Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  Jimak motioned for the Grand Master to follow him down the corridor and into his office, closing the door behind them.

  “Now what is it?”

  “How come you ignored my summons to appear before me?” the Grand Master snapped angrily.

  “At midnight? I don’t give a damn if it was the Walker himself who commanded it. I am a House Master and I don’t answer a summons like that from anyone.”

  “Well, please excuse me if I didn’t send a sedan chair over along with a phalanx of scantily clad women to throw flowers in your path, but it was urgent.”

  “Those types of inducements are meaningless to me,” Jimak replied coldly. “Try them on Varnel-it’d work with him.”

  The Grand Master settled into a chair without waiting for Jimak to offer the hospitality.

  “Listen to me. We are a balance to each other. I rule this city and this land but my power is balanced not only by the princes of neighboring realms but also by the four Houses of magic fighters. No one of us is truly over the others. I am stronger than any two of you put together and you, if united, are stronger than I. We all know the game and we all play it. You are divided by your mutual rivalries and I insure that those rivalries continue. It is thus because the Eternal created it thus when the world was young and the power of the mana was fresh. But we must live here for our entire lives and the Walker comes but once a year to Festival.”

  “Why are you boring me with this lecture?” Jimak interrupted.

  “Because I am leading up to something. I fear that there is some new factor at play here, the same as what happened twenty years ago.”

  “Oor-tael?” Jimak said quietly.

  The Grand Master nodded.

  “We destroyed them for their defiance of the wishes of the Walker.”

  “He was merely a Grand Master then,” Jimak snapped, “so stop speaking of him in such reverent tones. He wanted to pierce the veil between worlds and frankly I didn’t give a good damn whether he did or didn’t. My tribute of mana was simply to get him out of my life and I’m glad he left. The only problem is that he chose you to be the new Grand Master.”

  “And it should have been you, is that it?”

  Jimak smiled coldly.

  “No one of you four House Masters would have tolerated such a rise for a rival. As for the power of my post, Tulan is too cowardly, Varnel too consumed with fleshly pleasures, and Kirlen, she simply desired it too much.”

  “And I am too hated by the others, is that it?” Jimak snapped.

  “Something like that,” Zarel said smoothly.

  “So you won the honor instead. The toady gets the reward.”

  Zarel bristled.

  “I did my job in his service and he rewarded it.”

  “And you call the way you run things now as being better. At least under Kuthuman he was so preoccupied with his quest that he did not rule us too heavily as long as we cooperated. But you, you’ve corrupted the Festival for the sake of the mob, which wants more blood and yet more. I lost four good fighters in the arena last year and two more crippled beyond repair so that all they’re good for is keeping watch by some merchant’s door. How many death matches will you have this year to increase the betting?”

  “I need money. It is that simple, and the mob bets more when there is blood at stake. Besides, your fighters desire it such as well for revenge against a rival and the hope of winning an entire satchel in a fight rather than a single spell. With such a fight they can gain in a moment what would take years upon years of labor and study.”

  “And for what do you need this money? The buying of mana on the black market? The bribing of princes for the mana of my fighters who ever increasingly die of mysterious causes while out on contract with a claim that their satchels were lost? You wish to be a Walker yourself, isn’t that it?”

  Zarel smiled.

  “If that should ever happen, who would succeed me? Uriah, a hunchbacked dwarf? No one would follow him. Who would succeed?”

  “So you imply that it could be me then.”

  “Why not?”

  “And you have undoubtedly offered it to the others.”

  “I’m not so much of a fool as to encourage them to think thus.”

  Jimak snorted disdainfully.

  “Of course you’d offer the same to them. Don’t take me for an idiot. You’ll play us off against each other.”

  Zarel laughed coldly.

  “I might offer it to the others but would I be telling the truth to them? I already told you my reasons why the others aren’t worth of consideration, but you are.”

  He paused.

  “If you cooperate.”

  Jimak laughed, shaking his head, but Zarel could see that his words had hit the mark. Jimak viewed the other three Masters with contempt and he would find it inconceivable that they might rise above him if Zarel should ever manage to pierce the veil. That is, if he could do it without the Walker finding out first.

  Jimak nodded as if he had been granted information that was to be believed. But suppose, he thought, suppose I could betray this man to the Walker just before he did try his move or somehow bring him down? Then it would be I who was the new Grand Master, for he was right in that Uriah was not even to be considered for the post. Then I, in turn, could make my final move.

  Zarel smiled as he watched Jimak’s features, sensing all that he was now thinking.

  “You came here for other reasons as well,” Jimak finally said.

  “Because there is something wrong here. This One-eye.”

  Jimak snorted and smiled.

  “He’s created problems for you, hasn’t he?”

  “It is more than that.”

  “I heard a rumor that three of your fighters now look like burned toast,” Jimak chuckled. “Is that why you are here?”

  The Grand Master bristled.

  “You know the law. Your killing of each other on my streets outside of the arena is crime enough. The killing of my own fighters is a capital offense.”

  “And it happens every year anyhow. Our fighters are high-spirited. You really can’t expect us to contain over three hundred fighters in the days before Festival. Killings are bound to happen. Old rivalries, old grudges can’t be contained.”

  “This is different. Think of it. Wherever this man has walked chaos follows in his wake.”

  Jimak chuckled.

  “And Brown and Gray are bleeding from it.”

  “And you were next.”

  Jimak paused, saying nothing.

  “His trail led straight back here. At first I was tempted to storm this House to get him out, especially when you lied and said he was not here.”

  “It was not a lie,” Jimak said coldly. “I searched for him after your summons, though admittedly to reward him. But he’s gone.”

  The Grand Master nodded.

  “That is what I finally realized. That is why this place is not engulfed in flames. Don’t you see he is setting us against each other and playing our mutual hatreds to some advantage? What he did was the perfect setup for you and me to be each other’s throats, me thinking that you were lying about his whereabouts, and you defending your honor.”

  Jimak said nothing.

  “He is not here then?” the Grand Master asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  Jimak nodded as if he were barely paying attention, his thoughts someplace else.

  “Fine then.”

  The Grand Master stood up again.

  Jimak suddenly looked up at him.

  “Why?”

  “Why? I’m not sure. I have my suspicions but I’m not sure and I don’t want to voice them till I know. According to the laws of the guilds if he is wearing a color, I cannot take him. Though I know he murdered three of my fighters tonight, I have no witnesses and thus no proof. Any of you Masters can resist me in taking him. But I want him and, I should add, the Walker wants him.”

  Jimak shifted uncomfortably.

  “And what is the offer?”


  “Five thousand gold and no one will ever know that you gave him to us.”

  “Are you that afraid of him?” Jimak asked, his voice edged with sarcasm.

  The Grand Master paused and then finally nodded his head.

  Jimak lowered his head and thought of the ruby that even now was in his lockbox, balancing the two against each other.

  “Ten thousand,” he finally whispered.

  The Grand Master smiled.

  ***

  “I must assume the topic of their conversation is me,” Garth said quietly.

  Varnel Buckara, Master of Fentesk, stretched languidly and nodded in agreement as he dismissed the messenger who had observed the Grand Master’s nocturnal visit.

  “I suspect that another messenger will come here with an offer,” Varnel finally said.

  “And?”

  “It depends on the offer.”

  “It might be good enough for the moment-but for the future?” Garth replied.

  “Explain, One-eye.”

  “The offer to Jimak is easy enough and that is why I left his service. Too consumed with his lust for gold. Such men are easily bribed. Perhaps even Tulan of Kestha can be bribed with an endless supply of some rare delicacy or wine. I’ve heard that for you it is women.”

  Varnel chuckled.

  “According to some sources, you have fifty right here in this House.”

  “More, far more.”

  Garth smiled.

  “So what can he offer you? Another woman.”

  “There’s always the exotic. Each is different.”

  “And each is the same. Beyond that gold does not talk, nor does food. But a woman, especially one coming from the hands of the Grand Master…”

  “Put that in the plural. It would take far more than one.”

  “All right then. How could you trust them?”

  “I’m not interested in trust,” Varnel laughed coldly. “I’ve never been that foolish and any man who is should be drowned as a mercy killing.”

  “Trust or not, you would have someone whom the Grand Master had first laid hands upon and I daresay to take his leavings would be rather distasteful.”

  “Virgins, my good man, virgins.”

  “And they can still be handled,” Garth replied. “Beyond that, you would never know what enchantment they had been placed under. A hairpin into the base of your skull while you are lost in your ecstasy, a spy in your House to send information back to the Grand Master, perhaps even a gossip planted with the rest of your women to make them turn against you. More than fifty women are difficult enough to manage in the best of times.”

  Varnel grunted softly, a troubled look crossing his features, and Garth smiled.

  “So do you have a better offer?”

  “I do not traffic in women,” Garth said coldly, a flash of indignation evident in his tone. “But I do traffic in winning.”

  “Which reminds me,” Varnel rumbled. “You did kill one of my men.”

  “If he was stupid enough to be killed like that in a street fight, then he was worth little to you. Your honor would be more than restored by having me wear your colors. Though money is meaningless to you, what I will win for you in the arena can buy many pleasures, pleasures, I should add, that would be untainted by the hand of the Grand Master.”

  Varnel nodded slowly in agreement and then looked over at Garth.

  “You did, however, betray both Tulan and Jimak. Am I next?”

  “Tulan is a pig and Jimak sick with greed. Given the way things currently stand between me and the Grand Master, I felt here at least I would be protected by a color that would not sell me.”

  “You may wear Orange.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “And if you betray me in turn, I promise you death will be a pleasurable release by the time I am done with you.”

  “But of course, my lord.”

  Bowing low, Garth retired and as the door closed he caught a quick glimpse of several naked forms coming into the room from a hidden doorway, a low grunt of expectation rumbling from Varnel as the door finally closed to guard his secret pleasures.

  “I think, Master, that this move was foolish.”

  Garth said nothing as Hammen came up beside him.

  “You changed your clothes but obviously you didn’t wash,” Garth replied.

  “One bath a year, whether you need it or not, is good enough for any man.”

  As they walked down the corridor to the House barracks Garth looked around warily. Second bell had just sounded and the fighters were starting to awaken. As he passed he could hear the whispers behind him. Stopping to ask a guard for directions, the two went down a long flight of stairs, their noses soon guiding them to the feasting room.

  Men and women fighters were already gathered around some of the tables. Garth went to a corner table, motioning for Hammen to follow.

  “Master, I don’t see any servants eating here.”

  “You’re eating here; now go cut me some meat.”

  Garth settled down on a stool, leaning back so that his back was pressing against the cool stone wall. A moment later Hammen returned, bearing two plates weighed down with slices of roasted pork, and two heavy goblets of wine.

  Garth pulled out his dagger and, cutting off a slice, he chewed on it slowly while watching the room.

  More and yet more fighters were coming in and all were turning to look at him. A low buzz filled the room.

  “I think there’s going to be trouble,” Hammen said softly.

  “Are you worried?”

  “After what you’ve put me through, yes, I’m worried. The entire House is in here.”

  “Eat your meat and be quiet.”

  Garth cut another piece of pork and chewed. The food was not as good as Kestha’s. Tulan’s culinary obsession was reflected in how his own fighters ate as well, but it was far better than what he had been used to over the years.

  He ate in silence, watching the men and women who were now supposed to be his comrades. One of them finally stirred from his table, his stool falling over so that it clattered on the floor, and the room went silent. The fighter made a casual show of adjusting his satchel and walked toward Garth.

  “Master.”

  “Shut up.”

  The fighter came up to the table, and several more rose from the same table and fell in behind him.

  “Only fighters may eat here,” the man grumbled. “Servants and scum eat in the cellar.”

  Hammen started to stand up as if to leave.

  “Sit down, Hammen.”

  Hammen looked over at him.

  “Not again,” he whispered.

  “I like his company,” Garth said, cutting another piece of meat and then chewing on it as if the conversation was finished.

  “Get out of her, cur!” the man snarled, and he grabbed hold of Hammen by his collar and started to pull him away.

  Garth looked up and the man let go of Hammen with a howl of pain.

  “No magics!” someone shouted, and a lean, angular woman with flowing red hair came up and the others stepped back slightly at her approach. Garth looked at her, sensing that here without doubt was a ninth- or tenth-rank fighter who commanded authority over the others.

  “No magics within this House against those of your color,” she snarled angrily.

  Garth fixed her with his gaze.

  “Then tell him to keep his hands off my man.”

  The woman stood silent, hands resting lightly on her hips.

  “You think you’re quite the fighter, don’t you, One-eye?”

  “I get by.”

  “If you want to get by in this House, then live by its rules. No magic is used against another of your color except in practice.”

  “And the rights of my satchel and my property are to be respected. That man is my property.”

  Hammen snorted disdainfully and fixed Garth with a malevolent gaze.

  “He’s the one who killed Okmark in tha
t street fight,” someone shouted from the back of the room.

  “He was a fool to challenge a hanin that he didn’t know anything about and the death challenge was his offering, not mine,” Garth replied sharply. “Besides, he was an embarrassment to the House of Fentesk.”

  An angry murmur swept through the room.

  “I think I need to take a walk,” Hammen whispered, and he started to stand up.

  “Stay where you are,” Garth snapped, and Hammen froze in his place.

  “I heard you beat Naru,” the woman said.

  “Yes.”

  “Think you can beat me?”

  He looked up at her and grinned.

  “Care to try?”

  With a mock sincerity she bowed, holding both hands outward in the ritual display of a fighter accepting challenge.

  Garth made a show of cutting another piece of meat and chewing on it before finally standing up, extending his hands and bowing as well.

  The woman led the way out of the feasting hall, Garth following. There was a clatter of stools and excited shouts as the other fighters fell in behind them. Ascending the stairs out of the hall, the woman turned left, going down a corridor paneled with a dark rich wood, and lit by high stained glass windows set into the ceiling so that the hallway was awash with color. Reaching the end of the hallway, she flung open the doors to a circular room a dozen fathoms across, the walls lined with benches, which were quickly filled by the other fighters of the house. The arena was occupied by half a dozen fighters, who were going through their morning exercises of weapons practice with lance, dagger, and throwing spikes. At the far end of the room several other pairs of fighters were sparring with spells, one of them struggling to use a team of goblins against his opponent’s dwarven warriors.

  “Clear the arena,” the woman snapped.

  The sparring fighters looked up and an instant later their minions disappeared into smoke and they withdrew.

  The woman stepped out into the circle.

  “Rules of the House. No fire, no creature of disease, and no spell which can go out of control or damage the House.”

  “Is this match a mere testing, a wager of spell, or to the death?” Garth asked as if the answer really didn’t matter one way or the other.