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its master. It stood almost as large as Gam but was solid black. The seven-inch daggers on its hooves were sharpened to perfection, as were his gold-capped razor teeth. Zenak walked briskly into the courtyard. Mara was discarded from his mind; fighting was now to be his preoccupation. Zenak was the picture of envy of any fighting man of any time. His blond flowing curls rested lightly on his massive shoulders. His slim waist carried the belt from which his great broadsword hung. Cold and fierce were his dark eyes for they were set on only one purpose: to kill or be killed, for such were the ways of a fighting man. Zenak mounted his mark.
    â€œTake care,” Zenak said to Tenen, “and beware of that bastard, Vokar.”
    â€œGood fighting, My King,” Tenen replied, “and don’t worry about Vokar.”
    Zenak looked down and smiled at Tenen and said, “Only two of the three greatest fighters march to battle. I will miss your sword, Tenen.”
    Zenak’s referral to two out of three was his reference to himself, Tenen, and Habor. They had come from the western lands together and had spilled the blood of many enemies to­gether. Many a night these three mighty men had spent their money in debauchery with women and ale.
    â€œI shall miss the smell of battle also,” Tenen said, “Habor, fight for the both of us and on the way back from the victory drink enough ale and deflower enough women for the both of us.”
    Habor guffawed causing his stomach to jump and replied, “I shall bring back the sweetest woman and the strongest ale I find just for you, Tenen.”
    â€œFarewell, Tenen,” Zenak said jumping into the dialogue. “We will see you in a better day,”
    â€œFarewell, My King, and farewell, Habor. My bed awaits the sweet woman you shall bring me and my mouth is already antici­pating the ale,” Tenen said smiling broadly.
    Zenak and Habor turned their marks and galloped out of the palace toward the city gates. The citizens of Balbania had stopped their work and had gathered in the streets to bid good fighting to the king and his soldiers, but Zenak never noticed the people for he was in deep thought. Habor waved and smiled at the people, but then he didn’t have the burden of a kingdom on his shoulders. When Habor and Zenak reached the city’s gate, Zenak rode on through without looking back. Habor, however, stopped and turned around so he could look at his new-found home once more before he went on his jour­ney. Habor, considered the most fearsome fighter of the two, he and Zenak, felt he would never return when he went to battle. Zenak, confident in his abilities, felt no reason for one last look for he knew he would return and return victorious.
    The 40,000 army marksmen and the 7,500 Balbanian marksmen were ready to ride. They were lined up ten abreast outside the gate and were mounted on their eager marks. The marksmen watched with pride as Zenak and Habor rode quickly to the front.
    â€œSound the trumpets, we march,” Zenak ordered the bugle boy.
    The bugle boy sounded three blasts and then the great mass of fighting men moved out at a slow gallop. The lines were kept straight and the fierce war marks made the earth tremble beneath their deadly hooves as they galloped to an unknown end. In the city all was quiet as the people thought of their loved ones going off to battle.
    The ride took ten hours. This was twice as long as it would have taken if the warriors were riding non-military riding marks. But the warriors did not mind because war marks were much stronger and much more agile in close fighting than a riding mark was. Proponents of riding marks felt that riding marks could be trained to fight like war marks, but many a trainer had tried and failed. The riding mark was too gentle. All he wanted to do was run. He had no preference who rode him or where he was taken. The war mark, on the other hand did not like to run. He