'What of you?' I asked.
Murmillius spread his hand over the crowds on the sand and in the tiers.
'Through the streets,' said he, 'we march to the Stadium of Tarns.'
I raced from the sand to the wall and, seizing a cloak lowered by one who wore the armband of imperial purple, scrambled upward. In an instant I was racing up the long tiers. When I reached the top there stood there a man with a purple scarf of silk, that armband indicating the imperial party. He held the reins of a common saddle tarn. I looked back down the long valley of stone tiers to the sands far below, seeing there in the circle of the arena, seeming small, Murmillius, Ho-Sorl, Relius, Ho-Tu, the milling, stirring crowd. Murmillius lifted his blade to me. It was the salute of a Warrior. A Warrior, I thought to myself, he is of the Warriors. I returned the salute.
'Hurry!' said the man who held the reins of the tarn.
I seized the reins of the tarn and leaped to the saddle. I hauled upon the one-strap and took the bird from the heights of the Stadium of Blades, streaking in a moment through the cylinders of Ar, leaving behind me men with whom I had fought, stained sand, and whatever we had together begun there.
22 — THE STADIUM OF TARNS
I brought the tarn down behind the tiers in the Stadium of Tarns, in the Readying Compound of the Steels.
I heard the warning bar for a race about to begin.
As my bird, with a flash of wings, struck the sand of the compound, four men armed with crossbows rushed forward.
'Hold!' I cried. 'I am of the Steels!'
Each of those who charged wore upon his shoulder the grayish patch that betokened the faction.
I found myself covered by their weapons.
'Who are you!' cried one.
'Gladius of Cos,' I told them.
'It may be,' said one, 'for he is of the size and build.'
The crossbows were not lowered.
'The tarn will know me,' I said.
I leaped from the back of the tarn I rode and ran through the compound toward the perch of the black tarn.
Midway I stopped. Near one perch there lay a dead tarn, a small racing tarn, its throat cut. Near it, being tended for wounds, lay its intended rider, groaning. I knew the man. His name was Callius.
'What is this?' I cried.
'We enjoyed a visit by the Yellows,' said one of the men grimly. 'This tarn was slain and the rider direly wounded. We beat them off.'
Another of the men gestured with his crossbow menacingly. 'If you be not Gladius of Cos,' said he, 'you will die.'
'Do not fear,' I said and grimly strode toward the perch where I knew there would be the great black tarn, the majestic tarn of Ko-ro-ba, my Ubar of the Skies.
Approaching him we heard a wild tarn scream, of hate and challenge, and we stopped.
I beheld, in its compound, strewn about its perch, more than five men, or the remains of such.
'Yellows,' said one of the men with the crossbow, 'who tried to slay the bird.'
'It is a War Tarn,' said another.
I saw blood on the beak of the bird, its round black eyes, gleaming, wild.
'Beware,' said one of the men, 'even if you be Gladius of Cos, for the tarn has tasted blood.'
I saw that even the steel-shod talons of the bird were bloodied.
Watching us warily it stood with one set of talons hooked over the body of a yellow. Then, not taking its eyes from us, it put down its beak and tore an arm from the thing beneath its talons.
'Do not approach,' said one of the men.
I stood back. It is not wise to interfere with the feeding of a tarn.
I heard the judge's bar ringing three times signaling tarns to the starting perches. I heard the crowd roar.
'Which race is it?' I asked, suddenly afraid that I might be too late.
'The eighth,' said one of the men, 'that before the Ubar's Race.'
'Callius was to have ridden this race,' I said.
But Callius lay wounded. His tarn was dead.
'We stand one race behind at the beginning of the eighth,' said one of the men.
My heart sank. With Callius wounded and tarns at, or near, their perches, the Steels would have no rider. My own tarn, if it could be readied at all, could not be brought to the starting perches before the ninth race, that of the Ubar. The Steels could not, thus, even did they win the Ubar's race, carry the day.
'The Steels are done,' said I.
'But one rides for the Steels,' said one of the crossbowmen.
I looked at him suddenly.
'Mip,' said he.
'The little Tarn Keeper?' I asked skeptically.
'He,' said the man.
'But what mount?' I queried.
'His own,' said the man. 'Green Ubar.'
I was stunned. 'The bird is old,' I said. 'It has not raced for years.' I looked at them. 'And Mip,' I said, 'though he knows much of racing is but a Tarn Keeper.'
One of the men looked at me and smiled.
Another lifted his crossbow, leveling the weapon at my breast. 'He is perhaps a spy of the Yellows,' said he.
'Perhaps,' agreed the leader of the crossbowmen.
'How do we know you be Gladius of Cos?' asked another.
I smiled. 'The tarn will know me,' I said.
'The tarn has tasted blood,' said the leader. 'It has killed. It feeds. Do not approach the tarn now or it will mean your death.'
'We have little time to waste,' I said.
'Wait!' cried the leader of the crossbowmen.
I stepped toward the great black tarn. It was at the foot of its perch. It was chained by one foot. The run of the chain was perhaps twenty-five feet. I approached slowly, holding my hands open, saying nothing. It eyed me.
'The bird does not know him,' said one of the men, he who had suggested I might be a spy of the yellows.
'Be still,' whispered the leader of the group.
'He is a fool,' whispered another.
'That,' agreed the leader, 'or Gladius of Cos.'
The tarn, the great, fierce saddlebird of Gor, is a savage beast, a monster predator of the high, blue skies of this harsh world; at best it is scarce half domesticated; even tarnsmen seldom approach them without weapons and tarn goad; it is regarded madness to approach one that is feeding; the instincts of the tarn, like those of many predators, are to protect and defend a kill, to the death; Tarn Keepers, with their goads and training wires, have lost their lives with even young birds, trying to alter or correct this covetousness of its quarry; the winged majestic carnivores of Gor, her tarns, do not care to share their kills, until perhaps they have gorged their fill and carry then remnants of their repast to the encliffed nests of the Thentis or Voltai Ranges, there to drop meat into the gaping beats of white tarnlings, the size of ponies.
'Stand back!' warned the leader of the men.
I stepped forward, until I stood within the am bit of the tarn's chain.
I spoke softly. 'My Ubar of the Skies,' I said, 'you know me.' I approached more closely, holding my hands open, not hurrying.
The bird regarded me. In its beak there hung the body of a Yellow.
'Come back!' cried one of the crossbowmen, and I was pleased that it was he who had thought I might be a spy for the Yellows. Even he did not care for what might now occur.
'We must ride, Ubar of the Skies,' said I, approaching the bird.
I took the body of the man from its beak and laid it to one side.
The bird did not attempt to strike me.
I heard the men behind me gasp with wonder.
'You fought well,' said I to the bird. I caressed its bloodied, scimitar-like beak. 'And I am pleased to see you live.'
The bird gently touched me with its beak.
'Ready the platform,' said I, 'for the next race.'
'Yes,' said the leader of the men, 'Gladius of Cos!' His three companions, putting aside their bows, rushed to prepare the wheeled platform.
I turned to face the man and he tossed me a leather mask, that which Gladius of Cos wore, that which had, for so many races this fantastic summer, concealed his features. 'Mip,' said the man, 'told me this was for you.'
'My gratitude,' I said, drawing the mask over my head.
