Arena

CHAPTER 7

DUCKING INTO A SIDE ALLEY, GARTH REMAINED silent, wary as a company of the city Watch marched past, their torches casting wavery shadows down the thoroughfare.

“So what is it this time?” Hammen whispered.

“Got a little too stuffy back in there, that’s all.”

“How was she?”

“How was who?”

“You know who.”

“Rather not say.”

“Rather not say,” Hammen mumbled. “I’m too old for it, he won’t let me watch, and now he’d rather not say.”

Garth stepped back out into the street, pulling the cowl of his cape up close around his face. He slipped back into the flow of the crowd, which was wandering aimlessly up and down one of the five main thoroughfares of the city. It was only two nights till Festival and the air was electric with excitement as the city filled up to the bursting point with visitors pouring in from the countryside and town from as far as Yulin and Equitar five hundred leagues away.

Besides being the final match of skill for all fighters of the Western Lands, it was also a time of market. Merchants came laden down with their wares and their order books. These were not just the peddlers with a horse or mule load of goods to sell but were the owners of the great trading consortiums which controlled vast caravans, warehouses, caravels, and galleys. They were here not only to place and fill orders, but also to pick the fighters they would need to protect their enterprises and harass those of their rivals.

Entertainers came so that the streets were filled with jugglers, singers, musicians, and actors. Hanin by the score slipped in as well, in spite of the Grand Master’s injunction, hoping to be noticed and gain the precious right of color before they got themselves killed. And most important of all came the princes, barons, dukes, and lords to watch fights and make bids upon the contracts for next year. The Peace of the Land had started as well upon the first day of the moon and would hold until the last day of the month so that they could prepare themselves for the season of wars that would follow in the time between Festival and the beginning of winter.

Garth drifted down the street, stopping to watch a troupe of jugglers, one of whom must have been a hanin who could control a single spell, for the balls they were juggling turned suddenly into snakes as they rose into the air, hissing and rattling, and then turned into balls again as they came back down. The crowd watched appreciatively and at a safe distance. Several of them kept taunting the juggler they suspected was the hanin, hoping it would break his concentration so that he’d wind up catching a poisonous serpent and thereby provide a good show.

Garth continued on and all around him the conversations were on the Festival. Gambling sheets were being printed by the tens of thousands and made available for a few coppers. Each scroll listed the lineup from each House and in an arcane code told of the fighter, his pedigree, trainer, spells believed to be carried, and most importantly, the win and loss record in previous Festivals. There were even sheets for the illiterate, which far outsold the ones with writing, marked with coded symbols and slash marks along with betting guides that detailed the odds for the probable matches fought by the higher-rank fighters.

The street echoed with arguments, some of them heating up to the point of fists and drawn daggers as the milling mob argued their favorites.

“It never ceases to amaze me,” Hammen said, as the two stepped around two old women who were rolling in the street and trading punches, “how the mob follows Festival. Here they barely have enough to eat. Taxes from the Grand Master, and for that matter the princes of the surrounding lands, are ruinous in order to pay for fighters. Yet do they see that?”

Garth looked down at Hammen.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself when I first met you.”

“I was surviving and don’t interrupt me. As I was saying, any thought much beyond where their next meal comes from and which hand to wipe themselves with is beyond them. They don’t care about anything beyond that. And yet when it comes to the arena they can tell you the pedigree, the training master, the rank, wins, and spells of damn near every fighter of the four colors. It amazes me. Since you fighters live longer than us anyhow, we’re talking about records that sometimes go back several hundred years. Those two old crones fighting back there in the gutter most likely already had their favorites while still in swaddling and have been following them their entire lives.

“Yet you fighters, do you care?”

“Are we supposed to?”

“Like I said, son, shut up and listen, I’m in the mood to lecture. Most of the fighters I’ve known would squash a peasant like a bug. Especially those who carry black or red mana in their satchels. Using those bundles of mana to focus their psychic links gives them dark and near-godlike powers when compared to a stinking peasant who can only fight with his hands.”

“I have a few of those.”

“I know, and that’s disturbed me. But as I was saying, most fighters are nothing but leeches. They live like royalty in their Houses, they hire out to lords of quality or to merchants who can pay. And there they live like royalty as well. They fight and if it’s against those without the power, they usually kill them out of hand. If it is against another fighter, usually you just surrender a spell and be done with it, then go back and tell your employer that your mana was not strong that day. You stage these elaborate fights and in an entire year not more than half a dozen of you get killed. It’s only during Festival that things get a little bloody and even then most of it’s a sham. Most of you don’t give a good damn for anything other than yourselves, you’re all so damn haughty just because, as an accident of birth, you came into this plane with the ability to control the magics. As for the rest of us, we live our lives out in filth and misery to support you.”

“Am I being lumped into this?”

“I honestly don’t know at times, Master.

“And the fighters of the Grand Master,” Hammen continued, “they’re even worse. They get recruited into his service and stay in his direct employ for the rest of their lives. They’re there for one reason only, to offset the mob, the rival princes, and the other Houses. They’re even worse than the leeches of the Houses. They’re parasites that eat us alive from the inside out. At least the House fighters have only recently been corrupted; there was a time when they did do service to the people. But those serving the Grand Master, they’re lower than snake crap in a wagon rut.”

Garth, chuckling softly over Hammen’s rage, stopped for a moment at a fruit merchant’s stall and came back with two pomegranates, tossing one to Hammen, and he continued on. As he ate the delicacy with relish he made sure that his cowl still concealed his face so that he looked almost like a holy dervish of the Muronian order. The Muronians made their livelihood by passing out tracts promising that the entire universe was doomed and generally annoying the rest of the world so that some people wished it would end just to get rid of them.

Several city warriors slowed as they approached Garth, as if they recognized him. He reached into his pocket as if to pull out a tract and they quickly hurried on.

“I like this disguise,” Garth said.

“I still think you’re crazy to be out and about like this. Better to stay in the House. I’m willing to bet everything we’ve won so far that Varena would be happy to join you in bed tonight.”

“I want to see some things,” Garth said absently as he tossed aside the ends of the pomegranate.

Up the street a trumpet sounded and the crowd gave way as a line of horsemen came down the thoroughfare, swinging to either side with their riding crops to clear a path. Behind them came some petty princeling, who looked out from his carriage window with haughty disdain. As he drew past Hammen let fly with the remains of his pomegranate, catching the prince on the nose.

There was a howl of protest and the horsemen circled back. Hammen, laughing, pushed his way back to the side of the street. The princeling stuck his head out of the carriage, roaring obscenities in a high, cracking voice. Within seconds the carriage was pelted with offal and whatever else was handy and the guards lashed the horses of the carriage forward so that it continued up the street.

The incident left the crowd in a good mood as they soundly cursed all nobility.

“Talk about trying not to draw attention,” Garth hissed.

“See, it’s right there,” Hammen laughed. “They hate the bastards but they don’t even realize that by worshiping the fighters they in fact prop them up.”

“I understand there was a time when the Houses weren’t that bad,” Garth said quietly.

“Ah, the legendary golden age, silver age, or whatever it is people want to call it. Memories of history are usually bunk-it was never better before, and it won’t be better tomorrow.”

“An optimist.”

“All right. Yes, it might have been better. Before the last Grand Master. When there was still the fifth House, Oor-tael, which used more of the mana of the islands and the forest. Fighters of that House were obligated to give part of their time in service to those not of the merchant and noble classes. They had to go on pilgrimage, to wander as part of their journeyman and master’s training, and help the poor with their skills. Even after obtaining the highest rank, every third year they were expected to do this. And the other Houses finally came to hate them for it.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I don’t know, I was only a…” Hammen paused. “You know the old injunction still stands.”

“And that is?”

“A death sentence on any who wore Turquoise, be they fighter, warrior, mistress, and”-he paused-“even the lowest of servants. It also applies to any who even talk of it or suspect another of being of the order and do not report it.”

“And you were about to say?”

Hammen looked up at Garth.

“I called you Galin last night. Do you remember?” Hammen whispered.

“Not really,” Garth said quietly.

“Do you know why?”

“You must have confused me with someone else.”

“Master. Any who wore Turquoise are now dead. There might have been a few who escaped the massacre but they are dead. Leave it that way. The dead cannot be brought back and Turquoise is gone forever.”

Hammen paused and looked up warily at Garth.

“Every hand throughout the city, through the realms, was raised against them and the Grand Master paid.” Hammen’s voice grew faint. “He paid, he paid by the tens of thousands in gold to bring in the few who escaped the massacre when their House was stormed here in the city on the last night of Festival. If they were fighters, they were stripped of their satchels and impaled in the arena.

And do you know what the mob did?”

“No,” Garth’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Oh, there might have been some who cared, but too many were there cheering, laughing, placing bets on how long it would take the impaled to die. That is the mob. They’ve been so fed on bloodlust, on Festival, on groveling before the Walker, that they don’t even care, they don’t even know.

“There was a time when Festival was a private ritual, when the fighters met alone to test their skills.” He paused. “The previous Grand Master built the arena and started to change that and the mob loved it. And then this Grand Master turned it into spectacle and blood sport.”

“Why didn’t the Houses resist this?”

“I’m still not sure if you’re simply a fool or not. Money, my boy, money and other bribes. The Grand Master kicked back to the House Masters, giving them more money than the dead fighters would have made on contracts for a dozen years. With the death matches, the betting went insane, going from a few paltry coppers per match to entire life savings wagered on a single fight. He’s impoverished the mob with it and even some of the princes. Look around you at this city, it’s falling down in squalor. Why?”

Garth tried to answer but Hammen interrupted him.

“Because he’s using the money to secure mana and power for himself and also to get funds to obtain mana the Walker demands. That’s his cover, of course, to blame the Walker, but believe me, he holds back enough for himself. The old role of the fighters has been long forgotten; they’re nothing more than entertainers now.”

“You haven’t forgotten. How come?”

“I’m an old man,” Hammen said quietly, looking away. “Just a disgusted old man.”

“Yet you steal.”

“And why not? The Grand Master has made it an honorable pastime. Besides, there is nothing else I could do to survive.”

“Nothing?”

Hammen looked up at Garth and then shook his head.

“So what happened to those who survived?”

“Who?”

“Turquoise.”

“Don’t ever ask that,” Hammen snapped. “Never. If someone should hear you, you are dead.”

“I’m dead already if the Grand Master gets me.”

“Dying as Garth One-eye is one thing, dying as a suspected Turquoise or even a supporter of that House is quite another. And the mob that favors you now would sell you in a second for the money it could bring.

“Out in the countryside, where Turquoise was strong, out there it wasn’t so bad and I suspect it might still be that way. I heard that a number of men and women in the distant chapter houses managed to escape.”

Hammen sighed.

“What can peasants do against warriors, against the other fighters? Even then there were enough willing to inform and help in the tracking down. A hundred for a servant or mistress or mate, five hundred for a warrior, a thousand for a fighter. That can seduce even the best of men.”

“Not all,” Garth said quietly.

Hammen snorted and spit.

“You know what they did when they took one prisoner? The very first thing after they felt they’d got all the information they could get? They cut his tongue out so he could not talk and tell the truth of what was happening. They cut the tongues out of anyone who gave the fugitives shelter or who were known to have conversed with them.

“And now they are gone, they are all dead, or best to be believed that they are dead,” Hammen whispered.

“There are still rumors that they’re alive.”

Hammen looked up at Garth, suddenly wary.

“We both could be killed for what I’ve just said,” Hammen hissed. “Even to mention they might still live is a death sentence. Even to be suspected of knowing such things, or worse, knowing of someone, is a death sentence now.”

He paused for a moment.

“Just who are you?”

“I am Garth One-eye.”

“Go back home, wherever that is,” Hammen suddenly blurted out. “You ask too many questions. You won’t live to see the end of Festival if you stay.”

“I have things to do.”

“They’re not worth it. Whatever it is you are after is dead.”

“You’re free to leave my side at any time.”

Hammen cursed loud and long for a minute.

“Thanks. And you know I won’t. Not now. You know you have me. It’s as if you planned it that way from the beginning, just like everything else. That your meeting me in the circle I drew in the mud was planned.”

Garth laughed and shook his head.

They walked in silence for long minutes, the crowd around them boisterous, laughing, arguing, the now ever-present gambling sheets being waved in the air, dirty fingers pointing at them, arguing over favorites and odds. “Any reason we’re passing here?” Hammen finally asked, nodding toward a tavern and the crowd milling about outside, watching an oquorak match between two warriors, one Brown, the other Gray.

“Just happened to be along the way.”

“And it’s where you met that Benalian.”

Garth nodded and slowed to watch the fight, which ended seconds later as Gray made three quick slices, one after the other, flaying open the shoulder of Brown.

Brown staggered backward and grudgingly paid his wager as the cord which held the two together was cut, while copper and silver was passed back and forth by the crowd.

“Could you do me a favor?”

“Now what?”

“Track her down for me. I think it fair to assume you have contacts all over the city. She would be easy enough to find.”

“I tell you she’s nothing but a bother; all Benalish women are strange.”

Garth smiled.

“I think I can take care of myself. Take a couple of the gold coins and spread the money around if need be.”

Hammen looked up at him coldly.

“Don’t worry, your commission won’t be touched. And while you’re at it, I’d like you to find a hovel someplace, preferably on or near the Plaza. It has to be secure.”

“A hiding place or a place of rendezvous?”

“The former, and who knows, maybe the latter as well.”

Hammen snickered.

“Fat chance. Like I said, she’s Benalish.”

“Anyhow, just do it. It might come in handy if we need a place to disappear to.”

“What do you mean we? I can take off at any time and disappear.”

Garth looked down at Hammen and smiled.

“Then just for me.”

Hammen cursed and spit on the ground.

“All right, I’ll see what I can find.”

Garth turned to look back to where some of the mob was busy taunting the Brown fighter who had just lost the oquorak. A gust of wind swept down the street and Garth’s cowl fluttered off his head for a moment and he quickly pulled it back up to hide his face.

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

A beggar came up toward Garth, weaving drunkenly and pointing a stubby finger at him and then at Hammen.

Garth started to turn away.

“I knew it!” the beggar shouted triumphantly, scurrying over to Garth’s side. “I never forget a man I win a copper on. You’re One-eye.”

An instant later the name echoed through the crowd, which swarmed after Garth.

“One-eye, One-eye!”

The mob swirled around him, hands reaching out, patting him on the back. Slobbering voices offered drinks, women, and other pleasures.

“Which color is it now? Will you fight in Festival? What’s your favorite spell? My cousin saw you fight against Naru; he won five coppers on it!”

Fights broke out in the crowd’s wake as a few partisans of other fighters argued against the mysterious One-eye.

“You’re certainly popular,” Hammen shouted, trying to be heard above the tumult, “but I think we better get out of here. That Brown warrior’s heading off in the opposite direction. Most likely to get his friends.”

Garth slowed to a stop, the mob swirling in around him, cheering, hands reaching out to grab at his tunic or just to touch him.

“Friends, you know the Grand Master wants me. If you continue to do this, his Watch will come.”

“A fight! Let’s have a fight!” someone shouted, and the cry was picked up, so that within seconds it echoed down the street, the meaning changing as it traveled so that those farther away thought a combat was actually in progress. As they swarmed toward the commotion some of them were already placing bets on One-eye, though they had no idea against whom he was fighting.

Garth extended his hand and a green swirl of smoke rose up around him. He grabbed hold of Hammen’s hand and tried to push his way through the crush, most of them falling back, coughing and choking.

And yet as he ran down a side street, the mist still around him, the mob set off in pursuit.

“There he goes, follow the smoke, the smoke!”

The mob followed after him, shouting and laughing, as if he were playing a prank for their amusement.

“They’re going to get us killed. Try that disappearing act of yours.”

“You have to stand still and stay within the circle of protection,” Garth replied. “It won’t work now.”

As they reached the edge of the Great Plaza Garth slowed to a stop, the crowd again swarming in around him.

Garth reached into his tunic and snapped off a small bundle tied around his throat and pressed it into Hammen’s hand.

“Get away from me,” Garth hissed, “get away now!”

“Master?”

“Now, move it. Now!”

Hammen looked up at him, confused, as the smoke drifted away. Out in the Plaza a line of warriors was drawn up, crossbows raised. Hammen looked back at the mob that was closing in around them and saw at the far edge another line, this one of fighters wearing the Grand Master’s livery, pouring out of a side street.

“Run, damn it, run.” And with that Garth pushed Hammen with such force that he knocked him over into the crowd. Garth darted through the crowd, disappearing from Hammen’s view. The old man tried to regain his footing, people tripping over him, kicking, cursing. Finally he grabbed hold of an ankle and bit it, sending his victim to the ground, howling and cursing, and climbed up over him.

In the confusion Garth was gone from view.

Garth continued to run, dodging down a side street, his admirers still following in his wake, laughing and shouting, revealing to the Watch the direction he had taken. He dodged down a side alley, leaping over piles of refuse, cutting between buildings, and still the mob followed. He ducked into a dark alcove and the mob stormed past until finally one of them, wheezing for breath, stopped directly in front of Garth, coughing and hacking. He looked up and saw him.

“Here he is! One-eye!”

The mob turned, shouting, and Garth set off again, pausing to block his path with an invisible wall, which stopped those behind him. But as he reached another thoroughfare the hue and cry was raised yet again, fans swarming in around him. Pushing his way through the press, he reached the side of the House of Fentesk. There was no hope of finding a secret entrance without Hammen leading the way and he darted for the front door. Out in the Plaza a crowd was already gathering, cheering, laughing, and he could hear them placing bets as to whether he would gain sanctuary or not. As he stepped into the Plaza a crowd rushed forward to engulf him, slowing him down yet again.

A blast of light exploded in the Plaza directly in front of Garth, knocking a dozen or more of the mob over, and they scattered in every direction. Garth bolted toward the main door and, reaching it, grabbed the handle.

It was locked shut.

He turned and stepped back. A circle of fighters was drawn up around him, fighters of the Grand Master.

The blasts came in rapid succession, forcing Garth to dodge about even as he created a circle of protection from the fire. Beyond the ring of fighters he could see crossbow men closing in, running in formation, and beyond them several ballistae on wagons coming toward him, their gunners swinging the weapons around to point forward.

He quickly flared off one spell after another, rolling and dodging. A mammoth appeared directly in front of him, physically blocking the strikes of fire. The great animal reared up on its hind legs, trumpeting, and then lumbered forward. Half a dozen fighters turned their attention to him, the others continuing to focus on Garth. Within seconds the space between Garth and his attackers was filled with goblins, dwarfs, serpents, and skeletons, all fighting each other, conjured into being to attack or defend.

Far out in the Plaza the mob shouted and howled with delight, cheering Garth on in his impossible fight.

The mammoth managed to grab and tear asunder one of the fighters before the others finally destroyed it by opening a fissure directly beneath it, the creature falling in, managing to snag one more fighter around the ankle and pulling him down as well.

A line of crossbow men rushed up and leveled their weapons. Garth flashed a wall of fire before them, their bolts passing through it and disappearing, leaving nothing but trails of smoke.

Three berserkers, shrieking in unknown tongues, appeared, charging straight at Garth, and he stopped them with a line of Llanowar Elves, who hewed into them with staves of oak that shattered helmets, shields, and bones.

Several of the fighters, working together, conjured forth a hill giant who stood nearly half as tall as the House of Fentesk and came forward with slow, lumbering steps, the mob gasping and shouting enthusiastically at the sight of such a rare wonder even though it was bent on crushing their hero.

The fighters opposing Garth paused in their attacks to watch the fun since Garth had no offensive strikes up, his elves trading themselves off against the berserkers so that all lay dead.

The giant, laughing with a low, rumbling roar, raised his foot up and slammed it down, trying to squash Garth. Garth dodged aside and moved behind a pillar. The giant tried to kick him and stubbed his toe so that he cursed with pain and the mob roared with delight.

Garth stepped out from behind the pillar and the giant raised his foot, bringing it down again. Garth rolled, picked up a sword from a fallen berserker and braced its hilt on the ground, the point aimed straight up.

The giant impaled his foot.

His howl of anguish was almost as loud as a demonic roar and he hopped about, the sword still stuck in the bottom of his foot. Garth extended his hands and the giant tottered off balance and then came crashing down, crushing several fighters beneath him, the impact of his fall rumbling across the Plaza like an earthquake. The giant, cursing and moaning, started to rise up again and the fighters who controlled him pointed with disgust at their bumbling creation. The giant fell into the fissure that had taken the mammoth, and his shrieks did not stop until he hit the bottom. In the brief seconds created by the confusion with the giant Garth again turned to the door and pulled on it. It was still locked.

He raised his hand to burst the door and felt an even stronger spell protecting it.

Cursing, he turned back to face his opponents, who were now nearly doubled in number to twenty by the arrival of more reinforcements. The crossbow men, having reloaded, were moving to either side of the fire which he had erected to burn their bolts.

The next seconds were a mad confusion, spell after spell striking back and forth. Several times he was staggered by psionic blasts which slammed into him, those throwing the spells collapsing from exhaustion. But it was not one on one and so it did not matter if a single opponent felled himself into unconsciousness, as long as he injured the lone man they were facing.

Another blast hit him and another and Garth fell to his knees. The mob continued to cheer, caught up in the sheer spectacle of such a fight.

He tried to erect a circle of protection and a crossbow bolt slammed into his shoulder, spinning him around, sending him facedown to the ground.

Gasping, Garth came back up to his knees. The fighters were closing in on him, gloating, hands raised. He threw one more spell, knocking a fighter down in flames, the man turning away, shrieking and running in circles, the crowd howling with delight at this final act of defiance.

Garth looked back at the door into the House of Fentesk. It was unbarred and filled now with spectators. Even as the next blast struck him, he tore his satchel off and threw it toward the door.

“Varena! Sanctuary!” Garth shouted as his satchel skidded to a stop before the Orange fighters gathered about the door.

His mana now no longer at his side, he was naked, and the next blast knocked him into oblivion.