The stands fell silent.

Then, to my astonishment, the men of Tharna who were yoked in the arena, kneeling, rejected by their city, condemned, chanted a strange paean. Andreas and I, not being of Tharna, were alone silent, and I would guess he was as surprised as I.

Though we are abject beasts

Fit only to live for your comfort

Fit only to die for your pleasure

Yet we glorify the Masks of Tharna.

Hail to the Masks of Tharna.

Mail to the Tatrix of our City.

The golden scarf fluttered to the sands of the arena and the Tatrix resumed her throne, reclining upon its cushions.

The voice speaking through the trumpet said, "Let the Amusements of Tharna begin."

Squeals of anticipation greeted this announcement but I had little time to listen for I was jerked roughly to my feet.

"First," said the voice, "there will be the Contests of Oxen." There were perhaps forty yoked wretches in the arena. In a few moments the guards had divided us into teams of four, harnessing our yokes together with chains. Then, with their whips, they drove us to a set of large blocks of quarried granite, weighing perhaps a ton apiece, from the sides of which protruded heavy iron rings. More chains fixed each team to its own block. The course was indicated to us. The race would begin and end before the golden wall behind which, in lofty splendour, sat the Tatrix of Tharna. Each team would have its driver, who would bear a whip and ride upon the block. We painfully dragged the heavy blocks to the golden wall. The silver yoke, hot from the sun, burned my neck and shoulders.

As we stood before the wall I heard the laughter of the Tatrix and my vision blackened with rage.

Our driver was the man in wrist straps, he from the Chamber of Urts, who had first brought me into the presence of the Tatrix. He approached us, individually, checking the harness chains. As he examined my yoke and chain, he said, "Dorna the Proud has wagered a hundred golden tarn disks on this block. See that it does not lose."

"What if it does?" I asked.

"She will have you all boiled alive in tharlarion oil," he said, laughing. The hand of the Tatrix lifted slightly, almost languorously, from the arm of her throne, and the race began.

Our block did not lose.

Savagely, our backs breaking, stinging under the frenzied lashing of our driver, cursing the colourful sands of the arena that mounted before the block as we dragged it foot by foot about the course, we managed to come first within the zone of the golden wall. When we were unchained we discovered we had been dragging one man who had died in the chains. Shamelessly we fell in the sand.

"The Battles of Oxen," cried one of the silver masks, and her cry was taken up by ten and then a hundred others. Soon the stands themselves seemed to ring with the cry. "The Battles of Oxen," cried the women of Tharna. "Let them begin!"

We were thrown on our feet again, and, to my horror, our yokes were fitted with steel horns, eighteen inches in length and pointed like nails. Andreas, as his yoke was similarly garnished with the deadly projections, spoke to me. "This may be farewell, Warrior," said he. "I hope only that we are not matched."

"I would not kill you," I said. He looked at me strangely. "Nor would I kill you," he said, after a time. "But," he said, "if we are matched and we do not fight, we will both be slain."

"Then so be it," I said.

Andreas smiled at me. "So be it, Warrior," he agreed.

Though yoked, we faced one another, men, each knowing that he had found a friend on the sands of the arena of Tharna.

My opponent was not Andreas, but a squat, powerful man with short-clipped yelow hair, Kron of Tharna, of the Caste of Metal Workers. His eyes were blue like steel. One ear had been torn from his head.

"I have survived the Amusements of Tharna three times," he said as he faced me.

I observed him carefully. He would be a dangerous opponent.

The man with wrist straps circled us with the whip, his eye on the throne of the Tatrix. When the glove of gold once more lifted, the dread conflict would begin.

"Let us be men," I said to my opponent, "and refuse to slay one another for the sport of those in silver masks."

The yellow, short-cropped head glared at me, almost without comprehension. Then it seemed as though what I had said struck, deep within him, some responsive chord. The pale blue eyes glimmered briefly; then they clouded. "We would both be slain," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Stranger," said he, "I intend to survive the Amusements of Tharna at least once more."

"Very well," I said, and squared off against him.

The hand of the Tatrix must have lifted. I did not see it for I did not care to take my eyes from my opponent. "Begin," said the man in wrist straps.

And so Kron and I began to circle one another, slightly bent so that the projections on the yoke might be used to best advantage.

Once, twice, he charged, but pulled up short, seeing if he could bring me forward, off balance to meet the charge. We moved cautiously, occasionally feinting with the terrible yokes. The stands grew restless. The man in wrist straps cracked his whip. "Let there be blood," he said.

Suddenly the foot of Kron swept through the white perfumed sand, bright with mica and red lead, and kicked a broad sheet of particles toward my eyes. It came like a silver and crimson storm, taking me by surprise, blinding me.

I fell on my knees almost instantly, and the charging horns of Kron passed over me. I reared up under his body, heaving it on my shoulder, backwards, over on the sands. I heard it hit heavily behind me, and heard Kron" s grunt of anger, and fear. I couldn" t turn and drive the spikes through him because I could not risk missing.

I shook my head wildly; my hands, yoked helplessly, tried vainly to reach my eyes, to tear the blinding particles from my vision. In the sweat and blindness, unsteady under the violently swinging yoke, I heard the squeals of the frenzied crowd.

Blinded I heard Kron regain his feet, lifting the heavy yoke that bound him. I heard his harsh breathing, like the snorting of an animal. I heard his short, quick, running steps in the sand, thudding toward me in a bull-like charge.

I turned my yoke obliquely, slipping between the horns, blocking the blow. It sounded like anvils hurled together. My hands sought his, but he kept his fists clenched and withdrawn as far as he could in the bracelet of the yoke. My hand clutched his withdrawn fist and slipped off, unable to keep its grip from the sweat, his and mine.

Once, twice more he charged, and each time I managed to block the blow, withstanding the shock of the crashing yokes, escaping the thrust of the murderous horns. Once I was not so fortunate and a steel horn furrowed my side, leaving a channel of blood. The crowd screamed in delight. Suddenly I managed to get my hands under his yoke.

It was hot, like mine in the sun, and my hands burned on the metal. Kron was a heavy, but short man, and I lifted his yoke, and mine, to the astonishment of the stands, which had fallen silent.

Kron cursed as he felt his feet leave the sand. Painfully, as he writhed, hung in the yoke, I carried him to the golden wall, and hurled him against it. The shock to Kron, bound in the yoke, might have killed a lesser man, breaking his neck.

Kron, still a captive of the yoke, now unconscious, slid down the wall, the weight of the yoke tumbling his inert body sideways in the sand. My sweat and the tears from the burning irritation of the sand had now cleared my vision.

I looked up into the glittering mask of the Tatrix. Beside her I saw the silver mask of Dorna the Proud.

"Slay him," said Dorna the Proud, gesturing to the unconscious Kron. I looked about the stands.

Everywhere I saw the silver masks, and heard the shrill command, "Slay him!" On every side I saw the merciless gesture, the extended right hand, palm turned inwards, the cruel, downward chopping motion. Those who wore the silver masks had risen to their feet, and the force of their cries pressed in on me like knives, the air itself seemed filled with the bedlam of their command, "Slay him!"