direction.
'Fight for your life, Questor!'
Grimm realised with horror that the grasping, muscle-bound figures had circled around him, cutting off his exit: he was trapped! With horror, he noted the blank expressions on the warriors' faces, noticing the bright collars on their necks. These poor men were slaves to Keller's Technological will, lacking all volition in their mindless pursuit.
'Can you kill any of them, Questor Grimm? Can you? Even if you can, can you kill them all? Whatever you do, I'm sure it'll be a spectacle worthy of the Pit. Goodbye, Guild filth. Remember me to your grandfather, Loras, when you meet him.'
The shock of Keller's mention of Grimm's grandfather's name was only matched by the horrific realisation that one of these rapacious, bloodthirsty faces was that of Tordun. The humorous, honourable man he had known was lost, and only blind hatred remained in those pink eyes.
As the giant, muscular figures closed on the Questor from all sides, Grimm felt the frigid hand of true, gut- churning fear upon him. His sense of self-preservation took hold, and he gripped Redeemer in a strong grip, swearing to sell his life dear.
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Chapter 32-The Young Contender
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
