Around the cooking fires, which had dwindled with the passing hours, several men still drank and discussed the strange man who lay beneath the tree near the palisade wall.
The comments, mostly slurred and belligerent, were of a type which the sleeping man would have found curious, for although he had threatened these soldiers with no harm, their words were grumbling and derogatory, voiced by men who were drunk and bolstered by numbers, alcoholic warmth, and intoxication.
"He's nothing but a cowardly slave!" Turkan bellowed, waving his mug in the face of the man sitting next to him, a huge brute, who sat drunkenly, sharpening his sword.
"You were there, Atok. You saw him."
Atok looked up at his So-rok. "It's truth, So-rok." He looked around at the other men.
"He's a frightened slave who lied to the To-rok to save his life. He may have fooled To-Rok Foss, but the To-rok was not with us near the great forest. We know what he is!"
He shook his head.
"I don't know how the To-rok could be so blind."
Turkan laughed.
"He's not blind, Atok. Didn't you notice how he allowed you to insult the slave? He knows the man's afraid, and is no danger! Otherwise, he would have locked him up, or killed him."
Turkan glanced for a few seconds toward the tree beneath which Tarak slept.
"I think he left him free so we could have some fun!"
Atok considered this groggily. Then he grinned.
"You think so?"
Turkan nodded.
"I think To-rok Foss would be disappointed in his warriors if we didn't take advantage of it."
They all laughed, and Atok staggered with difficulty to his feet.
"Lead on, So-rok!" he said, with a mock salute. "Let us show the slave the true meaning of fear." He looked down at his sword. "I shall set him at my feet, had have him sharpen my sword."
"And clean my sandals!" another shouted, laughing.
Turkan nodded, and rose, along with the remainder of the men, and, led by Atok, laughing and muttering among themselves, they crept with what they thought was stealth towards their prey, for they did not wish to disturb the sleeping prisoner until the last possible moment.
Tarak awoke fully alert before they had covered half the distance which separated them from his inert form, and he lay motionless, listening to their approach.
From the character of their footsteps he knew that they were approaching with attempted caution, and his senses indicated that several men, perhaps ten, approached.
When they were ten yards distant he raised his head and looked at them. He noted that they carried no bows and arrows, so he remained where he lay; calm, but his muscles tensed with anticipation, for he instinctively sensed that battle was imminent.
Turkan cursed softly as Tarak raised his head, and dropping all pretense of stealth he strode forward, to within two paces of the reclining stranger, and placed his balled fists upon his hips. The other men surrounded Tarak, a few paces away, laughing and shouting.
"Get up, slave!" roared Turkan, wiping the wine from his chin with a dirty forearm.
"We have some work for you. It is woman's work, but since we have no women we have decided it's for you!"
He looked around, and the men rumbled their agreement.
"It will suit you well, for you are not fit to be a man!" Turkan continued, with a belch, which brought further laughter from the soldiers.
Tarak looked quietly up at the So-rok. He was puzzled at the meaning of the words, but the tone was clearly menacing, and his eyes began to blaze slightly.
"I wish to rest," he said quietly. "Whatever your tasks may be, take them elsewhere, or do them yourself."
Turkan was taken aback by the abrupt refusal, but Atok, too filled with wine to perceive the steel within the stranger's voice, lurched forward and, bellowing, aimed a vicious kick at Tarak's side.
The blow never landed, for with lightning swiftness Tarak's powerful hands moved in a blur, grasping his assailant's leg, and with a violent wrench he twisted the thick limb, throwing the soldier to the ground with a crunch of splintered bones.
He then came to his feet in a flash of movement, his glance flickering down for an instant to the screaming Atok, then up to the soldiers who still surrounded him.
Lukor's long knife was somehow in his hand, and his eyes began to gleam.
The men were still, shocked at the sudden violence, gaping in astonishment at the sight of the mighty Atok writhing on the turf, moaning and holding his mangled leg.
Turkan was the first to recover, and drawing his sword, he charged forward, screaming at his men to kill the slave. Unthinking and intoxicated, his only thought was to punish this enemy.
He swung his blade in a long arc, calculated to sever Tarak's head, but his target ducked beneath the blow easily, and with a quick lunge and a savage thrust Tarak buried his knife deep in Turkan's chest.
Instantly he withdrew the blade and crouched, snarling, as the tip of a flashing sword touched his shoulder, drawing a ribbon of blood where it had briefly cut as he leaped back, avoiding its slashing thrust at his chest.
Another man was closing, and his sword was descending with deadly force upon the savage, who blocked the cut with his knife and leaped back and to the side, an unexpected movement which brought him out of the circle of his attackers.
Tarak understood the purpose of the sword at last.
It was designed for killing men.
He had never fought men, and was amazed at the slowness with which they moved, as compared with the beasts.
Their weapons reached high velocities, however, and enabled the men who wielded them to inflict instant and lethal damage.
Tarak had for the most part ignored the sword as a weapon, for it was a poor hunting weapon. Now he understood that this weapon had not been developed for hunting, as had nearly all other weapons.
This weapon had developed for the sole purpose of killing other men. It was a weapon of war, not one of survival; war against one's own species, and its primary value lay in its effectiveness in such war, against men armed with similar or other weapons, or with none.
Instinctively Tarak realized the value of such a weapon in close combat, perceiving its superiority to the knife because of its length; the corresponding speed with which its tip moved, and the force which the larger blade could deliver.
He transferred the long knife to his left hand, and drew his own sword, the blade gleaming in the moonlight as he held it aloft, an unfamiliar defense against the onrushing men.
Tarak had battled groups of predatory animals on several occasions, and he knew that his best chance for survival lay in swift attack, killing his attackers as quickly as he could isolate them.
To wait in a defensive posture and try to defend against a concerted attack was suicidal.
He knew he could run, for these men had no bows, and he could scale the wall and disappear into the surrounding darkness in a matter of seconds. He would not run, however, for the unprovoked assault had fired his blood, and had aroused his anger. The savage killing lust of the wounded beast rippled throughout his body as he prepared to battle once again for his life.
Never had he known even the most vicious of carnivores to attack one of their own species without cause. The actions of these men, civilized men from who he had expected so much, enraged him. Such actions he might have expected from Gonor, or from Brona. He had not sought civilized men for such treatment, and his eyes blazed with savagery.
His response was instinctive. Attacked, he countered instantly in the brutally violent manner in which he had always acted. His eyes flared, and with animal savagery he hurled forward, a wild beast launching itself at its prey.
He swung the sword at the nearest soldier with all the speed and power which his massive arms and shoulders could deliver, and the flashing blade swept down in a blinding arc.
The astonished soldier attempted to parry the blow by raising his own weapon, but Tarak's stroke was so irresistible that his sword met the soldier's weapon and drove it back into the man's skull almost without slowing, splitting the head open like a melon.
The knife flashed, and he was among the others, slashing and cutting with whirling strokes of the sword as he thrust and ripped with the long knife.
His strokes were untrained, and wild, for he was no swordsman, but they were delivered with unstoppable force and speed, and aimed with a hunter's eye at enemies who were tired, and swaying with drunkeness.
In the darkness he fought, moving always, killing and moving, and the intoxicated men reeled from his attack as he swept among them with blazing green eyes and snarls which sounded more bestial than human.
Vainly they sought to bring him down, but he was a shadowy blur of movement, and the close quarters hampered their movement. Men screamed and fell in the darkness while their companions watched in horror.
Finally one soldier broke and ran, but Tarak caught him before he had gone twenty feet, and a second later the man sank lifelessly to the ground.
He whirled from the corpse, but the remaining soldiers stood still, looking at him, and at the bodies of their former comrades.
He moved toward them slowly, a killer stalking its prey, and they began to retreat together, holding their weapons before them as they backed away from the wall, towards the center of the stockade.
Others soldiers began to appear in doors and windows, watching the retreating men and the barbarian who stalked them, a long knife in his left hand, a sword clasped in his right, both weapons black with blood, and dripping in the moonlight.
"Die for your glorious city!" Tarak hissed. "Show me this strange honor you claim."
The men remained silent, their faces white with fear and disbelief, as they attempted to increase their speed, to keep ahead of the pursuer who inexorably closed the gap separating them with smooth, easy strides.
The men were stumbling in their attempts to move backwards quickly, and had almost turned about completely in a final attempt to run, when one bumped into the tall figure of Foss, who stood silently in the center of the stockade.
They moved swiftly, thankfully past their commander, and ran for the huts, while he stood under the light of the moon, his arms across his chest, waiting.
"Let them live," he said simply, as Tarak approached. "They are not evil men. They are merely drunk, and stupid."
Tarak slowed, but his eyes burned brightly with killing lust, and his muscles quivered with the joy of battle.
"They sought to kill me."
"I know." Foss nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"They are fools...., as I was a fool to allow this to happen. I did not realize it would come to killing."
He lowered his eyes for a moment in thought, then raised them, looking past Tarak at the slaughter; then back at the giant figure; steely grey eyes which glinted with the power of absolute command.
"Six of my warriors lie dead tonight. I cannot allow you to kill more."
Tarak halted and stood a few yards away, his chest rising and falling deeply with his recent exertions. He looked magnificent as he stood in the moonlight, the beautiful sword in one hand, the wrok's knife in the other.
The sweat ran from his body, mingled with his blood, in black rivulets, which trickled down his legs to stain the dirt at his feet.
He shook the golden mane of hair, as if to clear his head, and regarded this lone man who barred his path.
Foss was armed, but the sword was scabbarded, and Tarak knew he could kill this man, probably before Foss could free his weapon. He knew that Foss was equally aware of this fact, yet the To-rok stood fast, his body an instrument of an iron will which had decreed that his men would die no more this night while he yet lived.
Tarak studied Foss silently, and thought that perhaps he glimpsed, for the first time, something of the motivation which drove these men to adopt such odd values.
The honor of which the other men had spoken was infused in the man who now opposed him. This calm man did not speak of honor, or of the glory of death. He did not proclaim his courage or his duty, or his loyalty to his city, for all to hear.
His thoughts were his own, but they were apparent from his simple words. His duty was clear, as commander of his men. He was responsible for them, and he would die in the exercise of this duty, if necessary; as he would die for his city.
He would command the love and respect of all who served under him, but more importantly, he would respect himself, always.
Tarak sensed the strength which lay within the To-rok, and felt he had learned something of the world of men in these few minutes. Something important.
He did not share these values, but he was beginning to understand them and the manner in which such men perceived such matters.
He knew he would not kill this noble warrior who stood alone in the pale moonlight.
The flame in his eyes gradually dimmed, and his great body began to relax visibly.
"Your soldiers shall live, Foss." He scabbarded the sword, and sheathed the knife. "I have no quarrel with your men."
Foss relaxed, a barely perceptible softening of the lines of his lean body.
"And we have no quarrel with you."
He shook his head.
"I permitted their abusive remarks, to study your reactions. I underestimated their stupidity.....and your prowess."
He looked up into the sky for a moment, then lowered his eyes to the man.
"You are my guest. Had they killed you, the fault would be mine. I am sorry, my friend."
Tarak perceived the simple sincerity of Foss's statement. The To-rok had faced a situation in which he was forced to stop a man to whom he felt he owed a moral obligation.
Tarak wondered if this was the reason The To-rok stood in his path without a sword in his hand. He was instinctively warmed by the gesture, and by the commander's use of the term `friend'. Never had he been thus called before in his life.
He sensed a strange affinity sigh this man, and further sensed that the To-Rok also felt this, also.
Two stangers, both warriors, looked at each other, and each somehow felt that this meeting would change both their lives.
"Your men call me 'savage', Foss," he said, after a moment, and he shrugged.
"I am savage because I have survived in a savage world. Yet I am a man, and not without feeling. You have called me friend, the first to do so. Such I would like to be, and to remain."
He grinned suddenly.
"Let us fight no longer, my friend."
He raised his right arm, in the Aantorian gesture of greeting which Amena had described to him, and Foss returned the greeting, silently.
They lowered their arms slowly, and Foss turned and walked back to the hut which was his headquarters.
Tarak watched him until he disappeared within, then strode to his sleeping place, now cleared of the warriors' bodies. He sensed the stares of the Nerosians as he lay, but ignored them, as he lay quietly looking up into the infinite void above.
For long moments he lay thus, watching and listening, restless in the shadow of the stockade wall. He would not sleep in this place, and moving quietly to the wall, he climbed swiftly, a darker shadow among others. In seconds he slipped over the top and dropped to the ground below.
He stood thus, testing the currents of gentle wind with his sensitive nostrils, and listening for the smallest sound.
Satisfied, he crossed the plain at an easy lope, and reaching the edge of the forest, clambered quickly into the branches of a tree, and climbed through the darkness until he located a suitable fork.
He reclined, resting his back against one large branch, and in the manner of the wild creature which must rest whenever it can, he fell immediately asleep.
He awoke before dawn, and descending quickly to the ground, he located a game trail and followed it until he came to a stream. His thirst satisfied, he leaped once more into the trees, climbing, leaping, and diving through the small forest, high above the ground, exercising his muscles with vigorous joy, stopping periodically to breakfast on various fruits and nuts.
His erratic movement was generally circular, and brought him eventually back to the plain, where he descended to the ground and happily made his way back to Neros Fort Nine.
Although the previous night's events were well within his memory, they affected him only slightly. Death and battle were commonplace to his existence, and his killing of six warriors caused him no regret.
He entered through the open gate, and observed Foss seated before a cooking fire.
The commander saw him immediately, and seemed relieved at Tarak's return. He smiled as Tarak approached.
"I was afraid you had left us permanently."
"Your walls can seem confining," Tarak replied. "I was held within high walls for too long."
His statement interested the To-rok, but Foss did not press the matter, and Tarak did not elaborate.
"After knowing how dangerous men can be," Foss asked, "Is it still you wish to see an entire city filled with untold thousands of them?"
Tarak laughed, a deep throaty laugh which startled the commander.
"Perhaps I am foolish, but yes, it is my wish to see such a city. It seems likely I would find a city filled with warriors to be, if nothing else, an interesting place."
Foss joined in his laughter.
"I must admit that your introduction to the warriors of Neros has been that."
The commander paused for a long moment, then continued.
"Is it true that you have never seen an Antorian city?"
Tarak shook his head.
"Since early childhood, only two men, and one woman, have I known."
Foss noted the slight tightening of Tarak's face as he spoke. "Someday," Tarak continued, "I shall see these men again."
"If you wish to see a city," Foss offered, "You would be advised to visit one other than Neros. If you are insistent, however, I shall take you there myself."
"I must warn you, however, that you may not find my city to be a hospitable host. Many cities are open to all who would enter. Neros is not one of them. We discourage visitors, and treat strangers as enemies, as you may have observed."
Foss paused, but Tarak was silent.
"Here, in this fort, I am commander, and by my word you are a guest. In Neros itself, however, the word of Foss counts as nothing, and if you enter you may find that you have become a prisoner."
He looked at the wooden palisade.
"And in the city, my friend, the walls are constructed of stone, and are many times higher than these. Perhaps you should bypass Neros, and travel to another city. I can facilitate your passage through our lands. To the south lies Senta, a city which is much more hospitable to strangers."
"Why is Neros this way?" asked Tarak. "Is your city threatened by this Senta, or by another?"
Foss shook his head.
"Neros was not always so hostile, although our city has always been less open than some."
Tarak noted a tinge of bitterness in the To-rok's voice, but did not interrupt.
"Not many years ago," continued Foss, "Neros was open to citizens of many cities, and the travelers and goods of a world passed through her gates. Days were peaceful, and we enjoyed friendly relations with nearly all cities."
"Men came from Falkmar to the north, from Senta and the coastal city of Kalnor to the south, from Car, the forest city, to the southwest. Many traveled from even more distant lands. From far Elur, and beyond."
Tarak's interest heightened. Amena had been from Car, and she had spoken of these cities.
"Malenot, a powerful rok," Foss continued, "seized control of the city of Kalnor many years ago. Kalnor is a great city, strategically situated on the shores of the Sea of Kal. Somehow, with the aid of a mercenary force, he conquered the city, and managed to kill most of the ruling families. He is still Tarkan of Kalnor. Many citizens fled the city, and all coastal trade ceased, for although Malenot is supreme in Kalnor, one of the great Tarks of the city escaped with his family. His family was subsequently killed, but he survived."
The To-Rok paused for a moment, studying the ground, then resumed his narrative.
"This man, a Tark, gathered refugees and Kalnorian warriors, raised a navy from among others who had fled the city, and began to prey upon Kalnorian ships. For many years he has ruled his forces. It is said he has amassed a large army now, and that he hopes to free Kalnor from Malenot's reign, but few believe this is possible. The people of Kalnor are not pleased with their Tarkan, but he is supreme within, and Kalnor cannot be defeated from without."
"What has this to do with Neros?" queried Tarak.
"Malenot has great dreams," replied Foss. "Kalnor is a mighty city. When he had solidified his power within Kalnor, he turned his hungry eye toward Senta, which lies between Kalnor and Neros. Senta is a peaceful city, and much smaller than either Kalnor or Neros."
"Malenot longed for her riches, but in this he was denied. A great many Kalnorians had fled to Senta at the time Malenot came to power, and they, in conjunction with Senta's warriors, constituted a formidable force."
"After some years Malenot had solidified his power, and it was rumored that he was prepared to march in force upon Senta, but the attacks upon his shipping had become quite serious by that time, and he reluctantly kept his armies at home. No one could predict his actions with accuracy, however, and rumors abounded that he would march upon Senta, and then upon Neros."
Foss shook his head, scoffing.
"He would have found our city well prepared."
He raised his eyes, and Tarak could see steel in Foss's hard gaze.
"Even Kalnor in all her might and glory could not conquer Neros. We are a nation of warriors."
"Why, then, are you now isolated."
"Kalnor would not win, but she is a mighty city. Defensive measures were deemed prudent. Jaren, our Tarkan, saw this potential threat as a means to increase his own power. Always have the Tarkans of Neros consulted the nobility when considering important matters, but buoyed by the imagined threat of war Jaren was able to institute laws which consolidated his power, and under him the power of the military. "
"Now he rules supreme and unchallenged in Neros. He fosters lies about the threat of Malenot and Kalnor, which in reality is a negligible threat, and he has further isolated the citizens by forbidding them to leave the city. Only the peasants and warriors of the Forts now travel outside the walls of Neros."
Foss laughed bitterly.
"The Forts of Neros have always been our first line of defense since the city was built, and now they strangle us. They protect our people now, not from invasion, but from the truth."
"Are you not a member of the ruling class?" queried Tarak.
"Yes. But a largely discredited member. My views are well known, and have caused me some hardship."
Foss smiled. "Not many years ago I was Rok of the Armies of Neros. Now I rule only this Fort, far from the ears of the citizens of my city."
He shrugged.
"I am perhaps fortunate to be alive."
Tarak was gaining increasing respect for Foss as he listened to the former Rok. This warrior had commanded the armies of a city. Now he had been reduced to what, for such a warrior, was a minor position.
Still he commanded the respect of his men, a respect born of battle and courage, not of rank alone, and he seemed not to have lost his dignity, or his humor.
Tarak was silent as he considered all that Foss had described.
Finally he said, "Who is the Tark who threatens Malenot, Tarkan of Kalnor?"
"He is called Atal Throom, Tark of the Kalnorian House of that name. Many say that he is a formidable warrior, and a natural leader. I have never met him, but I have heard much of his exploits. Men say he has vowed to break the neck of Malenot with his bare hands."
Tarak considered the To-rok's words. This Tark seemed to be the kind of man Amena had often spoken of. A man not unlike Foss. Perhaps not so unlike himself.
"I should like to meet this man."
"I, too, would like to meet him, my friend, but conditions in Neros presently prevent such an encounter."
"Can nothing be done to stop your Tarkan. Surely there must be many who would listen to one such as yourself."
"Many have tried," replied the To-rok, shaking his head. "Jaren is a brilliant man, and he is surrounded with loyal men. Loyal, that is, to Jaren. Not to Neros. Voices raised against the Tarkan are stilled quickly, and permanently. Accusations of treason are followed by summary trials, and death. Entire families have disappeared, and the Tarkan has turned the Arena, which had normally been utilized in connection with friendly contests of sport and skill, into an arena of death.
Men are pitted against men, and against even animals, in bloody battles of survival."
He spat, disgusted.
"You could not imagine such a thing."
Tarak smiled faintly.
"Such contests are not unknown to me."
Foss did not notice the smile, and continued.
"Rarely do I travel to the city, because of such barbarities, and also because I am unwelcome there. Jaren fears me, and hates me. I live at all only because he fears to kill me without provocation, so he has exiled me to the Forts. I travel to Neros occasionally, but I could not guarantee your safety should you accompany me."
He shook his head.
"I cannot guarantee mine, for that matter. I am Rok no longer."
"Your city sounds like an ominous place indeed," Tarak said. "Nevertheless, I should like a closer look."
Foss smiled, as if in submission.
"Then you shall, my strange friend from the mountains, but have patience, for I may not go until I am relieved, four months from now. Should you attempt to go alone you would find only your certain death, and, in fact, I could not knowingly permit such an attempt. You are a stanger, and no stranger may approach Neros without a Nerosian escort."
He shrugged.
"Of course, for you to go with me shall probably mean your death too, but it is slightly less certain."
Tarak chuckled.
"Time has little meaning for me, Foss. Perhaps while we wait you will teach me the use of the sword you and your warriors favor so greatly. I am unfamiliar with the weapon."
"You seem to do quite well without my instruction," commented the To-rok, recalling the slaughter of his men.
"Your style could stand some improvement, however. It is, after all, a sword, rather than an axe."
He smiled.
"I am accounted a master sword; one of the finest of Neros. I shall be glad to teach you."
Foss said this matter-of-factly. It was apparent to Tarak that the To-rok was not trumpeting his prowess, but merely stating a simple fact.
Tarak was thus further impressed by the man.
Foss spoke with the confidence of a man who knew his own capabilities, and his own limitations, intimately, and accepted both.
Foss did not care what his listener thought of him. He was simply being accurate.
Tarak felt he was fortunate to have met such a man, and to have been called friend by such a warrior.
Foss had noticed the gleaming sword which hung from Tarak's belt upon his first exmination of the mountain barbarian, and he now gestured at the weapon, requesting that he be allowed to examine it.
Tarak drew the blade forth, and handed it, hilt first, to the To-rok.
Foss examined the shining blade with professional interest, drawing his finger carefully across the edge, then bringing the hilt close to his face so he could see each detail.
He turned the hilt as he inspected it carefully, his face reflecting his near-totala absorption with the weapon.
He looked up, shaking his head slightly.
"I have never seen a finer sword!" he exclaimed.
Tarak shrugged.
"I found it in the mountains."
He paused, aware of the man's interest in the weapon.
"It is yours, Foss, if you wish."
Foss looked up, disbelieving.
"A sword such as this comes along once in a lifetime, my friend. Do not give away so freely that which is so rare."
"Nothing is so rare to me as a man who calls me friend. Take the sword. To you it seems to be something to treasure. To me it is only a weapon, and not one I've found much use for."
Foss was silent for a moment, considering.
"Very well," he said finally, grinning. "I shall accept your gift, for it is given freely, and also because such pleasures are enjoyed but infrequently in my life at present."
He looked at the sword with what seemed to approach tenderness.
"Perhaps we shall carve out a new life, this sword and I."
Tarak laughed softly at the To-Rok's words.
"If it is what you wish, Foss, you will do it."
They stood silently, each warmed by a feeling of new friendship and mutual respect which each acknowledged, although they had met only the day before; each sensing some quality in the other which few men possess.
Foss signaled to his men, requesting that practice swords be brought to him.
Moments later one of his warriors brought two of the weapons, and handed the weapons to the To-Rok.
Tarak's lessons had begun.
Foss handed him one of the wooden swords, and taking the other, he backed a few paces, and gestured to Tarak to stand ready.
Tarak hefted the sword, swinging it back and forth, testing its weight and balance.
"It seems heavy for a wooden weapon."
Foss nodded.
"The sword is hollow, and filled with heavier metal. It is the same weight as a steel sword of the same size. The wood is soft, and the edges dulled, to prevent serious injury. We wear helmets to protect the head, and stabbing for a vital area is prohibited."
One of the nearby warriors tossed Tarak a leather and metal helmet. He tried it on, finding it too small, but the warrior who had given it to him came up and showed him how to enlarge it by the use of straps located near the helmet's base.
After a few seconds he was able to adjust it to a larger size, and he donned the helmet and fastened it firmly upon his head.
Foss obtained a similar helmet, and the two men squared off, Tarak assuming his familiar fighting crouch, low, his muscles taut with suppressed energy, Foss in a much higher crouch, his knees bent, and trunk slightly forward, right leg extended under the right sword arm.
Foss smiled, a fighting man who truly enjoyed his craft.
Tarak moved forward, his sword held forward and upward, imitating the style he observed in the To-rok. His blade tip swayed gently from side to side.
The blade of Foss was still, as was his body. Only his eyes moved, slight movements which watched Tarak's arm, his hand, and the tip of the sword. He did not attack, but he did not retreat, his lean form planted upon the spot which he had chosen, as immovable as a tree.
Tarak was somewhat hesitant, reluctant to strike a forceful blow at the one man who had befriended him. He looked up into the commander's eyes, his own mirroring his doubts.
Foss acknowledged with a slight nod and a smile.
"I am not a drunken footsoldier, Tarak of the mountains. I have fought against the best, and won. You cannot hurt me with this weapon."
Tarak smiled, shrugged, and in a blinding move, darted forward and swung a savage cut at the to-rok's shoulder. As the blow descended he saw with some surprise that Foss was shuffling forward, rather than backward.
Foss's sword caught his own on an angle, deflecting the force rather than attempting to stop it, and bouncing his own sword forward as Tarak's blade was deflected just enough to pass harmlessly past his opponent by a hair's breadth.
He leaped backward, his movement slowed a fraction by the ongoing forward momentum of his sword stroke, and watched the tip of his opponent's sword jab into his stomach as he backed. His abdominal muscles instinctively tightened, but the blow was painful nonetheless, and he knew that a steel sword would have opened his abdomen with a disabling, and probably lethal, wound.
He backed away quickly, swinging his sword around in a whistling stroke, but Foss had stepped back, and was out of range. The To-rok stood there, immovable again, but this time standing where Tarak had stood moments before. Foss was still smiling.
Tarak was stunned.
He knew he had been killed, and stood looking down for a few seconds at his bruised stomach; then he glanced back up, smiling faintly, somewhat disbelievingly, himself now.
For the first time in his life he had attacked savagely, and he had been defeated. Had Foss's sword been steel, his young life would have ended this bright day.
He thought of the thousands of battles he had won; the thousands of lives he had taken; and the realization each must have felt, however it was experienced, as they, too, had suffered their only loss, and thus the last battle of their life.
He lowered his gaze, and examined his sword appraisingly for a moment, having in the space of a few seconds gained an entirely new outlook on the efficacy of this weapon.
Foss; a man much smaller, weaker, older, and much slower than himself, had utilized this weapon in a manner which had struck Tarak a killing blow quickly and without apparent effort; struck him, not with a weapon which killed from afar, like the bow, but with a weapon of close combat, where his own superior physical assets should preclude any such result.
With this knowledge came an instant reappraisal of his own potential mortality should he engage a skilled swordsman with this weapon, regardless of his physical superiority.
With it also came an overpowering resolve to bend his talents to the mastery of this weapon. Tarak's entire life had consisted of mastering one fighting skill after another. Always he had triumphed. Always he had been the victor.
This weapon of man, this killing weapon, was a challenge he could not resist. His pride and his love of battle demanded that he master the use of the sword.
He moved forward again, more careful this time, and began to probe at the commander's defense with swift, but noncommittal, strokes.
Circling, out of reach of the commander, he jabbed and cut, hammering at Foss's blade when he could, testing the to-rok's strength and endurance.
Foss turned his strokes away easily, with small fluid moves which seemed to require almost no energy, and which guided Tarak's blade passed the glistening skin of the To-rok with scant margins of error.
Tarak, his own battle lust aroused, pressed the attack, searching with increasing intensity to find a weakness in the defense of the commander, swinging harder and harder in an increasingly frustrated attempt to beat his opponent back.
Suddenly the wooden sword of the commander was sliding off his own blade again, slicing across to trace a reddened line along Tarak's sword arm.
Tarak leaped back, cursing himself, but now Foss was advancing. Tarak raised his own sword in defense, and kept retreating, trying to give himself room to set and make a stand.
The To-Rok would not allow this, however, and quickened his attack, slashing and stabbing.
Tarak felt his right arm slashed again, then his chest, and his shoulder.
He could not stop the onslaught. He reached back to gain room for a huge swinging blow, one which the To-rok would have to step back to avoid, but Foss suddenly darted forward more quickly than Tarak would have thought possible.
The commander's left fist shot forward, and back, and as Tarak watched it he noticed the sword he had stopped watching out of the corner of his eye, slashing at his head.
He dropped away from its path, but not quickly enough, and the blade smashed into the side of his helmet, stunning him to his knees.
Tarak rolled back, dizzy, raising his arms and legs in an instinctive protective posture, knowing that his limbs were vulnerable to the sword, but without any choice.
No blow fell, for Foss had stopped, and now stood silently a few feet away, molded into his fighting posture once more, the smile still upon his craggy face.
The To-rok looked down sympathetically.
"After all, I am not a drunken footsold--"
"Yes, Yes, I know," Tarak interrupted. He was disgusted, and he was frustrated as he could not remember being ever before. Never, in all the battles, in all the years, had he ever been so frustrated. He had hated, and he endured years of bitterness and hardship, but he had never experienced this type of frustration before.
He looked up at the puzzled to-rok, his eyes flaring, his chest rising and falling with the efforts of his exertions, shaking his head impatiently. For a moment he lay thus. Then his eyes cleared with sudden understanding.
They widened, then caught the eyes of the commander, and Tarak began to laugh softly, shaking his head from side to side.
"What is it?" Foss asked.
"It is me, Foss. I could not understand my feelings, even though I realized what it was which bothered me so much. I have been defeated."
His gaze was direct, and his words concise.
"I have never lost in battle before. Never."
The To-rok frowned slightly.
"You have not lost even one battle?"
"I am alive. Had I lost even one I would be dead."
Foss watched his strange opponent and mused over these strange words. Unskilled though Tarak was, Foss had never seen such speed, never felt such power in a man's sword arm.
This young barbarian had eluded numerous strokes which Foss had already mentally scored. Fighting with a weapon which was obviously unfamiliar, Tarak had fought with tenacity and savagery which Foss had found almost incredible.
Foss knew he would be hard pressed to block some of the blows Tarak had delivered, so powerfully had they been delivered, and knew too that such power driving the arm of a skilled swordsman would severely inhibit the strategy available to an enemy, since the direct block was a basic stroke at all levels of swordsmanship.
The speed of the young barbarian was almost uncanny.
Foss had faced hundreds of swordsmen, and watched thousands more, but never had he encountered a man who possessed such speed.
The man was a model of savage fighting ability. A combination of power, speed, reflexes and intuitive actions and reactions, combined with an indomitable fighting spirit and an obvious lust for combat.
Foss had never encountered anyone like this stranger, or even heard of such savagery in a man, with the possible exception of the brute who had ruled the arena in Kalnor for the past several years.
Never had a teacher found a pupil whom he desired to teach more than Foss desired to teach this marvelous specimen of fighting manhood.
Never had a teacher found a pupil more willing to learn.
They fought on that day, Foss beginning to instruct as he fought, and Tarak listened intently, implementing these new ideas and strategies.
He learned quickly, and pleasure soon replaced his frustration as he began to master new skills.
Foss fought defensively, attacking only in short bursts, demonstrating the defensive strokes and counterstrokes which all swordsmen learn, and the footwork which was so important in swordplay.
Tarak watched, listened, fought, and learned.
The two men practiced for hours, and near the end of that afternoon Tarak's youthful endurance began to emerge as an important factor.
Long after any serious battle would have ended in the death of at least one of the combatants, Foss began to tire. His strokes slowed, and his accuracy lessened.
Finally he ceased his efforts, and held up his hand.
"Enough for today. My spirit soars, but my body sinks rapidly into senselessness."
He smiled.
"Would that I had your energy."
"I, too, am tired, Foss. But I could fight on. This is very enjoyable."
Foss laughed at the remark, and regarded the young barbarian with renewed wonder. Never had he ever thought to meet such a perfect warrior.
The love of combat shone with lustful intensity in the young man's brilliant eyes. He fought as one born to battle, an indomitable spirit fighting with seemingly incomparable physical assets.
Tarak's natural ability was frightening. Foss looked across into the clear emerald eyes and knew that he measured a man who, if he survived, might one day be the best swordsman who ever lived.
The commander signaled, and a warrior approached and took the wooden swords, whereupon the to-rok indicated that they would eat. Tarak nodded, hungry and exhilarated with the fighting.
He now realized that the sword was truly a magnificent weapon, an equalizer of the highest magnitude. Even in the short period he had battled with Foss he had realized the tremendous potential of the sword, and the almost limitless skills which awaited and challenged his abilities.
He felt this challenge, and responded to the challenge as one who had lived through innumerable challenges, and whose savage nature refused to submit to any defeat, ever.
He would master this weapon. He perceived it now in its essence, as a superlative instrument of combat, but also as a means by which men were measured, one against the other. Fighting with the sword involved skills whose intricacies infinitely transcended those skills involved in the use of other weapons.
Moreover, the sword was, apparently in this world, the universal weapon of men, and to some extent a man's reputation depended upon his skill in swordplay.
Familiarity and competence with the sword were indispensable elements of Aantorian manhood. Demonstrable skill with this weapon was essential to his sense of self-preservation, and would in addition earn him a measure of respect among civilized men.
More than anything, however, Tarak found that he simply loved the fighting. His unique maturation had imbedded within him a nature which could become instantly and instinctively savage. Countless struggles for survival had conditioned blindingly fast reflexes, inevitably violent by nature.
His calm exterior was a tenuous veneer, for lurking just beneath the surface was an animal savagery, longing for violent battle.
His was the spirit of the carnivore; of the dominant bull.
In this world of men, violent combat meant swordplay. His savage instincts would find an outlet, if at all, through this fascinating weapon. Truly, he had this day become mesmerized by this killing weapon of men.
They ate silently, each man resting his tired muscles, and thinking his own quiet thoughts, remembering the afternoon, and pondering the future.
After they had eaten, Tarak rose, and gestured to the open gate.
"I shall leave you now. Tomorrow we will fight again, Foss?"
Foss nodded.
"Yes. But you need not leave. You will not be attacked again."
"I know. But my home is in the forest; not within these walls."
Foss smiled. The forest, considered an enemy to nearly all men, but home to this strange tawny-haired young barbarian with the unimaginable physical skills.
He stood up.
"Tomorrow, then."
Tarak nodded, and turned away, walking with his uniquely animal stride to the gate, and disappearing through it into the night.
Foss watched him leave, sighed with pleasure and with fatigue, and retreated to the soft blankets of his hut. His thoughts raced as he lay down, but his tiredness soon overcame him, and he was asleep almost instantly.
Tarak returned early the next morning, and they continued their lessons for several hours that day, and the next, and the next.
Each day they practiced, and Tarak's skill with the sword increased rapidly.
His capacity for learning, like his abilities, seemed limitless, and both men found enjoyment in the contests.
Tarak wondered alound if he was keeping the To-rok from his duties, but Foss shrugged.
"What duties? Nerosians these days are in much more danger of perishing from boredom, or perhaps from Jaren's spies, than from any attacking armies. Travelers from other cities know they are unwelcome within our borders, and without their trade we have no need to police the roads."
"We have almost no theft," he continued, "nor robberies, nor killings, nor diplomatic disputes. We sit here, protecting Neros from a threat which does not exist. Surely the most valuable activity in which we might engage is to practice those skills which a warrior needs, and my men must practice daily. Their To-rok should do no less."
The commander's knowledge of fighting skills was invaluable, and vast within each area of combat, with the sword or any other weapon of a warrior.
"Keep your legs always beneath you," he would exhort.
"When you fight a man who leans to avoid a stroke, feign a blow at his upper body. When he leans, his legs will be immobile for an instant, for he cannot move them back quickly when he has lost total balance. His weight distribution will not permit such quickness. In that instant you can strike at his legs, and he may be yours. Keep your weight always beneath you, no matter how rapid you must move your legs and feet, and you will never lose balance."
He taught Tarak the secrets of close combat, explaining that the proper block deflected the opponent's weapon as little as was necessary, expending little energy, and permitting a much faster and more accurate counterstroke.
"You must penetrate his area of defense so that your own weapon will be effective. To stand back and trade blows which have little chance of landing, and which are relatively easy to block because of the distance which they must travel, is a waste of time and valuable energy. You must have the courage to move into the killing area, and of course the skill to deflect or block his weapon when you arrive there."
Tarak listened, impressed with the scientific and savage manner in which Foss approached individual combat with the sword. The To-rok's long experience and fertile mind had generated a realistic and proven method of swordsmanship; innovative, but grounded in the results of hundreds and perhaps thousands of bloody battles.
The commander's tricks and traps seemed limitless in number, and Tarak became exceedingly wary when he faced the To-rok.
His own skills continued to increase, however, and Foss found himself forced to utilize increasingly exotic moves, both offensively and defensively, when fighting the young warrior.
Foss continually exhorted the value of the thrust, or jab. "Although less powerful than the cut, it is a much quicker stroke, and much harder to defend. Remember, if you can open up your opponent's abdomen, either leg, or his sword arm, with a deep thrust, instantly withdrawn, you will win."
"Such a wound in the chest or abdomen is a death stroke. In the legs or sword arm it is disabling, and he will be at your mercy."
Tarak learned, too, how to utilize the Nerosian shield, and how to fight most effectively with the sword in one hand, and the knife in the other. The variations were innumerable, and Tarak practiced each technique until he had become proficient in its application.
The weeks passed into months, and still the two men battled nearly every day.
Tarak practiced with others, too, but his skill soon surpassed theirs, and his speed, strength, and savagery tended to discourage challenges.
Several men had suffered fractures from his blows, and only Foss remained unharmed.
These other warriors, although defeated and often injured, came to respect the barbarian, for as a nation of warriors they greatly respected such qualities and abilities.
Long forgotten were the taunts they had voiced upon his arrival at the Fort. Awe had replaced ridicule as the dominant expression among the soldiers who watched him fight.
He was friendly, but talked little with these men, for he found them generally uninteresting, and for the most part relatively ignorant.
Nevertheless, his popularity grew among the warriors as they came to know him and watched him fight with their commander
With Foss, however, he began to open up in his discussions. Years of silence gradually crumbled in the quiet periods of conversation he enjoyed with the commander.
Tarak relentlessly questioned Foss about the lands and cities of men; about politics, commerce, Tarkans, peasants, warriors, slaves, and frequently, about women.
Foss, intensely interested in the unique story which must lie within Tarak's past, repressed his impatience, describing Aantorian life and people to the young man in great detail, answering countless questions, and discussing Aantorian philosophies.
His patience, however, expired out one evening as the men discussed Nerosian military tactics.
Foss held up his hands.
"Enough, my friend. Enough. It is you who shall talk this night. And it is I who shall listen. To your story."
His gaze was direct and uncompromising as he sat looking at the young giant.
Tarak was silent for a moment, and Foss watched, patient but firm in his resolve. The barbarian raised his gaze to the ceiling of the hut, stared at the beams for a moment, and returned his eyes to meet those of the commander.
He nodded gently, the shadow of a smile playing across his features.
"Yes, Foss. You have been a friend. The first man I have known whom I can trust."
He told Foss of the death of his mother, and of his capture by the wroks. He told of his maturation under the cruel tutorage of the scientist, Gonor, and of the barbarities committed by Brona.
He described the cliff fortress, the arena, and the creatures he had battled against again and again, for survival itself.
He described Amena. Amena whose constant love and attention prevented madness from overtaking his young mind, and instilled within him the power of love, and indomitable strength of spirit.
Amena, whose body was violated and broken by the men and wroks of the fortress; whose mind was, with one small exception, sapped of all human choice. Reduced to the status of an animal, her love for Tarak had never died. That one emotion had been a spark in her otherwise bleak existence.
He described her death, and his subsequent escape from the fortress.
Tarak's eyes blazed as he described the killing of Lukor, and of his decision to postpone his revenge upon the men who had caused his lifelong suffering, to insure his own freedom.
Foss watched silently, mesmerized by the tale he was hearing. It was incredible that the boy had survived to become a man. Incredible that a man could kill a wrok in unarmed combat. Incredible unless one had seen this man the way Foss had seen him.
He watched the flashing green eyes as Tarak spoke of the wroks, and of the men who ruled them, blazing with barely controlled hatred, and lustful with revenge.
Foss already counted these two as dead men, and did not envy them when they next encountered their former captive.
Tarak talked of his life in the valley, and of his long upward trek westward, a journey which Foss would have considered unthinkable for any man alone, but which Tarak recounted with indifference.
When Tarak described the battle between the dyrrn and the tarab, Foss sat in further shock and disbelief.
A warrior himself, he thrilled as Tarak described the magnificent beasts locked in mortal battle. Foss noted how Tarak's eyes gleamed as he recounted the encounter, one wild creature remembering others with feelings akin to reverence.
Tarak told of the lost valley, and of the growth of the black dyrrn. His tale was so incredible that Foss momentarily wondered if the young man was engaging in fantasy, but, looking closely at his guest, he knew that Tarak was speaking simple truth.
The commander remained silent, riveted by the strange tale he was hearing.
Tarak then described the eroded encampment he had found in the lost valley, and how he had taken the beautiful sword from that place. His eyes sparkled, as if recounting a sudden memory, and he reached into his belt, pulling a small pouch out of a hidden pocket.
"I found these stones there," he said, opening the pouch and spilling the stones out into his open palm.
"Amena said that many types of shining stones are quite valuable. These seemed pretty, so I took them. Do you know what they are?"
He handed the stones to the stunned commander, who held them with a wondrous expression upon his face.
Foss looked down at the glittering stones silently, closing his eyes for a moment, then opening them again to stare at the fiery gems, which flared in the flickering torchlight.
"Valuable! Tarak, you have no idea."
He laughed.
"You walk into Neros Fort Nine practically naked, yet in your pouch you carry the wealth of a Tark; or perhaps a Tarkan!"
"What are they?"
Foss laughed more loudly, looking at Tarak, then down at the gems, then back at Tarak.
"These are Starfires, Tarak. The rarest and most valuable gems in the world! Legend has it that they are found in lands far to the south, beyond the lands of men. No man knows from where they truly come. Some have made their way north, by means unknown, for no man who has ever ventured into the deep south has ever returned."
"Their beauty is legendary, and many men have ever seen a starfire. The few Starfires known to exist rest in the scabbards or rings of Tarkans, and few Tarkans even possess them."
"Long ago, it is said, a great Tarkan, some say the greatest Tarkan, somehow acquired a great quantity of them, many times more than were known to exist in the entire world. His name was Kantan Mor, Tarkan of Syrrm, and it is said that lust for these incomparable gems motivated an unholy alliance of several Tarkans, who sent their vast armies against Syrrm, an unstoppable horde of warriors."
"They surrounded the city, and swept down upon her people. The citizens of Syrrm surrendered immediately, and the invaders entered great Syrrm with little resistance. The palace was empty, however, for the Tarkan had fled, sacrificing his throne to save his people."
"The treasures of Syrrm were gone, too. Kanton Mor had looted his own treasure rooms. The invaders were furious, and many vented their rage upon the citizens of Syrrm, but her warriors were gone, too, or dressed as merchants, peasants, and other common folk."
Foss smiled.
"These Syrrmians buried their hatred for the invaders, permitting these limited atrocities to prevent a wholesale slaughter. Syrrmians were proud people, but they were realistic, and knew they had no chance against such a horde of invaders. They watched carefully, for Syrrmians have long memories."
"The invaders swept over the countryside, searching for the vanished Tarkan, but he was never found. The armies raped the countryside, eating the food of the conquered, killing their stock, although it seemed that Syrrm possessed little in the way of such commodities for so large a city. Eventually the invaders left, however, for the land was bare, and their natural rivalries and animosities began to weaken the alliance."
"One by one they left, frustrated."
"Each city left a sizable force to help govern the vast city, and they split Syrrm into sections, both the city and the surrounding country, with each conqueror taking a sizeable piece of the former city-state as its vassal, and the governors appointed formed a council, which ruled Syrrm with cruel brutality."
"Two months after the last army had left the city; the council was slaughtered, as were the warriors who enforced its edicts." "Syrrmian warriors appeared everywhere in the streets, armed and vengeful. The great gates opened, and thousands more poured through from their journey from the lands of their temporary exile. The invaders had been lulled by the stoic submission of the city. They had forgotten that Syrrm was among the greatest of cities, with an army which had never been defeated by a single foe. "
"Where scant months ago the blood of hundreds of Syrrmians had been spilled wantonly by cruel conquerors, now thousands of invaders were savagely slaughtered by a conquered people reborn in their terrible vengeance. Not one invader was spared. All were killed brutally, without mercy."
"Similar killing took place simultaneously across the lands of Syrrm, and before the day had ended no enemy remained alive within her borders. The returning armies brought wagons of grain, flocks of birds, and huge herds of animals, returning to Syrrm those essential elements of life which had been removed and hidden far away long ago, in anticipation of the impending invasion."
"Syrrmian Tarks let the armies, and brought with them many of Syrrm's treasures, restoring them to the empty vaults beneath the palace of the Tarkan."
"The Tarkan did not return, however. Some say he was killed. Some say he knew that his return, with the Starfires, and with the Sword, would prompt another massed attack."
Foss paused for a moment.
"For whatever reason, he was never seen again. He disappeared into eternal legend, with the wealth of a world in his possession. Countless men have searched for his secret; Syrrmians and many others, but never a trace has there been of his existence, and many now consider his wealth to have been merely a legend."
"It is apparently no legend," said Tarak.
"In the encampment I found great quantities of these stones. I brought two pouches of them back with me from the valley, and hid them in the forest. Whether or not they belonged to this Tarkan, there are certainly large quantities of them."
Foss began to laugh again.
"Ha! My friend... Thousands have perished in determined and well-planned ventures aimed at discovering the secret of Kanton Mor. Countless others have spent their lives in futile searches, driven by greed and the idea of limitless wealth and power, only to die penniless. Yet you, a man without greed or the seemingly insatiable thirst for power which drives such men, stumble upon his remains while cavorting aimlessly through a distant valley, and bring some out, on a whim, because they seemed pretty!"
"Ho, this is quite humorous."
Foss seemed to lose control of himself then, and began to chortle incessantly, holding his sides in a state of apparent humorous anguish.
Tarak watched him in puzzlement, not quite understanding Foss's reaction, but so warmed by the sight of the normally disciplined commander laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming from his eyes, that he began to laugh too, quietly at first, then with an increasing lack of control. Soon both men were laughing, at the irony of fate and at each other.
Tarak's sides began to ache with a joyous pain he had not experienced since early childhood.
Long moments later their laughter subsided, and Foss gained control of his speech once more.
"Do not speak of the gems to others, Tarak. Nor ever display them. Most men would kill you, without hesitation, for possession of even one."
Tarak nodded.
"The pouches of stones are safe, Foss. And these I give to you."
The To-rok shook his head.
"Such stones are for Tarkans.... or Barbarians, it seems. I have no need of such wealth, or for the worry which accompanies such fortune."
Tarak persisted, however, and eventually persuaded Foss to accept one of the stones.
"You are a Tarkan among men, Foss, whatever rank Jaren has given you."
Foss was still chuckling at the idea of the young man, naked and ignorant, standing knee-deep in the riches of a world, and his resistance was weakened by his inability to completely control his laughter.
Foss looked deep into the Starfire which Tarak had given him, watching the incomparable display of fiery color which leaped from the stone, mesmerized by its beauty as were all men were who saw one of the stones.
Carefully he secreted the Starfire into his own hidden pouch, knowing that its beauty would be enjoyed by himself only, for to display such a treasure was to invite murder.
He looked into Tarak's eyes, now warm with friendship and shared laughter.
"When we travel to Neros, never mention the Starfires. Jaren will probably kill you in any event, but he will certainly kill you if he learns that you possess these gems."
"He may find me to be a difficult man to kill."
"Yes," smiled Foss.
"I think Jaren will find you to be most difficult. Now let us rest. I wish to learn how it is that those who are rich sleep."
Tarak smiled, and rose to leave. As he approached the door Foss spoke, and he turned to listen to the commander's question.
"Tarak, do you remember seeing a sword. A special, beautiful sword, unique and with a great Starfire in the hilt, within the ruins of the encampment?"
Tarak nodded.
"Yes. Such a sword was locked within the chest where I found the stones. I left it there. Why?"
Foss looked at him silently for a moment. Then he smiled again, and shook his head gently.
"It is not important. Just another part of the legend."
He waved briefly.
"Goodnight, my friend."
Tarak returned the gesture, and left the To-rok to seek his own sleeping place within the bounds of the bordering forest.
Foss watched him leave, then sat and stared into the dying embers of the fire. He brought the Starfire out, and turned it over and over in his hand, enjoying its incomparable brilliance as he thought of Tarkans; and of the Legend; and of the Sword of Kanton Mor.
Tarak returned the next morning, as he had returned each day, and they continued to fight during the days and talk during the nights.
Often they were joined by lesser officers, Ho-roks, who commanded groups of warriors, each numbering two hundred men.
The military system of Neros, and of most other cities, was pyramidal in structure. The Chief Rok commanded all the military forces. Under him were lesser Roks, each in command of an army. Beneath the Roks were the O-roks, each responsible for ten thousand warriors. Next were the To-roks, who commanded two thousand, the Ho-roks, who commanded two hundred, and the So-roks, or squad leaders, with twenty warriors at their disposal.
Tarak found these men to be intelligent and increasingly friendly, as they came to know him and to know his capabilities. Most of the warriors stationed at the Fort were men who had served under Foss when he was a Rok of the armies of Neros, and their loyalties were still with the commander.
Others loyal to the To-rok were scattered among the numerous forts of Neros, safely away from the city.
Tarak conversed often with these warriors, but would not discuss his prior life with any but Foss. When questioned, he would shrug, and dismiss his history with a deprecatory gesture, indicating that is was not important. His caution, that of a wild thing, was a barrier which none could penetrate, and eventually the men ceased their efforts to learn about his past.
One such evening, when Tarak and the To-rok were alone, Foss prompted him to continue his story, and Tarak described how he had ridden the dyrrn across the bleak mountains to the lands of men.
The To-rok, although accustomed to Tarak's fantastic tales, was nevertheless astounded by this new knowledge. He shook his head, once more marveling at the strange young man who sat before him, quietly recounting adventures which most men would consider sheer fantasy.
To ride a dyrrn! And a black dyrrn. A mountain dyrrn! To fly, as the birds flew; as some wroks flew upon the backs of the forest dyrrn! Foss regarded his companion with renewed wonder, and wondered what fate the Gods might hold for this unique young barbarian.
After a period somewhat in excess of three months Tarak had achieved a semblance of mastery with the weapon he had come to love. Exhausting practice, day after day, coupled with his fighting abilities and keen desire to learn, had resulted in his emergence as a marvelous swordsman, tutored by one of the best in all Aantor.
One hot, dusty afternoon, after Foss had attacked mercilessly, for almost an hour, but without delivering a killing or disabling blow, the To-rok lowered his point, and stepped back, smiling.
"I salute you, mountain barbarian. Your skill has reached levels which are rarely seen among Aantorian swordsmen."
The To-rok's chest was rising and falling heavily, and sweat gleamed upon his body.
Tarak looked down at his own body, marked and bruised with the results of hundreds of blows which had landed during the recent weeks.
"You seem to be doing quite well, yourself, To-rok."
Foss laughed. "Most are old bruises, as you well know. You have still much to learn, but your speed, strength, and endurance make you a match for all but a few. If we were to fight now, to the death, I would have to kill you quickly."
"If you fought cautiously, defensively, harnessing your ever-present desires to attack with crushing aggression, you might defeat me, for you seem to be tireless, and I would eventually tire, as would any other man I have ever known. Always remember the advantage your endurance provides you. If you are not overeager, few will be able to stand before you."
Tarak smiled. "I shall remember, Foss, although I am not by nature defensive."
"Assuredly, you are not," agreed the To-rok. Satisfied and pleased with his marvelous student, he indicated that they were finished for the day, and led Tarak into his hut.
They drank deeply, quenching their thirst, and Foss sat, resting his tired frame with obvious relief. He looked up at the blond giant.
"Tomorrow or the next day my relief will arrive, and we will begin our journey to the City. In a few days we shall be within the walls of Neros, and subject to the Tarkan's whim. Are you certain you wish to risk your life in this manner?"
Tarak shrugged. "Life itself is a risk. Shall I run from each danger, and hide from each unknown experience?"
He smiled. "I have come into the lands of men, Foss, to see their cities. If yours is more dangerous than some others, so be it. I wish to see them all, eventually. Yours shall be the first."
Foss raised an eyebrow. "Let it not be the last."