Garth, dispelling the fire before his eye, looked down and saw Uriah, lying on the ground next to Zarel.

Uriah looked at him and smiled, and for a brief instant Garth felt as if time was stripped away and again it was the dwarf who had been his friend so many years before.

“I’m sorry,” the dwarf whispered, even as Zarel, with a scream of rage, turned and drove his dagger into the dwarf’s heart.

With a mad cry of remorse and years of pain, Garth leaped forward.

Zarel, wrenching his dagger free from the dwarf’s heart, turned and tried to duck under the blow. With a wild scream, Garth drove his dagger in.

Stunned, Zarel staggered backward, looking down at the hilt of Garth’s blade, which was buried in his chest. He fumbled at it, a sob of astonishment escaping him. He waved his hand feebly to conjure a healing spell. Garth looked at him coldly, hesitated, and then raised his own hand to block it.

“I should have cut your throat that night, rather than simply gouged your eye out,” Zarel hissed.

“Your mistake,” Garth said softly.

Zarel collapsed onto the pavement.

“What do you have now?” Zarel whispered. “You lived for this moment. Now what will you have when all your enemies are gone?”

“I don’t know,” Garth replied sadly, even as Zarel closed his eyes and fell away into the darkness.

Hammen stood silently and watched as the last of the drama was played out. Garth turned slowly and looked at him. He seemed to Hammen to be again the small boy, confused and lost.

Once more Garth looked at Zarel, shook his head, and then turned to walk toward Hammen, a sad, distant smile lighting his features. Norreen, breaking through the crush of the mob, rushed forward and leaped into Garth’s arms.

And then, as if the two were nothing more than an illusion, they disappeared, a darkness swirling around them. There was a momentary look of astonishment on Garth’s face followed by understanding. His other foe had come back to claim him from other realms.

And even as he and Norreen were drawn away by their foe Garth smiled, the words forming, coming as a whisper.

“You’re free.”

He was gone.

The Plaza was silent, except for the crackling of the flames and the low, pitiful cries of the wounded and dying.

Hammen looked at the mob, which stood as if coming out of a dark dream.

“What now?” someone asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Hammen sighed. “I don’t think he ever had a plan for afterward.”

Hammen looked at the city, which was in flames around him.

“I don’t know, and at the moment I simply don’t care.” And sitting down in the ashes, the old man silently wept.

THE ROAD BEFORE HIM WAS A BRIGHT MOONLIT ribbon that traced over the hills of darkness. At the crest of the hill ahead he could see the tavern, an old favorite haunt, and he stretched in the saddle, glad that the day’s ride was nearly ended.

He looked over his shoulder at the young acolytes who rode behind him. Though tired, they chatted eagerly, for tomorrow they would reach the city. He half listened to their prattle and boasts of what they would accomplish at the Festival, what spells they hoped to win and the laurels of victory that they would wear upon their brows when they next rode this way at the ending of Festival time.

The old man listened, smiling to himself, able to do so since they could not see him. He was, after all, the Master, and they had never seen him smile, nor would they, at least until they had won.

They rode into the courtyard of the tavern and the old man dismounted, his joints creaking, cursing mildly at one of the young men for not being quick enough to help him down.

He walked into the tavern and looked around cautiously. It was late at night, but some travelers were still up, sitting by the fire, chatting. They looked over their shoulders at him and grins lit their faces.

One of them, tankard in hand, walked toward him. He knew the type and waited.

“So what are the chances this year?”

The old man looked him up and down.

“We’ll win,” he snapped, and his tone made it clear that he was not in the mood to talk odds and fighting records, or who would be the final winner.

The man backed away and returned sullenly to his friends.

The old man looked over at the innkeeper.

“See that my youngsters are fed and bedded down.” Reaching into a purse which was tied to the strap of his satchel, he pulled out a gold coin and tossed it to the keeper.

Turning, he went back to the door.

“Master?”

The old man looked over his shoulder at the young woman who cautiously came up to his side.

“What is it?”

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk, some fresh air.”

“You shouldn’t go alone.”

The old man laughed.

“I think I can take care of myself. Now get something to eat and go to bed-it’s a long ride tomorrow to the city.”

She hesitated.

“We think there’s something out there tonight,” she whispered.

“Go on, child, I’ll be all right.”

Reluctantly she turned away and rejoined her friends.

Opening the door, he stepped out into the moonlight and walked out onto the road.

The girl was right. There was something following them, he could sense that. He had felt its presence all evening, drawing closer. It felt familiar somehow and yet he could not be sure. If it boded ill, he wanted his young acolytes out of the way. They were nothing more than first- and second-rank fighters and would be slaughtered if it was a fight. But then again there were precious few fighters aboard now who were anything beyond first or second. Nearly all the rest had died in the Time of Troubles.

Slowly he walked back up the road down which he had ridden, finally reaching the crest of the hill.

And then he saw them. Two riders, moving at a casual pace, as if they had all the time in the world and there was nothing in it to fear.

The old man drew back into the shadow of the trees and watched them approach. One of the riders slowed and the old man heard the snick of steel being drawn and then there was a cool, distant laugh.

“Old man, if you mean to fight, at least come out of the shadows and stop skulking about.”

He stepped into the road and looked up at the two riders, the moon behind him drifting behind a cloud so that the land was plunged into darkness.

“Who are you?” one of the two asked, her voice cool and aloof.

“Rather should I ask who are you? You’ve been following me for several hours now.”

“It’s a free road. Now who are you?”

The old man slowly extended his hands, ready to do battle.

“Hadin gar Kan, Master of the House of Oor-tael.”

The woman laughed softly and there was the sound of a blade returning to its scabbard.

“Going to Festival?” she asked.

“That was my intention.”

“Will you win?”

Her tone was one of simple interest and Hammen relaxed slightly.

“We plan to. The game should be interesting, mostly new fighters now. Ever since the Time of Troubles, that’s about all we have.”

“I heard about that,” the woman said. “What happened?”

“You don’t know?”

“We’ve been away.”

“The old Grand Master and the four Houses were destroyed. New Houses have been formed. The fights aren’t the same anymore. They’re like the old days again. Tests of skill with loss of a single spell and no more. The mob can bet if it wants but that’s up to them. The final winner simply goes home after it is over. I am Master of Oor-tael. Another old fighter controls Bolk.”

“And who is that?”