Arena

CHAPTER 15

GARTH STAGGERED THROUGH THE DARK CLOUD, nearly blind, choking on the poisonous air. He again erected a circle of protection, which filtered the poison out, letting thin wisps of breathable air flow into his starving lungs.

Another blow hit him and the circle collapsed.

Cursing, Garth waved his hands over his head, drawing out yet another circle, and again the barrier was erected. He waited, but there was no attack. He probed outward, searching with his senses.

The Walker was there, and yet not. He was struggling, but it was against something else, something dark and powerful. There was time now, and Garth took advantage of it while his foe was diverted by another struggle with something far more dangerous and insidious.

Garth gathered in his strength, and then drew on spells that caused the strength to double and yet double again. He raised his hand, forming a circle before his eye with forefinger and thumb, and the power to look into the spells of his opponent was created.

He was stunned by all that he saw, hundreds of spells, many of them undreamed of, obviously taken in realms and planes of existence unknown to mortals. And yet there was a weakness as well.

The mana, the precious mana that fueled the power of the spells, was weak, spread out and diverted by a myriad of struggles. So it was as he suspected.

All that he had learned in the years of growing and planning was true after all. The fading books, hidden in the place of refuge his father had sent him to, the place where he had studied and learned, had spoken of this. What his father had suspected and written down was true, that the hold the Walkers had upon their powers had a weakness after all.

Garth smiled inwardly and continued to let his strength build.

The struggle between the Walker and the other foe came to an end and again the Walker’s power became focused. He turned back to face Garth.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” the Planes Walker said, his voice a haunting whisper. “One of my enemies thought it was a convenient time to try and take back what I had seized from him. Of course you’ll understand that such a concern was more important than my sport with you.”

“Of course.”

“Ah, I see you’ve used the time well. Your power is stronger now. Good, good, the challenge is more amusing. Usually, when I bring a winner here they tend to grovel and whine at their fate. You have your father’s blood in you. I like that.

“Shall we begin?”

Garth extended his hands.

The Walker extended his hands as well and the dark plain upon which they stood was suddenly illuminated with a shimmering light, the green clouds rolling back to reveal a dark red sun overhead that filled half the sky. A golden circle outlined a flat, open field that stretched to the far horizon, which seemed impossibly far away.

“An arena field for our amusement,” the Walker announced.

A red shimmering lit the field and an instant later a demonic horde was deployed, scimitars, tridents, and skull standards raised high. With a keening howl they raced forward.

Garth extended his hands and a living wall was erected before him, momentarily blocking the attack. Move followed countermove. A Lord of the Pit under the Walker’s control emerged out of the ground and Garth, in turn, hurled it back upon the demonic hordes, destroying them, the monster roaring with delight as it rent the creatures and devoured them. A dark force of nature was next brought forth to tear the demon apart. Dragons fought in the sky overhead, doppelgangers stalked each other, hydras battled atop the wall, which came crashing down, and djinn struggled on the ground between the two fighters.

“You are more amusing than most,” the Walker announced. “If I did not have an engagement elsewhere I think I would actually let this play out longer.”

“Then finish it,” Garth taunted. “Or don’t you have the strength? Do it and be damned.”

The Walker raised his hands with an angry curse and stepped forward. Garth staggered backward, pushed by an invisible power that lashed into his soul. He drew forth a rank of bodyguards to take the punishment but within minutes they had collapsed, writhing in agony and dying.

More blows slammed into Garth, draining his strength, and he started to crumple, going down on his knees.

The Walker drew closer and looked down at Garth, who was leaning over, panting for breath.

“Too bad, One-eye. I’ve enjoyed our visit. I sense that your life force is nearly spent.”

Garth looked up at him, his face drawn and pale.

“Go to hell, you bastard.”

The Walker sighed.

“I think I am already there.”

He raised his hand and pointed downward with the final blow.

Garth raised his hand, drawing on the one spell that he had kept hidden until this moment.

The blow of his opponent struck and, for a brief instant, Garth thought that his conjuring had failed and he was falling into the lands of the dead. And then it took hold. All the damage that he had sustained was drawn out of him and he was again whole. At that same moment all that he had suffered slammed into his opponent. With a loud cry the Walker staggered backward, his shadowy form hissing, coiling upon itself and writhing on the ground. Its howls of agony caused Garth to cover his eye lest it be shattered.

Garth was on his feet, racing up to the Walker’s side. The shadow was changing, taking a near-human form. And again Garth used his power to look inward, to sense all that his opponent had.

He found it and, reaching out, snatched the one form of power he had come for and, with it, the mana of his world that controlled it and gave it strength.

The Walker howled in impotent rage, struggling to heal himself even as he slipped away.

With an invisible hand Garth grasped the spell that opened the portal of worlds, that changed reality, twisted the flow of time, and made all things possible. He struggled against the Walker to take as well the mana that bound and controlled the spell.

The Walker started to recover, screaming in rage as that which gave him access to the world of his origin was pulled away from his grasp. Garth struggled and swayed, ignoring the explosive pain to his hands, trying not to feel, not to notice that fire was curling his fingers black.

He felt his hold on the Walker’s spell starting to slip as his foe regained his strength. Reaching inward Garth drew on what little he had left and in that moment his own power and mana were doubled. He wrenched the control of the planes gate away from his opponent and fell backward. The Walker came back up and, howling with a mad demonic rage, raised his hands and pointed.

Damn, now that I’ve got it, how do I use it? Garth wondered, even as the blow hit him.

He felt fire racing over him, a heat as intense as the sun engulfing him. Garth One-eye pulled his strength inward and focused it on the power of the gate. The Walker, screaming hysterically, attacked yet again and Garth felt himself falling away.

“Massacre them all,” Zarel growled, looking down angrily at Uriah. “Any who do not stand with me now are against me.”

“All the Houses?”

“All of them. If we give them time to organize, they might ally with the mob against me. I want this finished. You heard the Walker as well. He said he’ll be back.”

“And what will he say of this massacre?”

Zarel looked coldly at the dwarf.

I won’t be here so it won’t matter, he thought with a grin of satisfaction. With the mana taken and the capture of Kirlen’s books, the path will be open.

“Have our fighters and warriors prepare to sally forth at the midnight bell.”

“Against all four Houses, sire? They still have, even after the desertions and deaths in the arena, well over two hundred and fifty fighters to our two hundred.”

Zarel cursed and looked down at the gold inlay in his floor. Kirlen could not be bribed except with power and, besides, she was the first and most important target. Tulan and Varnel-their hatred evident-could not be swayed. But Jimak, Jimak could always be swayed for the moment and then eliminated later.

“Empty the coffers of gold as a bribe. Send it over to Jimak at once in return for his pledge to stand by my side.”

“And what will you tell the Walker if you destroy them?”

“Tell him, I’ll pile mana taken from the dead around his feet. That will buy him off. When it is finished you can rebuild a new House of your own.”

Uriah nodded and slowly withdrew.

Zarel watched him leave.

“And your turn will come as well,” he whispered.

Zarel turned away from the door, his heart racing.

How much time do I have? he wondered. And still, what is One-eye’s game in all of this? Can it be that all along he was out after Kuthuman and that even now he is struggling to throw him down? If so, then so much the better. Kuthuman will be delayed in his return and I’ll be gone. If it is the other way around, that Kuthuman has been vanquished, then One-eye will be weak and easy to overthrow as well. The first step, however, is to make sure Kirlen is finished and her precious scrolls and books taken.

Kirlen of Bolk sat hunched over upon her throne.

“Have you found Naru?”

The messenger shook his head.

“He’s deserted, along with eleven other fighters.”

She cursed angrily and spit on the throne-room floor.

“Send messengers to the other three Houses. Zarel has subdued the mob for the moment. It is obvious he now plans to move against us as well. We can either stand united at this moment or we will all die separately. I plan to attack at the midnight bell. Tell them to do the same and we can defeat him. Get their assurances that they will do so, and ask them to strike straight for the palace. Now go!”

The messenger ran out of the room.

Kirlen smiled softly.

One-eye had played his part well. The mob had attacked Zarel and he had slaughtered them without mercy so that they were forced to break and flee. But he did not follow up, he could not, for he had to conserve his remaining strength to use against the Houses. Only a fool would think that the Houses would not strike now to cast him down and take his mana for themselves. She knew him well enough to know that he now feared the Houses as a possible counter to him, or worse yet, the Houses would ally with the rabble to bring him down. The balance was broken and could not be restored-too much hatred now brewed on all sides.

Now was the time to strike at Zarel, and by leading the way she would be the next Grand Master, presenting the Walker with fait accompli upon his return.

Or perhaps, even better, she thought, I can challenge him beyond the veil and gain the vengeance I deserve.

She thought of Garth, who so unknowingly had created this opportunity for her. He had done his service well. All the hatreds of all sides, which had been contained for so long, had finally boiled to the surface thanks to him. Let all the corruption boil out now, she thought with a cold glee.

But why would he go so willingly into the Walker’s grasp? she suddenly wondered. He could only have done so if there was a plan. It was obvious, she realized. He had from the beginning planned to challenge the Walker, somehow defeat him, and become one in his own right. If that was the case, he would be weak after the struggle and the chance of breaking through was even more possible now.

The opportunity was now and she stood up, calling for her fighters to prepare.

Tulan of Kestha and Varnel of Fentesk stood in the shadows, looking out anxiously across the Plaza.

“That old crone does have a point,” Tulan said eagerly. “He plans to finish us now. This balance of power game has gone on too long. Either we kill him or he kills us.”

“Perhaps we can win in either case,” Varnel said calmly. “She will attack. This is not a trick to lure us out with her holding back. Her passion for power has consumed her. And besides, she is right, you know. Our best fighters died in the arena these last three days. If ever there is a moment when he can defeat us all, it is now.”

“And yet,” Tulan said silkily.

“And yet, suppose they are equally balanced in the struggle? All we need do is let them wear each other down. Perhaps if we attacked, and at least demonstrated our intent, she would press onward. But we hold back and let them bleed themselves against each other. Then, when the moment is right, we slaughter all of them together.”

“And what of Jimak?”

“And what of him? We know he covets the gold that Zarel holds in his coffers. He will attack with a passion and bleed himself dry in the process. Let him.”

Varnel smiled.

“And as for what we might want,” Tulan sighed. “The women of Zarel will be yours, all of them in their multitude of colors, shapes, scents, and perverse practices.”

Varnel licked his lips eagerly.

“And when we are done we can also hunt down those of our fighters who betrayed us and went over to the mob,” Varnel said coldly.

Jimak of Ingkara sat alone in his counting room, gazing down at the mountain of gold spread before his throne. The strongboxes had been carted over to him but moments ago, in payment for his pledge to fight by Zarel’s side. He chuckled at the thought. Certainly he would fight, and when the other Houses were done and looted, then it would be Zarel’s turn as well.

Hammen peeked out from behind the broken shutter. The midnight bell tolled with its deep, melancholy tone. The Plaza was silent, illuminated with flickering fires that still shuddered from the battles with the mob that had raged throughout the afternoon and into the early evening.

He looked back at a deserter from Kestha, who had come over to the side of the mob with the information that the Houses were planning to assault the palace at midnight.

“Nothing.”

Even as he said the word a brilliant flash arced up into the sky. Flickering and hissing, it detonated over the Plaza, illuminating it with a harsh white light. Trumpets blared from the pyramid-shaped palace and from the five great doors an armed host came charging out, warriors at the fore with crossbows ready, followed by mobile catapults mounted on wagons, and finally the fighters.

They charged across the Plaza and from out of the gates of the Houses of the four colors fighters emerged as well. Hammen, chortling with glee, pulled the shutter wide open and leaned out to watch, joined by Naru, Norreen, and the lieutenants of his brotherhood, who had struggled to gain some semblance of fighting control over the mob.

Within seconds the Plaza was a churning sea of combat as nearly every spell known in the Western Lands was brought into play by the over four hundred fighters struggling in the Plaza. The concentration of mana was so intense that the Plaza pulsed with an unearthly light that glowed and flickered like heat lightning on a summer horizon.

The fighters of Bolk charged with violent attacks, reaching the very gates of the palace, while the fighters of Fentesk and Kestha held fast in the middle of the Plaza.

Naru, watching the charge of his old comrades, roared with delight and pounded the side of the windowsill so that the boards cracked.

“Purple is changing sides,” Hammen gasped, and he pointed to the far side of the Plaza, where the ranks of Ingkara turned on the flank of Fentesk, caving it in.

Brown fighters, in turn, enraged by the betrayal, broke from their attack on the palace and charged toward the flank of Purple. For a brief instant Hammen saw Kirlen sitting atop her sedan chair, white hair fluttering in the wind, pointing toward the House of Ingkara. Liquid fire drenched the walls of the House and sheets of flame raced up its side.

Hammen, shaking his head, turned away.

“Madness,” he sighed. “Nothing but madness.”

Zarel, roaring with glee, turned his attention away from the onslaught of Bolk’s fighters, who were now diverted by an even deeper hatred fueled by Ingkara’s betrayal. Kirlen, raging and screaming, tried to turn their attention back on Zarel’s palace, even though it was she who had lost her temper and focused her strength elsewhere just when the strength of her attack was at its peak.

It was evident that Kestha and Fentesk were holding back and would crush whatever was left.

Zarel turned to his reserves of fighters and warriors and directed them to attack Fentesk and Kestha while the fighters of Ingkara and Bolk struggled. The warriors surged forward with raised crossbows. Flashes of fire rained down on them and the fighters behind them threw up curtains of protection. A fissure raced across the Plaza, opening with a shattering roar. The buildings around the Plaza swayed. Prepared for such a defense, more warriors raced forward and threw light wooden bridges across the chasm. As the attackers raced across, dark creatures surged up out of the rift, pulling warriors down, the creatures at times fighting with each other for tidbits that kicked and screamed as they were torn asunder.

Zarel concentrated his fury against Varnel, sending down waves of attack from above-dragons and other winged beasts, bolts of lightning, sheets of fire, and rains of stones. Fentesk’s fighters conjured spells of fire in response.

Zarel leaped the fissure, striking down a demon that rose up to tear him apart. His fury caused the fighters arrayed against him to blanch, turn, and run. The warriors who had managed to cross the fissure saw their chance and fired at the backs of the fighters, sending them sprawling to the ground. Many of the fallen tried to generate spells of healing to save themselves but the warriors of Zarel fell upon them with glee. Drawing swords, they cut off the heads of the wounded, holding them aloft in triumph before tossing them into the fissure.

Specially assigned warriors raced from body to body, cutting off the satchels of the fallen of all sides so that their spells and mana would become the personal trophies of Zarel. And the harvest was good as the fighters of Kestha and Fentesk fell back before the onslaught.

A personal duel arose between Zarel and Varnel before the gates of the House of Fentesk. Zarel, his powers fat with the booty he was taking in, soon drove Varnel to his knees. The House Master, looking up at Zarel with stunned disbelief, cried out in anguish as his opponent cast the final spell, causing Varnel to age a hundred years in the span of a dozen seconds. The man who had placed so much store in sensual pleasure wept bitterly as he slowly curled up into a whimpering ball of yellowed skin and sickly white hair.

The doors of the House of Fentesk were cast down and, even as the warriors and fighters of Zarel charged in, those who were hiding inside attempted to flee outward. Zarel pointed at one of them and the young woman froze and then, as if walking in her sleep, came over to stand before Zarel.

Smiling cruelly, Zarel reached out and grabbed hold of her, stirring her from her sleep. He forced her to look down at Varnel.

“There is your Master now,” Zarel laughed. “Would you care to pleasure him?”

Varnel, with trembling hands, reached up.

“Malina.” His voice was a hissing croak, his breath sick with corruption.

The girl recoiled and then broke into a contemptuous laugh, reaching over to put her arm around Zarel.

“Curse your fates and die,” Zarel laughed, and he pointed down at Varnel, creating the same spell yet again.

Varnel, moaning in anguish, continued to age. As he did so his flesh fell away into dust until all that was left was a skeletal form wrapped in silken robes and a skull whose mouth was open in a final cry of pain.

Zarel pushed the girl aside and turned to go back into the fight.

Across the Plaza a thunderclap roar erupted and Zarel turned to look back. The House of Ingkara was bathed in flames; atop its battlements fighters writhed back and forth, dashing madly about, their cloaks on fire. Several hurled themselves off the high wall and fluttered down, trailing smoke and fire.

“Uriah!”

Zarel turned, looking, and saw his captain of fighters come through the press.

“Continue to push Tulan. If you take his House, his personal satchel is yours for the keeping. I’m going back to finish Kirlen.”

The dwarf grinned sardonically and, turning, gave a fierce rallying cry and thrust himself into the fray.

Zarel watched him go, grinning coldly. He had promised him the satchel, but he had said nothing about how long he could keep it.

Motioning for his bodyguard to follow, Zarel raced back across the Plaza and was horrified to discover that the north end of his palace was bathed in flames from Bolk’s renewed attack.

Zarel saw his foe and threw back his head, howling with rage.

“Kirlen!”

Hammen stood transfixed by the madness playing out on the Plaza below.

“We should attack him now.”

He looked over his shoulder. Varena stood behind him, her features pale and drawn.

“I gave you a sleep potion, woman, now take advantage of it. You’re still weak.”

“Give me back my satchel.” She extended her hand.

“For what? So you can go out there and commit suicide after all I’ve done to save you? You’re as weak as a newborn kitten. Now go lie down.”

“Zarel has gone insane with bloodlust. He won’t stop with the four Houses; next he’ll turn his attention back on the mob. You have tens of thousands willing to fight. Throw them in before he wins.”

“Young lady, while you were conveniently asleep we tried just that. The streets from the arena all the way back to the Plaza are choked with the dead. We fell back because we could not stand with clubs and knives against spells and crossbows. Let it play out. Perhaps they will weaken each other to the point that we can sweep him up at the end.”

Varena sighed and reached over to the windowsill to brace herself. As she looked out she saw the front of her House collapsing in ruin, engulfed in flame.

She turned away with tears clouding her eyes.

“You should have let my spirit go in peace rather than bring me back to this ending.”

She staggered away from the window and collapsed upon the floor.

Again Hammen looked out the window. The House of Kestha was now under siege, the building under attack from a score of stone giants and hill giants, who hammered at the wall with their massive clubs, while a juggernaut rolled slowly forward with relentless energy, crashing through the gates of the House. Warriors struggled in the confusion and fighters traded blows at short range. From atop the battlement Tulan appeared, and from his hands came a rain of fire, wind, storms, and lightning, which smashed most of the giants. And then a dark force appeared, rushing straight at the Master of Kestha. Screaming in rage, Tulan struggled as the darkness closed in, sapping the strength from his body so that his corpulent form started to shrivel, leaving his silken robes hanging as if draped over a skeleton.

Tulan staggered back and forth on the battlement, while in the Plaza below his agony drew harsh and mocking laughter from Zarel’s fighters. With a mad curse, Tulan tore off his satchel and threw it up into the air. He raised his hands and pointed. The satchel disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Uriah, screaming with rage, pointed his hands at Tulan even as Tulan staggered to the edge of the battlement and, with a final curse, threw himself off the wall. His body, exploding in flames from Uriah’s final spell, smashed on the hard pavement and split asunder.

Sickened, Hammen turned away.

“Of the four, he was perhaps the least harmful,” the old man said.

A stream of warriors now poured into the House of Kestha to finish the slaughter. Out in the Plaza Uriah stormed back and forth, shouting with rage and then finally directing his fighters to turn and head back toward the fighting against Bolk.

“The Houses are dead,” Norreen said, standing by Hammen’s side and watching the slaughter. “Zarel will win and then there will be nothing to balance and offset him. If we have any chance left, it is now.”

“We? I thought you were planning to get out of this madhouse.”

“I kind of got involved, if only for the memory of Garth.”

Hammen turned and looked back at his vagabond assortment of lieutenants.

“Juka, rally the mob on the street of sword makers, Valmar, the street of tanners, Pultark, the street of silk merchants, and Seduna, the street of butchers. It’s impossible to try and coordinate it properly. Just get them to charge. Perhaps we can swarm them under while they’re still out in the Plaza. If that bastard brings down the others and regains his palace, it is finished. Now move!”

The four men nodded grimly and left the room.

He looked back at Naru, who sat hunched up on the floor. “Don’t worry, you oversize cretin, we’ll still get one more fight in.”

Naru grinned with pleasure.

“Kirlen!”

Zarel, drunk with slaughter and triumph, moved toward his most hated of rivals. The old woman watched him come, silhouetted by the conflagrations consuming the other Houses, and she knew her dream of overthrowing his power was finished. From atop the flame-scorched battlements of Ingkara she saw Jimak looking down and could sense his glee at her downfall.

She turned to face Zarel, barely noticing that most of her fighters had turned and fled, stripping off their uniforms as they ran. She stood upon her throne and, in her moment of defeat, knew all that was now lost. Her agony pierced to her very soul.

Turning, she fled back into her House. As she hobbled through the doors she heard the harsh laughter of her foes. The door slammed shut behind her and she looked back at the two trembling guards.

“Hold it as long as you can,” she screamed and continued along the darkened corridor, not even noticing the two young fighters as they turned and fled down another hallway in a desperate bid to escape the final destruction.

She reached her room and stopped.

Her books, her precious books, manuscripts, all the arcane knowledge in her search surrounded her.

She heard the battering on the door outside, the bursting of the hinges, and the harsh taunting cries of her foes.

She extended her hands, waving them in tight circles, pulling them in close around her withered body.

Zarel stood before the House of Bolk, watching, as the building started to cave in upon itself. A fighter emerged from the door, raced up to Zarel’s side, and lowered his head.

“Well?”

“She’s gone. The room was covered in ice.”

“What!”

Zarel pushed his way through the door and raced along the corridor. He could feel the building drawing in upon itself, collapsing into ruin. He reached the end of the corridor and turned into her private quarters.

He could almost sense the ripple of laughter, the final taunt from the flicker of light in the center of the room. She had somehow fled. She was still trapped in this plane but she had escaped. A few bits of paper still swirled around the room and then fluttered into the light and disappeared.

The room was dark, and as cold as the grave.

Part of the ceiling overhead collapsed and Zarel leaped back with a wild curse. Turning, he fled back down the corridor and out into the Plaza. Behind him the walls of the House of Bolk crashed inward into rubble and ruin.

A mad rage consumed him. She had escaped. But she had to be somewhere within this plane and thus could be found again. With enough mana he should be able to conjure the spells that would find her before it was too late.

All that was left now was Jimak of Ingkara and as he turned to face the House he saw Jimak emerge. The old man walked slowly, looking around nervously at the carnage that covered the square.

The Plaza was aglow with a ghastly light, not only from the tremendous concentration of mana but also from the pyres of the three other Houses. Fighting still raged as the last survivors were tracked down, cornered, and destroyed.

“So you got what you wanted?”

Zarel looked over at Jimak, a sneer of contempt lighting his features.

“You betrayed your own for a handful of gold.”

“I figured you would win.”

Zarel said nothing, relishing the moment.

“We should have united against you the moment you declared that the fights were to the death. But we were all so intent on One-eye. We all wanted him and yet all hated him since we other three could not control him. If our best had not been slain in the arena, we could have held against you. That we should have seen more clearly.”

The old man started to sway back and forth and Zarel suddenly realized that his satchel was open and was filled not with spells, amulets, and mana but rather with gold.

Jimak smiled.

“I cast my mana to the four winds. You shall not have it; your victory is hollow. I’d like to think that Kirlen, with all her hatred of you, has somehow escaped as well.”

The old man fell over, gasping.

He looked up at Zarel.

“I thought the poison would be painless. I was wrong. But it will be over shortly. I’ll see you in hell.”

Zarel looked down at Jimak as he rolled over, his breath coming in labored, rattling gasps.

Screaming with rage, he kicked Jimak in the side and then turned away.

“Destroy Ingkara’s House,” he shouted. “Leave not one block upon another. And the same for the other Houses. Now gather before me the mana that has been taken from the fallen. Any who hold back I will kill with my own hands.”

Uriah, who had been standing and watching the exchange between Zarel and Jimak, stepped forward angrily.

“You promised a House to me and the power that was in Tulan’s satchel. He destroyed them before dying. I claim what is taken from the other Kestha fighters as mine.”

Zarel turned and, with a single blow, knocked Uriah over, sending the dwarf sprawling to the ground. Uriah struggled to regain his footing and Zarel knocked him down once again with a psionic blow that slammed the dwarf into unconsciousness.

Turning, Zarel glared at the other fighters.

“Do it!” But even as he spoke there was a new eruption of fighting on the far side of the Plaza.

“Damn it, now what?” he snarled angrily.

A warrior came through the press of fighters who had witnessed the downfall of their captain.

“The mob, sire,” the warrior shouted. “They’re attacking again.”

Zarel turned and looked back at his fighters.

“Leave none of them alive this time. If this city is to be turned into a pyre, do it.”

The fighters stood silent, not moving.

“You have a choice,” Zarel hissed. “Either serve me now or die. You can all try to take me but with the power I have, I guarantee few of you will live to see the triumph. And those of you that do survive will be torn apart by the mob. Now go stop them.”

Several of the fighters turned away and wearily headed toward the sound of the fighting. The rest, watching them go, finally turned and followed.

Zarel stormed after them, gathering in the mana that his still-loyal warriors now brought him in the dozens of satchels taken from the fallen of both sides. And he felt a surge of energy from the mana as he gathered it in, so that even the burden of its weight bothered him not.

He drew upon the renewed strength and, with a howl of delight, he sent a blast of fire across the Plaza-fire which struck into the mob with such force that a hundred or more were bowled over by the flame, their incandescent forms twisting and writhing in agony.

The mob, which had been angrily advancing from out of the thoroughfare of the silk merchants, turned in panic and started to flee. From the other boulevards that led into the Plaza came yet more and Zarel, laughing with sardonic delight, called down torments upon them as well, slaying hundreds with a power that was near to that of a demigod. And he sang with a fierce joy even as he drained his power in the killing.

And all turned and fled before his dark visage.

“It’s lost, damn it, it’s lost!”

Hammen, staggered by the terrifying power of Zarel, could only lean against the side of a shattered building, watching with numbed comprehension the slaughter taking place in the Plaza. He knew the attack had been a forlorn hope and it was evident now that it was doomed. The mob, which had taken far too much of a beating in the arena in the last two days of rioting, was spent, fleeing in every direction.

But the counterattack did not stop. Zarel, drunk with a mad glee, staggered about the Plaza, burning everything in sight. His warriors, and now many of his fighters as well, had given themselves over to riot, and rushed about as maniacs, killing the wounded, burning anything that would stand, spreading out into the side streets destroying as they went.

“Madness, it’s all madness,” Hammen whispered. He felt hands on his shoulders turning him away. He looked up at Naru and then over at Norreen.

“The world is his now,” Hammen moaned. “At least before, at least before Garth came, there was a balance. Now it is gone. Damn, it’s all gone and we are in the hands of a madman.”

“Old man must leave,” Naru said, and his voice was actually filled with a sad melancholy. “Zarel kill you, kill Orange woman and other woman if they found. Leave.”

Shaking with fatigue, Hammen allowed himself to be turned away from the square.

A blast of fire slammed into the building he had just been leaning against. Naru, howling with pain, staggered out into the middle of the street, his great beard and mane of hair on fire. He swirled about, trying to put out the flames. Hoarse laughter came from out of the shadows and, stunned, Hammen looked up to see Zarel stalking toward them, moving with an unearthly speed. He struck Naru another blow and the giant crumpled.

Hammen turned to Norreen.

“Flee! At least find Varena and get her out.”

“We’re all finished,” Norreen snarled. “Let me die as I choose.” And, unsheathing her sword, she leaped forward to stand over Naru, who rolled about weakly on the ground.

Hammen, sighing, stepped forward to join her.

Zarel, now seeing whom he was facing, slowed, a grin of cold delight twisting his features.

With raised hands he slowly walked toward them, moving in for the kill.

Long he fell, so that he was not sure if he had slipped into eternity or if perhaps time itself had ceased to exist. He could sense as well the pursuit, though it was distant. He had slammed the door shut into the world from which he had come, but he knew that somehow he had not bolted it with sufficient mana to keep it thus barred forever.

Gradually his strength returned and he found a sudden joy, a realization that he had indeed crossed through the final barrier, that he was now a Planes Walker. The universe, with all its multiplicity of realities, awaited him if he dared. And yet he sensed as well the barriers that hemmed him in on all sides, the realms guarded so jealously by the others, and there were indeed others. He could sense them, some locked within their realms like demented misers, who kept the doors into their miserable realms locked out of fear that someone would want the squalor they had created. Others fought with a mad-insane-glee, struggling simply for the joy of it. There were triumphs and defeats, exaltation and despair. And all too rarely there was tranquility behind walls erected so high and so strong that no one could pierce into the gardens thus created. And he sensed as well the truth of how they had achieved that.

He felt temptation take hold of him, offering him all the powers of a demigod, for indeed in this brief moment that is truly what he had become, a Walker who could stride across the universe and do battle with forces dark or light as he might choose.

He hovered thus, torn between desires, and then he turned, sensing something else. And he knew. He looked back whence he had come and sensed that the barrier would fail and that his foe might again emerge. But with all the universe to race through it mattered not to him. And yet he sensed something else as well. He felt a lingering sadness, like a child called from play in a dangerous field to return to a task he wished would somehow go away, yet it would not.

He knew what he still must do, and there was an urgency to it that drew him back and downward.

Hammen did not even bother to raise his hands, knowing that it was useless even to try. Norreen would die as a Benalian, fighting with sword in hand, and thus bring honor to her caste. But as for himself, he realized that he was tired, that he was old, and, most of all, he was simply weary of the inequity of this world and wished to be quit of it forever.

“Do it, you bastard, and be done,” Hammen snarled.

And even as Zarel raised his hand to strike, laughing with demonic fury, a shadow seemed to form. Zarel hesitated, looking up.

The shadow swirled in tight, spiraling downward, and Zarel stepped back.

It took form and Hammen, stunned, sat down heavily beside Naru.

Garth One-eye stood in the middle of the street.

Zarel stood silent, mouth opened in astonishment.

“I think we have something to settle,” Garth said, his face set with a look of cold disdain.

Zarel said nothing, looking around nervously.

“Do you remember the night my father died?” Garth said sharply. “Do you remember me standing before you, a child half-blinded by your own hand? You were going to use me as a trade, yet both of us knew that you would not have honored it. You would have killed him and then me in turn. Do you remember my tearing away from your grasp and running back into the flames? You laughed when you heard my childish screams.”

Garth stood silent for a moment.

“Do you remember!” His voice was a lash.

Zarel raised his hand and a fire elemental seemed to leap out from him, the flame washing over Garth. He disappeared in the maelstrom of heat and Zarel laughed coldly, stepping forward.

A gust of icy wind swept the Plaza, dispelling the elemental, and Garth still stood there. The fighting in the streets fell away. Zarel’s warriors and fighters slowed in their frenzy, looking back fearfully. At the sight of the one whom their Master was confronting, they looked around in terror. The mob, which had been running in panic, slowed as well. Those who remained edged back toward the two foes.

Zarel backed out into the Plaza, Garth following. Blow and counterblow were struck, the two locked in a dark struggle that was filled with hatred and revenge. All the powers that both controlled were thrown into the fight so that their struggle seemed to exceed even the pitched battle that had been fought earlier between the different Houses.

Flames soared into the smoke-filled skies, dragons and flying beasts wheeled overhead, giants struggled, and dark creatures came up from the underworld below.

And Zarel slowly gave way. And as he did so all could see the growing terror in his eyes. His fear sapped the resolve of his fighters and warriors and strengthened that of the mob, so that it edged in closer.

The warriors of Zarel started to break, first one, then another and another, so that there was soon a stampede of them, swarming back toward the supposed safety of the palace. Fighters as well turned and fled in blind panic. A mighty roar arose and the mob surged after them, pulling them down, stabbing, beating, and killing without remorse those who had tormented them for so long. Here and there in the crowd Hammen’s lieutenants managed to stem the fury of the mob, allowing fighters to strip themselves of their satchels, or warriors of their weapons, sending them off into the darkness shorn of their powers, to flee into the night.

Zarel, staggered by the blows of his opponent, fell back toward his palace, from which columns of smoke were now pouring as the mob stormed into the building, looting and pillaging.

Zarel turned one final blast of flame on Garth and though Garth was stopped by it, a circle of protection diverted the blaze, which quickly died.

Zarel stood alone, panting for breath, his mana diminished to the merest flicker of power as if he was but a first-rank fighter.

Garth stepped toward him and as he did so he reached for his dagger and unsheathed it.

Zarel looked at him, wide-eyed, and drew his dagger in turn. He leaped forward with a mad cry and Garth parried the blow. Their blades locked again, and yet again, Garth drawing back, blood coursing down his cheek, which was laid open to the bone.

“I’ll cut your other eye out now,” Zarel roared.

Garth moved to parry the blow and then Zarel extended his hand. A light flashed before Garth’s face with a white-hot intensity. Garth staggered backward, momentarily blinded.

Laughing, Zarel came forward to drive his blade into Garth’s throat. And then his hand froze and, with a cry of pain, he staggered away. Fumbling, he wrenched a small dagger out of his back and threw it aside, wasting precious seconds on a healing spell to stop the pain.

Garth, dispelling the fire before his eye, looked down and saw Uriah, lying on the ground next to Zarel.

Uriah looked at him and smiled, and for a brief instant Garth felt as if time was stripped away and again it was the dwarf who had been his friend so many years before.

“I’m sorry,” the dwarf whispered, even as Zarel, with a scream of rage, turned and drove his dagger into the dwarf’s heart.

With a mad cry of remorse and years of pain, Garth leaped forward.

Zarel, wrenching his dagger free from the dwarf’s heart, turned and tried to duck under the blow. With a wild scream, Garth drove his dagger in.

Stunned, Zarel staggered backward, looking down at the hilt of Garth’s blade, which was buried in his chest. He fumbled at it, a sob of astonishment escaping him. He waved his hand feebly to conjure a healing spell. Garth looked at him coldly, hesitated, and then raised his own hand to block it.

“I should have cut your throat that night, rather than simply gouged your eye out,” Zarel hissed.

“Your mistake,” Garth said softly.

Zarel collapsed onto the pavement.

“What do you have now?” Zarel whispered. “You lived for this moment. Now what will you have when all your enemies are gone?”

“I don’t know,” Garth replied sadly, even as Zarel closed his eyes and fell away into the darkness.

Hammen stood silently and watched as the last of the drama was played out. Garth turned slowly and looked at him. He seemed to Hammen to be again the small boy, confused and lost.

Once more Garth looked at Zarel, shook his head, and then turned to walk toward Hammen, a sad, distant smile lighting his features. Norreen, breaking through the crush of the mob, rushed forward and leaped into Garth’s arms.

And then, as if the two were nothing more than an illusion, they disappeared, a darkness swirling around them. There was a momentary look of astonishment on Garth’s face followed by understanding. His other foe had come back to claim him from other realms.

And even as he and Norreen were drawn away by their foe Garth smiled, the words forming, coming as a whisper.

“You’re free.”

He was gone.

The Plaza was silent, except for the crackling of the flames and the low, pitiful cries of the wounded and dying.

Hammen looked at the mob, which stood as if coming out of a dark dream.

“What now?” someone asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Hammen sighed. “I don’t think he ever had a plan for afterward.”

Hammen looked at the city, which was in flames around him.

“I don’t know, and at the moment I simply don’t care.” And sitting down in the ashes, the old man silently wept.