Hunters of Gor (44 page)

She-sleen! She-sleen!”

Sarus struck Hura, with the back of his hand, suddenly, knocking her head to one

side, splattering blood across her teeth. She slipped to her knees, her eyes

glazed, a chastened slave.

He stood before Mira. “Tell us what you know!” he demanded.

“He captured me,” she wept. “He took me into the forest. He made me serve

drugged wine! I had no choice!”

“How many women does he have?” demanded Sarus, angrily.

“Hundreds!” wept Mira.

Sarus slapped her. She looked at him, terrified. “Fool!” he said.

Mira lowered her head.

“How many did you see?” he asked. “Remember! How many did you see?”

“I didn’t see any,” she wept.

There was an angry cry for the girls, from the men.

“I was blindfolded!” she wept.

Sarus laughed.

“I heard hundreds!” she wept.

The blindfold is a simple and common device of slave control. It is inferior, of

course, to the slave hood.

Sarus turned to face me. He was now smiling. “If you possessed hundreds of

allies,” he said, “it would have been wise for you to make certain our lovely

Mira, our beautiful little traitress, well practiced in treachery, could see

them.”

“Perhaps,” I admitted.

“She was blindfolded,” said Sarus, “because you had no allies, or only a

handful?”

“That seems,” said I, “an intelligent supposition on your part.”

“I heard women!” wept Mira. “I hear many women!”

“Or two or three women,” snarled Sarus, “who repeatedly passed you.”

Suddenly Mira looked at me, her face agonized. “You tricked me,” she whispered.

“You tricked me.”

Sarus was not facing me. “You,” he said, “have few or no allies.”

“Please, Sarus,” said Hura, who was now on her feet. “Please free us now.” She

spoke humbly. She did not wish to be struck again. She had felt a man’s blow,

though, a light, swift one, suitable for the disciplining of women.

Sarus looked at the coffle. “You will make excellent slaves,” he told them.

“Please help us,” begged the women of the men of Tyros.

“Be silent, Slaves,” said Sarus.

The girls stopped struggling. They stood quietly, bound.

“I think,” said Sarus, facing me, “that you owe us something of an explanation.”

“I think that is true,’ I admitted.

“For what purpose have you come here?”

“Primarily,” I said, “to obtain the release of slaves. In particular I am

interested in obtaining one spoken of as Rim, and another as Arn. I would also

like the one called Sheera.”

“Your desires are simple,” said Sarus. “Do you not know whom we hold slave in

this camp?”

“Who?’ I asked.

“Marlenus of Ar,” smiled Sarus.

“Ah,” I said. “I will take him, too, then, and the others as well.”

Sarus and his men laughed. I stood with my back to the gate.

I need have no fear at the moment of the bows of panther girls. They stood

helpless, bound in coffle. Sarus had been willing to surrender them for the

safety of himself, his men and those slaves he regarded as important.

I noted where the two men with crossbows were. I noted the number of feet I

stood from the fire.

Both crossbows were set.

“What is your interest in the men called Rim and Arn?” asked Sarus.

“They are my men,” I told him.

“Your men?” he asked, slowly.

“I know him!” cried Hura. “I know him!”

I looked at her.

“He is Bosk of Port Kar!” she cried. “He is Bosk of Port Kar!”

I heard a stirring among the slaves behind the men of Tyros. The bound girls,

prone, struggled. They had been bedded for the night, and so were gagged, but

they could hear. That Bosk of Port Kar was among them resulted in much movement.

I heard, too, beyond hem, the rattle of chains. Marlenus and the others, their

ankles not yet tied, were struggling to their knees. I heard a whip crack,

twice, as a man of Tyros ran amongst them, to force them down again.

Then there was silence.

“Yes,” I said, “it is true.”

“You are insane to come here,” said Sarus.

“I do not think so,’ I said. There was no catwalk about the interior of the

palisade. It would take two men to throw the bean, opening the gate.

“We sought you,’ said Sarus. “We wanted you, as well as Marlenus of Ar.”

“I am honored,” I said.

“You are a fool,” cried Sarus. Then he looked at me. “it is our great good

fortune,” said he, : that you have, of your own free will, delivered yourself to

us. We did not count on such fortune.”

“But I am not here,” I said, “to surrender myself.”

“Your ruse has failed,” said Sarus.

“How is that?” I asked. “Your allies stand immobilized.”

“Free us!” begged Hura. “Free us!” begged Mira.

“Silence the slaves,” said Sarus.

A slave lash struck again and again. The women, one by one, did not seem to

understand what was happening, but each, in turn, was struck twice, at an

interval of a few Ihn, that the pain of the first blow be truly felt and

understood before the second was delivered. At the first blow, the girls fell to

their knees, eyes glazed, choking, unable to believe their pain. Then,

trembling, shuddering, weeping some begging for mercy, they thrust their heads

to the ground. Then, one by one, the second blow fell. They wept, crying out,

belief in their eyes. Hura regarded Sarus after the first blow, disbelief in her

eyes. She had not understood what it was to feel the lash. She shook her head,

numbly, and fell to her knees. She looked at Sarus “Please Sarus,” she begged,

“do not have me struck again.”

“Strike her again,” said Sarus.

She put down her head and again the blow fell. She wept.

“Again!” said Sarus.

“Please, no, Master!” screamed Hura.

Again the lash fell. Hura was on her knees, head down, a piteous, lashed slave

girl. “No, Master,” she wept. “Please, no Master.”

The entire coffle, whipped, was on its knees, heads down, weeping. “Please,

Masers,” they wept.

“The men of Tyros,” I said, “are harsh in their disciplining of women.”

“I have heard,” said Sarus, “that the chains of a slave girl are heaviest in

Port Kar.”

I shrugged.

“Your ruse has failed,” said Sarus.

“Your allies,” I reminded him, “are immobilized.”

He looked at me, puzzled. “We do not need them,” he said.

“It is just as well,’ I said. “I would not car to have to slay them.”

“Consider yourself, Bosk of Port Kar,” said he, “my prisoner.”

“I offer you your life, and the lives of your men,” I said, “if you depart now,

leaving behind all slaves.”

Sarus looked about at his men, and they laughed, all of them.

The girls in the coffle looked up, with tears in their eyes.

“You may surrender your weapons,” I told them.

They looked at one another. Two laughed, not easily.

I heard the male slaves in the shadows rising to their feet. No one whipped

them. No one paid them attention. In the shadows, in the background, by the

light of the fire, two paces from me, I saw the tall, mighty frame of Marlenus

of Ar. Standing beside him were Rim, and Arn. I could see the neck chains

fastening them together, and to the others.

I met the eyes of Marlenus.

“Surrender,” said Sarus to me. “Surrender!”

“I do not think so,” I said.

“You are outnumbered,” said Sarus. “You have no chance.”

“He is mad,” whispered one of Sarus’ men.

“You are a fool to have come here,” whispered Sarus.

“I do not think so,” I said.

He looked at me.

“How many men do you have?” I asked.

“Fifty-five,” he said.

“I was not always of the merchants,” I told him.

“I do not understand,” said Sarus.

“Once,” I said, “long ago, I was of the warriors.”

“There are fifty-five of us,” said Sarus.

“My city,” I said, “was the city of Ko-ro-ba. It is sometimes called the Towers

of Morning.”

“Surrender,” whispered Sarus.

“Long ago,” I said, “I dishonored my caste, my Home Stone, my blade. Long ago, I

fell from the warriors. Lone ago, I lost my honor.”

Sarus slowly drew his blade, as did those behind him.

“But once,” I said, “I was of the city of Ko-ro-ba. Hat must not be forgotten.

That cannot be taken from me.”

“He is mad,” said one of the men of Tyros.

“Yes,” I said, “once long ago, in he delta of the Vosk, I lost my honor. I know

that never can I find it again. That honor, which was to me my most precious

possession, was lost. It is gone, and gone forever. It is like a tarn with wings

of gold, that sits but once upon a warrior’s helm, and when it departs, it

returns no more. It is gone, and gone forever.” I looked at them, and looked,

too, upward at the stars of the Gorean night. They were beautiful, like points

of fire, marking the camps of armies in the night. “Yes,” I said, again

regarding the men of Tyros. “I have lost my honor, but you must not understand

by that that I have forgotten it. On some nights, on such a night as this,

sometimes, I recollect it.”

“We are fifty-five men!” screamed Sarus.

“Marlenus!” I called. “Once, on the sands of an arena in Ar, we fought, as sword

companions.”

“It is true!” he called.

“Silence!” cried Sarus.

“And once I saw you remove your helm in the stadium of tarns, and claim again

the throne of Ar.”

“It is true!” called Marlenus.

“Let me hear again, now,” said I, “the anthem of Ar.”

The strains of the great song of Ar’s victories broke from the Ubar’s collared

throat, and, too, from the throats of the men of Ar beside him.

“Silence!” cried Sarus.

He turned to face me, wildly. He saw that my blade was no drawn.

“You are not of Ar!” he cried.

“It would be better for you,” said I, “if I were.”

“You are mad,” he cried. “Mad!”

“My Home Stone,” I told him, “was once the Home Stone of Ko-ro-ba. Will it be

you, Sarus, who will come first against me?”

20
   
What Occurred in the Stockade of Sarus of Tyros

I thrust.

A man reeled away.

“Kill him!” cried Sarus.

I thrust again, slipping to one side. He who had thrust at me fell, slipping to

his hands and knees, startled, red swift in the firelit yellow of his tunic. He

did not know his wound was mortal. He had challenged one of Ko-ro-ba. I turned.

I thrust twice more. Two more men fell. I turned. Twice more I thrust, shallow

thrust, swift, delicate, like the biting of the ost, that the blade not be

ensnared. The heart lies but the width of a hand within the body, the jugular

but the width of a finger.

“Kill him!’ screamed Sarus.

I moved, as an eyes moves, no longer where I had stood before. Twice again I

thrust. I felt a blade cut my tunic, and felt blood at my waist. Again I moved.

I heard the swift snap of the leaves of a crossbow, the leaping his of the

quarrel. There was a scream behind me. I must move to the fire. Twice more I

thrust. There was another loaded crossbow I knew. I thought I knew its location.

I moved so to place a man of Tyros between me and the quarrel.

“Stand aside!” screamed a man.

I fended the blade of the man of Tyros from my heart. I did not fell him.

I felt another blade cut down and my left sleeve leaped away from my arm. I felt

blood course down my arm.

The war cry of Ko-ro-ba, wild, roared from my throat. Twice more I thrust, and

then, kicking, broke the fire into a scattering of brands, plunging the stockade

into darkness. The women of Hura, bound, naked, among the men and blades,

screamed.

“Kill him!” I heard Sarus cry.

“Free us!” begged Hura. “Free us!”

“Fire! Torches!” cried Sarus.

I had not worn the yellow of Tyros for nothing. I moved among them, as one of

them. And where I moved, men fell.

“Where is he?” cried one of my enemies.

“Lift torches!” cried Sarus.

Holding his mouth, I thrust my blade into the body of the man who carried the

second crossbow. He should have realized he was important. He should have

changed his position in the darkness. Did he not know I would come for him?

In the darkness, amidst the shouting, I went swiftly to the slave girls, prone

and bound, near the rear of the stockade.

Sheera, I knew, lay at one end of the line. In an instant with my blade, I cut

her free. I quickly moved down the line of bound women, tightly thonged slave

girls. They were tied alternately, in a common manner for securing slave girls,

the lashed ankles of one tied to the throat of the next. I counted, placing my

hand swiftly on the head of one, gagged, the crossed ankles, bound, of the next.

Cara and Tina were no longer in the coffle. I was looking for the girl who would

now be ninth. I felt the squirming, tied ankles of the eighth girl, heard her

muffled, gagged whimper, sensed her body rearing in its bonds. Then my hand was

on the head of the ninth girl. I felt beneath my fingers a woman’s head and

hair, and, in her ear, a large ring of gold. She struggled. I cut Verna loose.

I felt myself, briefly, illuminated in the glare of a torch, nor more than a

yard from me.

“He is here!” I heard cry.

The torch fell in the darkness. My blade whipped back, freed of the body.

“Torches!” cried Sarus. “Rebuild the fire!”