He stuffed his sword scabbard in his bags and hid them and the saddle. He held the hammer in his hands and felt the weight. Only his constant practice with his own massive sword allowed him to swing it with assurance. He took one last look and started through the trees to the road.
It took sometime to reach the highway, even with the barbarian's rapid pace and sure feet. It drew toward evening as Kamahl came into the town. The streets led down to the docks, but he took a switchback trail to the arena. On the bay, the last of the fishing vessels were coming in, the catch being transferred to the packinghouses. Lights came up around the arena as street musicians began to play. Reeds and strings dueled in melody, as fighters soon would inside. A local inn competed with men selling food on the street, and clusters of fisherman up from the docks drifted toward the bars. Kamahl shouldered patrons aside as he came into the inn.
"What might I do for you?" a barman called, drawing drinks for the house. The light was dim and the room close and crowded. The smell of food cooking in the kitchen and the proprietor's face both seemed pleasant enough.
"I need a room and meals for the next several days," Kamahl said, resting his hammer on the bar. The fighting weapon drew only a few glances. Perhaps they were used to jacks from the arena. The coins he threw down attracted substantially more attention. The barbarian recalled how much he spent at the inns at the tourney in Cabal City. From the respectful glances, the cost of room and board in Borben was substantially less.
"We can accommodate you, sir," the bartender cried, grabbing up a set of keys. He came around the bar, ignoring the empty tankards waved in his direction. The proprietor's bald head sweated from exertion and the heat in the crowded room. He picked up the barbarian's saddlebags and tried to pick up the hammer as well. The unexpected weight left him standing still for a moment before Kamahl lifted the heavy weapon to his shoulder.
"I want a room with a view of the harbor," the mountain mage said as he followed the owner up the stairs. The steps were narrow, and the light peeked over the solid barrister. A single lamp lit the hall. The keys rattled briefly as the innkeeper unlocked the door. The room was small and the window sealed off. Kamahl's guide dropped the bags and threw the shutters open, letting a salty breeze carry over the sash to the barbarian.
"Best view in the house," the owner said. The makings for a fire were laid in a fireplace, and the linens looked clean. "There are chops and roast for dinner tonight and rabbits tomorrow. We always prepare food for the arena crowd. After that, the kitchen shuts down for the week unless a guest makes private arrangements. I'll send a girl with a coal to start a blaze and bring you whatever you want from the kitchen."
Kamahl waved, and a glowing ember seemed to float through the air to land on the prepared wood. The logs burst into flames, instantly pouring out heat with no showers of sparks.
"I will take my own meals tonight," the barbarian said, laying the hammer on the bed, which sagged. "I prefer my privacy and will have no trouble tending my own fire. If you would give me the key to this room and any spares."
The owner hesitated as the mountain mage approached. He laid the brass in the jack's hand and bowed his way out, eyes flickering from the fire to the weapon on the bed.
Kamahl closed the door and went to the window. The town folk flowed up from the sea's edge toward the entertainment offered behind him at the arena. A few heavy wagons were left on the pier, a luckless sentry standing guard as his friends climbed the hill. The wagons had the look of long-haul freight, and the barbarian resolved to make inquires about them tomorrow.
The crowds in the street and bars drained away as he left the inn. The arena was small, and Kamahl was immediately conducted to a box seat with a small tray of refreshments as he entered. Someone from the inn had obviously informed the arena operators of his presence. This was not the reception the barbarian- now a known outlaw-expected.
A porter waited to the side, ready to speak as the entertainment commenced. First was the light and easy comedy of blood sports. Two groups of men, fishermen from their gait, came into the arena. Kamahl looked for an emblem for the fight, and the porter swept forward.
"Just two crews who had a disagreement over boundaries, sir," the servitor explained. "The winner of the bout fixes the new fishing boundaries over the disputed area."
Kamahl turned to see if anyone else received such specialized service, but the layout of the boxes prevented him from observing others.
A piercing whistle sounded, and the crews rushed each other. Men were clad in padded jerkins, and their clubs were wrapped in cloth. They fell to like madmen, flailing at heads and joints. The fishers only disengaged when armed guards dragged away the wounded. Within minutes only one staggering figure remained through most of the others appeared to be recovering off on the sidelines. The winner left with arms held high though attendants came out to guide him to the exit. The next acts were simple acrobats and tumblers, their antics entertaining the crowd as the next bill readied themselves.
"Here we are too short of fighters and beasts to have more than a few matches during any night," the servant said nervously as he watched the barbarian eat.
Kamahl cast only occasional glances toward the exhibition. Finally the signal was given, and the acrobats somersaulted free, leaving the floor clear.
The servant left as two fighters emerged, each wearing colors of arena staff. One was tall and scarred, wearing a steel mask and leather armor. A short flail with two spiked heads swung slowly at his side.
The other opponent leaned on a staff of black wood, a brazier producing smoke in different colors that swept over him. He was short and spindly, dressed only in tattered clothes that ruffled slightly as a gust of wind swept the arena. The servant glanced in from his rounds of the other boxes.
"Does your staff fight or is it just the fishermen?" Kamahl asked, as hoots began to rise up from the audience.
"We are very small compared to the inland arenas, my lord," the servitor said, projecting obsequiousness in the face of perceived disappointment. "The large gladiatorial companies avoid us, the crowds being too small and the gambling syndicates unable to handle serious betting. We must rely on house fighters for the majority of the bouts."
The signal to begin the bout rang, and the waiting dementia caster dug his staff into the soil. The shaft cast a long shadow, though no bright light existed to throw such a pall. From the depths of the shadow came laughter. Then several twisted monsters exited the darkness. Their flesh appeared parched, their hands showing bone as they shuffled about in a gruesome dance.
The masked fighter swung his flail as the tall mage called more creatures from his mind and raised the bones of the dead from the ground. The race of the corpses was impossible to determine because the flesh was in such poor condition.
The dementia caster sawed his staff back and forth, the shadow racing over the ground. The black wave coated the flesh of the risen, drawing the moisture out. Their flesh shriveled as tendons and muscles grew too tenuous to keep the bodies together.