“I claim the right of combat! I am know as Garth One-eye. I am the son of Cullinarn, Master of the House of Oor-tael.”

Zarel stepped forward, motioning for his fighters to gather around him, but he was stopped as if by an invisible hand.

The Walker’s sardonic laugh echoed over the arena.

“Most amusing. I love an amusing joke. You may fight.”

Garth, without an acknowledgment to the Walker, turned and started to walk toward the far end of the arena.

“Damn it, Garth, either you’ll leave here feetfirst or go with that bastard.”

“I know.”

“What the hell for?”

Garth looked over at Hammen and smiled.

“Didn’t I tell you from the beginning to stick around and you’d find out why?”

Hammen looked over angrily at Norreen.

“Thanks a lot.”

“You should have told me to stay out of it.”

“Would that have changed what you did?”

“No.”

“You’re both mad,” Hammen snapped, even as he struggled to keep up with Garth.

Garth laughed, shaking his head.

“You still have our money?”

“Yes.”

“Then go wager it on a win. You’ll need the cash when this is done.”

“Like hell. I’m staying down here with you.”

Garth looked over at Norreen.

She shook her head. “I’m staying.”

“All right then, but once this is done and I’m gone, they’ll kill you.”

“Good of you to worry about us now,” Hammen growled.

As they approached the neutral box at the far end of the arena they walked past the viewing stand of Bolk. Out in front stood Naru, who raised a clenched fist to Garth in salute, the giant gazing at him with a worried look.

“Too bad you die or he takes you,” Naru said.

“Then next year you’re the champion,” Garth replied, and the giant grinned.

Garth stepped into the neutral box, the mob in the stands swarming up to the betting booths to place their bets, but the Walker gave them no time.

“Fight!”

The combat was over in minutes, the mob watching in awed silence as Garth stepped into an immediate attack, blocking the dark spells of his opponent with a casual ease, shattering the power of his mana, and then closing in for the kill with yet another attack of a Craw Wurm. He paused before the final coup but his opponent, screaming with rage, countered at the moment of hesitation with a demonic attack and Garth lowered his head as the Craw Wurm lunged, devouring the fighter.

Garth stood in the center of the arena, ignoring the ovation that greeted his victory as he picked up his fallen opponent’s satchel and then walked to a place in the arena between the stands of Ingkara and Kestha, a place where long ago had been the corner of the fighting field reserved for the House of Oor-tael.

Zarel looked up at the Walker.

“He is dangerous.”

“Of course he is dangerous; otherwise, he would not have survived in hiding for twenty years. You told me he was dead.”

Zarel looked away and the voice lashed through his mind.

“You told me he was dead.”

“Yes.”

“But you did not see the body.”

Zarel hesitated.

“Well?”

“He was only a five-year-old boy. He could not survive that fire.”

Zarel struggled to seal off his thoughts, his memories of that night. Of the boy dragged before him, how he had gouged the boy’s eye out to torment his father, and of the boy, in spite of the agony he was in, staring at him coldly with but half his vision. His father, fighting desperately, was still in the House, which was engulfed in flames.

And he could remember the wail of agony when the father had seen the boy and begged to trade lives. At that moment the boy had torn loose from the grasp of the guard and raced into the burning building.

He was dead; he was supposed to be dead.

How could I have not seen clearly that it was he? Zarel wondered. But then again he was only a meaningless boy, a nothing, a pawn for a moment of bargaining.

“Fool! He is still out there now.”

“And he leaves the arena dead or with you,” Zarel replied hastily.

“He knows that,” the Walker replied, and Zarel sensed the nervousness.

He’s afraid, Zarel realized.

“He knows that. He knows he can’t escape. Therefore, he must have something planned. After all these years he would not come here just to commit suicide.”

“Are you afraid, my Master?” Zarel asked silently, looking back up at the throne, and he felt an instant lash of rage.

“I will kill him as I kill all who win the tournament,” the Walker snarled in reply. “As I think I might kill you for not controlling this world better.”

As Zarel struggled to control the surge of fear, sensing the cold laugh of his master, he turned and looked back at Uriah and the realization came. The dwarf had somehow known from the beginning. Fool. He had hidden his knowledge out of some perverse form of loyalty and sentimentality.

Uriah looked toward him and Zarel smiled as if all was as it should be. There would be time enough later for a special torment.

“Arrange the next fight for my amusement,” the Walker snapped angrily.

Garth watched the tote board and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that he would not yet have to face Varena. She would fight someone from her own House this time. As he exhaled noisily and turned away, he saw Norreen staring at him.

“She’s a friend. I don’t relish what I have to do.”

“You should have thought of that earlier,” Hammen said.

“Whichever way it turns out, whoever steps into the arena today is dead; I just don’t want to do it myself.”

He looked back over at Noreen, who was still looking at him.

“Are you jealous? Is that it?” Hammen taunted.

“A Benalish woman doesn’t need anyone outside her clan.”

Hammen laughed crudely and spit on the ground.

“You’ll both be dead anyhow in a little while, so the question is moot.”

Garth smiled and said nothing.

Out on the arena floor the next battle was joined and Varena was instantly on the defensive, her opponent, also from Fentesk, launching into a savage attack of liquid fire. She erected a wall to block him and he responded with an earthquake that shook the entire arena and tumbled the barrier down. Varena countered with aerial attacks by stinging insects, and even an outlandish balloon filled with goblin warriors. The balloon went down under the counterstrike of elvish archers, their arrows turning to flames which set the balloon on fire.

Twice Varena was knocked down by her opponent and the mob came howling to its feet, believing that the fight was over. And twice she recovered-the second time gathering enough mana to leap forward with a violent series of counterstrikes that her opponent parried with less and less strength. She moved closer to her foe, striking down his defenses. Then, with a final blast, she destroyed him, with a combination of fire striking from above and a psychic blast that drained her own strength but finished him.

She walked slowly from the arena field, her assistant rushing over to the body of the fallen to retrieve his satchel.

“It means I’ll have to face her,” Garth said quietly.

“If you live through this one.”

“Gilganorin of Ingkara versus Garth of Oor-tael.” The voice of the Walker was filled with amused sarcasm.

Garth stepped out of his corner and walked over to the neutral box, the crowd cheering lustily, bouquets of flowers raining down around him. He stepped into the neutral box and started to concentrate in preparation.

“Fight!”

Startled, he looked up. The Walker was laughing at the joke of having started the fight without warning.

Garth, bent over low, ran to one side of the arena as a black cloud snapped across the arena floor and came to a stop over his head, a rain of acid cascading down where he had just been standing. Next a fissure opened in the ground and he leaped back as stone giants emerged from the hole, their heavy granite war clubs crashing down, smashing the ground to either side of him. He struggled to erect a wall and they burst through it, their voices sounding like dark echoes from a ghostly cave.