after he'd raided them the Kyranians were able to vanish with ease into hidden passes and deep ravines.
To keep his people going, Safar dangled the vision of Syrapis before them-a paradise to replace the one they'd lost. Meanwhile, he kept edging them toward Naadan. The city was to the north, as was the Great Sea, so no one guessed his intentions.
It didn't hurt that Safar wasn't that sure of them himself. However, after worrying on that bone until it was splinters, he gave up. Frustrating as it was, he had to let the winds of fate carry him where they would-as long as they headed north. To keep his will focused he reduced everything to a simple mantra: Naadan, Caluz, Syrapis. Naadan, Caluz, Syrapis. Naadan, Caluz…
…Syrapis!
He wondered what waited for him there. Prayed that whatever it was, it would at long last answer the two questions that had haunted and driven him his entire adult life: What was killing the world?
And how could he stop it?
Safar downed his wine and poured another. At the rate he'd been traveling, he thought, he'd die of old age before he reached that fabled isle.
What was Asper's line? Oh, yes, '…All who dwell 'neath Heaven's vaults … live in dread … of that monster, Time…'
Monster, indeed.
He got up to leave, nearly stumbling over a skinny little crone who had been leaning, unnoticed, against his table.
'Pardon, Granny,' he said politely. But as he spoke he felt a sudden prickle of magic sniffing along his skin.
The crone grinned a toothless grin, saying, 'Alms, master. Alms for a poor old woman.'
Safar kept his features mild, showing no reaction to her witch's magic. He cast a spell to ward off her snooping, fishing in his purse for a few coppers to cover his actions.
'Here you go, Granny,' he said, plopping the coins into her outstretched claw. 'Make your prayers sweet for me tonight.'
He moved on, pushing through the crowd until he reached the door. As he went out he turned sideways to peek at the witch's face. She looked most disappointed. Just beyond her he saw a familiar figure. It was the drunk who had bumped into his table not long before.
You don't need a Master's License from Walaria University to figure that one out, he thought as he walked down the street. Obviously, the witch was looking for him and that fake drunk was in her employ. Iraj had offered a fortune for Safar's head and this wasn't the first time he'd encountered reward seekers. They were easily spotted and avoided, so normally he didn't trouble himself. However, he'd never encountered a bounty-hunting witch before and it made him wonder if some new element had been added to the game.
By the time he reached the arena he'd decided it was only a coincidence that this particular reward seeker was a witch. He bought a ticket at the gate and went inside, putting the crone from his mind. He did go more cautiously, however, his magical senses wary for more signs of danger.
The highlight of the Naadan Fair was the wrestling tournament, an ancient sport taken to a high art in this region. Hundreds competed in the opening matches but their numbers were whittled down as the festival progressed until the final day when the last two men competed for the championship.
Safar bought a bowl of hot peppered noodles from a vendor and joined the spectators in the stands.
Some were cheering the action on the big grassy field, but others paid no attention at all-gossiping or eating or scolding unruly children, while on the field several pairs of beefy champions grappled with one another, heaving and hauling as they attempted to hurl their opponents to the ground. In Naadan wrestling matches often went on for hours before a winner was decided, so the spectators behaved accordingly, becoming only fully absorbed at key moments in the matches.
While Safar ate his noodles he casually searched the stands until he found the wide stone box with its gaily colored awning shading King Quintal and his family. The royal box was just across from him, so he could see the king quite clearly. He was a big man, a once muscular man who had gone to fat. His face was puffed and red in the places his gray-streaked beard didn't cover. While around him his children and wives cheered the match, the king watched sullenly, drinking deeply and frequently from his cup.
'Looks like the king's drunk again,' said the man sitting next Safar. He turned and saw a pleasant little fellow with a pudgy face and a wine-stained robe. 'Seems like Quintal's always drunk these days.'
Pudge Face lifted up a leather bag and shot a stream of wine down his throat. He wiped his mouth, cleaned his hands on his robes, which were of a rich material, then said, 'Bad example for our children, if you ask me.'
He offered Safar the wine bag. After he drank, Safar passed it back, saying, 'Glad I'm not king. Can't think of a more boring life. Being a good example, I mean.'
Pudge Face chuckled. 'No chance of that for me,' he said. 'But I never wanted to be champion, much less king. Got a nice little shop, a good wife and five hard-working daughters to keep it running while I do what I like.' He slapped the wine bag. 'And what I like is
Safar glanced around at the crowd, many of whom were as red-faced with drink as Quintal. 'I'll wager Naadan is as silent as a temple vestry when this festival is over,' he said.
Pudge Face laughed. 'Whole city will be passed out for at least a week,' he said. 'Nothing, but nothing gets done after a harvest festival. Nobody on the streets, that's for sure, unless they're on their way to a healer to get something for their sick heads and bellies. Hells, even the taverns are closed because the innkeepers are as bad off as the rest of us.'
Safar was delighted with this intelligence. The festival was officially over tonight. That would give him a day or two, if needed, to track down the answer to Asper's mysterious command. It'd also make the supply raid much easier. They could ride right up to the king's palace and face him unopposed. The escape ought to be just as easy. Few would see them go and those who did would be in no shape to follow.
The crowd burst into cheers and Safar looked up to see the reason for the sudden mass interest. Out on the field there were only two wrestlers left. Their victims were being helped away by officials in flowing red robes with yellow sashes and high-topped boots.
The victors were huge men, wearing only short leather breeches with wide belts. Their bodies were streaked with so much blood that it was hard to tell the difference between them and the losers who had already been carried off the field. They stumbled as officials led them into the center of the field for the final match. The crowd shouted its appreciation and everyone seemed to be scrambling to get a bet down.
'What's going on?' Safar asked his new friend.
'This is what we've been waiting for!' Pudge Face said excitedly. 'Finally, we're going for the championship! Won't be long and we'll see who's the new Titan.'
He pointed at the wrestlers. One was entirely bald, the other shaggy as a bear. 'The hairy one's Butar,'
he said. 'The other's called Ulan. He's the most popular wrestler in Naadan. And favored in this match.
Hells, Ulan could be king himself one day. Which would be a big improvement over Quintal, that's for certain.'
'What's the prize?' Safar asked, wisely skirting the political issue of who'd make the better king.
'Whoever wins today,' Pudge Face said, 'gets to put Brave Titan in front of his name. He'll also be rich for life. Plus, this year, there's a special prize. To thank the gods for it being such a good harvest year.'
At that moment Safar felt a tingling sensation against his chest and his hand came up unconsciously to touch the horse amulet dangling beneath his shirt. To his surprise it was quite warm and was growing warmer by the minute. He clutched it, wondering what was happening.
Just then six riders dressed in flowing, calf-length robes, rode onto the field. They appeared to be some sort of honor guard and they pranced about showing off to the crowd. What they were presenting soon became apparent as two men trotted out, leading a magnificent horse onto the field.
Safar felt a shock jump from the amulet to his skin and he nearly cried out-not from pain, because the shock was more surprising than hurtful. His entire attention was suddenly fixed on that horse.
It was the most remarkable animal he had ever seen. Safar was a man of the mountains and no great horse lover. Plainsmen like Iraj, who spent their lives on horseback, practically worshipped the animals.
To Safar they were merely useful creatures under certain circumstances-circumstances rarely met in the
