Arena (magic the gathering) Read online

  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 wa
s 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 sh
ould 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.