William Forstchen: Arena

“STEP BACK, GIVE THEM ROOM!”

Garth One-eye, a thin smile of amusement creasing his face, followed the orders of the raggedy man who had appointed himself as circle master. Stretching lazily, Garth moved to the back of the gathering crowd. The owner of a fruit stand set up in the shade of the building was preoccupied, eagerly watching the excitement, and Garth helped himself to a Varnalca orange. Drifting away from the stand, he pulled out his dagger and sliced the treat open, tilting his head up to drain out the juice, which washed away the dust of the road. He adjusted the patch which covered where his left eye used to be and then moved around the back of the crowd, looking for other such opportunities. Seeing none, he moved in closer to watch the excitement.

In the middle of the street the two fighters, moving warily, paced back and forth, eyeing each other as they pulled off their robes in the chilly evening air. The crowd around them was swelling, pouring out of the alleyways, hovels, and swill houses, shouting and laughing. After all, it wasn’t every day that one could watch a fight for free, even if there was a minor risk of getting hurt when the spells started to fly. Overhead, shutters were pulled open, people leaning out of the windows to watch the fun.

The raggedy man, chest puffed out, strutted about, his spindly, dirty legs kicking high as if he was a true Grand Master of the Arena. With a broken stick in place of a golden staff he drew a circle in the mud.

“Names and Houses?”

“Webin of Kestha,” the stouter of the two fighters snarled, puffing his chest out and thumping it.

“Okmark of House Fentesk.”

“Type of fight?”

“One spell cast which is also the wager,” Okmark said.

Webin nodded angrily in agreement.

The crowd excitedly shouted the names back to those who were too far back in the press to see. Old men, women, and even young boys started to recite the wins and losses of the two fighters and arguments instantly broke out as to which one would win.

The Fentesk fighter, standing a good head taller than his rival, snorted disdainfully at his opponent as he calmly took his robe off and passed it to a street urchin who had sidled up to the edge of the circle. The boy looked at the finely embroidered robe and started to back away. The Fentesk fighter turned, fixing him with his gaze, and the boy stopped.

Okmark looked back at his opponent.

“This fight isn’t really necessary,” Okmark said quietly.

A hooting roar thundered from the mob but Okmark ignored them. He looked straight at the fighter in gray livery and slowly extended his arms, palms turned slightly downward, the gesture of reconciliation with the subtle distinction, however, of not submitting.

Webin spit angrily on the ground and the crowd cheered. Okmark shrugged his shoulders, resigned to what was coming.

The raggedy man continued to strut around the circle, waiting while the two fighters went through the ritual, their heads lowered, arms extended outward, gathering their strength.

“Four to one on Gray. I’ll cover your bets if you think Gray will win,” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd, and instantly there was a frenzied move toward him as the mob started to place their bets.

Garth stood silent, watching the two prepare. It was so obvious. Reaching into the satchel that hung under his right arm, he fingered the few coppers that were still there. It’d make enough for a meal and lodging.

He moved over to the gambler, taking the coins out, waiting quietly. Finally he extended his hand and the gambler looked disdainfully at the bet.

“On Orange,” Garth said, referring to the bright livery of House Fentesk.

The gambler looked Garth up and down and started to laugh, and then fell silent as Garth stared at him coldly.

“I suggest you take it,” Garth said. There were snickers from the bettors gathered around, as if Garth was a fool, but Garth kept his attention fixed.

“I’ll only cover bets in Gray’s favor. Don’t bother me, One-eye.”

Garth ignored the insult.

“Do you work for him? Is this fight a setup?” Garth replied smoothly, still holding the gambler with his gaze.

The man looked about furtively at the crowd, which had grown silent, even though they thought Garth a yokel from the outback for wasting his money on what would obviously be a certain win on Webin’s part.

“One to two,” the gambler replied sarcastically.

“One to four,” Garth replied softly, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of his dagger.

The gambler looked around furtively and saw that there was no support from the mob.

“One to four,” the gambler snarled, as he made his mark on a smooth chip of wood and shoved it into Garth’s hand.

Garth turned back to watch the show, arms folded, pulling his robe in tight to keep the chill out.

The crowd quieted down as the last of the bets were placed, all now waiting for the ritual of preparation to end.

Gray finished first. Raising his head, he fully extended his arms and took a step out of the neutral square drawn just outside the circle. Even though Orange was not yet finished with his ritual, Gray raised his hands and the crowd fell silent. Garth shook his head disdainfully. It was a breaking of the rules, but then again this was a street fight, and any who believed in rules in such an encounter was simply too stupid to live.

A mist started to form in the center of the circle, coiling, swirling, and yet still Orange did not move, or even acknowledge that Gray had started his attack. The mist started to twist in upon itself, growing brighter, glowing, the light reflecting on the pale faces of the eager mob. The light suddenly darkened, a cool chill sweeping out.

“An undead,” someone gasped.

In the middle of the circle a decaying form appeared and started to move toward the Orange fighter, who finally stirred, raising his head. Orange stepped into the circle and reached into the satchel dangling from his right hip. Instantly a small cloud appeared over the undead, a sheet of fire flashed out, blinding the crowd, who recoiled backward at the thunderclap roar. A swirl of smoke roiled outward and Garth pulled his cloak up tight around his face to block out the stench of decaying flesh that had just been burned to cinders.

An awed gasp swept the street. Okmark, his gaze still fixed on his opponent, finally allowed a thin flicker of a smile to show.

“I believe, sir, that since I have won, your spell is now mine to claim.”

The Gray fighter looked around at the crowd and Garth could only shake his head with amusement. Only seconds before Gray had been their champion and hero, but their champion had just cost most of them their money. Garth looked over quickly at the gambler and the picture was now clear as the gambler started to drift back to the edge of an alleyway. It had been a wonderful setup, a classic con job on a bunch of yokels in town for the festival and eager for a bet.

Webin looked around anxiously at the mob.

“To the death, to the death!” a shout came from the back of the crowd and the cry was instantly picked up by the mob, which pushed to the edge of the circle, chanting and laughing for blood. Webin, who had strutted so haughtily only moments before, looked back and forth and then toward Okmark.

“Do you want it?” Okmark said softly and, as he spoke, he stepped back into the neutral square at the edge of the circle, indicating his willingness to fight again. Gray hesitated and then, with an angry curse, he reached into his satchel, pulled out an amulet, and threw it to the ground at Orange’s feet. Turning, he fled the circle, pummeled by the crowd, who showered him with curses, mud, offal, and kicks.