John Norman - Counter Earth02 - Outlaw Of Gor

by Outlaw Of Gor(Lit)

  'Where are you from?' asked one eagerly.

  'I have lived all my life in Tharna,' I told them.

  There was a great roar of laughter.

  Soon, pounding the time on the table with the butt of my spear, I was leading a raucous round of songs, mostly wild drinking songs, warrior songs, songs of the encampment and march, but too I taught them songs I had learned in the caravan of Mintar the Merchant, so long ago, when I had first loved Talena, songs of love, of loneliness, of the beauties of one's cities, and of the fields of Gor.

  The Kal-da flowed free that night and thrice the oil in the hanging tharlarion lamps needed to be renewed by the sweating, joyful proprietor of the Kal-da shop. Men from the streets, dumbfounded by the sounds which came from within, pressed through the squat door and soon had joined in. Some warriors entered, too, and instead of attempting to restore order had incredibly taken off their helmets, filled them with Kal-da and sat cross-legged with us, to sing and drink their fill.

  The lights in the tharlarion lamps had finally flickered and gone out, and the chill light of dawn at last bleakly illuminated the room. Many of the men had left, more had perhaps fallen on the tables, or lay along the sides of the room. Even the proprietor slept, his head across his folded arms on the counter, behind which stood the great Kal-da brewing pots, at last empty and cold. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. There was a hand on my shoulder.

  'Wake up,' demanded a voice.

  'He's the one,' said another voice, I seemed to remember.

  I struggled to my feet, and confronted the small, lemon-faced conspirator.

  'We've been looking for you,' said the other voice, which I now saw belonged to a burly guardsman of Tharna. Behind him in their blue helmets stood three others.

  'He's the thief,' said the lemon-faced man, pointing to me. His hand darted to the table where the bag of coins lay, half spilled out in the dried puddles of Kal-da.

  'These are my coins,' said the conspirator. 'My name is stitched into the leather of the sack.' He shoved the sack under the nose of the guardsman.

  'Ost,' read the guardsman. It was also the name of a species of tiny, brightly orange reptile, the most venemous on Gor.

  'I am not a thief,' I said. 'He gave me the coins.'

  'He is lying,' said Ost.

  'I am not,' I said.

  'You are under arrest,' said the guardsman.

  'In whose name?' I demanded.

  'In the name of Lara,' said the man, 'Tatrix of Tharna.'

  Chapter Ten: THE PALACE OF THE TATRIX

  Resistance would have been useless.

  My weapons had been removed while I slept, foolish and trusting in the hospitality of Tharna. I faced the guards unarmed. Yet the officer must have read defiance in my eyes because he signaled his men, and three spears dropped to threaten my breast.

  'I stole nothing,' I said.

  'You may plead your case before the Tatrix,' said the guard.

  'Shackle him,' insisted Ost.

  'Are you a warrior?' asked the guardsman.

  'I am,' I said.

  'Have I your word that you will accompany me peaceably to the palace of the Tatrix?' asked the guardsman.

  'Yes,' I said.

  The guardsman spoke to his men. 'Shackles will not be necessary.'

  'I am innocent,' I told the guardsman.

  He looked at me, his grey eyes frank in the Y-slot in his sombre blue helmet of Tharna. 'It is for the Tatrix to decide,' he said.

  'You must shackle him!' wheezed Ost.

  'Quiet, worm,' said the guardsman, and the conspirator subsided into squirming silence.

  I followed the guardsman, yet ringed with his men, to the palace of the Tatrix. Ost scurried along behind us, puffing and gasping, his short, bandy legs struggling to keep pace with the stride of warriors.

  I felt that even had I chosen to forswear my pledge, which as a warrior of Gor I would not, my chances of escape would have been small indeed. In all likelihood three spears would have transfixed my body within my first few steps toward freedom. I respected the quiet, efficient guardsmen of Tharna, and I had already encountered her skilled warriors in a field far from the city. I wondered if Thorn were in the city, and if Vera now wore her pleasure silk in his villa.

  I knew that if justice were done in Tharna I would be acquitted, yet I was uneasy - for how was I to know if my case would be fairly heard and decided? That I had been in possession of Ost's sack of coins would surely seem good prima-facie evidence of guilt, and this might well sway the decision of the Tatrix. How would my word, the word of a stranger, weigh against the words of Ost, a citizen of Tharna and perhaps one of significance?

  Yet, incredibly perhaps, I looked forward to seeing the palace and the Tatrix, to meeting face to face the unusual woman who could rule, and rule well, a city of Gor. Had I not been arrested I guessed I might, of my own free will, have called upon the Tatrix of Tharna, and, as one citizen had expressed it, spent my night in her palace.

  After we had walked for perhaps some twenty minutes through the drab, graveled, twisted streets of Tharna, its grey citizens parting to make way for us and to stare expressionlessly at the scarlet-clad prisoner, we came to a broad winding avenue, steep and paved with black cobblestones, still shiny from the rains of the night. On each side of the avenue was a gradually ascending brick wall, and as we trudged upward the walls on each side became higher and the avenue more narrow.

  At last, a hundred yards ahead, cold in the morning light, I saw the palace, actually a rounded fortress of brick, black, heavy, unadorned, formidable. At the entrance to the palace the sombre, wet avenue shrunk to a passage large enough only for a single man, and the walls at the same time rose to a height of perhaps thirty feet.

  The entrance itself was nothing more than a small, simple iron door, perhaps eighteen inches in width, perhaps five feet in height. Only one man could come or go at a time from the palace of Tharna. It was a far cry from the broad- portaled central cylinders of many of the Gorean cities, through which a brace of golden-harnessed tharlarions might be driven with ease. I wondered if within this stern, brutal fortress, this palace of the Tatrix of Tharna, justice could be done.

  The guardsman motioned to the door, and stepped behind me. I was facing the door, first in the narrow passage.

  'We do not enter,' said the guardsman. 'Only you and Ost.'

  I turned to regard them, and three spears dropped level with my chest.

  There was a sound of sliding bolts and the iron door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness within.

  'Enter,' commanded the guardsman.

  I glanced once more at the spears, smiled grimly at the guardsman, turned and, lowering my head, entered the small door.

  Suddenly I cried out in alarm, pawing at nothing, hurtling downward. I heard Ost scream with surprise and terror as he was shoved through the door behind me.

  Some twenty feet below the level of the door, in the absolute darkness, with brutal impact, I struck bottom, a stone floor covered with wet straw. Ost's body struck mine almost at the same time. I fought for breath. My vision seemed ringed with gold and purple specks. I was dimly conscious of being seized by the mouth of some large animal and being tugged through a round tunnel-like opening. I tried to struggle, but it was useless. My breath had been driven from me, the tunnel allowed me no room to move. I smelled the wet fur of the animal, a rodent of some kind, the smells of its den, the soiled straw. I was aware, far off, of Ost's hysterical screams.

  For some time the animal, moving backwards, its prey seized in its jaws, scrambled through the tunnel. It dragged me in a series of quick, vicious jerks through the tunnel, scraping me on its stone walls, lacerating me, ripping my tunic.

  At last it dragged me into a round, globelike space, lit by two torches in iron racks, which were set into the fitted stone walls. I heard a voice of command, loud, harsh. The animal squealed in displeasure. I heard the crack of a whip and the same command, more forcibly uttered. Reluctantly
the animal released its grip and backed away, crouching down, watching me with its long, oblique blazing eyes, like slits of molten gold in the torchlight.

  It was a giant urt, fat, sleek and white; it bared its three rows of needlelike white teeth at me and squealed in anger; two horns, tusks like flat crescents curved from its jaw; another two horns, similar to the first, modifications of the bony tissue forming the uper ridge of the eye socket, protruded over those gleaming eyes that seemed to feast themselves upon me, as if waiting the permission of the keeper to hurl itself on its feeding trough. Its fat body trembled with anticipation.

  The whip cracked again, and another command was uttered, and the animal, its long hairless tail lashing in frustration, slunk into another tunnel. An iron gate, consisting of bars, fell behind it.

  Several pairs of strong hands seized me, and I caught a glimpse of a heavy, curved, silverish object. I tried to rise but was pressed down, my face to the stone. A heavy object, thick as a hinged beam, was thrust beneath and over my throat. My wrists were held in position, and the device closed on my throat and wrists. With a sinking sensation I heard the snap of a heavy lock.

  '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.

  Chapter Eleven LARA, TATRIX OF THARNA

  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.'