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  Glancing up at the sky to orient himself, he headed east. The sun was well up by now, but Atar had used the sun as his compass his whole life. As he progressed, he noticed how the people around him had become more animated. They tended to stride with purpose, rather than to meander in a leisurely fashion. Furthermore, the women of the crowd began to thin out, until the hum of conversation was dominated by the deeper tones of men.

  He couldn’t see much, but the irritating voice of an announcer of some kind carried well over the voices of the men. He could see the man who was making the ruckus now. How could such a small, dwarf-like man emit such a roaring voice? The dwarf had enormous, dark gray mustaches and it looked like he hadn’t shaved the lower part of his face this morning.

  Atar did not understand the words, but suddenly the crowd lifted a huge bear of a man up onto the raised platform. Stepping over the stout ropes, which ringed the platform, the monstrosity roared, flinging a scarlet towel off of his massive shoulders. He gnashed his teeth and snarled at the audience at large. His pale eyes were devoid of all discernible human feeling, as far as Atar could tell. He felt as if he were gazing into the flat eyes of a fish or a snake. But his observation about the unpleasant quality of the man’s eyes played second fiddle in Atar’s mind, for the young man was struck dumb with the monster’s shameless lack of hair. Had he no pride in his masculinity? The shining bald head was shaved!

  Atar was closer to the platform now. The press of crowd would have normally put his teeth on edge, but today it did not seem important with the sun shining and with the interesting ceremony unfolding before his eyes.

  The dwarf was addressing the audience, and a tall man was translating his words into various tongues. “Grendelof, the fierce barbarian of the wintry Northern Provinces, eight time winner of the Champion Fighter Prize, salutes you again. Are there any men present who would prove their superiority and win honor by challenging the eight time winner of the Champion Fighter Prize?”

  An affirmative followed, but it was not as loud as one might have supposed. The dwarf man had broken out into a sweat. Someone in the crowd called out, “after eight days of triumphs, who will fight that monster?”

  The dwarf man pointed at the bag of gold, which was set up in a prominent, tempting display. “Today the prize money will be doubled.” He paused as people gasped.

  He searched the crowd and saw Atar staring. “I believe we have a volunteer, step forward young sir,” The dwarf smiled beguilingly at Atar, who stood with his mouth agape and his brow crinkled in puzzlement.

  What did they mean by summoning him, of all people? He hoped he would not be required to speak. That thought made his step falter and his mind reel momentarily. To his surprise, the crowd hoisted him onto the platform. He felt the coarse ropes in his hands and against his legs. He scaled the ropes with his customary unconscious grace and the fish eyed man roared at him, spittle flying.

  Atar wrinkled his nose in disgust and waved his hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to dissipate the rotten stench that had issued from the man’s mouth. The little dwarf was screaming something, which seemed to penetrate into the mind of the huge man. He drew back into the center of the platform and when Atar did not immediately follow, the dwarf made an impatient, “get over here” motion. He tentatively took a few steps forward to face his opponent, still not sure what was expected of him. The fish-eyed man was at least a head taller than he was, although Atar was unusually tall himself. The dwarf said something and hurriedly withdrew. Atar was left to stare quizzically at the malevolent giant.

  Glancing back to the dwarf, he saw that bets were being exchanged, but he still did not understand their significance. The crowd was growing as more were attracted by the sound of animated betting. Even in the increasing pitch of the fevered betting, the crowd still parted to let some obviously rich spectators through to the front. Atar watched them with great amusement and unbridled curiosity. First there came a number livery men in striking red and black uniforms followed by a—what was it? The fair creature was clad in a costume of light blue, on the ends of which frothy silver lace fluttered. At its side a vaguely familiar woman walked. Her face was not visible because she was studying the ground as she picked her way along and the broad brim of her hat hid her features. Behind those two, a tall formidable figure, clad in black wizard robes, walked. As the scowling wizard proceeded, Atar heard the whispered name “Dahaka” several times. Atar glanced away. He did not like the look of the scowling wizard man. There was something vaguely familiar about it.

  Finally the dwarf turned toward the two men who faced each other on the platform and raised his hand, palm outward. The dwarf paused for a moment, for dramatic effect. Then he brought his hand down, but Atar kept his eyes on him, expecting more, half expecting the man to twirl around in complicated foreign dance steps.

  The next thing did not happen especially fast, but Atar was so unprepared for it, that it took him by surprise. The big man’s rock-like fist came hurling at his head with the force of a meteorite. It struck a glancing blow to the side of his head, which nonetheless made him reel back with stars in his eyes. He felt the ropes catch him and he put out a hand in a desperate attempt to steady himself. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

  He heard the roar of the crowd, cheers and whistles, dimmed in a haze of pain. The man was advancing again. Atar bared his teeth at him, hot rage clearing his vision. Springing to his feet, he slowly circled the fish-eyed man, the calculation glimmering in his deep blue eyes. He attacked, his movements blurred by speed, landing a blow of terrific force directly on the man’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. The big man bent at the waist, drooling with nausea, only to be soundly kneed in the face. The crowd went wild. The sight of Grendelof on the floor screaming in agony was welcome after so many days of seeing his burly arms raised in victory. Even those men who had bet the wrong way cheered.

  Atar looked around a little embarrassed. He wasn’t quite sure what the hell to do now, but the attention he was receiving had a decidedly positive edge. The little dwarf man climbed up the ropes and seized Atar’s arm, holding it up in victory. With much pomp, he ostentatiously presented the heavy bag of gold to Atar, who upon receiving it looked inside curiously. His eyes lit up and the crowd laughed.

  Atar looked at them and gasped involuntarily when the sweetly beautiful face of Jahi the Lovely smiled up at him from her front row position at the light blue person’s side. The dwarf was busy calling out bets and money was being exchanged in earnest in much the same way it had been when Atar first stepped up onto the platform. Atar was at a loss, what should he do now?

  A hysterical roar burst from the crowd, ending on a quite un-masculine high note that nonetheless conveyed the wild rage that had provoked the outcry. It did not quell the excited chatter of the men, but it turned quite a few heads, including Atar’s. The roar came again, and to Atar’s horror, Zohak, at the head of six or seven of his men, appeared. He was frantically shoving his way through the crowd, black eyes fixed in a mask of rage.

  Zohak’s face was an alarming shade of purple as he grabbed frantically at the ropes and vaulted awkwardly onto the stage. Atar took a step back, heart pounding with fear. The dwarf saw what was happening and leapt into Zohak’s way. The dwarf’s rather round face was wreathed with a gruesome, triumphant smile that was entirely inappropriate for the occasion, especially since the man he was trying to reason with was frothing with anger. The dwarf was chattering excitedly at Zohak with his hands up in a warding off gesture. Judging from his expression, Zohak seemed to catch the basic drift. He set his feet and glared, eyes burning in unadulterated hatred. They were of a height, although Atar had never realized it until this moment when he looked him right in the eye. Zohak’s hands were clenching and unclenching as he stared at Atar. Atar tried to quell the gnawing fear that ate at his gut, making him want to retch. He had just faced a larger opponent without much difficulty, but the man before Atar was much more terrifying
. As far back as Atar could remember, this man had dominated his nightmares and tortured him by day. He was the mightiest warrior in the Paralatae tribe, a tribe that was known throughout the world as ferocious and terrifying. Atar felt his fingers go numb and his face felt drained of color as a warm puddle formed at the base of his shaking legs. He turned away, hoping to God that when the time came he would have the courage to fight back.

  Atar turned his eyes to the dwarf feeling a paralyzing fear seize him. The dwarf man was in conversation with the evil looking mage who wore black. The hard, almost speculative stare the wizard was giving him may have made Atar nervous, if he hadn’t been so afraid of the enraged man before him. As it was, he thoughtlessly stared back at him. Money changed hands. The glint of gold in the noonday sun added a heat to the proceedings that would have otherwise not been there.

  The dwarf turned back, and as before, he raised his hand, palm outward. There was a breathless pause and the crowd was almost silent. Atar could feel cold sweat trickle down his back. Time slowed to a crawl and sound dimmed in Atar’s world. The hand went down and Atar felt fear freeze him into place. Zohak punched him savagely in the face, snapping back his fist and dancing backward while Atar reeled from the tremendous impact of the blow. The crowd roared and cheered. Atar stepped back awkwardly, trying to avoid Zohak. His vision was bleary from the blow. Atar felt Zohak’s fist box the side of his head, which snapped back, throwing him off balance. He landed painfully on his side.

  He sobbed in a ragged breath then heaved with nausea as Zohak’s foot connected with his stomach. He curled into a defensive ball. His face rested in a puddle of blood. Distantly he heard the crowd roaring. Pain wracked his being.

  Nothing seemed to matter but putting an end to the pain. In his mind, he remembered a sun-dappled glade. Bulliwuf was cussing at him, correcting his fumbling punches and kicks. His dear friend had spent so many hours teaching him, and now this…

  As Atar was thrust back into reality, sound raged about him, and the blood under his face filled his nostrils. Atar heaved himself to his knees and scuttled backward, head down. He rose, swaying slightly and looked at Zohak, whose back was turned to him. His arms were raised in victory. A shout went up from the cheering crowd and Zohak turned to him.

  He smiled and shook his head, as if to say, “This Idiot never learns.” Atar regarded him for another moment. In that instant, feeling the wetness of his own urine, the Idiot remembered a freezing cold day when he was only five years old.

  “Come on, Idiot,” Zohak said, his breath clouding out in the frigid air. He extended his gloved hand to the small boy.

  Atar looked at him stupidly, too cold to respond. Around them, the frozen land looked hard and cruel. Zohak grabbed Atar’s arm roughly. His hands, even at fifteen, were powerful. Silent tears, Atar was ever silent, began to roll down his thin cheeks. They were walking away from the camp.

  “We are going to have fun today, Idiot,” Zohak said, a little laugh rippling through his voice. Atar tossed a glance over his shoulder, the red orange of the sacred fires glimmering back to him. He felt his tears and the trickling snot freezing on his face. Zohak crunched over fallen branches, his feet warm and protected in stout, fur-lined boots.

  “Oh for Mithra’s sake, walk like a man, you buffoon!”

  Even as young as he was, Atar felt shame. He couldn’t feel his feet and the scenery began to blur, but they kept traveling.

  “Now,” Zohak said, in a warm, kind voice when they were in the depths of the wilderness.

  Atar regarded him with huge eyes, shaking from head to toe. He smiled back at the young man.

  “Cover your eyes, and wait here,” Zohak said. Atar tried to move his hands, but found that he could not. “Ahh, you fuckin’ Idiot! You can’t even die right!” Zohak said in disgust, then his tone changed again. “Listen, I will come back for you in a little while. Stay here.”

  Zohak turned and began to walk away, but Atar was at his heels “God damned Idiot!” Zohak roared. “Get back there!”

  Atar fell back onto the hard, frozen ground and began to cry. Zohak walked into the woods once more. Atar did not move, trying to suppress his sobs. Zohak’s footsteps dimmed and the dead quiet of the forest took over. The numbness in his feet and hands began to hurt. Time passed, but Zohak did not return. Atar studied the ground with a child’s intensity, marveling at the small upright frost that looked like thousands of butterfly wings. The delicate tracings in each crystal were a masterpiece.

  Atar realized he had to pee, but he did not want to remove his ragged trousers because of the cold. He debated for a moment then peed into them, the warmth comforting him. As more time passed and as the urine began to freeze on his legs, he began to weep once more.

  Where was Zohak? The forest began to darken perceptibly as the bitter night approached. Atar stood up and began to look for Zohak. He stamped his tiny feet, trying to bring them back to life. Hunger gnawed at his belly as he wandered deeper and deeper into the forest. Zohak was nowhere to be found. Atar tripped over a log and collapsed on the unforgiving ground. Weeping with pain and fear, Atar looked about him. At the base of a nearby tree, there was a hollow, just large enough for a small boy.

  He crawled toward it and swept away the debris at the bottom of the hollow. Curling himself into a ball, he gratefully situated himself into the hollow, glad to be mostly out of the whipping winds. His fingers were stiff from the cold, so he put them in his mouth. Half asleep, or maybe all the way asleep, he saw a form loom above him.

  Zohak?

  No. This was some kind of creature. Atar’s lids dropped as the huge boar settled over him, shielding the child with his warmth. Atar’s hatred of Zohak had been kindled that night.

  Atar shook away the vision and he attacked, lunging at his hated opponent like an enraged lion. All the pent up fury he had accumulated over the years lent uncanny speed and strength to his limbs. There was no one more surprised than himself. The remembered pain and agony burned in his brain like the vengeful lightning bolts cast down byPapaeus. Zohak’s hands caught his and they struggled for dominance. Zohak ripped one hand free and punched Atar’s face. The blow enraged Atar. He brought his knee up into Zohak’s unprotected crotch and Zohak let go, screaming. The crowd went wild. Zohak was shaking. Atar watched him for a moment. Then he felt himself advancing slowly to the corner where Zohak had retreated. Zohak spat and straightened, still shaking. They circled each other, eyes locking in hatred. Suddenly Atar lunged, tripping Zohak with his feet and carrying him down with his own weight. Zohak was under him and he took savage pride in relentlessly pummeling his face. He felt something crack on the third blow.

  Zohak tottered drunkenly around the rink, while the crowd laughed heartily. Atar felt the bitter years fall away and laughed himself as the refreshing sight of Zohak in a compromised position struck him. Zohak made a drunken lunge for him, but Atar danced out of the way. He took another step back then launched himself into the air turning so that the momentum of his body carried the crushing kick directly into Zohak’s ribcage. The crowd roared and screamed.

  Shouting and a high feminine scream made Atar’s head snap up to encounter the horrific sight of Zohak’s men, who seemed to have doubled in number, swarming over the ropes with murder in their eyes. Atar felt the cold, knowing fear that death was upon him. There was nothing he could do. There was nowhere to run and these men would hold no compunction about murdering in front of a crowd. Seconds before they reached him, the black clad wizard stood up and seemed to draw everyone’s eyes. He commanded an aura of power that made people want to shrink from him, yet at the same time it held a note of perverse attraction. It was indefinable, but the oily, not altogether unpleasant air he exuded drew people’s attention. He was like a rotting apple that lulled the senses with its sweet alcoholic scent, yet made one drawback screaming when one sees the pale flash of writhing maggots. Atar did not want to look at him, but he was fascinated, as was the rest of the crowd.

  He rai
sed his hands in a gesture that demanded attention and respect. The man began to speak in quiet tones that made people strain to catch every word. It was a very effective method, but much of the magic of his words was lost on Atar for he did not understand the language. The true wonder of wonders was that Zohak’s men had stopped mid-kill, so to speak, to listen to the words of a man whom they could not possibly understand either.

  Atar was still trying to figure out exactly how he felt, when the black clad mage turned his fearsome gaze upon him and beckoned to him with a skeletal hand. Atar lurched forward as if against his will, drawn inexorably forward by those powerful, seductive eyes. He thought, they shine like a madman’s eyes.

  The power of the mage’s presence increased as Atar drew closer. It wrapped around him and focused his attention on the man. All at once, the excitement of the fight faded. It felt like someone poured lead into his arms and legs.

  When Atar descended the platform, the mage turned and walked forward, as if in a ceremony. The crowd parted respectfully and Atar, not knowing what else to do, trailed after the mysterious man like a baby goat.

  As they left the crowd behind, Atar heard the voice of the dwarf projected over the hushed heads of the spectators. He seemed to be slightly at a loss as to what to say. His strident tones were now tempered with unfamiliar hesitancy.

  Atar was still a step behind the mage as they progressed. He was not anxious to draw up level with the man. A faint, disconcerting scent issued from the man, one that was oddly reminiscent of carrion. It invoked the most peculiar blend of unpleasant emotions.