“Thus ends the sixth round,” Zarel announced. “Igun of Ingkara winning the fourth match by default. Now begins the seventh round.”
Hammen pushed his way up to the stadium wall, stood upon it, and leaped down onto the sand. Several fighters moved toward him and he raised his hand, knocking them over.
“I stand as witness to One-eye, who has earned the right to combat!” Hammen shouted, drawing upon the mana which was now in a satchel resting on his right hip. His voice echoed across the arena and the mob, stunned by the intrusion, fell silent.
“He is hanin, without color,” Zarel screamed. “He cannot fight.”
The Walker stood up and looked down at Hammen.
“I am Hadin gar Kan, first fighting master of the House of Oor-tael, body servant of Garth One-eye, and I stand as witness to him.”
“Hadin.” The Walker’s voice was a dark whisper as if a memory was but half-formed.
Hammen walked out into the center of the arena.
“He won the right of combat.”
“So where is he?” the Walker whispered, his voice echoing across the arena.
“Gone.”
The Walker chuckled.
“And what do you want, beggar?”
“As his servant I can claim the right to fight in his stead. Those are the ancient rules which existed even before you first darkened this world.”
The Walker leaned back and laughed coldly.
“Fine. It will be fun to watch you die.”
But even as he spoke there was an eruption of cheering from the south side of the arena, starting at the top of the stands. For a moment the Walker thought it was for him and, smiling, he looked over his shoulder.
The cheering spread, even as a path opened up down the side of the stadium, the crowd surging, pushing back.
Garth One-eye reached the arena wall and leaped down onto the arena floor, followed by the woman of Benalia.
“One-eye!”
The cry was picked up and turned in an instant into a tidal wave of noise. Garth strode across the arena floor, coming up to stand in front of Hammen.
“Just what the hell are you doing?” Garth whispered.
“I was trying to save your damn stupid life,” Hammen replied wearily.
“This way?”
“If I was killed, your satchel was gone, and you would be powerless. You would have left.”
He hesitated.
“I failed to save you once; I thought I could now,” the old man said as he lowered his head.
“You never failed me,” Garth whispered, “and you never failed my father before me. You fled when there was nothing left to fight for. When my father was already dead.”
Hammen looked up and smiled sadly.
“At last you say it, and again there is nothing I can do.”
“You can start by giving me back my satchel.”
Hammen took the satchel off and held it out to Garth.
Garth stepped back from Hammen and tore off the cloak in which he was wrapped to reveal the fighting uniform of the House of Oor-tael. A stunned gasp of amazement rose from the stands at the sight of the forbidden colors. Garth slung the satchel over his shoulder.
“I claim the right of combat! I am know as Garth One-eye. I am the son of Cullinarn, Master of the House of Oor-tael.”
Zarel stepped forward, motioning for his fighters to gather around him, but he was stopped as if by an invisible hand.
The Walker’s sardonic laugh echoed over the arena.
“Most amusing. I love an amusing joke. You may fight.”
Garth, without an acknowledgment to the Walker, turned and started to walk toward the far end of the arena.
“Damn it, Garth, either you’ll leave here feetfirst or go with that bastard.”
“I know.”
“What the hell for?”
Garth looked over at Hammen and smiled.
“Didn’t I tell you from the beginning to stick around and you’d find out why?”
Hammen looked over angrily at Norreen.
“Thanks a lot.”
“You should have told me to stay out of it.”
“Would that have changed what you did?”
“No.”
“You’re both mad,” Hammen snapped, even as he struggled to keep up with Garth.
Garth laughed, shaking his head.
“You still have our money?”
“Yes.”
“Then go wager it on a win. You’ll need the cash when this is done.”
“Like hell. I’m staying down here with you.”
Garth looked over at Norreen.
She shook her head. “I’m staying.”
“All right then, but once this is done and I’m gone, they’ll kill you.”
“Good of you to worry about us now,” Hammen growled.
As they approached the neutral box at the far end of the arena they walked past the viewing stand of Bolk. Out in front stood Naru, who raised a clenched fist to Garth in salute, the giant gazing at him with a worried look.
“Too bad you die or he takes you,” Naru said.
“Then next year you’re the champion,” Garth replied, and the giant grinned.
Garth stepped into the neutral box, the mob in the stands swarming up to the betting booths to place their bets, but the Walker gave them no time.
“Fight!”
The combat was over in minutes, the mob watching in awed silence as Garth stepped into an immediate attack, blocking the dark spells of his opponent with a casual ease, shattering the power of his mana, and then closing in for the kill with yet another attack of a Craw Wurm. He paused before the final coup but his opponent, screaming with rage, countered at the moment of hesitation with a demonic attack and Garth lowered his head as the Craw Wurm lunged, devouring the fighter.
Garth stood in the center of the arena, ignoring the ovation that greeted his victory as he picked up his fallen opponent’s satchel and then walked to a place in the arena between the stands of Ingkara and Kestha, a place where long ago had been the corner of the fighting field reserved for the House of Oor-tael.
Zarel looked up at the Walker.
“He is dangerous.”
“Of course he is dangerous; otherwise, he would not have survived in hiding for twenty years. You told me he was dead.”
Zarel looked away and the voice lashed through his mind.
“You told me he was dead.”
“Yes.”
“But you did not see the body.”
Zarel hesitated.
“Well?”
“He was only a five-year-old boy. He could not survive that fire.”
Zarel struggled to seal off his thoughts, his memories of that night. Of the boy dragged before him, how he had gouged the boy’s eye out to torment his father, and of the boy, in spite of the agony he was in, staring at him coldly with but half his vision. His father, fighting desperately, was still in the House, which was engulfed in flames.
And he could remember the wail of agony when the father had seen the boy and begged to trade lives. At that moment the boy had torn loose from the grasp of the guard and raced into the burning building.
He was dead; he was supposed to be dead.
How could I have not seen clearly that it was he? Zarel wondered. But then again he was only a meaningless boy, a nothing, a pawn for a moment of bargaining.
“Fool! He is still out there now.”
“And he leaves the arena dead or with you,” Zarel replied hastily.
“He knows that,” the Walker replied, and Zarel sensed the nervousness.
He’s afraid, Zarel realized.
“He knows that. He knows he can’t escape. Therefore, he must have something planned. After all these years he would not come here just to commit suicide.”
“Are you afraid, my Master?” Zarel asked silently, looking back up at the throne, and he felt an instant lash of rage.
“I will kill him as I kill all who win the tournament,” the Walker snarled in reply. “As I think I might kill you for not controlling this world better.”
As Zarel struggled to control the surge of fear, sensing the cold laugh of his master, he turned and looked back at Uriah and the realization came. The dwarf had somehow known from the beginning. Fool. He had hidden his knowledge out of some perverse form of loyalty and sentimentality.