Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  “And his response?”

  “He laughed and told me to get out.”

  “But did he seem willing?”

  Uriah nodded.

  “I think he was seriously considering it.”

  “So what happened this morning?”

  “Master, he must have slipped out of a secret entry. You know that as quickly as we find one they go and make another. Beneath the Houses is a warren of tunnels and a watch could not be kept on all that we know, let alone all that we don’t know.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “I’ve sent out inquiries. The Baron of Gish arrives the night before Festival and I shall make sure he’s asked if he knows any fighter who claims to come from his land. All we know about One-eye is that he arrived in the city two nights ago, fought an Orange and killed him, disappeared with a pickpocket, and then appeared at the door of the House of Kestha the following morning.”

  Zarel sat silent for a moment.

  “The pickpocket, do we know who he is?”

  “Hammen is his street name. One of the heads of the brotherhoods that control the vice and crime in the city. He’s well thought of and has connections.”

  “Obviously not so well thought of that you couldn’t find a traitor.”

  “Money always talks with that sort.”

  “How did this Hammen fall in with One-eye?”

  “The pickpocket was mastering the fight.”

  Zarel cursed softly, annoyed at what was an infringement upon his rights, even if it was by a lowly scum out to make a few coppers. Mastering the fights was the sole prerogative of the Grand Master. Even in the old days of Kuthuman and before him the role of the fight master was an honored position. And now pickpockets were presuming to the right.

  “Where are they now?”

  “They were last seen during the fight this morning and then disappeared, the same as the Benalish woman. It’s believed the three were killed in the fight and their remains devoured or blasted apart.”

  “Too much of a coincidence that all three would disappear into death like that,” Zarel said quietly. “I want more inquiries run. Start with this pickpocket. Send some warriors and fighters to track down his lair. He must have accomplices. Use the usual methods.”

  “Yes, Master,” Uriah whispered.

  “Remember, Uriah, either the Gray or you will join the Walker for some entertainment, so do your job. Close and bolt the door on the way out.”

  Trembling, Uriah withdrew from the room.

  Zarel sat in silence for a moment, looking down at his beefy hands, which were folded over his more than ample waist.

  What to do?

  Again this morning there was the sensing. It had hit him with a terrible urgency when he had first laid eyes upon the one-eye. Now this morning it had come again, when he had first ridden out into the Plaza to put down the fighting. There was a sensing that something terrible was lurking, and for a moment he thought he had found it. And then the sensing had drifted away.

  On the eve of Festival far too much was going wrong. The tension had been building for years, he thought. Under Kuthuman, especially in the final years of his quest to pierce the veil between worlds, all had lived in fear of him and his power. After he had become a Walker all still feared him, even more so. And yet he was present but for one day of the year. The old balance of power, between the fighting Houses and the Grand Master, had been a finely tuned one. The Grand Master was not as powerful as the combined might of the Houses, but the Houses, by the very nature of their competitiveness, would never unite against him. In turn he had to keep a semblance of order in the lands so that the mana would grow, and to prevent chaos.

  Now it was shifting. The Houses were becoming increasingly competitive with each other and against the Grand Master there was increasing defiance. Zarel sensed that by the very nature of the system he had created, the increasing bloodiness of the Festival to satiate the mob and generate even more betting had helped to create this. Yet the increasing number of death fights in the arena served as well to keep the power of the Houses down since each year they lost more and yet more fighters in the fights, thereby sapping their strength.

  And there was the other dark dream as well. That ever so slowly he could hoard his own mana and in the process one day do as Kuthuman had done and become a Walker in his own right. That was the dark secret, for he knew with a grim certainty that if Kuthuman ever truly understood that part of the plan, he would kill him out of hand and replace him with a new Grand Master. It was a numbing game of plans within plans, the striking of a balance, the keeping of the House Masters off guard, the gathering of the mana tribute for the Grand Master, and, above all else, survival.

  Somehow he could sense that this One-eye had become a wild card in the deck of the game. It would have to be addressed.

  Though he dreaded the thought of it, Zarel now realized that Kuthuman would have to be summoned and told, if only as precaution, and with the hope that he might even know the answer.

  Sighing, he finally stood up and walked across the room, stopping before what looked like nothing more than a paneled wall. He raised his hand and the wall slipped back, revealing a small room within. Zarel walked into the middle of the room, stepping into a circle traced in gold, which shone brightly against the jet black rock though there was no torch or lamp present. The hidden door closed behind Zarel and he lowered his head, his hand slipping into his satchel, clutching the bundles of mana of all the colors of the rainbow. Shafts of light began to swirl around him, coiling and twisting, rising up in a cone around him.

  He waited long minutes in silence, his eyes closed against the brilliance of the unearthly light that bathed him. Finally he sensed the presence coming, as if it were an avalanche racing down the side of a mountain. Zarel Ewine, Grand Master of the Arena and High Baron of the City of Kush, fell to his knees.

  The Walker was before him.

  “Why summon me?” the voice whispered, filled with annoyance and what might be rage. “Festival is still three days away and I have other things to concern me now.”

  “It was necessary, my lord,” Zarel whispered.

  “You are but one of a hundred domains, a hundred planes of existence. I have better things to attend to other than your grovelings. This had better not be frivolous.”

  “I don’t think it is.”

  “Speak and be quick.”

  Zarel, in a hurried tone, told him of Garth One-eye and the fighting that seemed to follow in his wake.

  The Walker was silent except for the crackling of energy which reverberated like a bell through the room so that Zarel wanted to cover his eyes but dared not.

  “The reports are that he is dead, but I think not. I think he is still alive.”

  “So search for him. Why bother me? Surely you don’t expect me to track down this insect.”

  “No, my great lord. But I have a concern.”

  “Speak it then, damn you.”

  “There is something behind this man. I know not what, but it is there. For a brief instant I thought I saw him in the confusion of the riot, but then he wasn’t there and I rode on. If that is so, he has powers. I thought long on this and then the connection came. It came to someone else from long ago who had mastery of such a spell and you know of whom I speak.”

  Zarel sensed a brief instant of hesitation on the part of the Walker.

  “If that is so, then find him!”

  “I thought, great lord, that…”

  “Find him and kill him now. I have no time for this. I have other concerns beyond your miserable plane. I will be back for Festival and I expect this to be resolved.”

  “My great lord…”

  But the presence was already gone and Zarel sensed that somehow there was a great urgency to his departure, as if a struggle was taking place even as they spoke and that the Walker could not spare a second longer for what to him was a trivial concern.

  Exhausted, Zarel sat down in the middle of t
he circle and opened his eyes, the only light in the room coming from the gold circle which circumscribed him. He had known but brief glimpses into the realms of his lord and master, the Walker, and knew it was, as were all places, a domain of wars and struggle against others of the highest powers. The glimpses were chilling in their terror and yet seductive in their power, for a fighter could, if he survived long enough, become, one day, a Walker. He could become capable of leaping beyond the myriad planes of existence. In such realms he could gather in mana undreamed of, the foundation of the power of all spells and artifacts. In such realms he could, in fact, become immortal and exist for countless aeons until he was at last cast down by another Walker who finally managed to steal his mana. There was only so much mana in the realm of planes, even though they were rumored to be uncountable. Therefore, a Walker did not care too much for emerging rivals.

  Zarel sighed. It was the dream of immortality that was all so seductive. As a wielder of magics he had the ability to extend his own life span significantly, to a millennium or more. But each extension came with a price, and one did slowly age. Until finally the power to extend was nothing more than the insane act of senile old fools who were good for nothing more than sitting in dark shadows and drifting in a world of impotent dreams.

  His most implacable foe, Kirlen of Brown, was already becoming such a person, terrified of death and equally terrified of the final lingering. He knew her dream was to destroy him, to become a Grand Master and thus gather enough power to try for immortality. The mere thought of her and her constant plotting aroused a desire yet again to find a means somehow to quietly kill her.

  What might she do with this One-eye and what was his plan in all of this? For it was obvious that he must have a plan.

  The One-eye was alive and had to be found. It was evident that his game was indeed dangerous to the existing order of things. And if the existing order of things was disturbed, then the Walker would be disturbed. If the Walker was sufficiently disturbed, a new Grand Master could always be found and Zarel realized with a cold certainty that he had to find One-eye before Kirlen got to him first.

  ***

  “Enter.”

  Garth One-eye walked calmly into the inner office of the Master of the House of Ingkara, Jimak Ravelth. The House Master looked up, his waspish angular face chiseled by the glare of a single lamp that flickered on the table behind which he sat. The table was strewn with shimmering objects and as Garth drew closer he saw that they were stacks of gold coins, emeralds, blood red rubies, opals the size of cats’ eyes, multifaceted diamonds that seemed to explode with light, and cunningly wrought artifacts of metals unknown to this plane of existence.

  Jimak looked up at him and smiled, his bloodless lips pulling back so that his face looked like a skull.

  “My toys,” Jimak said softly, motioning for Garth to come forward and admire them.

  The gesture seemed friendly and yet, as Garth approached, he could sense a barrier go up, Jimak leaning forward slightly as if to fling his body over his possessions in order to shield them from the lascivious looks of others.

  Garth scanned them, pausing for a moment on the artifacts, and then he shrugged his shoulders as if he was looking at nothing more than pathetic trinkets that a beggar was trying to sell in exchange for a few coppers.

  “They’re of no concern to me,” Garth said evenly.

  “That’s what some might say, even as they connive to rob me,” Jimak replied sharply.

  “I’m interested in other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Power and revenge.”

  “And both can bring you gold.”

  “No,” Garth said coldly, “the payment is in here,” and he pointed toward his heart with a clenched fist.

  “Does it concern the eye, is that it?” Jimak asked, licking his bloodless lips with a bloodless tongue.

  Garth lifted the black patch that covered his eye and, seized with a perverted curiosity, Jimak held the lamp up to look closely, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

  “It looks like it was gouged out, not just cut in a fight. Messy, very messy.” He licked his lips again.

  Garth lowered the flap.

  “Works well with women; they recoil at the sight of it,” Garth said coldly.

  “Women. Who needs them when one has this?” said Jimak, scooping up a ruby and rubbing it lovingly with his clawlike hands.

  “The wound has ached for five years, five years I have gone to sleep with the memory of the pain. For five years I have awaked at dawn, the empty socket filled with agony.”

  “Who did it?”

  Garth hesitated for a moment.

  “Go on.”

  “The Grand Master and Leonovit, the cousin of Kirlen, Master of Bolk.”

  Jimak cackled softly.

  “My, my, our vengeance does aim high.”

  “It was several moons after Festival five years ago. Leonovit and I fought. He had taken my sister against her will. When I started to best him several of his groveling fighters jumped me from behind. I was taken to the Grand Master and charged with breaking the peace and as punishment my eye was taken, my satchel stripped, and I was driven out.”

  “So now you’ve come back for revenge.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why didn’t anyone remember you today? Naru has served the House of Bolk for decades.”

  “Do you remember the number of first-rank fighters, who are hanin without House, whom you have destroyed or maimed in your time?”

  Jimak chuckled softly.

  “They are like noisome flies.”

  “I’m forgotten, but I have not forgotten.”

  “So why me?”

  “Why not? I know you like these things.” Garth pointed at the treasure strewn across the table. “I can earn you more. I can earn you more in the arena, I can earn you more in commissions once Festival is done. And I can bring damage to a rival House. I’ve already done that for you today.”

  “You betrayed Tulan and the House of Kestha.”

  “That fag pig?” Garth snorted with disdain.

  Jimak looked up at Garth.

  “He is a fellow House Master. I should cut your tongue out for that.”

  “And if you did and offered it to him, he’d devour it uncooked. He is a pig, a man without breeding, disgusting.”

  Jimak leaned back in his chair and a thin, reedy chuckle escaped him.

  Garth reached into his tunic, pulled out a small leather bag, and tossed it on the table.

  Jimak stared at it for a moment and then eagerly tore the pouch open. He drew out a single ruby and held it near the lamplight, studying it intently.

  “As long as I have the shelter of this House and can wear its livery I have no need for such things. Consider it an offering of respect, a payment to the pension fund for aging fighters who refuse to get themselves killed and out of the way. I should add I do have more, but they are hidden away in a place I alone know. If things work out well, they can be added to the fund in due time.”

  Jimak, not even bothering to look at Garth, simply nodded his head, his attention still focused on the ruby.

  “Exquisite, flawless.”

  “Are we agreed then?”

  ”Yes, yes,” Jimak said absently. “For the pension fund. You can be initiated on the morning of Festival.”

  He quickly looked up.

  “You said you have more?”

  Garth nodded and Jimak, smiling, returned to his examination of the gem. Garth waited for a moment but Jimak said nothing more. Bowing low, Garth withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him. The last sight of the House Master was of him still bent over the lamp, studying the ruby as if it were a book of arcane knowledge containing spells yet unheard of.

  “Master.”

  Garth turned and saw Hammen lingering in the shadows, motioning for him to come over. Hammen pulled Garth into the alcove where he had been waiting.

  “While you were r
esting earlier I decided to take a little walk.”

  “Fleshpot hunting now that we have money.”

  “No, damn it. Back to my home. I felt the need to get a little information; after all, I do have a brotherhood to run, even while I’m out getting in trouble with you. Also, I had this sudden feeling that something terrible had happened.”

  “What?”

  Hammen looked away for a moment, his fists clenching and unclenching, and then he looked back up, his rheumy eyes clouded with tears.

  “They were all dead. All of them dead.”

  “What happened?” This time his tone was flat, cold, and distant.

  “The Grand Master. I should have known better. Somehow I sensed something was wrong when I hit the alley. It was too quiet, as if even the rats had gone into hiding. The door was ajar and I went in.” He paused for a moment, breathing hard. “They were all dead.

  “Rico, Matu, Evanual, old legless Nahatkim, all of them dead. My other brothers gone. I hope they escaped but somehow I know they didn’t and were taken. Those they left behind were tortured and their heads cut off and…” His voice trailed off.

  “You were chased?”

  Hammen nodded.

  “Someone came in the door behind me. I darted to the back of our shack, going down our sewer hole.”

  “I can smell that.”

  “I made my way back here, but I think they followed me. I tried to lose them in the sewers. I finally had to come back here, coming out where I knew there was an entry into this House. They were closing in.”

  Garth nodded slowly.

  “Damn you, why did you come back?” Hammen snarled angrily.

  Garth looked around and then pulled Hammen deeper into the alcove.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Garth whispered.

  “You know damn well what I mean. My friends, all of them dead because of you.”

  “You’re mistaken. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garth said quietly. “But let me ask this. You’ve lost friends before, haven’t you?”

  Hammen looked up at Garth, the tears streaking down his filthy cheeks, tracing twin lines of white.

  “Yes, long ago, another life. I tried to forget and they went to the land of the dead, where I thought they all would stay.”