Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  Garth turned back to face Kirlen.

  She smiled coldly and turned away.

  Garth went back to his seat. The arena thundered with noise in celebration of the end of the fifth round of eliminations.

  “It’s time for the winners to get their wreaths,” Hammen announced, coming to Garth’s side.

  “Then I think it’s time for me to go.”

  “I think he has something planned for you.”

  Garth smiled.

  “Let’s see how the timing works.”

  “Maybe you should just skip out now and be done with it.”

  Garth laughed and strode out onto the field. Greeted by a loud ovation, he walked slowly toward Zarel’s throne. From out of the tunnels the dwarf catapult teams emerged and the roar of the mob resounded even louder. Watching honors for favorite winners was one thing, but the chance for free gold was far more important.

  “He plans to divert the mob with bribes while you’re taken,” Hammen said.

  “It will be an interesting surprise. Let’s just hope it gets started quickly enough,” Garth replied.

  As he approached the throne the other surviving fighters lined up beside him. He looked over at Varena, her features pale and haggard, and nodded a greeting. A brief smile flashed for a second and then she turned away. Garth looked at the other fighters, who stared at him coldly. The new rules meant that all of them were now gazing at men and women who would either be their victims or killers come tomorrow.

  Zarel stood up and floated down from the throne to alight on the sand of the arena floor. Four of his fighters came forward bearing a golden tray, upon which rested the laurels given to those who had reached the final day of eliminations. Garth could not help but notice, though, that a solid phalanx of warriors was pouring out of the access tunnels, following by nearly all the Grand Master’s fighters. They moved out onto the arena floor in order to surround the golden circle.

  “All of you shall be my guests at the palace tonight,” Zarel announced calmly.

  “I’ve already been there once. I think I shall decline,” Garth replied calmly.

  Zarel turned to face Garth. In the background was the rattle of dozens of crossbows being raised.

  In the distance the mob was still howling with delight, but not for what they assumed was a simple boring ceremony to end the day’s fun. Nearly two score of wagon-carried catapults were now out, their dwarf crews loading up the first pots. The weapons fired, the mob howling with joy as the clay pots arced up into the audience.

  “If you fight, I wonder if they would even notice,” Zarel said. “They’re getting stuffed on gold. I daresay as well that some of your opponents here would be more than happy to have you out of the way. In fact, if you were gone, we could dispense with the blood sport for tomorrow and return to the more traditional form.”

  Garth looked sidelong at his potential rivals. He saw only Varena giving him a nod of support. Garth stretched and simply smiled.

  The first of the clay pots crashed down into the audience and the mob surged to where the golden treasures would land.

  The dwarf crew were hurriedly reloading, firing again and yet again. But the tone of the mob was already changing. The wild exuberant shouts were replaced within seconds by mad cries of panic and pain.

  Zarel hesitated and looked up from Garth. The pots continued to rain down on the audience… breaking open to disgorge stinging scorpions, hornets enraged by their disturbing trips, and hissing poisonous vipers.

  For several seconds all seemed to be frozen, Zarel looking at the mob, not understanding, the guards surrounding Garth with weapons raised, and the angry howling of the mob growing ever louder.

  More pots rained down, bursting open, the terrified spectators writhing about, screaming in panic and rage, the vipers coiling around whoever was nearest, swarms of hornets stinging whatever flesh they came in contact with.

  In the section of the stand closest to Zarel’s throne a Benalish woman leaped up onto the containing wall of the arena.

  “Zarel! Zarel is killing us! Kill him!”

  With drawn sword she leaped down from the wall. Like a damn bursting open, the mob started to flood down the stadium rows, gaining the wall and piling over it, the flood spreading out across the entire length of the arena.

  The dwarf crews, still not comprehending what they were doing, continued to fire the pots into the audience. As the mob swirled around them they threw the rest out of their wagons, thinking the crowd was simply after loot. Their actions infuriated the mob even more and the wagons were swarmed under.

  The warriors surrounding Zarel turned to face outward and stem the mad onrush. Panicked, they lowered their weapons and fired. Zarel turned back to face Garth, at last realizing what had happened and knowing that somehow One-eye was behind it.

  He was greeted by a green cloud of smoke.

  Ducking low, Garth darted around the throne, followed by Hammen, and was almost instantly lost in the crush of warriors struggling to form ranks and face the enraged mob that, by the hundreds of thousands, was now storming out onto the arena floor.

  “Behind you!”

  Garth turned even as Varena dropped a warrior who was about to bring his sword down on Garth’s back. Garth leaped aside as the flame-scorched body tumbled over. The three pushed their way through the warriors, who were staggering backward as the onrushing wall of the mob slammed into them.

  Garth raised his hands and the warriors to either side recoiled from him, a dark terror gripping their hearts. He pushed his way through the ranks, using terror to clear a path, Varena by his side. They broke through into the struggling mob and at the sight of him the mob parted, cheering wildly, and then pushed on again, shouting with rage.

  Garth gained the edge of the arena and climbed over the wall. The stands were still half-full, except for the wide circles of empty spaces now controlled by the creatures that had burst out of the pots. Garth ascended the steps, reaching the top of the arena.

  The betting stands were in shambles, the mob looting them. Beneath each stand was a chute down which was dropped the money taken in betting to arrive in carts far underground by which, through hidden tunnels, the winnings would be taken back to the palace. Some of the mob were tearing at the holes with their bare hands, shouting curses down the holes. Still others vented their rage on the booths, tearing them apart board by board.

  The arena floor was chaos. A dark knot of warriors held in the center. The Master’s fighters were now in the fray, casting out walls of fire to drive the mob back.

  “I’m going back to my House,” Varena said.

  Garth turned and looked at her, taking her by the arm.

  “Maybe you should leave.”

  She pulled her arm free.

  “I’ve studied all my life for the chance to be the servant of the Walker. I’ll not stop now.”

  Hammen sniffed and said nothing.

  “That means we’ll have to fight tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “And if it comes to killing, then what? You know that bastard will require it tomorrow.”

  She looked at him, saying nothing.

  “Leave, Varena, for the sake of the Eternal, leave.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said quietly and, turning, she disappeared into the swirling mob.

  “Same advice I’ve been giving to you,” Hammen said.

  “And I’m just as pigheaded. Now come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  ____________________

  CHAPTER 13

  THE DOOR INTO THE ATTIC SWUNG OPEN AND Garth turned expectantly.

  “Were you able to find her?”

  Hammen shook his head.

  “Damn.”

  “Some people say she was killed at the start of the riot, others that the Grand Master’s warriors took her prisoner. There’s not a word of that Benalish woman at the moment.”

  Garth said nothing, turning back to peek through the narrow window. Out in the Pla
za all was finally still. Carts moved back and forth through the shadows, hooded monks picking up the hundreds of dead who littered the area around the palace. Fires still flickered across the city and in the distance could be heard the roar of the mobs. From out of the main street that led down to the harbor, a solid column of warriors was marching, their shields and spears glinting in the glowing light. Down below even the normal flow of business had quieted down, something for which Garth was extremely grateful.

  “Zarel’s called in troops from Tantium. The ships are arriving even now. He’s stripping the countryside bare,” Hammen announced. “They say maybe a thousand or more people and several hundred warriors were killed down in the arena. The mob was still holding it when I left but I guess the troops are finally clearing it.”

  Garth nodded.

  “And the package I hid outside the city gate?”

  Hammen held up the oilskin bundle and dropped it on the floor.

  Garth nodded his thanks and, bending down, picked it up as if it was a treasured and fragile object.

  “Master?”

  Garth looked back at Hammen.

  “I think I’m quitting your service.”

  “Why?”

  Hammen shook his head.

  “Go on, out with it.”

  “In the beginning it was different. I thought you were out on a lark, have a little fun, tweak the nose of Zarel, and make a profit. Though you’ve never said anything, I always suspected who you were as well.”

  “But that’s changed, hasn’t it.”

  Hammen nodded sadly.

  “I passed along the front of the harbor tonight. They’re taking the carts down and dumping the dead in, letting the tide take them out. The sharks and empreys are having a feast; the water’s churning with the feeding.”

  He fell silent for a moment.

  “Don’t you have any remorse, any feelings over this?”

  Garth turned away from Hammen to look back out the window as a company of warriors raced past and then disappeared into the night.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why? Thousands have died.”

  “You have sympathy with the mob, is that it?”

  “I was the mob,” Hammen replied.

  “And what were you then? If you had not been with me, you would have been up in the stands howling for blood, trembling with ecstasy as a fighter hacked the guts out of an opponent. That was your life, wasn’t it? What are the permutations of tomorrow’s bet, can I get the right combination and win a thousand over the blood of someone else?”

  Hammen lowered his head.

  “I had to survive.”

  “You call that surviving. That bastard in the palace has perverted everything the mana was intended for. He’s turned it into sport and money contracts and the Walker allowed it. That’s all the mob now lives for.”

  “And Garth the liberator has come to change that? What right do you have anyhow? You’ve killed more in the last four days than Zarel does in a year. Are you any better than him now? Or is this all only for your own revenge?”

  Garth shook his head and looked away.

  “Damn you, don’t look away from me!” Hammen snapped.

  Startled, Garth looked back at the old man.

  “Don’t you feel anything about this?”

  “I’m sick to death of it,” Garth said quietly. “But there’s no other way. I tried to think of another path but I couldn’t find it. Yes, I want to bring the bastard down, bring him down and all the corruption he has created. He has given the people of this realm an opiate, the circuses, the Festival, and corrupted the guilds of fighters and everything around them. They’ve all been seduced by it and this is the only way I know to bring an end to it, to lance the corruption and let the pus run out of it until it’s healed. It was better than hiding in the gutter like you.”

  Hammen stood up and angrily kicked over his chair.

  “You have no idea how I survived. What it took. And who are you to judge? Who are you to come sauntering in here and calmly decide to destroy it all? Because of you I lost four of my closest friends and have watched my city descend into chaos. At least before you there was order and the mob was happy.”

  Garth reached down into his satchel, pulled out a small silken bundle and tossed it to Hammen. The old man caught it, and held it. Garth looked closely at him and smiled.

  “You can control the mana, can’t you? I can sense that.”

  Hammen lowered his head and let the bundle drop.

  “You were once Hadin gar Kan, master fighter of the House of Oor-tael, weren’t you?”

  Hammen started to shake and he lowered his head.

  “Damn you,” Garth snarled. “You were the master fighter of Oor-tael, weren’t you!”

  Hammen, sighing, picked up the chair and sat down heavily.

  “And this is what you’ve become. A pickpocket, a street thief, a comic actor. A nothing.”

  “Who are you to judge me now?” Hammen whispered. “I escaped the Night of Fire. I hid for weeks in the sewers and when I came out there was nothing left. I could never touch the mana again. I had betrayed my Master by fleeing. I would be tortured to death if found, and picking up my satchel again was the surest way to be found. So I threw it into the sea.”

  Hammen was racked by a shuddering sob.

  “Just leave me alone. I had almost forgotten after all these years. Why did you have to come and drag up the moldering corpses of the past? The House was dead, the Master dead, and all my comrades dead. There was nothing left. Are you saying I should have charged the palace alone and killed the bastard?”

  Hammen laughed sadly through his tears.

  “For what? It was finished and he had won.”

  Hammen looked up at Garth, tears streaming down his gray cheeks.

  “And who are you, Garth One-eye? I suspect, but who are you?”

  “A memory, nothing more. Just a memory,” Garth said quietly. “One that refused to die.”

  “Go away then. I don’t need any memories or nightmares to awaken me. Tomorrow the Walker comes and nothing can stand before him. Zarel is just a puppet, a paper-thin mask behind which the true evil lurks. He will dust you away like chaff on the wind. The folly is over. Now go away.”

  “I think I’ll stay and see what happens,” Garth replied softly.

  Hammen stood up wearily.

  “I’m leaving. I’ll have no more to do with this. You’ll be dead tomorrow, Garth, and all the killing of the last days will be nothing but waste. I want no more of it. No more.”

  Hammen went to the door and opened it.

  “Hadin.”

  The old man looked back.

  “Hadin died twenty years ago.”

  “Hammen.”

  Hammen turned with a swiftness that caught Garth off guard. The blow of his staff caught Garth across the temple, knocking him over and sending him into oblivion.

  Hammen stood over Garth, looking down sadly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a length of cord and tied Garth’s hands behind his back, binding him tightly. Then he reached into Garth’s satchel, feeling the power of the mana.

  Mere touching it sent a shiver down his spine, conjuring memories the way smelling the scent of a flower might rekindle a long-lost dream of first love. He took the satchel from Garth and stood upright. All the memories washed over him, filling him with a fierce joy mingled with infinite sadness for all that was done and all that was gone forever.

  Again he was young and filled with strength and was the first of fighters for the House of Oor-tael. Again all was before him and the power of the memories forced tears to his eyes.

  He looked down at the body stretched out on the floor before him and he felt a sharp pang in his heart, the clear sight of the mana showing all, so much that he had known but could not quite believe.

  He tore his gaze away from Garth and, drawing on the mana, found the spell he desired. He placed it on Garth, the power of it pinning him to the floor so tha
t even after he awoke he would be frozen in place for hours until the spell finally broke down.

  He started for the door and then turned back, kneeling down by Garth’s side.

  “Galin.”

  The name was spoken as a whisper. The old man reached out with a loving hand and pushed the hair back from Garth’s forehead, the way he had done so many years before when Galin was but a boy, the son of the House Master of Oor-tael, who would come to his father’s favorite fighter and sit on his knee for a tale of adventure.

  “The Eternal keep you, boy,” Hammen whispered.

  Standing up, he shouldered the satchel and walked out of the room. The door slipped shut behind him.

  ***

  “It’s almost dawn.”

  Zarel wearily looked up and nodded his head.

  “And?”

  Uriah looked around nervously.

  “Go on.”

  “He deserted Bolk during the rioting. He has not reported to any of the other Houses.”

  “Will you stake your life on that report?”

  Uriah remained silent.

  “Damn you, will you stake your life on that?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “I want it made clear to the House Masters. If One-eye fights today in their uniform, I will turn my fighters loose on them, right there in the arena. I beat the mob today. They won’t dare to intervene. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Uriah.”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “The pots, the clay pots. How?”

  Uriah felt his blood run to ice.

  “Someone added them into the shipment. The creatures were conjured, their power maintained by a small bundle of mana in each of the pots.”

  “And how did they get in?”

  “I don’t know, Master.”

  Zarel fixed Uriah with his gaze and a lash of probing washed over him. Uriah stood still, struggling to control his thoughts.

  “You’re afraid, Uriah.”