Items

“Names and Houses?”

“Webin of Kestha,” the stouter of the two fighters snarled, puffing his chest out and thumping it.

“Okmark of House Fentesk.”

“Type of fight?”

“One spell cast which is also the wager,” Okmark said.

(...)

An awed gasp swept the street. Okmark, his gaze still fixed on his opponent, finally allowed a thin flicker of a smile to show.

“I believe, sir, that since I have won, your spell is now mine to claim.”

The Gray fighter looked around at the crowd and Garth could only shake his head with amusement. Only seconds before Gray had been their champion and hero, but their champion had just cost most of them their money. Garth looked over quickly at the gambler and the picture was now clear as the gambler started to drift back to the edge of an alleyway. It had been a wonderful setup, a classic con job on a bunch of yokels in town for the festival and eager for a bet.

Webin looked around anxiously at the mob.

“To the death, to the death!” a shout came from the back of the crowd and the cry was instantly picked up by the mob, which pushed to the edge of the circle, chanting and laughing for blood. Webin, who had strutted so haughtily only moments before, looked back and forth and then toward Okmark.

“Do you want it?” Okmark said softly and, as he spoke, he stepped back into the neutral square at the edge of the circle, indicating his willingness to fight again. Gray hesitated and then, with an angry curse, he reached into his satchel, pulled out an amulet, and threw it to the ground at Orange’s feet. Turning, he fled the circle, pummeled by the crowd, who showered him with curses, mud, offal, and kicks.

(...)

“But you’re a fighter, not a pickpocket. The way you killed Okmark of Fentesk, a masterful reversal, a rare spell, only a true adept controls such power. He had fourteen wins in the arena and was at least a third-rank. How did a No House like you obtain such a spell?” And as he spoke the raggedy man looked down at Garth’s spell satchel with open curiosity as if he was struggling with the temptation to tear it away and look inside.

Garth looked up from his drink and fixed the raggedy man with his gaze.

The raggedy man extended his hands in mock horror and recoiled backward.

“Never ask a fighter where his victories and powers are won,” the raggedy man said. “I know, I know the customs.”

***

Arena, Chapter 1