Arena

CHAPTER 8

“HAMMEN.”

The voice was a whisper, as if drifting on the wind. Frightened, he turned, expecting to see the fighters of the Grand Master.

The alleyway was deserted.

In the distance the clamor of the mob out in the great square could still be heard. Rioting had broken out after Garth fell. Some of it triggered by lost bets, because many had come to believe him almost invincible. Others, however, were enraged because a favorite had been taken and in some primal sort of way the mob felt it to be unfair. Their sense of honor had been offended both by the Grand Master and by Orange, which had barred the door to their hero. The adventure of the almost-legendary One-eye, which had grown in the telling to near-mythical proportions, was now finished, and they were disappointed.

Windows not broken in the brawl of the day before were being smashed, and chants of “One-eye, One-eye” could be heard swelling on the wind.

Disgusted, Hammen listened, knowing that if anything it was just an excuse for a little free shopping and that the actual rightness or wrongness of what had happened was secondary. Later they could say that they had protested the unfairness while gorging on the food and wine they had appropriated and parading about in the fine silks taken from some unfortunate merchant. Thus it had always been with urban mobs, who would riot on a whim, a mere pretext of an excuse, Hammen thought, and yet remain mute when real injustice occurred.

“Hammen.”

He ducked back into the shadows and reached for his dagger as he saw a shadow drift through the alleyway, moving stealthily, the only sound the squealing of rats disrupted from their late-night repast.

The shadow stopped.

“It’s Norreen; it’s all right.”

It was the Benalish woman and he breathed a sigh of relief.

She came up to him.

“I saw you in the Plaza and followed you,” she whispered.

“Some hero you were,” Hammen snapped. “You could have made your name out there.”

“Did you go up and stand by his side?” she growled in reply.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not the hero, you are. Besides, it was useless; he was finished.”

“That’s why I held back. Never pick a fight that’s suicide.”

Hammen nodded sadly.

“So it’s over. Now leave me alone.”

“It’s not over. He’s still alive.”

“So what? They have him. Either they’ll torture him to death tonight, or keep him for the amusement of the Walker. Either way it would have been better if he had killed himself with his last spell.”

“He threw his satchel away before the end.”

“What?”

“Who’s Varena?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft.

Hammen chuckled and shook his head.

“A final pleasure.”

“Oh.” She was silent for a moment.

“You say he threw his satchel away?” Hammen asked curiously.

“He called her name and then demanded sanctuary for his spells. I saw a woman snatch it up and then go back inside.”

Hammen chuckled softly.

“Just like him. What did the Grand Master’s men do then?”

“They took him and bound him up. Some of them went up to the door and demanded the satchel be turned over as a rightful prize and Orange barred the door shut. The mob loved it. They then loaded Garth into a cart and that’s when the rioting started.”

Hammen looked expectantly back up the alleyway, the sound of the riot still echoing over the city, and he started to step out of the shadows.

“There’s nothing we can do now,” Norreen sighed. “There’s hundreds of warriors out there and nearly all the Grand Master’s fighters. Besides, they’re hunting for you and for me; go out there now and we’ll be in a cell right beside him.”

“What do you mean we, Benalish?”

“Just that, we.”

For the first time since it had all started Hammen felt the small leather bag Garth had tossed him. He opened it up and peeked inside, the glinting within barely visible in the darkness.

If he was alive, there still might be a way.

“Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

As he spoke he reached out and attempted to pat her on her backside and withdrew his hand with a yelp.

“I demand the satchel!”

Varena looked over coldly at Varnel, Master of the House of Fentesk, and shook her head defiantly.

“He declared me his heir out there by shouting my name. He also called for the sanctuary of his possessions. The fight waged against him was not a challenge fight and even if it was, those dogs don’t deserve to divide up what was his.”

“What right do you have to his possessions?”

“I made love to him this morning. That’s my claim.”

Varnel looked up at her hungrily and licked his lips. She looked back, cold, defiant, the faintest sneer of contempt lighting her features.

“If we could make that same arrangement, perhaps this incident might be forgotten,” Varnel finally said.

“You are my House Master and according to the rules that is as far as it goes. I made that clear the day I joined.”

“Damn you.” He stood up as if to challenge her.

“Fight me and you might win,” she said coldly. “But I’ll be dead and this place will be a shambles. You’ll also have a rebellion on your hands. You betrayed one of our House tonight. Do it twice and you’ll have nothing come the start of Festival.”

“Do you think they really care out there for One-eye? Most of them are glad he’s dead. They don’t give a good damn about honor, only their pay.”

“True. And most of them are now wondering, even if it is just a faint tugging, wondering if you might not protect them as well if the offer from the Grand Master was great enough. Kill me over this and that suspicion will be firmly planted.”

Varnel stood silent as if weighing the possibilities of trying to force both the satchel and more from her.

“Stick with weaker minds and bodies,” she sneered, pointing to the back of the room where several naked women lounged on a silk divan, watching the confrontation with detached boredom. “It’s safer.”

Laughing coldly, she slammed the door shut behind her, almost feeling pity for his concubines, who would know the darker side of his passion tonight.

It was well past midnight, exhaustion was finally started to take hold, and she headed for the hot baths to soak out the tension. She entered the steamy room, which was empty, and felt a momentary pang. It was, after all, only a passing encounter, if anything, even a bit of a game of power and control, but it had still been pleasant enough.

She undressed, keeping her satchel and his with her, placed them on a ledge next to the pool, slipped into the bubbling water, and stretched out.

It was time to leave this House, she realized. Varnel would not dare anything now, not on the eve of Festival. Beyond that he would have to make a show of defiance toward the Grand Master and refuse the return of the satchel. To do otherwise, after his miserable display of ordering the door bolted, would show a complete subservience. But once Festival was over, and most of the fighters had gone to their yearly assignments and chapter houses, that would be the time for him to get even for the humiliation before his harem and before the other fighters.

He, like the other House Masters, was not above arranging an “accident” for a recalcitrant fighter, such as a contract where a prince agreed to a hidden clause that if the fighter was killed, he’d receive a full refund. As she floated in the pool she felt a moment’s regret for accepting the sanctuary call of Garth and grabbing up the satchel. Why did I do it? Was it the powers the satchel contained or was it something else?

Damn!

She reached over to the small ledge where she had placed the satchels and was tempted to look inside and see what powers he had controlled. But he was not yet dead, she could sense that, and thus it would be a violation of the laws.

The laws. Who gave a good damn about the laws anymore? She was seasoned enough to understand the simple rules of survival, but somehow it still bothered her. The powers had perverted it all, changing it from at least an honorable profession into a selling to the highest bidder and the entertaining of the mob. No longer was there any sense of sessan, the intricate set of codes and rules that had once bound those who could control the mana. The fighting for sessan, for the simple gaining of powers, honor, and face were gone. Increasingly it was for the kill and the lust of the kill.

For Varnel it was a means of fulfilling his increasingly perverted pleasures. And for the fighters of her House, few cared any longer about the intrinsic joy of the discipline required to control the mana, caring instead only for what it could give them in this plane.

That thought now disturbed her as well. For what did the Walker think of this? He was, after all, the most powerful of any in this plane, the one who had obtained so much mana that he could now jump between realms of existence. For him the struggles of this realm were most likely as trivial as the fighting of insects under the heel of a little boy who could crush them at any time.

And yet, should he not know and care? If this world had lost its honor, then what of the sense of sessan of the Walker himself? In less than two days Festival would start, and at the end of it the winner of all would then go with the Walker, to serve as his new acolyte into the deepest of mysteries.

If I win, what will I learn then? she wondered.

Somehow the thought suddenly disturbed her-for the first time.

A less than pleasant smell wafted around her. Startled, she opened her eyes and sat up.

“Ah, what I was really hoping to see.”

Hammen was squatting by the edge of her pool like a frog sitting on a lily pad, his eyes bulging with unconcealed delight.

“What in the name of all the devils are you doing here?” she hissed, surprised not only by his stinking presence but also by the fact that she was embarrassed by her own nakedness. She reached out to a rack and fumbled for a towel to cover herself.

“You don’t need a towel,” Hammen moaned.

“Hammen!” someone said, and a hand came out of the shadows, slapping him across the back of the head so that he yelped softly.

Varena stepped out of the pool and snatched up her satchel at the sight of the stranger behind Garth’s servant.

“A Benalish?”

The woman nodded.

“Both of you stink like a sewer.”

“That’s how we got in here,” Hammen said, “and I must confess it was exciting to think that we were wading through water you might have bathed in.” Norreen slapped him again.

“If you’re found here, you’re both dead,” Varena whispered. “Get out now or I’ll have to take care of you both.”

Norreen’s hand dropped to the hilt of her blade and Varena let her towel drop, freeing one hand while she slung her satchel over her shoulder in order to fight.

Hammen looked at her wide-eyed and grinned before finally tossing over the small bag that Garth had given him.

She grabbed it, still keeping a wary eye on Norreen.

“We thought you might enjoy the game we propose,” Hammen said with a smile.

Racked with pain, Garth struggled to keep from screaming. There was almost a detached sense to the agony, as if he were watching himself from some place far away, floating above his body, while down on the rack he twisted and writhed.

He screamed, a wild, howling cry that was more rage than anguish, for his training had long ago taught him how to divert pain into places where it would not darken his body and mind. And yet the man who did this to him knew of such places as well and his invisible fingers probed into Garth’s soul, tearing at his thoughts, lashing him, cutting into his mind, and then attempting to reassemble the pieces.

There were no healing spells now, no blocks, no way of striking back, only the unrelenting assault to probe into the core of his existence. Finally there were but two paths left, to relent, to reveal, or to go down into the paths of darkness and the light which was beyond. Garth closed in upon himself and reached toward the second path.

There was remorse for all that he had dreamed and planned for; all that had moved him and kept him alive across the years was now for naught. All the years hidden away, training, secretly planning alone for what could and should be done were wasted now. The wonderful intricacy of it all would be lost forever. He would have to appear before the shadows to whom he had sworn so much, empty-handed. He could only hope that they would understand and forgive.

“No, not yet!”

The lashing of his soul stopped and instantly there was a soothing warmth that drew him back from the door that was already opening before him.

He wanted to go on through and yet could not. The very mana that all carried within, the power of life, refused to surrender while the cord was still intact.

Garth opened his eyes.

Zarel Ewine, Grand Master of the Arena, stood over him. There was almost a look of pity in his eyes, the sense of it so strong that Garth struggled not to give in to what he knew was simply another ploy.

Zarel reached out and touched him lightly on the forehead and the last of the pain went away.

“Wouldn’t it be better to talk with me now?” His voice was soft and warm, like that of a caring mother whispering to a child sick with some strange and terrible fever.

Zarel nodded and unseen hands loosened the chains which had held Garth stretched out upon the rack. Hands helped him to sit up and a cooling draught was placed to his lips. He hesitated, wondering what seductive herbs and potions it might contain, and then drank it anyway. If they were going to try that, they could have forced it into him while he was stretched and semiconscious on the table of pain.

The drink cleared the rawness of his throat and he leaned over, coughing, fighting down the urge to vomit.

The drink was pressed to his lips again and he finished it, a cool lightness coursing through him, so that he felt as if he were somehow floating and all was now at peace. He turned inward with his thoughts again, concentrating what little power he still had to clear his mind.

“You can leave us now,” he heard Zarel command, and behind him a door closed.

“This is really unfortunate, you know,” Zarel said calmly.

Garth coughed and said nothing.

“Let me be frank with you,” Zarel continued, and Garth heard a chair being dragged up by the side of the table.

He opened his eyes and saw the cold gleam in his tormentor’s eyes. He could sense just how much this man was actually enjoying what was happening. There was no longer even a real rage in him. It was cold, detached-this torture and questioning was an entertainment, a challenge to be relished.

Garth looked at him warily.

“You are going to die. There is no sense in lying to someone of your skills. You have set out to make yourself my implacable foe. You have caused me humiliation, loss of property, and loss of face. That I cannot tolerate.”

He sighed as if the whole thing was a terrible burden.

“That rabble, that stinking mob out there, can have their heroes, but they must be heroes I control.” His voice rose slightly. “And you, One-eye, tried to set yourself up outside of my control.

“Oh, I will admit you are masterful, the way you triggered that fight between Kestha and Bolk, the way you flouted my laws. It’s almost a waste.” He shook his head as if truly saddened. “If you had but come to my door first and sought employment, I would gladly have given you rank.”

Garth said nothing, for he knew Zarel was not really speaking to him at all, but rather to his own pride.

“A rank with power, gold, women, whatever it is you desire. I think you have skill enough that you could even have been my second, for the one I have now is nothing but a lapdog.”

Zarel paused, looking at him coldly.

“But no, you don’t desire that, do you, One-eye?”

There was now a cold contempt in Zarel.

“You’re of the old school and you hate me for it. Such a fool, such a fool…” And his voice trailed off as if he was looking into some far-distance place.

“Who are you?”

His voice was like a lash, startling Garth, who recoiled from the power of it. Again there was the flash of a struggle, the hope that he had been caught off guard, and the barrier was almost pierced.

Zarel smiled.

“You’re growing weaker. You know I will have you before it’s done.”

“You can try,” Garth whispered. “And then what? You’ll know and I will be dead. It’s the mystery that torments you, isn’t it? The mystery and the fear.”

Zarel stood up and turned away for a moment, his multihued cape shimmering in the torchlight.

Zarel finally turned back and, sighing, sat down.

“I will make this simple for you. The Walker is aware of you. The torment I give you would be just for the moment. Tell me and it is ended and you can drift into the long sleep. Don’t tell me and he can make your suffering long and hard. And believe me, it can be for a very long time.”

“So is that who he really is?” Garth asked. “Have you revealed the facade behind the mask of his power and his appeal to the mob?”

Zarel lowered his head for a moment as if caught in a blasphemy.

“You can control the mana,” Zarel whispered. “You know the power of the red and the black, and he holds that power in abundance. Only a fool would think him otherwise. He is terrible in his power; for how else would he control such power? He answers to no one but the Eternal and even the Eternal is held at bay until Ragalka, the day of destruction and woe.”

Zarel spoke as if almost talking to an equal about a truth that was disagreeable but had to be faced calmly and rationally.

“He will not let you escape into the lands of the dead, but will hold you in his hands as an amusement to be toyed with. It could be aeons before he grows bored with you and grants your release. That is what I offer you if you do not cooperate.”

“And that is what he has done to those who have incurred his wrath,” Garth said, his voice cold with rage.

Zarel stirred and looked at Garth with surprise.

“That is a concern of yours, isn’t it?” And again there was the moment of probing.

Garth fell silent.

“That is a concern, isn’t it? You have some design not only against me but against the Walker himself?” His words were like lashes that flayed Garth.

Garth stared straight at Zarel in cold defiance.

Zarel nodded slowly.

“Why did you come here, One-eye? Who sent you and why?”

“You will never know.”

“Damn you!” And then he slapped Garth, the blow striking with such force that it blurred Garth’s vision.

Garth looked at him coldly, spitting the blood out of his mouth into Zarel’s face.

“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” Garth whispered. “Even when I am chained and in your hands, you’re afraid of me and what I might be.”

“I should kill you now!” Zarel said, raising his hand as if to deliver the blow.

“Go ahead. And then you’ll never know for sure. You’ll never know if there are more like me, plotting and waiting.”

“You’re from the House of Oor-tael, that’s it.”

Garth merely smiled.

“You will never know.”

“I destroyed all of you. All of you. What’s left are pitiful dogs that I hunt for sport.”

“If that’s true, then why do you fear me even now, chained in your dungeon?”

“I fear no man or woman.”

“You say that for yourself, but it means nothing to me, for I can see the truth in you.”

Zarel looked down at Garth and there was a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“You are driving toward the dark goal, the same as your Master did before you. And you are running a race. You must pay the tribute of mana each year to the Walker and yet you hold back more and more for yourself, to build the power so that one day you can be like him.”

“How do you know that?”

“The entire world knows it,” Garth whispered with a cold laugh. “Do you think the rest of us are such fools as not to see?”

Zarel stirred uneasily.

“And don’t you think they fear you for it? They remember what you did to the House of Oor-tael in service to your Master. Now they see that you are doing it to them as well, slowly bleeding the Houses in the Festival. Yet you bribe the House Masters each year and they close their eyes, but only for the moment. It is all coming unraveled, the rage of the Masters, the rage of the mob, and soon the Walker will know.”

“Is that what you desire, then?” Zarel asked. “To reach the Walker and tell him?”

Garth laughed.

“Perhaps.”

Zarel looked around the room and chuckled.

“Do you know how many have tried to cast me down? All of them, all of them finish up here.” He pointed to the chains on the wall, more than one of them holding rotting corpses and skeletons.

Garth smiled.

“I said before they feared you, but you don’t see what that fear will produce. You think it will keep your enemies under control. But it can also drive them to acts of desperation. Soon there won’t be enough chains in all the world to hold them. In the end either the mob or the Houses will tear you apart with their bare hands.” Garth laughed, his rasping voice a chilling cackle.

“Who are you?”

Garth spit in his face.

Zarel, with a scream of rage, slapped him again and yet again, and all the time Garth continued to laugh. In his heart he silently prayed that he could provoke him into ending it now, to deliver the deathblow so that he could go into the shadows and at least leave Zarel tormented by the mystery.

The rain of blows stopped and he looked back up, the Grand Master standing over him, heaving for breath, his cloak splattered with blood.

“No. You’ll not escape. You’ll not escape.”

Zarel turned away and started for the door and opened it. He paused and looked back.

“Do you know what the thousand cuts are?”

Garth felt a cold chill.

“Contemplate that, for in an hour it will be started on you. My man has skills, though, and by the time you are dragged before the Walker you will be but a remnant, blind, without fingers or toes, and without your manhood. I shall enjoy watching it.

“Drug him!”

And he stormed away, cursing.

Seconds later two of the torturers were at his side, grinning, one of them forcing his mouth open, the other pouring a draught down his throat so that he drifted into a fevered dream, unable to control his thoughts and thus will his heart to stop.

Swooning, Garth lay back, the two torturers laughing as they tightened his chains to stretch him back out on the table of pain.

Caught in his fear, the Grand Master walked down the dank corridor, ignoring the moans and cries of his other visitors in the basement of his palace. The hallway stank of them and of the open sewer drains set in the middle of the hallway, which served as a convenient place for the dropping of bodies and parts of bodies.

“Uriah!”

The dwarf turned, his features white with fear.

“What are you doing here?”

“You sent for me, Master.”

He looked closely at the deformed fighter, wondering if the man had been eavesdropping on the conversation.

Zarel paused for a moment, struggling to control the turmoil within. One-eye had to be of Turquoise. But how? How could he have survived? He was too young, most likely barely a boy, and the Grand Master roamed through his thoughts, for there was a half-formed memory, one which he could not clearly recall, and that was even more troubling.

Uriah coughed nervously, bringing him back.

“Has his servant been found?”

“Not yet, Master.”

“And Varnel, has he surrendered the satchel?”

“He says he can’t.”

“Damn!”

Zarel slapped Uriah with such force that the dwarf slammed against the wall and looked up at him, stunned and terrified.

“Tell Varnel I want that satchel and the hell with the price. He took three thousand just to bar the door; let him know that if he doesn’t release the satchel, word of his betrayal might slip out.

“Offer him ten thousand if need be. I want that servant as well. He must know something and he doesn’t have the mind of a fighter. He can’t resist the way One-eye can.”

Uriah held his cheek, which was red and swelling.

Zarel looked down at Uriah.

“Is there something else?” he asked, his voice suddenly gone cold.

Uriah shook his head, tears of pain and fear in his eyes.

“Damn you, get out of my sight.”

Uriah scurried away and, cursing, Zarel continued on, suppressing a gag as the cloying stench of the dungeon wafted around him.

There was a momentary sensing that something wasn’t quite right and he paused, senses alert, waiting. He heard the snuffling sobs of Uriah and the moaning diverted him. Angrily, he stalked out of the dungeon.