Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  “Damn, I liked it better up in the stands. You can see better,” he complained, looking down at Garth as if he should somehow arrange for seats up with the mob. Naru walked over to his assigned fighting circle fifty fathoms away, the roaring of the crowd rising to a fevered pitch. Fighters from the other three Houses were now out on the arena floor moving to their circles, the crowd chanting and screaming. As they reached their circles they stepped into the neutral boxes, their servants taking their cloaks.

  Some of the fighters went through a quick series of exercises, stretching and bending, others stood calmly, others knelt down and, with heads lowered, concentrated their thoughts. To each of the circles a fighter of the Grand Master’s now came to serve as referee.

  The trumpets sounded their strident calls, once more warning the fighters and the mob that the fights were about to begin and the roaring of the crowd died away. From atop his throne Zarel now stood up and held his arms out. Again his voice sounded high and clear.

  “To the honor of the Walker.”

  The fighters in the circles turned and raised both their hands in salute.

  “Spells must be contained within the limits of the circles. All fights of the first day to be for spell prize unless both fighters declare it is a grudge match to the death.”

  There was a moment of silence as the referees in each circle turned and queried the two fighters they were observing.

  “Circle seven, Farnin of Bolk and Petrakov of Fentesk, to the death,” Hammen predicted. “Last year Farnin’s lover was killed by Petrakov. The mob’s been hoping for this matchup.”

  On three of the poles which stood by each circle a red flag went up, and one of them was at the seventh circle. A wild, insane cheer went up.

  “Petrakov is a dead man,” Hammen announced gleefully.

  Zarel raised his arms heavenward.

  “Prepare!”

  The fighters in the circles stepped out of their neutral boxes and into the arena.

  A whistle sounded and an angry roar went up from the crowd.

  Garth looked over at Hammen.

  “Circle eleven. The Purple fighter started a spell before the call to fight. He’s out.”

  Garth looked over toward the eleventh circle on the far side of the arena, amazed at how Hammen could see what was going on, let alone instantly know what had happened. From out of the circle the Ingkaran fighter was already submitting to having a spell taken from his satchel and presented to the winner of the match. As he started to walk back toward the Purple side of the arena, a loud, angry howl rose from the crowd, while from the Gray side a happy cheer erupted since Purple was the favorite to win.

  Jimak rose from his throne with an angry curse and pointed his hand.

  There was a flash of light and an instant later, where the disgraced fighter had stood, was only a smoldering heap of charred bones. A burst of applause erupted from the crowd and, turning, Jimak bowed to Ingkara’s followers, who now felt that their honor had been restored.

  “Hell, he was only a second-rank anyhow,” Hammen sniffed approvingly. “His contract for the year wasn’t worth a damn after such a disgrace.”

  The crowd finally settled down and all eyes were turned back toward Zarel.

  He held his arms aloft until all was silent and then suddenly dropped them, his voice booming out across the arena.

  “Fight!”

  An instant later the arena erupted in an insane maelstrom of light, explosions, the roaring of animals, the shouts of demons, dwarfs, ogres, and other summoned creatures, and above all, the wild, gleeful screaming of half a million spectators.

  Hammen, beside himself with joy, leaped up and down on his seat, howling with delight.

  “Circle five, finished!”

  Garth looked to where he pointed. The Fentesk fighter was already down, unconscious, the skeletons he had summoned ground to dust by berserkers and a firestorm, the referee bending over the fallen man to take a spell from his satchel and present it to the winner.

  “Naru’s done as well,” Garth announced, pointing to where the giant had crushed his opponent’s dwarfs with his own hands, then unleashed a demon howl which had bowled his opponent over, knocking her out of the circle.

  The stands behind Garth erupted with wild shouts for one of their favorites. After claiming his prize, Naru swaggered back to the section where the Bolk fighters stood shouting their approval and swarming around the champion.

  A loud groan went up from the crowd when, against all odds, Petrakov knocked Farnin, the sentimental favorite of the mob, off his feet. Petrakov flayed him with a psychic lashing so that the man writhed back and forth. Hammen, beside himself with emotion, screamed imprecations, and Garth shook his head with disgust. Petrakov was now simply torturing his opponent. He continued the lashing, even though he injured himself in the process. He finally stepped across the circle, drew his dagger, and started to slash Farnin across the face, while the crowd, except for Petrakov’s loyal followers in the Orange sector, booed loudly. Finally he grabbed hold of his opponent by the hair, lifted him up, and hacked his throat open from ear to ear, a river of scarlet spilling out in the circle.

  A loud cry erupted from the Brown fighters, several of them moving to rush into the arena and place a spell of healing on their comrade. A wall of light shimmered up, cast by a dozen fighters of the Grand Master who stood nearby each of the sideline stands of the fighting Houses, blocking Farnin’s comrades from entering the arena.

  Petrakov, with a disdainful gesture, tossed Farnin aside, the man’s head lolling back obscenely. Farnin kicked feebly, hands clutching at his torn throat, blood squirting out between his fingers, and then was still. Without waiting for the circle master, Petrakov reached down and cut Farnin’s satchel off and held it aloft triumphantly, spit on the corpse, and then walked away.

  “In the old days that never would have been allowed except in the final matches,” Hammen growled. “The Grand Master encourages it now because the mob loves the sight of blood. The next fight with Petrakov and the betting will be ten times as much, especially if he’s pitted against another Bolk.”

  The last of the fights were played out, the victors returning with their spoils, a single spell for standard matches, or the full satchel for a death match, minus, of course, the one mana fee taken by the Grand Master when blood was spilled. One of the three death matches, however, ended with no one the winner. Both fighters had cast simultaneous spells which had killed their opponents. Those who had not bet on the match laughed with hysterical glee since in such cases the Grand Master kept all bets and claimed the satchels of both of the fallen as well, while those who had bet on one or the other howled with rage.

  The Bolk fighters returned to the stands around Garth, the winners beaming with pride, the losers looking crestfallen, gazing nervously up at Kirlen, who ignored them with haughty disdain. Their contracts for the forthcoming year were now worth less and she would not let them forget it.

  The last of the fights over, stretcher-bearers raced out into the arena to carry off the unconscious and the dead while from out of the access tunnels entertainers charged into the arena-dwarfs, jugglers, fire-eaters, and petty magicians. Several dozen wagons, drawn by zebras or tigers, bears, and even a mammoth, came galloping out. Mounted on the back of each wagon was a small catapult and, at the sight of them, the crowd came to its feet and pointed nervously, wondering why the Grand Master was bringing heavy weapons into the arena.

  The dwarfs manning the catapults cranked them back, loading the firing arms with clay pots, and pointed their weapons toward the crowd.

  An angry cry started to swell and wherever the weapons were pointed the mob struggled to back away. The dwarfs, laughing with insane delight, fired the weapons. A loud roar rose up and Hammen, curious, stood up to watch. The pots slammed into the stands and burst open. There were gasps of amazement from the mob and then a mad scurrying, for the pots contained prizes-sweetmeats, lottery tickets, and, most surprisingly of all,
copper, silver, and gold coins.

  A wild cheering erupted as the catapult teams moved around the edge of the arena, reloading their weapons with yet more pots and firing them into the crowd, which now rushed back and forth in a mad frenzy to catch the prizes.

  Hammen, shaking his head, sat back down.

  “Wish you were up there?” Garth asked.

  “You’re damn right I do, rather than having to sit down here and get nothing.”

  A catapult, drawn by mammoths, raced past, firing a clay pot nearly the size of a man up into the arena.

  The mob howled with delight and a rippling of cheers honoring Zarel rose up.

  “Masterful,” Garth said, shaking his head.

  “It doesn’t take much to win a mob back, especially when the winning back is paid in gold.”

  “Do you know anyone on their catapult teams?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  Hammen looked over at Garth and smiled wickedly.

  “Do you want to rob them? Is that it?”

  “No. I was just wondering.”

  “I have a friend who could find out. He owns a little illegal business.”

  “What kind?”

  “Potions and such. Get rid of a spouse that’s become tiresome, seduce a girl who won’t say yes, even get some courage when you need it, those kinds of things.”

  “And his customers?”

  Hammen smiled wickedly.

  “Some of the highest. Nobles, great merchants,” and he lowered his voice, “and Uriah, the captain of Zarel’s fighters. It’d be easy enough to find out through him. My cousin says he’s shooting his mouth off all the time about how important he is and all the people in court that are beholden to him.”

  Garth turned away at the mention of the dwarf’s name.

  “Something wrong, Master?”

  Garth smiled sadly and looked back.

  “No, nothing. I want to talk with this friend of yours after the game. Could you arrange it?”

  “A potion for a certain Benalish girl?”

  “Damn you, no. Just arrange the meeting, will you?”

  Hammen, laughing softly, nodded.

  In front of Zarel’s canopied throne the blind and deaf monks now started to draw out the names of the next round of contestants.

  A great cheer erupted when two favorites, both of them ninth-rank fighters-one of them Varena-were pitted against each other. The other names were posted one after the other and the mob rushed to place its next round of bets in a wild frenzy of excitement.

  Hammen looked back expectantly at the stands behind him where the mob sat.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he suddenly announced, and, leaving Garth’s side, he went up to the barrier where a bent-over man who looked somehow familiar to Garth stood waiting. There was a quick and furtive exchange, a handshake, and Hammen came back.

  “I bet everything we had on Varena,” he told Garth quietly.

  Garth nodded and looked back to where the bent-over man stood.

  “He looks familiar.”

  “He should. He was in prison just down the row from you. I got him out in the confusion.”

  “I take it he doesn’t have much love now for the Grand Master.”

  Hammen chuckled as if Garth had just uttered a comment of incredible stupidity.

  “Does he know as many people around here as you?”

  “He should. He’s head of one of the brotherhoods.”

  “Tell him to meet us tonight.”

  “Master, not again.”

  “Just do it when you go to get our winnings.”

  The trumpets sounded the warning and the entertainers cleared the arena area, followed by the wagons, which fired their last round of pots, one of them winging directly over the Bolk fighters to crack open at the edge of the stands. Dozens tried to leap over the wall to gather up the prize only to be met by the Grand Master’s guards, who beat them back with clubs and the flats of their swords, those getting clubbed howling and cursing, those farther up in the stands roaring with delight at the entertainment.

  The trumpet sounded the final time, the fighters marched out, and Garth stood, catching a glimpse of Varena as she went to a circle at the far side of the field. Again there were several red banners marking blood matches, one of them causing the crowd to gasp with amazement since it was a sixth-rank fighter against a second, a matching that was little short of suicide on the part of the weaker.

  “Some of them do it because they’re crazy, others on the long shot of winning a satchel of spells that would take them decades to earn in the older way of gathering mana and studying,” Hammen declared with obvious disdain.

  Zarel stood up and again made the ritual pronouncements, his arms raised heavenward. He dropped them.

  “Fight!”

  Again there was the wild explosion of spells, the flashes of light, creatures appearing to do battle, clouds of dust and cyclones of fire. In one of the circles a giant spider appeared, causing the caster of the spell to be disqualified when he lost control of the creature, which stampeded out of the fighting circle when it was set upon by a pack of wolves. The spider raced toward the edge of the fighting floor, heading for the grand stands, the crowd panicking, abandoning their seats and stampeding. Fighters of the Grand Master raced after it, striking it repeatedly with fire, turning it aside just as it reached the stands. Several of the spectators were caught by its spray of acidic poison, disintegrating into bubbling clouds of pulpy steam before the spider was finally destroyed. The fighter who had lost control of the spell walked away dejected, stripped of his spider spell as penalty, though the spectators gave him a warm round of applause for the exciting show, which would be talked about endlessly in the days to come.

  One by one the fights ended. The sixth-rank versus second-rank death match dragged out longer than most had expected, ending when the second-rank fighter finally turned and tried to run away. He was chased for more than a hundred fathoms across the arena by his taunting opponent, until Zarel, disgusted, stood up and, raising his hands, blasted him into oblivion just before he ran through the circle where Varena and her opponent were fighting out a classic match of spell versus counterspell that had the mob on its feet.

  Garth watched the fight intently, mentally noting the spells she was forced to reveal.

  “Unless she’s holding back, she’ll have no secrets now in the later matches,” Hammen noted calmly. “Too bad for her. But then again, Master, you’ll have to face her sooner or later, so it’s to your advantage.”

  All the other matches were finished but still the two fought on, the crowd falling silent when there was a lull, cheering or groaning in turn when one or the other seemed to be getting an upper hand. Twice Varena was knocked down, once by a charging berserker that crashed through her line of fire creatures, and again by several attacks from black knights. She finally turned the fight around when her opponent cast a black spell of life draining, for which she held a counterspell that gave her additional strength rather than weakened her, regaining what she had lost from the previous assaults. She pressed forward, relying heavily on fire spells mixed with swirling storms of ice, and her rival finally collapsed into unconsciousness, his power drained.

  Varena, staggering with exhaustion, stood in the center of the circle while the circle master took a spell from her opponent’s satchel and presented it to her. To the surprise of many she then made the gesture of laying hands on her opponent to revive him, an action that struck a chord with the mob, which cheered appreciatively as she turned and walked away. As she walked past Zarel’s throne Garth could sense that somehow Zarel knew of Varena’s part in his rescue as the Grand Master leaned forward and watched her closely.

  “Doubled our money,” Hammen hissed with delight as he settled back into his chair by Garth’s side.

  “You give your friend the message?”

  “I don’t know why, but I did,” Hammen replied sulkily.

&
nbsp; Garth settled back in his chair, ignoring the performers, who again flooded into the arena. The stands were nearly empty as the mob swarmed out of the arena, heading to the food stands and privy pits, except for the crowds that tried to maneuver to where the clay pots were going to rain down.

  “This is your match,” Hammen announced, and he looked over excitedly at Garth.

  Garth, saying nothing, watched the tote board as the matches started to be listed.

  “I bet that’s us,” Hammen said, pointing to the board as a boy scurried out on a catwalk and hung out a symbol before the first letter of the name had even been hung, the symbol a stylized rendering of an eye patch.

  At the sight of Garth’s symbol the crowd started to cheer. Garth sat back, watching, as his name, which on the board was simply “One-eye,” was spelled out. His opponent, from Ingkara, was now listed, and confusion erupted among the crowd.

  “Who is this bastard?” a Brown fighter asked, looking over at Garth as if he had the answer.

  Garth turned and looked at Hammen, who sat in silence.

  “He wasn’t on the lists two days ago,” Hammen announced. “Just a minute.”

  He got out of his seat and raced back toward the grandstands, whereupon several spectators broke out of the crowd and came down to meet him. They conferred quickly and Hammen came back.

  “It’s a setup,” Hammen said angrily. “One of Zarel’s men, at least eight-rank or better. He was seen in the march down to the arena. Jimak must have taken a bribe to let him into Purple’s ranks.”

  “So I’ll fight him.”

  “He’s an unknown, one of Zarel’s lieutenants. It also means the choosing was fixed. One of the monks must have palmed the name disks to set it up.”

  “So it’s fixed. What the hell did you expect?” Garth said quietly.

  Garth, sensing that he was being watched, looked up and saw that Kirlen was gazing down at him.

  She smiled and nodded her head.

  The odds on the board went up, three to one against Garth. The confused murmuring in the crowd increased.

  Hammen turned back to the grandstands and cupped his hands.

  “It’s a fix!”