William Forstchen: Arena

Okmark, with a disdainful gesture, reached down and picked up the amulet that had controlled the spell of the undead. He looked over at the boy holding his cloak and took it back. The boy stood waiting, expecting a reward, but Orange ignored him.

The crowd was silent and Garth looked around. The gambler had moved to one side of the Orange fighter and Garth saw the flicker of recognition between the two.

Garth moved to the edge of the circle.

“Pay the boy for his services,” Garth said, his voice carrying through arguments breaking out around the circle as the mob hotly discussed the fight they had just witnessed.

Orange looked over at Garth and instantly there was silence.

“You pay him if you care so much about it,” Orange replied.

“If you don’t feel like paying him,” Garth said, a smile creasing his features, “perhaps your friend over there might spare some of the money you won.” As he spoke Garth pointed at the gambler.

All eyes turned on the gambler, who stood silent for a moment. The man finally reached into his purse, pulled out a silver coin, and threw it into the circle.

“Your winnings, One-eye,” the gambler announced. “Take it and pay him with that.”

Without hesitating, Garth stepped into the circle and a low gasp echoed through the crowd. The raggedy man started to dance excitedly.

“He stepped into the circle; a challenge, a challenge!”

The crowd started to pick up the chant and the gambler smiled.

Garth leaned down, picked the coin up, and, wiping the mud off, pocketed it.

“I still believe you owe the boy a reward,” Garth said.

Okmark looked at him with a cool, superior disdain.

“Spoken in the circle, that’s a challenge,” Okmark replied. “I think, One-eye, that it’d be safer for you to leave now before you get hurt.”

Garth slowly took his cloak off and, as he did so, he stepped backward into the square at the edge of the circle. He held his cloak out and saw that the boy he had been arguing about was there to take it.

“I expect to see it when this is done,” Garth said quietly, and the boy, grinning, nodded.

“If he kills you, can I keep it?”

Garth smiled.

“It’s yours.”

Okmark shrugged his shoulders as if bored with the whole process. The gambler moved to the edge of the circle and stared at Garth for a moment. The raggedy man stepped up to Garth.

“Name and what House?”

“Garth and no House. I am my own.”

The raggedy man started to laugh.

“One-eyed Garth of no House, no House,” and he danced around the edge of the circle, singsonging the words.

“Type of fight?” the raggedy man asked, looking at Garth since he was the one who had made the challenge.

“Single spell and spell as prize, the same as the last fight.”

The ragged man looked over at the Orange fighter, who nodded in agreement.

The gambler, laughing, held his hand up.

“Two to one in favor of Orange, taking only bets in favor of One-eye.”

The crowd did not react.

“All right, four to one then.”

Still there were no takers.

“Ten to one! Ten to one in favor of Orange. I’ll take only bets that this no House, a hanin, will win.”

A shout rose up and the crowd surged around the gambler, placing yet more bets, gambling a copper on the forlorn hope that Garth would win. Garth waited for the frenzy to die down. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the silver coin.

“On myself,” Garth announced, and he tossed the coin over to the gambler. The crowd started to laugh.

“A real fighter,” the raggedy man chortled, dancing around Garth. “So poor he bets on himself. A real fighter!”

The crowd laughed and there was another frenzy of betting, for who ever heard of a fighter who was so poor that he would disgrace himself by betting on the outcome of a fight he was in.

Garth lowered his head, extending his arms, gathering in his thoughts, calming them, focusing, remembering and not remembering, clearing away all. He reached outward, probing, looking toward the other’s heart, sensing and knowing until all things dropped away and the land and waters within him were as clear as crystalline snow. The mana, the source of all power of spells, was ready.

He stepped into the circle and looked up.

Orange stepped forward as well. Garth did nothing, waiting.

He did not need to look up to know that a cloud was forming over the circle again, darkening the street, and though he heard the gasp of the crowd, he heard it not. He could feel the tension, the strength drawing out of the Orange fighter, focusing on the power he was drawing upon from distant lands and places-the mana which he controlled-bringing that power into the circle to serve his will. The fireball that Orange was creating started to build with a terrible intensity, bathing the street corner in a hellish light.

Garth looked up and extended his hand.

Instantly another cloud formed above the one created by Orange. A cold gust swept outward. The street was as dark as night. Flickers of light flashed and then there was a swirling of white. Snow, a blizzard of snow, coiled and twisted, devouring the cloud created by Orange. There was a howling of wind and then, in an instant, all disappeared and the evening sunlight again filled the narrow street, reflecting off the sheets of ice that now caked the sides of the buildings. Instantly they started to melt, the cold ice breaking off, showering down on the mob, who covered their heads with their arms.

As the tinkling of broken ice drifted away the street was silent. A scattering of applause and cheers broke out, especially from those who had wagered a mere copper and now would have a silver in their pockets. They had found a new hero and cheered lustily, while those who had thought even that bet to be a waste silently cursed themselves for not having the foresight to play. Those who had lost everything in the first duel were ecstatic as well, since the source of their losing had been defeated.

Garth fixed the stunned Orange fighter with his gaze.

“I believe your spell of fireball is now mine,” Garth said quietly.

Okmark looked at him, gape mouthed.

Garth stood silent, waiting.

Okmark looked over at the gambler, whose expression was one of seething fury as the mob started to close in on him to claim their winnings. Okmark looked back at Garth.

Reaching to the dagger hanging from his belt, Okmark pulled it out and flung it so that it plunged into the ground in the center of the circle.

“To the death,” Okmark hissed.

Garth looked at him and said nothing.

“To the death, damn you!”

The raggedy man looked around nervously, his enthusiasm gone.

“It’s against the law, except in the arena,” the raggedy man hissed. “We could all be arrested if the Grand Master finds out.”

“Gutter sweep, who are you to quote law to me? I demand death!”

“The fight is not over yet!” the gambler shouted. “If he withdraws, Orange still wins!”

“That’s not true!” the raggedy man whined in reply. “The fight was finished. Those are the rules of the circle.”

The Orange fighter turned and looked at the raggedy man. He fell to the ground, eyes rolling in his head, hands clutching at his throat, a sickening gurgling sound gasping out of him.

The crowd fell silent, watching the agonized struggle as the raggedy man rolled in the mud.

Garth took his dagger out and tossed it so that it stuck in the ground next to Okmark’s.

“To the death then.”

Orange looked back at him. The raggedy man gasped out a rattling cough and he crawled out of the circle.

Orange nodded grimly and, ignoring all ritual, he leaped into the circle. Staggered by a blast of fire, Garth stepped back, holding up his arms to protect his face. A small circle appeared in the mud around him and the fire was diverted. Around him he could hear the cries of the mob as they fell back, some of them writhing in agony, their clothes afire. The side of the building behind Garth burst into flames.