Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  “Why?” asked Mirus.

  “Before it is done,” said the man.

  “What are you talking about?” said Mirus.

  “You let her go once,” said another of the riders. “We will not make that mistake again.”

  “I want her,” said Mirus.

  “We will buy you another,” said one of the men.

  One of the shaggy beasts growled.

  “Soon, soon,” said one of the men, soothingly, he whose office it seemed to be to interpret the noises of the beasts.

  “Run her for the sleen,” suggested one of the men.

  “That would be amusing,” said another.

  “No,” said the fellow who seemed to translate for the shambling monsters amongst them. “Kardok is hungry.”

  “The sleen may feed secondly,” said a fellow, “should there be anything left.”

  “Why?” demanded Mirus.

  “She has seen too much, she has heard too much,” said one of the men.

  “She has understood nothing,” said Mirus.

  “It will be hard to control the sleen,” said the fellow who had suggested running the slave. “They have hunted. They have tracked for days. Now they are successful. They will expect their reward.”

  Even as he spoke the two hunting sleen inched forward, tails lashing, haunches trembling.

  “Such beasts are not patient,” said the man, apprehensively. “They are dangerous.”

  Ellen drew back, against the rope, her legs almost giving way beneath her, almost fainting.

  “Have you meat with you?” cried Mirus to Portus Canio.

  “No,” said Portus Canio.

  “The tharlarion!” said Mirus.

  “Neither sleen nor our friends care muchly for tharlarion,” said one of the men.

  “There is better feed about,” laughed another.

  “No!” said Mirus.

  “It is not a question of meat,” snarled one of his companions.

  The beast called Kardok, the largest of the five monstrous creatures, looked toward the wagon and Portus Canio, and the others. There were sounds from it, guttural emanations, yet somehow half articulate, suggesting Gorean, or surrogates for its phonemes.

  The fellow who translated laughed. “Kardok observes,” said he, “that there is much meat here.”

  “They are armed,” said another.

  “Put down the bows, sheath your weapons,” said one of Mirus’s companions, one mounted to his left, regarding the men of Portus Canio. “And you will not be hurt.”

  “Leave the slave, and be on your way,” said Portus Canio.

  “We are all armed, and can dart lightning upon you,” said he who had spoken.

  “Who will be first to reach for the lightning knife?” asked Portus Canio.

  Two crossbows were set, fingers upon the triggers.

  The companions of Mirus looked at one another. Only Mirus held his weapon, and he then, with obvious show, thrust it in his belt.

  Kardok’s eyes blazed as he looked from the face of one of Portus Canio’s men to that of another. His gaze lingered last, and longest, on that of Selius Arconious. Then, without removing his gaze from that of Selius Arconious, whom he seemed to somehow sense might be the most dangerous, or the most desperate, or the most irrational, or the first to act, he uttered a succession of soft, low, almost gentle, growling noises.

  “Forgive us, dear travelers,” said the translator, regarding the men at the wagon. “We will give you the slave.” He made a gesture and the fellow who had Ellen’s neck rope, the improvised leash, looped about the pommel of the saddle loosened it, and tossed it, grinning, to the grass near her ankles. She sank to her knees, trembling. “We shall be on our way. We leave you in peace. Have a good journey. We wish you well.”

  “What of your sleen?” inquired Portus Canio.

  “We will shortly set them to hunt in the grasslands,” said the man. “There is no danger. They will forage well enough for themselves.”

  “I think they are domesticated sleen, trained hunting sleen,” said Portus Canio.

  “We wish you well,” said the man.

  Ellen looked wildly at Selius Arconious.

  Selius Arconious suddenly, wildly, pointed to the sky, far, high, away, behind the riders. “Tarnsmen!” he cried. “Tarnsmen!”

  What happened then was scarcely clear to Ellen. The men, those mounted or not, those with Mirus, and those near the wagon, naturally, without much thinking of it, followed Arconious’s gesture, turning, raising their eyes.

  “Where?” shouted one of the riders.

  But Arconious in that moment, unnoted, the others distracted, had hurled himself forward, through the midst of the riders, and laid powerful, rough hands on he who was the translator for the beast, doubtless in the belief that he was first amongst the riders. And in that sudden, confused moment the startled, angry rider had been dragged from the saddle, struck half senseless, and dragged backward, stumbling, groggy, his body shielding that of Arconious, toward the wagon. By the time the riders in that chaotic moment were apprised of the cry of their fellow, and turned from their brief, agitated, intent scanning of the empty sky, Arconious was four or five feet from them, backing away, moving toward the wagon. He stopped there, some feet before the wagon, the blade of his dagger at the throat of the dazed, disconcerted fellow he held. The man’s hand moved toward his holstered weapon, but then he lifted it, and held it away from the holster, as the edge of the blade tightened at his throat.

  Hands of the riders moved toward their weapons, but they did not draw them. The two crossbowmen at the wagon, their bodies muchly behind the wagon, shielded there, the quarrels at the ready, tensed. Each had his target.

  “If you would have your captain live,” cried Arconious, “throw down your weapons, and be on your way!”

  “Throw down your weapons!” cried he who was held by Arconious. “Cast them down!”

  “But we are prepared to leave in peace,” said one of the riders, inching his mount forward.

  “Cast down your weapons!” said Arconious.

  “Cast down your weapons!” cried he whom Arconious held.

  The rider who had come forward a little smiled.

  “Please!” cried the fellow.

  In that moment Ellen’s heart sank, for she understood that he who had spoken for the monsters was not first amongst the riders, nor, earlier, it had been clear, was Mirus.

  “We wish only to leave in peace,” said the rider.

  It was he then, she supposed, who was first amongst the visitors. He was the one who had been rather to the side and behind Mirus. He was the one who had asserted that Portus Canio’s group had put the purloined gold somewhere.

  The two sleen began to growl menacingly. One began to scratch at the turf. The other crouched even lower. It was, Ellen surmised, the more dangerous of the two.

  “Let us give up the weapons,” said Mirus.

  “You are mad,” said one of the riders.

  “We would then be less than they,” said another.

  “Forget the slut,” said another. “You can obtain another, a better.”

  “Put down your weapons!” whispered he whom Arconious held. He did not wish even to speak aloud, lest he inadvertently cut his own throat, so close against his throat was set the narrow edge of Arconious’s blade.

  “Let us discard our weapons,” said Mirus. “He is essential to our work. No other can communicate with the beasts.”

  “Yes, yes, only I can speak with the beasts!” whispered he whom Arconious held.

  At this point, from the largest of the beasts, he spoken of as Kardok, there emanated a low rumble of sound. Too, the lips of the monster drew back, revealing moist fangs.

  The translator, Arconious’ knife at his throat, turned white.

  He whom Ellen now took to be first amongst the visitors urged his tharlarion forward a few feet. He was then somewhat in advance of his fellows, and a few feet from the translator and Selius Arcon
ious.

  “Translate,” he said.

  “No, no!” said the man.

  “It seems,” said the darkly clad, mounted fellow, quietly, he now in advance of his fellows, he whom Ellen took to be first amongst the visitors, “a translation is not necessary.”

  “No, no!” said the translator.

  “Throw down your weapons!” demanded Arconious.

  “Of course,” said the first rider. “Tell your men not to fire,” he said to Portus Canio.

  “Be ready,” said Portus Canio.

  Very slowly the first rider drew an automatic pistol from its holster. He smiled.

  “No!” cried the fellow held by Arconious.

  The report was very loud, at so close a range. Ellen screamed. The men about the wagon seemed stunned, paralyzed with shock.

  Selius Arconious released the body and it fell from him, to the grass. Bewildered, Arconious regarded he who had fired the shot. Arconious, stunned, lowered his knife.

  “The sleen are restless,” said one of the riders, in the background.

  “Step away from the body,” said the first rider.

  Selius Arconious stepped back.

  At a sign from the first rider, a fellow in the back suddenly cried out to the sleen, “Now!”

  Ellen screamed as the two gray bodies scrambled past her. There was oil from the pelt of one on her bound arm, as she twisted away. They might have trailed her, presumably from a scent lingering in her cage, from before her sale. But she had not been and, it seemed, was not now designated their reward. The rope on her neck whipped behind her, sped by a rushing rear paw.

  Then the sleen were at the body, tearing and scratching through the leather, through the clothing. Ellen thought for an instant that the eyes of he whom Selius Arconious had briefly held had opened for an agonized instant, the body understanding that it was being eaten, but this was doubtless merely a consequence of its subjection to the frenzied molestation. The bullet, she was sure, had been well placed, casually, and at short range. The body was probably dead before it reached the grass, fallen before the sandals of the stunned, disbelieving Selius Arconious, he shaken from the noise and the horror, his knife held lamely in his hand.

  “How will we now communicate with the beasts?” asked Mirus.

  Kardok stood up, his height expanding upward, almost as though he were slowly, somehow unnaturally enlarging, to something like nine feet. He looked about. His head was enormous. The eyes were huge, rounded. His massive body was perhaps a yard in width, viewed frontally. It could not have been encircled by the arms of large man. “He was not necessary,” it said.

  All regarded the beast, all in awe, save he who was the first rider, he closest to the wagon, whose weapon was still in his grasp.

  A pungency of expended powder laced the air.

  The sounds had now been unmistakable Gorean, cavernously, vitally, exotically, distantly, strangely formed, but Gorean. It was as though a gigantic, dark, misshapen, deformed, threatening bearlike beast, like a massive, awakening living boulder of flesh and cruelty, had spoken. The sounds, despite their frightening, astonishing nature, and their remarkable source, could be clearly understood. The sounds were quite unlike the sounds which it had earlier uttered.

  “It can speak!” said one of Portus’s men.

  “So, too, can you,” said Kardok. “Should I find that strange?”

  The sleen continued to feed.

  “We do not teach our humans to speak,” it said.

  “Call away your beast,” said Portus, half sick.

  The first rider smiled.

  “Who is first amongst you?” demanded Portus Canio.

  “I am,” said Kardok.

  “You have two crossbows,” said the assailant, the first rider. “There are five of us, and we can kill from a distance. We do not surrender our weapons.”

  “Nor we ours,” said Portus Canio. “Some of us can reach you, surely, for we are nine, and you are now but five.”

  “I think, then, we have a truce,” said the first rider. “We shall now, peacefully, take our leave.”

  “Do not move,” said Portus Canio.

  “They will move away, and then slay you with impunity, Masters!” cried Ellen.

  “Be silent, slave,” snarled Selius Arconious.

  “That is obviously their plan,” said Portus Canio.

  The first rider tensed. The hands of the other riders moved closer to their weapons.

  “There are five of us,” said the first rider, “and two sleen.”

  “On whom would you be able to set them, and how?” inquired Portus Canio. “Too, I do not think I would care, personally, to interrupt a sleen in its feeding.”

  “Actually,” said the first rider, “there are ten of us.”

  “The beasts are not armed,” said Portus Canio.

  “So, five,” shrugged the first rider.

  “Why are the beasts not armed?” asked Portus Canio.

  Something seemed to move behind the eyes of the first rider. It was brief, and subtle, scarcely tangible, rather like a movement in the air, hardly noticed. “I do not know,” he said. “But they are formidable, I assure you.”

  “So then there are ten of you, and only nine of us,” said Portus Canio.

  “It seems so,” granted the rider.

  “How many are you prepared to lose?” asked Portus Canio.

  “I would prefer to lose none,” he said.

  “Then discard your weapons,” said Portus Canio.

  “It seems our kaissa has come to a locked position,” said the rider.

  “There are no locked positions here,” said Portus Canio. “This is not kaissa.” His hand was tensed on the hilt of his blade.

  “Ah,” said the first rider, as though resigned. “Then who will move first?”

  Ellen, the rude leash dangling from her neck, and then over her left shoulder, behind her, her hands roped tightly behind her, knelt in terror on the grass. She was afraid to move. She feared that the smallest movement, the tiniest sound, the most diminutive influence, might prove critical, like the smallest jarring, or jostling, like a small thing which might tip a balance, a carelessly dislodged pebble that releases an avalanche, the particle of static electricity which triggers the bolt of lighting, the tiny movement, even a hesitant, uncertain, false step, which causes a gingerly held device, reposing in its container, to awaken, exploding, crying out, showering bricks, gouging asphalt, striking away roofs and walls for a hundred yards about.

  There was the sound of the feeding of the sleen.

  The sky was a bright blue. A gentle wind stirred stalks of grass.

  “Tarnsmen!” said Selius Arconious. “Tarnsmen!”

  Men tensed, the hands of riders almost darted to their weapons.

  “Do you think we are fools?” asked the first rider.

  The other riders laughed, but did not take their eyes from the men of Portus Canio.

  “You do us little honor, tarnster,” said the first rider.

  “Tarnsmen,” repeated Selius Arconious.

  Portus Canio lifted his gaze a fraction.

  Ellen gasped.

  “Your trick is older than the Sardar itself,” said the first rider.

  “Tarnsmen,” said Portus Canio.

  “Desist,” snarled the first rider. His hand tightened on the weapon he had rested on the saddle.

  But at that moment there was indeed a beating of wings in the sky, a whirl of wind, a blasting of grasses, the screams of mighty forms overhead, wild gigantic darting shadows darkening the grass, the shouts of men, the piercing sounds of tarn whistles.

  “Aii!” cried the first rider, wheeling in the saddle.

  “Take cover!” shouted Portus Canio.

  Selius Arconious flung himself toward Ellen, dragged her to the earth and covered her body for an instant with his own, crouching over it, looking up, wildly. Arrows struck into the turf. Ellen saw an arrow hit the turf not a yard away. It was so suddenly there, not t
here, then there, almost upright, quivering, a third of its length in the dirt. In an odd almost still instant she saw the breeze ruffle its fletching, and then cried out as Selius Arconious dragged her to her feet by a bound arm and, looking upward, rushed her stumbling to the wagon, and hurled her savagely, she rolling, beneath it. Then he was gone.

  Her shoulder hurt.

  The sleen lifted their heads from their feeding, looked upward, and then, their snouts bloody, thrust their jaws again into the mass of blood, cloth and meat under their paws, between the riders and the back of the wagon.

  Ellen heard the sound of gunfire.

  One of Portus’s men who had held the two crossbows wheeled away from the back of the wagon, stumbling, the weapon discharged, fallen to the grass. An arrow transfixed his throat. His hands were on the shaft, and he broke it, it snapping with a sharp sound, but then, his eyes glazed, blood running from his mouth, and from about the splintered shaft lodged in his throat, he sank to the grass.

  The tharlarion swung its head about, bellowing. Its heavy tail lashed, pounding the earth. It twisted in the traces. The wagon rocked, half off the ground, tipped, and then righted itself. Ellen heard an arrow strike into the wagon bed above her. An angry metal point seemed suddenly to have grown from the splintered wood above her.

  Two of Portus’s men, weapons in their hands, now crouched under the wagon with her, taking cover from the fire from above. Two others were crouched behind the tharlarion. There were cries of rage from the mounted men about. Their mounts wheeled about, squealing. Men struggled to control them. Two men had dismounted and were looking upward. The beasts howled. One tore at the grass. Another, in frustration, sprang upward, again and again, reaching upward, as if it might clutch and tear the clouds themselves. The sleen fed, now more placidly. There was more gunfire. And then it was suddenly quiet.

  Ellen crawled on her knees from under the wagon.

  A great bird, a tarn, lay thrashing in the grass fifty yards away, amidst the debris of a tarn basket.

  Cosian men at arms, some armed with short bows, such as may be used with convenience from tarn baskets, which may clear the bulwarks and fire amongst the ropes, saddle bows, actually, such as are favored for similar reasons by tarnsmen, were drawing away, afoot. One or two bodies lay near the thrashing tarn. In the distance, but turning now, obviously withdrawing, but not abandoning the field, were four more tarns, each with a tarn basket slung beneath it.