“I found the Horseclans. I have fulfilled my oath.” “Why, then,” said Ugarios genially, “you must be dead. No one has ever taken one of their weapons and lived.” A few people tittered. “Too bad Senhor MacCray isn’t here for his comeuppance.”

Niko waited until the laughers had become too uncomfortable with their ill humor and silence had returned. “I brought trading stock and did rather well. For example, this.” He reached into the sack to retrieve a hunting horn. The rim was a filigree of silver, and the horn itself was covered with geometric carving. Omphalos, on his dais, sat forward for the first time since Niko had entered to examine the object. He knew at first glance that he had never seen its match.

“Extraordinary, yes. This is your best piece?”

“I have others.” He reached far into the bag and brought strings of lapis beads, enormous quartz crystals, an embroidered cloth so large that no fewer than three men were required to hold it up for display.

Omphalos looked on his son with a new respect. His agents had told him how much the boy had spent on his adventure. He had better than tripled his investment! Without a middleman! Ugarios saw the light in the old man’s eyes and leaped up.

“So enormous luck has befallen you! You still haven’t shown us the sword! Let’s see how you’ve fulfilled your oath!”

Niko smiled. “You shouldn’t taunt me, brother.” He reached into the sack and retrieved the scabbard. There was a gasp from everyone. Not only was the work magnificent, but it was old, antique even. The brass fittings shone like golden mirrors, and the leather, originally brown, now had a greenish patina from many decades, if not more than a century, of hard use. A swirl of patterned steel enveloped a grip which had been carved to fit the fingers of the wielder. Niko buckled it around his waist, where everyone noticed how well it fit, as if it had been made for him. With his eyes on Ugarios, Niko’s right hand instinctively found the hilt and drew the blade. It glowed from loving polishing. No razor was more sharp.

“I didn’t buy it, Ugarios. You are right; these are not for sale. I saved a young man’s life, and he gave this to me.”

“You? Save someone’s life? How?”

“It isn’t a complicated story. We were hunting. A murdering slaver stalked us in the night, and tried to take us. I killed him.”

The casualness of the remark frightened some of the girls, who sucked in their breath and clung to their swains, l/garios swallowed.

“Of course, I couldn’t expect you to believe me. So I brought back a bit of evidence to convince you.” He reached into the sack until he found his prize. It weighed around ten pounds and stank of blood and salt, but no one would challenge the grinning head which Niko lifted by the hair, and, holding at arm’s length, displayed to all the stunned people in Omphalos’ reception hall.

“If you have any doubts, ask Bilijo MacCray.”

With a heave of his shoulders, he tossed it at Ugarios. Instinctively the young man put out his hands to catch it. His spine chilled as one hand touched the matted hair, and the other sank into the red mush in the center of Bilijo MacCray’s neck. With a squeak of alarm, he dropped the trophy. The skull clacked on the marble, bounced once at Ugarios’ feet, and turned on a reddish smear to look up with dull, half-lidded eyes and a tight, empty grimace.

Desperately wishing that the nasty putrescence would simply evaporate from his hands, Ugarios stared frantically around the hall for support, but every face sneered back with only amusement and mockery. The churning in his stomach strangled any possibility of wit. With a look of rage at Niko, Ugarios rushed from the room. The sounds of retching came from the hallway, where Ugarios could not have missed the derisive laughter which followed him out.

“My boy,” Lord Omphalos said, “I believe I’ve misjudged you. You’ve done a grand job. Hmm, yes, grand.”

“Thank you, Father.” He bowed. “But if you will excuse me, I have a visit I have to make.”

“Ahh, yes, I imagine that you do. She should hear of it from you first, yes. Well, off you go. But be here in the morning,” Omphalos called after his son. “I’m meeting with the Civil Affairs Committee, and it’s about time you began participating! Niko! Niko?”

They sat on a hillock overlooking the docks. Occasional faint shouts of men pulling massive ropes or lifting heavy cargo came to them, but mostly it was the sound of the birds and the smell of the Great River itself, moist and inviting.

Marisue looked up at him, a faint greenish echo of a bruise on her left cheek. There were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know what to think, Niko. I hated him! And yet I sort of miss him, too. But I could never hate you!” She leaned against him, for the comfort of his embrace. “He hurt me so much! Hold me, Niko!”

He wrapped his arms around her. “I wouldn’t have lived if it weren’t for my war brother,” Niko said. “And I never would have thought I’d be able to kill a man and feel at peace about it. Especially your father.”

“My feelings . . . It’s almost as though I feel them because I’m supposed to. I hate him! The way he touched me . . .” She clung to him, shuddered. “Thank you!” she whispered over and over. “I’m free, free! Oh, Niko!”

Niko held her as she cried out all the secret horrors of her life. Finally he lifted her chin and kissed her gently. “All that is over,” he said. “Soon you’ll have to begin to think about the future. The plains . . . the city. Dear Marisue. You’re so young to have to face such decisions.”

“And what about you?” Marisue asked. “Can you go back to eating delicate little foods and plotting little intrigues against your brother all day? A whole life of wandering up and down the familiar streets of Santalu?” “I thought about it every mile of the journey from Clan Coopuh to the river,” Niko said. “I love Santalu. I never thought I’d miss this city until I boarded the ferry. But the prairie, the beauty of it, the freedom . . . Wessli gave me this sword, but I don’t know the first thing about using it. There aren’t any fighters like the Horseclans folk, but I guess you know that better than I do. You’ve lived on the plains, and I haven’t. Maybe it’s time for me to turn my life around. I don’t really want to turn into Omphalos. I think I’d fall on this sword before I turned into a fat, officious bore.” She sat up suddenly with a big sunny smile. “You mean you’re going back? Back to the clans?”

“Why not? They’ve as much as invited me, and they made it clear how much they want to learn about Ehleen life. And Sun and Wind know how much I need to learn about . . . well, about everything.” Marisue laughed, and kissed him on his lips. “They’re not the only ones who can teach you about the prairie, you know!”

It took a few seconds for him to realize what she was suggesting. Then, in a single moment, all his plans became complete, and he realized the perfection of his life.

The Fear-Beast

by Sharon Green

They made camp early that day, finding the meadow beside the small woods and stream too pleasant to bypass. They were many days beyond the city of Komees Sahm of Cambehl, and not since they had left had they had so attractive a campsite.

Lisah, once of the Cambehls and now of the Dunkahns, would have been willing to camp in a tree as long as Bryahn, her new husband, was there beside her, but even she was forced to admit the meadow was a good deal more attractive than a tree would have been. Not that the tree would have failed to be more entertaining, especially with Bryahn there—at least until they fell out of it. So far Lisah had found nothing Bryahn considered not worth the attempting, most especially where she was concerned, and her newly married life had been filled with more laughter than undying declarations of fragile feelings, more lovemaking than sighs and vows of unending devotion. She had been told by one of her serving women before the wedding that an active woman must resign herself to the boredom of marriage, but so far there had been no boredom. If Bryahn continued on the way he had been going, there never would be.