Nomads of Gor coc-4

by John Norman

  My heart nearly stopped but Harold, at the moment just before the girl could scream, popped one of the scarves into her mouth, wadding it Up and shoving it between her teeth.

  Her scream was only a muffled noise, hardly more than escaping air.

  “I, too,” Harold informed her, “had a plan a counter-plan.”

  He took one of the two remaining scarves and bound it across her mouth holding the first scarf well inside her mouth.

  “My plan,” said Harold, “which I have now put into effect, was clearly superior to yours.”

  Hereena made some muffled noises. Her eyes regarded him wildly over the coloured scarf and her entire body began to squirm savagely.

  “Yes,” said Harold, “clearly superior.”

  I was forced to concede his point. Standing but five feet away I could barely hear the tiny, angry noises she made.

  Harold then lifted her from her feet and, as I winced, simply dropped her on the floor. She was, after all, a slave.

  She said something that sounded like “Ooof,” when she hit the floor. He then crossed her ankles, and bound them tightly with the remaining scarf.

  She glared at him in pained fury over the coloured scarf.

  He scooped her up and put her over his shoulder. I was forced to admit that he had handled the whole affair rather neatly.

  In n short while Harold, carrying the struggling Hereena, and I had retraced our steps to the central hall and descended the steps of the porch and returned by means of the curving walks between the shrubs and pools to the flower tree by means of which we had originally entered the Pleasure Gardens of Saphrar of Turia.

  Chapter 20

  THE KEEP

  “By now,” said Harold, “guardsmen will have searched the roofs, so it should be safe to proceed across them to our destination.”

  “And where is that?” I asked.

  “Wherever the tarns happen to be,” he responded.

  “Probably,” I said, “on the highest roof of the highest building in the House of Saphrar.”

  “That would be,” suggested Harold, “the keep.”

  I agreed with him. The keep, in the private houses of Goreans, is most often a round, stone tower, built for defence, containing water and food. It is difficult to fire from the outside, and the roundness like the roundness of Gorean towers in general tends to increase the amount of oblique hits from catapult stones.

  Making our way up the Dower tree with Hereena, who fought like a young she-larl, was not easy. I went part way up the tree and was handed the girl, and then Harold would go up above me and I would hoist her up a way to him, and then I would pass him, and so on. Occasionally, to my irritation, we became entangled in the trailing, looped stems of the tree, each with its richness of clustered flowers, whose beauty I was no loner in a mood to appreciate. At lust we got Hereena to the top of the tree.

  “Perhaps,” puffed Harold, “you would like to go back and get another wench one for yourself?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Very well,” he said.

  Although the wall was several feet from the top of the tree~managed, by springing on one of the curved branches, to build up enough spring pressure to leap to where I could get my fingers over the edge of the wall. I slipped with one hand and hung there, feet scraping the wall, some fifty feet from the ground, for a nasty moment, but then managed to get both hands on the edge of the wall and hoist myself up.

  “Be careful,” advised Harold.

  I was about to respond when I heard a stifled scream of horror and saw that Harold had hurled Hereena in my direction, across the space between the tree and the wall. I managed to catch her. She was now covered with a cold sweat and was trembling with terror. Perched on the wall, holding the girl with one hand to prevent her tumbling off, I watched Harold springing up and down and then he was leaping towards me. He, too, slipped, as I was not displeased to note, but our hands met and he was drawn to safety.

  “Be careful,” I advised him, attempting not to let a note of triumph permeate my admonition.

  “Quite right,” wheezed Harold, “as I myself earlier pointed out.”

  I considered pushing him off the wall, but, thinking of the height, the likelihood of breaking his neck and back and such, and consequently thereby complicating our measures for escape, I dismissed the notion as impractical, however tempting.

  “Come along,” he said, flinging Hereena across his shoulders like a thigh of bosk meat, and starting along the wall.

  We soon came, to my satisfaction, to an easily accessible, flat roof and climbed onto it. Harold laid Hereena down on the roof to one side and sat cross-legged for a minute, breathing heavily. I myself was almost winded as well.

  Then overhead in the darkness we heard the beat of a tarn’s wings and saw one of the monstrous birds pass above us. In a short moment we heard it flutter to alight somewhere beyond. Harold and I then got up and, with Hereena under one of his arms, we circumspectly made our way from roof to roof until we saw the keep, rising like a dark cylinder against one of Gor’s three moons. It stood some seventy feet from any of the other buildings in the compound that was the House of Saphrar, but now, swaying, formed of rope and sticks, a removable footbridge extended from an open door in its side to a porch some several feet below us. The bridge permitted access to the tower from the building on the roof of which we stood. Indeed, it provided the only access, save on tarnback, for there are no doors at ground level in a Gorean keep. The first sixty feet or so of the tower would presumably be solid stone, to protect the tower from forced entrance or the immediate, efficient use of battering rams.

  The tower itself was some one hundred and forty feet in height and had a diameter of about fifty feet. It was furnished with numerous ports for the use of bowmen. The roof of the tower, which might have been fortified with impaling spears and tarn wire, was now clear, to permit the descent of tarns and their riders.

  On the roof, as we lay there, we could hear, now and then, someone run along the footbridge. Then there was someone shouting. From time to time a tarn would descend or take flight from the roof of the keep.

  When we were sure there were at least two tarns on the roof of the keep I leaped down from the roof and landed on the light bridge, struggling to retain my footing as it began to swing under my feet. Almost immediately I heard a shout from the building. “There’s one of then!”

  “Hurry!” I cried to Harold.

  He threw Hereena down to me and I caught her on the bridge. I saw briefly the wild, frightened look in her eyes, heard what might have been a muffled plea. Then Harold had sprung down beside me on the bridge, seizing the hand rope to keep from tumbling off.

  A guardsman had emerged, carrying a crossbow, framed in the light of the threshold at the entrance to the bridge from the building. There was a quarrel on the guide and he threw the weapon to his shoulder. Harold’s arm flashed past me and the fellow stood suddenly still, then his knees gave slowly way beneath him and he fell to the flooring of the porch, a quiva hilt protruding from his chest, the crossbow clattering beside him.

  “Go ahead,” I commanded Harold.

  I could now hear more men coming, running.

  Then to my dismay I saw two more crossbowmen, this time on a nearby roof.

  “I see them!” one of them cried.

  Harold sped along the bridge, Hereena in his arms, and disappeared into the keep.

  Two swordsmen now rushed from the building, leaping over the fallen crossbowman, and raced along the bridge toward me. I engaged them, dropping one and wounding the other. A quarrel from one of the crossbowmen on the roof suddenly shattered through the sticks of the bridge at my feet, splintering them not six inches from where I stood. I backed rapidly along the bridge and another quarrel sped past me, striking sparks from the stone tower behind me.

  Now I could see several more guardsmen rushing toward the bridge. It would be eleven or twelve seconds before the crossbowmen would be ready to fire again. I tu
rned and began to hack at the ropes that bound the swaying bridge to the tower. Inside I could hear a startled guard demanding to know who Harold was.

  “is it not obvious!” Harold was yelling at him. “You see I have the girl!”

  “What girl?” the guard was asking.

  “A wench from the Pleasure Gardens of Saphrar, you fool!” Harold was crying at him.

  “But why should you be bringing such a wench here?” the-guard was asking.

  “You are dull, are you not!” demanded Harold. “here take her!”

  “Very well,” said the guard.

  I then heard a sudden, sharp crack, as of a fist meeting bone.

  The bridge began to rock and sag on its ropes and several men from the building began to thunder across towards me.

  Then there was a horrified cry as one rope was cut and the flooring of the bridge suddenly pitched, throwing several of the guardsmen to the ground below. A quarrel now struck the flooring of the tower at my feet and skidded into the building. I struck again and the other rope burst from my stroke and the bridge swung rapidly back against the wall of the building opposite with a clatter of sticks and cries, knocking the remaining, clinging guardsmen from it, dropping them like wood senseless to the foot of the wall. I leaped inside the door of the keep and swung it shut. Just as I did so the bolt of a crossbow struck the door and splintered through it, its head projecting some six inches on my side. I then flung the two bars in position, which locked the door, lest men on ladders from the ground attempt to force it.

  The room in which I found myself contained an unconscious guard, but no further sign of Harold or Hereena. I then climbed up a wooden ladder to the next level, which was empty, and then another level and another, and another.

  Then I emerged in the chamber below the roof of the keep and there found Harold, sitting on the bottom rung of the last ladder, breathing heavily, Hereena lying squirming at his feet. “I have been waiting for you,” said Harold, gasping.

  “Let us proceed,” I said, “lest the tarns be flown from the roof and we be isolated in the tower.”

  “My plan exactly,” said Harold, “but first should you not teach me to master the tarn?”

  I heard Hereena moan with horror and she began to struggle madly to free herself of the scarves that bound her.

  “Normally,” I said, “it takes years to become a skilled tarnsman.”

  “That is all well nod good,” responded Harold, “but can, you not impart certain important information relating to the matter in a briefer span?”

  “Come to the roof!” I cried

  I preceded Harold up the ladder and thrust up the trap admitting us to the roof. On the roof there were five tarns.

  One guard was even then approaching the trap. The other was releasing the tarns one by one.

  I was ready to engage the first guard, half on the ladder, but Harold’s head emerged from the opening behind me.

  “Don’t fight,” he called to the guard. “It is Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba, you fool!”

  “Who is Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba?” asked the guard, startled.

  “I am,” I responded, not knowing much what else to say.

  The fellow came running across the roof. “Where is Kunrus?” he asked.

  “Below,” Harold informed him.

  “Who are you?” asked the guard. “What is going on here?”

  “I am Harold of the Tuchuks,” responded Harold of the Tuchuks.

  “What are you doing here?” asked the guard.

  “Are you not Ho-bar?” inquired Harold. It was a common name in Ar, whence many of the mercenaries had come.

  “I know of no Ho-bar,” said the man. “Is he Turian?”

  “I hoped to find Ho-bar,” said Harold, “but perhaps you will do.”

  “I shall try,” said the guard.

  “Here,” said Harold. “Take the wench.”

  Hereena shook her head violently at the guard, protesting through the muffling folds of the scarf wadded in her mouth.

  “What will I do with her?” asked the guard.

  “Just hold her,” said Harold.

  “Very well,” said the guard.

  I closed my eyes and it was over in a second. Harold once more had Hereena over his shoulder and was boldly approaching the tarns.

  There were two of the great birds left on the roof, both fine specimens, huge, vicious, alert. Harold dropped Hereena to the floor of the roof and strode to the first tarn. I shut my eyes as he vigorously struck-it once, authoritatively, across the beak. “I am Harold of the Tuchuks,” he said, “I am a skilled tarnsman I have ridden over a thousand tarns, I have spent more time in the tarn saddle than most men on their feet, I was conceived on tarnback, I was born on Tarnback, I eat tarns fear me! I am Harold of the Tuchuks!”

  The bird, if such emotions it could have, was looking at him, askance and baffled. Any instant I expected it to pick Harold from the roof with its beak, bite him in two and eat the pieces. But the bird seemed utterly startled, if possible, dumbfounded.

  Harold turned to face me. “How do you ride a tarn?” he asked.

  “Get into the saddle,” I said.

  “Yes!” he said, and climbed up, missing one of the rungs of the rope ladder at the saddle and slipping his leg through it. I then managed to get him to the saddle and made sure he fastened the safety strap. As swiftly as I could I then explained to him the guidance apparatus, the main saddle ring and its six straps.

  When I handed Hereena to him the poor girl was shivering and moaning in terror, uncontrollably trembling. She, a girl of the plains, familiar with fierce kaiila, herself a proud, spirited wench, brave and daring, was yet like many women utterly for some reason terrified of a tarn. I felt genuine pity for the Tuchuk girl. On the other hand Harold seemed quite pleased that she was beside herself with terror.

  The slave rings on the tarn saddle are similar to those on the kaiila saddle and in a trice Harold, using the thongs streaming from the slave rings, one on each side of the saddle, had bound the girl on her back across the saddle in front of him.

  Then, without waiting, uttering a great cry, he hauled on the one-strap. The tarn did not move but, I thought, though it was undoubtedly not the case, turned and regarded him sceptically, reproachfully.

  “What is the matter?” asked Harold.

  “It is still hobbled,” I said.

  I bent to the tarn hobble and opened it. Immediately the huge bird’s wings began to beat and it sprang skyward.

  “Aiii!” I heard Harold cry, and could well imagine what had happened to his stomach.

  As quickly as I could I then unhobbled the other bird and climbed to the saddle, fastening the broad safety strap. Then I hauled on the one-strap and seeing Harold’s bird wheeling about in circles against one of the Gorean moons sped to his side.

  “Release the straps!” I called to him. “The bird will follow this one!”

  “Very well,” I heard him call, cheerily.

  And in a moment we were speeding high over the city of Turia. I took one long turn, seeing the torches and lights in the House of Saphrar below, and then guided my bird out over the prairie in the direction of the wagons of the Tuchuks.

  I was elated that we had managed to escape alive from the House of Saphrar, but I knew that I must return to the city, for I had not obtained the object for which I had come the golden sphere which still resided in the merchant stronghold.

  I must manage to seize it before the man with whom Saphrar had had dealings the grey man with eyes like glass could call for It and destroy it or carry it away.

  As we sped high over the prairie I wondered at how it was that Kamchak was withdrawing the wagons and bosk from Turia that he would so soon abandon the siege.

  Then, in the dawn, we saw the wagons below us, and the bosk beyond them. Already fires had been lit and there was much activity in the camp of the Tuchuks, the cooking, the checking of wagons, the gathering and hitching up of the wagon bosk. This, I knew, was the
morning on which the wagons moved away from Turia, toward distant Thassa, the Sea. Risking arrows, I, followed by Harold, descended to alight among the wagons.

  Chapter 21

  KAMCHAK ENTERS TURIA

  I had now been in the city of Turia some four days, having returned on foot in the guise of a peddler of small jewels. I had left the tarn with the wagons. I had spent my last tarn disk to buy a couple of handfuls of tiny stones, many of them of little or no value; yet their weight in my pouch gave me some pretext for being in the city.

  I had found Kamchak, as I had been told I would, at the wagon of Kutaituchik, which, drawn up on its hill near the standard of the four bosk horns, had been heaped with what wood was at hand and filled with dry grass. The whole was then drenched in fragrant oils, and that dawn of the retreat, Kamchak, by his own hand, hurled the torch into the wagon.

  Somewhere in the wagon, fixed in a sitting position, weapons at hand, was Kutaituchik, who had been Kamchak’s friend, and who had been called Ubar of the Tuchuks. The smoke of the wagon must easily have been seen from the distant walls of Turia.~

  Kamchak had not spoken but sat on his kaiila, his face dark with resolve. He was terrible to look upon and I, though his friend, did not dare to speak to him. I had not returned to the wagon I had shared with him, but had come immediately to the wagon of Kutaituchik, where I had been informed he was to be found.

  Clustered about the hill, in ranks, on their kaiila, black lances in the stirrup, were several of the Tuchuk Hundreds.

  Angrily they watched the wagon burn.

  I wondered that such men as Kamchak and these others would so willingly, abandon the siege of Turia.

  At last when the wagon had burned and the wind moved about the blackened beams and scattered ashes across the green prairie, Kamchak raised his right hand. “Let the standard be moved,” he cried.

  I observed a special wagon, drawn by a dozen bosk, being pulled up the hill, into which the standard, when uprooted, would be set. In a few minutes the great pole of the standard had been mounted on the wagon and was descending the hill, leaving on the summit the burned wood and the black ashes that had been the wagon of Kutaituchik, surrendering them now to the wind and the rain, to time and the snows to come, and to the green grass of the prairie.