TYRAK SLAPPED HIS THIGHS and rubbed his palms over his well-oiled body. He raised his hand, rubbing the excess oil on his finely twirled mustaches, stroking the ends till they extended far outward from his face. The crowd had been bustling with noise, like an ocean roaring near a rocky shore, then had suddenly fallen deathly quiet. Nobody spoke a word. Jarsun, watching from the front row on Tyrak’s side, did not smile his usual half-faced smile. The eochs flanking him on either side were as impassive as ever.
On the Mraashk side, though, there were visible emotions on display. Tyrak was pleased to see the obvious concern and anxiety on the faces of Drishya’s adoptive mother and father and other relatives.
If he won, he would be taking everything the Mraashk possessed, starting with the lives of Drishya’s entire family, down to the last remote cousin and his dogs and dogs’ whelps.
But that was a matter for later.
Right now he had to fight.
And to slay a Slayer.
Time to end the cloud of fear he had lived under for so many years.
Time to deliver death to the Deliverer.
Tyrak slapped his chest and stood up in his corner of the wrestling rectangle, legs apart, arms open wide, welcoming. He felt better than he had in his entire life. He was stronger than he had ever imagined he could become. He felt indomitable, indestructible, invulnerable. He was certain of victory.
All that remained were the details: how he would maim and make his opponent suffer before finally killing him. How he would deliver the ultimate killing blow. He had a myriad of ways thought out, any one of which would be agonizing and cause the strongest-willed men to depart this world screaming and voiding their bowels. He had used every one of those holds and blows umpteen times. This would be the first time he did so to a god.
He imagined it would not be very different. After all, he was not much less than a god himself, Jarsun had repeatedly assured him. Nobody could withstand him now.
Certainly not this slip of a boy, his body so slender, his arms and legs so lean, no visible slabs of muscle, no excess padding, nothing to cushion the opponent’s blows or provide strength for the powerful holds and grips and blows that were essential to victory in this rectangle.
Drishya looked so out of place in this wrestling ring, it was difficult to believe that this was the Slayer himself. The one Tyrak had been dreading for twenty-three years. The prophesied Deliverer of the Arrgodi people!
He moved forward, ready to prove the prophecy wrong.