I heard an exultant shout from behind me and saw the leader of the tarnsmen signal his men across the dividing wall again, to meet me at the left center rings.
We passed the Silver, and then the Blue, between the rings.
I noted that the Red was gaining rapidly on Menicius, who was blocking him at the side rings. I could see the talisman of bone flying behind the neck of the bearded rider on Red. I had seen the maddened eyes of the rider on Red, his frenzy with the tarn goad; he was clearly, Ubar or no Ubar, intent upon the race. I smiled.
Then, suddenly before me, at the left side rings, closing the rings to us, hovered some ten tarnsmen, weapons ready. Ubar of the Skies did not hesitate but hurtled into their midst, beak rending, and then was clear; they turned in pursuit but four of them, caught in the wide loop of the Tuchuk rope, were cursing, cutting at it, while the tarns, suddenly startled, finding their movements inhibited, broke formation; the tarns, the men, struggling in the wide boskhide loop, wrenched this way and that, and tumbled to the net; the others cut across the dividing wall to head me off once more.
Now there was but one tarn head on the poles when I came again to the right center rings.
Already the Tuchuk bola was whirling, a blur of leather and lead.
Again the tarn cut through and two of the tarnsmen were screaming, trying to shield themselves from the weighted straps, flying about them; the weights in the Tuchuk bola can crush a skull, the leather can strangle.
A tarnsman pressed in with sword upon us and I met the sword with tarn goad, with a bright yellow flash; his tarn veered away and I hurled the tarn goad savagely at another bird dropping toward me, talons opened; the goad struck him with a blinding flash and he, too, veered away; I then drew my sword, parried twice and thrust home with a fifth man; the sixth man, the leader of the tarnsmen, drew his bird away from our path, cursing.
The last tarn head loomed on the pole.
“Ubar of the Skies,” cried I, “fly! Fly now as you have never flown before!”
We flashed through the end rings and, on the straight-away, saw, ahead, the Yellow and the Red approaching the left side rings. Like an arrow, a black torrent, Ubar of the Skies flashed toward the side rings. I think that there could be on Gor no tarn his equal. “Har-ta!” I cried. “Faster! Har-ta! Faster! Faster!”
Then, approaching the last of the left side rings, Ubar of the Skies, striking for the heart of the ring, burst between the startled Red and Menicius, who led him by perhaps four yards. I saw a look of wild hatred transform the features of Menicius and he jerked at something in his belt. The Red, cursing, tried to force us up, where we might strike the unpadded bar; at our speed we might be cut in two; my tarn struggled to avoid the bar, not turning to do battle, but persisting in his race; I was suddenly aware of the arm of Menicius flying forward and I instinctively threw myself forward even lower on the tarn’s neck; there was the crash of a vial and I heard a hideous scream from the bearded man who was suddenly tearing at his body and face with his fingernails; his tarn, startled, veered up and to the right, out of control, and the man’s shoulder struck the bar and he was cut from the safety straps and thrown rolling and screaming, bloody, whimpering, to the net yards below.
I heard a frightful crack and my left arm broke open bloody in two lines; my sword leaped up and the next time the whip knife struck I severed it; Menicius, with a curse, threw the coil of whip at me and it passed overhead; we shot through the first of the final rings, the end rings; his tarn knife was in his hand but suddenly, eyes wide, he saw my arm back, the Tuchuk quiva poised; “No!” he cried, wheeling the tarn to shield himself; my tarn struck his and together, passing through the second of the final three end rings, saddle to saddle, hand to hand, we grappled, I holding his wrist, he mine; he cried out with pain and dropped the knife; we heard the judge’s bar; both of us had missed the final ring; I thrust the quiva in my belt; “Does Menicius of Port Kar care to race?” I asked, wheeling my tarn back to negotiate the final ring. With a curse he jerked savagely at the control straps of Quarrel and that fine bird instantaneously responded and together Quarrel and Ubar of the Skies passed through the final ring; with a snap of his great wings Ubar of the Skies struck the winner’s perch, seized it in his steel-shod talons and threw back his head with a scream of victory. I lifted my arms.
Quarrel, automatically, had struck the second perch only an instant behind us.
The cries of the crowd were deafening.
Menicius, fumbling, unstrapped himself from the tarn saddle and leaped to the sand, running toward the box of the Ubar, his hands outstretched.
I saw four crossbowmen at the box of the Ubar, on a signal from Saphronicus, who stood there, fire. Menicius, hit four times with iron bolts, spun and fell into the sand. I saw one of the four crossbowmen fall, an arrow from the stands transfixing him. I saw Cernus, in the swirling robe of the Ubar, leap to his feet, summon Taurentians about him. In the distance I heard singing, a song of Ar’s glory; in the stands the song was picked up. Men began to stand in the tiers, singing.
“Stop!” cried Cernus. “Stop!”
But the song became louder and louder.
There was an anger in the song, and a triumph, a defiance and a pride, a pride of men in their city, Glorious Ar. One citizen tore down the banners of green which draped the box of the Ubar and of the High Initiate. Complicius Serenus, unsteadily, withdrew from his box. Another citizen, rushing forward, oblivious of the crossbows of Taurentians, hurled a banner of yellow across the box of the Ubar; another such banner was thrown over the railing of the box which had been occupied by Complicius Serenus, High Initiate of Ar.
Cernus did not dare have his men fire on those citizens who so acted.
He stood raging in the box of the Ubar. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop singing!”
But the song continued, growing stronger as more and more men took it up, and soon the tiers themselves rang with the sound.
One after another of the tarns of the race, those who could complete the race, struck the finishing perches but no one paid them heed.
There was only the song, and more and more voices, and more men standing in the tiers.
Then gates leading onto the sand burst open and thousands of citizens, come from the Stadium of Blades, marching and singing, entered the Stadium of Tarns, at their head, helmeted and mighty, sword in hand, the magnificent Murmillius, hero of the Stadium of Blades.
Though I was not of Ar I, too, still in the saddle of the black tarn, joined in that song, that song of Glorious Ar.
Cernus regarded me with fury.
I drew from my features the leather mask.
He cried out in horror, staggering backwards. Even Saphronicus, Captain of the Taurentians, stood stunned, disbelieving, shaken.
And then, followed by his thousands, singing, across the sand, strode Murmillius.
He stopped before the box of the Ubar. The crossbowmen there set their bows against him.
He removed his helmet, the arena helmet which had for so many months concealed his features.
Cernus threw his hands before his face. With a cry of horror he threw off the robe of the Ubar and, turning, fled from the box.
The crossbowmen threw their weapons into the sand.
Saphronicus, Captain of the Taurentians, removed his purple cloak and his helmet, and walked down the steps from the box to the sand. There he knelt before the man who stood there, and placed his sword at his feet, in the sand.
The man then ascended to the box of the Ubar, where he set his helmet on the arm of the throne. The robe of the Ubar was placed about his shoulders. His sword across his knees, he took his seat on the throne.
There were tears in the eyes of those about me, and my own eyes were not dry as well.
I heard a child ask his father, “Father, who is that man?”
“He is Marlenus,” said the father. “He has come home. He is Ubar of Ar.”
Once again the thousands in that place began to sing. I di
smounted and went to the body of Menicius, pierced by four bolts. I took his killing knife from my belt and threw it, blade down, into the sand beside the body. The scroll on the knife read, “I have sought him. I have found him.”
Then I retraced my steps to the tarn. My sword was in my sheath, the quiva in my belt.
I remounted.
I had business remaining in the house of Cernus, once Ubar of Ar.
23
I Finish My Business in the House of Cernus
I waited in the hall of Cernus, on his own great chair. Before me, on the wooden table, there lay my sword.
I had had little difficulty in arriving at his House before him. I had ridden the black tarn. My eyes had not permitted any to dispute my passage, and, indeed, the halls of his house were now largely empty. Word had apparently reached the House of the doings at the Stadium of Blades before it had come to the Stadium of Tarns, much farther away.
I had walked through the largely deserted halls, empty save for a scurrying slave or a furtive man-at-arms, gathering his belongings, preparing to make away. I passed numerous prisoners, slaves, male and female, some chained to walls, many locked behind bars.
In her chamber I had found Sura.
She was lying on the straw of a slave, but she had wrapped about her body the garment of a free woman. The collar, of course, was still at her throat. Her eyes were closed; she was extremely pale.
I rushed to her side, took her in my arms.
She opened her eyes weakly, and did not seem to recognize me.
I cried out in anger.
“He was a beautiful boy,” she said. “He is a beautiful boy.”
I put her down and tore rags to wrap about her wrists.
“I will call one of the Caste of Physicians,” I whispered to her. Surely Flaminius, drunk, might still be in the house.
“No,” she said, reaching for my hand.
“Why have you done this?” I cried in anger.
She looked at me in mild surprise. “Kuurus,” she said, calling me by the name by which she had known me in the house. “It is you, Kuurus.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
“I did not wish to live longer as a slave,” she said.
I wept.
“Tell Ho-Tu,” she said, “that I love him.”
I sprang to my feet and ran to the door. “Flaminius!” I cried. “Flaminius!”
A slave running past stopped on my command. “Fetch Flaminius!” I cried. “He must bring blood! Sura must live!”
The slave hurtled down the hall.
I returned to the side of Sura. Her eyes were closed again. She was pale. The heartbeat was all but inaudible.
About the room I saw some of the things with which we had played, the silk marked with the squares of the game, the small bottles, the vials.
Sura opened her eyes one last time and regarded me, and smiled. “He is a beautiful boy, is he not, Kuurus?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “he is a fine boy.”
“He is a beautiful boy,” she said, a smile of reproach in her eyes.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
Then Sura closed her eyes. She smiled.
Flaminius came in but a few moments. With him he carried the apparatus of his craft, and a canister of fluid. There was paga on his breath but his eyes were sober. At the door, suddenly, agonized, he stopped.
“Hurry!” I cried.
He put aside the things he had brought with him.
“Hurry!” I cried.
“Can’t you see?” he asked. “She is dead.”
Flaminius, tears in his eyes, came and knelt with me beside Sura. He choked and put his head in his hands.
I had risen to my feet.
I waited now in the Hall of Cernus. It was empty. I looked about me at the tables, at the tiled floors; at the slave rings by the wall; at the square pit of sand between the tables. I had taken my seat on the chair of Cernus; I had drawn my sword, and laid it across the wood before me.
I could hear shouting outside in the streets but, because of the thick walls of the House of Cernus, it seemed distant. Here and there I heard snatches of the song of Ar’s glory.
It was dark and cool in the hall. It was quiet. I waited. I was patient. He would come.
The door burst open and five men entered, Cernus, wild-eyed, suddenly haggard, and behind him Philemon, of the Caste of Scribes, the man who had commanded the fifty tarnsmen who had ridden against me in the Stadium of Tarns, and two Taurentian guardsmen.
As the men burst into the room I stood behind the table, in the half-darkness, setting the point of my sword in the wood, holding the hilt with both hands, surveying them.
“I have come for you, Cernus,” said I.
“Kill him!” cried Cernus to the man who had ridden against me, a Taurentian, and to the other two Taurentians, guardsmen.
The man who had ridden against me threw me a look of hatred and drew his sword, but, angrily, he threw it to the tiles.
Cernus cried out in rage.
The other two Taurentians, one after the other, drew their swords and threw them to the tiles.
“Sleen!” cursed Cernus. “Sleen!”
The three Taurentians turned and ran from the room.
“Come back!” screamed Cernus.
Philemon, of the Caste of Scribes, his eyes wide with fear, threw a look after the guards, and then he, too, turned and fled.
“Come back!” screamed Cernus. “Come back!” Then he spun and faced me.
I regarded him, not speaking. My face must have been terrible to look upon.
“Who are you?” stammered Cernus.
In that moment I believe perhaps I did not appear Tarl Cabot, whom Cernus surely knew me to be, but some other. It was as though he had never looked upon the face that now, dispassionately, regarded him.
“I am Kuurus,” I said.
I had, in my passage from Sura’s chamber to the Hall of Cernus, stopped in the chambers where I had resided. There I had once more donned the black of the Assassin. There, once more, I had affixed on my forehead the mark of the dagger.
“The killer?” said Cernus, his voice breaking.
I said nothing.
“You are Tarl Cabot!” he cried. “Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba!”
“I am Kuurus,” I told him.
“You wear upon your forehead the mark of the black dagger,” whispered Cernus.
“It is for you,” I told him.
“No!” he cried.
“Yes, Cernus,” said I, “it is for you I wear the black dagger.”
“I am innocent!” he cried.
I would not speak.
“Menicius!” he cried. “It was he who slew the Warrior of Thentis! Not I!”
“I have taken gold,” I told him. I would not yet speak to him of Sura.
“It was Menicius!” he wept.
“It was you who gave the order,” I said.
“I will give you gold!” he cried.
“You have nothing,” said I, “Cernus.” I regarded him evenly. “You have lost all.”
“Do not strike me,” he begged. “Do not strike me!”
“But,” I laughed, “you are first sword of the House of Cernus. You are even, I hear, of the Caste of Warriors.”
“Do not strike me!” he whimpered.
“Defend yourself,” I said.
“No,” he said. “No. No.”
“Noble, proud Cernus,” I scoffed.
“No,” he said. “No. No. No.”
“Very well,” I said. “Disarm yourself and surrender. I will see that you are conveyed safe to the courts of the Ubar, where I trust justice will be dealt.”
“Yes,” whimpered Cernus, “yes.” He reached humbly, brokenly, into his robe, drawing forth a dagger. I eyed him narrowly. Suddenly he cried, “Die!” and hurled it at me. I had expected the move and had turned. The knife struck the back of the chair before which I stood, striking through the wood, stopping only with the hilt.
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“Excellent,” I commented.
He stood now with his sword in hand, eyes bright.
I cried out with a shout of exultation and leaped over the table towards him.
In an instant our blades had met in the swift discourse of flashing steel.
He was an excellent swordsman, very fast, cunning, strong.
“Excellent,” I told him.
We moved about the room, over the tables and behind them, across the square of sand.
Once Cernus, moving backward, defending himself, fell over the dais, and my sword was at his throat.
“Well,” I said, “will it be my steel or the impaling spear of Ar’s justice?”
“Let it be your steel,” he said.
I stepped back and permitted him to regain his feet. Again we fought.
Then I drew blood, from the left shoulder. I stepped back. He tore his robe from his body and wore only the belted house tunic; the left shoulder was soaked with blood.
“Yield,” I told him.
“Die!” he screamed, rushing again towards me.
It was a superb attack but I met it and drew blood twice more, once from the left side, once from the chest.
Cernus reeled back, his eyes glazed. He coughed and spit blood.
I did not follow him.
He regarded me, breathing hard. He wiped a bloody forearm across his face.
“Sura is dead,” I told him.
He looked startled. “I did not kill her,” he said.
“You killed her,” I said.
“No!” he cried.
“There are many ways in which a man can kill,” I said.
He looked at me, haggard, bloody.
I moved my position. He looked over his shoulder, saw the door from the hall which led to the stairs and passage leading to the chambers of the beast. I saw a sudden, wild elation cross his features. He set himself as though to receive my attack. Then, suddenly, he spun and ran for the door.
I let him reach the door, jerk it open, take his stumbling flight up the stairs, into the passage.
At the head of the stairs, I at the foot, he turned. “It will protect me!” he cried. “You are a fool, Tarl Cabot!” He hurled his sword down the stairs at me. I stepped aside and it clattered past. Then he turned and fled down the passage.
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