The Walker looked back over at the woman, who reclined naked upon the silk divan. He could see the terror in her eyes. He raised his hand and, though she tried to look up at him seductively, her features paled. He snapped his fingers and a cut diamond, the size of a small walnut, appeared between his thumb and forefinger. He tossed it between her breasts and, laughing, turned away. Scooping up a decanter of wine, he strode down the steps of the throne platform and approached Garth. Draining off the decanter, he tossed it aside.
“So, One-eye, you’ve won.”
Garth said nothing, staring straight at the Walker.
“So now you are my chosen servant of the year. Come and I will show you all that you desire and deserve to know.”
The Walker turned away and looked out across the arena.
“I proclaim Garth, whom you call One-eye, the winner of this Festival.”
There was a ripple of a cheer, but most stood silent, and the Walker frowned, looking back at Garth.
“I think they are not happy with the victory.”
“It might be other things, my lord,” Garth said quietly.
The Walker looked over at Varena, who was slowly being dragged away by her servant and Hammen.
“You should claim her satchel, as is your right.”
“Where I am going, I suspect there is no need of it.”
The Walker, chuckling softly, nodded.
He looked down at two monks who knelt at the edge of the circle, holding a great silken bag which contained the mana tribute, the bag pulsing with a radiant light. Kuthuman greedily reached over, took the bag, and looked back at Zarel.
“I suspect there is not as much in here as I expected.”
Zarel lowered his head, saying nothing.
“If that is true, you know I’ll be back sooner rather than later.”
“Why not check now?” Garth said quietly.
Kuthuman looked over at Garth, his features troubled.
“Later.” And he said the words coldly, looking back at Zarel, who gazed at Garth with unconcealed hatred.
“It is time to go,” the Walker announced, and he fixed Garth with an icy stare.
“This will be amusing.”
He raised his hands high.
Garth felt as if an opaque screen had been drawn around him, the world beyond drifting off into a hazy, fog-covered shadow. Sound distorted as if the mob were shouting from down the end of a long underground cavern. The world darkened. He looked up and the sun, which had been blazing with such hot intensity, was now a dull red, darkening into night.
And then he began to fall. His stomach tightened and he suppressed the urge to cry out with fear, wondering for an instant if he were already dead. The ground was no longer beneath his feet, yet he felt no rushing of wind, no sense of flying. The opaque shadow drew in tighter, all going dark. Again he looked up at the sun. It was gone. Overhead there was a narrow cone of light, of brilliant purple, and out of it streaks of light snapped past. Yet it was almost as if he did not see the light, but merely sensed it. He wanted to reach out and touch the lights yet knew that somehow they were impossibly far away. He looked down at his feet. A small disk of dark red was drawing in upon itself, shrinking into a pinpoint, becoming nothing, the lights streaking past him shifting in an instant from purple to red, then disappearing.
Garth felt a surging of power, a sudden delight coursing through him, as if the infinite universe had been reduced to a toy that now rested in the palm of his hand. He reveled in the power, allowing it to course through his soul. Time lost all meaning, all sense, and he was not sure if a second had transpired or aeons.
“Now you know the power of the infinite,” a voice whispered to him.
For the first time Garth was aware that there was a presence with him. It was dark, foreboding, and yet for this instant he could sense an almost benign amusement, as if the Walker was an indulgent old man, showing new wonders to a child.
“The power you wielded is but nothing compared to what I am.”
The light ahead shifted, drifting out of purple into blues, greens-an infinite variety of a million hues. He felt as if he were soaring into the heart of a sun that was exploding into rainbows of fire.
Garth felt as if he could reach out and, with the flick of a finger, set suns spinning on their courses, that with the palms of his hands he could mold and shape worlds, and with his breath set the firmament swirling. He felt as if he had become a god and the power of it was all-consuming, reaching into his soul with its seductive strength.
He laughed, his voice echoing through the night.
The sensation of falling stopped and he felt a pressure on the soles of his feet. All was dark and then, ever so slowly, a hazy light formed, out of focus, as if he looked up into the sunlight from the depths of the sea. The light swirled, sparkled, and then took form.
He was standing in a shady grove, the trees around him reaching up into a crystalline blue sky flecked with high, drifting clouds. The air was rich with a heady scent of springtime flowers. Tropical birds of red, green, yellow, and dazzling white darted past, their songs echoing like a heavenly choir.
Garth turned, smiling, watching them pass.
“It is like paradise,” Garth whispered, and he was surprised that his voice was knotted, a tear blinding him.
And then the memory came. It was warm, soft, laden with the gentle light of childhood. It was the garden of his father’s winter palace, far in the southlands. He looked around closely. There on the green grass was a favorite toy, a wooden rocking horse upon which he would ride and dream of glorious charges. Next to it was a stuffed mammoth, the right tusk gone, the fur knotted from his tiny fingers busily twisting and tying the wool.
It’s a dream.
But it was not. He knelt down on the grass and, reaching out, he touched the horse, which rocked slowly back and forth.
He heard a soft laughter, rich and warm with love.
“Papa.”
He stood up, expectant. A shadow moved behind high bushes that were heavy with orange-and-yellow blossoms.
For an instant he felt as if all the years had been stripped away.
I can see. I can see with both eyes!
He moved as if in a dream, running on short legs, laughing, his voice high and filled with shrieks of delight.
Again there was the laugh.
“Come, Galin. Mama’s waiting.”
The shadow stepped out from behind the grove of trees. He was tall, red-haired, beard and mustache cropped short, a circlet of turquoise stones resting upon his brow, his long flowing robes of a simple cut, embroidered with edging of richest blue.
“Papa!”
He moved around the edge of a fountain, which danced and splashed. A gentle breeze took the water, spraying him with a fine mist, and he laughed at the coolness of it, the rainbow of light.
He reached up to his face to wipe the spray from his eyes.
His hand touched the patch over his left eye.
Stunned, he pulled his hand away and at that instant all faded. The garden melting, shifting, falling away. For the briefest of instants he thought that he did indeed see his father, standing before him with his sad, gentle eyes, reaching out. The image drifted as if falling away into a long dark tunnel and he wanted to reach out to it.
“Papa?”
The image held for a moment, the sad eyes gazing at him, a hand outstretched, beckoning, and he started to step forward toward it.
No! He’s dead. Murdered.
The image faded and Garth turned away, tears coursing down his face. He looked up again.
He was standing on a darkened field that stretched away into an eternity. No sun lit the sky, the world illuminated as if by an unseen and unholy light. Dark green clouds, moving impossibly fast, roiled overhead, racing by. The wind was damp, cold, and filled with a pungent acrid smoke that held with it the stench of corruption. Before him was a darkness that was shadowy, not fully formed, wavery, as if nothing more than mis
t. The form moved, its black robes fluttering in the breeze, and for a brief instant he caught a glimpse of a skull-like visage. He felt his blood go cold.
The shadowy form drew closer.
“I wanted to make it easy for you,” a voice whispered. “You would have died believing that it was your father you embraced.”
“And so this is the reward for winning,” Garth said quietly.
“You knew that from the beginning, didn’t you?”
Garth nodded.
The Walker chuckled softly.
“You interest me, Garth, or is it Galin?”
“Garth. The other died long ago.”
“It was too bad. I remember you well. You were eager, smart, able to use mana almost from the day you were born. You came of good blood.”
“My father and you were once friends. He saved your life once.”
The shadow nodded.
“Back when all was young,” Kuthuman whispered. “And that is why I wanted to give you the gift of a gentle death, at least a small token back to a friendship from another age.”
Kuthuman sighed, and in his voice was an infinite weariness.
“But unfortunately you were too strong-you saw through the mirage.”
Garth said nothing, still so shocked by the power of the mirage that he found it difficult to control the tears. Nor would he admit that for a moment he had been taken in entirely.
“You kill all who win the Festival, don’t you.”
“Are you hoping for an exemption?”
“No. I know better than that. Besides, there is too much between us.”
The shadow sighed and to Garth’s surprise actually sat down.
“Let us not finish this yet. Sit down, you must be weary.”
Garth hesitated.
“No tricks this time. Now that you know, I owe you that as well, as the son of a friend. Besides, it would be a passing pleasure to talk as I once did, without pretenses, without groveling fear. When the end comes for you I will grant you release as a man, standing with weapon in hand as is your right.”
Garth sat down on the chilled ground.
The shadow sighed.
“I always kill the winner of Festival.”
“You don’t want any future competition.”
“Of course not. You think the poor fools who so eagerly compete would have figured that out by now. As in your world, in the world that was once my sole realm, the mana is scarce. It is drawn slowly out of the lands, created by the life force of every creature who lives, and then tamed and controlled by those few born with the power to see it, to concentrate its power and use it. It took much of that mana for me to break down the barriers between worlds and to walk as a demigod between them. It takes the tribute of many such worlds for my power to be sustained and to grow.
“Now, do you think I would share such power with others? The power to walk between worlds, to be a Walker, rests upon that. If I allowed others to gain that power, they would be a threat as they grew.”
“So you strangle them in the cradle. You let us choose who might be the next threat and then you take them and kill them.”
The shadow nodded.
“Unfortunate, isn’t it,” he whispered as if troubled by the dark necessity of reality. “If I did not, there might be a day when someone could gather enough mana unto themselves so that they too could pierce the veil of worlds and walk as I now do. And if they did, then what would there be, yet another to struggle against in a universe of struggle.”
“You know that Zarel even now hoards the mana, your mana, so that he might pierce the veil.”
“Carrying tales, are we?”
Garth smiled.
“It serves a purpose.”
“To turn me against my servant?”
“Perhaps.”
The shadow laughed.
“He is ambitious; I knew that from the beginning. So ambitious that he would help me kill your father, not out of any loyalty to me but simply to get me out of the way so that he could then prepare for the final step as well. You tell me nothing that I don’t already suspect.”
“And?”
The shadow paused and seemed to diminish in form. Garth watched him intently, feeling the power drain away from Kuthuman until he almost disappeared. Long minutes passed, neither of the two moving, and then the strength returned.
“A struggle elsewhere?”
The shadow nodded.
“So it is the same out here, then?” Garth asked quietly, an almost-sympathetic tone in his voice.
“The same. I thought, somehow, when I crossed through the barrier that I was free.”
Garth felt as if he could almost see a wistful smile on the shadow’s face.
“Ah, those first moments. They were a delight beyond imagining. It was a childlike joy for all was new, fresh, innocent to my eyes as if it were the first day of creation. I soared like an eagle, piercing through the veil of tears, of time, of eternity. Death would never now touch me, I believed. I would be eternally young, striding the corridor of time, and control all that I surveyed.”
He paused for a moment.
“And then I met the others.”
“Who were Walkers like you.”
The shadow nodded.
“You should have assumed that,” Garth said. “Our own legends spoke of the younger days when there were demigods who struggled for control of our world and how they disappeared and we were alone. You should have assumed that you would meet such.”
“I was intoxicated with the power. I thought the legends were just that, mere legends. Or at worst there were others who had slain each other and the universe was now empty except for the power of the Eternal.”
“You discovered differently.”
“It is a universe of strife. Even now as I sit and talk with you I struggle to hold what little I have. Even now I walk in other realms, fighting, using mana, taking mana in conquest and losing it as well. It is an infinite struggle for power and I am but one of many. There are powers beyond mine that are terrible to behold, those who would drain me of my strength as if they were drawing blood out of my veins. And if they triumph over me, I shall be a dried husk, blown on the winds of eternity, doomed never to live and doomed as well never to die.”
“And you have done such in turn.”
The shadow chuckled, its voice cold as night.
“Ah, how I have driven my enemies before me and laughed to hear their lamentations. I have broken into their worlds, taking unto myself what is rightfully mine. That which I cannot hold I have laid waste to so that it is useless to them and the mana is drawn out of their lands and into my hands. I control much now, numbers beyond imagining.”
“But it will never be enough. There will never be rest, will there?”
The shadow stirred.
“You are, perhaps, too wise, Garth. For once here there is no choice. It is either to grow or to be driven into the void, stripped of all powers with all eternity before you or until the Eternal stirs and draws the circle closed. So there is no choice, no choosing. The struggle goes on without rest.”
“You are, even now, strained almost beyond your ability to hold what you have.”
“How do you know that?”
“If it was not so, you would have stayed longer after the Festival. You would have lain with women, drunk deeply of wine, and amused yourself with the adoration of the mob. Yet you came to take your tribute of strength, and tarried but for a moment before fleeing back here”-and Garth waved his hand toward the timeless dark plains-“this dead world of darkness.”
The shadow nodded.
“Why here? This is hell itself. I would have thought you leaping through the infinite or tarrying in palaces of gold in worlds of unsurpassing delight. Why this nightmare world?”
“This is the heart of my realm. It is from here I can reach out to all other places, to erect the walls that keep the others out. When I walk within a realm and assume mortal form I am blind and know not what my
enemies plot. Even in the brief instant I was away, returning to the place I had been born to take my tribute, a plane of existence was blocked to me and now I must war to win it back as I do now, even as we talk.”
The shadow’s voice was dark and filled with weariness, so that Garth almost felt a moment of pity, if one could pity the being that had taken all that he had once loved.
Garth started to laugh, the sound of it strange upon the dark and barren plains. He stood up and, turning, looked around.
“I have hated you my entire life,” Garth said. “You were once Grand Master, and had been for well nigh unto a millennium. And then you came to fear death and you desired the power of the infinite. You perverted all that the Houses had once been and the purpose of the mana. You used its strength to pierce the curtain between worlds so that you could walk as a demigod and thus be immortal. And now this is your realm!”
Laughing, he pointed out at the murky darkness.
The shadow stood up.
“I found it amusing to spare you for a moment. Your father was once my friend and thus I granted a boon to you. I am no longer amused.”
“Think on that. There was once a time when my father, a mere mortal, thought so much of you that he nearly died to save you from an assassin. He carried the marks of that poisoned dagger until the day he died. You know, there was once a time when such as my father loved you and called you friend. When a woman loved you with such aching intensity that her heart was shattered, and now she is nothing but bitterness and hate. You gave all that up, all of it. For this.” And he pointed out across the dark plain.
Garth’s voice tightened with emotion.
“My father trusted and believed in you until he burned to death, the last of his power stripped by your groveling servant, Zarel, to be used in your unholy quest. You betrayed him and now this is your reward. You are so terrified of losing what you now control that you exile yourself to this dark world, unable to enjoy even the pleasures of a beggar-the sun in one’s face, the laughter of children, the taste of wine or even of simple bread.”
“You know nothing,” the shadow hissed. “Your father could have been the Grand Master after I was gone and after him it could have been you. It was his arrogance that destroyed him and cursed you to half blindness.”
Arena (magic the gathering) Page 29
