Quickly the captain pointed next at the orcs he controlled. The demon pounced upon them, devouring them as they screamed and writhed. Garth did nothing, watching the captain’s actions. He had conjured forth a creature that was almost beyond his ability to control. He had to keep feeding it in order to keep it under his command. The captain waved his hand yet again, attempting to conjure up more replacements for the creature’s feast. But this time all he could bring forth was half a score of plague rats before he lowered his head in exhaustion.

The Lord of the Pit, satiated for the moment, turned back to attack Garth once more. It started to advance and Garth replayed again a power he had used before, quickly erecting a wall of living trees and then stepping behind it. The Dark Lord approached the woods, brimming with hatred for a creation of such tranquility. Rearing up, it started to slash at the woods with its mighty claws, as Garth reinforced his barrier of protection. The monter’s hooting roars thundered around the arena, drowning out even the wild, insane cheering of the mob which was beside itself with rapture over such a marvelous display. The demon finally tore into the line of trees, grabbing hold of the trunks. It howled with pain as if the silvery bark was made of nettles of pain. It tore the trees up, flinging them aside, crashing through to the other side.

And then, exhausted, it sank down for a moment. Turning, it started to lumber back toward its master’s side of the circle, looking at the remaining feasts the captain had set out in order to maintain control.

Garth leaped forward, hands raised, and within seconds the demons, skeletons and rats that the captain had prepared for the demon were gone, vaporized by Garth’s frenzied attack.

The captain hesitated, shocked by the suddenness of Garth’s onslaught. The demon reared up, howling with rage that his meal had been denied. The captain quickly raised his hands but his own mana was drained in the act of creating the monster and the meals necessary to control it. He pointed, trying to bring forth another creature. There was a thin pop of light and the only thing that appeared was a lone tiny sprite which, at the sight of the Lord, took wing and flew straight up and away. The demon, its mouth lolling open, watching the sprite fly away, then it fixed its gaze on the captain.

With a loud cry it lunged forward. There was a brief flash, as if a circle of protection was being raised. Garth turned and looked toward the throne, where Zarel was standing, his arms raised. Hammen, jumping up and down, pointed toward Zarel in turn and a wild, hysterical cry rose from the mob at the blatant interference on the part of the Grand Master. Zarel, looking around, dropped his hands, and the circle of protection disappeared.

The captain, screaming in terror, was lifted up into the air. The Lord of the Pit, gloating over its prey, pulled in opposite directions, tearing the man in half and then devouring him in two quick gulps. As the life force of the captain disappeared the power which he controlled ended as well. With a flash of fire and smoke the demon disappeared.

Garth slowly walked across the circle, not waiting for the circle master to reach the prize first. Reaching down he picked up the blood-soaked satchel of his opponent and held it aloft. The mob broke into an ecstasy of cheering. The Bolk section of the arena swarmed forward, leaping over the barriers, ignoring the blows of the warriors who tried to stop them. By the tens of thousands they swarmed onto the arena floor.

“One-eye, One-eye!”

The circle master came up and reached toward the satchel of the captain. Garth fixed the man with his gaze.

“It was you who made it to the death; the prize is mine.”

“It belongs to the Grand Master,” the fighter hissed.

“Then try and take it now.”

The man looked at him, and then back toward the throne, where Zarel stood. The mob swirled in around Garth, swarming about him. Hammen pushed his way through to Garth’s side.

“Thank the Eternal for his mob; I think Zarel was going to come down and fight you right now.”

The referee backed away and then extended his hand.

“Mana payment for a death fight.”

Garth reached into the satchel taken from his foe, drew out a small silken bundle of black mana, and tossed it into the outstretched hand of the referee, who quickly scurried away.

Putting his arm around Hammen’s shoulder for support, Garth forced his way through the mob, sensing the rage that Zarel was now feeling at the humiliation he had endured and the loss of one of his most powerful spells.

“Master, how are you?” Hammen asked anxiously.

“I managed to heal the ribs but I’m still hung over,” Garth replied. “Let’s go find a drink, and then there’s some things I need you to get for this evening.”

“What things?”

Garth simply smiled.

THE CITY WAS IN A STATE OF BEDLAM. DURING the games rival gangs, taking advantage of the fact that nearly anyone who could afford it had gone to the arena, had set to looting. Supporters of Ingkara had raided Fentesk sections of the city and a mob of Kesthans attempted to loot Purple, while Bolk had simply gone after everyone else. Fires had broken out in several quarters of the city and the glare of the flames filled the midnight sky.

“Ah, how I love Festival days,” Hammen growled, pausing to look furtively around a corner and then turning to watch the flames engulf the home of a much-hated merchant down the street.

“It wasn’t always this way,” Garth said, more as a statement than a question.

Hammen spit on the ground.

“The old days are dead as are all old days.” He paused for a moment and sighed.

“Maybe it wasn’t as golden as some want to remember,” Hammen finally said, “but at least the games were not for the entertainment of the mob. Back then they were tests of skill and practice, a time of truce before going out again to wander and study, or to serve a contract with a prince who treated his fighters with honor. Now it is for blood, contracts, and the delight of the mob.”

Hammen shook his head and then chuckled sadly as some looters raced past, bearing a heavy barrel between them.

Hammen looked back up at Garth.

“All right, Garth, the game’s over. We increased our money six times over today. Even minus my commission you’ve got enough to live like a prince for the next couple of years. Besides that, you’ve got a spell usually only a Master ever holds. Why don’t you take it and get the hell out of this madhouse?”

Garth smiled and shook his head.

“I’ve still got some things to do.”

“Damn it, son, today was a fix. The captain was a fix, the spell was obviously given to him by the Grand Master, and they set you up for a death match. Do you think he’ll play any fairer tomorrow?”

“Actually, yes,” Garth said quietly. “The mob knows, your people have passed the word around. He’ll play it straight tomorrow, at least until the Walker comes to back him up.”

Garth paused, turning to look back as the merchant’s house collapsed, a shower of sparks soaring heavenward. A laughing, drunken crowd was gathered around outside, raising tankards of ale and wine in salute to the fire while the merchant cursed and swore, pulling out great tufts of his beard in anguish.

Hammen slowed, still troubled by their conversation on the way back from the arena at the end of the day’s fights.

“I think what you asked my friend to do is insane.”

“You said he hates the Grand Master for the death of his son last year. Remember it was you who first pointed out the connection.”

“I was just musing, that’s all. Talking about what the Grand Master has done.”