Norman, John - Gor 09 - Marauders of Gor.txt

by Marauders of Gor [lit]

  took to the mountain. It was sufficiently unwise to follow me. I chose, and cut,

  a path which it might follow, to the last twenty feet; for the last twenty feet

  I cut shallow holds in the surface, adequate for a man, climbing carefully, but

  too shallow for the fingers of a Kur." Below us I heard a snarl of frustration.

  "As a boy, thus," said Ivar, "I slew my first Kur." He rose to his feet. He went

  to a corner of the ledge where, heaped, there were several large stones. "The

  stones I then gathered are still here," he said. "I found several on the ledge,

  some I found higher." I did not envy the Kur below. I looked over the edge. "It

  is still climbing," I whispered. I drew my sword. It would not be difficult to

  prevent the animal from reaching the ledge by any direct route. "It is stupid,"

  said the Forkbeard. Behind the first Kur, some feet below, was a second. Two

  others were far down the slope, where it was less sheer. The two closest to us

  had left their weapons below, with the others. The first Kur was some eight or

  ten feet below us when, suddenly, it slipped on the rock and, with a wild

  shriek, scratching at the stone, slid some four feet downward and then plunged

  backward, turning in the air, howling, and, some five Ihn later, struck the

  rocks far below. "The hand holds," said Ivar, "were not cut to be deep enough to

  support the weight of a Kur." The second Kur was some twenty-five feet below. It

  looked up, snarling. The rock hurled by Ivar struck it from the almost vertical

  wall of stone. It, like its confrere, fell to the rocks below. The trap, laid

  for an enemy by a boy of Torvaldsland many years ago, was still effective. I

  admired Ivar Forkbeard. Even in his youth he had been resourceful, cunning. Even

  as a boy he had been a dangerous foe, in guile and wit the match even for an

  adult Kur. The other two Kurii crouched below on the slopes, looking up. They

  carried their shields, their axes, on their back They made no attempt to

  approach us. Our position was not, now, a desirable one. We were isolated on a

  ledge. Here there was not food nor water. We could, with some climbing, obtain

  ice or snow, but there was no food. In time we would weaken, be unable to climb

  well. As hunters Kurii were patient beasts. If these had fed well before taking

  up our pursuit, they would not need food for days. I had little doubt they had

  fed well. There had been much available meat. There was little possibility of

  leaving the ledge undetected. Kurii have superb night vision. Furthermore, it

  would be extremely dangerous to attempt to move on the Torvaldsberg in the

  night; it was extremely dangerous even in full daylight. I rubbed my hands

  together, and blew on them. My feet too, were cold. The sweat in my shirt, now

  that I was not climbing, was frozen. The shirt was stiff, cold. In the night on

  the Torvaldsberg, even in the middle of the summer, without warm garments, a man

  might freeze. The wind then began to rise, sweeping the ledge. From where we

  stood we could see the black ruins of Svein Blue Tooth's hall and holdings, the

  desolated thing fields, the sea, Thassa, with the ships at the beach. I looked

  at the Forkbeard. "Let us continue our journey," he said. "Let us descend and

  meet the Kurii, while we still have strength," I said. "Let us continue our

  journey," he said. Moving carefully, he began to climb. I followed him. After

  perhaps half an Ahn, I looked back. The two Kurii, by a parallel route, were

  following. That night on the Torvaldsberg we did not freeze. We huddled on a

  ledge, between rocks, sheltered from the wind, shivering with cold, miserable,

  listening for Kurii. But they did not approach. We had chosen our ledge well.

  Twice rocks rained down to the ledge, but we were protected by an overhang.

  "Would you like to hear me sing?" asked Ivar. "Yes," I said, "it might drive the

  Kurii away." Undeterred by my sarcasm, brilliant though it was, Ivar broke into

  song. He knew, it seemed, a great many songs. No more rocks rained down to the

  ledge. "Song, you see," said Ivar, "soothes even Kurii." "More likely," I said,

  "they have withdrawn from earshot." "You jest delightfully," acknowledged the

  Forkbeard, "I had not thought it in you. "Yes," I admitted. "I will teach you a

  song," he said, "and we shall sing lt together." The song dealt with the

  problems of a man attempting to content one hundred bond-maids, one after the

  other, it is rather repetitious, and the number of bondmaids decreases by one in

  each round. Needless to say, it is a song which is not swiftly dispatched. I

  have, incidentally, a very fine singing voice. In singing, we little noticed the

  cold. Yet, toward dawn, we took turns napping. "We will need our strength," said

  the Forkbeard. How marvelous in the morning seemed the sun. "If the Kurii are

  above us," I said, recalling the rain of stones, "is this not out opportunity to

  descend?" "Kurii corner their pray," said the Forkbeard. "In the light, they

  will be below us. They will wish to keep between us and escape. Further, we

  would have little opportunity to escape, even if they were above us. The descent

  is difficult." I recalled the two Kurii, precariously clinging to the wall of

  rock, one of which had fallen attempting to reach us, the other of which Ivar

  had struck from the wall with a heavy stone. I shuddered. "There they are," said

  Ivar, looking over the brink. He waved to them. Then he turned, cheerily, to me.

  "Let us continue our journey," he said. "You speak," I said, "as though you had

  some objective." "I do," said the Forkbeard. Again we began climbing. Not long

  after we had again taken to the rocks, we heard and saw the Kurii, some two

  hundred feet below and to one side, following us. It was shortly after the tenth

  hour, the Gorean noon, that we reached the peak of the Torvaldsberg. Although

  there is much snow on the heights of the Torvaldsberg, there were also, on the

  peak, many areas of bare rock, swept by the wind which, on the peak, seems

  almost constant. I crossed a patch of snow, ankle deep, crusted, to ascend a

  snow-free, rounded rock. I cannot express the beauty of the view from the

  Torvaldsberg. I have climbed it, I thought. And I am here. There had been

  danger, there had been the struggle, the challenge, and then, here, suddenly,

  torturously purchased, humbling me, exalting me, was a victory which I felt was

  not mine so much as that of a world, that of vision, that of beauty. I had not

  conquered a mountain; the mountain when I had paid its price, that I might

  understand the value of the gift, had lifted me to where I might see how

  insignificant I was and how beautiful and precious was reality and life, and the

  sun on a bleak, cold land. Ivar stood beside me, not speaking. "You were here

  once," I said, "as a boy." "Yes," said Ivar. "I have never forgotten it." "Did

  you come here to die?" I asked. "No," he said. "But I have been unable to find

  it." I looked at him, puzzled. "I could not find it before,"he said. "I cannot

  find it now." "What?" I asked. "It does not matter now,"he said. He turned

  about. Approaching were the two Kurii. We watched them. They, too,

  interestingly, stopped. They stood together, in the snow, looking out, over the

  world. Then they regarded us.
We loosened our weapons. The Kurii unslung their

  shields, their axes. We drew our swords. The Kurii fixed on their left arms the

  heavy, rounded iron shields, took the great axes, seven feet in length, grasped

  some two feet from the bottom of the handle, in their massive right fists. I had

  never thought much of it before, but Kurii, like men, were dominantly right

  handed. I conjectured then, that like men, the left hemisphere of their brains

  were dominant. Ivar and I leaped from the rock; the two Kurii, one to each of

  us, approached. Their ears were laid back; they we-re cautious; they leaned

  slightly forward, shambling, crouching. Priest-Kings, I recalled, regarded Kurii

  and men as rather equivalent species, similar products of similar processes of

  evolution, similar products of similarly cruel selections, though on worlds

  remote from one another. "Kur," I wondered, "are you my brother?" The great ax

  swept toward me. I rolled over it, hitting the snow, slipping. I tried to drive

  in to thrust with my blade. I slipped again. The ax fell where I had been. A

  piece of granite, shattered from the rock, stung me. I stumbled backward. The

  Kur, not hurrying, ax ready, stalked me. I saw its eyes over the shield, the ax

  light in its great fist. "Hah!" I cried, feinting as though to charge. The ax

  tensed, but did not swing. Then it snarled and drew back the ax, to the full

  length of its long arm. I knew the blade could not reach me in time. I charged.

  It was what the Kur desired. I had been outwitted. The heavy shield, with

  fantastic force, with a sidelong motion, a sweep, struck me, fending me away,

  hurtling me for forty feet through the air. I struck snow rolling, half-blinded.

  The ax fell again, shattering granite. I was on my feet. Again the shield struck

  me, like a hammer, the striking surface of which is more than a yard across

  Again I was hurled to one side. I stumbled to my feet. I could not move my left

  arm. I thought it broken. The shoulder was like wood. The ax swung again. I

  stumbled back. Crying out I lost my balance, turning, and plunged from the peak.

  I fell to a ledge twenty feet below. The ax, like a pendulum, swept down. I

  hugged the surface of the ledge. The ax swept past me. I saw, to my right, a

  small, dark opening, irregular, jagged, about a foot in width and height I

  leaped to my feet and ran to the brink of the edge. There was no descent. The

  lips of the Kur drew back, revealing the fangs. I saw Ivar, on the flat above,

  wild-eyed. "Ivarl" I cried. "Ivar!" I heard the blood shriek of an unseen Kur.

  Ivar turned and leaped to the ledge below, joining me. The two Kurii stood on

  the flat above, snarling. "Look!" I cried to him, indicating the opening. His

  eyes saw the opening. They glinted. I moved the fingers of my left hand. There

  was feeling. I did not know if the arm were broken or not. I thrust the sword

  into its scabbard. Ivar nodded. One of the Kurii, snarling, leaped to the ledge

  with us. I hurled a rock at it. The rock struck the shield, bounding with a

  clang away, down into the abyss. I thrust the Forkbeard toward the hole. He

  leaped to it, and squirmed through. The second Kur dropped to the ledge. I threw

  another rock, weightier than the first. It, too, with a sound of granite on

  metal, was fended away, this time by the shield of the second Kur. I leaped to

  the hole and forced my body through the opening. The Forkbeard caught my hand

  and dragged me inside. One of the long arms of a Kur thrust inside, reaching for

  us. The Forkbeard thrust at it with his sword but the blade was diverted, his

  arm striking against stone. The Kur withdrew its arm. We crawled back further in

  the tiny opening. Outside, we could see the heads of the two Kurii, peering

  within. Their tentacled paws felt the width of the opening. One of them thrust

  his head within and half a shoulder. The Forkbeard, sword poised, crawled to

  thrust at it. The Kur withdrew. Then, both of them squatted down, some feet out

  on the ledge. Kurii are patient hunters. They would wait. I rubbed my left arm

  and shoulder. I lifted the arm, and moved it. It was not broken. I had learned

  that the Kur shield could be as devastating a weapon as the war hammer of

  Hunjer. I wondered how many who had learned that had lived. I looked outside.

  The Kurii were waiting. "Come with me," said Ivar. His voice was excited. I

  turned to face him. I wondered how deep might be this little cave. I expected

  not more than twenty or thirty feet at most. On my hands and knees I crawled to

  join him. "Here," said Ivar. "On the wall!" He took my fingers and pressed them

  to the wall. I felt marks, rather vertical, with angular extensions. "You have

  found it!" he cried. "You have found it, Tarl Red Hair!" "I do not understand,"

  I said. "Follow me!" whispered Ivar Forkbeard. "Follow me!" Chapter 16 The war

  arrow Following the Forkbeard, on hands and knees, I crawled down the narrow

  passage, at one point turning to my left side to slide through a narrow

  aperture. Within this aperture, I extended my hands and then, carefully, hands

  held up feeling, I stood up. To one side I heard the Forkbeard fumbling about in

  the darkness. I heard the strike of two small pieces of iron pyrite on one

  another, taken from the Forkbeard's belt wallet, and saw a scattering of sparks.

  Then it was dark again. "There is cut moss against the edge," said the

  Forkbeard. There was another scattering of sparks . This time the sparks fell

  into a heap, one of several, each about five inches high and four inches wide,

  of miniscule, lacelike moss twigs. This tinder flared immediately into flame. In

  that instant I saw we were in a large, squared passage. I saw a torch in a ring,

  one of others. There was carving in the passage, rune letterings and

  pictographs, in linear borders Before the bit of flaring moss turned to a

  million red pin points the Forkbeard took one of the torches and thrust it to

  the moss. I saw that, near some of the patches of moss, were pieces of flint and

  steel, near others tiny piles of iron pyrites. I shivered. The Forkbeard lifted

  the torch. I, too, took a torch Neither of us spoke. The passage extended beyond

  us, disappearing in the darkness beyond the light of our torches. It was about

  eight feet in height and width. It was carved from the living rock. Along its

  edges, spaced some twelve feet from one another, on both sides, were torch

  rings, with unlit torches, which might be lit. The piles of tinder and flint and

  steel, or iron pyrites, lay now behind us, or to one side. I lifted the torch to

  the borders, running linearly down the chamber, disappearing into the darkness

  before us. The lettering was in the high, angular script of the north; the

  pictographs seemed primitive. "These are old runes," said Ivar. "Can you read

  them?" I asked. "No," said Ivar. My hair rose on the back of my neck. I looked

  at one of the pictographs. It was a man astride a quadruped. "Look," said I to

  the Forkbeard. "Interesting," said the Forkbeard. "It is a representation of a

  man riding a mythological beast, doubtless an illustration based upon some saga

  with which I am unfamiliar." He continued on. I lingered by the pictograph. I

  had seen nothing like it on Gor. "Follow me," said the Forkbeard. I left the
r />   pictograph to follow him. I wondered on the man who had carved it. It was indeed

  old, perhaps ancient. It was drawn by one who had been familiar with a world

  unknown to Ivar Forkbeard. There was no mistaking the quadruped on which the

  rider was mounted. It was a horse. The passage now enlarged. We felt lost in it.

  It was still squarish, some twenty feet in height and width. It was now much

  more decorated and carved than it had been, and, in the light of the torches, we

  could see that much color had been used in its decoration. Pictographs were much

  more numerous now, and, instead of being linearly bordered the walls were now

  decorated in columns of runes and designs, and pictographs. Torches, unlit, in

  wall rings, were still illuminated as we passed near them. Many of the columns

  carved, with painted surfaces, on the walls, reminded me of rune stones. These

  stones, incidentally, are normally quite colorful, and can often be seen at

  great distances. Each year their paint is freshened, commonly on the vigil of

  the vernal equinox, which, in the north, as commonly in the south marks the new

  year. Religious rune stones are repainted by rune-priests on the vigil of the

  fest-season of Odin, which on Gor, takes place in the fall. If the stones were

  not tended either by farmers on whose lands they lie, or by villagers in whose

  locales they lie, or by rune-priests, in a few years, the paint would be gone,

  leaving only the plain stone. The most famous rune stone in the north is that on

  Einar's Skerry, which marks the northland's southern border. "Can you not read

  these runes?" I asked Ivar, again "I am not a rune-priest," he said. Ivar's

  reply was not a little belligerent. I knew him able to read some rune markings.

  I gathered that these, perhaps because of antiquity or dialect, were beyond him.

  Ivar's attitude toward reading was not unlike that of many of the north. He had

  been taught some rune signs as a boy, that he could understand important stones,

  for in these stones were the names of mighty men and songs of their deeds, but

  it had not been expected of him that he would be in any sense a fluent reader.

  Ivar, like many of those in the north, was a passable reader, but took care to

  conceal this fact. He belonged to the class of men who could hire their reading