From the arena floor many of the fighters raised their clenched fists in gleeful salute.

“He’s spending a fortune to buy them back,” Hammen said.

“And the House Masters will lose all their best people,” Garth said quietly. “Masterful.”

Garth looked back toward where Kirlen sat and could sense her rage. If the House Masters dared to try and raise a protest over the slaughter, the mob would riot, but this time against them. Zarel had outmaneuvered them for the moment and in the process had weakened them as well.

The circle master for Garth’s fight came to Garth’s side and extended her hand. In it were a white chip and a black.

“Choose death or a single spell match,” she said coldly.

“What about the public declaration?” Hammen asked.

“Tell your servant to shut up or I’ll have his tongue ripped out,” the woman snapped.

Garth looked at her coldly and then took the white chip.

“A spell match.”

She looked at him with open sarcasm and, turning, started across the circle to Garth’s opponent.

“Brilliant,” Hammen snarled. “Most fighters will assume the other’s going for a death match anyhow so they’ll choose it as well in hopes of winning the Grand Master’s prize. It’s going to be a slaughter pit out here.”

The woman stood before Ulin, extending her hands and Ulin took one of the proffered chips, signifying his choice of a death or single spell match. She went back across the circle and, pulling out a red flag, raised it. Red flags appeared all across the arena floor and the crowd went wild with bloodlust.

“Fight!”

Garth leaped into the arena, moving fast, charging straight at his opponent. Ulin stood with arms extended, rushing to draw in his mana and create the first spell. Garth continued his charge, drawing out his dagger. Ulin looked up at him and started to point even as Garth slammed into him, striking Ulin on the side of the head with the dagger’s hilt. Ulin crumpled up, falling over backward.

Ulin, howling with rage, came up with his own dagger and lunged in low at Garth. Garth jumped aside.

“Just lie down, damn it, and act like I knocked you out!” Garth snapped.

Ulin, however, driven by a wild rage, came at him again, feinting low and then going for a throat slash while all the time turning to work around toward Garth’s blind side.

Ulin’s hand scraped across the arena floor and he tossed a handful of sand into Garth’s face, blinding him. Garth staggered backward, the screams of the mob rising to such a hysterical pitch that he could not hear where his opponent might be approaching from.

Garth fell backward, as if guided by instinct, and felt Ulin go over him. Rolling on his shoulders, Garth somersaulted over, landing on his feet, trying to wipe the sand from his eye.

Ulin pressed in again, not even giving Garth time to raise a circle of protection. Garth rolled again, Ulin’s blade slicing his shoulder open, and the sight of the blood caused the cheering to become even louder.

Barely able to see, Garth sensed another blow coming in hard and he raised his left arm to ward of the blow. The dagger sliced his wrist open, the icy pain of the hit stunning him.

Ulin pulled back and then dived in again. Garth ducked under the blow, coming in low and sweeping out with his legs. He caught Ulin just below the left knee and the fighter went over. Recovering, Ulin leaped upon Garth, struggling to pin him to the ground. The two rolled in the dust and Ulin moved to drive his dagger into Garth’s eye. Garth jerked his head aside as the blow came down, the dagger slicing open his cheek.

Howling with delight, Ulin yanked his dagger free from the sand and raised it for a killing blow.

Just as the blow started to descend Garth managed to wrench his right hand free from Ulin’s grasp and drove the blade upward. The dagger slipped in just below Ulin’s chin, piercing through the roof of his mouth and up into his brain.

Ulin’s downward strike faltered, going wide. Garth let go of his own blade as Ulin, with a near-supernatural strength, somehow staggered back to his feet, Garth’s dagger driven up to the hilt into the bottom of his jaw.

A gasp of amazement went up from the mob at the sight of the man staggering about and then, ever so slowly, his legs crumpled and he collapsed to the ground. Garth, panting for breath, came up on his knees, the screaming of the mob thundering around him, deafening him so that he wanted to cover his ears and shut the sound out.

He felt hands grasping him around his shoulder.

“Heal yourself, heal yourself, you’re bleeding to death!”

Wide-eyed, Garth looked over at Hammen and then back at Ulin.

“You don’t have time for him, damn it, heal yourself now!”

Garth, gasping for breath, nodded and concentrated upon his mana. The power came slowly as he felt himself weakening. At last the power was there and Garth slowly extended his hands. The blood pouring out of his wrist, arm, and face stilled, the skin drawing back over upon itself even as he felt his strength return.

Yet still the thunder washed over him and, squinting from the glare of the hot afternoon sun, which reflected off the packed sand of the arena, he stood up, gasping for breath.

“Why didn’t you just stab him with your first blow?”

“I thought I could knock him out.”

“Cut the chivalry. This is death match and you better fight it that way,” Hammen snapped.

Garth looked around the arena where half a dozen fights were still going on. In a circle at the south end of the arena a great spider was scampering around, holding a fighter aloft, the man writhing in agony, the mob in that section jumping up and down in their seats with wild abandon. On the east side two small armies of undead and skeletons were busy slashing at each other, while in the ring to the north of Garth a fighter was strutting about, holding up the head of his slain foe.

Garth walked over to Ulin’s body and looked down.

“Damn you,” Garth sighed and, reaching down, pulled out his dagger, wiped it on the sand, and then cut the man’s satchel off, tossing a mana bundle to the referee. The crowd broke into wild applause.

Garth turned to walk back to Brown’s stands.

“Too bad you didn’t declare it a death match, One-eye,” the referee taunted. “You could have gotten a prize.”

“I don’t need any more spells and the hell with the blood money,” Garth snapped in reply.

Still gasping for breath, Garth slowly walked across the arena floor, ignoring the wild howling of the mob, which stood to give him an ovation. Stepping under the awning, he went over to the food and wine, pouring himself a drink, while out in the arena the last fights were played out.

“What happened to Varena?” Garth asked, turning to look back out on the field.

Hammen pointed up to the tote board.

“She won.”

Garth nodded, saying nothing.

Naru came back in, covered in blood and holding the satchel of a Fentesk fighter.

“Not this much slaughter in years,” Naru announced gleefully. “Many good spells.”

He shouldered up beside Garth and, taking up a decanter of wine, drained it off with loud, thirsty gulps followed by a rolling, self-satisfied belch.

“Ah, now better. Perhaps we fight, I take your satchel now.”

Garth looked up at Naru.

“You know, it’s hard to admit, but I’ve almost come to like you.”

Naru chuckled, his voice edged with sadness.

“Me almost like you. Too bad.”

“Fighter, make not friend of fighter.”

Garth turned to see Kirlen standing behind him.

“This slaughter is because of you. You realize that, don’t you? All the Houses will lose their best today and tomorrow.”

“So stop him.”

“We can’t.” Kirlen waved toward the mob, which was on its feet, howling with bloodlust as two fighters, their spells expended, staggered about the fighting circle, slashing at each other with daggers.