Arena (magic the gathering) Read online

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

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

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

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

  Uriah smiled at the thought.

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

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

  ***

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

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

  Zarel sighed and leaned forward on his throne.

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

  Garth looked over at Hammen, who shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “One-eye!”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Put not your trust in the mob.”

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

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

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

  “Spell match.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You missed the morning procession.”

  “I thought it
best for reasons of health.”

  Kirlen laughed coldly.

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

  “No sense in causing trouble.”

  “Like last night?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Garth chuckled softly, saying nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But not for long,” Garth replied.

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

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

  His words were greeted with cheers of anticipation.

  Garth looked back over at Hammen and grinned.

  “Is it taken care of?”

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

  “Fine.”

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

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

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

  As he spoke Naru looked over at Garth and grinned.

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

  “Maybe.”

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

  “Who is he?” Garth asked.

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

  Garth stood up and looked over at Naru.

  “Not this round.”

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

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

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

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

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

  Zarel stood up.

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

  The audience fell silent in anticipation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What about the public declaration?” Hammen asked.

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

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

  “A spell match.”

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

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

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

  “Fight!”

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

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