The mob cheered with bloodlust and swarmed toward the betting booths to place their wagers. The entire arena floor was now available for the final round of fights and minutes later, at the far end of the arena, Jolina stepped out, while at the north end Azema of Kestha stepped into the neutral box to prepare.

The Walker stood up, grinning, surveying the arena, waiting for the mob to finish its betting.

“How is this match today?” he asked, looking down at Zarel.

“In your honor, Great Lord, all matches today are to the death.”

The Walker stared at Zarel, probing inward.

“Why?” his voice whispered so that only Zarel could hear.

“I can explain later, my lord.”

“It will create bad blood in the Houses.”

“The bad blood is already there, my lord. It is time for a cleansing.”

“And the one you told me about?”

“Win or lose, my lord, he is yours. The Houses were getting too strong again; they needed to be leeched of some of their strength. This way they cannot stand against my power, or yours.”

“You had best be right, Zarel, or this is your last day as Grand Master.”

“I am right, my lord, and it is in service to you that I do this.”

The Walker nodded and looked up again.

“To the death then!”

Hammen, who was once known as Hadin gar Kan, slipped down through the rows of the arena, occasionally catching glimpses of the fight. His view was obscured by the jam-packed mob which was standing on the benches, leaping up and down in an ecstasy of abandon. Explosions thundered across the stadium, the two contestants below locked in violent conflict, the arena, across its three hundred fathoms of width, filled with fire, dueling creatures, demons, smoke, flying beasts, and unearthly clouds of darkness. In the open space of the fighting floor all powers could now be brought to bear, no longer constrained by the tight space of the circles used in the elimination matches of the previous days.

As the crowd pushed and shoved, swaying back and forth, Hammen found small openings and slipped through, moving ever closer to the arena floor. He moved stealthily, avoiding the gaze of warriors stationed in clusters throughout the arena, and watched for the agents of Zarel, who were positioned to take any who might make trouble this day. He moved like a shadow, something he could still do though it had been twenty long years since he had last touched mana with the intent of drawing upon it. And all the time the memory of what he had once been haunted him.

Why had Garth ever come into his life? Why did he have to conjure back all that was, a time when the House of Oor-tael still lived and stood for what the world of fighters hand once been? He felt now like a dream moving through a dark world of abandon, a dream that was crushed and at any moment would die forever.

It had died. He had been telling himself that for twenty years. It had died on the night the Walker had gathered the power no longer to be simply a mortal of this world, no longer to be simply a Grand Master, but instead to have the power of a demigod and walk between worlds and fight in unknown realms. All that stood in his path was the House of Oor-tael and the refusal of the House Master, Garth’s father, to relinquish part of the mana he controlled to make the circle of power complete. For without more of the colors of mana controlled by the House of Oor-tael, the circle could not be drawn.

And thus had the House of Oor-tael been stormed on the final night of Festival twenty years ago, the other Houses conspiring to throw down their rival and in the process grant the Walker his desire. And so he had moved beyond the world, leaving his lieutenant to rule in his stead, and to twist and pervert all that was.

The nightmare of the Night of Fire washed over Hammen, who had once been the master fighter of Oor-tael, for he had fled when the House was stormed. Fled because at that moment he believed there was nothing more to fight for.

I should have died then, he thought. I should have stood by my Master and his family and died. But I fled into the bowels of the earth to hide, to come out as Hammen the thief, the pickpocket, the master of a brotherhood of the low. I should have died.

I should have died.

He edged his way down to the wall, just as the fight on the arena floor reached its climax. Varena of Fentesk cast down the last protective barrier of her opponent from Kestha. The man crumpled. She hesitated, looking for a moment back at the throne.

“Finish him!”

The crowd picked up the thunderous words of the Walker.

“Finish him! Finish him!”

Varena raised her hand and the Gray fighter simply disappeared in a scarlet cloud.

She walked over to where the body had been and picked up her opponent’s satchel. With head lowered, she strode off the field, ignoring the ovation that greeted her victory.

“Thus ends the sixth round,” Zarel announced. “Igun of Ingkara winning the fourth match by default. Now begins the seventh round.”

Hammen pushed his way up to the stadium wall, stood upon it, and leaped down onto the sand. Several fighters moved toward him and he raised his hand, knocking them over.

“I stand as witness to One-eye, who has earned the right to combat!” Hammen shouted, drawing upon the mana which was now in a satchel resting on his right hip. His voice echoed across the arena and the mob, stunned by the intrusion, fell silent.

“He is hanin, without color,” Zarel screamed. “He cannot fight.”

The Walker stood up and looked down at Hammen.

“I am Hadin gar Kan, first fighting master of the House of Oor-tael, body servant of Garth One-eye, and I stand as witness to him.”

“Hadin.” The Walker’s voice was a dark whisper as if a memory was but half-formed.

Hammen walked out into the center of the arena.

“He won the right of combat.”

“So where is he?” the Walker whispered, his voice echoing across the arena.

“Gone.”

The Walker chuckled.

“And what do you want, beggar?”

“As his servant I can claim the right to fight in his stead. Those are the ancient rules which existed even before you first darkened this world.”

The Walker leaned back and laughed coldly.

“Fine. It will be fun to watch you die.”

But even as he spoke there was an eruption of cheering from the south side of the arena, starting at the top of the stands. For a moment the Walker thought it was for him and, smiling, he looked over his shoulder.

The cheering spread, even as a path opened up down the side of the stadium, the crowd surging, pushing back.

Garth One-eye reached the arena wall and leaped down onto the arena floor, followed by the woman of Benalia.

“One-eye!”

The cry was picked up and turned in an instant into a tidal wave of noise. Garth strode across the arena floor, coming up to stand in front of Hammen.

“Just what the hell are you doing?” Garth whispered.

“I was trying to save your damn stupid life,” Hammen replied wearily.

“This way?”

“If I was killed, your satchel was gone, and you would be powerless. You would have left.”

He hesitated.

“I failed to save you once; I thought I could now,” the old man said as he lowered his head.

“You never failed me,” Garth whispered, “and you never failed my father before me. You fled when there was nothing left to fight for. When my father was already dead.”

Hammen looked up and smiled sadly.

“At last you say it, and again there is nothing I can do.”

“You can start by giving me back my satchel.”

Hammen took the satchel off and held it out to Garth.

Garth stepped back from Hammen and tore off the cloak in which he was wrapped to reveal the fighting uniform of the House of Oor-tael. A stunned gasp of amazement rose from the stands at the sight of the forbidden colors. Garth slung the satchel over his shoulder.