. "And you, Tas. You're in this, too. The dwarf said so. I can't leave, but you could! You've got to get out of here!"

"Where would I go?" Tas asked helplessly. "He'd find me, Caramon. He's the most powerful magic-user that ever lived. Even kender can't hide from people like him."

For a moment the two sat together in silence, the roar of the crowd echoing above them. Then Tas's eyes caught a gleam of metal across the corridor. Recognizing the object, he rose to his feet and crept over to retrieve it.

"I can get us inside the Temple," he said, taking a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. Picking up the bloodstained dagger, he brought it back and handed it to Caramon.

"I can get us in tonight."