The crowd roared its approval as two men moved into the arena, the masses calling encouragement. Kamahl had bought entrance with a small nugget of gold from a mountain stream. He imagined the Master of the Games would be in the arena, and the barbarian was determined to find him. The building was huge, seating thousands. The walls leaned inward overhead, evoking the feeling of an underground cavern. Huge torches flared continuously behind reflectors, directing the magic light onto the floor of the stadium. Red and black sand covered the circular fighting area. Inside the wide ring were obstacles and a few obvious trap doors. Despite himself, Kamahl was impressed. For the first time he was in a building that made him feel closed in even though it was several spear-casts across.
The two men on the sand moved together, and Kamahl shook his head. The opponents were hesitant, and the barbarian wondered how any could find such a match interesting. A young man standing close by noticed Kamahl's mild contempt and spoke.
"Do not give up hope just yet, sir," he said, shuffling near.
His clothing was dark and loose, the tailoring and richness of the fabric suggesting a person of means, yet he was young and had no attendants. Kamahl thought him likely to be a lord's servant though he saw no obvious crest or standard to announce his affiliation.
"The name is Chainer," the man said, moving closer. The pair are partners against Lieutenant Kirtar, a champion from the Northern Order."
"Kamahl," the barbarian said, glancing briefly at the youth and then to the stands, "here to win the tourney. Where do I announce myself?"
Chainer's eyebrows raised slightly at the boast, and he smiled. Kamahl turned more of his attention to the young man.
The youth still had a trace of innocence in his face, but already the fighter could see some of the hardness and cynicism that characterized city toughs. The boy's hair was in tight corn-rolls that grew down over his eyes. His only visible weapon was a large, ornamental dagger that he wore at his side. As Kamahl considered him, Chainer's fingertips lightly brushed the hilt in an apparently unconscious gesture.
"You'll want to speak to the Master of the Games then," Chainer said. He pointed across the enclosure to the box seats across the arena. "There's the master now, talking to the Mer ambassador."
The other side of the building held a host of individual boxes, most of which were empty now, these being only the early elimination rounds. Kamahl could see separate floating pods hovering over the boxes, clustered around doors and a narrow platform high on the arena wall.
"Those are only used by high officials and wealthy patrons of the games." Chainer said as he followed Kamahl's eyes. "Usually the Master of the Games oversees from there, but with so much work still to be done, he is holding court where messengers can easily be received and sent."
At the mention of a court, Kamahl turned his eyes down and looked at the official's box. There sat the arena's ruler, rotund and covered in drapes of expensive looking cloth. However, it was his companions that fixed the barbarian's attention. Two figures stood out against the backdrop of aides, guards, and servants. Kamahl's teeth clenched as he considered the Mer seated at the right hand of the Cabal official.
The ambassador looked remarkably human. Kamahl could see two small silver-capped horns against the blue skin. The different skin tone was barely worth mentioning. The barbarian had learned something of the greater world during his years in the mountains. Those born of and allied with the sea were well known for their monstrous and bizarre appearance. The only oddity except for the blue skin was the ambassador's clothes. The wraps of cloth lay plastered against his azure flesh. While Kamahl looked on, a servant slowly poured liquid over the limbs of his master. The ambassador absently presented a leg for additional treatment, never turning from his conversation.
The massive figure off to the side fitted KamahPs idea of what a Mer citizen should look like. A sideboard piled high with food lay open to the box patrons, but only one person took advantage. The barbarian could think of two reasons for the single eater.
First was the dangerous look of the diner. Kamahl was reminded of a giant frog. The hulking figure would have overtopped the barbarian by at least a foot, but until Kamahl compared him with the other patrons of the box, he thought the frog quite short. The amphibian was a mass of muscle, so wide that the mind made the creature shorter than it was. The creature's brilliant blue and yellow skin was dotted with short growths that reminded the barbarian of spikes on a mace. The mouth gaped wide as the frog swallowed an entire leg of lamb with a single gulp.
The second reason that others might forego the repast was the thick slime dripping from the frog creature's webbed hands. The excretions covered the food as the amphibian grabbed up more to eat.
"The ambassador's champion, Turg," Chainer offered, a hint of distaste in his voice. "He competes for the prizes and the ambassador's glory. It is said his race is one of complete savagery. The frog is a testament to the money and time the ambassador has spent training him."
Kamahl looked to the arena floor where the two novices shifted uncertainly. If such as these can compete, he thought, then I should have no trouble. The city man saw his look of dismissal.
"They may not look like much, but those willing to risk certain death are sometimes in short supply." He pointed toward the posted standards and gates. "Whether or not quarter may be offered is posted by where the standards hang and which gates the opponents use. Kirtar always passes through the gate of no quarter. The Master of the Games must be flexible in scheduling opponents for the lieutenant in the opening bouts. Experienced fighters are usually closer to the final round before they chose death matches. The arena also tries to save death matches for the final days of competition lest a capable fighter be killed off too early. You could find a death match easy enough, but to be considered a serious competitor you must be known or impress the officials with your power."
The growing murmurs of the restive crowd drew Kamahl's and Chainer's attentions back to the arena floor. The team of mountain mages was looking more confident now as cries of "forfeit" began to rise from the stands. Their opponent still had not appeared, and Chainer snorted in disgust at the lack of a champion to oppose the pair. The chants stopped as a near naked figure moved onto the field.
"He shows his contempt for the games," Chainer muttered as catcalls rose from the stands. "Trust a member of the Order to belittle the honor of the tourney."
Kamahl was no worshipper of pageantry, so Kirtar's failure to obey the forms did not upset him, but the arrogance that the figure showed as he walked nonchalantly toward the opposing pair put his teeth on edge. An aspirant to the victory circle, Kamahl ached to show Kirtar that he should show respect for the other fighters if not the venue. As the barbarian took in the warrior's pale skin, he became more irritated. Kirtar was a bird warrior.
Centuries before, a race of three peoples had fled from other planes to Dominaria. All were descended from ancestors who could fly, though most had lost their wings. The furthest from their winged forebears were the elen. These giant humanoids stood nine to ten feet tall with massive legs of near solid bone. Slow and ponderous, they provided the muscle for the society, though in war they served only as massed troops with little status.
The raypen lay at the other end of the size spectrum. Dwarf-sized creatures with withered legs ending in prehensile feet, they could still fly with their innate magic. Magical feathers covered their long distorted arms giving them, for short periods of time, the freedom their ancestors had known.