The fighters' progress was impeded by the narrow aisles between the seats, but it was inexorable. Grimm took stock of the situation, his mind racing, assessing his options.
He was younger and slenderer than the blank-eyed men closing in on him, and he took care to keep in good shape. However, to stand and face them would be folly; he could use his magic to destroy several with a single spell, but a blow from even one of those huge, knotted fists would be the end of him.
He felt sure he could outrun any of them, but where to run? The men were closing from all sides. A magical ward would hold them off, but each blow would draw energy from him; he would be trapped like a fly in amber, dying by degrees until his strength failed and he was swamped by the encroaching mass.
The first fighter, smaller and lighter than his comrades, reached the Questor, his scarred hands reaching out like pink crabs. With speed born of sheer desperation, Grimm lashed out with Redeemer, catching the man on the ear. The would-be assailant tumbled across one of the plush, red seats and lay still.
At least these fellows don't seem too imaginative, Grimm thought with a wry smile.
"Well done, Questor!" Keller's amplified voice boomed from somewhere in the vaulted ceiling. "That was Rumas, the runner-up in the flyweight category three years ago; a fast, but uninspired fighter.
"One down, forty-nine to go."
All too soon, another man approached his prey, his fists raised in a boxer's guard, protecting his head. Perhaps Grimm's assessment of his unwilling foes had been too hasty; they could learn from mistakes, after all, even under the control of this Technological power.
Grimm feinted towards the warrior's face and then shifted his grip, ramming Redeemer into the man's gut. Even the hardened, tensed muscles of the fighter's stomach could not withstand a blow from a Mage Staff, and breath exploded from the stricken man. His hands dropped, his face contorted in pain, and the mage finished him off with a tap on his right temple.
He spun around, swinging Redeemer in a wide arc, but the staff met only air.
"An inspired move from the unfancied underdog!" Keller boomed, taking up the role of Master of Ceremonies. "Who'll give me odds of two thousand to one? Come on now, ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for this gallant young man!"
The sound of rapturous applause and cheers filled the stadium, and the young mage started. He heard mocking laughter over the spectral ovation, and he vowed anew to destroy this dreadful place.
If he could, somehow, survive…
Now, the slower, more dangerous fighters began to close, and Grimm knew he would not be able to pick the men off one by one for much longer. They seemed to grow cannier by the minute, closing their ranks and weaving from side to side, making it impossible to pick a clean target. He fell back, only delaying the inevitable. Grimm weaved through the seats, trying to confuse his pursuers, but their reactions were faster than he would have believed, and they regrouped rapidly.
He found his back pressing against meshed wire; he could retreat no further.
"Oh! The young challenger's up against the ropes!" crowed the hateful voice of Keller, as the mindless, booming applause continued unabated. "Who'll give me three thousand to one, now?"
This is getting too dangerous, Grimm thought. I can't stay here much longer. He swung Redeemer again, staying the encircling horde for a moment only.
He heard movement behind him and swayed to his left, as a fist blurred past his head, making the air sigh as it tried to get out of the way. Redeemer did its work once more, as Grimm acted on pure reflex.
Only one area appeared clear: the Pit arena itself, twenty feet below him. Three large warriors remained by the shattered entrance, making escape impossible. The high barrier behind him made jumping into the Pit impossible, notwithstanding the injuries he would suffer if he could do so. A spell of Dissolution would take care of the barrier, but the warriors would follow him.
He thought back to what he had done to the guards outside the rotunda.
The syllables did not matter; only the intent of the spell.
"Whoo-juuuup!" the mage screamed, flying into the air only fractions of a second before a pair of fists intersected with where his head had been.
Grimm had only flown once before, within the confines of a metal machine, and his arms and legs flailed as he hung precariously above the mass of impotent warriors. He was balanced on a slender pole of magical force, still subject to the relentless laws of physics, established centuries before.
I can't keep this up much longer, he thought, wobbling in mid-air. This is going to be tricky…
Accurate timing was essential, were he not to be impaled on the fence or dashed to the sandy floor of the Pit in a bloody pulp.
You only get one try at this, Afelnor, he told himself, mentally rehearsing the swift sequence of spells he would need to cast.
As the baffled fighters milled below Grimm, the mage recalled the three laws of motion that had survived since long before the final Fall of Man, which he had had to recite as a Student. He had never thought these ancient dicta might some day save his life!
"A body remains at rest, or in uniform motion in a straight line, unless acted upon by an external force.
"The acceleration of a body equates to the force acting upon it, divided by the body's mass."
"To every action, there is an equivalent and opposing reaction."
Grimm remained at rest relative to the ground. If he were to move, a force needed to act upon him. The stronger the force, the greater his acceleration; too strong a force might cannon him into the wall of the rotunda, knocking him senseless. Last, and not least, he needed to exert a force opposite to the direction in which he wished to travel.
Simple, isn't it, Grimm? Here goes…
The shaft of downwards force disappeared, and Grimm immediately shot a tight beam of energy to his left. He shot to his right, falling and careening off the wire screen on the opposite side of the Pit. As he tumbled towards the sand, he invoked another, shorter pillar of energy, which stayed his plummeting motion. The breath rushed out of him as the spell took hold, and he was still fifteen feet above the ground. Settling himself, he annulled the spell, and created another below him. The spell stayed him, with another crashing impact, five feet above the sand. With gratitude, his heart pounding as if trying to escape his breast, he dropped to the arena floor in an ungainly heap. Sprawling on his back, he grinned at the sight of the fighters clawing at the metal screen high above. He had won.
Or had he?
Was ignominious retreat to be his lot? He had sworn to destroy the Pit and the Mansion House, and he had his comrades to save; not to mention his sworn Quest to fulfil. His thoughts were still clouded by the cloying pheromones in the air, stirring him to instinctive reaction. Although he had tried to prepare himself for their insidious effects, the pounding of his heart and his growing rage told him he was losing the battle to retain his rationality.
"We need a little more ventilation in here!" he shouted, hurling a tight, destructive ball of force at the domed ceiling. The dome shuddered, but it remained intact. With a snarl on his lips, Grimm repeated the spell with greater force. A circular portion of the ceiling, maybe thirty feet in diameter, splintered into a myriad of flying fragments, and the evening light and sweet, untainted air flooded into the auditorium.
"A fantastic series of moves from the young contender! In the space of a few heartbeats, he's turned the fight around!" the resounding, disembodied voice of the Pit-master screamed. "But has he made a mistake?"
Grimm tried to ignore the loathsome voice and began to take stock of his surroundings; he saw a dozen openings in the Pit walls, with no idea where they might lead. The fighters had gone from the wire barrier. Even now, they might be making their way towards him through unseen catacombs.
Can I launch myself through this ragged hole in the ceiling?
He remembered tales of Mage Manipulant Garband, who had possessed the ability to soar like a bird, but he knew no Questor could ever hope to match a Specialist in his own field. He had achieved a clumsy simulacrum of true magical flight by bending his destructive powers, but it had been a frightening experience, motivated by sheer terror.
Pick a door, any door!
With no idea where he might be going, the mage did just that, flying into one of the dark openings. He clattered into a rack of weapons, spilling them over the floor, and staggered back into the main area, feeling like an idiot.
"A great move from the new boy! He's totalled a whole row of spears! What a result!"
"I will kill you, Keller!" Grimm snarled, without conviction, hearing his weak, unconvincing voice booming over the arena.
"Don't bet on it, amateur!"
As his eyes began to adapt to the dim light, Grimm saw that some of the rectangular orifices looked a little darker than others; perhaps they were the true passageways. Which one should he take? Which corridors might already be filling with bloodthirsty warriors, hungry for his life?
Perhaps Thribble can help…
The minuscule demon had proved himself a resourceful investigator on many occasions. The mage patted a pocket and felt no resistance.
"Thribble!"
Grimm heard no response, and he began to flap at his robe pockets; the demon was quite absent.
Recognising the fingers of incipient terror tickling at his stem-brain, he clamped down on his rampant emotions as he had been taught at the Scholasticate. He was alone; Thribble had deserted him, and he had to deal with that.
Just move, Afelnor!
The mental imperative drove him into one of the dark openings. He ran past rows of empty bunks, into a closed, square area of metal lockers. Hearing angry voices behind him, he launched a mighty spell of Dissolution into the wall opposite him.
The lockers exploded into hot, orange shards that scored and burnt his face, but a brick wall stood behind. There was no time to think, as the voices grew louder. Another spell; the brickwork sundered into dust. Instead of open sky, all the magic-user saw was a dirty expanse of rock.
Grimm spun around, to see the first few fighters coming down the corridor. Unthinking, acting only on his reflexes, he sent a powerful fireball down the passageway, gratified to hear a few, brief screams before the spell died. He slumped as the energy left his body; he had all too little left to give.
"Only forty-three to go, Questor!" called the hated, metallic voice of the Pit-master, from his unseen eyrie. "I'm only sorry we didn't have an audience to appreciate this! You've done the Pit proud, young feller."
Keller seemed to have eyes everywhere!
"Damn you, Keller!" shouted the mage. "I'll tear your guts out through your mouth, you bastard!"
"If I had a penny for every time someone had wished that, I'd be a rich man, Guild scum! I saw your grandfather, Loras, destroy this town, and I always swore to get him back some day. Now, I have."
Grimm started at the mention of Loras.
"What do you know about my grandfather?" he screamed into the void, as gleaming, muscular bodies strode into the long corridor. "What do you know about him? You're not fit to speak his name!"
As the fighters grew closer, Grimm launched another spell into the mass of muscle. He knew he had little energy to spare; the next assault would surely drain him dry. Although the voice above him was hateful to him, he found himself yearning to hear its next, theatrical announcement.
"Just what do you know about Loras Afelnor?" he screamed, as oiled, gleaming men climbed over their fallen comrades. This might be the last chance he had to discover something important, something glorious about his beloved grandfather.
"Loras won here, many years ago, but now he's lost," the amplified voice roared. "Prioress Lizaveta could tell you more than I can, mage, but you'll never live to hear her speak.
"Goodbye; last bets, please, ladies and gentlemen. Our challenger is in a blind end, facing thirty-six challengers; who'll give me ten thousand to one? Anybody? No?"
Grimm felt an icy shock running through him at the mention of his grandfather and Lizaveta in two connected sentences. This confirmed his unproven doubts and fears, but he might have no time to enjoy this long-suspected evidence of Geomantic treachery.
The mage drew his power into his mind for another blast. As he released it, he saw the pasty, tormented face of Tordun and skewed the blast to one side, wasting it on the walls of the corridor. He searched for another, less destructive, spell, finding none; as a Mage Questor, all he really knew was destruction.
"Sorry, Tordun," he muttered. "It's you or me, my friend."
A spangling wisp of blue sparks drifted from the mage's fingers, but no spell came; Grimm's magic was exhausted.
Despite knowing he had lost, the Questor felt calm as he hoisted Redeemer over his right shoulder, ready to strike for the last time.
"All right, boys, who's first?" he asked, expressing a sense of bravado he did not feel.
The mindless mass of muscle surged forward, and Grimm readied himself for his last assault. At least he would be able to take some of them with him before he fell; he felt sorry that the noble Tordun would be among the first to fall.
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