Arena

CHAPTER 13

THE DOOR INTO THE ATTIC SWUNG OPEN AND Garth turned expectantly.

“Were you able to find her?”

Hammen shook his head.

“Damn.”

“Some people say she was killed at the start of the riot, others that the Grand Master’s warriors took her prisoner. There’s not a word of that Benalish woman at the moment.”

Garth said nothing, turning back to peek through the narrow window. Out in the Plaza all was finally still. Carts moved back and forth through the shadows, hooded monks picking up the hundreds of dead who littered the area around the palace. Fires still flickered across the city and in the distance could be heard the roar of the mobs. From out of the main street that led down to the harbor, a solid column of warriors was marching, their shields and spears glinting in the glowing light. Down below even the normal flow of business had quieted down, something for which Garth was extremely grateful.

“Zarel’s called in troops from Tantium. The ships are arriving even now. He’s stripping the countryside bare,” Hammen announced. “They say maybe a thousand or more people and several hundred warriors were killed down in the arena. The mob was still holding it when I left but I guess the troops are finally clearing it.”

Garth nodded.

“And the package I hid outside the city gate?”

Hammen held up the oilskin bundle and dropped it on the floor.

Garth nodded his thanks and, bending down, picked it up as if it was a treasured and fragile object.

“Master?”

Garth looked back at Hammen.

“I think I’m quitting your service.”

“Why?”

Hammen shook his head.

“Go on, out with it.”

“In the beginning it was different. I thought you were out on a lark, have a little fun, tweak the nose of Zarel, and make a profit. Though you’ve never said anything, I always suspected who you were as well.”

“But that’s changed, hasn’t it.”

Hammen nodded sadly.

“I passed along the front of the harbor tonight. They’re taking the carts down and dumping the dead in, letting the tide take them out. The sharks and empreys are having a feast; the water’s churning with the feeding.”

He fell silent for a moment.

“Don’t you have any remorse, any feelings over this?”

Garth turned away from Hammen to look back out the window as a company of warriors raced past and then disappeared into the night.

“Yes.”

“Then why? Thousands have died.”

“You have sympathy with the mob, is that it?”

“I was the mob,” Hammen replied.

“And what were you then? If you had not been with me, you would have been up in the stands howling for blood, trembling with ecstasy as a fighter hacked the guts out of an opponent. That was your life, wasn’t it? What are the permutations of tomorrow’s bet, can I get the right combination and win a thousand over the blood of someone else?”

Hammen lowered his head.

“I had to survive.”

“You call that surviving. That bastard in the palace has perverted everything the mana was intended for. He’s turned it into sport and money contracts and the Walker allowed it. That’s all the mob now lives for.”

“And Garth the liberator has come to change that? What right do you have anyhow? You’ve killed more in the last four days than Zarel does in a year. Are you any better than him now? Or is this all only for your own revenge?”

Garth shook his head and looked away.

“Damn you, don’t look away from me!” Hammen snapped.

Startled, Garth looked back at the old man.

“Don’t you feel anything about this?”

“I’m sick to death of it,” Garth said quietly. “But there’s no other way. I tried to think of another path but I couldn’t find it. Yes, I want to bring the bastard down, bring him down and all the corruption he has created. He has given the people of this realm an opiate, the circuses, the Festival, and corrupted the guilds of fighters and everything around them. They’ve all been seduced by it and this is the only way I know to bring an end to it, to lance the corruption and let the pus run out of it until it’s healed. It was better than hiding in the gutter like you.”

Hammen stood up and angrily kicked over his chair.

“You have no idea how I survived. What it took. And who are you to judge? Who are you to come sauntering in here and calmly decide to destroy it all? Because of you I lost four of my closest friends and have watched my city descend into chaos. At least before you there was order and the mob was happy.”

Garth reached down into his satchel, pulled out a small silken bundle and tossed it to Hammen. The old man caught it, and held it. Garth looked closely at him and smiled.

“You can control the mana, can’t you? I can sense that.”

Hammen lowered his head and let the bundle drop.

“You were once Hadin gar Kan, master fighter of the House of Oor-tael, weren’t you?”

Hammen started to shake and he lowered his head.

“Damn you,” Garth snarled. “You were the master fighter of Oor-tael, weren’t you!”

Hammen, sighing, picked up the chair and sat down heavily.

“And this is what you’ve become. A pickpocket, a street thief, a comic actor. A nothing.”

“Who are you to judge me now?” Hammen whispered. “I escaped the Night of Fire. I hid for weeks in the sewers and when I came out there was nothing left. I could never touch the mana again. I had betrayed my Master by fleeing. I would be tortured to death if found, and picking up my satchel again was the surest way to be found. So I threw it into the sea.”

Hammen was racked by a shuddering sob.

“Just leave me alone. I had almost forgotten after all these years. Why did you have to come and drag up the moldering corpses of the past? The House was dead, the Master dead, and all my comrades dead. There was nothing left. Are you saying I should have charged the palace alone and killed the bastard?”

Hammen laughed sadly through his tears.

“For what? It was finished and he had won.”

Hammen looked up at Garth, tears streaming down his gray cheeks.

“And who are you, Garth One-eye? I suspect, but who are you?”

“A memory, nothing more. Just a memory,” Garth said quietly. “One that refused to die.”

“Go away then. I don’t need any memories or nightmares to awaken me. Tomorrow the Walker comes and nothing can stand before him. Zarel is just a puppet, a paper-thin mask behind which the true evil lurks. He will dust you away like chaff on the wind. The folly is over. Now go away.”

“I think I’ll stay and see what happens,” Garth replied softly.

Hammen stood up wearily.

“I’m leaving. I’ll have no more to do with this. You’ll be dead tomorrow, Garth, and all the killing of the last days will be nothing but waste. I want no more of it. No more.”

Hammen went to the door and opened it.

“Hadin.”

The old man looked back.

“Hadin died twenty years ago.”

“Hammen.”

Hammen turned with a swiftness that caught Garth off guard. The blow of his staff caught Garth across the temple, knocking him over and sending him into oblivion.

Hammen stood over Garth, looking down sadly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a length of cord and tied Garth’s hands behind his back, binding him tightly. Then he reached into Garth’s satchel, feeling the power of the mana.

Mere touching it sent a shiver down his spine, conjuring memories the way smelling the scent of a flower might rekindle a long-lost dream of first love. He took the satchel from Garth and stood upright. All the memories washed over him, filling him with a fierce joy mingled with infinite sadness for all that was done and all that was gone forever.

Again he was young and filled with strength and was the first of fighters for the House of Oor-tael. Again all was before him and the power of the memories forced tears to his eyes.

He looked down at the body stretched out on the floor before him and he felt a sharp pang in his heart, the clear sight of the mana showing all, so much that he had known but could not quite believe.

He tore his gaze away from Garth and, drawing on the mana, found the spell he desired. He placed it on Garth, the power of it pinning him to the floor so that even after he awoke he would be frozen in place for hours until the spell finally broke down.

He started for the door and then turned back, kneeling down by Garth’s side.

“Galin.”

The name was spoken as a whisper. The old man reached out with a loving hand and pushed the hair back from Garth’s forehead, the way he had done so many years before when Galin was but a boy, the son of the House Master of Oor-tael, who would come to his father’s favorite fighter and sit on his knee for a tale of adventure.

“The Eternal keep you, boy,” Hammen whispered.

Standing up, he shouldered the satchel and walked out of the room. The door slipped shut behind him.

“It’s almost dawn.”

Zarel wearily looked up and nodded his head.

“And?”

Uriah looked around nervously.

“Go on.”

“He deserted Bolk during the rioting. He has not reported to any of the other Houses.”

“Will you stake your life on that report?”

Uriah remained silent.

“Damn you, will you stake your life on that?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I want it made clear to the House Masters. If One-eye fights today in their uniform, I will turn my fighters loose on them, right there in the arena. I beat the mob today. They won’t dare to intervene. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Uriah.”

“Yes, Master?”

“The pots, the clay pots. How?”

Uriah felt his blood run to ice.

“Someone added them into the shipment. The creatures were conjured, their power maintained by a small bundle of mana in each of the pots.”

“And how did they get in?”

“I don’t know, Master.”

Zarel fixed Uriah with his gaze and a lash of probing washed over him. Uriah stood still, struggling to control his thoughts.

“You’re afraid, Uriah.”

“I’m always afraid before you, sire.”

“I feel you’re concealing something from me, some knowledge, something that you know and I don’t.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Uriah whispered.

Zarel finally nodded and laughed with a hoarse whisper.

“No. You’re too much of a coward to try and deceive me.”

Zarel turned and looked away, satisfied that in his terror the dwarf was thus still loyal to him.

“You understand what’s to be done. Once the Walker leaves at sundown we attack the House of Bolk and kill Kirlen. I want Kirlen’s head placed in my lap before the night is over. Bolk is to be destroyed for their insolence.”

“The Walker?”

“He’ll be gone and it will be another year before his return. What can he do then?”

Uriah said nothing in reply.

I will also have that hag’s books and her mana, Zarel thought. Perhaps that will be enough to do it. If not, then the other Houses will go as well, their mana adding to the strength needed to pierce the veil. It has to be now. My support is slipping thanks to this damned One-eye. It has to be now.

“And the mob? You’ll have a quarter of the city, all the Brown supporters, looking for murder.”

“Let them try,” Zarel snapped. “Fentesk’s followers have always hated Bolk more than the others. Make sure today that Fentesk’s stands are showered with gifts. Tonight I want them satiated with blood and wine. They’ll back me.”

“And myself?”

“As I promised. You will be the new Master of Bolk.”

Uriah smiled.

“The Walker is not to know of what happened here this week. If Kirlen tries to approach him, I want her dead. We can blame the troubles on her.”

“And what if One-eye appears?”

Zarel hesitated. Perhaps it might just be as he surmised, that this One-eye was out for bigger game, that he had something planned against the Walker. Perhaps, just perhaps it might work to my advantage. But then again, he might be out after me.

“I think he’s gone,” Zarel said quietly. “He must be gone; there’s no place left for him now.”

And Uriah could sense that his master’s words were meant as much to reassure himself as they were meant to try and convince someone else.

Uriah withdrew and finally let his thoughts relax. The memory of what he had seen in the arena still haunted him. In the other fights One-eye had been nothing but a distant figure. But he had come to stand before the throne and in that moment all was made so clear. He was Galin. The boy who so long ago had ridden on his hunched-over back, laughing with childish squeals of delight and then enfolding him with childlike hugs and kisses.

But now he is a man, Uriah thought, a man who must be betrayed if I am to survive.

Groaning, Garth One-eye stirred. He tried to stretch but could not move. His arms were pinned and he tried to move his wrists. He could feel the cord that bound his wrists but there was more holding him.

“Damn him!”

Garth tried to turn, somehow to move out of the circle of the spell, but he remained pinned to the floor, as helpless as a swaddled infant.

The second bell of morning sounded as the sun broke over the horizon, rising dark and ruddy through the pall of smoke that hung over the city, its light shining in horizontally though the shutters of the garret.

“Help me this day,” he whispered. “Help me finally to set you to rest, both in my soul and in the lands you now walk. Help me now!”

He lay in silence for long minutes, concentrating, trying to break the spell through force of will. But it would not break. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes, and still he prayed, turning his thoughts outward, and then he sensed the presence.

The door cracked open and a dark form stood before him.

He exhaled nervously.

“Last night I somehow sensed you were looking for me,” she said softly. “I knew where you were hiding; I followed you from the arena last night. I had to come.”

He heard her footsteps and she knelt down by his side.

“Hammen’s doing?”

“Yes.” His voice came as a hoarse whisper, the power of the spell still holding him.

She pulled her dagger out and he could just barely see her waving it about in a ritual manner. She moved around him, waving the dagger, cutting the air above him, then waving it again. As if a great weight had been pulled back, he felt the spell shatter. Gasping, he sat up and she cut his bindings.

“You called for me, didn’t you?” she whispered.

Exhausted from the struggle, his head throbbing from the blow, he nodded.

“I saw Hammen leaving here with your satchel.”

“So why didn’t you come quicker? He’s been gone for hours.”

“I half agreed with him. But then I sensed your calling and”-she fell silent for a moment-“damn you, Garth, I couldn’t say no,” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Enough of that for now,” he whispered. “Where the hell did that bastard go?”

“Toward the arena.”

“The oilskin bundle in the corner, please bring it to me.”

She went across the room and brought it back to him.

He brushed off the dirt that had clung to it from the hole where he had hidden it before first coming into the city. Untying the hemp rope wrapped around the bundle, he slowly opened it up and spread out the contents. Bowing low before it, he struggled to fight back the tears that clouded his eye.

Recovering his composure at last, Garth stood up and slowly started to undress. He hesitated, looking down at her.

“You might not remember but I helped to dress you once before”-she paused-“along with Varena.”

“Could you help me one more time?” Garth asked quietly.

The procession weaved its way down the main boulevard that ran from the center of the city, out through the gate, and on to the arena. The crowds lining the street were sullen, barely raising a halfhearted cheer even when the remaining champions passed by.

Zarel looked around at the crowds. They wouldn’t dare to try anything, not today, not with the Walker arriving. The crowd stared at him in silence, barely stirring when the girls flanking his sedan chair tossed out coins.

The procession reached the gate and for a moment he had a view of the harbor below. The water was dark with bobbing bodies and splashes of pink where the giant empreys and sharks continued their feeding frenzy. There was so much to eat that the harbor would not be cleaned by the time the Walker arrived. It would have to be explained. An outbreak of plague would be sufficient.

The procession continued on to the arena, which was already packed to overflowing, the hills above the arena black with people for this, the final day of Festival and the arrival of the Great Lord.

The parade passed on into the access tunnel and a moment later emerged into the brilliant sunlight flooding the arena floor, the white sand reflecting the midmorning light with a glaring intensity. A thin cheer rose up from the crowd, more in anticipation of the events ahead than for the Grand Master.

“I wish all you bastards had but one neck,” Zarel growled, mumbling his favorite sentiment when he contemplated the crowd.

The procession circled the arena floor, this time staying back far enough from the arena wall so that no objects hurled from the stands could reach Zarel. There was a scattering of catcalls and a light shower of wine bottles and beer tankards, the Grand Master’s agents in the stands scrambling to chase down the culprits, the crowd stirring angrily. Finishing the circle, the mammoths were unhooked from Zarel’s throne and driven back through the access tunnel. An expectant hush settled over the mob.

Zarel waited as the four Houses moved to take their positions at the four cardinal points around the golden circle, while the seven remaining champions took their positions in a line directly behind Zarel. Zarel stepped to the edge of the golden circle set in the arena floor and the four Masters moved to their positions around him.

He looked at each in turn, Kirlen of Bolk, Jimak of Ingkara, Tulan of Kestha, and Varnel of Fentesk.

“What you have allowed to happen is unconscionable,” Zarel snapped angrily.

Kirlen cackled obscenely.

“Tell it to the Walker. Tell him how you can’t control anything. Tell him what an incompetent fool you truly are that one lone hanin can plunge your realm into chaos.”

“And where is he?”

Zarel fixed each of them in turn with his gaze and sensed that none now held the man.

“Your offerings of mana?”

The four stirred reluctantly and finally turned, looking back to the ranks of their fighters. From each of the four colors came two fighters bearing a strongbox. The four boxes were set down, the air around them shimmering, so powerful was the concentration of mana. The boxes were opened and the contents turned over, the bundles spilling out into the golden circle.

Zarel looked down at them and nodded.

“And yours?” Kirlen asked sarcastically.

Zarel laughed coldly and motioned for one of his fighters to bring forth an urn, which was inverted over the pile.

“One hundred more mana,” Zarel stated.

“A fraction of what you extort. I think you’re holding out for your attempt at being a Walker,” Kirlen hissed.

“How dare you!”

“I dare because it is the truth,” Kirlen said.

“And where did you hear this falsehood?”

Kirlen smiled.

“One-eye.” And as she said the words she looked to the other three House Masters, all of whom nodded in support.

“That is why you grow stronger and we grow weaker. We pay the tax but you steal even more and turn over only a fraction,” Jimak snarled.

“And you believe the word of a hanin?” Zarel asked coldly.

“Perhaps more than yours,” Tulan interjected. “When you became Grand Master and the House of Oor-tael was destroyed, what deal did you make with the Walker? Was it to bleed the mana out of our lands in exchange for your power? All these years have you been holding back?”

“Don’t you see who One-eye is?” Zarel snarled. “He’s not after me; he is after all of us.”

“The mask is off,” Varnel said calmly. “That is now evident.”

Zarel stared coldly at the four House Masters.

“Later, we will talk of this later.” He motioned for them to step away from the circle.

The four drew back slowly, defiantly, as Zarel stepped into the center of the golden circle. Waving his hands over the mana which had been offered, he drew the power into himself. For a brief instant he felt as if he could almost pierce the veil himself, so great was the concentration of power. But the spells, the hidden incantations he still did not know and the door remained closed. Through the shimmer of light he could see Kirlen looking at him hungrily.

Old crone, I’ll know after tomorrow, he thought with a cold smile.

The mob, which had been waiting in expectant silence, stirred, coming to its feet.

Zarel seemed to grow in stature, rising upward, a shimmering light swirling around him. The Grand Master raised his hands to the heavens, silently uttering the words that would drift through the planes, calling upon the Great Lord, the Walker, to come for the time of choosing and for the offering of the gift of power.

Long minutes passed and then at last there was a stirring, like the first faint breeze of morning drifting down from the high mountains. The pennants lining the stadium stirred, snapping lazily, dropping, twisting, rising again. There was a deathly hush, the air suddenly heavy, as if a storm were brewing far over the horizon. The sun seemed to grow pale in the morning sky, its light growing cold, dimming, the sky overhead darkening though there was no cloud above.

The darkness deepened. Then, overhead, it took form, a point of blackness in the zenith of the heavens, spreading out like a black stain upon clear, crystalline waters. The darkness spread across the heavens. An icy wind thundered down out of it, howling, shrieking, thundering with an unearthly roar.

The darkness twisted, turning in upon itself, a cyclone of inky black that pulled inward, flashes of light wreathing around it in a ghostly, unearthly, blue-green glow. The dark cloud raced down out of the heavens, drowning out the cries of fear. Excitement and terror sounded from half a million voices. The black cloud hovered above the arena, boiling, roiling, flashes of lightning wreathing it in fire.

The cloud continued to coil inward and as it did so it seemed to take form, a dark head peering downward, eyes of fire, beard of lightning, and brow of ghastly flame. The mob was now in an ecstasy of madness, screaming, pointing up at the darkness, mouths open, trembling hands pointing, a frenzy taking hold of them so that they roared with terror and a dark abandon.

The darkness swirled downward, touching the golden circle. Zarel, with head lowered, drew back and away. It was now a pillar of blackness, soaring a hundred fathoms in height, a circle of fire dancing around it, flashing and thundering. The head reared back, its mouth open. A cold sardonic laugh echoed like thunder against the hills. Eyes of fire gazed down hungrily at those who worshiped it and those who feared it and those who, with averted eyes, loathed it.

The pillar swirled down as if drawing in upon itself. There was a thunderclap roar and a blinding flash of light that dazzled the vision so that all turned away, covering their eyes, crying with pain.

In the center of the circle of gold stood the Planes Walker in human form, a tall, sinuous figure that seemed somehow to be not quite real, tall and wavery in his black robes. He appeared to be present, to be real, and yet not to be, as if he were nothing but a wisp of smoke that would disappear. He looked slowly around, a smile creasing his bloodless lips. At one instant it appeared to be almost a friendly smile, filled with warm amusement, and then in the same instant it was a smile of cunning, of power, of contempt for all who could never comprehend all that he truly was in his darkness and majesty.

He looked down at the pile of mana that rested by his feet and nodded his approval. The bundles would grant him access to the psychic power which controlled the land.

“The offering is good.” His voice seemed to be a whisper and yet, to the farthest ends of the stadium, all could hear it. At the sound of his voice, deep and rich with power, the mob broke into a wild hysterical roar, as if the terror had been washed away.

The Walker leaned back, a wild laughing cry of delight escaping him. For again he was in human form and the pleasure of it was upon him. The shadowy nature of his existence dropped away and he was now solid in flesh. At the sight of him, looking like a young golden god of power and fierce vitality, the mob went wild.

The Walker stepped clear of the circle and from out of the ranks of warriors came bearers carrying yet more urns, which they dumped over his shoulders, the gold cascading out. He laughed with delight as he picked up the coins, feeling them, his eyes afire. Jimak stared in silence, his breath coming heavy at the sight of the riches. The Walker flung his hands upward and the coins, as if caught on the wind, swirled out in a golden rain, fluttering down into the stadium, the mob cheering. More bearers came forward, bringing the finest of wines, and he drank hungrily, throwing the goblets, and Tulan licked his lips at the scent of the wine. And then from behind the ranks of warriors there came women in the sheerest of robes that were as translucent as the web of a spider. Some were tall and pale of skin with golden hair; others tawny-skinned with tresses of curly black; and still others exotics from distant lands that were but fabled realms. Varnel stood silent, trembling at the sight of them. They were of every shape and form, slender and boyish of body, full and voluptuous, tall and dusky, and he reached out to them eagerly, fondling, grasping, laughing, and the mob cheered lustily.

As he did so he looked over at Kirlen and the old woman was silent, her eyes filled with hatred. Laughing, he turned away.

“It is time for the games!” the Walker announced, and his voice was filled with bloodlust and the mob howled with delight.

The Walker extended his arms in salute, the heavy coils of muscles rippling, and he stretched with the pleasure of the sensation, pulling in the chosen woman of the moment with one hand, fondling her with open abandon while scooping up a goblet of wine with the other, forcing her to drink some, then holding the goblet aloft in salutation to the howling masses.

He ascended the throne, which Zarel now relinquished to him. He leaned back, looking up at the blue sky that spanned overhead and for a moment was silent, his features strange and distant. And then he stirred, his dark laughter drowning out the voice of the mob so that the stadium echoed with the thunderous peals.

Gaining the throne, he kissed the woman with a wild, passionate lust, groping at her like an animal in heat, tearing her robe off. Then, as quickly, he released her, pushing her aside, waving for yet more wine and food. He scooped up the delicacies and devoured them like one who had awakened from a fevered dream and now sought sustenance.

He then tossed aside the goblet, upended the tray of food set before him, and looked out across the arena.

“Let the first match be chosen!”

At the base of the throne Zarel motioned for the blind and deaf monk to make the first choice.

“Azema of Kestha versus Jolina of Ingkara.”

The mob cheered with bloodlust and swarmed toward the betting booths to place their wagers. The entire arena floor was now available for the final round of fights and minutes later, at the far end of the arena, Jolina stepped out, while at the north end Azema of Kestha stepped into the neutral box to prepare.

The Walker stood up, grinning, surveying the arena, waiting for the mob to finish its betting.

“How is this match today?” he asked, looking down at Zarel.

“In your honor, Great Lord, all matches today are to the death.”

The Walker stared at Zarel, probing inward.

“Why?” his voice whispered so that only Zarel could hear.

“I can explain later, my lord.”

“It will create bad blood in the Houses.”

“The bad blood is already there, my lord. It is time for a cleansing.”

“And the one you told me about?”

“Win or lose, my lord, he is yours. The Houses were getting too strong again; they needed to be leeched of some of their strength. This way they cannot stand against my power, or yours.”

“You had best be right, Zarel, or this is your last day as Grand Master.”

“I am right, my lord, and it is in service to you that I do this.”

The Walker nodded and looked up again.

“To the death then!”

Hammen, who was once known as Hadin gar Kan, slipped down through the rows of the arena, occasionally catching glimpses of the fight. His view was obscured by the jam-packed mob which was standing on the benches, leaping up and down in an ecstasy of abandon. Explosions thundered across the stadium, the two contestants below locked in violent conflict, the arena, across its three hundred fathoms of width, filled with fire, dueling creatures, demons, smoke, flying beasts, and unearthly clouds of darkness. In the open space of the fighting floor all powers could now be brought to bear, no longer constrained by the tight space of the circles used in the elimination matches of the previous days.

As the crowd pushed and shoved, swaying back and forth, Hammen found small openings and slipped through, moving ever closer to the arena floor. He moved stealthily, avoiding the gaze of warriors stationed in clusters throughout the arena, and watched for the agents of Zarel, who were positioned to take any who might make trouble this day. He moved like a shadow, something he could still do though it had been twenty long years since he had last touched mana with the intent of drawing upon it. And all the time the memory of what he had once been haunted him.

Why had Garth ever come into his life? Why did he have to conjure back all that was, a time when the House of Oor-tael still lived and stood for what the world of fighters hand once been? He felt now like a dream moving through a dark world of abandon, a dream that was crushed and at any moment would die forever.

It had died. He had been telling himself that for twenty years. It had died on the night the Walker had gathered the power no longer to be simply a mortal of this world, no longer to be simply a Grand Master, but instead to have the power of a demigod and walk between worlds and fight in unknown realms. All that stood in his path was the House of Oor-tael and the refusal of the House Master, Garth’s father, to relinquish part of the mana he controlled to make the circle of power complete. For without more of the colors of mana controlled by the House of Oor-tael, the circle could not be drawn.

And thus had the House of Oor-tael been stormed on the final night of Festival twenty years ago, the other Houses conspiring to throw down their rival and in the process grant the Walker his desire. And so he had moved beyond the world, leaving his lieutenant to rule in his stead, and to twist and pervert all that was.

The nightmare of the Night of Fire washed over Hammen, who had once been the master fighter of Oor-tael, for he had fled when the House was stormed. Fled because at that moment he believed there was nothing more to fight for.

I should have died then, he thought. I should have stood by my Master and his family and died. But I fled into the bowels of the earth to hide, to come out as Hammen the thief, the pickpocket, the master of a brotherhood of the low. I should have died.

I should have died.

He edged his way down to the wall, just as the fight on the arena floor reached its climax. Varena of Fentesk cast down the last protective barrier of her opponent from Kestha. The man crumpled. She hesitated, looking for a moment back at the throne.

“Finish him!”

The crowd picked up the thunderous words of the Walker.

“Finish him! Finish him!”

Varena raised her hand and the Gray fighter simply disappeared in a scarlet cloud.

She walked over to where the body had been and picked up her opponent’s satchel. With head lowered, she strode off the field, ignoring the ovation that greeted her victory.

“Thus ends the sixth round,” Zarel announced. “Igun of Ingkara winning the fourth match by default. Now begins the seventh round.”

Hammen pushed his way up to the stadium wall, stood upon it, and leaped down onto the sand. Several fighters moved toward him and he raised his hand, knocking them over.

“I stand as witness to One-eye, who has earned the right to combat!” Hammen shouted, drawing upon the mana which was now in a satchel resting on his right hip. His voice echoed across the arena and the mob, stunned by the intrusion, fell silent.

“He is hanin, without color,” Zarel screamed. “He cannot fight.”

The Walker stood up and looked down at Hammen.

“I am Hadin gar Kan, first fighting master of the House of Oor-tael, body servant of Garth One-eye, and I stand as witness to him.”

“Hadin.” The Walker’s voice was a dark whisper as if a memory was but half-formed.

Hammen walked out into the center of the arena.

“He won the right of combat.”

“So where is he?” the Walker whispered, his voice echoing across the arena.

“Gone.”

The Walker chuckled.

“And what do you want, beggar?”

“As his servant I can claim the right to fight in his stead. Those are the ancient rules which existed even before you first darkened this world.”

The Walker leaned back and laughed coldly.

“Fine. It will be fun to watch you die.”

But even as he spoke there was an eruption of cheering from the south side of the arena, starting at the top of the stands. For a moment the Walker thought it was for him and, smiling, he looked over his shoulder.

The cheering spread, even as a path opened up down the side of the stadium, the crowd surging, pushing back.

Garth One-eye reached the arena wall and leaped down onto the arena floor, followed by the woman of Benalia.

“One-eye!”

The cry was picked up and turned in an instant into a tidal wave of noise. Garth strode across the arena floor, coming up to stand in front of Hammen.

“Just what the hell are you doing?” Garth whispered.

“I was trying to save your damn stupid life,” Hammen replied wearily.

“This way?”

“If I was killed, your satchel was gone, and you would be powerless. You would have left.”

He hesitated.

“I failed to save you once; I thought I could now,” the old man said as he lowered his head.

“You never failed me,” Garth whispered, “and you never failed my father before me. You fled when there was nothing left to fight for. When my father was already dead.”

Hammen looked up and smiled sadly.

“At last you say it, and again there is nothing I can do.”

“You can start by giving me back my satchel.”

Hammen took the satchel off and held it out to Garth.

Garth stepped back from Hammen and tore off the cloak in which he was wrapped to reveal the fighting uniform of the House of Oor-tael. A stunned gasp of amazement rose from the stands at the sight of the forbidden colors. Garth slung the satchel over his shoulder.

“I claim the right of combat! I am know as Garth One-eye. I am the son of Cullinarn, Master of the House of Oor-tael.”

Zarel stepped forward, motioning for his fighters to gather around him, but he was stopped as if by an invisible hand.

The Walker’s sardonic laugh echoed over the arena.

“Most amusing. I love an amusing joke. You may fight.”

Garth, without an acknowledgment to the Walker, turned and started to walk toward the far end of the arena.

“Damn it, Garth, either you’ll leave here feetfirst or go with that bastard.”

“I know.”

“What the hell for?”

Garth looked over at Hammen and smiled.

“Didn’t I tell you from the beginning to stick around and you’d find out why?”

Hammen looked over angrily at Norreen.

“Thanks a lot.”

“You should have told me to stay out of it.”

“Would that have changed what you did?”

“No.”

“You’re both mad,” Hammen snapped, even as he struggled to keep up with Garth.

Garth laughed, shaking his head.

“You still have our money?”

“Yes.”

“Then go wager it on a win. You’ll need the cash when this is done.”

“Like hell. I’m staying down here with you.”

Garth looked over at Norreen.

She shook her head. “I’m staying.”

“All right then, but once this is done and I’m gone, they’ll kill you.”

“Good of you to worry about us now,” Hammen growled.

As they approached the neutral box at the far end of the arena they walked past the viewing stand of Bolk. Out in front stood Naru, who raised a clenched fist to Garth in salute, the giant gazing at him with a worried look.

“Too bad you die or he takes you,” Naru said.

“Then next year you’re the champion,” Garth replied, and the giant grinned.

Garth stepped into the neutral box, the mob in the stands swarming up to the betting booths to place their bets, but the Walker gave them no time.

“Fight!”

The combat was over in minutes, the mob watching in awed silence as Garth stepped into an immediate attack, blocking the dark spells of his opponent with a casual ease, shattering the power of his mana, and then closing in for the kill with yet another attack of a Craw Wurm. He paused before the final coup but his opponent, screaming with rage, countered at the moment of hesitation with a demonic attack and Garth lowered his head as the Craw Wurm lunged, devouring the fighter.

Garth stood in the center of the arena, ignoring the ovation that greeted his victory as he picked up his fallen opponent’s satchel and then walked to a place in the arena between the stands of Ingkara and Kestha, a place where long ago had been the corner of the fighting field reserved for the House of Oor-tael.

Zarel looked up at the Walker.

“He is dangerous.”

“Of course he is dangerous; otherwise, he would not have survived in hiding for twenty years. You told me he was dead.”

Zarel looked away and the voice lashed through his mind.

“You told me he was dead.”

“Yes.”

“But you did not see the body.”

Zarel hesitated.

“Well?”

“He was only a five-year-old boy. He could not survive that fire.”

Zarel struggled to seal off his thoughts, his memories of that night. Of the boy dragged before him, how he had gouged the boy’s eye out to torment his father, and of the boy, in spite of the agony he was in, staring at him coldly with but half his vision. His father, fighting desperately, was still in the House, which was engulfed in flames.

And he could remember the wail of agony when the father had seen the boy and begged to trade lives. At that moment the boy had torn loose from the grasp of the guard and raced into the burning building.

He was dead; he was supposed to be dead.

How could I have not seen clearly that it was he? Zarel wondered. But then again he was only a meaningless boy, a nothing, a pawn for a moment of bargaining.

“Fool! He is still out there now.”

“And he leaves the arena dead or with you,” Zarel replied hastily.

“He knows that,” the Walker replied, and Zarel sensed the nervousness.

He’s afraid, Zarel realized.

“He knows that. He knows he can’t escape. Therefore, he must have something planned. After all these years he would not come here just to commit suicide.”

“Are you afraid, my Master?” Zarel asked silently, looking back up at the throne, and he felt an instant lash of rage.

“I will kill him as I kill all who win the tournament,” the Walker snarled in reply. “As I think I might kill you for not controlling this world better.”

As Zarel struggled to control the surge of fear, sensing the cold laugh of his master, he turned and looked back at Uriah and the realization came. The dwarf had somehow known from the beginning. Fool. He had hidden his knowledge out of some perverse form of loyalty and sentimentality.

Uriah looked toward him and Zarel smiled as if all was as it should be. There would be time enough later for a special torment.

“Arrange the next fight for my amusement,” the Walker snapped angrily.

Garth watched the tote board and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that he would not yet have to face Varena. She would fight someone from her own House this time. As he exhaled noisily and turned away, he saw Norreen staring at him.

“She’s a friend. I don’t relish what I have to do.”

“You should have thought of that earlier,” Hammen said.

“Whichever way it turns out, whoever steps into the arena today is dead; I just don’t want to do it myself.”

He looked back over at Noreen, who was still looking at him.

“Are you jealous? Is that it?” Hammen taunted.

“A Benalish woman doesn’t need anyone outside her clan.”

Hammen laughed crudely and spit on the ground.

“You’ll both be dead anyhow in a little while, so the question is moot.”

Garth smiled and said nothing.

Out on the arena floor the next battle was joined and Varena was instantly on the defensive, her opponent, also from Fentesk, launching into a savage attack of liquid fire. She erected a wall to block him and he responded with an earthquake that shook the entire arena and tumbled the barrier down. Varena countered with aerial attacks by stinging insects, and even an outlandish balloon filled with goblin warriors. The balloon went down under the counterstrike of elvish archers, their arrows turning to flames which set the balloon on fire.

Twice Varena was knocked down by her opponent and the mob came howling to its feet, believing that the fight was over. And twice she recovered-the second time gathering enough mana to leap forward with a violent series of counterstrikes that her opponent parried with less and less strength. She moved closer to her foe, striking down his defenses. Then, with a final blast, she destroyed him, with a combination of fire striking from above and a psychic blast that drained her own strength but finished him.

She walked slowly from the arena field, her assistant rushing over to the body of the fallen to retrieve his satchel.

“It means I’ll have to face her,” Garth said quietly.

“If you live through this one.”

“Gilganorin of Ingkara versus Garth of Oor-tael.” The voice of the Walker was filled with amused sarcasm.

Garth stepped out of his corner and walked over to the neutral box, the crowd cheering lustily, bouquets of flowers raining down around him. He stepped into the neutral box and started to concentrate in preparation.

“Fight!”

Startled, he looked up. The Walker was laughing at the joke of having started the fight without warning.

Garth, bent over low, ran to one side of the arena as a black cloud snapped across the arena floor and came to a stop over his head, a rain of acid cascading down where he had just been standing. Next a fissure opened in the ground and he leaped back as stone giants emerged from the hole, their heavy granite war clubs crashing down, smashing the ground to either side of him. He struggled to erect a wall and they burst through it, their voices sounding like dark echoes from a ghostly cave.

He concentrated his thoughts and sent out attacks on his opponent’s mana, the force draining out of Gilganorin’s lands. The stone giants tumbled down into heaps of rocks. With a running bound Garth leaped over the fissure and laid out a line of living brambles and trees to form a barrier. Again he drew on the Craw Wurm but these were countered in turn by attacks of fire, which ignited the woods. The Craw Wurm, in turn, was destroyed by a dark elemental, which Garth then destroyed by an elemental that he conjured in response.

Gilganorin slowly started to move forward as well, diverting Garth with minor attacks of insects, rats, wolves, and undead. Garth countered each, and played out the same offensive, using creatures that required little mana to create while storing his power up for a killing strike. He sensed that he was gaining the advantage, Gilganorin being unable to store up mana as well, driven instead to the defensive, the countering of attacks, and resorting finally to protective wards to block attacks which could damage him.

And then, suddenly, to Garth’s amazement, Gilganorin simply stopped fighting and extended his hands outward, palms facing down to the ground in the signal of submission and surrender. Garth, nodding in acknowledgment, held his next attack back, sending the berserkers back into the oblivion from which they were conjured. He extended his left hand, palm downward, as a sign that he accepted the surrender while still holding his right hand high as a gesture of victory.

A gasp of amazement arose from the mob. There was a time when such an act was usually the end of a fight, when an opponent knew that he was beaten and it was senseless to continue. But this was supposed to be a death match.

“I asked not for a death match,” Garth shouted. “I accept your surrender. You may keep your spells.”

Gilganorin bowed low in reply and turned to walk back to his corner… and then he simply ceased to exist. A cylinder of blackness appeared to wrap around him, there was a shower of blood spraying out, and the cylinder of night was gone. All that was left was a smear of blood soaking into the sand.

“When I say it is to the death, it is to the death,” the Walker snapped peevishly, and then he turned his attention back to the woman he had been amusing himself with while the fight had been going on.

A gasp rose from the crowd and Garth sensed that even many in the mob had been offended, for Gilganorin was an old favorite, who for several decades had always survived into the final rounds and was noted for squandering his prize money on free drinks for his fans for weeks after a Festival.

Annoyed at the protest over the death of a favorite, the Walker turned away from his amusement and waved his hand. A cloud formed over the arena and the mob fell silent, not sure what he was about to do. He was, after all, the Walker, and though he might not have the power to take on half a million at once, he could certainly do damage to quite a few tens of thousands before being forced to flee. The cloud turned dark and from it a rain of silver trinkets began to fall. The mob struggled to pick them up, but even then there was no gratitude-it was simply money to be taken and nothing more.

The Walker leaned back on this throne, watching the mob.

“What is wrong with these bastards?” he asked silently, looking down at Zarel.

“You killed one of their favorites.”

“So what; he disobeyed me.”

“They might not see it that way.”

“Suppose I burn the city in reply?”

“That would damage you in return, my lord. For without the peasants and the mob, the mana, the power of the lands, forms more slowly. Next year’s tribute would not be as great.”

“Damn them,” the Walker hissed. He looked back at the woman, who waited for him and, with an angry curse, he pointed at her. In an instant her young, rounded body shriveled up, turning into limp folds of hanging leprous flesh, her face distorting into an obscene visage of running sores. She looked down at her body and started to scream hysterically. Laughing, he pushed her off the throne, so that she tumbled down the steps onto the arena floor. She continued to scream, until finally, annoyed at her whining, he pointed at her again. She melted down into a boiling mass of flesh. The mob, which had been watching the show, was silent, and the Walker looked at them, annoyed that they did not see the humor in what he had done.

He pointed to another girl and motioned for her to join him. Trembling, she ascended the stairs.

“Let’s have the final match. That ought to please them,” the Walker announced.

“It’s time for the noonday meal.”

“Fight, then eat.”

Garth, who had been lying under the shade of the arena wall, stirred and looked up. He sat up, squinting at the bright midday sun. There was a strange silence in the arena as the tote board announced the pairing of Garth against Varena. In the stands he could hear the spectators discussing the fact that there was a rumor that the two were lovers.

He looked over at Norreen, who was sitting against the wall, calmly sharpening her sword on a whetstone.

“Look, like I said before,” Garth sighed, “it really meant nothing.”

“Where I come from we mate until castes change and our chosen one is higher or lower than us. To wander outside of that rule is to invite vendetta by the other and the other’s family.”

“We never mated permanently, as you so calmly put it, so there’s no laws broken.”

“You desired to do so with me, didn’t you?”

“Desire and completion are two different things.”

“One leads to other.”

“And did you desire me?”

She savagely drew her blade across the stone and looked up at him.

“It’s too late now, One-eye.”

“You should have left him tied up back there,” Hammen interjected, “and had your way with him.”

“And you’d be dead now,” Garth replied.

“Maybe not. I was the master fighter of Oor-tael.”

“Twenty years ago. I think, Hammen, you’re a bit rusty now.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

A trumpet sounded and the crowd, which had been sitting in silence sullenly watching the Walker, stirred.

Hammen turned and looked toward the tote board.

“They’re placing the announcement.”

“Final match.” The Walker’s voice drifted across the arena. “Garth of Oor-tael, Varena of Fentesk. Come forward to the throne.”

Garth stood up and adjusted his satchel, which bulged with the prizes he had won. He looked down at Norreen.

“I think it best that you stay behind. Ritual allows only the fighter and his servant. If you draw his attention, it might be unpleasant for you.”

Norreen nodded slowly.

“Somehow I’d like to think you have a plan for all of this and there might be a chance we’d one day see each other again.”

Garth laughed softly.

“Finally, an admission of affection.”

She stood up, letting her sword drop, and, reaching out, grabbed him fiercely, kissing him with a mad passion. The crowd, which had been leaning over the wall watching and eavesdropping, broke into a lusty cheer.

Norreen stepped back.

“Damn you. Now look what you made me do. I’ve broken caste rules.” She struggled to keep her voice from breaking.

“Stay close to Hammen once this is over and make sure the old geezer gets out of here alive. I’m asking you to be his shield bearer.”

“Damn! That’s for royalty,” Hammen sniffed.

Garth smiled and turned away, stepping out into the arena. As he walked across the sand-packed fighting floor, Hammen by his side, the mob came to its feet and broke into applause. He waved casually, stepping around the fissure from the previous fight, where a score of mammoths were hauling great carts of earth to be dumped to close the rift.

From the other side of the arena he saw Varena approaching and, turning away from the throne, he walked up to meet her.

She looked at him and smiled.

“You know I will fight to win. I have to.”

“Do you have any idea anymore what it is that you’re really fighting for?” Garth asked, moving to walk alongside her.

“Because this is what I trained for, this moment.”

“And afterward?”

“To be the servant of the Walker in other worlds, to have the mysteries revealed, to leap by his side between worlds like a god.”

Garth shook his head sadly.

“And for that you would kill me?”

She looked over at him and smiled.

“Isn’t that your intent as well? You saw what happened to Gilganorin. There is no backing away now, Garth. Only one of us may go. I’m just sorry it is you that I have to do this to.”

“Fighter, make no friend of fighter,” Garth said calmly.

Varena smiled sadly and nodded.

Approaching the high throne they fell silent, their servants stopping at the outer edge of the golden circle.

The Walker, chewing on a leg of roasted pork, looked down at them and smiled.

“So who is it going to be?” he asked.

Neither answered.

“You know, Garth, this is all rather amusing. I think you have something for this woman and she you. And yet both of you would sacrifice that in order to serve me and learn the final mysteries.”

“Would you care to share the mystery now and spare us the trouble of a fight?” Garth said.

The Walker smiled, laughing softly.

“To the death,” he finally whispered, “and for the winner, the answer to all.”

He waved a hand of dismissal and as Garth turned he saw a cold look of satisfaction in Zarel’s eyes.

“Either way you lose,” Zarel whispered.

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Garth snapped in reply.

Garth looked back at Varena and smiled.

“I’m sorry.” Turning, he started back across the field to the neutral box.

The mob was on its feet, standing in silence as the climax of Festival drew nigh.

Reaching the neutral box, Garth looked over at Hammen.

“There won’t be much time afterward. I think he’ll leave at once. I could sense something there; he’s under some sort of pressure.”

Hammen nodded.

“Something isn’t right with him,” Hammen said. “Usually he acts more like a gross buffoon, eating, wenching, gambling. There’s something not right with him now.”

“If possible, I think you know what I want you to do.” Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a small bundle and tossed it to Hammen.

Hammen stepped into the box and, reaching out, he placed hands on Garth’s shoulders.

“Galin. All these years I thought you dead.” His voice choked. “I remember the day your father came out of the birthing room carrying you proudly. I remember the day he called us in so that we could see you take your first step. And the day we laughed when you first used mana and burned your little fingers, cried, and then tried again.”

“Stop going sentimental on me now,” Garth said.

“If I had known you were still alive in that fire, I would have come back for you.”

”You wouldn’t have found me,” Garth said softly. “Even as my father died he used the last of his power to send my mother and me far away. You would not have found me until I wanted you to and that was not until she died and I was free to do what she had forbidden.”

He paused.

“To get revenge.”

His features were set as if cast in ice. He withdrew Hammen’s hands from his shoulders.

“Take care, Hadin gar Kan.”

“The Eternal be with you, Galin.”

The trumpet sounded and Garth turned away, calming his inner self so that he felt as if he were drifting in another world.

“Fight!”

The words came like a whisper on the wind, the cries of the mob like a haunting whisper drifting across a frozen sea.

He stepped out of the neutral box, reaching into his powers, the power of the mana drifting up to him-the power of distant lands now locked in the silken bundles, the power of the mountains, the islands across the Flowing Seas, the plains, forests, swamps, and deserts.

He waited, not letting too much of the power come at once, waiting for her first move. He could sense that she, too, was building her strength, drawing on her mana in turn and then, with a wave of his hand, he cast the spell of destruction, of Armageddon, which destroyed all the mana that had been drawn by both. He could sense her startled response, the brief instant of surprise. He quickly re-formed his own powers, letting them rush upward, the strength surging through him, and he launched an attack. He struck with a disrupting scepter, which forced Varena to lose yet another point of power. He then drew on a rare artifact which granted him the ability to control even more power than a fighter could normally hold. Then he projected his power outward so that for a moment he was able to read her thoughts and know what she knew and what she planned to do.

Thus even before her first attack-a wall of flashing swords which swept across the field-he was prepared to block it, the swords falling to the ground and melting away. She countered with a rain of fire, which he extinguished with a flood of ocean which moved like a wall across the arena floor. On the tops of the waves rode great beasts of the deep, their open jaws gnashing, their rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight.

The ocean, in turn, cascaded down into a fissure that Varena opened across the width of the arena floor. In response Garth sent creatures flying over the fissure. From out of the depths came unearthly forms, hydras of many heads that snatched at Garth’s attackers, striking them down as fast as they appeared. Garth sent a wall of swords back to decapitate the hydra. The blades struck, and seconds later the beast had twice as many heads. It crawled out of the pit and moved toward Garth with ponderous motion.

The mob cheered at the sight of such a rarity.

Garth watched it approaching and then lowered his head and averted his eyes.

Before him there appeared the bent-over form of a woman covered from head to foot in a long cape. Bemused laughter erupted from the mob at such a strange defense. With eyes still averted Garth reached out and tore the cape away from the old woman.

The Medusa stood up with a triumphal scream, the vipers that were her hair writhing and hissing. The hydra’s long serpentine heads rose up, a chorus of bellows erupting from it as the creature turned to stone.

The Medusa, laughing coldly, turned toward Garth who, with eyes still averted, grabbed hold of her cape and tossed it over her head. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small disk of a mirror and held it up as she tore the cape off, ready to attack him. But at the sight of herself she screamed in anguish and turned to stone as well.

The mob, which had been watching this unusual counterattack outside the range of the Medusa’s awful powers, broke into appreciative applause for the artistic defense that Garth had offered and the manner in which he controlled a spell that was as dangerous to the wielder as it was to the intended target.

Controlling the hydra had drained Varena of much of her power and Garth suddenly raced forward, leaping over the fissure to land on her side of the fighting field.

Garth now drew upon defensive spells to ward off the series of weak attacks Varena cast in an attempt to slow him while he was building his own power. Then, to his surprise, she used a spell of destruction as well, shattering both her mana and his at the same time. She then struck him with a psychic blast which, though it did damage to herself, hurt him far more. He staggered backward from the blow, almost falling into the fissure. He erected a circle of protection to block her strikes and then moved quickly to heal the damage she had inflicted.

She struck again, but this time he was prepared, reversing the spell, which struck back at her so that she fell to her knees.

Garth moved closer, ringing her in with a wall of twisted brambles. She struck them down with fire but behind the brambles he had tree-creatures waiting, which moved toward her with ponderous steps. She dodged back and forth, trying to avoid their blows, until one of them snagged her by the leg and lifted her into the air.

A giant appeared by her side and, with raised axe, hewed down the tree that held her. Then it turned to struggle with the others, the tree-creatures sending out shoots and roots, wrapping them around the giant’s legs and arms. The giant howled with a berserk fury, cutting and slashing with its man-size axe, felling trees which Garth replaced with yet more.

The mob, taken by this amusing spectacle, roared with delight, cheering on the giant and then the trees as they battled amidst a growing mountain of broken limbs, wood chips, and splinters.

Varena, recovering slowly, moved back from the struggle, calling down bolts of lightning to ignite the trees, which hooted with a wild fury as their branches burned, the arena filling with smoke from the conflagration.

Garth called down a swirling storm of ice and rain to extinguish the fires and then brought forth a giant of his own, so that the two struggled and cut at each other in the steam and smoke.

Garth suddenly felt a stinging blow at the back of his neck and, turning, he saw a great swarm of wasps, each one as big as his thumb, swirling around him. The insects went for his eye, stinging him on the cheeks, the nose, the forehead, the pain of the stings causing him to curse wildly, his face instantly swelling up from the venom.

Caught off guard, he lost his concentration for a moment, the venom coursing into his blood, causing him to feel light-headed and weak. He went down on his knees, covering his face, the stings so savage that his hands filled with blood. At last concentrating his waning strength, he conjured up the smallest of sprites who, with lances drawn, did battle with the wasps. He rolled out from under the cloud and came back up to his knees and uncovered his face.

He was blind, his eyelid swollen to the point that he could not see. He could sense that Varena was rushing toward him with dagger raised for the kill. Drawing in his remaining power, he erected a wall of stone, which he knew would block her for the moment. Staggering, he got to his feet and then drew upon the one spell he had been holding in reserve.

Instantly, all the powers she controlled came into his hands and she was drained of all that she could control at that moment. The shock of this blow staggered her so that he could hear her scream of frustration.

It was time to finish it and he called upon the power he had taken from Naru the day before. A dark cloud swirled before Garth and a towering form emerged. It rode upon great wheels that towered to twice the height of a man, the wheels rimmed with black iron as thick as a man’s hand. The juggernaut rolled forward slowly, crashing through the wall he had erected and then through another wall she struggled to erect with what little power remained to her. She focused that power upon the juggernaut, draining herself of all she had to stop it in its course. The great structure tottered and then exploded with a thunderclap roar of fire and red smoke.

And it was at that moment that he threw all that he had against her, staggering her with repeated psionic blasts which, though they weakened him, did damage to her that was far more devastating. The third blow lifted Varena up off her feet, slamming her to the ground, where she lay still.

Garth slowly walked up to her, stepping aside as the juggernaut came crashing down with an explosive roar which all but drowned out the howling of the mob.

He looked down at her, her features pale, drawn, and drained of all but the slimmest flicker of life.

“Finish her!”

He looked up at the Walker.

“Finish her or die!”

Garth raised his hand and pointed at Varena. A psionic blast slammed into her body, a convulsive shudder ran through her, driving the last of her soul from her mortal remains.

Garth lowered his head, turned away, and then looked up at the Walker with a cold defiance.

“I am your chosen servant, my lord.”