Milamber was confronted by the sight of the Warlord, standing like an enraged demigod in his white armor. The Warlord’s expression matched Milamber’s.
“I dare this!” Milamber shouted back. “This cannot be; will not be! No more will men die for the sport of others!”
Barely holding himself in check, Almecho, Warlord of the Nations of Tsuranuanni, screamed, “By what right do you do this thing!” The cords on his neck stood out clearly, and every muscle of his body quivered as sweat beaded his brow.
Milamber’s voice lowered, and his words came carefully measured with controlled, defiant rage. “By my right to do as I see fit.” He then spoke to a nearby guard. “Those on the arena floor are to be released. They are free!”
The guard hesitated for a moment, then his Tsurani training came to the fore. “Your will, Great One.”
The Warlord shouted, “You will stay!”
The crowd hissed with intaken breath. In the history of the Empire such a confrontation between Great One and Warlord had never occurred. The guard stopped, and Milamber spoke through a snarl. “My words are as law. Go!”
Suddenly the guard was moving, and the Warlord screamed his rage. “You break the law! No one may free a slave!”
His anger boiling back up again, Milamber shouted back, “I can! I am outside the law!”
The Warlord fell back, as if struck an invisible blow. In his life no one had dared to thwart his will in this manner. No Warlord in history had ever been forced to endure such public shame. He was dazed.
Near the Warlord another magician leaped to his feet. “I call you traitor and false Great One. You seek to undermine the Warlord’s rule and bring chaos to the order of the Empire. You will recant this effrontery!”
Instantly there was frantic activity as all within earshot scrambled to get clear of the two magicians. Milamber regarded the Warlord’s pet. “Do you think to match your powers against mine?”
The Warlord looked at Milamber with naked hatred on his face. He never took his eyes from the young magician’s face as he said to his pet, “Destroy him!”
Milamber’s arms shot upward, crossing at the wrists Instantly a soft golden nimbus of light surrounded him. The other magician hurled a bolt of energy, and the blue ball of fire struck harmlessly against the gold shield.
Milamber tensed, suffused with anger. Twice before in his life, when attacked by the trolls and when fighting with Roland, he had reached into hidden reservoirs of power and drawn upon them. Now he tore aside the last barriers between his conscious mind and those hidden reserves. They were no longer a mystery to him but the wellspring from which all his power stemmed. For the first time in his experience, Milamber came to understand fully what he was, who he was: not a Black Robe, limited by the ancient teachings of one world, but an adept of the Greater Art, a master in full possession of all the energy provided by two worlds.
The Warlord’s magician regarded him in fear. Here was more than a curiosity, a barbarian magician. Here stood a figure to awe, arms stretched upward, body trembling with rage, eyes seemingly aglow with strength.
Milamber clapped his hands above his head, and thunder pealed, rocking those around him. Energy exploded upward from his hands, held high above his head. A vortex of coruscating forces spun above him, rising like a bowshot. The fountain continued until it was high overhead. It began to flatten, covering the stadium like a great canopy. The dazzling display continued briefly, then the skies seemed to explode, blinding many who were looking upward. The sky turned dark, and the sun faded as if grey veils were slowly being drawn before it.
Milamber’s voice carried to the farthest corner of the stadium as he said, “That you have lived as you have lived for centuries is no license for this cruelty. All here are now judged, and all are found wanting.”
More magicians departed, disappearing from their seats, but many yet remained. More judicious commoners fled by nearby exits, but still many waited, thinking this but another contest for their amusement. Many were too drunk or excited by the spectacle for the magician’s warning to reach them.
Milamber’s arm swept an arc around him. “You who would take pleasure from the death and dishonor of others, see then how well you face destruction!” A gasp from the crowd answered his pronouncement.
Milamber raised one hand high overhead, and all became silent. Even the light summer breeze ceased. Then with a terrible strength, he spoke. They paled at his words, for it was as if death had become incarnate and had spoken. Echoing throughout the stadium were the words of Milamber: “Tremble and despair, for I am Power!”