Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  Arena

  ( Magic the Gathering )

  William R. Forstchen

  William R. Forstchen

  Arena

  CHAPTER 1

  “STEP BACK, GIVE THEM ROOM!”

  Garth One-eye, a thin smile of amusement creasing his face, followed the orders of the raggedy man who had appointed himself as circle master. Stretching lazily, Garth moved to the back of the gathering crowd. The owner of a fruit stand set up in the shade of the building was preoccupied, eagerly watching the excitement, and Garth helped himself to a Varnalca orange. Drifting away from the stand, he pulled out his dagger and sliced the treat open, tilting his head up to drain out the juice, which washed away the dust of the road. He adjusted the patch which covered where his left eye used to be and then moved around the back of the crowd, looking for other such opportunities. Seeing none, he moved in closer to watch the excitement.

  In the middle of the street the two fighters, moving warily, paced back and forth, eyeing each other as they pulled off their robes in the chilly evening air. The crowd around them was swelling, pouring out of the alleyways, hovels, and swill houses, shouting and laughing. After all, it wasn’t every day that one could watch a fight for free, even if there was a minor risk of getting hurt when the spells started to fly. Overhead, shutters were pulled open, people leaning out of the windows to watch the fun.

  The raggedy man, chest puffed out, strutted about, his spindly, dirty legs kicking high as if he was a true Grand Master of the Arena. With a broken stick in place of a golden staff he drew a circle in the mud.

  “Names and Houses?”

  “Webin of Kestha,” the stouter of the two fighters snarled, puffing his chest out and thumping it.

  “Okmark of House Fentesk.”

  “Type of fight?”

  “One spell cast which is also the wager,” Okmark said.

  Webin nodded angrily in agreement.

  The crowd excitedly shouted the names back to those who were too far back in the press to see. Old men, women, and even young boys started to recite the wins and losses of the two fighters and arguments instantly broke out as to which one would win.

  The Fentesk fighter, standing a good head taller than his rival, snorted disdainfully at his opponent as he calmly took his robe off and passed it to a street urchin who had sidled up to the edge of the circle. The boy looked at the finely embroidered robe and started to back away. The Fentesk fighter turned, fixing him with his gaze, and the boy stopped.

  Okmark looked back at his opponent.

  “This fight isn’t really necessary,” Okmark said quietly.

  A hooting roar thundered from the mob but Okmark ignored them. He looked straight at the fighter in gray livery and slowly extended his arms, palms turned slightly downward, the gesture of reconciliation with the subtle distinction, however, of not submitting.

  Webin spit angrily on the ground and the crowd cheered. Okmark shrugged his shoulders, resigned to what was coming.

  The raggedy man continued to strut around the circle, waiting while the two fighters went through the ritual, their heads lowered, arms extended outward, gathering their strength.

  “Four to one on Gray. I’ll cover your bets if you think Gray will win,” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd, and instantly there was a frenzied move toward him as the mob started to place their bets.

  Garth stood silent, watching the two prepare. It was so obvious. Reaching into the satchel that hung under his right arm, he fingered the few coppers that were still there. It’d make enough for a meal and lodging.

  He moved over to the gambler, taking the coins out, waiting quietly. Finally he extended his hand and the gambler looked disdainfully at the bet.

  “On Orange,” Garth said, referring to the bright livery of House Fentesk.

  The gambler looked Garth up and down and started to laugh, and then fell silent as Garth stared at him coldly.

  “I suggest you take it,” Garth said. There were snickers from the bettors gathered around, as if Garth was a fool, but Garth kept his attention fixed.

  “I’ll only cover bets in Gray’s favor. Don’t bother me, One-eye.”

  Garth ignored the insult.

  “Do you work for him? Is this fight a setup?” Garth replied smoothly, still holding the gambler with his gaze.

  The man looked about furtively at the crowd, which had grown silent, even though they thought Garth a yokel from the outback for wasting his money on what would obviously be a certain win on Webin’s part.

  “One to two,” the gambler replied sarcastically.

  “One to four,” Garth replied softly, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of his dagger.

  The gambler looked around furtively and saw that there was no support from the mob.

  “One to four,” the gambler snarled, as he made his mark on a smooth chip of wood and shoved it into Garth’s hand.

  Garth turned back to watch the show, arms folded, pulling his robe in tight to keep the chill out.

  The crowd quieted down as the last of the bets were placed, all now waiting for the ritual of preparation to end.

  Gray finished first. Raising his head, he fully extended his arms and took a step out of the neutral square drawn just outside the circle. Even though Orange was not yet finished with his ritual, Gray raised his hands and the crowd fell silent. Garth shook his head disdainfully. It was a breaking of the rules, but then again this was a street fight, and any who believed in rules in such an encounter was simply too stupid to live.

  A mist started to form in the center of the circle, coiling, swirling, and yet still Orange did not move, or even acknowledge that Gray had started his attack. The mist started to twist in upon itself, growing brighter, glowing, the light reflecting on the pale faces of the eager mob. The light suddenly darkened, a cool chill sweeping out.

  “An undead,” someone gasped.

  In the middle of the circle a decaying form appeared and started to move toward the Orange fighter, who finally stirred, raising his head. Orange stepped into the circle and reached into the satchel dangling from his right hip. Instantly a small cloud appeared over the undead, a sheet of fire flashed out, blinding the crowd, who recoiled backward at the thunderclap roar. A swirl of smoke roiled outward and Garth pulled his cloak up tight around his face to block out the stench of decaying flesh that had just been burned to cinders.

  An awed gasp swept the street. Okmark, his gaze still fixed on his opponent, finally allowed a thin flicker of a smile to show.

  “I believe, sir, that since I have won, your spell is now mine to claim.”

  The Gray fighter looked around at the crowd and Garth could only shake his head with amusement. Only seconds before Gray had been their champion and hero, but their champion had just cost most of them their money. Garth looked over quickly at the gambler and the picture was now clear as the gambler started to drift back to the edge of an alleyway. It had been a wonderful setup, a classic con job on a bunch of yokels in town for the festival and eager for a bet.

  Webin looked around anxiously at the mob.

  “To the death, to the death!” a shout came from the back of the crowd and the cry was instantly picked up by the mob, which pushed to the edge of the circle, chanting and laughing for blood. Webin, who had strutted so haughtily only moments before, looked back and forth and then toward Okmark.

  “Do you want it?” Okmark said softly and, as he spoke, he stepped back into the neutral square at the edge of the circle, indicating his willingness to fight again. Gray hesitated and then, with an angry curse, he reached into his satchel, pulled out an amulet, and threw it to the ground at Orange’s feet. Turning, he fled the circle, pummeled by t
he crowd, who showered him with curses, mud, offal, and kicks.

  Okmark, with a disdainful gesture, reached down and picked up the amulet that had controlled the spell of the undead. He looked over at the boy holding his cloak and took it back. The boy stood waiting, expecting a reward, but Orange ignored him.

  The crowd was silent and Garth looked around. The gambler had moved to one side of the Orange fighter and Garth saw the flicker of recognition between the two.

  Garth moved to the edge of the circle.

  “Pay the boy for his services,” Garth said, his voice carrying through arguments breaking out around the circle as the mob hotly discussed the fight they had just witnessed.

  Orange looked over at Garth and instantly there was silence.

  “You pay him if you care so much about it,” Orange replied.

  “If you don’t feel like paying him,” Garth said, a smile creasing his features, “perhaps your friend over there might spare some of the money you won.” As he spoke Garth pointed at the gambler.

  All eyes turned on the gambler, who stood silent for a moment. The man finally reached into his purse, pulled out a silver coin, and threw it into the circle.

  “Your winnings, One-eye,” the gambler announced. “Take it and pay him with that.”

  Without hesitating, Garth stepped into the circle and a low gasp echoed through the crowd. The raggedy man started to dance excitedly.

  “He stepped into the circle; a challenge, a challenge!”

  The crowd started to pick up the chant and the gambler smiled.

  Garth leaned down, picked the coin up, and, wiping the mud off, pocketed it.

  “I still believe you owe the boy a reward,” Garth said.

  Okmark looked at him with a cool, superior disdain.

  “Spoken in the circle, that’s a challenge,” Okmark replied. “I think, One-eye, that it’d be safer for you to leave now before you get hurt.”

  Garth slowly took his cloak off and, as he did so, he stepped backward into the square at the edge of the circle. He held his cloak out and saw that the boy he had been arguing about was there to take it.

  “I expect to see it when this is done,” Garth said quietly, and the boy, grinning, nodded.

  “If he kills you, can I keep it?”

  Garth smiled.

  “It’s yours.”

  Okmark shrugged his shoulders as if bored with the whole process. The gambler moved to the edge of the circle and stared at Garth for a moment. The raggedy man stepped up to Garth.

  “Name and what House?”

  “Garth and no House. I am my own.”

  The raggedy man started to laugh.

  “One-eyed Garth of no House, no House,” and he danced around the edge of the circle, singsonging the words.

  “Type of fight?” the raggedy man asked, looking at Garth since he was the one who had made the challenge.

  “Single spell and spell as prize, the same as the last fight.”

  The ragged man looked over at the Orange fighter, who nodded in agreement.

  The gambler, laughing, held his hand up.

  “Two to one in favor of Orange, taking only bets in favor of One-eye.”

  The crowd did not react.

  “All right, four to one then.”

  Still there were no takers.

  “Ten to one! Ten to one in favor of Orange. I’ll take only bets that this no House, a hanin, will win.”

  A shout rose up and the crowd surged around the gambler, placing yet more bets, gambling a copper on the forlorn hope that Garth would win. Garth waited for the frenzy to die down. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the silver coin.

  “On myself,” Garth announced, and he tossed the coin over to the gambler. The crowd started to laugh.

  “A real fighter,” the raggedy man chortled, dancing around Garth. “So poor he bets on himself. A real fighter!”

  The crowd laughed and there was another frenzy of betting, for who ever heard of a fighter who was so poor that he would disgrace himself by betting on the outcome of a fight he was in.

  Garth lowered his head, extending his arms, gathering in his thoughts, calming them, focusing, remembering and not remembering, clearing away all. He reached outward, probing, looking toward the other’s heart, sensing and knowing until all things dropped away and the land and waters within him were as clear as crystalline snow. The mana, the source of all power of spells, was ready.

  He stepped into the circle and looked up.

  Orange stepped forward as well. Garth did nothing, waiting.

  He did not need to look up to know that a cloud was forming over the circle again, darkening the street, and though he heard the gasp of the crowd, he heard it not. He could feel the tension, the strength drawing out of the Orange fighter, focusing on the power he was drawing upon from distant lands and places-the mana which he controlled-bringing that power into the circle to serve his will. The fireball that Orange was creating started to build with a terrible intensity, bathing the street corner in a hellish light.

  Garth looked up and extended his hand.

  Instantly another cloud formed above the one created by Orange. A cold gust swept outward. The street was as dark as night. Flickers of light flashed and then there was a swirling of white. Snow, a blizzard of snow, coiled and twisted, devouring the cloud created by Orange. There was a howling of wind and then, in an instant, all disappeared and the evening sunlight again filled the narrow street, reflecting off the sheets of ice that now caked the sides of the buildings. Instantly they started to melt, the cold ice breaking off, showering down on the mob, who covered their heads with their arms.

  As the tinkling of broken ice drifted away the street was silent. A scattering of applause and cheers broke out, especially from those who had wagered a mere copper and now would have a silver in their pockets. They had found a new hero and cheered lustily, while those who had thought even that bet to be a waste silently cursed themselves for not having the foresight to play. Those who had lost everything in the first duel were ecstatic as well, since the source of their losing had been defeated.

  Garth fixed the stunned Orange fighter with his gaze.

  “I believe your spell of fireball is now mine,” Garth said quietly.

  Okmark looked at him, gape mouthed.

  Garth stood silent, waiting.

  Okmark looked over at the gambler, whose expression was one of seething fury as the mob started to close in on him to claim their winnings. Okmark looked back at Garth.

  Reaching to the dagger hanging from his belt, Okmark pulled it out and flung it so that it plunged into the ground in the center of the circle.

  “To the death,” Okmark hissed.

  Garth looked at him and said nothing.

  “To the death, damn you!”

  The raggedy man looked around nervously, his enthusiasm gone.

  “It’s against the law, except in the arena,” the raggedy man hissed. “We could all be arrested if the Grand Master finds out.”

  “Gutter sweep, who are you to quote law to me? I demand death!”

  “The fight is not over yet!” the gambler shouted. “If he withdraws, Orange still wins!”

  “That’s not true!” the raggedy man whined in reply. “The fight was finished. Those are the rules of the circle.”

  The Orange fighter turned and looked at the raggedy man. He fell to the ground, eyes rolling in his head, hands clutching at his throat, a sickening gurgling sound gasping out of him.

  The crowd fell silent, watching the agonized struggle as the raggedy man rolled in the mud.

  Garth took his dagger out and tossed it so that it stuck in the ground next to Okmark’s.

  “To the death then.”

  Orange looked back at him. The raggedy man gasped out a rattling cough and he crawled out of the circle.

  Orange nodded grimly and, ignoring all ritual, he leaped into the circle. Staggered by a blast of fire, Garth stepped back, holding up his arms to prot
ect his face. A small circle appeared in the mud around him and the fire was diverted. Around him he could hear the cries of the mob as they fell back, some of them writhing in agony, their clothes afire. The side of the building behind Garth burst into flames.

  Garth raised one of his hands up and a skeletal form appeared in the fire, stepping forward through the flames, toward Okmark. Okmark’s eyes grew wide with fear as the skeleton continued to advance, impervious to the flames, and Okmark stepped back, the fire abating. There was a crackling roar and the ground beneath the skeleton opened up and, with a clattering of bones, the skeleton fell into the fissure which now split the circle in half. Garth nodded and the skeleton rose into the air, hovering, and continued its relentless advance.

  Cursing, Okmark now raised his hand, pointing at the skeleton. An explosion rocked the streets and a spray of powdery dust swirled outward. Garth seemed to blanch from the savage counterstrike. Okmark, grinning now, raised his hand and pointed at Garth. A coiling shaft of light came straight at him. An instant later a shimmering mirror appeared before Garth. The blast of light reflected back.

  Orange barely had time to scream.

  The flame engulfed him. Writhing in agony, Okmark spun around and around, trying to extinguish the fire that would not die. Garth stood impassive, watching, his arms folded. The shrieking died away as Okmark curled up into a blackened ball of smoking flesh and died. The fire winked out of existence, the one who had conjured it having expired by his own spell.

  A gasp of astonishment rose up from the crowd, which stood silent, ignoring the fact that the building behind them was crackling, fire racing up its side, while on the street behind where Garth had stood, half a dozen were dead and more than a score injured and crying out their lamentations.

  Garth leaped across the fissure, stepped up to the twisted body, and reached down to take the satchel which hung from his belt and, strangely, did not seem to have been touched by the fire.

  “You have no claim to that,” the gambler snapped, stepping into the ring. “You are hanin, without House, and have murdered one of the House of Fentesk; his property now belongs to the House.”