The field cleared as laughing corpses fell on each other and dragged food back to the darkness from which they sprang. Some of the horrific creatures called forth from the dementia caster's mind ignored everything and staggered around the arena. Cries sounded from the gate guards as the dead beat on the barriers keeping them inside. Others turned on the masked fighter who began to fall back. The flail smashed bones, but the twisted dead continued snapping at his heels, their bodies coiling and rebuilding into even more twisted fragments of the short mage's imagination.
A few of the creatures even turned on their creator, advancing on the staff. The shadow it cast began to sweep back and forth, the pall forming a cone in front of the mage. The rebelling monsters fell as their limbs spilled to the ground, their frames melting like frost on a skillet. The masked jack fought harder as more of the laughing closed on him.
Acknowledging defeat the fighter knelt in submission, his mask dipping to the ground. The dementia caster withdrew his staff from the ground and knocked the brazier over. The summoned vanished like nightmares at dawn as the short victor bowed to the applause of the crowd.
The crowd roared in the stands above as workers tried to reassemble the dead. The arena operator and two assistants laid out the bodies of the slain. Some had been dead a very long time, and the smell smashed against the barbarian. Kamahl had left his private box before the next bout to talk to the owners about fighting in their establishment. He found the master hard at work preparing for the next night.
"Make sure you find as many body parts as you can," the promoter told the groundskeeper. The arena owner's pale skin contrasted with the dirt and leather smock he wore. Splotches of blood and caustic burns covered his apron and sections of revealed skin. "There are rumors sweeping the docks, and the sailors are asking for burial at sea again instead of in port." He shooed the servant away and regarded the jack.
"So you wish to join our little family?" The pit boss asked, searching through a pile of limbs for an arm to complete a dead dwarf, preservative fluid dripping from the torn flesh. Kamahl shook his head.
"I wish to compete in the arena against your fighters," he corrected. He looked at the dead being reconstructed for later battles. "Your family appears quite big enough," he said with distaste. The promoter ignored the tone.
"You would be surprised how difficult it is to keep a large enough supply for Enoch and Apel, our necromancers," he said, surrendering in his quest and throwing a random arm in the dwarf's case. "We'll have to bury these tonight in the arena. Apel's zombies always cart off the dead despite how short we are. We used to get sailors, but my brother forgot to alter one's looks. Now it is almost impossible to get them after they die." He moved to the next casket whose contents the barbarian avoided looking at. "The crowds are growing very tired of the same old faces week after week.
"I am offering something new," Kamahl said, stepping around to peer in the mild eyes. "Someone whom your clients have not seen before."
The proprietor waved to his assistants and walked to the back with the barbarian following.
"You understand that we rarely fight to the death here," the official said, hanging his splattered apron on a hook before stepping into an office. "Also, the deal is contingent on my brother's agreement when he comes back from meeting with the bet-mongers."
"I'll not put on a show," Kamahl said, his eyes growing hard. "When I fight, it will be for real. However, I need not kill if your fighters understand that they can surrender when they are overwhelmed."
The owner waved the demand away.
"A jack in a small arena has no use for a champion's airs," he said, drawing forth a piece of paper. "Now, I will need your name for the criers circulating tonight if you plan to fight tomorrow."
The barbarian paused before answering. It would be easiest to give a false name, but an outright lie stuck in his throat.
"Call me the Hammer," he said, sparking the proprietor's interest. "Only by defeating me will someone learn my true name."
The fat man nodded, seeing the possibilities. "You will need to clean your armor, and we must design a suitable emblem…" the owner continued as he led the barbarian away. A host of functionaries followed, all trying to mold Kamahl to their own idea of what a fighter should be. He was brusque in refusing their offers of advice on how to fight and the proper attire to wear. He did allow the armorer to work on his protective gear, which had suffered during his travels.
It seemed only minutes, and he was standing in the center of the arena, the noise of the crowd merging into an unintelligible muttering. The gray cloak was thrown back, his iron shirt dark against his brass skin.
Kamahl swung his hammer, stretching out the kinks in his muscles. His first opponent was Apel, a short dementia caster. Knowing the reputation of such mages, Kamahl wondered if the house fighter would follow the rules. The barbarian believed the short summoner would soon be surrendering, but he must be prepared for a battle to the death. The crowd began to chant as Apel strode into the arena and lowered his equipment to the ground.
The dementia caster stood on the sand, a burning brazier at his side. Apel threw power onto the glowing coals and a heavy cloud of smoke rose, making his features waver and change. The dark mage dug his staff into the ground, and a thin shadow stretched out from the shaft, advancing toward the light behind Kamahl's head rather than away. The familiar shuffling figures of the mirthful dead began to appear, cackling perhaps at the joke of life itself. Kamahl wondered how predictable his opponent would be.
The barbarian called forth his own magic, a field of possibility forming over the sand. He would experiment, use the arena to teach himself new methods of attack and defense. Several cougars surged out of nothingness onto the arena floor, their roars stilling the cries of the crowd. The zombies came on, their laughter continuing even as many were pulled down and savaged by the great cats. If any of the dead were reconstructed corpses, the mountain mage did not envy the morticians' tasks in repairing the bodies.
The dementia caster seemed oblivious to the failure of his forces. Ignoring the feasting cats, Apel sent more undead onto the arena floor. A tattered wave threatening to overwhelm Kamahl's spell by choking his beasts under a wave of cold flesh. The barbarian concentrated again, the cloud of his summoning stretching wider as he played a little to the crowd.
A flock of mountain sheep stormed onto the sand. They milled for a moment, their waist-high bodies losing themselves in a blur as the fierce rams fought for position. Kamahl nudged them into action with a mental command, and the beasts lowered their tightly curled horns and stormed forward. The rams struck hard, shattering bone and bringing the dead down. Clawed hands and fangs struck at Kamahl's creatures but could not penetrate the dense wool that defeated the cold wind of the mountains and the hot breath of timber wolves.
Apel lifted his staff into the air, his face now agitated as his forces fell to mere sheep. In frustration he speared the oak into the sand. Power poured into the soil. Like cobras rising to strike, dark spears rose from the ground. The shadowy weapons bobbed and weaved before falling on the animals that ground up the dead. The wool that resisted the strength of zombies sundered as the beasts were transfixed. The few remaining cougars expired in yowling pain. The rams fell as mutton, the undead rising up as Apel poured new strength to their shattered bones. The bodies tottered toward the barbarian more twisted and cackling than before, but the upright spears of night were straight as they drifted toward the mountain mage.
Kamahl stepped forward, his brow wrinkling as his will contested once more with the universe. Now hulking figures came onto the arena sands, their roars of displeasure shaking the crowd until the mighty monsters choked off their cries with dead flesh. Their white fur grew stained with blood and gore as they tore apart those coming too close to their master. The yetis discarded limbs as they worked their way back to the dementia caster. The enemy mage's black spears dived to spill life to the ground. But despite the humanoids' bulk, they dodged the dark weapons with ease, their agility honed by the mountain cliffs their kind regularly traveled. They wrung their way up the line of zombies, and Kamahl raised his hammer, waiting for the next attack.