After that, arriving at the royal box at the Pit was something of a relief. Drahar could smell soap and cleaning waxes-obviously the owners kept the place clean for Tharson, which Drahar appreciated in the abstract. Certainly, it made having to sit through such nonsense a great deal easier.
Wine was brought for everyone, and Drahar gulped down most of a tankard in one sip, hoping the alcohol would dull the experience.
It failed in that regard, leading Drahar to suspect that the wine was watered down as a cost-saving endeavor. Either that or the owners saw the value in their customers not being too drunk.
Any hope that the experience might have improved in the years since the king lost interest in the arena were dashed when Drahar saw that Jago-or was it Calbit? he could never keep the arena’s owners’ names straight-was still doing the same tired barker routine at the top of each fight. Even more pathetic: the crowd was eating it up.
The first few fights were of little interest even to Tharson, as they were lesser bouts between contestants whom Jago claimed were all “among the finest brawlers in Urik.” Drahar finished his third tankard by the end of the second fight, having endeavored to pay as little attention as possible to the events on the stage, endeavoring to engage Tharson in conversation about how they would go about convincing Hamanu that he was wrong to put off invading Tyr for a year.
At first, Drahar was successful, but then Jago came out and announced that “the moment you all came here to see” had arrived.
Only then did Drahar notice that the crowd had expanded considerably. Therefore the reception to Jago’s request to welcome the new champion, whose name was apparently Rol Mandred, was much, much louder than their previous reactions.
Then the fighter came out, and Drahar nearly dropped his tankard.
This Rol Mandred was a creature of magic. What’s more, he had a taint that was, quite simply, impossible.
Tharson was staring at him. “What’s wrong, Drahar?”
Drahar shook his head. “I’m sorry? What makes you think anything is wrong?”
“You’re actually watching the arena,” Tharson said with a grin. “Usually you only pay that level of attention to something that relates to magic.”
Quietly, Drahar said, “Very observant, Templar.”
Now the grin fell. “There’s magic on the arena floor?”
“The new fighter-Mandred, is it?”
“He’s the reason we’re here.” Tharson gulped down whatever he was drinking from his tankard. “That’s the one who killed Gorbin.”
“I doubt it took him much effort,” Drahar muttered. “He appears human, but he’s a creature of magic.”
“He barely appears human,” Tharson said with a snort. “Look at those poxes all over him. And I’ve never seen a human that size.”
Looking more closely, Drahar saw that the clothes Mandred was wearing were tight against his pockmarked skin. In particular, they were pulling on his shoulders. The clothes were also well-worn and had desert sand on them-which meant they were probably being worn by Mandred when he was brought in from whatever forsaken land Calbit found him in.
“He’s human,” Drahar said, “but he’s growing. The magic is changing him slowly.”
“Is that why he looks diseased?”
“Possibly.” Drahar shook his head. “What I do not understand is that he has the taint of the Abyss.”
“What’s that?”
That prompted a rare smirk from Drahar. “A theory. The Abyss is the void in the chaotic realms beyond our world.” At Tharson’s blank expression-Drahar had to remind himself that, while Tharson was one of the finer military minds in Athas, he had no training in the Way-the sirdar added, “There are-theoretically-many realms beyond our own. The Abyss is like an open wound across them all.” He shuddered. “It’s a horrible place.”
“How’s that? A wound in reality?”
Drahar blinked. He thought that an odd question for Tharson to ask-but, again, he had little training. “And in theory-it’s a mad chasm of entropy. The Abyss is a void of sorts, yes, but it’s also a presence-a death urge capable of devouring the world if left unchecked. The triumph of chaos over order is what they tell us.” Another smirk, as he recalled several lecture-hall discussions that quickly degenerated into arguments. “Or the triumph of order over chaos, depending on who you ask.”
“Really?” asked Tharson with a thoughtful sip from his tankard.
“Yes.”
“And you think that one bears its mark?” The templar pointed at Mandred, who was facing off against a half-giant.
The roar of the crowd muted Drahar’s response, and he found himself, for the first time in his life, fascinated by what was going on in the arena.
Having no clue as to what constituted good technique, Drahar simply watched what looked to him like incredibly graceless stumbling about. The half-giant had tufts of hair all over his body, which were only slightly more attractive than the pustules that ravaged Mandred’s flesh.
They were circling each other at first, and then the half-giant lunged.
He crashed right into Mandred, who barely even seemed to notice.
Mandred just smiled and swung his fist downward onto the half-giant’s head like a hammer.
The half-giant fell to the floor, either unconscious or dead. Drahar couldn’t really tell, and also didn’t really care.
What fascinated him was that the power of the magic he sensed increased when Mandred pounded his opponent, who was carried out on a wheelbarrow. Drahar could see the half-giant’s large stomach rise and fall, so the blow wasn’t fatal.
Three others came out to fight Mandred-a bulky elf, who’d been one of the earlier fighters; a scrawny hejkin, one of the abominations of the desert covered in boils that made him an amusing visual match for Mandred; and a fat human-and none of them lasted much longer than the half-giant had.
He sent the elf flying into the crowd, nearly crushing two children. The hejkin, Mandred picked up and twirled over his head. He then threw the creature into the obsidian wall, and its bones made wet, cracking sounds that echoed throughout the arena. Some of his boils burst with the impact, leaving pus to ooze out onto the arena floor. Somehow Drahar couldn’t bring himself to be surprised that nobody bothered to clean it up.
With each victory, Drahar sensed the increase in Mandred’s power.
It was the fight against the fat human-Jago identified him as Daj Douk-that was of particular note to Drahar. For starters, it lasted the longest of the battles, which meant it could be measured in minutes rather than seconds. That was mainly due to Mandred’s blows being struck at Douk’s voluminous belly. Mandred’s fists seemed to be absorbed by the rolls of fat, while Douk just stood there and laughed it off.
Unfortunately, Douk had two things going against him: first, that his own blows to Mandred’s body were even less effective; and second, that Mandred had the presence of mind to change his strategy and strike at Douk’s head.
Douk was not an entire fool, however. He managed to parry the first blow to his head.
Unfortunately, it caused one of the lesions on Mandred’s skin to burst, sending a red liquid squirting out from the broken skin.
Drahar winced and frowned, finding the sight more than a little revolting. The simultaneous gasp from the crowd indicated a similar reaction. What surprised him was Tharson-a hardened veteran of dozens of campaigns-also pursing his lips in disgust.
The gasps got louder when Douk started screaming as the liquid sprayed onto his face.
Thus distracted, Mandred was able to backhand Douk in the side of the head, knocking him to the floor.