He concentrated his thoughts and sent out attacks on his opponent’s mana, the force draining out of Gilganorin’s lands. The stone giants tumbled down into heaps of rocks. With a running bound Garth leaped over the fissure and laid out a line of living brambles and trees to form a barrier. Again he drew on the Craw Wurm but these were countered in turn by attacks of fire, which ignited the woods. The Craw Wurm, in turn, was destroyed by a dark elemental, which Garth then destroyed by an elemental that he conjured in response.

Gilganorin slowly started to move forward as well, diverting Garth with minor attacks of insects, rats, wolves, and undead. Garth countered each, and played out the same offensive, using creatures that required little mana to create while storing his power up for a killing strike. He sensed that he was gaining the advantage, Gilganorin being unable to store up mana as well, driven instead to the defensive, the countering of attacks, and resorting finally to protective wards to block attacks which could damage him.

And then, suddenly, to Garth’s amazement, Gilganorin simply stopped fighting and extended his hands outward, palms facing down to the ground in the signal of submission and surrender. Garth, nodding in acknowledgment, held his next attack back, sending the berserkers back into the oblivion from which they were conjured. He extended his left hand, palm downward, as a sign that he accepted the surrender while still holding his right hand high as a gesture of victory.

A gasp of amazement arose from the mob. There was a time when such an act was usually the end of a fight, when an opponent knew that he was beaten and it was senseless to continue. But this was supposed to be a death match.

“I asked not for a death match,” Garth shouted. “I accept your surrender. You may keep your spells.”

Gilganorin bowed low in reply and turned to walk back to his corner… and then he simply ceased to exist. A cylinder of blackness appeared to wrap around him, there was a shower of blood spraying out, and the cylinder of night was gone. All that was left was a smear of blood soaking into the sand.

“When I say it is to the death, it is to the death,” the Walker snapped peevishly, and then he turned his attention back to the woman he had been amusing himself with while the fight had been going on.

A gasp rose from the crowd and Garth sensed that even many in the mob had been offended, for Gilganorin was an old favorite, who for several decades had always survived into the final rounds and was noted for squandering his prize money on free drinks for his fans for weeks after a Festival.

Annoyed at the protest over the death of a favorite, the Walker turned away from his amusement and waved his hand. A cloud formed over the arena and the mob fell silent, not sure what he was about to do. He was, after all, the Walker, and though he might not have the power to take on half a million at once, he could certainly do damage to quite a few tens of thousands before being forced to flee. The cloud turned dark and from it a rain of silver trinkets began to fall. The mob struggled to pick them up, but even then there was no gratitude-it was simply money to be taken and nothing more.

The Walker leaned back on this throne, watching the mob.

“What is wrong with these bastards?” he asked silently, looking down at Zarel.

“You killed one of their favorites.”

“So what; he disobeyed me.”

“They might not see it that way.”

“Suppose I burn the city in reply?”

“That would damage you in return, my lord. For without the peasants and the mob, the mana, the power of the lands, forms more slowly. Next year’s tribute would not be as great.”

“Damn them,” the Walker hissed. He looked back at the woman, who waited for him and, with an angry curse, he pointed at her. In an instant her young, rounded body shriveled up, turning into limp folds of hanging leprous flesh, her face distorting into an obscene visage of running sores. She looked down at her body and started to scream hysterically. Laughing, he pushed her off the throne, so that she tumbled down the steps onto the arena floor. She continued to scream, until finally, annoyed at her whining, he pointed at her again. She melted down into a boiling mass of flesh. The mob, which had been watching the show, was silent, and the Walker looked at them, annoyed that they did not see the humor in what he had done.

He pointed to another girl and motioned for her to join him. Trembling, she ascended the stairs.

“Let’s have the final match. That ought to please them,” the Walker announced.

“It’s time for the noonday meal.”

“Fight, then eat.”

Garth, who had been lying under the shade of the arena wall, stirred and looked up. He sat up, squinting at the bright midday sun. There was a strange silence in the arena as the tote board announced the pairing of Garth against Varena. In the stands he could hear the spectators discussing the fact that there was a rumor that the two were lovers.

He looked over at Norreen, who was sitting against the wall, calmly sharpening her sword on a whetstone.

“Look, like I said before,” Garth sighed, “it really meant nothing.”

“Where I come from we mate until castes change and our chosen one is higher or lower than us. To wander outside of that rule is to invite vendetta by the other and the other’s family.”

“We never mated permanently, as you so calmly put it, so there’s no laws broken.”

“You desired to do so with me, didn’t you?”

“Desire and completion are two different things.”

“One leads to other.”

“And did you desire me?”

She savagely drew her blade across the stone and looked up at him.

“It’s too late now, One-eye.”

“You should have left him tied up back there,” Hammen interjected, “and had your way with him.”

“And you’d be dead now,” Garth replied.

“Maybe not. I was the master fighter of Oor-tael.”

“Twenty years ago. I think, Hammen, you’re a bit rusty now.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

A trumpet sounded and the crowd, which had been sitting in silence sullenly watching the Walker, stirred.

Hammen turned and looked toward the tote board.

“They’re placing the announcement.”

“Final match.” The Walker’s voice drifted across the arena. “Garth of Oor-tael, Varena of Fentesk. Come forward to the throne.”

Garth stood up and adjusted his satchel, which bulged with the prizes he had won. He looked down at Norreen.

“I think it best that you stay behind. Ritual allows only the fighter and his servant. If you draw his attention, it might be unpleasant for you.”

Norreen nodded slowly.

“Somehow I’d like to think you have a plan for all of this and there might be a chance we’d one day see each other again.”

Garth laughed softly.

“Finally, an admission of affection.”

She stood up, letting her sword drop, and, reaching out, grabbed him fiercely, kissing him with a mad passion. The crowd, which had been leaning over the wall watching and eavesdropping, broke into a lusty cheer.

Norreen stepped back.

“Damn you. Now look what you made me do. I’ve broken caste rules.” She struggled to keep her voice from breaking.

“Stay close to Hammen once this is over and make sure the old geezer gets out of here alive. I’m asking you to be his shield bearer.”

“Damn! That’s for royalty,” Hammen sniffed.

Garth smiled and turned away, stepping out into the arena. As he walked across the sand-packed fighting floor, Hammen by his side, the mob came to its feet and broke into applause. He waved casually, stepping around the fissure from the previous fight, where a score of mammoths were hauling great carts of earth to be dumped to close the rift.