Nomads of Gor coc-4

by John Norman

  “Yes,” she said, “that is true.”

  Tarnsmen would have little difficulty in finding a rider and mount on the open prairie near Turia. It was almost certain they would be flying within minutes after an alarm was sounded, even though they need be summoned from the baths, the Paga taverns, the gaming rooms of Turia, in which of late, the siege over, they had been freely spending their mercenary gold, much to the delight of Turians. In a few days, their recreations complete, I expected Ha-Keel would weigh up his gold, marshal his men and withdraw through the clouds from the city. I, of course, did not wish to wait a few days or more or however long it might take Ha-Keel to rest his men, square his accounts with Saphrar and depart.

  The heavy merchant wagon was near the main gate now and it was being waved forward.

  I looked out over the prairie, in the direction that had been taken by the Tuchuk wagons. Some five days now they had been gone. It had seemed strange to me that Kamchak, the resolute, implacable Kamchak of the Tuchuks, had so soon surrendered his assault on the city not that I expected it would have been, if prolonged, successful. Indeed, I respected his wisdom withdrawing in the face of a situation in which there was nothing to be gained and, considering the vulnerability of the wagons and bosk to tarnsmen, much to be lost. He had done the wise thing. But how it must have hurt him, he, Kamchak, to turn the wagons and withdraw from Turia, leaving Kutaituchik unrevenged and Saphrar of Turia triumphant. It had been, in its way, a courageous thing for him to do. I would rather have expected Kamchak to have stood before the walls of Turia, his kaiila saddled, his arrows at hand, until the winds and snows had at last driven him, the Tuchuks, the wagons and the bosk away from the gates of the beleaguered city, the nine-gated, high-walled stronghold of Turia, inviolate and never conquered.

  This train of thought was interrupted by the sounds of an altercation below, the shouting of an annoyed guardsman at the gate, the protesting cries of the driver of the merchant wagon. I looked down from the wall, and to my amusement, though I felt sorry for the distraught driver, saw that the right, rear wheel of the wide, heavy wagon had slipped the axle and that the wagon, obviously heavily loaded, was now tilting crazily, and then the axle struck the dirt, imbedding itself.

  The driver had immediately leaped down and was gesticulating wildly beside the wheel. Then, irrationally, he put his shoulder under the wagon box and began to push up, trying to right the wagon, surely an impossible task for one man.

  This amused several of the guards and some of the passers-by as well, who gathered to watch the driver’s discomfiture. Then the officer of the guard, nearly beside himself with rage, ordered several of his amused men to put their shoulders to the wagon as well. Even the several men, together with the driver, could not right the wagon, and it seemed that levers must be sent for.

  I looked away, across the prairie, bemused. Dina was still watching the broil below and laughing, for the driver seemed so utterly distressed and apologetic, cringing and dancing about and scraping before the irate officer. Then I noted across the prairie, hardly remarking it, a streak of dust in the sky.

  Even the guards and townsfolk here and there on the wall seemed now to be watching the stalled wagon below.

  I looked down again. The driver I noted was a young man, well built. He had blond hair. There seemed to be something familiar about him.

  Suddenly I wheeled and gripped the parapet. The streak of dust was now more evident. It was approaching the main gate of Turia.

  I seized Dina of Turia in my arms.

  “What’s wrong!” she said.

  I whispered to her, fiercely. “Return to your home and lock yourself in. Do not go out into the streets!”

  “I do not understand,” said she. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do not ask questions,” I ordered her. “Do as I say! Go home, bolt the door to your rooms, do not leave the house!”

  “But, Tarl Cabot,” she said.

  “Hurry!” I said.

  “You’re hurting my arms,” she cried.

  “Obey me!” I commanded.

  Suddenly she looked out over the parapet. She, too, saw the dust. Her hand went to her mouth. Her eyes widened in fear.

  “You can do nothing,” I said. “Run!”

  I kissed her savagely and turned her about and thrust her a dozen feet down the walkway inside the wall. She stumbled a few feet and turned. “What of you?” she cried.

  “Run!” I commanded.

  And Dina of Turia ran down the walkway, along the rim of the high wall of Turia.

  Beneath the unbelted tunic of the Bakers, slung under my left arm, its lineaments concealed largely by a short brown cloak worn over the left shoulder, there hung my sword and with it, the quiva. I now, not hurrying, removed the weapons from my tunic, removed the cloak and wrapped them inside it.

  I then looked once more over the parapet. The dust was closer now. In a moment I would be able to see the kaiila, the flash of light from the lance blades. Judging from the dust, its dimensions, its speed of approach, the riders, perhaps hundreds of them the first wave, were riding in a narrow column, at full gallop. The narrow column, and probably the Tuchuk spacing, a Hundred and then the space for a Hundred, open, and then another Hundred, and so on, tends to narrow the front of dust, and the spaces between Hundreds gives time for some of the dust to dissipate and also, incidentally, to rise sufficiently so that the progress of the consequent Hundreds is in no way impeded or handicapped. I could now see the first Hundred, five abreast, and then the open space behind them, and then the second Hundred. They were approaching with great rapidity. I now saw a sudden flash of light as the sun took the tips of Tuchuk lances.

  Quietly, not wishing to hurry, I descended from the wall and approached the stalled wagon, the open gate, the guards.

  Surely in a moment someone on the wall would give the alarm.

  At the gate the officer was still berating the blond-haired fellow. He had blue eyes, as I had known he would, for I had recognized him from above.

  “You will suffer for this!” the commander of the guard was crying. “You dull fool!”

  “Oh mercy, master!” whined Harold of the Tuchuks.

  “What is your name?” demanded the officer.

  At that moment there was a long, wailing cry of horror from the wall above. “Tuchuks!” The guards suddenly looked about themselves startled. Then two more people on the wall took up the cry, pointing wildly out over the wall. “Tuchuks! Close the gates!”

  The officer looked up in alarm, and then he cried out to the men on the windlass platform. “Close the gates!”

  “I think you will find,” said Harold, “that my wagon is in the way.”

  Suddenly understanding, the officer cried out in rage and whipped his sword from his sheath but before he could raise his arm the young man had leaped to him and thrust a quiva into his heart. “My name,” he said, “is Harold of the Tuchuks!”

  There was now screaming on the walls, the rushing of guardsmen toward the wagon. The men on the windlass platform were slowly swinging the great double gates shut as much as possible. Harold had withdrawn his quiva from the breast of the officer. Two men leaped toward him with swords drawn and I leaped in front of him and engaged them, dropping one and wounding the other.

  “Well done, Baker,” he cried.

  I gritted my teeth and met the attack of another man. I could now hear the drumming of kaiila paws beyond the gate, perhaps no more than a pasang away. The double gate had closed now save for the wagon wedged between the two parts of the gate. The wagon bosk, upset by the running men, the shouting and the clank of arms about them, were bellowing wildly and throwing their heads up and down, stomping and pawing in the dust.

  My Turian foe took the short sword under the heart. I kicked him from the blade barely in time to meet the attack of two more men.

  I heard Harold’s voice behind me. “I suppose while the bread is baking,” he was saying, “there is little to do but stand about
and improve one’s swordplay.”

  I might have responded but I was hard pressed.

  “I had a friend,” Harold was saying, “whose name was Tarl Cabot. By now he would have slain both of them.”

  I barely turned a blade from my heart.

  “And quite some time ago,” Harold added.

  The man on my left now began to move around me to my left while the other continued to press me from the front. It should have been done seconds ago. I stepped back, getting my back to the wagon, trying to keep their steel from me.

  “There is a certain resemblance between yourself and my friend Marl Shot,” Harold was saying, “save that your sword is decidedly inferior to his. Also he was of the caste of warriors and would not permit himself to be seen on his funeral pyre in the robes of so low a caste as that of the Bakers. Moreover, his hair was red like a larl from the sun whereas yours is a rather common and, if I may say so, a rather uninspired black.”

  I managed to slip my blade through the ribs of one man and twist to avoid the-thrust of the other. In an instant the position of the man I had felled was filled by yet another guardsman.

  “It would be well to be vigilant also on the right,” remarked Harold.

  I spun to the right just in time to turn the blade of a third man.

  “It would not have been necessary to tell Tarl Cabot that,” Harold said.

  Some passers-by were now fleeing past, crying out. The great alarm bars of the city were now ringing, struck by iron hammers.

  “I sometimes wonder where old Tarl Cabot is,” Harold said wistfully.

  “You Tuchuk idiot!” I screamed.

  Suddenly I saw the faces of the men fighting me turn from rage to fear. They turned and ran from the gate.

  “It would now be well,” said Harold, “to take refuge under the wagon.” I then saw his body dive past, scrambling under the wagon. I threw myself to the ground and rolled under with him.

  Almost instantly there was a wild cry, the war cry of the Tuchuks, and the first five kaiila leaped from outside the gate onto the top of the wagon, finding firm footing on what I had taken to be simple rain canvas, but actually was canvas stretched over a load of rocks and earth, accounting for the incredible weight of the wagon, and then bounded from the wagon, two to one side, two the other, and the middle rider actually leaping from the top of the wagon to the dust beyond the harnessed bosk. In an instant another five and then another and another had repeated this manoeuvre and soon, sometimes with squealing of kaiila and dismounting of riders as one beast or another would be crowded between the gates and the others, a Hundred and then another Hundred had hurtled howling into the city, black lacquered shields on the left arms, lance seized in the right hand. About us there were the stamping paws of kaiila, the crying of men, the sound of arms, and always more and more Tuchuks striking the top of the wagon and bounding into the city uttering their war cry.

  Each of the Hundreds that entered turned to its own destination, taking different streets and turns, some dismounting and climbing to command the roofs with their small bows. Already I could smell smoke.

  Under the wagon with us, crouching, terrified, were three Turians, civilians, a wine vendor, a potter and a girl. The wine vendor and the potter were peeping fearfully from between the wheels at the riders thundering into the streets.

  Harold, on his hands and knees, was looking into the eyes of the girl who knelt, too, numb with terror. “I am Harold of the Tuchuks,” he was telling her. He deftly removed the veil pins and she scarcely noticed, so terrified was she. “I am not really a bad fellow,” he was informing her. “Would you like to be my slave?” She managed to shake her head, No, a tiny motion, her eyes wide with fear. “Ah, well,” said Harold, repinning her veil. “It is probably just as well anyway. I already have one slave and two girls in one wagon if I had a wagon would probably be difficult.” The girl nodded her head affirmatively. “When you leave the wagon,” Harold told her, “you might be stopped by Tuchuks nasty fellows who would like to put your pretty little throat in a collar you understand?” She nodded, Yes. “So you tell them that you are already the slave of Harold the Tuchuk, understand?”

  She nodded again. “It will be dishonest on your part,” said Harold apologetically, “but these are hard times.” There were tears in her eyes. “Then go home and lock yourself in the cellar,” he said. He glanced out. There were still riders pouring into the city. “But as yet,” he said, “you cannot leave.” She nodded, Yes. He then unpinned her veil and took her in his arms, improving the time.

  I sat cross-legged under the wagon, my sword across my knees, watching the paws and legs of the swirling kaiila bounding past. I heard the hiss of crossbow quarrels and one rider and his mount stumbled off the wagon top, falling and rolling to one side, others bounding over him. Then I heard the twang of the small ham bows of Tuchuks. Somewhere, off on the other side of the wagon, I heard the heavy grunting of a tharlarion and the squealing of a kaiila, the meeting of lances and shields. I saw a woman, unveiled, hair streaming behind her, twisting, buffeted, among the kaiila, somehow managing to find her way among them and rush between two buildings. The tolling of the alarm bars was now fearful throughout the city. I could hear screaming some hundred yards away. The roof of a building on the left was afire and smoke and sparks were being hurled into the sky and swept by the wind across the adjoining buildings. Some dozen dismounted Tuchuks were now at the great windlass on its platform slowly opening the gates to their maximum width, and when they had done so the Tuchuks, howling and waving their lances, entered the city in ranks of twenty abreast, thus only five ranks to the Hundred. I could now see smoke down the long avenue leading from the gate, in a dozen places. Already I saw a Tuchuk with a dozen silver cups tied on a string to his saddle. Another had a screaming woman by the hair, running her beside his stirrup. And still more Tuchuks bounded into the city. The wall of a building off the main avenue collapsed flaming to the street. I could hear in three or four places the clash of arms, the hiss of the bolts of crossbows, the answering feather swift flight of the barbed Tuchuk war arrows. Another wall, on the other side of the avenue, tumbled downward, two Turian warriors leaping from it, being ridden down by Tuchuks, leaping over the burning debris on kaiilaback, lance in hand.

  Then in the clearing inside the gate, on his kaiila, lance in his right fist, turning and barking orders, I saw Kamchak of-the Tuchuks, waving men to the left and right, and to the roof tops. His lance point was red. The black lacquer of his shield was deeply cut and scraped. The metal net that depended from his helmet had been thrown back and his eyes and face were fearful to behold. He was flanked by officers of the Tuchuks, commanders of Thousands, mounted as he was and armed. He turned his kaiila to face the city and it reared and he lifted his shield on his left arm and his lance in his right fist. “I want the blood of Saphrar of Turia,” he cried.

  Chapter 22

  KAMCHAK’S FEAST

  It had, of course, been the Tuchuk turn.

  One makes a pretext of seriously besieging a city, spending several days, sometimes weeks, in the endeavour, and then, apparently, one surrenders the sedge and withdraws, moving away slowly with the wagons and bosk for some days in this case four and then, the bosk and wagons removed from probable danger, swiftly, in a single night, under the cover of darkness, sweeping back to the city, taking it by surprise.

  It had worked well.

  Much of Turia was in flames. Certain of the Hundreds, delegated the task, had immediately, almost before the alarm bars could sound, seized many of the wells, granaries and public buildings, including the very palace of Phanius Turmus itself. The Ubar, and Kamras, his highest officer, had fallen captive almost immediately, each to a Hundred set that purpose. Most of the High Council of Turia, too, now reposed in Tuchuk chains. The city was largely without leadership, though here and there brave Turians had gathered guardsmen and men-at-arms and determined civilians and sealed off streets, forming fortresses within the city agains
t the invaders. The compound of the House of Saphrar, however, had not fallen, protected by its numerous guardsmen and its high walls, nor had the tower elsewhere that sheltered the tarn cots and warriors of Ha-Keel, the mercenary from Port Karl

  Kamchak had taken up quarters in the palace of Phanius Turmus, which, save for the looting and the ripping down of tapestries, the wanton defacing of wall mosaics, was unharmed. It was from this place that he directed the occupation of the city.

  Harold, after the Tuchuks had entered the city, insisted on squiring the young woman home whom he had encountered under the wagon, and, for good measure, the wine vendor and potter as well. I accompanied him, stopping only long enough to rip away most of the upper portions of the baker’s tunic and rinse the dye from my hair in a street fountain. I had no wish to be brought down with a Tuchuk arrow in the streets as a Turian civilian. Also I knew many of the Tuchuks were familiar with my perhaps too red hair and might, seeing it, generously retain from firing on its owner. It seemed to me that for once my hair might actually prove useful, a turnabout I contemplated with pleasure. Do not take me wrong, I am rather fond, on the whole, of my hair, it is merely that one must, to be objective about such matters, recognize that it has, from time to time, involved me in various difficulties beginning about my fourth year. Now, however, it might not hurt at all to be promptly and accurately identified by means of it.

  When I lifted my head from the fountain in the Turian street Harold cried out in amazement, “Why you ARE Tarl Cabot!”

  “Yes,” I had responded.

  After we had taken the girl and the potter and wine vendor to whatever safety their homes might afford, we set out for the House of Saphrar, where, after some examination of the scene, I convinced myself there was nothing immediately to be done. It was invested by better than two of the Thousands. No assault of the place had yet begun. Doubtless rocks and large pieces of building stone had already been piled behind the gates. I could smell tharlarion oil on the walls, waiting to be fired and poured on those who might attempt to dig at the walls or mount ladders against them.