Description: Chapter One "Your gold or your gizzard!" a hoarse, desperate voice called out through sooty twilight, from bushes at the foot of the bottleneck up ahead, where the pass cut through a stony cleft. "I can slit either your purse or your throat, so take your pick---only quick now, ''cos my finger''s itchy on the trigger of this crossbow!" "Hold!" the lone camel rider sent back a shout, reined in his jittery beast. "Now hold there, friend!" He made a dusky silhouette against the indigo sky with its first fistful of stars. And he''d have made a fine target, too, if his ambusher had a crossbow! That wasn''t the case, but no way the rider could know it. "Put up your hands," the would-be thief now commanded, "so''s I can see there''s no weapon in ''em." "What?" his intended victim replied. "And would you really take a man''s life for nothing? Highwayman, you''ve picked a wrong ''un tonight, I''m afraid---where loot''s concerned, anyway. Man, I''m broke! So stay your hand on that weapon. I''ve a loaf we can share, if you like, and a skin of passable wine. But that''s all . . ." The ambusher''s ears pricked up: he was starving! And there was something in this lone wayfarer''s voice, too. Memories stirred, of a time not too far past in Chlangi the Doomed . . . "Who are ye, sitting there so nice in my sights?" he hoarsely inquired. Astride his camel, the Hrossak tried to locate the other; no good, he was a shadow in the darker shadows of the bushes. But where- and whoever he was, his voice had seemed strangely familiar. He could be any one of a dozen brigands the rider had tangled with along his mazy way. The steppeman had put his hands up on the other''s barked instructions; but behind the right one, hanging down along his wrist from a point trapped between index and next finger, a balanced knife poised for swift release. Only let him get a precise fix on his ambusher''s whereabouts, and--- "What''s your name, I said?" the furtive owner of the gruff voice once more demanded. "I''m a Hrossak," the rider replied, shifting a little in his saddle. Was that a movement there in the bushes, by the bole of that gnarly tree? Aye, it was that---the outline of a crouching man! "Khash, by name, after my father, naturally," he continued, letting his throwing arm drift back a little, "---though the gods alone know why, for he never had any either!" A gasp from the gloom. "Tarra Khash!" Tarra threw himself forward and out of the saddle, threw his knife, too. Only at the last, hearing that gasp and the other speaking his name, had he managed to deflect knife''s flight---else the lurker in the bushes were a goner. Then he was rolling in dust, hurling himself headlong into the blackest shadows, snarling his rage in the darkness even as he snaked the curved ceremonial sword from its scabbard strapped to his back. In another moment he crashed through brittle bushes, found a boulder and slid himself over to its safe side, there came to a crouching halt . . . Close at hand, a wheezy, frightened panting. The Hrossak listened, grinned a humourless wolf''s grin, called out: "And now it''s your turn, friend. Seems you know me, which might or might not be a good thing. So in the dozen or so heartbeats you''ve left to live, best tell me who you are. That way I''ll be able to say a few words over you, to let the gods know who I''m passing their way." "Stumpy," the unseen other gasped at once. "Stumpy Adz, great lump! So called for a missing right hand---aye, and very nearly an ear, too! Come free me, quick! I daren''t move my head for fear I slice my neck!" Tarra took his first real breath in what felt like hours, lofted his scimitar and sheathed it unerringly in its scabbard, so that its jewelled hilt stood up behind his left shoulder where it curved into his neck. He put a hand on the boulder and vaulted it, glided soundlessly into the bushes and up to the twisted bole of the gnarly tree. And sure enough there stood Stumpy Adz, his head immobilized between a rough branch and the long, thin, razor-edged blade of Tarra''s knife where it pinned his tatty collar to the bole. "Old fool!" growled Tarra, snatching his knife free---but minding it didn''t cut Stumpy''s leathery flesh. "Some desperado you---hah! And what if it hadn''t been me at all but some nighthawk, eh? And what if he really did have a crossbow? Indeed, a miracle of coincidence that it is me! Now what''s this all about? What, you, a highwayman? At your age? And why the hell anyway? The last time I saw you, in Chlangi, I gave you gems to last a lifetime . . ." Eyes growing accustomed to the dusk, he glowered at the other, noticed his scrawny, down-at-heel condition. Stumpy was thin and bent as old Gleeth the crescent moon where he rode above the ridge. "First you''d try to skewer me," the old man grumbled, gingerly fingering his unmarked neck, then sighing his relief when his fingers came away clean, "and now you''d have me talk myself to death---if you don''t beat me to it! Well, I''ll cut it short, Tarra Khash: hard times, my friend, hard times---which called for harsh measures. I knew I took a chance, but better dead than marooned out here, miles from anywhere, and slowly shrivelling to bones!" Tarra noticed Stumpy''s leanness, couldn''t mistake his trembling, which wasn''t alone reaction to his narrow escape. He whistled for his beast, which came at the trot. "Are you hungry, Stumpy Adz?" The other groaned. "Hungry? I could eat the saddle right off your mount''s back! Or you can keep the saddle and I''ll wrap my gums round the camel instead!" Over his own shock now, Tarra grinned. "Well, you fed and sheltered me once when I was in need," he grasped the other''s frail shoulder. "So I suppose it''s only fair I return the favour. Where can we make camp?" Stumpy wearily led him to the face of the cliff, showed him a shallow cave---more a scoop out of the rock---where a great boulder had rolled free in ages past. Indeed the very boulder lay shattered now, a broken wall of jagged rock fronting the cave, which should shelter their fire and hide its light. "I was going to sleep the night here," said Stumpy. "With a little luck I''d wake with the morning, and with a great deal of luck I wouldn''t!" Tarra tethered his camel, started to gather up dry sticks and dead branches. But: "Who needs a fire?" Stumpy muttered. "I''ve got my own, burning through the wall of my stomach! Stop torturing me and give me some food." "Don''t you want to see what you''re eating?" Tarra frowned at him, struck hot sparks from his flint. The tinder caught at once. "Just lead me to it and let me touch it," Stumpy grunted. "If it''s edible I''ll know it---and then stand well back!" Yellow firelight flared as Tarra took down a saddle-bag. He opened it, produced apples, dried meat, a little cheese. Stumpy, hands shaking with hunger, seated himself upon a flat rock and fell to it. There were tears in his one good eye (the right one) as he got his few remaining teeth working on a piece of meat. Tarra squatted down by the fire, warmed his hands, bit into an apple. He''d eaten earlier---a rabbit, taken on the plain with a well-aimed stone---and wasn''t so hungry. But to watch Stumpy Adz going at it . . . "How long?" Tarra asked. "Four days," the grizzled oldster mumbled around mouthfuls, "maybe five. I''ve dreamed of this for so long, it''s---umf!---hard to say if I was awake or---umf!---sleeping. Tarra, but this is good! Er, didn''t you mention wine or some such?" The Hrossak put on a surprised expression, shook his head. "No." "Yes you---umf!---did!" Stumpy was indignant. "When you thought I had you in my sights, you offered me---umf!---half a loaf and some passable wine." "But you didn''t have a crossbow," said Tarra. "What difference does that make?" Stumpy scowled. Tarra shrugged. "Well, neither did I have the wine!" But as Stumpy groaned his disappointment, so the Hrossak relented. He took out a small wineskin from the saddle-bag, uncorked it and took a swig, passed it over. Stumpy held up the skin, expertly squirted a quenching stream into his gaping maw. "Hhh!" he said. And, "Ahhh!" again. Tarra reached out, neatly separated him from supply. Now the Hrossak tossed his apple in the direction of the tethered beast, ate just a bite of cheese, took another pull at the skin''s tube before plugging it. "Eat first," he told Stumpy, "and then I''ll let you wash it down. But don''t make such a pig of yourself that you get the cramps. There''s water in the other pack for later." Then he said no more but let the old man get on with it. While Stumpy wolfed his food, so he looked Tarra up and down. What he saw was this: A big-hearted man, open as a book; an inveterate wanderer, with feet which wouldn''t stop itching while yet there remained a hill unclimbed, or view unviewed; a great adventurer---the latter not so much by inclination as by accident. For troubles, trials and terrors, in forms numerous as the fingers on his hard hands, had seemed to dog the Hrossak''s heels since the day he''d left his steppes. With one adventure leading into the next, sometimes it had seemed he''d been born under a cursed star. Or perhaps a lucky one? For here he was hale and hearty, come through it all with scarce a scratch. Tarra Khash was young, maybe twenty-five or -six, and bronzed as the great idols of jungled Shad. They weren''t much known for their guile, these steppemen, which meant he''d most likely be trustworthy; indeed in Chlangi, Stumpy

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