Three Met

Three Met in Elur

an Adventure of Tarak of Aantor

Robert A. Woodley

The tawny giant walked silently through the clamoring throng of street vendors, hawkers of

spices, exotic drinks, silken fabrics; fortune tellers; and myriad other people and goods.

He purchased a skin of wine from a bearded merchant, and paid with a few of the coins he had

obtained in exchange for a jewel from a gem merchant earlier in the day. Grejin the jeweler, the

sign has proclaimed. "Member; Master Jeweler, Aantorian Jeweler's Guild".

Tarak smiled. The gem merchant had examined the stone, and had appraised it as relatively

valueless. Tarak had nodded, and had given it to the man, accepting the few coins given in return.

He had then grabbed the man's wrist, as the merchant drew it back, the hand enveloping the

gem. His grip had been iron, and the merchant's eyes had widened in sudden fright as the strong

fingers had clamped shut on his arm. He had sensed the awesome power lying within those hands.

Tarak's emerald eyes had been calm, but shimmered briefly as he spoke. "I have several ofthese gems to barter while I visit your city, merchant. I presume others will regard them assimilarly valueless. If not, I shall see you again before I leave Elur".

His gaze had bored into the merchant as he spoke;. His grip unyielding.

The merchant had stood, transfixed by the grip and the stare of the barbarian. He had begun to

sweat, and his eyes shifted.

Tarak had relaxed his grip, smiled grimly, and turned to leave.

"One moment, friend," the merchant had said hurriedly. "Let me take another look at this stone, with a new glass. As I look at it again, I see I may have missed something."

A few moments later Tarak had departed the merchant with nearly ten times the amount he had initially been paid by the man. He grinned, thankful for the lessons in civilized life he had learned during the long months he had spent with Foss, Tarkan of Neros, a city-state far to the North.

Foss had given him these stones, keeping for Tarak the pouch of Starfires which the barbarian had brought out of the mountains.

"You will need some form of currency which will be marketable in any city," Foss had told him. "Your gems are beyond value. These are valuable, but commonly traded throughout civilized Aantor." He had given Tarak a pouch half-filled with various gems, the total value of which was considerable, yet not even a fraction of even one of the smallest Starfires which now rested within the keeping of the ruler of Neros.

The tawny barbarian leaned back, taking a huge drought of the dark sweet wine. Wiping his chin, he looked out across the teeming marketplace.

Elur. City of Light. He had only arrived the day before, and was already mesmerized by the sights, sounds, and smells of this fabled Aantorian city. Only the third city he had ever seen, it was far larger than Neros, and larger even than coastal Kalnor. An apparent meeting ground of north and south, Elur was a crossroads of merchant traffic. The city was alive with citizens of other cities and lands. Strange animals paced relentlessly in cages.

He stopped at another stall, purchasing a joint of beef and some fresh bread to go with the wine, and moved on, tearing at the meat with his strong teeth as he walked.

He passed a street vendor, a slaver, who displayed oddities from a large wagon. A small girl stood playing a stringed instrument; her leg shackled, its small chain fastened to bolt on the wagon.

Tarak looked at the lettering on the wagon.

ROGAS THE SLAVER

SEE THE BIZARRE

THE TINY GIRL-MAN FROM CHOMIR

THE HALF-WROK, HALF-MAN FROM CAR

MORE INSIDE!

Tarak examined the chained girl. She barely came to the waist of the barbarian, yet appeared to be of normal proportions. She was dressed as a young Elurian girl of perhaps six years old, but although slender, smooth of skin and small, she was being advertised as male. Her hair was long, and curled like a girls', and she wore makeup as she stood, her slender legs visible beneath the hem of her dress, and played sweet music for the onlookers.

The crowd was enchanted, laughing at the little captive, while the proprietor looked on, smiling, and answering questions about the little creature, and insisting that if anyone would pay

an admission fee, they could see that the little girl was in fact a man. For a few coins the intimacies of the little Chomirian would be displayed within the confines of the wagon, as well as other wondrous oddities the slaver had obtained in his travels.

Everyone talked about the little man, if that's what he was, as if he were some type of animal. Tarak moved closer, watching the chained performer.

The eyes of the Chomirian were set, not meeting those of the onlookers; watching indifferently as they swept randomly across the crowd. They stopped as they passed across the tall, broad- shouldered form of the blond giant who had suddenly appeared.

He looked up and saw an interested appraising, inquiring gaze meeting his own. Clear green eyes looked candidly back at him as he examined the tall strange man with his own pale blue ones. This man did not taunt, laugh, or jeer. His mouth was not smirking; nor his eyes twinkling with pleasure at the misfortune and strangeness of another.

Silent, morose, and marked with stoicism born of hopelessness, the captive's eyes flared briefly with life as he looked up into the friendly face of the tawny barbarian who stood, arms folded across his huge chest, as his own calm green eyes looked inquiringly down. The tiny man flashed a brief smile; and was rewarded with an answering grin. Those pale blue eyes, so wide and pretty a second before, had flashed a fierce independence of savage spirit which spoke of battles, hardship, and bravery. These were no girl's eyes.

Tarak raised his arm to catch the attention of the proprietor. "Do you own this man?"

The proprietor noticed him, and laughed. "He is certainly no man, as you can see, but yes, I own him. Its name is Jenyla."

The crowd laughed. Jenyla was a common Elurian girl's name.

Tarak ignored them. "I would like to buy him."

The owner laughed again. "It is not for sale, fellow, even if you could afford such a slave." He had noted the rough, torn tunic of the blond giant, an odd color, Nerosian green, in this part of Aantor. Nothing about the man proclaimed wealth, and wealth was the only value the slave merchant understood. He noted the green tunic worn by the barbarian was striped with the rank of a Rok, the highest Aantorian military rank, and shook his head. Probably a mental defective.

Tarak looked steadily back, not laughing himself. "Name a price, merchant."

The slave-owner frowned. This man was interfering with the enjoyment of the crowd, and might inhibit some of them from purchasing tickets to see the other creatures within his wagon.

"Are you deaf, man? He's mine, and not for sale. Now move along, or buy a ticket and come inside." He looked about at the crowd and winked. "If you have the price for a ticket, that is."

Tarak's gaze locked on the man, and his eyes began to flare. "You won't sell him then? At any price?"

The proprietor stopped smiling, and looked over at two assistants, large brawny slave- handlers. He nodded his head at the barbarian slightly, then turned his attention to the crowd once

more. The man followed the slaver's stare to the stranger, and they acknowledged the order.

Chains were fastened to their belts, as were long, cruel whips.

Tarak noted the two men were moving away and around, to get behind him. He looked back at the little captive, and a half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then he shrugged, and moved away through the crowd, away from the two men who were trying to flank him.

He left the outer fringes of the crowd and slipped into a nearby street. His ears and sensitive nostrils detected the presence of the slave-handlers still following him, and he smiled. His offer had been irresistible to the merchant, who had sent his men to follow the man who appeared to have more money than was immediately apparent. He assumed the men would follow him, hoping for a quiet, deserted spot. He would not make them wait for long.

He noticed a dark, deserted alley intersecting the street, and turned down it, increasing his pace as he did so. He ran for a several seconds, while he was blocked from view, then slowed to a normal walking pace. His ears told him when the two men turned into the alley, and he grinned as he thought how they must wonder how he had trebled the distance between them.

The alley divided, and he turned to the left, again quickening his pace. Shortly thereafter he

entered a dim courtyard, and he moved immediately to his right, and waited.

Several seconds later the two slave-keepers rushed into the courtyard, looking wildly for an exit. There were none. One looked around, and yelled a warning, as he noted the smiling blond man who now stood behind him, blocking the only entrance to the courtyard.

"Are you looking for me?" Tarak inquired, a half-smile upon his lips.

Both men now whirled, and swords leaped into their hands.

The largest, a swarthy, bearded giant, nodded, grunting with pleasure. "And we've found

you!" He smiled fiercely. "Let's have your pouch, peasant. Hand it over, now. It's that or your life."

The other man, also bearded, moved a few paces to his right. "Do as he says, boy. It's better to be poor than to be crippled, or dead." He smiled as he spoke, and his eyes sparkled with cruelty. This man was eager to kill or cripple, no matter how much wealth exchanged hands in the dim courtyard.

Tarak's own sword flashed from it's scabbard, and he shook his tawny mane. His eyes flamed with an emerald fire as he crouched slightly; his body trembling with the flow of adrenalin which

suffused him as he once again prepared to battle for life itself. Joyously he stood, every muscle balanced and ready for instantaneous movement.

"Come and take it," he hissed, his eyes flaring with anticipation, green fires dancing within as a ray of sunlight struck his face. Reared in savage battle, he had developed a lust for combat and killing which was unknown in civilized man. His relatively recent experiences among civilized me had placed them in a unique category. Some he admired, and would fight for, even to the death. Others he despised. Except for a select few he had encountered, he preferred the company of the beasts. He had learned how cruel men could be; how brutal and unfair in their killing. These were such men. He could sense it. He would enjoy killing these men. His muscles quivered with anticipation of the impending fight.

The men stopped their advance, and looked briefly at each other. They noted the size of their opponent; the tightness of the bronzed skin over the scarred, muscular hide; the sensation of repressed savagery which emanated from the strange barbarian. They recalled the speed with which the sword had appeared in his powerful hand; and noticed the manner in which he held the weapon, as if it weighed no more than a feather.

They were two, however, and victors in hundred of fights. Slave-keepers were hard, violent, merciless men. They were well-accustomed to co-ordinated attack.

The larger circled to the left and slowly in, while the other moved to the right, circling, but keeping his distance; waiting till his companion had attacked in force, so he could come swiftly from the rear, and strike quickly at an undefended body or head. He drooled as he anticipated the cutting stroke to neck, or head, or perhaps the legs. He liked crippling people. He always enjoyed walking past beggars he had crippled, and laughing at them.

His eyes widened in sudden shock as the blond giant was suddenly hurtling at him, ignoring the other man as he sprang forward. The slave-keeper raised his sword to block, and barely struck aside a whirling stroke of the barbarian. His arm stung, and he backed away, his whole arm prickling with numbness. He brought his weapon up again.

The blond stranger flashed past him, and now he was between his companion and their intended prey. He tried to move to the side, but the barbarian was attacking again.

Tarak's sword flashed forward in a blindingly swift series of strokes, and the man cried out and staggered back. His sword fell from an arm almost severed at the elbow. His eyes widened in astonishment as the other's sword came streaking in again, and he faintly felt his hot blood wash down across his chest as Tarak's sword slashed through his jugular and back out again.

The man collapsed as his companion reached his side, and this man halted abruptly as he looked down at his friend, laying in the dirt, blood still spurting from his neck as he died. He looked up quickly, and backed away, his eyes darting for the courtyard entrance; all thoughts of robbery long gone.

The blond giant was moving again, though, almost too fast to comprehend. He darted forward, his blade flashing, and the slave-keeper backed away quickly, his own sword meeting that of his attacker as he retreated from the barbarian; and from the gate itself. He looked around wildly, but the man in the tattered green tunic blocked the only entrance, and was now advancing slowly, his eyes flaming; his speech a growling rumble which raised hairs on the back of the slave-keeper's neck.

Tarak's sword whirled; struck steel, slashed again. Thrust. He was moving forward quickly, his lips parted to reveal snarling teeth. After a few strokes he knew he faced no master swordsman. The slave-keeper was a butcher. Tarak quickened his attack. The slave-handler moved back, trying to beat aside the dazzlingly fast strokes of the huge barbarian. He knew he was vastly overmatched, and panicked. Screaming, he threw his sword at his enemy in a desperate act and turned and ran for the end of the courtyard.

Tarak batted the sword aside, and dropping his own, hurtled after his prey. In seconds he caught him, leaping onto the man's back, driving him to the earth with a sound of breaking back bones as Tarak's knees drove into his body.

The man screamed, but only for an instant, for Tarak had already encircled the man's neck with his powerful arms, and terminated the screams with one savage wrench.

He rose, then stooped to search the man's clothing. He found a pouch half-filled with coins, and a ring of keys. Tarak grinned. He had decided to rescue the girlish little slave-man almost from the moment he had seen him. He was suspicious of slavery and slavers.. Too long had be been imprisoned himself to enjoy the sight of chains on another. He was confident the little man would find some use for the coins of his former keeper.

He crossed to the other corpse, and found another small pouch of coins. Rising, he secreted the two pouches and the keys within his own tunic, and quickly left the courtyard to the silence of the dead.

As he passed through the alleys he glanced around, but none had seen or heard what had happened in the deserted courtyard, and he reached the streets of Elur soon thereafter without encountering anyone.

He turned away from the slaver's wagon. He could do nothing in the daylight. The slaver would wonder at the absence of his keepers, but such men were easily hired in a city such as Elur. Aimlessly he wandered down the broad street, bumping into others who moved in droves through the markets and pathways of this teeming city.

Tarak was courteous, giving a measure of way in the teeming crowd, but more than once he bumped into large men who possessed no such courtesy. Each time the other man had found himself knocked back as the tawny-haired giant refused to yield more than his share. Twice such men had scowled, hands streaking to the hilts of their swords; but each time they had looked into the strange, eager eyes of the green-tunicked barbarian, and each time they had lowered their own, and moved away, grumbling.

The women he gave way to, smiling openly at them as they passed. They, in turn, looked up into his eyes with flirting glances and giggles as they passed by, stopping to look at him as he passed down the street, his broad back stirring them as they watched his retreating figure with parted lips.

Tarak grinned at the sight of so many beautiful girls, and his lust rose as he brushed past their slender, soft forms. He had come to this city with a purpose, not knowing if he would achieve his aims, and doubting it. Thus far he was vastly enjoying himself, and his grim, improbable quest dimmed in his mind as he drank in he sights, sounds, and smells of Elur, City of Light, and its most beautiful inhabitants.

Suddenly he heard a terrible roar; that of a carnivore enraged, and his interest soared, for he recognized the savage cry of a tarab, the most savage of all Aantorian beasts. He quickened his pace, and soon came to a large enclosure.

He noted that this enclosure was situated at one edge of the city itself. He could see the plains and forests beyond the walls of the palisade. A sign proclaimed that the compound was owned and operated by Ran Vargus, Slaver and Animal Broker; Entertainment.

A man stood at the entrance, accepting coins from those who wished to gain entrance, and

Tarak stood briefly in the line, watching how many coins were paid by those in front of him, and giving the man a like amount.

He entered the enclosure, which was huge, hundreds of feet in diameter. A tent was situated at the far end, next to several large, heavily built wagons. He assumed these contained the living quarters of the master of this place.

Various cages dotted the spacious grounds within the enclosure, each containing some Aantorian beast, though several held human slaves.

In the center stood a fence. Inside the fence spears had been driven into the ground at the edge of the pit, a foot apart, the spears angled inward towards the pit which was enclosed by the fence. It was from this pit that the tarab's roars emanated, and Tarak walked directly towards the fence.

He reached the fence, and looked down into the pit, seeing once again that most magnificent carnivore of Aantor, the tarab.

It was a young specimen, perhaps fifteen feet in length. It's sinuous, feline movements were a marvel to behold. The creature was moving about its prison, its pure white fur sleek and beautiful as it turned, paced and whirled on six powerful, massively clawed legs. It snarled as it moved, huge fangs bared as it roared its rage.

Tarak frowned. The cause of the savage creature's rage was evident, as it was being prodded by a long lance by a hulking man who stood at the rim of the pit, inside the fence, but outside the wall of spears. He was poking at the young tarab with the lance, prodding it into involuntary movement for the pleasure of the gaping crowd. The tip of the lance was razor sharp, and bloody, needlessly so, since any pointed lance would have bothered the magnificent tarab enough to goad the beast.

The beast's tormentor was a huge, bare-chested brute, several inches taller than Tarak, and huge muscles knotted along his torso and arms as he stabbed down at the tarab. The man was grinning with pleasure as he tortured the beast. He wore a dirty loincloth and sandals, and growled savagely as he worked.

Tarak looked around, but none seemed inclined to interfere with this cruelty. The man apparently worked for whoever owned this encampment. The crowd seemed to love the torment of the beast, and laughed and cheered as the sharp lance pricked the beast, causing it to roar with rage. Excitement shone in hundred of faces as they looked down on the unfortunate tarab.

Tarak's eyes began to flare. He remembered his first encounter with a tarab, when he had watched an adult tarab battle with a giant black dyrrn high in the mountain reaches. He had come upon the battle by accident, and had watched, enraptured, as the tarab, which had already killed one of the great black predatory birds, tried to reach the dyrrn's nest, while the other dyrrn, itself a predator almost without peer, hovered above, its own powerful talons and razor beak ready to strike at any opportunity.

What a magnificent battle between two incomparable creatures he had witnessed that day so long ago! In the end both creatures had died as a result of the battle, and Tarak had left them to freeze in the cold mountain air. He had rescued one of the eggs in the dyrrn's nest, intending to eat it at a later time.

He smiled at the memory. The egg had hatched before he had a chance to consume it, and the resulting hatchling had captured his heart, and given him a savage type of companionship in the far reaches of the Western Mountains. The black dyrrn had even permitted him to ride it, and he had done so, finally riding the monster out of the mountains and into the lands of men, more than a year ago.

A few months ago the savage creature, grown to its full size, had saved Tarak's life in the arena of Kalnor. He stared, his eyes unfocused, as he thought of the great black dyrrn, and wondered where it had gone since he had released it many miles distant from Kalnor.

He turned back to the pit, watching with growing frustration the cruelty inflicted upon this creature. He appeared to be the only watcher who cared what happened to the beautiful creature.

"Stop it!" he heard. A clear, feminine voice.

He turned, and saw a slender girl standing just outside the fence, looking at the hulking brute.

She was dressed in silks, and beautiful arms terminated in tiny fists, one on each hip, as she spoke in tones of outrage to the giant who was torturing the beast.

The crowd quieted, many of them frowning, and the brutish man stopped his prodding, and looked over at the girl.

"Go away, little girl!" he snarled. "This is no place for weak-hearted females." He grinned, and prepared to strike the tarab again.

As his arm began to move, a small rock struck him in the side of the head, and he reared back, cursing. The crowd laughed, and looked at the girl, who had picked up a rock, and had thrown it with unerring accuracy across the pit.

She stood defiantly, her golden hair spilling down across her shoulders, her small fists now holding two more small rocks. Her eyes flashed with anger; brilliant, blue-green eyes, like the shallows of beautiful Kal. Her beauty was breathtaking.

"Leave the creature alone!" she commanded. "Have you no compassion?" Her voice was clear and sweet, but carried an undertone of iron.

The huge beast-keeper snarled, his eyes riveted upon the girl. He handed his lance to another man, apparently his assistant, and passed through a gate in the fence. Shutting it behind him, he moved purposefully around the enclosure toward the girl, who stood, trembling slightly, as the giant approached.

The crowd parted for the man as the grass parts for the rushing wind, and a path opened. The man grinned savagely, his hand holding his head, as he stalked towards the girl.

"No slip of a girl throws stones at Karchach!" he snarled. "You need a lesson, wench." He turned to the crowd, and raised his voice. "Remember how Karchach, the Giant of Elur, punishes those who seek to harm him!"

His eyes challenged the crowd, but none voiced any displeasure at his words. Karchach was one of two main attractions of this, one of the most popular pavilions in Elur, the other being the young tarab. He was advertised as the strongest man on Aantor, and Ran Vargus, the owner of the encampment, offered odds of ten to one to any who would challenge his champion in unarmed battle. None had challenged for a very long time. Too many were the cripples who begged in the streets of Elur; beggars who had been strong, virile men when the had sought to test their skills, and their money, against the merciless giant. Karchach was known by various names; The Crippling Man, the Beggar-maker; the Bonebreaker. His cruelty and savagery were legendary.

As the giant approached, growling for savage effect, the girl's trembling increased, and her breathing quickened as she started to back slowly away from this terrible, massive, frothing giant.

One man, on the fringe of the crowd, turned and ran for the large tent.

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly backed into something. Her eyes widened, and she felt herself swept off her feet, and gently set down; now somehow suddenly behind a man dressed in a faded green tunic. She looked up, but his face was hidden as he placed himself between her and the advancing Karchach.

Karchach faltered momentarily. Where an instant before he had faced a retreating, slender young girl, he now looked into the green eyes of a tawny-haired warrior, and this man was not retreating.

The strange man was waiting, and though weapons hung from his harness, his hands were free of weapons. His breathing was even; his lips parted in which would have been a snarl if he had been a beast; his eyes flaming with a strange light as they flashed in the sun. Not nearly the size of Karchach, yet the man was large, and he reminded the giant somehow of the tarab as he stood silently, protecting the impudent girl.

Karchach halted, and the crowd grew suddenly silent. The giant looked down at the man in the worn green tunic, and he snarled. "Stand aside, fool! Stand aside or die!" He shook his bullet- shaped, bald skull, sweat flying, and started forward.

Tarak was silent, crouching lower, his massive quadriceps coiled; his muscles stretching and gliding beneath his bronze skin. His eyes were flaming now, alive with joyous rapture. His lips parted further, exposing his teeth, bared as the tarab bares its huge fangs. Growls rumbled from deep within his throat; not the affectations such as Karchach had voiced to entertain the crowd, but savage sounds of battle lust, nurtured in thousands of battles with snarling, screaming carnivores. He began to move forward, his arms and shoulders tensing.

The giant stopped abruptly, startled and shocked. He could hear the savage sounds rumbling from the barbarian's lips. The tarab could hear them as well, and it's own savage screams rippled forth from the pit. He backed up a half-step, somehow frightened, but the crowd was watching.

He stopped, and prepared to charge.

"Hold!" a sharp voice ordered, and a second later a large, richly dressed man pushed through the crowd.

Both Tarak and Karchach looked at the man.

Tarak dismissed him as unimportant, and prepared to attack, but he could see the giant had

relaxed, and was looking at this newcomer.

"What's going on here, Karchach?" the man inquired. His voice was commanding, establishing beyond anyone's doubt that he was the owner of this establishment. He ignored Tarak as he waited for a response.

Karchach gestured to the girl, who was looking out from behind the tawny warrior. "That girl struck me with a rock! I was just going to teach her a small lesson. Ask anyone, Ran Vargus."

Karchach looked to the crowd for confirmation, and several heads nodded.

Ran Vargus turned. He was a large, powerful man. His dark hair was trimmed short. His face was cruel, strong, and fearless. He looked at the girl briefly, but his attention was caught by the man who defended her.

The merchant slaver examined the strange man with the long tawny hair. Garbed as a Nerosian Rok who had worn his tunic through a dozen different wars, the barbaric stranger stood in a half-crouch, seemingly relaxed, but generating a sensation of explosive violence. Clear green eyes stared back into those of Ran Vargus; challenging eyes, simmering with suppressed aggression. Ran Vargus had never experienced anything like the eyes of this man, and he stepped involuntarily back.

"Who are you, warrior?" Ran Vargus asked, his tone somehow less commanding.

"I am Tarak."

The proprietor stood silently, examining Tarak. He noted the worn, faded tunic; and the stripes of rank. The barbarian seem to have calmed somewhat. He chuckled. "Tarak, Rok of Neros?"

"I am Tarak of the Mountains."

The slaver waited for more, but none was forthcoming. He glanced at the girl, who was watching, wide-eyed. "What is she to you?"

Tarak looked down at the girl, and she looked up into his face at the same instant. Their eyes met briefly, then locked. Hers were the most beautiful blue-green, sparkling in the sunlight as they looked wonderingly up into his own. For long seconds Tarak was lost within those beautiful eyes, oblivious to his surroundings, as he drank in the perfect beauty of her face and eyes.

The girl felt faint as she looked up into the wide, clear, emerald eyes which searched her own.

She had never seen such eyes as this man possessed. They seemed to bore into her very soul, and she could not look away.

For a long moment the two looked at each other. Then Tarak blinked, and turned back to the slaver. "She is my friend."

The slaver's eyebrows rose. "So? Then what is her name?"

Tarak's eyes began to flare; but the girl grabbed his arm, and looked up at Ran Vargus. "My name is Tavane". She raised her eyes to those of the slaver as she spoke, then turned to look at the tawny giant who had defended her. "Come, Tarak. This place bores me." She grabbed his hand, and tugged at him.

Tarak looked down at her, and smiled. Tavane. What a beautiful name. He was glad he had heard the scream of the tarab this day. He looked up at the slaver. He could feel the slight pull of the girl's efforts, but ignored them. He nodded briefly at Karchach. "She struck this fool because he was torturing the tarab."

Karchach started forward, but the slaver stopped him with a gesture.

Ran Vargus sneered. "The tarab is mine, to do what as I wish."

Tarak looked into the slaver's eyes. "The tarab perhaps, but not the girl."

Both men stood silently. The crowd waited, itself unusually silent.

The slaver looked Tarak over carefully, and finally nodded. "As you wish." He smiled slightly. "What about you? You look like a strong man. Are you willing to fight for yourself as you would for this girl?"

Tarak frowned slightly. "Fight with what?"

"Karchach." the slaver responded. "Show me your money, and I'll give you ten to one in a fair fight with this man who mistreated the poor tarab."

"Come, Tarak!" the girl pleaded, pulling with all her strength against the immovable power of the tawny barbarian.

Tarak looked at the giant, who was himself smiling now, breathing heavily, his own brutal confidence restored by that of his employer.

Tavane was almost crying now. "Please, Tarak. Please!"

He turned back to Ran Vargus; then glanced down at the tearful girl; then back to the slaver,

and grinned. "No. I have no wish to fight for money."

The slaver smirked.. Karchach bellowed, and laughter was heard in the crowd.

"Just put up a few coins!" Ran Vargus offered. "Your sword. Or your knife. Anything. If you win, I'll pay you a hundred gold pieces!"

The crowd cheered. This was a princely sum, indeed. They looked at the tawny barbarian, their eyes glistening with the thought of impending violence; perhaps crippling; perhaps death.

Tarak shook his head. "No. I do not fight for money." His own battle lust had subsided; and his attention had been seriously diverted by the depth of those blue-green eyes. He looked at the expectant, sweating faces of the crowd. The same faces which had laughed as Karchach had tortured the tarab. He was disgusted.

He turned, following Tavane as she dragged him away. The crown was jeering now, and

Karchach started to follow, growling for the crowd; but the slaver stopped him, and they both joined the crowd in jeering the retreating figure as Tarak and Tavane walked slowly to the gate and disappeared into the streets of Elur.

Tavane sighed with relief as they rounded a corner, and she looked back, noting that they had not been followed. She looked up at Tarak, and smiled. "Do not mind the jeers. You did a brave thing back there. You would have been a fool to fight."

He smiled down at her. "Yes. I would certainly have been a fool to fight, when I could be walking the streets of the City of Light with a beautiful girl named Tavane!"

She looked up, surprised at his apparent lack of concern at the jeers which had followed them, though in reality he had nothing to be ashamed of. She had heard of Kachrach. Everyone in Elur knew of the Crippling Man. Tarak has been amazingly brave to stand up to the giant for even a moment. Her own ears still burned from the taunting of the crowd, but Tarak seemed to have forgotten the episode entirely. He looked down at her, his strange eyes warm, his white teeth smiling at her, and she felt a warmth suffuse her body.

She led him to a tavern a few blocks from the pavilion, her small hand grasping one of his.

Twice she glanced back, but none followed.

He followed obediently, smiling at her when she turned to look back. He could smell her sweet perfume, and her own scent, lurking beneath the other. His nostrils flared as he smelled this beautiful girl; his eyes glistened as he watched her back as she walked; her swaying hips, smooth slender legs showing under the hem of her dress; her hair, blonde and shimmering in the sunlight; drifting in the breeze and with the motion of her small steps.

They entered the tavern, and she led him to a table near the middle of the room, but he shook his head, and walked to one near the wall. His natural instincts and former experiences prompted him to sit with his back protected, if possible, particularly when in the lands of men.

They ordered food and drink, and sat, looking into each others eyes for a long moment as the serving girl left with the order. After a moment, Tarak could see a pink flush creep across her face, and she lowered her eyes briefly. Then she raised them again, defiant, beautiful eyes, and she was smiling.

"Thank you," she said.

He shrugged slightly. "It was nothing."

Her eyebrows rose. "No. It was very brave." She looked briefly away, then returned her gaze to him. She took in his tousled, wind-blown hair; his faded, torn tunic; his scarred, bronzed skin.

"Are you truly from Neros?" she said, finally.

Tarak shook his head. "No, though I've visited that city."

"Where did you get the tunic of a Nerosian Rok?" she inquired. "Did you steal it?"

He laughed."No .A good friend gave it to me."

"Where are you from, then?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"As I said, I am from the Mountains. I know not the place of my birth, nor the names of my

parents."

Tavane winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

Tarak grinned. "Yes you did."

Her eyes narrowed for an instant, then she laughed. "Yes, I suppose I did." She smiled. "I can't help it. You are so different from other men somehow. You wear the tunic of a Rok of a city far to the North, a city-state which has long been closed to outsiders. A city of dark-haired, dark- complected people. Your tunic is worn and faded enough to be a slave's garment, yet it is not stained, nor does it smell. You wear no sandals. Your hair is long like that of a peasant, or a barbarian. Your eyes...your eyes are so savage, yet so tender..."she shook her head. "I've just never met anyone like you."

He laughed. "Nor I anyone like you, Tavane. Tell this strange, tattered barbarian something of yourself." His eyes danced with amusement as they caught her own, and she smiled in spite of herself.

"I am a slave," she said. "A powerful man owns me. I escaped his house only last night, and I am seeking to escape Elur and travel to another land, in search of my brother!" Her chin went up proudly. "My brother is a powerful warrior, and he would protect me, but he was captured; tricked and chained before he could defend himself." Her eyes filled with tears. "Another slave told me he had been sent across the Sea of Kal, sold to a race known as the Shelaga."

Tarak frowned, his eyes lost in thought. "I have never heard of the Shelaga, but I have little knowledge of such things. How do you know this story is true?"

She shook her head, her hair blonde hair caressing her slender shoulders. "I don't. I've told others, but no one will listen. Few even believe in the existence of the Shelaga." She looked up. "I believed the slave, however. I could see the truth in his eyes. He had no reason to lie to me."

Her eyes grew fierce. "I will find him, even if I have to go by myself."

Tarak watched her carefully. He could sense the strength of resolve in her manner, and in her words. Her brother, whoever he was, should be grateful to have such a sister.

"I will help you to escape Elur, when I am ready to leave," he said, "but I have just arrived, and I don't know how long I will be in this city."

Her eyes grew wide. "Oh, take me with you when you go!"

He smiled. "First, I have at least one task to accomplish". He told her about the little slave, and of his plans to save the Chomirian.

She smiled. "Oh yes, I've seen her!" She frowned. "I don't believe she's a man. She's too cute!" Tavane's slender eyebrows furrowed. "She looks so sad, chained like that." She looked up at Tarak. "I'll help you free her!"

He smiled. "No, you won't. I will do it alone, tonight." He looked at her. "If you want to help, you can show me where to obtain a room tonight. A place which is discrete, easily found, and with good food and drink."

She nodded. "I'll get a room at the "Roaring Tarab", an inn not far from here. Ask at any Tavern, if you get lost. It's not far from the Pavilion of Ran Vargus." She wrinkled her nose as she spoke the slaver's name.

Tarak was watching her, his senses drinking in her essence. "Who is your master?" he inquired.

"Oh," she said, "He is a powerful man in this City! She looked around the tavern. I don't want even to speak his name. Just take me with you when you leave!" Her eyes were pleading.

The tawny barbarian smiled. "I will take you from Elur, Tavane, when I leave; but afterwards, I cannot say I will help you."

She looked at him, her eyes appraising, in silence. After a moment she smiled. "Fair enough.

Take me from Elur, and I will hold you to no more."

They finished their meal, and left the Tavern. Tarak permitted the girl to lead them through the city. For hours they walked, Tavane pointing out various sights and places. The streets were still crowded, and they walked almost touching each other.

Tarak often felt her body as it brushed against his, and the scent of her perfume tantalized him as he tried to concentrate on what was being said, rather than the girl who was saying it. She was so animated, and so full of life! He wondered how she had fallen into the clutches of slavery. He didn't care. He would free her, as he would free the Chomirian.

The girl talked as they walked, but she too felt the hard body of the barbarian as they touched, perhaps more frequently than was necessary, while they strolled the streets and markets of Elur.

She had never met anyone like this man. Something about him was so different. She shook her pretty head, tossing her glossy hair. She would break those barriers he seemed to have set around his past.

Dusk was falling upon Elur when Tarak stopped. He turned to Tavane. "I must go now. Will you be safe until you reach the inn?"

Her perfect smile flashed a response. "Yes, barbarian, I shall be safe enough. You take care, though. Rogas the slaver hires brutal men to tame his slaves."

Tarak nodded, a half-smile on his face. "I shall endeavor to keep away from such formidable men as the slaver must employ."

She frowned. This man was full of mystery. She felt a sudden urge to kiss him, but she put the thought aside, and said goodbye, touching his hand with her own.

He grinned down at her. "Tonight, then, Tavane." A moment later the streets and crowds had swallowed him, and Tavane turned and made her way towards the "Roaring Tarab".

Rogas the slaver sat back upon his chair, and placed his boots on the wooden desk. His one hand grasped a roasted leg of fowl; his other held a mug of ale. He was smiling as he chewed the tasty flesh.

He looked across the room at the cages. The nearest two held remarkably dissimilar creatures. The cage to the right was large. Inside was a hulking creature, hairy and muscular.

Rogas threw a piece of meat into the cage, and the wrok snarled and grabbed it instantly, devouring the flesh with one bite.

The slaver grinned. He advertised the creature as half-man, half-wrok, but it was just a wrok with a nearly hairless face. It had all the large simian features and characteristics of its species. It was nearly seven feet in height, with long hairy arms. The creature did walk and stand erect, as did man.

"More!" the wrok growled. "More food!"

Rogas laughed. "You'll get your garbage in the morning." It still amazed him that the wrok were intelligent. They were so bestial in appearance. Though well below man in their mental abilities, they could use language. He doubted that his wrok was any more intelligent than others of its species, but he touted this ability when he advertised the beast as half-human. People were such fools.

He looked over at the other cage, a much smaller prison. Jenyla, the Chomirian, sat on its floor, his eyes closed as he leaned back against the slender bars of the cage. Rogas threw another piece of meat at the Chomirian. "Here, little girl! Enjoy yourself."

The small captive ignored the food as it landed on the floor of the cage. He looked up at Rogas briefly, through half-opened eyes, then closed them again.

"Wake up!" Rogas roared, bringing the mug of ale toward his face. "I'm bored. Entertain me, slave!"

Jenyla ignored the slaver.

Rogas took a huge drink of ale, then set the mug down heavily. He frowned at the Chomirian. I have hired two new men. Tomorrow night we will have a party!" He started laughing. "Perhaps I won't wait till tomorrow!"

The little man in the cell shrugged slightly. Rogas was fond of rape. Jenyla had seen the slaver rape several slaves, male as well as female. The Chomirian's own girlish size and appearance appealed to the brute, and Jenyla had long since become accustomed to the combined brutality of Rogas and his slave handlers. He smiled faintly. He didn't think Rogas would try anything alone.

He had done so, once, and Jenyla had almost struck a killing blow with his small fingers, narrowly missing the jugular of the slaver.

Rogas had been armed with a club, and had slammed his weapon into the small man, knocking him senseless, but he had never again tried to molest Jenyla without help. The speed and savagery of the small girlish captive had been disconcerting to the slaver.

Rogas frowned, realizing his threat was empty, and frustrated in his efforts to arouse the Chomirian. He rose, and grabbed a slaver's prod. Wiping his mouth, he walked over to the cage, and stuck the prod through the bars. Its tip jabbed into the smooth, slender leg of the captive, scraping it roughly.

Jenyla looked up, his small eyes flaring, but he could do nothing. He pulled his leg back beneath his dress, and watched the slaver.

Rogas was drunk; and laughing loudly now. He poked the little man again, harder this time.

Jenyla moved, avoiding a direct thrust, and leaped to his feet.

Rogas brought his arm back, and lunged viciously, missing his target with a thrust which would have seriously injured him. The cruelty seemed to feed his drunkenness and lust, and he snarled. Again he brought his arm back, as far as he could, ready to spear the girlish figure who waited, watching intently, within the cage.

The slaver cried out suddenly, as his arm was wrenched back. Powerful fingers clamped upon his wrist, crushing it, and he dropped the prod from nerveless fingers.

A hand clamped over his mouth, stifling the cry for help he was about to utter. His eyes widened, as he was lifted back and turned. He looked up into merciless green eyes, those of the tawny-haired barbarian who had bothered him with questions earlier in the day. Rogas thought suddenly of the two missing men, and he broke into a sweat.

The giant's other hand slid around Rogas' throat, and steel fingers began to tighten, as Tarak prepared to kill this man. He had heard the drunken speech of the slaver as he neared the wagon, and had found the door unlocked. Slipping in, he had seen the slaver jab a the little Chomirian, then rear back for another strike. The slaver's cruelty had enraged him.

"Don't kill him." It was the little man. His voice was that of a young girl, but the tone was firm, commanding.

Tarak looked into the cell, his eyes inquiring.

"He hides the keys. Find them first. Then bind and gag him, and release me."

Tarak smiled in spite of himself at the sound of these orders issued from what appeared to be a little girl in a frilly dress. He had not been mistaken when he had seen the independence in those pale blue eyes.

He turned back to Rogas. "I am going to put you on the floor, and then I will tie and gag you, after you have told me where I can find the keys." He tightened his grip on the slaver's throat.

"You have lived these past several seconds because of the Chomirian, and only because of him. If you cry out, or resist, I will kill you instantly, and free him in another way." His eyes blazed into those of Rogas. He dragged the slaver to the floor, and began to bind him with a pair of shackles hanging nearby. After obtaining information as to the keys, he gagged the man, and retrieved the keys from their hiding place.

A moment later, the little Chomirian stepped from his cage, and grinned up at the barbarian.

His eyes were bright and fierce. He nodded his small head slightly. "What is your name, warrior?"

Tarak returned the gesture. "I am Tarak."

The Chomirian's eyes glistened. "Thank you, Tarak. I have waited long to be free."

Tarak nodded, remembering his own long captivity. "And you, warrior; what is your name?"

The Chomirian frowned slightly, and glanced at Rogas. "Call me Jenyla for now. I must continue to be a girl while in this city, or else risk enslavement again. Rogas is not the only slaver who would like to own one of my race." He looked up, grinning. "I will be your daughter, if you don't mind, until I can escape this city."

Tarak nodded, chuckling. "I've always wanted a warrior daughter. And such a pretty one."

Jenyla laughed. "You should see my own beloved!" His eyes glistened. "She waits for me in far Chomir, or so I hope. She is truly beautiful!."

He began to search the wagon. "Spread the slaver's legs, and tie them."

Tarak did so, as Jenyla moved into another room. In a moment he reappeared, a smile upon his face. He was holding a slender wooden rod, with odd markings. It was perhaps as long as Jenyla was tall. It was otherwise unremarkable.

His eyes sparkled. "My katana!" He touched the rod several inches from the tip, twisted, and snapped his hand. The long wooden sheath slid away from a gleaming, slender blade, so thin that it bobbed up and down at the tip as Jenyla moved his hand.

Tarak looked over at Rogas, whose wide eyes were proof that the slaver had never realized the rod contained such a weapon.

Jenyla swirled his hand, the blade flashed through the air, its tip a blur. The weapon was as long as a standard Aantorian sword, but much thinner. A perfect weapon for a small warrior.

The Chomirian smiled at the barbarian. "It is good to wield the katana again. Move aside, Tarak, and I will show you how a Chomirian uses his katana."

Tarak stepped back, as Jenyla approached the struggling slaver, who sat shackled with his back to the wall, his legs spread out an tied in front of him.

Jenyla was smiling. The tip of the katana slid down, hovering above the slaver's abdomen. He moved his small wrist quickly, three blurs of movement, and the tunic of the slaver parted, revealing the man's genitals.

Rogas was trying to scream, but only muffled sounds escaped the gag.

Jenyla looked down into the eyes of the slaver, his own eyes bright with vengeance. "You deserve death, slaver, but I still live, and so will you." His voice became harder. "No longer will you rape your slaves, however. Remember Jenyla each time you squat to relieve yourself for the rest of your life!" His arm and wrist flashed, and Rogas screamed, and almost fainted.

The Chomirian threw a bit of cloth over the severed manhood of the slaver, and gathering the bloody mass up, he threw the bundle to the wrok, which snapped it up, and swallowed the flesh eagerly..

Jenyla then stuffed another rag into the slaver's bleeding wound, and turned to look up at Tarak. "I'm almost ready. Let's go outside." He picked up a writing stick and left the wagon.

Tarak followed, amazed at the little Chomirian, who was writing on the sign which advertised the wares of the wagon. After a moment he came around to look.

Jenyla was smiling as he finished altering the sign, which now read:

ROGAS THE SLAVE

SEE THE BIZARRE

THE FAT GIRL-MAN FROM ELUR

THE HALF-WROK, HALF-MAN FROM CAR

MORE INSIDE! FREE ADMISSION! COME IN!

Tarak laughed, his head rearing back in surprise and amazement. The Chomirian certainly had a fine sense of humor! He grinned down at Jenyla, and shook his head, still laughing. When the morning crowds entered the wagon, they would find a very different Rogas. The slaver would suffer the sting of their laughter from now on, and probably for the rest of his life. He would endure taunts similar to those he had enjoyed watching when directed at Jenyla.

Aantorians had little use for weak or effeminate men, except as slaves. This episode would likely follow him even if he left Elur. Such are rumors and stories. Tarak thought it was a fine joke, and his admiration for the little Chomirian increased.

The Chomirian looked sweetly up, grinning. "I'm ready to go now, father." The katana was sheathed with its wooden housing again.

Tarak nodded, still chuckling. "Yes, I'd better get you somewhere where you'll be safe. Besides, you haven't met your mother yet. Pretty as you are, she is something else again!"

Jenyla smiled. "I look forward to it." and he started walking at the side of the barbarian, and continued down the street, to everyone who passed them just a little girl carrying her walking stick, at the side of her young, barbaric father.

They arrived at the Roaring Tarab without incident or difficulty, and Tarak found them a table, where they ordered food and drink. The Chomirian eyed the wine with some longing, but grudgingly ordered sweet milk to go with his meal.

Tarak watched as the women smiled and winked at the little Chomirian, and grinned as his companion smiled back, his blue eyes flashing, for he could see lust in those little eyes as they devoured the women in the Tavern.

Tarak questioned the little man about where his race existed, but Jenyla was evasive. "The Chomir exist across the vast Sea of Ka, far to the Southeast". His gaze was direct. "We do not discuss our affairs, however, with other races, unless it becomes necessary." He smiled. "If we travel to Chomir, you will learn what I can tell you. If not, then no reason exists for you to learn. I hope you understand."

Tarak nodded. He was reticent to discuss his own past. "I understand, of course. Such policies are sound ones, in my view." He leaned back. "I do not wish to travel across Kal, but I will get you out of Elur, and perhaps on your way, if I can."

Jenyla shook his head. "Out of Elur will be enough. More than enough. You have already given me my freedom; perhaps my life." His eyes were calm and direct. "I will travel to Chomir, but first I would repay you, in part, if I can. Your efforts will never be forgotten by Jenyla!"

Tarak shrugged. "It was nothing." He continued to press the Chomirian for some information, and Jenyla responded. Tarak was interested in his race, and they discussed various topics, including the Chomirian himself.

Tarak was examining Jenyla. "Your small stature is unusual, but your soft girlishness seems equally unusual, at least for one who appears to belong to a warrior race. Your arms and legs are soft and slender, like a girl's. Are all the males of your race so much like females?"

"Oh no," Jenyla said. "Male Chomirians, while slender, are quite muscular. I am fed drugs to suppress and inhibit my masculine traits." He looked down at his soft, slender arms. "The drugs work amazingly well. Fortunately, now that I won't have to take them, my own male attributes should begin to reappear. Rogas takes me once each month to the home of a physician for treatment with these drugs. His house is a huge walled enclosure itself. The physician is a strange man, but brilliant. Gonor is his name."

Tarak froze. His entire body went suddenly still. He stopped breathing; felt the involuntary tensing of his muscles; the stretching of his skin. The hairs on his neck prickled. His eyes became unfocused, and he trembled slightly.

He put a hand up and stopped the little Chomirian. His eyes were bright and fierce. "Gonor?"

Jenyla nodded. "Yes. That is his name. A tall, dark, slender man, much older, with bright eyes."

Tarak could feel his heart racing. Gonor! It had to be him. Only one man could fit that name, profession, and description. He looked down. "This man, is he now here in Elur?"

"I presume so," the Chomirian said. "In fact, I was to have been given a treatment tomorrow night. An early date, because apparently Gonor is leaving for some valley where he resides much of the time."

Tarak's eyes flashed with vengeful pleasure. Adrenalin flushed through his system for a few seconds. His nostrils flared. His lifelong enemy was perhaps within his reach. The man who had orchestrated the savage violence of Tarak's entire maturation. Who had calculated, planned, and created endless scenarios; each one threatening the very existence of the growing boy; each one requiring the almost limitless reservoir of self-preservation to extend the abilities of Tarak further; each one calculated to perfect his savage killing skills during unique formative years which would never exist again.

Gonor had subjected hundreds of children to the same brutal life over many years. All had eventually perished; each finally faced with a situation he could not survive. Never could any be saved, no matter how close the contest; no matter how great the effort; for then the knowledge of this possibility of rescue would inhibit the awesome power of self-preservation from pushing physical and mental powers to otherwise unreachable heights.

All but one. One fair-haired young child, stolen from his murdered mother. Attacked by a small carnivore on his first night of captivity. Killing it in frightened panic; then comforted by Amena, a slave girl, whose emotional and medicinal ministrations had been so necessary to the maturation of any growing child. Subjected to beatings and whippings to increase reaction time; attacked by starved animals of increasingly savage powers; subjected to various environments, Tarak's life had sbeen endless years of savage battle, time and time again, for life itself.

Many times sheer good fortune had decided the contest. Fortune and savage survival abilities which had been nurtured and fostered in ways and during ages which ultimately resulted in a young man of unparalleled physical, mental, and instinctual fighting skills. Unknown to Gonor,

Amena had instructed the growing boy, providing him with love and healing skills, but in addition teaching him language, and imparting her own knowledge of Aantor to the ever-curious child.

Tarak had escaped Gonor's mountain fortress less than two years ago, while the physician scientist had been absent from the valley.

Tarak's eyes flared. He had sworn he would kill the physician. He had never seen a man with less regard for human life and suffering. Science and Gonor's own ideas were the only thing which mattered to the man. Animals, including human animals, were just so much testing material in the view of the physician.

He had brutally reduced Amena to slavery. Later, he had reduced her to little more than an animal. He was an evil man, and Tarak's breathing quickened as he imagined getting ahold of the scientist.

And the other! Tarak's hate for the man physician was as nothing when compared with the feelings he had for Gonor's assistant, Brona.

Brona. Brutal and sadistic. Savage in his treatment of all save Gonor himself. It had been Brona who had actually carried out the orders of Gonor. He had carried them out with unrestrained pleasure. Rapings, whippings, cripplings, and other actions were favorites of the large, dark, heavily muscled warrior.

Gonor's bodyguard and assistant, Brona was a marvelous swordsman, and loved to humiliate, torture, and inflict torment as well as he loved to kill.

Brona it has been who had whipped him; beat him; taunted him for so many years.. Brona who had crushed the the bones and the spirit of Amena; who had raped her, broken her into an old woman, and then ordered her killed by the savage wrok. Brona who ordered her lifeless, broken body thrown down into Tarak's enclosure. Brona who had ordered Lukor, the powerful wrok chieftain, to kill the barbarian captive.

Brona who had always worn the chain and locket which Lukor had ripped from the slender throat of Tarak's mother after the wrok had slain her, and taken the tiny Tarak away to Gonor's mountain fortress.

Thousands of times Tarak had watched the locket glittering in the torchlight; the only clue to his heritage.

Tarak had always hoped to find Gonor one day, and to kill him. He knew that he would enjoy killing the physician. It was different with Brona, he knew he would find him and kill him. He didn't hope to find Brona. He would find him. He would hunt him across Aantor itself if necessary. He had come to Elur because of Gonor's former ties to this city, but much more because of Brona's.

He looked down at Jenyla, his eyes intense. "Did you see, or hear, of a man named Brona, during these treatments?

Jenyla nodded. "Brona lives in the same house. He has his own large wing of rooms. I've never seen him there, but I've seen him often in the marketplace while I played for the crowds. He is a famous man in this city."

Tarak's skin tightened as muscles tensed throughout his body. "Famous?"

"He is First Sword of Elur," the Chomirian replied. "He has dominated Elurian swordsmen for the past several years. He is unbeatable, and very egotistical about it. None seek to anger him.. He is also Gonor's assassin. No man in Elur will cross blades with Brona. Many have tested him. Most are dead or beggars now. His brutality and prowess are often discussed in the marketplace, and among the slaves.

"He is in Elur now?" Tarak queried, his voice trembling slightly.

Jenyla looked up, wondering at the strange way in which the names of these men had affected his friend. "I presume so. At least until tomorrow. When Gonor is absent from Elur, Brona is usually gone, too, so they may leave together."

Memories, emotions, fears, desires, names, odors, feelings; these and other images flamed through the mind of the tawny-haired barbarian. Forgotten were any other plans he might have had. His total being was instantly focused upon one savage purpose. He shook his mane of hair, his eyes flashing in the firelight, and he grinned savagely. He looked down at Jenyla.

"Thank you, Jenyla! You have reminded me of something I must do." He frowned for just a moment, then smiled again. "You must appear for one more drug treatment."

The little man frowned, his eyes defiant, but Tarak held up his hand. "Let me explain."

Jenyla nodded, reluctance evident in his eyes.

Tarak ordered more drink. As the serving girl left their table, Tarak began to speak.

A half-hour later they were still talking, when Tavane entered the room.. Tarak waved and motioned her over, and turned to order food and a glass of wine for her.

He introduced Jenyla, his voice low. "Tavane, this is Jenyla. She is your new daughter." He smiled as he spoke.

Tavane's eyes widened with delight, as she looked at the little Chomirian. "You're so pretty! Oh, I always wanted to have a little girl some day!" She grasped Jenyla's slender shoulders in her hands. "I've seen you play for the crowds, and that vile Rogas!" She frowned. "He is a brutish man!"

Jenyla smiled back at her. "Well, perhaps not such a brutish man as before."

Tarak started laughing, and Tavane looked over at him, a puzzled expression on her face.

Then she turned back to Jenyla. "I will be proud to have you as my daughter! We will all escape this city together!"

She looked at Tarak. "Are we leaving tonight, my husband?" Her eyes sparkled with fun. Her teeth shone in the lamplight.

"Not this night." Tarak smiled at her. After a moment, his face grew serious. "Tavane, have you heard of men called Gonor and Brona?"

She nodded. "Of course. They are both famous men in Elur. Gonor is a marvelous physician and scientist.." She looked into Tarak's eyes with her own depthless ones. "You wouldn't believe some of the things he's done."

Tarak looked at her, speechless for an instant. Then he laughed, his own eyes dancing with hers. "Yes I would, sweet Tavane. Believe me, I would." Her innocence was so captivating, as were those damnable eyes, and those perfect lips. Her presence had temporarily washed away his rage, and he grabbed her arms with his strong hands, and looked at her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she said, her eyes wide, smiling herself now. She was enjoying the power she sensed in those hands which held her, though they did not hurt.

"Tomorrow I have something which I am going to do," Tarak said. "Whatever happens afterward is of no consequence, but tomorrow night is for me." His eyes were hard. "Listen, and decide for yourself if you want to help."

He released her arms, and she sat. She smiled at Jenyla, who smiled broadly back, and listened, as Tarak told her about the plan he and Jenyla had discussed. He told her only that they wanted to obtain some drugs for Jenyla. The little warrior had indicated in their conversation that Gonor possessed drugs which would hasten the process of recapturing his maleness, and Tarak indicated this as their sole reason for wanting to enter Gonor's home.

Afterwards, she nodded. "Of course I'll help, but I can't imagine why you would want to enter Gonor's house grounds, just to speed up something which will occur naturally. Brona lives with him." She looked up, her eyes tender. "He is a sadistic brute, and he will kill you if he finds you anywhere in the grounds!"

Tarak smiled grimly. She noted his body tensing.

"If he finds me, he may kill me if he can," he said, finally.

Tavane shrugged her slender shoulders. "I think you're both fools, but of course I'll help."

Tarak looked over at the girl. "Do we have a room? I have an errand to attend to. A private matter."

She looked back sweetly. "Of course. A large room here at the Roaring Tarab..

Tarak nodded, and indicated he would meet them in two hours.

She smiled. "We'll be here." She looked down at Jenyla. "I need to get Jenyla a new dress."

The Chomirian looked down at his dress, which was stained and torn. "Actually, this one feels

fine. It's quite comfortable."

Tavane shook her head. "You look like a beggar girl. If you're going to be my daughter, you're going to wear a nice clean dress."

Tarak looked over, frowning; his brows furrowed, nodding solemnly. "I quite agree, Jenyla. I've noticed you don't pay nearly enough attention to the appearance of your clothes."

The Chomirian looked blankly back at Tarak, noting the frayed, tattered, faded, torn tunic worn by the barbarian. Tarak was trying not to smile, and Jenyla broke into sudden laughter.

Several patrons looked over at the strange behavior of the little girl.

Tavane frowned briefly at the tawny-haired giant.

Jenyla smiled "If I'll wear another dress, do I get a kiss?"

Tavane laughed. "Of course." She liked the little girl. She just couldn't think of the Chomirian as a male..

The Chomirian laughed. "Remember that promise." He looked at Tarak. "Two hours, then."

Tarak nodded, and left them as he melted into the thinning crowd and darkening shadows of Elur's streets.

Tavane and Jenyla exited the tavern walked slowly along the dark, torchlit streets. She stopped at several shops, and had Jenyla try on several dresses before she bought one. Even in the late hours Elurian shops plied their wares.

"What's the difference?" he had protested. "They're all clean."

"This one is the prettiest!" she said. "It's a beautiful dress."

Jenyla shook his head. He noted the pleasure Tavane seemed to be getting from the whole experience, though, and stoically and with good humor put up with her, even allowing her to buy him some sandals, when he would have preferred to go barefoot.

Finally, she was satisfied and the two finally returned to the Roaring Tarab. It's dining room was filled with diners; the bar crowded with others. Tavane took hold of Jenyla's hand and led the Chomirian through the room and to the stairs, while men grinned at the young woman, and women smiled at the cute little girl.

They entered the room, and Jenyla lay down on one bed. He was obviously tired. "Wake me when Tarak returns."

She nodded. She was tired herself. It was dark now; the only light that which flickered from torches in the streets. She looked down at the Chomirian, and smiled. Such a strange little thing.

She could hardly believe Jenyla's claim that she was a little man, but for now she was content to go along with her tale. She was such a pretty girl, and Tarak seemed to believe her.

Tavane walked to the window, looking out into the darkness. She moon was shining brightly.

She could see the palisade of Ran Vargus far down the street. She stiffened. A man was visible near the palisade, walking slowly. A man in a faded tunic with longish, unruly hair. It was Tarak.

Her breath quickened. What was he doing there? The palisade was some distance from any taverns or inns. Few torches burned there. He had been visible only for an instant, in the flickering light of one torch.

She looked down at Jenyla. The Chomirian was sound asleep. Quickly she grabbed her robe, putting it on over her dress, then she left the room, locking it after her. She didn't know why

Tarak was near palisade, but she was suddenly afraid, and she was going after him. The strangeness of a beautiful young girl entering the darkness of Elur's remote corners didn't register in her mind. Her only thoughts were of a tawny-haired barbarian, as she hurried across the dining room and out the door.

Running, she was almost out of breath as she reached the pavilion of the slaver. She looked around, but the single torch barely illuminated the area. She saw the dim outline of the gate which led into the palisade, and, breathing heavily, she hurried to the entrance. The gate had been forced open.

She entered herself, and stood, searching the interior.

A second later she saw him. His form was barely visible, as he crouched inside the gate in the fence enclosing the tarab's pit.

He was working on something, twisting, turning, pushing and pulling.

She thought she could hear sounds rumbling from the pit. The sounds seemed almost to emanate from the man as well as from the tarab, but these sounds scarcely carried to her. She

moved forward, and started to call out.

A hand suddenly closed about her head; slamming against her with stunning force. She whirled.

It was Karchach, his eyes mad with hate and lust.

She tried to scream, but only a brief shriek escaped his fingers. She could hardly hear it herself.

Then his other hand was about her throat, and she couldn't breathe. She struggled, but the giant dragged her back as if she were a girl's doll.

"So you came back, little girl!" he growled. "To see the poor Tarab? Karchach will show you more pleasure than you might have thought!" He laughed gruffly.

It was apparent Karchach hadn't spied Tarak. Tavane tried to cry out; to kick; but the giant ignored her. They were almost to the gate. He was carrying her now, like a child. He had released her throat, but one hand was solidly clamped across her face, and his fingers felt like a vise.

"Karchach!"

The words were uttered quickly and with raw savagery, and the giant whipped his body around, Tavane's own jerked around as Karchach looked up at the man who was rapidly approaching him from the tarab's pit.

Tavane experienced relief and terror in equal doses at the sight of Tarak. The young barbarian was walking quickly, and was only yards distant. His eyes glimmered briefly in the moonlight. His hands were free of weapons. He didn't slow as he approached.

Karchach looked up, and smiled. He knew this man was a coward. He would cripple or kill him. Then take the girl back to his shack. He looked down at Tavane, "If you try to escape, I'll kill him, and then you!" He pushed her back, her head snapping back from the force of her hand, and laughing, turned to frighten the approaching man.

Tarak's diving body hurtled into him as he was half way into his turn.

Karchach reeled back, knocked off his feet from the force of Tarak's body. As he flew back, two clenched fists hammered across his face, shattering his jaw and nose. Blood and teeth spattered at the force of the barbarian's two-handed stroke. Pain shot through the giant's body and head as he hit the ground, dizzy from a blow which would have broken the neck of a wrok.

Always had Karchach fought in contests, or in street fights, in which both participants clearly understood when the fight was to begin. He had never fought in a world in which the first blow is sometimes the only one; where not only winning, but killing, was the only measure of victory. Where no rules existed except one. Win.

His huge arms gripped Tarak's as they fell. Snarling in anguish, he dug his massive fingers into the barbarian's flesh, preparing to rip his assailants arms aside, lever them from sockets, break them over his legs. He exerted his massive strength in his pain-induced madness, but the limbs of his assailant refused to budge. The giant sought another grip with his arms, and suddenly Tarak's moved, swiftly releasing their hold, moving upwards, sliding towards the giant's neck.

Karchach struck down with his fists, but Tarak's head was lowered, protected to Karchach's side, and he ignored the ineffectual blows. Karchach felt a sharp pain in his side.

The giant rolled, and the two men tossed in the dirt. The giant struck, got a hold on Tarak's face, and gouged for his eyes.

Then he screamed. He felt hot blood gush from his fingers as strong teeth buried in the flesh of his fingers and hands.

Tarak snarled, ripping out blood and bone. He hurtled back and around, both hands now grabbing the giant's hand, and he rolled and twisted, feeling Karchach shudder with pain as his fingers were crushed by the weight and forces exerted by the battling men as they rolled..

Karchach jerked back his mangled hand. Instantly Tarak buried his teeth once again into the giant's abdomen, biting inward as the giant's blood flowed from the wound.

Karchach screamed as he realized what his adversary was doing. He grabbed, but the sweaty barbarian was impossible to hold. The giant slipped back, and suddenly Tarak shifted, and his head slid quickly up the giant's chest, his teeth searching for the neck, his arms suddenly grabbing Karchach's, hurtling them wide.

His eyes were flaming in the moonlight; alive with killing lust. Blood dripped from his white teeth. A bubbling snarl escaped his jaws as he drove upward.

The Crippling Man was frantic. He couldn't believe the speed, strength, and savagery of his enemy. He needed to get free for a second, and think. He needed to stand.

The giant heaved up and back, throwing his arms wide, shaking his head madly. He was bent, rising on one leg, trying to stand under their combined weight.

As the giant rose Tarak swung his lower torso, his own foot striking out at the strained tendon and ankle of his enemy's leg. He had often fought creatures much stronger than himself.

He had learned the weakness of such beasts, weaknesses which could be exploited by the intelligence of a man who had not the fangs or claws of a beast. Hundreds of times Tarak had fractured the vulnerable leg of an animal; torn or bitten a tendon; ripped out a throat. Sometimes he had endured intense suffering himself as he accomplished these acts. You killed as you could, or you died.

His fighting was instinctive and savage. He probed for weaknesses with skills honed in thousands of bloody encounters.

He smiled as his foot struck, a blindingly fast stroke, backed by all the power of his massive leg muscles. He heard the bone crack as the ankle bent outward; saw the blood suddenly appear as a darker area under the skin; felt the tendon tearing. Men were so slow.

This man was immensely powerful, but he was slow, and knew so little about fighting for one's life without weapons and without rules. Tarak understood why unarmed men died so quickly in the forest.

Karchach screamed again, and crumpled to the ground. The pain in his ankle made him dizzy. The heel of Tarak's hand slammed into his head, snapping it back. Karchach looked up as his head shot back, and blurred fingers jabbed beneath his chin, crushing his larynx. His glazed eyes bulged. He lay in the dirt, gasping for air, his blood mixing with the dust as he wheezed.

Tavane watched, shock written upon her face, as Tarak bent and lifted the giant. The muscles of his legs and back rippled in the moonlight as he tossed Karchach to his back, and started walking to the tarab's pit.

She followed, not understanding. She could hear the whimpering, rasping sounds of the giant as he sought to breathe, flailing his arms, but unable to think in his pain; or to accomplish any coherent purpose.

They approached the pit, and she could see that Tarak had previously removed one of the spears set inside the fence. The opening was wider. Not wide enough for a tarab, but wide enough for a man. She shuddered, for she knew what Tarak intended.

"No!" she cried, forgetting for a moment the kind of man Karchach was in her horror. She heard growls erupt from the pit. The tarab had caught their scent. "Tarak. You cannot!"

He looked back at her. His eyes caught the moonlight, and she saw only raw savagery reflected in those eyes. He was growling as he carried the man, his own voice not dissimilar from that of the tarab.

Karchach almost broke free, but Tarak's arm cocked back once, and hurtled forward, ramming the shattered jaw up into the skull. Karchach made gurgling sounds, and his struggles weakened.

Tarak carried him through the gate, and wrenched the giant from his shoulder, holding the man in front of him. He grabbed the giant's shattered fingers, and placed one broad foot against the fighter's back.

"Torture the beast now, if you can!" he said, and kicked out.

Karchach, incoherently screaming, tumbled into the pit.

Tavane watched as Tarak stood on the pit's edge, looking down. She heard the tarab, it's growls now savage and terrible. She heard brief muffled screaming. Then only the softer growls of a feeding tarab.

Tarak turned, walking toward her.

She was suddenly frightened. What kind of man was this? She looked up, shivering, as he approached, but his eyes were calm.

He stooped, smiling "Tavane!" He gently grasped her shoulders. "Why are you here?" His voice was so gentle, his hands so firm, that she relaxed. "I saw you, from our window. I was afraid!" she said. Then she looked towards the pit. "I was afraid you would find Karchach!"

Tarak laughed. "I came to find him. And to release the tarab. That magnificent creature will suffer no more in the pit of Ran Vargus."

She looked at the pit. "That was horrible! Why did you do it?"

Tarak looked at her, intently, shaking his head slightly. "Tavane, that man was a killer. He was a torturer. He wanted to cripple or kill me. He would have raped you, then killed you. You know this as well as I do. Don't judge what you don't understand."

She looked at him. He was right. She sighed. It had been so violent. So quick. She shook her head.

Tarak stood, and gestured to the gate. "Go now. I am going to remove another spear. When I do, the tarab will be able to leap out. I will try to get out of its way, and I think it will ignore me and race for freedom. The scent of the forest wafts very strong from the outer edge of the pavilion. A tarab is a killer without peer, though. It may try to kill me. If it does, you must be far away, for I won't have any chance against this beast.

"Don't be a fool!" she protested. "It is only a tarab. Leave it! It will kill you!"

He looked at her, and smiled. "It is only a tarab; and I am only a barbarian; but both of us will be free this night, and at least one of us will be alive."

He was silent then, indomitable in this decision as he had been in his decision to kill Karchach.

She looked at him. He was smiling at her, his white teeth flashing in the pale light.

Tavane felt strange, a feeling she had never experienced. She looked at the pit, but the tarab was momentarily forgotten.

She moved closer, and placed her small hand on his shoulder. She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

He looked down into those eyes, liquid pools of enchantment, and the sounds of the feeding tarab faded from his consciousness. "I may die here tonight, Tavane. You must go!"

She looked up into his eyes, her own filling with tears. He might die. It was true! She watched his face; his eyes. Her eyes played over his body. She could not imagine this man as a lifeless corpse. Vitality radiated from him. She felt strange, as if she had somehow known him all her life.

Suddenly she realized she could not imagine him dead; could not imagine a life without him in it.

"If you live, then I live," she whispered. "If you die, then I die! Where you go, I go!".

She smiled up at him, her white teeth flashing in the pale light. Her eyes shimmered with wetness in the moonlight, and she grabbed his tunic with both small hands, and said fiercely, "You are for me, Tarak of the Mountains!"

She rose to her toes, and he grasped her in a sudden savage embrace, kissing her savagely, his arms enfolding her slender body as he crushed her to his own. He tasted her, smelled her, felt of her, as his senses exploded in an emotional rush of pleasure such as he had never felt before. For a long moment he held her, his breathing growing heavy, his body stirring with unfathomable desires.

Then she was suddenly struggling, beating at his face with her tiny fists. "No! No!" she cried. "Let me go!"

He held her for an instant longer, looking down in bewilderment as she struck ineffectual blows against his head. Then he released her, watching her with raised eyebrows. "What's wrong, Tavane?"

She was crying, but she looked up at him, and suddenly stopped. Her anger had vanished, to some extent. "Nothing!" she snapped. "Nothing. Now release the tarab. I will wait here!"

He stared at her, nonplused, and shook his head. He could see she wasn't going anywhere, and he didn't have all night to accomplish his intrepid task.

Pushing her at least to some extent from his thoughts he turned to work on he second spear.

The tarab waited below, no longer feeding. It was looking up at him now, watching him as he loosened the last bar to its prison. Growling, it waited.

Tarak took his sword out, and stopped his work. "Tavane, take this sword and move around here, inside the fence, but outside the spears. I don't think the tarab will re-enter the fence, oncehe has leaped free."

She nodded silently, and took his sword. She moved past him, sensing his maleness as she walked by the pit.

The tarab watched her, but crouched without moving, and within seconds it returned its attention to the efforts of Tarak, who was continuing to loosen a heavy spear.

Tarak was growling as was the beast, a soothing rumbling such as he had heard in the wilds. He grew tense as he completed his task. The tarab was an incomparable killer. He looked down at the beast, then at Tavane. He smiled.

Then he pulled back savagely, and the heavy spear came free. Instantly he released the long spear and leaped back. The force of his lunge had driven him outside the fence itself, and he moved to the right, then stopped and froze, for the tarab had cleared the pit in one swift bound, and stood free, no more than three feet from his face.

The huge head was on a level with his own, and was watching him with large, glowing eyes. A rumbling sound escaped from the creature. It moved slowly towards the man. In a second its huge fanged jaws brushed the barbarian. He could feel the hot breath as it smelled him. The jaws opened, and a raspy tongue scraped against his arms. He stood immobile, wondering at the magnificence of this creature even while waiting for it to kill him.

The head turned and moved, smearing Tarak with saliva as the beast rubbed the side of its jaws against his body. The force knocked him back a step. Again the tarab marked him.

Then it raised its head, and opened its mouth, baring great, tearing fangs. Its eyes were slits, and it shook its head silently, saliva spraying from the open maw.

It stopped, and regarded Tarak for another few seconds. Turning then, it began go lope away toward the far wall. In a few seconds the creature's great speed had crossed the distance, and it cleared the high wall in a graceful leap, and was gone.

Tarak started breathing again, and stood looking at the far wall, as if expecting to see the beast return. He looked at the pit, and sat Tavane working her way around and out to him.

He still hadn't moved when she reached him.

She looked up. "You were right, Tarak," she said softly, her wide eyes glistening in the moonlight, staring at the palisade, and past, to the dark lands beyond. "Such a marvelous creature deserves freedom!" Without another word, she took his hand, and led him back to the Roaring Tarab, while he walked at her side, silent in his reverence for that savage creature, and the moment he had just experienced.

They went directly to the room. Jenyla awoke as they entered, and Tavane recounted the events of the past half hour with wide eyes, while the Chomirian listened intently, his own eyes widening now and again as he glanced over at the barbarian, who was already asleep on the floor.

Grantis, slave-keeper in the House of Gonor, opened the small portal set within the massive front door of the scientist's vast compound, in response to a pounding sound. His eyes were slits as they peered out. He saw a beautiful girl, and the eyes gleamed, puzzled. Noting movement below, he looked down, and smiled. Looking each way, he closed the door, then stepped back a few paces, through another door, just as massive, with its own viewing portal.. Locking this door, he pulled a lever. The outer door opened.

"Enter the alcove," he ordered.

Tavane and Jenyla followed his instructions. When they were in the small alcove, the outer door closed again, and a lock clicked.

Grantis frowned. "Where is Rogas?"

Tavane smiled at him. "I am his daughter. Rogas is ill, so I brought the Chomirian for his treatment." She looked down. "The little slave injured its leg. Rogas requests that Gonor examine this injury when he administers the drug."

Grantis looked down. The Chomirian was standing on one leg, and leaning on a walking stick.

He laughed. "Rogas have a party with you last night, little girl?"

Jenyla looked up. "Yes," he said with a frown, nodding his head, his eyes enigmatic. "I will never forget it."

The slave-keeper laughed again, his eyes devouring the two feminine figures. He unlocked the door, and escorted them in. "Come with me. This way"

Tavane and Rogas began to walk forward, the man behind them.

"Turn to the left," Grantis ordered.

Jenyla stopped. "This is not the way to Gonor's quarters." His eyes grew wary. "Where is Gonor?"

Grantis smirked. "He is just leaving, little one. From the roof." His eyes gleamed, and he wiped his mouth. "I will give you a treatment, though. Both of you!" He laughed. "Now to the left!"

Jenyla's hands moved. He whirled in a blur of motion, and the blade of the katana sung as it slid free and swished through the air. "The door, Tavane! Get the door!"

The eyes of the slave-keeper widened in shock. He stepped back just in time, drawing his sword, as the blade of the katana sliced through the air, parting the fabric of his tunic.

Tavane slipped into the opening, and ran for the entrance.

Jenyla could hear her fumbling with the doors as he moved forward. His pale blue eyes were fierce as he stalked the giant who now stopped and assumed a fighting stance. Jenyla smiled. Too long had it been since he had tested his skill in savage combat. Rogas was nothing. The katana was not for butchering meat. It was for killing.

Grantis smiled now, his own sword gleaming. He looked down at the small figure with brutal, lustful eyes. "Girls shouldn't play with men's weapons!" he said, laughing. "Put it down, or you'll be a dead little girl!"

He moved forward, his own sword flashing as he struck a whirling blow. He waited for the clash of metal, confident his sword would snap the thin edge of the Chomirian's blade.

His blade slashed only air, however. The Chomirian had darted aside, his movements almost too fast to follow. His arm moved slightly, the small wrists whipping in a two-handed stroke.

Grantis stumbled slightly, the momentum of his sword striking nothing had caused him to overbalance. He moved back quickly, but as his sword came up the blade of the katana whipped across, the last ten inches flashing across his wrist.

The katana passed on, the blade bending as it carved through the slave-keeper's wrist, sliding through nerves and blood vessels; scraping against bones as it flashed by.

Grantis screamed, dropping his sword. For an instant he stood, staring at the blood spurting from his half-severed hand. He noticed a quick motion to his front left, his eyes unfocused as he stared at his wrists His eyes shot down, frightened.

The Chomirian had moved forward and to the right. His hands flashed.

The slave-keeper's scream was cut short as the tip of the katana sliced cleanly through his throat in a whipping blur. He felt a warmth on his chest as he sunk into eternal darkness.

Jenyla's eyes were bright with battle. He dismissed the corpse from his thoughts, and ran to the entrance. "Tavane!"

She stood there, her hand on the door. She was staring at the ramp leading to the upper floors.

"I told him what the slave-keeper said, and he is gone, somewhere up there."

Jenyla touched her sleeve. "Come, Tavane. He may need us!"

She looked down. "Go! I will follow."

Jenyla nodded, and raced for the ramp. Tavane ran after him, but the Chomirian soon outdistanced her as his small form hurtled up the ramp.

Tarak raced up the final ramp to the roof, his hair streaming out behind him as he ran. Reaching the top he quickly glanced both ways The rooftop appeared deserted. Scattered torches cast flickering light in wavering circles.

He heard sounds to the left, and leaped in that direction, toward a far corner of the roof sheltered by a wall which extended across that corner, it's edges perhaps ten feet from the roof edge itself.

His blood pounding, Tarak drew his sword as he hurtled around the nearest end of the wall. The scent of his prey was strong in his nostrils, and his eyes flashed as they searched instantaneously for his enemy.

Nothing.

The roof was empty. He looked out over city, and saw the retreating form of three flying creatures as they soared out and away from the tower. He could see human figures in baskets attached to the dyrrn. Walking to the edge, Tarak stood in the darkness, just outside the reach of the nearest torchlight, and snarled in frustration as he watched the rapidly retreating dyrrn, carrying his own prey beyond his reach. His toes gripped the very edge of the rooftop as he watched in feral frustration.

The massive muscles in his forearms bulged as he clenched his fists in rage. Had the hilt of the sword in his right fist been of softer metal, he would have crushed it in his fury.

He was helpless. He could only stand silently and stare; and to put aside once more his ravenous desire for vengeance. Would that his own giant black dyrrn miraculously appear!

He heard a slight sound from behind, a scraping; then a voice.

"Too late, thief?" Then laughter.

Tarak did not have to turn to know who uttered these contemptuous words. His breath caught in his throat as he heard once again that voice which had taunted him for so many years. Which had laughed at his sufferings; which had caused so much suffering and cruelty to Amena, the slave girl who had been the only mother Tarak had ever known; which had ordered her death; and his own, in the mountain fortress of Gonor.

He turned slowly, his own features still hidden by the darkness, and looked across the roof at Brona, who stood twenty-five feet distant, his brutal features clearly visible in the torchlight.

The Elurian champion stood arrogantly, a sword casually held in his right hand, it's point carelessly hovering near his feet. He was smiling; a killer who has cornered his prey, and who intends to enjoy the suffering as well as the killing.

Brona's senses heightened with the imminence of battle and death. He was a warrior born, and overlooked no opportunity to fight, and to kill. He had heard unusual activity, the sound of running feet, while enjoying a smoke and the involuntary attentions of an unfortunate young girl in his private chambers.

Knowing of Gonor's rooftop departure for the valley fortress, he had decided to investigate to insure his employer was safe. He smiled. This thief, if that's what he was, had arrived too late to rob the scientist. Now he would pay with his life for his impudence and his stupidity.

He could see the man turn to look at him, slowly, as if not startled, and Brona frowned. He had thought to make the man frightened enough to perhaps lose his balance, and fall from the edge to the ground far below. He smiled again. That would have been a waste of good killing.

The man stood there, totally immobile in the darkness outside the torchlight, holding a sword in his hand. Even in the darkness Brona could see the thief was otherwise unarmed. His pulse quickened. He could see the man was large, but size meant nothing to one with Brona's skills, instincts, and with a killing sword in his hand.

"I said, `Too Late, Thief?'" he repeated, raising his voice, to prompt some response from this silent intruder.

Then the man spoke, his words understandable, but spoken in a voice which was somehow husky, as if almost beyond control.

"No. Not too late."

Tarak walked slowly forward into the bright circle of torchlight. Like a tarab he moved, with measured slowness, yet his body trembled with some repressed movement, some barely controlled impulse. Without apparent haste he crossed the distance which separated them within seconds, and stopped, ten feet away.

His eyes caught the flaring torchlight as he stood, burning like twin emerald fires with a hate such as Brona had never imagined as they stared ravenously across the small distance which separated the two men. "Not too late, Brona," Tarak repeated, his voice trembling. " Not too late after all."

Brona stood transfixed as he stared, wide-eyed, at the man who stood, free and armed, facing him on the rooftop. In a flash he remembered staring down into Gonor's arena at this same man; taunting him; having just caused the death of the slave girl, Amena, who had raised the captive barbarian. Taunting him with the imminence of Tarak's own death at the hands of Lukor, the wrok chieftain.

He remembered whipping the child, brutally and often, to quicken the boy's reflexes; and setting innumerable wild carnivores into the enclosures to battle with the growing child.

He remembered the battles; Tarak's human agility, strength, speed and intelligence pitted time and time again against slashing claws and talons, and slavering fangs. He remembered the torn bodies of the vanquished, and the often torn body of the boy himself. So many years; so many deaths; so much torture, violence, and brutality.

He remembered the time he had come almost too close to the young Tarak in his efforts to whip the boy, and how the wild captive had grabbed Brona's whip and almost jerked his tormentor forward into his grasp. Brona still wore the scars he had received from the blows of the young Tarak, as the boy had struck a few powerful strokes with the weapon while Brona remained within its reach.

Brona, First Sword of Elur; for years undefeated in battle with the weapon he now held, felt the sweat pour forth upon his body. He had seen, as had no other man or beast, the incomparable killing capabilities of the tawny-haired giant who now faced him in the flickering torchlight high above Elur, City of Light.

He felt the raw naked touch of fear, and he shivered in the warm Aantorian night.

He blinked, and brought his sword up smoothly, thankful that he was well armed. He was the best with this weapon. None could stand before him. He could not imagine how the barbarian had learned speech; or the use of a sword; or how he had come to be in Elur, so far from Gonor's distant valley, but much of his confidence returned as he automatically assumed his fighting stance.

There was no thought of retreat. He knew the incredible speed of his foe. He could give him no opening. None. He must be careful; kill him swiftly; and never, ever permit the tawny giant to close with him. Brona well knew how any man would fare against this adversary in a fight without weapons. Sweat poured from him again as he briefly considered the thought. He shook his head, his eyes watching his enemy.

Tarak stood immobile, his eyes briefly flickering across the rooftop, measuring distances, speeds, possibilities; then returning to Brona. They were alone. There would be no escape. His nostrils flared now as the scent of the Elurian drifted across the brief space which separated them. The long-familiar scent sent innumerable memories flaming through his mind. Amena. Gonor. Lukor. His mined reeled with savage killing lust such as he had never before experienced.

Brona's head moved slightly, and Tarak caught the flicker of something around the man's neck.

His eyes riveted on the object, for he had seen it thousands of times before, always in flickering torchlight. His mother's chain and locket, still secured around the neck of his life-long tormentor. His breathing quickened, and he began to growl.

He moved forward, his blade motionless in his hand. He was smiling now, a strange enigmatic smile, one which seemed a mixture of pleasure and rage. Slowly he moved, watching the Elurian with his eyes.

Brona moved forward to meet him, his own eyes bright now. The sword was a part of him. It was all that he was. So many years he had stood behind it as his skill carved out a life of riches and luxury for him to savor. He calmed himself. It was a man he faced. Only another man with a sword. He moved his sword's tip in a circle, feinted; then struck a savage crossing blow.

Tarak met the stroke, his own sword sliding away.

Brona struck again. Again Tarak blocked the blade. Brona moved forward now, slowly, always balanced, his sword tip circling; slashing; weaving; slashing. His style was his own. Aggressive, attacking.

Tarak retreated slowly, blocking, parrying, sliding his weapon across that of his enemy. Always he blocked; always Brona's sword tip was there, circling, then attacking.

Tarak parried one swift slash, then his own blade whirled towards the Elurian.

Brona backed, his blade coming up quickly as he deftly parried, and he was moving quickly forward, cutting across at Tarak's exposed front. He did not commit himself totally to the move, hoping it was enough.

The barbarian leaped back slightly, his muscles tightening, as Brona's sword sliced through the front of his tunic. Tarak looked up, snarling.

Brona cursed himself. So close! He smiled. The wrok-man was good with the sword. Almost unbelievably so! With this weapon, though, he was just a man. Brona was a master. He moved forward again, his sword dancing before his eyes. Again he slashed; stopped. Slashed again. His blade circled; then thrust.

Tarak moved slowly back, his blade meeting that of Brona as the Elurian slashed and thrust; his body moving, weaving, bobbing on balanced feet. Always his green eyes watched Brona's hands. He thrust when he could, and his blade whirled in counterattack, but always the blade of his enemy was ready.

Tarak slammed aside Brona's sword in a quick stroke, moving in and thrusting; then leaping aside and back as the Elurian's blade slid away from his own and came whistling in, just missing his arm. His face was grim as he backed away from the attacking assassin, his sword just meeting the turning away his enemy's, unable to counter the aggressive blade which sought his life.

Brona began to smile. His own killing lust was aroused. He darted forward, unleashing a blinding series of moves, forcing Tarak back towards the roof edge as the barbarian's blade whirled in defense. The Elurian kept moving forward slowly. He started the same combination; then altered his attack, driving to the right as his sword came down.

Again he missed by a hair. His frustration was growing. The man was as lucky as the child had been. He spat as he cursed his enemy. Again he moved forward, slashing, attacking, moving.

For several minutes the two men fought; Brona always the aggressor, his sword leaping and cutting in blurry motions. Sparks flew as the blades clashed; parted; struck. The sounds of savage combat trumpeted out into the clear night. Both men began to sweat as they fought. Brona pierced the barbarian's guard on a few occasions, his sword pricking or slicing through surface skin. Tiny rivulets of blood mixed with Tarak's sweat.

Brona's eyes gleamed. His breathing was quick. He felt fresh, and could sense victory. He attacked swiftly, his sword whirling suddenly at the barbarian.

The tawny giant's blade met his own, but back moved the barbarian. Again Brona lunged forward. Then he waited. His eyes brightened as Tarak countered, leaving himself open again as he had when Brona had first barely missed.

Brona moved quickly forward and to the left, his sword hurtling across; but somehow the barbarian's blade was there, blocking; and now sliding off Brona's own weapon with blurring speed.

The Elurian leaped to the side as Tarak's blade cut through space, its tip cutting a red line across Brona's shoulder. He felt the hot pain as he brought his sword back and up, and stepped back. The cut was not deep, and barely bled. His eyes grew savage as he glanced at the slight wound then back at the barbarian, who had stopped, and was watching.

Brona looked up, startled, for no longer was Tarak's smile enigmatic. The barbarian was smiling, a wide, glittering, savage smile. His white teeth flashed in the torchlight.

Tarak shook his tawny mane, his hair flowing in the wind. His eyes gleamed in the torchlight, watching Brona as the tarab watches its prey.

The Elurian frowned. Shrugging slightly, he moved slowly forward, his sword tip circling. He noted that the barbarian waited, not backing, his own sword still.

Brona attacked, his sword whirling. Surprise shown in his face, for Tarak was moving forward now, his own blade whirling in. The blades met; parted; met again. Steel rang against steel as the swordtips blurred.

Brona felt a pain in his arm, and leaped back, noting the slash in his forearm where Tarak's blade had found an opening. He looked up as Tarak moved in, and leaped back again as the blades whirled and rang. Another pain. Tarak had found his arm again. The blood began to trickle down his arm.

Again the barbarian attacked. Brona countered, diving and slashing at the legs, but a sword whirled down, then across to slash the Elurian's shoulder. More blood ran.

Brona's eyes were bright now, as he felt the first sensations of fear. He attacked, his sword now whirling in moves and feints which had killed so many, but his strokes were parried, batted aside, blocked; and now the barbarian slashed with his massive strength, and Brona's eyes betrayed his shock as his arm stung from the force of the blow.

He retreated, backing as another stroke came hurtling down. He blocked the blow as he move away, turning it aside, his arm still stinging with its force.

Tarak moved in, snarling, thrusting; slashing with all his force; and the Elurian backed up, his left hand moving over to massage his arm. Adrenalin flooded his system as his fear mounted. He stopped, for his enemy had stopped; and looked up.

Tarak looked across at his prey. "Your sword won't save you, assassin. It might have, once. Perhaps if you, rather than Lukor, had come down into the pit to kill me." He smiled, a smile grown totally savage. "I have learned much of Aantor since then" He looked down briefly. "And much of this weapon. "From Foss of Neros, and Kiron of Kalnor."

Brona's eyes widened. These were famous fighting men; men who had fought in Kalnor's Great Tournament.

"And I learned from a man named Gorkok," the barbarian continued. "Before I killed him in the Kalnorian Arena."

Sweat poured from the Elurian as he listened to these words. Gorkok. The beast-man was legendary, and had ruled the world of Aantorian swordsmanship for years. Brona had more than once thought of testing his skill in Kalnor's Tournament, but crippled Elurian swordsmen had returned; telling of strength, skill, marvelous speed; of death and inhuman brutality which stalked the games in the form of Gorkok, and Brona had discarded the idea.

He now realized that Tarak had been testing him at first; examining his style; his moves. Learning how it was that Brona killed with this weapon. Insuring that Tarak would know what he faced in the Elurian champion. He had learned what was necessary. He had sought out and nurtured the moves, combinations, and skills of his enemy. And the weaknesses. Then he had begun to kill.

Brona slashed at the barbarian, then thrust quickly in as his blade was turned aside.

Each stroke was deftly turned away. Effortlessly.

Tarak's own sword blurred, whirling in, and Brona slid aside, turning away he blade as sparks

flew.

The power in those strokes! Brona's skin crawled with fear. He had never encountered such sustained power and speed. Never even imagined it. He looked up into the barbarian's face, and saw death reflected in the flaming, dancing eyes which flared hungrily as they met his own.

Tarak was still smiling, a brutal, snarling smile, as he slashed, thrust, cut; moving, weaving, lunging; always in perfect balance; his blade blurring as it moved, almost alive itself.

In he moved, cutting with savage ferocity as he snarled. Brona blocked the blade, but he barbarian came on, batting the sword aside as his other arm streaked in.

The Elurian leaped frantically backwards, but Tarak moved in again. Brona slipped, his weapon sliding away; and he held his breath for the killing blow. His sword leaped back as he felt a numbing shock to his arm and hand as Tarak's sword hammered implacably at his own. The hairs stood out upon Brona's body as he watched the barbarian. Tarak was not trying to kill him. He was trying to disarm him! Brona's tunic was slippery on his body as he sweated.

Tarak moved closer, growling now, his lips parted, his teeth white in the light of the torches. Again he slashed with all his strength.

Brona blocked, but only barely. His arm was leaden now. He was cold. He could feel the wind whistling across his wet body; across the blood which washed down his arms. His legs felt heavy. He knew he was about to die. He could only determine how. He looked to the rooftop. Perhaps he could leap! He might not be killed. A crowd would gather. A blur crossed his eyes then, and a tawny-haired warrior stood between Brona and the edge.

He looked once again into those savage green eyes, and made his decision. Gathering himself, he shook his head, and charged. He would kill or die on the sword. Teeth clenched, he launched himself forward. His own sword was met by Tarak's, and again the blades played a game of whirling death. Tarak backed as step, and Brona lunged for a green chest, but the barbarian's blade swept across. The lunge skipped across the blade, continuing but deflected into the outer part of Tarak's shoulder.

Brona's eyes brightened with the sight of blood. He began to withdraw the blade; then screamed as his wrist exploded in pain. Tarak's other hand had shot across, his fingers lighting as they gripped Brona's wrist. Crushing, he threw his left shoulder in as he swung the Elurian's arm down and around.

Brona lost his grip on the sword, and went down hard on his back, Tarak's body crushing him as they slammed into the roof. The Elurian grunted, and tried to rise, but relentless fingers closed on his throat as he was lifted like a child into the air.

Tarak held him aloft with one arm, his grip choking the Elurian as he brought Brona's face close to his own. Brona could see blood flowing slightly from the small wound in the Barbarian's shoulder as he rose; then all he could see were two flaming eyes boring into his own.

Brona hung there, suspended, dizzy with the pain and pressure, as he stared into those eyes.

He saw a sudden wetness there, and tears start to flow, as Tarak held him up in the flickering light of the torches. Finally the barbarian spoke, tears flowing in rivulets down his cheeks.

"For my mother. And for my father. And for myself. But most of all, Brona, for dear Amena."

Tarak shook his head, his hair flying in the air; then reached down with his other hand and picked up the Elurian by his thigh. Steel fingers dug into Brona's leg, and he tried to scream. Tarak looked down briefly. Then he raised his lifelong torturer high into the air; one hand on Brona's throat, the other on his thigh. He held him for a moment; then brought his arms whirling down, as he stooped, flexing his right leg, extending it slightly.

For a long second the Elurian stared up into the sky as he was held, then he felt his body swept down, his back striking the barbarian's massive leg at the same time steel fingers closed and met within the fleshy, bloody middle of Brona's soft throat.

The stroke broke Brona in two as his spine shattered, his upper torso flopping down outside Tarak's thigh, his lower dangling inside.

Tarak looked down at the broken corpse silently. Slowly, the hand holding Brona's leg released its grip. His other brought the neck up, and he unclasped his mother's chain from around the Elurian's neck. He let the body slide to the ground as he stood, wiping the locket on his tunic. He touched its clasp, and it opened. There he read the words, "For Lyna". Nothing more.

It was enough. It was his mother's name.

He stood, holding the locket, reading her name, looking at the words, watching them blur, but watching the blur for long moments as the gentle breeze wafted over his damp hair.

Gently he closed the locket, and fastened it about his own neck. He wiped his eyes, and looked down at the broken Elurian Champion.

Once more his eyes were clear and flaming. Again he grabbed the body, and raised it into the air, high above his head. He walked slowly to the edge of the roof, and looked down into the dimly lit streets of Elur, City of Light.

He straightened his arms, his fists clenching into his enemy's body as he threw back his head and uttered the piercing, challenging scream of the great black dyrrn. As he had heard it so long ago in the mountains, watching the creature in a death struggle with the tarab. As he had heard in the young dyrrn he had raised in that far, far valley. As he had heard it from his black giant in the arena of Kalnor, he held Brona's corpse aloft and screamed his own challenge to those in the world who would harm his own. He screamed for long seconds, and hurling his enemy's body out into the night as the pitch of his savage scream rose once again into the waiting night.

Citizens walking in the streets below ducked, frightened, and ran. Patrons of nearby taverns paused in their conversation, and looked strangely at each other. Beasts caged in the area began to roar. Then it stopped, and silence reigned once more in the Elurian night.

Tarak looked down briefly, then turned. Picking up his sword, he started for the ramp. He stopped suddenly.

Jenyla and Tavane were standing on the rooftop, thirty feet distant, staring at him. Their eyes were wide in the torchlight.

"Tarak?" Tavane asked, her voice questioning.

The Chomirian was silent, but he was tense, and his hand firm on his katana.

The barbarian stood silently, watching them. The fire in his eyes died out, and he smiled slightly.

"How long have you been up here?"

"The whole time," Tavane whispered. "We saw everything."

"What is my name?" Jenyla asked, still tense.

Tarak suddenly laughed. He felt lightheaded. He looked down at the Chomirian, perplexed. "I don't know. You haven't told me yet.". He shook his head. "What kind of a daughter are you?"

Jenyla relaxed. "Then come." He grinned. "Your savage cry, and the body, are certain to draw attention! We must leave." He turned and trotted towards the ramp.

Tarak nodded. He looked at Tavane, his gaze intent. "As I said, Tavane, don't judge what you don't understand."

"I won't" she whispered, her eyes wide, but she was smiling now, through glistening tears.. She took his hand, and together they began to descend through the House of Gonor.

A few moments later, unchallenged, they emerged upon the street and melted into the darkness.

Grejin the jeweler came awake with a start. He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes, and looked around. It was dark, and the only sound was an incessant pounding on the front door of his shop. He frowned. The shop was locked and secure, and a thief would hardly pound so heavily. He slipped on a robe, and went to the window. Three people stood outside the front door of his shop; a huge man in a dark tunic, a woman, and a small girl. He blinked, and was suddenly frightened. He recognized the man as the barbarian who had sold him a jewel two days previously.

He had given the man a fair price, in the end. He started to draw back, but the little girl saw him, and pointed.

The barbarian looked up, and waved.

Grejin looked out. "I am closed. I gave you a fair price for your stone! Go away!"

Tarak nodded. "I know you did. I have two more which I would like to sell."

Grejin shook his head. "Not tonight. Come back tomorrow!"

"I'm leaving tonight," Tarak answered. "I just want you to look at a locket. I'll pay you one smaller stone just to examine it, and another, larger, if you can identify the place it was made. "That is all I ask!" He stared up. "If you aren't interested, say so, and I'll go elsewhere."

The jeweler thought for a few seconds. The barbarian's former gem was of high quality. His sleepiness faded as he considered the potential profit. He leaned out. "I'll be right down!"

A moment later he opened the front door. He was afraid of the strange man, but doubted the barbarian had murder or theft on his mind if he was accompanied by a beautiful woman and a little girl.

Tarak entered as soon as the door opened, and immediately handed the jeweler a small gem.

Grejin lighted a lamp, and looked at the gem under his glass. It was a splendid stone. His mouth watered at the thought of the second promised one. He nodded. "This is a fine stone. Is the other as fine?"

Tarak looked down. "You will find out if you can identify the locket." He unclasped a chain from his neck, and handed it to the jeweler. "Can you tell where this was made? I need to be sure, so don't guess." His eyes grew cold. "If you don't know, say so, and I will give you the another stone, thought not larger than the one you hold. If you lie to me, I will return another day."

Grejin frowned, nervous in the presence of the man. He looked at the locket under the glass for only a moment, then smiled. He looked up at eyes which savage in their intensity.. "This was made in Kalnor. The workmanship is obvious."

Tarak's strange stare was almost tangible. "Are you certain?"

Grejin looked up. "I would stake my life upon it." He smiled faintly. "In fact, I feel that I am doing just that."

Tarak smiled. "You need fear nothing from me, jeweler, if you speak truly." He nodded slowly. "And I think that you do." He paused. "Can you give me any information as to the jeweler."

Grejin shrugged. "No. It is clearly Kalnorian. The style and texture of the gold are linked indelibly to that city. It is also very well made. This is a very valuable locket. It appears to have been fashioned to be unique.. Often such lockets are crafted as a matching, unique pair. Whoever purchased this spent a great deal of money." He looked up, his eyes expectant. "That is all I can tell you."

Tarak looked down silently. He reached into his pouch, and selecting another stone, handed it to the jeweler. It was twice as large as the other.

Grejin's eyes gleamed as he looked at it. He looked up. "I am avaricious, as you know, but this stone is worth far more than the information I have imparted." He was still fearful of the barbarian, and remembered trying to cheat him when they had first met.

Tarak shook his head. "Believe me, jeweler, your information is more valuable than you know. Keep the stones." He smiled. "I shall visit Elur again some day, and we shall do business again. We understand each other well."

The jeweler slowly returned his smile. "Perhaps we do." He looked down at the stones again, his smile widening, then looked back up. The three visitors were already exiting the door. "If you find the artist, tell him that Grejin of Elur commends his craftsmanship!"

Tarak flashed a smile. "That I will do." The door closed, and silence once again reigned within the shop of Grejin the jeweler.

The man examined the stones once more, his eyes bright with avariciousness. Then he chuckled, his fears gone. He had told the barbarian the truth, and had nothing to fear. What a profitable night. He secreted the stones in a small compartment, safe from thieves, and, still chuckling, climbed the stairs to his upper apartment.

They traveled from Grejin's shop towards the Roaring Tarab. The City gates were closed, and Tarak planned to leave as had the tarab, scaling the outer palisade of Ran Vargus. He explained his plan to the others as they stood outside the inn.

Tavane shook her head. "Nothing but swamp exists beyond the palisade. No walls are necessary, for the swamp is impassible to men.. A wrok might travel, moving through the trees, as I've heard they can do, but you will have to find another way".

Tarak smiled. "No wrok can travel where Tarak cannot." His took a deep, satisfied breath, savoring the expected journey. He often traveled much through the trees himself. Gonor had arefully nurtured this ability with smaller trees, boards, poles, and other environments. Since his escape he had easily learned to travel swiftly and effortlessly through the giant trees which covered so much of Aantor. He loved to stand high on a branch, three hundred feet in the air, or higher, and to watch the treetops wave in the morning wind, like a green ocean of life. "I can carry Jenyla, or you. Perhaps both."

Jenyla smiled. "The Chomirians build cities in trees!" He laughed. "The high forest limbs are highways to our people. Where you may lead, Jenyla will follow easily!"

"Come Tavane," Tarak said.

She shook her head. "No. I cannot leave that way. I know another way I can leave, and a place I can locate mounts. We will need drajen to ride, and provisions. I will meet you. Travel to the left as you move. Keep the walls in sight. When you come to the edge of the forest, scream like you did on the roof, but not so loud!" She winced. "Softly. I will find you."

Tarak frowned at her. "Are you certain you can do this?"

She nodded. "Trust me. I will meet you!"

He looked at her, then down at Jenyla.

The Chomirian nodded. Then he looked up at the girl. "Just in case, however, I'll have my kiss now!" He grinned up at Tavane, his eyes shining in the torchlight.

She looked down, surprised. Jenyla stood there, not much taller than her waist, his white dress wrinkled, his sandals discarded. Even with no makeup he looked so much like a girl! His eyes were unyielding, though, and she smiled and stooped to kiss him, bringing her own head down to a level with his.

"Close your eyes," he whispered, and she did, as he firmly put his hands on her head, and placed his small lips upon hers.

She kissed him briefly, then almost cried out in surprise, for the Chomirian kissed her in the manner of a Chomirian . His small arms held her as his lips tasted hers. She could feel the strength in his body as he pressed it against hers; the passion in his lips; the knowledge of love and sexuality in his movements. Her heart seemed to flutter, and she opened her eyes, and backed up, breathing heavily. She looked down at the little man, for she knew this was a man.

He smiled up, his own eyes bright with passion. "Thank you, Tavane! Your lips are honey to a warrior who is starving for sweetness." He laughed. "I feel reborn!"

Tarak was watching them both, and smiling at her. "What kind of a daughter is this, Tavane?"

She looked at him, then down at Jenyla. "I don't know. Not any kind I ever thought of having." She smiled. "Jenyla, somehow I feel as if I am filling in for another."

He shrugged, and smiled. "Perhaps. I thank you, nonetheless."

She looked at Tarak. "I must leave now. I will be waiting when you reach the edge of the forest."

He looked at her. "I hope so." He smiled warmly. "Till then, Tavane."

Jenyla nodded his own goodbye, and the two men turned and walked toward the palisade of Ran Vargus.

For long moments Tavane watched them. She saw them disappear into the slaver's compound. She looked at the inn, then turned around, and headed deeper into the city.

Tarak and Jenyla trotted across the compound of Ran Vargus. Reaching the outer wall, Tarak reached down. Grabbing Jenyla around the waist, he swung his arms up, tossing the Chomirian to the top of the wall.

Jenyla landed like a feather, and stood, balancing effortlessly, as Tarak backed up, and ran forward himself, leaping up and catching the edge.

They looked back briefly at the city lights, then at each other. They smiled, then dropped lightly to the wet ground. Together they loped across a brief stretch of marshy grass, and reaching the trees, they leaped into the lower branches.

Tarak moved slowly at first, watching Jenyla for signs of distress, fatigue, or other difficulties, but the Chomirian moved as if born in the reaches of the forests. He ran and leaped with joyous abandon, and the barbarian smiled, for he experienced such feelings himself when traveling through the treeways. He increased his speed, and the two men fairly flew through the branches, keeping the city in sight, far to their left.

Eventually they came to the edge of the forest. Here the ground was firm under the great trees, but the two men remained within the embrace of the protective giants. Tarak pointed up, and Jenyla nodded. They began to climb, and a few moments later both stood three hundred feet above the Elurian plain, watching the open spaces which stretched across to the city walls.

They watched for an hour, then both saw her at once. Three trotting shapes, visible against the lighter ground in the moonlight.

Tarak called out, a softer version of the dyrrn's screech, then both men descended swiftly through the darkness, dropping in seemingly suicidal leaps, catching vines and limbs as they descended.

They reached the forest floor, and Tarak called out softly once more. He heard her voice then, and his eyes gleamed with pleasure.

"Tarak? Jenyla?" Tavane was walking her drajen, and leading two others.

Tarak was knew of the drajen, but had not encountered them in the Northern lands of Neros and Kalnor. He examined them closely.

Six-footed, as was the tarab, the drajen were large, fleet herbivores. Swifter than a tarab, they could carry a large, armed warrior effortlessly for long distances. Their legs were long, slender and hoofed. War drajen were often shoed with sharp steel, for the creatures could fight savagely, kicking with either front or rear legs, always balanced on the remaining four.

Tavane looked small, but she sat high on her drajen, her knees higher than Tarak's head.

He grinned as he admired the creatures. How and where she had obtained them was beyond his comprehension. He shrugged. Walking forward, he hailed her. "We are here, Tavane."

She rode over, and her smile flashed in the moonlight. "I told you I would be here!"

The Chomirian stretched, rubbing his eyes. "Is it morning yet? I feel like I've been sleeping for hours."

Tarak grinned at him, as Tavane shot them both a withering look. Then she laughed, shaking her head at their antics, and dropped the reins to the two drajen which she had been leading.

The two men leaped easily to the back of their mounts. The drajen shifted, but Tarak held his firmly, and it was clear that the Chomirian was familiar with mastering a mount, no matter how large.

"We must get away from the city before morning!" Tavane said. "I know a path which leads east. When it gets light, we should be able to find our way without roads. She wheeled her drajen, and moved off across the meadow, the men following her, watching her dress billow in the moonlight as she rode.

They sat in a clearing; a small, hidden glade deep within the forest, as the sun shone brightly down upon them. For three days they had traveled, hiding their tracks, walking the drajen through streams, and across rocky places. Ever Eastward they had traveled, but now they stopped, to discuss their futures.

Tavane looked at each of them. "I wish to find my brother. I seek the Shelaga, to the Northeast, across the Sea of Kal. I know you each have your own desires. I cannot go alone, but I would ask, if I help one of you, will you then aid me in turn?

"I too have a quest across fair Kal," Jenyla said. "But to the Southeast. There likes Chomir, and my future." He looked at Tavane, then turned his eyes to the tawny-haired barbarian. "You have given me life again, Tarak, as Tavane has given me a taste of honey." He smiled. "My quest can wait till I have repaid my debt to you. Afterwards, I will help Tavane, if I can."

Tarak looked at both of them, nodding slightly. He smiled slightly, and shook his head. "My own choice is Kalnor, now that I know it is almost certainly my birthplace." He looked up at the sun, his eyes flashing in the bright light, and shook his hair. "Kalnor will not disappear, however, and I can travel their another day." He looked at them, each in turn. "I think we should travel together. Women, and small girls, do not book passage across the Sea of Kal to savage lands. Although I need neither of you for my task, my own presence would aid either of yours."

He ran his fingers through his hair. "My own task might be quicker, but perhaps not. I may learn something in Kalnor which will lead me to another place; and then another." He looked at his companions. "I will aid either, or both of you, in your quests, as easily as I would ask for your help. Do either of you feel differently?"

Tavane and Jenyla shook their heads. Each of them knew the presence of Tarak would greatly increase the potential for their own quests.

Tavane looked at each of them. "We shall stay together, then!"

Tarak nodded, smiling. "But where shall we go?"

Jenyla grinned. "Let the steel decide!" He gestured to the knife which Tarak wore. "Throw the knife into the air. When it lands, let the hilt point our way. Each will have one-third of a circle. If the knife points to Tarak's, we go to Kalnor. If it points to mine, we travel across Kal to the Southeast. To Tavane's and our direction is Northeast across the sea!"

Tarak and Tavane looked at the Chomirian, and at each other. They quickly nodded their agreement, and Jenyla smiled back. He drew a large circle, and divided into three parts. Then he looked up at Tarak, who had drawn the gleaming Elurian knife from its sheath.

He stood in the center of the circle, while Jenyla and Tavane sat, each several feet away from him, and from each other. Each within his or her one-third, about a body length from the center. Tarak looked at each of them, then down at the knife.

He grabbed it by the tip, and sent it spinning high into the air, a whirlwind of flashing steel as it rose. He moved back into his own third and sat down, looking up at the spinning knife.

Jenyla sat cross-legged in his wrinkled white dress, his blue eyes sparkling as they watched the knife blade reflect the sunlight.

He stole a glance at Tavane, and grinned. Her kiss had been so sweet, and had fired his blood with lust. It was unfortunate that he resembled a young girl of her race. If only for one night he could convince her to put aside her natural inclinations. So much female in one body! He was dizzy.

He smiled, raising his eyes once more to the spinning blade. Well, perhaps it was better. He

thought of Janella, his own beautiful Chomirian princess. Her violet eyes flashed in his memories as he pictured her, and he missed her as he had not missed her in months.

She would laugh when she heard of his captivity, being called by a girl's name, and wearing a girl's dresses. Called by a name so similar to her own. Janyla longed to hear her tinkling laugh again!

He grinned. This persona was certainly a good disguise. He examined the possibilities; then dismissed them with a laugh. The thought of thirty thousand Chomirians, wearing white girls's dresses, and racing across the lands on their fierce mounts, the savage chakata; armed with katanas, lances, bows, and the throwing knives of the Chomir would hardly go unnoticed in any foreign land, no matter how cute they appeared to be.

Janella knew him as he truly was; Panthar, Prince of the Tarab Clan of the Chomir. Fiercest of their race. Panthar, betrayed as had been his sire, Ranthar, High Pasah of the Tarab Clan. Ranthar had been butchered; Panthar sold into slavery, so long ago. What had happened since was unknown to the small warrior, but he smiled grimly, for bloody warfare had certainly played a large part; perhaps still did. So far was he from the lands of the Chomir, far to the southeast across glittering Kal.

He was familiar with the Shelaga, creatures who inhabited the wild lands far to the North of the Chomir. He hoped Tavane's brother had not fallen into their hands.

He glanced swiftly at the strange blond giant who also watched the knife. Never had he met, or even imagined, such a savage warrior as this strange barbarian! Yet one who had extended the hand of friendship and succor so willingly to a member of a different race. He owed this man a debt; perhaps the greatest debt; and Panthar of the Chomir paid his debts.

He longed, however, to see his princess; his brothers; his land. He longed to find those who had betrayed his Clan. His body trembled as he watched the knife reach its a apex, and hover for an instant.

Tavane watched as the shimmering knife as Jenyla prepared to send the knife spinning upward rapidly to flash above the three who watched.

Her bright, blue-green eyes flashed with the reflections of the bright Aantorian sun. Her smile was wide; perfect white teeth parted between breathless lips; her entire being focused on this instrument of her destiny.

She was so excited! For the first time she was truly exploring, as she had always longed to do. She thought of her parents, and frowned for an instant. They would be angry, of course. Furious would be more accurate. Tavane was glad she was far away from them. She could just imagine the lecture!

She glanced at her companions. What a strange pair! It was too bad she had lied to them. Well, not lied, exactly. She had told them a powerful man was after her, which was not precisely true, but it would be true once her father read the letter she had left for him. He would certainly be after her then. And he was powerful. A loving, protective father would spare no effort to capture his rebellious daughter, and protect her from the life she longed to experience. Her parents sometimes seemed to treat her like a slave, at least in Tavane's view. Just be cause she was a girl, they kept her bottled up in Elur, just like a slave..

So it had not been entirely a lie. She grinned as the flashing blade spun quickly. Where would she go? What would she see? She had left a letter for her father, telling him she had decided to visit her cousin, who who resided in a small city a few days distant. It would be at least a week before her father discovered the ruse.

She wanted to help Tarak find his heritage. She wanted to help little Jenyla find his people. She wanted to find her brother. She still believed the truth of the message whispered to her, even if no one else did. In her heart she knew her brother suffered somewhere, slave or prisoner of a legendary race called the Shelaga, somewhere far across the Sea of Kal, to the Northeast, the slave had said. She just knew it, somehow.

It was also true that a slave had told her of her brother. It had been one of Tavane's own slaves, talking softly as he died from wounds he had received when, so he said, Tavane's brother had been taken.

Her father had listened to her, and had searched, as far away as the Sea of Kal, but nothing further had been learned, and he had been loathe to search across the sea in search of a legendary race, based only upon the word of a slave.

Tavane didn't blame him, but she had never given up hope; nor had she ever put aside her own desire to seek her brother.

She noticed that the little man, Jenyla, was watching the knife with immense interest. He was so cute! Tavane could hardly believe he wasn't a little girl. His kiss, however, had convinced her. That had been no girl's kiss. Once she had closed her eyes, it became one of the best kisses she'd ever felt. She smiled, her eyes flashing across to the blond barbarian whose own face was turned towards the spinning knife.

Such a mysterious man! Her eyes played over the muscles which stretched the worn green tunic, and which flowed visibly down the powerful limbs of the tawny-haired giant. The green tunic with the Rank of a Rok of Neros itself! He was such an enigma. And so naive. For all his power Tavane could sense he had fallen under the spell of Elur's fairest Princess, as had so many before him.

Well, sort of. He was still with her, and he had kissed her, and obediently ceased any further advances when she had curtly stopped their brief interlude. He had certainly stopped quickly, however. She frowned. None of the innumerable handsome men of Elur had ever ceased their romantic efforts so easily. Many had tasted her sweet, brief kisses, and hung openmouthed in her presence, stammering and pleading as she shook her pretty head.

She had enjoyed their kisses, and their attentions, but had felt no desire to proceed further, ever.

She trembled. Not, that is, until she had been kissed by this savage barbarian! She could feel a weakness as she remembered that savage kiss; the power in the arms which had held her so firmly, rendered her so helpless in their grasp. That one kiss, so sudden; so strange, had left her absolutely breathless in an instant, and she had almost passed out before she suddenly realized what was happening, and had pushed the handsome face away in the moonlight of the slaver's stockade. She would never forget that moment; or that night!"

She had been about to speak up in the palisade, when the Crippling Man had approached her.. She doubted Karchach would have punished her for throwing a rock once she had identified herself as Tavane, daughter of Jar Kantor.. She had almost done so afterwards. Something about this man had stopped her. She had also seen a means by which she could escape Elur, and seek adventure! No man would risk being found in the company of Jar Kantor's daughter, and away from the city walls.

Why did she feel this way after a kiss from a boorish barbarian? He was so savage! She had never believed a man could be so like a beast! Why had she said those words to him that night within the palisade of Ran Vargus, the slaver? She had never uttered such words to any man; had never dreamed of doing so. they had seemed to come from her involuntarily! Why would she even want to travel with such a man? Then she looked at him again; at the open, wondering face, his clear green eyes drinking in the sight of the blue Aantorian sky; the sunlight; the spinning blade.

Her smile widened, as her eyes flashed back to the whirling knife. She didn't want to know why. She didn't even care. Her eyes flashed with pleasure as she waited for the next few seconds to pass.

Tarak watched the flashing steel.. He stole a glance at his companions, and smiled. Life was so fascinating! Here he sat, warm under the bright Aantorian sky, playing a game of fate with two totally different creatures.

He was fascinated by Jenyla. Already the musculature of the Chomirian was beginning to re- assert itself. He grinned as he thought of the kiss Jenyla had given Tavane, and wondered what the warrior's real name was. Perhaps he would find out. As he remembered their kiss he felt a pang of jealousy. That was ridiculous. Tavane was a truly beautiful girl, but he hardly knew her, and had himself only kissed her once, though he would long remember that kiss. His breathing quickened as he felt again in his memories the taste of her lips.

He had been surprised when she had rebuffed him, since he had sensed that she had been as excited as himself in that brief embrace. He raised an eyebrow. Girls certainly were different creatures. He grinned. Perhaps more different than Chomirians.

He couldn't leave her here, to the fates of chance; the dangers of the forests, and the fury of the powerful man she claimed was after her. She had been instrumental in their schemes and successful escape. Her tale of her lost brother seemed nothing more than a fantasy, but she seemed to believe in it, and she had proved to be a good companion, as well as a very beautiful one. He felt strangely drawn to this unusual, almost unimaginably beautiful girl. His breathing quickened.

He fingered the chain and locket which hung from his neck. His mother's. A woman named Lyna, perhaps from Kalnor. The locked said simply "For Lyna". Dead more than twenty years. What were the chances he would find someone who would recognized the locket; or the name? Should he return to that coastal city? He had found it a fascinating place, and had spent little time actually enjoying the city when he had last visited fair Kalnor. He had also been impressed with the new Tarkan, Atal Throom. Perhaps after these months he would be able to visit the Tarkan without drawing undue attention to himself. A loner by nature, Tarak was not willing to endure the adulation he knew his presence would engender among the citizens of Kalnor. He shrugged slightly, and watched the knife as it neared the dirt. Let the steel decide his fate, as steel decided the fates of so many in this savage world.

The three watched with rapt wonder as the blade flashed upward, light flashing from it as the sun caught the spinning blade.

Hovering for an instant in a circle of blinding fate, the blade descended from the warmth of the sun toward those who waited.

The knife struck, it's blade sinking three inches into the soft soil, it's hilt quivering for an instant; then becoming still. The strike was slanted; the hilt clearly pointing in one direction.

The three watchers caught their collective breath as the knife stopped moving. Each stared at it for a second, then up at the other two.

They all smiled at once, and, still grinning, rose to prepare for their journey.

A barbarian son of a Tarkan; a fugitive daughter, and a Prince of the savage Chomir, who himself had a claim to be High Pasah of the most powerful Clan of that strange race.

Three met in Elur, who would now travel together in unified pursuit of the quest of one.

THE END