Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  Tulan looked over at Hammen who grinned up at him, his yellow teeth showing in a jagged grin. Tulan wrinkled his nose with disdain.

  “Somebody give this man a change of clothes and a bath.”

  “A bath. Like…”

  “Hammen, you heard our Master. Now obey.”

  Hammen was led away, looking over at Garth and making a sign against him as if to ward off the evil eye.

  Tulan, his hand still on Garth’s shoulder, led him down the main corridor of the House. The walls were of heavy oak, polished to a mirrorlike sheen, racks of weapons set against them, crossbows, lances, morning stars, battle-axes, and swords. Looking up, Garth could see that there were holes set at regular intervals overhead, undoubtedly for heavily weighted bolts which could be dropped down by the flick of a lever, crushing anyone who dared to try and take the palace through the main door. A fifty-pound razor-sharp bolt dropped from such a height would be a powerful argument, even against a spell caster of the tenth-rank if he was caught unprepared. Looking down, he could see that the parquet floor was not in fact solid. Sections of it could easily drop away if unwanted company was standing on it. Pits of snakes most likely down below, Garth thought, or maybe even a Gromashian spiderweb.

  “I heard how you killed Okmark. Spell reflection, a powerful tool.” As he spoke, Tulan looked down at Garth’s satchel.

  “He was foolish.”

  “He was a third-rank; my man Webin. A second-rank should have known better than to be tricked into a street fight like that.”

  “How is Webin?”

  “Demoted in rank for causing such a humiliation,” Tulan snapped, “his latest spell forfeit.”

  Garth said nothing, surprised that any fighter would allow himself to be stripped of a spell without the honor of a fight.

  “Oh, I fought him for it,” Tulan chuckled. “Maybe I’ll regenerate his left hand if I have the time.”

  The fighters who were walking behind Garth and Tulan laughed coldly.

  Tulan led Garth into a room and the most pleasant of smells wafted around him.

  “You’re in time for a late-morning repast.”

  Tulan motioned him to sit down at the long feasting table, which was cleared but for a serving for one. Tulan clapped his hands and motioned toward Garth. Servants came scurrying out from a side room and quickly set a plate to the right of Tulan.

  Tulan motioned for his advisors to leave and, with a hearty sigh, he sat down in a high-back chair at the head of the table. More servants came out, bearing plates with stuffed pheasants, great rings of sausage, a small suckling pig stuffed with cloves and basted in honey, and smoked fish baked with lemons and ginger.

  Heavy crystal glasses were set and filled with dark Tarmulian wine, another with pale honeyed mead, and another with a clear wine that sparkled and danced with bubbles.

  Tulan took a loaf of bread, tearing off five pieces and tossing them to the great powers that upheld the five corners of the world and followed with five tosses of salt while Garth did the same.

  Without wasting a word, Tulan reached across the table and picked up a pheasant. Sighing, he bit into it, and soon devoured the morsel. Next he reached over to the suckling pig and held it up, motioning toward Garth if he wanted part. Garth shook his head, devoting his attention instead to one of the remaining pheasants. Grabbing the pig by the haunches and forefeet, Tulan proceeded to devour the midsection, using a knife only to scoop out the stuffing, which was still steaming hot. Finished with that, he tossed the remains back on a platter and then dived into the thick blood sausages, downing half a dozen before finally turning his attention to the fish, chewing and spitting out the pieces of bone into a silver tray set by his left elbow.

  Leaning back, he belched, with a loud sonorous rumble so that Garth thought the high stained glass windowpanes would shatter. As if moving down a line Tulan then drained the three heavy goblets, one after the other, barely pausing for a gulp. Sighing, he belched again and then picked up one of the fish bones to pick his teeth.

  Garth, finished with his pheasant, took the glass of Tarmulian wine and sipped at it contentedly.

  “If you beat Okmark so easily, you must be equal to at least a fourth-rank, maybe a fifth-rank.”

  He paused, looking over at Garth as if expecting a reply. Garth said nothing and Tulan laughed, but it was evident that he was annoyed over Garth’s secrecy.

  “The contents of one’s satchel are, according to tradition, known only to the owner,” Garth finally said.

  “I need men like you,” Tulan finally said, acting again as if they were old comrades. “Once this Festival is over there’s contracts to be met, cities and merchants to be guarded, wars to be fought and, believe me, those of the House of Kestha get top pay for their services.”

  “Minus your commission and the House dues, of course,” Garth replied.

  Tulan paused for a moment, looking sharply at Garth.

  “Why us, why not another House?” Tulan asked coolly.

  “Why not? Do you want me to tell you that the fame of the House of Kestha is higher than all others, that only the best come to you? Is that what you want me to say as if I was a first-rank acolyte who one day had discovered that he was born with the talent to control the mana which creates spells?”

  Tulan said nothing and Garth laughed cynically.

  “I don’t need the training of this House or any other House. I learned that on my own.”

  “Where? I’ve never seen you before. I’ve never heard of a one-eyed hanin, a fighter without colors. Where are you from?”

  Garth smiled.

  “That’s my business, sire. You know my skill; you saw it out there on the Plaza.”

  “It’s my business to know. To check your pedigree, your family lines, to see if you come from a line with strength to control the mana.”

  “It’s not your business. Your business is to manage my business, to make both of us money.”

  “How dare you!” Tulan roared, standing up and kicking his chair back.

  Garth stood up and bowed low.

  “Since it is obvious we don’t have a deal, I’ll take my services elsewhere. I think Purple might want me.”

  “You won’t step out of here alive,” Tulan snarled, and he started to extend his hands.

  Garth threw his head back and laughed.

  “You might kill me, sire, but I can promise you there’ll be a devil of a fire in here by the time we’re done fighting and I’d hate to ruin your tapestries; they look like they’re from the Naki weavers of Kish and are worth the fees of fifty fighters.”

  Tulan paused and looked over at the great tapestries woven of gold-and-silver thread that lines the wall opposite the stained glass windows so that they could catch and reflect the light. A slow smile crossed Tulan’s features.

  “You have an eye for art. That’s good, that’s very good. One eye and you can see better than most of the brutes I have working for me with two.” And Tulan chuckled as if he had made a great joke.

  “Sit down, Garth One-eye, sit down. I think I might even like you.” And he made a show of pouring Garth some more wine.

  Garth smiled and nodded his thanks.

  “Your commission?” Garth asked.

  “The usual twenty percent for your services retained by outside contracts, plus ten percent of any purse you win in the arena during Festival. In return you’ll receive your room, board, and the full legal protection of the House. And believe me, the outside contracts for your services will be in your favor.

  “Gray fighters can count on higher fees than the other Houses,” Tulan boasted, while patting his stomach. “Our reputation insures that and you’ll be placed with lords and merchants who appreciate good value and will treat you with respect. You must already know that in the last twenty Festivals it has been a Kesthan fighter who won the championship nine times and was thus selected to be the new initiate to the most high power of the Walker.”

  Tulan paused for a moment as
if fearful that the most powerful of all users of magic might suddenly appear at the mere mention of his name.

  “Such a record insures that we are held in the highest esteem by those who contract us and gives us the right to expect certain advantages. There’ll be the finest food, the best of quarters when you are out on contract, and the finest mates of your choosing, provided at no extra fee.”

  Garth smiled and said nothing.

  “We’ll place you according to your skills and you will answer to no law other than mine”-he paused for a moment-“and Zarel can sit and fume over you and not touch you, something which I think might be a concern right now.”

  “Not really.”

  Tulan looked over at Garth, not sure if his comment was simple bravado or the truth. Finally he laughed coolly.

  “I like fighters with nerves like yours. But do not doubt the power of Zarel. Step out of this House without colors on and a score of his best fighters will swarm over you. You need a House, One-eye; without it you’re dead.”

  Garth finally nodded slowly in reply.

  “In return you must obey all orders of the House, which means my commands.”

  “Agreed.”

  Tulan smiled as if already holding the commissions he would receive for placing Garth.

  “You are to fight only according to the rules, there are to be no personal grudge fights or fights for personal profit. I don’t need you out there wasting your skills and wagering your spells to no profit for this House.”

  “That might be hard to obey.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s why I joined this House. Half of the Orange House wants me dead.”

  “Oh, because of that incident with Okmark?”

  “No, other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “I’m oath sworn not to reveal them,” Garth said quietly. “Let’s just say it has something to do with this,” he added, pointing at the patch over his eye.

  “A personal issue then?”

  Garth leaned forward.

  “Since you are my guild master, I think I can share it,” he said with a conspiratorial whisper.

  Tulan leaned forward eagerly to hear the secret.

  “It happened several years back. Losing the eye was almost worth it but now that they know I’m here they’ll come for me. That is part of the reason I decided to stop being hanin and join a House. I knew the less than friendly feelings between Fentesk and Kestha meant that at least here I would have some protection.”

  “What happened?”

  “I seduced the first consort of the Master of Fentesk and also their twin daughters at the same time.”

  Tulan, who was in the middle of downing another draught of mead, sprayed most of the contents back out on the table and looked at Garth wide-eyed. His features turned bright red and, laughing, he started to pound the table.

  “No wonder he cut her throat last year! How delightful, how absolutely delightful! Tell me, how good were they?”

  Garth smiled.

  “The honor of ladies, sire.”

  “Ladies; hell, all the women of Orange are harlots, especially their fighters. So you got caught and had an eye gouged out before you could make good your escape.”

  “Something like that,” Garth said quietly, and as he spoke he looked away from Tulan as if a dark memory had suddenly come to haunt him.

  “Fine then, fine. It’ll be a delight to rub Varnel Buckara’s face in this.”

  “I prefer not, my lord. For the daughters’ sake. After all, they’re still alive, and reminding him might cause a refreshing of his rage against them.”

  “All right then, all right, but still.” And Tulan beamed at Garth with pride.

  “You can take the oath in ceremony on the morning Festival starts. Till then you can wear the Gray mantle of an initiate.”

  Garth nodded and, looking over his glass, he smiled.

  “I eagerly anticipate the honor,” he said quietly.

  ____________________

  CHAPTER 3

  “THANK THE ETERNAL WE’RE OUT OF THERE.”

  Garth looked down at Hammen and suppressed an urge to laugh. The pickpocket no longer looked like the same man. His rags were gone, replaced by a clean tunic of white with a gray circle over his left breast. The filthy unkempt hair was gone as well, close-cropped as befitting the servant of a fighter. Hammen looked back angrily at the House.

  “You can keep this, Garth One-eye. I have no desire to play this game any longer. Go find another servant. I’m for home,” he announced, and tore his tight-fitting collar open.

  “Then you’ll miss the fun.”

  “Fun. You call this fun? Groveling as a damned servant-yes Master, no Master, let me wipe your backside with my right hand for you, Master.” His voice took on a sarcastic, singsong whine. “You can shove that up where it belongs. I’m my own man.”

  “Fine then, leave.”

  Hammen slowed and looked up at Garth, barely visible now in the darkness.

  “All right, I’m going.”

  Garth reached into his satchel and pulled out a coin, handing it to Hammen.

  “Your pay for the week.”

  Hammen took the coin without comment and shoved it into a small purse dangling from his belt.

  “So long then.”

  Garth turned and started to walk slowly on.

  “One-eye.”

  Garth turned and looked back.

  “Just how did you lose that eye?”

  “You won’t find out by leaving.”

  Hammen remained silent for a moment.

  “Nor anything else.”

  Hammen stared at him closely, wondering, trying to sense, to reach back somehow into a thought long since deliberately buried. He felt for an instant that something in Garth was flickering around him, a magical flashing of light, reaching far into memories best left undisturbed. For an instant he felt a tightening in his throat as if a long-forgotten pain had come back. And then it was gone and there were only the sounds of the night, the mob walking about the Great Plaza, the drinkers singing, and the lovers whispering. All of it held for Hammen a deep mystery, a lingering memory of laughter, of another world and another time, and it seemed to come from this stranger who stood before him in the shadows.

  “Who are you?” Hammen whispered.

  “Stay with me and out, Hammen of Jor, if that is really your name.”

  Hammen stiffened slightly, a chill of fear coursing through him, and then the chill was gone, replaced by a distant warmth that held for but a second and then was also gone.

  Hammen finally moved, ever so slowly, and came up to Garth’s side.

  “Buy me a drink then, damn it.”

  Hammen walked in silence, watching the way Garth moved. He walked like most fighters, with a deliberate catlike ease, his head always turning, watching. There was the sense of the mana about him, what others might simply call charisma but was in fact raw power which to the trained eye was almost visible, like flashes of lightning on the distant horizon that are but half-seen and half-heard. It could be hidden when need be, but it was there in abundance and Hammen knew it.

  Leaving the Plaza, Garth wandered up a side street, drawn by boisterous laughter and a crowd standing before the open door of a swill dive, several of them holding torches aloft. Edging up to the crowd, Hammen could see that a couple of fighters were brawling in the street, one Brown, the other a woman who he suspected was not even a fighter, merely a warrior proficient in weapons. The Brown fighter was not using his powers but was struggling with mere physical strength. A circle was drawn around them in the mud, the two fighting oquorak, the ritual fight of tying their right hands to each other by a length of short rope, while holding daggers in their left hands.

  The Brown fighter was bleeding from a long cut which had slashed his tunic across his chest and another across his forehead, the blood trickling into his eyes. Yet Brown was obviously the far more powerful of the two. He yanked his
right arm down, pulling the woman in toward him. She spun around, ducking underneath his slashing blow, and came up, a cool smile of amusement on her face.

  “Benalish woman,” Garth whispered, noticing the seven-pointed star tattoo on her left forearm, which was the mark of her particular clan within the Benalish caste system.

  Garth moved closer into the crowd to watch the fight.

  The Benalish woman waited, poised on the balls of her feet, her short-cropped black hair matching the color of her leather jerkin and tight-fitting trousers. The Brown fighter tried the same maneuver again, nearly knocking her off-balance. This time she plunged forward, diving to the ground and then somersaulting head over heels. As she did so she pulled with her right arm, using her momentum to add weight to the pull. The Brown fighter was spun around and knocked down. The crowd roared its approval of the maneuver.

  Brown slashed out, trying to kick her feet out as she started to stand back up. She easily leaped over the strike. Brown scrambled back up and came in low, going for a stab, a movement against the rules of oquorak, which allowed only slashing with the dagger.

  The crowd sent silent. This was no longer just a little sporting event, it was a blood match. Within seconds the bets started to fly and Hammen slipped into the confused mass. Garth, ignoring the betting frenzy, moved in closer to the circle. He watched Brown closely as the two circled each other warily. The man was still holding his dagger for a stab, the Benalish woman looking at him disdainfully, but still holding her blade backhanded for slashing.

  Her left hand flashed out and Brown’s right shoulder was laid open.

  “Again blood,” she announced. “Three times now. It’s finished.”

  Her blade flashed again and she cut the one-fathom length of oquorak rope that bound their right hands together.

  Brown stood before her, panting, features contorted with rage. She watched him disdainfully, her slim boyish figure silhouetted by the torchlight.

  “The wager was three gold. Your payment,” she said quietly.

  “You cheated.”

  She laughed coldly.

  “How the hell can I cheat in an oquorak? Your payment.”