by John Norman
At last, panting, bleeding here and there, discolored in places, half-naked, triumphant, Elizabeth Cardwell returned to my side, where she knelt as a humble, obedient slave girl.
When she had somewhat caught her breath I removed the collar from her throat and freed her.
I set her on the saddle of the tarn, telling her to hold to the pommel of the saddle. When I myself mounted I would tie her to the pommel with binding fiber. I would fasten about myself the broad safety strap, usually purple, which is an invariable portion of the tarn saddle.
Elizabeth did not seem affrighted to be astride the tarn. I was pleased that there were some changes of clothing for her in the pack. I observed that she needed them, or at least one of them.
Kamchak was there, and his Aphris, and Harold and his Hereena, still his slave. She knelt beside him, and once when she dared to touch her cheek to his right thigh he good-naturedly cuffed the slave girl away.
"How are the bosk doing?" I asked Kamchak.
"As well as might be expected," he responded.
I turned to Harold. "Are the quivas sharp?" I inquired.
"One tries to keep them that way," said Harold.
I turned back to Kamchak. "It is important," I reminded him, "to keep the axles of the wagons greased."
"Yes," he said, "I think that's true."
I clasped the hands of the two men.
"I wish you well, Tarl Cabot," said Kamchak.
"I wish you well, Kamchak of the Tuchuks," I said.
"You are not really a bad fellow," said Harold, "for a Koroban."
"You are not bad yourself," I granted, "—for a Tuchuk."
"I wish you well," said Harold.
"I wish you well," I said.
Swiftly I climbed the short ladder to the tarn saddle, and tied it against the saddle. I then took binding fiber and looped it several times about Miss Cardwell's waist and then several times about the pommel of the saddle, then tying it.
Harold and Kamchak looked up at me. There were tears in the eyes of both men. Now, diagonally, like a scarlet chevron coursing the flight of the cheek bones, there blazed on the face of Harold the Tuchuk the Courage Scar.
"Never forget," said Kamchak, "that you and I have together held grass and earth."
"I will never forget," I said.
"And while you are remembering things," remarked Harold, "you might recollect that we two together won the Courage Scar in Turia."
"No," I said, "I will not forget that either."
"Your coming and going with the Wagon Peoples," said Kamchak, "has spanned parts of two of our years."
I looked at him, not really understanding. What he said, of course, was true.
"The years," said Harold, smiling, "were two—the Year in which Tarl Cabot Came to the Wagon Peoples and the Year in which Tarl Cabot Commanded a Thousand."
Inwardly I gasped. These were year names—which would be remembered by the Year Keepers, whose memories knew the names of thousands of consecutive years.
"But," I protested, "there have been many things of much greater importance than those in these years—the Siege of Turia, the Taking of the City, the Election of the Ubar San!"
"We choose most to remember Tarl Cabot," said Kamchak.
I said nothing.
"If you should ever need the Tuchuks, Tarl Cabot," said Kamchak, "or the Kataii or the Kassars—or the Paravaci—you have only to speak—and we will ride. We will ride to your side, be it even to the cities of Earth."
"You know of Earth?" I asked. I recalled what I took to be the skepticism of Kamchak and Kutaituchik long ago when they had questioned myself and Elizabeth Cardwell of such matters.
Kamchak smiled. "We Tuchuks know of many things," he said, "—of more than we tell." He grinned. "Good fortune attend you, Tarl Cabot, Commander of a Thousand Tuchuks, Warrior of Ko-ro-ba!"
I lifted my hand to them and then drew on the one-strap and the wings of the great tarn began to strike the resistant air and the Tuchuks on all sides fell back stumbling in the dust and the driven wind smote from beneath the mighty wings of the bird and in that instant we saw the wagons fall away beneath us, extending in their squares for pasangs, and we could see the ribbon of the creek and then the Omen Valley and then the spires of distant Turia, far off.
Elizabeth Cardwell was weeping, and I put my arms about her, to comfort her, and to protect her from the blasts of the swift air. I noted with irritation that the sting of the air had made my own eyes moist as well.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1969 by John Norman
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-0059-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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