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  Atar’s heart nearly burst when he realized the full impact of what had just occurred. He had made his dream into a reality! Now, after years of daydreaming, he could buy his supplies and strike out across the vast, mysterious wilderness. The journey would not be without its dangers, but Atar was more than ready to face them. At least those dangers would be real, tangible, not like that nameless wraith that seemed to follow him.

  Atar felt a twinge of concern, perhaps brought on by his memory of the thing from last night. The crowd was carrying him away from his horse and all his worldly possessions. It had not occurred to him to struggle with the kindly crowd, but he realized, that even if he had wanted to, it would have been impossible. He was powerless.

  Oh, calm down! Don’t be so paranoid, he told himself, as he was congratulated again and again. They seemed to view him with a kind of unfathomable awe. They set him down with hearty congratulations and slaps on the back. In front of him, was a tent and the people stood back from the entrance with an air of expectancy. Atar felt his hands itch, how much money would it be? Would it be enough gold?

  A slender porcelain arm lifted the curtain. After a slight hesitation, a beautiful creature emerged. Her face was fresh and radiant, like a wildflower misted in morning dew. Her slender, graceful figure was clad in filmy shell pink robes, which matched the flush on her fair cheeks. She advanced resolutely and Atar noticed that she did not carry a moneybag.

  But if he had only known, damn it, he wouldn’t have bothered. He felt a brief flair of rage. Of all the useless, stupid, risky things he had ever done, this would probably stand out in his mind as the worst. His rage died, leaving burning embers of disappointment. Then he looked again at the girl. Good god, she was beautiful. Long, rich brown hair swept the backs of her knees as she extended a graceful hand to take his arm.

  Her light touch was electrifying. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he’d find some other contest or something. They were walking toward the tent now and the crowd cheered once more, but it didn’t sound the same to Atar. The tent flap whisked shut behind him and he was blinded by the sudden darkness and by panic. Not his usual fear of indoors, either. This was another kind of fear altogether.

  His mind went blank. How to proceed? His eyes became accustomed to the dim light and he gazed upon her with wonder. She was so fragile, so trusting. Surely, she would crack if not handled carefully. Damn his failing brain! He had asked Bulliwuf about this several times and had listened with fascinated horror as he described the mating process in lurid detail. But wasn’t he supposed to woo the girl or something first? Compliments were necessary, he remembered suddenly. He had memorized a whole list of them, supplied by his dear mentor, Bulliwuf.

  His brain scrambled to remember some of them, even as he realized she probably wouldn’t understand him anyway. It was worth a try. He swallowed hard, trying not to be nervous.

  Umm, your thighs are as big as tree trunks in the mysterious Black Forest.

  That seemed to work. She smiled at him. Maybe she even understood mind language! Her face was so beautiful that he could not tear his eyes away. Her lips were a delicate pink. Her eyes seemed to shift and shimmer with emotions like a rippling stream.

  You, err, your um, breasts are as tremendous and forbidding as the peaks of mountains.

  She threw back her head and laughed. He must be on the right track.

  Your mighty fists could crack the skulls of a dozen men who would quake with fear at the sound of your mighty thundering voice.

  It was too much for her. She doubled over laughing. Bulliwuf had not told him about this, but he did warn that each of the mysterious creatures had their idiosyncrasies and had to be humored. Maybe this one was prone to laughter, not an undesirable attribute, in the right circumstances.

  Umm, you have stout hair that could serve as a useful rope, if the need arose.

  She had not gotten over her first fit of laughter when Atar said his final compliment. It was just too much. The girl began to shimmer and her shape began to shift. Atar watched as her shapely figure began to dissolve and her high, melodious laugh began to deepen alarmingly. The laugh burst out of him then. Dahaka could no longer hold his disguise.

  Atar’s eyes were round with shock. Without wasting any time, Dahaka drew a poisoned knife from the folds of his robe. He lunged at his prey, eyes bright, face taut with an emotion Atar could not define. Atar leapt out of the wicked blade’s path, still drunk on shock. The mage took careful aim and sent the blade zinging through the air. Atar dove for the ground rolling, his lightning quick reflexes saving his life. The blade clanged harmlessly into a water basin. Atar dove for the mage’s legs, toppling the weaker man. In a flash he was above him, fist poised to deliver a mortal blow.

  But Atar’s fist never fell, his hand loosened and he toppled over, as his world grew dark around him. The shrieking pain in his head almost made hearing impossible, but the cadence of Zohak’s voice was just discernible above the roaring in his head.

  “Damn asshole, liver of a three month dead fish! You should have seen the foul trickery he employed! “

  “Oh do shut up! Get him off me you fool!” Dahaka screeched, shaken by the close brush with death. “Waste no time, kill him now without delay! Where is that dagger? Do it with your bare hands, then.”

  “My pleas-”

  A crash and a roar of drunken laughter broke the conversation. Half the tent whooshed down to graze the tops of Zohak and Dahaka’s heads as the crowd, sensing the commotion inside, tried to break through to see how the Barbarian would mount the woman, his prize. Dahaka and Zohak looked at each other for a moment like trapped animals. Then Dahaka whispered furiously, “get the sheet and wrap him up. You must throw him on the back of your horse and take him out into the—just get him out of here. Kill him. Do you hear me? Make sure he’s dead! Waste no time, take him to the caves I showed you, and then get your little ass to the Sacred Circle. You will know where, if you are my son, you will feel it calling to you. You will become the next Firestarter. Go now!”

  The revelers were trying to find the entrance to the tent, singing bawdy off-key songs and proclaiming that they would join in the fun.

  Fumbling in his haste, Zohak ripped an exit in the canvas and the two men were out, leaving the dazed revelers to contemplate the mystery they left behind. Zohak loaded his bundle onto his horse and whipped him into a gallop, heedless of the pedestrians he knocked aside. Dahaka watched him go with cold, reptilian eyes. People were so easy to fool.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zohak had been riding hard. Sweat rolled down his back in fat drops before his shirt absorbed it. It was stupid of him to go riding through this desolate country during the hottest part of the day. He tossed sweat soaked hair out of his burning eyes and tried to ease the tension from his shoulders. Ahead, he could see the landscape was dotted with a few trees. That’s where he needed to go. If he could just orient himself somehow, he’d plop the Idiot down and murder him. Zohak knew where the caves were, he thought he did anyway, but he had come from a different direction last time he had visited. He glanced at the sun. This was the right direction.

  Alone in such featureless country, he had been forced to confront himself. There had been a niggling seed of dissatisfaction in his heart ever since he had met his father. He was too much of a manly man to admit he had a broken heart. Anyway, that was not his main concern. He felt an odd combination of resentment, hurt, and a most peculiar feeling of fear.

  Maybe it was the look somewhere far behind those eyes of his father, a look of careful, frank appraisal of his son. He had seen tribesmen look with more feeling at saddle blankets. He did not feel like a saddle blanket. He felt like a virile, intelligent Chief, who did what had to be done in order to secure his position. Did his father see nothing of the true man he was? In combination with his wife’s latest fling, he felt like no one was appreciating him. Self-pity overwhelmed him and for a moment, the world blurred.

  He’d not seen his fat
her in so many years. Even as a child, his father had mostly been absent from the court. In his mind, he’d constructed an image of him as a strong, capable, and fearless man. Yes, he was some of these things, but he was also obviously a man with no passion but ambition. Dahaka didn’t seem to have a woman. He didn’t even seem to have a heart. All of his dreams had been flattened somehow. Even if he attained the position of Firestarter, it never would be the grand thing he’d hoped for. All was tainted now, and the Idiot was part of that—part of the reason everything had gone badly.

  Then he dashed the tears from his eyes. He’d show them. He was a man who did not tolerate other people’s horseshit, when it was directed at himself, at any rate. He was sick and tired of other people ruling his emotions. The tangle of feelings inside him hardened into a little rock of hatred. If that’s the way they wanted it, fine, he could play the game. He’d set the rules.

  By now, he was more certain of his direction and after a few more minutes, Zohak found the caves. Staggering under Atar’s weight, Zohak entered the caves. He had one particular cesspool in mind. Laughing grimly, he heaved Atar down a pit and heard him splash into the foul water. This seemed hysterically funny for some reason and Zohak indulged himself in a good laugh. He watched the pale figure below, still wrapped in a sheet. The walls of the pit were high and sheer. The inert figure swathed in the white sheet at the bottom looked like a helpless baby.

  “I leave you yet again, Idiot.” Oh, it was too funny. He felt such a sense of power. This moment would be the start of a new life for Zohak. No more letting people push him around, he would give his wife a good beating and he’d do the same to that mongrel father of his if he ever dared insult him again. He would set his boundaries. He would wear his ferocity around his neck like a talisman and terror would strike deep into the hearts of all that beheld him.

  “Make sure he’s dead,” his father’s voice came floating to him on the waves of his memory. He spat. Like hell, such an end was too merciful. This was far more appropriate and anyway, from now on, he would do things his own way. The Idiot’s screams would echo eerily through the caves until his throat became sore and parched from thirst. He would gnaw at his own flesh in search of sustenance and die in a miserable puddle of his own filth. Besides, even if such a delightful picture hadn’t arisen in his mind, he would have found a different way to dispose of the hated man. He would never again be daddy’s little errand boy who dutifully scurried around, following commands and being obedient.

  Victorious, he strode out of the maze of caves with a lighter step, still chuckling. Now it was time to claim his birthright. He would have all of the power and prestige the position of Firestarter gives a man or woman lucky enough to be qualified. He imagined burning up his father’s skinny ass with a simple glance. He knew what Dahaka was thinking. He thought he would use Zohak as a tool to rule through. Well, he was wrong. Zohak was nobody’s tool.

  Concern mounted in Bulliwuf’s mind as he scanned the crowd, looking at every face. This was not a good time to go disappearing. The Ceremony would take place tonight and he had to see to it that his ward was there. All these years of watching vigilantly just to keep him safe for the Ceremony! Yet, he had to give Atar space to grow and to depend on his own wits. A great king cannot be dependent on anybody, even a werewolf.

  Bulliwuf turned to search the vast fair grounds. He picked up a disturbing scent inside the victory tent. Bulliwuf also found the tear in the back of the tent. He calmed himself as he moved purposefully toward the enclosure where Ishria was being held. Ishria had been coaxed into an enclosed area, but no one had been able to get close enough to the fierce beast to even remove the saddle blanket. The enclosure was some distance from the tent, but even from where he was, Bulliwuf could tell there was a considerable crowd of people who had gathered around to admire the beast who had just won the amazing race.

  As always, people parted for him. He was hungry, despite having eaten two herd beasts, and human flesh would have revived him, but there was no time. He scaled the fence with one graceful bound that drew a few shrieks and many protestations from the watchers. Before any could get up the nerve to do anything, Bulliwuf had Ishria by the reins and was leading him to the wide gate. With clever paws, he unlatched the gate and pushed it open. He proceeded to make a grand exit, tail stiff, while the stallion followed as docilely as a lamb.

  They gasped and many made the sign to ward off the evil eye. Most, however, saw it as another juicy bit of gossip to add to the hottest story around, that of the Golden Savage. The important thing was that no one made any attempt to stop him.

  Bulliwuf paid no attention to them. The scents he had detected were more disturbing than he believed at first. There was no time to waste. He might still have a chance if they hurried. The scent he was following was fresh, but it was confused by scores of other people tracking over it again and again. Bulliwuf kept at it, fearing the worst, until they had left the fair behind them and were running across the wasteland.

  Chapter Twelve

  Atar woke when his body hit the foul water at the bottom of the cesspool. The pain in his head made him shut his eyes tight against it. A terrible, insane laughter above him made him shudder all over, cold fingers of fear immobilizing him. It gradually faded and he attempted to sit up. With a moan, he fell back and faded once more into unconsciousness.

  When he next opened his eyes, he did not feel the blinding pain. It had faded to a gnawing ache, but at least he could sit up. He had no idea where he was at first then the memories flooded back, unwanted, into his pounding brain. Cautiously he stood, attempting to take stock of his surroundings. It was almost pitch black inside the dank, nasty pit into which he had been thrown. The only light was a faint reflection that bounced off the slimy ceiling of the cave above.

  The ground beneath him sloshed underfoot and made a horrible sucking sound when he raised his feet. It had a greasy, viscous texture that both horrified and amused Atar. What a horrible place to die. Twenty or thirty feet above him, the mouth of the pit yawned, tantalizing him. He seized the wall, finding minute purchase on the rocky face. Hauling himself up, he carefully searched for more handholds. Joy surged in his heart. He was going to make it!

  When he was five feet off the ground, the handhold he had grabbed for suddenly crumbled and sent him sliding back into the muck. Undaunted, he tried again, making it a little higher this time, but falling back just the same. Now he was covered with the muck and shivering with the cold.

  Atar had no idea how much time had passed. He lay on the muck, catching his breath. His hands were bleeding and he was almost ready to quit. There seemed to be a layer of clay-like rock half way up, and it crumbled no matter how he climbed. His head hurt miserably and his chest and legs were badly scraped from the falls.

  His breathing slowed and he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Was this where he was destined to die? If it was, why had he even been put on this earth? What was it all for anyway? The emerald fields glowed, enchantingly beyond the glittering water. Atar saw himself reclining by the water’s edge. He took a handful of the clear shining water and raised it to his parched lips.

  Sputtering, gagging, Atar dry heaved for a full minute, before he caught his breath. He sat down and drew his knees up to his chest in a posture of utter defeat. He let the despair wash over him then. He was going to die here, all alone, never having done anything of any lasting value in his short, worthless life. He thought about all the times he had wasted feeling sad, embarrassed, and rejected. Even while the sun shone and the food was plentiful, he had let himself wallow in self-pity, when he could have been enjoying the beauty all around him.

  Now, at death’s door, he wished he could look back and see a happier life. He couldn’t change his circumstances, but he could have changed his own mind. He could have let the taunting boys’ comments roll off his back instead of brooding about them for days. He could have forgotten all the times he had been excluded and instead he could have given thanks to t
he gods for the gift of life he had received. What a joy life could have been for him if he had only taken control.

  His mind was reeling. He let it float for a time, sitting still in the darkness. Suddenly, very soft music, sweet as spring, swirled in his mind for a moment and then it was gone.

  I might be dying, he thought.

  Yet, a few minutes later he heard it again. It was soft and subtle, like the petal of a flower. It glowed in his ears and he found himself straining to catch the next few notes. When he heard it again, it had changed slightly. Now, along with the sweetness, there was an insistence. It was a driving, stimulating insistence, like the call to war. It was indescribable, but it set him to pacing.

  Soon the music was no longer faint, it was clear. It surrounded him like perfume, demanding he come to the source of it. He set his jaw and began to climb the walls with renewed determination. The result however was the same.

  It was driving him insane. The futility of his attempts to get out, combined with the undeniable urgency of the sweet music, was enough to drive a man crazy. Unable to contain himself, he screamed his frustration and attacked the walls of his prison with the ferocity of a wild animal. The click and scramble of claws on the hard rock surface above him was lost in the echoes of his cry.

  He looked up to see the faint outline of Bulliwuf’s ears. He felt an indescribable gratitude and broadcast this to him.

  You’re too hard-headed to kill. Bulliwuf said.

  “I’m changing,” Bulliwuf spoke through his human form.

  Soon the end of the rope fell down to him. He grasped it with trembling hands, pulling himself up, hand over hand in time with the passionate music vibrating in the air around him.

  When he pulled himself onto the ground above, he didn’t lie there, reveling in the sensation of the firm ground beneath him, as one would expect. Instead, he was on his feet, so full of energy, so driven that he walked in a small circle before he could stop himself.