CHAPTER 16

More than five thousand of the Tarkan's men surrounded Karn's force outside the palace walls, pressing the invaders against the palace wall, where bowmen stationed upon the wall fired volley after volley into the poorly armored attackers.

Karn knew that if he tried to battle his way through the surrounding army, his attack against the palace would fail, and if he failed to win his way into the palace grounds, his army would be cut apart by the palace bowmen. The Tarkan's outside force hemmed his army in, not attacking the invaders with aggression, but rather fighting a defensive battle, so that the bowmen could do their killing.

Foss immediately realized the situation, and signaled to his bowmen, who strung their weapons and rushed forward in waves, launching their feathered shafts at the men who fired from the walls of the palace.

Behind the bowmen came Foss and his army, silently and swiftly, and his bowmen parted as the invaders raced at the troops of the Tarkan.

The sudden volley of arrows alerted some of the palace guard that a new force had arrived, but most of the men in black were facing Karn's army, and were caught unaware as Foss led his men crashing into their ranks.

Men screamed, puzzled even in death as they fell before the column, and vainly they tried to turn and face this new enemy. Karn's men, realizing that help had arrived, and no longer threatened by the deadly shafts from above, found new strength in their tired limbs, and attacked furiously in all directions, further confusing the army which surrounded them.

Within minutes Foss had fought his way through the surrounding army of the Tarkan. His original column still remained ten men wide, for Foss had no desire to slay his fellow citizens, and found it much easier to accomplish his purpose by cutting a narrow swath through the defenders. The forces which had joined his army attacked on either side of his column, preventing any flanking movement by the defenders.

Suddenly they were faced by naked and half naked men, men with long hair and no armor. At the sight of Tarak and Foss the wild looking men raised their swords high and a thunderous cheer burst forth.

Foss's column now divided, with five men going in either direction, so that a column five men deep fought its way between the black-tunics and the naked defenders of the pit. Foss wished to secure the gate, and his men adopted a defensive posture, fighting their way into position and then standing shoulder to shoulder to beat back the assault of the palace guard.

As they completed their half circle, the column split again, and another column five men deep circled the first, fighting their way between the men who had preceded them and the palace warriors, forcing them still further back.

Then the column split yet again, and still Foss's army came on, while the palace guard, thrown into confusion by this savage and unexpected force, fell back and tried to regroup.

Foss's bowmen watched the walls, and any defenders who appeared there were met with a hundred arrows.

Tarak, Foss, Abar, and the men who had accompanied Tarak to the Gates of Neros earlier that evening made their way through the army of Karn to the palace gates.

Swords were raised to them, and men cried their names with joy. Tarak shouted his greeting to those he had known from below, and Foss also knew many of them, for most had served under him in earlier years. As they approached the gates, Karn spotted them and approached.

The Tark bled from several wounds, and his light blue tunic was torn and limp with blood and sweat. He had obviously been trying to force his way through the gate, and he looked as if another effort would surely kill him. His tiredness shown in his features, and in the way he stood, but he yet managed a grin as he saw Tarak.

"It is about time you came," he chided. "We did not want to reap all of the glory for ourselves!"

Tarak laughed.

"I told Foss that Karn would be able to take the palace without help, but he did not believe me, and insisted on coming to share in the victory."

Karn looked at Foss warmly.

"It is indeed good to see you, Foss-Pan-Velsor. All Neros will rejoice for this night."

He saluted the To-Rok, a Tark saluting a mere officer, and Foss returned the gesture.

"How many defend the gate?" Foss asked.

"I is hard to know, " answered Karn.

"Only a few men can force their way through at one time, and once through they are too busy trying to fight their way back out again to bother counting the enemy."

Karn shook his head in disgust.

"I can attest to this from personal experience. I led the first attempt, and once through the gate I found myself besieged by at least five warriors. The man who fought through with me was cut down, and I barely managed to escape. We have managed to keep them from closing the gates, but it is impossible to enter in numbers sufficient to force them open further."

Foss looked at the gates, and then back at the Tark.

"Is there no way we can enter? I have not been invited to the palace in many years, and it may have changed some."

Karn shook his head.

"No. In recent years the palace has been fortified, and the walls are impenetrable. The gate is the only entrance."

Foss turned to Tarak.

"If only two can enter at one time, my friend, then I must ask you to accompany me. If we can hold them for but a moment, Abar and Karn can join us."

Foss looked up, and shrugged.

"With such a nucleus of fighting men, who knows what we may yet achieve?"

Tarak smiled grimly.

"Lead on, commander. I shall protect your aging hide."

He slapped Foss on the shoulder, and his hand came away dripping with blood and sweat, that of Foss mixed with blood of the men who had fallen beneath the lightning sword of the To-Rok.

Tarak carefully surveyed the gates. They stood nearby, and several of Karn's men stood guard over a wedge they had driven under one of the gates, to keep it open.

The gate stood open perhaps two feet, and several times groups of palace guards had rushed out, attempting to drive back Karn's men and remove the wedge. They had fared no better than Karn's invaders who tried to fight their way into the compound, and were cut down immediately.

Only one man could enter through the space at one time, but it was possible for two men to leap through, one immediately following the other, before the defenders could attack the first.

Since Foss's army had arrived, fighting had ceased outside the walls, except where the palace troops were being driven further back away from the palace, as Foss's army poured from the avenue and continued to drive the defenders back from the area fronting the palace gates.

Karn led Foss, Abar, and Tarak to the gates, and they stood just outside, hidden from those inside by the closed half of the gates. Tarak strapped a shield across his chest, and picked up another sword, so that he held one in each hand.

He look at Foss. "I shall go first. Your skill will not help here, for there are too many. I shall not look back, or guard my rear, so follow quickly."

Foss nodded. "I shall be there."

Tarak smiled, and then inspected the weapons he held. They were nicked and stained, but still serviceable. He moved to the edge of the gate, and looked back to see Foss, Abar, Karn, and Anon right behind him.

He thought for a moment, then backed away from the door a few paces, and stopped to take a deep breath.

Then he moved, in a semicircle, so at the moment he reached the gate he was traveling with great speed and only had to change direction slightly to enter the opening. He came into view slightly earlier than if he had simply moved around the door, but this was more than offset by the speed with which he moved, and the momentum of his charge.

Before the defenders could react to him he was through the door, and the swords in his hands were whirling death.

He was met by several warriors, their swords descending toward him, as the guard charged forward to hammer him to the ground.

So powerful were the strokes he dealt, however, that none of the blows landed harmfully. He had swirled his swords in a circular motion as he passed through the gate, and these weapons, backed by the strength of his huge arms and shoulders, knocked back the swords of the enemy without appreciable loss of speed.

The guards' weapons were thrown back, even knocked out of the hands of some, but those of Tarak continued their flashing arcs, and as he moved forward they met flesh and bone, and still kept tearing their way onward.

As Tarak had said, skill was largely irrelevant here. Only speed and power could hope to survive the waiting guards, and his savage ferocity was his greatest ally.

Like a maddened tarab he drove into the ranks of the defenders, slashing and whirling his swords in changing, lightning circles that barely slowed as they sheared through limbs, and beat back the weapons of his foes.

The defenders drew back only for a moment, in surprise at this onslaught, and instantly Tarak whirled to see those who were following.

So savage had been Tarak's attack that Foss and Abar had both entered the compound before they were attacked, and now they stood together, trying to drive back the defenders so that Karn could join them.

For the instant Tarak was relieved by the temporary retreat of his foes, he smashed into the flank of the men engaging Foss and Abar. Men went down like grass in the wind before his attack, and Foss and Abar lunged forward, opening the way for Karn, and then Anon.

As Tarak turned to meet his earlier foes Anon leaped past him, deflecting a sword meant for Tarak's back.

Tarak wheeled after his friend, and together they met the renewed attack of the guards.

Then another man was through the gate, and another. Their small force could not advance against that which opposed them, which Tarak saw numbered more than a thousand, but they could defend the opening, for not more than twenty men could face them at one time, and those first through the gate were among the finest swords in Neros.

One by one men filed through the gate, and as they did the force grew and began to expand, fighting toward the device which locked the gates.

Foss reached it first, and as his men protected him he released the lock, and the gates flew open.

Now an opening thirty feet in width greeted the army of Foss, and the column began to move again, ten men wide, following the men of the pits, who stormed through the gates in a mob, falling upon the defenders in strength for the first time.

Foss was interested only in reaching the palace, but the men from the pit wanted blood.

The palace guards were the men who had captured them, tortured them, and cast them into their years of misery.

Now they faced their tormentors with swords in their hands, and renewed strength in their limbs. They crashed forward in waves, killing with lust born of long suffering. Fighting like madmen, the men of the pits advanced, and the guards gave way before their onslaught, first grudgingly, and then in a rout.

Irresistibly they pressed forward, and outward, slashing and thrusting. Many fought toward the palace, but many more simply fought where there were men in black, and the fighting spread out across the broad grounds.

Tarak had stayed with Foss, and was moving toward the palace itself with the To-Rok, Abar, and Karn.

Foss's army was marching through the gate behind them, meeting no resistance whatsoever, for the men from the pits had routed the guards. Foss gave orders that after his army had entered, the gates were to be closed and locked.

They approached the palace, encountering few defenders in their path, and stopped before the large doors which normally stood open, leading to the interior of the lavish structure, but which were now locked.

In the many portals and windows above and to the sides of the doors they could see figures watching them.

Foss stood and looked up a these final defenders of the palace.

Behind him his army waited, more than nine thousand fierce, hardened men, standing silently in the light of early dawn, ready for whatever their beloved leader might command them to do.

It was a eerie sight, with the thousands waiting behind their commander, as the sounds of other battles crossed the grounds from places where the men of the pit hounded the palace guards.

Foss scanned the palace silently for a moment, and then he spoke, his voice deep and clear in the still morning air.

"I, Foss-Pan-Velsor, have come to claim the palace for my own. Look out from your holes, and you will see that you have lost. The palace doors cannot withstand my assault, and if I am forced to break them you will die beneath the blades of my men. Your Tarkan cannot help you now. If the doors are opened within five minutes, those within may leave in peace."

He paused for a moment, and continued.

"Live, or die. That is my offer."

Foss was bloody, and his tunic shredded and pressed to his body. His sandals flopped from broken laces, and sweat ran down his legs in dirty rivulets. Still, he looked every inch a Tarkan as he stood and faced the palace doors. All eyes were riveted on the commander as he waited, straight and tall, for an answer to his demands.

Almost five minutes had passed when the sound of sliding bolts broke the silence, and seconds later the doors opened slowly.

Foss remained immobile as men appeared in the doorway, and slowly began to make their way toward him.

As each man approached, he raised his sword in a salute, and passed the To-Rok silently, disappearing then into the darkness. More than a hundred men emerged, followed by women and children. Then all had passed, and the palace stood yawning emptily.

Foss stopped the last to emerge, and asked if many had stayed.

"Perhaps fifty, To-Rok," the man replied. "The personal guard of Jaren and of Pusk, and those high in the administration, together with their families."

Foss nodded, and motioning to his followers, he strode into the palace, Tarak at his side.

Tarak felt something soft touch his arm as he entered, and looked around into the eyes of Rela.

She stood beside him, a sword clenched in her small fist, and blood on the sword attested that she had not been idle during the fighting.

His surprise showed in his expression.

"Rela! What are you doing here?"

"Did you expect me to stay in the pit?" she replied, somewhat sarcastically, wrinkling her pretty nose. "Or perhaps I should have stayed outside the palace walls to fight alone against the Tarkan's army? I too have a score to settle with the Tarkan, dearest one."

Tarak laughed. "I am sorry, Rela. I should have realized that you would come, and I am glad you are here. Remain outside the palace, however, for there is more fighting ahead."

She smiled, a smile which indicated she had no intention of doing any such thing, but Tarak did not notice, for he had already turned to follow Foss into the hall.

Once inside, Foss waited for Karn to join them, and the young Tark explained the current layout of Jaren's palace. They conferred for a few moments, and then split into four groups. Foss headed for the Great Hall, while Tarak, Karn, and Abar each led groups of men down other hallways.

Tarak's route was to lead him beneath the palace, where many prisoners were thought to be imprisoned, and he led a contingent of the men he had freed from the pit as he moved along the route he had been given.

The men who followed him were far more familiar with the palace then he, so he chose two to lead the way done into the passages under the palace while he and the rest followed closely. The passages were damp and poorly lit, with smoldering torches set infrequently in the walls.

Tarak felt ill at ease in this part of the structure, and directed his men to light more torches, so that they might see better.

They traveled slowly, scanning the surrounding walls for signs of any traps, but none was to be seen, nor any indication that anything dangerous awaited them.

Apparently the occupants of this part of the palace had learned of the successful invasion, and had hurriedly departed.

Eventually they cam to a door, which was bolted on the near side. They unlocked it, and passed through, descending a flight of stone steps which led to a narrow corridor.

The scurrying and squeals of ascs could be heard in this subterranean passage, and as they moved on they noticed that several doors were set in the walls on either side. These doors were heavy and bolted on the outside, and no windows were in evidence.

They stopped at the first of these, and Tarak unbolted the door. He pushed it open slowly, and a putrid odor escaped from the darkness within, assailing their nostrils, and causing some of the men to step involuntarily back. A metallic sound came to their ears, and cautiously Tarak stepped into the chamber, holding his torch well in front of him, his muscles taut and ready to respond to any emergency, and his bloody sword held ready in his other hand.

As the light from the torch spread, illuminating the chamber, Tarak lowered his sword, for no danger beckoned here. The room was long and low, and along each side men were chained to the walls, by means of heavy chains which fastened to rings set in the walls, perhaps three feet from the ground. The length of the chains was less than two feet, and each chain terminated in a heavy collar welded around the neck of each prisoner, so that never could they lay down completely, and even while sleeping their heads were forced to remain above the ground, hanging in the heavy collars.

Although at least thirty men were chained, it appeared that only perhaps ten were alive, and the others hung in their chains in various stages of decomposition, as swarms of ascs fought over their remains.

Those men who were alive looked starved and ancient, and the sores and gashes which covered their naked bodies evidenced their battles with the hungry creatures. The raised dull eyes to stare painfully at the unaccustomed light, holding bony hands in front of their faces.

Tarak approached the nearest prisoner, and the man cringed at his approach, lowering his head and turning his back. The man looked very old, and could not have weighed more than seventy pounds.

As he turned Tarak could hear the heavy collar scrape against the scab which it had formed on the man's neck.

"Who are you," he asked, gently, "and why are you imprisoned here?" He waited, but the man did not answer.

"We are here to free you," he continued. "Do not fear me."

The old man turned his head upward, trembling, as if he expected to be beaten. "I am Purok. Jaren heard I had made an offending remark concerning him."

A warrior from the pit pushed his way forward. "Purok! It is I, Onok!" He looked at Tarak. "I was once part of the guard of Purok. He is a lesser Tark of Neros!" The man stared down at the old man. "It is truly he, but he seems far older than his years."

The old man smiled. "Jaren's physicians have been experimenting with drugs, and have come upon one which advances the aging process. He delighted in forcing us to drink it, and telling us of its effects." He looked around the chamber, at the other old men. "Some of those imprisoned here are men still in their twenties."

Tarak followed his glance. None of the prisoners appeared to be less than sixty years of age. His mouth tightened. "Well, at least you are free, Purok, for Foss has invaded the palace. Soon he will be Tarkan."

Purok looked up. "It will be good to die a free man. Foss is my friend."

The barbarian looked down coldly. "You will outlive Jaren. I promise you this."

Tarak then directed several of his men to stay behind and release those who were still alive. He left the cell and moved to the next locked door, which he opened, finding a similar sight as greeted him in the other cell. Leaving the door ajar, he continued, going from cell to cell, until ten doors stood open, waiting for his troops to enter and release those within.

At the end of the corridor Tarak came to a door similar to that through which they had passed earlier, prior to entering the corridor of cells. This door was locked on the other side, and Tarak searched for a way to open it. The door was heavy, but made of wood, and finally he decided to batter it down, for lack of a better alternative. Three of the strongest of his men joined him, and they began to hack away at the door with heavy blows, their swords cutting deeply into the wood. After a few moments, others took their places, and slowly their weapons bit into the obstacle.

They concentrated upon a small area, and after hitting away for perhaps ten minutes, a man's sword pushed through the door, and a moment later an arm reached through a larger opening, and found the bolt. Tarak unlocked the latch, and pushed the door back, waiting with ready sword for any resistance he might encounter. The area beyond the door was unoccupied, however, and Tarak bounded through.

The passage in which he now found himself was much less dark and crude than the one on the other side of the door. while not luxurious, it was relatively clean, and far more light was evident. The corridor was bare of any doors or passages leading away, and angled up slightly.

Tarak moved along swiftly, leaving his men behind. Finally he saw another door ahead, and stopped, his senses quivering as he sought information about what lurked on the other side. He pushed gently on the door, and it swung back slightly. He pushed harder, and as the door opened wide he leaped forward into a room.

Only one man occupied the chamber, reclining on a stone bench near the far end. He had apparently heard Tarak's approach, and was watching the barbarian as he entered. He did not rise, but his hand gripped the hilt of his sword, as he watched silently.

Tarak noted that he would have to pass near the man to exit the chamber upon the opposite side, and assumed this was a guard placed here to block such an exit.

He moved forward, and the man rose and drew his blade.

"Stand aside, warrior," Tarak warned. "Your death will be futile."

The man smiled. "I stand aside for no Nerosian. Go back to your cell, fool. There at least you shall survive."

Tarak was puzzled at the man's words, but had no time to waste pondering them. He had given this guard a chance to live, which was probably more than the man deserved. He thought of the prisoners he had left behind, and his blood fired.

This man undoubtedly participated in Jaren's sadistic schemes. He moved forward with anticipation, his eyes flaring with the light of battle, and his muscles quivering with readiness.

He was impatient to move through the chamber, and thought to kill this man quickly. As he neared the warrior he feinted with a thrust, and then slashed upward in a lightning change of direction, his blade streaking for his foe's throat.

His slash was parried easily, however, and with blinding speed. The warrior's blade turning his own aside and then streaking forward. Tarak leaped away in astonishment as the man's sword sliced into his side, cutting a furrow nearly an inch deep in his waist.

He attacked again, hammering downward with powerful strokes, attempting to drive the warrior back and down to the floor. Now the warrior retreated, but slowly, turning away the blows deftly, and then countering with quick sliding slashes which caused Tarak to alter his attack and parry, stepping back quickly.

Again he moved forward, and their blades met with a crashing sound. For a moment they stood thus, the swords whirling and thrusting, and again Tarak was driven back, where he stood appraising the warrior with newfound respect.

The defender stood defiantly, his large chest rising and falling with the heavy breaths he was taking. He was older than Tarak, perhaps Foss's age, an still very much in the prime of life. Heavily muscled, his features were handsome and strong, with bright proud eyes which gleamed under tawny brows. He was sweating with the exertion of combat, but seemed far from fatigued, and no fear clouded his features, though he too seemed to have gained a measure of respect for his opponent.

Tarak was amazed at the man's prowess. Of al the men he had fought, only Foss could have withstood his assault so easily.

"Your swordsmanship is superb," Tarak commented, as the two men faced one another. "So fine a warrior should not throw his life away under this palace. Your cause is lost. Stand aside, warrior, and you shall not be harmed."

Whatever the man's other faults, his skill had won him a place in the esteem of the barbarian, and his earlier desire to kill this man has faded.

The man laughed. "Do you tire of battle already, Nerosian? Do back to your hole, for you shall not pass they way, and live."

Tarak thought that the man was certainly no diplomat, whatever his physical assets. Battle-lust raged within him again, and he attacked, determined to spill the blood of this braggart. He moved forward more cautiously now, for the blood seeping from the wound in his side served to remind him of the warrior's prowess. He tested the man's skill with a succession of quick, inside moves, mixed with slashes and cuts in several directions.

The guard easily parried the strokes, thrusting and stabbing in lightning counterstrokes, always a smile upon his face.

Tarak's blade whirled constantly, meeting that of his opponent, as backward and forward they fought. Eventually Tarak realized that he would never best this man by skill alone, for his mastery, even with his great speed, was matched by this strange warrior. Altering his strategy, he began to mix his strokes, alternating his delicate thrusts with heavy blows, hammering at this opponent, forcing him to meet his strokes and turn them aside, in an attempt to wear him down.

He heard voices behind, and knew that his men had arrived. He halted them with a word, however, for he was enjoying himself, and never had he fought a more magnificent opponent.

The guard was a superb swordsman, intelligent, resourceful, and clever. Once, feigning fatigue, the man appeared to stumble, and as Tarak moved in for the kill suddenly unleashed a combination of offensive thrusts that only the barbarian's remarkable agility and speed saved him, as he jackknifed sideways, coming up quickly with his blade whistling as it drove back the warrior's attack.

Grudgingly the guard gave back, and Tarak renewed his assault. Battering slashes he dealt, ceaselessly hammering at the warrior. Always he was thwarted, and forced to retreat as the man parried and counterattacked, but eventually he saw that his opponent was tiring.

Sweat dripped from his body, and his breathing was labored. Still the eyes shone, however, blue eyes, a rarity in this city. The man still smiled, though somewhat grimly, and Tarak knew that he was yet unafraid, even as he sensed he was about to die. Bravely the warrior fought, though now he had more difficulty turning aside the mighty slashes, and blood began to run where Tarak's thrusts found their mark with an increasing frequency.

A scream then filled the room, and Tarak leaped back, turning his head for an instant to see the cause of this feminine shriek. Even as he turned, Rela ran past him at the warrior, and Tarak was so surprised that he let her pass. He turned to renew his attack, determined to prevent any harm to the slave girl, but the warrior, instead of hurting her, stood staring as she ran into his arms, sobbing and holding tightly to his bloody chest.

Then the man reached one huge arm down around her shoulders, drawing her closer in a protective embrace, and looking down into her eyes.

"Rela!" He said, tears forming in his eyes. "My little Rela!" He held her tightly, while his free arm hung limply, the sword in its grasp resting its point against the stone floor. He then straightened, and thrusting Rela behind his body, he looked grimly at Tarak, and raised his weapon once more to do battle with his perplexed opponent.

Tarak began to raise his weapon, but Rela was between them, looking into the face of the guard.

"No Kiron! He is a friend!"

The man paused, looking down at her and then up at Tarak, who was stunned.

"You are Kiron?" he asked. "Of Kalnor? The man who bested Foss in the Great Tournament?"

"I am he," was the reply. "And who are you, who my sister calls friend?"

Tarak threw back his heard with laughter.

"Your sister! I might have known!" He smiled at the warrior. "I am Tarak. I am a friend of Foss of Neros, and of Rela of Kalnor. Why, I must know, is Kiron of Kalnor lodged below the palace of Jaren of Neros?"

Kiron looked down and Tarak followed his gaze. For the first time Tarak noticed the chain which encircled Kiron's ankle, and ran to a hook imbedded in the wall, a chain long enough to permit considerable movement within the chamber, but keeping certain areas inaccessible.

"I have been imprisoned here for years," Kiron said. "When I was defeated by Gorkok, Malenot captured me and sold me to Jaren of Neros. He would have killed me, but his administrator persuaded him that I could be of greater use alive. Here I guard the rear entrance to the upper palace, and also serve as Pusk's teacher. Frequently he comes here, after his guards have entered and replaced my sword with a practice weapon, and I am then forced to fight and teach him the finer arts of swordplay. At first I refused, but eventually I decided it was better than death, and acceded to his demands.

"He has put your teaching to good use, at least from his point of view," commented Tarak.

"Pusk often bragged to me of his victories," Kiron said. "I did not really care, for they were only men of Neros."

Kiron shrugged. "He told me that one day he would kill Foss, my friend, with the skill which I had imparted to him, but I think he was afraid of such a challenge, and he would not have beaten Foss." Kiron smiled.

"Many are the skills I have not shown him."

"Why would you guard such a man?" Asked Tarak.

"Often I have guarded this door. Pusk would arrange for armed prisoners escape along this passage, where they would find their way into this room. If I did not slay them, Pusk would have them slain, and would starve me for days. I did give each one the option of returning whence they came."

He looked down at his sister.

"So you have come to rescue me, Rela?"

She smiled through her tears. "I had no idea where you were, my brother. To be reunited with you again is almost more happiness than I can bear."

She then pointed at Tarak, and drew herself up proudly.

"I have decided, by brother, to mate with this man. Moreover, I have notified him of my desires, yet he will not have me. I told him, of course, that my brother would enforce my desires."

Kiron laughed, and looked at Tarak with something more than respect.

"It might, I am afraid, take more than even Kiron of Kalnor to force him, Rela."

He looked down at her, shaking his head. "Only once before have I ever felt such powerful strokes."

He smiled at Tarak, and raised his hand, and the barbarian responded in kind. Then the men began to work on the chain which held the Kalnorian. The metal was incredibly strong, and fastened in such a way that one man could never dislodge it. The combined strength and leverage of several men, however, finally forced the metal fetter open, and Kiron was free.

He rubbed his ankle where the chain had been fastened, and new vitality seemed to course through his body.

"Now I must find Pusk," he said cheerfully. "For years he has dueled with me, always with his archers present, my leg chained, and a training weapon in my hand."

Kiron felt the keen edge of the weapon he held.

"Now Pusk shall meet Kiron once more."

Tarak smiled. He instinctively warmed to this Kalnorian, not only because of the stories he had heard, but because the warrior was truly a vital being. The man fought like a tarab, bravely and with unsurpassed skill, and yet seemed to laugh easily, as if the years of captivity had washed away in an instant.

The future did not look too good for the Administrator, Tarak thought happily.

They found the door leading upward unlocked, Kiron surmised because of the haste with which the palace guards had departed. They passed through the door, and ascended a long flight of stairs, well-lighted and constructed of polished stone. As they neared the top they heard sounds of fighting, and shortly thereafter came to a door. The door was ajar, and Tarak pushed it open wide.

It opened onto a lavishly appointed chamber, rich with fine rugs and tapestries, and containing a variety of plush furniture. This was obviously part of the living quarters of a rich and powerful noble, and Tarak assumed it belonged to Pusk, the Administrator.

The sounds seemed to come from an adjoining room, hidden from their sight by a thick curtain.

Tarak sprang forward, sweeping aside the curtain, and passed through, followed by Kiron and the other men.

The room was half filled with palace guardsmen, and they were trying to hold the doorway against Foss and his troops. The doorway was quite narrow, and Tarak saw that the attackers had to battle superior numbers s they sought entrance.

Foss was in the forefront of his men, battling to fight his way into the chamber against the many swords raised against him. Tarak sprang forward, and suddenly the defenders found death sweeping their ranks from the rear. Men screamed, and tried to turn to face this new and terrible menace, but Tarak's men cut through them mercilessly, throwing them into confusion and panic.

Many tried to run for the far doorway, but their numbers thwarted them, and they jammed into one another, while their attackers drove relentlessly into their unprotected flanks, slaughtering them as they shoved for the exit.

Those holding the doorway began to retreat, seeing that they were attacked from behind, and Foss won his way through the door. He then spied Tarak, and shouted warmly, but when he saw Kiron fighting next to the barbarian he gaped in astonishment.

Making his way to the two men, while his army poured through the doorway, he stared hopelessly at his comrades.

"Kiron of Kalnor!" he shouted, shaking the man's shoulders, and grinning broadly. "Who next shall my barbarian friend find to help me in my cause?"

For a moment he looked the Kalnorian over. "You too have been apparently a guest of our noble Tarkan?"

Kiron nodded. "Yes, Foss, and I have a score to settle with your Administrator. Seek your Jaren, but Pusk is mine!"

Foss laughed. "So be it, my friend!"

He looked at Tarak, and then back at Kiron of Kalnor.

"To have two such as you at my side heightens my victor. I am invincible this day."

Tarak smiled. "Our noble and modest Foss already feels the Tarkan's cloak upon his shoulders."

Kiron laughed, and Foss held up his hands in submission. "Perhaps I am being a bit premature. Still, I have yet to see any who can stand before us. Come, let us follow the men we are supposed to be leading!"

They turned and raced through the other exit to the room, following the fleeing guards upward into the palace. From the sounds it appeared that the defenders were no longer putting up even token resistance, having resorted by this time to headlong flight. Upward they climbed, until eventually the morning sky loomed through an open door. They climbed the stairs to the door, and passed through and out onto the roof of the palace, high above the surrounding city.

The palace roof was a large rectangle, and in several places they saw men fighting. Most of the battles were scattered contests, but near one corner a large contingent of defenders were clustered, fighting back the attackers with a fury born of desperation. Foss led them toward these men, and as they approached issued a command, causing the attackers to draw back, leaving the band of defenders in their formation, weapons held forward, waiting.

"Jaren!" Foss shouted. "Come forward. Your men need not die tonight, and your cause is futile."

He paused for a moment, and then continued.

"Fight like the Tarkan you pretend to be, Jaren! You only I want, and your administrator."

A moment passed, and then another, but Foss waited patiently, silently watching the guards massed in front of him. They were brave men, large and skillful, and they were ready to die in the defense of their Tarkan. To fight against overwhelming odds until they were killed or driven from the roof of the palace. Their fate was in the hands of their Tarkan, and they, too, waited patiently for him to make his decision.

Finally movement appeared in their ranks, and Tarak saw the mass of warriors parting as someone made his way through to the front. Jaren appeared, tall and walking like the Tarkan he was, though his eyes were tinged with fear.

The purple cloak hung from his shoulders, and he gripped a jeweled sword in his hand. Beside him walked Pusk, large and powerful, swaggering and confident.

Jaren stopped and looked searchingly at Foss. Pusk too halted, and as he saw Kiron his eyes darkened, and he gripped his sword more securely, glowering at the Kalnorian champion.

"It is a noble gesture, Tarkan," said Foss, "to spare the lives of your men. Now we may settle our differences."

"But first," and then Foss turned and looked at Kiron, "my friend Kiron of Kalnor would like to pay his respects to your champion."

Kiron stepped forward, his eyes glittering with anticipation. "Now, Pusk, you shall have your final lesson. Now you shall fight Kiron of Kalnor who is not chained, and who is armed with a sharp blade. Now you shall learn what you never learned in all the years of combat within my cell. Now, Pusk,...now you shall learn to die."

Pusk spat and moved forward, his sword at the ready.

"It is you who shall die, Kalnorian! You should have died long ago, and this night your life is over."

The administrator suddenly rushed the Kalnorian, aiming a terrific blow at Kiron's head. At the last moment he withdrew his blade, and lunged for the stomach, leaping sideways as he struck. It was a deadly move, fast and well executed, and calculated to pierce his opponent's guard and inflict a painful abdominal wound, which would slow and weaken his enemy.

Kiron was ready, however, for he knew Pusk's methods as did no other, and as the Administrator's sword raced in he spun and the blade met empty air.

"I knew you would try some such move, Pusk," Kiron laughed. "You are my pupil, and I know your style better than even you."

Kiron had not countered, and Pusk whirled about, his attempted parry swishing through the morning air. He was furious, and rushed again toward his adversary, their blades meeting in a blinding clash of metal.

Pusk was fast and masterful, and his power was renowned throughout Neros. Easily had he defended his championship in recent years, and his sword moved in lightning arcs and thrusts as he and Kiron fought upon the roof of the palace. The ring of metal upon metal echoed in the dawn, as they each sought to find an opening in the defense of the other.

Back and forth they fought, with first one and then the other taking the offensive, as attacks gave way to counterattacks, and their swords moved so swiftly as to blur.

They parted for a moment, and stood silently, each surveying the other. Pusk's face was a mask of hate, while Kiron merely stared amusedly at his foe with his cold blue eyes, a grim half smile upon his lips.

Blood flowed from numerous small wounds on each man, but neither was wounded seriously. Then Kiron moved forward, and his sword seemed to sing as it swept through he air. Pusk met his attack, and again the two figures melded together as they wheeled and fought.

Suddenly Kiron darted forward, and Pusk leaped back, clutching at his side, blood streaming through his fingers.

Kiron's grim smile seemed to widen, as he stopped and gazed at Pusk.

"You did not steal all of my secrets, Nerosian."

Kiron swept forward again, and his sword whirled as if alive. Pusk met his charge, but after a moment fell back under the flashing blade of the Kalnorian.

No longer was Pusk the aggressor. Now he moved steadily backward, fending off the devastating, relentless attack of Kiron of Kalnor, who moved forward constantly, his momentum adding to the power of his blows.

Again the Administrator leaped back, and now blood flowed from his shoulder, and fear shone in his eyes.

Kiron would allow him no rest, and moved forward instantly, pressing his advantage. His swordsmanship was magnificent, fast and deadly, and allowing no room for a counterattack. Pusk too was fighting magnificently, and Kiron could not deliver a killing blow, but now Pusk groaned with pain as Kiron's blade found its mark again and again.

Tarak knew Pusk must be weakening from fatigue and loss of blood, and wondered why Kiron did not fight more cautiously, waiting until his opponent became too weak to defend himself. Kiron's total offensiveness was reckless in that it left open the possibility that Pusk might deliver a desperation killing blow. Kiron seemed not to care, however, and his eyes blazed now as he hammered at the beleaguered Administrator.

Then Pusk went down, and Tarak saw his broad leg whip out a Kiron, in an attempt to either draw the sword of the Kalnorian or to knock him to the ground.

Pusk was prepared for either eventuality, and was sacrificing his leg to achieve a clear shot at the Kalnorian.

Kiron took the bait, an his sword swung down in a mighty arc toward Pusk's leg. As Pusk's sword thrust upward at Kiron, however, the Kalnorian leaped to the side and slashed at the same instant. The look of triumph which had appeared for an instant on Pusk's face changed to one of horror, and he died, his throat torn open by Kiron's lightning stroke.

Kiron rose, and wiped his sword on the tattered tunic of the dead Administrator. All who stood upon the roof watched in silence as he looked down upon his vanquished foe. Then he slowly returned the blade to its scabbard, and turned to Foss.

"My debt is paid, Foss. Now it is you who may claim your due."

Foss said nothing, but turned to face Jaren, who was staring down at the body of Pusk in disbelief. He looked up at Foss, and moved forward, his body shaking.

Jaren was a skilled swordsman, but against the To-Rok he was as nothing, and in less than a moment he lay dead at Foss's feet. As he lay on the roof, one of his men came and gently removed the cloak from about his shoulders.

The man stood, and held the cloak out to Foss.

"Jaren died like a Tarkan," the man said, and Foss nodded respectfully.

Then the man raised the cloak above his head. "Now you are Tarkan, Foss, and under the royal cloak you have my life."

He handed the cloak to Foss, and drew his sword, raising it upward and forward, saluting the new Tarkan. As one man the army assembled on the roof raised their swords, with the exception of Tarak and the Kalnorians, who watched the ceremony silently.

The somber moment was shattered a long moment later, as a loud voice man cried out.

"Death to the pretender! Death to Foss! They wheeled about in alarm, and watched a burly man roughly shoulder his way through the army. It was Abar, and the army did not seem inclined to stop him. Bloody sword in hand he strode forward.

"The cloak is mine, coward!" he screamed.

"While you scurried to the safety of the palace roof I fought the major battles below. You are not fit to command the royal toilet, and I, Abar-Pan-Toromin, demand the Tarkanate, upon pain of death to any who pretend its use!"

He drew himself up to his full height before Foss.

"To the death, warrior, or renounce your aspirations like the craven fool you are!"

All eyes were upon Foss, who looked briefly at Tarak, and then shook his head in resignation. Then to everyone's surprise and dismay he lowered his sword, and held the cloak out to Abar.

"The throne of Neros is yours. May you serve her people well."

Abar stepped back, startled. "You will not fight?" he demanded.

"No. I am weary of fighting. Here," he said, stepping forward, "take the cloak."

Abar retreated in confusion, as Foss followed him, holding the royal cloak in front of his body. Men began to smile, and a few chuckles were heard.

Finally Abar stopped, holding his hands up, as if to ward off the cloak.

"I have decided, Foss, that I no longer wish the Tarkanate." He had been taken completely by surprise by Foss's willingness to surrender the purple, and was trying to recover.

"I shall let you remain as Tarkan, on the condition that I am appointed Rok of the armies of Neros."

Foss smiled, and appeared to ponder the offer.

"Very well," he said, after a moment. "You shall be Rok, instead of Tarkan."

Abar beamed with satisfaction, though he was obviously disappointed that he had not been able to provoke Foss into a fight.

"One of these days, of course, I shall use my power to wrest away the throne!"

"Of course," said Foss.

"But for now," said Abar, as he raised his sword high in the air, "I salute Foss-Pan-Velsor, Tarkan of Neros!"

A thousand swords were raised upon the roof, and Abar rushed forward and embraced the new Tarkan, lifting him from the roof with a huge hug. Both men laughed, and those watching gathered upon the roof cheered with tumultuous fervor.

Then Abar released the Tarkan, and the two men walked to the edge of the palace and stood looking out over the city of Neros, lighted by the morning sun.

For long moments they stood there, side by side, as the light spread to illuminate their city. No one spoke, as each warrior upon the roof watched the two men in silent tribute. Both were ragged, torn, and bloody, and the sweat gleamed upon their skin. The purple cloak hung limply over one of Foss's shoulders, wrinkled and stained with blood and dirt.

Each man still carried in his hand the sword he had used to win this victory.

Finally Abar turned to his companion.

"It is a fine day, Foss. Perhaps we should try our luck hunting in the forest?"

The Tarkan turned to his friend, then returned his gaze to the city below.

"A find idea, Abar, but there is still much to do this day, here in the city. And I think," he grinned," that the forests will be rather crowded today, with our citizens."

Abar nodded. "It is true, I am afraid." He grasped Foss by the shoulder.

"But soon we must hunt together. It has been too long."

Foss looked again at the Rok, and his eyes were warm.

"Yes. Soon we will hunt together. We will hunt the forests, and the plains. The valleys; and the riverlands."

Foss grinned.

"We shall do whatever we wish, for we are Tarkan and Rok."

They both laughed, long and hard, and their laughter infected the men who watched upon the roof. Their quest had ended, victoriously, and the sufferings of their city had ended with their victory.

Tears ran freely upon the roof, and after a moment they turned and beckoned to Tarak and Kiron, who moved to join them.

"I owe you much, Tarak," said Foss. "Your spirit gave me new hope, and your strength and skill insured my victory. You are not of our city, but you may choose your reward, and name your post in my government. Neros owes you more than she can ever repay, whatever the price."

Tarak shook his head. "It is not I who must be rewarded, my friend. It is rather the men who stand here upon the palace roof. Men such as Karn, and Anon. The men from the Pit, and those who followed you into the city. As you have said, I an not of Neros, and I cannot end my journey here. It is enough that you are my friend."

"I thought such would be your response," remarked the Tarkan. "Still, you must stay awhile, that I may show you more of the glory and joy that is our city."

Tarak smiled. "Certainly, Tarkan, I shall stay long enough to watch you bask in your triumph and glory."

Foss laughed. "You truly rival Abar in your teaching of humility." Then he looked at Kiron. "Neros owes you, too, a heavy debt, Kiron of Kalnor."

He stopped as he saw Rela standing behind the Kalnorian.

"Rela! What are you doing here? This is not a place for a woman!"

Rela raised here head proudly, and here eyes grew angry.

"In Kalnor, a woman goes where she pleases. I came to rescue my brother, and, as you can see," and she looked up at the tall Kalnorian, "I have done so."

Kiron smiled and drew his sister close, and Foss looked on in amazement.

"Rela is your sister?" he asked. Then he grew red with embarrassment.

"Had I known this, I would never have...er...I would have been more, uh, respectful in the tavern. That is, I..."

Rela laughed. "You are forgiven, Foss. After all you are only a man, and a Nerosian at that. Besides, you were often delightful."

Foss smiled nervously, grateful to be relieved of an awkward situation.

"Well, in any event," he said, "I owe you much. You may live here in our city in a manner which befits your station as a Tark, or I shall provide escort to whatever city you wish."

"Then send us to Atal Throom," said Kiron. "For I may not rest while Kalnor suffers under tyranny. You are a good friend, Foss, but I am of Kalnor, and I must go."

Foss nodded. "Of course. My duty is to Neros, not to Kalnor, my friend, and I must see to the prosperity of my own city. Still, when I have brought peace to Neros, I will help you, if you wish."

"Will you meet with Atal Throom?"

"Yes. When you find him, bring him to Neros, and we shall discuss the matter of Kalnor."

Kiron smiled warmly. "You are truly a Tarkan, Foss. Perhaps we shall meet again someday in the Great Tournament."

The Tarkan laughed. "Perhaps." He turned from the edge of the roof and headed for the stairway. "Come, my friends. It is morning, and we have much to do."

Those upon the roof turned and followed their Tarkan from the roof, walking silently, and disappearing down the stairs which led to the palace below.