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  But the old bitch was nowhere to be found today. Maybe she had found another boy to rape. Jahi was thankful that at least something was going right. The day had started out marvelously, for with the light of dawn, the Paralatae were able to see the Great Fair more clearly.

  It was enormous!

  The tribe was camped on the outskirts of the festivities, but even from here, exotic smells and beautiful men beckoned to her. A great majority of the tribe had gone at first light to investigate the wonders of the Great Fair, but to her fury, Zohak forbade her to go wandering. He had said that morning, swollen with pride because of his new power, “Your duty now is by my side. You need to represent the tribe and I’ll not tolerate disobedience on this matter. Are you listening wife?” She turned her attention to the crowd of men once more. She had heard her husband, but she had to show him that she would be the master of her own destiny. She believed in allowing a man to hold his deluded views of his own greatness, but there was a limit.

  Her eyes were caught and held by a well-dressed—person. Was he even male? She was fascinated and apparently, so was he. She let the soft leather shoulder strap of her brief dress slide carelessly off. As she reached a lazy hand over to pull it up, the creature’s glistening lips tightened in an expression she knew well. They were full lips, like a girl’s and they seemed to be tinted a delicate pink. It must be male she decided, as it had no breasts. He was clad in the most amazing costume of light blue silk, trimmed in frilly silver lace. His hair was the palest blonde she had ever seen and it looked painstakingly set into perfect, stiff ringlets. She experienced a hot flash of memory, seeing that tousled wild hair, deep black, being lifted by the wind as the magnificent blue stallion beneath him strode forth. She still couldn’t believe that Atar could look so handsome. The delicate man before her was a far cry from that delectable morsel, but he would serve as a nostalgic reminder of the passion she would now never be able to enjoy. She sighed, and flipped her hair one last time.

  It was time for her to go and “represent the tribe.” She rose and set down the fishbone comb she had been using carelessly. Maybe the gentleman needed help deciding which horse he would like to purchase. She noticed that four men, who were dressed in striking scarlet and black uniforms, surrounded the man. He must be a very rich man she thought.

  She sashayed forth, conscious of the sudden quiet and stillness. The fence separated her from the men, but she had their attention now. Taking her time, she moved toward the fascinating man, relishing the atmosphere of sharp yearning that she knew she evoked. Setting her elbows on a fence post, she leaned lightly toward the man, giving him a view down her blouse. There was a strong floral fragrance surrounding the man and she had to make an effort not to wrinkle her nose in disgust. Raising her lashes in a practiced counterfeit of shyness, she saw with satisfaction that his eyes were glued to her cleavage.

  “Does the gentleman fancy any horse in particular, or does he require help in a decision?” she inquired. He did not respond for a moment, so fixed was his gaze on her breasts. She sighed. Men were all the same, except for the Idiot. Her breasts tingled in remembrance of that hard palm. The little man sucked in his breath, mistaking her arousal as a reaction to him. He twisted the rings adorning his pale fingers in agitation. He turned quickly and gestured to a uniformed man near him, apparently a translator. The little man spoke briefly, addressing her breasts, she supposed, since that was where his gaze rested.

  The translator turned to her, “His Royal Majesty, Heir Apparent, Prince Sugreeva the Fair of Persia greets you, barbarian outlander.”

  She flicked her eyes to the translator, then back to Sugreeva, smiling. She liked the arrogant ones, they always begged for more in the most pathetic manner. “Jahi the Lovely, Queen of the Paralatae returns your greetings and begs to know how she can be of service.”

  The Prince’s eyes widened as he caught the double meaning. “It would be my pleasure to show you around this gathering. I have been here for two weeks already and I can see you have only just arrived from Scythia, my little barbarian.”

  After the words were translated, she smiled, concealing the greater part of her delight. This was perfect. “That would be delightful, Prince Sugreeva the Fair.”

  He stepped back as one of his guards easily lifted Jahi over the fence, touching her ass quite unnecessarily. He grasped her hand in a proprietary manner and led her away into the throng of brightly clad people and scores of stalls filled with fanciful merchandise. She would have liked to linger, but Sugreeva was displaying typical manly impatience. To her intense pleasure, he bought her a gaudy gold necklace that she had admired briefly. It seemed to cinch his claim on her in his own mind. As they moved through the throngs, Jahi would point at foods she fancied, and the little prince would buy them for her. He seemed to be disgusted at how much she could eat, or maybe it was her manners? She didn’t care. The food was mostly marvelous, but some of it made her spit it out in disgust. There were sharp tastes. The translator said they were rare and expensive spices. She didn’t care about that either.

  He led her, accompanied by his entourage, into a more quiet section of the fair, where luxurious tents were erected, each one widely spaced from the others. He stopped before a ridiculous salmon pink tent and let himself in, not bothering to hold the flap open for her. She contemplated the closed flap before her briefly and shrugged. Why not? This could be amusing.

  A single dancing lamp lighted the tent. The interior was much larger than it appeared to be from the outside. The floral perfume she had detected earlier was much stronger in here. She let her eyes devour the sight of all the gleaming riches, while the man unbuttoned his shirt. The ground was covered by an odd counterfeit grass, which was ornately patterned. The bed was raised from the ground in the most peculiar manner and the covers weren’t even skins. A gold statue of a naked woman gleamed in the expanse of ground between the bed and door. Objects beautiful and bizarre sat on low tables, amid bowls of exotic fruits.

  Suddenly she gasped as she caught sight of a beautiful, dark haired woman framed in an ornate window of gold flowers. Sugreeva laughed out loud when he understood the source of Jahi’s shock.

  Jahi watched the woman stare brazenly back at her, an expression of shock on her face. Suddenly she realized that the woman was her own reflection. She would have stepped closer, for a more thorough investigation, but the man stepped between.

  “They’ll be time enough for that later, my dear little barbarian, now you must see to me.”

  Jahi did not have to understand his language to understand his intent. She shucked out of her dress in a business-like fashion. Jahi approached him as if he were a curiosity. She’d lain with a large number of the men in her tribe, but even the youngest were unlike this one. The men of her tribe were robust and powerful. This man had no chest hair. There was a little bit of whitish hair surrounding his small cock. And it was small indeed. With no foreplay at all, the frail prince straddled her and grunted in a delicate, high voice as he thrust weakly. She looked at the pretty things in the room over his shoulder. Suddenly he squeaked and it was over. He performed miserably, but at least it was brief. She finished up the job herself. When she was done, she fell back onto the pillows with a contented sigh.

  Sugreeva was all but asleep, despite the noise, and she regarded his delicate face tenderly. He was unlike a man, but also unlike a woman. He was lying on his back panting softly. A man like this would come in handy. Rich men were usually useful, even incompetent ones. Especially incompetent ones.

  It was then that she noticed the dark amulet gleaming on his pale, hairless chest. The dull green serpent coiled against the black background.

  She sat up and gasped, pointing at the amulet.

  “I would like to speak with you, fetch the translator.”

  He cocked his head, watching her point to the entrance and as if he understood her, he called in the translator.

  The smartly dressed man blushed as red as his uniform when he saw
the naked forms tangled in the sheets.

  Jahi said, “Tell him that my husband has a necklace just like this. Isn’t that peculiar?”

  A bemused expression came over Sugreeva’s face as the information was relayed to him. He smiled and shrugged, dismissing the translator with a haughty wave. The red-faced man left precipitately, tripping on a fold of the carpet in his haste.

  Chapter Three

  Ezad the Insane sat in the shadows, his three fingered hands clamped tightly around the mug of steaming ale. Invading bars of sunlight shot through the darkness from the big gaps in the makeshift ceiling. The alcohol did little to stop the pain in Ezad the Insane’s face, but worse than the pain was the confusion. He knew he was muttering to himself and couldn’t stop. He didn’t even try to stop. His brain was seeing Dahaka the Sly attack him again and again.

  “Ezad good spy, smart, yes. Ezad loyal to Dahaka.” He whimpered like a hurt animal. His tone changed, becoming hard and sandy, “Dahaka attack Ezad—he attack—try to kill Ezad!” he broke off again to whine and burble consolingly into his mug.

  The other patrons of the makeshift bar slanted him looks every now and again, but they did nothing. Ezad’s behavior wasn’t really that unusual in a bar like this. The Great Fair attracted any number of quacks and crazies just like others did, but on a larger scale. The other patrons kept their backs facing Ezad the Insane, careful not to lock eyes, lest he attack them.

  The door at the other end of the room opened with a bang that startled the drinkers out of their relatively peaceful moods. All heads turned, except for Ezad the Insane, who was wrapped up in his own world of sorrows. The figure in the doorway paused for a moment to adjust his eyes to the gloom, then hurried forward to one of the drinkers at the bar. A brief, whispered conversation took place, at the end of which the bar patron got up and hurried out, leaving his half-full cup of ale.

  There was a whooping shout outside and a thickening of the excited atmosphere that perpetually clung to the festival air. Two more drinkers got up. Ezad the Insane stared into space, remembering what it felt like when Dahaka had attacked him. He had drawn his knife and lunged at him, that odd, careless expression on his face. The pain came like a white-hot burst of heat across his face. His mind played it over and over and over in his brain, never letting Ezad the Insane gather his thoughts or form a plan.

  Curious at the continued absence of the others, the rest of the men in the room waited for their return. Finally, one of them got up to see what was going on. Not a minute passed when the man returned, breathless and wild-eyed.

  “Good Lord, Horyieo, the Scythians have come to the Festival! You have got to see them and those horses! You’ve never seen anything like it!”

  “What?” Several people exclaimed, shock and disbelief evident in their tones.

  “They’ve come to sell their horses because of the drought. It must have been even worse than it was here to make them come out and show themselves. I thought they were just a myth!”

  The bar quickly emptied as everyone rushed outside to catch a glimpse of the mysterious wild people. Ezad the Insane woke out of his trance at the sound of the slamming door. The muffled conversation faded as the people moved off. The only sound now was the clink of glasses as the bar owner rearranged them. Ezad the Insane blinked stupidly, looking around. He got up, joints creaking and hobbled toward the door, still dazed and dizzy.

  He stepped outside and saw, to his shock, that the streets were mostly deserted. There were a few people hurrying along, but they were all headed in the same direction. Almost without meaning to, he followed them, kicking the dust up deliberately as he dragged his feet along. In his mind, Dahaka came at him again and he whimpered. Time must have passed for he found that he was on the edge of a crowd, watching the barbarians set up camp at the edge of the Fairgrounds.

  He watched them like the rest of the crowd, but suddenly he was overcome with the shakes as an idea struggled to the surface of his mind. Scythians. Scythians. There was something important about these people.

  Ezad the Insane watched them, muttering incoherently, but as wide-eyed as the rest of the crowd. This was a once in a lifetime treat and the people at the Fair eagerly watched the reclusive Paralatae. They set up camp remarkably quickly. There were far too many of them to take in all at once. The whole tribe must have come. The herd stretched out into the distance, but there were two other groups of animals besides the horses. Sheep, who looked half-starved and cattle of some sort, grazed off to the left. The people were far more interesting to most of the curious onlookers. The Paralatae strode around the camp in their barbaric clothing, carrying out their barbarian tasks such as making fires and arranging their dwellings. He was too far away to make out their features, but he leaned forward.

  Dahaka’s knife gashed his face. His master’s empty, careless eyes stared at him. Suddenly Ezad remembered. Scythia was the only place where Emperor Hergor had not been able to search for the Lost Prince. Only Hergor and his closest men knew he had not killed the Prince, the son of Cunaxa and Dahaka. Ezad, one of the best spies that was ever born, had found out, of course, and told his master, Dahaka the Sly. The Prince, if he was still alive, was the one thing that threatened Hergor’s claim to the throne. The people would rally behind the rightful Prince, and Dahaka would be restored to his former power. Even if Queen Cunaxa refused to remarry Dahaka, he would rule through his son. Emperor Hergor’s treachery against Dahaka would then be punished.

  But Ezad no longer wanted that. Dahaka had betrayed him. He would have killed poor Ezad if the spy hadn’t been as quick as the wind. Ezad’s mind laboriously tried to work through the fog of his whirling thoughts. His moan broke off into a cackle of laughter and those around him edged back a little further. King Hergor would love to hear that the Scythians had come into his reach at long last. He would love to get his hands on that lost prince! Ezad the Insane would take his revenge on Dahaka. Dahaka the Sly—Dahaka the ungrateful, mean-spirited master!

  Chapter Four

  “This is no time to be sleeping, Atar.” Bulliwuf poked him in the ribs.

  Atar stirred and moaned, finally coming into consciousness. The sky was streaked with red and Bulliwuf was nearly suffocating him with his effusive efforts to restore him. His wet tongue slapped the young man’s face.

  Atar felt the weight of the tiger being pulled off his leg and he sat up, groaning as his bruised and battered body flexed. Atar submitted to Bulliwuf’s ministrations with a minimum of protests. He was too tired. He must have dropped off to sleep, because when he awoke, the sky was dark and the moon had risen. He mixed the herbs that Bulliwuf had gathered for him and drank the vile brew, grimacing dramatically.

  Atar groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Bulliwuf’s voice was growing fainter as the drugs took effect. Bulliwuf had taken his human form and he was caressing him gently. He shivered with cold, but the heat from Bulliwuf’s body pulled him under finally. His last agitated thought was that he really needed to get moving in case the tribe was still following him.

  The next time Atar opened his eyes, he was surprised to find it was morning. He felt refreshed, but desperately hungry. Bulliwuf came trotting over, bushy tail held high, and plopped a bloody piece of meat onto Atar’s bare chest. Atar tore into it hungrily, sitting up.

  Thank you Bulliwuf, you must have gone hunting in the night?

  Bulliwuf snorfled Atar’s face, taking advantage of his distraction.

  Thank the gods that Zohak didn’t find me! I suppose my safest course of action would be to follow the original plan and lose myself in the crowd at the Great Fair? Where’s Ishria? He looked around anxiously.

  “Yes, I will accompany you.” Bulliwuf snapped at a fly. “As I promised. I will come with you, but only in the form of a wolf.”

  Atar choked on the last bit of meat. What? I just can’t believe you’re going to show yourself in front of people. You’ve never ever done anything like that! What made you change your mind?

 
; Silence, then Bulliwuf said mysteriously, the time draws near.

  What is that supposed to mean? Atar got no more answers out of him, but it didn’t bother him. He was too busy being happy at Bulliwuf’s change of heart. He would not be alone. For once, he would not be alone.

  He skinned the tiger cheerfully whistling.

  Bulliwuf sang a howling song, circling Atar while he worked. The noise of their combined unmusical efforts increased as each sought to outdo the other.

  What a magnificent pelt! Atar held the tiger pelt up and tried it on, striking a pose. I look like the first man, Gayomard, don’t you think? But he had a leopard skin, I guess. Atar flexed his muscles, still striking poses.

  He kept the upper jaw intact, scooping out the brains while he whistled tunelessly. Atar tried the pelt on again, tying the forelegs together, just above his breast.

  Atar exclaimed, we should get moving. How far is the Great Fair from here?

  “Oh, am I being consulted? The Great Fair is about a day’s ride from here.” Good, Atar said, let’s go right now.

  The pelt was still smelly and would have to be salted soon. Ishria sidled away from him, unhappy about the prospect of carrying someone with such a scary carnivorous reek. Soon, however, Atar mounted and rode along briskly with Bulliwuf trotting by his side.

  The invigorating morning air did much to buoy his spirits, which had been flagging recently. He was now literally, an outcast. After a lifetime of being scorned and ignored, it was a wonder his new lowly status affected him at all. But a man could not survive without a tribe. Bulliwuf’s story had cemented the idea in Atar’s mind. Bulliwuf had lost his lover, and even his humanity after losing his tribe.