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  He did not think too deeply about the incident, although it nagged at the back of his mind. The shooting was taking up more and more of his concentration. Now there could be no more than ten shooters, including the boy next to him. The targets were becoming smaller, but Atar had not yet missed the bull’s eye. Three shots later, Atar found that he was one of three remaining archers. He turned to smile at the boy next to him, who was too anxious to smile with much enthusiasm, but Atar could tell he was glad to see a friendly expression. When he turned to smile at the man next to the boy, he found that the man was wearing a sneer of contempt. He looked to be much older than Atar or the other boy. The man curled his lip and tried to look down on Atar’s superior height. He began a steady stream of muttered insults under his breath, “Arrogant, backwater, filthy, ignorant, provincial, uncouth, heathen…”

  Lucky for him, Atar did not speak the language. The director called and the audience watched in breathless anticipation. As Atar was pulling back the bowstring, he felt a sudden chill on his arms and legs. It was a furious, almost sentient wind that writhed on his skin for a moment and was gone. He let go of his arrow. Shouts and groans issued from the spectators and he looked up to see with immense satisfaction that the angry man had missed his mark, badly. He cracked his bow over his knee in a rage and stamped off the field, making a complete fool of himself.

  Atar suppressed the desire to laugh. The kid next to him was hiding a smile as well, but his eyes shone in triumph. The boy’s father was now half-hysterical, tasting victory. His steady stream of useless advice was beginning to grate on Atar’s nerves. The boy’s hands were shaking. Somehow, Atar knew that the kid couldn’t make the next shot. The boy turned his face, hoping no one could see the tears of stress running down his face. Atar did see, however. He looked at the boy then he looked at the boy’s father. In his heart, he knew he had the better shot. With a decisive motion, he put his bow down and turned to walk off the field, feeling like a king. All eyes were on him, although not all were benevolent.

  A profound silence spread across the audience, as they absorbed what had just occurred. Then they erupted into wild cheering, delighted by the savage’s inexplicably noble deed. They were certain he would win, because he had not yet missed a shot, while the other young man had missed two. The boy would have thanked him. He did, in fact, profoundly, but his father overrode his voice with his own.

  “My son! My champion! I knew you could do it, my boy!”

  Atar took full advantage of the chaos reigning around him. The feeling of pride had left him now, replaced by one of impending danger. It started as a trickle of fear, but now it had him in its grip. Real fear suffused his being, galvanizing him into action. He must have seemed incredibly rude to the gentle ladies who wanted to speak with the exotic, rugged warrior. He rushed in the direction of his horse with the single-minded strides he had used so many times to cross vast tracks of plains. He gave the director an annoyed look when he shoved a sack of gold at his face. He took the gold, but cleverly avoided the hands the director stretched out to detain him. He looked over his shoulder, but didn’t see anything.

  Atar smiled despite his fear. Suddenly he froze and felt his muscles go limp with terror as the icy fingers of the presence tickled his shoulder. He ran for the horses, shoving people aside with the crassness people expected of a barbarian. He felt it coming after him screaming silently in his brain, a high unearthly whine that made him quake even as his legs carried him toward his steed. As suddenly as it had whipped up, the shriek died, but the terror still shook Atar.

  Untying Ishria and gathering his things, he decided not to mount. He would hide behind the stallion and try to look inconspicuous. But how does one look inconspicuous when everyone around you looks weird?

  Chapter Eight

  Night had fallen over Persia. The crickets hummed in the night and the fountain in the garden burbled sullenly. The blades of grass bent under the spy’s feet. Ezad the Insane looked at Queen Cunaxa as he silently crossed the courtyard. The dark creature swarmed up the wall leading to Hergor’s chambers, his three fingered hands clinging to the sheer rock walls while the once powerful queen sat in the gardens below. Finally he would get his revenge. Dahaka would be sorry that he had attacked Ezad the Insane. He would tell Emperor Hergor about the Scythians—the Scythians who were harboring the son of his enemy, Dahaka the Sly, and the true heir to the throne.

  Queen Cunaxa was looking at the moon, dazzled by its mysterious glory. She was trying to find peace in her heart, sitting still all by herself. There was a great emptiness in her heart. The echoes of the past haunted her. She let the bright memories come back to her.

  She had looked at the moon as a girl, wondering what wonders awaited her in her life. She was so filled with hope and dreams of love and happiness. But even knowing what lay in store for her, she doubted she would have done things differently.

  There were hasty footfalls behind her and she whirled. Her maid Sanatruk knelt by her feet, her face glowing.

  “Your Majesty, I have just returned, I didn’t expect to see you up.” She sighed, her eyes dreamy. “It was wonderful, but I expect you don’t need to hear about that. There was something I did want to tell you.”

  She paused, looking uncertain. “Go on, go on,” Cunaxa urged.

  “Well, there was the most amazing person at the fair. No, let me start at the beginning. My husband and I had arrived two days before and we were barely getting used to the place, when the most amazing thing happened. The Scythians showed up, the whole tribe. They were so barbaric. It was a little scary, but we all went out to watch them set up camp.”

  “Oh my God…” Cunaxa breathed, “did you—you didn’t…”

  “No, no I didn’t, not immediately. A day later, my husband was buying me some beautiful birds just after dawn. I happened to look up, when a sort of hush fell over the crowd. The hawkers trailed off and everyone gaped at him. I don’t know. I just saw him for a moment. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, though. He had a look about him. It was indescribable.”

  Cunaxa leaned forward, “Go on.”

  “Well, I’m certain he was a Scythian.”

  Cunaxa’s eyes widened and Sanatruk hastened to add, “I mean he just looked like one. He was riding the fiercest blue horse I’ve ever seen and he had a huge silver wolf by his side. He was wearing a tiger skin. It was freshly killed.”

  The impact of that took a moment to sink in. “Do you mean you think…”

  “I’m almost certain. How many tigers do we have wandering around this area? But even if the young man were naked, he would have stood out. It was indescribable, but he drew everyone’s eye. Everyone!”

  Cunaxa sat very still, trying to quell the rising hope in her breast. Suddenly a thought struck her with the force of a lightning bolt. “My, God! If the Scythians truly did come, Hergor must know about it, or if he doesn’t know, he will soon enough. We must do something!”

  A crash and a roar coming from Hergor’s chambers interrupted her. “What! Scythians?” Cunaxa tried to block out the stream of obscenities that spewed out into the night air. She grabbed Sanatruk’s wrist and hurried toward her bedchamber, anxious not to be seen, should Hergor take a casual glance outside his window.

  “I guess it’s too late for that,” Cunaxa whispered. “He would have found out sooner or later anyway.”

  Above the retreating figures, Hergor threw a bowl of fruit against the wall, the blubber in his gut waggling. No coherent thought could be heard above the roaring of his fury. He charged about his enormous room like a raging animal. It was some time before he could think again. He had run out of things to hurl at the walls and that was part of the reason he had settled down. He had also run out of breath. He sat on the bed with a whoosh of expelled air, the bed groaning in protest. The crazy messenger Ezad had described them all too accurately. It had to be true.

  Damnation, why did everything have to go wrong at once? Not for the first time, Hergor wished he had not d
ouble-crossed Dahaka. He would know how to deal with the Scythians, but then again, he was probably already dealing with them. Cold sweat beaded on his face as he thought about that. If Dahaka managed to find his son—his own position as Emperor of three kingdoms would be in serious danger. What if they mounted an attack? Something would have to be done.

  The lurking terror of assassins reared its ugly head in his mind. He groaned and pushed this thought away, with no success. If, somehow, Dahaka found his son, the people of his empire would gladly have him replaced. How could he ensure that Dahaka would not find his son?

  Simplicity was the best way, he decided. He would gather a band of soldiers together and kill every Scythian that he could find.

  Chapter Nine

  Dahaka the Sly stared sightlessly around his tent, feeling the rage boiling in his heart. How could he have been so stupid, they even resembled each other, yet…no matter, there was plenty of time. The boy would have to be found and destroyed. It was simple really. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He needed to clear his mind of that for now. He was waiting impatiently in his gloomy tent. The tent flap lifted and the figure in the doorway paused for a moment. Dahaka stood, watching the muscular silhouette. The figure stepped forward into the indeterminate light and Dahaka breathed a sigh of relief and joy when he saw the unmistakable glint of calculating cruelty in the man’s eyes.

  “Welcome, my son.” He paused, an unfamiliar smile curving his lips. It was odd seeing a full-grown man. He had not known what to expect, but this man even resembled him.

  Zohak looked at him and held out the medallion for him to see. “This is a moment I have dreamed of since I heard the complicated story of my birth. I will remember this forever. I’ve waited so long to see you, I’ve heard so much,” Zohak said.

  Zohak’s eyes wandered over the assortment of objects in the tent.

  “Well,” Zohak said, “aren’t you glad to see me?”

  Dahaka looked the man before him up and down before answering. “I’m not sure.”

  Zohak stiffened. “Father, I want to be recognized as the Firestarter. I have every right and I am your son. Will you help me?” Zohak said in a rush.

  “Of course. I had lost hope years ago that you were alive. It is amazing. My trusted servant Ezad told me of how you were brought to Scythia when Hergor betrayed me.” Dahaka stared into the eyes of his son. “You have my look. I see my aspect all about you, that restless ferocity and cunning.”

  “There are things we need to discuss…”

  “Silence,” Dahaka said with quiet authority. Zohak’s face registered a quick flash of rage, but he obeyed. Dahaka continued, “You must learn to control your emotions or else they will cast a shadow over your logic. Remember that a man can have no more steadfast ally than his father. I have your interests in mind. You would do well to heed me. There is a time and a place for action, for now we will bide our time. You have, let us say, a small problem to deal with before you can entertain hopes of becoming anything more than just an ordinary mage. Do you have any idea to what I am referring? I think you do and I am surprised at your failure to either perceive his power, or your inability to dispose of him before this critical moment. Did my servant not provide for you in the camp of the Scythians?” He asked, his face calm but terrible.

  “Well, yes but you don’t…”

  “Oh but I do. Failure is something I understand. You failed, you who were given everything, even my strength and cunning. Do you lack courage, perhaps, do you shriek at the sight of blood and gore like a maiden?”

  Zohak drew himself up, but tears of rage began to glimmer in his eyes. When he spoke his voice shook with indignation. “Father, I have always known that sniveling Idiot had some kind of power. Always, from the moment I first saw him. I have hated him for as long as I have known him. I was thirteen then when he came to us at age three or four years. You certainly weren’t around to help me! If it is of such great importance to have him killed, why did you not do it yourself? I seem to recall a certain black robed mage who saved the damned Idiot’s skin just when my men were about to have him finished!” He raised a quivering hand to the bruises on his face.

  Dahaka threw his head back and laughed long and richly. “You fool. Yes I realized that. It makes me sick that I mistook the son of my hated enemy for my own son, and left my real son bleeding and humiliated in the dust. But that says something about you, doesn’t it?” He brought his fist down on the table with a crash. “He’s weaker, younger, and lacks your experience. You, who were given every advantage, must bow as second to that child. If I allowed him to live he would be twice the man you are.” Dahaka’s words were too bitter for an objective analysis of his son. Dahaka knew that the wound he was pressing was far deeper than Zohak realized.

  Zohak turned, as if to leave, tears streaming down his face. But he paused. “This was not how I pictured this meeting. I was snatched out of a life I loved, and thrown into a wilderness so complete and impenetrable that no one has so far been able to find me. I led the life of a savage. I toiled and suffered and I’ve known hunger. This meeting that I’ve daydreamed about thousands of times as a teenager…”

  “Stop sniveling!” Dahaka roared.

  “Father,” Zohak said. “Maybe that says something about YOU!”

  Dahaka’s face went livid and his eyes narrowed. Suddenly Dahaka chuckled. “My son, for a terrible moment I thought you were a weakling. You have satisfied me with your performance.”

  Zohak smiled hesitantly.

  Dahaka rubbed his hands together. “Well, now that introductions are over, let us focus on the problem at hand—Atar.” The name was spat out like a hock of phlegm. It jiggled in the air for a moment. “It will not be as simple as most. He cannot be fooled by poison, or maybe he can. He has no education of any kind I assume?” he asked frowning.

  “Of course not, but he’s abnormally cagey, in his own dull way. Do you really think we have to deal with him, though? Is it certain that he will feel the urge to come to the Summons?” Zohak was looking hopeful. “How is it that he would hear the Summons? Mustn’t one be a mage? He is nothing but a drooling moron!”

  “So that’s your downfall! You underestimate him. Listen, foolish whelp, did I not mistake him for you? You do not know who his parents are? Do you, you, blithering simpleton? He is your brother by your mother Queen Cunaxa and my brother, Anacharsis the Firestarter! Yes, he must be killed, immediately!”

  Zohak’s face paled. “You mean to say that the Atar the Idiot is of royal blood? That he is my own brother? How is it possible? He has no intelligence. He is like a mule.”

  “That we don’t know. I can tell you that although he is simple, his simplicity is like that of my brother, Anacharsis. He is not to be taken lightly.” Dahaka’s eyes blazed like those of a demon when he spoke of his brother. It stopped Zohak from speaking.

  “Well then, we need a course of action,” Dahaka said, settling into his chair. “It seems to me that the most desperate situations to get out of are the ones we put ourselves into in the first place.”

  “Exactly! Yes, yes! That’s it!” Zohak looked startled. “He knows things, but in matters of honor and such, he has the wits of a child. He is trusting.”

  “Just like his father…so that means we must, oh…set a trap of some kind. I need information.”

  “That is not as easy to supply as you might think. He never speaks.” Zohak scratched at his groin.

  There was silence for a moment. “There was a certain look in his eyes today when he almost won that archery competition…”

  “What? He can’t…”

  “Apparently he can, Son. That is not the issue. A person could get addicted to such a heady feeling, especially since it appears to be unfamiliar.” A plan was floating around in his head, flirting with the edges of his consciousness.

  “Hmmm. Tell me Son, I assume you acquired a fundamental knowledge of horseflesh? Good. What can you tell me of his horse? It looked unusual, but I paid it very
little attention.”

  “Yeah, it’s good, so what?” Zohak asked.

  “Well…the races are tomorrow and if he’s got even half a brain he can’t fail to notice. If I judge his character correctly, then I’d bet my night vision he will come tomorrow. Then we’d have him in our sights. We need to make him come to us. There’s no way we’ll be able to find him in such a short amount of time. The moon is almost full. Tomorrow night the Ceremony will take place. If I send out one of my servants to steal his money, then he will have even more of an incentive to go to the races. Hmm…he will be weak and exhausted after such exertion. We will have him then. Perfect! I am a genius.”

  “Uh-uh,” Zohak said, distracted.

  Chapter Ten

  Atar woke suddenly from a sound sleep, all his senses tingling and alive. He did not stir or open his eyes, he wasn’t even sure he could. Something was near, something malevolent. A worried snort and shuffle from Ishria’s stall assured Atar that he was not imagining things. He opened one eye a crack, feeling the gentle night breeze on his bare skin coming from the open door of the stables like the fingers of death. A terror so great it exceeded rational thought, gripped him. Where was Bulliwuf? He was probably out with that pretty white bitch. In the gloom, he saw a dark hulking shape stooped over his saddlebags, surreptitiously rummaging through the contents.

  The creature raised its head slightly and Atar could see red, glowing eyes regarding him. A deep snuffling sound, like that of a curious hog issued from the cloaked figure. Ishria whinnied in terror and kicked at his stall. Silently, the creature dropped the saddlebags and fled, gliding across the floor as if carried on the wind. In his wake, he left a cold, dank breeze that smelled of rotten meat.

  Atar sat up, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He realized that he had been sleeping, but what he’d seen wasn’t a dream. He shook from head to toe. Bulliwuf lapped at Atar’s face in concern. Had that been a dream? He put his arms around the furry wolf, glad for the comforting warmth.