Arena (magic the gathering) Read online

  “It will create bad blood in the Houses.”

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

  “And the one you told me about?”

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

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

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

  The Walker nodded and looked up again.

  “To the death then!”

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I should have died.

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

  “Finish him!”

  The crowd picked up the thunderous words of the Walker.

  “Finish him! Finish him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The Walker stood up and looked down at Hammen.

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

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

  Hammen walked out into the center of the arena.

  “He won the right of combat.”

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

  “Gone.”

  The Walker chuckled.

  “And what do you want, beggar?”

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

  The Walker leaned back and laughed coldly.

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

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

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

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

  “One-eye!”

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

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

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

  “This way?”

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

  He hesitated.

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

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

  Hammen looked up and smiled sadly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The Walker’s sardonic laugh echoed over the arena.

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

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

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

  “I know.”

  “What the hell for?”

  Garth looked over at Hammen and
smiled.

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

  Hammen looked over angrily at Norreen.

  “Thanks a lot.”

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

  “Would that have changed what you did?”

  “No.”

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

  Garth laughed, shaking his head.

  “You still have our money?”

  “Yes.”

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

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

  Garth looked over at Norreen.

  She shook her head. “I’m staying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Fight!”

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

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

  ***

  Zarel looked up at the Walker.

  “He is dangerous.”

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

  Zarel looked away and the voice lashed through his mind.

  “You told me he was dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you did not see the body.”

  Zarel hesitated.

  “Well?”

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

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

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

  He was dead; he was supposed to be dead.

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

  “Fool! He is still out there now.”

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

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

  He’s afraid, Zarel realized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Hammen laughed crudely and spit on the ground.

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

  Garth smiled and said nothing.

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

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

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

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

  “If you live through this one.”

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

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

  “Fight!”

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

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

  He concentrated his thoughts and sent out attacks on his opponent’s mana, the force draining out of Gilganorin’s lands. The stone giants tumbled down into heaps of rocks. With a running bound Garth leaped over the fissure and laid out a line of living brambles and t
rees to form a barrier. Again he drew on the Craw Wurm but these were countered in turn by attacks of fire, which ignited the woods. The Craw Wurm, in turn, was destroyed by a dark elemental, which Garth then destroyed by an elemental that he conjured in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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