TrialbyFire Page 7

  There was something here, Bulliwuf! Do you suppose it followed me all this time? Do you remember that monster I told you about just before the horses stampeded, do you think maybe… Atar asked. Bulliwuf licked him again, but did not reply.

  As impossible as this seemed, Atar did eventually fall back into an uneasy slumber.

  Damn! Atar said. Bulliwuf came over to investigate. He had reached for the money pouches in his saddlebags only to find them gone. Maybe the creature had stolen them. In any case, he was shit out of luck. He’d have to take Ishria out with him today, although now he was hiding from the Scythians, an insane mage, and some kind of monster. Some days… He looked at Bulliwuf, Now what? Bulliwuf gave a mental shrug and scratched at his fleas. Atar fell back onto the straw that had served as his bed. He’d have to currycomb Ishria, don his tiger skin, and find a way to make back some money.

  Mounting, he urged Ishria out into the street, his huge mace in his hand. He felt a great restlessness, a wild urge to get away from this silly festival and all his problems. Maybe he would just ride off into the mountains. It certainly wasn’t safe here anymore. The thought thrilled him. The full realization that he could even contemplate such an action filled him with a kind of wonder. He thought about that for a while as the sun rose, taking the chill out of the air. Morning was a heavenly time. The air seemed to be filled with spices. A breeze caught Ishria’s mane, bringing it up to tickle Atar’s chin as his mind drifted far and away to the Great Lake Van region. He saw the blue waters of the enormous lake, reflecting the green trees and the fluffy clouds like a mirror. He could build a shelter there by the lake and spend his days in glorious indolence. Maybe he’d make a hammock so he could sleep outside on balmy nights. It was his life. He could do whatever he wanted, if he planned it right. He’d live off the land, but he would need to buy some initial provisions. In fact, he’d need lots of provisions. Damn, no money! Back to square one. Atar clenched his mace in anger, wishing he could think of some way to get some money.

  Now he was in a thoroughly bad mood and the thickening crowd only added to his irritation. Atar had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had let Ishria have full rein. At least they were headed toward the mountains. Atar hated this feeling of helplessness. I could take years to make enough money to purchase the necessary tools, blankets, cooking supplies, and other things he would need. If he wanted to live far from civilization, life would not be easy.

  But instead of thinking about his problems in any realistic way, he was riding around senselessly daydreaming. The shops began to thin out and Atar pulled Ishria to a stop when he saw that he had reached the last line of them. Immediately, Atar saw why Ishria had brought him in this direction, he must have been attracted by the large number of horses and riders milling about. He guessed there were over a hundred.

  Atar took in the sight and it registered. It was a horse race! There was doubtlessly going to be a cash prize, there had to be. He could finance his trip, gather his supplies this afternoon, and strike out by dawn tomorrow. Atar urged Ishria into a canter.

  Atar was making a mental list of the things he would need. If his hunch was right, there was no civilization anywhere near the region he was planning to explore. That meant he would have to think of everything. Salt was important. He needed a few metal pots, knives for dressing meat. Clothes—warm clothes like he’d never had before would be quite wonderful.

  Other riders gave him looks ranging from scorn to admiration. The bright saddle blankets and elaborate trappings of some of the horses gleamed in the sunlight. Atar eyed the horses he would compete against, looking for flaws.

  The riders seemed to be milling about, inspecting gear. The racetrack was actually a wide, gently meandering trail that hugged the outside rim of the enormous fair grounds. The way was made obvious by little red flags marking the course. The flags turned out of sight in the distance. It was pretty clever actually. There was no chance anyone could cheat because in order to take a short cut, the rider would have to race through the fairgrounds itself. The rider was sure to be spotted since everyone on the fairgrounds would be suspicious of cheaters. Plus, the hundreds of spectators seated along the racetrack would surely notice if a rider shoved them aside and joined the race.

  Atar dismounted and laying his mace down for a moment, he checked all four of Ishria’s hooves. He wished he had a fruit or something sweet to offer his stallion before the race, but he figured it was just as well. He rearranged his saddle blanket and wondered when the race would start. As his mind dwelt on the challenge ahead, he started feeling antsy. He glanced around at the impressive horses and found that he was being scrutinized intensely as he walked by.

  He led Ishria through the crowd, carefully picking his way along and analyzing the terrain as he did so. He would get in the lead and stay there. It was brute force he was planning on. If he reckoned right, Ishria had a fine chance of winning at least some prize or other. He had the best stride Atar had ever seen and the indications of stamina were there, if untested. But what did he have to lose? It was definitely worth trying for. Atar had a vivid flash of what it would feel like to win in a race this size. Oh, the glory would be a sweet taste in his mouth that he could savor as he began his journey. He would find that land he’d dreamed of so many times. The Land of Water Dogs and white horses where no humans blighted the soft pastures. There would be no hate, no bullies, and no Zohak.

  Atar finally chose a spot and decided not to mount until the last minute. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his nerves on edge. He wished everyone would stop gadding about and get down to the race. Did they come here to socialize or what? Atar tied the tiger skin about him tightly and picked up his mace.

  “Hey, Miache! Look at that rider, is he the savage from yesterday’s archery completion?”

  “If it’s not him it’s his twin. Gruno was there yesterday. Hey Gruno, Gruno! Look at that rider.”

  Gruno turned, “Shiiit! That’s him all right. You should have seen him shooting yesterday. It was amazing! It was like he wasn’t even trying. Look at his horse though! He must be a Scythian prince or something.”

  Many, many watchers noticed the distinctive tiger cape and word spread down the line of spectators. A shout went up after another few minutes and the general milling of the riders became more purposeful as they assumed their positions. There were too many to form a neat line, but the lucky ones, like Atar, were located near the front of the mob. Atar mounted and concentrated on taking slow, even breaths. The intensity of his master was not lost on Ishria. He pawed the earth and snorted, as if impatient to begin.

  Stillness came over the riders. On a signal that Atar never saw, the swarm took off, thundering down the track like a raging flood river. Atar clung like a burr to Ishria’s saddle, his heart in his throat. The hood of his tiger cape flew back and his hair streamed out in a river of black gold behind him. He willed Ishria’s hooves to fly over the ground, picturing with vivid clarity the peaceful lake. What would it look like when the evening sun transformed the waters into liquid gold? How would the silver moonlight look as it danced over the water?

  He was surging ahead. He had to win! Ishria’s great chest worked easily, long sinewy legs carried him forward with god-like grace. The roar of pounding hooves, the wind, and the intensity of his dream were all that made up the world for Atar.

  The crowd stood as the barbarian in the tiger skin shot forward ahead of the rest of the riders. Atar heard wild cheering from the crowd as if from a great distance. It must be terribly loud for him to be able to hear. He looked up to see—what?

  He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. There they were. That’s why the onlookers were cheering, they were cheering for him! Atar the Idiot! If he could maintain this speed, he might just be able to pull it off!

  Every bit of Atar’s concentration was focused on scanning the ground ahead for irregularities. At this speed, he could not afford to take a fall. He never saw the danger. He never even suspecte
d it.

  Zohak was feeling miserable. He felt a deep, unquenchable melancholy, the kind that made you bone tired. At the same time, the urgency and importance of his mission demanded all of his senses. He had been snapping and snarling at his men since pre-dawn, when they had surreptitiously assumed their hiding places in a ditch next to the racetrack. He knew how pissed they must be by now, hungry and baking in the sun. Well, they could just shove it. He didn’t have to play “Mr. Fair, Honest, and Nice-to-Be-Around” any more. He was Chief and that was that.

  They were all tense now, mounted, and ready to join the race in a few moments. The plan was simple. The group would pull onto the racetrack when the bodies of the horses rushing past blocked the view of the onlookers. Then they would find the Idiot, surround him, and pull him off his nasty tempered mount. The scores of horses would mash him into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp within moments. Then, with any luck, Zohak would surge to the lead on his fresh horse and win the race. A self-satisfied smile spread across his face. That wife of his would see how mighty a warrior he was. It would be undeniable. Whomever she was daydreaming about incessantly would be shoved right out of that empty, pretty head.

  He was so wrapped up in what he would do to that woman of his tonight that the lone rider almost took him by surprise. He drew his lips back from his teeth in an unconscious mask of hatred and his meaty hands clenched around his mace with mighty force. He felt power surging into his muscles as his eyes followed the streak of blue lightning. The long, burning, brilliant hair was unmistakable. Clumsy and blinded by hate, plans of stealth flew from his mind, and he charged up onto the track, heedless of the spectators.

  Blood ran into his eyes, the acrid, familiar taste of battle fury filled his mouth. As his horse came charging onto the track, he felt a roar come boiling up from deep within his being. His muscles rippled under his skin while he swung his awesome battle mace with terrific force.

  An indignant shout rang up, but the crowd was powerless to stop the drama unfolding before their eyes. The story spread like wildfire from person to person and it became known that the wild, noble barbarian from the archery contest yesterday was being attacked.

  Urging his fresh horse into another burst of speed, Zohak drew up beside Atar and raised the mace. Aiming for his spine, he brought the weapon down with bone crushing force on Atar’s left shoulder.

  Atar was thrown against Ishria’s neck, the pain nearly making him faint. It flooded inside him like an unwanted visitor. If he had the breath he would have screamed, instead he turned his head in time to see a second blow that would have taken his head off if he hadn’t ducked. More watchers rose to their feet, spellbound.

  Atar raised the mace of the Great King Colaxais, feeling an answering roar rip from his own throat. He turned like a lion to face his attacker, fury rising with fear when he saw who it was. Zohak! Atar had just enough time to whip his mace up in defense of a third blow. The heavy maces cracked together with ear splitting force and locked. For a moment, Atar looked right into the other man’s eyes, wind tearing around them as they struggled in raging mortal combat. By this time, they had lost much of their speed and the other racers finally reached them, breaking around the two combatants like a river. Dust swirled around them, making breathing difficult. In that moment, staring into those blank eyes, in a world of thunder and dust, Atar experienced hatred so pure it amazed him. This man represented everything wicked he had ever suffered through.

  Twisting, Atar broke off and urged Ishria away, hoping to put a few racers between them. He needed time to catch his breath, but Zohak charged again relentlessly. Atar jerked his body out of the weapon’s path just in time, but adrenaline surged into his system as he realized what he had done. He felt himself sliding with each jarring hoof beat, inexorably down the side of Ishria’s belly. The ground beneath him blurred past with sickening speed. He felt a great nakedness on his kneecap, which was exposed and unprotected on Ishria’s back. He expected to feel the final crushing blow any second. Even if he survived the deadly hooves of the horses, he would never be able to walk again. The crowd was screaming now, believing their racer had lost. Zohak raised the mace with glee, seeing the unprotected leg clinging desperately to the back of the horse. His scream of triumph stuck in his throat when from out of the blue, another rider on a black charger thrust himself into Zohak’s way.

  It was the archer boy who had won yesterday, thanks to Atar! He was unarmed, however, and well aware that he could easily lose his life in the raging battle. The crowd roared their approval. The archer boy sped up before Zohak could make up his mind whether or not to kill him. But the time had been critical. With a mighty effort fueled by the fear of death, Atar heaved himself upright, just in time to see Zohak raise his mace again. The crowd screamed a warning. Atar was ready. He swung his mace in at an angle, turning it, so that Zohak nearly lost his grip on his own mace, but not quite. They were now well behind the other racers, but Atar slowed even more, viciousness shining in his eyes. He attacked, swinging his mace with both hands and roaring. Zohak’s mace exploded in a shower of shards. He was knocked off his horse by the force of the blow. He found himself sitting in the dust, mace handle in one hand, and a bewildered expression his face. In another second, the crowd was pelting him with filth and rotten food.

  Atar felt rage. He was so far behind, that the dust cloud from the other racers had begun to settle. As if feeling his rage, Ishria the Stormy neighed furiously and reared. Atar raised his mace into the air to keep his balance and sunlight shot off the points. His hair flew out behind him and he felt a wild laugh thrill through his being and reverberate in the air for a moment.

  A woman, very near the front, said to her neighbor, “Why, I’ve never seen such a one as this! He is a golden savage!” The nickname spread.

  They were off like a shot, picking up speed and charging across the track with the wild cheering of the crowd ringing in their ears. Atar could feel each stride of his magnificent stallion as if it were his own. He rode like a centaur, mane lashing his face, wind stinging his narrowed eyes. His entire being was focused on the retreating figures ahead of him. There was less than half the racecourse to go and in the distance, the lead rider was eating up the ground.

  Disbelief and wonderment shone on the faces of the spectators as the mysterious rider wheeled his blue horse around and entered the race once again, his spirit apparently undaunted by battle he had just barely won. Some chuckled at the futility of such a venture, even as they acknowledged the spirit of the rider. It struck an odd chord with the audience, especially since this courageous rider was rumored to be the same savage from yesterday’s archery competition. It reminded the crowd of the ancient legends of Kings who ruled in a time when it was said to be fairer. This was why they roared and cheered the rider on.

  Atar thought he was imagining things with one part of his brain, but another, more aggressive side of him, did not question the way the last straggler in the rear of the race grew in his vision. Then, in a flash, he was past the straggler and gaining on the other riders. Dust flew in a great cloud out from under the hooves of the charging beasts ahead, making Atar fear for Ishria’s ability to breathe.

  Far in the lead, apart from the horses behind them, a cluster of riders made the final turn of the race, all unaware of the goings on behind them. Each of these horses had been well known and pampered in their own countries. They had been bred from the highest stock with this particular purpose in mind. Each long leg, each well fed sinew was calculated and well recorded in their extensive pedigrees. The finish line was now in sight in the distance and the riders were closing in swiftly, dreaming of glory.

  Back along the dusty track, Atar and Ishria struggled on. Atar need not have worried about Ishria’s breathing, for Ishria was made of stronger stuff than Atar supposed. He had been lord over the great Scythian herd and dominance was not a trait that was so easily forgotten by an arrogant stallion like Ishria. He redoubled his efforts, determined to lead this herd as h
e had done before.

  The riders in the back were puzzled when their mounts moved aside from the path that they assigned them. Then Ishria the Stormy burst past them and they understood, for the intensity of both horse and rider, left no doubt as to their intention.

  Now they were in the midst of the herd and Atar could no longer tell how fast he was going with the horses all around him. It was a shock when Atar charged ahead and found he had open air on either side of him. When the magnificent stallion burst forth from the herd, the audience stood up, knowing they were seeing a most unusual race. The story had not traveled that far, but it soon would.

  The riders in the lead were closing in fast. Atar rounded the bend that marked the final stretch of track. In the same moment, horse and rider saw the figures ahead, racing toward the finish line. Gritting his teeth, Atar urged Ishria to greater speed, but his stallion needed no prompting. He put in a final burst of speed that made them blur.

  Atar put his head down, not daring to hope, not seeing how his stallion drew alongside the master racers. Then Ishria’s hooves touched the earth on the other side of the line and the crowd went wild.

  * * * *

  Sinister eyes watched him narrowly. Plans needed to be adjusted, quickly. The inconspicuous figure slipped through the crowd wearing a smile. This would actually make things easier!

  People surged forth to surround Ishria and Atar, screaming hysterically. Atar was borne aloft on the shoulders of men and passed around like some delightful oddity. Many took up the cry, “Our golden savage has won, look here, behold the barbarian with a sense of honor!” He was too dazed by his good fortune to complain. Ishria was apparently too tired to perform his customary fuss either, for he allowed a wreath of flowers to be put around his neck.