A gust of icy wind swept the Plaza, dispelling the elemental, and Garth still stood there. The fighting in the streets fell away. Zarel’s warriors and fighters slowed in their frenzy, looking back fearfully. At the sight of the one whom their Master was confronting, they looked around in terror. The mob, which had been running in panic, slowed as well. Those who remained edged back toward the two foes.
Zarel backed out into the Plaza, Garth following. Blow and counterblow were struck, the two locked in a dark struggle that was filled with hatred and revenge. All the powers that both controlled were thrown into the fight so that their struggle seemed to exceed even the pitched battle that had been fought earlier between the different Houses.
Flames soared into the smoke-filled skies, dragons and flying beasts wheeled overhead, giants struggled, and dark creatures came up from the underworld below.
And Zarel slowly gave way. And as he did so all could see the growing terror in his eyes. His fear sapped the resolve of his fighters and warriors and strengthened that of the mob, so that it edged in closer.
The warriors of Zarel started to break, first one, then another and another, so that there was soon a stampede of them, swarming back toward the supposed safety of the palace. Fighters as well turned and fled in blind panic. A mighty roar arose and the mob surged after them, pulling them down, stabbing, beating, and killing without remorse those who had tormented them for so long. Here and there in the crowd Hammen’s lieutenants managed to stem the fury of the mob, allowing fighters to strip themselves of their satchels, or warriors of their weapons, sending them off into the darkness shorn of their powers, to flee into the night.
Zarel, staggered by the blows of his opponent, fell back toward his palace, from which columns of smoke were now pouring as the mob stormed into the building, looting and pillaging.
Zarel turned one final blast of flame on Garth and though Garth was stopped by it, a circle of protection diverted the blaze, which quickly died.
Zarel stood alone, panting for breath, his mana diminished to the merest flicker of power as if he was but a first-rank fighter.
Garth stepped toward him and as he did so he reached for his dagger and unsheathed it.
Zarel looked at him, wide-eyed, and drew his dagger in turn. He leaped forward with a mad cry and Garth parried the blow. Their blades locked again, and yet again, Garth drawing back, blood coursing down his cheek, which was laid open to the bone.
“I’ll cut your other eye out now,” Zarel roared.
Garth moved to parry the blow and then Zarel extended his hand. A light flashed before Garth’s face with a white-hot intensity. Garth staggered backward, momentarily blinded.
Laughing, Zarel came forward to drive his blade into Garth’s throat. And then his hand froze and, with a cry of pain, he staggered away. Fumbling, he wrenched a small dagger out of his back and threw it aside, wasting precious seconds on a healing spell to stop the pain.
Garth, dispelling the fire before his eye, looked down and saw Uriah, lying on the ground next to Zarel.
Uriah looked at him and smiled, and for a brief instant Garth felt as if time was stripped away and again it was the dwarf who had been his friend so many years before.
“I’m sorry,” the dwarf whispered, even as Zarel, with a scream of rage, turned and drove his dagger into the dwarf’s heart.
With a mad cry of remorse and years of pain, Garth leaped forward.
Zarel, wrenching his dagger free from the dwarf’s heart, turned and tried to duck under the blow. With a wild scream, Garth drove his dagger in.
Stunned, Zarel staggered backward, looking down at the hilt of Garth’s blade, which was buried in his chest. He fumbled at it, a sob of astonishment escaping him. He waved his hand feebly to conjure a healing spell. Garth looked at him coldly, hesitated, and then raised his own hand to block it.
“I should have cut your throat that night, rather than simply gouged your eye out,” Zarel hissed.
“Your mistake,” Garth said softly.
Zarel collapsed onto the pavement.
“What do you have now?” Zarel whispered. “You lived for this moment. Now what will you have when all your enemies are gone?”
“I don’t know,” Garth replied sadly, even as Zarel closed his eyes and fell away into the darkness.
Hammen stood silently and watched as the last of the drama was played out. Garth turned slowly and looked at him. He seemed to Hammen to be again the small boy, confused and lost.
Once more Garth looked at Zarel, shook his head, and then turned to walk toward Hammen, a sad, distant smile lighting his features. Norreen, breaking through the crush of the mob, rushed forward and leaped into Garth’s arms.
And then, as if the two were nothing more than an illusion, they disappeared, a darkness swirling around them. There was a momentary look of astonishment on Garth’s face followed by understanding. His other foe had come back to claim him from other realms.
And even as he and Norreen were drawn away by their foe Garth smiled, the words forming, coming as a whisper.
“You’re free.”
He was gone.
The Plaza was silent, except for the crackling of the flames and the low, pitiful cries of the wounded and dying.
Hammen looked at the mob, which stood as if coming out of a dark dream.
“What now?” someone asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Hammen sighed. “I don’t think he ever had a plan for afterward.”
Hammen looked at the city, which was in flames around him.
“I don’t know, and at the moment I simply don’t care.” And sitting down in the ashes, the old man silently wept.
CHAPTER 16
THE ROAD BEFORE HIM WAS A BRIGHT MOONLIT ribbon that traced over the hills of darkness. At the crest of the hill ahead he could see the tavern, an old favorite haunt, and he stretched in the saddle, glad that the day’s ride was nearly ended.
He looked over his shoulder at the young acolytes who rode behind him. Though tired, they chatted eagerly, for tomorrow they would reach the city. He half listened to their prattle and boasts of what they would accomplish at the Festival, what spells they hoped to win and the laurels of victory that they would wear upon their brows when they next rode this way at the ending of Festival time.
The old man listened, smiling to himself, able to do so since they could not see him. He was, after all, the Master, and they had never seen him smile, nor would they, at least until they had won.
They rode into the courtyard of the tavern and the old man dismounted, his joints creaking, cursing mildly at one of the young men for not being quick enough to help him down.
He walked into the tavern and looked around cautiously. It was late at night, but some travelers were still up, sitting by the fire, chatting. They looked over their shoulders at him and grins lit their faces.
One of them, tankard in hand, walked toward him. He knew the type and waited.
“So what are the chances this year?”
The old man looked him up and down.
“We’ll win,” he snapped, and his tone made it clear that he was not in the mood to talk odds and fighting records, or who would be the final winner.
The man backed away and returned sullenly to his friends.
The old man looked over at the innkeeper.
“See that my youngsters are fed and bedded down.” Reaching into a purse which was tied to the strap of his satchel, he pulled out a gold coin and tossed it to the keeper.
Turning, he went back to the door.
“Master?”
The old man looked over his shoulder at the young woman who cautiously came up to his side.