Outlaw of Gor (15 page)

Spontaneously, without thinking, I threw my arms around the neck of the great creature and hugged it. Its wings smote on, unresponsive, paying me no attention. I laughed, and slapped it twice on the neck. It was, of course, only another of the beasts of Gor, but I cared for it.

Forgive me if I say that I was happy, as I should not have been in the circumstances, but my feelings are those that a tarnsman would understand. I know of few sensations so splendid, so godlike, as sharing the flight of a tarn.

I was one of those men, a tarnsman, who would prefer the saddle of one of those fierce, predatory titans to the throne of a Ubar.

Once one has been a tarnsman, it is said, one must return again and again to the giant, savage birds. I think that this is a true saying. One knows that one must master them or be devoured. One knows that they are not dependable, that they are vicious. A tarnsman knows that they may turn upon him without warning. Yet the tarnsman chooses no other life. He continues to mount the birds, to climb to their saddle with a heart filled with joy, to draw the monster aloft. More than the gold of a hundred merchants, more than the countless cylinders of Ar, he treasures those sublime, lonely moments, high over the earth, cut by the wind, he and the bird as one creature, alone, lofty, swift, free. Let it be said simply I was pleased, for I was on tarnback again.

From beneath the bird there came a long, shivering moan, a helpless, uncontrolled sound from the golden prey seized in its talons.

I cursed myself for a thoughtless fool, for in the exhilaration of the flight, incomprehensible though it seems to me now, I had forgotten the Tatrix. How frightful for her must have been those few minutes of flight, grasped in the talons, hundreds of feet above the plains of Tharna, not knowing if she might be dropped at any instant, or carried to some ledge to be ripped to pieces by that monstrous beak, those hideous steel-shod talons.

I looked behind me to see if there was pursuit. It would surely come, on foot and on tarnback. Tharna did not maintain large cavalries of tarns, but it would surely be able to launch at least some squadrons of tarnsmen to rescue and avenge its Tatrix. The man of Tharna, taught from birth to regard himself as an unworthy, ignoble and inferior creature, at best a dull-witted beast of burden, did not, on the whole, make a good tarnsman. Yet I knew there would be tarnsmen in Tharna, and good ones, for her name was respected among the martial, hostile cities of Gor. Her tarnsmen might be mercenaries, or perhaps men like Thorn, Captain of Tharna, who in spite of their city thought well of themselves and maintained at least the shreds of caste pride.

Though I scrutinised the sky behind me, looking for those tiny specks that would be distant tarns in flight, I saw nothing. It was blue and empty. By now every tarnsman in Tharna should be flying. Yet I saw nothing.

Another moan escaped the golden captive.

In the distance, perhaps some forty pasangs away, I saw a set of ridges, lofty and steep, rearing out of a broad, yellow meadow of talenders, a delicate, yellow-petaled flower, often woven into garlands by Gorean maidens. In their own quarters, unveiled Gorean women, with their family or lovers, might fix talenders in their hair. A crown of talender was often worn by the girl at the feast celebrating her Free Companionship.

In perhaps ten minutes the ridges were almost below us.

“Four-strap!” I shouted.

The great bird paused in flight, braking with its wings, and then smoothly descended to a high ledge on one of the ridges, a ledge accessible only on tarnback.

I leaped from the back of the monster and rushed to the Tatrix, to protect her in case the tarn should begin to feed. I pulled the locked talons from her body, calling to the tarn, shoving its legs back. The bird seemed puzzled. Had I not cried 'Tabuk!'? was this thing it had seized not now to be devoured? Was it not prey?

I shoved the tarn back and away from the girl, and gathered her in my arms. I set her down gently against the far wall of the cliff, as far from the edge as I could. The rocky shelf on which we found ourselves was perhaps twenty feet wide and twenty feet deep, about the size that a tarn chooses for nesting.

Standing between the Tatrix and the winged carnivore, I cried “Tabuk!” It began to stalk toward the girl, who rose to her knees, her back pressed against the unyielding wall of the cliff, and screamed.

“Tabuk!” I cried again, taking the great beak in my hands and turning it toward the open fields below.

The bird seemed to hesitate, and then, with a motion almost tender, it thrust its beak against my body. “Ta-buk,” I said quietly, once more turning it toward the open fields.

With one last look at the Tatrix the bird turned and stalked to the brink of that awesome ledge and, with a single snap of its great wings, leaped into space, its soaring shadow a message of terror to any game below.

I turned to face the Tatrix.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

Sometimes when the tarn strikes a tabuk, the animal's back is broken. It was a risk which I had decided to take. I did not feel I had much choice. With the Tatrix in hand, I might be in a position to bargain with Tharna. I did not think I would be able to work any reform in her harsh ways, but I did hope to sue for the freedom of Linna and Andreas, and perhaps for that of the poor wretches whom I had met in the arena. It would surely be a small enough price for the return of the golden Tatrix herself.

The Tatrix struggled to her feet.

It was customary on Gor for a female captive to kneel in the presence of her captor, but she was, after all, a Tatrix, and I did not wish to enforce the point. Her hands, still in their gloves of gold, went to the golden mask, as if she feared most that it might not be in place. Only then did her hands try to arrange and smooth her torn robes. I smiled. They had been ripped by the talons, tattered by the raging winds. Haughtily she drew them about herself, covering herself as best she could. Aside from the mask, metallic, cold, glittering as always, I decided the Tatrix might be beautiful.

“No,” she said proudly, “I am unhurt.”

It was the answer I had expected, though undoubtedly her body was almost broken, her flesh bruised to the bone.

“You are in pain,” I said, “but mostly, now, you are cold and numb from the loss of circulation.” I regarded her. “Later,” I said, “it will be even more painful.”

The expressionless mask gazed upon me.

“I, too,” I said, “was once in the talons of a tarn.”

“Why did the tarn not kill you in the arena?” she asked.

“It is my tarn,” I said simply. What more could I tell her? That it had not killed me, knowing the nature of tarns, seemed almost as incredible to me as it did to her. Had I known more of tarns, I might have guessed that it held me in some sort of affection.

The Tatrix looked about, examining the sky. “When will it return?” she asked. Her voice had been a whisper. I knew that if there was anything that struck terror into the heart of the Tatrix, it was the tarn.

“Soon,” I said. “Let us hope it finds something to eat in the fields below.”

The Tatrix trembled slightly.

“If it doesn't find game,” she said, “it will return angry and hungry.”

“Surely,” I agreed.

“It may try to feed on us–” she said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

At last the words came out, slowly, carefully formed. “If it doesn't find game,” she asked, “are you going to give me to the tarn?”

“Yes,” I said.

With a cry of fear the Tatrix fell to her knees before me, her hands extended, pleading. Lara, Tatrix of Tharna, was at my feet, a supplicant.

“Unless you behave yourself,” I added.

Angrily the Tatrix scrambled to her feet. “You tricked me!” she cried. “You tricked me into assuming the posture of the captive female!”

I smiled.

Her gloved fists struck at me. I caught her wrists and held her fast. I noted that her eyes behind the mask were blue. I allowed her to twist free. She ran to the wall, and stood, her back to me.

“Do I amuse you?” she asked.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“I am your prisoner, am I not?” she asked, insolently.

“Yes,” I said.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, her face to the wall, not deigning to look upon me.

“Sell you for a saddle and weapons,” I said. I thought it well to alarm the Tatrix, the better to improve my bargaining position.

Her frame shook with fear, and fury. She spun about to face me, her gloved fists clenched. “Never!” she cried.

“I shall if it pleases me,” I said.

The Tatrix, trembling with rage, regarded me. I could scarcely conjecture the hatred that seethed behind that placid golden mask. At last she spoke. Her words were like drops of acid.

“You are joking,” she said.

“Remove the mask,” I suggested, “in order that I may better judge what you will bring on the Street of Brands.”

“No!” she cried, her hands flying to the golden mask.

“I think the mask alone,” I said, “might bring the price of a good shield and spear.”

The Tatrix laughed bitterly. “It would buy a tarn,” she said.

I could tell that she was not certain that I was serious, that she did not really believe I could mean what I said. It was important to my plans to convince her that she stood in jeopardy, that I would dare to put her in a camisk and collar.

She laughed, testing me, holding the tattered hem of her robe towards me. “You see,” she said, in mock despair, “I will not bring much in this poor garment.”

“That is true,” I said.

She laughed.

“You will bring more without it,” I added.

She seemed shaken by this matter of fact answer. I could tell she was no longer confident of where she stood. She decided to play her trump card. She squared off against me, regal, haughty, insolent. Her voice was cold, each word a crystal of ice. “You would not dare,” she said, “to sell me.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because,” she said, drawing herself to her full height, gathering the golden tattered robes about her, “I am Tatrix of Tharna.”

I picked up a small rock and threw it from the ledge, watching it sail toward the fields below. I watched the clouds scudding across the darkening sky, listened to the wind whistling among those lonely ridges. I turned to the Tatrix.

“That will improve your price,” I said.

The Tatrix seemed stunned. Her haughty manner deserted her.

“Would you truly,” she asked, her voice faltering, “put me up for sale?”

I looked at her without answering.

Her hands went to the mask. “Would it be taken from me?”

“And your robes,” I said.

She shrank back.

“You will be simply another slave girl among slave girls,” I said, “neither more nore less.”

The words came hard to her. “Would I be–exhibited?”

“Of course,” I said.

“—unclothed?”

“Perhaps you will be permitted to wear slave bracelets,” I snapped in irritation.

She looked as though she might swoon.

“Only a fool,” I said, “would buy a woman clothed.”

“No–no,” she said.

“It is the custom,” I said simply.

She had backed away from me, and now her back touched the obdurate granite of the cliff wall. Her head was shaking. Although that placid mask showed no emotion, I could read the despair in the body of the Tatrix.

“You would do this to me?” she asked, her voice a frightened whisper.

“Within two nights,” I said, “you will stand stripped on the block at Ar and be sold to the highest bidder.”

“No, no, no,” she whimpered, and her tortured body refused to sustain her any longer. She crumpled piteously against the wall, weeping.

This was more than I had counted on, and I had to resist an urge to comfort her, to tell her that I would not hurt her, that she was safe, but, mindful of Linna and Andreas, and the poor wretches in the Amusements, I restrained my compassion. Indeed, as I thought of the cruel Tatrix, of what she had done, I wondered if, in fact, I should not take her to Ar and dispose of her on the Street of Brands. Surely she would be more harmless in the Pleasure Gardens of a tarnsman than on the throne of Tharna.

“Warrior,” she said, her head lifting piteously, “must you exact so terrible a vengeance on me?”

I smiled to myself. It sounded now as though the Tatrix might bargain. “You have wronged me mightily,” I said sternly.

“But you are only a man,” she said. “Only a beast.”

“I, too, am human,” I told her.

“Give me my freedom,” she begged.

“You put me in a yoke,” I said. “You lashed me. You condemned me to the Arena. You would have fed me to the tarn.” I laughed. “And you ask for your freedom!”

“I will pay you a thousand times what I would bring on the block at Ar,” she pleaded.

“A thousand times what you would bring on the block at Ar,” I said harshly, “would not satisfy my vengeance–only you on the block at Ar.”

She moaned.

Now, I thought, is the time. “And,” I said, “not only have you injured me, but you have enslaved my friends.”

The Tatrix rose to her knees. “I will free them!” she cried.

“Can you change the laws of Tharna?” I demanded.

“Alas,” she cried, “not even I can do that, but I can free your friends! I will free them! My freedom for theirs!”

I appeared to think the matter over.

She sprang to her feet. “Think, Warrior,” she cried, “of your honour.” Her voice was triumphant. “Would you satisfy your vengeance at the price of slavery for your friends?”

“No,” I cried angrily, inwardly delighted, “for I am a warrior!”

Her voice was exultant. “Then, Warrior, you must bargain with me!”

“Not with you!” I cried, attempting to sound dismayed.

“Yes,” she laughed, “my freedom for their!”

“It is not enough,” I growled.

“Then what?” she cried.

“Free all those used in the Amusements of Tharna!”

The Tatrix seemed taken aback.

“All,” I cried, “—or the block at Ar!”

Her head dropped. “Very well, Warrior,” she said. “I will free them all.”

“Can I trust you?” I asked.