Varena stepped out of the pool and snatched up her satchel at the sight of the stranger behind Garth’s servant.
“A Benalish?”
The woman nodded.
“Both of you stink like a sewer.”
“That’s how we got in here,” Hammen said, “and I must confess it was exciting to think that we were wading through water you might have bathed in.” Norreen slapped him again.
“If you’re found here, you’re both dead,” Varena whispered. “Get out now or I’ll have to take care of you both.”
Norreen’s hand dropped to the hilt of her blade and Varena let her towel drop, freeing one hand while she slung her satchel over her shoulder in order to fight.
Hammen looked at her wide-eyed and grinned before finally tossing over the small bag that Garth had given him.
She grabbed it, still keeping a wary eye on Norreen.
“We thought you might enjoy the game we propose,” Hammen said with a smile.
Racked with pain, Garth struggled to keep from screaming. There was almost a detached sense to the agony, as if he were watching himself from some place far away, floating above his body, while down on the rack he twisted and writhed.
He screamed, a wild, howling cry that was more rage than anguish, for his training had long ago taught him how to divert pain into places where it would not darken his body and mind. And yet the man who did this to him knew of such places as well and his invisible fingers probed into Garth’s soul, tearing at his thoughts, lashing him, cutting into his mind, and then attempting to reassemble the pieces.
There were no healing spells now, no blocks, no way of striking back, only the unrelenting assault to probe into the core of his existence. Finally there were but two paths left, to relent, to reveal, or to go down into the paths of darkness and the light which was beyond. Garth closed in upon himself and reached toward the second path.
There was remorse for all that he had dreamed and planned for; all that had moved him and kept him alive across the years was now for naught. All the years hidden away, training, secretly planning alone for what could and should be done were wasted now. The wonderful intricacy of it all would be lost forever. He would have to appear before the shadows to whom he had sworn so much, empty-handed. He could only hope that they would understand and forgive.
“No, not yet!”
The lashing of his soul stopped and instantly there was a soothing warmth that drew him back from the door that was already opening before him.
He wanted to go on through and yet could not. The very mana that all carried within, the power of life, refused to surrender while the cord was still intact.
Garth opened his eyes.
Zarel Ewine, Grand Master of the Arena, stood over him. There was almost a look of pity in his eyes, the sense of it so strong that Garth struggled not to give in to what he knew was simply another ploy.
Zarel reached out and touched him lightly on the forehead and the last of the pain went away.
“Wouldn’t it be better to talk with me now?” His voice was soft and warm, like that of a caring mother whispering to a child sick with some strange and terrible fever.
Zarel nodded and unseen hands loosened the chains which had held Garth stretched out upon the rack. Hands helped him to sit up and a cooling draught was placed to his lips. He hesitated, wondering what seductive herbs and potions it might contain, and then drank it anyway. If they were going to try that, they could have forced it into him while he was stretched and semiconscious on the table of pain.
The drink cleared the rawness of his throat and he leaned over, coughing, fighting down the urge to vomit.
The drink was pressed to his lips again and he finished it, a cool lightness coursing through him, so that he felt as if he were somehow floating and all was now at peace. He turned inward with his thoughts again, concentrating what little power he still had to clear his mind.
“You can leave us now,” he heard Zarel command, and behind him a door closed.
“This is really unfortunate, you know,” Zarel said calmly.
Garth coughed and said nothing.
“Let me be frank with you,” Zarel continued, and Garth heard a chair being dragged up by the side of the table.
He opened his eyes and saw the cold gleam in his tormentor’s eyes. He could sense just how much this man was actually enjoying what was happening. There was no longer even a real rage in him. It was cold, detached-this torture and questioning was an entertainment, a challenge to be relished.
Garth looked at him warily.
“You are going to die. There is no sense in lying to someone of your skills. You have set out to make yourself my implacable foe. You have caused me humiliation, loss of property, and loss of face. That I cannot tolerate.”
He sighed as if the whole thing was a terrible burden.
“That rabble, that stinking mob out there, can have their heroes, but they must be heroes I control.” His voice rose slightly. “And you, One-eye, tried to set yourself up outside of my control.
“Oh, I will admit you are masterful, the way you triggered that fight between Kestha and Bolk, the way you flouted my laws. It’s almost a waste.” He shook his head as if truly saddened. “If you had but come to my door first and sought employment, I would gladly have given you rank.”
Garth said nothing, for he knew Zarel was not really speaking to him at all, but rather to his own pride.
“A rank with power, gold, women, whatever it is you desire. I think you have skill enough that you could even have been my second, for the one I have now is nothing but a lapdog.”
Zarel paused, looking at him coldly.
“But no, you don’t desire that, do you, One-eye?”
There was now a cold contempt in Zarel.
“You’re of the old school and you hate me for it. Such a fool, such a fool…” And his voice trailed off as if he was looking into some far-distance place.
“Who are you?”
His voice was like a lash, startling Garth, who recoiled from the power of it. Again there was the flash of a struggle, the hope that he had been caught off guard, and the barrier was almost pierced.
Zarel smiled.
“You’re growing weaker. You know I will have you before it’s done.”
“You can try,” Garth whispered. “And then what? You’ll know and I will be dead. It’s the mystery that torments you, isn’t it? The mystery and the fear.”
Zarel stood up and turned away for a moment, his multihued cape shimmering in the torchlight.
Zarel finally turned back and, sighing, sat down.
“I will make this simple for you. The Walker is aware of you. The torment I give you would be just for the moment. Tell me and it is ended and you can drift into the long sleep. Don’t tell me and he can make your suffering long and hard. And believe me, it can be for a very long time.”
“So is that who he really is?” Garth asked. “Have you revealed the facade behind the mask of his power and his appeal to the mob?”
Zarel lowered his head for a moment as if caught in a blasphemy.
“You can control the mana,” Zarel whispered. “You know the power of the red and the black, and he holds that power in abundance. Only a fool would think him otherwise. He is terrible in his power; for how else would he control such power? He answers to no one but the Eternal and even the Eternal is held at bay until Ragalka, the day of destruction and woe.”
Zarel spoke as if almost talking to an equal about a truth that was disagreeable but had to be faced calmly and rationally.
“He will not let you escape into the lands of the dead, but will hold you in his hands as an amusement to be toyed with. It could be aeons before he grows bored with you and grants your release. That is what I offer you if you do not cooperate.”
“And that is what he has done to those who have incurred his wrath,” Garth said, his voice cold with rage.