Wolves of the Gods

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The demon glared down at Safar, fangs bared, yellow eyes narrow with suspicion. "State your business, human!"

Safar staved off nausea as the soldier's foul breath washed over him and forced his most jovial smile.

"Profit and entertainment, sergeant," Safar said. "If not the first, why we'll settle for the second. Especially if it comes with ale."

Beside him, Leiria smacked her lips. "I hear Nadaan makes the best ale in all Esmir," she said.

The demon soldier peered at her, noting her dirty mail and even dirtier sword. His eyes swept on, taking in the ox-drawn wagon and the three heavily-laden camels. Besides Safar and Leiria, who were both leading horses, there were four other humans-a driver for the wagon and three men to tend the camels.

There was something decidedly shabby about the group. Their clothes were unkempt, the animals' fur was clotted-even the canvas covering of the wagon was filthy.

The demon snorted in disgust. "You call this a caravan?"

Safar sighed, leaning against the portable barricade blocking the road. Five soldiers-three of them human and all wearing the uniforms of Protarus' troops-guarded the barricade. About a mile beyond were the Naadan city walls.

"It's a long story sergeant," he said. "And not a very pleasant one, either. A year ago I was sitting pretty.

A dozen wagons, a score of camels plus horses and men and…" he glanced at Leiria, lowering his voice,

"…And I had a proper guard, if you know what I mean. Six outriders and a retired captain of the king's own to lead them."

He let his voice rise again. "But you don't want to hear my tale of woe, sergeant. Times being what they are, there's hundreds of poor merchants just like me all over Esmir. So broke we clatter like a glazier's cart on a badly cobbled street. All we ask is a chance to get back on top again. Hell's, I'd settle for just staying even!"

The demon shrugged, massive shoulders rising like mailed mountains. "What do I care, human? You and your entire shabby lot can turn into dust and blow across the desert, for all it means to me."

He jabbed a taloned-thumb at the gates of Nadaan. From beyond came the caterwaul of bad music and the babble of a great crowd. "Besides, rules'r rules. If you wanna to sell your trash at the Naadan Fair you gotta have a permit. No riffraff allowed. And that's my job-to keep out the riffraff."

Once again his eyes swept Safar's ragged outfit, but this time his look was more meaningful. "Smells like riffraff to me," he said.

Safar slipped a fat purse from his sleeve. He gave it a good shake so the silver rattled.

The demon's long, scaly ears perked up at the sound.

"Are you sure we can't come to some sort of arrangement, sergeant?" he asked. "Hmm?"

As they came to the city gates Leiria cantered closer to Safar. "You're getting to be such a good liar," she teased. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

Actually, he was. As far as Leiria and the others knew they were in Naadan on a routine raiding mission.

Which was far from the truth.

"I'm not ashamed one bit," Safar laughed. "But I am damned thirsty. In fact, before we get down to the business of robbery why don't we try some of that famous Naadan ale?"

Leiria wrinkled her hose. "I was just looking for something nice to say," she laughed. "Actually, I hear their ale tastes like mare's piss," she said. "But he looked like the sort of creature who liked mare's piss, if you know what I mean."

She made a rueful face. "Guess I'm getting pretty good at lying myself."

Safar flinched and looked away so she didn't see the guilt in his eyes.

Inside the gates all was madness. It was the last day of the fair and the streets were packed with revelers.

Traffic was a great drunken weave with no apparent purpose or goal. There were tribes and villagers from all over the vast high desert region. There were painted faces, scarred faces, veiled faces, faces with filed teeth, faces pierced with jewelry, and, yes, even a few faces that would have been ordinary except they stood out among so many exotics.

Until recent years the Naadan Harvest Festival-which the fair celebrated-had been a minor event that drew only nearby farmers and herdsmen. It certainly hadn't been large enough to entice Methydia to stop with her circus when she and Safar had passed this way. The circus had instead gone to Silver Rivers, a much larger and richer town and many miles distant. But a series of disasters had reduced Silver Rivers to a ghost city, where the only inhabitants were bandits. Silver Rivers' misfortune, however, had been Naadan's good luck. Five years of rich harvests-so rare in recent times that it seemed a miracle-had turned the city into a thriving center of life and commerce.

The once sleepy water hole in the middle of the Northern Plains now enticed people from hundreds of miles around-including Safar Timura and his band, who quickly unburdened themselves of their paltry caravan by simply walking away from it. Sharp-eyed thieves led the wagon and animals off before Safar and the others had melted into the crowd. Just as the shrewd demon sergeant had noted the caravan was worthless. The goods were trash. The animals spavined. They were all surplus booty from an encounter that had gone badly for a group of seedy bandits.

"So much for my debut as a merchant prince," Safar joked, after they'd all found a grog shop and had ordered up mugs of cold wine. "Shed my whole caravan and didn't earn a clipped copper for my troubles."

Renor, who had been driving the wagon, snorted. "Oh, I don't know about that, sir. We couldn't throw the stuff away or bury it because it'd give us away. And the animals were not only useless, but eating us out of hearth and home. Hells, we made a profit just by getting rid of them."

He took a long happy drink from his mug. "Least, that's how I see it, Lord Tim-" and one of his companions elbowed him before he could get the whole name out.

Realizing he was in the middle of a packed bar, and someone might overhear him, Renor blushed and ducked his head. "Sorry," he said. "I'm not used to so many people about."

A man staggered into their table, sloshing his drink all over them. "That's what I tole him," the man roared into Safar's face. "An' if he dares say the same thin' to me again, while I'll spit in his face! The dirty son of a…" and then the man realized Safar was a stranger and his voice trailed off. He burped and pulled back.

"You're not my friend," he said, surprised. Then he shrugged. "Just don't tell nobody, right?"

"Right!" Safar said and the man staggered away. He turned back to Renor. "No need for sorries," he said. "In this place we're as safe as in the middle of a forest."

Unnoticed by them, across the room the drunk suddenly straightened. He looked back at Safar's table, measuring with sober eyes. Then he smiled and exited the tavern whistling a merry tune.

Back at the table, Safar refilled everyone's mugs, saying, "You're in charge of this little expedition, Leiria.

Why don't you give us our orders now so we can drink up and be on our way?"

Leiria nodded. "This should be fairly simple," she said. "Easier than most, as a matter of fact, because we have a good map of Naadan, thanks to that little trove of maps we got from Coralean.

"You've all got your copies, right?" The men all nodded, but just the same they patted their pockets to make sure. "And you all know which area you're to do your snooping in, right?" More nods.

"Fine. Now, here's what to look for. If you have barracks in your sector, check to see how many beds they have. That'll tell us the exact number of soldiers on hand during normal times. My guess is that most of the soldiers we're seeing are here temporarily for fair duty and will be gone within a day or two.

"Also, if there are any storehouses in your area of search, see what kinds of grains, food, clothing, etcetera are inside. The more portable the better. Pay close attention to this, because we want to have a good shopping list drawn up when we show up here with our army to talk things over with the king.

Quintal, I think his name is.

"We also need first hand knowledge of all the ways in and out of the city. Maps are good, but they aren't always up to date, or even accurate when they are. We don't want to have to beat a hasty retreat, then find that the gate we're heading for-a gate clearly indicated on our map-has long since been covered up. Or was just a royal architect's dream that never got funding."

She looked at each man. "Is that all clear? You understand what you're supposed to do and how to do it? I know we've gone over it all before, but I want to make sure. We can't afford any mistakes. Protarus'

soldiers are none too bright, but they can be as error-prone as they like. For us one mistake might be a death sentence."

Everyone said they understood. Then, to avoid suspicion by getting up and leaving en-masse, they drifted away one-by-one, until only Leiria remained. She stared at him, eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion.

"What's going on, Safar?" she asked

"Going on?" Safar said, all innocence. "Why, what ever do you mean?"

She kept staring, eyes ferreting for some sign beneath Safar's bland features. Finally she sighed. "Never mind," she said. "I'm sorry I asked."

And then she was gone. Safar caught a serving wench by the elbow and ordered up another jug of wine.

His assignment was to investigate the city's central arena where the sporting matches were going on-and to get a close look at the Naadanian king. At least that's what Leiria thought. Actually, Safar's mission was much more difficult.

Asper had bade him to go to Naadan. For what purpose, he hadn't said. Safar grimaced, wishing the master wizard had given him the smallest hint of what he was supposed to accomplish in Naadan. All Safar could think to do was go about his thieving business and pray for a sign.

Then the wench came with the jug and he set about the impromptu task of restoring his confidence. He settled back in his chair and let the warm sounds of the tavern flow over him. It had been a long time since he'd been in such easy company. When he was a student in Walaria his happiest hours had been spent at the Foolsmire, a tavern catering to the student trade that was known for its cheap wine and even cheaper books.

Safar took a big gulp of wine, enjoying the feel and taste of it going down. Strange thing-he remembered liking wine in those days, sometimes in excess if truth be known. But he didn't remember needing it. This wine he definitely needed.

And with good reason, he thought. At one time, the odds against him ever reaching Naadan had seemed insurmountable.

He drank his wine, remembering…

It was an epic flight, an odyssey of terror. Panic lurking like cliff edges on every side as Safar used all his tricks, plus inventing scores more, to keep himself and his charges alive and out of Iraj's clutches.

The first days were so desperate that Safar didn't have much memory of them. Everything was a blur of hysterical people and animals and badly packed baggage trains careening from one mountain pass to another. Safar had a vague route in mind to confuse their pursuers, but it was all Leiria and her scouts could do to keep the Kyranians on the right track.

The journey might have been made easier if Safar could have commanded the leading party-his presence alone tended to calm people. But out of necessity he had taken up position well in the rear with Renor and his friend, Sinch, to assist him. He peppered the trail with magical spells and traps to confound the enemy. He also triggered a whole series of avalanches, blocking not only the passes they'd pushed through, but all others as well so Iraj's scouts couldn't tell which way they'd taken.

Luck was also with them. As they were coming out of the mountains into the northern wastelands an unseasonable storm roared in from the Great Sea, hammering the ranges with icy blizzards and bringing all of Iraj's forces to a miserable halt. Meanwhile, the Kyranians were safely in the rocky foothills and Safar and Leiria only needed to keep the villagers moving through the heavy rainstorm.

When the rains stopped they found themselves in a bleak landscape of blasted stone. Oddly formed peaks burst out of blackened ground that was cut by hundreds of ravines and gullies, many so deep and broad and filled with storm-swollen creeks and rivers it took days to negotiate them.

It was in these badlands that Safar performed the greatest non-magical tricks of his life. Food was scarce and water came only in amounts that were treacherous-swift moving streams that could sweep away a wagon and its contents, or tracks that remained waterless for day after throat-parching day. To shake off Iraj he relied on Coralean's maps of all the secret caravan routes that crept through the north country from the Gods Divide all the way to Caspan and the Great Sea. All the main trade centers were also well-documented, including routes meant to avoid the clusters of bandits that prowled the outskirts of civilization.

The sheer number of Kyranians, plus their lack of experience on the road, nearly defeated Safar at the start. Fortunately they had reached the relative safety of the badlands, with all its switchbacks and secret trails, before Safar was overwhelmed by the sheer logistics of the expedition.

When they'd abandoned and burned their village, the Kyranians had fled with little thought of what they ought to carry away with them. Some households tried to transport all their worldly goods-from kitchen stoves to festival dinner service. Others only snatched icons off the wall, cats from the hearth seat and lucky cicada cages made of dried reeds that buzzed like supportive orchestras when the insects sang their songs of romantic longing. The Kyranians pressed everything into service that could carry weight for their flight-from lumbering ox-powered freight wagons down to sledges drawn by goats. They also tried to take all their animals-goats by the hundreds, oxen by the score and llamas and camels by the dozens.

Even favorite horses long retired from toil were brought along. The consequence of this chaos was an enormous unwieldy mass of people and animals spread all over the landscape. Heavily-ladened wagons broke down, animals scattered and were lost, one pregnant woman and a several elders died of exhaustion.

But when all seemed lost, Safar dug keeper into his sack of leadership secrets to rally his people and put steel back into their spines. The villagers stripped themselves down to the barest necessities, burying tons of abandoned goods and household items in places where Iraj's scouts couldn't find them. When they set out again they were a disciplined force that got better with each passing day. Thanks to Leiria and Sergeant Dario, most of the young men were being turned into a skilled fighting unit, so they had little to fear from bandits and rogue soldiers.

When supplies ran low Safar used Coralean's maps to find secret routes to the richest towns and cities and after he'd raided them the Kyranians were able to vanish with ease into hidden passes and deep ravines.

To keep his people going, Safar dangled the vision of Syrapis before them-a paradise to replace the one they'd lost. Meanwhile, he kept edging them toward Naadan. The city was to the north, as was the Great Sea, so no one guessed his intentions.

It didn't hurt that Safar wasn't that sure of them himself. However, after worrying on that bone until it was splinters, he gave up. Frustrating as it was, he had to let the winds of fate carry him where they would-as long as they headed north. To keep his will focused he reduced everything to a simple mantra: Naadan, Caluz, Syrapis. Naadan, Caluz, Syrapis. Naadan, Caluz…

…Syrapis!

He wondered what waited for him there. Prayed that whatever it was, it would at long last answer the two questions that had haunted and driven him his entire adult life: What was killing the world?

And how could he stop it?

Safar downed his wine and poured another. At the rate he'd been traveling, he thought, he'd die of old age before he reached that fabled isle.

What was Asper's line? Oh, yes, "…All who dwell 'neath Heaven's vaults … live in dread … of that monster, Time…"

Monster, indeed.

He got up to leave, nearly stumbling over a skinny little crone who had been leaning, unnoticed, against his table.

"Pardon, Granny," he said politely. But as he spoke he felt a sudden prickle of magic sniffing along his skin.

The crone grinned a toothless grin, saying, "Alms, master. Alms for a poor old woman."

Safar kept his features mild, showing no reaction to her witch's magic. He cast a spell to ward off her snooping, fishing in his purse for a few coppers to cover his actions.

"Here you go, Granny," he said, plopping the coins into her outstretched claw. "Make your prayers sweet for me tonight."

He moved on, pushing through the crowd until he reached the door. As he went out he turned sideways to peek at the witch's face. She looked most disappointed. Just beyond her he saw a familiar figure. It was the drunk who had bumped into his table not long before.

You don't need a Master's License from Walaria University to figure that one out, he thought as he walked down the street. Obviously, the witch was looking for him and that fake drunk was in her employ. Iraj had offered a fortune for Safar's head and this wasn't the first time he'd encountered reward seekers. They were easily spotted and avoided, so normally he didn't trouble himself. However, he'd never encountered a bounty-hunting witch before and it made him wonder if some new element had been added to the game.

By the time he reached the arena he'd decided it was only a coincidence that this particular reward seeker was a witch. He bought a ticket at the gate and went inside, putting the crone from his mind. He did go more cautiously, however, his magical senses wary for more signs of danger.

The highlight of the Naadan Fair was the wrestling tournament, an ancient sport taken to a high art in this region. Hundreds competed in the opening matches but their numbers were whittled down as the festival progressed until the final day when the last two men competed for the championship.

Safar bought a bowl of hot peppered noodles from a vendor and joined the spectators in the stands.

Some were cheering the action on the big grassy field, but others paid no attention at all-gossiping or eating or scolding unruly children, while on the field several pairs of beefy champions grappled with one another, heaving and hauling as they attempted to hurl their opponents to the ground. In Naadan wrestling matches often went on for hours before a winner was decided, so the spectators behaved accordingly, becoming only fully absorbed at key moments in the matches.

While Safar ate his noodles he casually searched the stands until he found the wide stone box with its gaily colored awning shading King Quintal and his family. The royal box was just across from him, so he could see the king quite clearly. He was a big man, a once muscular man who had gone to fat. His face was puffed and red in the places his gray-streaked beard didn't cover. While around him his children and wives cheered the match, the king watched sullenly, drinking deeply and frequently from his cup.

"Looks like the king's drunk again," said the man sitting next Safar. He turned and saw a pleasant little fellow with a pudgy face and a wine-stained robe. "Seems like Quintal's always drunk these days."

Pudge Face lifted up a leather bag and shot a stream of wine down his throat. He wiped his mouth, cleaned his hands on his robes, which were of a rich material, then said, "Bad example for our children, if you ask me."

He offered Safar the wine bag. After he drank, Safar passed it back, saying, "Glad I'm not king. Can't think of a more boring life. Being a good example, I mean."

Pudge Face chuckled. "No chance of that for me," he said. "But I never wanted to be champion, much less king. Got a nice little shop, a good wife and five hard-working daughters to keep it running while I do what I like." He slapped the wine bag. "And what I like is this."

Safar glanced around at the crowd, many of whom were as red-faced with drink as Quintal. "I'll wager Naadan is as silent as a temple vestry when this festival is over," he said.

Pudge Face laughed. "Whole city will be passed out for at least a week," he said. "Nothing, but nothing gets done after a harvest festival. Nobody on the streets, that's for sure, unless they're on their way to a healer to get something for their sick heads and bellies. Hells, even the taverns are closed because the innkeepers are as bad off as the rest of us."

Safar was delighted with this intelligence. The festival was officially over tonight. That would give him a day or two, if needed, to track down the answer to Asper's mysterious command. It'd also make the supply raid much easier. They could ride right up to the king's palace and face him unopposed. The escape ought to be just as easy. Few would see them go and those who did would be in no shape to follow.

The crowd burst into cheers and Safar looked up to see the reason for the sudden mass interest. Out on the field there were only two wrestlers left. Their victims were being helped away by officials in flowing red robes with yellow sashes and high-topped boots.

The victors were huge men, wearing only short leather breeches with wide belts. Their bodies were streaked with so much blood that it was hard to tell the difference between them and the losers who had already been carried off the field. They stumbled as officials led them into the center of the field for the final match. The crowd shouted its appreciation and everyone seemed to be scrambling to get a bet down.

"What's going on?" Safar asked his new friend.

"This is what we've been waiting for!" Pudge Face said excitedly. "Finally, we're going for the championship! Won't be long and we'll see who's the new Titan."

He pointed at the wrestlers. One was entirely bald, the other shaggy as a bear. "The hairy one's Butar,"

he said. "The other's called Ulan. He's the most popular wrestler in Naadan. And favored in this match.

Hells, Ulan could be king himself one day. Which would be a big improvement over Quintal, that's for certain."

"What's the prize?" Safar asked, wisely skirting the political issue of who'd make the better king.

"Whoever wins today," Pudge Face said, "gets to put Brave Titan in front of his name. He'll also be rich for life. Plus, this year, there's a special prize. To thank the gods for it being such a good harvest year."

At that moment Safar felt a tingling sensation against his chest and his hand came up unconsciously to touch the horse amulet dangling beneath his shirt. To his surprise it was quite warm and was growing warmer by the minute. He clutched it, wondering what was happening.

Just then six riders dressed in flowing, calf-length robes, rode onto the field. They appeared to be some sort of honor guard and they pranced about showing off to the crowd. What they were presenting soon became apparent as two men trotted out, leading a magnificent horse onto the field.

Safar felt a shock jump from the amulet to his skin and he nearly cried out-not from pain, because the shock was more surprising than hurtful. His entire attention was suddenly fixed on that horse.

It was the most remarkable animal he had ever seen. Safar was a man of the mountains and no great horse lover. Plainsmen like Iraj, who spent their lives on horseback, practically worshipped the animals.

To Safar they were merely useful creatures under certain circumstances-circumstances rarely met in the snowy passes of the mountains. He liked them well enough and had even encountered a few with interesting personalities. On the whole, however, he thought a good goat or llama was far more valuable to a Kyranian.

But this creature seemed to exist on an entirely different plane than all other animals of its kind. He was almost godlike in beauty, so handsomely muscled he seemed like a great work of art from a master sculptor. He was tall, taller than any horse Safar had ever seen. He was the color of fresh cream, a deep and glossy off-white so full of depths he seemed to glow. His feet were black, as if he wore short boots on his hooves and he had a lighting bolt of black on his handsome forehead.

He ignored the crowd as he came out, giving off an aura of royal aloofness. When he came to the center he tossed his head high and pawed the ground as if he were anxious to be off on more important business than mere adulation.

Then Safar had a second shock as the horse turned his sculpted head and looked in Safar's direction.

The look flew across the distance and found him and he had a sudden feeling of warm and glad recognition. It was as if two souls had met and in the meeting an instant bond had been formed.

Safar whispered, "Hello, old friend!" And the horse rose up on its hind legs, pawing the air and shrilling a glad greeting.

And he thought, this is it! This is what Asper wanted me to find.

Then all was confusion as the horse was led to the side and trumpets announced the final match. The last note had barely faded away when Ulan The Bald rushed his opponent. It was as if the sight of the horse had given him new life and he grasped Butar by the belt and hoisted him off the ground. The crowd screamed in ecstasy as all the days of suspense ended in a quick, breath-bursting second as Ulan slammed his opponent onto the ground. Trumpets blared, drums rolled and big kites of every color were launched into the sky, carrying exploding fireworks in their tails.

Safar didn't see any of it. He was concentrating solely on the horse, who stood patiently in solitary splendor at the far side of the field.

"Now we'll see if there's going to be a challenge," Pudge Face said.

Safar, half in a daze, turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"Anyone can challenge the champion," he said. "At least that's the fiction. In a minute the king's gonna ask the crowd in if there is anyone among us who can best Ulan." Pudge Face took a drink, laughing at the same time and making a bigger mess of his robe. "As if any of us could outwrestle a Brave Titan!"

"What happens if someone does?"

Pudge Face laughed again. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "These men are not only giants, but they train all their lives. They know all the tricks."

"Still," Safar said, "what if such a thing occurred?"

"Then they'd win the title, plus the riches, plus the horse. But if you're considering some sort of wager, keep your money in your purse, my friend. No challenger has ever defeated a champion in the history of the games."

Pudge Face looked over at the horse. "More's the pity," he said. "A stranger could keep the horse for his own."

"What do you mean?" Safar asked.

"Well, this particular horse is meant for sacrifice. That's Ulan's gift to the gods."

Safar jumped at this, as if stung. But the little man didn't notice. He'd just tried to take a drink but found his wine sack was empty. He sighed, regretting his generosity. But that couldn't be taken back, so he looked across the field at the horse and gave still another sigh, but deeper. Sometimes life seemed so terribly unfair.

"Ah, look at that!" he said. "I'm as religious as the next person. Praise the gods once a week and try to do right in between. But the sight of that beautiful creature prancing about so proud … and knowing the poor thing's fate … is enough to make you wonder if the gods are right in their heads.

"Does our heavenly family really want to see this handsome creature handed over to thin-lipped priests with sharp little knives?" He shuddered. "Holy purpose or not, what a horrid fate for something so magnificent."

He turned to Safar. "With a little drink in you it makes you wonder if the gods even-"

Pudge Face stopped in mid-flow. The seat beside him was empty!

As Safar raced down the stairs he didn't notice the old crone reach through the crowd to snatch at his tunic with her long nails. He only felt resistance and he tugged hard. The fabric ripped and the witch snatched back a claw full of shredded cloth. He ran on, while behind him the witch chortled in glee.

"It's him!" she cackled. "I jus' know it is!"

Out on the field, Safar trotted toward Ulan. The officials stood back, incredulous. Who was this lowly creature who dared challenge a Brave Titan? Safar stripped off his shirt and as he ran the amulet bounced on his chest. Each time it struck he felt a warm glow. It was such a strong feeling that any misgivings dissolved before they were fully formed.

As he approached Ulan he heard the stallion whinny and he saw the two minders grappling with the animal, who was struggling mightily against the ropes.

Then he was standing before Ulan, who grinned at him through bloody gums and shattered teeth. Ulan stared down from a great height. Safar was tall for a Kyranian, but Ulan took him by at least a foot. Safar was slender, but broad of chest and shoulder. Against Ulan he seemed puny, a weakling with wrists that could be snapped easily and a slim bow of a backbone that could be crushed under Ulan's mighty feet.

The wrestler's bloody grin grew wider. He rose up, blowing his body out to intimidate his opponent. His brow beetled, making his eyes as small as spear points. He clapped his horny hands together, making a sound like thunder.

"Who are you, little man," he intoned, "to challenge the great Ulan?"

"All I want is the horse," Safar said, trying to throw his enemy off the mark. "You can keep everything else after I defeat you."

Ulan's big head split in two and he guffawed a great guffaw. "You can wish in one hand and defecate in the other and you'll soon see what comes out in the balance," Ulan said.

An official locked a wide belt around Safar's waist. "You know the rules," he said.

Safar shook head. "Actually," he said, "I've never done this before."

Both the official and Ulan were incredulous. "What a fool you are, little man," the wrestler said.

The official shrugged. "It's your life," he said to Safar. "You can do what you want with it." Then: "The rules are simple. Kicking, punching, gouging, neck breaking, whatever, are permitted. The fight ends when one man lifts another off his feet by the belt, then throws him to the ground. Getting knocked to the ground or slipping and falling doesn't count for anything. Got it?"

Safar gulped. "I think so," he said.

The trumpet blared and Ulan advanced on Safar, enormous arms outstretched to catch him whichever way he dodged.

Safar cast a spell of confusion and leaped to the left. Ulan lofted a clumsy swing, missing with a blow so strong that Safar heard the punch explode the air as it sailed past his head.

Ulan made a lumbering recovery and Safar grabbed him by the big leather belt and heaved.

Ulan looked down on him, amused. He spread his feet and became a weight that could not be moved.

"Heave away, little man," he mocked.

Safar gasped, but it was like trying to pick up a mountain.

Then a blow like an unleashed siege machine sent him flying. As he sailed through the air he heard the stallion nicker in alarm. It gave him strength and as Safar hit the ground he tuck-rolled to his feet.

The Brave Titan of Naadan bellowed and swept down on him like an avalanche.