CHAPTER 20

Tarak stood leisurely on the hot sand of the arena, his arms folded loosely across his broad chest, his legs slightly flexed and a few feet apart.

The late morning sum beat down upon his back, which was bare. He had removed his tunic, and wore now only a loincloth which his slave had fashioned from the Nerosian garment.

Of the harness, he wore only the wide belt. The upper part of the harness, worn to cover the shoulder and from which normally hung a shield, had been removed, as had the scabbards for the knife and sword.

His solitary weapon, his sword, was thrust loosely into the belt, and the gleaming blade hung freely, flashing in the hot sun. He had also discarded his sandals, but if the hot sand gave him any discomfort, he did not appear to notice.

Tarak stood near the box of the Tarkan, who watched from thirty feet above.

Malenot sat easily on purple cushions, and at his feet Leanna of Neros kneeled chained to his seat, fettered by a thin golden chain which encircled her throat.

The chain was not long enough for her to rise to her feet. She wore only the chain, for she was now a slave, and she was not permitted clothing by her new master.

Tarak noticed that she was massaging the feet of the Tarkan, and that she kept her head lowered.

She did not appear to recognize him, and he then noted that she did not seem to be allowed to watch the arena. Her sole concern was the comfort of her master's feet. Across her bare shoulders were the marks of a whip. She was not so proud in the box of the Tarkan of Kalnor.

Kiron stood a few yards distant from Tarak. He wore a sword, shield and knife, with full battle harness.

He also wore a yellow tunic, the color of the rebel Atal Throom. When Kiron had entered the arena dressed in yellow a roar had filled the stands, echoing outward into the city, as the people cheered his bravery, and his cause.

Malenot had been furious, but so great was the love of the people for Kiron of Kalnor that he did not dare to take any action. He glared with passionate hate down at the Tark, who merely smiled broadly back.

"I trust you have not forgotten our wager, Tarkan!" Kiron called out to Malenot, his voice purposely loud, so that a large number of citizens would hear.

The crowd quieted as he spoke, and his next words carried to many.

"I have agreed to fight Gorkok, to the death, if he defeats Tarak..."

The crowd protested, but Kiron silenced them with a raised arm.

"But if Tarak wins, Tarkan, then you and I shall fight....to the death!"

Now the people gasped, and many cheered, for Malenot had committed himself to a serious pledge.

Obviously he had done so in an attempt to dispose of Kiron's life without risk to himself. Still, new excitement was added to this already electric tournament. Rumors of this challenge had spread, but this was the first confirmation of the renewed importance of the coming battle.

Tarak gestured to the Tarkan, and the crowd quieted.

"Is a prize to be awarded to the winner of this tournament, Tarkan?"

Malenot frowned.

"What is it that you wish to die for?"

"I would win the slave girl, Leanna of Neros."

At the mention of her name Leanna looked around and down into the arena, and recognition suddenly dawned in her features. Her eyes widened, but Malenot cuffed her sharply, and she bent to her labors once more, her eyes now moist with tears of shame mingled with pain.

The Tarkan laughed.

"She is a pretty wench, but stupid."

The girl's shoulders reddened at this remark, and she shook with misery and rage, prompting Malenot to strike her once more.

"Injure not a noblewoman of Neros, Tarkan!" Tarak warned. "She is not without friends here."

Malenot scowled.

"She is a slave, Nerosian! Nothing more."

"I would fight to win her," repeated Tarak.

Malenot thought for a moment, then nodded.

"Gorkok has also expressed an interest in the girl. Very well. To the winner goes the slave!"

Leanna looked down into the arena again, her eyes filled with tears, and Tarak returned her look with clear, warm eyes which reflected the sun like green pools of water.

He smiled, and for an instant she returned his smile.

Then the Tarkan roughly jerked her chain, and she was slammed back against the stone, choking.

Tarak watched the Tarkan mistreat the girl. His eyes seemed to glitter as he watched, as if a fire were building within, and his mouth tightened slightly, but he did not speak.

Malenot looked down mockingly.

"She will never belong to you, Nerosian, for when you are lying broken in the dirt, Gorkok shall take the slave for his own pleasure!"

"You waste my time with your babble, Tarkan!" replied Tarak. "I am here to fight this Champion of yours. Where is he?"

As he looked up at the Tarkan, Tarak noticed a bird circling high above the arena.

He could not tell its size or type, for it was too high, and the sun was too bright. He dismissed it from his thoughts a moment later, for a gate in the arena wall had opened, and Gorkok had appeared.

Gorkok stood in the gateway for a moment, and then walked majestically over to the wide space beneath the Tarkan's box.

He wore a complete harness, but the knife was missing from its sheath, and he too was bare to the waist.

Like a giant he stood, and even in relaxation the broad bands of muscle seemed to arch across his back and shoulders. His dark eyes glittered from beneath bushy brows, and under the recently trimmed beard could be seen lines of contempt and savagery.

A huge chorus of jeers greeted his entrance, but these were mixed with cries of anguish, and even awe.

The Kalnorians loathed this man, but they feared him, and he truly looked unconquerable as he stood on the hot sand of the arena beneath the Tarkan's pavilion.

Gorkok saluted the Tarkan, then turned and brutishly spat at his opponent, who saw the movement coming, but remained immobile, allowing the spittle to hit him in the shoulder, and run down his arm.

The giant laughed, and angry cries were heard, but Tarak remained immobile, as he looked down at his arm, and then up into the eyes of the champion, and his voice was quiet as he spoke, but his eyes were flaming green fire.

"Thus do the beasts slobber when they are killed, mercenary. "Already you have begun to die."

The giant scowled, and took a step forward, but Malenot's words stayed him.

"Today," he said, raising his voice to the crowd, "We have for the first time in many years a challenge for the greatest honor of the Great Tournament of Kalnor. A man has challenged for the title of Master Sword."

The crowd cheered wildly, their emotions at fever pitch after waiting these years for such a challenge. Arms were raised in salute. Not to Malenot, but to the contestants, and to the tournament itself. To the men who fought, and to its heritage.

"Only two entrants are competing," continued the Tarkan, "Although there may be another match afterwards."

He looked at Kiron, who smiled cheerily back.

Malenot paused for a moment.

"One of the contestants is the champion, Gorkok, who represents not a city, but instead fights for Malenot, Tarkan of Kalnor."

The crowd jeered, and both the Tarkan and the champion scowled, but the Tarkan continued.

"The challenger," he said, looking down on the blond barbarian, is known as Tarak of Neros."

Now the crowd went wild, erupting in jubilation. Tarak's name was upon a thousand lips, and a thousand arms shot into the air to salute this man who opposed the hated champion.

At the sound of her city's name Leanna raised her head in surprise and a look of proud defiance lit her beautiful features before she was jerked back to her place.

Malenot continued, fighting to have his words heard, and finally quieting the crowd.

"By the request of the contestants, the normal rules are suspended for this match, and these men shall fight to the death."

Again the stands erupted, as the rumors which had spread throughout the city were verified.

The people went wild with excitement, for though they were not a bloodthirsty people, they, as most crowds, were moved by death and violence.

Malenot then turned to the two contestants.

"Have either of you anything to say before the match begins?"

Tarak shook his head, but Gorkok spoke, his voice a gigantic bellow which carried far across the arena.

"Today, I will kill this Nerosian in such a way that never again will anyone oppose me. Before all Kalnor I will make him crawl and beg. Watch as he dies slowly, crippled, broken and blinded. Watch the power that is Gorkok!"

He laughed then, loudly and derisively, and the crowd jeered.

Then he turned to Tarak.

"Prepare to die, Nerosian!"

"I am not from Neros, Gorkok," Tarak said quietly. "I have come from the forests and the mountains to kill you."

The champion spat, growling, and the contestants turned once more to the Tarkan's box.

Malenot nodded, and the two men strode to the center of the arena, and stood then paces apart, facing each other.

Kiron remained by the wall, watching.

The crowd was silent now, eyes glowing with excitement as they waited breathlessly for the battle.

Malenot walked to the edge of his box, and raised his arms. Then he shouted.

"Let the match begin!"

Tarak looked up at the Tarkan, then turned his attention toward his opponent, and drew his sword from his belt.

The champion was advancing, sword in hand, and a sneer upon his face.

Gorkok was a truly magnificent warrior, and Tarak admired the physical perfection of the mercenary even as he prepared to kill him.

To the surprise of the crowd, and of Gorkok, Tarak did not stand or back away, but walked smoothly forward to meet his opponent.

Gorkok slowed his advance momentarily, for he had never encountered a foe who behaved thus aggressively, and as he approached he took up his shield from his harness, holding it firmly in his left hand.

They closed, and Gorkok slashed viciously downward with his sword, at the same time moving in with his shield, sweeping right to left with an arc which was calculated to catch Tarak's sword as the barbarian blocked the slash.

Gorkok counted on a direct block or parry of his initial blow, either move which would place Tarak's weapon in position to be struck and knocked aside violently by Gorkok's shield.

Tarak had not parried, however, nor had he blocked. He had merely stepped aside, watching Gorkok's blade flash down beside him, and the shield sweep across.

The champion's face registered surprise and dismay as his blows encountered empty space, and quickly he leaped aside, turning and slashing with both sword and shield to avoid the expected counterattack.

But Tarak had not attacked. He stood silently to the side, watching the wildly delivered blows Gorkok dealt to space, a half-smile upon his face, and his sword held casually in his hand.

The giant was enraged, for Tarak had caused him to appear foolish. Several strokes he had dealt, and all had hit nothing. Laughter rippled briefly through the crowd, and jeers taunted the champion.

Gorkok moved forward, this time attacking with the sword only. Their blades met in a crash, parted, and clashed again, and again parted.

Gorkok tried to move inside Tarak's guard, but the barbarian parried with lightning strokes, and suddenly unleashed an offensive flurry of strokes, forcing Gorkok back a step.

The crowd went wild.

Gorkok had killed men in many ways, depending upon their skill and his own momentary desires. Normally he killed them with his speed and swordsmanship, for then the fight lasted longer, and he could flaunt his mastery of the weapon.

Some men he had simply crushed. Kiron had been one, for Gorkok had wished to dispatch the Kalnorian quickly and with humiliation. Now he attacked Tarak with his massive strength, intending to hammer the challenger back and into submission; to break his arms if necessary.

Gorkok's eyes blazed as he unleashed his attack. Whirling downward blows he delivered, which cut the air with a whistle.

Tarak caught the first one with perfect timing and turned it aside, avoiding its full force. Even so he could feel the strength behind the stroke, and raised his eyebrows.

The giant's strength was incredible, as Tarak had known it would be. Again and again Tarak parried the strokes, moving backward slowly.

Gorkok was smiling, for he had done this many times before. He knew from past experience that his opponent's arm would soon become numb and tired, and he kept up his assault with renewed effort.

He aimed a vicious angled slash, then changed the direction suddenly, converting the blow into a stroke which was impossible to parry. Only a direct block would stop the blade. Gorkok's muscles bulged as the sword descended in a blinding arc.

Even as the stroke began Tarak was moving, however, and Gorkok's sword met only air, for Tarak had leaped to the right, his speed uncanny.

As he moved he slashed at the champion's side, and only the mercenary's shield saved him.

Gorkok thrust it out desperately, and caught the main force of Tarak's stroke.

The two men leaped back, and Gorkok glanced down at the shield, now cut almost in half. He flung it aside, and again moved to attack, now to be met immediately by the challenger.

Gorkok slashed quickly, and was turned away by a sword as swift as his own. Again he attempted to batter back his foe, but now Tarak met his blows squarely, and the champion's eyes widened in shock as he felt the power in the arm which opposed his own.

Now his blows were met by blows of equal intensity and force, as Tarak began to hammer at the champion.

Sparks flew from the blades as they crashed together, and neither man gave ground for a few moments.

Each tried to force back the other by sheer power, and neither was successful.

Disbelief and delight lit the faces of the crowd. They had hoped against home to see an exciting challenge, but never in their dreams had they thought of seeing a challenger who could withstand Gorkok for so long.

Sledgehammer blows the champion delivered, and the challenger parried them or blocked them squarely, counterattacking whenever possible with lightning speed.

Gorkok forced Tarak back a few steps, but then the challenger seemed to become a blur of movement, and suddenly Gorkok leaped back, and blood was running down his arm.

It was a small wound, but it was the first serious blood drawn in the match, and one of the few times the champion had ever been touched.

The people rocked the stands with their fervor, screaming their excitement.

Now Tarak attacked, and the champion was forced back, as the challenger hammered with all his strength and speed. His muscles flowed across his body in ripples as he attacked, slashing and cutting with strength and power such as he had never used in fighting a man before.

Gorkok's skill was marvelous, though, and his strength equal to the task. He turned away Tarak's blows with a whirling ring of steel, his strength and speed used to their fullest extent. Tarak doubled his efforts, and as Gorkok backed further Tarak stopped for a moment, and stepped back himself.

Both men stood silently, five paces apart, their chests rising and falling heavily with their breathing. Sweat gleamed from their bodies, and the sand from the arena floor was caked to their legs. Each man bled from minor cuts and wounds, but neither was really injured.

Tarak stood silently, but his eyes blazed with fire and excitement. They bored into those of the champion, and perceived the hate which blazed back from those glittering black pools.

The mercenary's contempt had disappeared, and some respect was reflected in the bestial face, but the hate had increased there, too.

Hate for this strange blond man who thwarted his power, who taunted him but refused to give way to his strength, as so many had given way before.

Rage welled up in his breast, but it was tempered with caution, for he now knew he faced no ordinary foe.

Tarak had never fought a more deadly man or beast. Several times only his marvelous speed had saved him from the savagery and skill of which the champion was possessed, and his strength was constantly drawn upon to fend away the incredibly powerful strokes the champion dealt, seemingly without tiring.

His every sense was alive with the joy of battle, his system intoxicated with Adrenalin as he once again fought for his life, as he had fought so many times in the past, imparting an exhilaration which surpassed anything else he had known.

With flaming eyes he watched his foe, measuring each aspect of his opponent's capabilities, his body tense with anticipation.

Gorkok moved forward again, and Tarak moved to meet him. Their swords whirred and thrust, slashed and countered in a blinding confrontation faster than the eye could follow.

Blades darted in, and were withdrawn as quickly, as the target avoided the thrust and countered. The crowd sat numb and silent, and the only sound came from the ringing of metal on metal.

Then Gorkok caught Tarak's sword on a block, and forced both blades upward. His hand streaked for Tarak's throat, as Kiron looked on with dismay.

Like lightning came the probing fingers, streaking for the challenger's throat, but Tarak's head seemed to blur, and suddenly Gorkok leaped back, and blood was flowing down his arm.

The crowd was stunned, and finally Kiron realized that Tarak had attacked the thrusting hand with his teeth, and had slashed into the fleshy part of Gorkok's wrist.

Gorkok's eyes widened as he backed away, glancing down quickly at his arm, while Tarak followed him, spitting out pieces of flesh, and Gorkok's blood running down his chin.

They clashed again, and for a moment each man seemed to be trying to beat back the other by sheer strength and force of will. The swords were battered and badly chipped from the battle, but were still formidable weapons, and the two men fought furiously.

Never in the history of the Tournament had such a fight been seen, and the people sat mesmerized.

Leaping, twisting, turning, the men fought, and sometimes one, then the other would fall back to check a new wound.

Now they were covered with blood and sweat and sand, and the floor of the arena grew sticky under their feet.

Kiron watched in awe. Even he had not believed Tarak could fight like this. He looked up into the royal box.

Malenot stood at the edge of his enclosure, staring fixedly at the contestants. Once he looked down, and Kiron smiled up at him. Malenot scowled, and returned his attention to the fight.

Gorkok had taken the offensive momentarily, and with heavy blows was forcing Tarak back. Tarak could block the strokes, and turn them away, but so quickly they came, and with such force, that he could not counter.

Then Gorkok grabbed his sword in both hands and swung with all the power in both his arms. Tarak leaped back from the force of the cut, his arm stinging, and the champion followed, hammering another slash, driving Tarak further back.

Tarak's sword was useless against the power of the two-handed blows, and mercilessly the champion drove him back.

Deflecting one such stroke, Tarak suddenly broke and ran back ten paces, then turned to face the champion once more, his eyes flaming with frustration and animal savagery.

His feral patience had run out.

Gorkok bounded forward, pressing his advantage, but Tarak ran to meet him, his own sword held with both hands and a savage snarl upon his lips.

As they met both men swung their weapons in tremendous arcs, the blades becoming a blur as they flashed toward each other.

Each sword swung with all the power and speed possessed in the frames of these two incredible warriors.

The swords met in a resounding crash of metal, and a sharp snapping sound followed.

The two men stood a few feet from each other, each holding a bare hilt in both hands. The blades had broken off just above the hilts, and were flying through the air, to land several yards away.

Tarak looked down at his broken weapon, and casually tossed it aside.

Gorkok also threw his away, and grimacing fiercely, stalked forward, a haggard grin upon his face.

"Now you die!" he grunted, reaching for Tarak with his huge, hairy arms. His confidence had returned, for he knew his strength was incomparable.

He had learned respect for Tarak's blade, but now the strange man stood unarmed and helpless, and the champion bounded forward, hoping to catch his opponent before he could run.

His arms stretched out to encircle the challenger, who stood as if in shock, but as Gorkok reached out Tarak moved.

Like lightning he ducked, and as Gorkok closed his huge arms Tarak leaped for the groin of the giant.

Quickly Gorkok turned, blocking Tarak's lunge with a broad leg, but the challenger just as quickly altered his attack, and Gorkok felt his foot in the grasp of his foe.

He fell, twisting to avoid allowing Tarak to grasp his leg firmly, and as he rolled his leg came free.

Congratulating himself, he started up to his feet, preparing to turn and attack, but even as he turned in his rise he glimpsed Tarak's figure hurtling toward him.

Gorkok was surprised and confused that this man would close with him, and reached out as Tarak's body drove him to the ground.

Together they rolled in the dirt like two rabid animals. Gorkok grabbed Tarak by the shoulders, searching for his throat, but his probing fingers met only unyielding cords of muscle.

He grunted with surprise as his great strength failed to move the muscle, and then felt a sharp pain in his side, and grabbed Tarak's arm, seeking to throw him clear, and better expose his enemy to attack.

Mightily Gorkok heaved, the knots and bands of muscle standing out like they would split his skin.

The pain in his side grew worse, and with a cry of pain and supreme effort he accomplished his purpose, and leaped clear and to his feet.

In his side was a gaping hole where the strong teeth of the challenger had bitten into his abdominal wall, and Gorkok looked up in shock.

Tarak was approaching him again, snarling now, his eyes a wild flaming green, his muscles gliding beneath battered skin, and his teeth bared in a bubbling snarl.

Tarak attacked, and this time Gorkok achieved the hold he was seeking.

The mercenary's hands closed about the throat of the challenger, and he squeezed, but again only unyielding cords of muscle met his terrific grip, and even as he tried to increase the pressure Tarak's hands closed about one broad arm, and the challenger wrenched and twisted, leaping in with his feet and kicking for the bowels as he turned on his shoulder.

Gorkok released his grip, and went down, his enemy on top of him.

Again they rolled in the dirt, each pounding and clawing for a vital spot, moving with the swiftness and desperation of wild beasts.

After a flurry of blows they parted, and this time Gorkok was backing away, and fear tinged his eyes for the first time.

He bled from several new wounds, and staggered slightly with fatigue as he retreated.

Tarak followed relentlessly, his body quivering and rippling with eagerness and excitement, his eyes burning with lust.

Kiron gasped at the scene with amazement and shocked excitement. Never had he imagined that such magnificence, or such savagery, was possible in a man.

Tarak stalked the champion as a hunting tarab stalks its prey. He had almost fastened his teeth in the jugular of his foe in their last encounter, before Gorkok had unleashed a desperate flurry of blows and had escaped.

The mercenary's throat bled profusely from the wound, and his blood ran in rivulets down into the hair upon his chest.

Tarak was eager to close again, and quickened his pursuit. Gorkok was tremendously strong, far and away the strongest man Tarak had ever encountered. Stronger even than a wrok.

Gorkok was not, however, stronger than Tarak, nor was he as fast.

More than anything, however, Gorkok was a man. A man who fought as men fought. He did not understand unarmed battle as did Tarak, who had fought thus his entire life.

Tarak knew ways to kill which Gorkok had never considered, and his savagery was that of the beast fighting for its life.

The champion had always fought those weaker than himself; had always triumphed easily, against men, or armed and against lesser beasts.

Never had he been pitted against superior strength and speed, as had Tarak, or been forced to fight unarmed against naked claws and slavering fangs.

Gorkok fought with deliberation, while Tarak fought from instinctual training and self-preservation, learned from countless battles for his very life.

Tarak was moving relentlessly forward, and Gorkok was having difficulty keeping his balance as he moved backward.

Suddenly the mercenary turned and ran, his fear finally conquering any pride he might have had remaining.

He was fast for a man, but no sooner had he turned when Tarak began to run, and in a few strides he had overtaken the champion and leaped onto his back, knocking him to the ground.

Even as they landed Tarak's arms were around Gorkok's throat, and his legs locked about the champion's waist.

Tarak reared back, twisting the huge head, fighting with the giant, who strived to break free, screaming like a madman, rolling and bucking in an attempt to dislodge the snarling creature who was slowly breaking his neck.

His efforts were in vain, though, as Tarak tightened his grip, and slowly tensed his muscles until they swelled to the point that each strand seemed to be visible.

Slowly he forced back the head of the champion, who's body lay still now, as his entire effort concentrated on his neck.

For a long moment Gorkok refused to submit to that unyielding pressure, and they lay immobile, like two magnificent statues. Then Tarak wrenched upward.

The giant screamed as his endurance died, and a horrible snapping sound followed as Gorkok's spine splintered under the force of Tarak's unstoppable power.

Tarak released the limp head, and stood up slowly.

Gorkok lay in the sand, his face hidden in the dirt.

A stunned silence came over the arena as Tarak looked down at the figure of Gorkok.

Then he looked up, and began walking toward Kiron.

As he walked a few people found their voices, and began to cheer. Slowly the cheer was taken up, until the arena shook with tumultuous acclaim for the new champion of Kalnor.

Tarak. The Master Swordsman of Kalnor.

His name echoed across the stadium, as the citizens showed their feelings in a display of worship never before seen in Kalnor. The arena shook with the bedlam, and even in the streets cheering could be heard as the news spread that Gorkok wad dead.

Tarak was smiling as he neared Kiron. For a long moment they looked at each other.

The proud Kalnorian, well dressed and rested; and the barbarian, bleeding from a hundred wounds, his entire body covered with sweat and blood and dirt.

Kiron was smiling too, and shaking his head.

"It was magnificent!" he shouted, trying to make himself heard, though he was only a few paces away.

Tarak turned and gestured at the prostrate figure in the dirt. "He was a magnificent warrior, Kiron. It is sad that his mind was so evil. That he had to die."

Kiron shrugged, remembering his own encounter with the giant. Then the two men looked up into the royal box; at Malenot, Tarkan of Kalnor.

The Tarkan stood rigidly, staring out at his fallen champion.

Kiron raised his arms, trying to quiet the crowd, but they continued to cheer wildly, but when Tarak repeated the gesture, they finally quieted, and the arena was silent again.

Tarak looked up. "The girl belongs to me, Tarkan."

"And you, Malenot," shouted Kiron. "You belong to me!"

Malenot looked down, as if in a daze. Then he recovered his composure, and rage and fear began to appear in his features. He turned to speak to an aid, and then again faced the warriors who stood below.

"You have won, Nerosian. The girl is yours." He hesitated. "You too, Kiron, shall have your prize. I await you in my box."

Screams and cries of outrage were suddenly heard, and Tarak and Kiron wheeled around.

A gate had opened in the far end of the arena, and a young tarab now emerged into the hot sun.

An immature specimen, perhaps fifteen feet long, the tarab was nevertheless a deadly carnivore. Its black fur gleamed in the sunlight as it padded softly out into the center of the arena, testing the air with its nose, and the strange sights with its yellow eyes. Though kept in captivity, and not yet into the prime of its life, the tarab was a magnificent animal, and it raised its head and screamed its defiance to the world, its open mouth disclosing ling, dazzlingly white fangs, dripping with saliva.

Tarak looked quickly around, seeking some means of escape, but the arena was sealed. The floor was thirty feet below the seats, and the heavily barred gates were closed and locked.

Twenty feet of wall topped the gates, and thus nothing might be gained by attempting to climb them. He looked up into the now smiling face of the Tarkan, and then at Kiron.

The Kalnorian simply shrugged his broad shoulders, offering to Tarak his sword.

"It seems we shall die together after all, my friend," he said simply. "But Kalnor will not forgive this injustice. Malenot shall fall."

Tarak shrugged, and took Kiron's knife. Whether the Tarkan perished or not was of little concern to him, but he remained silent.

The Kalnorian had offered him the best weapon, but they both knew it had been a futile gesture. A sword was of little more use against a tarab than a knife. A killer without peer, fast and powerful, even a young tarab was an enemy they knew they could not defeat.

The tarab had been circling, and now saw the two men. Its ears perked, and then flattened back, as the beast started across the arena, moving more quickly now.

It's six rear legs carried it effortlessly across the hot sand, and even from a distance Tarak could see the long claws extend and retract again from its forelegs.

There was no hope of drawing the creature off balance, for always as it fought at least four of its limbs remained on the ground.

The men immediately separated, so that the tarab could attack only one man at a time.

Hopefully the other might attack the creature from the flank. It was a forlorn hope, for the tarab was so fast and deadly that the first victim would be disposed of almost instantly, and the creature would be able to wheel and meet the second before any real damage would be inflicted.

The tarab was more than halfway across the arena now, increasing its speed, and staring fixedly at its intended prey.

As they began to separate the tarab charged, as if it guessed their intentions and wanted to kill them before they could begin to execute their plan.

Tarak veered to the right, running now away from Kiron, and causing the beast to veer towards him.

Rapidly the tarab closed the distance, but before it dragged him down he turned suddenly and brought his arm back in preparation for one desperation throw with his knife.

He stopped then, in shock, for the racing tarab was suddenly enveloped in shadow, and as it leaped it was borne back to the dirt as huge talons imbedded in its shoulders and back, driving the beast to the ground.

The tarab screamed with fury, but the dyrrn had struck with such force and effect that the creature was helpless.

It raked the air with its claws, searching for the enemy which had struck so savagely from above, and tried to turn its slavering jaws around, but the talons held mercilessly.

Then the dyrrn rose, and the tarab was lifted above the arena, its legs kicking and scrambling in the air, blood flowing from its back and sides where the long talons held.

The tarab's screams were the only sounds to break the deathly silence, for the audience was struck with awe at the entrance of ;this new creature.

Even Tarak stood in shock, his arm still back in a throwing position, the knife balanced in his fingers.

It was a mountain dyrrn that had dropped silently into the arena of Kalnor. Its body exceeded thirty feet, and the wingspan of the creature neared eighty feet. It was by far the largest dyrrn Tarak had ever heard of, a marvelous creature of deep black, its wings beating in rolling thrusts as it raised its prey easily above the arena.

Even before the dyrrn released the tarab, it had died, for the talons of the dyrrn had severed its nervous system, passing completely through the creature's body.

The tarab dropped lifeless to the sand, its great weight vibrating the dirt beneath Tarak's feet. Then the dyrrn followed, landing on the tarab and raising its head to scream the battle cry of its savage kind.

It began to feed, tearing huge chunks of meat from the carcass, and swallowing them whole.

Kiron had flattened himself against the wall of the arena, and was shouting at Tarak, pleading with him to run.

Tarak remained in his position, looking at the feeding monster, a quizzical expression upon his face. Then he began to walk toward the dyrrn.

The dyrrn was monstrous, larger by far than the half-grown creature he had ridden out of the mountains so long ago. Now it was an adult, a giant measured even by its kind. But he knew it was the same dyrrn. All his senses, honed and sharpened far beyond those of any civilized man, attuned to survival as a beast, told him that this creature was the same one whose egg he had intended to eat so long ago in the far valley.

He approached the dyrrn boldly. He had no idea what the reaction of the dyrrn would be, for half a year had passed since he had left the dyrrn and descended into the world of men.

The creature had matured since then, far surpassing any expectations Tarak might have had. If it chose to attack him, though, it could do so no matter where he ran. It was better to settle the matter at once.

It seemed unbelievable that this dyrrn had seen him battling the tarab, and had come to save him, but it seemed as plausible as any other explanation, for mountain dyrrn rarely left their habitat, and it was unthinkable that one would venture into an arena jammed with thousands of men, simply to attack a young tarab.

As he approached the dyrrn raised its head, and glared savagely down.

Then its huge jaws opened and a horrid scream issued forth, as if in warning to the tiny man who approached.

Impassively Tarak continued, until he stood directly beneath the slavering jaws of the creature.

His body was shrouded in shadows created by the great dyrrn, and he looked up into the huge orbs which were the eyes.

"So, my killer of the mountains, you have returned to the lands of men. Have you come to aid Tarak, or perhaps eat him?"

He smiled up at the dyrrn as he spoke, wondering if the creature truly recognized him.

The dyrrn's head cocked at the sound of the voice, then suddenly descended sharply toward the man who stood beneath its self.

The crowd, transfixed by the appearance of this monster, screamed, then sat back in shock, for the man had not been killed, only knocked back several feet to the dirt.

Tarak slowly got to his feet, his features clouded in anger. The sand was red with his blood where he had lain. He had no weapon with which to attack the dyrrn, other than the knife, but again he approached.

This time when the great head swung down he was ready, and the muzzle of the beast met only empty air as Tarak swerved aside and leaped for the creature's back.

"Ho, Killer!" he cried, as he reached the broad back of the dyrrn, and encircled the neck with his arms.

"Tarak remembers your tricks."

He laughed as the dyrrn shook its head, trying to dislodge him. He knew that the dyrrn could kill him instantly, by simply rolling over and crushing him, and the cries from the people assembled in the arena indicated that they expected this action momentarily.

Tarak, however, knew now that the dyrrn would not kill him. He had given it a chance, and it had merely knocked him to the ground, as it had so many times in the past, in the lost valley so far away in the cold mountains.

Not only wouldn't the creature harm him, but, inexplicably, it had saved him from the tarab. How it had found him, or even remembered him, he had no way of discerning.

It seemed incredible. Now as he sat astride the back of the dyrrn, he felt supremely happy, at one again with nature and the freedom of the skies and the mountains. He had grown quite fond of the dyrrn during their time together, and now he slapped the beast's neck with renewed affection.

His countless wounds and fatigue were all but forgotten as he remembered soaring high in the mountains, over the valleys, and the great forests on the back of this magnificent beast.

"You are truly a Tarkan of your kind!" he said to the dyrrn, who had evidently grown tired of trying to throw the man from its back, and was now engaged in devouring the dead tarab.

Tarak looked about for Kiron, and noticed that in the moments since the dyrrn had entered the arena, those watching had not moved.

Thousands stood, immobile, watching the scene unfold before them.

Kiron, sword in hand, stood perhaps a hundred feet distant, an uncomprehending expression upon his handsome features.

Above, in the royal box, Malenot still watched from the edge of his pavilion, staring intently at the man who sat so complacently atop the monstrous dyrrn, a creature rarely seen by civilized peoples.

Leanna, the slave girl, sat as upright as the short chain would allow, her eyes wide and moist.

A few hundred feet to the side Gorkok lay in the dirt, his broken body covered with blood and sand.

All around the arena people stood silently, watching the man and the great dyrrn.

Tarak spoke sharply, and slapped the monster on the neck. The beast screamed and its head shot up. With a great shudder the dyrrn rose, and in response to another set of signals turned and sped for the royal box.

Malenot stood in shock for a moment, and then, realizing Tarak's intent, turned to flee, screaming to his guards.

Almost before he had spoken, however the dyrrn was upon them, so short was the distance to such a huge creature. Wings thundering, it alighted on the edge of the royal box, and Tarak leaped from its back.

The occupants of the box were all attempting to flee, and their bodies jammed into the small exit, as those behind tried to claw their way over those in front.

Forgotten was the Tarkan, who shouted and threatened, to no avail, as he scrambled to reach the exit.

As he pushed at his men he felt strong fingers close around his throat, and he was lifted backward suddenly into the air, as if he were a child.

Tarak carried him to the edge of the box, and, beating back the hungry jaws of the dyrrn, dropped the Tarkan to the arena floor.

One guard attacked from the rear, noticing his Tarkan threatened, but even as he raised his sword, his upper body disappeared into the jaws of the dyrrn.

Tarak winded at the creature, then ran to where Leanna crouched, cowering with terror.

No one opposed him, for all were too anxious to escape the monster dyrrn, and in an instant he stood over Leanna, of Neros, the slave girl.

She looked up at him, her naked body trembling, her eyes wide.

How she had scorned him, and laughed when they had first met. Then she had been a noblewoman, safe in the towers of her city, surrounded by her friends, suitors, and family.

He had been a man. One of many. And a barbarian. Even then she had been somewhat fascinated by this man, but still she had scorned him, as was her nature with men.

Now she looked up, and tall above her naked body he stood, looking down.

Blood ran down his legs to mingle with the dust at his feet, and sweat dripped from his arms and chest. His hair was matted with dirt and blood, and the broad chest rose and fell heavily.

In his battered right hand he held a sword, and though he held it loosely, his arm swelled with power such as she had never seen in a man.

Leanna was frightened, but as she met his eyes she was reassured, for those eyes were clam as they regarded the slave girl.

Then he reached down, and with his left hand he tore the slim chain free from the stone chair of the Tarkan. He released the chain, and gently helped her to stand.

"Now you are free, Leanna," he said gently, and brushed past her before she could answer, to bolt the door through which the occupants of the box and the guards had escaped, so that none could reenter.

Then he moved to the front to the edge of the box and looked down upon the arena floor. Leanna silently came and stood near him trying to keep as far away as possible from the great dyrrn, which still perched on the edge, its great head eyeing her hungrily. Tarak shoved the head away roughly as it moved near, shouting at the beast, as a man might scold his favorite pet.

She shook her head slightly in wonder at this man, and then she too turned her attention to the arena.

None who had come to watch the games had left, other than those who had occupied the royal box. They had watched the scuffle in Malenot's pavilion, and now, as did Tarak and Leanna, they turned their attention to the arena floor.

Malenot stood with his back to the wall, where Tarak had dropped him. Though it had been a considerable drop, the soft sand of the arena had served to break his fall, and he was unhurt. His right hand held a sword, and in his left he carried a shield.

His eyes were riveted upon the yellow-clad figure of Kiron, who stood directly before him, ten paces distant, a sword in his hand and a broad smile upon his face.

"I am happy to see that you decided to honor your pledge after all, Tarkan," Kiron said, as he watched the sweating Malenot. "It really was not necessary, however, for you to leap into the arena to do battle. I certainly have more patience than you seem to think, and would have been happy to wait for you to descend in a more dignified manner."

Malenot scowled.

"I am your Tarkan! Lay down your weapon, and submit!"

His voice was almost shrill as he spoke.

Kiron's smile slowly disappeared.

"You are nothing to me. Nothing but a man who used treachery and deception to capture the throne of my city, and butchery and terror to keep it. I am ashamed that you are a Kalnorian. I would rather that you were a mercenary, like the hirelings who serve you. You have raped our city as only one who kills for pay should have been able to do. You have turned Kalnorian against Kalnorian, and subordinated our people to your hired minions. You are of Kalnor, but I am going to kill you as I would kill the meanest assassin." Kiron paused.

"Come now, Malenot. Kiron of Kalnor waits for you."

Malenot looked around to the assemblage, as if he might find succor there, but the people were cheering Kiron, and many curses could be heard which were directed at the Tarkan. He looked at the man who faced him.

"If I am killed, Kiron, you too will die! My men will hunt you down and kill you slowly!"

Kiron shook his head.

"I think not, Tarkan."

Then he looked around the arena, and raised his voice. "People of Kalnor! As we stand here, the forces of Atal Throom march upon Kalnor!"

A great cheer followed a moment of silence, then died suddenly, as Kiron continued.

Malenot looked stricken.

"He marches not alone, but accompanied by the forces of Neros, under Foss, Tarkan of Neros."

Again the people cheered, and the cheering spread through the streets as the news spread. Spectators began to attack the mercenary guards posted about the arena, and though largely unarmed, so great were their numbers that quickly the guards succumbed.

Leanna's eyes widened as she heard this news, and she looked up at Tarak.

"This is true? Foss is Tarkan?"

He nodded, then once more turned his attention to the men below.

Kiron smiled again.

"Your grip upon Kalnor shall not long outlive you, Tarkan!"

Malenot stood unsteadily, as if he had already been wounded. Kiron waited, his sword hanging down, his eyes fixed on his prey.

Then the Tarkan straightened, drawing himself up to his full height, as if he suddenly remembered that he, too, was a Kalnorian, and even more. He was a Tarkan. Resignation was upon his face, and death, but too could be seen pride, for Malenot was, for all his sins, a Kalnorian. He raised his sword, and began to advance toward the waiting Kiron.

Their blades met, parted, and met again.

Malenot was a good swordsman. He attacked with all the savage ferocity which had earned him a place high in the army of Kalnor. His opponent, however, was a champion. The best sword in Kalnor.

Malenot knew he had little chance. Still, through his attack he gained back some of the respect of the people he had tyrannized for so long.

Once again he was a warrior, fighting for his life.

Kiron met the attack with swirling steel, and in less than a moment the Tarkan lay dead upon the hot sand.

As he fell, the arena became hushed with silence. The Tarkan was dead.

Kiron looked down at his fallen enemy, and then up at the assemblage.

"Citizens of Kalnor! Malenot is dead, but still our city is caught in the grip of his power. I go now to the gates, to welcome Atal Throom, that he may enter Kalnor in peace."

He looked around the silent arena.

"Who fights with Kiron of Kalnor?"

Thousands of voiced thundered their support, and those who had weapons raised them above their heads.

The gates at the far end of the arena opened, and citizens could be seen grappling with more guards, now reorganized and well disciplined, presenting a formidable force.

Many Kalnorians fell there, but their fellows carried the fight to the guards, and before long the arena belonged to Kiron.

He turned to leave the arena, but stopped, and looked back at the royal box, where a tall, bloody figure stood silently between a frightened girl and a terrible creature of the mountains.

Kiron saluted, and the lonely figure returned his gesture. Then Kiron turned to lead his city in revolt, thinking that Leanna of Neros was in truth standing with two mountain creatures, and Kiron smiled as he wondered which was the more terrible.