Nomads of Gor coc-4

by John Norman

  “The sword,” said Kamras.

  The Turian’s decision plunged me into despair. In all my time among the wagons I had not seen one of the Gorean short swords, so fierce and swift and common a weapon among those of the cities. The warrior of the Wagon Peoples does not use the short sword, probably because such a weapon could not be optimally used from the saddle of the kaiila; the sabre, incidentally, which would be somewhat more effective from kaiilaback, is almost unknown on Gor; its role, I gather, is more than fulfilled by the lance, which may be used with a delicacy and address comparable to that of a blade, supplemented by the seven quiva, or saddle knives; it might further be pointed out that a sabre would barely reach to the saddle of the high tharlarion; the warrior of the Wagon Peoples seldom approaches an enemy more closely than is required to bring him down with the bow, or, if need be, the lance; the quiva itself is regarded, on the whole, as more of a missile weapon than a hand knife. I gather that the Wagon Peoples, if they wanted sabres or regarded them as valuable, would be able to acquire them, in spite of the fact that they have no metalworking of their own; there might be some attempt to prevent them from falling into the hands of the Wagon Peoples, but where there are gold and jewels available merchants, in Ar and elsewhere, would see that they were manufactured and reached the southern plains. Most quivas, incidentally, are wrought in the smithies of Ar. The fact that the sabre is not a common weapon of Wagon Peoples is a reflection of the style, nature and conditions of warfare to which they are accustomed, a matter of choice on their part rather than the result of either ignorance or technological limitation. The sabre, incidentally, is not only unpopular among the Wagon Peoples but among the warriors of Gor generally; it is regarded as being too long and clumsy a weapon for the close, sharp combat so dear to the heart of the warrior of the cities; further it is not of much use from the saddle of a tarn or tharlarion. The important point, however, in the circumstances was that Kamras had proposed the sword as the weapon of his encounter with Kamchak, and poor Kamchak was almost certain to be as unfamiliar with the sword as you or I would be with any of the more unusual weapons of Gor, say, the whip knife of Port Kar or the trained varts of the caves of Tyros.

  Incidentally, Turian warriors, in order to have the opportunist to slay a foe, as wed as acquire his woman, customarily choose as the weapon of combat in these encounters, buckler and dagger, axe and buckler, dagger and whip, axe and net, or the two daggers, with the reservation that the quiva, if used, not be thrown. Kamras, however, appeared adamant on the point. “The sword,” he repeated.

  “But I am only a poor Tuchuk,” wailed Kamchak.

  Kamras laughed. “The sword,” he said, yet again.

  I thought, all things considered, that the stipulation of Kamras regarding weapons was cruel and shameful.

  “But how would I, a poor Tuchuk,” Kamchak was moaning, “know anything of the sword?”

  “when withdraw,” said Kamras, loftily, “and I will take this Kassar wench slave to Turia.

  The girl moaned.

  Kamras smiled with contempt. “You see,” he said, “I am Champion of Turia and I have no particular wish to stain my blade with the blood of an urt.”

  The urt is a loathsome, horned Gorean rodent; some are quite large, the size of wolves or ponies, but most are very small, tiny enough to be held in the palm of one hand.

  “Well,” said Kamchak, “I certainly would not want that to happen either.”

  The Kassar girl cried out in distress.

  “Fight him, filthy Tuchuk” screamed Aphris of Turia, pulling against the retaining rings.

  “Do not be uneasy, gentle Aphris of Turia,” said Kamras.

  “Permit him to withdraw branded braggart and coward. Let him live in his shame, for so much the richer will be your vengeance.”

  But the lovely Aphris was not convinced. “I want him slain,” she cried, “cut into tiny pieces, the death of a thousand cuts!”

  “Withdraw,” I advised Kamchak.

  “Do you think I should,” he inquired.

  “Yes,” I said, “I do.”

  Kamras Divas regarding Aphris of Turia. “If it is truly your wish,” he said, “I will permit him to choose weapons agreeable to us both.”

  “It is my wish,” she said, “that he be slain!”

  Kamras shrugged. “All right,” he said, “I will kill him.” He then turned to Kamchak. “All right Tuchuk,” he said, “I will permit you to choose weapons agreeable to us both.”

  “But perhaps I will not fight,” said Kamchak warily.

  Kamras clenched his fists. “Very well,” he said, “as you wish.”

  “But then again,” mused Kamchak, “perhaps I shall.”

  Aphris of Turia cried out in rage and the Kassar wench in distress.

  “I will fight,” announced Kamchak.

  Both girls cried out in pleasure.

  The judge now entered the name of Kamchak of the Tuchuks on his lists.

  “What weapon do you choose?” asked the judge. “Remember,” cautioned the judge, “the weapon or weapons chosen must be mutually agreeable.”

  Kamchak seemed lost in thought and then he looked up brightly. “I have always wondered,” he said, “what it would be like to hold a sword.”

  The judge nearly dropped the list.

  “I will choose the sword,” said Kamchak.

  The Kassar girl moaned.

  Kamras looked at Aphris of Turia, dumbfounded. The girl herself was speechless. “He is mad,” said Kamras of Turia.

  “Withdraw,” I urged Kamchak.

  “It is too late now,” said the judge.

  “It is too late now,” said Kamchak, innocently.

  Inwardly I moaned, for in the past months I had come to respect and feel an affection for the shrewd, gusty brawny Tuchuk.

  Two swords were brought, Gorean short swords, forged in Ar.

  Kamchak picked his up as though it were a wagon lever, used for loosening the wheels of mired wagons.

  Kamras and I both winced.

  Then Kamras, and I give him credit, said to Kamchak, “withdraw.” I could understand his feelings. Kamras was, after all, a warrior, and not a butcher.

  “A thousand cuts!” cried the gentle Aphris of Turia. “A piece of gold to Kamras for every cull” she cried.

  Kamchak was running his thumb on the blade. I saw a sudden, bright drop of blood on his thumb. He looked up.

  “Sharp,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said in exasperation. I turned to the judge. “May I fight for Lima” I demanded.

  “It is not permitted,” said the judge.

  “But,” said Kamchak, “it was a good idea.”

  I seized Kamchak by the shoulders. “Kamras has no real wish to kill you,” I said. “It is enough for him to shame you. Withdraw.”

  Suddenly the eyes of Kamchak gleamed. “Would you see me shamed?” he asked.

  I looked at him, “Better, my friend,” I said, “that than death.”

  “No,” said Kamchak, and his eyes were like steel, “better death than shame.”

  I stepped back. He was Tuchuk. I would sorely miss my friend, the ribald, hard-drinking, stomping, dancing Kamchak of the Tuchuks.

  In the last moment I cried out to Kamchak, “For the sake of Priest-Kings, hold the weapon thus” trying to teach him the simplest of the commoner grips for the hilt of the short sword, permitting a large degree of both retention and flexibility. But when I stepped away he was now holding it like a Gorean angle saw.

  Even Kamras closed his eyes briefly, as though to shut out the spectacle. I now realized Kamras had only wished to drive Kamchak from the field, a chastened and humiliated man. He had little more wish to slay the clumsy Tuchuk than he would have a peasant or a pot maker.

  “Let the combat begin,” said the judge.

  I stepped away from Kamchak and Kamras approached him, by training, cautiously.

  Kamchak was looking at the edge of his sword, turning it about, apparently noting
with pleasure the play of sunlight on the blade.

  “Watch out!” I cried.

  Kamchak turned to see what I had in mind and to his great good fortune, as he did so, the sun flashed from the blade into the eyes of ELamras, who suddenly threw his arm up, blinking and shaking his head, for the instant blinded.

  “Turn and strike now!” I screamed

  “What?” asked Kamchak.

  “Watch out!” I cried, for now Kamras had recovered, and was once again approaching.

  Kamras, of course, had the sun at his back, using it as naturally as the tarn to protect his advance.

  It had been incredibly fortunate for Kamchak that the blade had flashed precisely at the time it had in the way it had.

  It had quite possibly saved his life.

  Kamras lunged and it looked like Kamchak threw up his arm at the last instant as though he had lost balance, and indeed he was now tottering on one boot. I scarcely noticed the blow had been smartly parried. Kamras then began to chase Kamchak about the ring of sand. Kamchak was nearly stumbling over backward and kept trying to regain his balance. In this chase, rather undignified, Kamras had struck a dozen times and each time, astoundingly, the off-balance Kamchak, holding his sword DOW like a physician’s pestle, had managed somehow to meet the blow.

  “Slay him!” screamed Aphris of Turia.

  I was tempted to cover my eyes.

  The Kassar girl was wailing.

  Then, as though weary, Kamchak, puffing, sat down in the sand. His sword was in front of his face, apparently blocking his vision. With his boots he kept rotating about, always facing Kamras no matter from which direction he came Each time the Turian struck and I would have thought Kamchak slain, somehow, incomprehensibly, at the last instant, nearly causing my heart to stop, with a surprised weary little twitch, the blade of the Tuchuk would slide the Turian steel harmlessly to the side. It was only about this time that it dawned on me that for three or four minutes Kamchak had been the object of the ever-more-furious assault of Turia’s champion and was, to this instant, unscratched.

  Kamchak then struggled wearily to his feet.

  “Die, Tuchuk!” cried Kamras now enraged, rushing upon him. For more than a minute, while I scarcely dared to breathe and there was silence all about save for the ring of steel, I watched Kamchak stand there, heavy in his boots, his head seeming almost to sit on his shoulders, his body hardly moving save for the swiftness of a wrist and the turn of a hand.

  Kamras, exhausted, scarcely able to lift his arm, staggered backward.

  Once again, expertly, the sun flashed from the sword of Kamchak in his eyes.

  In terror Kamras blinked and shook his head, thrashing about wearily with his sword.

  Then, foot by booted foot, Kamchak advanced toward him. I saw the first blood leap front the cheek of Kamras, and then again from his left arm, then from the thigh, then from an ear.

  “Kill him!” Aphris of, Turia was screaming. “Kill him!”

  But now, almost like a drunk man, Kamras was fighting for his life and the Tuchuk, like a bear, scarcely moving more than arm and wrist, followed him about, shuffling through the sand after him, touching him again and again with the blade.

  “Slay him!” howled Aphris of Turia!

  For perhaps better than fifteen minutes, patiently, not hurrying, Kamchak of the Tuchuks shuffled after Kamras of Turia, touching him once more and ever again, each time leaving a quick, bright stain of blood on his tunic or body And then, to my astonishment, and that of the throng who had gathered to witness the contest, I saw Kamras, Champion of Turia, weak from the loss of blood, fall to his knees before Kamchak of the Tuchuks. Kamras tried to lift his sword but the boot of Kamchak pressed it into the sand, and Kamras lifted his eyes to look dazed into the scarred, inscrutable countenance of the Tuchuk. Kamchak’s sword was at his throat. “Six years,” said Kamchak, “before I was scarred was I mercenary in the guards of Ar, learning the walls and defences of that city for my people. In that time of the guards of Ar I became First Sword.”

  Kamras fell in the sand at the feet of Kamchak, unable even to beg for mercy.

  Kamchak did not slay him.

  Rather he threw the sword he carried into the sand and though he threw it easily it slipped through almost to the hilt.

  He looked at me and grinned. “An interesting weapon,” he said, “but I prefer lance and quiva.”

  There was an enormous roar about us and the pounding of lances on leather shields. I rushed to Kamchak and threw my arms about him laughing and hugging him. He was grinning from ear to ear, sweat glistening in the furrows of his scars.

  Then he turned and advanced to the stake of Aphris of Turia, who stood there, her wrists bound in steel, regarding him, speechless with horror.

  Chapter 11

  BELLS AND COLLAR

  Kamchak regarded Aphris of Turia.

  “Why is a slave,” he asked, “masquerading in the robes of a free woman?”

  “Please, no, Tuchuk,” she said. “Please, no!”

  And in a moment the lovely Aphris of Tuna stood at the stake revealed to the eyes of her master.

  She threw back her head and moaned, wrists still locked in the retaining rings.

  She had not, as I had suspected, deigned to wear the shameful camisk beneath her robes of white and gold.

  The Kassar wench, who had been bound across from her to the opposing stake, had now been freed by a judge and she strode to where Aphris was still confined.

  “Well done, Tuchuk!” said the girl, saluting Kamchak.

  Kamchak shrugged.

  Then the girl, with vehemence, spat in the face of the lovely Aphris. “Slave girl!” hissed the girl. “Slave! Slave girl!”

  She then turned and strode away, looking for warriors of the Kassars.

  Kamchak laughed loudly.

  “Punish her!” demanded Aphris.

  Kamchak suddenly cuffed Aphris of Turia. Her head snapped sideways and there was a streak of blood at the corner of her mouth. The girl looked at him in sudden fear.

  It might have been the first time she had ever been struck.

  Kamchak had not hit her hard, but sharply enough to instruct her. “You will take what abuse any free person of the Wagon Peoples cares to inflict-upon you,” he said.

  “I see,” said a voice, “you know how to handle slaves.”

  I turned to see, only a few feet away, on the shoulders of slaves standing on the bloodied sand, the open, bejewelled, cushioned palanquin of Saphrar of the Caste of Merchants.

  Aphris blushed from head to toe, enfolded transparent in the crimson flag of her shame

  Saphrar’s round, pinkish face was beaming with pleasure, though I would have thought this day a tragic one for him. The tiny red-lipped mouth was spread wide with benign satisfaction. I saw the tips of the two golden canines.

  Aphris suddenly pulled at the retaining rings, trying to rush to him, now oblivious of the riches of her beauty revealed even to the slaves who carried his palanquin. To them, of course, she was now no more than they, save perhaps that her flesh would not be used to bear the poles of palanquins, to carry boxes nor dig in the earth, but would be appointed even more pleasing than theirs to a master. “Saphrar!” she cried. “Saphrar!”

  Saphrar looked on the girl. He took from a silken pouch lying before him on the palanquin a small glass, with glass petal edges like a flower, mounted on a silver stem about which curled silver leaves. Through this he looked on her more closely.

  “Aphris!” he cried, as though horrified, but yet smiling.

  “Saphrar,” she wept, “free me!”

  “How unfortunate!” wailed Saphrar. I could still see the tips of the golden teeth.

  Kamchak had his arm about my shoulder, chuckling.

  “Aphris of Turia,” he said, “has a surprise coming.”

  Aphris turned her head to Kamchak. “I am the richest woman in all Turia,” she said. “Name your price!”

  Kamchak looked at me. “Do
you think five gold pieces would be too much?” he asked.

  I was startled.

  Aphris nearly choked. “Sleep,” she wept. Then she turned to Saphrar. “Buy me!” she demanded. “If necessary, use all my resources, all! Free me!”

  “But Aphris,” Saphrar was purring, “I am in charge of your funds and to barter them and all your properties and goods for one slave would be a most unwise and absurd decision on my part, irresponsible even.”

  its own tasks, lighter and more suitable. doubtless

  Aphris suddenly looked at him, dumbfounded.

  “It is or was true that you were the richest woman in all Turia,” Saphrar was saying, “but your riches are not yours I to manage but mine not, that is, until you would have reached your majority, some days from now I believe.”

  “I do not wish to remain a slave for even a day!” she cried.

  “Is its over,” his eyes rising, “that you would upon reaching your I majority transfer your entire fortunes to a Tuchuk, merely to obtain your freedom.”

  “Of course” she wept.

  “How fortunate then,” observed Saphrar, “that such a transaction is precluded by law.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Aphris.

  Kamchak squeezed my shoulder and rubbed his nose.

  “Surely you are aware,” said Saphrar, “that a slave cannot own property any more than a kaiila, a tharlarion or sleep.”

  “I am the richest woman in Turia!” she cried.

  Saphrar reclined a bit more on his cushions. His little round pinkish face shone. He pursed his lips and then smiled.

  He poked his head forward and said, very quickly, “You are a slaver” He then giggled.

  Aphris of Turia threw-back her head and screamed.

  “your wardrobes and jewels, your investments and assets, chattels and lands, became mine.”

  Aphris was weeping uncontrollably at the stake. Then she lifted her head to him, her eyes bright with tears. “I beg you, noble Saphrar,” she wept, “I beg of you I beg of you to free me. Please! Please! Please!”

  Saphrar smiled at her. He then turned to Kamchak, “What, Tuchuk, did you say her price was?”