by John Norman
I laughed and held her briefly in my arms. I suddenly sensed the rush of blood in her and in myself. I wanted never to release her. I wanted her always thus, so locked in my arms, mine to hold and love. Summoning all my strength, I put her from me.
"So," she said contemptuously, "that is how a Warrior tarnsman treats the daughter of a rich merchant?"
I rolled onto the ground, turning away from her, unable to sleep.
* * * *
In the morning we left our camp early. A swallow of water from the flask and small, dry berries gathered from the nearby shrubbery were our only sustenance. We had not been on the road long when Talena clutched my arm. I listened carefully, hearing the distant clank of a shod tharlarion on the road. "A warrior," I guessed.
"Quick," she commanded. "Hood me."
I hooded her and snapped her wrists together in the slave bracelets.
The ringing of the tharlarion's shod claws on the road grew louder.
In a minute the rider appeared in view—a fine, bearded warrior with a golden helmet and a tharlarion lance. He drew the riding lizard to a halt a few paces from me. He rode the species of tharlarion called the high tharlarion, which ran on its two back feet in great bounding strides. Its cavernous mouth was lined with long, gleaming teeth. Its two small, ridiculously disproportionate forelegs dangled absurdly in front of its body.
"Who are you?" demanded the warrior.
"I am Tarl of Bristol," I said.
"Bristol?" asked the warrior, puzzled.
"Have you never heard of it?" I challenged, as if insulted.
"No," admitted the warrior. "I am Kazrak of Port Kar," he said, "in the service of Mintar, of the Merchant Caste."
I did not need to ask about Port Kar. It is a city in the delta of the Vosk and as much a den of pirates as anything else.
The warrior gestured at Talena with his lance. "Who is she?" he asked.
"You need not know her name or lineage," I said.
The warrior laughed and slapped his thigh. "You would have me believe that she is of High Caste," he said. "She is probably the daughter of a goat keeper."
I could see Talena move under the hood, her fists clenched in the slave bracelets.
"What news of Ar?" I asked.
"War," said the mounted spearman approvingly. "Now, while the men of Ar fight among themselves for the cylinders, an army is gathering from fifty cities, massing on the banks of the Vosk to invade Ar. There is a camp there such as you have never seen—a city of tents, pasangs of tharlarion corrals; the wings of the tarns sound like thunder overhead. The cooking fires of the soldiers can be seen two days' ride from the river."
Talena spoke, her voice muffled in the hood. "Scavengers come to feast on the bodies of wounded tarnsmen." It was a Gorean proverb, which seemed to be singularly inappropriate, coming from a hooded captive.
"I did not speak to the girl," said the warrior.
I excused Talena. "She has not worn her bracelets long," I said.
"She has spirit," said the warrior.
"Where are you bound for?" I asked.
"To the banks of the Vosk, to the City of Tents," said the warrior.
"What news of Marlenus, the Ubar?" demanded Talena.
"You should beat her," said the warrior, but responded to the girl. "None. He has fled."
"What news of the Home Stone of Ar and the daughter of Marlenus?" I asked, feeling it would be the sort of thing the warrior would expect me to be interested in.
"The Home Stone is rumored to be in a hundred cities," he said. "Some say it has been destroyed. Only the Priest-Kings know."
"And the daughter of Marlenus?" I insisted.
"She is undoubtedly in the Pleasure Gardens of the boldest tarnsman on Gor," laughed the warrior. "I hope he has as much luck with her as the Home Stone. I have heard she has the temper of a tharlarion and a face to match!"
Talena stiffened, her pride offended.
"I have heard," she said imperiously, "that the daughter of the Ubar is the most beautiful woman on all Gor."
"I like this girl," said the warrior. "Yield her to me!"
"No," I said.
"Yield her or I will have my tharlarion trample you," he snapped, "or would you prefer to be spitted on my lance?"
"You know the codes," I said evenly. "If you want her, you must challenge for her and meet me with the weapon of my choice."
The warrior's face clouded, but only for an instant. He threw back his fine head and laughed, his teeth white in his bushy beard.
"Done!" he cried, fastening his lance in its saddle sheath and slipping from the back of the tharlarion. "I challenge you for her!"
"The sword," I said.
"Agreed," he said.
We shoved Talena, who was now frightened, to the side of the road. Hooded, she cowered there, the prize, her ears filled with the sudden violent ringing of blade on blade as two warriors fought to the death to possess her. Kazrak of Port Kar was a superb swordsman, but in the first moments we both knew that I was his master. His face was white beneath his helmet as he wildly attempted to parry my devastating attack. Once I stepped back, gesturing to the ground with my sword, the symbolic granting of quarter should it be desired. But Kazrak would not lay his sword on the stones at my feet. Rather, he suddenly launched a vicious attack, forcing me to defend myself as best I could. He seemed to fight with new fury, perhaps enraged that he had been offered quarter.
At last, terminating a frenzied exchange, I managed to drive my blade into his shoulder, and as his sword arm dropped, I kicked the weapon from his grasp. He stood proudly in the road, waiting for me to kill him.
I turned and went to Talena, who was standing piteously by the side of the road, waiting to see who it was that would unhood her.
As I lifted the hood, she uttered a small, joyful sound, her green eyes bright with pleasure. Then she saw the wounded warrior. She shuddered slightly. "Kill him," she commanded.
"No," I replied.
The warrior, who held his shoulder, blood streaming down from his hand, smiled bitterly. "It was worth it," he said, his gaze sweeping over Talena. "I'd challenge you again."
Talena seized her dagger from my belt and raced to the warrior. I caught her braceleted hands as she was going to drive the dagger into his breast. He had not moved. "You must kill him," said Talena, struggling. Angrily I removed her bracelets and replaced them so that her wrists were bound behind her back.
"You should use the whip on her," said the warrior matter-of-factly.
I tore some inches from the bottom of Talena's gown to make a bandage for Kazrak's shoulder. She endured this in fury, her head in the air, not watching me. I had scarcely finished bandaging his wound when I was aware of a ringing on metal, and, lifting my head, I saw myself surrounded by mounted spearmen, who wore the same livery as Kazrak. Behind them, stretching into the distance, came a long line of broad tharlarions, or the four-footed draft monsters of Gor. These beasts, yoked in braces, were drawing mighty wagons, filled with merchandise protected under the lashings of its red rain-canvas.
"It is the caravan of Mintar, of the Merchant Caste," said Kazrak.
10
The Caravan
"Do not harm him," said Kazrak. "He is my sword brother, Tarl of Bristol." Kazrak's remark was in accord with the strange warrior codes of Gor, codes which were as natural to him as the air he breathed, and codes which I, in the Chamber of the Council of Ko-ro-ba, had sworn to uphold. One who has shed your blood, or whose blood you have shed, becomes your sword brother, unless you formally repudiate the blood on your weapons. It is a part of the kinship of Gorean warriors regardless of what city it is to which they owe their allegiance. It is a matter of caste, an expression of respect for those who share their station and profession, having nothing to do with cities or Home Stones.
As I stood tensely, ringed by the lances of the caravan guards, the wall of tharlarions parted to allow the approach of Mintar, of the Merchant Caste. A bejeweled, curtained platform slung b
etween the slow, swaying bodies of two of the broad tharlarions appeared. The beasts were halted by their strap-master, and after some seconds the curtains parted. Seated inside on several pillows of tasseled silk was a mammoth toad of a man, whose head was as round as a tarn's egg, the eyes nearly lost in the folds of fat, pocked skin. A slender straggling wisp of hair dropped languidly from the fat chin. The little eyes of the merchant swept the scene quickly, like a bird's, startling in their contrast with the plethoric giganticism of his frame.
"So," said the merchant, "Kazrak of Port Kar has met his match?"
"It is the first challenge I have ever lost," replied Kazrak proudly.
"Who are you?" asked Mintar, leaning forward a bit, inspecting first me and then Talena, whom he regarded with small interest.
"Tarl of Bristol," I said. "And this is my woman, whom I claim by sword-right."
Mintar closed his eyes and opened them and pulled on his beard. He had, of course, never heard of Bristol, but did not wish to admit it, at least before his men. Moreover, he was far too shrewd to pretend that he had heard of the city. After all, what if there was no such city?
Mintar looked at the ring of mounted spearmen encircling me. "Does any man in my service challenge for the woman of Tarl of Bristol?" he asked.
The warriors shifted nervously. Kazrak laughed, a derisive snort. One of the mounted warriors said, "Kazrak of Port Kar is the best sword in the caravan."
Mintar's face clouded. "Tarl of Bristol," he said, "you have disabled my finest sword."
One or two of the mounted warriors readjusted their grip on their lances. I became acutely conscious of the proximity of the several points.
"You owe me a debt," said Mintar. "Can you pay the hiring price of such a sword?"
"I have no goods other than this girl," I said, "and I will not give her up."
Mintar sniffed. "In the wagons I have four hundred fully as beautiful, destined for the City of Tents." He looked at Talena carefully, but his appraisal was remote, detached. "Her sale price would not bring half the hiring price of a sword such as that of Kazrak of Port Kar." Talena reacted as if slapped.
"Then I cannot pay the debt I owe you," I said.
"I am a merchant," said Mintar, "and it is in my code to see that I am paid."
I set myself to sell my life dearly. Oddly enough, my only fear was what would happen to the girl.
"Kazrak of Port Kar," said Mintar, "do you agree to surrender the balance of your hiring price to Tarl of Bristol if he takes your place in my service?"
"Yes," responded Kazrak. "He has done me honor and is my sword brother."
Mintar seemed satisfied. He looked at me. "Tarl of Bristol," he said, "do you take service with Mintar, of the Merchant Caste?"
"If I do not?" I asked.
"Then I shall order my men to kill you," sighed Mintar, "and we shall both suffer a loss."
"Oh, Ubar of Merchants," I said, "I would not willingly see your profits jeopardized."
Mintar relaxed on the cushions and seemed pleased. I realized, to my amusement, that he had been afraid that some particle of his investment might have been sacrificed. He would have had a man killed rather than risk the loss of a tenth of a tarn disk, so well he knew the codes of his caste.
"What about the girl?" asked Mintar.
"She must accompany me," I said.
"If you wish," he said, "I will buy her."
"She is not for sale."
"Twenty tarn disks," Mintar proposed.
I laughed.
Mintar smiled, too. "Forty," he said.
"No," I said.
He seemed less pleased.
"Forty-five," he said, his voice flat.
"No," I said.
"Is she of High Caste?" asked Mintar, apparently puzzled at my lack of interest in his bargaining. Perhaps his price was too low for a girl of High Caste.
"I am," announced Talena proudly, "the daughter of a rich merchant, the richest on Gor, stolen from her father by this tarnsman. His tarn was killed, and he is taking me to—to Bristol—to be his slave."
"I am the richest merchant on Gor," said Mintar calmly.
Talena gulped.
"If your father is a merchant, tell me his name," he said. "I will know of him."
"Great Mintar," I spoke up, "forgive this she-tharlarion. Her father was a goat keeper by the swamp forests of Ar, and I did steal her, but she begged me to take her from the village. She foolishly ran away with me, thinking I would take her to Ar, to dress her in jewels and silks and give her quarters in the high cylinders. As soon as we left her village, I put the bracelets on her and am taking her to Bristol, where she will tend my goats."
The soldiers laughed uproariously, Kazrak loudest of all. For a moment I was afraid Talena was going to announce that she was the daughter of the Ubar Marlenus, preferring possible impalement to the insult of being considered the offspring of a goat keeper. Mintar seemed amused. "While in my service, you may keep her on my chain if you wish," he said.
"Mintar is generous," I granted.
"No," said Talena. "I will share the tent of my warrior."
"If you like," said Mintar, paying no attention to Talena, "I will arrange her sale in the City of Tents and add her price to your wages."
"If I sell her, I will sell her myself," I said.
"I am an honest merchant," said Mintar, "and I would not cheat you, but you do well to handle your own affairs."
Mintar eased his great frame deeper into the silken pillows and motioned the strap-master of his tharlarions to close the curtains. Before they swept shut, he said, "You will never get forty-five tarn disks."
I suspected he was right. He undoubtedly had better merchandise, more reasonably priced.
Led by Kazrak, I went with Talena, walking back along the line of wagons to see where she would be placed. Beside one of several long wagons of the sort covered with yellow and blue silk, I removed the bracelets from her wrists and turned her over to an attendant.
"I have a spare ankle ring," he said, and took Talena by the arm, thrusting her inside the wagon. In the wagon there were some twenty girls, dressed in the slave livery of Gor, perhaps ten on a side, chained to a metal bar which ran the length of the wagon. Talena would not like that. Before she disappeared, she called over her shoulder saucily, "You're not rid of me as easily as this, Tarl of Bristol."
"See if you can slip the ankle ring," laughed Kazrak, and led me back among the supply wagons.
We had gone scarcely ten paces and Talena could hardly have been fastened in the wagon before we heard a female scream of pain and a bevy of howls and shrieks. From the wagon came the sound of rolling bodies, slamming and cracking against the sides, and the rattle of chains on wood, pierced by squeals of pain and anger. The attendant leaped into the back of the wagon with his strap, and there was added to the din the sound of his curses and the crack of the strap as he smartly laid about him. As Kazrak and I watched, the attendant, puffing and furious, emerged from the wagon, dragging Talena by the hair. As Talena struggled and kicked and the girls in the wagon shouted their approval and encouragement to the attendant, he angrily hurled Talena into my arms. Her hair was in wild disarray; there were nail marks on her shoulder and four strap welts on her back. Her arm was bruised. Her dress had been half torn from her.
"Keep her in your tent," snarled the attendant.
"Let the Priest-Kings blast me if she didn't do it," said Kazrak with admiration, "A true she-tharlarion."
Talena lifted a bloody nose to me and smiled brightly.
* * * *
The next few days were among the happiest of my life, as Talena and I became a part of Mintar's slow, ample caravan, members of its graceful, interminable, colorful procession. It seemed the routine of the journey would never end, and I grew enamored of the long line of wagons, each filled with its various goods, those mysterious metals and gems, rolls of cloth, foodstuffs, wines and paga, weapons and harness, cosmetics and perfumes, medicines and slaves
.
Mintar's caravan, like most, was harnessed long before dawn and traveled until the heat of the day. Camp would be made early in the afternoon. The beasts would be watered and fed, the guards set, the wagons secured, and the members of the caravan would turn to their cooking fires. In the evening the strap-masters and warriors would amuse themselves with stories and songs, recounting their exploits, fictitious and otherwise, and bawling out their raucous harmonies under the influence of paga.
In those days I learned to master the high tharlarion, one of which had been assigned to me by the caravan's tharlarion master. These gigantic lizards had been bred on Gor for a thousand generations before the first tarn was tamed, and were raised from the leathery shell to carry warriors. They responded to voice signals, conditioned into their tiny brains in the training years. Nonetheless, the butt of one's lance, striking about the eye or ear openings, for there are few other sensitive areas in their scaled hides, is occasionally necessary to impress your will on the monster.
The high tharlarions, unlike their draft brethren, the slow-moving, four-footed broad tharlarions, were carnivorous. However, their metabolism was slower than that of a tarn, whose mind never seemed far from food and, if it was available, could consume half its weight in a single day. Moreover, they needed far less water than tarns. To me, the most puzzling thing about the domesticated tharlarions, and the way in which they differed most obviously from wild tharlarions and the lizards of my native planet, was their stamina, their capacity for sustained movement. When the high tharlarion moves slowly, its stride is best described as a proud, stalking movement, each great clawed foot striking the earth with a measured rhythm. When urged to speed, however, the high tharlarion bounds, in great leaping movements that carry it twenty paces at a time.
The tharlarion saddle, unlike the tarn saddle, is constructed to absorb shock. Primarily, this is done by constructing the tree of the saddle in such a way that the leather seat is mounted on a hydraulic fitting which actually floats in a thick lubricant. Not only does this lubricant absorb much of the shock involved, but it tends, except under abnormal stress, to keep the seat of the saddle parallel to the ground. In spite of this invention, the mounted warriors always wear, as an essential portion of their equipment, a thick leather belt, tightly buckled about their abdomen. In addition, the mounted warriors inevitably wear a high, soft pair of boots called tharlarion boots. These protect their legs from the abrasive hides of their mounts. When a tharlarion runs, its hide could tear the unprotected flesh from a man's bones.