Talena spoke, her voice muffled in the hood. "Scavengers come to feast on the bodies of wounded tarnsmen." It was a Gorean proverb, which seemed to be singularly inappropriate, coming from a hooded captive.

"I did not speak to the girl," said the warrior.

I excused Talena. "She has not worn her bracelets long," I said.

"She has spirit," said the warrior.

"Where are you bound for?" I asked.

"To the banks of the Vosk, to the City of Tents," said the warrior.

"What news of Marlenus, the Ubar?" demanded Talena.

"You should beat her," said the warrior, but responded to the girl. "None. He has fled."

"What news of the Home Stone of Ar and the daughter of Marlenus?" I asked, feeling it would be the sort of thing the warrior would expect me to be interested in.

"The Home Stone is rumored to be in a hundred cities," he said. "Some say it has been destroyed. Only the Priest-Kings know."

"And the daughter of Marlenus?" I insisted.

"She is undoubtedly in the Pleasure Gardens of the boldest tarnsman on Gor," laughed the warrior. "I hope he has as much luck with her as the Home Stone. I have.heard she has the temper of a tharlarion and a face to match!"

Talena stiffened, her pride offended.

"I have heard," she said imperiously, "that the daughter of the Ubar is the most beautiful woman on all Gor."

"I like this girl," said the warrior. "Yield her to me!"

"No," I said.

"Yield her or I will have my tharlarion trample you," he snapped, "or would you prefer to be spitted on my lance?" "You know the codes," I said evenly. "If you want;_ her, you must challenge for her and meet me with the weapon of my choice."

The warrior's face clouded, but only for an instant. He threw back his fine head and laughed, his teeth white in his bushy beard.

"Done!" he cried, fastening his lance in its saddle sheath and slipping from the back of the tharlarion. "I challenge you for her!"

"The sword," I said.

"Agreed," he said.

We shoved Talena, who was now frightened, to the side of the road. Hooded, she cowered there, the prize, her ears filled with the sudden violent ringing of blade on blade as two warriors fought to the death to possess her. Kazrak of Port Kar was a superb swordsman, but in the first moments we both knew that I was his master. His face was white beneath his helmet as he wildly attempted to parry my devastating attack. Once I stepped back, gesturing to the ground with my sword, the symbolic granting of quarter should it be desired. But Kazrak would not lay his sword on the stones at my feet. Rather, he suddenly launched a vicious attack, forcing me to defend myself as best I could. He seemed to fight with new, fury, perhaps enraged that he had been offered quarter.

At last, terminating a frenzied exchange, I managed to drive my blade into his shoulder, and, as his sword arm dropped, I kicked the weapon from his grasp. He stood proudly in the road, waiting for me to kill him.

I turned and went to Talena, who was standing piteously by the side of the road, waiting to see who it was that would unhood her.

As I lifted the hood, she uttered a small, joyful sound, her green eyes bright with pleasure. Then she saw the wounded warrior. She shuddered slightly. "Kill him," she commanded.

"No," I replied.

The warrior, who held his shoulder, blood streaming down from his hand, smiled bitterly. "It was worth it," he said, his gaze sweeping over Talena. "I'd challenge you again."

Talena seized her dagger from my belt and raced to the warrior. I caught her braceleted hands as she was going to drive the dagger into his breast. He had not moved. "You must kill him," said Talena, struggling. Angrily I removed her bracelets and replaced them so that her wrists were bound behind her back.

"You should use the whip on her," said the warrior matter-of-factly.

I tore some inches from the bottom of Talena's gown to make a bandage for Kazrak's shoulder. She endured this in fury, her head in the air, not watching me. I had scarcely finished bandaging his wound when I was aware of a ringing on metal, and, lifting my head, I saw myself surrounded by mounted spearmen, who wore the same livery as Kazrak. Behind them, stretching into the distance, came a long line of broad tharlarions, or the four footed draft monsters of Gor. These beasts, yoked in braces, were drawing mighty wagons, filled with merchandise protected under the lashings of its red rain canvas.

"It is the caravan of Mintar, of the Merchant Caste," said Kazrak.