Assassin of Gor

22 — THE STADIUM OF TARNS

I brought the tarn down behind the tiers in the Stadium of Tarns, in the Readying Compound of the Steels.

I heard the warning bar for a race about to begin.

As my bird, with a flash of wings, struck the sand of the compound, four men armed with crossbows rushed forward.

"Hold!" I cried. "I am of the Steels!"

Each of those who charged wore upon his shoulder the grayish patch that betokened the faction.

I found myself covered by their weapons.

"Who are you!" cried one.

"Gladius of Cos," I told them.

"It may be," said one, "for he is of the size and build."

The crossbows were not lowered.

"The tarn will know me," I said.

I leaped from the back of the tarn I rode and ran through the compound toward the perch of the black tarn.

Midway I stopped. Near one perch there lay a dead tarn, a small racing tarn, its throat cut. Near it, being tended for wounds, lay its intended rider, groaning. I knew the man. His name was Callius.

"What is this?" I cried.

"We enjoyed a visit by the Yellows," said one of the men grimly. "This tarn was slain and the rider direly wounded. We beat them off."

Another of the men gestured with his crossbow menacingly. "If you be not Gladius of Cos," said he, "you will die."

"Do not fear," I said and grimly strode toward the perch where I knew there would be the great black tarn, the majestic tarn of Ko-ro-ba, my Ubar of the Skies.

Approaching him we heard a wild tarn scream, of hate and challenge, and we stopped.

I beheld, in its compound, strewn about its perch, more than five men, or the remains of such.

"Yellows," said one of the men with the crossbow, "who tried to slay the bird."

"It is a War Tarn," said another.

I saw blood on the beak of the bird, its round black eyes, gleaming, wild.

"Beware," said one of the men, "even if you be Gladius of Cos, for the tarn has tasted blood."

I saw that even the steel-shod talons of the bird were bloodied.

Watching us warily it stood with one set of talons hooked over the body of a yellow. Then, not taking its eyes from us, it put down its beak and tore an arm from the thing beneath its talons.

"Do not approach," said one of the men.

I stood back. It is not wise to interfere with the feeding of a tarn.

I heard the judge's bar ringing three times signaling tarns to the starting perches. I heard the crowd roar.

"Which race is it?" I asked, suddenly afraid that I might be too late.

"The eighth," said one of the men, "that before the Ubar's Race."

"Callius was to have ridden this race," I said.

But Callius lay wounded. His tarn was dead.

"We stand one race behind at the beginning of the eighth," said one of the men.

My heart sank. With Callius wounded and tarns at, or near, their perches, the Steels would have no rider. My own tarn, if it could be readied at all, could not be brought to the starting perches before the ninth race, that of the Ubar. The Steels could not, thus, even did they win the Ubar's race, carry the day.

"The Steels are done," said I.

"But one rides for the Steels," said one of the crossbowmen.

I looked at him suddenly.

"Mip," said he.

"The little Tarn Keeper?" I asked skeptically.

"He," said the man.

"But what mount?" I queried.

"His own," said the man. "Green Ubar."

I was stunned. "The bird is old," I said. "It has not raced for years." I looked at them. "And Mip," I said, "though he knows much of racing is but a Tarn Keeper."

One of the men looked at me and smiled.

Another lifted his crossbow, leveling the weapon at my breast. "He is perhaps a spy of the Yellows," said he.

"Perhaps," agreed the leader of the crossbowmen.

"How do we know you be Gladius of Cos?" asked another.

I smiled. "The tarn will know me," I said.

"The tarn has tasted blood," said the leader. "It has killed. It feeds. Do not approach the tarn now or it will mean your death."

"We have little time to waste," I said.

"Wait!" cried the leader of the crossbowmen.

I stepped toward the great black tarn. It was at the foot of its perch. It was chained by one foot. The run of the chain was perhaps twenty-five feet. I approached slowly, holding my hands open, saying nothing. It eyed me.

"The bird does not know him," said one of the men, he who had suggested I might be a spy of the yellows.

"Be still," whispered the leader of the group.

"He is a fool," whispered another.

"That," agreed the leader, "or Gladius of Cos."

The tarn, the great, fierce saddlebird of Gor, is a savage beast, a monster predator of the high, blue skies of this harsh world; at best it is scarce half domesticated; even tarnsmen seldom approach them without weapons and tarn goad; it is regarded madness to approach one that is feeding; the instincts of the tarn, like those of many predators, are to protect and defend a kill, to the death; Tarn Keepers, with their goads and training wires, have lost their lives with even young birds, trying to alter or correct this covetousness of its quarry; the winged majestic carnivores of Gor, her tarns, do not care to share their kills, until perhaps they have gorged their fill and carry then remnants of their repast to the encliffed nests of the Thentis or Voltai Ranges, there to drop meat into the gaping beats of white tarnlings, the size of ponies.

"Stand back!" warned the leader of the men.

I stepped forward, until I stood within the am bit of the tarn's chain.

I spoke softly. "My Ubar of the Skies," I said, "you know me." I approached more closely, holding my hands open, not hurrying.

The bird regarded me. In its beak there hung the body of a Yellow.

"Come back!" cried one of the crossbowmen, and I was pleased that it was he who had thought I might be a spy for the Yellows. Even he did not care for what might now occur.

"We must ride, Ubar of the Skies," said I, approaching the bird.

I took the body of the man from its beak and laid it to one side.

The bird did not attempt to strike me.

I heard the men behind me gasp with wonder.

"You fought well," said I to the bird. I caressed its bloodied, scimitar-like beak. "And I am pleased to see you live."

The bird gently touched me with its beak.

"Ready the platform," said I, "for the next race."

"Yes," said the leader of the men, "Gladius of Cos!" His three companions, putting aside their bows, rushed to prepare the wheeled platform.

I turned to face the man and he tossed me a leather mask, that which Gladius of Cos wore, that which had, for so many races this fantastic summer, concealed his features. "Mip," said the man, "told me this was for you."

"My gratitude," I said, drawing the mask over my head.

I heard the judge's bar, a bristling fire of wings, and the sudden, wild roar of the crowd. "The eighth race has begun," said the leader of the crossbowmen.

I slapped the beak of the bird affectionately. "I shall see you shortly," said I, "Ubar of the Skies."

I strode from the bird's side and made my way through the readying compound of the Steels until I climbed the stairs inside the low wall separating it from the aria leading out onto the broad path leading to the starting perches; I dropped over the wall and made my way across the sand until I came to the dividing wall separating the two sides of the track. I ascended stairs there until I stood, with many others, on the dividing wall, and from there could watch the race. The leader of the crossbowmen in the compound of the Steels followed me.

I heard cries of astonishment from those I passed. "It is Gladius of Cos!" I heard. "It is he!" "I thought he feared to appear." "No, Fool, not Gladius of Cos!" "Assassins lurk!" "Flee, Rider, flee!" "Flee, Gladius of Cos!"

"Be silent," said the man with me, quieting with his command the cries and admonitions of those about us.

The birds, some nine of them, only a few feet overhead and to one side, flashed past, wings cracking like whips, beaks extended, the riders hunched low in the saddles. Those on the dividing wall staggered back.

I caught a glimpse of Green Ubar, Mip in the saddle, lost in the flurry of whipping wings.

I saw six wooden tarn heads mounted on poles at each end of the dividing wall, indicating the laps remaining.

Some seventy or eighty yards away I saw the box of the Ubar and, upon the throne of the Ubar, Cernus, of the House of Cernus, in the imperial purple of the Ubar.

For the moment his attention was distracted from the race, as a messenger, a fellow I had seen but a moment before on the dividing wall, hastened to his side, whispering something in his ear.

I suddenly saw him look to the dividing wall.

Masked, I stood there, facing him.

Angrily he turned to the man and gave him a command.

Again the furious passage of the tarns overhead was marked in the beating of wings, the cries of the riders, now the flash of tarn goads, the turbulence of the air slashed from their path driving against us.

This time, on the center side ring, a nonfaction tarn was forced into the padded bar by a sudden swerve of Menicius of Port Kar, riding for the Yellows. I had seen him use this several times before. I noted that Mip had been following Menicius, and when Minicius had swerved Mip had taken advantage of the opening thus presented and, like a knife, had plunged for the heart of the ring. The bird that had struck the ring was tumbling stunned into the net. The great heavy ring was swinging on its chains. Menicius, I saw, savagely dragged his bird back to the center of the flight path, cursing, realizing how Mip had waited to take advantage of his momentary surrender of the center.

The crowd, regardless of which patch they wore, cried out with admiration.

A tarn of the Reds, a large-winged bird, goaded almost to madness by a small, bearded rider, wearing a bone talisman about his neck, held the lead. He was followed by two brown racing tarns, their riders wearing the silk of the Blues and the Silvers. Then followed Green Ubar, Mip one with the winged beast, high stirrups, his small body hunched down, not giving the bird its head. I wondered at the bird. I knew its age, the diminishment of its strength, that it had not raced in many years. Its feathers lacked the fiery sheen of the young tarn; its beak was not the gleaming yellow of the other birds, but a whitish yellow; its breathing was not that of the other birds; but its eyes were those of the unconquerable tarn, wild, black, fierce; gleaming with pride and fury; determined that no other bird nor beast shall stand before it.

I feared for the strain of that old heart, redoubtable and valiant.

"Beware!" cried my fellow, he with the crossbow and I spun to catch the wrist of a man striking toward my back with a dagger.

I broke his neck and threw him to the sand at the foot of the dividing wall.

He was the man who had reported my presence to Cernus, he to whom Cernus had issued an order.

I turned and regarded the box of the Ubar. Saphronicus, of the Taurentians, stood beside him.

The hand of Saphronicus was on the hilt of his sword. The fists of Cernus were white, clenched on the arms of the Ubar's throne.

I returned my attention to the race.

My fellow, now, instead of watching the race, stood, armed, with this back to mine, his crossbow ready.

The tarns, like a torrent of beating wings and talons, swept by again.

The large-winged tarn had fallen back now, the lead being taken by the rider of the blue, a small, shrewd man, a veteran rider but one too precipitate. I knew his bird. He had moved to soon.

I smiled.

Mip, on Green Ubar, swept past the large-winged tarn. Second in the race was now the rider who wore the silk of the Silvers. Already he permitted his bird freedom of the reins. I saw there were two tarn heads left on the poles. I did not know the strength of the bird. With a clear strike at the first of the end rings, however, the bird, headstrong, resenting the sudden pressure on the control straps, went wide.

Mip took advantage of this cutting in closely, following now the rider in blue silk.

Menicius of Port Kar, riding for the Yellows, tearing at the control straps of his bird, tarn goad showering sparks to the sand below, tarn screaming, fought his way, birds buffeting, past the Silver trying to regain the center of the rings.

The Blue, leading now, expertly blocked Mip at ring after ring. I noted that the bird ridden by the rider in blue silk was tiring. But yet the race could be won on blocking. Menicius of Port Kar had been slowed by the Silver's attempt to stop him.

Again and again Mip tried to pass above the bird of the Blues, ring after ring, and then, lifting the bird again, he suddenly cut to the low and to the left, executing the dangerous talon pass. The bird of the Blues raked downward, with talons that could have torn Mip from the saddle, but Mip had judged the distance superbly. I heard the rider of the Blues curse and those who favored the Steels leaped roaring to their feet.

"Look," said the crossbowman, who stood near me. He pointed to a spot about a hundred yards away, on a small wall, built itself on the dividing wall, near the pole of the wooden tarn heads.

I cried out with rage.

There I saw a Taurentian, armed with a crossbow, lifting it, preparing to fire as Mip passed through the third of the far end rings. The Taurentian had the stock of the crossbow to his shoulder, waiting.

The crossbowman with me said, "Do not fear." He raised his weapon to his shoulder. Mip was clearing the center ring of the end rings when the heavy leather-wrapped cable of the crossbow sprang forward and the quarrel hissed from the guide.

I watched the dark, swift flight of the quarrel, like a black needle, and saw it drop into the back of the Taurentian, who suddenly stiffened, seeming inches taller, the metal fins of the bolt like a tiny dark triangle in the purple of the cloak, and pitched lifeless from the wall.

Mip cleared the third of the end rings and streaked on.

"An excellent shot," I said.

The crossbowman shrugged, drawing back the heavy cable on the bow.

There was now but one tarn head left on the pole.

The crossbowman fitted another quarrel to his bow and stood as before, examining the crowd.

The crowd roared.

Mip held the lead.

Then the Yellows sprang to their feet in the stands.

Menicius of Port Kar, his tarn young, swift, competitive, was making his move, gaining rapidly.

Mip released the reins. He did not strike Green Ubar with the tarn goad. He shouted to him, crying encouragement, "Old Warrior, fly!" he cried.

I saw Green Ubar begin then to hold the lead, his wings striking with the accelerating, timed frenzy of the racing tarn, each stroke seeming to carry him swifter and farther than the last. Then, to my horror, I saw the wings miss their beat and the bird screamed in pain, and began to turn in the air, Mip spinning with the bird, trying to control it.

Menicius of Port Kar streaked past and as he did so his right hand flew forward and I saw Mip suddenly lose the reins of the tarn and clutch spasmodically at his back, as though trying to reach something. Mip was thrown back in the two thin safety straps of the racing saddle and then sagged in the saddle, leaning to one side.

I clutched the arm of the crossbowman.

The tarn of the Blues, and then of the Silvers, and then of the Reds flashed past the reeling tarn and its rider.

The crossbowman raised his weapon. "Menicius will not live to finish the race," he said.

"He is mine," I said.

Suddenly Green Ubar, in the flash of the wings and the cries of the riders passing him, righted himself and with a cry of rage and pain burst toward the rings, Mip sagging in the saddle.

Then the bird, which had in its time won a thousand races and more, addressed itself to that fierce and familiar path in the Stadium of Tarns.

"Look!" I cried. "Mip lives!"

Mip now hung on the neck of Green Ubar, his body parallel to the saddle, clinging to the bird, his face pressed against it, his lips moving, speaking to it.

And it is hard to say what I then saw.

The crowd roared, the tarns screamed, and Green Ubar, his rider Mip, flew, eyes blazing, for those final moments marvelous and incandescent in his youth, like a bird and rider come from the dreams of old men, as they knew them once, when they too were young. Green Ubar flew. He flew. And what I saw seemed to be a young bird, in the fullness of his strength, at the pitch of his prime and pride, his cunning and swiftness, his fury and power. It was Green Ubar of the legends, Green Ubar as he had been in the stories told by men who had seen him years before, Green Ubar, greatest of the racing tarns, holder of awards, victorious, triumphant.

When the bird came first to the perches of victory there was no sound from the crowd, that wast multitude totally silent.

Second was the startled Menicius of Port Kar, the palm of victory snatched from his grip.

Then all, save perhaps those closest to the noble Ubar of the city, began to cry out and cheer, and pound their fists on their left shoulder.

The bird stood there on the perch, and Mip straightened himself painfully in the saddle.

The bird lifted its head, resplendent, fantastic, and uttered the victory scream of the tarn.

Then it tumbled from the perch into the sand.

I, the crossbowman, and others, raced to the perch.

With my sword I cut Mip free of the safety straps and drew him from the tarn.

I jerked the small knife from his back. It was a killing knife, a legend carved about its handle. "I have sought him. I have found him."

I lifted Mip in my arms. He opened him eyes. "The tarn?" he asked.

"Green Ubar is dead," I told him.

Mip closed his eyes and between the pressed eyelids there were tears.

He stretched out his hand toward the bird and I lifted him, carrying him to the side of the inert, winged beast. He put his arms about the neck of the dead bird, laying his cheek against that fierce, whitish-yellow beak, and he wept. We stood back.

After a time the crossbowman, who stood beside me, spoke to Mip. "It was victory," he said.

Mip only wept. "Green Ubar," he said. "Green Ubar."

"Fetch one of the Caste of Physicians," cried an onlooker.

The crossbowman shook his head negatively.

Mip lay dead across the neck of the bird he had ridden to victory.

"He rode well," I said. "One might have thought him more than a simple Tarn Keeper."

"Long ago," said the crossbowman, "there was a rider of racing tarns. In a given race, attempting the head pass, he misjudged the distance and was struck bodily from the saddle by the high bar of the first of the center side rings. He was dropped broken into the path of following tarns, torn, and fell again to the lower bar of the ring and then to the net. He raced once or twice after that, and then no more. His timing, his judgement were no longer sure. He feared then the rings, the birds. His confidence, his skill, his nerve were gone. He was afraid, deathly afraid, and understandably so. He did not race more."

"Mip?" I asked.

"Yes," said the crossbowman. "It would be well," he said, "if you understand the courage of what he did here today."

"He raced well," I said.

"I watched," said one of the men of the Steels standing nearby. "He did not fear. There was no fear in his handling of the tarn. There was only sureness, and skill, and nerve."

"And pride," added another man.

"Yes, that, too," said the first man.

"I remember him," said another man, "from years ago. It was the Mip of old. He rode as he had ridden years before. Never did he ride a finer race."

There were murmurs of assent from those gathered about.

"He was then," I asked, "well known as a rider?"

The men about looked at me.

"He was the greatest of the riders," said the crossbowman, looking down at the small, still figure of Mip, his arms still about the neck of the tarn, "the greatest of the riders."

"Did you not know him?" asked one of the men of me.

"He was Mip," I said. "I know him only as Mip."

"Then know him now," said the crossbowman, "by his true name."

I looked at the crossbowman.

"He was Melipolus of Cos," said the crossbowman.

I stood stunned, for Melipolus of Cos was indeed a legend in Ar and in the hundred cities in which races were held.

"Melipolus of Cos," repeated the crossbowman.

"He and Green Ubar died in victory," said one of the men present.

The crossbowman looked at him sharply. "I remember only," said he, "the victory perch, Mip lifting his hands, the tarn's scream of victory."

"I, too," said the man.

The judge's bar rang twice, signaling the preparation for the ninth race, that of the Ubar.

I picked up the small knife which had slain Mip, that hurled by Menicius of Port Kar. I thrust it in my belt.

The platforms, bearing the tarns for the ninth race, were being wheeled onto the track area, approaching the starting perches.

Attendants rushed forward.

I picked up Mip in my arms and handed him to one of the Steels. The body of Green Ubar was placed on a platform and taken from the area.

The crowd was stirring in the stands. The caste colors of Gor seemed turbulent in the high tiers. Men rushed here and there securing the clay disks confirming their bets. Hawkers cried their wares. Here and there children ran about. The sky was a clear blue, dotted by clouds. The sun was shining. It was a good day for the races.

On a large board, against the dividing wall, on which the day's results were tallied, and lists and odds kept of the coming races, I saw them place as the winner of the eighth race Green Ubar, and his rider Melipolus of Cos. I supposed it had been years since the board had been so posted.

Menicius of Port Kar would, of course, ride in the Ubar's Race for the Yellows. His mount was the finest in their tarncots, Quarrel, named for the missile of the crossbow, a strong bird, very fast, reddish in color, with a discoloration on the right wing where, as talk had it, protagonists of the Silvers, long ago, had hurled a bottle of acid. I thought it a good bird. I respected it. But I had little doubt Ubar of the Skies, whose name I saw posted now for the Steels, was his master.

The races now stood even between the Steels and the Yellows. The Ubar's Race would decide the honors of the day, and of the Love Feast and, for most practical purposes, the season.

I looked to the box of the Ubar, and to that of the High Initiate, Complicius Serenus. Both boxes were draped with the colors of the Greens. I wondered if Cernus had yet received word of the events at the Stadium of Blades. Even now, through the streets, men were marching.

I walked to the board, where men were entering the information. There was no name following Ubar of the Skies for the Steels.

"Put there," I told the men, "the name Gladius of Cos."

"He is here!" cried one of them.

The other hastened to put up the name, letter by letter. The crowd roared with pleasure. I saw men from the betting tables conferring, some of them then approaching the board. Odds began to shift on the great board.

I heard the judge's bar ring three times, signaling the birds to their perches.

I strode in the sunlight across the sand toward the starting perches.

I saw Menicius of Port Kar standing on the platform, on which, hooded, trembling with anticipation, stood Quarrel, that marvelous reddish tarn, prince of the tarncots of the Yellows.

Before Menicius of Port Kar, and surrounding the platform as well, I saw a guard of Taurentians.

I approached them but did not attempt to penetrate their line. Menicius of Port Kar, his face white, climbed to the saddle of his bird.

I called to him. "Gladius of Cos," I said, "following the race would confer with Menicius of Port Kar."

"Stand away!" ordered the leader of the Taurentians.

"Menicius of Port Kar," I said, "was in the city of Ko-ro-ba during En'Var last year."

Menicius' fists went white on the reins of the tarn.

I took the killing knife from my belt, poising it in my fingers.

"He recalls a Warrior of Thentis," I remarked.

"I know nothing of what he says," growled Menicius.

"Or perhaps he does not recall him," I conjectured, "for I expect he saw little other than his back."

"Drive him away!" cried Menicius.

"A green patch might easily have been placed on the bridge a day before, an hour before. Menicius of Port Kar is skilled with the killing knife. The strike was made doubtless from the back of a racing tarn, a small swift tarn, maneuverable, darting among the bridges."

"You are mad!" cried Menicius of Port Kar. "Slay him!"

"The first man who moves," said the voice of the crossbowman behind me, "will swallow the bolt of a crossbow."

None of the Taurentians moved against me.

An attendant unhooded Quarrel, tarn of the Yellows. Its reddish crest sprang erect and it shook its head, rippling the feathers. It lifted its head and screamed at the sun.

When the attendant had unhobbled the bird it sprang to its starting perch, the first, or inside perch. It stood there, its head extended, snapping its wings.

It seemed to me a fine bird.

My own tarn, on its platform before the fourth perch, was unhooded.

The crowd cried out, as it always did, at the sight of that monstrous bird, the wicked beak, that sable, crackling crest, the round, black gleaming eyes. An attendant for the Steels unlocked the hobble from the right leg of the bird and leaped aside. The steel-shod talons of the war tarn tore for a moment at the heavy beams of the platform on which it stood, furrowing it. Then the bird threw back its head and opened its wings, and, eyes gleaming, as though among the crags of the Thentis Range or the Voltai, uttered the challenge scream of the Mountain Tarn, shrill, wild, defiant, piercing. I think there were none in that vast stadium who did not for the moment, even in the sun of the summer, feel a swift chill, suddenly fearing themselves endangered, suddenly feeling themselves unwitting intruders, trespassers, wandered by accident, unwilling, into the domain of that majestic carnivore, the black tarn, my Ubar of the Skies.

"Mount!" cried the crossbowman, and I did so. I would miss Mip at my stirrup, his grim, his advice, the counsel, his cheery words, the last slap at my stirrup. But I remembered him only now as he had held the saddle of Green Ubar, dying, but his hands lifted, in victory.

I looked across to Menicius of Port Kar. His eyes darted from mine. He bent over the neck of Quarrel.

I saw that he had been given another knife, a tarn knife, of the sort carried by riders. In his right hand, ready, there was a tarn goad. To my surprise I noted, coiled at the side of his saddle, in four loops, was a whip knife, of the sort common in Port Kar, a whip, but set into its final eighteen inches, arranged in sets of four, twenty thin, narrow blades; the tips of whip knives differ; some have a double-edged blade of about seven or eight inches at the tip; others have a stunning lead, which fells the victim and permits him, half conscious, to be cut to pieces at the attacker's leisure; the whip knife of Menicius, however, held at its tip the double-edged blade, capable of cutting a throat at twelve feet.

I noted Taurentians going to the other contestants in the race, conveying messages to them. Some of these men were protesting, shaking their fists.

"It would be well," said the crossbowman, standing by my stirrup, "not to fall behind in this race."

I saw a Taurentian bring Menicius of Port Kar a container, wrapped in silk, which he thrust in his belt.

"Look," I said to the crossbowman, indicating Taurentians, carrying crossbows, slipping into the crowd.

"Race," said he to me. "There are those of ours among the tiers."

I took the great tarn up with a snap of his wings to my starting perch, the fourth.

Menicius of Port Kar no longer seemed white, no longer afraid. His lean face was now calm; there was a cruel smile about his lips, his eyes. He looked to me, and laughed.

I readied myself for the sound of the judge's bar. The starting rope was strung before the tarns.

I noted, to my surprise, that the padding on the rings had been removed by attendants, and replaced with blade-like edges, used not in races but in exhibitions of daring riding, stunts in effect, in which riders appear to court death at the rings.

The crowd, all factions, cried out in protest at this.

The riders, with the exception of myself and Menicius of Port Kar, looked from one to the other warily, puzzled.

"Bring me," I said, to the crossbowman, standing at the foot of the perch, "from the belongings of Gladius of Cos, kept in the compound of the Steels, the bola of the Tuchuks, the kaiila rope, the southern quiva."

He laughed. "I wondered," he said, "when you would understand that you ride to war."

I smiled at him, under my mask.

An attendant of the Steels threw a package up to my saddle.

I laughed.

"We had them ready," said the crossbowman.

Another man, one of the Steels, who had ridden to victory earlier in the day, ran to the foot of the perch. "There are tarnsmen," said he, "Taurentians, but in plain garb, gathering outside the stadium."

I had expected as much. Such men doubtless had been used in the attack on the caravan of the Hinrabians. "Bring me," I said, "the small bow of the Tuchuks, the barbed war arrows of the Wagon Peoples."

"These, too," said the crossbowman, "are at hand."

"How is it?" I asked, "that these things are ready?"

"Mip," said the crossbowman, by way of explanation. "He well knew the race you would ride."

An attendant, from beneath his cloak, threw to the saddle the tiny, swift bow of Tuchuks, the narrow, rectangular quiver, with its forty arrows.

Not hurrying I strung the bow. It is small, double-curved, about four feet in length, built up of layers of bosk horn, bound and reinforced with metal and leather; it is banded with metal at seven points, including the grip, metal obtained from Turia in half-inch rolled strips; the leather is applied diagonally, in two-inch strips, except that, horizontally, it covers the entire grip; the bow lacks the range of both the longbow and the crossbow, but, at close range, firing rapidly, it can be a devastating weapon; its small size, like the crossbow, permits it to clear the saddle, shifting from the left to the right, or to the rear, with equal ease, this providing an advantage lacked by the more powerful but larger longbow; but, like the longbow, and unlike the crossbow, which requires strength and time to reset, it is capable of a considerable volume of fire; a Tuchuk warrior can, in swirling combat, from the saddle of the running kaiila, accurately fire twenty arrows, drawn to the point, in half an Ehn.

The small bow, interestingly, has never been used among tarnsmen; perhaps this is because the kaiila is almost unknown above the equator, and the lesson of kaiilaback fighting has not been much available to them; perhaps it is because of tradition, which weighs heavily in Gorean life, and even in military affairs for example, the phalanx was abandoned only after more than a century of attempts to preserve and improve it; or perhaps the reason is that range is commonly more important to tarnsmen in flight than maneuverability of the bow.

I suspect, however, that the truest reason is that tarnsmen, never having learned respect for the small bow, tend to despise such a weapon, regarding it as unworthy a Warrior's hand, as being too puny and ineffective to win the approval of a true Gorean fighting man.

Some of the riders of the Steels, I recalled, seeing it among the belongings of Gladius of Cos, had jested with me about it, asking if it were a toy, or perhaps a training bow for a child; these men, of course, had never, on kaiilaback, and it is just as well for them, met Tuchuks.

It seemed to me that combat on kaiilaback, and combat on tarnback, had much in common; I suspected that the small bow, though it had never been proven in battle on tarnback, might prove that it had worth in the Gorean skies as well as on the dusty, southern plains; I had further, in many nights of training with my tarn, taught it to respond to a variety of voice commands, thus freeing my hands for the use of weapons. Commonly, the tarn responds only to one voice command, that of "Tabuk," which tends, roughly, to mean "Hunt and feed"; further, I would have liked to use the Tuchuk temwood thrusting lance from the saddle of a tarn.

The tarnsman commonly carries, strapped to the saddle, a Gorean spear, a fearsome weapon, but primarily a missile weapon, and one more adopted to infantry. The tarnsman, of course, centuries before, had been developed from land forces; it had always seemed to me that the tarn cavalries of Gor might be considerably improved by a judicious alteration of weapons and training practices; however, I had never had a command of tarnsman of my own, and my ideas were of little interest, even to the tarnsmen of Ko-ro-ba, my city.

The Tuchuk horn bow was now strung, the quiver attached to the saddle, with the rope and bola. I wore my sword; I carried the killing knife I had taken from the back of Mip; lastly, thrust in my belt, was the double-edged quiva, the Tuchuk saddle knife.

There was a sudden clang of the judge's bar and the rope stretched before the tarns was jerked away.

The tarns, with the exception of my own, hurled themselves screaming, wings snapping, from the perches and streaked for the first of the side rings.

"Hold!" I had cried, and the great beast I rode, though it trembled, eyes blazing, did not leave the perch.

There was a cry of dismay from those near my perch. There was a roar of surprise, and of consternation, from the stands.

I looked across to the box of Cernus, Ubar of Ar, and lifted my hand to him, in mock salute.

Clutching the arms of his throne, he was staring at me, dumbfounded.

"Ride!" cried the crossbowman.

"Ride!" cried the others of the Steels.

Already the other birds in the race, nine of them, were approaching the first turn.

I looked at the poles bearing the twenty wooden tarn heads, signaling the circuits of the track to be made. The Ubar's Race is the longest, the most grueling of the tarn races. Its prize is the greatest, a thousand double-tarns of gold.

"Ride!" cried those of the tiers.

I laughed and then bent down to the neck of the black tarn.

"Let us fly," said I, "Ubar of the Skies."

With a sudden scream and a snap of the wide black wings the war tarn of Ko-ro-ba was aloft. I bent over the neck of the bird, the wind tearing at the mask on my face, my clothes. The tiers, like startled horizontal lines, flashes of blurring color, fled behind me. I was exultant.

I wanted the tarns before me to space themselves, so that I might pass them singly if possible. I was certain their riders had had orders from the box of Cernus to see that I did not win; it would be difficult for a single tarn to block a ring, but two together might well manage; further, in not taking the lead immediately, which I believe I could have done, I hoped to postpone the entry into the matter of the race of enemy tarnsmen, who surely would not interfere unless it seemed the victory of Menicius might be threatened; lastly I wished to remain behind Menicius of Port Kar as long as possible; I did not wish him, with his tarn knife, behind me.

Shortly before the first circuit of the track had been made I swept past the last bird, a nonfaction bird, whose rider, caught unaware, threw a side glance over his shoulder as I, as shadow upon a flying shadow, hurtled by over his head and to the left.

There was a roar from the crowd.

This warned the rider of the eighth bird, a Gold, and he bent low in the saddle, looked behind him to see, piercing the rings, eyes blazing, wings snapping, the great black tarn.

To the crowd's astonishment, but not to mine, he wheeled his tarn, a rare, gloriously plumaged jungle tarn from the tropical reaches of the Cartius, to block the first of the right center rings. The bird, beautiful, fierce, talons lifted, wings beating, hanging almost motionless before the ring, faced us.

My tarn struck him like a screaming saber of black lightning flashing through the ring.

I did not look back.

The crowd seemed stunned.

The seventh rider was a nonfaction rider, but a veteran rider, who, upon orders from the Ubar or not, did not intend to wheel his tarn to face me, thus surrendering his opportunity of victory.

Ring after ring he blocked us well.

I admired his skill and fought, in the circuits remaining, to seize upon his pattern, as he, doubtless, sought mine. My bird was the swifter. Both of us passed a startled rider for Silver, and then another nonfaction bird. He was now the fifth rider and I the sixth. Ahead of us there was Blue, Red, Green and, as Yellow, Menicius of Port Kar. I heard a scream of horror from behind us as one rider, pressing another, forced him against the side of the edged ring. The wind racing against me, I shuddered, for striking such a ring edge, at the speed of the racing tarn, might well cut a man or bird in two.

I glanced at the tarn heads remaining on the poles and saw, to my dismay, only eleven remained.

I could have forced my way past the nonfaction rider ahead of me but, with the edged rings, it would be at great risk to both of us, and to our tarns. He, no more than I, I am sure, cared to kill his bird or slay the opposing rider. It is one thing to force a bird or rider into the padded bars, and another against the great, swinging knives that were now the rings.

As I coursed behind him I realized that he, doubtless, like many others, had studied the races of Gladius of Cos, as Gladius of Cos had studied theirs. Yes, unfortunately, though the man ahead of me was a veteran rider he had ridden little at the Stadium of Tarns, being from distant Tor. I had never seen him race before, and Mip had told me nothing of him. If he had studied the races of Gladius of Cos, probably his blocking pattern was based on his supposition as to my inclinations in passing. Accordingly, though it ran against the grain of my instincts, though I actually found painful to me, the next time I felt that my strike should be the upper right I took the tarn to the lower left. To my chagrin he met the move and again I passed through a ring following him. I doubt that he was consciously reasoning these matters, but his apprehension, almost instinctual, based on watching me race, and on his years of experience, had led him to suspect even my pattern alterations. I knew Mip had had something of this rare gift and did not suppose that others, skilled, veteran riders, would be completely without it. I began to regret that I had so willingly surrendered the lead at the beginning of the race. Menicius, on Quarrel, was moving farther ahead each circuit.

I then recalled a conversation with Mip about such matters, the memory rushing through my consciousness like the flash of a metal bolt.

"What if your opponent, through luck or skill, senses your pattern, your every variation?" I had asked, more for amusement than anything else.

At the tavern of the Greens, he had put down his goblet of paga, and had laughed, spreading out his hands, "Then," he had said, "you must have no pattern."

I had laughed at his jest.

But he had looked at me, seriously. "It is true," he had said. And then he had smiled again.

There are four poles on the dividing wall at one end, and another four at the other end. These poles both keep the laps. At the beginning there had been, on each set of poles, twenty wooden tarn head, five to each pole. Now two poles of each set were empty. One of each set bore five tarn heads, the other bore four. There were nine laps remaining. I decided at the next attempt in passing I would, regardless of what I felt like, pass at the position of the numeral nine of Gorean chronometers.

I heard a curse as I shot past the startled rider, who seemed suddenly confused, looking about. His tarn lost its rhythm. I heard another bird, the one following it, strike it, screams of rage, those of tarns and men.

By the time there were seven tarn heads remaining on the poles I had caught up to the rider for the Blues, who held a poor fourth.

He was on a swifter bird than the rider from Tor but he was not the rider that was the other. I passed him on the lower left after a feint to the upper left. Trying to block in the wrong position he nearly hit the top of the edged ring and the startled bird was carried far out of the ring track and had to wheel to reenter the track.

The screams of the crowd were now deafening, though one could make out no words; the effect of the sound, as I flew through it, was, as I had often found it, a fascinating phenomenon, its pitch varying considerably, as one would expect, with my speed and position, particularly as I made the turns.

I heard a sudden hiss in the air and bent lower in the saddle. I had not seen it, but I knew the sound of the passage of a bolt from a crossbow. There were two more hisses. "On!" I cried. "on Ubar of the Skies!"

The bird, oblivious of the missiles, smote his way forward.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw perhaps fifty tarnsmen on the wall over the high tier on my right, perched there, waiting.

"On!" I cried. "On!" The bird sped on. "On, Ubar of the Skies!" I shouted.

Then, to my horror, I saw that both the rider for the Reds and he for the Greens, had wheeled their tarns and stood ready at the left center ring to block my passage.

The crowd was screaming in anger. It did not occur to me at the moment but the fact that one of these men was the rider for the Greens had made the allegiance of the Ubar clear to all. He, supposedly favoring the Greens, had apparently given orders to them as well that should not win. Menicius on Quarrel streaked forward.

My tarn struck the other two and in a moment, tarn goads flashing, talons clutching, birds screaming and biting, we found ourselves as in a clenched, winged fist of fury, beating and turning before the left center ring. Then we were struck by another bird, the Blue I think, and then by the bird ridden by the Torian, and then one of the others.

The Green, rider cursing, tumbled back out of the fist, bleeding at the side of the throat, out of control, screaming. The Red rider broke free and returned to the race. He had also, like Menicius of Port Kar, and two of the other riders, raced in the eighth. He was a small bearded man, stripped to the waist; about his neck he wore a bone talisman for good luck.

The Silver bird flashed past.

My tarn was locked, talon to talon, with a nonfaction bird; each was tearing at the other; the tarn goad of the rider struck me, almost blinding me with pain; for an instant my consciousness seemed nothing but a blinding shower of yellow, fiery needles; his tarn struck for me and I beat its beak away with my own tarn goad, cursing wildly; we turned and, held in the saddles by safety straps, spinning, we struck at one another, tarn goads like swords, splashing light about; and then we were past the ring and broke apart; my bird would have stayed to kill; but I drew it away. "On, Ubar of the Skies!" I cried. "On!"

There were now three birds beyond us, the Red, the Silver, and the Yellow.

I saw the brightly plumaged bird, who had first contested a ring with us, in the net below, alive but trembling.

Somewhere behind I heard a scream and the judge's bar signaling that a ring had been missed. I sped on.

Another bolt from a crossbow hissed past.

"On!" I cried. "On!"

Ubar of the Skies, like black fire, burned past one ring and another.

There were still five tarn heads on the poles when he overtook, between rings, and passed the Silver. In another turn he passed the Red. The man was beating his tarn unmercifully with the tarn goad, the bone talisman on its string flying behind his neck. As I drew near, and then abreast of him, I saw madness and fury in his eyes. He attempted, in moving through the rings, to force us to the left, into the heavy edge, but before he could do so, we had passed him.

I cried out exultantly. Ahead there was but one tarn, that of Menicius of Port Kar.

"Now," said I, "let us fly, Ubar of the Skies."

The bird gave a great scream and the wings began to strike the air with the fury of victory.

Low on the bird's neck I saw, ahead, the bent figure of Menicius of Port Kar, astride Quarrel, growing larger and larger.

I saw four tarn heads left on the poles.

I laughed.

The great black tarn hurtled on. "Victory will be ours!" I cried to him.

Even faster did he fly.

Suddenly, to my dismay, I heard about us shouts and the thunder of wings and, closing in upon us, and following us, and rushing to meet us, were tarnsmen.

The crowd's protest of fury must have torn its way to the very clouds in the calm, blue sky.

I whipped out the Tuchuk bow and, in the instant, found myself wheeling and fighting in the midst of more than a dozen tarnsmen, while many others, wheeling about, attempted to press in upon me. Ubar of the Skies suddenly uttered a scream that terrified even me, raising the hair on my neck and arms; it was not simply the challenge scream of his kind; it was a scream of pleasure, of horrifying eagerness, of the tarn's lust for blood and war; steel-shod talons grasping, screaming, beak tearing, Ubar of the Skies, his black eyes blazing with delight, hurled himself on odds that pleased him, odds which even he, that majestic carnivore, could accept as worthy.

Again and again the small bow, swift and vicious, fired, twenty barbed arrows in half an Ehn, tarnsmen struggling to reach me with their swords, thrusting with their heavy spears, and all the time Ubar of the Skies tearing and ripping, his beak and steel-shod talons engines of fierce carnage; I felt blood along the side of my neck as a bronze-headed spear seemed to flash in my face and then I saw, to my horror, the arm that had thrust the spear seized in the beak of my tarn and wrenched from the hideous body torn screaming from the saddle of its tarn, the safety strap parting like twine.

The tarnsmen, packed together, impeding one another's movements, were fodder for the slaughter of the Tuchuk bow, and then, crying out with fear, they turned aside their mounts and broke before us.

"The race!" I cried. "The race!"

The tarn, to my amazement, turned from the fray in an instant and smote his way from the environing, reeling tarns and struck out again for the rings.

Menicius of Port Kar was now far in the advance of my tarn, silent, save for the crack of his great wings, eyes bright, blood on its beak and steel-shod talons, again took up the pursuit.

In the time we had fought four tarns had passed us, though the rest were still behind, either fallen from the race or unable to pass the rings where tarnsmen still wheeled in disarray. I heard the judge's bar ring twice, indicating two had failed to clear one ring or another.

Swiftly we passed one tarn, a nonfaction bird.

The Silver, the Red, and the Blue were still ahead of me, as well as the Yellow, that of my foe Menicius, he of Port Kar.

Two wooden tarn heads now surmounted the high poles.

Another crossbow bolt feathered its swift way, a line of blurred light, soft, past me.

When I came to the right center rings I again encountered tarnsmen, now regrouped. Again and again the Tuchuk bow fired and again and again unwilling tarnsmen felt the lightning-like kiss of the barbed steel. Then the arrows, of which there had been forty, were gone. 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 ring.

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 straightaway, 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!"

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 a 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, and 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 robes 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 dismounted 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.