Priest-Kings of Gor coc-3

by John Norman

  There were new ships flying in the Nest, I understood, ships that had been built by Misk’s men and disks that had now been armoured by those of Sarm. I gathered there were no more available surveillance craft hangard in the Nest. On the other hand the ships of the two forces tended, it seemed, to neutralise one another and the war in the air, far from being decisive, as Misk and I had hoped, had begun to turn into the same stalemate that had developed on the ground.

  Not long after the failure of his gravitational disruption attack Sarm had spread throughout Misk’s portions of the Nest various disease organisms, many of which had not had a free occurrence in centuries. On the other hand, vicious as were these invisible assailants, the extreme habitual hygiene of Priest-Kings and Muls, coupled with Misk’s use of bactericidal rays, dissolved this new threat.

  Most savage and unnatural of all, at least to the mind of a Priest-King, was the release of the Golden Beetles from their various tunnels in the vicinity of the Nest. These creatures, perhaps two hundred or more, were loosed and by means of covered transportation disks, piloted by Priest-Kings using oxygen systems internal to the disks, were driven toward the quarters of the Nest controlled by the unsuspecting Misk and his forces.

  The exudate which forms on the mane hair of the Golden Beetle, which had overcome me in the close confines of the tunnel, apparently has a most intense and, to a human mind, almost incomprehensibly compelling effect on the unusually sensitive antennae of Priest-Kings, luring them helplessly, almost as if hypnotised, to the jaws of the Beetle, who than penetrates their body with its hollow, pincerlike jaws and drains of body-fluid.

  Misk’s Priest-Kings began to leave their hiding places and their posts of vantage and come into the streets, their bodies inclining forward, their antennae dipped in the direction of the lure of the Beetles. The Priest-Kings themselves said nothing, explained nothing, to their dumbfounded human companions but merely laid aside their weapons and approached the Beetles.

  Then it seems that a brave female, a former Mul, unidentified, had grasped the situation and seizing a cattle goad from one of the confused, puzzled herdsmen, had rushed upon the Beetles jabbing and striking them, driving them away with the long spearlike object, and soon the herdsmen had rushed to join her and prod away the cumbersome, domelike predators, turning them back in the direction whence they had come.

  It was not more than a day later before one of Sarm’s own scouts laid aside his weapon and, as the Priest-Kings say, succumbed to the Pleasures of the Golden Beetle.

  Now the Beetles roamed at random throughout the Nest, more of a threat to Sarm’s own forces than Misk’s, for now none of Misk’s Priest-Kings ventured abroad without a human to protect it should it encounter a Golden Beetle.

  In the next days the Golden Beetles began, naturally enough in their hunt for food, to drift toward those portions of the Nest occupied by Sarm’s Priest-Kings, for in those portions of the Nest they encountered no shouting humans, no jabbing cattle goads.

  The danger became so great that all the Implanted Muls, including even the creature Parp, were sent into the streets to protect Sarm’s Priest-Kings.

  Oddly enough, to human thinking, neither Misk nor Sarm would permit their humans to slay the Beetles, for Priest-Kings, for a reason which I will later relate, find themselves normally unwilling to slay or order the destruction of the dangerous, fused-winged creatures.

  The Golden Beetles, free within the Nest, forced Sarm, in sheer regard for survival, to turn to humans for help, for humans, particularly in the well-ventilated areas of the Nest, are relatively impervious to the narcotic odour of the Beetle’s mane, an door which is apparently almost utterly overpowering to the particular sensory apparatus of Priest-Kings.

  Accordingly Sarm broadcast throughout the Nest his general amnesty for former Muls, offering them again the opportunity to become the slaves of Priest-Kings. To this generous proposal he added, sensing it might not in itself be irresistible, a tub of salt per man and two female Muls, to be provided after the defeat of Misk’s forces, which presumably there would be captured females to distribute to the victors. To the females of Misk’s forces he offered gold, jewellery, precious stones, delicious silks, the permission to allow their hair to grow, and male slaves, the latter again to be provided after the projected defeat of Misk’s forces. To these proposals he added the very definite considerations that his forces still substantially outnumbered those of Misk in both number of Priest-Kings and firepower, and that victory would be his inevitably, and this it would be well at such a time to be in his good favour.

  Whereas I would not have abandoned Misk and freedom to join the forces of Sarm I was forced to admit that the probably victory in the end would be him, and that his proposals might well be attractive to some former Muls, particularly those who had occupied a position of some importance in the Nest prior to the War.

  I should not have been surprised, but I was, when the first deserter from the forces of Misk proved to be the treacherous Vika of Treve.

  My first knowledge of this came one morning when suddenly I awakened in my chains to the fierce bite of a leather lash.

  “Awake, Slave!” cried a voice.

  With a cry of rage I struggled in my chains to my knees, pulling against the metal collar that held me to my place. Again and again the lash struck me, wielded by the gloved hand of a girl.

  Then I heard her laugh and knew who was my tormentor.

  Though her features were concealed in the folds of a silken veil, and she wore the Robes of Concealment there was no mistaking her voice, her eyes, her carriage. The woman who stood over me with the whip, the woman clad in the most marvellous array of the most beautiful silks, wearing golden sandals and purple gloves, was Vika of Treve.

  She shook the veil from her face and threw back her head and laughed.

  She struck me again.

  “Now,” she hissed, “it is I who am Master!”

  I regarded her evenly.

  “I was right about you,” I said. “I had hoped that I was not.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “You are worthy only to be a slave girl,” I said.

  Her face was transformed with rage and she struck me again, this time across the face. I could taste the blood from the wound of the whip.

  “Do not yet injure him severely,” said Sarm, standing to one side.

  “He is my slave!” she said.

  Sarm’s antennae curled.

  “He will be delivered to you only after my victory,” said Sarm. “In the meantime I have use for him.”

  Vika threw him a glance of impatience, almost of contempt, and shrugged. “Very well,” she said, “I can wait.” She sneered down at me. “You will pay for what you did to me,” she said.” “You will pay,” she said. “You will pay as only I, Vika of Treve, know how to make a man pay.”

  I myself was pleased that it had taken a Priest-King to have me chained at Vika’s feet, that it had not been I myself, who, in the hope of her favours, had fastened about my own throat the collar of a slave.

  Vika turned with a swirl of her robes and left the headquarters chamber.

  Sarm stalked over. “You see, Mul,” said he, “how Priest-Kings use the instincts of men against them.”

  “Yes,” I see, “I see,”

  Though my body burned from the whip I was more hurt by the though of Vika, surprisingly perhaps, hurt by the thought that I had known who and what she was all along, though somewhere in my heart I had always hoped I was wrong.

  Sarm then strode to a panel set in one wall. He twiddled a knob. “I am activating your control net,” he said.

  In my chains I tensed.

  “These preliminary tests are simple,” said Sarm, “and may be of interest to you,”

  Parp had now entered the room and stood near me, puffing on his pipe. I saw him turn off the switch on his translator.

  Sarm turned a dial.

  “Close your eyes,” whispered Parp.
<
br />   I felt no pain. Sarm was regarding me closely.

  “Perhaps more power,” said Parp, raising his voice so that his words might be carried by Sarm’s own translator.

  Sarm, at this suggestion, touched the original knob again. Then he reached for the dial again.

  “Close your eyes,” whispered Parp, more intensely.

  For some reason I did so.

  “Open then,” said Parp.

  I did so.

  “Lower your head,” he said.

  I did so.

  “Now rotate your head clockwise,” said Parp. “Now counterclockwise.”

  Mystified, I did as he recommended.

  “You have been unconscious,” Parp informed me. “Now you are no longer controlled.”

  I looked about myself. I saw that Sarm had turned off the machine.

  “What do you remember?” asked Sarm.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “We will check sensory data later,” said Sarm.

  “The initial responses,” said Parp, raising his voice, “seem quite promising.”

  “Yes,” said Sarm, “You have done excellent work,”

  Sarm then turned and left the headquarters room.

  I looked at Parp, who was smiling and puffing on that pipe of his.

  “You did not implant me,” I said.

  “Of course not,” said Parp.

  “What of Kusk?” I asked.

  “He too is one of us,” said Parp.

  “But why?” I asked.

  “You saved his children,” said Parp.

  “But he has no sex, no children,” I said.

  “Al-Ka and Ba-Ta,” said Parp. “Do you think a Priest-King is incapable of love?”

  Now my imprisonment on the rubber disk seemed less irritating than it had.

  Parp had again been sent into the streets to fend off Golden Beetles should they approach too closely any of the Priest-Kings of Sarm.

  I learned from conversation in the headquarters room that not many of the humans who fought with Misk’s forces had responded to the blandishments of Sarm, though some like Vika of Treve, had deserted to cast their fortune with what appeared to be the winning side. From what I could gather only a handful of humans, some men, some women, had actually crossed the lines and taken service with Sarm.

  Sarm, one day, brought down from the Halls of the Priest-Kings above, all the humans who were quartered there, mostly Chamber Slaves, to aid his cause. The latter, of course terrified, bewildered, would be of little service themselves, but they were offered as inducements to the males of Misk’s forces to encourage their desertion; the girls were, so to speak, a bounty for treachery, and since the beauty of Chamber Slave was well known in the Nest, I supposed they might well prove quite effective in this role; yet, somewhat to my surprised and pleasure, no more than a half dozen or so men came forth to claim these lovely prizes. As the War continued I became more and more impressed with the loyalty and courage of the men and women serving Misk, who for a bit of fungus and water and freedom, were willing to sell their lives in one of the strangest conflicts ever fought by men, boldly serving one of the most unusual causes that had ever asked for the allegiance of human kind.

  Vika would come to torment me each day but no longer was she permitted to whip me.

  I supposed that there was reason for her hatred of me but still I wondered at its depth and fury.

  She was later given charge of my feeding and she seemed to enjoy throwing me scraps of fungus or watching me lap at the water in the pan she placed on the disk. I ate because I wished to keep what I could of my strength, for I might have need of it again.

  Sarm, who was normally in the room, seemed to take great pleasure in Vika’s baiting me, for he would stand by, antennae curling, as she would insult me, taunt me, sometimes strike me with her small fist. He apparently became rather fond of the new female Mul and, upon occasion, he would order her to groom him in my presence, a task which she seemed to enjoy.

  “What a piteous thing you are,” she said to me, “and how golden and strong and brave and fine is a Priest-Kings!”

  And Sarm would extend his antennae down to her that might delicately brush the small golden hairs which adorned them.

  For some reason Vika’s attentions to Sarm irritated me and undoubtedly I failed to conceal this sufficiently because Sarm often required this task of her in my presence and, I noted with fury, she seemed invariably delighted to comply with his request.

  Once I called angrily to her. “Pet Mul!”

  “Silence, Slave,” she responded haughtily. Then she looked at me and laughed merrily. “For that,” she said, “you will go hungry tonight!”

  I remembered, smiling to myself, how when I was master I had once, to discipline her, refused her food one night. Now it was I who would go hungry, but I told myself, it was worth it. Let her think over that, I said to myself, think over that — Vika of Treve — Pet Mul!

  I found myself wanting to take her body in my arms and shatter it to my breast, forcing back her head, taking her lips in the kiss of a master as though I once more owned her.

  I shook these thoughts from my head.

  Meanwhile, slowly, incredibly, the War in the Nest began to turn against Sarm. The most remarkable event was a delegation of Sarm’s Priest-Kings, led by Kusk himself, who surrendered to Misk, pledging themselves to his cause. This transfer of allegiance was apparently the result of long discussion and consideration by the group of Priest-Kings, who had followed Sarm because he was First Born, but had at many points objected to him conduct of the War, in particular to his treatment of the Muls, his use of the gravitational disruption devices, his attempt to spread disease in the Nest and last, his, to a Priest-King’s thinking, hideous recourse to the Golden Beetles. Kusk and his delegation went over to Misk while the fighting still hung in stalemate and there was no question, at that time, of their decision being motivated by considerations of personal interest. Indeed, at that time, it seemed they had, almost unaccountably, for reasons of principle, joined a cause which was in all probability a lost one. But not long after this took place other Priest-Kings, startled by the decision of Kusk, began to speak of ending the War, and some others too began to cross the lines. Growing more desperate, Sarm rallied his forces and armoured six dozen transportation disks and swept into Misk’s domain. Apparently Misk’s forces were waiting form the, as might have been expected given the superior intelligence afforded by the numerous humans in Misk’s camp and the disks were stropped by barricades and withered in the intense fire from nearby rooftops. Only four disks returned.

  It now became clear that Sarm was on the defensive, for I heard orders being issued to block the tunnels leading into the areas of the Nest he controlled. Once I heard the hiss of silver tubes not more than a few hundred yards away. I struggled, enraged, against the chains and collar that held me a helpless prisoner while the issues of the day were being decided by fire in the streets outside.

  Then there came a calm in the war and I gathered that Misk’s forces had been driven back.

  My rations of Mul-Fungus had been cut by two-thirds since I had been captured. And I noted that some of Sarm’s Priest-Kings were less golden than I had known them, having now a slightly brownish cast on the thorax and abdomen, signs I knew to be associate with thirst.

  I think it was only now that the absence of the supplies captured or destroyed by the Fungus Growers and Herdsmen had begun to make itself keenly felt.

  At last Sarm made clear to me why I had been kept alive, why I had not been destroyed long ago.

  “It is said that there is Nest Trust between you and Misk, “he said. “Now we will see if that is truly so.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “If there is Nest Trust between you,” said Sarm, his antennae curling, “Misk will be ready to die for you.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “His life for yours,” said Sarm.

  “Never,” I s
aid.

  “No,” cried Vika, who had been standing in the background, “he is mine!”

  “Do not fear, Little Mul,” said Sarm. “We will have Misk’s life and you will still have your slave.”

  “Sarm is treacherous,” I said.

  “Sarm is a Priest-King,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  SARM’S REVENGE

  THE PLACE OF THE MEETING WAS arranged.

  It lay in one of the plazas in the area controlled by the forces of Sarm.

  Misk was to come alone to the plaza, to be met by myself and Sarm. No one was to bear arms. Misk would surrender himself to Sarm and I, theoretically, would then be allowed to go free.

  But I knew that Sarm had no intention of keeping his part of the bargain, and that he intended to slay Misk, destroying hopefully thereby the effective leadership of the opposition, and then either keep me as a slave for Vika or, more likely, killing me as well, even though that might disappoint the expectations of vengeance nourished in the bosom of his pet Mul.

  When I was unchained I was informed by Sarm that the small box he carried activated my control net and at the first sigh of disobedience or difficulty he would simply raise the power level — literally boiling my brain away.

  I said that I understood.

  I wondered what Sarm would say if he knew that Parp and Kusk had not actually implanted me.

  In spite of the agreement about arms, Sarm hung from the back of his translator strap, invisible from the front, a silver tube.

  To my surprise his pet Mul, Vika of Treve, demanded to accompany her golden master. I supposed that she feared he might slay me, thus depriving her of her revenge for which she had waited so long. He would have refused her, but she pleaded so earnestly that at last he agreed that she might accompany us. “I wish to see my master triumph!” she begged, and that argument seemed to sway golden Sarm, and Vika found herself a member of our party.