William Forstchen: Arena

Garth raised one of his hands up and a skeletal form appeared in the fire, stepping forward through the flames, toward Okmark. Okmark’s eyes grew wide with fear as the skeleton continued to advance, impervious to the flames, and Okmark stepped back, the fire abating. There was a crackling roar and the ground beneath the skeleton opened up and, with a clattering of bones, the skeleton fell into the fissure which now split the circle in half. Garth nodded and the skeleton rose into the air, hovering, and continued its relentless advance.

Cursing, Okmark now raised his hand, pointing at the skeleton. An explosion rocked the streets and a spray of powdery dust swirled outward. Garth seemed to blanch from the savage counterstrike. Okmark, grinning now, raised his hand and pointed at Garth. A coiling shaft of light came straight at him. An instant later a shimmering mirror appeared before Garth. The blast of light reflected back.

Orange barely had time to scream.

The flame engulfed him. Writhing in agony, Okmark spun around and around, trying to extinguish the fire that would not die. Garth stood impassive, watching, his arms folded. The shrieking died away as Okmark curled up into a blackened ball of smoking flesh and died. The fire winked out of existence, the one who had conjured it having expired by his own spell.

A gasp of astonishment rose up from the crowd, which stood silent, ignoring the fact that the building behind them was crackling, fire racing up its side, while on the street behind where Garth had stood, half a dozen were dead and more than a score injured and crying out their lamentations.

Garth leaped across the fissure, stepped up to the twisted body, and reached down to take the satchel which hung from his belt and, strangely, did not seem to have been touched by the fire.

“You have no claim to that,” the gambler snapped, stepping into the ring. “You are hanin, without House, and have murdered one of the House of Fentesk; his property now belongs to the House.”

“Then try and stop me,” Garth said quietly, fixing the gambler with his gaze. The man stood silent, hesitating, and then drew back.

“I’ll tell them, One-eye. They’ll be looking for you,” the gambler cried.

“Before running off, perhaps you owe these people some money and you owe me some as well.”

The crowd, which had been watching the confrontation in silence, suddenly sprang to life and swarmed around the gambler. As they rushed across the circle some of them fell into the fissure, their wails of anguish cut short as they hit the bottom. Garth reached down and pulled the satchel free. Turning, he looked around and saw the boy still holding his cloak.

Garth leaped back across the fissure, took the cloak, and then reached into his own satchel to find a coin. There was nothing.

From out of the press around the gambler the raggedy man appeared and he slipped up to Garth’s side.

“I got your money for you,” he said and extended a grimy hand, opening it to reveal nine silvers.

“Minus your commission as circle master, of course,” Garth said, taking the coins and then tossing one of them to the boy, who bowed excitedly and ran off.

“But of course. You were stuck with the bill. Gray disappeared and as for the Orange”-the raggedy man looked over at the corpse-“Unless his commission is in your prize.”

Garth reached into Okmark’s satchel and felt around, surprised by the touch of some of the amulets contained within. The man was indeed powerful, more powerful than Garth had assumed. Okmark, however, had been a fool, not to anticipate that an opponent might hold a reversal of spells for something as dangerous as the fire that does not die. The man most likely thought he was dealing with nothing more than a first- or second-rank fighter out to make a reputation and thus did not want to reveal the spells he would use later in the Festival.

Garth touched a coin and pulled it out. It was gold, and the raggedy man’s eyes glistened with greed.

Garth flipped the coin to the raggedy man.

“Your commission from Orange. Now see that he is disposed of with respect.”

“Not my responsibility now,” the raggedy man chortled, and he grabbed hold of Garth’s arm. “His friends are coming even now; perhaps it’s time we moved on to safer parts.”

Garth looked up the street to where the raggedy man was pointing. A phalanx of men was coming down the street, obviously not in a friendly mood. They were all dressed as fighters, with heavily embroidered shirts, loose-fitting trousers of silk that billowed out over the tops of their polished, calf-high boots, their leather capes trimmed with orange fluttering as they advanced with a purposeful stride, their golden satchels, which contained their spells, bouncing on their hips. Behind them came the warriors of the Watch, the men of the city guard who could not use spells but were nevertheless quite efficient at killing.

Garth stepped back into an alleyway, careful not to stride on the injured from the fight, and followed the raggedy man. In the background he could hear what sounded like a riot brewing and then the clattering of a bell as the fire watch finally started to arrive.

The raggedy man looked back over his shoulder just before they ducked down a side alleyway.

“Ah, how I love the Festival,” he announced, while down at the end of the street the front of the burning building collapsed into the watching crowd. A shower of sparks soared into the evening sky, and as the crowd swayed back from the collapsing building, yet more fell into the fissure and disappeared.

They weaved their way down a slime-choked lane, Garth fighting back a retch from the stench of moldering garbage, human refuse, now-unidentifiable dead animals, and, in one case, what looked like part of a person sticking out of a refuse heap. The raggedy man stopped at the sight of the corpse and pondered it for a moment.

“I was wondering what happened to her,” he whispered, and then, with a shrug of his shoulder, he continued to lead the way, finally ducking into the back of a broken-down building of sagging logs, gray with age, and apparently soon ready to go to dust.

As the raggedy man opened the door, Garth looked in cautiously and the old man smiled a toothless grin.

“Don’t trust me, after I fetched you your money and led you out of that mess?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Garth said quietly, narrowing his eye to look into the gloom.

“Ah, brothers, we have company,” the raggedy man announced, and he stepped through the door. In the darkness Garth saw movement and his nose wrinkled at the smell of unwashed bodies. He heard hoarse laughter inside. An old man and then another started to laugh.

“I suggest, One-eyed Garth with no House, that you either come in or move along,” the raggedy man announced. “The Orange are undoubtedly looking for you and are in a less than friendly mood. Besides, the Grand Master’s watch is on the prowl as well.”

As he stepped up to the door his eye started to adjust to the gloom. A small fire burned in an open fireplace to one side, a hunched-over form stirring a pot hanging in the flame. Garth cocked his head slightly, listening intently. With no vision to his left side he had learned to rely on other things. He finally stepped through the doorway and then, just as quickly, leaped back and to one side.

The blow missed him, the wooden staff striking down through empty air. With a catlike move, Garth snatched the man by the wrist and yanked him out from behind the open door, while with the other hand he pulled out his dagger and brought it up under the man’s chin, barely nicking his throat.

“You breathe too loudly,” Garth whispered, “and besides, you stink bad enough to gag a maggot.”