* * * *
The man lifted his hand, weakly, as though to fend a blow.
“Do not fear,” I told him.
“Are you not with them?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“They came,” he said, “as though from nowhere.”
“They emerged from covered pits,” I said, “dug near the road.”
“They were suddenly everywhere, all about us, crying out, with reddened blades,” he said, “and merciless. They were swift. We could not resist them. We are not soldiers. Then they were gone.”
“Are there any other survivors?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“There are others,” I said, looking over the road.
“Yes,” he said.
Free women had come to the road. They were now poking through the wreckage and ashes, moving bodies about, hunting for loot, or food. I did not think there would be much left for them.
The smell of smoke hung heavy in the still air.
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“An Ahn, perhaps two Ahn ago,” he said. “I do not know.” He sat wearily beside the road, his head in his hands.
“It was more likely two Ahn,” I said. There was little active fire now. Stalks of veminium broken beside the road had now dried.
Hurtha looked about, uneasily.
“I do not think any would be about now,” I said. “Their work here has been finished.”
“There are only the women now,” he said, bitterly.
“Yes,” I said. “Now there are only the women.”
I looked about myself. Had the terrain been properly scouted, had the wagons been properly guarded, this thing presumably could not have happened, or, surely, not in as devastating a fashion as this.
“Ar has struck,” said Hurtha, grimly.
“I do not think this is the work of the troops of Ar,” I said.
“But who else?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“But what troops?” he asked.
“This does not look to me like the work of regular troops,” I said. “Consider the wagons, the bodies.”
The wagons had not merely been burned, that their cargoes might be destroyed, but, clearly, had been ransacked. Wrappings, sackings and broken vessels lay strewn about. Several bodies, it seemed, had been hastily examined. Some had been stripped of articles of clothing. I had found none with their wallets intact. In some cases digits had been cut away, presumably to free rings.
“Mercenaries,” said Hurtha.
“It would seem so,” I said. It is difficult to control such men. Most commanders, in certain situations, will give them their head. Indeed, in certain circumstances the attempt to impose discipline upon them can be extremely dangerous. It is something like informing the hunting sleen, eager, hot from the chase, his jaws red with blood, that he should now relinquish his kill. It must be understood, of course, that the average mercenary looks upon loot as his perquisite. He regards it, so to speak, as a part of his pay. Indeed, the promise of loot is almost always one of the recruiter’s major inducements.
“Cosian mercenaries?” asked Hurtha.
“Who knows?” I said. It did not seem to me impossible that some of the mercenary troops with the Cosian army might have doubled back to strike at one of their own supply columns. Surely the paucity of protection provided for such columns would not have escaped their notice.
I looked at the women, poking about amidst the wreckage. It had not taken them long to arrive. I could see some others, too, coming now, from between the hills. Perhaps they had camps nearby. The wagons were in a long line, about a pasang long. Some, too, were off the road. Some were overturned. Most showed signs of fire. There were few tharlarion in evidence. Harnesses had been cut and they, it seems, had either been driven away or had wandered off. In one place there was a dead tharlarion, and the women, some crouching on it, were cutting it into pieces with knives, putting pieces of meat in their mouths, and hiding other pieces in their dresses.
“Jards,” said Hurtha, in disgust.
I shrugged. These women were of the peasants. They were not given to the niceties of civilized women. Too, they were doubtless starving.
“Jards!” said Hurtha.
“Even the jard desires to live,” I said.
“It is not unknown that such women come to the fields,” he said, “and even when not hungry.”
“That is true,” I said. Perhaps all women belonged in collars.
“We could probably follow the raiders,” he said.
“Probably,” I said. The trail was doubtless still fresh enough to permit this. One man, who knows what he is doing, can be extremely difficult to follow. It is extremely difficult, on the other hand, for a large group of men to cover their traces.
“Shall we do so?” asked Hurtha.
“Do you really wish to catch up with them?” I asked.
“I suppose not,” he said.
“It is not our business,” I said. “It is the business of those of Cos.”
Hurtha nodded.
“Perhaps you should signal Mincon,” I said.
Hurtha walked back to the top of a small rise in the road. From there he could look back to where we had left the wagon. I saw him standing there, on the crest. He lifted his ax and beckoned that the others might now join us.
“Are you all right?” I asked the fellow by the side of the road.
“Yes,” he said.
“Are you not hurt?” I asked.
“I hid,” he said. “I think no one saw me. I am sick. That is all. I am all right.”
“We have a wagon,” I told him. “You are welcome to ride with us to the next camp.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“You do not know who did this?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I saw the head of Mincon’s tharlarion come over the rise, moving about, on its long neck, scanning the road, and then, in a moment, the wagon. I advanced to meet it.
Boabissia sat white-faced on the wagon box. I recalled that she was not Alar by blood. Her makeshift gag still hung about her neck. “It is not necessary to look,” I told her.
“What went on here?” said Mincon.
“War,” said Hurtha.
“Who did this?” asked Mincon. “Those of Ar?”
“We do not know,” said Hurtha.
Feiqa looked sick. Even Tula, of the peasants, was pale.
“Slaves,” I said, “lie on your bellies in the wagon.” This would bring their heads below the sides of the wagon.
Boabissia looked at me.
“There is nothing we can do,” I said.
She nodded.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“If we had left this morning, with the others,” she whispered, “we would have been here.”
“Yes,” I said. “But we might have survived. Doubtless some have survived. There are usually survivors. Even now word has probably been brought to the contingents ahead on the road.”
“We would have been here,” she said.
“That is true,” I said.
I then went to the fellow whom we had found by the road and helped him to his feet.
“I would like for this fellow to sit on the wagon box, Boabissia,” I said. “Please sit in the back.”
Boabissia, saying nothing, crawled into the back of the wagon. She sat with her back against one side of the wagon bed.
I helped the fellow up to the wagon box. He was unsteady. I think he was in shock. I put a blanket about him.
“Shall we go?” asked Mincon.
“Yes,” I said.
We then began to thread our way among the burned wagons. Free women, now and then, as we passed, stopped to look up, and watch us. Twice Mincon, in rage, cracked his whip at them, and they fled back. But, in a moment, as I ascertained, looking back, they had returned to their labors.
9
Torcadino
“Riders,” said Mincon.
Hurtha and I, on foot beside the wagon, could not yet see them.
“It will be more Cosian cavalry,” said Hurtha.
I thought this was probably true. Raiders would not be likely to move so openly. Nonetheless, I loosened the blade in my sheath. Too, several contingents of cavalry had swept by us earlier in the evening.
Boabissia, now again on the wagon box, beside Mincon, looked down at Hurtha, frightened. He did not notice this, however. He was looking ahead, gripping his ax.
“Get under the blanket,” I said to Feiqa and Tula.
The wagons in our line slowed, and then stopped. A guard, nearby, on his tharlarion, stood in the stirrups.
“Who are they?” I asked Mincon.
“Cosian cavalry, I think,” he said.
We heard trumpet calls ahead of us. These calls, like passwords, are frequently changed.
“Yes,” said Mincon. “It seems they have the signs.”
We were now two days past the scene of the massacre. Last night we had drawn into our assigned wagon space in a fortified camp. It was the first in this march the Cosians had prepared, as far as I knew. Such camps, of course, are common with Gorean armed forces, set at march intervals. They are usually constructed rather along the following lines. A surrounding ditch, or perimeter ditch, is dug about the campsite. The earth from this ditch is piled behind the ditch, thus forming, with the ditch, a primitive wall. Sometimes, materials permitting, a palisade is erected at the height of this wall. More commonly, in temporary camps, it may be surmounted with brush or archers’ hurdles. The tents of commanders are usually placed on high ground near the center of the camp. This facilitates observation, defense, and communication.
I stood on the wheel of the wagon, my left foot on one of the spokes. “Yes,” I said. “I think so.” Hurtha was close to the side of the wagon. In a moment he would go behind it, or press himself against its side. I could now see the approaching riders. Too, one could now hear clearly the drumming of the approaching beasts. The force approaching us, it seemed, wore the blue of Cos. Too, it seemed their point riders flew the pennons of Cos on their lances. In a moment they would be sweeping past us, divided by the wagons like a stream in flight. I looked back into the wagon. Feiqa and Tula were on the floor of the wagon bed, their soft bodies on coarse sacking, which would leave its temporary print in their flesh, affording them some protection from the harsh planks of the wagon bed. They lay between sacks of grain, not moving, scarcely daring to breathe. They had drawn the dark blanket drawn over them. It would not do, I did not think, to display such goods to strong men. The female slave, sometimes considered nothing, supposedly, is yet in actuality valued commonly more highly than even gold, which, in its turn, is often valued for its capacity to buy such women, to bring them into your chains. No, I did not think it would do to display them. Both were the most excruciatingly desirable type of female in existence, both were the sort of female for whom men might kill, female slaves. I pulled at an edge of the blanket. It would not do for the curve of that delicious, branded flank, that of Feiqa, I believe, to suggest itself beneath the dark concealment of the heavy blanket.
In a moment, in a rush of bodies and blue, with the sound of weapons, the Cosian contingent had swept by. To one side, off the road, a Cosian guard, mounted, lifted his lance in salute. We had had such guards with the train within Ahn of the massacre. The wagons now, again, began to move.
“Tonight,” said Mincon, “we will be safe. Tonight we will be in Torcadino.”
Torcadino, on the flats of Serpeto, is a crossroads city. It is located at the intersection of various routes, the Genesian, connecting Brundisium and other coastal cities with the south, the Northern Salt Line and the Northern Silk Road, leading respectively west and north from the east and south, the Pilgrims’ Road, leading to the Sardar, and the Eastern Way, sometimes called the Treasure Road, which links the western cities with Ar. Supposedly Torcadino, with its strategic location, was an ally of Ar. I gathered, however, that it had, in recent weeks, shifted its allegiances. It is sometimes said that any city can fall behind the walls of which can be placed a tharlarion laden with gold. Perhaps, too, the councils of Torcadino, did not care to dispute their gates with forces as considerable as those which now surrounded them. The choice between riches and death is one that few men will ponder at length. Still I was surprised that Ar had not moved swiftly on behalf of her ally. Torcadino, as far as I knew, had been left at the mercy of the Cosian armies. The city was now used as a Cosian stronghold and staging area. Mincon, for example, after delivering his goods in Torcadino, was to return northward on the Genesian to Brundisium, where he was scheduled to pick up a new cargo. Certainly the movements of Cos seemed quite leisurely, particularly as it was late in the season. Mercenaries, as I may have mentioned, are often mustered out in the fall, to be recruited anew in the spring. To be sure, in these latitudes, cold though it might become, the red games of war need seldom be canceled.
“There are the aqueducts of Torcadino!” said Mincon.
“I see them,” I said. The natural wells of Torcadino, originally sufficing for a small population, had, more than a century ago, proved inadequate to furnish sufficient water for an expanding city. Two aqueducts now brought fresh water to Torcadino from more than a hundred pasangs away, one from the Issus, a northwestwardly flowing tributary to the Vosk and the other from springs in the Hills of Eteocles, southwest of Corcyrus. The remote termini of both aqueducts were defended by guard stations. The vicinities of the aqueducts themselves are usually patrolled and, of course, engineers and workmen attend regularly to their inspection and repair. These aqueducts are marvelous constructions, actually, having a pitch of as little as a hort for every pasang.
I pulled the blanket from the slaves. If there were to be inspections or halts before entering the gates of Torcadino it would be impossible to conceal them. Besides I enjoyed seeing them.
“How long will it take to reach the city?” asked Boabissia.
“The first wagons are doubtless near the gates now,” said Mincon.
In something like a half of an Ahn we had come to Torcadino’s Sun Gate. Many cities have a “Sun Gate.” It is called that because it is commonly opened at dawn and closed at dusk. Once a Gorean city closes its gates it is usually difficult to leave the city. They are seldom opened and closed to suit the convenience of private persons. Sometimes rogues and brigands, and even slavers, hang about the gates, seeking to trap late comers against the walls. Many a lovely woman has fallen to the slaver’s noose in just such a fashion. To be sure, a given gate, the “night gate,” is usually maintained somewhere, through which bona-fide citizens, known in the city, or capable of identifying themselves, may be admitted.
Two of the gate guards crawled into the wagon. Mincon presented his papers to the gate captain. “Mercenaries, from the north,” said Mincon to the captain, indicating Hurtha and myself. The captain nodded. “More come in each day,” he said. “They smell loot.”
“Who is this?” asked the captain, indicating Boabissia. He returned the papers to Mincon. They were apparently in order.
“I am an Alar woman,” said Boabissia.
“No,” said Hurtha. “She is only a woman who has been with the wagons of the Alars.”
Boabissia’s small hands clenched.
The captain removed a whip from his belt. He held it up for Boabissia to regard. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, uneasily. “It is a slave whip.”
“Is she a free woman?” asked the captain.
“Yes,” said Mincon.
“Yes,” said Hurtha.
In the back of the wagon Feiqa and Tula knelt small, trembling, their heads down to the coarse sacking covering the boards of the wagon bed. One of the guards took Feiqa’s head and pulled it up, and then bent her painfully backward, exposing brazenly, as is fully appropriate for slaves, the luscious bow of her owned beauty. He
then did the same for blond Tula. “Not bad,” he said.
“There are many such in Torcadino,” said the captain.
“Oh!” said Boabissia. He had, with the coiled whip, brushing it under her long skirt, lifted it up, over her knees, so that one could see the beginning of her thighs. “But there are not so many such as these,” he said.
“Oh!” suddenly said Feiqa, squirming helplessly. “Oh!” wept Tula, startled, her body helplessly leaping.
“Yes,” laughed one of the guards. “These are slaves.”
Boabissia looked in fear at the captain. But he replaced the whip at his belt. Swiftly she pulled down her skirt.
“No,” said the captain, regarding Boabissia, who looked straight ahead, terrified, the tiny metal disk on its thong about her throat, “there are not so many such as these, these days, free females, in Torcadino.” His men left the wagon. He then motioned that we might proceed. In a moment or two we had passed under the gate. Feiqa and Tula looked at one another, frightened. They had been handled as the slaves and goods they were.
“Why did you not protect me?” Boabissia asked Hurtha.
“Did you see how he looked at her?” Hurtha said to me.
“Certainly,” I said.
“Why did you not protect me from his insolence, Hurtha?” she demanded.
“Does Boabissia need protection?” asked Hurtha.
“Of course not!” she said.
“What are our finances?” asked Hurtha.
“We have very little,” I said.
“What are we to do?” asked Hurtha, concerned.
“I am sure I do not know,” I said.
“We can strip Boabissia and sell her,” said Hurtha.
“Hurtha!” cried Boabissia. It was indeed an idea, I thought.
“You saw the interest of the captain,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“She is not worth so much as the slaves,” said Hurtha, “but doubtless she would bring something.”
“We cannot sell her,” I said, upon reflection. “She is a free woman.”
“But if we sell her,” said Hurtha, “she would no longer be a free woman.”
Mercenaries of Gor Page 11