The procession continued on to the arena, which was already packed to overflowing, the hills above the arena black with people for this, the final day of Festival and the arrival of the Great Lord.
The parade passed on into the access tunnel and a moment later emerged into the brilliant sunlight flooding the arena floor, the white sand reflecting the midmorning light with a glaring intensity. A thin cheer rose up from the crowd, more in anticipation of the events ahead than for the Grand Master.
“I wish all you bastards had but one neck,” Zarel growled, mumbling his favorite sentiment when he contemplated the crowd.
The procession circled the arena floor, this time staying back far enough from the arena wall so that no objects hurled from the stands could reach Zarel. There was a scattering of catcalls and a light shower of wine bottles and beer tankards, the Grand Master’s agents in the stands scrambling to chase down the culprits, the crowd stirring angrily. Finishing the circle, the mammoths were unhooked from Zarel’s throne and driven back through the access tunnel. An expectant hush settled over the mob.
Zarel waited as the four Houses moved to take their positions at the four cardinal points around the golden circle, while the seven remaining champions took their positions in a line directly behind Zarel. Zarel stepped to the edge of the golden circle set in the arena floor and the four Masters moved to their positions around him.
He looked at each in turn, Kirlen of Bolk, Jimak of Ingkara, Tulan of Kestha, and Varnel of Fentesk.
“What you have allowed to happen is unconscionable,” Zarel snapped angrily.
Kirlen cackled obscenely.
“Tell it to the Walker. Tell him how you can’t control anything. Tell him what an incompetent fool you truly are that one lone hanin can plunge your realm into chaos.”
“And where is he?”
Zarel fixed each of them in turn with his gaze and sensed that none now held the man.
“Your offerings of mana?”
The four stirred reluctantly and finally turned, looking back to the ranks of their fighters. From each of the four colors came two fighters bearing a strongbox. The four boxes were set down, the air around them shimmering, so powerful was the concentration of mana. The boxes were opened and the contents turned over, the bundles spilling out into the golden circle.
Zarel looked down at them and nodded.
“And yours?” Kirlen asked sarcastically.
Zarel laughed coldly and motioned for one of his fighters to bring forth an urn, which was inverted over the pile.
“One hundred more mana,” Zarel stated.
“A fraction of what you extort. I think you’re holding out for your attempt at being a Walker,” Kirlen hissed.
“How dare you!”
“I dare because it is the truth,” Kirlen said.
“And where did you hear this falsehood?”
Kirlen smiled.
“One-eye.” And as she said the words she looked to the other three House Masters, all of whom nodded in support.
“That is why you grow stronger and we grow weaker. We pay the tax but you steal even more and turn over only a fraction,” Jimak snarled.
“And you believe the word of a hanin?” Zarel asked coldly.
“Perhaps more than yours,” Tulan interjected. “When you became Grand Master and the House of Oor-tael was destroyed, what deal did you make with the Walker? Was it to bleed the mana out of our lands in exchange for your power? All these years have you been holding back?”
“Don’t you see who One-eye is?” Zarel snarled. “He’s not after me; he is after all of us.”
“The mask is off,” Varnel said calmly. “That is now evident.”
Zarel stared coldly at the four House Masters.
“Later, we will talk of this later.” He motioned for them to step away from the circle.
The four drew back slowly, defiantly, as Zarel stepped into the center of the golden circle. Waving his hands over the mana which had been offered, he drew the power into himself. For a brief instant he felt as if he could almost pierce the veil himself, so great was the concentration of power. But the spells, the hidden incantations he still did not know and the door remained closed. Through the shimmer of light he could see Kirlen looking at him hungrily.
Old crone, I’ll know after tomorrow, he thought with a cold smile.
The mob, which had been waiting in expectant silence, stirred, coming to its feet.
Zarel seemed to grow in stature, rising upward, a shimmering light swirling around him. The Grand Master raised his hands to the heavens, silently uttering the words that would drift through the planes, calling upon the Great Lord, the Walker, to come for the time of choosing and for the offering of the gift of power.
Long minutes passed and then at last there was a stirring, like the first faint breeze of morning drifting down from the high mountains. The pennants lining the stadium stirred, snapping lazily, dropping, twisting, rising again. There was a deathly hush, the air suddenly heavy, as if a storm were brewing far over the horizon. The sun seemed to grow pale in the morning sky, its light growing cold, dimming, the sky overhead darkening though there was no cloud above.
The darkness deepened. Then, overhead, it took form, a point of blackness in the zenith of the heavens, spreading out like a black stain upon clear, crystalline waters. The darkness spread across the heavens. An icy wind thundered down out of it, howling, shrieking, thundering with an unearthly roar.
The darkness twisted, turning in upon itself, a cyclone of inky black that pulled inward, flashes of light wreathing around it in a ghostly, unearthly, blue-green glow. The dark cloud raced down out of the heavens, drowning out the cries of fear. Excitement and terror sounded from half a million voices. The black cloud hovered above the arena, boiling, roiling, flashes of lightning wreathing it in fire.
The cloud continued to coil inward and as it did so it seemed to take form, a dark head peering downward, eyes of fire, beard of lightning, and brow of ghastly flame. The mob was now in an ecstasy of madness, screaming, pointing up at the darkness, mouths open, trembling hands pointing, a frenzy taking hold of them so that they roared with terror and a dark abandon.
The darkness swirled downward, touching the golden circle. Zarel, with head lowered, drew back and away. It was now a pillar of blackness, soaring a hundred fathoms in height, a circle of fire dancing around it, flashing and thundering. The head reared back, its mouth open. A cold sardonic laugh echoed like thunder against the hills. Eyes of fire gazed down hungrily at those who worshiped it and those who feared it and those who, with averted eyes, loathed it.
The pillar swirled down as if drawing in upon itself. There was a thunderclap roar and a blinding flash of light that dazzled the vision so that all turned away, covering their eyes, crying with pain.
In the center of the circle of gold stood the Planes Walker in human form, a tall, sinuous figure that seemed somehow to be not quite real, tall and wavery in his black robes. He appeared to be present, to be real, and yet not to be, as if he were nothing but a wisp of smoke that would disappear. He looked slowly around, a smile creasing his bloodless lips. At one instant it appeared to be almost a friendly smile, filled with warm amusement, and then in the same instant it was a smile of cunning, of power, of contempt for all who could never comprehend all that he truly was in his darkness and majesty.
He looked down at the pile of mana that rested by his feet and nodded his approval. The bundles would grant him access to the psychic power which controlled the land.
“The offering is good.” His voice seemed to be a whisper and yet, to the farthest ends of the stadium, all could hear it. At the sound of his voice, deep and rich with power, the mob broke into a wild hysterical roar, as if the terror had been washed away.