Brona leaned back against the plush cushions, his large feet propped up upon his couch, and held his goblet out for a refill of wine. His manner reflected the boredom he had felt for the past several weeks, drilling the ignorant wroks in an endless series of maneuvers.
They were terribly savage fighters, he knew, but the discipline needed to attack and overrun a fortified village of Car was not easy to instill within the beasts.
"Hurry, slave!" he roared, his angry glare shifting to the ragged woman who held the pitcher. "Perhaps I must whip you again, as I have so many times whipped Gonor's experimental bastard."
Amena said nothing. Even had she wanted to speak, or been permitted to do so, she would never speak again, for Gonor had operated upon her vocal mechanism. Only a stub remained of her tongue, and he had altered her vocal chords so that the only sound she could make was a shrill squeak, similar to the sound uttered by the small, furry uk, the animal which has first attacked the young Tarak upon his arrival in Gonor's fortress.
She smiled inwardly, however, warming to the thought of the last time she had seen Brona try to whip the boy.
Tarak had been thirteen years old then, and had been able for some time to successfully elude the snaking whip, no matter how skillfully Brona wielded it. The child had been chained to a wall in the arena by means of a light but strong chain which fastened around his ankle, which ran for about ten feet to a bolt in the wall.
Brona had been unusually impatient that day, and had struck with speed and force, but even chained the child had kept his skin untouched, so incredibly quick were his movements. Finally Brona had become furious, and had moved closer than usual, in an effort to guarantee a strike.
Tarak had seemed almost to be taunting him with his deft movements and flashing green eyes, and Brona had angrily reached in to strike punishing, damaging blows.
Suddenly the boy had lunged forward, and in a blur of movement had grabbed the whip near its tip, pulling savagely and quickly in an attempt to bring Brona within his reach.
Brona had recovered in time to release the whip, but before he could escape completely the boy had delivered two blows with the weapon, backed by the nurtured strength which flowed through his young body, and delivered with hate for this man which had long festered within his mind.
The whip had torn through Brona's tunic and inflicted wounds the scars of which Brona still bore.
Since that day Brona had plotted and pleaded for the child's death, but Gonor, secretly delighted with the whipping episode, had increased the security around the arena, and had ordered the whippings discontinued. Never had Brona been able to kill the child, but many times he had tried to devise experiments which would cause his death.
Some of these Tarak had survived, and others Gonor had not permitted, knowing that they created dangers too formidable for even this amazing child, and would result in his death without any corresponding increase in medical or scientific knowledge, merely to satisfy Brona's desire to see the child killed or maimed.
Gonor was presently absent from the valley, however, having traveled deep into the forest in search of certain herbs and plants.
Brona commanded in his absence, and the safety of Tarak was thus placed in jeopardy, for although Gonor had forbidden that his captive be harmed, Brona thought he might arrange that an accident happen which would kill or maim the young man, and Amena thus feared for the life of her magnificent Tarak, much more than she feared for her own.
She was terribly frightened for herself. She had not been permitted to see Tarak for many months, and during that period she had come to realize how dependent she had become upon their relationship. As she had been his source of strength and comfort during the early years, so the child had reciprocated as he grew older.
For many years now he had been quite capable of existing completely without her, yet she felt alone and frightened without the child. Again she smiled inwardly as she thought of her conception of him as "the child".
Never had she seen so magnificent a man, and her heart leaped with pride and love as she thought of him and of her own part in his survival and growth to manhood. She had molded him as surely as had the mad physician, Gonor.
Wherever Tarak went, he would carry Amina with him, at least in spirit.
She rushed over to Brona's side, and shuddered as she felt him look at her, distaste written upon his features.
He smiled mirthlessly. "Such an ugly hag you are, slave."
She lowered her head and served the wine. It was true. Once she had been beautiful, and even as a captive in the valley fortress she had retained some of her beauty as she raised the boy. Her features, though scarred, had remained fine.
When Tarak had grown to maturity, however, she had been taken away, and her masters had changed her life considerably.
First had come the operation, after which she could no longer speak, or even eat properly. Brona had experienced much amusement in making her squeal for her food, and watching her attempt to eat from a bowl with her mutilated tongue.
After a period of time she had been given to the wroks, who had used her, raped her, and forced her to serve them in the most menial of ways.
More than once they had broken her bones with their angry blows, and she no longer had any teeth. Her jaws fitted together poorly from being fractured on several occasions, and her legs had been broken more than once. The poorly knitted bones caused her to move painfully, and with a noticeable limp. Her once beautiful face was no longer symmetrical, and was scarred and haggard.
Recently she had been returned to the service of the men, and Brona had laughed at her whenever she was in his presence. He hated her as he hated the boy, and seemed to seek some measure of retribution from her for the pain and humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Tarak.
Her spirit was again shattered, her obedience instant and total.
Gonor had nodded approvingly as Brona abused the slave woman. He knew that whatever self-esteem she had recovered during her years of tending to the boy had been irretrievably lost. Amena, only in her thirties, was a shuffling, broken old woman. As he had meant her to be.
Her ugliness at least saved her from having to serve the lust of her masters, and for this she was thankful. Brona seemed to thrive on cruelty, however, and never missed an opportunity to attempt to break through the impassive wall she had erected within her mind, and to reduce her to emotional rubble.
As she filled his goblet and attempted to move away, he suddenly grabbed her and threw the goblet into her face. The heavy metal struck her sharply, opening a cut upon her mouth, and spilling its contents upon her frail body.
"Clumsy slave!" roared Brona, laughing at his cruel joke, and reaching down to slap her, as she was bending slowly down to pick up the fallen goblet. "Tonight you shall watch as your bastard dies!"
She looked up, horrified, and Brona smiled drunkenly.
"So you still have a mind after all," he chuckled. "I am glad. I have decided to let the wroks have him. Tonight."
Brona thought this was hysterically funny, and tipped back, his eyes closed in mirth, his hand outstretched for the goblet, as he began to laugh uproariously.
He had miscalculated, however, as had Gonor. Amena had sunken into the depths of despair, but throughout her dismal and degrading ordeal she had clung to her love for Tarak.
She had lived for him, and a measure of her will had survived, even as it had not survived the first ordeal Gonor had subjected her to upon her arrival in the valley fortress.
Her life was over, she knew, but the thought of Tarak aroused her desire and will once more. Even as Brona laughed she swung the jug of wine and brought it crashing down upon his head, using all of her pitiful strength, and then stepped back as her master slumped heavily to the floor.
For a moment she stood thus transfixed, and then turned and fled for the passages to the arena. Down she fled, through doors and passages which were almost deserted. The few wroks she passed made no attempt to stop her, for she was a familiar figure, and no longer belonged to the wroks, in any event.
In her present weakened condition she could not move swiftly, however, and before she reached her goal she heard sounds of pursuit. Breathlessly she redoubled her efforts, and finally reached the small chamber in which was set the heavy door which provided access to the arena floor.
Her one thought was to somehow set him free; to give him a chance which would otherwise be denied him, and which had always been denied her. Her thoughts were confused, but her intentions were not.
A large wrok guarded the door, a huge hinged fixture, with double iron bolts and reinforced with heavy bars. Not pausing, she threw herself at the door, attempting to draw the bolts, and squealing piercingly the name of the man within.
The wrok stared at her with some consternation, and then picked her from the door as if she were a child, and flung her to the dirt. She attempted to rise, but experienced a sensation of extreme pain, and noticed that her left leg would not respond. Looking down, she saw that the leg was bent back at an unnatural angle, and she knew that it was broken.
Squealing with terror and pain, she vainly attempted to crawl toward the door, but the still bewildered wrok reached down and grabbed her, cruelly lifting her by the mangled leg, and shaking her roughly.
This was the sight which greeted Brona as he burst into the chamber, sweating profusely and holding his head.
Insane with drunken fury, he grinned savagely at the sight of the broken and screaming woman.
"Kill her!" he commanded. "Kill her, and throw her body into the arena."
The wrok grinned, and as he closed his free hand around the slender throat of the slave woman, neither he nor Brona noticed the slight movement of the arena door.
For an instant the heavy door seemed to strain outward upon its hinges against the bolts, as if some determined force within were trying to force it open through sheer power and force of will. The movement subsided, then evidenced itself again. No sound was heard, and only the most imperceptible movement indicated that whoever was within was aware of what was taking place within the small chamber.
This second time the force did not immediately subside, but rather seemed to increase, as he within tested the strength of the bolts.
The grinning wrok suddenly twisted Amena's neck savagely with his hairy hands, and after a final painful shriek she fell silent. The wrok tossed her carelessly to the ground, and as he did so the movement against the heavy door ceased, as if the force which had vainly measured itself against the door subsided.
Tarak retraced his steps to the center of the arena, and stood silently as he waited for the body of his beloved Amena to be thrown down to him. His huge frame trembled with emotion, and muscles rippled involuntarily along his skin.
Never in his life had he known such rage. A mist clouded his vision, and he felt dizzy with hate and despair. The shrill squeals had first caught his attention, and even in that perverted form he had recognized the voice of Amena.
Her scent had reached him then, and he had vainly tried to move the great door, hoping against hope that her struggles had somehow loosened the bolts enough that the door could be forced open.
After a few moments her body was unceremoniously thrown into the arena, and effortlessly he caught the lifeless figure of the slave; the woman who had so successfully replaced his real mother and given him a chance at life.
Tenderly he held her, stroking her hair and taking in the signs of suffering which marked her small body. For long moments he held her thus, and though his mind was raging, his face was calm, although tears dripped from his emerald eyes.
A sound from above caught his attention, and looking up he saw Brona standing behind the rail which circled the arena, looking down at him.
"I know you cannot understand my words, savage," he shouted, "but I think you do understand what I have done to the slave woman."
He grinned at the conclusion of his statement, which had sounded triumphant, but petty.
"I killed her," he continued, "because of you, and also because it was my pleasure to do so." he paused.
"Now it is your turn to die!".
Brona then turned to the wrok who stood beside him. "Bring Lukor," he commanded. "Tell him Brona gives him the life of the captive."
He turned back to the prisoner. "Your sufferings are nearly over, wrok-man, as is your life. I tried to kill you long ago, but Gonor prevented it. Gonor cannot save you now. Lukor will kill you, as he killed your mother, and as he would have killed your father. He will tear the head from your body, and bring it to me on a platter!"
Laughing drunkenly, Brona turned and exited the upper chamber, while the man below stood silently, watching his departure with apparent impassiveness.
Excitement flowed through Tarak's body, however.. Brona had confirmed that which Amena had told him, and the thought that his father might still live somehow fascinated him immeasurably, although he realized that it was probably of no importance anymore.
This thought was as next to nothing compared with the anticipation he felt at meeting the famed Lukor.
He had rarely seen the beast, for wroks had been generally forbidden near the arena until recently. Amena had related many tales of the wrok's prowess and savagery, however, and Tarak has heard additional remarks from the wroks who guarded the arena.
Lukor was the leader of the fierce creatures, a position which he had won largely by virtue of his size, strength, and unparalleled ferocity. He had held this position for many years, and was still in the prime of his life, huge and terrible. No wrok yet dared challenge him.
Tarak lay the silent form of Amena upon the arena floor, and prepared himself for the coming encounter with the wrok chieftain. For many years he had been forced to wear bands of heavy metal about his body, placed there at the direction of Gonor in an attempt to handicap his efforts, while increasing his strength. When Gonor had first decided upon this strategy, Tarak has been young, but as he grew older Gonore had directed that Tarak be anesthetized with a dart tipped with a sleeping potion.
Tarak had never attempted to remove the bands, reasoning correctly that should he do so Gonor would simply anesthetize him again, and would replace the bands with shackles which might prove more difficult to remove.
His failure to attempt to remove the metal bands has been perceived to be evidence that his mind had remained infantile, and Tarak had realized some measure of pleasure from portraying such a creature, and in not permitting his captors to realize the extent of his knowledge and intelligence.
Now, however, he wished to be free from the restrictions imposed by the heavy bands, which encircled his trunk, neck, arms, and legs in various places.
Grabbing the end of the largest band with both of his hands, he began to tense the muscles of his arms and back.
Slowly the band began to unwind itself from about his body, and within minutes he had removed the last of the heavy bands, and stood unbound for the first time in years.
He stood easily, flexing his muscles and enjoying this new freedom of movement. The feeling of lightness and mobility was magnificent.
He then turned his attention to the problems of survival and escape. He had no idea of what precautions the wroks would take, but from his observations he had noted that they were relatively unintelligent creatures, given to boasting and swaggering, and prone to feats and displays of bravado.
Perhaps their overconfidence would somehow provide a means of escape, should he survive the impending battle. Such an opportunity was unlikely, and in all probability he would be die this day. He would die fighting, however, as he had fought time and again over the long years.
He looked again, as he had so many times in the past, at the door to his prison. He had waited with infinite patience for any opportunity to escape. He would not waste one if it were presented now.
The concept of an impending fight to the death concerned him not at all. Savage battles to the death had been his experience throughout his long years of captivity, and self-preservation had created a lust for combat within him as adrenalin flowed through his body prior to such battles.
After a few moments he sensed the presence of others, and then heard sounds from above. Looking up, he noticed a small group of wroks, at the center of whom a huge wrok stood, glaring down at him, grinning fixedly with huge canines.
The wrok bore no evidence of leadership or rank, but from his manner and bearing, and the way in which the others regarded him, it was apparent that this was the leader, Lukor. He was larger than the others, who were themselves large creatures.
The wrok stood at the edge of the fence, and grimaced with pleasure. "You die, man! Lukor kills!"
The bestial visage was distorted, a mask of hate and blood-lust. The wrok raised one long, hairy arm, hand extended claw-like, and shook it violently, snarling his malevolence toward the unarmed, naked man who watched him silently from the floor of the arena.
Lukor turned and abruptly disappeared from Tarak's view, but Tarak noted that two of the creatures still watched him from above, so he remained in the center of his prison, his arms folded across his chest, dismissing any plans to wait at the door and attempt to surprise the wroks when it was opened.
A moment later he heard the bolts moving, and shortly thereafter the door opened and Lukor entered, followed by two wroks, including the wrok who guarded the door.
Tarak noticed that they left the door open behind them, and his excitement increased immeasurably. He then turned his attention upon the massive figure who was advancing toward him, slowly, now perhaps twenty-five yards distant.
Tarak had observed some wroks, and Lukor was clearly physically superior to any he had seen.
He was truly a formidable foe. The wrok stood more than seven feet tall, with long, sinewy arms, knotted with muscle. The arms almost brushed the dirt as he walked, and yet for all their length they did not appear slender, or give the appearance of awkwardness.
Lukor's lips were drawn back from his large teeth in a simian snarl, and the coarse hair on his body stood at right angles to the skin, making him appear slightly larger than normal. He growled scornfully as he advanced upon his waiting victim, who slowly lowered his arms to his side, and crouched slightly, awaiting the attack of the creature.
Tarak noticed that Lukor made no attempt to draw the long knife which hung from his loincloth. The wrok was truly confident of an easy kill.
Lukor, snarling fiercely, had expected his tactics to instill terror in the captive, and was momentarily disconcerted when Tarak remained in place, and did not turn and flee. He had planned to chase the man about the arena, knocking him down with punishing blows, then allowing him to rise and attempt to run again before catching him and beating him again, all for the amusement of the other wroks.
Gradually he had planned to destroy his prey, breaking his bones, crippling him, and laughing as the crippled prisoner tried to crawl away in the dirt. Finally he would raise him high in the air, and throw him down, again and again, and at the right moment he would lock his legs about the ragged body and with a wrenching twist of his arms he would tear the man's head from his broken torso.
He was therefore somewhat annoyed that his plan was not unfolding as he had foreseen, and he appeared even more fearsome in his anger.
He increased his screaming, in an attempt to frighten the man into fleeing.
"You die, man! You die! Lukor will tear out your heart, and stomp it in the dirt!"
Lukor knew the man could not understand his words, but knew that they would impress the watching wroks, and he counted on the ferocity and volume of his voice to have some effect upon the captive. In an attempt to heighten the effect he raised his long powerful arms and made a reaching gesture, although he was not yet close enough to grab the man.
Tarak spoke then, in a voice so low that none but Lukor could hear, and although spoken softly, the words were voiced with such trembling anticipation that Lukor momentarily faltered in his advance.
"No woman faces you now, Lukor. No infant child is it that lies defenseless before you, while you draw your bow and murder his mother."
The green eyes flashed as if a raging fire burned within.
"The child is grown now, Lukor. He is going to kill you."
Lukor was stunned by this sudden evidence of intelligence and knowledge in the captive whom everyone had thought was as ignorant and retarded as a beast, and he was wary of the calm certainty in the man's voice.
He did not halt his advance, however, for he was Lukor. Lukor the destroyer, the most savage of his kind. Tarak's words enraged him beyond all control. Breaking his stately advance, he leaped for the man, reaching with his powerful arms, intending to tear the limbs from this impudent creature. Screaming with hate and lust, he leaped.
But Tarak was already moving. With incredible swiftness he ducked under the encircling arms of the great wrok, and even as Lukor sought to regain his balance and halt his momentum Tarak drove his fists into the bowels of the beast.
The wrok screamed, this time in anguish, and tried to roll away from the man, kicking and clawing in his efforts to recover.
Springing to his feet, Lukor turned and saw Tarak standing quietly, watching him, ten feet away.
A grim smile etched the lips of the man as he watched the wrok. Lukor knew that he had appeared somewhat ridiculous, kicking and clawing at the air while his prey had moved away, not pressing his advantage, and had merely waited, watching the wrok engage in drastic and violent protective actions which were wholly unnecessary.
Rage contorted the wrok's features and he charged instantly, maddened with increased hate for this creature who had caused him to appear foolish in front of the others of his kind.
The man retreated, turning and sprinting toward the door of the arena. The wroks guarding the door tensed momentarily, then relaxed as Lukor caught the captive easily from behind, before he had traveled even half the distance to the door.
Lukor wondered how such a slow creature could have avoided his initial attack, as he grabbed the man by the ankle and, bracing his legs, pulled his quarry back.
Suddenly he realized that the man was coming at him much faster than was intended. Before Lukor could release his grip Tarak had closed with the beast, and was searching for its throat with strong white teeth, while his right arms encircled the wrok's neck, pulling its head toward him.
His speed and strength were stunning, as were his tactics, and Lukor quickly released his grip on Tarak's ankle, and reached for the man's head with both hairy arms.
Tarak had already released the wrok's neck, however, and as the wrok freed his ankle he leaped aside. Landing lightly on his feet, he sprang at the beast, who was puzzled and frustrated by this man who ran so slowly, yet struck so swiftly.
The great beast was maddened by rage and pain. Tarak had missed the great vein in Lukor's neck, but blood flowed from the wrok's neck, and as it screamed the sound was muffled by the gaping hole in its throat.
He met the charge of the man, biting empty air as he tried to bring his powerful jaws into play.
Hurtling fists pounded his head as his jaws closed, and as his head was pounded back he felt hands clamp onto his wounded throat, and powerful fingers dig deep into the muscles of his neck.
Tarak gripped savagely, and before the wrok could recover he vaulted completely over the beast, his momentum snapping Lukor's head back, and throwing him upon his back. Twisting in midair, Tarak landed upright, his fingers still gripping the wrok's neck. Digging even deeper with his powerful fingers, he wrapped his legs about the waist of the stunned wrok, trapping the long knife against its body.
Lukor felt the tremendous pressure on his neck, and grasped Tarak's arms, to rip them free. With a mighty effort he wrenched at his adversary's grip.
Those arms did not move. Like steel they held, and Lukor's sudden sense of disbelief changed to one of fear as he realized the measure of power which flowed through those arms. Wildly he attempted to strike his assailant, and tried to grasp his knife, only to discover that it was trapped beneath iron legs.
He caught sight of the two wroks who stood, disbelieving, by the arena door. Signaling wildly with bulging eyes, he ceased his futile assault upon his assailant to gesture towards them with his long arms.
The grip upon his throat eased, then ceased entirely, and relief flooded into Lukor's eyes as the two guards left the door and hurried to his assistance.
Then the fists came crashing down upon his unprotected face, and suddenly the man was behind him, and the smooth, unyielding arms encircled his fatigued neck with liquid grace and lightning swiftness.
The screams and gurglings of their chief spurred the wroks, who, confused by this strange and rapid turn of events, hastened forward to tear this savage man from Lukor's back.
The two antagonists rolled in the dirt, Lukor raging and screaming for help, while the man held grimly onto the neck and torso of the wrok, silent in his determined effort.
In their haste to reach the two antagonists, the guards left the door open and unguarded.
They were almost upon the combatants when Tarak suddenly flexed the muscles in his arms and shoulders in one terrific lunge, twisting Lukor's head with such wrenching force that the knotty muscles protecting the throat of the great wrok tore free, and the thick neck snapped with a sickening splintering of bones.
Tarak released the corpse instantly, throwing it at the attacking wroks, as he slid the long wrok knife free of it's sheath.
One wrok stumbled and leaped to the side, and before it could recover Tarak was past and racing toward the second guard, the knife in his hand and death in his blazing green eyes.
The second wrok, startled by this sudden attack, quickly moved aside, drawing its knife, and backing toward the wall, acting in defensive self-preservation until its companion could join in the fight.
The man ignored it, however, and moving at a speed seemingly unimaginable to those who had seen him so easily overhauled by Lukor, Tarak hurtled toward the open door.
As he ran Tarak regretted leaving the wroks alive, for one of them had killed his beloved Amena.
The opportunity for which he had waited a lifetime had arisen, however. Nothing else mattered. Amena was dead, and revenge would keep. He could not waste even seconds upon such matters, for if the door closed now, he knew he would die here.
Tarak was through the door before the wroks realized their error. Stopping only long enough to slam and bolt the door behind him, he scanned the outer chamber, a small room and dimly lit by means of a smoky torch set in the wall.
On the other side of the chamber a narrow passageway led upward, and torchlight could be seen reflecting from the passage walls. No sound or scent emanated from that direction.
From the right, however, considerable noise could be heard, generated by the wroks who had remained posted above the arena.
A stone stairway located there let upward to, Tarak assumed, the observation area above the arena. Apparently the two wroks had seen all that had transpired within the arena, and were now descending the stairway.
He smiled grimly, knowing that had the creatures instead retreated to the upper levels and sounded an alarm, his chances of remaining free or alive would have been small.
Their simple, violent minds had fastened upon immediate, aggressive action, however, and their action would provide him with a means of gaining time and knowledge which was so important, and which he would not have if his escape became known throughout the fortress.
Moving swiftly to the stair, he waited hidden within its shadow, and as the first wrok reached the bottom and rushed past him he slashed out with the long knife, severing the front half of the beast's neck with one powerful slash.
The momentum of the wrok carried it forward and beyond the stair, where it collapsed soundless to the stone floor.
The second wrok was following closely, and attempted to check its speed as it saw its companion die, raising its sword in an attempt to slash at the man, who was streaking forward, diving at the startled wrok with savage swiftness.
The wrok's sword was still descending when the creature felt its arm caught in an iron grip, and its weapon hung motionless as pain exploded in its arm. It tried to tear its arm free, but the man moved up and in, driving the long knife deep into the wrok's chest with an irresistible thrust.
Grunting, the wrok fell heavily to the stair, and Tarak, pulling the crimson blade free, raced over its body and vaulted up the passage.
As he had surmised, the stair led to a large upper chamber, one side of which overlooked the arena which had been his home and prison for so long. A number of chairs had been place behind the railing which guarded the edge of the pit, upon which Gonor and his followers had sat, year after year, to watch the bloody trials and battles of the prisoner locked within.
Tarak's mouth tightened as he looked briefly down into his arena, as a panorama of his lifelong ordeal flashed through his memory.
The two wroks stood silently there, looking down upon the body of their slain chieftain. Tarak had no weapon with which to harm them, other than the knife he carried, so he dismissed them from his thoughts and turned to search for an exit.
To his left a passage appeared to lead upward. Swiftly examining it with his acute senses, and finding no evidence of danger, he entered the passage and moved swiftly upward along its course. Behind him only silence reigned.
He moved quickly and quietly upward along the dimly torchlit corridor, and after a moment discerned brighter light ahead, light which differed immensely, even at a distance, from the torchlight he was leaving behind.
Its promise of intense brightness stunned him, and almost forgotten memories stirred within his mind, of pervading light, and infinite color.
He was drawn to the light as to nothing he had ever known, yet he slowed as he approached the end of the passage, for this new light cast such an illumination that he felt more conspicuous than ever before, while at the same time the intensity began to hurt his eyes, and he sensed a need to allow them to become accustomed to this unusual brightness.
Crouching low to the floor, he waited long moments, his eyes almost closed, his other senses pricked with alertness for any sign of danger.
He opened his eyes gradually to the brightness, and when they were fully open, with no resultant pain, he rose and silently crept into the chamber ahead.
This chamber was much larger and was furnished with a variety of implements and furnishings. Although it was a lower chamber, inhabited chiefly by wroks, it represented to Tarak a richness he had never before encountered. Carefully he surveyed its extent, measuring distances and noting the placement of each detail.
Three doors, closed but not bolted, provided means of ingress and egress, and he strained his senses for any sign of movement behind them.
Almost immediately, however, his entire attention was riveted upon the white rectangle which was set into the opposite wall. Never had he seen or imagined anything so bright, so blindingly beautiful. Leaving the passage entrance, he slowly crossed to the barred window, and gasped in pure wonderment as he looked out upon the green valley.
Gloriously it stretched out beneath him, framed by the clear blue sky and the tall protective cliffs. Squinting against the intense light, Tarak was almost overcome with the majestic grandeur of the scene, and his every sense quivered almost uncontrollably as the myriad sights, sounds and smells reached him.
Mostly he marvelled at the brightness, and at the vast space of it all. The valley stretched for almost twenty miles directly away from the cliff face, and was more than fifteen miles wide for most of its length. A small lake fed from a river near the cliff face, and open spaces stretched out from this lake to the edges of the forest, which seemed to occupy most of the valley. Tarak gaped at these trees with a sense of awe, for their beauty, and for the manner in which they seemed to shelter the ground beneath them.
Guardians of life itself they seemed, towering high above all other living things, unrestricted, as giants that stood beneath the searching sky, protective of all who strode below. Tarak had lived many months in the stunted trees of the arena, and he knew that if he could but reach these giants he would be safe within their leafy foliage.
Again his thoughts drifted down to the arena, and for the first time in his young life he gained an appreciation of the tremendous deprivation which had been forced upon him.
The majestic beauty which lay now before him, overpowering his senses and hurting his eyes with its brightness, had been forgotten as the memories of the infant faded with the years. For nearly his entire life had he been denied this world, living in the shadows of torchlight. He was completely at home in near total darkness, and now stood transfixed by the world he found as his eyes strove to adjust to the magnificent light of day.
He was almost unable to tear his gaze away from the valley, but, knowing that he must find some means of escape, he put his face against the bars and examined the face of the cliff below him. He noticed that the cliff was not absolutely vertical, but sloped sharply from top to bottom, and he thought that he might be able to climb down, given enough time. To an ordinary man such an attempt would have seemed suicidal, but Tarak possessed extraordinary capabilities. Quickly he tested the strength of the heavy bars which blocked his egress from the chamber.
They were strong, but vertical only, with no reinforcing horizontal bars, and he thought he might be able to work them loose. Once more he glanced toward the chamber doors, listening intently for any sound which might indicate an approaching enemy. Satisfied, he place his feet against the lower sill, and grasped the central bar with both hands. Rocking back and forth slowly, he gauged the point which would offer the greatest leverage, and placing his grip at that point, he leaned slowly forward, then suddenly pulled back with a gigantic thrust of his torso and powerful legs, simultaneously flexing his back and arms.
The bar bent, held momentarily, then pulled loose from its anchoring in the sill, and he soared backward to the floor, carried by the momentum of his effort. Rolling back as he hit, he carefully held the bar above the ground, to prevent any loud sound, then set it carefully upon the floor. He moved again to the window and repeated his performance with an adjacent bar.
The opening he had now created was large enough to accommodate his huge frame, and quickly he squeezed through the remaining bars and crouched upon the sill, scanning the face of the cliff in all directions.
Somewhere above him, he knew, Brona sat within his chambers, awaiting Lukor and Tarak's severed head. As he thought of the warrior scientist his eyes flared briefly, savagely, in the sunlight. So much pain had he suffered at the hands of this man, for so many years.
He had suffered for most of his life, and Amena had suffered until she had died at Brona's order, and as Tarak was meant to die.
With bloodlust he looked up at the windows which loomed at irregular intervals above him in the cliff face, knowing that if he climbed, his senses would eventually direct him to Brona's chamber.
He growled at the thought, but shook his head to clear his mind of the hate, and reluctantly turned his attention to the cliff beneath him.
As he had allowed the wroks to live in the arena, even though one had been Amena's murderer, so now he must forego this opportunity for vengeance upon his tormentor. Brona was undoubtedly well guarded, and Tarak could not waste the precious time it would take to locate him. Conceivably he could fight his way through to the scientist, and kill him, but almost certainly it would cost him his own life.
He looked again out over the wondrous valley. He would not die without a closer look at this marvel of creation.
Some day he would kill Brona. He patience was that of a wild creature, and would suffer even a long wait with little discomfort. He would kill Brona, and he would kill Gonor, who was now absent from the valley.
Gonor, who more than anyone was responsible for his sufferings, for the scars which marked his body, for the deaths of his mother, and Amena. For the disappearance and loss of his unknown father. Tarak would not die until he had felt Gonor's neck between his strong fingers.
He glanced upward again, almost wistfully, and then turned his attention downward, and slowly began to trace his way down the steep face of the cliff.
Staying clear of the barred apertures which frequented the cliff face, he descended as rapidly as possible, for he knew that his position was dangerous, and discovery would undoubtedly be fatal. He descended in silence for some time, then heard a cry, and looking up, spied a dyrrn swooping down toward him, a wrok upon its back. The wrok was fitting an arrow to its hunting bow.
The rider attempted to guide his mount away from the cliff face, so that he might have a clear shot at the man, but the fierce beast, sensing a kill, ignored its rider and dove for the descending man, spreading its wings as it neared its prey, and striking out with its talons, to grasp the man and pluck him from the cliff.
The talons missed, and the dyrnn screeched, for the man had gathered his legs beneath him, and like a coiled spring launched upward, past the raking talons, at the dyrnn's throat.
Circling its neck with one arm, he stabbed the suddenly terrified beast in its broad breast with Lukor's long knife, wrapping his legs around one of the dyrrn's, away from the talons which still sought his flesh.
The dyrnn screamed horribly and began to spiral awkwardly toward the ground, which was still far below, while its rider sought to maintain his balance and at the same time loose an arrow at the clinging Tarak, who was all but completely shielded by the body of the crippled dyrrn.
Desperately the dyrrn tried to fly, but weakened by the knife thrust and subsequent loss of blood, it dropped lower and lower, and, mortally wounded, finally fluttered to the ground.
Before the beast landed Tarak dropped to the ground. As the wrok came into view above him he drew back his arm and threw the knife at the creature. The wrok jerked back, throwing up its arms in an attempt to shield its head.
Tarak had never been permitted any such weapon as a knife in the arena, so his throw was thus unpracticed, and did not seriously wound the wrok. It did have the immediate effect of startling the creature and momentarily paralyzing it, however, and before the wrok could recover completely Tarak had leaped up onto the dyrrn's back, his powerful fingers searching for the wrok's throat.
Throwing away the now useless bow, the wrok, dazed by Tarak's sudden attack and uncanny speed, tried to dislodge the young giant's grip and draw its own knife, but now the man's fingers had buried in the wrok's throat, and were closing with a terrible intensity.
The wrok gurgled a scream, and leaped backward, biting and rolling, vainly attempting to dislodge its assailant. Its struggles were fruitless, however, and the wrok's efforts grew rapidly weaker, and finally ceased completely, as its body sagged in the man's relentless grip. Its head lolled back, the empty eyes staring upward from the dead, swollen face.
Tarak released his hold immediately as he sensed the creature's death, and he scanned the sky and the cliff for any signs of other pursuit. High on a ledge he could see tiny figures, whose tiny arms seemed to be pointing in his direction. They had no mounts, so he felt in no immediate danger of attack, Stooping, he removed the belt and weapons from the dead wrok, and retrieving Lukor's knife as well, he turned and raced for the forest, which loomed so large, dark, and beautiful, perhaps half a mile distant.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he noted that pursuit had commenced, for a number of mounted dyrrn had left the face of the cliff high above, and had begun to descend rapidly in his direction. They were too high, however, and too far away, and he knew he would reach the protective embrace of the giant trees well ahead of the beasts.
Stopping for a moment, he raised his arms high in a defiant gesture, fists closed and head thrown back, facing his pursuers. He raised his voice in a terrible scream of defiance and hatred. Then he turned once more toward the forest, and he laughed.
No longer was this the quiet boyish smile which had so pleased the slave girl, Amina, but a full-throated, resounding laugh, carried on the song of the wind.
This was the unconquerable laugh of a man who knows he is finally free.