Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  “Let’s go!”

  He reached under her shoulder to pull her up. Garth snapped his fingers and a cloud of green smoke concealed them.

  He started to run and she struggled to keep up as they joined the edge of the mob, which was now running in every direction, shrieking in terror as dozens of uncontrolled spells swept across the square, the brawl now completely out of control, with fighters simply conjuring and tossing out their denizens to strike at whatever was nearest. Undead moved with shambling steps, several of them holding shrieking citizens of the town aloft in their gray-green hands as trophies. Great serpents, half a dozen fathoms in length and as thick as a man’s waist, darted about, looking for someone to bite, several of them wrestling with their victims, one of them already swallowing a still-kicking form. The usual skeletons walked with clattering motions, looking for human flesh to sink their white bony fingers into. Off to one side the two bears were finished with their repast and started to run across the square, looking for another meal. Garth waved his hand, causing them to fall in by his side.

  Cursing and shoving, fighters belonging to the Grand Master hit the edge of the fight, some of them turning to take care of the various creatures pursuing the fleeing crowd. One of the fighters turned toward Garth and he released the bears and continued on. Seconds later he heard the shrieks of the fighter who had tried to stop him.

  “Master!”

  Garth looked over his shoulder and stopped as Hammen shuffled toward him.

  The Plaza was chaos, more than forty fighters from each House trading it out in front of Brown’s House, the spider, now minus several legs, scrambling about crookedly, holding a writhing Kesthan fighter in its pincer fangs, another struggling form, cocooned in silk, strapped to its back. An explosion erupted atop Bolk’s House, tearing off part of the facade, sending a shower of stones into a side street while fires licked from half a dozen buildings farther up the alleyway. The Great Plaza was a sea of confusion as thousands tried to flee while thousands more pushed eagerly forward to watch the fun.

  Hammen reached Garth’s side and pulled a satchel out from his tunic.

  “Where’d you get that?” Garth asked.

  “Oh, it belonged to that big chap whom you taught to sing soprano.”

  Garth spared a quick look inside at the amulets. It was a fabulous haul even if it wasn’t quite legal.

  “I think we should move out of here,” Garth announced, watching as a phalanx of warriors came forward at the run, their crossbows raised. The first line of warriors spread out and started to lob shots at the spider, which merely seemed to enrage the creature even more, so that it turned and started to charge toward them, tossing the Gray fighter aside.

  The warriors of the Grand Master who had fired hurriedly placed the front of their weapons on the ground, hooking their feet into the stirrup of the crossbow while they struggled with both hands to cock their weapons. The rest of the phalanx now fired as well, and yet the spider still staggered forward. The reloading crossbow men, to a man, abandoned their efforts and, turning, fled. The phalanx scattered in every direction, Garth, Hammen, and Norreen darting out of the enraged spider’s path.

  The spider slashed out with its clawed forelegs, knocking men down, crushing them underfoot, and continued to spread its poison, which bubbled and hissed as it struck pavement, metal, leather, and flesh.

  Several horsemen came galloping through the crowd, knocking fleeting citizens and crossbow men aside. Directly behind them was a wagon, the driver lashing the team. The driver pulled in hard on his reins, causing the wagon to skid around to a stop. On the back of the wagon a heavy ballista was mounted, manned by a dwarf firing crew, the weapon already cocked. The head gunner peered down the length of the shaft, shouting at his two assistants to wedge the elevation up higher. The spider, seeing the wagon, started toward it. The team of horses shrieked with fright, the driver standing up and hauling in on the reins, struggling to keep the horses from bolting.

  The ballista seemed almost to leap into the air as the gunner pulled the lanyard, the heavy bolt shrieking as it rocketed across the Plaza and slammed into the spider.

  The stricken beast reared up, a loud cry of pain echoing from it, greenish blood pouring out of its wound as it tumbled over, its legs twitching spasmodically. The cocooned warrior who had been strapped to its back twisted and writhed beside his captor, looking like a great maggot.

  “I think the fun’s over,” Garth said with a smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He darted into the swirling mob, still holding Norreen up. She struggled to free herself and he finally let go.

  “Just what in the name of all that’s holy were you doing back there?” she snapped angrily.

  “Helping,” Garth said quietly, even as he continued to push her forward. Behind them the crowd roared as an explosion rocked the Great Plaza, followed by the crystalline tinkling of glass shattering from dozens of buildings.

  “You weren’t there to help me,” she snarled. “You were out after something else and you got it.”

  Garth slowed and looked at her.

  “I was there to help you,” he said calmly, “and things got out of hand.”

  “Don’t play the game with me; you wanted that fight.”

  Garth said nothing and continued on.

  “I still don’t have my honor back from them,” she snapped.

  Garth looked over at Hammen.

  “How much did we make?”

  “We’ve got thirteen gold now,” he chortled gleefully. “It was fifteen to one with Naru.”

  “Let me see.”

  Hammen, struggling to keep pace with Garth, reluctantly pulled out the coins and handed them up.

  Garth turned and offered them to Norreen.

  She slapped his hand away, the coins spilling to the pavement. With a loud cry of dismay Hammen scurried about, picking them up, pulling out his dagger and screaming when an urchin snapped one of the rolling coins up and disappeared into the crowd that was swirling about them.

  “Money is meaningless; it is honor I was after.”

  “You still have to eat,” Garth snapped hotly, and snatching a coin from Hammen, he forced a gold coin into her palm.

  “That will keep you till after Festival. You’re now known throughout the city for having the courage to challenge Bolk. People will remember the whole thing started with a Benalish Hero. Just avoid the Grand Master’s people; they’ll be out after you.”

  She looked at him coldly and started to raise her fist as if to throw the coin back.

  “You have to eat,” he said quietly and then, turning, strode away.

  “He’s mad,” Hammen said, shaking his head as he looked up at Norreen.

  “He’s a bastard,” she said softly in reply, a look of confusion in her eyes and then, turning, she disappeared into the crowd.

  Hammen scurried to keep up with Garth, ducking low when another explosion erupted, sending debris soaring a hundred or more feet up into the air. The Plaza echoed with explosions and the sharp call of trumpets. From out of the main gate of the Grand Master’s palace another column of warriors emerged, running full out, swords and crossbows at the ready. Behind them came a dozen more fighters, the strength of their mana evident so that they appeared to glow, spreading spells of protection over themselves and the warriors. In the middle of the column rode the Grand Master. His face was a mask of fury and for a moment he turned his attention toward Garth, who froze in his steps.

  Hammen watched him, sensed that somehow Garth, for an instant, did not really appear to be present, as if he had gone shadowy and opaque, like a drawing on smoked glass. The Grand Master stared straight at him for several seconds. Another explosion rocked the far end of the Plaza and the Grand Master stirred, as if awakening from a dream. He turned away, shaking his head as if confused, and rode on toward the widening brawl. Garth was present once more, still walking purposefully.

  “A neat spell,” Hammen gasped, struggling to keep u
p with Garth.

  “It helps sometimes, especially if the searcher is not concentrating,” Garth announced matter-of-factly.

  “What now, Master?”

  Garth looked back at Hammen.

  “Master, is it?”

  “After what you pulled off back there. It was beautiful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Triggering that fight.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Garth replied.

  Hammen hawked and spit in reply.

  Crossing the Great Plaza, Garth moved straight toward the Ingkara House. The front of the House was packed with scores of fighters, who were watching the confusion at the other end of the plaza and roaring with appreciative delight.

  Garth moved straight toward them and for a moment they barely noticed that he had crossed the line of paving stones and was now on the semicircle of purple that arced out around their House.

  “Hey, a one-eyed Gray. Are you running away?”

  Garth turned toward the speaker, who stood laughing.

  “I want to join Ingkara,” Garth said, his voice cool and even.

  Several of the fighters started to laugh and taunt him.

  “A little too hot over there, isn’t it? Might get hurt. And now you can’t go back since you ran.”

  Even as he turned and started to extend his hands a young Purple fighter, his tunic blackened and singed, came racing up to the crowd. He slowed and, turning, looked at Garth.

  “That’s him. He’s the one that started it!” the new arrival shouted.

  The fighter preparing to challenge Garth looked over at the scorched messenger with surprise.

  “He started the whole thing. He took down Naru and then fought a dozen of them to a standstill,” the young Purple gasped.

  Garth’s challenger looked around in confusion and Garth made the defiant and self-confident gesture of lowering his hands.

  “Naru?” his challenger asked.

  “He needs a new set of teeth,” the messenger announced excitedly as if he had somehow performed the feat himself, “and he’ll have to fish somewhere up under his ribs for what’s left of his manhood the way this one-eye kicked him.”

  The Purple fighters looked first at the messenger and then back at Garth, several of them slowly breaking into grins of delight. The crowd started to part, the fighters lowering their heads in respect as a lean, angular form moved toward Garth, his purple robe made of the richest velvet and covered with heavy rope like coils of gold embroidery.

  Garth lowered his head in a respectful manner.

  “Jimak, Master of Ingkara,” Garth said.

  Jimak slowly looked Garth up and down as if examining some minor work of art that he might consider buying if the price was right.

  “You bested Naru like Balzark over there said?”

  “It is as he said,” Garth replied.

  “And fought a dozen Browns until help arrived.”

  “I had some help from a Benalish woman but, in general, yes.”

  Jimak nodded as if pondering a deep thought.

  “Why come to us? I should send you back to Tulan for punishment for breaking the peace of Festival.”

  “Because if I beat Naru I can beat others and your House will profit. Besides, I am not fully initiated into Gray yet so technically I am free to leave when I please. Those are the rules as you know and frankly I’d prefer to skip the punishment coming out of the little incident over there.” He nodded back across the Plaza, which was now wreathed in coiling smoke illuminated by bright flashes of flame.

  “I daresay Ingkara now has a couple dozen less fighters to compete against come Festival thanks to my effort and I wish to profit from that. Beyond that you can profit as well, so this could be to our mutual benefit.”

  Jimak looked haughtily at Garth and then the thinnest of smiles broke his skull-like features.

  ____________________

  CHAPTER 5

  “BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP!”

  Tulan and Kirlen, Master of Bolk, looked over angrily at the Grand Master.

  “You might be Grand Master,” Tulan said coolly, “but you have no right to address us as if we were your servants.”

  “I have the right to address you any way I might please,” Zarel Ewine replied haughtily. “You are in my city, and both of you, in fact all four of you, should remember that I do know certain things about you that would best not be known by others.”

  Tulan shifted uneasily. Zarel smiled inwardly. Tulan was a coward who could always be intimidated.

  “If you’re referring to the massacre of Turquoise, you were the instigator of that,” Kirlen replied smoothly, the rings on her bony fingers flashing in the lamplight.

  She looked up at him with a cool disdain, leaning heavily on her staff for support. Her face was always disturbing to Zarel, for it was the face of death, the face of a fighter who had extended her life through the use of spells to the very edge, until flesh and bone were held together by the slenderest of threads. Her skin was yellowed, like old rotting parchment, and hung from her skull in loose, wrinkled folds as if it were about to peel away in corruption. There was always a faint smell to her, the smell of moldering graves, decay, and darkness.

  Zarel looked at the Brown Master coldly.

  “But I am the Grand Master and I did it at the behest of Kuthuman. As for the four of you, no one knows of your parts.”

  “So go on and tell the mob, I don’t give a damn,” Kirlen cackled. “Besides, it is ancient history now and those idiots on the street don’t give a copper. All they care about is what will happen in the next Festival, so don’t threaten us with that old line.”

  “Did your man break the rules of oquorak?” Zarel asked, deciding it was best to shift ground.

  “Does it matter? She wasn’t even a fighter, just a mere warrior, a Benalish woman at that.”

  “Duels of magic are supposedly forbidden here,” the Grand Master snapped angrily, “but oquorak is legal and the mob expects the rules to be observed.”

  “Are you ruled by the mob?” Tulan sniffed.

  “No, damn you. But I’ve got half a million people living in this city and at least another million pouring in for Festival. If they riot, it’s my property that’s damaged, my taxpayers who go and get themselves killed. Oquorak, at least, keeps them entertained until the Festival, but if it gets out of hand, next thing you know fighters are using magic spells on the street and things get ugly.”

  “I’ll run an inquest into this if that will make you happy,” Kirlen finally replied in a bored tone. “Witnesses have to be found and questioned. The Benalish woman has disappeared and so has your One-eye.” The Brown Master looked over with a smirk at Tulan.

  “Your people murdered him and I expect compensation,” Tulan snarled back. “He was one of my best, easily eighth-rank, and a score of your fighters ganged up on him. We couldn’t even find the fragments of his body.”

  Tulan looked back sharply at Zarel.

  “You’re worried about oquorak rules and ignore the fact that one of my best fighters was attacked viciously and murdered.”

  “He was on our property. He cheated one of my ninth-ranks and worse yet, that man’s satchel was stolen.”

  “If he’s still a man,” Tulan chuckled.

  “Damn you, I want compensation!” Kirlen roared. “My House is damaged, four men and a woman fighter are dead, damaged, or simply devoured so that no spell could revive them, and another score are injured. Nearly a dozen satchels are missing as well, including Naru’s, one of my best fighters.”

  “You started it,” Tulan cried angrily, slamming the table before him with his beefy fist. “I lost eight dead and thirty injured and satchels as well. Compensate or by the Eternal I’ll burn your House to the ground!”

  “Both of you are under injunction!” Zarel shouted.

  The two House Masters looked over coldly at the Grand Master.

  “No one is to step foot into the street until the beginning
of Festival. Anyone leaving your Houses will be arrested, their spells stripped from them, and barred from Festival.”

  “Try to take my people’s spells and you’ll have a war,” Kirlen snapped, and Tulan nodded in agreement as if the Brown Master was now his closest friend and under attack.

  “We’ll withdraw from Festival,” Tulan announced, and Kirlen looked over at her enemy, who suddenly nodded in agreement.

  “If we boycott, you won’t have Festival and you won’t earn a thin copper on the betting.” With that, Tulan snapped his fingers at the Grand Master and laughed.

  Zarel looked back and forth at the two, sputtering, unable to speak for a moment, the two moving closer to each other as if all past hatreds were now forgotten.

  “Get out, both of you, get out, and so help me if there’s another incident, my fighters are ordered to kill on sight! Now get out!”

  The two walked out of the room together though as soon as they had cleared the doorway, they fell back into bitter recriminations against each other.

  Zarel watched them go, his face purple with anger. Storming over to his desk, he picked up a small bell and rang it. Seconds later a diminutive hunched-over form appeared in the still-open doorway.

  “Get in here, damn you.”

  Uriah walked slowly into the room, head bent low.

  “You approached Tulan last night, didn’t you.”

  “As you ordered, Master.”

  “And?”

  “I offered him a hundred gold for the head of One-eye. He didn’t even have to turn him over, simply send him out the front door after dark and we’d take care of the rest.”