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

by Marauders of Gor [lit]

done for them, much as he could buy thralls to do his farming. It was not

  regarded as dignified for a warrior to be too expert with letters, such being a

  task beneath warriors. To have a scribe's skills would tend to embarrass a man

  of arms, and tend to lower his prestige among his peers. Many of the north,

  then, were rather proud of their illiteracy, or seml-illiteracy. It was expected

  ofthem. It honored them. His tools were not the pen and parchment, but the

  sword, the bow, the ax and spear. Besides simple runes, the boy in the north is

  also taught tallying, counting, addition and subtraction, for such may be of use

  in trading or on the farm. He is also taught weighing. Much of his education, of

  course, consists in being taken into a house, and taught arms, hunting and the

  sea. He profits, too, from the sagas, which the skalds sing, journeying from

  hall to hall. In the fest-season of Odin a fine skald is difficult to bring to

  one's hall. One rnust bid high. Sometimes they are kidnapped, and, after the

  season's singing, given much gold and freed. I had not, of course, intended to

  insult the Forkbeard. "There is one sign here, of course," said the Forkbeard,

  "which any fool might read." He pointed to the sign. I had seen it frequently in

  the writings. Naturally, I could not read it. "What does it say?" I asked. "Do

  you truly not know?" he asked. "No," I said, "I do not know." He turned away,

  and, again, I followed him. We lit new torches from the wall rings and discarded

  our old ones. We then continued on our journey. Now, to one side and the other,

  we passed opened chests, in which we could see treasures, the spillings and

  tangles of coins and jewelries, rings, bracelets. We came then to a great arch,

  which marked the entrance to a vast room, lost in darkness beyond the flickering

  spheres of our uplifted torches. We stopped. Over the arch, deeply incised in

  the stone was the single, mighty sign, that which the Forkbeard had not

  explained to me. We stood in silence, in that dark, lofty threshold. The

  Forkbeard was trembling. I had never seen him so. The hair on the back of my

  neck lifted, short, stiff. I felt cold. I knew, of course, the legends. He

  lifted his torch, to the sign over the door. "Do you not know that sign?" he

  asked. "I know what sign it must be," I said. "What sign?" asked he. "The sign,

  the name-sign, of Torvald." "Yes," said he. I shuddered. "Torvald," I said to

  the Forkbeard, "is only a figure of legend. Each country has its legendary

  heroes, its founders, its discoverers, its mythic giants." "This," said the

  Forkbeard, looking up at the sign, "is the chamber of Torvald." He looked at me.

  "We have found it," he said. "There is no Torvald," I said. "Torvald does not

  exist." "This," said the Forkbeard, "is his chamber." His voice shook.

  "Torvald," said he, "sleeps in the Torvaldsberg, and has done so for a thousand

  years. He waits to be wakened. When his land needs him, he shall awake. He shall

  then lead us in battle. Again he will lead the men of the north." "There is no

  Torvald," I said. The Forkbeard looked within. "For a thousand years," he

  whispered, "has he slept." "Torvald does not exist," I said. "We must waken

  him," said the Forkbeard. Ivar Forkbeard, lifting his torch, entered the great

  chamber. I felt grief. It seemed to me not impossible that, at the root of the

  legends, the sagas, of Torvald, there might be some particles of truth. I did

  not think it impossible that there had once been a Torvald, one who had come to

  this land, with followers perhaps, more than a thousand years ago. He might have

  been a great leader, a mighty warrior, the first of the jarls of the north, but

  that had been, if it had ever been, more than a thousand years ago. There was

  now no Torvald. I felt grief at what misery, what disappoint ment, what

  disillusionment must now fall to my friend, the Forkbeard. In his hope to find

  one strong enough to stand against Kurii, one who could rally the men of the

  north, he was bound to be disillusioned. The myth, that dream of succor, of

  final recourse, would be shown barren, fraudulent. This chamber, I knew, had

  been built by men, and the passages carved from the very stone of the mountain

  itself. That must be accounted for. But it was not difficult to do so Perhaps

  there had once been a Torvald, hundreds of years ago. If so, it was not

  impossible that it had been his wish to be interred in the great mountain. We

  stood, perhaps, within, or at the brink, of the tomb of Torvald, lost for long

  ages until now, until we two, fleeing from Kurii, from beasts, had stumbled upon

  it. Perhaps it was true that Torvald had been buried in the Torvaldsberg, and

  that the tomb, the funeral chamber, had been concealed, to protect it from the

  curious or from robbers. And, in such a case, legends might well have arisen,

  legends in which the mystery of the lost tomb might figure. These would have

  spread from village to village, from remote farm to remote farm, from hall to

  hall. One such legend, quite naturally, might have been that Torvald, the great

  Torvald, was not truly dead, but only asleep, and would waken when once again

  his land had need of him. "Wait!" I called to the Forkbeard. But he had entered

  the chamber, torch high, moving quickly. I followed him, swiftly, tears in my

  eyes. When he looked down, torch lifted, upon the bones and fragile cloths of

  what had once been a hero, when the myth had been shattered, the crystal of its

  dream beneath the iron of reality, I wanted to stand near him. I would not speak

  to him. But I would stand behind him, and near him. The Forkbeard stood at the

  side of the great stone couch, which was covered with black fur. At the foot of

  the couch were weapons; at its head, hanging on the wall, under a great shield,

  were two spears, crossed under it, and, to one side, a mighty sword in its

  scabbard. Near the head of the couch, on our left, as we looked upon the couch,

  was, on a stone platform, a large helmet, horned. The Forkbeard looked at me.

  The couch was empty. He did not speak. He sat down on the edge of the couch, on

  the black fur, and put his head in his hands. His torch lay on the floor, and,

  after some time, burned itself out. The Forkbeard did not move. The men of

  Torvaldsland, unlike most Gorean men, do not permit themselves tears. It is not

  cultural for them to weep. But I heard him sob once. I did not, of course, let

  him know that I had heard this sound. I would not shame him. "We have lost," he

  said, finally, "Red Hair. We have lost." I had lit another torch, and was

  examining the chamber. The body of Torvald, I conjectured, had not been buried

  in this place. It did not seem likely that robbers would have taken the body,

  and left the various treasures about. Nothing, it seemed, had been disturbed.

  Torvald, I conjectured, doubtless as cunning and wise as the legends had made

  him out, had not elected to have himself interred in his own tomb. It was empty.

  The wiliness, the cunning, of a man who had lived more than a thousand years ago

  made itself felt in its effects a millennium later, in this strange place, deep

  within the living stone of a great mountain in a bleak country. "Where is

  Torvald?" cried out Ivar Forkbeard. I shrugged. "There is no T
orvald," said the

  Forkbeard. "Torvald does not exist." I made no attempt to answer the Forkbeard.

  "The bones of Torvald," said the Forkbeard, "even the bones of Torvald are not

  here." "Torvald was a great captain," I said. "Perhaps he-was burned in his

  ship, which you have told me was called Black Shark." I looked about. "It is

  strange though," I said, "if that were the case, why this tomb would have been

  built." "This is not a tomb," said Ivar Forkbeard. I regarded him. "This is a

  sleeping chamber," he said. "There are no bones of animals here, or of thralls,

  or urns, or the remains of foodstuffs, offerings." He looked about. "Why," he

  asked me, "would Torvald have had carved in the Torvaldsberg a sleeping

  chamber?" "That men might come to the Torvaldsberg to waken him," I said. Ivar

  Forkbeard looked at me. From among the weapons at the foot of the couch, from

  one of the cylindrical quivers, still of the sort carried in Torvaldsland, I

  drew forth a long, dark arrow. It was more than a yard long. Its shaft was

  almost an inch thick with iron, barbed. Its feathers were five inches long, set

  in the shaft on three sides, feathers of the black-tipped coasting gull, a

  broad-winged bird, with black tips on its wings and tail feathers, similar to

  the Vosk gull. I lifted the arrow. "What is this?" I asked the Forkbeard. "It is

  a war arrow," he said. "And what sign is this, carved on its side?' I asked.

  "The sign of Torvald," he whispered. "Why do you think this arrow is in this

  place?" I asked. "That men might find it?" he asked. "I think so," I said. He

  reached out and put his hand on the arrow. He took it from me. "Send the war

  arrow," I said. The Forkbeard looked down on the arrow. "I think," I said, "I

  begin to understand the meaning of a man who lived more than a thousand winters

  ago. This man, call him Torvald, built within a mountain a chamber for sleep, in

  which he would not sleep, but to which men would come to waken him. Here they

  would find not Torvald, but themselves, themselves, Ivar, alone, and an arrow of

  war." "I do not understand," said Ivar. "I think," I said,'that Torvald was a

  great and a wise man. Ivar looked at me. 'In building this chamber," I said, "it

  was not the intention of Torvald that it should be he who was awakened within

  it, but rather those who came to seek hirn." "The chamber is empty," said Ivar.

  "No," I said, "we are within it." I put my hand to his shoulder. "It is not

  Torvald who must awaken in this chamber. Rather it is we. Here, hoping for

  others to do our work, we find only ourselves, and an arrow of war. Is this not

  Torvald's way of telling us, from a thousand years ago, that it is we on whom we

  must depend, and not on any other. If the land is to be saved, it is by us, and

  others like us, that lt must be saved. There are no spells, no gods, no heroes

  to save us. In this chamber, it is not Torvald who must awaken It is you and I."

  I regarded the Forkbeard evenly. "Lift,' said I, "the arrow of war." I stood

  back from the couch, my torch raised. Slowly, his visage terrible, the Forkbeard

  lifted his arm, the arrow in his fist. I am not even of Torvaldsland, but it was

  I who was present when the arrow of war was lifted, at the side of the couch of

  Torvald, deep within the living stone of the Torvaldsberg. Then the Forkbeard

  thrust the arrow in his belt. He crouched down, at the foot of the couch of

  Torvald. He sorted through the weapons there. He selected two spears, handing me

  one. "We have two Kurii to kill," he said. Chapter 17 Torvaldslanders visit the

  camp of Kurii It was very quiet. The men did not speak. Below us, in the valley,

  spread out for more than ten pasangs we saw the encampment of Kurii. At the feet

  of Ivar Forkbeard, head to the ground, nude, waiting to be commanded, knelt

  Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar. "Go," said Ivar to her. She

  lifted her head to him. "May I not have one last kiss, my Jarl?" she whispered.

  "Go," said he. "If you live, you will be more than kissed." "Yes, my Jarl," she

  said, and, obediently, slipped away into the darkness. The ax I carried was

  bloodied. It had tasted the blood of a Kur guard. We stood downwind of the

  encampment. Not far from me was Svein Blue Tooth. He stood, not moving. It was

  cold. I could see the outline of his helmet, the rim of the shield, the spear,

  dark against darkness. Near us, behind us, stood Gorm, Ottar and Rollo, and

  others of Forkbeard's Landfall. It was some Ehn before the Gorean dawn. On a

  distant world, lit by the same star, at a comparable time, men turned in their

  beds, mercury vapor lamps burned, lonely, heavy lorries rumbled down streets,

  keeping their delivery schedules, parts of yesterday's newspapers fluttered down

  lonely sidewalks. With us stood Bjarni of Thorstein Camp, and with him he who

  had in the formal duel carried his shield. At Bjarni's shoulder, too, stood the

  young man, scarcely more than a boy, whom he had in that duel intended to fight.

  With the boy, too, was his friend, who would have carried the shield for him.

  The war arrow had been carried. It had been carried to the Inlet of Green

  Cliffs, to Thorstein Camp, from Ax Glacier to Einar's Skerry; it had been

  carried to the high farms, to the lakes, to the coast; it had been carried on

  foot and by swift ship; a thousand arrows, each touched to the arrow of Torvald,

  had been carried, and where the arrow had been carried, men had touched it,

  saying "I will come." They came. Captains and rovers, farmers, fishermen,

  hunters, weavers of nets, smiths, carvers of wood, tradesmen and traders, men

  with little more than leather and an ax to their name, and jarls in purple

  cloaks, with golden pommels on their swords. And among them stood, too, thralls.

  Their heads were not lower than those with whom they stood. Among them was the

  lad called Tarsk, formerly Wulfstan of Kassau, to whom Thyri had once been given

  for the night. In the night of the attack he, at the Forkbeard's encampment near

  the thing field, with an ax, had slain a Kur. I remembered finding the carcass

  of the animal beneath the fallen, half-burned canvas of the Forkbeard's tent.

  Thralls are not permitted to touch the war arrow, but they are permitted to

  kneel to those who have. Wulfstan had handed the Forkbeard the ax, disarming

  himself, and had then knelt before him, putting his head to his feet. Thralls

  may be slain for so much as touching a weapon. He had taken dirt from beneath

  the feet of the Forkbeard and, kneeling, had poured it on his head. "Rise,

  Thrall," had said the Forkbeard. The young man had then stood, and straightly,

  head high, before the Forkbeard. The Forkbeard threw him back the ax. "Carry

  it," said the Forkbeard. On another world, lit by the same star, in another

  place, dawn, too, drew near. The distant light in the great cities, unknowing,

  soon to be occupied with the concerns of their days, piercing the haze of daily,

  customary poisons, first struck the heights of the lofty buildings, reflecting

  from the rectangular windows, like sheets of burnished copper reflecting the

  fire of the sun. Men would soon be up and about their duties, hurrying from one

  nothing to another, to compromises, to banal degradations, anxious lest they

  fail to be
on time. They would not care for the blackened grass growing between

  the bricks; they would take no note of the spider's architecture, nor marvel at

  the flight of a wren darting to its nest among the smoke-blackened, carved

  stones. There would be no time. There would be no time for them, no time for

  seeing, or feeling, or touching, or loving or finding out what it might be to be

  alive. Clouds would be strangers to them; rain an inconvenience; snow a

  nuisance; a tree an anachronism; a flower an oddity, cut and frozen in a

  florist's refrigerator. These were the men without meaning, so full and so

  empty, so crowded, so desolate, so busy, so needlessly occupied. These were the

  gray men, the hurrying men, the efficient, smug, tragic insects, noiseless on

  soft feet, in the billion iron hills of technology. How few of them gazed ever

  on the stars. Is grandeur so fearful that men must shield themselves with

  pettiness from its glory; do they not understand that in themselves, and in

  perhaps a thousand other intelligences, reality has opene,el its eyes upon its

  own immensity; do they shut their eyes lest they see gods? We could see now a

  glimmer of light on the peak of the Torvaldsberg. I wondered how many men would

  die. I wondered if I myself, this morning, in Torvaldsland, in bleak light,

  would die. I gripped the ax. It had good weight. The balance was apt. Across the

  valley, there were others, men, waiting, too. The signal would be a shield

  signal, taking the morning sun, a flash, and then the attack. Hundreds of war

  cries would be mingled as men poured down the slopes. There were men here, too,

  even from Hunjer, Sjkern, Helmutsport and Scagnar itself, on whose cliffs

  Thorgard's fortress ruled. Never before, to my knowledge, had men attacked

  Kurii. I gazed at the giant, Rollo. His eyes seemed vacant. He stood as a child,

  with his great ax. About his neck was a golden medallion. His chest was bare,

  beneath a leather vest. Svein Blue Tooth fingered the tooth of the Hunjer whale,

  dyed blue, on its chain about his neck. He was a good jarl. He had been the

  third, after Ivar Forkbeard and Tarl Cabot a warrior of Ko-ro-ba, to lift the

  arrow of Torvald. Not far away from him was even Ketil, of his high farm, the

  wrestler whose arm I had broken. It was splinted with a third of a spear shaft.