William Forstchen - Arena

"And the last Grand Master," Garth said, his tone more of a statement than a question.

"Kuthuman? That bastard," and he whispered the imprecation. "Who the hell do you think the Walker is? Where do you think he stole the mana that opened the portals to other worlds. Turquoise was the most powerful of the five and refused to help him in his quest."

Hammen nodded back over to where the House once stood.

"So they killed the Master of Oor-tael, his entire family, damn near everyone, and took their mana."

"What about Zarel?"

"Why are you interested?"

"He's interested in me, isn't he?"

Hammen shook his head.

"Some say that it was Zarel's hatred of the Master of Oor-tael that triggered it all and Zarel who suggested the idea and the Walker finally went along with it, even though Cullinarn, the Master of Oor-tael, was an old friend who had once saved Kuthuman's life."

"So why did he do it?"

"I said before I wasn't sure if you were damn good or simply a fool," Hammen replied. "Sometimes I think it's the latter of the two. When it comes to power, friendship is usually the first thing to die. Kuthuman wanted the power of a Walker; Zarel knew that if he helped him, he would then ascend to being the new Grand Master once Kuthuman left. So Zarel organized and led the assault, the mana of Turquoise was used to pierce the veil between worlds, Kuthuman left, and Zarel came to power. With him all things changed. The Masters of the other Houses had either helped or stood aside while their own was murdered and the bribes afterward flowed like crap out of a force-fed goose.

"The lost treasury of Turquoise paid for that monstrosity of a palace," and Hammen nodded toward the pyramid, and the new Houses. "Everyone profited from the deal."

Garth stood in silence for a moment and then turned away, pressing through the throng that now flooded the Plaza. Approaching the House of Kestha, he finally started to slow when the flagstones beneath his feet changed color from the limestone that paved most of the Plaza to a dark gray slate. Garth paused and looked up at the six towering statues of fighters that dominated the front entryway into the House.

Garth shook his head with disdain and started forward. A hand reached out and grabbed him.

"Just what is it that you want here?" Hammen pressed.

"If you don't have the stomach for it, go home, old man," Garth hissed, shaking Hammen's grip loose.

The crowds were no longer by his side, as if an invisible barrier marked the line in which they could press no closer to the Houses of fighters.

Garth strode across the semicircle of gray stone that denoted the boundaries of the Gray House, moving with a casual ease. He heard hurried footsteps behind him and looked back over his shoulder to see that Hammen was struggling to catch up, his staff clattering on the pavement.

From out of the shadows of the great statues half a dozen fighters emerged. They were dressed in gray tunics and trousers, their capes made of the finest leather and decorated with mystical signs and runes. Dangling from ornate sashes that went from their left shoulder to their right hip were golden satchels for their amulets, spells, and tiny silken packages of earth that contained the mana they controlled from distant lands. The bundles of earth aided the fighter in creating this psychic link back to the power of the land from which his magic grew. They moved toward Garth, walking with a casual, haughty ease and stepped in front of him to block his path.

"Go away, beggar. You walk on our property here," one of them hissed and, placing his hand on Garth's chest, gave him a shove.

Garth stepped back a foot and did not turn away.

"I said go away!"

"I've come to join this House," Garth said calmly.

The six looked back and forth at each other with exaggerated expressions of surprise.

"A one-eyed scarecrow followed by a beggar," the man who shoved him roared. "You insult our House by tracking your filth on our walkway. You'll scrub it with your tongue for your arrogance. But first I want to see your teeth on the ground."

The man stepped forward to punch Garth. Even as he moved in to hit him Garth stepped quickly to one side, grabbing the man by the wrist and flipping him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. As if sensing another blow coming from behind, Garth rolled on the ground, kicking out, catching his second assailant on the side of his knee. There was the sound of snapping bone as the man fell over, howling with pain. Coming back up to his feet, Garth heard a cracking sound and saw from the corner of his eye a dagger skidding across the pavement, a third fighter staggering away, holding a broken wrist while, with a flourish, Hammen caught the man across the small of the back, knocking him over.

The other three started to back up, the one in the middle fumbling with his satchel, pulling something out and then extending his arms out wide. As if from a great distance Garth could hear the roar of the crowd, screaming that a fight was on.

Garth strode forward toward the fighter, preparing to cast, pointing at him.

"Don't! Don't try it. We have someone else to fight now."

The man looked at him, wide-eyed, his concentration obviously broken by the power of Garth's words. He suddenly let out a yelp of pain, for he had made the mistake of drawing upon his mana without immediately focusing it into a spell. Suffering now from mana-burn, he staggered around, clutching both hands to his brow, while Garth watched him with an expression of pity for one so amateurish.

"That man is ours!"

Garth looked back at the Gray fighter.

"Don't do it. I think we have other fish to fry." And he turned away from him as if he was no longer of concern.

A squad of fighters from the Orange House were advancing across the Plaza with purposeful strides. One of them, wearing a cloak heavily embroidered with gold and silver and obviously of higher rank, led the way.

Garth slowly extended his arms in preparation for a fight and the man slowed.

"A witness in the crowd says you were the one who murdered Okmark yesterday. You're ours."

"Then take me," Garth said quietly.

The fighter started to move forward as if deciding not even to bother with a spell.

Garth smiled and pointed at the man. His walk slowed as if he had stepped into an invisible barrier. Cursing, he stumbled backward.

Next Garth raised his hand, pointing to the heavens. A dark swirling cloud took form, buzzing, humming, and dived down. Hornets, as big as a man's thumb, swarmed over the Orange fighters, stinging with such viciousness that blood ran in rivulets down the faces of Garth's foes.

A roaring crowd now ringed the edge of the Kesthan pavement, howling with delight, laughing even louder when some of the hornets diverted away from the half dozen they were tormenting and slashed into the crowd, their victims screaming, waving their arms to ward off the stings. The antics of the peasants and common folk getting stung caused the crowd to roar even louder with delight.

The leader of the Fentesk, bellowing with rage, struggled to his feet and extended his arms, pointing them heavenward. The hornets plummeted to the ground, their wings trailing smoke and flame. But even as they writhed on the ground they still managed to cling to the ankles of their targets, stinging even through boots so that the leader's companions hopped about madly.

Garth waved his hand again and the hornets burst into flames, the fire spreading to the boots of the fighters and tormented peasants in the crowd. The peasants ran off screaming, heading to the fountains to douse their burning shoes, followed by the Orange fighters; only the leader remained.

The leader pulled his arms in tight around himself, his cloak fluttering, and a mist started to form around him. Garth reached into his satchel and then pointed even as the deadly mist started to move toward him. The Fentesk leader staggered, and for a moment it appeared as if a whirlpool was pulsing around him, sucking his powers away into a void. Garth moved his hands back and forth as if stirring the whirlpool, while the fighter twisted and writhed inside the power sink that was drawing his strength away.