Arena

CHAPTER 12

THE CITY WAS IN A STATE OF BEDLAM. DURING the games rival gangs, taking advantage of the fact that nearly anyone who could afford it had gone to the arena, had set to looting. Supporters of Ingkara had raided Fentesk sections of the city and a mob of Kesthans attempted to loot Purple, while Bolk had simply gone after everyone else. Fires had broken out in several quarters of the city and the glare of the flames filled the midnight sky.

“Ah, how I love Festival days,” Hammen growled, pausing to look furtively around a corner and then turning to watch the flames engulf the home of a much-hated merchant down the street.

“It wasn’t always this way,” Garth said, more as a statement than a question.

Hammen spit on the ground.

“The old days are dead as are all old days.” He paused for a moment and sighed.

“Maybe it wasn’t as golden as some want to remember,” Hammen finally said, “but at least the games were not for the entertainment of the mob. Back then they were tests of skill and practice, a time of truce before going out again to wander and study, or to serve a contract with a prince who treated his fighters with honor. Now it is for blood, contracts, and the delight of the mob.”

Hammen shook his head and then chuckled sadly as some looters raced past, bearing a heavy barrel between them.

Hammen looked back up at Garth.

“All right, Garth, the game’s over. We increased our money six times over today. Even minus my commission you’ve got enough to live like a prince for the next couple of years. Besides that, you’ve got a spell usually only a Master ever holds. Why don’t you take it and get the hell out of this madhouse?”

Garth smiled and shook his head.

“I’ve still got some things to do.”

“Damn it, son, today was a fix. The captain was a fix, the spell was obviously given to him by the Grand Master, and they set you up for a death match. Do you think he’ll play any fairer tomorrow?”

“Actually, yes,” Garth said quietly. “The mob knows, your people have passed the word around. He’ll play it straight tomorrow, at least until the Walker comes to back him up.”

Garth paused, turning to look back as the merchant’s house collapsed, a shower of sparks soaring heavenward. A laughing, drunken crowd was gathered around outside, raising tankards of ale and wine in salute to the fire while the merchant cursed and swore, pulling out great tufts of his beard in anguish.

Hammen slowed, still troubled by their conversation on the way back from the arena at the end of the day’s fights.

“I think what you asked my friend to do is insane.”

“You said he hates the Grand Master for the death of his son last year. Remember it was you who first pointed out the connection.”

“I was just musing, that’s all. Talking about what the Grand Master has done.”

“It’s an obvious path to what I want done. You’ve been carrying that ruby of mine around and it’s time we put it to good use.”

“It’s a terrible risk for my friend. He could be denounced and dead before the offer is barely out.”

“It’ll be amusing,” Garth said. “And besides, the person we want to bribe is a customer of his for illegal potions. He has some leverage over him.”

“Do you know how many bribes it’ll take to arrange such a thing?”

“You already saw me take care of it.”

“The man, or should I say creature, you’re attempting to bribe will pocket your money and forget about it.”

Garth smiled and shook his head.

“You don’t know the nature of guilt and vengeance very well. Half a dozen wagonloads of pots are simply mixed in, that’s all. No one will be able to trace it, and our friend comes out the richer for it.”

Hammen looked around nervously.

“You’re talking about bribing the captain of Zarel’s fighters, Uriah the Groveler.”

Garth smiled sadly.

“Yes, Uriah.” His voice was distant and wistful.

“That was a ruby worth at least a hundred gold,” Hammen groaned.

Garth looked back as if drawn from a distant land.

“When you bribe high you have to be willing to pay,” he said quickly.

“And yet you appeared before me penniless and I actually trusted you.”

“I had to keep my reserve.”

“And is there any reserve left?”

“A little,” Garth said with a smile. “Later, tomorrow after the games, I want you to go out through the gate of the city down where we first met. Walk exactly one thousand fifty paces.”

“Your paces or mine?”

“Mine, damn it. How could I know what yours were?”

“I’ll try to manage.”

“Anyhow. Go exactly one thousand fifty paces. There is an ancient tomb on the right side of the road, about a hundred paces up the side of the hill. In the back of it the bricks are weak. Tucked in behind the bricks is an oilskin bundle. Bring it back to me and, for the sake of the Eternal, don’t open it.”

“So now I’m your errand boy too.”

“I’d go myself, damn it, but a lot might happen tomorrow.”

“Like your getting killed.”

“Then the bundle is yours as a reminder of me. I think you’d find it interesting.”

Garth continued to shoulder his way through the swirling crowds, thankful that a light rain was falling so that his drawn-up hood and drooping, wide-brimmed hat did not seem out of place.

Reaching the Great Plaza, he pushed his way into the crowds and moved forward with a purposeful stride.

“Damn it,” Hammen hissed, but he kept close to Garth anyhow as his companion approached the perimeter around the palace. A line of guards was drawn up just inside the row of fountains, warily watching the crowds which streamed past. Since the riot of the day before the tension between the Grand Master’s warriors and the city’s inhabitants was at near-breaking point.

Without slowing down, Garth pushed through the edge of the crowd and broke into a run, charging straight at the nearest warrior. Before the man even had time to react Garth caught him full in the solar plexus, the blow doubling the man over in spite of his leather armor. The warrior to the man’s right turned, startled by the sudden attack, and Garth, spinning around, slammed a balled fist into the man’s neck just behind his ear. Pulling out his dagger he sliced the man’s purse off his belt, cut it open, and then heaved it into the startled crowd. This started a mad scramble for the money, which jingled on the dark pavement. Three more warriors came running over, swords drawn. Garth stepped past the first one, knocking him over with a simple tripping of feet. The second came in warily, slicing low. Garth jumped over the blow and, as he did so, kicked the man in the face. The third slowed, came to a stop, and then, turning, started to run, blowing his whistle, sounding the alarm.

The mob, which had been stunned by the sudden onset, now swarmed forward to rob the downed warriors. Garth turned and quickly strode away into the darkness, while behind him came the trumpet call of the alarm. Within seconds a company of warriors came charging out of the palace and waded into the crowd.

The excitement started to draw spectators from across the Plaza and Garth dodged his way through the human tide which swept forward to watch. As the heaving, shouting crowd drew closer they were drawn into the spreading fight as the ill feelings between the Grand Master’s guards and the mob exploded.

Garth continued across the Plaza, moving straight at the House of Kestha. Just before reaching the outer circle of paving stones that marked Kestha’s territory he tore off his cloak, revealing an Orange uniform underneath, though his face was still concealed by his wide-brimmed hat. Garth pointed toward one of the guards standing at the entryway into the House.

“Who is it?”

Hammen squinted, peering through the gloom and mist.

“Josega. At least I think so. Fourth- or fifth-rank.”

“Good enough. You know what to do.”

Garth broke into a run, charging across the gray paving stones.

“Josega, you cowardly bastard!”

Josega, who had been lounging wearily against the wall of his House, stirred, looking up as the Orange robe raced toward him. Even as he started to raise his hands, Garth caught him with a bolt of fire from above that knocked the man head over heels, laying him out unconscious on the pavement. The other guard started forward to meet Garth, not seeing Hammen coming up from the other side. Hammen caught the other guard across the back of the head with a blow from his staff.

The two pulled out daggers and, even as the alarm was raised inside the House, they ran off, the satchels of the two fallen guards in their hands.

“Well, at least they won’t get killed now in the arena,” Hammen gasped as they disappeared back into the crowd, which had not even noticed the robbery, their attention drawn instead to the growing clamor of the riot.

“Do you always find a moral balm for your sins?” Garth asked.

“It helps.”

Garth pushed his way across the square, which was now resounding with the angry shouts of the mob. Crowds raced past him, many of them carrying clubs, pikes, carving knives, and even the occasional crossbow. Over by the palace the fighting was now in full swing, warriors pushing their way outward with overlapping shields, the mob pelting them with offal, pieces of firewood, paving stones, and whatever else they could lay their hands on.

Garth edged his way around the riot and moved toward the House of Ingkara. He stopped and tore off the Orange tunic he had been wearing, to reveal a Brown robe underneath.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Hammen asked.

“Not yet. Now the same as last time.”

A minute later the two were running away, carrying two more satchels of spells, their pursuers cut off by the mob.

Garth slowed and then, at a casual pace, crossed back over into Bolk’s territory. Half a dozen fighters were at the gate, watching the spreading riot.

“What’s going on out there?” Garth asked, coming up to stand by Naru. The giant looked down at him curiously.

“All sorts of fighting tonight,” the giant rumbled with amusement. “You not know?”

“No, I was out for a little pleasure around behind the House.”

“What kind pleasure?”

“The female kind.”

“Ah, you break training. Mistress not like that.” Naru guffawed loudly and then looked up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of a dozen Ingkaran fighters storming onto the pavement belonging to Bolk.

“Get off our territory!” Naru shouted, stepping out from the main gate to face the approaching Purples, who slowed at the sight of the giant.

“Two of our men were robbed of their spells by one of yours!” a Purple shouted.

Naru said nothing, gazing down contemptuously at the fighter. The Purple seemed to hesitate and then he set eyes on Garth.

“It was him, One-eye.”

Naru threw back his head and laughed.

“He good fellow, he out robbing women of their honor, not dogs of their offal. You Purple are the lapdogs of the Grand Master.”

With a wild cry of anger one of the Ingkarans raised his hand. A twisting cyclone suddenly appeared, the wind racing out from it as frigid as an arctic night. Inside the cloud a form took shape and stepped out from the cloud. The ice giant moved slowly toward Naru as if its joints were still locked in blocks of frost but it came forward with a deadly purposefulness, raising its steel war hammer, a howling cry like the wind on a winter night thundering from its open mouth.

Naru, laughing, dodged the strike. With a balled-up fist he struck the frost giant with such a blow that the giant’s head splintered into tinkling fragments. With that the fight was on. Cries for Purple and shouts for Brown echoed on the Plaza. Brown fighters and warriors came charging out of the House to aid their comrades. The crowd, which had been storming toward the riot around the palace, slowed, turning to watch the show. Bets were hurriedly placed. Partisans of Ingkara and Bolk shoved forward to watch the fight and within seconds were fighting with each other as well.

From the next section over could be heard the cries for Fentesk and Kestha, an explosion piercing the darkness, the crowd oohing and aahing as bolts of lightning shot overhead from the top of Fentesk’s House.

Garth stayed in the shadows, ignoring Hammen’s excited cries as the fight spilled out into the Plaza, the mob now joining in as well, the partisans of the different sides turning on each other with gleeful abandon. No warriors or fighters of the Grand Master intervened to stop the brawl since all were tied down holding back the mob around the palace.

Suddenly there was a great explosion of light around the palace and, from atop the Grand Master’s palace, bolts of fire stormed down indiscriminately into the mob, knocking over hundreds.

“I think I’ll go in and take a nap,” Garth said calmly and, turning away from the spectacle, he walked through the door, stepping over the unconscious body of a Purple fighter whom Naru had tossed more than half a dozen fathoms. The giant, bellowing with delight, continued to wade into the battle, fists rising and falling.

Garth went through the door and paused. He looked down at Hammen.

“Why don’t you go turn down my bed, Hammen.”

Hammen, staring wide-eyed at Kirlen, who stood before them, nodded and slipped past the Master of Bolk.

“Masterful, One-eye, a masterful act of cunning.”

“And what is that, my lady?”

“The riot out there. Don’t you think I know how it started? Don’t you think the Grand Master does too?”

“He has no proof. Perhaps he is just reaping the whirlwind of his misrule.”

“And you are his moral judge? Hundreds will be killed out there.”

Garth nodded.

“It would have come anyhow. No one out there is being forced to riot and murder. They’re only imitating their betters.”

Kirlen laughed coldly, leaning heavily on her staff.

“Our games match for the moment,” Kirlen finally said, and, turning, she hobbled away.

“That bastard! I know it’s him!”

Uriah looked up at Zarel.

“How do you know that, sire?”

His voice was filled with a wary caution.

“How dare you! I should take your head for your insolence.”

To Zarel’s shocked disbelief Uriah for once did not blanch.

“If you kill me now, Master, I fear a rebellion will sweep this palace. Right now our fighters are outside this very building holding back the mob. If their captain should die by your hands, what would they say?”

“Concerning you, not much,” Zarel snarled.

“But of things in general,” Uriah replied, amazed as the words poured out of him. “Eleven fighters have died in the rioting of the last several days, more than two hundred warriors as well. They are not happy, my lord, and though my death might mean nothing, then again it could mean an awful lot.”

“What has come over you?”

Uriah swallowed hard, trying to control his fear.

“You violated the rules of the arena not once but four times today. You planted Silmar in the House of Ingkara, you gave him a spell, you had the circle master declare it a death match, and then you tried to intervene.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me this morning. He took the assignment but feared it would be his death. So he told me just before going over to stand with the House of Ingkara.”

Zarel started to raise his hand.

“Go ahead. So far it’s a secret. But kill me and the entire city will know what they only suspect right now. That will end all betting, for the mob will no longer trust you at all. Go ahead. You see, my lord, I left instructions with someone detailing all and if I die, it will be revealed.”

Zarel hesitated, stunned by the sudden turn of his second.

“And I could reveal all about the role you played in the fall of Turquoise.”

“You have held that over me for twenty long years, Master, and I groveled before you. But for this moment I want to be treated as a man.”

Zarel laughed.

“You are nothing but a deformed animal.”

“Then why do you make me your captain of fighters?”

Zarel smiled coldly.

“Because I could control you.”

“You still can but the price has changed.”

“What do you want?”

“Control of the House of Bolk,” Uriah replied evenly.

“I have no control over who is selected as Master of a House.”

“Then find a way. You will have to kill Kirlen before this is over or she will kill you. Isn’t it obvious that she is behind this One-eye?”

“How can I trust you afterward?”

“You can’t. For that matter how can I trust you? Perhaps that is the beginning of the only type of relationship that can last in this world.”

Zarel nodded wearily and sat back down.

“Can you bring the mob under control?”

“Difficult, but yes, though I worry about tomorrow in the arena. A single spark will set them off.”

Uriah hesitated.

“If that spark should come, then you will have to kill the mob by the thousands and drive them into the dirt. Nothing can be held back.”

Uriah nodded in agreement.

“Master, will you bring him down tomorrow?”

“I plan to kill him during the procession to the arena. I have my assassins taking their positions even now. He will never make it out of the city.”

“Suppose he eludes that trap?”

“Not in the arena. It is too risky.” Zarel paused.

“Let the Walker have him as a servant and you’ll be done with him. He is working toward some plan, not only against you, but against the Walker as well.”

“How do you know this?”

“You asked me to find out all I could,” Uriah replied. “He is dangerous beyond measure.”

Zarel lowered his head.

“Get out.”

“Do we have our agreement?”

“Yes, damn you. Now get out.”

Uriah, head bowed low, turned and hobbled out of the room.

“And bring that damn mob under control!”

As the door slammed shut the dwarf sagged against the wall, suddenly unable to control the trembling of his limbs. He fought down the sudden urge to vomit. For years he had dreamed of standing up to Zarel, and always feared death would be the payment.

He felt as if he had been possessed by a demon. Was that it? His visit to the dealer of potions had been for the purpose of gaining powders so that he could have his way with one of the court women; it was the only way he ever could have one, by first drugging her. The offered drink had seemed innocent enough and then this sense of power and defiance had taken hold.

He was suddenly tempted to go back, find the man, and kill him.

But why? It had worked somehow, or was it even the drink at all? He stuck his hand into his pocket and felt the leather pouch and the weight of the ruby inside. The request was simple enough and the payment a bribe in and of itself sufficient for a dozen nights of pleasure without need of potions.

I’ve been promised the House of Bolk when Kirlen falls, Uriah thought with a grim smile. My own House and freedom from Zarel’s torments. The dream washed over him and he could see himself being carried on a sedan chair of gold like Jimak’s, and surrounded by concubines who would make Varnel drool with envy.

Uriah smiled at the thought.

But who did the bribe come from in the first place? he suddenly wondered. There was a suspicion and that alone sent a chill through him. For there was the memory of before, of long before, and how he had once been such a source of innocent amusement and had even been loved.

Uriah lowered his head and walked down the corridor into the darkness.

Zarel sat in silence. What had possessed Uriah? Was it a simple madness or did he somehow sense that the position of the Grand Master might be slipping? But there was the deeper fear now, the realization that somehow One-eye was something far different. Something that would not be solved by simply letting him win the final match and then be taken away forever.

Could One-eye know of my own plans and reveal them to the Walker, perhaps even bartering to save his own miserable life in the process? Could that be it? He had to accept the fact now that One-eye was out to destroy him, and perhaps Uriah was right, One-eye wanted something from the Walker as well.

Zarel sighed and leaned forward on his throne.

Could it be that One-eye even knew that the entire process of the Festival was a sham? Perhaps even now he understood that one of its many purposes was to select the best fighter each year so that the Walker could take him away… and then kill him so as to eliminate a potential threat, not only to the existing order of things but to the Walker as well? One-eye had proved his cunning. It would be the mark of a fool not to assume that this man had figured it out.

Zarel looked up again, almost ready to call Uriah back.

No. Not him and not now. That would be another game to play out in its own good time. There would have to be another way to destroy One-eye.

Suddenly Zarel sat back and started to laugh, for it was all so obvious, so wonderfully and simply obvious what had to be done, and in the process it might very well clear the way for a new Walker.

Stretching lazily, Garth watched as the names for the next match were registered on the tote board. The first match of the second round of eliminations had just finished and he waited to see against whom he would be pitted in the next round after having sat out the opening fight of the day. At last his symbol appeared and the mob roared its approval and then fell into contemptuous laughter when the name of a second-rank fighter from Kestha was posted as his rival.

Garth looked over at Hammen, who shrugged.

“Maybe he’s backing off and deciding to play it straight; the mob is less than happy with the bastard today.”

That dissatisfaction was evident throughout the city. Several hundred homes and businesses had burned in the rioting of the night before. Scores were dead and hundreds injured. The tension was even worse over the fights between Fentesk and Kestha, which had left half a dozen fighters dead, one of them the second highest ranking fighter in Kestha, and the fighting between Bolk and Ingkara, which had resulted in the deaths of eight more. Following Hammen’s advice, Garth had slipped out of the House before dawn and hidden down by the arena, avoiding the grand march and the possibility of a trap on the part of Zarel, leaving a note for Kirlen not to have his name dropped from the day’s lineup.

Hammen’s advice was true to form, when on the march down to the arena a fight had broken out. Within seconds nearly half of Zarel’s fighters had come pouring out of a side street and swarmed in among Brown’s ranks. They looked about expectantly and Kirlen had laughed with cold, sardonic glee when it became evident that the fight was a cover for a move against Garth, who was not in the column of march.

The mob in the arena waited, wondering where its favorite was, fearful that he had left as mysteriously as he had arrived. The trumpet sounding the call for the fighters echoed and half a million were now on their feet, watching as the fighters for the second round of the second elimination stepped out onto the field.

“It’ll be a setup. He won’t let you off that field alive,” Hammen said gloomily.

“You can always stay up here in the stands.”

“Like hell. I’ve seen it through this far though only the Eternal knows why.”

“Well, let’s get on with it,” Garth announced, and he stood up, casting aside the heavy cloak under which he had kept himself concealed. He pushed his way through the stands and down to the barrier that marked the edge of the fighting field and leaped over the wall, turning to help Hammen down. Instantly half a dozen warriors raced toward him, assuming he was an overeager fan. Garth turned to face them.

A wild cry of delight rose up from the audience, racing out from the point where he was standing.

“One-eye!”

The guards slowed, coming to a stop, looking at him with openmouthed surprise. Garth strode past them as if they were not there. The mob, taken by the fact that he had been sitting with them, broke into thunderous applause as Garth walked across the field to the circle assigned to him for the next match.

The circle was directly below Zarel’s throne and Garth looked up at him, smiling, and saying nothing.

Zarel stood up, gazing down with open hatred, and Garth turned his back in an open display of contempt. The roaring of the mob redoubled.

“He could kill you like this,” Hammen shouted, trying to be heard above the howling mob.

“He doesn’t have the guts to do it now,” Garth said quietly as he stepped into the neutral box. “If he touches me now, half a million will storm this field.”

“Put not your trust in the mob.”

“I don’t, but I do trust their hatred of him.”

His opponent, a young woman from Kestha, came forward and stepped into her box, looking over anxiously at Garth.

“How do you declare this fight?” the circle master asked, looking over at Garth.

“Spell match.”

The circle master turned and looked back at the woman and she gave the same reply.

The fight was over in seconds. Even before she had drawn up sufficient mana to mount a defense, Garth’s mammoth had her pinned to the ground, the woman looking up at the beast in wide-eyed terror. She raised her hand in token of submission and Garth called the great beast off and then conjured it out of existence. The circle master approached the woman to take her spell offered in wager and Garth extended his left hand, palm downward to indicate that he would not accept the wager, the crowd roaring their approval at his chivalrous act.

He walked back calmly to the stands where the Bolk fighters sat. Many of them looked at him with obvious suspicion, but Naru shouted with delight.

“Good, I can still fight you. I thought you run away.”

Garth laughed, and went over to a table set with fresh fruits, cheese, and decanters of wine for the refreshment of the fighters, scooped up a handful of pomegranates and, taking a jug of wine, went over to an empty seat, motioning for Hammen to follow.

Kirlen, sitting upon her throne, looked down at him.

“You missed the morning procession.”

“I thought it best for reasons of health.”

Kirlen laughed coldly.

“It would have been amusing to see how you handled it.”

“No sense in causing trouble.”

“Like last night?”

Garth smiled and, saying nothing, settled down in his seat to watch the show.

The third elimination round started and he was called out immediately for the next round, returning back to his seat less than half an hour later, this time carrying a red spell of fireball taken from his unconscious opponent, the crowd now at a hysterical pitch of excitement, even though it now took the betting of a silver on One-eye to win back a copper.

With the end of the third elimination the noontime recess was called. In the stands the mob milled about, arguing loudly about the remaining forty fighters. Several favorites had fallen early, including Omar of Kestha, who had been rated as one of the favorites, and the legendary Mina of Ingkara, who had been taken off the field minus his feet, which had been bitten off by gnomes while he lay unconscious. The issue was made even more interesting because of the deaths of the fighters the night before, nine of whom had survived the first round of eliminations. Their deaths had upset the more elaborate forms of betting and tens of thousands were less than pleased when black markers were placed next to the names of the deceased.

Since the betting was not just on individual fights, but also on a wide variety of permutations, including combinations of fighters, win averages for Houses, and percentages of wins by Houses during each round, the crowd was in a decidedly less than happy mood. A number of bets placed at the end of the first day had been voided by the deaths, the losses going into Zarel’s coffers, thus convincing many that the Grand Master had set up the previous night’s riots to pad out his own pockets and gain revenge for the unruly behavior of his citizens.

Loud arguments raged in the stands between the partisans of one group or another, occasionally breaking down into brawls that swept back and forth through the crowd and at one point even spilled out onto the arena floor until a line of warriors drove the mob back.

As the noon hour progressed gangs of laborers erased the circles used for the first two series of matches. Only twenty pairs would fight in the next elimination in two sets of ten and new circles were drawn, each circle now twice as big as before, at just under fifty fathoms across. This meant that spells of greater power, which might have been difficult to contain inside the smaller twenty-five-fathom circles, could now be brought into play.

A high clarion call sounded, signaling the end of the noon hour. As the crowd poured back to its seats the catapult wagons came galloping out from the access tunnels and moved around the edge of the arena. The catapults fired more clay pots into the crowd and, as they burst open, wild cheering broke out.

Hammen turned in his seat to watch the show and cocked his head to hear the cries of the audience.

“The pots are filled with more gold,” Hammen announced, his voice suddenly edged with longing, as if he wished to be back up in the stands.

Garth chuckled softly, saying nothing.

As the word of the prizes within the pots spread, the crowds came close to stampeding in their eagerness to position themselves near where the next pot might land. Fights broke out as people piled atop each other in their eagerness to snatch up a single coin, sufficient to keep them in ale or wine for half the winter. The dwarfs lashed their teams around the arena, firing their weapons, and then, pointing to where the pot landed, howled with delight at the antics of the mob.

From out of the access tunnel came scores of young women dressed in diaphanous gowns. As they danced around the edge of the arena they reached into oversize pouches that bounced against their naked hips and tossed handfuls of gold trinkets, and even gems, into the stands. This set off a near-insane frenzy of cheering, which became even wilder when, from out of the north, four dragons, each half a dozen fathoms in length, came soaring in. The crowd looked up, on the edge of panicking, fearing that the great beasts were out of control and intent upon attacking the audience. The dragons, however, flashed into puffs of smoke and from out of the spreading clouds came a heavy rain of silver necklaces, baubles, and yet more coins.

The clouds, after emptying out their rain, drifted down into the center of the arena and coiled in around the throne of the Grand Master. The clouds became one and swirled inward. There was a flash of light, an explosive roar, and there, standing upon his throne, returning from his midday meal, was Zarel Ewine, the Grand Master.

The mob broke into a wild, hysterical cheering and Zarel, turning to each corner of the arena, bowed low.

Hammen, shaking his head with disgust, spit on the ground.

“The mob,” he said coldly. “Now all is forgiven.”

“But not for long,” Garth replied.

The last of the women and dwarf catapult teams left through the access tunnel and a groan of disappointment rose from the crowd.

“Don’t worry, my friends.” Zarel’s voice boomed across the arena through the power of his far speaking. “They will come back again at the end of the day’s festivities with even more gold.”

His words were greeted with cheers of anticipation.

Garth looked back over at Hammen and grinned.

“Is it taken care of?”

“I can’t promise, but you sure did pay enough.”

“Fine.”

“The drawings have started,” Hammen announced, and he pointed across the arena field to where a single monk was now reaching into a golden urn.

“It’s no longer by Houses,” Hammen said.

“You could be matched up against your own from now on.”

As he spoke Naru looked over at Garth and grinned.

“Maybe we fight now and I take all your spells.”

“Maybe.”

“One-eye!” The cry rose from the mob. Garth looked up to see that he was being pitted against an Ingkaran fighter.

“Who is he?” Garth asked.

“Ulin. Tough, maybe an eighth-rank by now. He’s incredibly fast gathering his mana in. I’d suggest going for him physically; otherwise, you might have a tough time of it right from the start.”

Garth stood up and looked over at Naru.

“Not this round.”

“Don’t lose, One-eye. I still wish to fight you.”

Naru’s match appeared on the board and the giant stood up, laughing and stretching.

Together they went out onto the field, the mob coming to its feet and applauding two of its favorite champions. Garth turned and looked back up into the stands. Some of the spectators were now sporting eye patches, which were being hawked by souvenir salesmen, and he could only shake his head over this new style that had taken the fancy of the crowd.

Naru thumped Garth on the back so that Garth nearly lost his footing as the giant turned to go to his own circle.

The trumpet sounded again as Garth reached his circle and stepped into the neutral box. Across the fifty-fathom width his opponent stood ready, arms already extended.

Zarel stood up.

“By my decision there shall be a new rule for fights, starting with the fourth elimination.”

The audience fell silent in anticipation.

“If either of the two fighters declares it to be a death match, then so it shall be. Payment on all bets of a death match shall not be charged my ten percent fee. All winnings are thus yours to keep. No spell of healing may be used on the fallen.”

There was a moment of stunned silence and an instant later the arena erupted in wild cheering.

“The mob,” Hammen sniffed angrily. “They’re back in his pocket.”

“Except for the private bookmakers. He just put them out of business unless they can offer better odds.”

“Also, my friends. Any fighter who declares a death match and makes his kill shall receive from my hands, from my personal hoard, a spell which he may draw out of my personal satchel, or five hundred pieces of gold.”

From the arena floor many of the fighters raised their clenched fists in gleeful salute.

“He’s spending a fortune to buy them back,” Hammen said.

“And the House Masters will lose all their best people,” Garth said quietly. “Masterful.”

Garth looked back toward where Kirlen sat and could sense her rage. If the House Masters dared to try and raise a protest over the slaughter, the mob would riot, but this time against them. Zarel had outmaneuvered them for the moment and in the process had weakened them as well.

The circle master for Garth’s fight came to Garth’s side and extended her hand. In it were a white chip and a black.

“Choose death or a single spell match,” she said coldly.

“What about the public declaration?” Hammen asked.

“Tell your servant to shut up or I’ll have his tongue ripped out,” the woman snapped.

Garth looked at her coldly and then took the white chip.

“A spell match.”

She looked at him with open sarcasm and, turning, started across the circle to Garth’s opponent.

“Brilliant,” Hammen snarled. “Most fighters will assume the other’s going for a death match anyhow so they’ll choose it as well in hopes of winning the Grand Master’s prize. It’s going to be a slaughter pit out here.”

The woman stood before Ulin, extending her hands and Ulin took one of the proffered chips, signifying his choice of a death or single spell match. She went back across the circle and, pulling out a red flag, raised it. Red flags appeared all across the arena floor and the crowd went wild with bloodlust.

“Fight!”

Garth leaped into the arena, moving fast, charging straight at his opponent. Ulin stood with arms extended, rushing to draw in his mana and create the first spell. Garth continued his charge, drawing out his dagger. Ulin looked up at him and started to point even as Garth slammed into him, striking Ulin on the side of the head with the dagger’s hilt. Ulin crumpled up, falling over backward.

Ulin, howling with rage, came up with his own dagger and lunged in low at Garth. Garth jumped aside.

“Just lie down, damn it, and act like I knocked you out!” Garth snapped.

Ulin, however, driven by a wild rage, came at him again, feinting low and then going for a throat slash while all the time turning to work around toward Garth’s blind side.

Ulin’s hand scraped across the arena floor and he tossed a handful of sand into Garth’s face, blinding him. Garth staggered backward, the screams of the mob rising to such a hysterical pitch that he could not hear where his opponent might be approaching from.

Garth fell backward, as if guided by instinct, and felt Ulin go over him. Rolling on his shoulders, Garth somersaulted over, landing on his feet, trying to wipe the sand from his eye.

Ulin pressed in again, not even giving Garth time to raise a circle of protection. Garth rolled again, Ulin’s blade slicing his shoulder open, and the sight of the blood caused the cheering to become even louder.

Barely able to see, Garth sensed another blow coming in hard and he raised his left arm to ward of the blow. The dagger sliced his wrist open, the icy pain of the hit stunning him.

Ulin pulled back and then dived in again. Garth ducked under the blow, coming in low and sweeping out with his legs. He caught Ulin just below the left knee and the fighter went over. Recovering, Ulin leaped upon Garth, struggling to pin him to the ground. The two rolled in the dust and Ulin moved to drive his dagger into Garth’s eye. Garth jerked his head aside as the blow came down, the dagger slicing open his cheek.

Howling with delight, Ulin yanked his dagger free from the sand and raised it for a killing blow.

Just as the blow started to descend Garth managed to wrench his right hand free from Ulin’s grasp and drove the blade upward. The dagger slipped in just below Ulin’s chin, piercing through the roof of his mouth and up into his brain.

Ulin’s downward strike faltered, going wide. Garth let go of his own blade as Ulin, with a near-supernatural strength, somehow staggered back to his feet, Garth’s dagger driven up to the hilt into the bottom of his jaw.

A gasp of amazement went up from the mob at the sight of the man staggering about and then, ever so slowly, his legs crumpled and he collapsed to the ground. Garth, panting for breath, came up on his knees, the screaming of the mob thundering around him, deafening him so that he wanted to cover his ears and shut the sound out.

He felt hands grasping him around his shoulder.

“Heal yourself, heal yourself, you’re bleeding to death!”

Wide-eyed, Garth looked over at Hammen and then back at Ulin.

“You don’t have time for him, damn it, heal yourself now!”

Garth, gasping for breath, nodded and concentrated upon his mana. The power came slowly as he felt himself weakening. At last the power was there and Garth slowly extended his hands. The blood pouring out of his wrist, arm, and face stilled, the skin drawing back over upon itself even as he felt his strength return.

Yet still the thunder washed over him and, squinting from the glare of the hot afternoon sun, which reflected off the packed sand of the arena, he stood up, gasping for breath.

“Why didn’t you just stab him with your first blow?”

“I thought I could knock him out.”

“Cut the chivalry. This is death match and you better fight it that way,” Hammen snapped.

Garth looked around the arena where half a dozen fights were still going on. In a circle at the south end of the arena a great spider was scampering around, holding a fighter aloft, the man writhing in agony, the mob in that section jumping up and down in their seats with wild abandon. On the east side two small armies of undead and skeletons were busy slashing at each other, while in the ring to the north of Garth a fighter was strutting about, holding up the head of his slain foe.

Garth walked over to Ulin’s body and looked down.

“Damn you,” Garth sighed and, reaching down, pulled out his dagger, wiped it on the sand, and then cut the man’s satchel off, tossing a mana bundle to the referee. The crowd broke into wild applause.

Garth turned to walk back to Brown’s stands.

“Too bad you didn’t declare it a death match, One-eye,” the referee taunted. “You could have gotten a prize.”

“I don’t need any more spells and the hell with the blood money,” Garth snapped in reply.

Still gasping for breath, Garth slowly walked across the arena floor, ignoring the wild howling of the mob, which stood to give him an ovation. Stepping under the awning, he went over to the food and wine, pouring himself a drink, while out in the arena the last fights were played out.

“What happened to Varena?” Garth asked, turning to look back out on the field.

Hammen pointed up to the tote board.

“She won.”

Garth nodded, saying nothing.

Naru came back in, covered in blood and holding the satchel of a Fentesk fighter.

“Not this much slaughter in years,” Naru announced gleefully. “Many good spells.”

He shouldered up beside Garth and, taking up a decanter of wine, drained it off with loud, thirsty gulps followed by a rolling, self-satisfied belch.

“Ah, now better. Perhaps we fight, I take your satchel now.”

Garth looked up at Naru.

“You know, it’s hard to admit, but I’ve almost come to like you.”

Naru chuckled, his voice edged with sadness.

“Me almost like you. Too bad.”

“Fighter, make not friend of fighter.”

Garth turned to see Kirlen standing behind him.

“This slaughter is because of you. You realize that, don’t you? All the Houses will lose their best today and tomorrow.”

“So stop him.”

“We can’t.” Kirlen waved toward the mob, which was on its feet, howling with bloodlust as two fighters, their spells expended, staggered about the fighting circle, slashing at each other with daggers.

“He’s killing more fighters out there today than we’d lose in a half dozen Festivals, just so he can get at you and win the mob back.”

Garth sipped at his wine.

“And all of you will be the weaker for it. Like I said, the four of you should stop him.”

Kirlen shook her head, saying nothing.

“Let me guess. He paid all of you off, didn’t he? The potential loss of contracts made good over the next couple of years.”

“The bastard,” she said softly, her voice barely audible above the screams.

“And of course you took it.”

“The others did too.”

“But of course,” Garth replied, his voice filled with contempt. “So why don’t you try and kill me now and get the rest of the bribe?”

“In due time, in due time.”

Garth, shaking his head, returned to his seat.

An explosion of sound swept over the arena as the last fight ended with a mutual kill, the two fighters stabbing each other, and neither one with a single heal spell left. They writhed about for what seemed like an eternity and then both were still. The spectators screamed hysterically, jumping up and down over the spectacular finish to the fourth round. Even though any who bet upon it had lost their money, still they cheered over an ending that would be argued about in the taverns and on street corners for years to come.

“They’re certainly getting their money’s worth today,” Hammen said coldly, before downing a beaker of wine.

The urn containing the names of the survivors was now brought out again and the monk started to draw out the new fighting pairs. The first names started to go up and the entire arena came to its feet.

“You’re fighting Naru,” Hammen whispered.

“Damn.”

Garth slowly stood up and looked over at the giant, who stood gaping at the board until his servant finally told him what the symbols meant. Naru turned and looked back at Garth and, with a huge beefy hand, motioned for Garth to walk out with him. As Naru started out from under the awning and into the bright light of the arena Kirlen hobbled up to his side, said something, and then turned her back as Garth walked by.

Garth came up to Naru’s side.

“This will be to the death, One-eye.”

“Too bad. Like I said, I was getting to like you, even though you are as dumb as an ox.”

Naru threw his head back and laughed.

“All think that funny. How come Naru so dumb and yet control mana so well? Don’t know.”

“A freak of nature,” Hammen sniffed.

“I like you too,” Naru said, looking down at Hammen. “You be my servant after One-eye dead.”

“Not likely.”

“How much did Kirlen offer you?” Garth asked.

“Choice of her spells I kill you.”

“Did you ever think why she wants me dead?”

“You cause trouble.”

Naru looked back down at Garth and shook his head.

“Somehow this not seem right. Naru like good fighting, but too many friends die today. Too many. Naru have no one left to play with when this done.”

As they reached their circle Garth looked around and saw Varena walking slowly toward her circle, a Purple fighter moving to take the other side.

“Who is that against her?” Garth asked.

“It’s not good. That’s Jimak’s favorite. The way the fixing is going on, I wouldn’t be surprised if he loaned some of his own spells. I hope she got the same offer from her Master.”

“Damn fool wouldn’t take it,” Garth said. “Too much honor.”

“Don’t worry about her now,” Hammen replied. “Remember, you caught that big lummox by surprise last time. He won’t let it happen again. Don’t let him get close to you. If it turns to hand-to-hand he’ll rip you apart and pick his teeth with your ribs. How are you feeling?”

“Still a little light-headed from the last fight.”

“Just great,” Hammen sighed.

The final trumpet sounded and the referee came over to Garth, showing him the two tokens. Again Garth took the white. The referee went over to Naru and a moment later she returned to her box and sent up a red flag, to the cheering of the mob.

“Good luck, Master.”

“You never wished me luck before.”

“Well, you never needed it before.”

“Thanks for the confidence.”

“It’s not a question of confidence,” Hammen replied. “It’s a question of being a realist.”

“Fight!”

Garth stepped into the circle and, concentrating his will, he immediately started to draw upon his mana. He delayed launching an attack, deciding instead to hold back, building up his strength as much as possible. Naru finally made the first move, sending a mammoth forward and Garth finally replied by again creating a wall of trees, fronted with an impenetrable growth of brambles against which the mammoth raged and trumpeted, especially when the brambles started to pierce the mammoth’s feet. Garth was surprised when Naru, using mana he had not suspected the giant would employ, sent wolves into the attack. They slipped through the trees and Garth, in turn, created wolves to fight and block them. An explosion from another circle erupted, nearly knocking Garth over and he spared a quick glance back to see Varena and her opponent engaged in desperate struggle, the circle engulfed in flames.

Garth turned back to his own fight and was startled when he could not see Naru. The giant seemed to have disappeared!

There was a crashing of trees and to Garth’s left, at the edge of the circle, the giant came crashing through, the trees around him withering and dying. Garth conjured one of the trees to life. Naru, laughing, turned on it, fighting it hand to hand, tearing limbs off the tree and tossing them aside so that the tree-creature simply fell over and collapsed.

Now came wave after wave of attack against Garth, orcs and goblins, enraged dwarfs swinging their battle-axes, and nameless creatures out of the darkness.

Garth countered by striking at Naru’s mana, weakening the lands that supported his magic, setting up circles of protection for when Naru’s minions came too close, counterattacking with winged creatures and Llanowar Elves that gleefully struck at the dwarfs, crushing them down.

His mana weakened, Naru was forced to withdraw to his own half of the circle, laying out a wall of fire. The two stood gasping for breath, Naru shaking his head and laughing, the laughter coming like the panting of a bull.

“You good fellow. Too bad must die now.”

Naru waved his hands and a new onslaught began. Creatures in the air, on the sand, and rising up from underneath, coming one after the other. Garth gave ground slowly and the mob, wild with hysteria, sensing that the fight was coming to a climax, roared with delight.

Garth erected more trees, stepping back slowly, warding off the attacks that broke through but each time it seemed as if he had less power than before. Naru again reached the edge of the forest and waved his hand. Some of the trees ignited in flame and Garth instantly replaced them. Again there was the burst of fire and again they were replaced.

Naru stood back for a second, shaking his head with frustration. Garth stood at the far side of his circle and then, ever so slowly, he fell down on his knees as if his final power had been expended.

Naru, with a wild cry, raced into the trees, which towered up over him, the crowd roaring insanely, expecting him to crash through and deliver the coup with his bare hands.

Garth instantly came to his feet and pointed straight at the forest. Above the roaring of the crowd another sound now washed over the stadium, the miniature forest shaking and trembling. A loud, howling roar exploded and from out of the forest a green head appeared, its fangs glinting in the hot, late-afternoon sun. The head of the Craw Wurm weaved back and forth, like a serpent’s, looking for its prey. The creature arced over, its long sinuous body weaving up out of the forest and then crashing back down.

A loud, bellowing roar of pain thundered out of the woods. Trees swayed back and forth, crashing over. For a brief instant a stone giant started to form at the edge of the forest. Garth waved his hands and the Craw Wurm's tail lashed out, toppling the giant. Continuing to control the Wurm, Garth now redirected its attack at Naru.

More trees toppled and then, from out of the forest, the Craw Wurm emerged. Wrapped in its scaly coils, Naru struggled to get free, bellowing with pain. The Craw Wurm threw another coil around the giant’s kicking legs, crushing him under its weight.

The mob, driven to an ecstasy of excitement, howled insanely. Naru continued to fight, managing to bring forth another burst of flame from above. Garth countered by blocking the fire, and then increased the Craw Wurm’s strength. The Wurm threw another coil over Naru, pinning his arms and squeezing.

The giant's face turned dark purple. A loud scream of anguish burst from him as if the cry had been crushed out of his body. Naru’s head lolled back in unconsciousness.

The mob, screaming with insane frenzy, cheered wildly, even though it was one of their old favorites who had just been defeated.

The Craw Wurm raised its head, preparing to bite down and devour its meal.

The screaming of the mob thundered.

Garth One-eye raised his hand.

The Craw Wurm seemed to freeze and then, in a puff of smoke, it disappeared.

Naru, still unconscious, tumbled to the ground and was still. Garth walked over to the giant’s side and pulled his dagger out.

A hush settled over the mob, confused by this action and then realization set in that Garth meant to deliver the death blow with his own hand. Some cheering broke out but many fell silent. This was no longer killing in the heat of combat and there was an uneasy stirring.

Garth held his dagger aloft and then with a dramatic flourish threw the blade out of the circle. A stunned gasp swept the arena.

“He was a worthy foe and my friend!” Garth shouted, the mob surprised that a mere fighter held the rare spell of far speaking. “I will not murder him for the pleasure of a Grand Master who has perverted the rules of the arena.”

“Kill him. It is a blood challenge.”

Garth turned and looked back at Zarel.

“I won the match, you cannot deny me that. But I will not commit murder for you.”

Zarel, screaming with rage, started to point at Garth.

“Will you violate that rule as well?” Garth taunted.

“Let them live!”

It was a lone voice, that of a woman, and Garth looked across the arena to see someone standing, wearing the dark leather armor of a Benalish warrior. Her cry was instantly picked up by the mob.

“Let them live, let them live!”

Garth started to create a shield of protection while all the time staring at Zarel, waiting. Furious with rage, Zarel looked back out at the mob, which was on its feet, some of them already spilling over the wall, ready to storm onto the arena floor. Zarel, his features white with fury, sat back down.

Turning his back on Zarel, Garth reached down and touched Naru on the forehead. Naru stirred and opened his eyes.

“Funny. Is this afterworld?”

Garth smiled and shook his head. Extending his hand, he was nearly pulled over as Naru weakly got to his feet.

“You mean I lose and you still alive.”

“Something like that.”

“I am disgraced, One-eye.”

“I called it a spell match so, damn it, give me a spell and we’re even.”

Naru fumbled weakly in his pouch. He hesitated for a moment and then pulled the amulet out.

“Juggernaut, most powerful I have,” Naru said evenly.

Garth took the amulet, and then shook Naru’s hand, the exchange causing the mob to erupt into a wild frenzy.

The two walked back to their corner, Naru resting his hand on Garth’s shoulder for support.

Kirlen, leaning on her staff, ignored Naru as they came into the shade, the giant staggering over to the table of food, picking up a heavy amphora of wine, and inverting it over his open mouth, the wine cascading down his pale, drawn face like a river.

“Your sentimentality won you no friends here,” Kirlen said.

“I brought back your best fighter alive.”

“And you.”

Garth smiled and said nothing.

A loud cheer went up and Garth looked over his shoulder and felt a momentary tightening in his chest. Varena was down on the ground. But her opponent was down as well and ever so slowly Varena came to her feet and held her fist up in triumph.

Garth turned back to face Kirlen.

She smiled coldly and turned away.

Garth went back to his seat. The arena thundered with noise in celebration of the end of the fifth round of eliminations.

“It’s time for the winners to get their wreaths,” Hammen announced, coming to Garth’s side.

“Then I think it’s time for me to go.”

“I think he has something planned for you.”

Garth smiled.

“Let’s see how the timing works.”

“Maybe you should just skip out now and be done with it.”

Garth laughed and strode out onto the field. Greeted by a loud ovation, he walked slowly toward Zarel’s throne. From out of the tunnels the dwarf catapult teams emerged and the roar of the mob resounded even louder. Watching honors for favorite winners was one thing, but the chance for free gold was far more important.

“He plans to divert the mob with bribes while you’re taken,” Hammen said.

“It will be an interesting surprise. Let’s just hope it gets started quickly enough,” Garth replied.

As he approached the throne the other surviving fighters lined up beside him. He looked over at Varena, her features pale and haggard, and nodded a greeting. A brief smile flashed for a second and then she turned away. Garth looked at the other fighters, who stared at him coldly. The new rules meant that all of them were now gazing at men and women who would either be their victims or killers come tomorrow.

Zarel stood up and floated down from the throne to alight on the sand of the arena floor. Four of his fighters came forward bearing a golden tray, upon which rested the laurels given to those who had reached the final day of eliminations. Garth could not help but notice, though, that a solid phalanx of warriors was pouring out of the access tunnels, following by nearly all the Grand Master’s fighters. They moved out onto the arena floor in order to surround the golden circle.

“All of you shall be my guests at the palace tonight,” Zarel announced calmly.

“I’ve already been there once. I think I shall decline,” Garth replied calmly.

Zarel turned to face Garth. In the background was the rattle of dozens of crossbows being raised.

In the distance the mob was still howling with delight, but not for what they assumed was a simple boring ceremony to end the day’s fun. Nearly two score of wagon-carried catapults were now out, their dwarf crews loading up the first pots. The weapons fired, the mob howling with joy as the clay pots arced up into the audience.

“If you fight, I wonder if they would even notice,” Zarel said. “They’re getting stuffed on gold. I daresay as well that some of your opponents here would be more than happy to have you out of the way. In fact, if you were gone, we could dispense with the blood sport for tomorrow and return to the more traditional form.”

Garth looked sidelong at his potential rivals. He saw only Varena giving him a nod of support. Garth stretched and simply smiled.

The first of the clay pots crashed down into the audience and the mob surged to where the golden treasures would land.

The dwarf crew were hurriedly reloading, firing again and yet again. But the tone of the mob was already changing. The wild exuberant shouts were replaced within seconds by mad cries of panic and pain.

Zarel hesitated and looked up from Garth. The pots continued to rain down on the audience… breaking open to disgorge stinging scorpions, hornets enraged by their disturbing trips, and hissing poisonous vipers.

For several seconds all seemed to be frozen, Zarel looking at the mob, not understanding, the guards surrounding Garth with weapons raised, and the angry howling of the mob growing ever louder.

More pots rained down, bursting open, the terrified spectators writhing about, screaming in panic and rage, the vipers coiling around whoever was nearest, swarms of hornets stinging whatever flesh they came in contact with.

In the section of the stand closest to Zarel’s throne a Benalish woman leaped up onto the containing wall of the arena.

“Zarel! Zarel is killing us! Kill him!”

With drawn sword she leaped down from the wall. Like a damn bursting open, the mob started to flood down the stadium rows, gaining the wall and piling over it, the flood spreading out across the entire length of the arena.

The dwarf crews, still not comprehending what they were doing, continued to fire the pots into the audience. As the mob swirled around them they threw the rest out of their wagons, thinking the crowd was simply after loot. Their actions infuriated the mob even more and the wagons were swarmed under.

The warriors surrounding Zarel turned to face outward and stem the mad onrush. Panicked, they lowered their weapons and fired. Zarel turned back to face Garth, at last realizing what had happened and knowing that somehow One-eye was behind it.

He was greeted by a green cloud of smoke.

Ducking low, Garth darted around the throne, followed by Hammen, and was almost instantly lost in the crush of warriors struggling to form ranks and face the enraged mob that, by the hundreds of thousands, was now storming out onto the arena floor.

“Behind you!”

Garth turned even as Varena dropped a warrior who was about to bring his sword down on Garth’s back. Garth leaped aside as the flame-scorched body tumbled over. The three pushed their way through the warriors, who were staggering backward as the onrushing wall of the mob slammed into them.

Garth raised his hands and the warriors to either side recoiled from him, a dark terror gripping their hearts. He pushed his way through the ranks, using terror to clear a path, Varena by his side. They broke through into the struggling mob and at the sight of him the mob parted, cheering wildly, and then pushed on again, shouting with rage.

Garth gained the edge of the arena and climbed over the wall. The stands were still half-full, except for the wide circles of empty spaces now controlled by the creatures that had burst out of the pots. Garth ascended the steps, reaching the top of the arena.

The betting stands were in shambles, the mob looting them. Beneath each stand was a chute down which was dropped the money taken in betting to arrive in carts far underground by which, through hidden tunnels, the winnings would be taken back to the palace. Some of the mob were tearing at the holes with their bare hands, shouting curses down the holes. Still others vented their rage on the booths, tearing them apart board by board.

The arena floor was chaos. A dark knot of warriors held in the center. The Master’s fighters were now in the fray, casting out walls of fire to drive the mob back.

“I’m going back to my House,” Varena said.

Garth turned and looked at her, taking her by the arm.

“Maybe you should leave.”

She pulled her arm free.

“I’ve studied all my life for the chance to be the servant of the Walker. I’ll not stop now.”

Hammen sniffed and said nothing.

“That means we’ll have to fight tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“And if it comes to killing, then what? You know that bastard will require it tomorrow.”

She looked at him, saying nothing.

“Leave, Varena, for the sake of the Eternal, leave.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said quietly and, turning, she disappeared into the swirling mob.

“Same advice I’ve been giving to you,” Hammen said.

“And I’m just as pigheaded. Now come on, we’ve got work to do.”