Outlaw of Gor (10 page)

“He's yoked,” said a voice.

“Rise, Slave,” said another.

I tried to rise to my feet, but the weight was too much. I heard the hiss of a whip and gritted my teeth as the leather coil bit at my flesh. Again and again it struck downward like lightning bolts of leather fire. I managed to get my knees under me, and then, painfully, heaved the yoke upward, struggling unsteadily to my feet.

“Well done, Slave,” said a voice.

Amidst the burning of the lash wounds I felt the cold air of the dungeon on my back. The whip had opened my tunic, I would be bleeding. I turned to look at the man who had spoken. It was he who held the whip. I noted grimly that its leather was wet with my blood.

“I am not a slave,” I said.

The man was stripped to the waist, a brawny fellow wearing buckled leather wrist straps, his hair bound back on his head with a band of grey cloth.

“In Tharna,” said he, “a man such as you can be nothing else.”

I looked about the room, which curved to a dome some twenty-five feet above the floor. There were several exits, most of them rather small, barred apertures. From some I heard groaning. From some others I heard the shuffling and squealing of animals, perhaps more of the giant urts. By one wall there was a large bowl of burning coals, from which protruded the handles of several irons. A rack of some sort was placed near the bowl of coals. It was large enough to accomodate a human being. In certain of the walls chains were fixed, and here and there, other chains dangled from the ceiling. On the walls, as though in some workshop, there hung instruments of various sorts, which I shall not describe, other than to say that they were ingeniously designed for the torment of human beings.

It was an ugly place.

“Here,” said the man proudly, “peace is kept in Tarna.”

“I demand,” I said, “to be taken to the Tatrix.”

“Of course,” said the man. He laughed unpleasantly. “I shall take you to the Tatrix myself.”

I heard the winding of a chain on a windlass, and saw one of the barred gates leading from the chamber slowly lifting. The man gestured with his whip. I understood I was to go through the opening.

“The Tatrix of Tharna is expecting you,” he said.

I passed through the opening, and painfully began to climb a small, circular passage, staggering with each step under the weight of the heavy metal yoke. The man with the whip, cursing, urged me to greater speed. He poked me savagely with the whip, the narrowness of the passage not allowing him to use it as he wished.

Already my legs and shoulders ached from the strain of the yoke.

We emerged in a broad, but dim hall. Several doors led from this hall. With his whip, prodding me scornfully, the man in wrist straps directed me through one of these doors. This door led again into a corridor, from which again several doors led, and so it continued. It was like being driven through a maze or sewer. The halls were lit occasionally by tharlarion oil lamps set in iron fixtures mounted in the walls. The interior of the palace seemed to me to be deserted. It was innocent of colour, of adornment. I staggered on, smarting from the whip wounds, almost crushed by the burden of the yoke. I doubted if I could, unaided, find my way from this sinister labyrinth.

At last I found myself in a large, vaulted room, lit by torches set in the walls. In spite of its loftiness, it too was plain, like the other rooms and passageways I had seen, sombre, oppressive. Only one adornment relieved the walls of their melancholy aspect, the image of a gigantic golden mask, carved in the likeness of a beautiful woman. Beneath this mask, there was, on a high dais, a monumental throne of gold.

On the broad steps leading to the throne, there were curule chairs, on which sat, I supposed, members of the High Council of Tharna. Their glittering silver masks, each carved in the image of the same beautiful woman, regarded me expressionlessly.

About the room, here and there, stood stern warriors of Tharna, grim in their blue helmets, each with a tiny silver mask on the temple–members of the palace guard. One such helmeted warrior stood near the foot of the throne. There seemed to be something familiar about him.

On the throne itself there sat a woman, proud, lofty in haughty dignity, garbed regally in majestic robes of golden cloth, wearing a mask not of silver but of pure gold, carved like the others in the image of a beautiful woman. The eyes behind the glittering mask of gold regarded me. No one need tell me that I stood in the presence of Lara, Tatrix of Tharna.

The warrior at the foot of the throne removed his helmet. It was Thorn, Captain of Tharna, whom I had met in the fields far from the city. His narrow eyes, like those of an urt, looked upon me contemptuously.

He strode to face me.

“Kneel,” he commanded. “You stand before Lara, Tatrix of Tharna.”

I would not kneel.

Thorn kicked my feet from under me, and, under the weight of the yoke, I crashed to the floor, helpless.

“The whip,” said Thorn, extending his hand. The burly man in wrist straps placed it in his hand. Thorn lifted the instrument to lay my back open with its harsh stroke.

“Do not strike him,” said an imperious voice, and the whip arm of Thorn dropped as though the muscles had been cut. The voice came from the woman behind the golden mask, Lara herself. I was grateful.

Hot with sweat, each fibre in my body screaming in agony, I managed to gain my knees. Thorn's hands would allow me to rise no further. I knelt, yoked, before the Tatrix of Tharna.

The eyes behind the yellow mask regarded me, curiously.

“Is it thus, Stranger,” she asked, her tones cold, “that you expected to carry from the city the wealth of Tharna?”

I was puzzled, my body was racked with pain, my vision was blurred with sweat.

“The yoke is of silver,” said she, “from the mines of Tharna.”

I was stunned, for if the yoke was truly of silver, the metal on my shoulders might have ransomed a Ubar.

“We of Tharna,” said the Tatrix, “think so little of riches that we use them to yoke slaves.”

My angry glare told he that I did not consider myself a slave.

From the curule chair beside the throne rose another woman, wearing an intricately wrought silver mask and magnificent robes of rich silver cloth. She stood haughtily beside the Tatrix, the expressionless silver mask gleaming down at me, hideous in the torchlight it reflected. Speaking to the Tatrix, but not turning the mask from me, she said, “Destroy the animal.” It was a cold, ringing voice, clear, decisive, authoritative.

“Does the law of Tharna not give it the right to speak, Dorna the Proud, Second in Tharna?” asked the Tatrix, whose voice, too, was imperious and cold, yet pleased me more than the tones of she who wore the silver mask.

“Does the law recognise beasts?” asked the woman whose name was Dorna the Proud. It was almost as if she challenged her Tatrix, and I wondered if Dorna the Proud was content to be Second in Tharna. The sarcasm in her voice had been ill concealed.

The Tatrix did not choose to respond to Dorna the Proud.

“Has he still his tongue?” asked the Tatrix of the man with the wrist straps, who stood behind me.

“Yes, Tatrix,” said the man.

I thought that the woman in the silver mask, who had been spoken of as Second in Tharna, seemed to stiffen with apprehension at this revelation. The silver mask turned upon the man in wrist straps. His voice stammered, and I wondered if , behind me, his burly frame trembled. “It was the wish of the Tatrix that the slave be yoked and brought to the Chamber of the Golden Mask as soon as possible, and unharmed.”

I smiled to myself, thinking of the teeth of the urt and the whip, both of which had found my flesh.

“Why did you not kneel, Stranger?” asked the Tatrix of Tharna.

“I am a warrior,” I responded.

“You are a slave!” hissed Dorna the Proud from behind that expressionless mask. Then she turned to the Tatrix. “Remove his tongue!” she said.

“Do you give orders to she who is First in Tharna?” asked the Tatrix.

“No, Beloved Tatrix,” said Dorna the Proud.

“Slave,” said the Tatrix.

I did not acknowledge the salutation.

“Warrior,” she said.

Beneath the yoke I raised my eyes to her mask. In her hand, covered with a glove of gold, she held a small, dark leather sack, half filled with coins. I assumed they were the coins of Ost and wondered where the conspirator might be. “Confess that you stole these coins from Ost of Tharna,” said the Tatrix.

“I stole nothing,” I said. “Release me.”

Thorn laughed unpleasantly from behind me.

“I advise you,” said the Tatrix, “to confess.”

I gathered that, for some reason, she was eager that I plead guilty to the crime, but as I was innocent, I refused.

“I did not steal the coins,” I said.

“Then, Stranger,” said the Tatrix, “I am sorry for you.”

I could not understand her remark, and my back felt ready to snap under the weight of the yoke. My neck ached under its weight. The sweat poured down my body and my back still stung from the lash.

“Bring in Ost!” ordered the Tatrix.

I thought Dorna the Proud stirred uneasily in the curule chair. She smoothed the silver folds of her robes with a nervous hand, gloved in silver.

There was a whimpering and a scuffling from behind me, and, to my astonishment, one of the guardsmen of the palace, the tiny silver mask blazed across the left temple of his helmet, flung Ost, the conspirator, yoked and sniveling, to the foot of the throne. Ost's yoke was much lighter than mine but, as he was a smaller man, the weight might have been as much for him.

“Kneel to the Tatrix,” commanded Thorn, who still retained the whip.

Ost, squealing with fear, tried to rise, but could not lift the yoke.

Thorn's whip hand was raised.

I expected the Tatrix to intervene on his behalf, as she had on mine, but, instead, she said nothing. She seemed to be watching me. I wondered what thoughts glittered behind that placid mask of gold.

“Do not strike him,” I said.

Without taking her eyes from me, Lara spoke to Thorn. “Prepare to strike,” she said.

The yellowish, purple-marked face split into a grin and Thorn's fist tightened on the whip. He did not take his eyes from the Tatrix, wanting to strike at the first instant she permitted the blow.

“Rise,” said the Tatrix to Ost, “or you will die on your belly like the serpent you are.”

“I can't,” wept Ost. “I can't.”

The Tatrix coldly lifted her gloved hand. When it fell so too would the whip.

“No,” I said.

Slowly, every muscle straining to keep my balance, the cords in my legs and back like tortured cables, I reached out my hand to Ost's and, struggling in agony to keep my balance, added the weight of his yoke to mine as I drew him to his knees.

There was a gasp from the silver-masked women in the room. One or two of the warriors, heedless of the proprieties of Tharna, acknowledged my deed by smiting their shields with the bronze heads of their spears.

Thorn, in irritation, hurled the whip back into the hands of the man with wrist straps.

“You are strong,” said the Tatrix of Tharna.

“Strength is the attribute of beasts,” said Dorna the Proud.

“True,” said the Tatrix.

“Yet he is a fine beast, is he not?” asked one of the silver-masked women.

“Let him be used in the Amusements of Tharna,” urged another.

Lara held up her gloved hand for silence.

“How is it,” I asked, “that you spare a warrior the whip and would use it on so miserable a wretch as Ost?”

“I had hoped you guiltless, Stranger,” said she. “The guilt of Ost I know.”

“I am guiltless,” I said.

“Yet,” said she, “you admit you did not steal the coins.”

My brain reeled. “That is true,” I said, “I did not steal the coins.”

“Then you are guilty,” said the voice of Lara, I thought sadly.

“Of what?” I asked to know.

“Of conspiracy against the throne of Tharna,” said the Tatrix.

I was dumbfounded.

“Ost,” said the Tatrix, her voice like ice, “you are guilty of treason against Tharna. It is known that you conspire against the throne.”

One of the guards, the fellow who had brought Ost in, spoke. “It is as your spied reported, Tatrix. In his quarters were found seditious documents, letters of instruction pertaining to the seizure of the throne, sacks of gold to be used in obtaining accomplices.”

“Has he confessed these things as well?” asked Lara.

Ost blubbered helplessly for mercy, his thin neck wiggling in the yoke.

The guardsman laughed. “One sight of the white urt and he admitted all.”

“Who, Serpent,” asked the Tatrix, “supplied the gold? From whom came the letters of instruction?”

“I do not know, Beloved Tatrix,” whined Ost. “The letters and the gold were delivered by a helmeted warrior.”

“To the urt with him!” sneered Dorna the Proud.

Ost writhed, squealing for mercy. Thorn kicked him to silence him.

“What more do you know of this plot against the throne?” asked Lara of the sniveling Ost.

“Nothing, Beloved Lara,” he whimpered.

“Very well,” said Lara, and turned the glittering mask to the guardsman who had hurled the yoked Ost to her feet, “take him to the Chamber of the Urts.”

“No, no, no!” whimpered Ost. “I know more, more!”

The silver-masked women leaned forward in their chairs. Only the Tatrix herself and Dorna the Proud sat straight. Although the room was cool I noted that Thorn, Captain of Tharna, was sweating. His hands clenched and unclenched.

“What more do you know?” demanded the Tatrix.

Ost looked about himself as well as he could, his eyes bulging with terror.

“Do you know the warrior who brought you the letters and gold?” she demanded.

“Him I do not know,” said Ost.

“Let me,” begged Thorn, “bloody the yoke.” He drew his sword. “Let me end this wretch here!”

“No,” said Lara. “What more then do you know, Serpent?” she asked the miserable conspirator.

“I know,” said Ost, “that the leader of the conspiracy is a high person in Tharna–one who wears the silver mask, a woman.”