Tyrak

1

TYRAK LOOKED AT JARSUN laconically for a moment. “What does that mean, ‘everything’?”

“How did this happen? When did it happen?”

Tyrak tore off a silk sheet and used it to wipe himself clean of the blood from the eochs. He also felt the great thirst that came every time he used his powers, but he controlled the urge for the moment. He wanted nothing more than to pick up the oversize water pot he now kept in his chamber, upend it, and drink until it was drained. But he didn’t. Any need was a potential weakness, and he did not want Jarsun to know his weakness. Instead, he picked up the pot but merely sipped at it slowly, more as an affectation than an expression of need. “Could you be more specific, Father dear? At least give me some hint what you might be referring to?”

Jarsun smiled wryly. “You have changed completely. I’m tempted to say ‘overnight,’ but of course that can’t be true. This has taken time, effort.” Something occurred to him. “And training! I see now. The question I should be asking is who has effected this transformation? Who was it, Tyrak?”

Tyrak took another sip, aching to empty the contents of the pot into his belly, to pour the cold water onto his head, drenching himself. He could almost feel the water splashing on his sweaty, overheated face and torso as he imagined it. But to Jarsun he showed only indifference. “What transformation?”

Jarsun shook his head. “Come now, Tyrak. You are a different man. A new man. With extraordinary new abilities. That does not come on its own, it is acquired somehow. All I wish to know is how and when and from whom.”

Tyrak took a third sip and weighed the pot in his hand a moment, thinking. It must weigh well over two hundred pounds, he knew, because it contained twenty-five gallons of water. He felt as if he could drink five of these right now and still want more. He forced the need to the back of his mind and focused on the matter at hand. It was important he make Jarsun understand this the first time, otherwise this process would take weeks or months instead of days to accomplish. And something told him he could not afford a delay. Each day that he dallied here with Jarsun, the Slayer was out there somewhere, growing up, growing stronger, getting ready to attack him. He must be ready when the time came. He must choose the place and manner of the confrontation. It was the only hope he had.

“You are right about the rebellion,” he said quietly, being sure to couch his words in calm indifference. Any sign of urgency would only make Jarsun suspicious. “It is led by Rurka, acting on behalf of Vasurava himself.”

Jarsun immediately dropped his sardonic smile and came several steps forward. “I knew it! Did you learn this from your spies? What else did they tell you?”

Tyrak waved away the questions. “It does not matter how I know this. All that matters is that it is true. You can verify it with the help of your spies—​but if you do, you will run out of time.”

Jarsun frowned, lowering his chin again as he was wont to do when he grew suspicious or aggressive. “Is that some kind of threat?”

Tyrak said, “Yes, but not by me. By the Arrgodi. If you do not heed them now, your entire empire may be lost to you forever. Already they have begun to chip away at the edifice, and given time and your continued indifference, they will surely bring you down into the dust sooner than you may think possible.”

Jarsun stared at him, then seemed to grow aware of the fact that Tyrak still held the pot of water in one hand, with his elbow crooked, as easily as any man might hold a mug of wine. “You have gained great strength somehow. There are potions that can give you such strength for brief periods, taxing your body to its limits. What they gain you in strength, they cost you in years of life.”

Tyrak chuckled. “You think my strength is gained from a potion?” He raised the pot higher. “Can a potion give any man the ability to absorb a hundred liters of water without it showing anywhere on his body?”

And he upended the pot, touching the rim to his lips, and drained it. It took several moments, and he was careful not to spill a drop. He was trying to make it seem as if he was drinking the water to prove a point. When the pot was empty, he tossed it across the room. It flew out the verandah and landed on the ground below with a loud crash. A few voices could be heard, Bahuka’s unmistakable among them, expressing their disapproval.

Tyrak raised his vest to reveal his flat, taut belly and ridged abdominal muscles. He thumped his stomach and groin with his fist, hard enough to make a sound like an elephant driving its head against a heavy tree trunk. “You see now? Is this the work of a potion, do you think?”

Jarsun’s eyes glittered. He came slowly toward Tyrak, hand outstretched as if longing to touch and see for himself. Tyrak raised a hand in warning. Jarsun’s tongue flickered and disappeared again.

“No,” he said finally. “This is something else entirely. Something I have never heard of or encountered before. It intrigues me.”

Good. For as long as it intrigues you, you will not try to kill me, I trust. Aloud, Tyrak said, “About the rebellion, then. The rebels have mounted an army and are attacking your outposts. Those nearest to Arrgodi have already fallen. Now they make their way northward and westward.”

Jarsun frowned. “Northwest? But that would take them beyond the borders of the Arrgodi nation!”

Tyrak nodded slowly, waiting for Jarsun to reason it out by himself. “Exactly. There is an old saying among us Arrgodi—​when you pour hot lentils onto a plate of rice, never try to eat the middle first.”

Jarsun blinked. “What?”

Tyrak gestured to indicate an imaginary plate of rice onto which he poured steaming hot daal as he repeated himself slowly: “Never try to eat the hot rice and lentils from the middle of the plate. You will burn yourself. Instead, start from the outside and work your way in.”

Jarsun shook his head, looking irritated now. “Rustic sayings were never my strong suit, son-in-law. If there is wisdom there, it eludes me.”

Tyrak sighed. “They want you out of Arrgodi, but rather than defy you here and risk destroying their own capital city and kingdom, they have taken the fight to your territories. That’s why they head northwest. They have allied with the kingdoms you have taken over and intend to liberate them, one by one.”

Jarsun looked at him, light dawning in his eyes. “Eat the dish from the outside, working their way inward. Arrgodi is the hot center of the plate. I see it now! How quaint, and quite apt. So they think they can unite my principalities against me, do they? How ridiculous!”

“And yet how dangerous. With a few other allies as strong as Hastinaga—”

“Did you say Hastinaga? The Krushan would never align with these foolish rebel factions!”

“Not officially. But unofficially, much can be done. And the Krushan are very powerful indeed. As are the Gwannlanders. And the Harvani. And the Galdees. And who knows who else?”

Jarsun shook his head, lips pursed in the spiteful stubborn way he had when contradicted. “Impossible. The Gwannlanders, perhaps. Not the Harvani and the Galdees. As for Hastinaga. It’s true that Vasurava’s sister Karni is now wedded to Prince Shvate, so the Krushan have some reason to sympathize with the Mraashk rebels, but these others . . .” His voice trailed off as he thought for a moment. “Unless you mean that the Karni connection alone is sufficient to bring the Krushan into this, not directly, but indirectly as sponsors of the rebels. Yes, I can see this as a stratagem Vrath might concoct. Back the rebels against you, which means against me. Then bide his time until the stage is set for Vrath and the Krushan to enter the theater of battle.”

“Yes, that is what I meant, father-in-law. And with Hastinaga’s backing, many more will join them in time. This is not a rebellion against me or the throne of Arrgodi. It is a rebellion against you and your empire building. Everything you have worked for is in danger of being lost. Heed my advice. Go now. Leave Arrgodi. Consolidate your empire outside this nation. Leave Mraashk and the Arrgodi to me to manage as was our original understanding. And I shall remain allied with you always. I shall even visit your daughters, my wives, and sire children on them. But if you stay, you risk losing everything.”

Jarsun was silent for a very long time.

Tyrak waited patiently.

From below, he could hear the voices and murmurs of many men and the clinking of weapons and snorting of horses. He guessed that the riders bearing the news he had intercepted the previous day had arrived and the news they brought was causing consternation among Jarsun’s advisors.

Finally Jarsun nodded once, decisively. “Everything you have said can be easily proven or disproven. I am expecting riders with news from the outposts even now. If what you say is true, I shall do exactly as you advise. I shall leave Arrgodi to you. But if you fail me in any way—​whether as an ally, a king, or a son-in-law, I shall return. And the next time I come to Arrgodi, I shall make her mine forever. Do you understand?”

Tyrak smiled. “Arrgodi is already yours. I am merely holding her on your behalf, father-in-law.”

2

Tyrak had almost finished his exercises when he saw Ladislew approaching. She paused by the wooden stable wall and pretended to watch him as he worked out, as if casually interested in a professional way.

He knew better.

He had been with her only the previous night, and when he had looked out of his verandah and seen her approaching, she had walked quite differently then. There had been an urgency in her step as well as a certain diffidence that he had not known she could possibly feel. Her head had been lowered as if she felt embarrassed at coming in that secretive manner.

Later, after he had drawn on her store of Halahala, concluding their peculiar transaction, when he was filled with an insight that came of their intimacy: he had known then that she was not ashamed or embarrassed because she was a married woman coming to another man’s quarters in secret at night. She was ashamed of her own great need to come to him, the hunger that she felt and which he sensed so powerfully within her each time he fed on her poison milk.

He finished his exercises, crushing the last wooden tree trunks that had been set up with the use of elephants for this express purpose each day. The final one he punched so hard, it was pulverized into a cloud of wood dust, a few chips and pieces falling across the acres-large field. His power had grown steadily with use, and the techniques he had picked up from the old syce Arrgo were amazingly effective when used with his newfound ability. Any normal man would have broken every limb in his body by now, no matter how strong or heavily muscled he might be. But for Tyrak, it was the perfect technique and exercise. He felt now as if he could take on Jarsun himself. And in a way, he wished that the last encounter, the one in his bedchamber, had gone on a while longer. He would have relished the chance to test his strength and skill on those minions. For that matter, he would enjoy testing it on them even today, when he knew for certain he would win easily.

“So?” he said as he came up to the fence against which Ladislew leaned with exaggerated casualness. “How is the wife of the captain of my guard?”

She didn’t respond to the jibe. He knew she felt no guilt at being a married woman. The marriage itself was a cover, a mere disguise. What she shared with Tyrak was no mere illicit dalliance. It was a matter of her own power being useful. And of their secret alliance someday leading to the downfall of Jarsun.

Still, she said nothing so long as Arrgo was in earshot. The old syce finished rubbing salt into Tyrak’s body as he had taken to doing after every practice session. The salt seemed to help him cope with the increasing density of his flesh and bone. Already, he was able to increase his weight a hundredfold. That entailed other side effects, such as the epic thirst—​and a corresponding need for salt. It was the old stable hand, now Tyrak’s trainer, who had suggested that sometimes salt rubbed into a sweaty body could replenish more readily than when consumed orally. And like every other bit of advice given by the old stalwart, it proved effective.

“What is it?” Tyrak asked, after Arrgo had left them alone in the empty stable.

She looked at him in the fading dusk, and he saw something in her eyes that he had not seen until now. A kind of hunger. It was not pleasant. It was a glimpse of what she had once been and might be again. “I have found the Slayer.”

He sprang to his feet, toppling a barrel of cold water the size of a man. The water gurgled out, splashing and spreading across the entire stable. Horses neighed and whinnied in complaint in their boxes. He grabbed Ladislew’s shoulders, forgetting that he had not yet reduced his density to its normal proportions.

“Where is he? Take me to him at once!” He spoke through gritted teeth, and as he ground his molars, the sound was loud enough to be heard across the entire stables. Elephants a hundred yards away trumpeted, disturbed by the unusual yet distinctly animal sound.

Ladislew put out her hands, grasped his shoulders, and pushed him off her. As usual, he was surprised at her strength. It took her some effort, but not much. He knew he had grasped her with enough force to crush an oak trunk held sideways between his palms. Yet Ladislew had pushed him off as if he were merely a normal human man and she a normal human woman.

“He is outside your reach. If you go to him now, it will be too soon. Already he is strong and gaining strength each day.”

He roared with fury, losing his temper for the first time in almost a year.

“I am strong!” he said, and smashed a fist onto the side of the fallen barrel. It splintered into fragments.

“Not strong enough. Not yet.” She was calm, unafraid. She had power of her own. She did not fear his strength or his temper.

That calmed him down. What use was it getting angry with her?

He sat down on a nearby bench, basically just a solid iron block. It creaked, and he felt a tiny crack or two appear beneath his thighs. He had unconsciously begun to increase his weight again. “Tell me everything you know.”

“He is living with a cowherd named Eshnor and his wife, Alinora, in a place called Goluka. It is a tiny hamlet in—”

“Arghbhoomi. Yes, I know,” he said. “I know Eshnor too. He is the chief of Goluka. A popular and powerful local leader. How could his child have escaped my grasp? My soldiers slaughtered every young child in the great purge.” A thought struck him. “His delegation came to my court this very morning, to pay Goluka’s taxes for the past year. He stood there before me, he even spoke to me! How could this have escaped my knowledge?”

She shrugged. “The Deliverer is no fool. He has means and ways to trick you at every turn. Don’t forget, Kewri was under your soldiers’ watch, and yet she was able to give birth to him, and Vasurava was able to spirit him out of Arrgodi—”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “But if what you say is true, then I shall go to Goluka at once. I must destroy the Slayer before he grows strong enough to fulfill the prophecy.”

She laughed, throwing her head back and flicking her long hair over her shoulders. He scowled up at her, gripping the corners of the iron slab. It yielded beneath his fingers like warm butter. “He is already strong enough, Tyrak!”

He pointed a finger at her in warning, ignoring the iron chips that fell to the ground. “Don’t mock me. You may be a Maatr, but I am no mere mortal either.”

She lost her grin and nodded. “That is so. And in time, you will be very powerful indeed. Perhaps even more powerful than I, in at least sheer physical strength. I have never seen nor heard of an urrkh who was gifted with the particular power you possess, or the ability to use it in such unusual ways. I suspect that this is all preparation for you to eventually face the Slayer in some manner that will give you the advantage.”

Even as he opened his mouth, she held up a hand. “Do not ask me how or when that confrontation will occur. I am not omniscient, merely prescient. But this much I can assure you: if you go to the Slayer now, you will lose. You will die. In a sense, that is what he wants and the reason why he taunted you by coming into your lair today, hoping to tempt you to take this rash step.”

He thought about this for a long moment, calming himself using the yogic breathing methods that Arrgo had taught him. The old stable hand was a storehouse of ancient lore and knowledge, and it was amazing just how much Tyrak had learned from him. When Vessa had said that he would provide a guru to guide him through the process of rebuilding his powers so he could face the Slayer, Tyrak had been skeptical. Now he would touch the syce’s feet if not for the fact that it would appear laughable to the world and also because Arrgo himself had warned that the day Tyrak acknowledged his guru, Arrgo would vanish from his life forever.

Finally, he said, “Then what do you propose I do?”

“Wait.”

He ground his teeth in frustration.

“And test your limits.”

He looked at her. “How do you propose I do that?”

She smiled. “Khobadi.”

He was about to laugh, then stopped. He thought about it for a moment. “The way it is fought in Mraashk and Gwannland, and rural Arrgodi?”

“And in your own Arrgodi city as well.”

He looked at her skeptically.

“Jarsun has built amphitheaters to house large audiences all over the grasslands, has he not?”

Tyrak nodded. The God-Emperor had made a big show of it at court, claiming that he was bringing entertainment within the reach of the masses. He had made it sound like a charitable gesture. Tyrak had resented the resources—​men, building materials, prime space in the heart of every city and town across the areas he controlled—​but Jarsun had made it clear that this was something he wanted done, and done efficiently and quickly. “I have been to a few entertainments.”

“Now it is time for you to fight in one.”

“Like a common wrestler? I am Tyrak, Prince of—”

“Of everything except what really matters, your own fate. Take your life into your own hands. Lay it on the line in the pit of the amphitheater. It will prepare you for the coming encounter with the Slayer and earn you the respect of your father-in-law as well.”

He considered this. “What do you get out of this?”

She smiled like a cat that had caught a particularly large and vicious rat. “It is part of my plan. Kill the Slayer and cripple Jarsun, both at once.”

She explained. He listened.

3

When Tyrak felt somewhat calmer and ready for conversation, he sent for Shelsis. The old minister arrived, visibly nervous. He had probably heard the rumors of Tyrak’s unusual mood.

The old man had been sidelined by Bahuka, Jarsun’s emissary, who had been sent to oversee Tyrak during his most manic period following the birth and escape of the Slayer. Tyrak had been truly out of control then, and in retrospect, he knew that had Jarsun not stepped in and taken measures to bolster up his regency, Arrgodi would have burned in a brutal civil war that would either have left Tyrak without a kingdom to govern or the Arrgodi without a king to oppress them.

It had taken Tyrak months to regain his self-confidence and strength, and it wasn’t until the violent encounter with the quad of Jarsun’s personal Eoch Assassin bodyguards that he had demonstrated his newfound strength and abilities for the first time to the God-Emperor.

Jarsun had been impressed.

Tyrak had been cautious not to reveal more than was necessary: such as the fact that his powers were growing. What Jarsun had seen was barely half of what he was capable of now. Yet Ladislew had told him that he would take years still to come into his full powers and if he moved too soon, he risked losing everything. It was one thing to smash the skulls of a few eochs; it was another thing altogether to go up against Jarsun himself. Even Tyrak was not impetuous and impatient enough to do that just yet; perhaps he never would be. After all, Jarsun was more useful to him as an ally than as an enemy. It was the knowledge that Jarsun stood behind him that kept civil war from breaking out even now, that forced tens of thousands of Arrgodi to flee into exile rather than stay and fight openly. And it was the same knowledge that kept his Mraashk neighbors from invading and attempting to take over Arrgodi.

But this was a different problem. This was the Slayer. An enemy who was not merely interested in regional politics or imperial ambitions. This was a being prophesied to destroy him. Why? Because he had a great destiny, and all those born with a great destiny are bound to attract powerful enemies. Every great hero has a great villain.

So Tyrak had his Slayer, an infant child born to his own sister under his own roof and who desired to murder his own uncle.

If patricide was the word for the killing of one’s father, and matricide was murder of one’s mother, what was murder of an uncle called? If there was one, he did not know it. He had disliked Ashcrit so intensely as a boy, he had tipped his Ashcrit guru out of a high tower window one morning after a particularly grueling session on derivatives.

How could a mere boy be a threat to him, Tyrak, the most powerful being in this part of the world? It was ludicrous. Age notwithstanding, Tyrak would put an end to this right here and now.

Shelsis stood as Tyrak paced, musing on his course of action. Finally, Tyrak turned and looked intently at the chief advisor. The older man blanched, his greying mustaches twitching. Ever since Jarsun’s departure, he had lived in perpetual anxiety about his fate.

Tyrak knew that other kings would have had the advisor put to the sword merely for fraternizing with the Krushan emperor acting as de facto king of Arrgodi while Tyrak was unable to govern, but Jarsun was Tyrak’s father-in-law, and Arrgodi had sworn allegiance to Morgolia.

So strictly speaking, Shelsis had done no wrong. Even so, the man was never quite at ease around his king, and Tyrak saw no reason to make the man feel at ease. Even if Shelsis had not betrayed him entirely, he had not demonstrated loyalty either. Had Tyrak not withstood the attack of the four eochs in his bedchamber, they would have killed him and Shelsis would have stood by and watched.

So would Pradynor, Ladislew’s husband, and for that reason, Tyrak had a bone to pick with him as well. But this was not the urrkh Tyrak, whom they had expected to turn into a festering giant, suddenly raging and rampaging; this was Tyrak the Terrible, as he now liked to think of himself. A king so shrewd he had outwitted the great Jarsun himself, and before his reign was over, he would dethrone his father-in-law as well.

And to achieve such great things, he needed every political support. Shelsis was an experienced advisor with keen knowledge of the Arrgodi tribes and clans, and his spy network was excellent. He was more useful to Tyrak alive than dead. And so long as he remained useful, he would stay alive.

Somehow, the advisor was canny enough to sense this, and he seemed to grow less anxious as Tyrak paced. After all, tyrants who lashed out viciously rarely took such a long time to brood on their actions beforehand. Even so, he was wise enough to gauge Tyrak’s agitated state and to know better than to speak before spoken to; that was another reason Tyrak had kept him around after Bahuka’s departure. Because of his canny judgment.

Finally, Tyrak turned to him. With offhand casualness, he said, “Goluka-dham.”

Shelsis dipped his head to acknowledge that he heard. “What of it, Your Highness?”

“Burn it to the ground. Punishment for the uprising to which they give the lofty term rebellion. Goluka is the heart of the unrest. I have it on good authority. Raze the settlement to the ground. Kill everyone living there. Also kill those who stand in the way or express sympathy for the dying.”

Shelsis was silent for longer than required. He did not make any sound or gesture to indicate he objected to Tyrak’s orders, nor did he utter a simple “yes, sire,” and leave to execute his king’s orders. This was his diplomatic way of communicating to Tyrak that he disagreed but that it was up to Tyrak to ask him why. Again, another excellent reason why he remained alive when every other minister, advisor, preceptor, and officer of the court had been executed or imprisoned in the past decade.

“Well?” Tyrak asked, his voice echoing in the empty throne chamber. “Since you have not left to do my bidding, I can only presume you wish to offer some objection. Speak!”

“Not an objection, Your Highness. Merely . . . a doubt.”

Tyrak gestured impatiently, indicating to him to go on.

Shelsis went on with a mite more confidence, careful to keep his voice low and his gaze unchallenging. “My lord, Goluka-dham is governed by Eshnor.”

“So?’

“Eshnor himself is a peaceful man. And he is dearly loved and supported by the Mraashk people.”

Tyrak nodded grimly. “And this dearly beloved Eshnor is one of the key troublemakers in this rebellion. All the more reason to teach them a lesson.”

“True, my lord. The rebels must be dealt with firmly. But you propose to attack Goluka-dham and harm Eshnor and his people. They are peaceable folk and not directly involved in the rebellion.” He added quickly, “Not as far as the people of Mraashk know.”

“They must support, encourage, supply the rebels. Otherwise Rurka and the other chieftains would not have been able to sustain themselves for so long and harry our army this effectively,” Tyrak said. “Ever since Vasurava and Kewri scurried away like cowards . . .”

He clenched his fist in anger. The thought of his sister and her husband eluding his grasp still rankled; even though ostensibly they had left on a pilgrimage, his spies informed him that their departure had given credence and strength to the growing rebellion within his nation. Rurka, son of Svaalka, was reportedly leading the rebellion, with the cowherds at the fore of the insurrection. Until now, they had only succeeded in harrying his army and defying his authority symbolically, rather than with meaningful military tactics, but any such defiance was a thorny barb in his flesh. “Goluka-dham is the heart of Mraashk territory. It is not possible that this Eshnor and his people do not supply the rebels. Punishing them will send a message to the rebels and curb the menace before it grows into a full-blown insurrection.”

Shelsis nodded slowly, unable to ignore the unshakeable logic of this argument. “What you say is true, sire. But attacking a peaceful hamlet such as Goluka-dham and a revered community leader such as Eshnor will also send out a different message, one that you may not wish to send.”

Tyrak frowned as he seated himself on the throne. “What do you mean?”

“If we attack Goluka, not the Mraashk alone but all rural Arrgodi will rise up against you. No Arrgodi can bear the slaughter of innocent shepherds and cowherds in the heart of the grasslands.”

Tyrak shrugged. “They are already harrying us through forays and petty insubordinations.”

“But this would be an all-out rebellion. They would raise up militia under you, with Rurka’s Mraashk leading the fray. We are not talking about a small assault or harassment.”

Tyrak was still not impressed. “We Arrgodi have fought the Mraashk for decades. We are willing to continue if need be.”

Shelsis clearly wished to argue the point, but he took a moment to gather his wits before continuing. “But this time if they rise up, Gwann would support them. He might even join his forces with theirs.”

“Gwann? King of Gwannland?” Tyrak snorted. “Why would he risk making an enemy of Arrgodi?”

“Because he is already involved, sire. It is well known that he is sheltering many tens of thousands of refugee Mraashk who have fled to Gwannland. And as you know full well, he has always coveted Arrgodi.”

Tyrak could not disagree. “That he has,” he admitted reluctantly.

“And if Gwann joins the Mraashk, then Stonecastle will certainly join in as well.”

Tyrak raised his head, thinking. “Stonecastle regards Vasurava’s sister Karni as his own daughter.”

“Indeed, sire, Karni. The name means ‘daughter of stone’ in Ashcrit.” Shelsis was wise enough to see that his liege had caught the thread of the argument and did not need to be prompted further. He waited as Tyrak rose from his throne and paced a few moments, thinking.

“And Karni, Vasurava’s sister, is married to that albino king of Hastinaga, what’s his name? White-face?”

“Shvate,” Shelsis said.

“Yes, Shvate. So if Stonecastle joins in, then there’s a possibility of old man Vrath putting Hastinaga’s legions into the alliance as well.” Tyrak walked over to a painted map depicting the continent of Arthaloka. He considered the forces that would be aligned against him, jabbing his finger against the heavy canvas as he called out each name. “That would bring the wrath of the Burnt Empire down upon us.”

He turned to look at Shelsis, eyes glittering. “Is it a coincidence that all these happen to be territories that have successfully resisted the efforts of Jarsun and remain hostile to the Reygistan Empire that he is building?”

“Nay, sire. It is no coincidence. That is another reason why they are only waiting for an excuse to open a war front with Arrgodi. They regard Arrgodi as a weak . . .” The old advisor bit off his words in midsentence. He was about to say “weak link” but had just realized how that might sound to the ruler of that alleged weak link. “As a possible bargaining tool,” he continued, “and hope that by fighting and crushing you, they will force Jarsun to break off his campaign against the other territories and return here to defend you, his son-in-law, as well as Arrgodi, the pride of his empire. Tactically, that would make it impossible for Jarsun to continue his campaign of expansion and consolidation. If Jarsun has to stay and defend Arrgodi on so many fronts”—​the advisor gestured at the map which depicted the Sea of Grass surrounded by the territories Tyrak had just pointed out—​“it would effectively grind the campaign for the Reygistan Empire to a halt. Through shrewd alliances with the other nations, they would throw Jarsun’s forces out from there as well, and push him back to the western frontier provinces, leaving him nowhere to go except the far western lands.”

Tyrak thought about this for several moments. He could not find any reason to disagree with anything Shelsis had said. Yet he seethed at the thought of letting the Slayer live in peace another day.

But if the Deliverer was a personal threat to him, then the Burnt Empire was an enemy beyond all imagining. He could not afford to start a fight that would end with Hastinaga declaring war against Arrgodi. Jarsun would kill him for that alone, and if Jarsun didn’t, then Vrath certainly would. The prophecy claimed that only the Slayer could kill Tyrak and Deliver the people from his tyranny—​he chuckled at the play of words in his own mind—​but he would not care to test the powers of either Krushan. Compared to the might of the Burnt Empire, the Sea of Grass was only a minor thorn. They could pluck it out, crush Tyrak and Arrgodi, and incorporate the grasslands into their already prodigious borders.

He dismissed Shelsis abruptly and sat brooding.

No question, he must find a way to get at the Slayer. But this was not the time nor the way to go about it. Somehow, he must figure out how to destroy him once and for all.

4

Tyrak finished oiling his body and dismissed the helper. The boy ran back to the sidelines to join his companions, whispering amongst themselves as they pointed out the players on the field. Tyrak saw some coins exchanging hands and grinned to himself. He wondered whom they were betting on. He felt certain it would be Jarsun’s team of champions. Tyrak had been given a choice of playing with Jarsun’s team or the opposing army’s team. He had deliberately chosen to play with the opposition, knowing that would irk his father-in-law and provoke him into trying harder. Jarsun still believed he was tricking his son-in-law into thinking he would be able to use his powers to demolish his opponents, not knowing that each of Jarsun’s players was possessed of their own powers as well. But Tyrak knew this already. The old stable syce had told him so the night before. Not merely told him to warn him, but had prepared him for it as well.

Now Tyrak stepped out on the field and began slapping his muscles to warm them up. He slapped his chest hard several times, then massaged his shoulders, swung his torso around to loosen his back muscles, bent and slapped his inner thighs, outer thighs . . . He felt a shadow approach, looming over him. In the background, the sound of the crowd was a tangible thing, all pervasive, filling the air like rain on water.

“Arrgodi!” said a booming voice. For a moment Tyrak thought he must be hearing an echo caused by the enclosed stadium. Then he looked up into a jaw the size of his own thigh and realized that it was not an echo, merely the natural sound produced by a person of that great size. The man’s chest was probably twice as wide as Tyrak’s, and Tyrak was not a small man by any standards. He was also a good two heads taller, and his arms hung by his sides like entire sides of meat. His jaw was square and jutted out at an angle, forcing his lower teeth up over his upper teeth. When he spoke, the sound was like someone speaking inside a wooden barrel filled with metal ingots.

“Our master tells me you consider yourself invulnerable,” said the grating barrel voice.

Tyrak did not answer. The man’s tone made it clear he was more interested in issuing insults than actually conversing. This was a common precursor to games as each team boosted their own spirits by insulting the other team and calling them names. He had expected no less.

The man seemed to realize that an answer was not forthcoming from Tyrak.

“Well, since you consider yourself invulnerable,” he said, “I wanted to show you this.”

The man drew a sword. It was a fine broadsword, fit for any high lord or even a king in battle, the metal beautifully worked and beaten to a fine perfection. Judging by the size and length, it could probably hack through armor if wielded hard enough; it might take a swing or three but no armor could withstand more than a few direct hits with that weapon. It was what Arrgodi’s Marauders used to call a godslayer.

The man with the crooked jaw raised the sword in his hand, then hacked at his own forearm, the inner softer side. The godslayer struck with force enough to cut metal armor. With that much force behind it, it should have parted the limb from his body easily.

Instead, the sword simply struck the forearm with a dull thunk.

The man raised his eyes to see if Tyrak had noted this result. Then he raised the sword again and hacked at his own foot, aiming directly for the knee, the weakest part of any man’s leg. The sword struck it again with a dull, thumping impact. There was no effect on the man’s knee. Even the skin wasn’t broken.

The demonstration went on a few moments longer. By the time Crooked Jaw was done, the sword was chipped and cracked in a dozen places, but there was not so much as a blemish upon his person.

Finally, he handed the sword to another of his companions, a broad shorter man with enormous bulging shoulders who grinned to display missing teeth. “That is Maitrey,” said Crooked Jaw in his booming nasal voice. “He eats only nails and glass.”

Tyrak did not say a word.

Crooked Jaw looked down at him and smiled grimly. “You thought you were the only one, did you not? Well, you were wrong. We are all the same, and we have far more experience and knowledge of our abilities than you, sweet-faced prince. You should go back to your sweet-smelling kingdom and resume prancing with your ponies and princesses. This is no place for you.”

Tyrak cleared his throat. “King.”

Crooked Jaw frowned.

“I am king of Arrgodi, and of Mraashk.”

Crooked Jaw grinned. “I hear your Arrgodi have fled to other kingdoms rather than be ruled by you. Is that why you come here? To grovel at our master’s feet in the hope that he will aid you again and give you more of his potions to drink so that you may gain more abilities?” He leaned closer and chuckled. “Or perhaps you needed something to aid you in bed with his daughters? Word is that you have not been able to seed either of them with child for years. Perhaps you require some help? I would be happy to help anytime. As would all my teammates. Just say the word.”

Tyrak reached out a hand, indicating the sword.

Crooked Jaw raised an eyebrow, but handed the sword over without comment.

Tyrak took the sword, turned it inward, the point of the blade aimed at his own lower abdomen, gripping the hilt in both hands, and said, “When I am done here on this field today, you and all your teammates will wish you were my wives and could feel the pleasure of mating with me.”

Crooked Jaw’s eyes narrowed, and his fists clenched.

Tyrak went on. “And if you survive, I would be happy to seed you with child if you wish as well. I have more than enough to seed all your nation’s women as well as men.”

And he plunged the sword’s point into the weakest point of his abdomen, hard enough to pierce wood.

The sword cracked and broke into three pieces.

Tyrak handed the hilt back to Crooked Jaw, who stared at the broken blade. “You can keep this one. I prefer my own.”

He smiled to himself as Crooked Jaw flung the pieces of the sword across the field, yelling at his startled teammates as he strode back to his side. Jarsun knew his own words had been bombastic to say the least, but it was the only way to get the point across . . . and then break it off.

5

The crowd favored their own men, naturally. The roar of approval that met Crooked Jaw and his team as they took their positions was deafening. Tyrak glanced around the stadium. There had to be a thousandscore soldiers assembled tonight, most of them drunk and battle fogged from the day’s fighting. He had seen similar events often before, but never on this scale. All armies needed some way to release the day’s frustrations and pain. But what Jarsun had done here was unprecedented. He had sponsored the biggest mass entertainment venue ever heard of, and by centering it around a game involving war stratagems with their own champions, he had made it personal and involving for the men. This must be the highlight of the day for the men gathered here, those that had survived the day’s fighting, anyway. He saw any number of men exchanging notes and coins, and understood that betting was not only permitted, it was encouraged. Of course! Jarsun would be managing the betting and profiting from it as well. He was the “house,” so to speak. And as Tyrak knew well, whether you won or lost, the house always won. Leave it to Jarsun to find a way to not only boost morale and relieve tension but also profit from it! The consummate merchant and warrior and king and priest, all rolled into one.

Tyrak took stock of his own teammates. They were tough-looking men, of a tribe he had never encountered before nor heard of. From the looks of it, they appeared to be the reserved reticent type—​not saying much, not displaying much emotion, but strong and confident. They exchanged looks, gestures, and little touches amongst one another that suggested they had a strong bond. Clearly, they had played before as a team. Jarsun might take pleasure in humiliating him as well as in winning, but he was not fool enough to give Tyrak a useless team. The only point of this sport was for both teams to be evenly matched. Otherwise, it would be a very quick and boring game.

He turned to his teammates, drawing their attention. They regarded him dispassionately, neither displaying subservience nor arrogance. They had understood their condition but not accepted it, he saw. They had something to fight for and were willing to do what they had to, even risk their lives, but not kowtow to the enemy. That pleased him. He could work with this team; he needed only to be certain that they would accept him and work with him as well.

“I am here to win,” he told them. He used elaborate hand gestures to emphasize his words. “If we work together, we will surely succeed.”

Then he clenched his fist and pointed it at the sky. “To victory!”

After a brief pause in which they glanced at one another, they raised their clenched fists as well. “To victory!” they said in their dialect. He was relieved to note that he knew the dialect.

Tyrak heard a commotion in the stadium and looked around. He saw two familiar female shapes entering the royal pavilion above the playing field. His wives, Jarsun’s daughters. They were dressed in rich robes and bejeweled as queens, and looked as coquettish and alluring as ever. They waved excitedly to Tyrak, calling out his name. He nodded, embarrassed, and saw Jarsun smile down at him. So. His wonderfully considerate father-in-law had decided to add another level of pressure: the prospect of abject humiliation and embarrassment should he lose here today. It was one thing to lose before twenty thousand soldiers; it was unacceptable to lose before one’s own wives. At least for Tyrak.

Which was why he would not lose.

He took his position at the fore center of his team’s playing area, awaiting the signal to begin the game. Bending over, patting his oiled thighs, he recalled the words of Arrgo the night before:

“Until now, whatever you did was your own madness. I desire no part in that. But the road you’re set on now will lead Arrgodi to fall into the hands of the Burnt Empire, and that I will not tolerate. You may not realize this, but Jarsun desires nothing more than to make the Arrgodi nation a part of his greater domain.”

“I realize it,” Tyrak had replied. “And I will not let it happen.”

Arrgo scoffed. “It will happen no matter what you do here. The only way to prevent it is to convince Jarsun that he is better off letting you run Mraashk for him than taking it over himself. He has enough on his field already to manage. There comes a point when an emperor has to delegate and trust his kings to rule their individual kingdoms. Right now, Jarsun is not fully convinced that you are capable of doing so. Your record has been . . . spotty . . . to say the least. But you can prove that you have changed. You can give him confidence in your ability to manage on your own and keep him at bay.”

“How?” Tyrak asked, genuinely interested.

“By gaining the respect of your people again,” Arrgo said. “You have done bad things, terrible things that can never be forgotten or forgiven. But you are a warrior, and warriors do terrible things. Violence is the wrong path, and yet a warrior has no choice but to walk that path all the way to the end, so that other castes can live their lives peaceably. This is your Auma. But the least you can do is balance the scales. Prove to your people that you do what you do for the betterment of Arrgodi, for the future of the Arrgodi. Put the marauding and madness behind you. You have already suppressed your urrkh side admirably. That is why I decided it was worthwhile speaking with you. Now you must rebuild the reputation you lost and become the king Arrgodi needs once more.”

Tyrak had only stared at him. It was as if Arrgo had stated his entire life goal in words. There was nothing the old man had said that he did not agree with. He had put his urrkh side behind him, he had turned his back on the madness and marauding. That was the old Tyrak. The Tyrak he was now desired to be a king in the true sense of the word. To command dignity, respect, adulation. Even the respect of his own father-in-law. He craved desperately for Jarsun to acknowledge him as a good king and an equal, not merely a protégé and son-in-law. But how could he achieve such things?

“How?” he asked.

The old man smiled, his thousand-wrinkled face creasing like a crumpled leather map that had been folded and refolded too many times. “By winning.”

Now Tyrak returned to the present moment, to the stadium in Jarsun’s war camp, where he stood with nineteen other team members, awaiting the signal for the game to begin. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Jarsun raise his hand, assenting. Below, the game referee blew a long, sharp burst on his carved bone horn, indicating the start of the game.

The two team captains stepped forward. Tyrak and Crooked Jaw faced each other across the line that separated their two “kingdoms.”

Crooked Jaw glared down at him. “We will tear you apart limb from limb.”

Tyrak grinned.

Crooked Jaw had been expecting like threats and bombastic claims from Tyrak, not a congenial smile. He frowned, confused. Tyrak added to his confusion by dropping one eyelid in a mocking wink. Crooked Jaw snarled and shook his fist, almost striking the referee.

The man in question shouted to be heard above the hubbub of the spectators, eager for the game to begin.

“God-Emperor Jarsun has declared that there will be no restrictions on body blows and strikes. All moves are acceptable. However, there will be no replacements either. If you lose a man, you play with what you have left. The last team standing wins! Jarsun has also declared that since the Krushan team won their last match, they have the honor of starting today.”

And with that he stepped back hurriedly, eager to be out of reach of the opponents, and blew a sharp, short burst on his bone horn.

At once, Crooked Jaw leaped across the line, choosing to send himself into the fray as the first invader.

The game was on.

6

Crooked Jaw lunged forward. Tyrak’s teammates were spread out in a semicircle surrounding the intruder, blocking his way, ready to grasp hold of him if he tried to make a rush at their home line, but also wary of coming within his clutches. His goal was to try to reach their home line, while theirs was to stop him from doing so. It was basic war strategy: the enemy attempted to take your prime city; your army attempted to stop them.

The game required the intruder to constantly chant a single word. It could be anything the player or team wished, so long as it was chanted constantly without pause. The effect was to prevent the intruder from drawing breath too easily and make him tire much faster, thereby pressuring him to either achieve the enemy’s home line or “perish.” The Krushan team’s word was, predictably, Morgolia, and Crooked Jaw repeated it over and over again—​“Morgolia, Morgolia, Morgolia, Morgolia”—​as he feinted this way, then that. Among other things, the referee’s task was to ensure that all players chanted their word without pause or respite, failing which, they would be deemed to have perished and be removed to the sidelines.

Crooked Jaw’s huge barrel chest was probably the reason why the giant could continue his feinting and chanting without tiring for several moments. The crowd kept cheering him on, certain of their team’s victory. Tyrak assumed that the home team almost always won these games, because if they lost, even if some survived the game itself, they would not survive Jarsun’s disapproval afterward. That was strong motivation to win, and it showed on the larger man’s face as he danced with surprising agility from one end of the field to the other, sending Tyrak’s teammates rippling this way, then that, in order to maintain a solid wall.

Finally, Crooked Jaw made his move. Feinting right, he lunged left, then dodged the other way, waited till Tyrak’s teammates rushed to block that side, then turned around and ran the same way but got past the first wall of players.

The player he had successfully dodged lunged at him and grabbed his torso with both hands, attempting to knock him off his feet.

It was a serious mistake.

Once a player made contact, the intruder was free to use whatever force necessary to free himself. Other players could join in, but if the intruder then crossed the line of the area they were guarding, they would be out of the game instantly. The player who attacked Crooked Jaw had to either stop him now or forfeit his own part in the game.

But that was the least of his problems.

Crooked Jaw roared with delight, pleased rather than angry. “Morgolia, Morgolia, Morgolia!” he chanted loudly.

And the crowd, smelling first blood, roared in response: “MORGOLIA! MORGOLIA! MORGOLIA!”

Tyrak’s teammate held his grip around Crooked Jaw’s torso. Crooked Jaw raised his elbow and brought it down on the other man’s back in a stabbing motion. Now, with an ordinary man, this would hurt a little, depending on how much muscle and self-discipline he had accumulated. But with the special powers Crooked Jaw possessed, the effect was devastating.

The elbow struck the man’s back and broke through it. Blood spattered in a great splash, falling on the dusty ground in globules. Crooked Jaw’s elbow pierced the man’s backbone, ribs, and lungs, and exposed his entire inner workings. He screamed as the last breath left his body, and Crooked Jaw tossed him to the ground like a sack of yams.

That was why Morgolia’s team always won: each player was empowered by Jarsun through the use of his special potions, designed after he had seen the unexpected effects they had had on his son-in-law. Tyrak had thought himself to be the only one possessed of such an ability, but clearly that was no longer the case, if it had ever been. Jarsun had found a way to create more men with the same ability, and logically, the bigger and stronger and tougher the man was to begin with, the more formidable he would be after empowerment. Like Crooked Jaw. Or the rest of his teammates, all of whom were taller and wider and improbably stronger than Tyrak.

But Tyrak had also benefited from Ladislew’s poison milk which had given him his ability to increase his density, apart from the fact that he was part-urrkh by birth. The other teams were ordinary mortal men, with all the weaknesses that normal mortal flesh was subject to. Like the man with the shattered chest who lay at Crooked Jaw’s feet now.

Crooked Jaw turned and flashed Tyrak a smile, before crossing to the second block.

Tyrak’s teammates were agitated for the first time. Whatever they had thought or heard of the Krushan, they had not been prepared for this. Even the earlier demonstration with the sword they had assumed to be some kind of trickery done with a wooden sword or the like. Now they were coming to terms with the realization that these were men whose skin truly was tough enough to resist the sharpest blade and who were possessed of greater strength than any normal man, and it was too much. They screamed at each other and cried out, unsure what to do.

“Hold the line!” Tyrak shouted over their cries.

They ignored him.

“Hold! The! Line!” he yelled, louder this time.

This time they heard him but looked at him as if he was insane.

But those on the second row understood and did as he bid.

They held their line, blocking Crooked Jaw’s way.

Perhaps they thought that, despite his superior strength and ability, they might still block him by skill. The game was played in different variations everywhere, Tyrak knew, and every soldier who played it took pride in his skill. The best champions of the sport were often celebrated in their armies and admired by all.

Tyrak shouted instructions to his mates as Crooked Jaw continued his muttered chant, dodging the second wall of defenders now, seeking a way to get past them without making physical contact. Again, as was obvious, it was not that the intruder feared the contact itself, but that he feared being disqualified.

He dodged and feinted and dodged again. But this time the players followed Tyrak’s instructions and simply held their positions, not moving an inch. Nobody responded to Crooked Jaw’s feints and dodges, and after several tries, the giant grew frustrated.

“Morgolia!” he cried and charged headlong at the space between two of his opponents. He meant to barrel through them and run all the way to the home line, Tyrak knew. And with his superior size and ability, he would be able to achieve just that. Any of Tyrak’s players who touched him to try to stop him would be taken out of the game, one way or another.

Tyrak was expecting that; it was the reason he had ordered the second line to stay still and force the Morgol’s hand.

Now he leaped after the Morgol himself. Even though he was front and center, there was nothing to stop him from going after an intruder from behind, except the fact that if the intruder crossed the second line while still in contact with Tyrak, then Tyrak would be disqualified.

But Tyrak had no intention of letting him reach the second line.

He’d started running the instant Crooked Jaw began moving forward. Lighter on his feet, he was able to move much faster, and he was not burdened with having to chant a word constantly and deplete his breath. He pounded in an arc, sprinting at an angle that brought him in direct contact with Crooked Jaw, and slammed into the Morgol’s right side, taking him by surprise. Had any of his teammates attempted this same maneuver, the result would have been akin to a child running into the side of an elephant. But Tyrak had hardened his body density to the maximum, and he was as tough as granite itself. He struck the Morgol with enough force to rattle him and throw him off his course. Once Crooked Jaw was turned aside, his own momentum carried him the rest of the way.

Crooked Jaw tumbled, rolling over once before coming to a halt with a heavy thud. Tyrak felt the impact through the ground, far greater than the impact of his own shoulder hitting the ground. Tyrak looked up and checked his position: he had fallen safe, within the chalk line of his “kingdom’s” boundary.

Crooked Jaw, on the other hand, was just over the line.

Which meant he would have to go to the sidelines and wait until one of his teammates crossed to the home line and brought him back into the game.

The bone horn blew a short, sharp burst, indicating that Crooked Jaw was out for the moment, and the referee pointed to the sideline. Crooked Jaw looked as if he would like to wring the man’s neck, but he rose to his feet and went silently to the sideline. From there, he glared pointedly at Tyrak.

Tyrak grinned. If he wanted, Crooked Jaw could demolish the entire enemy team single-handedly in a moment. He must demolish scores of them each day during battle. But this was different. This was a sport, and there were rules and tens of thousands of his admirers watching. He would want to win within the bounds of the rules, not by breaking them. That was the fact Tyrak had counted on. And that Arrgo had reminded him of. “The limitations that you find frustrating are also your greatest advantage. Use them against your opponent. In war, as in sport, the goal is the same. Use what you are given in unexpected yet effective ways. He who does so most shrewdly wins on both fields.”

That was what the old man had taught him the night before: how to win at this game. For he had known that Jarsun would send for Tyrak soon and that he would use this very game to try to humiliate and undermine him as a precursor to justifying taking control of Arrgodi. How Arrgo had known this, Tyrak did not know. It hardly mattered. He had listened and trained intently all night, eager to learn as much as he could in those short hours. It helped that he had played the same game often before as a boy and a youth, although in a much milder form without such violence, and that he had actually been quite good at it.

Now he grinned at Crooked Jaw, savoring his first victory of the game.

His teammates were ecstatic but reserved.

“He is out for now,” one said to Tyrak. “But when he returns . . .”

“And what of his teammates?” asked another troubled voice. “If they are all as invulnerable as he is, what chance do we have?”

Tyrak smiled. “We take the battle to them.”

Then he turned to the referee and indicated himself. The referee nodded and came forward to point at Tyrak, blowing his horn again to indicate that the captain of the enemy team was now using his turn to send himself into the Krushan domain.

Tyrak glanced up. Jarsun was watching with a deceptively genial expression. His daughters waved excitedly, pleased to see their husband achieve his first moment of victory and cheer him on. Perhaps after I win this game, I will go to them tonight,Tyrak thought. In their father’s own tent.

He grinned at the prospect and leaped forward into the enemy quadrant, slapping his thighs and chanting the word he had chosen as his team’s mantra. “Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi . . .”

7

Four of them came at him at the same time.

Crooked Jaw’s teammates did not have any reason to hold back. They knew what they were capable of, and after enduring the ignominy of watching their captain being sent to the sidelines by Tyrak, they wanted revenge. They were all bigger and tougher than he was and felt confident they could destroy him easily, even in one-on-one combat.

But just to be sure, they advanced together, their intention not merely to knock him out of the game but to kill him. He had no way of knowing if this was on Jarsun’s orders or merely their own death wish for him, but dying was dying, whether it was done on orders or not.

They were smart, he had to give them that much. And they were experienced warriors, so they didn’t approach from the front, giving him a chance to flail out at them. Two came at him from either side at the same time, forcing him to choose whether to strike this way or that. The other two attacked from behind, also at the same time, one going high, the other low. They intended to ram him and crush him, breaking his bones and smashing his vital organs.

He stood still and let them try.

They struck with the combined force of four chariots in a head-on collision. Usually, when his body was this hardened, he would sense the superficial impact—​the vibrations, shuddering—​and hear the sound of something thudding against his petrified flesh. But not actually feel any-thing.

This time, he felt it.

Felt the massive weight of their combined tonnage hitting him. Felt it through his flesh as rigid as iron, his bones as solid as granite, right into the core of his being. They must have struck him with a combined force of at least a ton of weight. Enough to pulverize almost anything.

He withstood it.

It was the densest he had ever made his body. He had compacted himself so much he could feel his heart pumping only once every several seconds, the blood barely trickling through his hardened veins. He was almost a block of stone.

They had not been expecting that. They had expected him to move, to lash out, to try to dodge or escape the impact. They had moved fast, in order to strike unexpectedly as well as to coordinate their actions and hit at exactly the same time. This meant that they had only partially hardened their bodies, more than enough to crush him, but not so much that they could not move or control their limbs.

So instead of them crushing him, he crushed them.

The same force of impact that they inflicted upon him rebounded on themselves.

It was like hitting a stone wall with an iron fist.

It was a contest between which was denser, stronger.

As it turned out, he was the smarter one.

He saw the two who rammed his shoulders break their own on impact—​their arms crumpled and cracked open. He saw the petrified flesh and blood within exposed like an iced corpse cut open, marbled veins and gelatinous blood. He saw the white of their bones snapping, breaking, showing jagged edges.

The ones who struck him from behind he could not see, of course.

It took him an instant of concentration to reduce his density enough that he could move. At once he felt the piercing thirst that always accompanied severe densification. He was parched, felt like he could drink a barrel or three right now.

Later, he promised himself. Time enough for food, drink, and celebration.

He stepped out of the tangle of bodies, turned, and examined the results.

All four of his attackers lay on the ground, two with shoulders split open, one with his collarbone shattered, the fourth with chest and rib cage and lower jaw broken in several places. All the points where their bodies had impacted with his own. Simply because they had sought to rush him fast, and he had stood stone still. Literally stone still.

“Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi . . .”

The words continued from his barely parted lips. It was the only thing he had kept up unceasingly through the scant seconds of the attack.

He looked at the enemy team. They were staring at him with gaping mouths. Never before had anyone downed four of their teammates at one go. Then again, they had never faced anyone like Tyrak ever before.

He had taken out the entire frontline in a single move.

Now he moved across the first border to the second section.

“Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi . . .”

He realized the crowd had gone quiet. It was as if the lid of a heavy box had been shut suddenly, blocking off the sound within. The utter silence was deafening. The crowd had probably been watching these games for years. They were so accustomed to seeing their home team win they probably had no conception that it was even possible for them to lose.

He would show them it was possible.

The other team members had recovered from the shock of their teammates’ failure.

Six of them made a wall across the second quadrant, blocking his way effectively. Two more lurked on the edges, as a backup measure.

This time none of them made a move to rush him. Instead, they watched him warily, stepping this way, then that to keep the wall tight yet mobile, showing him that they could match any move he made and block him.

Which was what he had expected.

He turned sharp right and sprinted to the side of the quadrant. Because they had all held the line tight to block his way, there was a gap of about three yards at that end. It was unusual for anyone to run fast in the game because of the risk of failing to catch one’s breath with the constant chanting, but he was willing to take that risk. He sprinted to the side of the quadrant, where the referee stood with his bone horn, saw the look of surprise on the man’s eyes—​surprise mingled with more than a little fear, for the man had already seen what he was capable of—​then swung sharply left, through the gap.

The instant he’d started sprinting, his opponents had guessed what he was up to and the players on this side had begun moving to block the gap. But they were slower than he was, and only two made it in time.

He barreled straight into them, aiming for their arms, which they had made the mistake of linking together in a foolish bid to block him more effectively.

He tore their arms from their sockets. The cracking and ripping sounds of the limbs being wrenched from the hardened bodies was very loud in the stadium. He threw the torn appendages aside and continued at the same sprinting pace.

“Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi,” he chanted nonstop.

There were ten players holding the last quadrant. All had begun rushing toward this end of the quadrant the moment he moved to this side. But he dodged this way and that, making them unsure which way he would go. As a result, their line was ragged, and each player was separated from the others by a yard or three.

He ran straight at the nearest player and grabbed hold of him.

The man was not expecting a direct assault. But he wasn’t wholly unprepared.

He reacted by grasping Tyrak as well.

Tyrak had the man’s head in a vise grip and now, as the man struggled, began to choke him while pushing his head backward. The man in turn had his arms around Tyrak’s torso and was attempting to crush his softer rear organs on the sides.

Tyrak hardened his body instantly and shoved with all his strength.

The man tried to harden his body but was a fraction of an instant too late.

Tyrak heard the sound of the iron-hard neck cracking and saw the Krushan player’s head topple backward, until it touched his shoulder blade.

Tyrak let the body drop. It fell with a dull thud to the dust of the ground.

He charged at the next player.

This man too was somewhat surprised at the assault. It was usual for the defending team to attack the intruder, not for the intruder to do so to the defenders!

Also, once body contact was made, the two players had to either wrestle one another to the ground till one yielded or push one another across the border lines.

Tyrak wrestled the man. The man was very wide across, with a thick middle, so Tyrak had gone for his thigh instead. Grasping hold of it, he threw his own body backward, knocking both of them off their feet. The man landed heavily on his back. Tyrak had less far to fall and was the one doing the throwing, so he could land less impactfully. Still, it was an effort to keep the chant going and exert pressure on the man’s thigh. He climbed atop the man at an angle, grabbing his langot and pulling it to gain purchase. With ordinary wrestlers, pulling the langot was an effective move because it exerted pressure on a man’s most sensitive parts. But with these men, it made little difference. What it did achieve was giving Tyrak a hand-hold.

Using the langot to turn around, Tyrak caught hold of the man’s arm and then his thigh again.

Then he stood up.

Straining, he heaved the man up like a sack of bricks—​or iron ingots, from the feel of him—​and flung him across the border line.

The man roared in fury as he realized his mistake. But by then he was already thudding down . . . across the border line and out of the game. He slammed his fist on the ground in frustration, hurling abuses at Tyrak. He would have gotten to his feet and run back into the quadrant, but the referee was standing by and blew his bone horn at once.

Tyrak turned and saw that the others had no intention of waiting for him to work his wiles on them as well.

Two of them came at him, taking hold of his upper and lower body respectively. Their intention was probably to twist in different directions, either tearing him in two or contorting him enough to injure him severely.

Tyrak rolled over the head of the man holding his lower body, kicking out at the face of the higher player at the same time.

The move was not sufficient to break him free of their grasp, but it was enough to cause them to lose their balance. As each was pulling in a different direction, they tumbled together, their grip on Tyrak loosening slightly.

Just enough for him to grasp hold of their arms and twist—​he spun like a corkscrew in midair, using his purchase on their own bodies against them.

Both arms twisted at impossible angles, then turned like wet rags being wrung out to dry.

The men screamed in pain and shock—​even though their bodies were hardened, they were still mobile enough to feel such severe trauma. Blood spattered Tyrak from both sides, splashing his chest and back. It was cooler than normal blood would have been because of the hardening. The more sluggish their bodies became, the cooler the blood temperature, the slower the flow.

Tyrak landed on his feet again and turned to the next opponent.

He circled three or four of the enemy players as they watched him warily.

By now, Crooked Jaw was yelling orders from the sideline, frustrated at watching his team being destroyed by a single man.

Tyrak grinned at them and waved to Crooked Jaw who, even more infuriated, began hurling curses.

“Arrgodi, Arrgodi, Arrgodi . . .” Tyrak muttered.

He wrestled his way through the rest of the team. It was hard but satisfying work. Every one of the moves Arrgo had shown him worked perfectly. It was as if the old Arrgodi had known precisely how his enemies would attack or respond. He supposed that was true in a sense: there were only so many ways a man could wrestle or physically block another man. And of those ways, even fewer were effective in this game.

Every move Arrgo taught him came in useful. Including the more complex, hand-foot combinations that required considerable agility and effort.

When at last he crossed the enemy team’s home line, the crowd erupted in a huge wave of reluctant admiration and applause. Never before had they seen such a thing done, he learned later. Well, not precisely. They had seen it done only once before, when Crooked Jaw came to play for the Morgol team. An enemy chieftain—​like all the members of the Morgol team—​he had worked his way through Jarsun’s entire squad of champions just as Tyrak had done today, making mincemeat of them all. It had been even more formidable because he had not possessed the power to densify his body back then. On the other hand, neither had the others. This new level of bodily prowess was a relatively recent development.

But Tyrak had faced an entire team of empowered Morgol and demolished them. And that must surely count as a greater achievement.

As he raised his clenched fist, surrounded by his ecstatic teammates, all of whom would now be freed along with their tribes, Tyrak saw Crooked Jaw coming toward him, his ugly face dark and furrowed with anger.

He turned to face him, his teammates moving aside to make way for the giant.

Tyrak hardened his body, prepared for attack. The contest was officially over, but he knew that sometimes the real fighting began after the game was ended. Especially in army camps.

Crooked Jaw stopped a yard short of him.

He glared down at Tyrak for a long moment.

“Arrgodi!” he roared, making the word sound like an insult.

Tyrak waited.

“You demolished my team!” Crooked Jaw shouted.

Tyrak said nothing.

Crooked Jaw raised a clenched fist.

Tyrak braced himself.

Crooked Jaw raised the other fist, also clenched.

Tyrak waited warily.

Crooked Jaw opened both fists and joined the palms together in a gesture of namas. “I bow to you in grace,” he said gruffly.

Tyrak stared at him a moment, then realized what had happened and felt a surge of laughter bubble up. The giant was acknowledging his victory! It was the highest compliment one sportsman could pay another—​or one warrior.

Tyrak clasped the man’s joined palms with his own hands. “Well met, warrior. What is your name?” If they were about to become friends, he could hardly continue to think of him as Crooked Jaw. And he had a feeling that the man might not take kindly to the name being used aloud either.

“I am Musthika,” said the giant with the crooked jaw. “And from this day henceforth, we shall be friends and fellow sporting partners.”

Tyrak grinned. “So be it.”

8

The crowd roared with adulation. People even threw money and items of food—​anything they had to hand—​perhaps not realizing that Tyrak did not fight for money. He fought for glory. And in the year since his first match, he had amassed a great deal of it.

This showed in the way he was greeted by even the aristocrats, nobles, and kings in Jarsun’s pavilion as he entered. All Morgolia loved him. A record number had turned out to watch the Champion of Arrgodi play, and before the game began, one of his men had whispered in his ear the figure rumored to be the total value of the bets placed on today’s game alone. It was a king’s ransom.

Tyrak slapped the backs and shoulders of his men as they parted ways. All his teammates had become his dear friends and mates in life as well. Musthika, Sala, Kuta, Tosalaka, and Chanura were the closest to him, and he treasured the time spent training and practicing with them. His participation in this sport had changed his life, just as Arrgo had predicted. “There are only three things in life that drive a man forward,” the old man said once to Tyrak during a particularly grueling training session. “Someone to care for who cares about you, something you love to do, and something to aspire to. Without these three things, nothing else is worth anything.”

Tyrak glanced at the stands and saw the person he cared about seated there, watching. Ladislew. She acknowledged his glance with her usual sardonic smile. Her husband’s seat was empty beside her. Tyrak didn’t know whether she cared about him as well, but at least they shared a common purpose. That was good enough.

The other two items on that short list had never been his to enjoy. He had never found out what it was he truly loved doing, nor did he aspire to anything in particular. When young, he had desired to be what his father was, a great and powerful king of Arrgodi. But after he had achieved that goal and lived the life of a king for a decade or more, it began to seem meaningless and empty. Was this all there was to kingship? He did not love doing it. What next? He had found nothing else to aspire to apart from that. For so much of his life he had barely dared hope he would achieve his first goal, of replacing his father. He had never been able to think beyond that.

But after he had begun playing this sport, he had discovered two important things. One was that achievement and success changed everyone. It didn’t matter that he was king of Arrgodi. A king could simply inherit his throne. In a sense, Tyrak had inherited his, after all. But a champion at a certain sport could only attain that position through talent, effort, achievement. Tyrak had excelled at this sport to an extent that nobody could have believed possible. But more than simply excelling, he had made the sport itself a national pastime. Nay, an international pastime! For now they were planning an interkingdom tournament with rounds eliminating teams until only the two or three best were left for the final day.

After all, they were not just a kingdom now, they were part of an empire. And an empire needed something to bind its diverse cultures and peoples together. Jarsun had seen his soldiers playing the game behind their tents one night several years ago and had co-opted the idea, sponsoring larger and larger games until finally, each time his army camped even for a week, they set up a stadium overnight and held games for all to watch. Jarsun had intended it to be a means of alleviating the stresses of battle and the intertribal rivalries and enmities that often led to late-night daggers in the back and gang fights. Tyrak had taken the same sport and transformed it into a national pastime. With himself its national champion.

Now he had queens fawning over him, princesses eager to give their virginity, lords and merchants placing huge wagers on him and eager to be seen by and with him for their own reasons. He had the respect and admiration of his wives. But above all, he had the grudging but unmitigated admiration of Jarsun himself.

The God-Emperor rose from this throne as Tyrak entered the main pavilion. “All rise for the champion,” said his father-in-law in his piercing voice. Every last person in the large tent rose and bowed and congratulated Tyrak. Girls ran up and hung flower garlands around his neck until he began to feel like a living garden. Oily-looking men with curled mustaches made thinly veiled offers to have Tyrak wed their daughters, sisters, aunts, nieces.

When all the hubbub was over, he sat with Jarsun on the throne dais. Entertainments continued in the hall, but the Krushan’s attention was barely on the nubile dancers or exotic music, said to be from some far western nation named Gyptos.

“You have done well,” Jarsun said. “I am genuinely impressed.”

Tyrak felt a flush of pleasure. He did not know why he should feel such a great satisfaction at hearing Jarsun praise him. He knew it had something to do with the fact his own father had never praised him much as a child, and once he had imprisoned the old king, he had taken away any reason to be praised forever. In Ashcrit, there was no separate word for father-in-law. The term was simply father. And he supposed that Jarsun had come to represent a fatherlike figure in his life. He had molded him, prepared him, awakened his urrkh nature, taken that power from him, transformed him into something else, albeit unwittingly. At all the major turning points in his life Jarsun had been present, moving him this way, then that, like a piece in a chaupat game. Even this most recent change was Jarsun’s doing. Arrgo had somehow known Jarsun would present Tyrak with this challenge and would expect him to perform or die, but it was Jarsun who had put him into the stadium and told him to play. And even now, it was Jarsun whose opinion mattered to him more than all those screaming crowds and fawning nobles.

“Someday, we should have a bout or two,” Jarsun added.

Tyrak felt a thrill of elation. Jarsun prized the sport of wrestling even more than the game of Khobadi. He was reputed to be a master wrestler, perhaps the greatest who had ever lived. For him to invite Tyrak to spar with him was a great honor and privilege. It didn’t matter if he won or lost; Tyrak would have given his front teeth just to be able to lock heads with his father-in-law and show him firsthand what he was capable of.

Perhaps that was just what Jarsun desired as well.

9

War was an art.

Tyrak was a master of the art.

Now that he had mastered the use of his newfound powers, Jarsun wished to see his protégé deployed in actual combat. “What use a weapon if kept sheathed and only used in practice?” the God-Emperor had mused, then clapped his bony hand on Tyrak’s granite back. “Time to put the bull among the sheep.”

He charged through the enemy ranks, flailing, pounding, battering, bludgeoning, hammering . . . Though he used swords and sharpened blades in every form, size, and shape, his new method of attack relied more on brute force than technique or finesse. Under Jarsun’s guidance and aided secretly by Ladislew’s potent elixir, his body had grown even harder and become more invulnerable than before. Finely honed steel blunted when in contact with his skin, a razor-point javelin thrown by a bull-strong giant shattered without leaving the tiniest scratch, and even arrows with special steel heads designed to punch through armor splintered on impact.

But more amazing than his ability to withstand damage was his ability to inflict it.

As he was demonstrating so ably right now.

He was working his way through a throng of enemy foot soldiers. There had been perhaps four or five hundred when he had made first contact. Twoscore or more had been killed at that instant, bodies crushed and smashed like ripe berries under the impact of his weight and forward momentum. The huddled mass of the remainder, no doubt believing that by concentrating their strength they might resist him, swayed for a moment, then held their line like a hemp rope strung taut between trees. Perhaps half a score more were then crushed between their own comrades behind them and Tyrak when he pushed forward. He saw men wheeze bloody spray from their mouths and nostrils as their lungs collapsed or were punctured in the killing crush. He heard bodies crumple as he exerted strength. Others exploded like bulging wine bags bursting under an elephant’s foot, spraying bloody remains everywhere.

He was coated in blood and guts and bone chips and offal.

It stank of victory to his flaring nostrils.

He roared and heard his own voice resonate, the increased density of his body somehow altering the sound to something lower-pitched, guttural, hard enough to assault those unfortunate enough to be in his proximity and cause physical pain: he saw men clutch at their ears and blood ooze from their orifices.

He spread his arms, bent forward in a bull’s charging stance, locked his knees, and shoved on with a mighty effort.

The ranks of enemy soldiers rippled like grass before wind. At the back of the huddle, men were thrown yards away, tumbling madly.

He heaved again, then pushed, feeling his feet sink into the hard-packed earth, the ground crumbling beneath his weight and force.

The entire battalion of enemy soldiers flew as if struck by a battering ram. Soldiers at the edges and rear went in all directions, bodies flung through the air like straw scarecrows in a gale.

Tyrak grasped hold of as many of the nearest unfortunates as he could, perhaps a score of enemy soldiers, picked the whole mass up bodily, and shoved them to the left, then to the right. The soldiers caught in his actual grasp were crushed like ripe grapes, their organs and bodies spattering in his iron grip. The combined mass of their bodies served as a cudgel with which he bludgeoned the battalion itself. He shoved this way then that, pushing until the whole mass began to yield like a laden wagon once inertia is overcome, and he walked slowly, steadily, step by step, shoving five hundred massed men backward.

At the rear of the enemy battalion, men were being trampled underfoot by their own comrades as they were pushed back by the power of Tyrak’s onward momentum. Some were pressed brutally hard against each other, some pierced or penetrated by their comrades’ weapons or armor, others merely caught in the press and crushed to death.

It was a grape press, and Tyrak the vintner pressing living men into blood-wine.

By the time he had pushed ahead a hundred yards, every last man in the battalion was dead or dying from fatal wounds. Not a man remained whole. Tyrak stopped and let go of the men he had been holding on to. They fell like wet sacks to the bloodied ground. Ahead of him, the mass that had been an assembled battalion of some five hundred enemy soldiers, clad in gleaming armor, had been reduced to half a thousand pulped and mangled corpses.

He glanced back and saw the gory trail of his death walk: a hundred yards of the battlefield painted crimson with blood, gore, and offal. It reminded him of a freshly plowed field, the dark just-turned earth contrasting with the unturned side. Except that what he had done here was better compared to reaping, not sowing. He had reaped lives as if cutting wheat with a harvest blade.

He looked around the field. The battle was continuing to either side of his position. But not a single other enemy soldier approached him or dared to attack. He stood alone, alive, in a clearing of corpses within a forest of battle.

He grinned and thumped his chest twice to mark his victory.

The sound resonated across the field, louder even than the mangled screams and clash of weaponry, like a giant drumbeat tolling the defeat of the enemy.

A movement out the corner of his eye caught his attention. It was a single warrior, racing toward him on foot, sword held up like a javelin. It was a senapati of the enemy army, probably the commander of the battalion he had just threshed like maize. The man had to know that he stood no chance, yet he came straight at Tyrak, striking down diagonally as if dealing with any normal human opponent. The sword raked Tyrak’s waist, the blade crumpling like tin, and with his other hand, the man tried to stab Tyrak with a dagger, aiming for his throat. Tyrak was impressed by the man’s courage and permitted him his attempt. When the blade point shattered and then shattered again with each successive stab, the man was left with no weapon and no hope of success. Still, he hammered at Tyrak’s iron body with his fists, kicked out, jabbed, and slapped, breaking his ankle, his wrists, his forearm, and dislocating his shoulders. And yet he fought on, audaciously, hopelessly, pitifully.

Tyrak grasped hold of him with a single hand, raising him up by the throat, the broken body still flailing desperately. Tyrak was curious. “Why did you throw your life away? You knew you could not best me.”

The man stared down at Tyrak with hate burning in his black pupils. “You slaughtered my entire tribe today, Childslayer. What is a chieftain without a tribe? Kill me now, and let me die with honor like my kith and kin!”

Tyrak cocked his head, glancing sideways at the grape-pressed bodies of the men he had killed. An entire tribe? Had he really done that? In just a short while, no more time than it might take him to eat a meal or quaff a goblet or three.

“Fight me now, Monster of Arrgodi!” the chieftain cried hoarsely. “Fight me or die!”

Fight me or die? Tyrak almost smiled at that absurd threat.

Then, without even looking at the man, he closed his fist around the man’s throat, feeling his fingers meet as the bones and tendons and flesh crumpled in his fist. The flailing and threats ceased at once. Tyrak let the corpse drop to the ground heavily, blood spurting from the severed throat.

He did not like that phrase, though he had heard it often before and knew he would hear it again. Not the first one: Childslayer. That one he did not mind, for he had indeed slain many children and had no regrets. He didn’t mind being called what he truly was, after all.

It was the second name he didn’t care for.

Monster of Arrgodi.

He was no monster.

He was Tyrak, king of the Arrgodi nation.

Lord of Arrgodi.

When would the world accept him as such?