The Rek Tales
                                  
This work is copyright of Charles E. Weindorf  (1985) and may not be
posted to other electronic forums or media, or placed in print without
                the written permission of the author.
                                  
                                  
                           Mt. Iron Ordeal
                                  
     Odyssey Master Snothlerk leered at the ten contestants for the Mt.
Iron Ordeal.  These young soldiers were about to compete for the honor of
being a group commander in the Royal Shield army, and he, a former
Colonel in the Shield, had been relegated to this boring job of referee. 
He hadn't meant to call a retreat at his last battle, it had just slipped
out.  After that disgrace and deduction in pay, he would be forced to
watch these young grubs win their first command.  Well, he would make
this test as bad as possible.  Snothlerk doubted if his powerful aid,
Bracerod, could complete this contest.  These new recruits didn't have a
chance. 
     The men knew the old Colonel as well.  They remembered the
less-than-brilliant strategies he employed in battle.  A Snothlerk
maneuver, as his troops had called it, was a 90 yard charge followed by a
two mile, fleet-footed, armor-dropping retreat.  The Odyssey Master was
also famous for his appetite, and he had the measurements to prove it. 
One group commander had nicknamed Snothlerk "The Horse Smasher," because
of the number of his mounts that had succumbed to the gravity of their
task.  During a siege of a renegade Duke's castle, Snothlerk fell asleep
next to a catapult and was nearly shot at the defiant walls.  The battery
leader had made an honest error: he thought that the Colonel was a
boulder.  This story was on the mind of one of the recruits,  causing a
predictable result.
     Snothlerk noted a large foreign recruit who was smiling.
     "You!  In the back!  Step forward!" Snothlerk screamed.  This was
just what he needed: a smiling foreigner who wanted to become an officer
in the King's army.  He would see to it that this one would wouldn't make
it past the first mile.
     "What is your name, slug?" sneered Snothlerk.
      "Rek...SIR!" rumbled the recruit.
     Snothlerk backed away at the power in the young man's voice, but
the annoying smile goaded him on.  After mounting his horse, Snothlerk
whined at the contestant eye to eye.
     "You are not attempting to be the King's jester, but an officer in
the Royal Shield.  That smile will not be tolerated by me or any true
military man.  BRACEROD!  See to it that recruit Rek wears the 150 pound
weight belt during the contest."
     "Yes, Odyssey Master," grated Bracerod.
     Rek's smile turned to a teeth-gritting frown, but he said nothing. 
Snothlerk had the good sense to back the horse away a few paces.  One
down and nine to go, he thought.
     "Men, you are about to compete for the honor of being an officer in
the finest fighting force in the world, the Royal Shield.  As you know,
an enlisted soldier can only attain this status by winning the Mt. Iron
Ordeal. The Ordeal consists of climbing Mt. Iron, reaching the stone
pedestal at the summit and descending the mountain with one of the blue
jewels from the pedestal.  Only the first three men to return with stones
will be declared group commanders, and to make this contest more
interesting, you will be climbing the south face of Mt. Iron."
     Since they were tempered with military discipline, none of the
recruits had gasped at the announcement.  The south face of Mt. Iron had
rarely been climbed by experienced mountaineers.  It had never been tried
in the Ordeal.  Some men responded by blinking repeatedly or raising
their eyebrows, and of them all, only Rek yawned.
     Snothlerk bristled at Rek's reaction, announcing, "For those of you
who take pride in your heritage, I will remind you that no foreigner has
ever been the first one to return."
     The only sound for the next moment was that of foreign teeth
grinding.  Snothlerk backed farther away.
     "Send them on their way, Bracerod."
     "Yes, Odyssey Master.  Men, have you been given knives for the
journey?"
     After checking the contestant's knives, Bracerod called "Begin!"
and the men were off.  As they started toward the mountain, each recruit
was careful to stay in front of the heavily-burdened Rek.  Even with the
weight jacket, the foreigner was striding quickly and lightly.
     "Ha!" jeered Snothlerk.  At least he had taken care of recruit Rek.
     "Your record time in the Ordeal will be safe this time, Bracerod."
     "Yes, sir!" agreed the aid.  "Will you be needing a new horse
soon?"
     The Colonel shook his head and muttered, "Why me?" 
     Snothlerk glanced up from the third roast chicken to fall victim to
his boundless appetite.  Waiting in Iron's End, the small town southwest
of Mt. Iron, had been a pleasurable eating experience.  Now if that
racket outside the tavern would stop, he could do some real damage to the
chicken population.  You would think a recruit was coming back, but that
was impossible.  It had been only three days, and Bracerod's record was
four and a half.  Certainly, no man would give up so soon, bringing
disgrace to his coat of arms.
     The Colonel heard Bracerod's low voice call, "Recruit Rek returns! 
Rek returns!"
     "Ha!" gloated the Odyssey Master as he waddled to the door.  The
lazy foreigner was returning in disgrace.  He would make sure the youth
received some well deserved abuse.
     As Snothlerk neared the crowd, he was surprised to see Rek running
toward them. He carried a large bundle under one arm and a body over his
opposite shoulder.
     Rek eased his fellow recruit to the ground and bellowed "HEALER." 
Two of the villagers began to examine the fallen man.
     "What is the meaning of this, Rek?" sneered the Colonel.  "Beaten
by that little hill?"
     "Bracerod," Rek called while ignoring Snothlerk.  "This man fell on
Mt. Iron's south face.  Come quickly."
     As Bracerod pushed through the crowd, Snothlerk tried again.  "I
said..."
     "Railtie," Bracerod exclaimed as he saw the youth.  "When did this
happen?"
     "Yesterday," Rek responded.  "I had to hurry because he was in
pain.  It is only a broken leg, and it can be set easily."
     "What..." sputtered Snothlerk.
     "You carried him all that way?" asked Bracerod.  "And ruined your
chances at the Ordeal?"
     "I would have done it for any man, let alone your nephew,
Bracerod," replied Rek.  He added to the statement after glancing at the
Colonel.  "Any man I could lift."
     "Our coat of arms is in your debt," Bracerod bowed.
     "The pleasure was mine," Rek grinned broadly, "But do not grieve
over lost opportunities.  Railtie and I have both completed the Ordeal."
     "What?" the Odyssey Master and his aid exclaimed in unison.
     "It is impossible for anyone to travel the distance in so short a
time," argued Bracerod.  "We need the proof of the jewel."
     "Railtie's blue stone is in his hip pouch, but there was only one
jewel on the pedestal, so," Rek grunted as he hefted his bundle.  "I just
brought the pedestal."
     The heavy pedestal dropped to the ground... and onto Snothlerk's
foot.
     "EEEAAAAOOOOWWWW," Snothlerk yelled repeatedly as he hopped on his
good foot.
     "My apologies," Rek managed after he stopped laughing.  "Any other
questions?"
     Bracerod smiled and shook his head at the unbelievable feat that
had been done.
     "I have a question, funny man," hissed the still-hopping Colonel. 
"Where is the weight jacket that you were supposed to wear."
     With a nimble shrug of his shoulders, Rek took off his traveling
cloak and the hidden weight belt.  Courteously, Rek tossed the 150 pound
belt to Snothlerk for closer inspection.  Unfortunately, the Colonel was
not an adept of weight belt catching, and he crashed backwards with the
extra ballast.  For many years, the villagers swore that a nearby
building was knocked off of its foundation by the impact.
      "What...about...that...fur...bundle," gasped Snothlerk from his
crater.  "You were...not allowed to...have one...on the journey."
     "This is the reason Railtie caught up to me.  You see, I had to
take the time to skin this bear..."



                             Ilnictor Met

     Belroh followed the westerner through the dark Ralg forest.  Only
Rek's orders had kept his anger in check, and he desperately hoped the
westerner would find the Ralg renegades soon.
     Somehow, the Ralg had gotten through the Storm Pass without being
seen by the Royal Shield army, and they had entered a small village.  The
Ralg kidnapped the village elder's daughter, Tialoy, carrying her back to
the depths of the Ralg wilderness.  Tialoy was the fairest of women...and
Belroh's betrothed.  Rage shook Belroh again, and he tried to charge past
Rek to attack the unseen foe.
     Rek grabbed the young fighter.  The small band of six Volnor
warriors can to a halt.
     "Belroh, if I have to waste time tackling you every ten miles, we
may never catch up with them.  We need to follow them quickly, but if you
go crashing through these woods, they could hear your approach.  The Ralg
might kill the girl out of spite."
     Belroh did not look at the western giant, his eyes staring down the
shadowy path instead.
     "I know what you feel," Rek tried again, "but you must think of
your hate differently.  Keep your rage like an imprisoned demon until we
are ready.  Release its fury on your enemy."
     Rek paused and studied Belroh.  It did not look as if the fighter
was listening at all, so the westerner decided to get his attention.  Rek
took Belroh's dagger, putting a cut on the back of his own left hand. 
Some of the blood ran onto the blade, and Rek handed the knife back to
Belroh.
     "I give you the oath of my western heritage that you will have
revenge on the Ralg today.  If I fail in this oath, it is your right to
have the rest of my blood on this blade."
     Belroh noticed the other four men back away.  This was the ritual
of a westerner's oath, and it was rarely offered to a Volnor man.   The
elemental power in Rek's stare had locked on Belroh.  It was up to the
Volnor fighter to make the next move.  All Belroh had to do to accept the
oath was to sheath the knife without cleaning it, and Rek would be bound
to find the Ralg...or die.  Belroh looked at the westerner's scowl,
knowing not one of Rek's enemies had seen that mask and lived to tell the
tale.  He sheathed the dagger and with the force of his will, closed an
iron gate on his demon of anger.
     "Let's go," Rek growled as he drew his great sword.
     The men drew their blades and followed the westerner through the
pillars of the Ralg homeland. 

     Tialoy awoke to the sound of laughing, Ralg soldiers.  The
renegades were probably joking about something evil, but she could not
understand their guttural language.  Tialoy could hear one of the guards
pacing behind her.
     "No need to move," she thought.  "It's better to let them think
that I am still sleeping."
     Tialoy began to remember the nightmare of the last three days.  The
Ralg raiders had taken her from her home and carried her to the south. 
She yelled for help, but anyone who came to her aid was cut down by the
renegade's short swords.  Just before some of the soldiers of the Royal
Shield arrived, one of the Ralg threw a handful of mysterious dust over
his comrades.  After he had done this, the savages walked past the Volnor
soldiers without being noticed.  As they travelled, an entire regiment of
Shield fighters marched within a few feet of the Ralg, but they looked
right through the renegades.  Tialoy had screamed each time she saw
Volnor troops.  The only response that it drew was the gravelly laugh of
her captors.  It must have been magic that hid the Ralg from sight, and
such a powerful spell would have cost a sorcerer dearly.
     "All to capture me," Tialoy shivered.
     "Prepare her for the ritual," one of the Ralg ordered.
     Tialoy jumped to her feet as her guard strode by, grabbing a dagger
from his belt.  These savages would not take her without a fight! 
     The Ralg warrior who turned to face her looked like all of the
other Ralg she had seen.  He had the long, slanted forehead and
underslung jaw that were prominent in the Ralg races.  His black hair was
cut short in the fashion of a warrior, looking nothing like Tialoy's
long, Volnor-blonde tresses.  The Ralg's nose and ears were misshapen,
but they matched the other ugly features perfectly.  Like his countrymen,
the guard was short but powerfully built, with long, heavily muscled arms
and stout legs.  His skin was well tanned by the merciless southern sun. 
The guard's sunken, black eyes gleamed with delight as he saw the knife
in the Volnor girl's hand.
     "Come, now, little songbird," the Ralg laughed.  "You do not want
to slice yourself."
     The renegade grabbed for Tialoy's wrist, but she was ready for the
fool.  She knew the Ralg women would never disobey a man, and he would
not be expecting her next move...she attacked.  The dagger was a silver
blur in her slim hand; she placed her blade well. 
     The Ralg stared at the wound in his chest for a moment before
falling like one of the tall trees.  Tialoy began to run to the nearest
path into the forrest.  At any moment, she expected to hear the howls of
pursuing Ralg soldiers, but none came.  Tialoy began to hope that she
could escape the village, but as she ran by one of the massive trees, she
stopped.
     A frail old Ralg blocked her path, and she hesitated a moment.  He
did not move or call out, but Tialoy knew one yell from him would bring
the whole village down this path.  Again she stabbed with the dagger. 
The old man stepped away from the blade, touching her hand with one of
his gnarled claws.
     Tialoy cried out and closed her eyes tightly against the pain.  As
she dropped to one knee, she cradled her knife hand.  Her delicate hand
looked as if it had been stepped on by a huge beast.  A rude hand grabbed
her long hair, forcing her to look up.  Tialoy opened her eyes and saw
the old Ralg. 
     "Your spirit will appease Heshoth," hissed the old one.  "Today,
you shall meet him, but you must not be damaged.  Look at your hand."
     Tialoy stared at her hand.  The pain was still there, but the bones
and skin were whole. 
     The old Ralg laughed, and Tialoy's pain disappeared.
     She had found the sorcerer.
     Two Ralg soldiers dragged her to a small hut, where a large Ralg
woman took her cloths before dressing her in a revealing grass outfit. 
The scant outfit was not made to flatter her youthful figure but to make
the priest's work easier: the rite of human sacrifice.
     Tialoy fainted. 

     The six Volnor fighters hid in the thick undergrowth near the Ralg
village.  Rek had led the men to this small settlement, but they were not
sure if Tialoy's captors had stopped here.  Belroh fought back his rage. 
Only his pact with Rek had prevented him from attacking the first Ralg he
saw, and for now, the demon was at bay.  Rek tapped Belroh on the
shoulder to get his attention.
     "Patience!  The silent lion makes the kill," Rek cautioned.  "The
Ralg are preparing for a ritual, and if the girl is here, she will be
part of it."
     "Then let's get her now!" hissed Belroh.  "Are we to wait until the
sacrificial knife draws blood?"
     "What if you crashed into the middle of a Ralg wedding?" reasoned
Rek.  "Not only would you tip our hand, but you would ruin a fine party."
     Rek grinned.
     Belroh did not.
     "You jest about these savages as they plot Tialoy's murder?" Belroh
argued.
     "Belroh, the Ralg ceremony will occur at the small stone altar,
right in front of us.  If Tialoy is here, we attack at once, but if not,
we must begin our search again.  Remember my promise, young one.  Don't
ruin my plan or I'll knock you from here to the Storm Pass with one
punch!"
      Belroh nodded without glancing at Rek.  His demon could barely
wait.
     Even as Rek spoke, a Ralg priest led a small group to the altar. 
Two of the powerful Ralg guards carried a slim girl dressed in a tight
grass outfit, and as they lifted her onto the stone, Belroh saw her face. 
It was Tialoy!  The priest lifted his arm above his head; the fighters
saw a glint of steel.
     "Now!" Rek breathed.
     The six northern fighters struck like a sudden summer storm. 
Belroh swung his great sword at the priest, and the Ralg crumpled, still
clutching his small dagger.  Rek's heavy blade drove through one Ralg's
heart, while Belroh moved on to the next savage.  The two other Ralg
guards hastily drew their weapons.  Rek sprang between them before they
could attack, cutting them down with mighty strokes.  The sounds of Rek's
whistling blade were punctuated by Belroh's victorious yells.  Two of the
Volnor soldiers killed any Ralg who tried to take back Tialoy, as the
other two lifted the girl from the stone altar.
     A Ralg guard fled, and Belroh began to chase him.
     "Leave him!" Rek commanded.  "Let's get the girl out of here before
more of them arrive."
     Belroh's face was a savage mask of hatred as he spun to confront
Rek, but the westerner's scowl was more than a match.  Belroh saw Tialoy
and came to his senses.  She was unconscious but unhurt, and he realized
the only chance for them was to stick to Rek's plan.  He nodded to his
commander.
     As the war yells of Ralg soldier began to sound in the village, the
group took a path to the north, making no effort at stealth.  The forest
was dense, and it seemed the dark trees grabbed at the fighters as they
fled.  Only Rek's powerful arms and blade could carve the way through the
growth.  The desperate soldiers followed the western juggernaut with
blind trust.  Finally, the rescuers broke free of the wood, finding a
rushing stream that could only be traversed by an ancient bridge. The
bridge was made of woven vines and rotted wooden planks.  Rek scanned the
situation quickly, but there seemed to be little choice.  The sounds of
the pursuing Ralg warriors became louder by the moment.
     "Get across the bridge fast!" Rek yelled.  He turned to the woods
as the first of the Ralg broke through.  His great sword hummed in the
damp air and another Ralg had gone to meet the Ashen God.
     Rek turned and ran across the shaky rope bridge as a dozen
screaming Ralg charged in pursuit.  Belroh waited at the end of the
bridge with his sword high over his head.
     "NOW!" Rek yelled, as he jumped the last few feet to the far bank.
     Belroh's blade fell, and the ropes parted like cracking whips.  The
timbers folded under the Ralg's weight, and with frightened howls, the
Ralg soldiers fell into the rapids below.  The fighters watched as the
waters devoured their enemies. 
     Rek grinned and Belroh matched it.  Vengeance!  The westerner took
Belroh's dagger and wiped his blood from it.  The debt was paid in full.
     Suddenly, Rek's grin faded.  Belroh turned to see what could be
troubling him and saw a Ralg standing on the opposite bank.  The Ralg was
old...far older than any savage he had seen before.  His white, sparse
hair framed a leathery face that was dominated by a hooked nose.  Huge
wrinkles crossed his slanted forehead, and the Ralg's toothless mouth was
open in soundless laughter.  His white, wiry beard jutted forward from
his underslung jaw; his sunken eyes were black, bottomless pits.  The
Ralg's tattered robe hung from his stick-thin limbs, but even so, Belroh
felt the man had great power.  A hideous, gnarled hand was pointing at
the statue-like Volnor commander.
     "You four men take the girl 10 miles to the northeast.  A regiment
of the Royal Shield will meet you at the rendezvous point.  Belroh and I
will follow you shortly.  Good luck."
     The men carried Tialoy along the northern path, content to put as
much distance as possible between them and the mysterious Ralg.
     Belroh had never heard Rek use the words "good luck" before,
realizing this frail enemy was very dangerous.  Belroh noticed Rek's
knuckles had whitened in a death grip on his great sword.
     "Who is that, commander?" Belroh asked.
     "Have you ever heard of the Mire Battles?" Rek replied, his eyes
never leaving the old man.
     "Of course.  The battle at Tenek's Shoulders was the last fight
that the Royal Fist army lost...over 10 years ago."
     "I was there," Rek remembered, "and so was he.  He is the dark
sorcerer, Ilnictor."
     As if on cue, the old Ralg stepped off the bank and walked across
the stream toward the two fighters.  As he hobbled over the white rapids,
the water blackened and shrank away from his tainted feet. 
     "That's far enough, you decayed carcass. " threatened the
westerner.
     Ilnictor's response chilled Belroh's blood.
     "I knew you would come, foolish one," cackled the bent Ralg.  "Only
a man as stupid as you would volunteer for a suicide mission.  I had to
summon you somehow and taking the girl was the best way.  We have a score
to settle since that one day so long ago."
     As evil one raised his gnarled hands, six fully armed Ralg raiders
appeared next to Rek and Belroh.  The magic stunned Belroh for a moment,
and he was barely able to parry the sword stroke of the nearest Ralg. 
Rek was far to disciplined to be surprised.  His sword proved this to a
suddenly headless Ralg. 
     As the battle raged, Ilnictor stepped onto the bank, and with a
snap of his fingers, caused a rock to jump from the stream.  The missile
struck Belroh, knocking him down.  After Rek saw he was fighting the Ralg
alone, he tried an unexpected tactic: he attacked the sorcerer.  Ilnictor
waited impassively as the raging westerner charged, and he did not seem
to care he would soon have to deal with three feet of Volnor steel.  Rek
pulled his sword close to his body, thrusting the blade directly at the
old Ralg's heart.  Ilnictor raised a frail claw, caught the point of the
sword and snapped the thick weapon as if it were made of glass.  Rek
rolled, still holding the hilt.  He drove the remaining blade into a
nearby Ralg renegade. 
     Before the westerner could recover, Ilnictor mumbled a short chant
to the Ashen God.  His right hand flew from his wrist and clamped itself
on Rek's throat.  Rek dropped the ruined sword and faught with the
disembodied claw.  Rek's muscles swelled as he dragged the hand away from
his throat, but a Ralg club struck him in the temple.  He fell to the
ground next to Belroh.  Ilnictor's enchanted hand crawled back to its
owner, and the battle-hardened Ralg warriors backed away in fear.  The
sorcerer recovered his hand, and with a low, grinding sound reattached it
to his arm. 
     "Bind them!" he commanded the Ralg warriors, "I must prepare for
the long journey."
     Ilnictor sat on the bank of the stream and began to chant to his
God.  Almost immediately, a black shadow rose from the southern wood,
coasting over the shaking Ralg soldiers.  The creature was a Mire Wraith,
a ruthless predator that had been spawned by the magic of Heshoth
himself.  The leathery-winged terror was the size of an elephant and had
an even larger appetite.  It did not have a head, but the Wraith sported
sharp fangs grouped between powerful shoulders.  The stout legs were
heavy and strong, able to crush enemies, or rend them with the sabre-like
claws on the feet.  Huge bat wings spread from a powerful back.  Its
black skin was so dark that it did not reflect even the brightest
sunlight.  The Wraiths were the subject of many frightening stories, and
it was rumored in the north the very sight of a Wraith could kill a grown
man.  It landed and turned its gaping mouth to the sorcerer. 
     "Welcome, slayer," intoned Ilnictor.  "We mere mortals must ask a
favor of your evil powers."
     Making loud hissing sounds, the beast reared on two legs.  Ilnictor
listened intently for a moment.
     "Be my guest. " the old Ralg replied.
     The Wraith shot out a huge limb, grabbing a nearby Ralg soldier. 
There was one scream, but the sound of snapping bones soon replaced it. 
The monster settled down to feed as the remaining Ralg troops broke for
the woods.
     "It's hard to find good help," complained Ilnictor.
     After it finished its meal, the Mire Wraith picked up the two
Volnor fighters in its front feet, allowing Ilnictor to climb on its
back.
     "East, my friend," the sorcerer asked.
     The beast jumped from the ground and with a flap of its black
wings, began its long trek.
     The Mire Wraith glided over the green roof of the Ralg forest.  The
leathery wings had flapped for tireless hours as the monster carried
Ilnictor and the Volnor fighters eastward.  Ilnictor's destination was
obvious, for there was only one place to go in the eastern Ralg forest:
the walled city of Ralgorth. 
     Ralgorth was the only notable achievement of the Ralg civilization
because it was the oldest, and most evil, structure in the known world. 
Legends spoke of a granite fortress that had been built by Heshoth's
demons as a refuge from the power of Beralk.  For centuries, the demons
issued forth from the enchanted walls to slay and destroy.  At last, the
intervention of Beralk himself broke the evil castle.  Ages later, the
ancestors of the Ralg people discovered the deep dungeons of the old
refuge, and in their careless exploration, they released the terrors
buried by the Crystal God.  Once again, the granite walls rose from the
rubble; the evil tenants took their place in the depths of the fortress. 
The Ralg forest shrunk away from the granite until the castle stood alone
on a barren plane.  It was rumored the ground remained cracked and dry,
no matter how much rain fell.  This was the source of Ralg power,
authority and magic.
     Ilnictor spotted the towers of Ralgorth.  The treeless waste that
surrounded the blackened walls was an evil growth in the teeming life of
the Ralg forest.  Living creatures shunned the dark corners of the Ralg
capital, and even the souls of the dead could not escape the depths of
the dungeon's pits.  The foulest things created in the chaos of Heshoth
resided here.
     Ilnictor sighed.  There was no place like home.
     The Mire Wraith landed on a high, flat tower, dropping the Volnor
soldiers into the hands of leery Ralg warriors.  Ilnictor hopped down
from the high shoulders as if he were a young man before bowing to the
massive slayer. 
     "Name your favor, dark one," offered Ilnictor to the Wraith.
     The Wraith moved its jaws inches away from the sorcerer's head and
answered in a low, grinding hiss.
     "Done!" smiled Ilnictor.  "The village is at your... disposal."
     With a powerful jump, the Wraith launched itself into a hurried
flight.  Even this wild evil was anxious to leave the civilized evil
behind.
     "Take them and prepare them for the spectacle," Ilnictor ordered. 
"Have them in the arena within the hour, or I will have all of you there
as a special attraction."
     The Ralg knocked heads in their hurry to carry away the Volnor
fighters.  
     Belroh wondered what awaited them in the arena.  At the speed that
the Ralg were preparing them, it would seem the arena would be the last
place they wanted to go.  Rek motioned to Belroh after the Ralg took the
Volnor chain mail: not yet.  Sometimes Belroh wondered if the westerner
was becoming too cautious.  This may be their best chance, only
outnumbered twelve to one. 
     As the Ralg tore Rek's shirt from his back, Belroh and the
renegades gasped in unison.  Rek's skin told the tale of a lifetime of
battle.  Terrible scars laced his powerful arms and back, while his chest
sported two tatoos.  It was the tatoos that had shocked the Ralg and
Belroh the most.  The first one was the Champion's Dragon that was given
to the winner of the western bare-handed wrestling tournament.  The
Dragon sported two red eyes that pulsed with each beat of Rek's heart,
and its scales glistened in the dim fire light.  The red eyes meant Rek
had fought in the toughest division: the one requiring the contestants to
fight to the death.  The second brand was well known to the Ralg, and it
frightened them more.  The tatoo was a hand with three fingers.  It was
only given to the survivors of the Ralgorth arena.
     The Ralg commander motioned to his soldiers, and they drew their
weapons on the Volnor commander.  Apparently, Rek had gained some respect
from the lawless renegades.
     The Ralg led the two bare-chested fighters to the arena, being
careful not to get too close to the mysterious westerner.  The soldiers
opened a rusted iron door and pushed the fighters into the arena.
     The arena was a round, stone-walled pit that was fifty feet wide
and twelve feet deep.  The granite walls were chipped and stained from
violent battles; the blood of many hapless victims had stained the sandy
basin.  The spectators for the games sat on stone benches, rising above
the fighting pit on all sides.
     The arena was filled with hundreds of Ralg tribal leaders.  These
Ralg had come from the far reaches of the realm for this event, and
Ilnictor had been the one in charge of bringing the main attraction: Rek.
     Rek was watching a Ralg who sat on a black marble throne.  The Ralg
was obviously important, but he seemed too fat and sluggish to be much of
a threat.  Ilnictor stood at the heavy Ralg's right hand, and both of
them were surrounded by strong-armed guards.
     "Belroh," said Rek in a low voice, "you are now one of the few
northern men to see Gralok the Great himself.  Don't underestimate that
ball of lard, for he has forged all of these Ralg leaders into an
alliance.  He is nearly as powerful as he was at the time of the Mire
Battles.  He needs a demonstration to prove the Ralg armies can defeat
the Volnor forces.  I'm sure that's why we are here.  Let me do the
talking."
     "Rek!" Ilnictor hissed.  "You have been summoned to Gralok's arena
to represent the Volnor nation in a contest against the Ralg champion. 
We advise you to say your prayers to your false God."
     "Does Gralok still have a tongue, or must I speak with his Court
jester?" Rek growled.
     Ilnictor let out an incoherent yell, and the other spectators came
to their feet, yelling for Rek's immediate execution.  Of all the Ralg
present, only Gralok remained calm.
     "Welcome again Rek," Gralok began in a commanding voice.  The other
Ralg grew quiet, listening to their leader. 
     "You had made quite an impression on this gallery in your last time
in the arena.  However, it is time to prove your western inferiority to
our new Ralg champion. "
     "I seem to remember making quite an impression on your last Ralg
champion!" Rek laughed.  "Tell me, have all his bones mended yet?"
     This was too much for even the cold, calculating Gralok.
     "Bring forth Rendor!" sputtered the Ralg.
     Belroh was taken to a small holding pen to watch the battle of the
champions, and an iron door on the far side of the arena swung open.  The
Ralg who stepped into the arena could have come from a nightmare of a
Volnor child.
     Rendor, the Ralg champion, seemed to be cut from the same material
as the evil fortress.  Rotten teeth jutted from a rock-like underslung
jaw, and his ears were mere stubs of flesh.  Rendor's untamed shock of
hair dangled down to wiry eyebrows, his black eyes absorbing all light. 
His posture was stooped due to massive neck muscles, and his long arms
nearly hung to the ground.  The monster's powerful forearms swelled and
relaxed as he flexed a pair of hairy, thick hands.  Belroh thought the
Ralg champion had more hair on his body than many species of wild animal.
     As hideous as the Ralg was, Rek was just as impressive looking. 
Belroh knew Rek was tall, but he had never realized the westerner had a
physique that would be the envy of any man.  Rek's arms were muscular and
well toned from years of swinging his great sword; his shoulders were
wide and solid.  His barrel chest swelled with slow, rhythmic breaths,
and his waist was sleek and heavily guarded by rock-hard muscle.  Rek's
legs were pillars that seemed powerful enough to support the weight of a
castle.  Belroh knew the westerner was as agile as well, for Rek was able
to dodge an enemy's blade stroke as if the attacker were standing still.
     The two wrestlers faced each other in the center of the arena, one
forged from the iron of the west, one sculpted from the black granite of
Ralgorth.  They represented an elemental conflict: bravery against
terror, good against evil or God against Demon.
     "Be wary, westerner!" slavered the bestial Ralg.  "I am the
survivor of a hundred death matches.  No one in this kingdom could best
me.  Now I will claim your western championship as well!"
     Rek scowled at his opponent but did not answer.
     "I am the best wrestler ever," Rendor continued.  "I was chosen to
be trained for this championship at my birth."
     "Birth?" Rek noted.  "I thought they hatched you."
     As Rendor's face twisted in anger, he charged at the westerner with
two outstretched hands.
     Rek stood with his arms folded across his chest, making no effort
to move.
      Belroh thought Rek was finished.  The Ralg's greater weight and
the power of his charge would pin Rek.  With that advantage...
     Before Rendor's tearing hands grabbed Rek, the westerner moved with
the speed of a starving predator.  Rendor landed face down in the sand.
     Belroh wasn't sure what Rek had done, but the result was obvious
enough.  Rendor was furious.
     The Ralg in the stands began chanting "RENDOR, RENDOR", and even
Gralok got to his feet.
     Rendor faced Rek again.
     "Tricks will not help you, swamp scum.  I will wear you down
eventually..."
     "Hurry up," Rek taunted.  "I haven't got all day."
     Again Rendor charged... with the same result.
     The Ralg spectators were in a frenzy, howling for the western
champion's blood.
     Rendor didn't bother to spit the sand out of his mouth before
yelling at Rek.
     "I am the greatest fighter of the ages!  I have been trained to use
each part of my body as a lethal weapon."
     Rendor charged again, but he changed his tactics.  His powerful
hands were spread wide to catch Rek in case he tried to spin away a third
time.
     Rek also changed his method.  With a furious yell, the westerner
balled his right hand into an iron fist, firing a hammer-like punch at
the wild Ralg.  Rek's attack met Rendor's jaw with the might of a
thunderbolt, and the sound of breaking granite could be heard above the
crowd's din.
     Rendor fell in his tracks.  The arena was silent.
     "You spoke the truth Rendor," Rek agreed.  "Every part of your body
is a lethal weapon!  Your jaw dealt my fist a shrewd blow."
     The Ralg guarding Belroh ran to Rendor's side and after a moment,
turned to the Ralg leader.
     "Tell Rendor to get up!" yelled Gralok.  "This fight is to the
death!"
     "Your greatness," the nervous guard reported, "Rendor's neck is
broken."
     Following the custom in the arena, the guard was feathered with
arrows for announcing the bad news.  He fell in a heap next to the
dethroned Ralg champion.
     Rek turned to Gralok with a smile that no sane Ralg could stand.
     "I demand my right as champion of the arena to be freed from
Ralgorth.  I also claim this right for my comrade."
     Belroh thought Gralok would explode.
     "Never!" Gralok yelled.  "You will rot in the belly of a demon for
your deeds.  Release the Wozloth."
     Again, cheers went up from the spectators, for the Wozloth did not
lose.  While Belroh was pushed into the pit with Rek, the Ralg leaders
began to wager if the Wozloth would eat one or both of the Volnor men. 
The odds favored both.
     A tall iron door on the far wall began to open, and Rek sprang into
action.  He ran to the twelve foot stone wall and with a soaring leap,
hooked his hands over the top.  In an instant, the westerner pulled
himself over and began ruining the Ralg celebration.  Belroh would have
marveled at this feat, but his eyes were fixed on the creature that had
crawled through the open passage.
     The Wozloth looked like a sea eel, but it had some subtle
differences: it was thirty feet long and had the ability to hunt on the
land.  Its green scaled body was supported by hundreds of short legs, and
its large head thrashed about in an effort to find food.  Even though the
Wozloth had large, black eyes, it must have been blind.  Snapping its
slavering jaws, it swept past Belroh, just missing the frozen Volnor man.
     Belroh backed to the wall that Rek had climbed.
     "Rek," Belroh called out.  "Give me a hand, will you?"
     Unfortunately for Belroh, the creature was not deaf.  The Wozloth
charged at the sound, its gaping maw open to receive the morsel.
     "REK!" yelled Belroh as he held his hand upward.  He was not ready
to become a morsel.
     Just before the jaws slammed shut on Belroh, a powerful hand met
his, dragging him over the wall.  The Wozloth crashed into the granite
wall, buckling some of the heavy stones.
     Belroh thought his arm had been torn from his body by the powerful
westerner, but anything was better than becoming a demon's appetizer. 
Before Belroh landed on his feet, Rek had given him a Ralg sword.  He
surveyed the situation.  Several Ralg bodies were piled at Rek's feet,
and dozens of remaining Ralg had formed a wary circle around the Volnor
pair.  Ilnictor stepped through the ranks of the Ralg leaders.
     The adept mumbled a spell, but the western champion recognized the
chant.  He was standing ready when the sorcerer's hand flew from his
wrist.  Rek caught the darting claw and with a muscle straining effort,
hurled the hand down to the waiting demon.
     "Nooooo," Ilnictor screamed as the Wozloth ate its tasty, if small,
treat.
     "You will pay for that, westerner!"
     "That poor demon is going to be sick for weeks after eating that
rotten fare," Rek observed.  "I'll put it out of its misery."
     With Belroh watching the Ralg, Rek put his back to one of the
loosened granite slabs.  His thighs swelled with the effort and for a
moment the granite resisted the fighter.  With one last, super-human
thrust, the block toppled onto the waiting monster.  The Wozloth's head
was crushed under the slab, its long body writhing and coiling in frantic
strokes.
     "Heathens!" Ilnictor accused, "Heshoth will summon the darkest
demons of his realm to vent his wrath on you!"
     Ilnictor threw a glass ball at the fighters with his remaining
hand.  Belroh stepped forward to smash it in mid air.
     "Wait!" warned Rek, but it was too late.  Belroh's sword shattered
the ancient glass, setting loose a red mist.  The two Volnor men and
thirty nearby Ralg fell into a deep sleep.  Only Ilnictor was not
affected by the mysterious fog.
     "What is your command, my King?" Ilnictor asked of Gralok.
     "Put them in the dungeons until their bones fall from the shackles
or they are eaten.  Whichever happens last."
     "As you wish," smirked the sorcerer. 
     Belroh awoke slowly from his drugged sleep.  He could feel his arms
were twisted above his head, and his wrists ached from the rough edges of
iron shackles.  Belroh forced himself to stand, relieving some of the
pressure on his swollen wrists.  But as he stood, Belroh noticed
something was very wrong.  His eyes were open, but he could not see
anything.  Suddenly, he heard a low shuffle a few feet away and turned to
look for the source.  A pair of red, pulsing eyes stared at him from the
depths of the dark.  Belroh's heart raced, and he tried to think of any
way to defend himself from this silent carnivore.
     "Welcome to the world of the un-dead," said a voice coming from
above the red eyes.  "You should not have hit the glass ball that
Ilnictor threw.  You must catch them gently and hurl them far away before
they explode."
      Belroh relaxed.  The red eyes had been the westerner's tatoo, not
some stalking monster.
     "Where are we, commander?" Belroh asked.  "This is not the
accommodations I expected for the wrestling champion of the civilized
lands."
     Rek laughed in a low, hearty rumble.
     "I expected better myself, but at least I earned a second tatoo for
surviving the arena.  This is the dungeon of Ralgorth, heralded by the
histories to be the home of Heshoth's demons.  It is not that frightful,
but there are some hungry animals down here."
     "You've been here before?" Belroh gasped.  "And you survived?"
     "Yes, but I was lucky to get out in one piece."
     "Is there any hope for us then?" Belroh asked.  "Should we have
tried to make a break for it in the arena."
     "No, this may be our best hope.  Anyway, we couldn't have left the
arena just then.  I was having too much fun."
     If that was fun, Belroh didn't want to see the westerner when he
was angry.
     "So, what's our next move?"
     "We just need to get a key to these shackles... or wait for the
metal to rust through."
     "Wonderful..." Belroh mumbled.
     From the darkness in front of the fighters came the sound of heavy
feet.  After a seemingly endless wait, the shuffling stopped near Rek and
Belroh.  A pair of glowing, yellow eyes blinked at the two Volnor
fighters.  The creature appeared to be deciding which one was the juicier
treat.  The creature edged closer to Belroh.
      Belroh could feel the beast's hot breath on his face and he
prepared himself for the bite of sharp fangs or the slashes of curved
talons.
     All of the sudden, Rek began to laugh.  Not the laugh of a mad man
or that of a hysterical captive held at bay by a predator, but a laugh of
amusement.
     "Do not eat that young one, Yixrue, he would give you a terrible
ache in your gizzard," the westerner howled.
     The yellow eyes swung to Rek and began to shake.
     "Rek?  You western swine!" the creature exclaimed.  The creature's
voice was a hideous bark and each word that it spoke was punctuated by
the snapping of large jaws.  Belroh could tell the animal was furious.
     "By the Crystal Spirits of the north, Yixrue, it is good to hear
you again.  Our first venture in these dungeons was great fun.  Now we
will have the chance to give the Ralg another headache."
     The yellow eyes were trembling uncontrollably. 
     "You know my concerns, westerner.  Long ago we fought side by side
against the Ralg, and you saved my life.  I was not able to repay the
favor before you escaped.  The debt has haunted me ever since.  Yixrue
does not want to owe anything to a human.  I could have died since you
left, and I would have had to explain my debt to my Gods.  You will let
me help you now, or I will break every bone in your body."
     "We accept your generous offer, Yixrue," Rek chuckled.  "Belroh, I
told you getting thrown in the dungeon was the best plan."
     Belroh could barely stammer an answer.
     Yixrue snapped the fighter's chains with ease. 
     "There, friend Rek, I have saved your life," Yixrue declared. 
"That repays you for the time you saved me in the Demon's Corridor.  We
are even."
     "Not so fast," Rek warned.  "What about the time in the Fang
Passage?"
     "All right, all right," the creature complained.  "What else do you
want?"
     "We need some light, of course," Belroh suggested.
     The yellow orbs swung back to Belroh.
     "Of course," Yixrue sneered as he shuffled away from the Volnor
men.
     "Rek?" Belroh called.  "What type of creature is that?"
     "I don't know.  What do I look like, the Royal Zoo keeper?" Rek
grumbled.  "He is hard to describe, so you can judge for yourself."
     After a few moments, the fighters heard the shuffling sounds again. 
Yixrue ambled into the room, and the lamp he carried gave Belroh a chance
to see his savior.
      Yixrue was a hulking four-legged creature who was ten feet long
and seven feet high.  Each leg was unusually short for a creature of
Yixrue's size; his feet were cloven hooves that appeared to be as sharp
as spears.  His round body was covered with thick, black fur, and his
upper torso sported four heavily muscled arms.  Yixrue's hands were much
like bear paws, but each of the claws could pass for a short sword. 
Yixrue's head was his most frightening feature.  Belroh thought the
yellow, glowing eyes seemed smaller now, but Yixrue's fanged mouth could
never seem small.  Teeth jutted from every angle of the alligator-like
jaws, and the creature's lips curled back to reveal blood-red gums. 
Yixrue's breathing was slow and labored, a deep breath coming in through
a set of slanted nostrils and hissing out through his mouth.
     Yixrue shuffled up to Belroh, thrusting the lantern into Belroh's
empty hands.
     "Light... of course," Yixrue snarled.  "The Ralg who owned it will
not be needing light any more."
     "Thanks, Yixrue," Rek smiled.  "Could you help us out of this maze
that the Ralg call a dungeon?  I have forgotten most of the secrets of
Ralgorth in the many years that have passed."
     "Why not?" snapped the wide jaws. "Maybe you will get yourself into
some trouble.  Have your lackey with the lamp lead the way."
     "Lackey?!" Belroh thought.  If Yixrue hadn't outweighed him by
several tons, Belroh would have boxed the creature's ears in. 
     Yixrue directed Belroh and Rek through the damp, musty passages of
the Ralgorth dungeons.  After an hour, Belroh felt they were hopelessly
lost.  Rek had not forgotten as much as he let on, because he was
constantly turning sharp corners before Yixrue told him to.
     Belroh rounded one corner, seeing a small battalion of Ralg
marching in his direction.
     "Ralg," Belroh whispered to his companions.  Perhaps they could
beat the twenty Ralg if they surprised the renegades.
     "RAAALLLGGGG," Yixrue howled, as he charged past the Volnor
fighters.
     "So much for surprise," Belroh grumbled.
     Rek did not seem worried.
     "This is the fun way to fight Ralg... watch," Rek grinned.
     As Yixrue galloped at the stunned Ralg, they gave out incoherent
yells and drew their weapons.  The monster slammed into the group of
Ralg, thrashing all of his limbs in short strokes, sending defenders in
eight directions.  A broad sword flew from the fray and landed near Rek. 
Rek scooped it up and started to join the fight.
     "Oh, no you don't," Yixrue yelled while smashing two Ralg together. 
"Stay right there.  I don't want to take a chance that you will save my
life again."
     Rek shrugged and leaned against a nearby wall with his back to the
battle.
     "You were a lot more fun when you were younger," the westerner
called over his shoulder.
     "You saved his life?" Belroh asked Rek, as he watched Yixrue
trample a few more Ralg.
     "The last time I was here, he was just a baby," Rek explained.  "He
could only handle ten Ralg at once."
     Rek still stood with his back to the frantic battle, and as he
spoke, a Ralg broke through, swinging his sword in a high arc.  Belroh
prepared to jump in front of Rek to take the sword stroke, but at the
last moment a furry paw caught the Ralg, dragging him back into melee.
     "Yixrue always did have a good sense of humor," Rek chuckled.  "I
think he let the Ralg through just to see you jump."
     Belroh began to wonder if he was just dreaming these wild events. 
Perhaps Ilnictor's red mist was causing this impossible hallucination. 
     The Ralg had obviously had enough of Yixrue.  The survivors turned,
fleeing from the rampaging monster.  Yixrue celebrated by crunching a
Ralg helmet in his jaws.  Fortunately for the Ralg owner, his head was
not in the helmet at the time.
     Yixrue ambled back to the waiting Volnor fighters and hopped up and
down in excitement.
     "There, old friend," Yixrue panted.  "I have paid you back for the
Fang passage.  We are even, right?"
     "I seem to remember a fight near the Stone Spine..." Rek prompted.
     Yixrue stopped hopping and appeared to think a moment.
     "By the eight-limbed lords," Yixrue complained, "you have a memory
like a vengeful mate.  How much more do I owe you?"
     "You owe me nothing," Rek offered.  "Consider your debt paid in
full."
     "Don't patronize me, westerner," Yixrue snapped.  "My debts will be
paid from the Stone Spine, or I will die trying."
     "Very well," Rek smiled.  "But did you have to smash all of the
Ralg weapons?  Even the one I picked up has a broken blade."
     Rek tossed the useless weapon onto the pile of Ralg bodies.
     "You were more fun when you were younger," Yixrue countered.  "You
fought the Ralg with your bare hands and teeth on more than one
occasion."
     Rek's rumbling laugh sounded once more.
     "True, but age has taught me caution."
     "Ha," Yixrue snorted.  "If you are more cautious, how did you end
up down here again?"
     "Shouldn't we be moving on, commander?" Belroh interrupted.  "We
wouldn't want to be here if another Ralg patrol happened by."
     "That would be bad luck for the Ralg," Rek noted.  "Yixrue, could
you guide us to the unused entrance of the north tower?"
     "I was going to take you there anyway," the monster nodded.  "It
would appear to be your best chance."
     Yixrue led the Volnor men to an ancient iron door.  The portal
seemed to be more rust than metal, but the engravings were still visible. 
The most prominent design was that of a Mire Wraith as it sprung into
flight, and Belroh shuddered with the memory of being carried by the
black winged shadow.
     Yixrue's four, strong arms took care of the old metal barrier, and
the group found a stone stairway on the other side.  Belroh squinted to
see the top of the stairway, failing to see an end to the endless spiral. 
Rek started up the stair first, followed by Belroh and finally, Yixrue. 
Only Belroh's pride kept him from collapsing during the long climb into
the north tower of Ralgorth.  The young fighter lost count after the
first thousand steps, and his only thoughts were of reaching the pinnacle
without having to be carried by the plodding Yixrue.  Rek seemed
unaffected by the long climb, because he took two steps at a time.
     At long last, the stairs came to an end and a small, iron door
blocked the path to the inner tower.  Rek braced his feet against the
rock, wrenching the rusted hatch open.  As the door's hinges creaked,
Yixrue charged up the steps.
     A granite block from the high reaches fell toward the unwary
westerner.  A moment before it would have crushed him, Yixrue threw his
full weight behind a huge paw.  The slab glanced off the stairway just
below the Volnor commander and disappeared into the bowels of the tower. 
Yixrue began to hop up and down again.
     "Now we are even," Yixrue yapped.  "After all these years, I have
finally settled the score!"
     "My thanks, Yixrue" Rek grinned.  "The score is settled.  This
second meeting has certainly been profitable for both of us."
     Yixrue stopped hopping again.
     "Oh no," the monster barked.  "What about the time at the Soot
Caves?  You saved me there too.  EEEAAARRR!"
     Rek took this information into account, stepped off the edge of the
stairway, and plunged into the abyss.  Belroh gasped as the westerner
disappeared into the depths, but Yixrue had already reacted.  One paw
dipped below the stairway's border, catching the Volnor commander.  Rek
laughed into Yixrue's scowling face as the creature pulled him back to
safety, but before long, Yixrue began to let out a throaty cough.  Belroh
guessed this was laughter, for the creature was hugging Rek with three of
his arms while slapping him on the back with the fourth.  Belroh was sure
the westerner would have broken ribs from the affair, but he seemed fine
as the monster set him back onto the stone stair.
     "You haven't changed," Yixrue said as he wiped tears of laughter
from his eyes.  "Only Rek could get away with a stunt like that.  Can we
just say we are even?"
     "My thoughts exactly," Rek answered.  "Even."
     "I will name the biggest pup of my mate's next litter after you,"
Yixrue announced.  "If he is ugly enough to do you justice."
     "You honor me," Rek bowed.
     Belroh was sure the red mist had damaged Rek's brain.
     "One last thing," Yixrue called before the Volnor fighters
disappeared into the port.  "Catch."
     Rek caught two heavy, Ralg coins.
     "I have no use for Ralg money and neither do the Ralg that I meet,"
Yixrue explained.  "May the eight-limbed Gods look after you."
     "I thought you were one of them," Rek waved before following Belroh
through the small hatch.
     The Volnor entered a small, dust-filled room that led to a stone
passage.  The chamber beyond glowed with a dim light.
     "This is our way out," Rek whispered.  "We have reached the top of
the north tower and will soon be back in the Royal Shield barracks."
     "How do we get out of here if we are at the top of a tower?" Belroh
argued.
     "There is more than one way to fool these Ralg," Rek replied. 
"They can't guard every section of Ralgorth, so they leave some sections
unattended.  Be patient.  We will have the last laugh."
     Rek stalked down the short corridor toward the flickering light. 
The fighter leaned against the wall, stealing a quick glance into the
room before speaking to Belroh.
     "There are only two guards in the next room," Rek smiled, while he
hefted the two coins that Yixrue had given him.
     Belroh looked at the coins and thought for a moment.
     "I know your plan commander.  You are going to toss those coins
into the room.  When the Ralg fight for them, we attack."
     "Something like that," Rek nodded.
     The westerner stepped into the room, right in front of the two
heavily armed Ralg.  It took the guards a moment to realize the figure
that stood before them was the enemy.  With a battle cry, they drew
broadswords and charged at the motionless Volnor man.
     Belroh thought things had taken a turn for the worse.  The
commander had forgotten to drop the coins into the room before stepping
out, and now, Rek was about to be run through by the two yelling Ralg. 
     With lightning arm swings, Rek hurled the coins at the renegades. 
The heavy iron projectiles struck the Ralg just below their helmets, and
they fell to the ground. 
     Belroh could hardly believe the westerner's luck.  Rek acted as if
he had done this every day.
     "Grab a sword and follow me, Belroh."
     Rek strode to a ladder that led to a trap door in the roof and
climbed up.
     "Be ready," Rek ordered.  "Things could get rough."
     "Things are just getting rough now?" Belroh thought as he followed
the westerner.
     Throwing the wooden door open, Rek climbed to the top level of the
north tower of Ralgorth.  Belroh followed his commander, but he had to
stand at the top of the ladder for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the
bright sunlight.  The young fighter felt a hand grab his arm, and he was
yanked the last two feet to the top of the tower.  As soon as he had
cleared the door, Belroh heard the sound of large jaws slamming together. 
He spun and saw the hungry owner: a Mire Wraith!
     Suddenly, Rek appeared next to the black-winged terror and jumped
onto its back.
     "That's all you have to do," Rek called from his perch, "These are
trained Wraiths that are used to carry messages from Ralgorth.  There's
your mount."
     Belroh turned to see another hungry Wraith stalking up from behind
him.
     "If its all the same to you, commander," Belroh hurried, "I would
not mind riding with you."
     "Well..." Rek frowned.  "Suit yourself."
     After Belroh climbed to the Wraith's back, he looked in wonder at
the Ralg capital.  The north tower was one of eight towers that stood at
regular intervals along the granite walls of Ralgorth.  Even though each
of the towers were over two hundred feet high, they did not compare to
the inner pinnacle of the fortress.  This central tower soared above the
Volnor men, and its evil spires seemed to tear at the clear blue skies. 
     "We had best be going," Rek warned.  "The eyes in the central tower
are sharp.  I want to get out of here before someone figures we aren't
Ralg.  Hang on."
     With a powerful tug on the Mire Wraith's reins, Rek forced his
reluctant mount into its long flight to the north.

     Tialoy sat in the darkness of her bedroom.  Since she had returned
from the Ralg forest, she had mourned the death of her future husband. 
Tialoy could not bear the thought that she had cost the lives of the
Volnor commander and her beloved; she was resigned to spending the rest
of her life alone.  No one in her family had been able to lure her from
her isolation.  She wondered if she would ever want to venture from this
room again.
     Tialoy was startled by loud voices.
     "To arms.  To arms.  The Ralg are attacking," Atorel, the group
commander, yelled.
     Tialoy grabbed a short knife she had kept near her since the
kidnapping and charged for the door.  After today, she would spend the
rest of her life in isolation.  Tialoy wanted revenge on the Ralg first.
     While she ran to the south gate of her village, Tialoy saw a line
of Volnor archers preparing to fire.  She looked up, seeing a frightening
sight.  A Mire Wraith soared high above the city and appeared to be
looking for a place to land.
     "Hold your fire, men," Atorel directed.  "Wait for my signal..."
     The Wraith glided over the house tops, coming menacingly close to
the waiting archers.
     As the bowmen prepared to loose their arrows, the first rider on
the Wraith yelled down to the Volnor troops.
     "Firing arrows at your commander," Rek roared.  "I think it is time
you men were taught some military discipline!"
     "Rek!  Rek!" the troops cheered, as they recognized their old
commander.
     Tialoy barely noticed the brash Volnor commander, because her eyes
were fixed on the younger passenger.  She dropped her knife and ran to
the spot where the Wraith would land.
     Rek realized his priorities.  He landed the Wraith, letting Belroh
down from the high back.  Belroh ran to Tialoy and they embraced,
enjoying the rewards of the successful adventure.
     Rek grinned and let out a hearty laugh.  For the first time since
he had met Belroh, it looked like the young fighter would not be needing
his help.
     The troops yelled a hundred questions at Rek, even though they kept
their distance from the hungry Wraith.
     "I will tell the whole tale later tonight," Rek bellowed.  "We must
have a celebration.  And all the ale this night is on me."
     Another, more enthusiastic cheer went up.
     Rek noticed the only man not cheering was Atorel.  Rek realized
Atorel wore the group commander's helm, and since Rek had returned,
Atorel would have to give up his promotion.
     "Atorel," Rek roared.  "Your positioning of the archers to fight
the Mire Wraith was perfect.  As of today, you will be promoted to rank
of battery leader of the archers... with a corresponding raise in pay."
     The troops let out a third cheer and began to congratulate Atorel. 
Field promotions from Rek were nearly as rare as the Mire Wraith he rode.
     "Commander," one of the soldiers yelled, "all of the maidens in the
town have been mourning your death.  How will you be able to handle so
many beauties at once?"
     "It will be a difficult task," Rek agreed as the troops laughed. 
"But one that I will have to face.  It will be easier to celebrate with
them.  They are easier on the eye than you ugly dogs."
     His men held their weapons aloft as they chanted his name.
     "Meet me at the Inn," Rek said.  "I have an errand to run first."
     Rek pulled at the reigns and the Mire Wraith took to the air.

     The stable master ran to answer his front door.  Some fool was
pounding on it with all of his might, and it seemed the very foundation
of the house shook.  The stable master pulled the door open and came face
to face with a ghost.
     "Commander Rek," he stammered.  "I thought you were dead."
     "No such luck, eh stable master?" Rek growled.  "I am here to have
a mount stabled."
     "I thought you said you would never let me care for another
military mount?" the horse keeper sneered.  "What made you change your
mind?"
     "Well, even though your poor care nearly killed my favorite war
horse, I have decided to give you a chance to redeem yourself."
     "Excellent.  But you must pay in advance," the stable master
warned.
     "Of course," Rek grinned as he tossed a gold coin to the keeper. 
"You will find the mount tied up in the back.  Be careful, though, this
one bites."
     "Don't tell me my job, westerner.  I can handle your lazy steed."
     "No doubt," Rek laughed as he strode off to enjoy the night-long
party.


                              Venzorball
     Coach Snothlerk scanned the cheering crowd at King Solnor coliseum. 
He was proud to have been chosen to lead the Royal Shield Venzorball team
against the hated Royal Fist club.  For the past sixteen years, the Royal
Fist had defeated the Shield in the annual event, and it was about time
that the Shield would use an experienced and talented coach.  Coach
Froz's winning streak was about to come to an end.
     Venzorball was the toughest sport in the world, and only the
toughest men were able to play it.  The game had only one object: carry
the Venzorball over the enemy goal line more times than your opponent. 
The difficult part of the game was getting the ball past the ten men on
the opposing side.  The two teams would line up on the field, and the
offensive unit would pick up the ball and attempt to run through the
defensive position.  Nine men would try to block the defensive players,
while the ball-carrier charged ahead.  If the offense could get the ball
over the hundred foot distance of the field within ten plays, they scored
a goal.  If they failed, the other team got the ball.  Each team got
posession of the Venzorball three times in one half and could score a
maximum of six goals over the course of the game.  To make the game more
exciting, both teams were suited in full battle armor, so that a huge,
crashing sound would punctuate each play.  Another reason that Venzorball
was a tough sport was the ball itself: it was a 50 pound piece of
granite.
     The thirty thousand fans in the coliseum stood and bowed as King
Solnor and the Queen arrived.  Soon after the Royal couple were seated,
the referees started the game.  Snothlerk gave his defensive unit
instructions and watched the enigmatic Fist coach sent out his offense. 
Snothlerk scowled at Froz, and the impassive Fist leader returned a nod
to this year's victim.
     Snothlerk returned his attention to the field and saw that the Fist
was already deep into Shield territory.  The precise plays and execution
of the Fist offense moved the Venzorball down the field swiftly, and they
scored a goal in just five plays.  Froz's defense was just as well
prepared, as the Shield ball carriers could only gain 30 feet in ten
plays.
     Again, the Fist offense scored with ease, and the Fist fans went
wild as the ball carrier spiked the Venzorball on the ground.  Snothlerk
began to yell new instructions to his offense, but the Shield was stopped
again by the rock-solid Fist.  For the third time, Froz's strategy
marched the Fist to another goal, while Snothlerk's players were unable
to move against the baffling defense.
     The referees signaled that it was halftime, and the to teams ran
off the field.  The Shield fans booed the players, and Snothlerk ran up
to Froz as the enemy coach strolled to the dressing room.
     "You cheat," Snothlerk accused.  "What kind of defense do you call
that?"
     Froz looked at the Shield coach as if he were an annoying insect,
and he remembered Colonel Snothlerk's infamously bad battle tactics.
     "It was a 6-1-1-2 variable pincer defense with a floating tackler
and a blitzing lineman," Froz answered indiferently.  "If you have five
years, I could explain it to you."
     As Snothlerk reddened and waddled after his players, Froz saw that
his own men had begun to celebrate.  A 3-0 lead at halftime clinched a
tie, and all the Fist needed was a goal to put the game out of reach. 
Obviously, his men thought the win was assured, but Froz saw a nightmare
jump from the crowd and run into the Shield dressing room.  Froz frowned
as he remembered the talents of the old associate.  If that man was going
to play, the Fist's tactics would have to change.  Froz frowned again and
followed his care-free men into the dressing room. 
     The tired Shield players sat on the benches of the dressing room as
their fuming coach paced up and down the aisles.
     "That was the worst exhibition of Venzorball that I have ever
seen!" Snothlerk yelled.  "Children from rich neighborhoods and their
dogs could play better than you."
     "It is not the player's faults," came a rumbling voice from the
back of the room.  "The coaching was terrible."
     Snothlerk spun to see that a stranger had followed the team into
the dark dressing room, and he grew more furious.
     "Get out of here," Snothlerk whined at the shadowy figure.  "This
meeting is for players only."
     "That is why I am here," the stranger's powerful voice boomed.  "I
wish to join the team."
     "What makes you think that you will make any difference?" Snothlerk
argued.
     "If you let me play," he growled, "we will win the game".
     "Fool," the coach laughed.  "The best we can do is a tie.  How is
it possible for us to win?"
     "I will find a way," the stranger promised.
     "Very well," Snothlerk laughed again.  "I will bet you a month's
pay that we do not win.  Agreed?"
     "Agreed," the man said as he stepped into the light of a nearby
lantern.  All of the players and the coach yelled his name in unison.
      "Rek," Snothlerk sneered.  "You were supposed to have duty on the
front lines this month.  How were you able to get to this game?"
     "I had a leave and decided to spend it in Venzor.  Now we can make
a game of it."
     Some of the players cheered his enthusiasm.  Perhaps it was
possible to claim victory!
     "Do you even know how to play this game?" Snothlerk goaded.
     "We play Venzorball in the West as well," the foreigner replied. 
"We have the same rules, but the end result is... different."
     "Players to the field," one of the referees called into the
dressing room.
     "Now," Rek yelled to his team.  "We show them how to play
Venzorball!"
     The players cheered and raced onto the field behind the Western
giant. 
     The Royal Fist blocker noticed that there was a new Shield player
across from him.  He was big, probably the biggest player on the field,
but he was a Westerner.  The age-old prejudices against the West took
over, and he began to insult his opponent.
     "Western dog!  You want to play the man's game of Venzorball?  We
will make sure you never forget today's lessons.  You can take all of
your broken bones back to your foreign land as souvenirs."
     The large man said nothing, and the Fist player laughed.  The laugh
died in his throat as the play started, and the Westerner charged
foreward.
     The crowd gasped as the Fist lineman flew through the air and
collided with the ball carrier.  The carrier was knocked back five feet
before the raging Westerner made the crushing tackle.
     After a moment of stunned silence, the Royal Shield fans roared
their approval.  The unconscious Fist blocker and ball carrier were taken
off the field, and the second play was set up.  The entire Royal Shield
line had gained the confidence of the Westerner, and they surged foreward
to stop the Fist runner time after time.  After the ten plays were
complete, the Fist had not gained a foot against the Shield defense.  The
Shield offense ran in to take over, but Rek did not go to the sidelines.
     "The coach wants you to come out," one player said.
     "No way," Rek growled.  "Go back and tell the coach he can come out
here and try to replace me."
     Snothlerk did not leave the sidelines.
     The first three plays, the Fist stopped the Shield with ease.  The
defense began to taunt the Shield, because if the offense failed to
score, the Fist would clench the win.
      "Crawl back to the Storm Pass so you can fight against the Ralg
armies.  You have a chance of beating them."
     Rek switched positions with another blocker, so that he would be
across from the loud Fist defender.  The play did not get the Shield any
closer to the goal, but one Fist defender had to be taken out of the game
to see if he could get the dents out of his armor.
     "All right," Rek told his teammates in the huddle.  "This is the
play that we are going to run.  I will lateral the ball to the ball
carrier, and we will run the ball up the middle."
     "We always run the ball up the middle," argued one of the linemen.
     "Not this way we haven't," Rek boasted.  "Now, I need a ball
carrier who isn't afraid to get a little dirt on his armor."
     Rek scanned the huddle and found an old friend from his younger
days.
     "Belroh!  It's a good thing the coach sent you into the game just
now."
     "Oh, no," Belroh muttered.  Being part of one of Rek's plans was
like fighting a dragon with a butter knife.  You were bound to get hurt.
     After the Shield lined up, Rek grabbed the Venzorball and lateraled
the 50 pound piece of granite to Belroh.  Belroh was knocked backwards a
step before he was able to run foreward, and he expected to be crushed by
Fist defenders at any moment.  To his surprise, he had gained ten feet
before any of the enemy players touched him.  Rek had blasted a hole in
their line three players wide, and Belroh got through without being
tackled.  Finally, two of the linemen caught up with the encumbered ball
carrier, and Belroh began to fall.  Just before he hit the ground, a
great, armored hand grabbed him by the back of his plate mail and dragged
him free of the defenders.
     Belroh looked up to see the huge Westerner hauling him down the
field to the Fist goal.  By the time Rek reached the goal line, he was
hauling Belroh and five Fist linemen.  After brushing the linemen off of
his teammate, Rek pulled the stunned ball carrier to his feet.
     "Goal," yelled the referee as the Shield fans erupted again.
     Belroh spiked the heavy ball onto the ground, and he was carried
off the field by the cheering Shield offense.
     Rek was growling at the Fist offense as he waited for the rest of
the Shield defensive unit.  Playing offense was fun, but defense was the
Westerner's favorite.
     The leery Fist offense gained no territory on their fist nine plays
as the foreign defender broke through the line each time.  Froz decided
that it was time to try the secret weapon: the dreaded Royal Fist Sweep!
     After the ball was lateraled, the Fist players formed a metal wedge
and sprinted for the sideline before turning up field.  Any Shield player
that got in the way was mowed down by the charging blockers, and it
appeared that the Fist was on its way to a fourth goal and victory.  Only
one man stood between the entire Fist team and the win: lineman Rek.
     The wedge raced at Rek, and he let out a thunderous yell as he ran
to meet them.  The forces collided, and the Westerner grabbed four of the
Fist players.  He took a few moments to throw out players until he found
the one with the ball and then made the resounding tackle.  The rest of
the Royal Shield defenders piled on.
     "Royal Shield's ball," the referee announced at the end of the
tenth play.
     Again, the defense left the field to the cheers of the crowd, and
the offense set up for their series of ten plays.  Each play, the
improving Shield blockers made room for the ball carriers, and they
marched down the field.  At last, the ninth play was completed, but the
Shield offense was still ten feet from the goal line.  The Shield players
turned to their new leader, Rek.
     "There is only one thing to do," Rek told his teammates.  "The
Western Fling."
     "What in the Ashen Hells is a Western Fling?" Belroh demanded.
     "You are going to find out, Belroh," Rek promised.
     After listening to the Westerner, Belroh decided that this play was
worse than the last one Rek made up.
     One of the linemen lateraled the Venzorball to Rek, and he caught
the heavy weight with one hand.  As the defenders rushed foreward, the
Westerner did not move, but appeared to be watching somthing far down
field.  Just before the defenders reached him, Rek drew back his mighty
arm and threw the Venzorball twenty feet toward the end zone.  As the ten
defenders tackled him, he was able to yell.
     "Belroh!  Catch!"
     Belroh saw the ball rise high into the clear sky and got under the
falling rock.  An instant before it hit him, he realized what he was
about to do and tried to get out of the way.  Too late!  The Venzorball
hit Belroh and sent him to the ground, but he was able to hold onto it
somehow.  The referee shrugged before he made the call.
     "GOAL!  The Royal Fist leads 3 to 2."
     The Shield fans went wild again, and the Fist players had no idea
of what had gone on.  Only the Fist coach had not been stunned by the
unusual play.  Froz sent his assistant coach onto the field to get an
explanation.
     "What are you talking about," screamed the short, jumping mad-man. 
"That play was illegal.  You can't give them a goal on an illegal play."
     The referee slowly got his rule book out of his pocket and began
looking through the complicated regulations.  After a few minutes, he
gave the book to one of the referees who had better eyesight.
     "It says that a player only needs to get the Venzorball into the
zone without dropping it," the second ref explained.  "This is the end
zone, and the ball was caught, so it's a goal."
     The Fist coach sputtered some incoherent phrases before the Fist
players were able to drag him back to the sidelines.
     Belroh was carried off the field again by the cheering offense and
was put on the bench to nurse his aching ribs.
     Snothlerk called a time-out, and the Royal Shield defense gathered
around the coach.
     "What do you think you are doing out there?" Snothlerk yelled at
Rek.  "We do not want to cheat in the biggest game of the year!"
     Before Rek could growl at Snothlerk, the rest of the defense did. 
Most of the players had been children the last time the Shield beat the
Fist, and now they had a chance to tie the invincible enemy.  There was
no way a first time coach would yell at the man who had led the
come-back.  As the defense ran out to meet the Fist, Snothlerk taunted
Rek.
     "The best you can do is a tie.  I will be waiting for your pay this
month."
     The nervous Fist offense lined up for their first play of the
series, and the ball carrier scanned the defense for the giant Westerner. 
As soon as the heavy Venzorball was lateralled to him, he sprinted to the
sideline that was furthest from Rek.  This did not make any difference to
the Shield defender as he burst through the blockers and charged at the
hapless Fist carrier.
     The Fist player saw the armored, wild man coming and had just
enough time to brace himself for a collision.  He was surprised when the
defender merely lifted him off the ground, rather than slamming him to
the hard turf.  The carrier wondered what was going on.
     Rek carried the Fist player, Venzorball and all, to the enemy goal.
     The rest of the Fist team stared at the strange play before giving
chase after the crazy man.  The Westerner crossed the goal with his 300
pound burden and dropped the Fist player to the ground.  The referee
nearest the action shrugged and made his call.
     "GOAL!  Tie game 3-3.  The Royal Shield has one more possession."
     The Shield crowd began to tear their half of the colisuem apart,
and Froz sent out his assistant coach again.  Within three seconds, the
short coach had run to the referee and begun yelling.
     "What did you say?  How could you call that?  Have you lost your
mind?  Why don't you referees wake up?  You're missing a great game!"
     The old ref retrieved his rule book again and studied the intricate
rules.  After a while, another referee was brought in to read the print. 
The entire time, two Fist players had to restrain their short coach
before he injured himself in his mindless rage.
     "The rule states," the younger official said, "that a goal is
scored when the ball carrier crosses the goal line.  The Fist player
crossed his own line, so it is a goal for the Shield."
     "Why do they get another possession?" the coach yelled as his eyes
rolled wildly.  "The defender had the ball, so the Fist should get
another possession, not the Shield."
     Again, the all-powerful book was consulted.  The referee soon found
the possession rule.
     "Possession is determined," he began, "by the player who holds the
Venzorball.  Since the defender was carying the player, not the ball, it
has to be the Fist player's possession."
     The incoherent coach broke free of his players and grabbed the rule
book.  After taking a huge bite out of the text, he hurled it to the
ground and began jumping up and down on the torn pages.
     "Mrugff erpzoff grrugrr," was all he could manage through the
mouthful of paper.
     The old referee signalled a penalty on the Fist assistant.
     "That's ten feet for an unintelligible insult," he said as he paced
off the distance.
     Before the coach could gain another penalty, the players pulled him
off of the field.  Two of the Fist linemen had to sit on him so that he
could not escape.
     The Shield offense took the Venzorball, and behind Rek's blocking,
brought the ball down the field.  The ninth play was complete, and the
Shield was only five feet from the winning goal.
     "Now," Rek told his teammates, "is the time for the Western
Catapult."
     Belroh decided that it was a good time to head for the sidelines. 
He returned to the game when he heard what Rek was planning to do to him
if he didn't play.
     The Fist players lined up and prepared to stop the Shield ball
carrier.  Their only hope to keep the unbeaten streak alive was to stop
this play, and every man was ready to attack.
     Rek lateraled the Venzorball to Belroh, and the nervous ball
carrier ran to the Fist goal.  As he was about to be stopped short of the
winning point, two powerful hands lifted him high above the ground and
threw him over the Fist defenders.  Just before he hit the ground for the
goal, he recognized one very loud voice.
     "Belroh!  Don't drop it!"
     Belroh wouldn't have dared.
     After more shrugging by the referees, the old official called the
play.
     "GOAL!  The Royal Shield wins 4-3!"
     The fans in the stands went berserk as the Westerner lifted the
aching ball carrier from the ground.
     "What are you waiting for?" Rek yelled above the cheering crowd. 
"Spike the ball, Belroh."
     "You can do it," Belroh offered.  "You've earned it."
     "Thanks," Rek grinned as he hefted the granite rock and threw it to
the turf with tremendous force.
     The team carried Belroh from the field, and the grounds crew for
the coliseum ran out to begin repairs.  It took ten of them to pry the
ball loose of the ground where Rek had planted it.
     As was the custom, the King himself was to choose the most valuable
player for the event.  The players lined up under the King's mid-field
seat, and the coliseum was quieted for Solnor to speak.
     "Today, we have witnessed one of the finest Venzorball games in
history," Solnor announced in a deep voice.  "I will have a difficult
decision in the choice of the most valuable player."
     Solnor looked at Rek and Belroh.  The foreigner was by far the best
player, but the prejudices of the Volnor people would not like the award
going to Rek.  After all, Belroh had scored 3 of the goals.
     The King deliberated for a moment and decided.  He took the
Venzorball and broke it in half with an iron war-hammer.  Solnor took the
two pieces and tossed them to Belroh and Rek.
     The crowd roared its approval, and the King called down to the
Westerner.
     "How would you like to be my bodygaurd?"
     Rek showed his blazing smile to the famed King and bowed low.  "It
would be an honor, Sire."
     The King left the coliseum to attend to more important matters than
Venzorball, and the Royal Shield team walked over to the Royal Fist
bench.  After Froz had his assistant coach taken away in restraints, he
had tried to console his players.  He had not had much luck, and Froz
decided to congratulate Rek instead.
     "You were amazing as usual," Froz shook his head as he returned
Rek's salute.  "Congratulations on your promotion."
     "Thank you, General," the Westerner answered.  "The Shield team
would like to shake hands with your players.  Is that all right?"
     "Certainly," Froz nodded.  "I must go.  There are problems with the
Ralg at Tenek's shoulders."
     The two men exchanged salutes again, and Froz left the coliseum at
a brisk walk.  Rek and the rest of the Shield players continued to the
Fist bench, and Rek was puzzled by the enemy's frowning faces.
     "Good game," Rek greeted the Fist captain as he shook hands.  "We
are going into Venzor to destroy a few taverns.  Why don't you and your
players come along?"
     "I don't think we feel like celebrating," the Fist captain
declined.  "Today is a day to travel home in shame."
     "By the crystal gods!" Rek exclaimed.  "It was just a game of
Venzorball."
     The Fist players still shook their heads, but Rek was not about to
give up.
     "What if I told you that an officer was going to buy the drinks?"
Rek grinned widely.
     "An officer?" the Fist captain asked as his players began to match
the Westerner's smile.  "I think we would like that."
     "Coach," Rek called to the long-faced Snothlerk, "if you buy drinks
for the players, I will forget the one month's salary you owe me."
     Snothlerk nodded so vigorously that some of the players thought
that his neck would break.  The men left the coliseum and began to visit
the nearby taverns and inns.  After an all-night celebration, the
innkeepers brought the bill to the stunned Shield Colonel.
     The drinks had cost Snothlerk three month's pay.