Suddenly the desk sergeant's jaw dropped open. The patrolman said: "Hey, wait a mo...."
Bram Forest was becoming tenuous, vanishing.
Insubstantial, transparent, the image of Bram Forest soared past the encampment of the Golden Apes. "Bylanus!" he called, and his voice was not insubstantial. Bylanus came at once.
"If the Abarian legions move, attack them, Bylanus."
"As you will, Bram Forest. But you...."
"Don't worry about me. I can control it, I can control it."
Bylanus passed an enormous hand through Bram Forest's body.
"I'll materialize, when I find Ylia. She draws me...." Already the vision was fading.
"Farewell, Bram Forest."
_Farewell...._
Was it merely the sound of the wind along the banks of the River of Ice? Bylanus wondered.
Something struck Pirum's shoulder. The girl crouched, sobbing, at his feet. Pirum whirled.
His face went white when he saw the man. He swung his fist desperately, and the man blocked it without effort. His arm was caught, as in a vise. He screamed. Something snapped in his arm.
Something streaked at his face....
He took the blow from Bram Forest's fist under the point of the jaw.
His head snapped back against the dungeon wall and memory and desire and lust and life oozed out through his smashed skull.
"Ylia!"
"You came, Bram Forest."
"I'll never leave you again."
"Yes, now, in the amphitheater. I think...."
Overhead, the crowd roared. Bram Forest listened for a fraction of a second, and raced for the stairs.
When word of the duel between Bontarc and Retoc came by courier to Laugrim, second in command of the Abarian army under the missing Hultax, Laugrim decided it was time to attack. He gave the signal for his army to march on the city, and the signal was passed from signal-fire to signal-fire in the huge encampment. In a very short time, the army's vanguard began to march. _There's no force on all Tarth strong enough to stop us now_, Laugrim thought exultantly. _This day, Retoc would rule Tarth._
He was right. There was no Tarthian army strong enough to stop them.
But the Army of the Golden Apes which, after Bram Forest's warning, had deployed itself at the very gates of Nadia City so the people in the amphitheater might witness the battle, was not of Tarth....
"Well, Bontarc," cried Retoc, "can't you do better than that? Surely a king...."
For many minutes now Retoc, the finest swordsman on Tarth, had been toying with his adversary. He could have killed Bontarc a dozen times over, but he waited, driving the Nadian ruler back, playing with him, making him do incredible gymnastics in order to survive, three times returning his whip-sword to him when it had been torn from the Nadian's hands.
All Nadia--and all the rulers of Tarth--watched spellbound. It seemed to them that the Nadian ruler had gone into the contest willingly.
They made no move, and under the ethics that governed their world, would make no move, to stop the uneven contest.
Retoc's blurring sword-point whipped and flashed, drawing blood from a dozen superficial wounds. The smile never left Retoc's face.
Desperately, knowing his life was forfeit whenever Retoc chose, Bontarc parried the whip-lashing blade.
Bram Forest emerged into the dazzling sunlight of the arena floor.
Squinting, he saw the figures across the sand.
The men before him were Bontarc of Nadia and Retoc, slayer of his mother, destroyer of Ofridia.
Retoc saw him first, and cried out exultantly. His wrist blurred, his whip-sword flashed, the point singing, and Bontarc's sword flew from his fingers. "You!" Retoc cried.
The sword-point had slashed an artery on Bontarc's wrist. The blood spurted out and Bontarc stood there, dazed, holding the wound shut with his left hand.
"Are you all right, sire?" Bram Forest asked.
"I can manage until a doctor binds--"
Bram Forest picked up the Nadian ruler's whip-sword and faced his enemy, sword to sword, at last.
Retoc looked at him, and laughed. "I almost killed you once," he said.
His hand barely seemed to move, but the point of his blade, whipping, flashing, was everywhere. Bram Forest parried desperately. "I'll finish the job now," Retoc vowed.
Then Bram Forest did an unexpected thing. He used the whip-sword not as a sword: he couldn't hope to match Retoc's skill as a swordsman. He used it as a whip is used, his great arm slicing back and forth through air, up over his head and down, the long length of the uncoiled blading whipping and darting like something alive across the sands.
Retoc retreated two steps, and lunged with what he hoped would be a death blow.
Prokliam the seneschal was trembling so much he could hardly stand.
Just outside the amphitheater, in the very shadow of the amphitheater wall, the great Golden Apes of legend had materialized. There were thousands of them, and they were three times the size of men, and methodically and with great ease, they were destroying the Abarian army before it could enter the amphitheater.
Without the Abarian army, Volna and Retoc would never subjugate Nadia, never rule Tarth. But Prokliam the seneschal had committed himself to their cause. Now only death awaited him.
Or, had he committed himself? Couldn't he change sides before it was too late? Couldn't he slay Volna, here in the royal box, for all to see? Couldn't he become a hero of the people? He was confused. He wished he could think clearly, but he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. There was something wrong with his logic.
Something.... Well, no matter. Slay Volna first, call her traitor, and then worry about his logic--
He turned away from the wall and marched down the flights of stairs between the citizens of Nadia, flanked in two wildly shouting mobs on either side of the aisle, and plunged a knife into Volna's back, killing her instantly.
The people roared, and rose up. Like a tide they swept toward Prokliam, the seneschal who had wanted to be prime minister.