Arena (magic the gathering)

by William R. Forstchen

  “I’m always afraid before you, sire.”

  “I feel you’re concealing something from me, some knowledge, something that you know and I don’t.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” Uriah whispered.

  Zarel finally nodded and laughed with a hoarse whisper.

  “No. You’re too much of a coward to try and deceive me.”

  Zarel turned and looked away, satisfied that in his terror the dwarf was thus still loyal to him.

  “You understand what’s to be done. Once the Walker leaves at sundown we attack the House of Bolk and kill Kirlen. I want Kirlen’s head placed in my lap before the night is over. Bolk is to be destroyed for their insolence.”

  “The Walker?”

  “He’ll be gone and it will be another year before his return. What can he do then?”

  Uriah said nothing in reply.

  I will also have that hag’s books and her mana, Zarel thought. Perhaps that will be enough to do it. If not, then the other Houses will go as well, their mana adding to the strength needed to pierce the veil. It has to be now. My support is slipping thanks to this damned One-eye. It has to be now.

  “And the mob? You’ll have a quarter of the city, all the Brown supporters, looking for murder.”

  “Let them try,” Zarel snapped. “Fentesk’s followers have always hated Bolk more than the others. Make sure today that Fentesk’s stands are showered with gifts. Tonight I want them satiated with blood and wine. They’ll back me.”

  “And myself?”

  “As I promised. You will be the new Master of Bolk.”

  Uriah smiled.

  “The Walker is not to know of what happened here this week. If Kirlen tries to approach him, I want her dead. We can blame the troubles on her.”

  “And what if One-eye appears?”

  Zarel hesitated. Perhaps it might just be as he surmised, that this One-eye was out for bigger game, that he had something planned against the Walker. Perhaps, just perhaps it might work to my advantage. But then again, he might be out after me.

  “I think he’s gone,” Zarel said quietly. “He must be gone; there’s no place left for him now.”

  And Uriah could sense that his master’s words were meant as much to reassure himself as they were meant to try and convince someone else.

  Uriah withdrew and finally let his thoughts relax. The memory of what he had seen in the arena still haunted him. In the other fights One-eye had been nothing but a distant figure. But he had come to stand before the throne and in that moment all was made so clear. He was Galin. The boy who so long ago had ridden on his hunched-over back, laughing with childish squeals of delight and then enfolding him with childlike hugs and kisses.

  But now he is a man, Uriah thought, a man who must be betrayed if I am to survive.

  ***

  Groaning, Garth One-eye stirred. He tried to stretch but could not move. His arms were pinned and he tried to move his wrists. He could feel the cord that bound his wrists but there was more holding him.

  “Damn him!”

  Garth tried to turn, somehow to move out of the circle of the spell, but he remained pinned to the floor, as helpless as a swaddled infant.

  The second bell of morning sounded as the sun broke over the horizon, rising dark and ruddy through the pall of smoke that hung over the city, its light shining in horizontally though the shutters of the garret.

  “Help me this day,” he whispered. “Help me finally to set you to rest, both in my soul and in the lands you now walk. Help me now!”

  He lay in silence for long minutes, concentrating, trying to break the spell through force of will. But it would not break. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes, and still he prayed, turning his thoughts outward, and then he sensed the presence.

  The door cracked open and a dark form stood before him.

  He exhaled nervously.

  “Last night I somehow sensed you were looking for me,” she said softly. “I knew where you were hiding; I followed you from the arena last night. I had to come.”

  He heard her footsteps and she knelt down by his side.

  “Hammen’s doing?”

  “Yes.” His voice came as a hoarse whisper, the power of the spell still holding him.

  She pulled her dagger out and he could just barely see her waving it about in a ritual manner. She moved around him, waving the dagger, cutting the air above him, then waving it again. As if a great weight had been pulled back, he felt the spell shatter. Gasping, he sat up and she cut his bindings.

  “You called for me, didn’t you?” she whispered.

  Exhausted from the struggle, his head throbbing from the blow, he nodded.

  “I saw Hammen leaving here with your satchel.”

  “So why didn’t you come quicker? He’s been gone for hours.”

  “I half agreed with him. But then I sensed your calling and”-she fell silent for a moment-“damn you, Garth, I couldn’t say no,” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “Enough of that for now,” he whispered. “Where the hell did that bastard go?”

  “Toward the arena.”

  “The oilskin bundle in the corner, please bring it to me.”

  She went across the room and brought it back to him.

  He brushed off the dirt that had clung to it from the hole where he had hidden it before first coming into the city. Untying the hemp rope wrapped around the bundle, he slowly opened it up and spread out the contents. Bowing low before it, he struggled to fight back the tears that clouded his eye.

  Recovering his composure at last, Garth stood up and slowly started to undress. He hesitated, looking down at her.

  “You might not remember but I helped to dress you once before”-she paused-“along with Varena.”

  “Could you help me one more time?” Garth asked quietly.

  ***

  The procession weaved its way down the main boulevard that ran from the center of the city, out through the gate, and on to the arena. The crowds lining the street were sullen, barely raising a halfhearted cheer even when the remaining champions passed by.

  Zarel looked around at the crowds. They wouldn’t dare to try anything, not today, not with the Walker arriving. The crowd stared at him in silence, barely stirring when the girls flanking his sedan chair tossed out coins.

  The procession reached the gate and for a moment he had a view of the harbor below. The water was dark with bobbing bodies and splashes of pink where the giant empreys and sharks continued their feeding frenzy. There was so much to eat that the harbor would not be cleaned by the time the Walker arrived. It would have to be explained. An outbreak of plague would be sufficient.

  The procession continued on to the arena, which was already packed to overflowing, the hills above the arena black with people for this, the final day of Festival and the arrival of the Great Lord.

  The parade passed on into the access tunnel and a moment later emerged into the brilliant sunlight flooding the arena floor, the white sand reflecting the midmorning light with a glaring intensity. A thin cheer rose up from the crowd, more in anticipation of the events ahead than for the Grand Master.

  “I wish all you bastards had but one neck,” Zarel growled, mumbling his favorite sentiment when he contemplated the crowd.

  The procession circled the arena floor, this time staying back far enough from the arena wall so that no objects hurled from the stands could reach Zarel. There was a scattering of catcalls and a light shower of wine bottles and beer tankards, the Grand Master’s agents in the stands scrambling to chase down the culprits, the crowd stirring angrily. Finishing the circle, the mammoths were unhooked from Zarel’s throne and driven back through the access tunnel. An expectant hush settled over the mob.

  Zarel waited as the four Houses moved to take their positions at the four cardinal points around the golden circle, while the seven remaining champions took their positions in a line directly behind Zarel. Zarel stepped to the edge o
f the golden circle set in the arena floor and the four Masters moved to their positions around him.

  He looked at each in turn, Kirlen of Bolk, Jimak of Ingkara, Tulan of Kestha, and Varnel of Fentesk.

  “What you have allowed to happen is unconscionable,” Zarel snapped angrily.

  Kirlen cackled obscenely.

  “Tell it to the Walker. Tell him how you can’t control anything. Tell him what an incompetent fool you truly are that one lone hanin can plunge your realm into chaos.”

  “And where is he?”

  Zarel fixed each of them in turn with his gaze and sensed that none now held the man.

  “Your offerings of mana?”

  The four stirred reluctantly and finally turned, looking back to the ranks of their fighters. From each of the four colors came two fighters bearing a strongbox. The four boxes were set down, the air around them shimmering, so powerful was the concentration of mana. The boxes were opened and the contents turned over, the bundles spilling out into the golden circle.

  Zarel looked down at them and nodded.

  “And yours?” Kirlen asked sarcastically.

  Zarel laughed coldly and motioned for one of his fighters to bring forth an urn, which was inverted over the pile.

  “One hundred more mana,” Zarel stated.

  “A fraction of what you extort. I think you’re holding out for your attempt at being a Walker,” Kirlen hissed.

  “How dare you!”

  “I dare because it is the truth,” Kirlen said.

  “And where did you hear this falsehood?”

  Kirlen smiled.

  “One-eye.” And as she said the words she looked to the other three House Masters, all of whom nodded in support.

  “That is why you grow stronger and we grow weaker. We pay the tax but you steal even more and turn over only a fraction,” Jimak snarled.

  “And you believe the word of a hanin?” Zarel asked coldly.

  “Perhaps more than yours,” Tulan interjected. “When you became Grand Master and the House of Oor-tael was destroyed, what deal did you make with the Walker? Was it to bleed the mana out of our lands in exchange for your power? All these years have you been holding back?”

  “Don’t you see who One-eye is?” Zarel snarled. “He’s not after me; he is after all of us.”

  “The mask is off,” Varnel said calmly. “That is now evident.”

  Zarel stared coldly at the four House Masters.

  “Later, we will talk of this later.” He motioned for them to step away from the circle.

  The four drew back slowly, defiantly, as Zarel stepped into the center of the golden circle. Waving his hands over the mana which had been offered, he drew the power into himself. For a brief instant he felt as if he could almost pierce the veil himself, so great was the concentration of power. But the spells, the hidden incantations he still did not know and the door remained closed. Through the shimmer of light he could see Kirlen looking at him hungrily.

  Old crone, I’ll know after tomorrow, he thought with a cold smile.

  The mob, which had been waiting in expectant silence, stirred, coming to its feet.

  Zarel seemed to grow in stature, rising upward, a shimmering light swirling around him. The Grand Master raised his hands to the heavens, silently uttering the words that would drift through the planes, calling upon the Great Lord, the Walker, to come for the time of choosing and for the offering of the gift of power.

  Long minutes passed and then at last there was a stirring, like the first faint breeze of morning drifting down from the high mountains. The pennants lining the stadium stirred, snapping lazily, dropping, twisting, rising again. There was a deathly hush, the air suddenly heavy, as if a storm were brewing far over the horizon. The sun seemed to grow pale in the morning sky, its light growing cold, dimming, the sky overhead darkening though there was no cloud above.

  The darkness deepened. Then, overhead, it took form, a point of blackness in the zenith of the heavens, spreading out like a black stain upon clear, crystalline waters. The darkness spread across the heavens. An icy wind thundered down out of it, howling, shrieking, thundering with an unearthly roar.

  The darkness twisted, turning in upon itself, a cyclone of inky black that pulled inward, flashes of light wreathing around it in a ghostly, unearthly, blue-green glow. The dark cloud raced down out of the heavens, drowning out the cries of fear. Excitement and terror sounded from half a million voices. The black cloud hovered above the arena, boiling, roiling, flashes of lightning wreathing it in fire.

  The cloud continued to coil inward and as it did so it seemed to take form, a dark head peering downward, eyes of fire, beard of lightning, and brow of ghastly flame. The mob was now in an ecstasy of madness, screaming, pointing up at the darkness, mouths open, trembling hands pointing, a frenzy taking hold of them so that they roared with terror and a dark abandon.

  The darkness swirled downward, touching the golden circle. Zarel, with head lowered, drew back and away. It was now a pillar of blackness, soaring a hundred fathoms in height, a circle of fire dancing around it, flashing and thundering. The head reared back, its mouth open. A cold sardonic laugh echoed like thunder against the hills. Eyes of fire gazed down hungrily at those who worshiped it and those who feared it and those who, with averted eyes, loathed it.

  The pillar swirled down as if drawing in upon itself. There was a thunderclap roar and a blinding flash of light that dazzled the vision so that all turned away, covering their eyes, crying with pain.

  In the center of the circle of gold stood the Planes Walker in human form, a tall, sinuous figure that seemed somehow to be not quite real, tall and wavery in his black robes. He appeared to be present, to be real, and yet not to be, as if he were nothing but a wisp of smoke that would disappear. He looked slowly around, a smile creasing his bloodless lips. At one instant it appeared to be almost a friendly smile, filled with warm amusement, and then in the same instant it was a smile of cunning, of power, of contempt for all who could never comprehend all that he truly was in his darkness and majesty.

  He looked down at the pile of mana that rested by his feet and nodded his approval. The bundles would grant him access to the psychic power which controlled the land.

  “The offering is good.” His voice seemed to be a whisper and yet, to the farthest ends of the stadium, all could hear it. At the sound of his voice, deep and rich with power, the mob broke into a wild hysterical roar, as if the terror had been washed away.

  The Walker leaned back, a wild laughing cry of delight escaping him. For again he was in human form and the pleasure of it was upon him. The shadowy nature of his existence dropped away and he was now solid in flesh. At the sight of him, looking like a young golden god of power and fierce vitality, the mob went wild.

  The Walker stepped clear of the circle and from out of the ranks of warriors came bearers carrying yet more urns, which they dumped over his shoulders, the gold cascading out. He laughed with delight as he picked up the coins, feeling them, his eyes afire. Jimak stared in silence, his breath coming heavy at the sight of the riches. The Walker flung his hands upward and the coins, as if caught on the wind, swirled out in a golden rain, fluttering down into the stadium, the mob cheering. More bearers came forward, bringing the finest of wines, and he drank hungrily, throwing the goblets, and Tulan licked his lips at the scent of the wine. And then from behind the ranks of warriors there came women in the sheerest of robes that were as translucent as the web of a spider. Some were tall and pale of skin with golden hair; others tawny-skinned with tresses of curly black; and still others exotics from distant lands that were but fabled realms. Varnel stood silent, trembling at the sight of them. They were of every shape and form, slender and boyish of body, full and voluptuous, tall and dusky, and he reached out to them eagerly, fondling, grasping, laughing, and the mob cheered lustily.

  As he did so he looked over at Kirlen and the old woman was silent, her eyes filled with hatred. Laughing, he turned away.
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  “It is time for the games!” the Walker announced, and his voice was filled with bloodlust and the mob howled with delight.

  The Walker extended his arms in salute, the heavy coils of muscles rippling, and he stretched with the pleasure of the sensation, pulling in the chosen woman of the moment with one hand, fondling her with open abandon while scooping up a goblet of wine with the other, forcing her to drink some, then holding the goblet aloft in salutation to the howling masses.

  He ascended the throne, which Zarel now relinquished to him. He leaned back, looking up at the blue sky that spanned overhead and for a moment was silent, his features strange and distant. And then he stirred, his dark laughter drowning out the voice of the mob so that the stadium echoed with the thunderous peals.

  Gaining the throne, he kissed the woman with a wild, passionate lust, groping at her like an animal in heat, tearing her robe off. Then, as quickly, he released her, pushing her aside, waving for yet more wine and food. He scooped up the delicacies and devoured them like one who had awakened from a fevered dream and now sought sustenance.

  He then tossed aside the goblet, upended the tray of food set before him, and looked out across the arena.

  “Let the first match be chosen!”

  At the base of the throne Zarel motioned for the blind and deaf monk to make the first choice.

  “Azema of Kestha versus Jolina of Ingkara.”

  The mob cheered with bloodlust and swarmed toward the betting booths to place their wagers. The entire arena floor was now available for the final round of fights and minutes later, at the far end of the arena, Jolina stepped out, while at the north end Azema of Kestha stepped into the neutral box to prepare.

  The Walker stood up, grinning, surveying the arena, waiting for the mob to finish its betting.

  “How is this match today?” he asked, looking down at Zarel.

  “In your honor, Great Lord, all matches today are to the death.”

  The Walker stared at Zarel, probing inward.

  “Why?” his voice whispered so that only Zarel could hear.

  “I can explain later, my lord.”