1

⁠—⁠—⁠— I ⁠—⁠—⁠—

The grey ape of Gabul towered like the spawn of a nightmare. Its giant body, except for its great bald head, was covered with grimy, matted fur. Its arms hung down to the floor; its eyes glared at the leopard-man before it. Tall though he was, Guin found himself looking up at the creature, which stood a full head taller.

Guin waited with his arms relaxed, looking no more concerned than a guest at a palace tea party, calmly observing the grey beast. The great ape had run from its cage and barreled toward him, a predator ready to snatch up its prey—but then it had stopped, peering at this man with a leopard’s head suspiciously. Why wasn’t he moving? Why didn’t he run like all the others? Guin’s seeming lack of fear was too much for the ape to comprehend, so it stood there, glaring at him with eyes full of fiery rage, and beat its arms against its chest and howled.

Guin did not move, but deep within his leopard mask, his eyes narrowed and brightened with a yellow light as his thoughts became more like those of the noble creature whose face he wore than like those of a man. He stood perfectly still, waiting, letting the heat and the stench of the ape’s breath wash over him.

Then, it came.

Without any warning, the ape reached out toward Guin with one of its long, hideously powerful arms. Had it grabbed him head-on, the fight would have been over then and there, but Guin was ready. At the exact moment the ape extended its hand, Guin ducked under its grasp, and moving as though he had done this a thousand times before, he rushed in to close the gap between himself and the great beast.

The ape’s breath was now filled with rage and a burning eagerness for the fight. Its arms swung through the empty air where Guin had stood only a moment before; then it drew them back in a convulsive clutch, attempting to hug the leopard-man to its chest and there wring the life out of him. But Guin ducked under the massive arms again and seized the creature by its throat and side. Dropping low, he hurled the beast forward, smashing its head against the stone floor with a wet thud.

A murmur rose from where the Black Count and the knights were sitting, but the blow didn’t seem to slow the ape. In a rage it rose and lunged again, arms reaching for the leopard head that bobbed and ducked maddeningly before it. But as the ape charged, Guin slid deftly to the side and behind it. Leaping onto its back, he wrapped his arms around the thick mat of fur above its shoulders, trying with all his strength to break its neck. The muscles that ran down his arms, like the roots of an ancient pine, rippled and bulged with the strain, but he only held on for a moment before the creature reached back, tore him loose, and tossed him to the floor.

Guin whirled in midair and landed on his feet, poised for action. Fighting something with several times the strength and weight of a strong man was no simple task, even for a warrior as powerful as Guin; already his sun-burnt shoulders heaved, and his muscular chest rose and fell with each gasping breath.

The ape, too, was wary. It had realized by now that this foe was different from the others—the frail humans the guards would throw to him now and again, playthings to be toyed with and then ripped apart. It pounded its chest and gave a guttural howl, then stared at this man that refused to give up like the others had. Its eyes filled with a violent, primitive hate.

“One!” rasped the count’s voice, as he turned over the stopped hourglass.

The ape lunged again, but this time, Guin kept his distance, ducking to one side at the last moment. He had to play for time to recover his strength, and he was not blind to the fact that his earlier efforts hadn’t slowed the beast at all. This awareness did not take the form of conscious thought, however; Guin did not distract himself with concern for his situation, or ponder why it was that he was fighting the giant ape. He was like a leopard now, a wild beast, trusting instincts alone, moving by instinct alone.

The grey ape hesitated, and for a moment there was a standoff between the two combatants, neither willing to make a move.

“What are you doing?” spat the count, swiping up a nearby water jug and throwing it out into the arena, where it smashed just in between the ape and the leopard.

The sound of the jug breaking was the trigger the two beasts were waiting for. The Gabul ape leapt forward. Guin dodged aside, the ape’s arm missing him by a hair’s width, and tumbled across the floor. When he regained his feet, the leopard-man held a jagged piece of the broken water jug in his hand. A gasp went up from the knights.

Guin crouched low, waiting for an opening, his hands almost resting on the stone floor. The next time his enemy lunged, Guin let its arms wrap around his head as he drove his makeshift weapon directly into the ape’s left eye.

The ape’s howl shook the dungeon walls, but it did not let go of Guin’s head. The warrior clutched at the ape’s fingers with his left hand, struggling against what seemed like the grip of a thousand men, while he gouged deeper with the shard in his right hand. He cut down into the ape’s cheek and still the howling beast did not relent.

Guin felt himself being lifted off the floor. He kicked the ape’s stomach as hard as he could, then kicked again, but still he could not escape from the iron grip that now threatened to crush his head like an overripe gourd.

The knights held their breath.

Now Guin began to growl, a wild snarling cry that lingered in the air. If his head were not protected by the tough leopard mask, it would surely have been crushed soon. The skin of his neck was red from the exertion as he flailed around, repeatedly striking the ape’s face with the weapon in his right hand.

When one of his blind thrusts sent the sharp stone shard into the ape’s forehead right above its other eye, the ape finally relaxed its grip. Guin delivered one last sharp kick to the beast’s abdomen before being tossed aside like a rag doll. The ape put a grimy hand to its face, and its cries of rage echoed through the dungeon.

The leopard warrior, battle-broken, lay on his side, motionless on the floor. Even the ape’s great strength had not managed to rip off that leopard head, but it did look slightly warped as he lay there, blood oozing from his broad shoulders and chest where the ape’s claws had raked him. He struggled, trying to stand, but after ineffectually kicking the air once, twice, three times, he gave an anguished growl and curled up into a ball, cradling his head in his hands.

The Black Count gasped, and leaned forward, the hourglass long since forgotten.

The great ape had lost one eye, and the vision in its other eye was blurred by the blood streaming from the cut directly above it. It stomped its feet and pounded its chest, its incredible rage still growing. It bellowed once, waving its arms around in search of the one who had caused it so much pain. Finding nothing but empty air, it bellowed again, and then again.

“Quickly, to your feet, leopard-man!” one of the knights shouted a warning to Guin, but the leopard-headed warrior did not rise. His badly punished head was swimming in a haze of pain; his eyes saw nothing but darkness before him. The stone shard slid from his hand, and he moaned.

The ape’s hand fell upon the broken fragment from the water jug, and it growled and put the shard in its mouth, crushing it to dust in its fangs. Its rage was a black thing, a hissing hot fury born from ancient darkness.

Then its searching hand brushed the fallen body of the warrior!

“Look out!” one of the knights shouted. Another knight stood and quickly drew his longsword.

“Leopard-man! On your right!” he shouted, and hurled the sword out into the hall where it clattered on the stone.

Guin opened his pain-clenched eyes as the weapon was thrown. He darted out his hand, and like the leopard-god Cirenos who, it is said, caught a bolt of lightning, he grabbed the hilt of the longsword with a firm grip before it had stopped sliding.

The ape howled, and pounced upon him—but the longsword in Guin’s right hand met the beast’s charge with such force that the creature was stopped in its tracks, its chest split with a great red gash. The ape’s howl of pain filled the ears of all in the chamber numb.

With all the ability of a leopard, Guin sprang to his feet. Slick with the hot blood that sprayed from the foul ape’s chest, he moved in closer, thrusting and slashing again and again with the longsword.

Still, the monstrous creature stood, a testament to its bestial vitality. Its blind rage still boiling, the ape of Gabul grabbed the leopard-man by his battle-scarred shoulders, trying to rip the very meat from his bones.

Guin thrust the sword in deeper. When the ape did not let go, he swung the blade up and lopped off the fingers of one of its hands.

The ape’s grip on him slowly relaxed, and he jumped back and away as the beast staggered and fell. The knights could see giant, purple claw marks welling up on his shoulders, like an evil brand from the hand of Doal himself, and their eyes widened with terror.

Like a cruel but cautious predator, Guin thrust his sword into the ape’s neck, finishing the thing off. Then he wavered and collapsed to the floor in exhaustion, still holding the longsword in his hand. His body was barely recognizable, spattered with gore and streaked with wicked claw wounds.

Just then, the hourglass ran out for the second time.

“Fool!” Guin faintly heard the Black Count Vanon shouting before everything slid away into exhausted darkness.

“Fool! Your interference has ruined my test! You—the knave who threw his sword to the leopard-man—step forward!”

“My lord, if I may,” said a captain, who had been on the verge of throwing a sword to Guin himself. “The leopard-man has well displayed his ability to fight, as you can see! Indeed, I am forced to admit that there are none in my squad that could fell a grey ape in two turns of the clock, longsword or no!”

“Fools! Foolsss!” The count was furious.

“Has he not proven his worth, my lord?”

“Nothing has been proven except your ignorance! I never intended to throw him a blade. What would be the point? Any Mongauli champion worth his armor could take down the capital of Torus itself single-handed, if he had but a longsword! I wanted to see him rip the grey ape apart with his bare hands!”

“But, but that’s—” The captain’s voice faltered. He blanched and stepped back. The count came limping over and pointed at the dejected culprit, who was pushed forward by the knights around him.

“Take off this fool’s armor. Take it off, now! I will punish him myself. And take away the leopard-man. Lock him in his cell again, and feed him. We will have to wait until the barbarian traders come with another beast before we can test his prowess more fully…but wait. I have a better idea,” the count said, clapping his hands together as though he was applauding his own devilish idea. He turned to the captain. “You, give this kind-hearted fool your sword, and lower him into the arena. If he can defeat the leopard-man, I’ll make him captain of the third squad in your place!”

The count chuckled. “Quickly, off with his armor, give him a sword, lower him down the stairs!”

The captain protested. “My lord Count! That leopard warrior took a grey ape of Gabul down in two turns! How can Orro of Torus hope to fight him and live?”

“Who said anything about him living, my dear captain?” replied the count in a voice as cold as the stones of the dungeon floor. “The leopard-man is wounded and weakened. Should our insubordinate knight succeed in even scratching the leopard-man, I will overlook his foolish act. Now, down the stairs!”

The Black Count pressed a button on the wall and the stone stair lowered down into the arena once again.

It was only a moment, but that was all Guin needed. The hunched, blood-spattered, seemingly unconscious warrior sprang to his feet. The knights’ cries of astonishment were still in their throats when, clutching his longsword drenched in the grey ape’s blood, Guin raced up the stair and leapt over the partition, charging straight for the accursed lord of the keep himself!

Before the Black Count could so much as lift a hand, the leopard warrior’s sword was at his throat. Guin grabbed the diseased noble’s cloak in his left hand and gave a shout of victory. The knights took a step back.

“Clear a path, if you value your keep-lord’s life!” howled Guin.

“It speaks!“said one of the knights in utter astonishment.

“Clear a path, now, or I slice open this rotting hunk of flesh right here.”

The knights feared their lord’s dark plague enough that they were uncomfortable even breathing the air around him; but they had sworn their swords to the glory and honor of Mongaul, of which even he was a symbol. “Knight of Gohra” was synonymous with bravery and loyalty. For a moment, they hesitated, looking at one another. Then as Guin pushed the count forward at sword-point, they hurriedly stepped back, uncertain of their duty and frightened both by Guin and by their own lord’s disease.

“Hands off your hilts!” barked Guin.“Orro of Torus, was it? I will not forget your kindness.” The leopard warrior looked around. “Give me the keys to the white tower, and take me back to the place where I was imprisoned.”

Guin stood at full height, his longsword held at the keep-lord’s throat, his golden head barely clearing the low stone ceiling. There was something commanding about the halfman, half-beast—a majestic aura mingled with savage pride. The Gohran knights sensed this, and followed his orders with only slight hesitation.

But Guin’s human shield, the count, invisible within his plates of iron, had other ideas about the situation. As he walked in front of Guin’s blade, he began to laugh in a grating voice like that of a ghoul, sending shivers up the backs of all around him.

“What’s so funny, pus-bag?” snarled Guin.

The count laughed louder.“I see now. He can wield a man’s sword, but he has the brain of a leopard! Too bad, that. If he were smarter, he wouldn’t have chosen me as his shield.”

Guin stopped. “You are the lord of Stafolos Keep, no?”

“That I am,” answered the count, sounding quite happy with himself. “I am the lord of Stafolos Keep, yet I am also the accursed Black Count of Mongaul—a fact which you seem to have forgotten. So take your sword, plunge it into my chest, please! Or would you cut my throat, instead? There is no plate there, just a thin iron mask that keeps the wind from touching my skin, and my disease from spreading. The moment that sword in your hand cut through my mask, the plague would spread to all of you here, and you would join me in living decay!”

Guin froze, then released his grip on the cloak, hurriedly stepping away.

The count laughed again. “Why wait for the sword to cut my mask? I could just take it off right now and feel the cool air of the dungeons on my accursed flesh…” Vanon raised his iron-gauntleted hand slowly toward his mask. A ripple of panic spread through the knights. Shouting and scrambling, they rushed in a mob toward the exit passage, each vying to be the first out of the room.

Their captain did not move to escape, but even he fumbled for his pendant of Janos, then raised his hands above his head and shouted, “Mercy, your Excellency, please!”

Slowly the count turned to face the leopard warrior. Guin stood as though stunned; the longsword fell from his hand, and he made no motion to resist when the keep-lord shouted, “Seize him, and lock him up back in the tower! Follow my orders without hesitation from now on, and you will be spared my… my fate. This I promise.”

There was a great clanging of armor as the knights rushed forward and drew their swords. Each placed the point of the blade toward his left breast, the hilt toward the count, in the Gohran manner of oath swearing. Then they struggled to be the first to seize the leopard-headed warrior. Two of them wrapped Guin’s powerful arms several times round with thick leather cords.

The leopard-man did not resist. He had looked within Vanon’s mask, and now his fiery yellow eyes were dim and unfocused in shock, as if he had seen something so horrible that his mind could not grasp the reality of it. Grim and bewildered, he allowed himself to be bound, his sword taken away.

“Excellent,” said the count, waving his hand toward the knights. “And I trust none of you will henceforth forget whom you serve. Now…I am tired. My diseased body yearns for my darkened chambers. Take this man to the white tower, wash him, bind his wounds, bring him food, and let him rest. I will test him again, and then, perhaps I will take him with me to the arena when I go to the capital to deliver those brats of Parros to his Excellency, the Archduke.” The Black Count paused, catching his breath. “Now, be gone. I leave the punishment of the insubordinate who marred my test in your capable hands, captain.”

Then the count’s voice changed, as though he could no longer hold back his rage, and he screamed for the prisoner and the knight to be taken from his sight at once. Hurriedly, the knights moved to follow his orders, and it occurred to Guin that it was fear, deep and piercing fear, rather than the glory of Gohra or the loyalty of the Mongauli, that kept order in Stafolos Keep.

Quietly the little troop returned along the dark corridors. The hour was late, and the knights’ footfalls sounded heavy on the floor, splashing in the shallow pools of water that collected in the cracks and hollows in the floor. The longswords at their sides clanged against their armor as they made their way up the passage, helmets drooping, looking down at their feet.

“Hey, watch out,” came a low voice from Guin’s left side.

Guin stood at least a head above the tallest man there, and he was about to strike a particularly low part of the ceiling with his head when the warning came. He shot a glance to his side, and saw there a knight with no sword in his scabbard. From beneath the black helmet a youthful face peered out with the characteristic blue eyes of a Mongauli. It was Orro of Torus, the one who had thrown his sword during the fight against the grey ape.

Seeing Guin nod thanks, the young knight spoke again, an almost reverent look on his face.

“Yer a great warrior.” His voice was low, so as not to be overheard by the captain at the head of the line. “I couldna just watch ye die out there, I’d ’ave no right ta wear me sword if I did,” he said, nodding in fervent agreement with himself. “I tell ye, I’m right glad I didna ’ave ta fight ye, either. Mighty glad, I was.”

The captain glanced back and Orro fell silent. Guin kept quiet, and the party finally finished its ascent of the last stone stair and emerged into the courtyard. An overwhelming sense of relief flooded into the leopard warrior with each deep breath of fresh nighttime air.

Still Guin said nothing. He walked forward mechanically, but his keen eyes were clouded—they hid the spark of a terrible notion that had just begun to take root in his mind. But no one knew what suspicions were racing through that round, golden pelted head but he; and so the party continued across the courtyard and into the white tower, and climbed up the stair once again, their footfalls echoing off the narrow walls.