TrialbyFire Read online

  The fairgrounds did not have the same shine as it did a few short hours ago. The trinkets looked cheap and the glaring heat seemed to pound into the thin soles of his booted feet. It might have been the new angle of the sun, but the presence of the mage, most likely, made Atar see malevolence in faces of the shopkeepers. The emotional, irrational need Atar felt to get away from this man who had just saved his life, warred with logic. This powerful man had taken an interest in him, Atar the Idiot, the worthless piece of crap that was scorned on a regular basis. It was a great honor. Yet, it tasted like honey in sour milk.

  The shops were now behind them and the pair progressed into a wealthy residential area. There were almost no people milling about in the wide aisles and those that were there were impeccably dressed in finery. Atar’s feeling of awkwardness increased when he attempted to estimate the relative worth of some of the temporary dwellings. Smart guards in uniform were posted outside many of the entranceways and all of the tents featured flags proclaiming the various family crests.

  The mage stopped in front of a large black tent featuring a crest bearing the likeness of a dragon and drew back the tent flap. Atar noted that there was no guard.

  After a moment of hesitation in which every fiber of his being forbade him to take another step, Atar followed the mage into the gloomy doorway. The smell was the first thing that registered. It was a mixture of exotic herbs, musty books, and the sharp scent of preservatives. His eyes became accustomed to the light and the inexplicable objects that he saw filled him with wonder and not a little fear. Spheres of different sizes were suspended in the air by a strange metal construction of rings. Rows of glass jars lined the shelves above the bookcase, their contents so strange Atar would have loved to take a closer look.

  Maps and diagrams and all sorts of mysterious objects vied for his attention, but the mage was the most curious thing in the room. What had compelled him to take Atar with him? He gestured to a low cushion next to a glass table and Atar sat down with the air of someone that desperately does not want to break anything, but fears he will anyway. The mage did not sit. He loomed above Atar and studied his face intently. Apparently, he did not like what he saw, for a slight frown creased his face. He looked away for a moment and Atar thought he would scream if he had to wait another minute. The dark walls of the tent were beginning to have their usual effect on him.

  “I suppose you have no understanding of my language,” the man said. Atar continued to stare. He indeed had no understanding of the language, but even if he did, he would have been powerless to respond. He simply didn’t speak.

  A tiny dribble of sweat tickled its way down Atar’s bare back. I have to leave and find Bulliwuf, Atar thought.

  The mage gasped, wincing slightly at the volume of Atar’s mental voice. His eyes were wide. You speak with your mind!

  He rushed over to Atar, who was now standing and clasped the young man’s shoulders with his thin hands in a powerful grip. There was an odd, almost possessive gleam in the mage’s eyes.

  Do you have any idea what a rare talent that is? You must have come for the Summons but, Mithra’s rage, look at you! You look like a barbaric Scythian! This last comment was colored with disapproval. But that can hardly be helped, now can it. No wonder I was never able to find you!

  Atar was feeling very frightened now. He knew there was some kind of mistake. He stared at the mage in wordless fascination, not believing that someone could actually hear him. He had never had a conversation with anyone other than Bulliwuf. It felt wrong, somehow. It was almost like he was violating something.

  The mage was shifting stacks of books now, looking for something. His hands settled on a black leather bag. He drew out an amulet, hung on a thick gold chain. Tell me, do you recognize this?

  Atar’s reaction was immediate. He did recognize the design, but he could not remember where this memory came from.

  The mage was staring at him with a kind of wonder. You do recognize it. I can feel it. Do you know what this means?

  I don’t know—but I do think you are making some kind of mistake.

  The mage stared at Atar. Perhaps you are right, but time will tell me what I need to know.

  Atar stood. I really must go.

  The mage stood as well. You will return to me as soon as you finish whatever it is that you find so urgent. The mage smiled, a horrible sight, and unclipped his moneybag from his belt. He extended the bag out to Atar, who accepted the heavy little sack, not knowing what else to do. The clink he heard made him open up the bag.

  I can’t possibly accept this! Atar did a double take. Instead of seeing the dark interior of the tent when he raised his eyes, he saw instead, a crowd of people standing around the platform he had almost died on a short while ago.

  He did not know what was going on, but a burning desire to talk to Bulliwuf swept over him. He needed comfort and advice. He was in over his head. Clipping the second bag of money to his belt, he walked in what he imagined was the general direction of the tanner’s shop. His hand rested over the money. This time he was not going to be robbed.

  Several dusty hours later Atar dragged his tired feet over the threshold of the tanner’s shop, where he paid extra for the preliminary tanning job. He had purchased food and a few baubles. He didn’t even know what they were, but they were the first items he’s ever actually bought.

  Bulliwuf was waiting outside with a smile-like look on his face. Atar was annoyed. You whore hound! You didn’t…with that weird bitch?

  Bulliwuf looked wounded, but Atar needed to talk to him about everything that had happened.

  It was incredible, the most amazing thing. Atar forgot his jealousy and began to tell the adventures that had filled his day.

  So then this huge guy was looming over me, but I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do! That’s why the first blow came as a surprise. Then they were swarming over the gate, and I knew I was a goner!

  Bulliwuf, who’d so far been enjoying Atar’s story, became concerned. Eh, what did you say, who was this mage?

  Dahaka, I think. He is really amazing, he understands me. He said he wanted to talk to me again, soon.

  Bulliwuf had strewn the contents of Atar’s bags over the floor and had rolled in a particularly smelly piece of fur shaped like a little dog. But now he was looking fixedly at Atar.

  Outside the shop, tiger skin in hand, they meandered in the general direction of the stalls, with Bulliwuf leading the way.

  I don’t trust him. He sounds evil. Bulliwuf declared.

  I didn’t trust him at first either, but…

  Your first instinct was probably right, this guy sounds suspicious, Bulliwuf said again.

  But he saved my life, I feel bound to show a little gratitude at least.

  Chapter Seven

  Atar pulled Ishria to a stop and dismounted. He wore his tiger skin to show the mage that he was no coward. The desire to show off had won out over his better judgment.

  Dahaka was out of his tent before Atar had reached it. He frowned when he saw the skin, but said nothing. He smiled and gestured Atar to follow him to a cream-colored tent next to his. Ears pricked, Bulliwuf trotted over to the stern mage and almost shoved him off balance as he began to sniff his crotch.

  “How dare…”

  Bulliwuf sent a mental message to Atar. He smells bad. He’s evil.

  Dahaka started violently and stared at Bulliwuf, who drew back his muzzle in a furious snarl. “Werewolf,” he whispered. “I should have known. He even has the power to control a werewolf!” He laughed a cackling chuckle that ended in a mucous-drenched cough. “Oh, and the wolf has blocked me. Very clever indeed.”

  Atar hastily secured Ishria to a post and looked up to see what the fuss was about. The mage forced a look of benevolence onto his countenance and strode into the tent.

  “Come along, we have not much time. These are your quarters.”

  Atar stepped inside cautiously. When Bulliwuf came in after his master, Dahaka gave
him a warning look. Bulliwuf bared his teeth in a wolf grin and Dahaka backed off.

  The tent was spacious and luxuriously furnished. A large, canopy bed draped with rich scarlet velvet dominated one corner of the room. Atar sucked in his breath and walked over to touch the strange material. It was as soft as the finest animal skin. He hardly believed his eyes. Bulliwuf carelessly lifted a leg against one of the large posts supporting the tent. The mage’s eyes filled with rage.

  Next to the bed, there was a small, but obviously expensive, dresser of gleaming black wood that matched the wood of the bed. Fanciful swirling designs were etched into the wood and it was gilded with a glittering scarlet paint that was the same shade as the bed canopy. Atop this dresser was a gold bowl filled with fragrant fruit, the likes of which Atar had never seen. It filled the room with a delicate aroma. Atar took a fruit into each hand. He’d never seen such fruit before. He sniffed them.

  A low, plush couch opposite his bed was upholstered in the same red velvet as the canopy. The only other piece of furniture was a marble table on which a bow and quiver full of arrows had been placed. Atar remembered the bow and arrows he had been forced to leave behind in his precipitant departure. All of a sudden, Atar realized just how rich the wizard must be. He shivered with an unnamed emotion. It was amazing to think that such a great man was taking an interest in him, Atar the Idiot.

  “This was all I could find on short notice. You will live here for the duration of the Festival. I have made arrangements for your comforts. Things should be well in order by the time we come back from the competition.” Dahaka smiled again.

  What competition? What do you mean about me living here?

  “Never mind that now. Hurry, or we’ll be late,” Dahaka said, thrusting the bow and quiver at Atar.

  Atar decided that he had better do as the man suggested. He was obviously insane. I assume this is an archery competition? How do you even know I can shoot?

  The mage did not answer, but he did cast a scornful glance over his shoulder. Bulliwuf had been sniffing around the room, but now he leapt onto the bed with its silk coverings and began to grunt as he rolled. The mage’s eyes opened in horror, but he retreated.

  Bulliwuf called after him, I will stay here. There is no sense in frightening more people. Atar briefly wondered if Bulliwuf had just gotten enticed by the finery, but he hurried after the mage. He saw him enter an elegant black carriage with his insignia gilded onto the door. Mounting Ishria, Atar hastened to follow.

  He kept the carriage within sight, an increasingly difficult task as the streets filled with pedestrians and other vehicles. After a time, he could see the field on which the competition was to be held. It was still very far away, but several of the contestants were already lined up. Children ran around in the streets, little bows in their young hands, pretending to gear themselves up for the competition. They made no effort to hide their scornful delight at the sight of a barbarian. Atar was becoming slightly more used to the reaction he evoked. It was actually rather amusing.

  It seemed that this diversion brought a much larger crowd than most events. The people fairly swarmed toward the field, shoving their neighbors aside to get the best view. Atar could not help noticing how much like animals people become when they congregate.

  A flutter of nerves rippled inside Atar’s belly when he realized he was going to perform in front of this mob. He had no idea what Dahaka expected him to do when he had arrived that morning. Certainly, nothing like this had crossed his mind. How easy could it be just to fall back and let the crowd sweep him away! But no, his honor would not allow him to abandon this strange man who had done so much for him. He was glad to know that Bulliwuf would be waiting for him, however. Even though this was a strange and unusual situation, he felt protected somehow.

  The carriage ahead stopped before the field and Atar looked around for a place to secure Ishria. A line of horses to his left caught his eye and Atar left Ishria there. He felt no hesitation about leaving his mace and recent purchases at Ishria’s feet. Mercy to the person who tried to go near his evil-tempered stallion! Gripping the new bow in his sweaty palm, he started out toward the line of contestants, not at all self-conscious at his appearance.

  Heads turned as he approached. The tiger skin and the barbarian’s casual walk spoke volumes.

  He placed himself at the end of the line, wondering why the targets were so close. A baby could hit these. They would probably move them before they began shooting. He tried to clear his mind, letting the wordless roar of the crowd wash over him. He looked at the assembling crowd, suddenly aware of how stupid he had been in making his choice of where to stand. He was within spitting distance of the crowd of rich folk who were lucky enough to afford a great view of the proceedings. They would see all of his mistakes. Now he wished Bulliwuf had come with him.

  “Look!” one of the noble women said, pointing to the barbarian.

  “My God!! Is that the tiger? Do you suppose he killed it?”

  “Well, duh, how many tigers do you think live around here, Henna?”

  “You two stop bickering, look at that ass!”

  “I’m looking, I’m looking, hmm…”

  The time before a competition always stretches out like eternity. Atar checked the fletching on his arrows. He strung his bow and drew it back a couple of times to get the feel of it. He was unaware of how practiced and at ease he looked, not to mention fierce. The contestants beside him began to fidget and unconsciously mimic his actions. Looking down the row, Atar saw that quite a few of the archers had taken their places. Judging from the long line of targets, there must be somewhere around one hundred competitors.

  After another five minutes, a man with a deep chest and the beginnings of a potbelly strode out behind the shooters and asked the crowd to shuffle back to give the shooters more room. Then he took a deep breath and boomed out, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the world famous twenty-fifth Archery Competition.” He had to pause for the roar of applause. Atar swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and tight. He did not understand the words, but the roar alerted him to just how many people were here. He took a cautious glance over his shoulder and wished he hadn’t. The field on which he was standing was on the bottom of a great bowl. The crowd rose above him on three sides. He would never have come if he had known. A fleeting thought crossed his mind like a minnow. He wondered who was watching him now.

  “Over a hundred of the finest archers from all Seven Kingdoms and even from the Outlands are here today to display their skills. Let’s hear it for our contestants.”

  When the roar had died somewhat, the man with the great voice turned around to face the archers. “Shoot when I say, take no more than a two minutes for each shot. The time will be called. You will be disqualified if you miss the target three times, good luck.”

  This last was said with that business like, commercial air that conveys just the opposite sentiment. There was no time to think now. The other contestants were raising their bows.

  “Fire,” the director called out.

  It was too easy. Atar hit dead center at the little black dot inside four rings, as did many others. When the two minutes were up and everyone had fired, children leapt up from behind the targets. The one behind his target held up one finger to indicate a bull’s eye. It was a neat system he decided.

  For the next ten shots, Atar was bored. He had gotten over his fear of making a fool of himself in front of the crowd and it was replaced with an unfamiliar feeling of pride. He was, in fact, a Scythian after all. He could shoot. The crowd was taking notice, too, and for once, he felt like they weren’t going to eat him alive.

  The kids kept moving the targets back a few feet each time shots were fired and things were just starting to get interesting. The targets were now at the distance that he had used when he first began shooting as a child. To Atar’s amazement, during the next shot, over half of the already thinned out crowd was disqualified. Now there were about thirty-five contestants and ther
e was a brief shuffle as targets were removed from the field and the remaining archers were condensed to stand side by side. Another boy had replaced the man next to him. The fellow was about his age. He was nervous and he made a great show of laying out his arrows on the ground. Atar noticed that many of the archers did this inexplicable thing. Foreigners. Weird. He really should check his fletching.

  An older man from the crowd was shouting advice and encouragement to the young man beside him. Even though Atar could not understand the language, the stress in that voice was enough to shake his equilibrium. He felt pity for the boy.

  The boy took almost two minutes to make his shot. He was not helped by the constant advice of the man who was probably his father. But during that time, not once did he check on the condition of his arrow.

  That’s interesting isn’t it? Dahaka whispered from his seat.

  Atar bristled, startled and insulted at the invasion of his thoughts. Not particularly so, why?

  The mage was angry. Atar could feel it in his thought words. Calm yourself. By now you should be aware that I am out to do you only good. I merely thought it would be a useful observation, considering his skill. He has missed his mark two times already. All you need is one more to get rid of him. If he were to pick up a faulty arrow, he certainly would not notice.

  So what? Atar said, feeling a little stupid because he had no idea where this was leading. He received a mental sigh from Dahaka.

  Really, do I have to spell it out for you? I thought that at least you would be cannier than that. Set your arrows out beside his. Make sure that the one he reaches for next is faulty. There’s no chance of anyone noticing. The women are all staring at your ass and the men are looking at the shooters. Go for it…son.

  Why? Atar asked feeling even stupider. Do you not think my skill is greater than his? Plus that is an act of a coward with no honor, do you think I—how could you imagine… He broke off to shoot, glad for the excuse. When Atar reached out to continue the disturbing dialogue, he felt an icy emptiness.