Arena

CHAPTER 11

ZAREL EWINE, GRAND MASTER OF THE ARENA, looked around at the howling mob which filled the arena.

“Sometimes I wish you all had but one neck,” he snarled under his breath, dropping the power of far speaking so that his true thoughts could not be heard.

The circle of monks lifted up the brazier and carried it back into the tunnel, while a dozen monks, cowls covering their faces, remained behind, standing respectfully to the left side of Zarel’s juggernaut. From the far corners of the arena the four House Masters now approached, this time on foot, for the only magics allowed in the great fighting circle were those of the fighters engaged in the contest and that of the Grand Master himself. Behind each of them were four warriors, bearing between them a heavy gold urn, which contained golden disks with the names of the fighters of the Houses engraved thereon.

He waited, disgusted by the wild howling of the mob and what he suspected was the deliberately slow pace of Kirlen, who hobbled along, resting heavily on her staff. The four stopped at the foot of the great juggernaut and Zarel finally stirred, stepping down from the throne to the fanfare of trumpets and drums.

At the foot of the throne was the ceremonial circle of choosing, a solid sheet of gold several fathoms across which was set into the sand-packed floor of the arena. To one side of the circle the monks stood silent, their cowls pulled up to cover their faces, and before them was placed a silver-inlaid table. Zarel stepped into the circle and the four House Masters followed while the servants carried the urns over and placed them on the table.

Zarel looked at the Four Masters, his cold gaze settling on Kirlen.

“Is his name in your urn?” he finally asked.

“Who?” Her voice was filled with a cold sarcasm.

“Damn you, you know of whom I speak.”

“He is enlisted in my House by the right of my choosing and you may not interfere.”

“He is a wanted felon.”

“He was a wanted felon,” Kirlen replied sharply, “or have you forgotten the rules? No fighter may be arrested during Festival or taken at any time from his House.”

Kirlen looked around at the other three House Masters for support.

“He’s dangerous,” Jimak of Purple replied. “You should have killed him.”

“You only say that because he’s not wearing your color. Besides, you had him and would have more than happily betrayed him to Zarel for what I suspect was nothing more than another golden trinket.”

“I did no such thing.”

“He betrayed all of us,” Tulan interjected.

“Of course he did,” Kirlen chuckled coldly. “But I’m the one who has him now and he’ll fight for me and he’ll win. I think, Zarel, your rage comes from the fact that it will be the Walker who will finally have him and not you. Let him decide what to do with One-eye.”

“You seduced him away from me,” Varnel of Fentesk snapped, looking over angrily at Kirlen. “That was in violation of the rules.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Kirlen replied tauntingly. “Go over and ask him to come back like a good boy.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Zarel snarled.

“How dare you,” Kirlen hissed. “You might be Master of the Arena, but together we have more power than you.”

“Try it,” Zarel replied heatedly. “Just try it. Without me and the arena you would be nothing.”

“Rather it is the other way around,” Kirlen replied. “You can’t even control one lone hanin. You are a joke and unfit to rule.”

Zarel fixed her with his gaze and then he noticed that the mob had fallen strangely quiet. There was an electric-like tension in the air, as if they somehow sensed that something was going wrong down in the golden circle.

“I’ll remember that after this is over.”

“I hope you do,” Kirlen replied coldly.

Zarel, struggling to control his rage, turned away from the four Masters and beckoned for the monks, who had stood to one side, to be guided over. Assistants approached the monks, while others uncoiled a long hose of a curious black substance at the end of which was attached a bell-shaped funnel, the other end of the hose disappearing inside the access tunnel.

Four of the monks were led over to the urns. Their cowls were pulled back to reveal that the four men were blind and that their ears had been sewn shut. They were the Choosers of Combat, one of the most exalted positions to be held in the city. In payment for that honor their eyes had been taken from them and their ears closed over so that they could not see what they did, or hear a whisper of coaxing to reach to a certain spot in the urns which contained the names of the fighters.

A trumpet fanfare sounded and the arena settled down to an unearthly silence. The monks each reached into an urn and pulled out a golden disk, upon which was written the name of a fighter from one of the four Houses. In turn they deposited the disks into a black leather bag, which was placed at the end of the table. A fifth blind and deaf monk then reached into the bag, drew out two disks, and placed them to his left. Then he drew out the other two disks and placed them to his right.

Another monk, who had not surrendered his sight, now stepped forward and picked up the funnel attached to the hose which snaked back into the main tunnel. He looked down at the first two disks, while to his side stood two more monks, who acted as witnesses.

“Haglin of Fentesk,” he announced, speaking into the funnel, “versus Erwina of Bolk, circle one.”

His words were carried across a hundred fathoms up to the men and boys who manned a great display board mounted along the top of the west side of the arena. The crowd was silent, all heads turned to gaze at the board. Seconds later more than a dozen boys scurried up the framework of the tote board bearing letters and symbols which spelled out the names of the first two contestants, their personal symbols, House colors, and assigned circle for the fight.

“Lorrin of Kestha versus Naru of Bolk, circle two.”

The gold disks were set aside and the blind and deaf monks were directed by their assistants to draw out four more disks, which in turn were divided by the final decider of matches.

“Alinar of Fentesk versus Ogla of Bolk, circle three.”

Dozens of boys now swarmed over the tote board and the first match was finally spelled out. A wild, hysterical cheering erupted and it seemed as if the entire spectator stand was suddenly buried under a blizzard of paper as the howling mob pulled open their gambling sheets to check the records of the fighters and calculate odds. The mob then looked back at the board, waiting expectantly while the official master of the numbers decided upon the odds that would be offered. The numbers finally appeared, three to one in favor of Erwina of Bolk over Haglin of Fentesk.

The crowd reacted in its usual manner, hooting derisively at odds which were, as always, stacked in favor of the Grand Master. At the top of every stairway leading down into the arena the betting booths were now open for action and by the tens of thousands the spectators swarmed out of their seats to place their first bets, while in the stands tens of thousands more haggled out private wagers. Such betting was, of course, illegal in the arena; only bets placed with the Grand Master were allowed, and hundreds of his agents were hidden in the crowd, ready to arrest any who tried to run their own private operations. The laying out of the first twenty-five matches continued, odds going up on the boards, the crowd roaring its disapproval at some of the offered bets and then racing to wager their coppers, silvers, and golds on what they thought were sure wins. The first arrests were made as well, fights breaking out as the Master’s agents tried to carry off illegal bettors so that warriors had to push their way down through the aisles and benches, their clubs rising and falling to clear a path.

The first set of twenty-five matches was finally decided and Zarel, without another word, turned away from the four Masters, dismissing them as if they were nothing more than servants. As Kirlen turned and stepped out of the circle she made a show of spitting on the ground, which caused a ripple of approving shouts to rise up, especially from the quarter of the arena dominated by Brown’s followers.

The old woman stopped and looked around, cackling with delight at the shouts of approval. Ignoring the injunction against the use of magic other than for fighting, she snapped her fingers and a spinning circle of fire formed around her. She lifted into the air and drifted back over to her section. The other three House Masters, seeing her actions, did likewise, and the entire arena erupted with shouts of delight over this act of defiance.

As Kirlen reached the area where her fighters were sitting she lowered herself back to the ground and walked defiantly through their ranks, stepping up to her canopied throne. As she walked through her ranks she looked over at Garth.

“He wants your head,” she said with a laugh.

Garth nodded, saying nothing, and then looked back at the tote board as the last of the twenty-five matches was posted.

“You’re not in the first round, Master,” Hammen announced.

“That’s fine with me, my head’s still splitting.”

“I told you to stay in the cold bath till it was gone.”

“Do that again and I’ll kill you. I hate the cold.”

Hammen reached into his tunic and pulled out a small flask.

“Since you won’t be fighting for a while, perhaps a touch of the cruel will help cure you,” he replied, and offered up the flask.

Garth took it, ignoring the disapproving stare of Naru, who was sitting beside him, and downed a long gulp. The fiery liquid coursed through him and he felt the pain start to leave.

There was another flourish of trumpets, signaling that the time for betting was drawing to a close, and Hammen looked around excitedly.

“That bastard gets cheaper with his odds every year. It’s nearly impossible to get a good bet in on this game anymore. He’s pushing his greed a little too far and you know damn well he wagers on the sure wins his people pick. Count in the ten percent betting fee on every wager and he cleans up every time.”

Garth smiled and said nothing as the second trumpet sounded and the last frenzy of betting was played out, those at the end of the lines pushing and shoving to get up to the booths where the bookmakers furiously passed out precut wooden tokens marking a bet in return for the tons of coins being pushed over the transoms.

Each token was numbered to signify on which fighting circle the bet was being placed and notched to show if the bet was for or against the favorite. To prevent counterfeiting, the shape, size, and color of the tokens to be used in any given fight was a heavily guarded secret. Once used for a round the tokens were retired and might not be used again for years.

The trumpets sounded the third time and those chosen for the first round of fights stood up. Naru rose and stretched lazily.

“She is easy,” he announced in a bored tone. “I be right back.”

As he swaggered down the aisle and out onto the arena floor, joined by the other fighters from Brown, a loud hysterical cheering erupted. Hammen, unable to contain himself, stood up on his chair to get a better view.

“Damn, I liked it better up in the stands. You can see better,” he complained, looking down at Garth as if he should somehow arrange for seats up with the mob. Naru walked over to his assigned fighting circle fifty fathoms away, the roaring of the crowd rising to a fevered pitch. Fighters from the other three Houses were now out on the arena floor moving to their circles, the crowd chanting and screaming. As they reached their circles they stepped into the neutral boxes, their servants taking their cloaks.

Some of the fighters went through a quick series of exercises, stretching and bending, others stood calmly, others knelt down and, with heads lowered, concentrated their thoughts. To each of the circles a fighter of the Grand Master’s now came to serve as referee.

The trumpets sounded their strident calls, once more warning the fighters and the mob that the fights were about to begin and the roaring of the crowd died away. From atop his throne Zarel now stood up and held his arms out. Again his voice sounded high and clear.

“To the honor of the Walker.”

The fighters in the circles turned and raised both their hands in salute.

“Spells must be contained within the limits of the circles. All fights of the first day to be for spell prize unless both fighters declare it is a grudge match to the death.”

There was a moment of silence as the referees in each circle turned and queried the two fighters they were observing.

“Circle seven, Farnin of Bolk and Petrakov of Fentesk, to the death,” Hammen predicted. “Last year Farnin’s lover was killed by Petrakov. The mob’s been hoping for this matchup.”

On three of the poles which stood by each circle a red flag went up, and one of them was at the seventh circle. A wild, insane cheer went up.

“Petrakov is a dead man,” Hammen announced gleefully.

Zarel raised his arms heavenward.

“Prepare!”

The fighters in the circles stepped out of their neutral boxes and into the arena.

A whistle sounded and an angry roar went up from the crowd.

Garth looked over at Hammen.

“Circle eleven. The Purple fighter started a spell before the call to fight. He’s out.”

Garth looked over toward the eleventh circle on the far side of the arena, amazed at how Hammen could see what was going on, let alone instantly know what had happened. From out of the circle the Ingkaran fighter was already submitting to having a spell taken from his satchel and presented to the winner of the match. As he started to walk back toward the Purple side of the arena, a loud, angry howl rose from the crowd, while from the Gray side a happy cheer erupted since Purple was the favorite to win.

Jimak rose from his throne with an angry curse and pointed his hand.

There was a flash of light and an instant later, where the disgraced fighter had stood, was only a smoldering heap of charred bones. A burst of applause erupted from the crowd and, turning, Jimak bowed to Ingkara’s followers, who now felt that their honor had been restored.

“Hell, he was only a second-rank anyhow,” Hammen sniffed approvingly. “His contract for the year wasn’t worth a damn after such a disgrace.”

The crowd finally settled down and all eyes were turned back toward Zarel.

He held his arms aloft until all was silent and then suddenly dropped them, his voice booming out across the arena.

“Fight!”

An instant later the arena erupted in an insane maelstrom of light, explosions, the roaring of animals, the shouts of demons, dwarfs, ogres, and other summoned creatures, and above all, the wild, gleeful screaming of half a million spectators.

Hammen, beside himself with joy, leaped up and down on his seat, howling with delight.

“Circle five, finished!”

Garth looked to where he pointed. The Fentesk fighter was already down, unconscious, the skeletons he had summoned ground to dust by berserkers and a firestorm, the referee bending over the fallen man to take a spell from his satchel and present it to the winner.

“Naru’s done as well,” Garth announced, pointing to where the giant had crushed his opponent’s dwarfs with his own hands, then unleashed a demon howl which had bowled his opponent over, knocking her out of the circle.

The stands behind Garth erupted with wild shouts for one of their favorites. After claiming his prize, Naru swaggered back to the section where the Bolk fighters stood shouting their approval and swarming around the champion.

A loud groan went up from the crowd when, against all odds, Petrakov knocked Farnin, the sentimental favorite of the mob, off his feet. Petrakov flayed him with a psychic lashing so that the man writhed back and forth. Hammen, beside himself with emotion, screamed imprecations, and Garth shook his head with disgust. Petrakov was now simply torturing his opponent. He continued the lashing, even though he injured himself in the process. He finally stepped across the circle, drew his dagger, and started to slash Farnin across the face, while the crowd, except for Petrakov’s loyal followers in the Orange sector, booed loudly. Finally he grabbed hold of his opponent by the hair, lifted him up, and hacked his throat open from ear to ear, a river of scarlet spilling out in the circle.

A loud cry erupted from the Brown fighters, several of them moving to rush into the arena and place a spell of healing on their comrade. A wall of light shimmered up, cast by a dozen fighters of the Grand Master who stood nearby each of the sideline stands of the fighting Houses, blocking Farnin’s comrades from entering the arena.

Petrakov, with a disdainful gesture, tossed Farnin aside, the man’s head lolling back obscenely. Farnin kicked feebly, hands clutching at his torn throat, blood squirting out between his fingers, and then was still. Without waiting for the circle master, Petrakov reached down and cut Farnin’s satchel off and held it aloft triumphantly, spit on the corpse, and then walked away.

“In the old days that never would have been allowed except in the final matches,” Hammen growled. “The Grand Master encourages it now because the mob loves the sight of blood. The next fight with Petrakov and the betting will be ten times as much, especially if he’s pitted against another Bolk.”

The last of the fights were played out, the victors returning with their spoils, a single spell for standard matches, or the full satchel for a death match, minus, of course, the one mana fee taken by the Grand Master when blood was spilled. One of the three death matches, however, ended with no one the winner. Both fighters had cast simultaneous spells which had killed their opponents. Those who had not bet on the match laughed with hysterical glee since in such cases the Grand Master kept all bets and claimed the satchels of both of the fallen as well, while those who had bet on one or the other howled with rage.

The Bolk fighters returned to the stands around Garth, the winners beaming with pride, the losers looking crestfallen, gazing nervously up at Kirlen, who ignored them with haughty disdain. Their contracts for the forthcoming year were now worth less and she would not let them forget it.

The last of the fights over, stretcher-bearers raced out into the arena to carry off the unconscious and the dead while from out of the access tunnels entertainers charged into the arena-dwarfs, jugglers, fire-eaters, and petty magicians. Several dozen wagons, drawn by zebras or tigers, bears, and even a mammoth, came galloping out. Mounted on the back of each wagon was a small catapult and, at the sight of them, the crowd came to its feet and pointed nervously, wondering why the Grand Master was bringing heavy weapons into the arena.

The dwarfs manning the catapults cranked them back, loading the firing arms with clay pots, and pointed their weapons toward the crowd.

An angry cry started to swell and wherever the weapons were pointed the mob struggled to back away. The dwarfs, laughing with insane delight, fired the weapons. A loud roar rose up and Hammen, curious, stood up to watch. The pots slammed into the stands and burst open. There were gasps of amazement from the mob and then a mad scurrying, for the pots contained prizes-sweetmeats, lottery tickets, and, most surprisingly of all, copper, silver, and gold coins.

A wild cheering erupted as the catapult teams moved around the edge of the arena, reloading their weapons with yet more pots and firing them into the crowd, which now rushed back and forth in a mad frenzy to catch the prizes.

Hammen, shaking his head, sat back down.

“Wish you were up there?” Garth asked.

“You’re damn right I do, rather than having to sit down here and get nothing.”

A catapult, drawn by mammoths, raced past, firing a clay pot nearly the size of a man up into the arena.

The mob howled with delight and a rippling of cheers honoring Zarel rose up.

“Masterful,” Garth said, shaking his head.

“It doesn’t take much to win a mob back, especially when the winning back is paid in gold.”

“Do you know anyone on their catapult teams?”

“No. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Hammen looked over at Garth and smiled wickedly.

“Do you want to rob them? Is that it?”

“No. I was just wondering.”

“I have a friend who could find out. He owns a little illegal business.”

“What kind?”

“Potions and such. Get rid of a spouse that’s become tiresome, seduce a girl who won’t say yes, even get some courage when you need it, those kinds of things.”

“And his customers?”

Hammen smiled wickedly.

“Some of the highest. Nobles, great merchants,” and he lowered his voice, “and Uriah, the captain of Zarel’s fighters. It’d be easy enough to find out through him. My cousin says he’s shooting his mouth off all the time about how important he is and all the people in court that are beholden to him.”

Garth turned away at the mention of the dwarf’s name.

“Something wrong, Master?”

Garth smiled sadly and looked back.

“No, nothing. I want to talk with this friend of yours after the game. Could you arrange it?”

“A potion for a certain Benalish girl?”

“Damn you, no. Just arrange the meeting, will you?”

Hammen, laughing softly, nodded.

In front of Zarel’s canopied throne the blind and deaf monks now started to draw out the names of the next round of contestants.

A great cheer erupted when two favorites, both of them ninth-rank fighters-one of them Varena-were pitted against each other. The other names were posted one after the other and the mob rushed to place its next round of bets in a wild frenzy of excitement.

Hammen looked back expectantly at the stands behind him where the mob sat.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he suddenly announced, and, leaving Garth’s side, he went up to the barrier where a bent-over man who looked somehow familiar to Garth stood waiting. There was a quick and furtive exchange, a handshake, and Hammen came back.

“I bet everything we had on Varena,” he told Garth quietly.

Garth nodded and looked back to where the bent-over man stood.

“He looks familiar.”

“He should. He was in prison just down the row from you. I got him out in the confusion.”

“I take it he doesn’t have much love now for the Grand Master.”

Hammen chuckled as if Garth had just uttered a comment of incredible stupidity.

“Does he know as many people around here as you?”

“He should. He’s head of one of the brotherhoods.”

“Tell him to meet us tonight.”

“Master, not again.”

“Just do it when you go to get our winnings.”

The trumpets sounded the warning and the entertainers cleared the arena area, followed by the wagons, which fired their last round of pots, one of them winging directly over the Bolk fighters to crack open at the edge of the stands. Dozens tried to leap over the wall to gather up the prize only to be met by the Grand Master’s guards, who beat them back with clubs and the flats of their swords, those getting clubbed howling and cursing, those farther up in the stands roaring with delight at the entertainment.

The trumpet sounded the final time, the fighters marched out, and Garth stood, catching a glimpse of Varena as she went to a circle at the far side of the field. Again there were several red banners marking blood matches, one of them causing the crowd to gasp with amazement since it was a sixth-rank fighter against a second, a matching that was little short of suicide on the part of the weaker.

“Some of them do it because they’re crazy, others on the long shot of winning a satchel of spells that would take them decades to earn in the older way of gathering mana and studying,” Hammen declared with obvious disdain.

Zarel stood up and again made the ritual pronouncements, his arms raised heavenward. He dropped them.

“Fight!”

Again there was the wild explosion of spells, the flashes of light, creatures appearing to do battle, clouds of dust and cyclones of fire. In one of the circles a giant spider appeared, causing the caster of the spell to be disqualified when he lost control of the creature, which stampeded out of the fighting circle when it was set upon by a pack of wolves. The spider raced toward the edge of the fighting floor, heading for the grand stands, the crowd panicking, abandoning their seats and stampeding. Fighters of the Grand Master raced after it, striking it repeatedly with fire, turning it aside just as it reached the stands. Several of the spectators were caught by its spray of acidic poison, disintegrating into bubbling clouds of pulpy steam before the spider was finally destroyed. The fighter who had lost control of the spell walked away dejected, stripped of his spider spell as penalty, though the spectators gave him a warm round of applause for the exciting show, which would be talked about endlessly in the days to come.

One by one the fights ended. The sixth-rank versus second-rank death match dragged out longer than most had expected, ending when the second-rank fighter finally turned and tried to run away. He was chased for more than a hundred fathoms across the arena by his taunting opponent, until Zarel, disgusted, stood up and, raising his hands, blasted him into oblivion just before he ran through the circle where Varena and her opponent were fighting out a classic match of spell versus counterspell that had the mob on its feet.

Garth watched the fight intently, mentally noting the spells she was forced to reveal.

“Unless she’s holding back, she’ll have no secrets now in the later matches,” Hammen noted calmly. “Too bad for her. But then again, Master, you’ll have to face her sooner or later, so it’s to your advantage.”

All the other matches were finished but still the two fought on, the crowd falling silent when there was a lull, cheering or groaning in turn when one or the other seemed to be getting an upper hand. Twice Varena was knocked down, once by a charging berserker that crashed through her line of fire creatures, and again by several attacks from black knights. She finally turned the fight around when her opponent cast a black spell of life draining, for which she held a counterspell that gave her additional strength rather than weakened her, regaining what she had lost from the previous assaults. She pressed forward, relying heavily on fire spells mixed with swirling storms of ice, and her rival finally collapsed into unconsciousness, his power drained.

Varena, staggering with exhaustion, stood in the center of the circle while the circle master took a spell from her opponent’s satchel and presented it to her. To the surprise of many she then made the gesture of laying hands on her opponent to revive him, an action that struck a chord with the mob, which cheered appreciatively as she turned and walked away. As she walked past Zarel’s throne Garth could sense that somehow Zarel knew of Varena’s part in his rescue as the Grand Master leaned forward and watched her closely.

“Doubled our money,” Hammen hissed with delight as he settled back into his chair by Garth’s side.

“You give your friend the message?”

“I don’t know why, but I did,” Hammen replied sulkily.

Garth settled back in his chair, ignoring the performers, who again flooded into the arena. The stands were nearly empty as the mob swarmed out of the arena, heading to the food stands and privy pits, except for the crowds that tried to maneuver to where the clay pots were going to rain down.

“This is your match,” Hammen announced, and he looked over excitedly at Garth.

Garth, saying nothing, watched the tote board as the matches started to be listed.

“I bet that’s us,” Hammen said, pointing to the board as a boy scurried out on a catwalk and hung out a symbol before the first letter of the name had even been hung, the symbol a stylized rendering of an eye patch.

At the sight of Garth’s symbol the crowd started to cheer. Garth sat back, watching, as his name, which on the board was simply “One-eye,” was spelled out. His opponent, from Ingkara, was now listed, and confusion erupted among the crowd.

“Who is this bastard?” a Brown fighter asked, looking over at Garth as if he had the answer.

Garth turned and looked at Hammen, who sat in silence.

“He wasn’t on the lists two days ago,” Hammen announced. “Just a minute.”

He got out of his seat and raced back toward the grandstands, whereupon several spectators broke out of the crowd and came down to meet him. They conferred quickly and Hammen came back.

“It’s a setup,” Hammen said angrily. “One of Zarel’s men, at least eight-rank or better. He was seen in the march down to the arena. Jimak must have taken a bribe to let him into Purple’s ranks.”

“So I’ll fight him.”

“He’s an unknown, one of Zarel’s lieutenants. It also means the choosing was fixed. One of the monks must have palmed the name disks to set it up.”

“So it’s fixed. What the hell did you expect?” Garth said quietly.

Garth, sensing that he was being watched, looked up and saw that Kirlen was gazing down at him.

She smiled and nodded her head.

The odds on the board went up, three to one against Garth. The confused murmuring in the crowd increased.

Hammen turned back to the grandstands and cupped his hands.

“It’s a fix!”

Instantly his cry was picked up and echoed, a loud turmoil breaking out.

Hammen settled back in his seat, waited for a moment, and then stood up to head back to the wall.

“How are you betting?”

Hammen looked back at him with a hurt expression.

“Three to one against, we’ll clean up. Besides, if you lose, I’m dead anyhow, so what the hell.”

“Thanks for the confidence.”

Chuckling, Hammen went up to the wall and returned a moment later as the first of the warning trumpets sounded.

“Naru bet on Garth.”

Garth looked over at the grinning giant.

“I win either way,” Naru announced as if he had figured out a monumental task of logic. “Make money or don’t have to fight and kill you later.” Naru roared at his own joke.

The third trumpet finally sounded and Garth stood up, Hammen by his side, and stepped out from under the awning into the late-afternoon sun. The arena erupted with wild cheering that spread from Brown to the other three-quarters of the stadium.

Garth, ignoring the cheers, walked toward his assigned circle and stepped into the neutral box, which was stained with blood from an earlier death match. Hammen took his cloak and watched warily as Garth’s opponent came forward.

“I know that bastard,” Hammen whispered. “He was captain of the guard down in Tantium. A killer. This doesn’t look good.”

Zarel Ewine leaned back in his throne and chuckled softly. The captain knew his job and what was expected. Later it would be a simple task to eliminate him rather than have to worry about the fact that the man might talk about the violations of age-old traditions, the fixing of the match, the bribing of the monk, who would have to have an accident as well, and, finally, the fact that the captain carried a spell given to him by the Grand Master for use in the arena.

Zarel took up his cup of wine and sipped at it contentedly, waiting for the fighters to get ready.

The captain from Tantium walked calmly over to his neutral box alone, without a servant, unclipped his cloak, and let it fall to the ground. Ignoring Garth, he bent over and stretched lazily, his bare arms rippling with muscles.

“He might try to take you physically,” Hammen whispered. “Watch out for his blade. Look at his left boot; there’s another dagger tucked in there for throwing. Poisoned most likely.”

The final trumpet sounded and the circle master for Garth’s fight stepped into the center and then looked over at Garth.

“How do you declare this fight?”

“Spell match,” Garth said quietly.

The circle master looked back over at the captain.

“How do you declare this fight?”

“To the death.”

The circle master turned and went over to the pole at the edge of the circle.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Hammen shouted.

The circle master, ignoring Hammen, hoisted the red flag of a death match.

“This is a fix!” Hammen shouted, turning to look back at the arena stands, his words drowned out by the eruption of screaming from half a million throats.

Hammen looked back at Garth.

“If I lose, get out of here quick,” Garth said quietly, and then he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

“Fight!”

Garth opened his eyes and stepped into the circle. Concentrating, he started to pull upon the power of his mana, upon which would be built the power of his spells. Instantly he felt a block. The captain had already drawn upon his own mana and cast a blocking spell, draining Garth’s power away. Garth felt a momentary flicker of fear. The man was powerful, extremely powerful, and skillful in his tactics.

Smoke swirled up in the center of the circle and half a dozen decaying corpses stepped out of the cloud, the stench of their corruption washing over Garth. He stepped back, still struggling to bring forth his mana as the first corpse staggered up, pale bone showing through the rotting phosphorescence of its face. Garth struggled to suppress a gag, his concentration broken as he had to dodge out of the dead man’s grasp. Another one caught him on the shoulder, icy fingers digging into flesh and wrestling to draw away the spirit of life. Garth tore free and quickly moved away, feeling his strength draining away. In the center of the circle more forms appeared, plague rats, their green eyes glinting evilly. The rats charged. Garth danced about, crushing several under his boot but two managed to leap upon his legs, sinking their teeth in, their poison seeping into his blood. Staggering, he kicked them off.

At last Garth was able to raise his hand, the mana of the forest drawn into his control at last. A dark green fog swirled around him, blinding the undead. For a brief moment the attack was thrown off and he raised his hands, a cool stream of water cascading down from above, washing over his body, drawing out the poison.

His draw of mana continued to strengthen and yet he could sense that his opponent’s was increasing as well. The fog started to disperse and Garth extended his hands outward and drew an image in the air. A second later there was a burst of light and a form coalesced, the mob roaring its approval at the appearance of a white knight mounted upon a rearing charger. The knight, swinging a mace, trampled down the corpses that started to close in again on Garth and then turned to charge the captain. The knight’s attack slowed and then came to a stop as if he were trapped in a dark web. The horse tried to rear up, neighing in pain, and then rolled over, crushing the knight beneath him. With his opponent diverted by the attack of the knight, Garth was freed to counter the plague rats which still pursued him, by unleashing a swarm of stinging hornets that harried and tormented the rats, stringing with such viciousness that the rats, one after another, curled up and died.

Another strike lashed over Garth and he felt his mana withering away, his power draining down. His opponent, Garth realized, held powers equal to that of a House Master, or even a Grand Master, and as the thought raced through him, he looked at his opponent and saw the man’s mocking gaze, as if his opponent were simply playing with him and held supreme confidence in the final outcome.

Garth waved his hands in a circle and managed to erect a circle of protection from his opponent’s onslaughts. Then he doubled the circle. Though he was doing no damage to his foe, at least his attacker was no longer damaging him. More undead appeared, but were repulsed by the screen. There was another strike toward his mana, but it was stopped as well. The captain now turned his attention toward the hornets, which were swarming toward him, and in an instant they fell to the ground, their power to fly drained away. Writhing about, they curled up and died.

For a moment there was no attack from either side. Garth spared a quick look around and saw that nearly all the other combats were finished. The attention of the mob was entirely focused on the death struggle in the middle of the arena. In the center of the circle a darkness appeared and started to drift toward Garth, a frozen shade of terror. He felt his outer circle of protection fall beneath the attack. Garth raised his hands and an instant later a stand of trees appeared to encircle him. He stepped out of the circle of protection and then moved like a shadow himself, drifting silently. The frozen shade floated past him, looking, probing. Garth extended the line of trees so that they filled his half of the circle. He felt his power growing and, with a snap of his arm, he pointed behind the frozen shade. One of the trees came to life and grabbed hold of the shade with branchy arms, tearing it apart.

The mob, unable to see what was happening, cheered with a wild frenzy so that the sound of the struggle was drowned out. Moving stealthily, Garth darted to the edge of the forest he had created. His opponent was moving to the edge of the woods, hands raised. Bolts of lightning came down out of the sky, blasting the forest with blow after blow. Garth motioned toward the captain and the tree-walker crashed out of the woods. Reaching down, it snatched at the captain, lifting him up into the air. A wild frenzy of cheers erupted as the fight again became visible. The captain, writhing in pain, pointed both hands at the tree-creature’s face; the creature staggered backward, fire burning its eyes. Howling with pain, the creature staggered around in a circle, the mob laughing at its antics.

Garth raised his hand and the creature disappeared, its torment ended. At the same instant he raced up to the captain, lashing out with his feet, kicking to break the man’s knee. The captain dodged the blow, tripping Garth to the ground. Laughing sardonically he lashed out in turn, kicking Garth’s side so that the sound of ribs cracking could be heard. Garth rolled away, raising his hands. Tiny forms appeared, looking almost comical, for they were nothing more than woodland fairies. They buzzed about on silver wings and then closed in. They lunged at the captain’s eyes, with tiny spears causing him to howl with pain and back away. Behind Garth the forest he had created was in flames, thick coils of dark smoke soaring into the heavens, the fire crackling and hissing.

Garth, gasping for breath and unable to take the time to heal himself, conjured yet again, sending a bear into the melee. The bear was blocked by Ironclaw Orcs, who hacked at it with heavy scimitars, the bear in turn ripping them apart. From overhead a rain of stones started to fall, smashing into what was left of the forest. Garth could feel his power draining away.

He erected yet another circle of protection to buy time in order to replace the mana his opponent had rendered useless.

The captain stood on the other side of the circle, streams of blood coursing down his face and arms from the attack of the fairies, who now lay scattered about. He wiped the blood from his eyes, his features contorted with rage. Garth reached outward, probing into the man’s thoughts in a bid to ascertain what he might attempt next. Garth smiled and, with a raised hand, sent another swarm of fairies in.

They were dead within seconds but again they had managed to stab his opponent, and the sight of the captain flailing at them sent the mob into hysterical laughter.

The captain turned his attention away from Garth for a second. His features contorted with anger as he hurled a curse back at the mob. Though his words could not be heard, his flash of temper set them to laughing even louder.

The captain turned back and angrily pointed at the ground. Dwarven warriors appeared. He moved his hand again, and yet again, summoning forth creature after creature so that dwarfs, orcs, goblins, skeletons, and even demonic creatures were arrayed. As he prepared his attack Garth in turn gathered his own mana in, building up his strength. He came back up to his feet and walked back to the middle of the circle. His act of defiance caused wild cheering to erupt as Garth stood alone, as if ready to battle the summoned creatures without benefit of magic other than the dagger he now flicked out.

The captain laughed with cold contempt, raised both hands heavenward, and then pointed them straight down. A fissure opened in the ground directly before him. An expectant hush fell over the arena.

A black cloud rushed upward, like steam hissing out from the gates of hell. The shadow swirled about, turning and coiling, and took form.

“A Lord of the Pit!”

Garth turned and looked over his shoulder at Hammen, who was stepping backward in fear.

“Pit Lord! Pit Lord!” The cry thundered from the mob, and those who had bet upon Garth groaned with despair even as they came to their feet to watch the finale of the show.

The demon loomed upward, great clawlike hands stretching out, black mouth gaping open, flame washing over its teeth, its fire red eyes glowing like hot coals in a furnace.

The captain lowered his hands, the demon looking back at him. The captain pointed at the dwarven warriors. The demon, laughing, turned and swept them up in his claws, devouring them as they screamed and yelled. The other creatures summoned by the captain, now realizing that they were called forth as a sacrificial offering to the dark power, tried to move away, but the captain pointed at them in turn, freezing them in place.

After finishing his repast the demon, with heavy, lumbering steps, advanced on Garth. His mighty clawed hands reached out. Garth, in turn, raised his hands and a river of ice seemed to pour from the heavens, striking the monster on the arms, the ice instantly turning to hot steam. The Lord of the Pit, roaring with pain, staggered back.

The captain next pointed at the berserkers and the creature devoured them in turn. His strength redoubled by the feast, the demon charged again, howling with mad fury. Garth waved his hands in reply and instantly he was encased in holy armor. The monster tried to sweep him up in his grasp but each time his hands touched the armor there was a flash of steam. For long minutes they struggled thus until the demon’s power slowly started to abate and the armor in turn became translucent and then disappeared. The mob was now at a fever pitch as the Lord turned away, its features contorted with rage, and started back toward the captain.

Quickly the captain pointed next at the orcs he controlled. The demon pounced upon them, devouring them as they screamed and writhed. Garth did nothing, watching the captain’s actions. He had conjured forth a creature that was almost beyond his ability to control. He had to keep feeding it in order to keep it under his command. The captain waved his hand yet again, attempting to conjure up more replacements for the creature’s feast. But this time all he could bring forth was half a score of plague rats before he lowered his head in exhaustion.

The Lord of the Pit, satiated for the moment, turned back to attack Garth once more. It started to advance and Garth replayed again a power he had used before, quickly erecting a wall of living trees and then stepping behind it. The Dark Lord approached the woods, brimming with hatred for a creation of such tranquility. Rearing up, it started to slash at the woods with its mighty claws, as Garth reinforced his barrier of protection. The monter’s hooting roars thundered around the arena, drowning out even the wild, insane cheering of the mob which was beside itself with rapture over such a marvelous display. The demon finally tore into the line of trees, grabbing hold of the trunks. It howled with pain as if the silvery bark was made of nettles of pain. It tore the trees up, flinging them aside, crashing through to the other side.

And then, exhausted, it sank down for a moment. Turning, it started to lumber back toward its master’s side of the circle, looking at the remaining feasts the captain had set out in order to maintain control.

Garth leaped forward, hands raised, and within seconds the demons, skeletons and rats that the captain had prepared for the demon were gone, vaporized by Garth’s frenzied attack.

The captain hesitated, shocked by the suddenness of Garth’s onslaught. The demon reared up, howling with rage that his meal had been denied. The captain quickly raised his hands but his own mana was drained in the act of creating the monster and the meals necessary to control it. He pointed, trying to bring forth another creature. There was a thin pop of light and the only thing that appeared was a lone tiny sprite which, at the sight of the Lord, took wing and flew straight up and away. The demon, its mouth lolling open, watching the sprite fly away, then it fixed its gaze on the captain.

With a loud cry it lunged forward. There was a brief flash, as if a circle of protection was being raised. Garth turned and looked toward the throne, where Zarel was standing, his arms raised. Hammen, jumping up and down, pointed toward Zarel in turn and a wild, hysterical cry rose from the mob at the blatant interference on the part of the Grand Master. Zarel, looking around, dropped his hands, and the circle of protection disappeared.

The captain, screaming in terror, was lifted up into the air. The Lord of the Pit, gloating over its prey, pulled in opposite directions, tearing the man in half and then devouring him in two quick gulps. As the life force of the captain disappeared the power which he controlled ended as well. With a flash of fire and smoke the demon disappeared.

Garth slowly walked across the circle, not waiting for the circle master to reach the prize first. Reaching down he picked up the blood-soaked satchel of his opponent and held it aloft. The mob broke into an ecstasy of cheering. The Bolk section of the arena swarmed forward, leaping over the barriers, ignoring the blows of the warriors who tried to stop them. By the tens of thousands they swarmed onto the arena floor.

“One-eye, One-eye!”

The circle master came up and reached toward the satchel of the captain. Garth fixed the man with his gaze.

“It was you who made it to the death; the prize is mine.”

“It belongs to the Grand Master,” the fighter hissed.

“Then try and take it now.”

The man looked at him, and then back toward the throne, where Zarel stood. The mob swirled in around Garth, swarming about him. Hammen pushed his way through to Garth’s side.

“Thank the Eternal for his mob; I think Zarel was going to come down and fight you right now.”

The referee backed away and then extended his hand.

“Mana payment for a death fight.”

Garth reached into the satchel taken from his foe, drew out a small silken bundle of black mana, and tossed it into the outstretched hand of the referee, who quickly scurried away.

Putting his arm around Hammen’s shoulder for support, Garth forced his way through the mob, sensing the rage that Zarel was now feeling at the humiliation he had endured and the loss of one of his most powerful spells.

“Master, how are you?” Hammen asked anxiously.

“I managed to heal the ribs but I’m still hung over,” Garth replied. “Let’s go find a drink, and then there’s some things I need you to get for this evening.”

“What things?”

Garth simply smiled.