“That bastard gets cheaper with his odds every year. It’s nearly impossible to get a good bet in on this game anymore. He’s pushing his greed a little too far and you know damn well he wagers on the sure wins his people pick. Count in the ten percent betting fee on every wager and he cleans up every time.”
Garth smiled and said nothing as the second trumpet sounded and the last frenzy of betting was played out, those at the end of the lines pushing and shoving to get up to the booths where the bookmakers furiously passed out precut wooden tokens marking a bet in return for the tons of coins being pushed over the transoms.
Each token was numbered to signify on which fighting circle the bet was being placed and notched to show if the bet was for or against the favorite. To prevent counterfeiting, the shape, size, and color of the tokens to be used in any given fight was a heavily guarded secret. Once used for a round the tokens were retired and might not be used again for years.
The trumpets sounded the third time and those chosen for the first round of fights stood up. Naru rose and stretched lazily.
“She is easy,” he announced in a bored tone. “I be right back.”
As he swaggered down the aisle and out onto the arena floor, joined by the other fighters from Brown, a loud hysterical cheering erupted. Hammen, unable to contain himself, stood up on his chair to get a better view.
“Damn, I liked it better up in the stands. You can see better,” he complained, looking down at Garth as if he should somehow arrange for seats up with the mob. Naru walked over to his assigned fighting circle fifty fathoms away, the roaring of the crowd rising to a fevered pitch. Fighters from the other three Houses were now out on the arena floor moving to their circles, the crowd chanting and screaming. As they reached their circles they stepped into the neutral boxes, their servants taking their cloaks.
Some of the fighters went through a quick series of exercises, stretching and bending, others stood calmly, others knelt down and, with heads lowered, concentrated their thoughts. To each of the circles a fighter of the Grand Master’s now came to serve as referee.
The trumpets sounded their strident calls, once more warning the fighters and the mob that the fights were about to begin and the roaring of the crowd died away. From atop his throne Zarel now stood up and held his arms out. Again his voice sounded high and clear.
“To the honor of the Walker.”
The fighters in the circles turned and raised both their hands in salute.
“Spells must be contained within the limits of the circles. All fights of the first day to be for spell prize unless both fighters declare it is a grudge match to the death.”
There was a moment of silence as the referees in each circle turned and queried the two fighters they were observing.
“Circle seven, Farnin of Bolk and Petrakov of Fentesk, to the death,” Hammen predicted. “Last year Farnin’s lover was killed by Petrakov. The mob’s been hoping for this matchup.”
On three of the poles which stood by each circle a red flag went up, and one of them was at the seventh circle. A wild, insane cheer went up.
“Petrakov is a dead man,” Hammen announced gleefully.
Zarel raised his arms heavenward.
“Prepare!”
The fighters in the circles stepped out of their neutral boxes and into the arena.
A whistle sounded and an angry roar went up from the crowd.
Garth looked over at Hammen.
“Circle eleven. The Purple fighter started a spell before the call to fight. He’s out.”
Garth looked over toward the eleventh circle on the far side of the arena, amazed at how Hammen could see what was going on, let alone instantly know what had happened. From out of the circle the Ingkaran fighter was already submitting to having a spell taken from his satchel and presented to the winner of the match. As he started to walk back toward the Purple side of the arena, a loud, angry howl rose from the crowd, while from the Gray side a happy cheer erupted since Purple was the favorite to win.
Jimak rose from his throne with an angry curse and pointed his hand.
There was a flash of light and an instant later, where the disgraced fighter had stood, was only a smoldering heap of charred bones. A burst of applause erupted from the crowd and, turning, Jimak bowed to Ingkara’s followers, who now felt that their honor had been restored.
“Hell, he was only a second-rank anyhow,” Hammen sniffed approvingly. “His contract for the year wasn’t worth a damn after such a disgrace.”
The crowd finally settled down and all eyes were turned back toward Zarel.
He held his arms aloft until all was silent and then suddenly dropped them, his voice booming out across the arena.
“Fight!”
An instant later the arena erupted in an insane maelstrom of light, explosions, the roaring of animals, the shouts of demons, dwarfs, ogres, and other summoned creatures, and above all, the wild, gleeful screaming of half a million spectators.
Hammen, beside himself with joy, leaped up and down on his seat, howling with delight.
“Circle five, finished!”
Garth looked to where he pointed. The Fentesk fighter was already down, unconscious, the skeletons he had summoned ground to dust by berserkers and a firestorm, the referee bending over the fallen man to take a spell from his satchel and present it to the winner.
“Naru’s done as well,” Garth announced, pointing to where the giant had crushed his opponent’s dwarfs with his own hands, then unleashed a demon howl which had bowled his opponent over, knocking her out of the circle.
The stands behind Garth erupted with wild shouts for one of their favorites. After claiming his prize, Naru swaggered back to the section where the Bolk fighters stood shouting their approval and swarming around the champion.
A loud groan went up from the crowd when, against all odds, Petrakov knocked Farnin, the sentimental favorite of the mob, off his feet. Petrakov flayed him with a psychic lashing so that the man writhed back and forth. Hammen, beside himself with emotion, screamed imprecations, and Garth shook his head with disgust. Petrakov was now simply torturing his opponent. He continued the lashing, even though he injured himself in the process. He finally stepped across the circle, drew his dagger, and started to slash Farnin across the face, while the crowd, except for Petrakov’s loyal followers in the Orange sector, booed loudly. Finally he grabbed hold of his opponent by the hair, lifted him up, and hacked his throat open from ear to ear, a river of scarlet spilling out in the circle.
A loud cry erupted from the Brown fighters, several of them moving to rush into the arena and place a spell of healing on their comrade. A wall of light shimmered up, cast by a dozen fighters of the Grand Master who stood nearby each of the sideline stands of the fighting Houses, blocking Farnin’s comrades from entering the arena.
Petrakov, with a disdainful gesture, tossed Farnin aside, the man’s head lolling back obscenely. Farnin kicked feebly, hands clutching at his torn throat, blood squirting out between his fingers, and then was still. Without waiting for the circle master, Petrakov reached down and cut Farnin’s satchel off and held it aloft triumphantly, spit on the corpse, and then walked away.
“In the old days that never would have been allowed except in the final matches,” Hammen growled. “The Grand Master encourages it now because the mob loves the sight of blood. The next fight with Petrakov and the betting will be ten times as much, especially if he’s pitted against another Bolk.”
The last of the fights were played out, the victors returning with their spoils, a single spell for standard matches, or the full satchel for a death match, minus, of course, the one mana fee taken by the Grand Master when blood was spilled. One of the three death matches, however, ended with no one the winner. Both fighters had cast simultaneous spells which had killed their opponents. Those who had not bet on the match laughed with hysterical glee since in such cases the Grand Master kept all bets and claimed the satchels of both of the fallen as well, while those who had bet on one or the other howled with rage.