Arena (magic the gathering) Page 32

  “Destroy Ingkara’s House,” he shouted. “Leave not one block upon another. And the same for the other Houses. Now gather before me the mana that has been taken from the fallen. Any who hold back I will kill with my own hands.”

  Uriah, who had been standing and watching the exchange between Zarel and Jimak, stepped forward angrily.

  “You promised a House to me and the power that was in Tulan’s satchel. He destroyed them before dying. I claim what is taken from the other Kestha fighters as mine.”

  Zarel turned and, with a single blow, knocked Uriah over, sending the dwarf sprawling to the ground. Uriah struggled to regain his footing and Zarel knocked him down once again with a psionic blow that slammed the dwarf into unconsciousness.

  Turning, Zarel glared at the other fighters.

  “Do it!” But even as he spoke there was a new eruption of fighting on the far side of the Plaza.

  “Damn it, now what?” he snarled angrily.

  A warrior came through the press of fighters who had witnessed the downfall of their captain.

  “The mob, sire,” the warrior shouted. “They’re attacking again.”

  Zarel turned and looked back at his fighters.

  “Leave none of them alive this time. If this city is to be turned into a pyre, do it.”

  The fighters stood silent, not moving.

  “You have a choice,” Zarel hissed. “Either serve me now or die. You can all try to take me but with the power I have, I guarantee few of you will live to see the triumph. And those of you that do survive will be torn apart by the mob. Now go stop them.”

  Several of the fighters turned away and wearily headed toward the sound of the fighting. The rest, watching them go, finally turned and followed.

  Zarel stormed after them, gathering in the mana that his still-loyal warriors now brought him in the dozens of satchels taken from the fallen of both sides. And he felt a surge of energy from the mana as he gathered it in, so that even the burden of its weight bothered him not.

  He drew upon the renewed strength and, with a howl of delight, he sent a blast of fire across the Plaza-fire which struck into the mob with such force that a hundred or more were bowled over by the flame, their incandescent forms twisting and writhing in agony.

  The mob, which had been angrily advancing from out of the thoroughfare of the silk merchants, turned in panic and started to flee. From the other boulevards that led into the Plaza came yet more and Zarel, laughing with sardonic delight, called down torments upon them as well, slaying hundreds with a power that was near to that of a demigod. And he sang with a fierce joy even as he drained his power in the killing.

  And all turned and fled before his dark visage.

  ***

  “It’s lost, damn it, it’s lost!”

  Hammen, staggered by the terrifying power of Zarel, could only lean against the side of a shattered building, watching with numbed comprehension the slaughter taking place in the Plaza. He knew the attack had been a forlorn hope and it was evident now that it was doomed. The mob, which had taken far too much of a beating in the arena in the last two days of rioting, was spent, fleeing in every direction.

  But the counterattack did not stop. Zarel, drunk with a mad glee, staggered about the Plaza, burning everything in sight. His warriors, and now many of his fighters as well, had given themselves over to riot, and rushed about as maniacs, killing the wounded, burning anything that would stand, spreading out into the side streets destroying as they went.

  “Madness, it’s all madness,” Hammen whispered. He felt hands on his shoulders turning him away. He looked up at Naru and then over at Norreen.

  “The world is his now,” Hammen moaned. “At least before, at least before Garth came, there was a balance. Now it is gone. Damn, it’s all gone and we are in the hands of a madman.”

  “Old man must leave,” Naru said, and his voice was actually filled with a sad melancholy. “Zarel kill you, kill Orange woman and other woman if they found. Leave.”

  Shaking with fatigue, Hammen allowed himself to be turned away from the square.

  A blast of fire slammed into the building he had just been leaning against. Naru, howling with pain, staggered out into the middle of the street, his great beard and mane of hair on fire. He swirled about, trying to put out the flames. Hoarse laughter came from out of the shadows and, stunned, Hammen looked up to see Zarel stalking toward them, moving with an unearthly speed. He struck Naru another blow and the giant crumpled.

  Hammen turned to Norreen.

  “Flee! At least find Varena and get her out.”

  “We’re all finished,” Norreen snarled. “Let me die as I choose.” And, unsheathing her sword, she leaped forward to stand over Naru, who rolled about weakly on the ground.

  Hammen, sighing, stepped forward to join her.

  Zarel, now seeing whom he was facing, slowed, a grin of cold delight twisting his features.

  With raised hands he slowly walked toward them, moving in for the kill.

  ***

  Long he fell, so that he was not sure if he had slipped into eternity or if perhaps time itself had ceased to exist. He could sense as well the pursuit, though it was distant. He had slammed the door shut into the world from which he had come, but he knew that somehow he had not bolted it with sufficient mana to keep it thus barred forever.

  Gradually his strength returned and he found a sudden joy, a realization that he had indeed crossed through the final barrier, that he was now a Planes Walker. The universe, with all its multiplicity of realities, awaited him if he dared. And yet he sensed as well the barriers that hemmed him in on all sides, the realms guarded so jealously by the others, and there were indeed others. He could sense them, some locked within their realms like demented misers, who kept the doors into their miserable realms locked out of fear that someone would want the squalor they had created. Others fought with a mad-insane-glee, struggling simply for the joy of it. There were triumphs and defeats, exaltation and despair. And all too rarely there was tranquility behind walls erected so high and so strong that no one could pierce into the gardens thus created. And he sensed as well the truth of how they had achieved that.

  He felt temptation take hold of him, offering him all the powers of a demigod, for indeed in this brief moment that is truly what he had become, a Walker who could stride across the universe and do battle with forces dark or light as he might choose.

  He hovered thus, torn between desires, and then he turned, sensing something else. And he knew. He looked back whence he had come and sensed that the barrier would fail and that his foe might again emerge. But with all the universe to race through it mattered not to him. And yet he sensed something else as well. He felt a lingering sadness, like a child called from play in a dangerous field to return to a task he wished would somehow go away, yet it would not.

  He knew what he still must do, and there was an urgency to it that drew him back and downward.

  ***

  Hammen did not even bother to raise his hands, knowing that it was useless even to try. Norreen would die as a Benalian, fighting with sword in hand, and thus bring honor to her caste. But as for himself, he realized that he was tired, that he was old, and, most of all, he was simply weary of the inequity of this world and wished to be quit of it forever.

  “Do it, you bastard, and be done,” Hammen snarled.

  And even as Zarel raised his hand to strike, laughing with demonic fury, a shadow seemed to form. Zarel hesitated, looking up.

  The shadow swirled in tight, spiraling downward, and Zarel stepped back.

  It took form and Hammen, stunned, sat down heavily beside Naru.

  Garth One-eye stood in the middle of the street.

  Zarel stood silent, mouth opened in astonishment.

  “I think we have something to settle,” Garth said, his face set with a look of cold disdain.

  Zarel said nothing, looking around nervously.

  “Do you remember the night my father died?�
� Garth said sharply. “Do you remember me standing before you, a child half-blinded by your own hand? You were going to use me as a trade, yet both of us knew that you would not have honored it. You would have killed him and then me in turn. Do you remember my tearing away from your grasp and running back into the flames? You laughed when you heard my childish screams.”

  Garth stood silent for a moment.

  “Do you remember!” His voice was a lash.

  Zarel raised his hand and a fire elemental seemed to leap out from him, the flame washing over Garth. He disappeared in the maelstrom of heat and Zarel laughed coldly, stepping forward.

  A gust of icy wind swept the Plaza, dispelling the elemental, and Garth still stood there. The fighting in the streets fell away. Zarel’s warriors and fighters slowed in their frenzy, looking back fearfully. At the sight of the one whom their Master was confronting, they looked around in terror. The mob, which had been running in panic, slowed as well. Those who remained edged back toward the two foes.

  Zarel backed out into the Plaza, Garth following. Blow and counterblow were struck, the two locked in a dark struggle that was filled with hatred and revenge. All the powers that both controlled were thrown into the fight so that their struggle seemed to exceed even the pitched battle that had been fought earlier between the different Houses.

  Flames soared into the smoke-filled skies, dragons and flying beasts wheeled overhead, giants struggled, and dark creatures came up from the underworld below.

  And Zarel slowly gave way. And as he did so all could see the growing terror in his eyes. His fear sapped the resolve of his fighters and warriors and strengthened that of the mob, so that it edged in closer.

  The warriors of Zarel started to break, first one, then another and another, so that there was soon a stampede of them, swarming back toward the supposed safety of the palace. Fighters as well turned and fled in blind panic. A mighty roar arose and the mob surged after them, pulling them down, stabbing, beating, and killing without remorse those who had tormented them for so long. Here and there in the crowd Hammen’s lieutenants managed to stem the fury of the mob, allowing fighters to strip themselves of their satchels, or warriors of their weapons, sending them off into the darkness shorn of their powers, to flee into the night.

  Zarel, staggered by the blows of his opponent, fell back toward his palace, from which columns of smoke were now pouring as the mob stormed into the building, looting and pillaging.

  Zarel turned one final blast of flame on Garth and though Garth was stopped by it, a circle of protection diverted the blaze, which quickly died.

  Zarel stood alone, panting for breath, his mana diminished to the merest flicker of power as if he was but a first-rank fighter.

  Garth stepped toward him and as he did so he reached for his dagger and unsheathed it.

  Zarel looked at him, wide-eyed, and drew his dagger in turn. He leaped forward with a mad cry and Garth parried the blow. Their blades locked again, and yet again, Garth drawing back, blood coursing down his cheek, which was laid open to the bone.

  “I’ll cut your other eye out now,” Zarel roared.

  ***

  Garth moved to parry the blow and then Zarel extended his hand. A light flashed before Garth’s face with a white-hot intensity. Garth staggered backward, momentarily blinded.

  Laughing, Zarel came forward to drive his blade into Garth’s throat. And then his hand froze and, with a cry of pain, he staggered away. Fumbling, he wrenched a small dagger out of his back and threw it aside, wasting precious seconds on a healing spell to stop the pain.

  Garth, dispelling the fire before his eye, looked down and saw Uriah, lying on the ground next to Zarel.

  Uriah looked at him and smiled, and for a brief instant Garth felt as if time was stripped away and again it was the dwarf who had been his friend so many years before.

  “I’m sorry,” the dwarf whispered, even as Zarel, with a scream of rage, turned and drove his dagger into the dwarf’s heart.

  With a mad cry of remorse and years of pain, Garth leaped forward.

  Zarel, wrenching his dagger free from the dwarf’s heart, turned and tried to duck under the blow. With a wild scream, Garth drove his dagger in.

  Stunned, Zarel staggered backward, looking down at the hilt of Garth’s blade, which was buried in his chest. He fumbled at it, a sob of astonishment escaping him. He waved his hand feebly to conjure a healing spell. Garth looked at him coldly, hesitated, and then raised his own hand to block it.

  “I should have cut your throat that night, rather than simply gouged your eye out,” Zarel hissed.

  “Your mistake,” Garth said softly.

  Zarel collapsed onto the pavement.

  “What do you have now?” Zarel whispered. “You lived for this moment. Now what will you have when all your enemies are gone?”

  “I don’t know,” Garth replied sadly, even as Zarel closed his eyes and fell away into the darkness.

  ***

  Hammen stood silently and watched as the last of the drama was played out. Garth turned slowly and looked at him. He seemed to Hammen to be again the small boy, confused and lost.

  Once more Garth looked at Zarel, shook his head, and then turned to walk toward Hammen, a sad, distant smile lighting his features. Norreen, breaking through the crush of the mob, rushed forward and leaped into Garth’s arms.

  And then, as if the two were nothing more than an illusion, they disappeared, a darkness swirling around them. There was a momentary look of astonishment on Garth’s face followed by understanding. His other foe had come back to claim him from other realms.

  And even as he and Norreen were drawn away by their foe Garth smiled, the words forming, coming as a whisper.

  “You’re free.”

  He was gone.

  The Plaza was silent, except for the crackling of the flames and the low, pitiful cries of the wounded and dying.

  Hammen looked at the mob, which stood as if coming out of a dark dream.

  “What now?” someone asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” Hammen sighed. “I don’t think he ever had a plan for afterward.”

  Hammen looked at the city, which was in flames around him.

  “I don’t know, and at the moment I simply don’t care.” And sitting down in the ashes, the old man silently wept.

  ____________________

  CHAPTER 16

  THE ROAD BEFORE HIM WAS A BRIGHT MOONLIT ribbon that traced over the hills of darkness. At the crest of the hill ahead he could see the tavern, an old favorite haunt, and he stretched in the saddle, glad that the day’s ride was nearly ended.

  He looked over his shoulder at the young acolytes who rode behind him. Though tired, they chatted eagerly, for tomorrow they would reach the city. He half listened to their prattle and boasts of what they would accomplish at the Festival, what spells they hoped to win and the laurels of victory that they would wear upon their brows when they next rode this way at the ending of Festival time.

  The old man listened, smiling to himself, able to do so since they could not see him. He was, after all, the Master, and they had never seen him smile, nor would they, at least until they had won.

  They rode into the courtyard of the tavern and the old man dismounted, his joints creaking, cursing mildly at one of the young men for not being quick enough to help him down.

  He walked into the tavern and looked around cautiously. It was late at night, but some travelers were still up, sitting by the fire, chatting. They looked over their shoulders at him and grins lit their faces.

  One of them, tankard in hand, walked toward him. He knew the type and waited.

  “So what are the chances this year?”

  The old man looked him up and down.

  “We’ll win,” he snapped, and his tone made it clear that he was not in the mood to talk odds and fighting records, or who would be the final winner.

  The man backed away and returned sullenly to his friends.

  Th
e old man looked over at the innkeeper.

  “See that my youngsters are fed and bedded down.” Reaching into a purse which was tied to the strap of his satchel, he pulled out a gold coin and tossed it to the keeper.

  Turning, he went back to the door.

  “Master?”

  The old man looked over his shoulder at the young woman who cautiously came up to his side.

  “What is it?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a walk, some fresh air.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  The old man laughed.

  “I think I can take care of myself. Now get something to eat and go to bed-it’s a long ride tomorrow to the city.”

  She hesitated.

  “We think there’s something out there tonight,” she whispered.

  “Go on, child, I’ll be all right.”

  Reluctantly she turned away and rejoined her friends.

  Opening the door, he stepped out into the moonlight and walked out onto the road.

  The girl was right. There was something following them, he could sense that. He had felt its presence all evening, drawing closer. It felt familiar somehow and yet he could not be sure. If it boded ill, he wanted his young acolytes out of the way. They were nothing more than first- and second-rank fighters and would be slaughtered if it was a fight. But then again there were precious few fighters aboard now who were anything beyond first or second. Nearly all the rest had died in the Time of Troubles.

  Slowly he walked back up the road down which he had ridden, finally reaching the crest of the hill.

  And then he saw them. Two riders, moving at a casual pace, as if they had all the time in the world and there was nothing in it to fear.

  The old man drew back into the shadow of the trees and watched them approach. One of the riders slowed and the old man heard the snick of steel being drawn and then there was a cool, distant laugh.

  “Old man, if you mean to fight, at least come out of the shadows and stop skulking about.”