Three berserkers, shrieking in unknown tongues, appeared, charging straight at Garth, and he stopped them with a line of Llanowar Elves, who hewed into them with staves of oak that shattered helmets, shields, and bones.

Several of the fighters, working together, conjured forth a hill giant who stood nearly half as tall as the House of Fentesk and came forward with slow, lumbering steps, the mob gasping and shouting enthusiastically at the sight of such a rare wonder even though it was bent on crushing their hero.

The fighters opposing Garth paused in their attacks to watch the fun since Garth had no offensive strikes up, his elves trading themselves off against the berserkers so that all lay dead.

The giant, laughing with a low, rumbling roar, raised his foot up and slammed it down, trying to squash Garth. Garth dodged aside and moved behind a pillar. The giant tried to kick him and stubbed his toe so that he cursed with pain and the mob roared with delight.

Garth stepped out from behind the pillar and the giant raised his foot, bringing it down again. Garth rolled, picked up a sword from a fallen berserker and braced its hilt on the ground, the point aimed straight up.

The giant impaled his foot.

His howl of anguish was almost as loud as a demonic roar and he hopped about, the sword still stuck in the bottom of his foot. Garth extended his hands and the giant tottered off balance and then came crashing down, crushing several fighters beneath him, the impact of his fall rumbling across the Plaza like an earthquake. The giant, cursing and moaning, started to rise up again and the fighters who controlled him pointed with disgust at their bumbling creation. The giant fell into the fissure that had taken the mammoth, and his shrieks did not stop until he hit the bottom. In the brief seconds created by the confusion with the giant Garth again turned to the door and pulled on it. It was still locked.

He raised his hand to burst the door and felt an even stronger spell protecting it.

Cursing, he turned back to face his opponents, who were now nearly doubled in number to twenty by the arrival of more reinforcements. The crossbow men, having reloaded, were moving to either side of the fire which he had erected to burn their bolts.

The next seconds were a mad confusion, spell after spell striking back and forth. Several times he was staggered by psionic blasts which slammed into him, those throwing the spells collapsing from exhaustion. But it was not one on one and so it did not matter if a single opponent felled himself into unconsciousness, as long as he injured the lone man they were facing.

Another blast hit him and another and Garth fell to his knees. The mob continued to cheer, caught up in the sheer spectacle of such a fight.

He tried to erect a circle of protection and a crossbow bolt slammed into his shoulder, spinning him around, sending him facedown to the ground.

Gasping, Garth came back up to his knees. The fighters were closing in on him, gloating, hands raised. He threw one more spell, knocking a fighter down in flames, the man turning away, shrieking and running in circles, the crowd howling with delight at this final act of defiance.

Garth looked back at the door into the House of Fentesk. It was unbarred and filled now with spectators. Even as the next blast struck him, he tore his satchel off and threw it toward the door.

“Varena! Sanctuary!” Garth shouted as his satchel skidded to a stop before the Orange fighters gathered about the door.

His mana now no longer at his side, he was naked, and the next blast knocked him into oblivion.

“HAMMEN.”

The voice was a whisper, as if drifting on the wind. Frightened, he turned, expecting to see the fighters of the Grand Master.

The alleyway was deserted.

In the distance the clamor of the mob out in the great square could still be heard. Rioting had broken out after Garth fell. Some of it triggered by lost bets, because many had come to believe him almost invincible. Others, however, were enraged because a favorite had been taken and in some primal sort of way the mob felt it to be unfair. Their sense of honor had been offended both by the Grand Master and by Orange, which had barred the door to their hero. The adventure of the almost-legendary One-eye, which had grown in the telling to near-mythical proportions, was now finished, and they were disappointed.

Windows not broken in the brawl of the day before were being smashed, and chants of “One-eye, One-eye” could be heard swelling on the wind.

Disgusted, Hammen listened, knowing that if anything it was just an excuse for a little free shopping and that the actual rightness or wrongness of what had happened was secondary. Later they could say that they had protested the unfairness while gorging on the food and wine they had appropriated and parading about in the fine silks taken from some unfortunate merchant. Thus it had always been with urban mobs, who would riot on a whim, a mere pretext of an excuse, Hammen thought, and yet remain mute when real injustice occurred.

“Hammen.”

He ducked back into the shadows and reached for his dagger as he saw a shadow drift through the alleyway, moving stealthily, the only sound the squealing of rats disrupted from their late-night repast.

The shadow stopped.

“It’s Norreen; it’s all right.”

It was the Benalish woman and he breathed a sigh of relief.

She came up to him.

“I saw you in the Plaza and followed you,” she whispered.

“Some hero you were,” Hammen snapped. “You could have made your name out there.”

“Did you go up and stand by his side?” she growled in reply.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not the hero, you are. Besides, it was useless; he was finished.”

“That’s why I held back. Never pick a fight that’s suicide.”

Hammen nodded sadly.

“So it’s over. Now leave me alone.”

“It’s not over. He’s still alive.”

“So what? They have him. Either they’ll torture him to death tonight, or keep him for the amusement of the Walker. Either way it would have been better if he had killed himself with his last spell.”

“He threw his satchel away before the end.”

“What?”

“Who’s Varena?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft.

Hammen chuckled and shook his head.

“A final pleasure.”

“Oh.” She was silent for a moment.

“You say he threw his satchel away?” Hammen asked curiously.

“He called her name and then demanded sanctuary for his spells. I saw a woman snatch it up and then go back inside.”

Hammen chuckled softly.

“Just like him. What did the Grand Master’s men do then?”

“They took him and bound him up. Some of them went up to the door and demanded the satchel be turned over as a rightful prize and Orange barred the door shut. The mob loved it. They then loaded Garth into a cart and that’s when the rioting started.”

Hammen looked expectantly back up the alleyway, the sound of the riot still echoing over the city, and he started to step out of the shadows.

“There’s nothing we can do now,” Norreen sighed. “There’s hundreds of warriors out there and nearly all the Grand Master’s fighters. Besides, they’re hunting for you and for me; go out there now and we’ll be in a cell right beside him.”

“What do you mean we, Benalish?”

“Just that, we.”

For the first time since it had all started Hammen felt the small leather bag Garth had tossed him. He opened it up and peeked inside, the glinting within barely visible in the darkness.

If he was alive, there still might be a way.

“Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

As he spoke he reached out and attempted to pat her on her backside and withdrew his hand with a yelp.