Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  I continued on my way.

  “More! More! I beg more! I beg more!” I heard a girl’s voice coming from one of the alcoves to my right. “Please, Master, do not stop! No! Do not stop! Please! I beg more! I beg more!” I heard the movement of chains, jerking helplessly against rings. “Please, Master!” she wept. “Please! Please! I am helpless! I am at your mercy! Please, Master, I beg it of you! Oh, yes, Master! Yes, Master! Yes! Yes! Yes! Aiiiii! Oh, thank you, Master, kind master! Ohhhh. Ohhhh. Oh. I am yours! You have made me yours! Buy me, I beg you. I want to love and serve you! Buy me, take me home with you! Own me! You have made me yours!” I then heard her breathing, and gasping, and a small movement of chains. “Master?” she asked, with a small movement of the chain. “Master? Oh, Master! You are going to do it to me again? No, sweet Master, I cannot prevent you. I must endure whatever you choose to impose upon me. You choose to make me again such a helpless, squirming, screaming thing, so much outside of myself, so helplessly at your pleasure? Do so, then, for I am a slave! Ah, Master, I see that I am again, whether I wish it or not, to be carried into the countries of my helplessness, that you have decided it, that you intend to again exploit these vulnerabilities so casually and inflexibly imposed upon me, and will exploit them mercilessly, that I am again, whether I wish it or not, to be forced to giddy heights I have perhaps not hitherto dreamed of, that I am now to be driven again to the brink of sanity, as though by whips, and perhaps beyond it, writhing helplessly, yours, in slave ecstasy. I sense it! I sense it! Do so, then. I cannot stop you. Nor do I wish to do so. I am a slave. I am yours. Do with me as you will. Begin, I beg you. Oh, yes, yes, Master!”

  I then continued again on my way.

  The tunnel became more winding. It did not, however, become roomier. One can tell the alcove numbers by feel, if one does not have a lamp. I now felt the number to my right. It was Twenty-Six. The next alcove would be Twenty-Seven. It would be ahead and to the left. The alcoves are staggered. I suppose this is primarily for the sake of privacy. This arrangement also, of course, tends to reduce the number of unexpected face-to-face encounters in the hall. Goreans are sometimes nervous about such things. I conjectured I must be quite deep in the tunnel. The rear entrance, or the entrance into a rear corridor, I did not think, should be too far beyond this point. Perhaps I could simply leave by the rear exit, without difficulty. That might be very nice. I stopped. I listened. I was patient. Then I heard it. It was not a loud sound at all, but it was unmistakable, the sound of the movement of a piece of metal on the stones. For such a sound I supposed there might be many explanations. One of them, of course, which I found especially fascinating, would be that of a knife carried in the hand of a fellow crawling in the tunnel.

  I continued crawling down the tunnel. “Cicek,” I said. “Where are you? Where are you, little Cicek?”

  “Hold,” said a voice.

  “Tal,” said I. “Did Cicek come this way? Did you see a slave come this way?”

  “One sees nothing down here,” growled the fellow.

  “Perhaps you felt her then,” I said. “That might have been pleasant.”

  “You are drunk,” he said.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “What does anyone do in the tunnels?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “Speak,” he said, menacingly.

  “To be honest, not much,” I said. “Are you sure that Cicek did not pass you.”

  “No one has passed me,” he said, a bit grimly, I thought.

  “Perhaps she went the other way?” I said.

  “Hold, who are you?” he asked.

  “I am called Bosk,” I said.

  “Is there anyone else in the tunnel?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Not in an alcove?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Where is he?” he asked.

  “He is ahead of you,” I said. That was certainly true. I was ahead of him.

  “Thank you, Citizen,” said he.

  “You are welcome,” I said. I then turned about and began to crawl back down the tunnel. “Cicek,” I called. “Where are you?” Fortunately none of the girls in the alcoves were named Cicek. Otherwise it might have been embarrassing.

  If there was no one at the other end of the tunnel, I supposed I might just as well go out through the front door.

  “Cicek,” I called.

  “Hold,” said another voice. This fellow sounded fully as grim as the last fellow. The voices were not those of fellows that one, or most folks, at any rate, would be likely to look forward to meeting in a dark alley, or, as the case might be, tunnel. I couldn’t see him any better than the other one, nor, I assume, could he see me.

  “Did a slave pass you in the tunnel?” I asked. “Cicek? She is not very big, but she is very nicely curved.”

  “No,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Bosk,” I said.

  “Have you seen anyone else in the tunnel?” he asked.

  “It is pretty hard to see anything in the tunnel,” I said.

  “Is there someone in the tunnel who is not in an alcove?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where is he?” he asked.

  “He is ahead of you,” I said. That is exactly where I was.

  “What is he doing?” asked the man.

  “He is just staying in one place,” I said. That is what I was doing at the time, of course, just staying in one place.

  “I thought so,” said the fellow, decisively. “Thank you, Citizen.”

  “That is all right,” I said. “You are sure you have not seen Cicek?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Maybe she is in the other direction,” I said. I turned about and started down the tunnel.

  “Enter an alcove,” said the man. “Keep the tunnel clear.”

  “Do you know a good one?” I asked.

  “Move,” he said.

  “Very well,” I said. I saw no point in being disagreeable. They were all probably nice enough.

  I moved back down the tunnel. I was reasonably well pleased. As far as I could tell there were only two of them, one at each end of the tunnel. They were two in number doubtless to spring a trap in a tunnel. The invitation had been to the Tunnels. They might have assumed, thus, that I, sooner or later, from curiosity, or, perhaps growing wary, and attempting to escape, would enter one of them. Too, surely they would not wish to wait until morning to locate their quarry. I no longer found it judicious to speculate that their intent was merely to make polite contact and transmit information. I suspected somewhat more serious things were on their minds. As I had not emerged from the tunnel, or tried to emerge from it, they would assume that I was waiting within it. They would also assume, presumably, and I had encouraged them in this belief, that their quarry might be in the tunnel and not in an alcove. In a tunnel he might swiftly move in whatever direction seemed opposite danger. In an alcove, it might seem he could be too easily trapped. Actually, of course, given the structure of the alcoves, as I had determined it, it could be extremely dangerous to attempt to enter it if it were defended. Indeed, one would only have to stay there until morning, at which time, presumably, they would feel obliged to make away. The fellow I had left behind me was probably the leader. Presumably he would wish to signal his fellow down the corridor in some way. I heard, in a few Ehn, a soft whistle behind me. It carried well in the tunnel. It was answered, momentarily, by another soft whistle, ahead of me. I moved ahead. I felt the alcove numbers. There was another whistle behind me, closer now. The answering whistle, however, was still rather toward the end of the tunnel. The fellow there, not the leader, it seemed, was less eager to move forward into the darkness. I, for one, did not blame him. I had then come again to the area of Alcove Twenty-Six. It was well down the tunnel. I had felt it before. I thrust back the curtain. “Master?” I heard, within, and a sound of chain. I then again closed the
curtain. I moved to the next alcove. That was Twenty-Seven, on the left. I moved back the curtain. I heard nothing within. This one, I thought, would do nicely. I then entered the alcove. I then listened to the whistles approaching more closely. It is normal practice, in a situation of this sort, to separate the enemies, meeting first one, and then the other, substituting two one-to-one conflicts, so to speak, for one two-to-one conflict. This works best, of course, when one can see what one is doing. Too often, darkness neutralizes skill; too often chance thrives in darkness. There are, of course, tactics for fighting in the darkness, such as misdirection, the casting of pebbles to encourage an opponent to make a move, the use of back kicks, giving extension to one’s striking capacity while providing a minimum exposure of vital areas, the attempt to lure a blow from a distance, with full-arm knife probes, to encourage an opponent to lunge and overextend himself, and so on, but, in the true darkness, very different from what commonly passes as “night fighting,” there is probably no really satisfactory way to reduce risk levels to tolerable limits. I prefer to avoid it. Accordingly, in entering the tunnel I had determined, from the beginning, in the event it was unlighted, that I would prefer to arrange matters in such a way that the considerable risks involved be taken by the other fellows. I myself did not care for the odds.

  I stuck my head out of the alcove. “Who is there?” I called, as though alarmed. “Is there anyone there? Who is it!”

  I then heard another whistle, from my right, toward the entrance to the tunnel. This was answered by one from my left, toward the end of the tunnel. There was then another insistent whistle from my right. It was no closer. The whistle from my left, then, was a bit closer. This was what I had hoped for. They would hope to coordinate their efforts, to take me between them, at the same time.

  “Who is there?” I called again, once more as though alarmed.

  “Do not fear,” called a voice, from the right. “We mean you no harm. Are you Tarl, of Port Kar?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am he!”

  “We have a message for you,” said the voice.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Remain where you are,” said the voice. “We will bring you the message.”

  “You are certain that you mean well?” I inquired.

  “Yes, yes,” said the fellow to the right, soothingly. I could now hear the small sound of the metal, presumably a knife, on the stones, coming from my left. Did they really think I would believe that two fellows were needed to deliver a message?

  “I am not certain of that,” I said.

  “Do not be alarmed,” said the fellow to the right.

  “You have a message for me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said the fellow to the right.

  “I am drawing my sword,” I said. I then withdrew the blade from the sheath a good deal more noisily than was necessary. I did not want them to mistake the sound. I thought that that would give them something to think about. I wanted them to be somewhat alarmed. Then, when I sheathed it, they might be inclined to act more swiftly, more precipitately.

  “We are friends,” said the fellow to the right, in the darkness.

  In their intentness, in their hunt, in the darkness, I did not think they would be keeping track of the alcoves. They would, in any case, have had to feel carefully for them. They would be thinking, I expected, only in terms of the tunnel and its walls. I had, further, led them to believe that I was in the tunnel itself. Too, surely this would seem reasonable to them. I had further confirmed this suspicion by the drawing of the blade. Presumably such a draw would not take place in the close quarters of an alcove, where there was little room for its wielding. To be sure, there was not much room in the tunnel either, though thrusting could surely be dangerous. With the sword drawn I did not think either would care to be the first to make contact with me. With it sheathed both, for all I knew, and particularly the fellow on the right, might be eager to make the first strike.

  “Sheath your sword,” said the fellow on the right.

  “No,” I said.

  “We will then not deliver the message,” he said.

  “Very well,” I said.

  “But we must deliver it,” he said. “It is a matter of life and death.”

  “That sounds serious,” I granted him.

  “It is,” he assured me.

  “From whom does this message come?” I asked.

  “From the regent himself,” said the fellow.

  “I see,” I said.

  I doubted, personally, that the regent would be sending me messages, and, if so, that he would be doing it in this fashion. I was prepared to believe, however, that the business to which these fellows were about might have its origins in individuals close to the regent. Their mention of the regent, of course, convinced me that they were not common assailants, after a purse. Run-of-the-mill brigands would surely refrain from allusions so dubious and exalted, allusions so incredible that they would be sure to put a normal fellow on his guard.

  “How may we convince you of our good intentions?” he asked. I heard him come a foot or so closer.

  “I would consider that to be your problem,” I said. “Not mine.” I heard the fellow on the left come a little closer. “Are you armed?” I asked.

  “We will slide our knives, sheathed, along the tunnel floor,” said the fellow at the right. “That way you will know we come in peace.”

  “Excellent,” I said.

  In a moment two objects, presumably sheaths, though I doubted from the sound they contained knives, with some buckles and straps, came sliding along the tunnel floor, one from the right, the other from the left. I judged the two fellows to be about equidistant, each about ten feet away. They had a good idea of my approximate location, it seemed, from my voice.

  “I am convinced,” I announced. Actually I was not quite candid in this announcement.

  “Sheath your sword,” said the fellow on the right. I heard them both coming a little closer.

  “There,” I said, thrusting the blade back in the sheath. I then drew my head back. “Where is the message?” I asked.

  “Here!” I heard, from the right, this cry coupled with the rush forward of a body in the darkness.

  “Die!” I heard, from the left, with the sound of another rapidly moving body.

  I then heard some very ugly noises in the tunnel outside the entrance to the alcove. I was within the alcove, my quiva in hand. If anyone tried to enter these limited quarters, it would be quite easy in the darkness, he in such an exposed position, to cut fiercely at the head and neck.

  I listened.

  There was not much noise outside. I could hear some gasping, and also some coughing, and spitting. Someone’s lungs seemed to be clutching at breath. Not very successfully, it seemed. From the sound of the coughing, that of the other fellow I think, I conjectured that the mouth might be filling with welled-up blood. I think both of them were there. I think they were both just outside the alcove, perhaps locked in one another’s arms, or now, leaning against one another, supporting one another. I wondered if they realized what had happened, or if each, puzzled, thought he had closed with this fellow Tarl, of Port Kar. Then I heard one of the bodies take another thrust. Then they seemed, both, to fall to the side, and then, it seemed, one was trying to move away, crawling. That might have been the fellow who had been on the left. I could hear the movement of the knife on the stones. Then whoever it was, coughing, and with a grunt, sank to the stones. The knife was then quiet. It had been a short trip. Doubtless the stones would be sticky. They would have to be cleaned in the morning. Slaves could do that, or, perhaps, the free woman I had been offered earlier in the evening, she who had been in the wrap-around tunic, the Lady Labiena, who was being “kept for a friend.” I supposed the hostesses might enjoy having her do such things, perhaps monitoring her work with a whip or pointed stick.