CHAPTER 14

Tarak passed quickly through the majestic halls and stairways which filled the magnificent building. The richly dressed patrons stared at the simply dressed figure as he passed by, but none spoke, or made any attempt to halt him, and he ignored their looks. At the entrance he brushed past the guards, and one hailed him, but he moved on, listening for any sound of pursuit, but hearing none. Apparently the curious guard respected the power of Karn enough to allow even a poor barbarian to pass without a forcible inspection.

As he came to the broad avenue, he stopped, pondering which direction to take. Reasoning that his chances of arrest were greater near the palace, he turned away from the nearby walls, and moved down the avenue among a throng of citizens.

The sun has set, and darkness was rapidly falling upon the city, so Tarak felt secure. He was confident that he could elude any pursuit in darkness. As he walked along he street he grinned with anticipation at seeing Foss again, and baiting the To-Rok about his sufferings at the hands of Abar.

He was eager, too, for the company of the slave girl, Rela, with whom he had shared his first several sexual experiences. She had mentioned during their time together that she hailed originally from Kalnor, and though he had been occupied fiercely with more immediate matters at the time, he wished to question her in detail about her former city.

She had seemed to be an intelligent girl, and spirited in spite of her slavery. He had neglected even to ask her how she had come to lose her freedom. The sight and smell of Leanna had fired his blood, too, and he was eager for the touch of a female.

Wandering the streets, Tarak was both impressed and saddened, for while Neros was truly a magnificent city, she had become a prison for her people. Everywhere beautiful buildings rose from broad, clean avenues, and shops could be seen operating on even the smaller streets and alleys. Citizens walked the streets proudly, but in their eyes Tarak saw discontent, and often fear. The frequent sight of groups of warriors, many dressed in black, as had been Pusk, cast a pall over the beauty and splendor of Neros.

Even within such a spacious city, Tarak could not help but feel confined. He thought that his former captivity was partly responsible for these feelings, but sensed too that these people also longed for the open space of the outside plains and forests. Many of them, of course, lived a very large part of their lives always with the walls of the city, but most citizens at least occasionally traveled beyond the walls.

Now this freedom of movement was denied to them, and its pleasures seemed thus sweeter. Foss had said that it was a tribute to the people that Neros was still a relatively happy and productive city, even in isolation. Increasing numbers of citizens had attempted escape in recent years, and many others had begun to daily climb to the summit of the great walls, to stand and look out on their beloved countryside.

The walls had become crowded, and too often a citizen, overcome by the agony of imprisonment within, had in desperation leaped from the walls, seeking freedom in the death which awaited so far below. Finally access to the walls had been forbidden, and Nerosians could no longer see the beauty and rich expanse of the fair land which surrounded Neros.

Still madmen would periodically attempt to reach the summit, and would make bold dashes at the city's main gate, but the guards were too numerous, and too watchful.

Such men were arrested long before they could gain their objective, and most were not seen again. It was rumored that Jaren had such men secretly killed, so that neither such men nor their ideas could pose any continued threat to his power, or to the sanctity of his laws.

The Tarkan, of course, denied this, but he had offered no alternative explanation. He did not have to explain, of course, for he was Tarkan.

Tarak found it hard to understand how so many people could desire one singular objective, and yet not fight until they reached their goal. During their discussions he had broached this questions to Foss, who had explained that traditions and obedience weighed heavily upon a civilized people, who from birth were taught to respect authority, and to fear it. He had explained that many of the men of the city generally had only minimal experience with arms of war, and thus felt helpless against the organization and deadly effectiveness of the military.

Tarak found he could understand their behavior, but felt he could never empathize with men who would surrender their freedoms so easily. The majority of conversations he had thus far heard within the city contained generally deplorable remarks about the state of affairs within Neros, and yet as they voiced these complaints, men glanced furtively about, as if to make sure their words were not overheard by unfriendly ears.

No wonder men build such cities, he thought. They are so fearful that they would trade their freedom for security and oppression. How helpless they would be in the forest, or in the cold mountains.

My father must have been a remarkable man indeed, he thought, to have battled his way into the forest, and survived within its depths, even for a short time, when burdened with a mate and child. Undoubtedly his father had been a hunter or peasant, such only such a man would have survived in the forests. Tarak could not explain his vague memories of a city, but could not fathom how a city man would have thrived in the wilderness as his father apparently had.

Tarak walked slowly, exploring the alleys and shops, taverns, streets, bridges, and other structures which permeated the heart of the city. Darkness descended more deeply, and eventually only the taverns remained open. Refreshed from his walk, Tarak decided to return to the tavern where Foss awaited him, and although a stranger, he knew he would have no trouble finding his path, for his sense of direction, as were his other senses, was attuned far above that of others of his species.

Few people were present in the streets now, but sounds of laughter and music emanated from the doors and windows of the seemingly countless taverns he passed. As he neared the area of the city in which he would find the tavern he sought, he kept to the narrow, darkened alleys, for taverns and lights were less frequent in such places, and the risk of being stopped by soldiers more remote.

Tarak was still several blocks from the tavern when he heard the sounds of several men stealthily following him. He had noted the sounds earlier, but only after he had moved in a somewhat circuitous path had he been certain that he was their intended quarry.

With his great speed he knew he could easily outdistance them, and then lose them within the darkness, but his eyes flashed in anger at this intrusion by those who sought to close with him, silently, and without warning.

Many times Tarak had been pursued by beasts, and he had fled without anger or remorse, for they were merely trying to survive, and he had represented the food necessary for their survival. He had often fled even from beasts less savage than himself, for killing unnecessarily was alien to his nature, and to risk serious injury without reason was contrary to his savage sense of self-preservation.

Civilized Man, however, appeared to be a beast for whom Tarak was beginning to have different thoughts. Even the huge packs of wild joks, a scourge of the plains and forests, hunted only for food. Man, however, would kill for power, for pleasure, for wealth, for hatred, and seemingly for a variety of other motives which were equally perplexing to the barbarian.

Tarak had come to Neros in peace, and already he had seen the malice and cruelty of which man was capable. His natural instincts were revolted by such behavior, and his patience had similarly eroded.

Another factor acted to prevent Tarak from attempting to elude his pursuers. Man was weak.

Tarak had run in laughter from the small but ferocious tinar, a feline animal perhaps half as large as a man, but so fearless that it would attack game much larger. Often outmatched, tinars fought terrifically, and he had always admired them, although he had never allowed one to catch him in the forest.

A few of them he had battled and killed in Gonor's arena, and he had no desire to repeat the experience, for they were fast and deadly predators.

Man, on the other hand, seemed most ready to fight and kill when he far outmatched his opponent, and had thus little chance of defeat. The large man threatened the small, and the armed man tormented the weaponless.

If the victim was strong, his pursuers banded together in numbers to insure their victory. Tarak's senses apprised him that eight men now approached from his rear, thus assured of their victory by their arms and numbers. They were confident of their superiority, and of their ability to inflict whatever insult or injury they desired upon their quarry. They attempted to move quietly only because they feared their quarry would run and somehow escape them.

Tarak would not run. Not from eight weak, slow, cruel men. Not unless it meant certain death or capture would he run from men, and so as he passed into a dimly lit courtyard he turned, his back against the wall, and awaited his pursuers.

When the squad of warriors realized they had been discovered, they ceased moving quietly and ran quickly into the courtyard, drawing their swords, and spreading out to block the exits. The officer in charge, a burly, bearded fellow, approached boldly to within a few yards of Tarak, and brandishing his sword, a sneer etched upon his swarthy features, he attempted to instill fearful compliance in his prisoner.

"You are arrested in the name of the Tarkan," he shouted loudly. "Throw down any weapons, and kneel to be chained!"

Tarak was silent. He stood immobile, his hands at his sides, relaxed, and met the angry eyes of the officer with his own. Even in the darkness they seemed to flash with an inner fire, a reflection of the matchless will within.

The officer met his gaze for a moment, then faltered.

"Kneel, Slave!" the man said. As if to bolster his demand the officer began to step forward, but the flaring intensity of Tarak's eyes halted the warrior, and he looked into his blond giant's eyes once more. The man looked like a coiled spring waiting for release.

"You are Tarak?" It was a statement, more than a question.

"I am Tarak."

The officer seemed satisfied. "Administrator Pusk has ordered your immediate arrest. He wishes to question you."

Tarak smiled. "That is not surprising."

"Very well. Kneel to be chained."

Tarak did not move, and a scowl darkened the features of the officer. "I am losing my patience, slave, with your insolence. My orders are to bring you to Pusk. Shall I instead produce your corpse? It will not matter to Pusk. Either kneel, or die!" Pusk's orders had been quite specific that Tarak was not to be killed, but the officer wished to end this matter quickly. The prisoner could not know of Pusk's orders, and this man's ignorant arrogance needed mending.

Perhaps, thought the officer, I shall make this man crawl to the palace on his knees.

Tarak's smile faded. "You are a fool, Nerosian, as are those who command you. Perhaps many have trembled at your feet. Probably it has given you much pleasure. Such pleasures, however, can be deadly."

He looked around the courtyard, then turned his gaze again to look directly at the officer.

"Now it is Tarak whose suffering would please you. Now, warrior, you will die."

The officer, somewhat shaken by these words in spite of the numerical superiority of his men, began to step back and order his squad to attack, but before he had uttered a sound Tarak was upon him.

Tarak's arm was a blur as it shot out, crushing the officer's larynx with a single lightning movement of his powerful hand. As the officer slumped to the ground Tarak grabbed the man's sword from a hand gone suddenly limp, and instantly he was among the others, slashing with great, whirling strokes which killed efficiently, shearing limbs and crushing bone; stabbing as he moved like black lightning through the courtyard.

These men in black were butchers, killers of the weak and the defenseless. They were ill prepared for the savage onslaught of their intended victim. Before they had gathered their wits Tarak had killed four, including the officer. His speed and strength were now matched by practiced skill and countless hours gaining experience with the sword.

He had often fought two or more of Foss' troops at the fort simultaneously, men who were far more skilled and courageous than these he now faced in the darkness of the yard.

One man broke and fled, but Tarak's long knife, with which he had often brought down birds in flight, flashed across the darkened courtyard in a shimmering whirl to lodge in the fugitive's throat, and the man fell heavily, groping in the dirt as he died.

Three men remained, standing their ground for an incredulous moment, then hesitantly backing away from the savage giant who stalked them. They parted, and then attempted to attack in a simultaneous assault from three directions.

Tarak moved at the same instant, darting to the left and meeting squarely the man attacking from that direction, killing him with a blindingly fast thrust before the others could close. He leaped free of their attack and faced them, but they had stopped as their companion fell lifeless to the dirt, and were now backing away.

The two men glanced at each other, and then separated, moving steadily away from one another, all thoughts of further battle gone, their concern now that at least one might escape while the other was attacked. Each man's face reflected the fear he felt, for each knew that the one the barbarian chose to attack was doomed.

Tarak chose the nearest, leaping toward the black-clad warrior with his sword poised for a killing thrust, and noticing the other man turn and immediately flee. As he drove his sword forward he smiled, and his eyes gleamed with animal fury.

The man attempted to fight a defensive battle, so that his companion might escape, and to better his own chances of survival, but Tarak had no desire to allow their plan to succeed, and pressed his attack with all his great strength and speed. He feinted, then hammered down at the soldier with a whirring stroke, delivered with the full measure of his strength.

The soldier attempted to block Tarak's blade directly, only to feel his arm crack from the force of the barbarian's stroke. The man screamed in pain, but only for a moment, then slipped silently to the ground, his chest ripped open by a Tarak's next stroke.

Whirling, Tarak leaped for the exit, his senses searching fervently for evidence of his quarry, the last soldier. It had taken only seconds for him to kill his last foe, and as he passed out of the courtyard he heard the receding footsteps of the man's scent, and he quivered slightly with battle-lust as he silently raced after his prey.

Rapidly he closed the gap between them, and soon sighted the man, who was already slowing from fatigue.

"Fight, Nerosian," he said, loudly enough to be heard by his quarry. "Fight or die running, as the elat dies when the tarab pulls him down!"

The man hesitated, fear in his eyes, then stopped suddenly and lashed out with a sudden stroke at Tarak's neck. It was fast and unexpected, and would probably have downed a normal pursuer, but in this instance it was the last move the warrior ever made, for Tarak ducked easily under the whirling blade and drove his sword into the soldier's chest with such force that his hand came in contact with the man's body, knocking the man backward violently as blood spilled from the man's body onto the hilt of Tarak's sword, and onto his hand.

Withdrawing his sword, Tarak wiped the blade on the man's tunic and retraced his way back to the courtyard, where he retrieved his knife. Leaving the borrowed sword lying across the body of its former owner, he quietly left the courtyard to its silent dead, and continued on his way to the tavern.

When he entered the tavern he immediately spied Foss, who sat precariously perched upon the edge of a low table, one arm around a pretty slave girl, and the other raising a large goblet to his lips. The To-Rok was roaring with laughter, and the men around him seemed in equally good spirits. Tarak approached boldly, grinning with pleasure at the sight of his friend, until Foss spotted him and waved him over.

"It is good to see you, my barbarous friend!" Foss bellowed, laughing. "I feared our civilization would be your downfall." He pinched the girl, pushing her gently away with a wink, then waved Tarak down into the seat beside him.

Tarak was warmed by the sight of his friend, and he sat easily, grasping Foss by the shoulder.

"I came to protect you from your own weaknesses, Foss," he said, gesturing widely with his free arm at the entire interior of the tavern.

The To-Rok laughed. "It is true, I am afraid." He shrugged. "But for what other reason do men live, than to be happy?" the To-Rok said, happily. He ordered wine then, for Tarak and for himself.

He looked at the barbarian, amusement in his eyes.

"How has Neros treated her guest?" Then he noticed the bloody spatterings upon Tarak's tunic. "You appear healthy, but I gather that at least one other of our citizens is not so fortunate."

Tarak nodded, and recounted for Foss the events that had transpired since the two men had parted last. Foss listened carefully, frowning frequently, but smiling at other parts of Tarak's story.

"Barkan is a good man. We have been friends for many years, and it is good to know that he still supports me. I shall need support now as I have never needed it before."

"Support for what purpose, Foss?"

"Foss looked gravely at Tarak. "For revolution. Neros is in much worse condition than I feared. The people grow increasingly unhappy, and Jaren, threatened by the grumblings, has embarked upon a program of lies and terror such as have never been thought possible in Neros. Arrests are taking place in increasing numbers, and the arrests and other actions of the Tarkan are accompanied by propaganda so absurd that only the most gullible of our citizens still have much faith in the truth of the Tarkan's words."

Foss hesitated, shaking his head. "The people are, however, afraid. At Pusk's urging, Jaren has increasingly turned to violence as a means of preserving his hold upon the city. I have learned that soon even hunting knives will be forbidden to the people. It is an insult to our heritage, and to our citizens. We are a nation of warriors." Foss looked up, and his steely eyes shone with bitterness.

"Will your people not contest such an insult?"

"Perhaps not. Such a program will be handled efficiently, backed by a series of prepared arguments and propaganda, and accompanied by an overpowering show of force. Our people are not cowardly, but without a leader they will submit to the authority of the Tarkan, for he is after all, the Tarkan."

"You say they have no leader. Do you then, Foss, intend to lead them?"

Foss looked into Tarak's eyes, and nodded. "Yes. It has been difficult for me to make this decision, for to revolt against the Tarkan is tantamount to revolting against the city herself, under the traditional laws of Neros. Still, I cannot let her sink into total submission to this tyrant."

The To-Rok drank deeply from his goblet. "I should have fought Jaren long ago. Now it will be much more difficult. Still, I must try."

The To-Rok's eyes were grim with determination and resolve, and reminded Tarak of the calm grey eyes he had faced in the stockade when he had sought to kill the men who had attacked him that first night.

Tarak smiled inwardly. Foss might die, but he would never relinquish his stance, once taken.

"What do you think of this man, Administrator Pusk, Foss?" he asked.

"He is a killer. A man who loves nothing, and respects nothing, except his own power. He was a To-Rok when I commanded in Neros, but I did not allow him to rise higher, for he displayed such cruelty to his men that he did not deserve promotion. Instead, I found a post where he could not harm those who served under him, or any others."

"Why did he remain a To-Rok?"

"His skills were too valuable. Pusk is accounted one of the best swordsmen in Neros, and his skill with other weapons is equally great. Coupled with his seemingly natural instinct to kill, these skills render him a most formidable foe, and a worthy champion and teacher. He has in fact won the title of First Sword of Neros for the past few years, and to my knowledge he has never been beaten in competition. I utilized his skill by appointing him commander of the training facility for warriors. It was of course a brutal experience for the trainees, but was not overly long, and many fine warriors learned their fighting skills from him."

"Did he defeat you in these competitions, Foss?"

"No. When I became Rok, I no longer entered such events."

"Who was champion, First Sword, prior to Pusk?"

"Foss was First Sword!" One of the men at the table shouted. He won the honor for several years, and even traveled to Kalnor his last year as First Sword, to compete there in Kalnor's Great Tournament, the most famous of all competitions. Men of more than a dozen cities fought, and in the competition for the highest honor, that of Master Sword, Foss, First Sword of Neros, finished third!"

The warrior beamed with pride for the To-Rok, and those warriors within earshot also smiled, and raised their goblets in a salute to this past honor.

It was apparent that the To-Rok's accomplishment had been truly extraordinary, and Tarak was impressed, although not surprised. Instead of offering his congratulations, however, he raised a quizzical eyebrow, and frowned at the To-Rok.

"Third?" he queried.

Foss laughed loudly, and his eyes glistened as memories surfaced of the that tournament, and of other days long past. "Yes, my friend, only third, I fear.

I came face to face with my limitations that year. I was younger then, and I thought myself invincible, perhaps to the point of arrogance. In fair Kalnor I found otherwise."

The man who had previously trumpeted Foss' prowess was undaunted.

"Third among the finest warriors of more than a dozen cities!" The warrior's voice rose, as he addressed the crowded tavern. "Men of Neros! Remember Foss, and the pride he brought to our hearts that day, in the Great Tournament of Kalnor!"

He ceased speaking for a moment, and the tavern grew quiet. Then the speaker, whose name Tarak knew to be Joko, continued.

"He was the finest warrior of Neros that time, and nearly the finest in Aantor."

"To Foss!" he shouted. "May he again command the armies of Neros!"

Joko raised his goblet high in the air, saluting his commander, and then drained its contents with a flourish.

Tarak noted that without exception the other occupants of the tavern too raised their goblets in salute of the To-Rok. They drank, and then looked silently at Foss, who was seated, watching them.

Tarak looked around the tavern. These were hard men, warriors who had suffered in many battles. Men who had no illusions, and few heroes. Life was precious to them, and yet they so obviously loved and respected their commander that Tarak had little doubt that each of them would gladly risk his life for the To-Rok.

Foss, smiling, rose and addressed his men. "Let us instead salute Neros herself, for she is the only victor who matters."

He drank, and the warriors joined him, many cheering and crying out the names of Foss and Neros. The To-Rok smiled, and then sat down, nodding with appreciation to those who so honored him. In a few minutes the men had resumed their conversations, and the tavern had returned to its normal riotous state.

Tarak found himself again learning new and amazing things about this grizzled warrior, and once again his respect for Foss increased. He was finding it somewhat difficult, in fact, to retain his look of bored indifference, as he turned again to the To-Rok.

"I am certain that you represented your city admirably, Foss, but frankly this tribute seems all out of proportion to a man who was bested before he even reached the final match. Tell me, To-Rok, of the men who were truly masters of the sword. Tell me of the warriors who finished first and second."

Foss looked back into the innocent emerald eyes, smiling.

"I think I shall never need worry about affecting arrogance so long as you are near, Tarak. Perhaps I should have refrained from teaching to you a sense of civilized humor."

Tarak laughed, clapping Foss on the shoulder. "It was truly a mistake, To-Rok! But tell me of the tournament, and of these truly great swordsmen."

Foss leaned back, his eyes glistening as the memories lighted his features. "Every few years Kalnor sponsored a great tournament whose purpose was to honor the physical arts of war, and to award honors to a champion in each event. As a result of its coastal location and traditional reputation, Kalnor provided an ideal location for contestants from several cities to meet, and champions from inland cities as well as cities from across the sea came to Kalnor to compete in the tournament."

"It was a time of great festivity, and many were the caravans which traveled to Kalnor to attend."

He stopped, eyes closed for a moment, remembering. Then he continued.

"Upon Aantor, the sword is considered the basic fighting weapon of the warrior, and skill with the sword is regarded over and above that accorded to any other form of combat. While Kalnor honored a champion in each event, the warrior whose blade was ultimately victorious in swordplay was awarded the title of Master Sword. His name is forever honored then among the peoples of the competing cities, and is etched indelibly into the base of a statue which guards the entrance to the Stadium of Kalnor. It is considered an honor even to compete in the Tournament, for this signifies mastery not only among one's own people, but among the finest of Aantorian warriors."

Tarak feigned indifference. "But what of those warriors who finished first and second that year; who were truly masters of the sword."

"The year I was chosen," continued Foss, ignoring him, "was the first year that the tournament had been held since Malenot had gained control of Kalnor, and had proclaimed himself Tarkan. Few persons attended as spectators, other than Kalnorians and mercenary warriors, but a number of cities did send champions, and, considering the conditions prevailing in Kalnor, it was a memorable tournament."

"I fought well, and won my way into the semifinal match, where I faced a young Kalnorian, whose name was Kiron. I had fought many difficult matches, but never had I encountered a swordsman as fine as this man. He too, seemed to be equally surprised at my skill, and our fight was long and furious. At first the people cheered only for Kiron, for after all he was of their city. Kalnorians are fine sportsmen, however, and eventually I garnered my share of supporters, though they were certainly far outnumbered, for when the people realized I had almost no one from my city to cheer my cause, some cheered for me even against their own champion."

"Kiron himself was not then living within the city, for he had fled when Malenot had taken power. He had offered to compete if he were granted safe entry and exit, and this Malenot granted, for Kiron was a magnificent and popular warrior, and it was important to the Tarkan that his citizens enjoy the Tournament."

"Kiron taught me much about swordplay that day, although I think I taught him a few things in return."

"I imagine he beat you pretty badly," commented Tarak.

Foss smiled involuntarily, and continued.

"In the tournaments men fight with swords dulled much like the practice swords we used in the stockade, but these are tipped with a short needle, which will draw blood if a lunge contacts the body. Contestants fight wearing only a brief loincloth and a helmet, so that blood spilled can easily be seen. Slashes and hammering strokes can be easily judged, but sometimes the successful lunge is less easily detected, so that under the rules when a man bleeds a judge will sometimes halt the fight to examine the wound. The warrior is then handicapped to simulate the effect which a normal weapon would have caused. All the fights at the tournament are supposedly to the death, and often a judge will declare one opponent dead after he has examined the man's wounds, or disabled such that he is as good as dead."

"Neither Kiron nor myself were able, however, to inflict a disabling or lethal injury, although we were both bruised, tired, and bloody. Finally we could fight no more, and the judges were forced to declare a victor by decision, something never before done in the tournament. They chose Kiron."

"Because he was a Kalnorian?"

Foss shook his head slightly. "No, my friend, though of course I would like to think so. He could not kill me, but his overall skill was superior to mine, and I suffered more wounds than did he, though they were minor. The judgment was unanimous, and not all of the judges that day were men of Kalnor. I learned to accept defeat that day, but found it not too difficult to bear, for Kiron was a great warrior, and we became good friends during the competition. I later won third place in a match with a warrior from Car."

"Kiron then won the tournament?"

Foss' eyes hardened. "No. In the final match he faced a mercenary warrior, one of those retained by Malenot, a man by the name of Gorkok. He was incredibly large and strong, perhaps a few inches taller even than you, and never have I seen a finer swordsman. He dispatched his opponents with a savage swiftness and marvelous skill, and entered the final day of he Tournament with barely a scratch upon his body. Kiron was given a few days in which to recover after our match, so his minor wounds did not bother him against Gorkok, though the healing wounds were evident. Kiron fought valiantly, but Gorkok was the best swordsman, and was in addition possessed of greatly superior size and strength."

"The match lasted only a few minutes, and Kiron lay bleeding in the sand, his shield arm broken and his body a mass of blood. Gorkok was also bleeding, but only superficially, and he outraged the citizens of Kalnor by spitting upon the prostrate form of their champion, Kiron. Since that day the tournament has been suspended, though I have heard that this year it resumes."

"Is this mercenary still in Kalnor?" asked Tarak.

"Yes. He is the captain of Tarkan Malenot's personal guard, as well as his personal executioner."

"What became of Kiron?"

"It is rumored that Malenot broke his promise and imprisoned Kiron, later selling him into slavery to another city."

Tarak was about to reply, when the owner of the tavern suddenly rushed over to their table.

"Many soldiers approach, Commander Foss!" he shouted. "A man has heard that they have come to arrest To-Rok Foss and his men, or to kill him."

"The Tarkan moves quickly, Foss said, looking up at the owner. "More quickly than I had anticipated." He turned to his men. "Joko, saddle the Drifs. We must leave the city tonight."

Joko hastened from the room, and Foss directed his men to gather their weapons. To Tarak he said. "I am sorry, my friend. I had hoped we might spend more time in Neros. Now we shall be fortunate to leave."

Tarak shrugged. "It is about what I expected from a host as yourself."

Foss laughed. "Put aside your sparkling wit at least until we are outside the walls. I shall have enough to do without contending with your halfhearted attempts at humor."

Suddenly the door burst open, and in an instant retreating men backed into the large room, upsetting tables and chairs as they fought with the intruders, men dressed in black who pressed the defenders back into the tavern.

"Pusk's men!" snarled Foss. He raised his voice to be heard. "Head for the rear door!"

The men in black poured steadily into the room, while Foss and his followers moved backwards toward the heavy door which now stood open behind them. So many were the invaders that they threatened to overwhelm the defenders with sheer force of numbers, but again and again they were thrown back, as man after man escaped through the rear door.

In the swarming center of the assault Tarak and Foss stood together, and their blades wove a circle of death as they protected those behind them. Foss was brilliant, thrusting, slashing, and parrying with such skill that a pile of men began to form in front of him, over which new attackers had to stumble.

Next to the To-Rok Tarak was himself devastating. The swift whirling of his sword sheared through bone and flesh, while he stabbed and parried with his long knife. Throwing caution to the wind, he drove his body forward into the midst of the attackers, slashing and battering with such great force that for a moment the men in black faltered, and gave ground.

Foss shouted at him, cautioning a retreat, but Tarak's blood was fired with lust of battle, and he pressed on, screaming his challenge like a maddened tarab, as the men in black gaped in fearful amazement.

Tarak's eyes were pools of emerald fire, and his body moved with lightning swiftness as he fought with a terrible ferocity such as the warriors in that room had never seen.

Tarak heard a cry, and glancing toward the kitchen, saw the slave girl, Rela, in the grip of a huge warrior.

The man ripped the tunic from her body with his hairy hands, and then started to drag her, screaming, toward the entrance. She fought like a cornered tinar, but the man became suddenly enraged, and knocked her to the floor, where she lay helpless as he raised his sword to deliver a cruel and killing blow to the helpless girl. The stroke had scarcely begun to fall, however, when Tarak's knife suddenly sliced into the man's throat, and the warrior sank to the floor with choking screams.

Tarak battered his way to the fallen girl, and standing over her he bellowed forth his hatred for the men in black, snarling bestially as he whirled his crimson sword.

A shout caught his attention for a moment, and he looked at Foss, who stood at the rear door, alone, waiting for Tarak, so that they might escape. Foss beckoned forcefully, but the blond giant shook his head.

"Go, Foss! You must not wait, lest they will cut short your escape. The fate of your city lies with you. Go!"

Then he looked briefly down at Rela, and back at Foss. He shrugged his shoulders, and suddenly grinned at the To-Rok.

"I have become fond of her!"

Foss could not help smiling at the blond warrior, in spite of the grave situation.

"Then live for her, my friend! I shall return for you both!" Foss then drove forward recklessly into the enemy, slashing so violently and with such skill that momentarily the attackers backed up. The instant they moved back, Foss whirled back through the door, and it was slammed and bolted behind him.

The men in black threw themselves against the heavy barrier, but his door had been designed to withstand just such an assault, and their efforts were futile.

Tarak turned his attention to the ring of attackers who faced him. He knew that it had been an incredibly difficult decision for Foss to leave a friend, but knew that the To-Rok had recognized the reality of the situation, as had Tarak.

The To-Rok could never have battled his way to Tarak, and yet still escaped himself, for all of his warriors had already escaped through the heavy door. Since Tarak had plainly refused to move toward Foss, the To-Rok had no choice but to escape before the men in black overpowered him by sheer force of numbers.

Now the warriors turned their attention fully upon the man who stood alone against them. Tarak grabbed up another sword, and with one in each hand he defended the girl who lay half-conscious at his feet. Twice they came at him, and twice his bestial savagery drove them back, muttering and screaming as they retreated or fell bleeding to the slippery floor.

A shout from without suddenly halted the assault, and the warriors fell back respectfully as an officer entered, accompanied by a squad of bowmen. The bows these men carried were smaller than those carried by the wroks, but they were obviously deadly weapons, and as Tarak gazed upon their shafts, drawn and aimed at his broad chest, he felt certain he was about to die.

"Gurts of Neros," he said. "I spit upon your cowardice."

The officer looked appraisingly at the lone defender, and his eyes widened slightly as he looked. Like a bronze statue Tarak stood, tall and proud and challenging. His blond hair was plastered against his skull, and sweat gleamed and dripped from his body, reflecting the scattered torchlight which played upon the barbarian's rippling muscles, which seemed to glide beneath his skin even as he stood motionless in the crowded tavern.

Blood washed his frame, from his wounds and those he had inflicted upon others, and his tunic was shredded and soggy. No trace of fear was evident in the malevolent eyes which gleamed fiercely, flashing like brilliant gems, or like the eyes of a wild beast of prey.

"If you throw down your weapons, and submit to our chains," said the warrior, "you will not be killed, nor the girl. If you refuse, my bowmen shall kill you both."

Tarak looked about him at the carnage. Dead and decapitated men lay everywhere, and the floor ran with blood. He looked down at Rela, and saw her smile up at him, tears and wonder in her eyes. He looked up again at the officer, shrugged his shoulders, and tossed his weapons to the floor.

At a signal from the officer two men moved cautiously forward and recovered the weapons, then chained his arms behind his back. A chain was fastened between his ankles, approximately two feet in length. Rela was similarly bound, and they were shoved out through the tavern entrance and into the night.

Tarak remained silent as they walked, but smiled when he heard a warrior tell the officer that Foss and his men had escaped, and were riding for the main gate of the city. Another warrior noticed the smile, and sharply prodded Tarak with his sword point, drawing blood, and causing the barbarian to turn and look fixedly at his tormentor, as if memorizing the warrior's features. The warrior glared at the prisoner momentarily, but his eyes dropped shortly thereafter, and he moved away, muttering, as the procession made its way toward the Palace Gates.

Tarak walked indifferently in the midst of his captors, as they entered the Palace grounds, moving through torch-lit walkways which the barbarian could see were beautiful even in the flickering light cast by the torches.

The procession was halted briefly at the Palace entrance, then proceeded into the Palace itself. Inside, they moved directly along a wide, well-lit hall, which ended at a pair of tall wooden doors. Here again the men halted, while Tarak's captors conversed with the warriors who guarded these doors. After a moment, the doors swung open, and they passed into the room which lay beyond, and moved toward the far end.

The room was large, and lavishly decorated, with huge tapestries and multi-colored paintings hanging from the walls. The floor was of polished marble, and bare of carpeting. Several large windows provided abundant light during the hours of day, and torches were conveniently affixed at frequent intervals along the walls to provide light during the hours of darkness.

The ceiling was arched, needing no pillars for support, and the resultant view was of a spacious, majestic hall. A hall fit for a Tarkan.

The large wooden doors provided access at the near end of the hall, and at the other end, perhaps two hundred feet distant, stood the raised dais upon which rested the Throne of Neros.

The dais was constructed of carved marble, darker than that used for the flooring, and arranged in a series of steps, which rose to the Throne itself, which stood nearly ten feet above the floor. A wider step approximately half-way up the dais was utilized as a lesser platform, and upon this step the nobles high in the Tarkan's favor stood, their feet resting upon richly woven rugs.

The Throne itself was polished black marble, and purple cushions, trimmed in gold and white, softened its seat and back. The dais was the only furniture within the hall, and its occupant commanded a clear view of the entire chamber.

Tarak stood silently at the foot of the dais. He had examined the chamber as he entered, and during the period of time he had been marched toward the dais. Now his attention was focused upon the occupant of the Throne, Jaren, Tarkan of Neros, who sat in his purple splendor and looked down upon the prisoner.

The Tarkan was much older than Tarak, perhaps older than Foss, but where age had imparted wisdom and patience to the latter, this man appeared cruel and nervous. Jaren was not large, though he appeared well muscled, and he sat erectly, befitting his station. His brown hair was short and simply cut, and his beard trimmed immaculately. The eyes were also brown, and darted from place to place constantly, as if seeking, or perhaps fearing, something not perceived.

The Tarkan possessed regular features, but power and the terror of its misuse seemed to have etched his face with innumerable lines, and his mouth was thin and cruel.

On the wide step below the Tarkan stood Pusk, legs apart and broad arms folded across his chest. Several of his men stood upon the lower steps, their black tunics contrasting sharply with the rich colors of the luxurious rugs which lined the dais.

Jaren's tunic, as was traditional among Aantorian Tarkans, was of a deep purple, and was trimmed with gold, as were his sandals.

The Tarkan looked sharply at Tarak several times without speaking, each time looking away quickly as the prisoner returned his stare. Jaren had been informed of the identity of the barbarian, and of his obvious loyalty to and friendship with Foss, and he now seemed to be contemplating this information. Finally he spoke.

"You are the barbarian who is a friend of the To-Rok Foss-Pan-Velsor?"

"Yes. He is my friend."

Jaren scowled, and abruptly smiled, as if pleased with himself.

"You admit, then that you helped Foss in his treason against Neros?"

"Foss is my friend."

"You are his friend, and you have aided him against me." Jaren said. "Foss desires my throne. This is now common knowledge." Jaren leaned forward slightly. "Do you deny it?"

Tarak shrugged. "I admit or deny nothing. Perhaps he does. It does not matter to me. And if he does, it is certainly not treason against Neros, for you are not Neros. You are only a man."

Jaren's features darkened, and Pusk sprang down the steps, sword drawn. Jaren's next words stopped the Administrator.

"No, Pusk, a quick death is not my wish for this one."

Pusk sheathed his sword, but before he ascended once more to his platform he spat upon the barbarian, sneering at the chained captive.

Tarak said nothing, and made no move to avoid the insult. His gaze had shifted, however, from Jaren to Pusk, and now a fire began to glow within his eyes.

"Let me kill him," demanded Pusk. "He has insulted the Tarkan, and thus all of Neros."

Jaren shook his head. "We can kill him at any time, Pusk. First he shall live for a time in the pits of Neros. Then perhaps he will entertain us in the arena, if he survives the pits."

Jaren was laughing, and Pusk joined him in his mirth, but as the prisoner showed no evidence of fear, or any other desired response, their laughter soon quieted.

"Have you not heard of the pits, and of the arena, barbarian?" demanded Jaren.

"I believe Foss mentioned the arena," Tarak answered. "I do not believe I have heard of your pits."

The Tarkan smiled. "I think you would rather welcome a quick death, perhaps at the sword of my Administrator, who apparently seems anxious to accommodate you."

"As long as my arms remained chained behind my back," said Tarak, "I am certain Pusk would welcome such an opportunity to demonstrate his swordsmanship."

Again the Administrator reached for his weapon. His face was livid as he looked into the appraising, mocking eyes of the barbarian. He controlled his rage with difficulty, and slammed the sword back into its scabbard viciously, and his voice was deadly.

"You shall regret your insults, and shall die slowly, fool!"

Tarak smiled faintly. "Perhaps more slowly than you think, Administrator."

Pusk was about to reply when a warrior entered and made his way to the dais. He saluted formally, then with trepidation informed the Tarkan that Foss had battled his way through the main gate and had escaped to the countryside.

Jaren scowled. "Damn the traitor!" For some seconds the Tarkan seemed to dwell upon this, his eyes darting about the chamber, as if he might draw some knowledge or find a solution to this new problem from the Hall itself.

Finally he calmed. "Well, it does not matter. Foss is an outlaw now, and should be easy enough to capture once word is sent to the Fort garrisons."

He turned to Tarak. "I have no more time to waste upon filth such as you. Be certain, however, that you shall receive the full measure of my hospitality."

Jaren then turned to the guard. "Take him to the pits."

The officer who had captured Tarak now grabbed him and led him away from the Throne, out of the Hall, and the palace. They crossed the spacious grounds in silence, and after a few moments Tarak realized their destination was a large, low building which was set against one of the walls surrounding the palace grounds.

Since this building was in the rear of the palace, Tarak had not noticed it previously.

Very few people were present in this area, but Tarak noticed that the building itself was guarded by a squad of warriors, and that the heavy door was secured, apparently from the inside. His captor returned a salute, and then knocked upon the door, which after a moment was opened to admit them. They entered, and the door was closed and locked behind them.

The interior of the building consisted of one huge room, the ceiling being supported by a series of thick supporting posts. The entrance area was separated from the rest of the room, however, by a double set of barred walls, each containing a barred door. The arrangement seemed designed to keep the occupants within the structure, rather than to keep those outside from entering. The barred walls were perhaps ten feet apart, and the entrance area itself was another ten feet in depth.

They passed to the first barred door, and one of the three guards within the outer enclosure moved forward to unlock it. After they had passed within the barred passageway, the lone guard located there moved forward to unlock the final door, and locked it again after they passed through.

It seemed to be a secure system. The guards in the entrance area had control over both the outside door and to the first inner barred door. Should they be overcome, the guard within the barred passageway had only to unlock the inner door and relock it from the other side, and he would be safely within the main area of the building.

Conversely, should the occupants of the structure revolt and overcome the interior guards, or even overcome the passageway guard, they would still be locked within by virtue of the outer barred door. The two barred doors were never open at the same time.

Tarak did not despair, or otherwise resign himself to captivity. He had already learned that where men reigned, mistakes were often made, and he was patient as the wild carnivore is patient.

A large number of tables occupied the inner room, and Tarak noticed that a man was chained to each table, sifting through dirt, and occasionally picking something out of the dirt and placing it into a small bowl filled with what appeared to be water. The sifted dirt he then dumped into a large bucket, and when the bucket was filled another prisoner carried it away, and dumped it into a wheeled hopper, while another man brought a fresh bucket of apparently unsifted dirt to the chained laborer.

Tarak noticed a man wheeling a filled hopper toward the far side of the room, the wall of which was also the outside palace wall. The man dumped the hopper's contents onto what appeared to be the top of a large ramp, then brought the empty hopper back to its original place.

Tarak questioned his captor about this operation, but received only a grunt as a response.

Several slaves, as Tarak assumed these chained men to be, were secured to a large winch, and their labor was at the moment raising something from a hole in the floor, which measured perhaps five feet in diameter, and which was located some distance from the outside wall.

His guards pushed him near the edge of the hole, which he saw was really a cylindrical shaft, and as he looked down he saw a large bucket rising toward the surface, filled with dirt. Thirty men labored at the winch, and the strain upon their faces convinced Tarak that the load was indeed heavy. The slaves worked until the bucket had cleared the floor, and rested for a moment as it was swung aside and disconnected from the long chain, and another bucket attached.

At this point Tarak was made to climb into the empty bucket, which was then swung out over the shaft, and the winch began to lower it into the darkness below. Before the bucket had descended into the shaft the officer told Tarak to turn his back, and when he had complied the warrior quickly unlocked and removed the chains which bound his arms behind him.

He flexed his arms gratefully, and looked up at the warriors, each now with sword drawn, watching him. Then the lowering of the winch carried the bucket below the surface and they were lost to his sight.

As he was lowered into the shaft he examined the walls, and noted that they were smooth and of a circumference scarcely larger than the bucket. Even were the bucket not almost continually blocking the shaft, they would be impossible to climb. As he descended further the light became so dim that sight was difficult, so he sat down in the bucket and waited.

He estimated that he had descended perhaps a hundred feet when the shaft ended suddenly, and the roof of a huge cavern loomed above and to all sides about him. Rising to his feet, Tarak looked out over his new surroundings, grateful that the cavern was at least lighted, however dimly. The stench, however, which he had first vaguely noticed in the room above, was now intense.

The floor of the cavern was perhaps forty feet beneath him, and at the point where the bucket would land he noticed several men gathered, while more seemed to be headed in his direction from other areas of the cavern, or were emerging from portals which presumably led to other caverns.

Even in the dim light Tarak could see that they were filthy, emaciated creatures, and that they were weaponless. The bucket touched bottom a moment later, and he leaped out, prepared for whatever reception these men intended.

The men seemed not to notice him, however, and immediately began to fill the bucket with dirt which they had brought from other areas of the complex. They were incredibly filthy, bone-thin, and most were naked and covered with slime, their hair matted and greasy.

The others who had emerged from the cavern openings and now approached also ignored him, and he saw that they were carrying dirt in what appeared to be the remnants of tunics, probably those they had worn into this pit.

Several times he spoke to them, but although they glanced in his direction none would respond to his queries, so he left them to their labor, and continued through the cavern, intending to explore this strange place, where men worked ceaselessly, without supervision, and would not speak.

After several minutes he entered a cavern which differed markedly from the others. Cooking fires were present here, and several haggard women tended these fires. This chamber was quite well lighted, torches being present in abundance along the walls, indicating that this was perhaps the main area of the underground cavern, perhaps the place in which the occupants ate and slept.

One fire was larger than the others, and around this fire several men were gathered, laying and sitting near the fire. These were the first men Tarak had seen who were not engaged in unrelenting manual labor, and they seemed different in several other respects, as well.

While their hair was shaggy, they wore tunics to cover their bodies, and they appeared to be reasonably well fed and much cleaner than the filthy, emaciated creatures he had first encountered. He approached the group casually, noticing that his entrance to the cavern had come to the attention of the group.

As Tarak approached, one man, large and stocky, rose and came toward him. The man was possessed of crude, coarse features, and a powerful, muscular frame, with knots of sinew bulging beneath his hairy skin. The man's surly features twisted into a sneering smile as Tarak approached.

"Welcome to the pits, slave!" he bellowed, with heavy sarcasm in his voice. "I am Lok, Boss of the pits of Neros." He attempted to straighten his slovenly posture in an effort to look important.

Tarak stood silent for a moment. "You seem to be nothing but another prisoner." he said, finally. "By whose authority do you govern?" Lok's manner had annoyed him, but he betrayed no emotion, and merely watched the man as he spoke.

Lok's smile became a grimace. "I rule by force," he retorted, and began to move forward threateningly, stopping however when he realized Tarak was not retreating. "My friends," he said, jerking his head backward toward the rest of the men, "help me to maintain my rule. I control all work, all clothing, and all women here. Be certain that you learn this quickly."

Tarak ignored the comment. "What is the purpose of this place?" he asked.

Lok laughed, an ugly laugh which contained no humor. "These are the pits of Neros. Here you will spend the rest of your life digging for gems."

"I have never heard of these pits," said Tarak.

"Few know of their existence. Even the men who dump the garbage do not know that other men live in the bottom of their dump."

Tarak now realized the source of the foul smell which permeated the entire cavern. "The palace garbage is dumped into this place, then?"

"More than that," answered Lok. "This is one of the main dumps of Neros. The building from which you were lowered is thought to be a sanitation house by the people. The outside opening is located at the foot of the palace wall, on the outside, and from there much of the garbage of the city is dumped into these pits."

It falls into a large chamber, near a pit which apparently has no bottom, but from which comes a smell so strong that the entire cavern reeks of sewage. Originally only captured wroks lived down here, feeding on the garbage, and throwing it into the pit. Several wroks still live in the sewage chamber, but now they direct men, slaves such as yourself, who were sent here when the gems were discovered."

"Who directs the wroks?"

"They take orders from no man, and are supreme here, for although they are outnumbered, men fear them, and in addition they have the only weapons. Garbage is checked carefully to prevent something valuable from going into the pit, but occasionally something slips through, and the wroks keep all weapons and other valuable items which find their way here."

"You work for the wroks, then?"

"No. I gathered together a band of men, and we deal with them. I provide them with slaves, so that they rarely have to leave their chamber. In exchange for this they provide me with all the food I need to feed my men, and guards for the entrance to the lower pit."

"You exist on the garbage, then?" Tarak calculated mentally the tremendous amounts of fresh garbage which must fall into the cavern daily. "Why are so many starving in such a place?"

Lok laughed. "Because I do not choose to feed them more. If they were well fed, they would not hunt the ascs, and we would be overrun with the filthy animals."

Tarak thought of the small asc, a rodent, about a foot long, with greasy hair and long teeth. Ascs lived on carrion, and in numbers could be dangerous to an unarmed man. The idea of starving men so they would hunt the vicious ascs was revolting. Undoubtedly many of the hunters had ended up as victims of the creatures.

"How many men labor here?" he asked, desirous of learning as much about this place as Lok would tell him.

Lok shrugged, "I don't know. Perhaps three thousand."

Tarak was amazed. "I have not seen more than fifty."

"Most are kept in the lower pit, below this level. There is a shaft similar to the one you descended, which drops about fifty feet into the lower pit. Anyone who displeases me or any of my men is sent there." Lok laughed. "You would not like it. No torches are allowed, and the ceiling is not high enough to enable a man to stand erect. Most of the three thousand men and women who live there scramble around in perpetual darkness, digging at the hard soil and rock with bleeding hands, so that they can fill the quota I have set for them, and so they will thus be rewarded with heaps of rotting garbage to fight over in the blackness."

"Do they not try to escape?"

Lok laughed. "Each time one makes such an attempt, we cease feeding them for a few days. A community sense of self-preservation keeps the attempts few. Two armed wrok guards stand at the shaft entrance, and the few men who have ridden up the bucket were killed instantly, dismembered, and thrown back down the shaft."

Tarak frowned slightly. "Do not the workers on this level try to help them?"

"Let me show you something of their courage," said Lok, smiling. As Tarak watched, Lok commanded several of the occupants of the chamber, though not his own men, to drop to the ground and begin eating dirt. Without exception, they obeyed instantly, choking and coughing, but still heaping handfuls of the dirt into their mouths, and trying desperately to swallow. Lok laughed, and his men joined in the laughter, and after a moment he commanded the slaves to return to their labors.

"They would eat their arms off if I so commanded," he said. "All of these have been to the lower pit, and know that I will send them down again at the slightest sign of disobedience."

"Do you send women below?" asked Tarak.

"Of course. If one displeases me, or begins to lose her beauty, she is immediately thrown into the shaft."

Tarak looked at the boss of the pits carefully, wondering if he should kill this man now, or if he should perhaps wait, and seek to gather more information. His features were calm, but his eyes gleamed lightly, and he knew that he would kill Lok.

"How many of the wroks live here?"

Lok shrugged, "Perhaps twenty, perhaps thirty. Since we have an arrangement with them, it is not important.

A sudden noise behind Tarak diverted the attention of both men. Sounds of course laughter mixed with feminine protests came to their ears, and a familiar scent reached the sensitive nostrils of Tarak.

Soon a heavily built man entered the cavern, dragging a slim blonde girl, who was fighting futilely, and trying to escape the man's rough hold. Tarak felt a momentary pang of desire at the sight of Rela, the slave girl with whom he had shared memorable moments. He had forgotten her since their capture, and wondered why she had been sent to such a fate. Even as he thought he turned and moved toward the man.

"She is mine." he said calmly. "Release her."

The man stopped, scowling suddenly. "Who is this fool, Lok?" he then demanded of the leader, absently kicking Rela in the side to quiet her struggles. He looked down at her momentarily, and as he looked up Tarak was upon him. An instant later he lay screaming and wheezing in the dirt with a broken back.

Rela looked at him, and then up at Tarak, but the blond barbarian had already turned, and instead of fleeing was moving swiftly toward Lok and his men, who upon witnessing the attack were on their feet and moving forward.

Rela wondered at Tarak's foolishness, for he faced a dozen large men. After an unbelieving moment, however, she realized that it were as if a mountain tarab faced a dozen elat. His ferocity and speed were incredible as he whirled and crushed, biting and screaming like a wild beast. Necks snapped, throats were ripped out, limbs pulled from their sockets, as he seemed to glide from foe to foe, tossing and killing them as if they were children, moving so swiftly that they could neither mount a concerted attack nor escape. Two men at once leaped upon his back, seeking to crush him to the ground, but his figure stood firm, the muscles in his legs swelling, as he pulled them from his back with a swift wrench of his arms and shoulders, and broke their backs with his hands.

So swiftly did he kill that nine men were dead within a few moments, and as the survivors attempted to flee, he ran them down and one by one broke their necks.

Lok was one of the last to die, for he had sought shelter behind the others, and had nearly made it into a connecting tunnel before Tarak overtook him and leaped upon his back, killing him as he had killed the others.

Finally the last man crumpled to the dirt, and Tarak turned toward Rela, who felt her awe start to become fear, as she gazed upon the inhuman intensity of the flame in his eyes, those emerald fires which blazed out from that magnificent warrior figure of.

As he looked at her the green fires faded quickly, however, and his body, taut with energy and blood-lust, seemed to relax. He walked slowly over to where she lay, and smiled down at her.

"Do not fear, Rela. No one will hurt you again."

She gazed up in awe at the blond giant. "You killed them all, with your hands."

He shrugged. "Men are weak, even with weapons. Without them, they are as nothing. I learned to fight long before a weapon ever touched my hand."

She looked at his body. He was scarcely wounded, though blood ran from his mouth where he had bitten into the throat of a man. He seemed unreal, as if he had been changed into a beast, a killing beast, and now had changed back into a man again.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"These are the pits of Neros. I shall explain later. Now I must find the rest of Lok's men, and kill them."

He led the way through the caverns, and she followed. She was afraid they would be discovered, but he heard approaching sounds long before she did, and they hid, waiting for men to pass. Some continued upon their way, unaware of the two watchers. Others, those who were well fed and dressed, suddenly found a savage hand around their throat, and these died soundlessly.

Tarak killed six men, and then they could find no more. Finally he stopped a slender, dirty man who was hurrying along the path, his arms and back straining under a heavy load of dirt.

"Who are you, Nerosian?" Tarak asked. The man tried to slip past, but Tarak grabbed his arm, gently but firmly.

"Do not fear," he said. "Lok is dead, as are his followers. He will punish you no longer."

Still the man looked down, shuffling from side to side, as if seeking to find an opening past the blonde giant. Tarak straightened the man with a swift jerk of his shoulders, and looked deep into the captive's eyes.

"You are a man of Neros, and I have heard that the men of Neros are brave men, who do not run from shadows, or look at the feet of those who address them. Speak to me, Nerosian."

The man raised his eyes then, and for a moment looked Tarak squarely in the face. His eyes seemed to brighten, and he straightened himself.

"I am Anon-Vo-Orum. Warrior of Neros." He stopped then, as if to relish the words he had uttered. He seemed to straighten more then, and even in his rags appeared to gain some measure of dignity. He shook his shoulder, and Tarak released his arm.

"What do you wish of me?"

"I wish to free those who are imprisoned below," Tarak answered, "and I will need your guidance."