The Walker leaned back, a wild laughing cry of delight escaping him. For again he was in human form and the pleasure of it was upon him. The shadowy nature of his existence dropped away and he was now solid in flesh. At the sight of him, looking like a young golden god of power and fierce vitality, the mob went wild.
The Walker stepped clear of the circle and from out of the ranks of warriors came bearers carrying yet more urns, which they dumped over his shoulders, the gold cascading out. He laughed with delight as he picked up the coins, feeling them, his eyes afire. Jimak stared in silence, his breath coming heavy at the sight of the riches. The Walker flung his hands upward and the coins, as if caught on the wind, swirled out in a golden rain, fluttering down into the stadium, the mob cheering. More bearers came forward, bringing the finest of wines, and he drank hungrily, throwing the goblets, and Tulan licked his lips at the scent of the wine. And then from behind the ranks of warriors there came women in the sheerest of robes that were as translucent as the web of a spider. Some were tall and pale of skin with golden hair; others tawny-skinned with tresses of curly black; and still others exotics from distant lands that were but fabled realms. Varnel stood silent, trembling at the sight of them. They were of every shape and form, slender and boyish of body, full and voluptuous, tall and dusky, and he reached out to them eagerly, fondling, grasping, laughing, and the mob cheered lustily.
As he did so he looked over at Kirlen and the old woman was silent, her eyes filled with hatred. Laughing, he turned away.
“It is time for the games!” the Walker announced, and his voice was filled with bloodlust and the mob howled with delight.
The Walker extended his arms in salute, the heavy coils of muscles rippling, and he stretched with the pleasure of the sensation, pulling in the chosen woman of the moment with one hand, fondling her with open abandon while scooping up a goblet of wine with the other, forcing her to drink some, then holding the goblet aloft in salutation to the howling masses.
He ascended the throne, which Zarel now relinquished to him. He leaned back, looking up at the blue sky that spanned overhead and for a moment was silent, his features strange and distant. And then he stirred, his dark laughter drowning out the voice of the mob so that the stadium echoed with the thunderous peals.
Gaining the throne, he kissed the woman with a wild, passionate lust, groping at her like an animal in heat, tearing her robe off. Then, as quickly, he released her, pushing her aside, waving for yet more wine and food. He scooped up the delicacies and devoured them like one who had awakened from a fevered dream and now sought sustenance.
He then tossed aside the goblet, upended the tray of food set before him, and looked out across the arena.
“Let the first match be chosen!”
At the base of the throne Zarel motioned for the blind and deaf monk to make the first choice.
“Azema of Kestha versus Jolina of Ingkara.”
The mob cheered with bloodlust and swarmed toward the betting booths to place their wagers. The entire arena floor was now available for the final round of fights and minutes later, at the far end of the arena, Jolina stepped out, while at the north end Azema of Kestha stepped into the neutral box to prepare.
The Walker stood up, grinning, surveying the arena, waiting for the mob to finish its betting.
“How is this match today?” he asked, looking down at Zarel.
“In your honor, Great Lord, all matches today are to the death.”
The Walker stared at Zarel, probing inward.
“Why?” his voice whispered so that only Zarel could hear.
“I can explain later, my lord.”
“It will create bad blood in the Houses.”
“The bad blood is already there, my lord. It is time for a cleansing.”
“And the one you told me about?”
“Win or lose, my lord, he is yours. The Houses were getting too strong again; they needed to be leeched of some of their strength. This way they cannot stand against my power, or yours.”
“You had best be right, Zarel, or this is your last day as Grand Master.”
“I am right, my lord, and it is in service to you that I do this.”
The Walker nodded and looked up again.
“To the death then!”
Hammen, who was once known as Hadin gar Kan, slipped down through the rows of the arena, occasionally catching glimpses of the fight. His view was obscured by the jam-packed mob which was standing on the benches, leaping up and down in an ecstasy of abandon. Explosions thundered across the stadium, the two contestants below locked in violent conflict, the arena, across its three hundred fathoms of width, filled with fire, dueling creatures, demons, smoke, flying beasts, and unearthly clouds of darkness. In the open space of the fighting floor all powers could now be brought to bear, no longer constrained by the tight space of the circles used in the elimination matches of the previous days.
As the crowd pushed and shoved, swaying back and forth, Hammen found small openings and slipped through, moving ever closer to the arena floor. He moved stealthily, avoiding the gaze of warriors stationed in clusters throughout the arena, and watched for the agents of Zarel, who were positioned to take any who might make trouble this day. He moved like a shadow, something he could still do though it had been twenty long years since he had last touched mana with the intent of drawing upon it. And all the time the memory of what he had once been haunted him.
Why had Garth ever come into his life? Why did he have to conjure back all that was, a time when the House of Oor-tael still lived and stood for what the world of fighters hand once been? He felt now like a dream moving through a dark world of abandon, a dream that was crushed and at any moment would die forever.
It had died. He had been telling himself that for twenty years. It had died on the night the Walker had gathered the power no longer to be simply a mortal of this world, no longer to be simply a Grand Master, but instead to have the power of a demigod and walk between worlds and fight in unknown realms. All that stood in his path was the House of Oor-tael and the refusal of the House Master, Garth’s father, to relinquish part of the mana he controlled to make the circle of power complete. For without more of the colors of mana controlled by the House of Oor-tael, the circle could not be drawn.
And thus had the House of Oor-tael been stormed on the final night of Festival twenty years ago, the other Houses conspiring to throw down their rival and in the process grant the Walker his desire. And so he had moved beyond the world, leaving his lieutenant to rule in his stead, and to twist and pervert all that was.
The nightmare of the Night of Fire washed over Hammen, who had once been the master fighter of Oor-tael, for he had fled when the House was stormed. Fled because at that moment he believed there was nothing more to fight for.
I should have died then, he thought. I should have stood by my Master and his family and died. But I fled into the bowels of the earth to hide, to come out as Hammen the thief, the pickpocket, the master of a brotherhood of the low. I should have died.
I should have died.
He edged his way down to the wall, just as the fight on the arena floor reached its climax. Varena of Fentesk cast down the last protective barrier of her opponent from Kestha. The man crumpled. She hesitated, looking for a moment back at the throne.
“Finish him!”
The crowd picked up the thunderous words of the Walker.
“Finish him! Finish him!”
Varena raised her hand and the Gray fighter simply disappeared in a scarlet cloud.
She walked over to where the body had been and picked up her opponent’s satchel. With head lowered, she strode off the field, ignoring the ovation that greeted her victory.