“Would you favor the friend of O-Zar?” asked Turan.

“Gladly!” exclaimed the other.  “What may I do for him?”

“Make me chief of the Black and give me for my pieces all slaves from Gathol, for I understand that those be excellent warriors,” replied the panthan.

“It is a strange request,” said the keeper, “but for my friend O-Zar I would do even more, though of course—­” he hesitated—­“it is customary for one who would be chief to make some slight payment.”

“Certainly,” Turan hastened to assure him; “I had not forgotten that.  I was about to ask you what the customary amount is.”

“For the friend of my friend it shall be nominal,” replied the keeper, naming a figure that Gahan, accustomed to the high price of wealthy Gathol, thought ridiculously low.

“Tell me,” he said, handing the money to the keeper, “when the game for the Heliumite is to be played.”

“It is the second in order of the day’s games; and now if you will come with me you may select your pieces.”

Turan followed the keeper to a large court which lay between the towers and the jetan field, where hundreds of warriors were assembled.  Already chiefs for the games of the day were selecting their pieces and assigning them to positions, though for the principal games these matters had been arranged for weeks before.  The keeper led Turan to a part of the courtyard where the majority of the slaves were assembled.

“Take your choice of those not assigned,” said the keeper, “and when you have your quota conduct them to the field.  Your place will be assigned you by an officer there, and there you will remain with your pieces until the second game is called.  I wish you luck, U-Kal, though from what I have heard you will be more lucky to lose than to win the slave from Helium.”

After the fellow had departed Turan approached the slaves.  “I seek the best swordsmen for the second game,” he announced.  “Men from Gathol I wish, for I have heard that these be noble fighters.”

A slave rose and approached him.  “It is all the same in which game we die,” he said.  “I would fight for you as a panthan in the second game.”

Another came.  “I am not from Gathol,” he said.  “I am from Helium, and I would fight for the honor of a princess of Helium.”

“Good!” exclaimed Turan.  “Art a swordsman of repute in Helium?”

“I was a dwar under the great Warlord, and I have fought at his side in a score of battles from The Golden Cliffs to The Carrion Caves.  My name is Val Dor.  Who knows Helium, knows my prowess.”

The name was well known to Gahan, who had heard the man spoken of on his last visit to Helium, and his mysterious disappearance discussed as well as his renown as a fighter.

“How could I know aught of Helium?” asked Turan; “but if you be such a fighter as you say no position could suit you better than that of Flier.  What say you?”