“You have to be wrong,” Taro said.

  “I hope so,” Hadon replied.

  5

  The nexr-to-last game lasted two days. On the first day, fifteen contestants JL chosen by lot took their turn facing a bull buffalo the tips of whose horns had been fitted with sharp bronze spikes. The contestant was given a three-foot-long wand on the end of which was wet ocher paint. He went into the center of the arena and waited until the bull was released. From then on, his aim was to mark the exact center of the bull’s forehead with ocher. And he must do it when the bull was facing him.

  Once this was done to the satisfaction of the three judges, who sat in a box a safe distance from the bull, the contestant was free to go. All he had to do was to run to a low wall and dive over it before the bull got to him.

  “Speed and agility,” Hadon said to Taro. “That is what this takes. Plus courage. Hewako has the courage, I’ll give the surly pig that. But he is heavy and slow. Faster than he looks, but still slow.”

  But Hewako did succeed, though not before being gashed lightly along one arm. And in the short dash to the wall, he seemed almost a blur, he ran so fast.

  Taro laughed and said, “If that bull had been behind him during the races, he would have won all of them.”

  Taro was the last of the fifteen that day. Before going through the gate, he turned to Hadon and put his hand on his shoulder. He looked very pale.

  “I had a dream last night,” he said. “I was drinking blood from a bowl that you had filled.”

  Hadon felt a shock going through him. “All dreams are sent by the deities,” he said. “But a dream does not always mean what it seems to say.”

  “Perhaps not,” Taro said. “In any event, we two would have faced each other with the swords. One of us would have been pouring out blood for the other’s ghost. Why did we not shake dice in Opar to see who went to the Games? One of us would have lost a chance to be the king, but he would never have been forced to take his dear friend’s blood. We have loved each other too much even to think of that. Yet greed made us ignore that, greed and ambition. Why did we do that, Hadon? Why didn’t we leave it to the throw of the dice? Whoever won could then have brought his friend to the palace to share in his good fortune.”

  Hadon choked up but managed after a struggle to speak.

  “Kho must have blinded us. No doubt, for Her own good purposes.”

  The trumpet blared, and Taro said, “Why blame the gods and goddesses? Think often of me, Hadon, and do not forget to sacrifice now and then to me.”

  “You may have misinterpreted the dream!” Hadon cried desperately, but the gates had swung shut. Taro walked out into the center of the field stiffly, and when the bull, black, snorting fury, ran out from his gate, Taro did not move. The bull pawed the earth and then raced around for a minute. At last, downwind from Taro, it hastened bellowing toward him and then charged. Taro extended the stick toward him and marked the forehead, but he was slow, oh, so slow, far slower than swift Taro had ever moved when danger threatened.

  Afterward, Hadon wondered if it had not been the dream itself that had made Taro so sluggish. Had dread Sisisken sent him that vision because she had marked him for death, knowing that the dream itself would ensure his end? And why had Sisisken wanted him? Why had she allowed him to survive the Games thus far and no farther?

  Was it because her sister, Kho, wished to spare Hadon the agony of killing him?

  He did not know, but he wept that night in the barracks. Yet, when he fell asleep, he felt a tiny spark of gladness falling through the dark grief. However much he sorrowed for Taro, he would not be responsible for killing his best friend. Kho had spared him that.

  The next day Hadon performed a deed which brought the crowd, gasping and cheering, to its feet. As the bull charged, he ran toward it. Just before the lowered horns were to meet him, he gave a great leap up and forward, brought his feet up, stroked the black hairy forehead lightly with the end of the stick, and landed on the beast’s back. His inertia, plus the bull’s, rolled him forward, and he fell sprawling on the sand. But he was up, though slightly stunned, and running. Behind him he heard the bellowing and then the thundering of hooves. He dived over the wall, which shook as the bull rammed into it.

  He rose and looked at the judges’ box. They were standing up, both hands raised, the fingers outspread. He had marked the beast perfectly.

  The cheering continued for a long time, and after a while Hadon understood what the crowd wanted. They were demanding of the queen that she dedicate this event to him, so that in future Games it should be called Hadon’s Day.

  Hadon felt a glow of exultation, tempered with sadness that Taro was not here to see him. Perhaps his ghost was, and Hadon would see to it that a bull was sacrificed to Taro tonight—though it would cut deeply into his personal money—and that Taro would be told about this while he drank the substance-giving blood.

  And so, a day later, the final event began. There were only twenty of the original ninety left. The buffaloes had taken a toll exceeding that of the gorillas, hyenas, and leopards combined. At the ninth hour, the trumpets sounded, and the twenty, clad only in scarlet loincloths and carrying the broad and long tenu in one hand, marched out. They stopped before the box of Awineth and Minruth and saluted.

  Awineth arose and tossed out across the heads of the mob below a thin golden crown. It sailed out into the arena, rolled, and stopped by the edge of the track. Hadon noted that the impact had twisted the soft gold. But the victor could easily bend it back when he placed it on his own head.

  Awineth looked beautiful. She wore a long scarlet skirt, a necklace of red emeralds, and a scarlet flower in her black hair. And was her smile for him? Or was it for one of the others, say, the tall and handsome Wiqa?

  If it were the latter, she was doomed to sorrow, because Hadon severed his right arm after ten minutes of furious fighting. Wiqa was very good, and if he had not lost some blood two days before when a horn sliced along his thigh, he might have been faster. But he was carried off, gray, dying, blood spouting from the stump.

  Hadon stared after him and felt no exultation. He had killed his first man, a good man whom he had liked. That Wiqa had been trying to kill him made no difference in his feelings.

  The contests were run off one at a time. At the end of the day, the twenty were down to eight. Of the losers, eight were slain and four had been so seriously injured that they could no longer hold the hilt of the sword with both hands.

  The next day was occupied with the funerals, and a day of rest followed for the survivors. Hadon exercised lightly and reflected on the weaknesses and strengths he had observed among the others. Hewako and Damoken, a tall lithe youth from Minanlu, were the two greatest dangers. Both of these had made just enough points in the various contests to remain in the Games. But they were superb swordsmen, and that was what counted now. Nor were any of the others to be taken carelessly.

  When the second day of sword fighting came, Hadon was matched, by lot, with Damoken. The battle was a long one, with both feeling the strength drain out of their arms and legs as they danced, parried, and sliced. At last a swift stroke of Hadon’s, though partially blocked, cut off Damoken’s ear and gashed his shoulder. Damoken stumbled backward, the sword dropping out of his hands. Hadon stepped forward and put his foot on the blade, and the referees hastened to take Damoken from the field.

  “Do not weep,” Hadon said. “It is better to be earless than to creep around palely and hope for blood to drink. I wish you a long happy life.”

  Damoken, holding a hand to his bloody head, replied, “When you become king, Hadon, remember me and make a place in your service for one who, under different circumstances, might have been your king.”

  Hadon bowed and picked up the sword and handed it to a referee.

  The next contestants took their places, and Hadon went to the sidelines. He watched carefully as the others fought, noting especially Hewako’s style.

  When the sun was more than three-quarters across the sky, Hadon of Opar and Khosin of Towina fought, both for the second time that day. Five minutes after starting, Hadon, though bleeding from a gash on his left arm, was standing and Khosin lay dead.

  Hewako of Opar and Hadar of Qethruth engaged in the final battle of the day. At the end of two minutes, Hewako gave his opponent’s blade such a stroke that it fell from his nerveless hands. Hadar dived for it, and the edge of Hewako’s sword severed his neck.

  In the tumult cascading from the crowd, Hadon and Hewako were silent. They looked speculatively at each other. The day after tomorrow, one of them would surely be dead, and the other might be king of kings of Khokarsa. Which would it be for Hewako and Hadon? The arms of dread Sisisken or of warm and glorious Awineth?

  6

  For the final bout, a platform had been built close to the wall near which the queen and her father sat. It was fifteen feet high, only five feet below the top of the wall enclosing the field, five feet below and ten feet away from the royal box. Its surface was a square of closely joined mahogany planks, thirty by thirty feet. A circle with a diameter of twenty-four feet had been painted in white on it. Bisecting the circle was a white line. The area outside the circle was for the referee. His only duties were to start the contest and, thereafter, to lop off the head of either contestant if he stepped outside the circle during the fighting. He was also there to ensure that only the victor left the circle alive.

  As the Flaming God reached his zenith, twelve trumpets blared. Awineth and Minruth sat down in their box on comfortable cushions and under a shady canopy. The trumpets blew again, and the crowd sat down on hard stone and in hot sunshine. At the third blast, Hewako and Hadon appeared from gates at opposite ends of the fields. They were naked, and each carried his sword upright before him. Behind each was a naked priestess who slowly banged a large drum while the youth proceeded to the platform. They met at the bottom of the broad mahogany steps that led up to the platform, bowed to the referee, bowed to each other, and then followed the referee up the steps. The priestesses stayed below, slowly beating the drums.

  Within the circle, the two youths faced their rulers, Hewako on the left of the bisecting line, Hadon on the right. The trumpets blew again, the priestesses’ drums stopped rolling, the two raised their blades above their heads with one hand and shouted, “Let Kho decide!”

  “And Resu!” Minruth bellowed.

  Those around the king gasped; Awineth jerked upright from her reclining position and said something to Minruth. He laughed and waved at the referee to continue.

  The referee had been startled by Minruth’s irregular interjection, but he recovered quickly. He stood just outside the circle at the end of the bisecting line, raised his sword high, and shouted, “Take the line!”

  The two turned to face each other across the line.

  “Cross ends!”

  The two swords rose until they were at a forty-five-degree angle to their holders, and their square tips touched. Hadon stood straight, his green eyes staring into Hewako’s brown eyes. His left hand held the end of the foot-long hilt in a pivot grip, his right hand was placed around the hilt just behind the circular guard.

  The iron hilt was covered tightly with python hide. The carbonized-iron blade was five feet two inches long, two-edged, slightly curving on the lower edge, and square-ended. It was called Karken, or Tree of Death, and it had been made at great expense by the legendary smith, Dytabes of Miklemres, for Hadon’s father. With it Kumin had slain fifty-seven warriors, of whom ten were numatenu, seven warrior-women of the Mikawuru, forty Klemqaba, and a lion.

  “That one-legged worker of magic told me that he dreamed of Karken the night before he completed work on it, before he cooled its hot blade with snake’s blood,” Kumin had told his son. “Dytabes said that he saw a vision in which the holder of Karken was seated on a throne of ivory. And by him was the most beautiful woman Dytabes had ever seen, truly a goddess. And around him was a multitude praising him as the greatest swordsman of the world and as the savior of his people.

  “But Dytabes could not see clearly the face of the man who held Karken. Evidently it was not I. I hope that it was you. In any event, take this sword, Hadon, and do nothing to disgrace it. As for that dream, do not think too much about it. Smiths are notorious drunks. Dytabes, though the greatest of smiths, was also the deepest of drinkers.”

  Hadon thought of his father’s words, and then he heard the referee shout, “Begin and end!”

  Iron clanged. Hewako had stepped over the line, right foot forward first, and had swung the blade toward Hadon’s left shoulder. Hadon had also stepped forward, though only a half-step, and had parried successfully.

  “Watch the eyes,” his father had said many times. “They often tell what is coming next. The footwork is second in importance, but unless you know what the man is going to do, or what he thinks he means to do, footwork means nothing. Courage and strength are important also, but the sight and the footwork come first.”

  And Kumin also said, over and over, “Immediately after the defense, the counter offense.”

  He had also said, “Do the unexpected, though not just for the sake of novelty. The unexpected must have a point, a goal in mind which the conventional, the expected, cannot reach.”

  Hewako reached back and raised his sword above his head. He had to retreat when doing this, because Hadon, swift as he was, would have swung his blade side-wise and cut deeply into his ribs. But by stepping back, Hewako prevented Hadon from doing this. Then Hewako planned to rush forward and bring his sword down straight ahead of him toward the crown of Hadon’s head. Hadon would have to parry to keep his skull from being split. He dared not cut at Hewako then, even though Hewako was wide open. If he did wound Hewako, he would still take the full blow on his head. And he would be dead.

  Or so Hewako thought. But as Hewako retreated, Hadon stepped forward. Instead of bringing his sword in a cutting motion, he thrust. And Hewako, who could have parried a cut, was caught wide open.

  The thrust was not fatal, nor even badly wounding. The blunt end of Karken, though delivered with strength, could do no more than break the skin. But it drove into Hewako’s throat at the base, just above the breastbone. Hewako’s mouth opened wider; his eyes bulged; a hoarse pained sound came from the injured throat. And he failed in his surprise and agony to bring the blade down.

  Hadon had moved back immediately after the thrust in case Hewako did complete the downward cut. Now Hewako, bleeding from the break just above the breastbone, his face red with anger, charged, bringing the edge down furiously.

  Hadon moved one step forward and brought his blade up so that Hewako’s struck it glancingly and went off to one side. And at the clang Hadon suddenly knew that Hewako was doomed to die. Something had leaped down the sword and had run up his arm and into his breast. Something told him that he could not lose this fight, that Hewako had only a few minutes of life left.

  Nor was he the only one to know. Hewako had turned pale, and the sweat that polished his skin, the sweat which had looked so hot before, now looked cold. In fact, goose pimples had appeared all over Hewako’s body. And the eyes had become shadowed.

  Nevertheless, he fought bravely, and none among the crowd would have known what had passed between him and Hadon. They would have noted only that Hadon took the offensive, that he parried every stroke of Hewako’s, that he thrice went in through Hewako’s guard and inflicted deep gashes, one on the right ribs, one on the left ribs, and one on Hewako’s right shoulder.

  Suddenly Hewako stepped back three steps, raised the sword high above him, and shouting, ran at Hadon. Hadon stepped forward, brought up his blade, and caught Hewako’s mighty swing against it, sent it off to one side, and once again thrust into the base of Hewako’s throat. The squat bull-like man staggered back, his sword dropping from his grasp, and his hands caught at his throat. Hadon slid one foot forward and then placed it on Hewako’s sword. The crowd roared, though there were many boos and catcalls among the cheering. Evidently many felt that there was something somehow unsporting about Hadon’s use of the thrust. It was so seldom seen. The professionals looked with approval at Hadon, however, and they spoke quietly of his unorthodox technique. None of them admitted that they would have been caught off-guard by it, but it had been appropriately used in this contest. After all, Hewako was an amateur.

  He would also soon be a dead amateur. He stood close to the edge of the circle, breathing heavily, sweating so that water pooled by his feet, one hand pressed on the bleeding wound at the base of his throat, his eyes sick.

  Finally he said hoarsely, “So you have won, Hadon?”

  “Yes,” Hadon said. “And now I must kill you, as the rules decree. Do I have your forgiveness, Hewako?”

  Hewako said faintly, “I see you, Hadon.”

  Hadon said, “What? See me?”

  “Yes,” Hewako said. “I see you and your future. Sisisken has opened my eyes, Hadon. I see you in a time far from now, though not so far that you will be an old man. For you will live past your youth, Hadon, but you will never be an old man. And your life will be troubled. And there will be many times when you will envy me, Hadon. And I see.. .1 see...”

  Hadon felt chilled, as if the ghost of Hewako had left his body and had passed by him. Yet Hewako still remained alive, though the crowd yelled at Hadon to strike, and the referee was gesturing at him to get it over with.

  “What do you see?” Hadon said.

  “Only shadows,” Hewako said. “Shadows that you will see soon enough. But listen, Hadon. I see that you will never be the king of kings. Though you are victor today, you will never sit upon the throne of the ruler of Khokarsa. And I see you in a far-off land, Hadon, and a woman with yellow hair and the strangest violet eyes, and—”