Tarak and the Hill People

Tarak stood on the surging deck of the Princess of Costus as the ship thrust its sleek form forward through the swells of the wild blue seas. The wind poured its power into the taut sails and drove the vessel forward relentlessly, while spray wet the air above the slanting deck.

His hair streamed out in the wind, and his eyes danced as they peered ahead into the endless motion of the sea. Above and ahead birds circled, heralding their nearness to landfall. He grinned, hugely enjoying the thrill of the sea and the wind, and anticipating new adventures when they soon reached the Southern shores of Kal. They had traveled for many days Southward across Kal; days of calmness and days of stormy skies and lashing waves. He had greatly enjoyed the voyage, but also experienced a sense of confinement, even under the wide skies which surrounded them; and was eager to reach land, where he could run and leap and hunt.

He had become a favorite among the sailors, for he had soon explored the masts and spars high above, ignoring the warnings of the Captain and of Pell Jax; warnings which stuck in their throats as Tarak swept up the main mast in seconds; to leap far over their heads to alight upon a secondary mast. For several moments he had stood high above them; perched upon a spar, looking out over the sea as the ship rolled and surged through the waves. Then he had run along the spar and leaped once more, back to the main, from where he climbed to its tip. Again he stood, balanced without thought upon the highest point upon the ship, effortlessly perched as the top of the mast swayed back and forth high above the deck. He felt wonderful, and thereafter daily he used the masts and rigging to exercise his muscles and skills in this new element, to the stunned amazement of those who watched from below.

He learned from the sailors the techniques of handling the sails, and helped them whenever he could, despite the protests from the Captain. Once, during a storm, the wind had grown so fierce that the Captain had ordered the men to stay on deck when a line separated far above them, but Tarak had leaped into the air and swarmed up the mast in the howling gale, where he had caught and tied down the line. Even then he had stayed high for several moments, as the wind and rain lashed his gleaming body. His eyes were nearly shut against the force of nature as he squinted into the wind, capturing a new memory of nature's wild freedom which was such a part of him.

Pell Jax had shook his head again and again at the bizarre behaviors of his young friend, grinning in astonishment as he watched the wild barbarian.

"Where did you ever learn such skills?" he inquired after the first experience.

Tarak looked at him. "In a mountain; and a valley."

Jax blinked. "In a mountain?"

Tarak nodded. "I was raised within a mountain fortress. As a boy I learned to move and jump and balance. And to otherwise survive." His eyes flickered and Jax saw a blaze of savagery within them. "Later, I escaped to a valley, and forests."

Jax waited, but Tarak said nothing more. The assassin watched his friend as Tarak's eyes grew vacant, recognizing that the young barbarian was remembering his past life; a life which Jax had only glimpsed in scant fragments; and which he could not imagine. Tarak was reticent to discuss his past, but Jax had known that the young man had come somehow out of the mountains, and had been to Neros, the City of Warriors, far to the North. His tunic was Nerosian; and in fact that of a Rok of Neros; though it was faded and tattered and torn. Tarak had said that a friend had given the garment to him; and that he would wear it so long as it lasted. In Jax's view the garment had lasted a much briefer period than Tarak seemed to acknowledge, but when he noted this verbally the barbarian had just laughed.

"My friendship for the man who gave it has not diminished. That is what matters."

"And who is that friend?" Jax had inquired.

"His name is Foss."

"Foss? The Tarkan of Neros?"

Tarak had nodded, but had remained silent, and Jax had not pressed him further. Tarak was obviously not one to discuss matters concerning his friends, and Jax admired such loyalty. One's life was a private matter; to be shared with friends, but not to be exposed by them. His respect and trust for his new companion increased even as his curiosity soared.

Over many days they had talked, however, and he had learned some aspects of recent past of the barbarian Rok. How Tarak had gone to Kalnor, and how he had killed the Champion in the Great Tournament. A superb warrior himself, he enticed some recollection of that fight, and the aftereffects, by sheer enthusiasm; which Tarak laughed at as he related some of the events. Pell Jax stood transfixed as he watched his young friend respond to his questions, for Jax had heard parts of this tale from other men who had been in Kalnor and had seen these matters.

He had never quite believed those tales, especially those who claimed to have seen a giant Mountain Dyrrn descend into the Arena of Kalnor to kill a young tarab; and he had scoffed at those who had claimed to have seen the victorious champion mount the savage predator and ride it as one would ride a wapen. Yet now he knew it had truly happened. He had met this young man and seen him destroy four Joks. He had seen him slaughter a prized assassin in less than a minute. He had seen the power and speed and incredible balance of the barbarian. Yet his curiosity had remained.

"They say that you were saved by a black Dyrrn. And that you rode the beast."

Tarak had shrugged. "It was my Dyrrn."

"Your Dyrrn? You have a Mountain Dyrrn?"

"I raised it, far off in the Mountains."

Jax had just stared. "Where is it now?"

"I don't know. I released it after the battle for Kalnor. I assume it returned to the mountains."

The assassin had been stunned by these casual comments. He had also learned during his last day in Costus, from other sources, that this man who stood with him on the rolling deck had arrived in that city in the company of a girl who turned out to be none other than Tavane of Elur. The Tavane of Elur, and he had mentioned her to the barbarian.

Tarak's eyes had glistened and he had smiled, as he always smiled when he thought of Tavane. He had looked directly into the eyes of Pell Jax. "Tavane is mine."

"She is the daughter of a Tarkan?"

"She is mine." Tarak replied again, and the power in his gaze left no doubt that he spoke the truth.

Jax had desisted, but from such conversations he had learned something about his friend, as Tarak had learned about the assassin; and his own past life. Jax himself tended to be secretive, but the men became friends as they talked, and he related how he had left the lands of the Hill People and arrived in Costus; and how he had thereafter served Jad Hasta. Jax was somewhat reserved about the Hill people, but loved to laugh and talk about Costus, and he often had Tarak laughing with him as he related tales of taverns and girls; fights and blunders.

Tarak found the assassin to be quick-witted and seemingly irresponsible; yet knew that Pell Jax had kept Hasta safe for many years in the face of the brutality and cleverness which abounded in the affairs of Costus; and it was apparent that once Pell Jax decided to take something seriously, he took it seriously indeed. He was a magnificent warrior, as he would need to be, and Tarak enjoyed practicing with him on the deck of the ship during their voyage. They fought with swords, and knives; and ship's fighting irons; a weapon new to the barbarian.

Jax had seen Tarak's eyes gleam with interest when he first held the weapon, and the assassin had grinned as the barbarian whirled and slashed with the brutal war device. The man was a natural killer. Jax had never imagined such a warrior. Pell Jax feared no man, but during the voyage he had tested the killing skills of this strange young barbarian and he knew he would have no chance against such savagery and power and speed. No matter the weapon; and most of all with none. He had seen Tarak kill the joks. Jax had experienced a new sense of mortality with this realization, for he had thought himself a match for any man; but he knew that this man was unique somehow. He was more than a man. He was a killing beast when he fought. He was beyond comparison.

Thus the two men had come to know and further respect each other, and now Jax joined Tarak near the railing as the barbarian gazed ahead into the sea.

"We are almost there," Jax commented.

Tarak looked at him, "What will you find, Pell Jax, when we arrive?"

"I will find my home. And my people."

Tarak returned his attention to the oncoming waves, his cheeks red from the sun and the wind. "I will find my people one day, Pell Jax. One day." He fingered a golden locket which encircled his neck as he spoke, and continued to hold it as he watched the birds and the wind and the sea. Jax detected a subtle longing in his voice. Something almost buried; but not quite. Something which burned deep within the young barbarian.

Jax was silent, and after a few moments Tarak spoke again. "Do you have family in these lands we seek?"

The assassin nodded. "Yes." He said nothing more.

"And friends?"

Jax shrugged. "We shall see." He grinned then, and Tarak started laughing.

"I suppose we will." Both men laughed then; for Tarak knew that Jax had fled from slavery six long years ago, and had no contact with these impending lands since then.

"I suppose you can arrange for our comforts when we arrive," Tarak noted.

"Assuredly, "Jax replied, "Though it might be wise to enter as merchants from the North, rather than expound on my heritage, when we first arrive."

Tarak nodded. "Yes. That had occurred to me."

Jax smiled. "I can smell the land, Tarak! Soon we will see the lands of the Hill People, though now scarred with the constructions of Tror." The assassin's excitement was palpable. Tarak wondered why Jax had left his home so long ago. The man was fearless.

Within another hour broken shapes replaced the smooth line of the horizon, and as the ship neared its destination the shapes became identifiable as distant mountains. New smells assailed the two men as the stood silently in the bow of the ship, and Tarak could sense Jax's excitement. He could feel it himself, after the long voyage.

The ship drove closer, and eventually the nearer, flatter lands were discernable. Dominating the landscape was a huge walled city, rising high into the air. As they neared the shore, Tarak noticed a large system of deep-water docks and wharves, with buildings and warehouses crammed nearby. He turned to look as his friend, but Pell Jax was silent, his eyes glued to the huge walls of the city of New Tror.

Within an hour the ship had tied up at a dock, and Tarak noticed that the dock seemed to be exclusive to the ships of Jad Hasta of Costus. The scenario was not dissimilar to what he had briefly noted in Costus, though far smaller. New Tror was not dependent upon the sea, though it had extensive docks for those, such as Hasta, who sailed the vast expanses of Kal.

The men disembarked, and Tarak watched and waited while Jax conferred at length with the Captain and Hasta's dockmaster. Hasta's compound was separate from the rest, and contained its own gates and closed area.

Jax joined him then, and the men left the area through large wooden gates, and moved towards the immense gates of New Tror. Before they had covered half the distance they noticed people emerging from a huge circular structure, and one man, richly dressed and accompanied by a similarly dressed boy and two slaves, moved to intercept them.

Gornus of Tror stood beneath the hot sun and felt the sand crunch beneath his sandals. He looked around from his position on the floor of the arena of New Tror and his eyes glinted as they passed over the thousands of spectators who filled the stands. He raised his arm, sword in hand, and the crowd cheered as the sun flashed in blinding reflections from the gleaming steel. He turned, his arm raised, his head high, in a circle. The cheering reached a crescendo as he completed his turn and saluted the crowd. His head turned sharply towards the Royal box, and he dipped his sword and flashed it high once more. A woman sat there, on a seat just below an higher chair. She was attended by several slaves, who knelt at her feet. The chair just above her was empty, for it belonged to Gornus of Tror. He was a Tark and the master of New Tror.

He turned to the arena's master and nodded; then watched as an iron gate was raised in the far wall. Two men staggered out, each armed with a single sword. They were nearly naked, and filthy from long confinement in the pits of New Tror. The squinted in the brightness and walked forward with slow, fearful steps, as the cheers of the crowd turned to jeering ridicule.

Gornus smiled, and walked forward to kill them. They were slaves. Hill People. Fools who had been walking the streets of New Tror without paying attention, engrossed in their own conversations, and who had thus bumped a noblewoman of New Tror who had been strolling along the paved avenue. She had seen them, of course, and had realized they didn't see her, but she had done nothing, for they were slaves. At the last moment one had looked up and tried to move, but the woman was too close, and though the man tried to recover she had brushed against both of them. Immediately she had screamed for the guard, and in seconds the men were surrounded and beaten to the ground; then kicked mercilessly until they lay unconscious and bleeding.

Now they would pay the final price for their insult, and another lesson would be learned by the Hill People.

Gornus spat in the dirt. He enjoyed killing, but the Hill People offered little sport. He was the finest sword in New Tror. Perhaps the finest in Tror itself. He gloried in battle, and rarely missed an opportunity to display his own prowess in the Arena. But the Hill People were cowards. They knew almost nothing of fighting, and six years of slavery had destroyed their will and any abilities they might have possessed. These men separated as he moved forward. He shook his head. Separated! When their only chance was to fight as a team, they each moved away from the other, hoping that Gornus would kill the other; hoping that he would spare the second. Fools!

He quickened his pace, and the nearer victim moved quickly backwards. Gornus moved after him, his own killing lust building. The man tried to escape to one side, but the Trorian intercepted him, and backed him near the wall. He glanced back, but the second slave was far across the arena, watching in terror while citizens pelted him with stones as they laughed and jeered at the terrified man.

Gornus lunged in, and laughed harshly as the man tried to block the lightning stroke and back away. Again he lunged, his blade whirling, and the man screamed as his sword fell from a half-severed hand.

The crowd cheered its delight, and Gornus smiled as he moved forward and swung once more. Another scream erupted as the Tark's blade severed the man's other arm. Blood spurted as the man sagged to the ground.

Gornus laughed and left him screaming in the dirt, suffering, while he turned his attention to the second victim. The crowd near the fallen slave pelted him with stones, laughing as they struck the defenseless, dying, man.

Moments later Gornus had cornered the other slave. He took his time carving into this victim, to please the audience and himself. First he cut into the man's ankle, laughing as the slave crumpled to the dirt. Then he circled, as his victim tried to turn with him on his good leg. Gornus feinted and struck again, and the man fell face forward, hamstrung now. He batted away the man's sword and sliced off the man's hands. Then he looked up at the crowd and raise his bloody sword high, and was rewarded by tumultuous cheers.

Gornus left his victim as he had the other, and regally strode to an open door below the Royal Pavilion. He turned as he reached the door, and nodded. Another gate opened in the far wall, and two joks trotted out onto the sand. They looked around, testing their surroundings; then split up as each moved towards a screaming, defenseless slave.

Gornus reached the Royal box in time to see the joks assault their prey, and smiled as he watched the crowd cheer as the joks hurtled into the fallen slaves, and begin to feed upon the still-living men.

He turned to the girl, who was watching the spectacle with parted lips.

"They are hungry, Venalia."

She turned to him, smiling. "Yes, Gornus. Did you starve them?"

He nodded. "It makes them feed before they kill, and the people enjoy such things."

She laughed, and reached out her hand, which Gornus took and kissed gently. She was his wife, and shared his love of cruelty and violence and death.

Gornus turned his attention to the slaves which knelt at their feet. Boys and girls, but indistinguishable as to sex, for the boys had suffered the removal of their male sex long ago, before puberty. The oldest was sixteen, and he was soft and slender and smooth as a girl as he knelt trembling in the box. Ten such slaves attended them, boys and girls who were the children of the five Tarks which formed the Council of the Hill People. The Council still ruled the slave nation, but they were slaves themselves, and their children had been taken from them to serve the family of the Tark who ruled New Tror. Five men who had been Tarks of a free people. Whose children would have become Tarks, but who now tended to the slightest whims of Gornus and his family, and daily suffered humiliation and abuse from their sadistic masters.

Gornus turned to look at his son, Furbus. The boy was twelve, and his eyes were bright as he watched the feeding joks. He smiled at his father, and then kicked the slave boy who was nearest him, laughing as he did so. "I think we should throw this girl into the arena!" he giggled.

Gornus chuckled. "Not today, Furbus." The master of New Tror stood then, and signaled to the proprietor of the Games.

Another door opened, and several warriors emerged, armed with shields and lances. They drove the joks from the corpses and back into the opening from where the beasts had emerged, while slaves gathered the half-eaten bodies and dragged them back through another gate.

Yet a new gate was raised, and three more slaves appeared, but these were unarmed men. They were prodded with lances out into the bright light, where they stood blinking.

Another gate opened, and the audience cheered as a huge wrok shambled out, snarling and growling.

Gornus moved to the front of his box, and shouted, calling the beast to him. The wrok looked up, and made its way across the arena to stand before the Tark.

It was a huge beast, hairy and heavily muscled, with large fangs and long, powerful simian arms. The beasts had some intelligence and language, though quite inferior when compared to men. This wrok had been captured long ago in the Western Forests, while it was very young, and it was wilder than many. It responded only to Gornus, who had taught it only a few words in a language he had invented solely for the purpose. None could understand his communications with the beast, which pleased the Tark. He looked down.

"Your dinner awaits you."

The wrok looked back at the three men who had moved far away from the path of the beast as it had crossed the arena.

The beast nodded and gnashed its jaws. "Thank you, Gornus," it snarled.

Gornus smiled. "You may kill now."

The wrok turned and loped towards the nearest victim. The man tried to run as the wrok neared, but the beast was very quick and cut off any retreat. Closing, it leaped for its prey and batted aside the arms which reached out, almost in supplication. Picking the man up by his head, the wrok wrenched the slave's face into its own jaws and took a huge bite out of the slave's face and head. The man screamed, but the beast seemed to utter a gutteral laugh as it swung a huge hairy hand across and broke the man's neck. The slave's body slumped to the dirt, and the wrok left it and went after another.

Quickly it killed the others, whose feeble efforts were pitiful as they attempted to defend themselves from the powerful wrok. The beast took huge bites from the third victim, swallowing and grunting as it ate for several minutes. Then it gathered them up, one by one, and carrying the three bodies it disappeared into the darkness from which it had emerged.

In the wilds wroks wielded swords and knives, but Gornus had never permitted this raised beast to learn swordplay, as he had never permitted it to learn the common language of Aantor. He preferred to be the main attraction himself, when it came to killing with the sword, and also enjoyed the savagery the wrok displayed in unarmed murder. He often fought in the arena with the beast; against several condemned slaves, at least two of whom were armed with swords. The armed men were his prey, and after he had crippled them he left them, along with their unfortunate fellows, to the mercies of the wrok.

The wrok's killing had been the final event, and trumpets sounded the end of the day's games. People stood and cheered as Gornus gave a slight bow and turned to leave, followed by his family and the gentle slaves which scurried after them.

The left the Arena, which was itself situated outside of the walled city, thus to take advantage of wider spaces for certain types of death and brutality, and to permit the waters of Kal to be let into the structure from canals and locks which had been constructed for that purpose.

On his way to the gaes he noticed a new ship had arrived. He took his leave of his wife, and accompanied by his son he strode toward the docks of New Tror. Two of the slave boys followed.

Two men had just emerged from the gates of the compound of Hasta, and Gornus moved to intercept them. Both were large men, and garbed differently. The dark-haired man wore a rich tunic and cloak, signifying that he was a noble merchant of some Northern land. The other man, light-haired, wore a tattered green tunic, and was presumably a slave.

The men were talking as he approached, and although they obviously were aware of his presence, they kept walking. Perhaps they were unaware of his identity.

"Hold!" he said, his voice short and brutal.

The men stopped, and turned their attention towards the Tark. Their faces were impassive and faintly curious. Gornus was accustomed to seeing fear in the expressions of other men, and his mood darkened at the frank, appraising stares of these newcomers. The lean dark-haired merchant met his own stare with curious gray eyes. Gornus shifted his attention to the slave, and saw eyes watching him which were anything but the eyes of a slave.

Brilliant green they were, and they sparkled in the sunlight as they seemed to pierce him with their intensity. They reminded him of a hunter's eyes; or those of a tarab.

"I am Gornus." he stated.

The men were silent as they regarded him. As if his name meant nothing.

His son was fuming. "Kill them, father!"

"Be silent." he growled to the boy. "State your name, and your business in New Tror." His presence had attracted the attention of the nearby guards, who strolled closer, surrounding the strangers.

"I am Pell Jax," the gray-eyed man replied in a level voice. "I come from Kalnor to seek goods and slaves in your lands."

"And your slave?"

Jax smiled. "He is my companion and bodyguard, from far Neros. And no slave."

Gornus turned to the other man with an inquiring look. His face revealed his disgust at the garb of the tawny-haired man.

"I am Tarak."

Gornus had heard of Neros, a land far to the North, but had never met a Nerosian. He sneered. "Neros. Perhaps one day I'll lead my armies into your city."

Tarak smiled. "I'd like to see that." His tone was amused, and Gornus felt his anger stir.

"You are impudent as well as ill-bred and clothed like a beggar."

Tarak shrugged. His eyes seemed to flare in the sunlight as they bored into those of the Tark, but he said nothing.

"I am the Tark of New Tror, beggar," Gornus stated.

Tarak shrugged again, his eyes never leaving the ruler's own.

Jax broke in with a smile."Well, as long as we're all introduced, perhaps you could tell us where we might seek a broker. We seek a thousand slaves for labor in the North, and a thousand barrels of the wines we've heard of which are produced in the Kalands."

Gornus was startled. "A thousand slaves?" He looked at the docks. "Where are your ships?" A thousand slaves would net him a fortune, as would the wine. New Tror was completed, and he needed to find markets for the Hill People. His manner changed slightly. Perhaps this merchant should live.

"When we select the goods, I will send for the ships."

"And pay for them how?" Gornus queried.

Jax tossed him a heavy bag. "Here is payment for the first hundred. The rest will be paid when the goods are loaded onto my ships."

Gornus felt the heft of the bag as he snatched it from the air. If it truly contained gold, it was a small fortune, and easily payment for a hundred slaves. How rich was a merchant who could so easily throw around such a fortune, as a matter of trust, in a strange city? Either a fool or a very rich and powerful man.

"I could keep this," Gornus said. "And the two of you as well."

Jax shrugged. "Keep it as a gift, if you wish. I simply desire to do business. If you don't wish to bargain, do as you please."

Gornus was startled by the man's words and his fearlessness. He detested the latter, but his avarice was aroused, and he permitted himself a small smile. "I shall keep it as a gift, Kalnorian. But we shall do business."

Jax smiled, as if the loss of the small fortune was meaningless. "As you wish, Tark."

Gornus turned his attention once more to the tawny-haired man, but again he met those unfathomable eyes, and he turned back to the merchant. "See a man known as Tellius. He is my Administrator." Then he turned and left them standing without another word.

His son turned with him, but he made an insulting gesture towards the two strangers, and then took his open hand and smashed one of the slave boys in the face. The boy dropped to the ground, and Furbis kicked him several times, laughing, before he ran to catch up with his sire. The slave boy lay for a moment, tears streaming from his eyes, but Jax moved forward and helped him up. The boy whimpered his thanks, then turned and ran to catch up with his master, sniffling as he ran.

Tarak stood and watched the retreating figures. He was wholly surprised by the antics of his friend, and shocked when Pell Jax had so casually tossed such a fortune to the Tark. The man deserved killing.

Jax turned back to him then, and though he was smiling, his eyes were hard. "Thus do the citizens of New Tror treat the Hill People."

"Why did you give him the money?"

Jax shrugged. "Frankly, I thought you were going to kill the Tark. Then we'd have been killed, and my homecoming would have been ruined."

Tarak stared at his friend, and then laughed. "Well, perhaps you are smarter than you look, Pell Jax."

Jax joined in his laughter, and clapped Tarak on the shoulder. "Come, my wild companion. Let us seek out the piece of dung known as Tellius."

"What for? We don't wish to buy slaves?"

"But they think that we do."

Tarak shrugged, and the two men walked across the grounds towards a group of Trorian nobles, so as to inquire as to the whereabouts of one Tellius of New Tror.

For several days the two men wandered New Tror, while Jax discussed commerce with various merchants, slavers, and nobles who owned slaves. Jax had indicated to Tellius that he wish to purchase a variety of human stock, and wish to interview prospective slaves to gauge their intelligence and talents. They attended public auctions, and were referred to Trorians who were known to be selling. New Tror had an abundance of slaves, for the completion of the huge city, six years in the construction, was finished. The thousands of Hill People who had labored upon it were excess over the field slaves, house slaves, and others which were necessary for normal life in New Tror.

Its citizens were wealthy, and nearly half owned at least one slave, while many owned dozens. Many of these were interested in discussing sale with the Kalnorian merchant, since it appeared that the impending abundance of slave labor would greatly decrease the value of the slaves, and Trorians were hopeful of selling their personal slaves for a higher price now, if offered, and then replacing them later at a lower price. They cared nothing for the slaves, who were merely stock to be bought and sold at a profit, whenever advisable. Most children had long since been separated from their mothers, who had been taken from their husbands. Those slaves who pleasured the erotic tastes of their masters and mistresses were much harder to buy, and these accounted for great numbers of slaves.

Tarak had long since gotten bored with the whole business, but Jax insisted that they must back up their story, or risk a more direct challenge to their assertions. "Costians do business here, Tarak, including some who have no love for Pell Jax. I don't care to chance Gornus of Tror holding me up on a block in front of the docks and offering a reward for any man who might know whether my contentions are accurate."

Tarak has acknowledged the value of that argument, and had taken to wandering through the city while Jax interviewed slaves and inspected vast quanties of wines and spices. He visited the arena, and watched Gornus slaughter some slaves. On this occasion Gornus teamed with his wrok, and faced six men, two with swords. Within twenty minutes the slaves were corpses lying in the dirt, while the wrok fed and Gornus raised his dripping sword to his subjects. Tarak watched the wrok with interest. He had a natural hate for the creatures. One had killed his mother. Another the slave who had taken her place within the fortress of Gonor. The first had later tried to kill him. He smiled as he remembered Lukor, the wrok chieftain.

The wrok in the arena was a huge beast, as large as any wrok Tarak had ever seen. Savagely it tore its victims apart, dismembering them and biting through living bone. He had described the events to Pell Jax that night, and Jax had said nothing, though eyes had flared for a brief second.

The last day had arrived, and Tarak was pleased. He had wished to leave the city, but Jax pressed him to stay, to fulfill the role in which Jax had cast him. He had learned a great deal about New Tror from the merchants, nobles, and slaves, and indicated to the barbarian that only citizens were free to leave the city, except to board a ship.

Tarak had accepted this, when Jax had promised him that they would leave that night; for the forests and hills. "I am ready to visit the true home of the Hill People,." he had stated, and his eyes had gleamed.

These thoughts occupied Tarak's thoughts as he wandered through the streets of New Tror. He was sick of this city. Sick of the brutality and insufferable arrogance of its dominant citizens. Sick of the cruelty the displayed towards their slaves. And sick of the slavery itself. He had no fondness for human bondage, though he accepted it as a fact of life in his world, and felt it was fine as a punishment for crime. To enslave an entire people, however, and treat them as animals; he found disgusting. Nearly as disgusting was the fawning, submissive behavior of the Hill People. The seemed almost happy in their degraded state, smiling and serving and debasing themselves. He shook his head.

Ahead of him he noticed a fruit stand, and several Trorian boys standing nearby. One of them suddenly grabbed a handful of fruits, tossed them quickly to his friends, who were several paces away, and then he pointed to a slender young slave girl who happened to be passing. "She stole! She's a thief!"

Several citizens and the merchant shouted and one man grabbed the girl, who was looking around with terrified eyes.

The Trorian boy pointed at her. "I saw her take the fruit, and eat it!"

She merchant checked his display, and his face darkened. "Bring her here!"

She was dragged over, protesting and screaming, while citizens slapped at her and spit. One man grabbed her arms, and stretched them out. The merchant smiled, and drew forth a sharp sword. He began to raise it.

"No." It was a cold, brutal voice. The merchant stopped and turned to see a young, man with wild tawny hair holding two struggling youths.

Tarak forced the boys to open their hands, and pieces of fruit fell to the ground. "These are the thieves. Not the girl."

The merchant scowled at the boys. "Titius! Cronas!"

The boys winced from the pain of Tarak's iron grip. "We're sorry, Collus! We ran out of funds and were hungry!"

The merchant's scowl softened. "Tell your parents about this, before I do! I venture that your allowance will be cut in half. If they hear it from me, I venture you'll receive nothing!"

The boys nodded vigorously, and one of them turned to look up at Tarak. "Release us, fool!"

Tarak looked at the merchant; then down at the boys. The man was ready to cut the hands from an innocent girl, but merely chided the boys; and not for their incredible cruelty, but for their pilfering. He twisted his hands and felt the bones snap in the arms he held. The boys screamed as he tossed them to the side. His arm shot out and the man holding the girl was knocked backwards as Tarak gently grasped and held the girl. Then he turned to the merchant. "If I ever see or hear of you harming a slave, I will kill you where I find you."

The man was aghast, and stepped back, knocking over his fruit stand. He looked at the screaming boys, and shouted for the guard.

Tarak backhanded the man, knocking him spinning across the pavement, his jaw shattered. Then he turned, beginning to growl.

Two guards rushed forward, filling the space created by a crowd which had suddenly vacated the area surrounding the strange barbarian. Their swords slid from scabbards, and Tarak's own flashed as he drew it and crouched slightly. His eyes gleamed with pleasure and fire. The pent-up disgust and confinement and anger seethed through him. The abominable scenario he had witnessed had touched it off; and now he faced men with steel. Now he could kill. He snarled and started forward.

The guards stopped, startled, and moved back. Suddenly several others appeared, and joined them. Tarak's growls grew in volume and he kept advancing. Adrenalin suffused his body. His skin felt taut and hot.

"Hold!"

The guards separated to reveal an officer. A To-Rok. He looked at Tarak with disconcerted eyes, but his sword was sheathed as he put out his arm. "Hold, visitor!" Tarak halted, though barely. He lusted for a fight. The To-Rok inquired of the crowd as to what had occurred. Several voices started to shout, but Tarak flashed his sword in a high blur, and the reaction stilled the voices.

"Those boys," he said, as he gestured to them and spoke in the silence, "stole fruit from that vendor," and he pointed to the man lying in street, blood and teeth flowing from between his lips. "They blamed it on this girl." He looked down at the trembling slave, whom he had brought near him. "I witnessed the theft, and witnessed this man attempt to amputate the girl's hands."

"What business is it of yours?" demanded the To-rok.

"I made it my business."

"Who are you?" responded the officer.

"I am Tarak. I am with Pell Jax, a merchant from Kalnor" Tarak grabbed the girl and started forward. "Get out of my way."

The officer was perplexed. He knew of the merchant, and recalled that the man had been accompanied by a bodyguard. He knew that vast sums of money were involved. He knew that if he took some action which caused any such transaction to fail, that he would suffer immensely. He didn't know what to do. So he did nothing, as men tend to do when they are confused and afraid. A moment later Tarak was gone, and had taken the girl. He looked around at his men. "Find where he goes." Then he turned to seek an audience with his Rok.

Immediately several guards rushed to follow the strange warrior, but he seemed to have vanished, and taken the girl with him.

Several minutes later Tarak threw the slave girl down into the dirt outside the gates of New Tror. The guards laughed, and he turned and grinned at them. He shuffled forward and kicked at the girl, but she rose and ran like a deer. He picked up a rock and threw it, but barely missed her head. Cursing, he ran after her. He caught her when she was less than half way to the docks, and tripped her, laughing loudly.

She screamed, and said in a lower voice, "Kick me again. Then I will run faster."

Tarak grinned and leveled a kick, striking her obliquely across the buttocks, making the blow appear much harder than it was. The girl screamed again, and rolling over, sprang to her feet and sprinted for the docks. Tarak walked now, shouting curses at her and yelling for Hasta's dockworkers to get chains ready for his new slave.

Soon she was aboard The Princess of Costus, and Tarak had joined her below decks. Both he and the girl had known that her life was forfeit if she remained in New Tror. Facts had nothing to do with it. She had gone with him instinctively when he had left the To-rok and the crowd, and once out of sight he had picked her up and fled through the streets so quickly that it took he breath away. He explained his purpose when the neared the gates, and she had nodded eagerly. He had no bill of sale for her, and had decided to exit the gate in a manner which would lessen their chances of being challenged. So interested had the guards been in his mistreatment of the slave that they had never thought to question him, nor had they been given time to consider it.

The girl's name was Loris, and she was very beautiful as she sat in Tarak's cabin and watched him with luminous blue eyes. She was in her early twenties, she told him, and belonged to a Trorian noble. A friend of Gornus. "He will come for me, even here," she warned, but her fear seemed to have left her.

Tarak shook his head. We are leaving tonight, Loris. When my companion returns we will take you into the forests."

Her eyebrows rose. "Your companion knows the forests of the Hill People?"

Tarak nodded. "He says he does."

"Who is he?"

Tarak hesitated, but it was obvious that this girl was no threat to his friend. He would be with her until Jax arrived, in any event. "His name is Pell Jax."

The girl frowned. "The slaver?"

Tarak smiled. "He is no slaver." He reached out and touched her gently. "None will harm you, Loris. Jax nor anyone else."

She looked at him appraisingly for a long moment. Then she smiled. "You will protect me?"

He smiled in return. "Yes."

"Good!" she exclaimed. "I believe you. Now I shall sleep." She lay down on his bunk then, and turned her back to him.

He watched her, a bit perplexed, but after a few moments her steady breathing convinced him that she was truly asleep, and he shook his head in wonderment at her odd change in behavior.

He stayed with her for two hours, dozing himself; and then heard noises from above. Drawing his sword, he climbed cautiously to the deck.

Jax was there, talking to the Captain. He looked up when he noticed Tarak. "Bring the girl!" he directed. "We must leave, for her owner will come for her."

Tarak nodded. Jax obviously knew of his passenger, and of events within New Tror. Tarak quickly turned to descend, but the girl was standing right behind him, smiling. She moved past him and approached Jax. "I am Loris."

Jax looked down at her with a frown. "You are causing us trouble, girl." Then he turned to Tarak and beckoned.. Tarak followed his friend, and Jax directed them to descend ropes strung along the ship's sides to a small sailing vessel which bumped against the Princess of Costus.

As soon as they were aboard, Jax pushed away, and began to raise the small sail. Tarak watched, ready to help, but Jax skillfully had the boat underway, and motioned his two passengers to sit forward in the small craft.

Tarak complied, but the girl remained aft with the assassin, relating how she had come to be in their company. Jax listened, shaking his head. Then he grinned at the barbarian, who shrugged and settled down to doze as the wind freshened and propelled the sleek craft out across the bay of New Tror.

Hours later Jax landed in a small cove, miles to the West of the city. The forest grew down to within a hundred yards of the sea in this area. Jax tied up the boat, and led his two companions into the forest. Soon they began to climb, as the ground rose gradually within the forest. Dusk came, but Pell Jax continued onward. The girl followed, and Tarak brought up the rear. Another hour passed.

Tarak walked behind them as they ascended the heavily wooded mountain. Nearly invisible trails cross-crossed the slope, ambiguous in their profusion and faintness. Tarak noticed each path they crossed, for his senses were attuned to such matters. Thus he had survived.

Jax was unhesitating in his movements, turning now and again onto a new course; and sometimes leaping over a bush or small tree to land upon a new trail; one unsuspected by a traveler who had not made such a blind leap. He moved quickly and boldly, his own senses alive and tasting the environment which surrounded them.

They were not alone in this wilderness. With increasing frequency Tarak smelled the scent of men. He scanned their surroundings, but in the growing darkness any such men were invisible. His senses told him that most of those they passed were up in the trees. Sentries of the Hill People. His own sensations intensified, as they always did when he knew he was being watched. These were Jax's people; and supposed friends; but Tarak's tension was that of the beast which never entirely trusts anything but itself.

The darkness became intense as the night grew full, but scattered moonbeams cut through the blackness of the forest, providing enough illumination for Jax to find his way up the steepening slope.

Noises came to them. The far-off sound of voices and laughter and music. As they continued to climb, the sounds grew louder, and before long they emerged from the forest into a huge clearing, lit by the moon and by a huge fire which blazed in the night, near the center of the clearing. Tents and shelters of all description dotted the area, and hundreds of people; men, women, and children; talked and laughed drank and danced as musicians played the music of the Hill People.

Across the clearing, on the slope above the fire, more hundreds of the Hill People were seated in a huge semicircle, facing up the mountain. Across from them stood a platform, and upon the platform five men were seated, facing the assemblage. They say upon small stools. These were more richly dressed than the others, and each wore a purple rope draped across his shoulder and encircling his body, resting on the opposite hip. The two men circled the fire and approached this gathering, and Jax turned to Tarak.

"This is the Council of the Hill People. The five men are known to be Tarks of the Hill People, who rule us and who presently deal with our conquerors and organize the service of the Hill People." He led Tarak through the scores of seated people, and finally stopped near the middle of the crowd, motioning Tarak to sit on the ground next to him. He didn't greet any others, or seem to know any of those present, and was oblivious of their presence, except as bodies to step around; nor did any greet either of them. The girl had disappeared.

Jax turned to him. "We are fortunate to be here, since such Councils are rarely held. Matters concerning the future of the Hill People, whether important or not, will be decided tonight."

Tarak nodded and turned his attention to the platform. The men there spoke in commanding tones. They related the present status of New Tror, and admitted that their masters might not release those captive.

Jax spoke quietly. "This audience is composed of free Hill People. Tror knows they exist, but doesn't waste the resources to catch or kill them, and permits the Council to seek them out, to negotiate and bargain. Many of those here have relatives who are slaves in New Tror. They are concerned."

It was apparent that the Council had determined to accept the decisions of their masters, who had promised to free many thousands of slaves, though keeping untold thousands in bondage forever. The Council flatly told the Hill People that many thousands freed was better than none. They could do nothing.

Question followed question, and the Council was patient, but firm.

Jax arose after a period of time, apparently bored with the affair and politics of matters being discussed, and led Tarak off through the mass of people towards large pits where meat was roasting. There they obtained huge plates of juicy meat, and skins of dark, potent wine. They sat and ate for a moment as they watched the fire leap and reach out to the sky; then left so that others could enjoy the warmth and spectacle of the fire.

Those with food were leaving the central fire to seek out smaller fires, to sit and eat and talk and laugh with others who surrounded such fires. Those near the huge central fire were crowded, and Jax moved past them towards the forest. Carrying their plates and wine, they walked across the clearing towards a small fire which warmed less than half a dozen men, near the edge of the dark forest. The two men entered the firelight, and Jax moved to an empty spot near the fire and sat cross-legged upon the ground. Tarak's eyes scanned the faces of the men, as he sat next to his friend.

They ate and drank silently, as the other men ate and talked quietly about mundane matters. Finishing their meat, the two men set aside their plates. Jax took a deep draught of wine, and then looked across the fire.

The man directly across from him was watching him with narrowed eyes. "So it is you, Jax."

Jax nodded. "It is me, Jorg"

The man spat. "You are not welcome in the lands of the Hill People!"

"This is a free land," Jax replied. "Here in the hills the People are always free."

Jorg scowled. "How would you know? Long has it been since you fled, instead of fighting."

Jax shrugged. "Nevertheless, this is a free land."

"Not for you, Jax." the man snarled.

Tarak furrowed an eyebrow rose as he watched the man. Jorg was large and heavy. His eyes were intense as they bored into Pell Jax. His features were rugged and fearless, and muscles rippled in his arms where they extended from the simple, stained garments the man wore. Tarak's eyes moved to the other men, but they appeared indifferent to the animosity and tension. He turned his gaze upon Jax.

Jax was returning Jorg's gaze, a faint smile upon his lips. "I was at the Council, Jorg. They said that New Tror is completed, after these many years. They say Tror no longer needs the labor of the Hill People."

Jorg scowled. "They will sell many of the Hill People now, across the sea, or haul them as slaves to Tror itself."

"The Council has decided to wait and negotiate," Jax replied.

"The Hill People need to flee into the Mountains, before it is too late, " Jorg said. "The Council will wait, trusting to the mercy of Tror, when they should know that Tror knows no mercy." He shook his head. "The Hill People should disappear into the valleys and mountains, before too many of them are gone forever."

Jax shook his head. He spoke quietly. "I think the Hill People should fight."

"Fight?" Jorg taunted. "What would you know about fighting, Jax? You could have fought long ago; but you fled."

Jax shrugged.. His eyes watched those of Jorg as he sat silently. He was relaxed, but he was ready. Tarak could sense the alertness of his companion. Like a carnivore lying low, waiting for its prey. The others at the fire watched the flames, and vague discussion began as to the Council meeting which some had attended.

Jorg stood then, his eyes blazing. "Whether the Hill people fight or flee, Jax, you are no longer welcome among us." He drew his sword and moved away from the fire.

Jax looked at the warrior silently for a long moment. Then he rose, and slowly drew his own blade. Tarak watched the others, but although the circle of men stopped their discussion to watch the two antagonists, they made no move to interfere. He kept them in his peripheral vision as he turned his own attention to the impending fight. If Jax were killed, he had no idea how these men would treat him; but he was unconcerned. He would deal with life as it happened. Jax was still alive, and Tarak had met few men whose fighting prowess compared with that of Pell Jax.

The men circled slowly, flexing their limbs and muscles. Then Jax crouched, and began to move forward. Jorg responded, his own blade forward and ready. He feinted, and then slashed at his foe.

Jax blocked the blow, and continued to circle. Again Jorg attacked, and again Jax blocked. He parried then, thrusting in a blinding stroke; but Jorg sidestepped and batted the sword aside, countering with his own sword; but Jax had moved back, and began to circle again.

The fight went on, and it soon became evident to Tarak that Jorg was a superb swordsman. A warrior born and bred. Large and immensely strong, his fighting skills were fluid, powerful, and like lightning. But in Pell Jax he faced the Sword of Costus. A man whose life for several years had been one of living an assassin's life, and killing the finest assassins sent against him. Jax matched Jorg stroke for stroke; blinding combination for blinding combination; his own iron strength a match for his foe's; his own speed a bit more than a match; and his fighting experience truly matchless.

The ringing of steel and flashing reflections from the blades had come to the attention of many in the huge clearing, and although most of those assembled soon turned their attention to their own affairs, a dozen or so had walked over to watch the fight between the two men. Their faces melted and remolded in the flickering shadows of the firelight as they silently watched this present occurrence of battle and death; something with which they were so familiar.

The men were sweating profusely now, and blood and dirt mixed with their sweat as it ran down their arms and legs, and soaked their clothing. Both men were breathing heavily as they fought, but neither seemed greatly fatigued. Tarak admired them both, even as he waited for Jax to kill this man. He had been watching the fight carefully, and felt certain his friend would win. Jax was slightly faster; and his immense fighting experience exceeded even this savage warrior who opposed him. It was a magnificent battle between two marvelous swordsman; one of the best Tarak had ever witnessed.

As a log burst among the flames Jorg suddenly dipped and drove in, lunging and slashing. Jax met him with his own blade as they came together, and the swords blurred in the sparking flames. Tarak heard a groan then, and Jax stepped quickly back.

Jorg stood still, his sword ready; but his sword arm flowed with blood where Jax's sword had sliced across and opened a deep gash, severing a vein. The man swore, and backed up, trying to wrap cloth around his arm as his sword remained out and ready. The bleeding intensified, however, and he sagged to his knees, dropping the sword, and clamped his left hand down upon his sword arm to stop the flow of blood. He glared up at his foe.

Jax watched him silently for a moment. Then he sheathed his own weapon and moved slowly towards his place at the fire, keeping his hand upon the hilt of his own weapon.

Jorg looked down at his arm, his expression bitter, and then he moved away from the fire. A few of the onlookers gathered around him, helping him walk toward the central fire. He never looked back as his silhouette grew smaller and blended with those who tended him.

Jax sat down with animal grace upon his crossed legs, and reached for a wineskin. He took a long, loud drink, and wiped his mouth with one sweaty, blood-spattered arm. He took another drink. Then he turned to Tarak. "Ah, this is good wine!" he said. His eyes danced with excitement and amusement and battle lust.

Tarak smiled, shaking his head at his companion; then took the skin from his friend's hands, and poured the fiery liquid down his own throat. "Yes." he nodded. "It is a good wine."

They sat then, each wrapped in his own thoughts, as they drank and watched the fire. The other men sat as silently, while the various onlookers drifted off into the night. Eventually, one by one, the others rose and left the small fire, until only the two remained. Tarak turned to his companion.

"He was a warrior worthy of your skills, Pell Jax," Tarak said quietly.

Jax nodded. "He still is. He will recover."

"Will he seek to kill you again?"

Jax shrugged. "Perhaps. But not for a very long time. He has a serious wound."

"Why did he wish to kill you?"

Jax was silent for a moment. Then he said, " I told him that the Hill People should fight."

Tarak was perplexed. "What does that matter? The Council has decreed negotiation. We heard them. What difference did it make?"

Jax was silent as he regarded his tawny-haired friend, then faintly smiled. "There is no Council of the Hill People, Tarak. Those men on the platform are for show. Tror thinks they control the Hill People; as Tarks, and Tror has spies who move among us.. The Hill People have no Tarks, nor any such formal Councils."

"Then who rules the Hill People?"

Jax gestured at the small, flickering flame. "The men whom we sat with this night at this small fire. Each is a Chief who rules his own tribe. Each is a magnificent warrior, as is Jorg. They had selected Jorg as their leader. But Jorg disagreed with the Tarkan of the Hill People, who rules these men and all the tribes.

"But who is the Tarkan?"

Pell Jax looked deep into Tarak's querying eyes, his own amused. "I am the Tarkan of the Hill People".

Gornus of Tror sat brooding in his palace, high above the streets of New Tror. He rose and walked to the window, and looked out over his city, but he could see little, for the night was moonless, and the scattered torches did little to illuminate the darkness which pervaded New Tror. He frowned at the paucity of light. At least two-thirds of the city's street torches weren't lit. He made a mental note to punish the Administrator, and turned away from the window.

He was in a foul mood. Two weeks previously the slaver, Pell Jax, had disappeared, as well as his strange bodyguard. Their disappearance had coincided with the theft of a young slave who belonged to a friend. The man had sought aid from Gornus, and guards had been sent that night to the docks of Jad Hasta in search of the girl and the two men; but a search had failed to turn up anything. Hasta's dock master had been cooperative but not intimidated, and had protested when the guards had attempted to break open sealed cases, and the guards had desisted, but had reported back to the Tark.

Gornus fumed. Perhaps he would give the dock master a chance to compete in the arena. This was New Tror, not some vassal Northern city. It was Tror's place to rule the world, and his place to lead Tror's legions. All people were but slaves to Tror. He wondered if he could kill Hasta's man without economic consequences. He wondered if he should simply kill them all, and take the ships. New Tror was complete. Yet the fleets of Hasta were important still. Thousands of slaves would need transport across Kal. Those in bondage and those yet to be captured, for Gornus had sent several of his legions into the Hills. He knew of the clearing where the Hill People gathered. His spies knew many places where he could find those who had thus far eluded him. This night four thousand warriors were surrounding the clearing. They would kill many, but most would not fight, for the Hill People never fought.

Jax was an enigma. Though he had disappeared, a ship had arrived this very night, and was presently unloading furs and other fine goods from the North. The Captain had stated that these were gifts from Pell Jax to the Tark of New Tror, and Gornus had permitted them to be unloaded and brought into the city at once. His officers had inspected the goods, and had assured the Tark of the immense value of the items.

A bell chimed, and his thoughts disappeared. It signaled a visitor, an unusual occurrence at this late hour. Most citizens slept, though the Tark himself was still awake, as was his custom.

Tarak smiled faintly as he turned his head to glance at his companion. They stood at the palace gates, waiting for the officer of the guard, for Pell Jax had strode boldly up to the City gates a half hour previously, and had demanded to be taken to see the Tark. He had boldly told the officer of the guard that he carried payment, in full, for his future endeavors; and that he would see Gornus this night or else he would depart and never return.

He had been taken immediately to the palace, and now the two men waited just within its gates.

Tarak was still amazed at the assassin. The Tarkan of the Hill People. He had told Tarak earlier the night two weeks ago that the future of the Hill People would be decided that night, and he had spoken the truth. The tawny giant shook his head slowly from side to side. His Tavane was a princess; daughter of a Tarkan. Janyla was Panthar of the Tarab Clan of the Chomir, a man whose name brought startled looks from hardened Chomirian warriors. His first and closest friend was Foss, Tarkan of Neros. What friends he had made! He, a homeless barbarian without family or history. A man who had come down from the mountains with nothing to offer but his friendship. Fortune and Fate wove strange threads in the tapestry of life.

He studied the enigmatic features of Pell Jax, and recalled the devil-may-care attitude which had first impressed him far North across Kal, outside the city of Costus. Jax stood there, his eyes dancing in the firelight. He was a joker and adventurer. A man who seemed to care for little or nothing. A man who had been absent from his people for several long years, fighting for his life against assassins and warriors. Yet he had returned suddenly; had walked boldy into a purported Council of the Hill People; had strolled over to where the true power of these People resided; and had casually told them that the Hill People would fight. And he had been challenged. Then the challenge was over. And Tarak had looked at his friend and had known that the Hill People would make war. Because Pell Jax was their Tarkan and he had said so.

A noise caught their attention, and the guard returned. "You may see the Tark," the man stated, but you must leave your weapons here."

Jax turned to leave. "My sword shall never leave me while I carry such wealth, no matter where I might be."

"Wait," said the guard, studying them. His Tark had told him to bring the merchant immediately. "You may carry one sword. Your bodyguard must leave his own weapons with me. Gornus permits but one sword at a time within his palace, and no knives."

Jax thought for a moment. He had known of this rule. All rulers feared assassination, but Gornus had no fear of any single swordsman. Yet any man would fear a knife in the hands of an assassin who might throw such a weapon with deadly accuracy. He nodded. "Agreed."

Tarak drew his sword and knife and handed them to the guard, and Jax his knife. The man then searched them both carefully, and nodded.

Another guard came forward, a huge, hulking brute, but unarmed. He led them up a series of stairs, higher and higher, until they reached the highest floor of the palace. They crossed a hallway, and then another. The guard stopped in front of a carved portal, covered by a thick, rich, purple curtain, threaded with gold. He turned to Jax. "You may enter." He shifted his attention to Tarak. "You shall remain with me." His small eyes were cruel.

Jax nodded. "Wait for me, Tarak." Before the guard could move, Jax had swept the curtain aside and had entered. The curtain fell back behind him, leaving Tarak and the guard alone in the hall.

Gornus stood near the window, watching the merchant as he entered from the foyer. Jax carried a heavy bag across his shoulders. The Tark shifted his gaze to the bag, his expressing querying, but instead of answering him Jax grabbed the bag from his shoulder and tossed it across the room towards the Tark, where it landed heavily. It was partially open, and Gornus' eyes widened as jewels and gold tumbled out and sparkled in the torchlight.

The merchant's actions were rude, however, and Gornus scowled as he looked back up into the face of the slaver. "I presume this is payment in full?" he queried. "If not, then your life will be added as well."

Jax smiled. "You will receive payment in full this night, Gornus." Jax shifted his attention to the wide window, looking over the Tark's shoulder, and his smile grew broad.

Gornus frowned, and turned to look. Flaming arrows shot up into the night, from at least fifty points within the city, high into the night. He shook his head, and turned questioning eyes upon the merchant. "What is this?"

"This is your payment, Trorian." Jax slowly drew his sword, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. "I have heard that you enjoy butchering the Hill People."

Gornus sneered. His own sword was in his hand. "Yes. I butcher them like the cattle they are."

Jax smiled again, his eyes hungry. "Perhaps you would like to try butchering this one. I am Pell Jax. I am the Tarkan of the Hill People."

Gornus stared in shock for long seconds, but he recovered, and then smiled himself. "It will be my pleasure, slave."

He advanced, his own eyes eager for the kill. Hundreds of the meek Hill People had fallen to his blade. No man could stand before him. His sword whirled in his grip and he mercilessly attacked the man who stood and smiled so insolently in his own palace quarters.

His blade flashed forward, but met only steel and suddenly the sword of Pell Jax flashed forward, and Gornus leaped back to avoid the counterstroke. Again he slashed, unleashing a powerful combination of strokes, intent upon crushing this man quickly. Carving him and destroying him.

Jax met him squarely, not retreating, his own blade a blur in the flickering light. Steel rang and sparked in the shadows as the weapons crashed together in a flurry of savage aggression. For long seconds the only sound was the ring of steel, and then Gornus backed away suddenly, blood tracing a tiny stream down his arm. He looked up in shock. The wound was slight, but yet it was there, and his opponent stood still smiling, and untouched by his own sword.

Gornus was wild with rage. His eyes gleamed as he attacked again, with all his power and speed and skill. Jax stood his ground, his own weapon leaping forward to meet that of the Tark. Again the blades whirled and crashed and sparked and thrust and blocked and parried, seeking a path through the other as if alive. Gornus heard a query from the outer hall, but his entire being was riveted upon this fight. He grunted then, and back away again. Another crimson streak appeared in his sword arm, larger this time, and blood began to flow. He looked up into the face of Pell Jax, and he saw wildness there. Power and retribution and killing lust.

Jax stood erect, his feet spread; his sword gripped in his hand as if it were a feather. His chest rose and fell with his breathing, and sweat gleamed upon his muscular limbs. "This is your last night, Gornus of Tror. Tonight you will die and your city will die. Tonight the Hill People take back what is theirs. What has always been theirs. Come to me, Gornus of Tror!"

Pell Jax moved forward then, his muscles rippling as his sword swirled in the torchlight. Gornus backed towards the window. He could hear the sounds of battle from the city below. The clash of steel, and screaming, and shouting.

He shouted then, but Jax could not understand the words. Gornus shouted again, and was answered by a growling roar from a nearby room. Jax stood back, and his blood froze as a huge wrok appeared in a side doorway.

Gornus smiled. "My pet." He spoke again to the beast, and the wrok snarled horribly and began to move forward. Gornus moved to Jax's other side, and together Tark and beast began to stalk the Tarkan of the Hill People.

Tarak heard the roar, and instantly he realized its meaning. The guard had also heard it, and had turned slightly. Sensing movement, the guard began to turn back to his charge, but two fists slammed into his head, and he was driven back against the wall, dizzy from the blow and the pain. He began to shake his head to clear it, but another massive blow followed the first, and his neck muscles, weakened from the first, lost their strength as bones cracked and the guard slipped down into the oblivion of death.

Seconds later Tarak was through the curtain and the alcove and into the quarters of Gornus of Tror. Pell Jax was backing towards him, while Gornus moved forward from his right. To the left the huge wrok stalked forward, unarmed, but so savage and powerful that it needed no weapon.

Jax saw the eyes of the Tark and the beast shift to his rear, and both stopped their advance for a second. Then he heard his friend's voice.

"The beast is mine, Pell Jax. Move to the right."

Jax responded instantly, though his blood was chilled. Tarak had no weapon. He moved toward Gornus, knowing he must kill the Tark at once, but Gornus laughed and darted for a doorway, throwing down a large statue to block Jax's advance. Jax leaped back, and Gornus disappeared through the door. Instantly the Tarkan of the Hill People followed, leaping over the debris. He glimpsed Gornus in the next room. Then he shuddered, for in the room behind him he heard a sound which froze his blood. A wild, impossibly savage scream unlike anything he had ever imagined. For an instant he stopped, but the sight of his prey drove him on, and he leaped into the adjacent room where Gornus stood, behind a heavy table, his own eyes wide. Thus did Pell Jax, Tarkan of the Hill People, and Gornus, Tark of Tror, first hear the battle challenge of the Wild Mountain Dyrrn; nor would either have believed that such a sound could issue from the throat of a man.

Tarak's eyes flashed as he stood and voiced his challenge to his prey. His body trembled with pure adrenalin and violence and aggression. The gentle breeze from the large window touched his skin and hairs stood straight.. Thought vanished from his mind as reflexes and instincts and muscle memory replaced conscious volition. Saliva dripped involuntarily from his jaws as the muscles in his huge quadriceps coiled. His arms and chest and back rippled as muscles flowed and glided beneath his skin. His ears pricked and battle madness glowed within his gleaming eyes. Growls rippled from his throat as he tensed, and with a scream he launched himself at the wrok.

The wrok stood, stunned and shocked. What had seemed an easy kill had suddenly erupted into a creature with which the wrok was wholly unfamiliar. It's own growls had vanished as the incredible scream had rippled forth from this strange man. Now the man was hurtling forward. Not retreating. Not running. The wrok was confused, suddenly frightened, and started to back up as Tarak's body slammed into its own.

The wrok went backwards from the blow, snarling in rage and pain, dazed by the savage assault. It gripped the shoulders of the man, and opened its jaws, but Tarak's shoulders had slammed into the beast's neck, choking it and keeping its jaws from reaching him. The powerful fingers of the wrok raked down the man's back and arms, digging furrows as it sought purchase with which to use its immense strength. One huge hand closed around the man's arm, and the wrok wrenched with all its strength, but the arm resisted the power of the beast, and the wrok could feel the man's teeth tearing at its chest.

It went wild, beating and pounding on its assailant. Suddenly the man's head came up, his teeth dripping with blood, and again Tarak screamed his challenge. The wrok pulled back, and heavy fists pounded at its face, driving like hammers into the eyes and head. The wrok swung its own huge arms; powerful limbs which had ripped mens' heads from their bodies, but the speed of the barbarian was lightning. He ducked and slithered around the torso of beast. Moving, always moving was the man, as he bit and kneed and pounded with his fists and hands, grabbing and lunging and utilizing power and speed and incredible balance to move his prey where he could hurt it. His own body was wet with sweat and blood, his own and that of the wrok. Huge furrows marked his skin where the wrok had dug its nails, and bruises marked his back and arms and legs. Blood dripped from his shoulder where the beast's teeth had nearly found a purchase.

Tarak was slippery and hard to hold as the two beasts rolled and fought and growled, knocking over furniture and tables and art. The wrok was tiring from the intense battle, yet sensed no fatigue from the man, whose efforts seemed to increase with each second. Again Tarak's fists pounded into the creature, driving into the soft belly of the wrok, then hammering upward, knocking back its head. The wrok was becoming dizzy with pain and the hurtling blows to its head. Tarak's teeth were buried in its shoulder, blood bubbling from his jaws as he tried to work closer to the neck.

The wrok went mad then, howling and swinging its arms with a wild surge which swept the man from its body. Forgetful of anything except life, the beast turned and ran; but in seconds it was crushed to the floor by the weight of the barbarian as he launched his body onto the back of the fleeing wrok. As they hit the floor Tarak slammed into the side of the wrok's head with a two handed stroke backed by all his immense strength and speed, dazing the beast. The wrok slumped to the floor, senseless for a second; and in that time Tarak's arms slid beneath and around its neck, and he screamed one final challenge as he wrenched back and around with all the power his body possessed. The wrok howled as its neck snapped, then its eyes dulled as its life faded and died.

Tarak's snarls filled the room as he sat upon the dead wrok, the beast's head in his arms. He held the pose for long seconds, his body so taut with the effort that he was as a statue. Then he released the flopping head, letting it thump to the hard floor.

His chest pounded with his breathing, and his heart raced with the immense and inhuman strain he had placed upon it in these last moments. Blood flowed from dozens of wounds and scrapes, and from his snarling jaws, to mingle with rivers of sweat and dirt flowing down his trembling body.. He heard a sound, and turned his head. His eyes flamed with blood lust and madness in the light of the torches, and his body gleamed in shades of reds and browns and black in the dancing light.

Thus Pell Jax saw him as he slipped into the chamber, his own adversary now sprawled in violent death upon the floor of the other room.

Jax stared in absolute shock at the figure of the beast who looked up at his entrance. "Tarak!" the man shouted. "Tarak!" Pell Jax was stunned, and fear touched him as he looked across the room at his friend.

Tarak shook himself, then, from his head to his torso, as a tarab shakes itself when it rises from a kill. The flame in his eyes dimmed, and they cleared as the spark of intelligence returned to his gaze. He smiled slowly. "Pell Jax."

Jax shook his head in wonderment, smiling now himself, as Tarak rose from the body of the wrok. "You are incredible, my friend! Beyond anything I have ever seen or imagined. Anything." Jax just continued to stare.

Tarak shook himself again. "I am different from other men, Pell Jax. I was raised to be so."

They moved to the window then, and Tarak felt the coolness of the night breeze touch his wounds and skin. He breathed deeply of the night, pumping more oxygen into his lungs to replace that which was still deficient from the battle. He grabbed a curtain, and wiped the sweat and blood from his face. Then they looked out silently upon the city of New Tror.

More than half the civilian adult males of New Tror had died within a minute of the hour marked by the flaming torches, as their slaves had attacked them in their beds with knives and swords and clubs. Slaves who had endured their suffering and humiliations for so long and so stoically. Deep had the humiliation burned within them, for the Hill People were warriors. They had accepted their bondage because their Tarkan had decreed that they do so, many years ago. They had fawned and laughed and cowered. Thus they had survived the overwhelming strength which Tror had sent against them so long ago. Now their true nature re-emerged, fueled by hate and blood lust and vengeance.

Their Tarkan had returned, and had met with hundreds of his people in the guise of a merchant slaver. He had given them their instructions and the times and the objectives. His words had spread to those trusted beyond question, thousands upon thousands of his people. Warriors all. Men and women who loved to fight, but who had played such a meek role that their masters wholly ignored the danger they truly posed. Slaves who had access to weapons and to the chambers of their conquerors. Most women and children were spared, for they were no threat; but many tasted the retribution of slaves they had mistreated for so long.

As one house was cleared of adult men, its slaves went to the next, and the next, gathering weapons and numbers as they moved swiftly through the city streets, untold thousands united in a massive assault upon the citizens of New Tror. Within twenty minutes nearly all adult civilian male Trorians had been killed.

At the same time, thousands of the Hill People had assaulted the Gates of New Tror; gates left open because a rich ship was unloading goods and gifts for the Tark of New Trow. Out of the moonless light they had come, creeping with the stillness of night, and suddenly they had rushed the remaining small distance and were within the city. Many thousands of warrors swept through those gates, for the Hill People existed in vast numbers. They were a widely scattered people, and when Tror had slammed into their lands six years ago only a fraction of the Hill People had opposed them. The crude city of the Hill People was a gathering place, not a permanent settlement of any tribe.

Tror had taken it easily, and had held captive many thousands of women and children, as well as men, ready to slaughter them if the Hill People continued to fight. This was the scene which the Tarkan of the Hill People had measured when he had returned, days later, from hunting far away in the mountains. He had seen the armies of Tror arrayed against his people. The might of Tror had hammered into these lands, and many thousands of his people had been helpless within the grasp of the enemy.

He had seen the might and the numbers which Tror had amassed and sent, and realized that to fight was to lose untold thousands of warriors in open lands against fortifications which Tror had lost no time in constructing.

He had seen that never again would these lands exist in safety until a fortified city existed to protect them.

He had seen that Tror would help him build this city, if he permitted them to do so. Thus his people became the slaves of their conquerors, and endured untold hardship, but also began to build their city, with the help of engineers and builders and soldiers and materials from distant Tror. His people labored, but they would reap the fruits of their labor, and although a few thousands of them would die from cruelty and murder and execution, he knew that this was but a fraction of those who would have died had he ordered them to fight so long ago.

Now the city was built. The City of the Hill People. News of his lands had always been brought to Pell Jax as he lived and fought in Costus. Many of his followers had sought employment in the ships of Jad Hasta. He had been patient, issuing instruction to these followers over the course of years. He had waited till the riches of New Tror had begun to flow into the city, and then he had come home to take it away from those who had invaded so long ago.

His people were not scattered now. Months ago he had ordered them gathered in untold thousands, waiting for his return. These thousands now swept into New Tror, into the barracks of the legions; powerful, fearless warriors who were easily a match, man for man, for any warrior of Tror; and who now vastly outnumbered the invaders.

Other thousands had waited in the forest, aware of the plans Gornus had issued for his legions. Knowing the route the legions would follow to the clearing. Brush had been cut along that path, but allowed to sit, brown now, rather than green, but this was unnoticeable in the darkness as the legions marched noisily through the forests on their mission. Then flaming arrows had swept among them, igniting the brush. Thousands of arrows had swept down upon them from all directions, as men died and were burned beyond recognition. Men fled screaming away from the flames, only to meet the massed numbers of the Hill People who waited in their own element. Four thousand Trorians had died in an hour. None had escaped.

Some had tried to escape towards the East, where lay Tror, but the Hill People were ready in this direction as well, and cut them down as they approached the wide river which bordered and defined the Eastern border of the lands of the Hill People. None escaped the slaughter to return to Tror. Hundreds more would die as they unknowingly entered these lands, secure in their belief that they were still the masters of this land. Eventually Tror would realize that something was seriously amiss, since none ever returned from New Tror. Then Tror would send her legions. This time the legions would find the Hill People ready, and this time they would find a nearly impregnable fortress awaiting them; one of their own construction and design.

These things Jax related as he stood with Tarak and watched his people take back their city and their home. Some had not happened yet, and other was conjecture, but Jax had planned carefully, and he knew it was unfolding and would unfold as he had decreed and planned.

They heard a sound then, and turning, Tarak noticed a slender slave boy peering around a corner with wide eyes.

"Come here boy!" Jax commanded. "What is your name?"

The boy ventured forth timidly. "I am Degas," he said. His voice was like a girl's, for he had been castrated when still young. He was sixteen, but would never become masculine. Unlike most of the city's slaves, those of its Tark had no knowledge of the impending overthrow of the city.

Jax smiled at the boy. "You are free now, Degas."

The boy's eyes grew wide. "Free?"

Jax nodded. "Yes. The Hill People have taken this city. And we will keep it."

"We are all free?"

"Yes."

A gleam came into the boy's eyes. "What of Gornus? And his wife and son?"

Jax smiled. "Gornus is dead. I presume you will find his family in their quarters. Bring them to me."

The boy was trembling now. "Do you have a knife?"

Jax shook his head, then nodded. "Yes. I think you will find a knife on Gornus' body." He gestured to the next room.

The boy thanked him and entered that room, returning in a moment with a knife. His eyes burned as he looked at it. "I will wake the other slaves first. I shall return shortly." He was smiling.

Jax nodded.

Moments later they heard screams, and then crying and moaning and rough movement. Shortly thereafter the boy returned, kicking Furbus ahead of him. Furbus was shrieking as he crawled along the floor, but blood flowed from his mouth and his naked limbs, and his sounds were unintelligible.

Degas kicked him again, grinning, and held up his own hands to show Pell Jax the trophies he had taken. Clenched in his fist were the genitals and tongue of the son of Gornus. Degas waved them once beneath his captive's face, and then threw them far out into the night.

The other slaves followed, kicking Venalia, who was similarly devoid of her tongue. She moaned and tried to crawl as her former slaves kicked at her arms and legs, laughing; their eyes bright with vengeance.

Jax wore a grim smile, and held his hand up to get their attention. "These are your slaves now. Do with them as you will."

The young Hill People nodded gleefully, and soon they had dragged their new slaves out of the room, and the screaming grew fainter.

Jax spoke quietly. "This is not unjust cruelty, Tarak. This is vengeance. Long have we suffered."

Tarak nodded silently. His own thirst for vengeance remained yet unquenched. Those who wrought suffering upon others had reason to fear it, in his view.

"Did Jorg, and the others, know of all this?" Tarak asked, sweeping his arm across the open window.

"No. Each knew but a few things."

"Why did you not explain this to Jorg?"

Jax turned to look into Tarak's eyes, his own hard and fierce. "It is not for a Tarkan to explain. It is for a Tarkan to rule."

Tarak met his gaze, seeing strength and power and pride in Pell Jax even beyond what he had seen before.

Jax turned away finally, sniffing the air, and smacking his lips. "I think we need some wine, Tarak!"

Tarak laughed in spite of himself. Below them the Hill People killed and conquered. After six years of suffering these people now spilled blood all across these lands. After six years of exile Pell Jax was again the Tarkan of a free nation. Thousands were dying and the fate of nations and the future was changing this moment. Yet Pell Jax sought this moment only to sit in the night and drink wine.

Jax returned moments later with two huge mugs. They kicked chairs over to the edge of the window, and each man sat and looked out into the night.

Tarak had grown immensely fond of Jax. He had found adventure and intrigue and excitement. He had traveled far and was supremely happy as he sat, the blood and sweat drying upon his body, and listened to the sounds of battle and revenge. The wine was good, and the companionship even better. He could not have imagined what had happened on these Southern shores of Kal. It was over, though. Jax would be busy with the unending matters of government and conquest and rule. Tarak's thoughts turned to Janyla, and he smiled. Panthar of the Chomir. Of the Tarab clan. He laughed softly as he remembered the first time he had seen the fierce blue eyes of the Chomirian, blazing for a single instant out of a girl's face, in the compound of Rogas, the Slaver. He missed the Chomirian. Tavane had been so fond of the little warrior.

Tavane. His thoughts turned to her and his body quivered with arousal and warmth and love. He could see her in his mind; standing tall and proud in her blue silks in the dining room of Farnus Cervus, telling him that she would always love him; and in a white dress near an empty pit which had held a Tarab, holding him in the moonlight and kissing him as she told him he was for her. He could visualize her in the hands of a Costian assassin, her eyes fierce and lovely and triumphant as she had seen him crash into a smoky tavern. He could see those eyes devour him with love and pride, as her lips devoured his moments later, while her assailant lay in his own blood. He grinned as he remembered her frowns and complaints and demands, and his eyes blurred as he recalled her laughter. She was his home, wherever she might be, and wherever he might go.

He blinked his eyes. One day he would return to her. His quest continued now, however. Panthar of the Chomir waited for him, as a spinning blade of steel had decreed many weeks ago. It was time for him to leave the Kalands, and to seek the lands of the small warriors. He turned to Jax.

"I will leave soon, Pell Jax. I must seek the lands of the Chomir."

Jax nodded. "I too will soon leave."

Tarak looked at him. "Leave? You are Tarkan in these lands. You must rule the Hill People."

The Tarkan shrugged. "Others can deal with most matters, and I will leave instructions. I have little use for the affairs of government."

"But Tror will return, surely."

Jax nodded. "Yes. But not for a long time. Not in force enough to threaten the Hill People. It will take months for Tror to send her whole might against us. I have time enough."

"Where will you go?"

"Tror." Jax smiled. "I would like to meet the enemy in its lair."

"Alone?"

Jax nodded, chuckling. "The Hill People certainly haven't the power to challenge the might of Tror in her own lands, Tarak, if in fact any nation does. They rule Tror and the many lands South of Tror. In these Northern lands they are stopped only by Kal; and by the people to the North; and of course the Hill People in the West.

"Who halts them in the North?"

"North of Tror lie the lands of the Chomir."

Tarak's heart quickened. He had not realized Chomirian lands extended so far South. "Can we reach the lands of the Chomir by traveling through Tror?"

"Yes. If you prefer traveling by land, rather than by sea."

Tarak thought for a moment. He had no idea where he might find Panthar, nor which port to choose, should he travel by ship across Kal. If he traveled by land, he would have freedom and privacy. More than anything, he would find adventure and new places and perhaps creatures, as he wandered East and then North, through the lands of Tror and into those of the Chomir. "Perhaps I'll travel with you, Pell Jax."

Jax smiled. "Good. I'm confident we'll find much peace and harmony when we reach fabled Tror."

Tarak laughed. "I am certain we will."

Tarak emerged from the palace of Gronus of Tror late the next morning. He had bathed and washed his clothing, leaving it to dry in the wind as he dozed in a vacant room. He looked down at his tunic ruefully. His skin was visible through myriad holes and rents. New rips had nearly torn the garment from his back during his fight with the wrok, and now fluttered in the wind. A Hill girl smiled when she looked at him. He was known to them as the companion of Pell Jax. Many of them had watched him while he traveled the city, with and without their Tarkan, weeks ago.

The girl laughed as she swept up to him, and taking pity, she offered to sew his garment. He grinned at her, and eagerly accepted. She led him a short distance into what was now her home and throwing him a scrap of cloth, motioned for him to remove the tunic, and he did so, wrapping the cloth around his loins.

The girl shouted, and a slave timidly entered the room. The woman had once owned this house. Now her face was bruised and beaten, and the marks of straps covered her arms. She whimpered as her new mistress chided her and told her to run for the sewing supplies. The slave jumped fearfully to her feet, and ran into another room, while her new mistress laughed in merriment.

Half an hour later Tarak emerged. His tunic was still in a sorry state, but at least it could be recognized as a tunic. Yet he realized that this garment was nearing the end of its life, however fond he was of it. He wished Foss could see him now! The thought made him laugh out loud, almost doubling up in his mirth.

Thousands of Hill People surrounded a large area outside the Palace. Within the area the Trorian slaves were being processed. Each was raised to stand upon a block, and the Hill People were asked to detail the past activities of the new slave. All were known to at least several of the Hill People, and thus were they punished. All the young males were divested of their genitals. They would remain boys for their entire lives as they served the Hill People. Nearly half of the women had ordered cruelties upon the Hill People, and these now lost their tongues. They would never know speech again, though the Hill People would teach them sounds to make, as animals are taught, so they might convey simple thoughts to their new masters. Many boys suffered a similar fate. The sins of the masters were now visited upon them as slaves.

Others were treated more harshly. Cauterized and loosely bandaged stumps now replaced hands which had formerly wielded whips on many of the slaves. No adult males had survived the assault.

Thousands of the Hill People were already beginning to exit the city for their own lands, for they love the freedom of the hills. New slaves marched with many of them, laden with goods and food. Slave boys and girls who would never again see the walls of a city, nor sit in a chair, nor wear sandals or soft cloth. They would labor in the far reaches of the forest and in the wild hills for the rest of their lives, serving and fetching in the primitive encampments of the Hill People. Nor would they ever leave whatever camp became their new home, unless sold or traded. Lost in the vastness of the hills, they would live out their lives in some small area, along with the other domestic animals which served the Hill People.

Tarak walked through the city. It was apparent that many would continue to live here. He made his way eventually to the city gates, and passed through out onto the wide expanse which extended a few hundred yard so the shores of beautiful Kal. He crossed to the sea, and stood looking out, his senses alive with the smells and the feelings. His hair wafted in the breeze, tickling his broad shoulders as they soaked up the warmth of the sun. The wind pricked his wounds, making them tingle where they didn't hurt.

He sensed a presence near, and turning his head slightly he perceived Loris standing next to him. Her stealth was uncanny. She smiled up into his eyes, her own wide and clear and beautiful. Her dark hair was clean and swept down across her shoulders and back. He smiled at her, and she moved closer, grasping his arm gently with her slender fingers. She looked him up and down, shaking her head in wonderment. He was pleased to see her again. Then she looked up at him, and appraised him carefully.

Her eyes never left his face. "Kiss me!" she commanded.

Tarak's eyebrows rose, and he started to shake his head, but she laughed.

"I know you love another. It doesn't matter."

"You know?"

"Yes," she laughed. "Tavane of Elur."

"How could you know?"

"My brother told me."

"Your brother? Who is your brother?" Tarak was wholly perplexed.

She grinned. "He is Pell Jax."

"Pell Jax is your brother?" Tarak was dumbfounded. "Why didn't you say so on the ship?"

Her smile widened. "The Hill People have their secrets, Tarak."

He shook his head, and pleasure suffused him as he thanked the fates that he had been in the streets of New Tror in that place on that day and time.

"Kiss me!" she demanded again. "Pell Jax owes you a life; and more. The Hill People owe you life!" Her eyes grew moist. "And I, Loris of the Hill People, owe you the happiness I will have for the rest of my life!" Then she grabbed him fiercely, and holding his head with her small hands she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his in one long passionate kiss. Then she released him, and stepped back. "Thank you, Tarak! Thank you for everything!" Then she turned and walked away, as he watched her slim back grow smaller while his lips burned from the love and joy happiness she had expressed with that one fierce kiss.

Her lips brought new thoughts of his Tavane, and he stood for many moments in the wind and sun, gazing out over the churning seas. Foosteps brought him out of his reverie, and he turned to see the Tarkan of the Hill People standing a few feet distant.

"This is your day, Pell Jax." he said.

"It is their day," the Tarkan replied, sweeping his arm back to encompass the city and the and lands beyond.

"Why did you leave your people, for Costus, so long ago?"

"There was nothing for me here. I did not care to watch my people suffer, and I could not help them then. I accomplished much more for them in the service of Jad Hasta." He looked at Tarak. "And for myself. I am a man, and I'll live a man's life, wherever it takes me."

Tarak was silent for a moment. "Your sister kissed me."

Jax laughed. "She wanted to do more than that, Tarak. It was necessary that I tell her about Tavane of Elur."

Tarak smiled. "Do you have a mate?"

"Yes. At least I did."

"Where is she?"

"She was taken six years ago. As a slave. To Tror."

Tarak nodded. "I see."

"I think you do." Jax clapped the tawny giant on his shoulder. "Are you ready?"

"To leave? Now?"

"Why wait?" Jax grinned. "Tror awaits us, my friend."

Their eyes met, and Tarak grinned. "Yes. I believe it does."

They turned then, and started walking Eastward, and soon were but specks in the distance. Behind them lay the City of the Hill People, its walls bright in the glare of the brilliant sun.

The End.