Arena (magic the gathering) Page 19

  Zarel remained silent, his features turning crimson. To those farther away the interchange was not visible and the long delay was becoming tiresome. A restless stirring swept the Plaza. Zarel looked away from Garth and back out across the Plaza and the crowds fell silent.

  “Today is the first day of Festival!”

  A numbing explosion of cheers erupted across the Plaza, so loud that Garth felt as if sound had almost taken physical form. Looking around him he saw the arrayed fighters were being swept up in the excitement, eyes wide, breath coming in short gasps, some of them raising their arms in an involuntary gesture as if already within the fighting circles.

  Zarel rose up and floated off the high dais, lightning swirling around him, and again there was the trumpeting, the drums, the high minor chord shrieks of the organ. He came to a hover above a great platform sheathed in solid gold and resting on great wheels that stood as high as two men and which was drawn by half a dozen mammoths in harness. With a hundred trumpeters sounding a fanfare, the head of the procession started off while yet more explosions erupted overhead. A solid phalanx of warriors marched in formation around the Grand Master’s juggernaut-like dais and the mob pushed and shoved to let it pass, with more than one unfortunate falling beneath the feet of the mammoths or the great grinding wheels of the platform.

  Behind him came Ingkara, marching in the place of honor, since it was one of their own who had won the last Festival and thus gained the honor of being the chosen servant of the Walker. Behind them came Fentesk, for placing second, then Kestha, and finally Bolk. The great mob surged around them as the procession made its way across the Plaza. A stampede erupted as the spectators rushed down the side streets, streaming ahead of the procession to form up at the gates of the arena.

  The procession skirted past the vacant spot where the House of Oor-tael once stood and Garth, sensing that he was being watched, looked up to see Kirlen turning and gazing back at him. He lowered his head in respect, half expecting yet another lashing probe, but there was none.

  The procession reached the great thoroughfare that led from the Plaza and down a long, sloping road for a thousand fathoms to the gates of the city. Every rooftop was crammed with spectators, the colors of the mob now intermingling, the supporters of the four Houses cheering themselves hoarse with excitement as their favorites passed. And yet again a chant arose…

  “One-eye, One-eye, One-eye!”

  Garth lowered his head and yet still the cry echoed around him. For a brief moment he looked up and there was a flash of dark hair and stained leather armor on a rooftop, and then she disappeared.

  The procession finally reached the gates of the city. The heat under the noonday sun was intense, even for this autumn day, the air thick with smoke, incense, dust, and the smell of unwashed bodies. Dozens were passing out now, falling, those around them robbing the sunstruck. Great barrels of wine and beer were opened at nearly every street corner, with mugs full of drink going for a copper, the cheap brews inflaming the mob to an even wilder hysteria.

  Garth breathed a sigh of relief as the procession of Bolk warriors finally passed under the gate and, for a brief instant, the noise and sun were blocked out. As the procession emerged out the other side, Garth finally saw the arena below and he felt his blood quicken.

  The arena was built into a natural, bowl-shaped valley just outside the city gates, just to the south of the harbor, which was crammed with shipping. The fighting area measured over three hundred fathoms across, the entire circumference ringed with seats that rose up for over a hundred rows, providing seating for more than three hundred thousand spectators. On the sloping ground that stretched from the arena up to the city wall hundreds of thousands more who could not get tickets were gathered to watch the spectacle, though all they could hope to see was the struggle of antlike creatures far below. Already the sloping ground was jammed by the mob, while down below in the arena, those who could afford seats were already streaming in and filling the stands.

  As the procession made its way down the hill the cheering within the arena rose up to greet them. The head of the procession finally turned and went beneath a high-arching gate and stepped out into the center of the arena and the multitude roared with an insane frenzy, so that Garth felt as if he was facing the attack of a demon howl. The arena was clearly divided into four areas, marked by the fluttering pennants waved by the spectators. The procession, still led by Zarel, moved across the center of the arena floor and then broke in four different directions, each group of fighters taking positions in front of the sections of the arena reserved for its supporters. The fifth section was on the western side of the arena, directly beneath the tote board, which would show the odds for each of the fights. Here would sit the nobles and well-heeled merchants, as well as the fighters and warriors of the Grand Master, where they could catch the afternoon breeze wafting in from the sea. Directly in front of this section, out on the edge of the arena floor, was the high throne reserved for the Grand Master of the Arena, Zarel Ewine.

  As the Brown contingent of fighters reached its section Garth breathed a sigh of relief. The formation came to a halt and then broke ranks to take seats in a shaded viewing stand resting on the edge of the arena floor. The procession had done nothing to help his still-throbbing hangover. The howling of the mob echoed back and forth in the arena, intensified, it seemed, by the heat, swirling dust, the smell of unwashed bodies, and the thick, heavy scent of greasy food cooking in hundreds of stalls that lined the top ring of the stadium.

  Again there was the fanfare of trumpets and, surprisingly, the mob settled down almost instantly, a silence for which Garth was immensely grateful.

  Across the far side of the stadium Garth saw the antlike figure of the Grand Master step forward, while from out of a tunnel set into the side of the arena came a procession of hooded monks bearing a great smoking brazier. The mob sitting in the arena came to its feet and Garth looked around to see that his fellow fighters now stood with heads bowed.

  The Grand Master approached the brazier, raised his hands, and the flames leaped heavenward, black smoke coiling straight up into the sky, spreading outward on the faint wisp of a breeze coming in from the sea.

  “On the third day of Festival shall come the Great Walker of Realms Unknown to take his tribute and the fighter chosen on the arena floor.”

  Zarel’s voice, enhanced by magical powers, projected to the farthest ends of the arena, washing over Garth like a wave.

  “In three days’ time let us find the fighter who shall be worthy to be known as servant of He Who Rules over All!”

  “So be it!”

  The reply was roared out by half a million voices, but Garth stood silent, except for the faintest of curses escaping his lips that was lost in the wild insanity of screams.

  ____________________

  CHAPTER 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Damn you, you know of whom I speak.”

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

  “He is a wanted felon.”

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

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

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

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

  “I did no such thing.”

  “He betrayed all of us,” Tulan interjected.

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

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

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

  “Shut up, all of you,” Zarel snarled.

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

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

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

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

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

  “I hope you do,” Kirlen replied coldly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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