by John Norman
I did know he had anticipated giving Saru to an important individual, a shogun. I had no doubt that cleaned up, and trained, whip trained, and otherwise, that she would be likely to make a lovely gift. Her coloring and such would be, I gathered, unusual amongst the Pani, and her slave fires, as I had determined, had already been nicely ignited.
She was now a slave.
She needed men.
Without them she would be in torment.
I hoped that Pertinax, from his absurd conditioning on Earth, would not scorn her for her vitality, and needs. Her belly was now hot, and alive, even piteously so. Rather, let him accept her now as what she was, and now only was, a slave. A Gorean male, of course, is not surprised by female needs. He may not expect such things in a free woman, but he does expect such things in a slave. The repressed free woman, struggling against her own sexual nature, often in misery, may scorn the slave, whom she envies, for her needs, but the master, naturally, does not. He accepts them. They are exactly what he expects in a given form of merchandise, a property girl, a collar slut, a luscious, needful, obedient, owned female, a slave.
“Do you think,” asked Lord Nishida, “that the slave, Saru, is ready to leave the stable?”
“I am sure of it,” I said. “I am confident she will be eager to leave the stable, and will strive desperately, in all ways, to avoid being returned to it.”
“Good,” said Lord Nishida. “I will have her prepared. Perhaps she may serve at the feast, scrubbed clean and naked.” He turned to Pertinax. “Would you like that?” he asked.
Pertinax looked down, reddening.
“How of Earth he is,” commented Lord Nishida.
I shrugged.
“You will be present, of course,” he said.
“I would be honored,” I said.
“Your colleagues may accompany you,” said Lord Nishida.
“We are honored,” I assured him.
“There will be many tables,” said Lord Nishida.
“The men will be pleased,” I said.
“Guards must be posted,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” said Lord Nishida, “our friends did not bring free women with them.”
“No,” I said.
Sometimes overconfident forces do bring free women with them, camp followers, courtesans, and such, and, even, not unoften, highly placed free women, to companion high officers, preside over victory feasts, have the first chance to bid amongst the women of the enemy for serving slaves, and such. Indeed, some accompany such campaigns as an escape from boredom, if nothing else, apparently in search of thrills and adventures. If unable to observe actions from remote, secure, and convenient heights, by means of the glasses of the Builders, they remain behind, in their silken tents, awaiting the announcements of victory, in the keeping of camp guards. Sometimes, of course, things do not go well, and they must forsake their heights, now being swept by the enemy, and flee downward, in terror, scattering to the grassy valleys, running before mounted foes intent on collecting them. About them they hear the squeals of kaiila, the shouting of men, the shrieks of their sisters, the sudden pounding of paws in the grass behind them, and then the bright sound of a flighted, swirling, belled capture net. And later those in the camp rejoice, seeing the dust approaching, which they take for the rapid, joyful return of their forces, triumphant. But the camp guards have reconnoitered, and have hurriedly departed, that their swords may be saved for the defense of their Home Stone. And then the women discover the camp is surrounded, and invaded, and then tents are afire, and then men are about, rude strangers, laughing and shouting. Coffers are being forced open, and precious vessels, and handfuls of coins and jewelry, are being seized; silken hangings are draped on brawny arms; amphorae are unearthed; the odor of paga pervades the camp, and common warriors, perhaps for the first time, taste rare ka-la-na, guzzling it like kal-da. The women, then, of whatever station, whether low-born or high, whether of high caste or low, together with camp slaves, are herded to the center of the blackened, smoldering camp, where all must, at a word, disrobe themselves, both bond and free, to be assessed, as though in a field market. One woman speaks imperiously to a slave, as is her wont, and, to her astonishment, and pain, is slapped. And then, later, the free women, who thought to feast this night in a conquered city, are led in coffle, naked, hastened by whips, through alien gates.
“How then will the feast be served?” inquired Tajima.
“By women,” said Lord Nishida. “What else are they good for?”
“Pleasure,” I suggested.
“Yes,” said Lord Nishida, “that, too, is a purpose of women.”
“By slaves, of course,” I said.
“Alas, yes,” said Lord Nishida. “We must make do with slaves. To be sure, we might free them all, have them serve, as free women, and then recollar them.”
“I think slaves will do,” I said.
“Yes,” said Lord Nishida. “Why should a slave be granted even a moment of freedom?”
I include, in passing, for those who might find it of interest, the following brief, ritual dialogue, in the form of a simple question and answer, which, in certain cities, is not unusual between a master and his slave.
“What are you for?”
“To serve you, and give you pleasure, Master.”
This exchange usually takes place in the morning, when the girl first kneels before the master.
In a sense, it begins her day. Too, of course, it may be required at any time, say before meals, before serving wine, before bedding her, putting her to use, and so on.
I supposed Tajima had been interested in whether or not Sumomo might serve at such a feast.
She would not.
She was a contract woman, and above such vulgar applications.
Then, far off, several hundred yards away, we heard the bellowing of tharlarion.
The men of Lord Nishida had been methodically examining each structure in both the housing area and those surrounding the Plaza of Training.
“It seems urts have been discovered in the stable,” said Tajima.
“They are trying to cover their flight by stampeding tharlarion!” said Pertinax.
From where we stood we could see the lumbering bulks of crowded tharlarion, buffeting one another, moving from the stable. We saw Ashigaru in the vicinity with glaives. Another figure or two, also, was seen, mixed in with the tharlarion. One, I thought, fell, and was trampled.
“Margaret! Margaret!” cried Pertinax, wildly, and, turning about, ran toward the stable.
“With your permission?” I asked Lord Nishida.
“Certainly,” he said.
Tajima and I then, following Pertinax, hurried toward the stable. We were followed by some mercenaries, and glaive-bearing Ashigaru.
Chapter Nineteen
AT THE STABLE
“Wait!” I called to Pertinax, who would have rushed headlong into the confines of the stable.
He drew up short, sword drawn.
“Do not frame yourself in the threshold,” I said.
Lord Nishida had remained in the centrality of Tarncamp, directing officers and men. He spoke directly to Pani. He communicated with mercenaries through their officers.
There was much dust about, like gray clouds, settling slowly, from the movements of the tharlarion.
The stable had its strong, distinctive odor.
Men coughed.
Pertinax wiped his eyes.
Darkness would fall within the Ahn.
There were grooms about, and one of the Pani, a subaltern, set them to recover, as they could, frightened, confused tharlarion. Ashigaru accompanied them, lest fugitives be encountered. Some had surely escaped. To be sure, I was confident the last thing such fugitives would desire would be to encounter Lord Nishida’s Ashigaru. They would be more likely to dare the forests, and hungering beasts. Few, I suspected, would find their way back to their Home Stones, if Home Stones they had. Fortunately t
he gigantic draft beasts, disoriented, snorting and lumbering, had not been loosed amongst buildings, or much of the camp, where it was intact, might have been reduced to shambles. I had no doubt hundreds of the wands would now be uprooted. I trusted this would not result in an eventual, casual intrusion of larls into formerly secure areas. A small building of wood, as were most of the camp structures, would not fare well against the bulk and momentum of a distressed, uncontrolled, rapidly moving tharlarion. Indeed, the beast might scarcely notice the obstacle, almost ignoring it, thrusting through it as it might through brush or picketing. The inertia of a tharlarion is formidable. It cannot be turned and halted with the same ease as might, say, a kaiila, or horse, which may be instantly turned or halted, pulled up short, and so on. When the tharlarion has its own head it is difficult to control. Consider the difficulties of trying to communicate with, or control, a boulder tumbling down a mountainside. Draft tharlarion, of which variety these were, are normally driven slowly, and with care. War tharlarion, often larger than draft tharlarion, can be, and are, used in charges. There is little defense against them if encountered on unprepared, level ground. Open formations will try to let them pass, and attack them from behind. Closed formations seek uneven ground, use ditches, diagonally anchored, sharpened stakes, and such. If they become slowed, or are milling, they can be attacked by special troops, with broad-bladed axes, designed to disable or sever a leg. I have never much favored tharlarion in combat, as, if they are confused, or wounded, they become uncontrollable, and are as likely to turn about and plunge into their own troops as those of the enemy, thereby, indiscriminately, wherever they trod or roll, whether amongst friends or foes, spreading disorder and death. Some kaiila, incidentally, become hard to handle in the presence of tharlarion, if they are unfamiliar with them. The issue of more than one battle had turned on this seeming oddity. For this reason, the Tuchuks, and others of the Wagon Peoples, and, I suppose, others, accustom their kaiila to the sight and smell of tharlarion. In the case of the Wagon Peoples, these are usually taken from raided caravans.
Tajima looked at me.
“Not yet,” I said.
“Very well, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said.
The enemy which stampeded the tharlarion would have realized the value, if danger, of such a cover. I recognized their cunning, and understood their desperation. It was an excellent strategy. I could think of only one better, and it would have required the execution of the first.
“Do not enter the stable,” I warned Pertinax.
“What of Miss Wentworth?” he demanded.
“Saru!” I snapped. “The needful slave.”
“‘Needful’?” he said.
“Yes,” I said, irritably. He did not realize what had been done to the female, how she was now different, how she was now a slave.
“Surely it is safe,” said Pertinax. “The enemy has fled!”
“No,” I said.
“How so?” said he.
“Some flee,” I said. “One might suppose all have fled. Some remain, clever ones, in hiding, their presence unsuspected, to escape in the darkness.”
“Why do you think this?” asked Pertinax.
“Put yourself in the place of the most astute, the shrewdest, of your enemies,” I said. “What might you do, if you were they? Too, Saru is presumably within the stable, and, I am confident, alive, as she is a slave. One would no more kill her than any other domestic animal. But she has not called out to us. I infer she is being kept silent. If this is the case, one or more enemies are within.”
“I think that is true,” said a quiet, even voice, behind me. I knew the voice was Pani, but I could not place it.
I heard men gasp, and sensed them drawing back.
This was, I took it, a reverenced personage, one of whom lesser men stood in awe.
Who could this be?
I turned about.
I then saw before me one of the Pani, but one such as I had not seen before. Had a larl by some incantation taken the form of a man, I thought it might be such a man. He was not large, but I felt a largeness somehow within him. Although of the Pani his visage was bearded, thinly, roughly, uncut, save perhaps by the sword, and his hair was long, and unkempt. His clothing was soiled, and uncared for. He was barefoot. In his belt, blades uppermost, were the two swords, the companion sword and the longer blade. There was blood on his loose, short-armed robe. Some of it was spattered, and, in other places, he had apparently drawn his blades against the cloth, to clean the blade. I was startled to look upon him, for he seemed so different from the other Pani. He might, I supposed, be a hermit, or a recluse, one who lived by himself, with his thoughts. Perhaps he was a madman. That seemed to me possible, but then it seemed to me, rather, that there was a solidity about him, and a finely tempered, perhaps dangerous, rationality about him. I thought surely he was an unusual man, and one of perhaps a ferocious singleness of interest and purpose. I would learn later, however, that he carved wood, and composed small poems on bark. I had the sense he was without companion or slave, and by choice. Perhaps such might have distracted him from some more remote purpose, or goal, or ideal. He seemed to me a man driven, like a thing of nature, but from what or to what I did not know.
“Master,” said Tajima, bowing deeply, which greeting was politely returned.
“Master,” said Pertinax, putting down his head.
“It is he,” said one of the Ashigaru.
“He has come from the forest,” said another.
“He came to the sound of striking steel,” said another.
“He took seven heads,” whispered a man.
I bowed then, for I knew in whose presence I stood.
“I am Nodachi,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“It will be dark soon,” said one of the Ashigaru.
“May I speak to the men?” I inquired of Nodachi.
Whereas he held no office to my knowledge, nor any instituted authority, as far as I knew, I felt the inquiry, the question, was appropriate.
I sensed that those others in the vicinity, too, felt a deference, a respect, a recognition, a salute, a propriety of some such sort was in order.
His consent or approval seemed important to me, somehow, and to the others.
Some men are not officers, or daimyos, or shoguns, but are such that officers, daimyos, shoguns, or such, in their presence, would not hesitate to be the first to bow.
I sensed the awe in which this man was held, an awe to which I, not even of the Pani, was acutely sensitive. It seemed an awe as palpable as an atmosphere. Doubtless this was in part due to many things, perhaps to his unusual, imposing, even wretched, appearance, and in part to his reputation, an understanding of who this was, and what he had done, and what he could do, and perhaps, in part, too, to that sense of being in the presence of one who lives alone, undeviating and undistracted, one who is absorbed in, and centered upon, a quest, one not altogether clear to other men, a journey as much within as without. Some men are alone, essentially solitary, their lives given over unswervingly to an ideal, or dream, the search for a fact, the discovery of a cause, or planet, the unraveling of a mystery, the creation of a perfect poem. I thought of Andreas of Tor, and his longing for a song that might be sung for a thousand years, of Tersites, of Port Kar, and his plans for a mighty ship, finer than all others. This man was such a man, I suspected, a seeker, a traveler on uncharted, even invisible, roads, roads thusly undiscerned by others. The perfection he sought, I gathered, was a simple one, one sought by many, and found by few, one which I, even of the Warriors, and others of my brethren in arms, would find harrowing, and almost incomprehensible, and to which we surely dared not aspire, a perfection of heart, eye, mind, and body, to undergo a lifetime of meditation, sacrifice, and discipline, to understand and become one with, as it was said, the soul of the sword.
He was Nodachi.
“I am near the camp, but I am not of the camp,” he said. “I am one who is outside.”
I gathered from his remark that he eschewed an engagement in our work, that he chose not to concern himself with it.
This was his decision.
I bowed.
“Master,” said Tajima, bowing.
“Master,” said Pertinax, bowing.
These deferences were accepted by the strange figure who then turned about, and withdrew.
“It was Nodachi,” said a man.
“I have only now seen him, but I knew him,” said another.
“Who would not know him?” asked another.
“He is more than a man,” said one of the Ashigaru.
“He would deny that,” said another.
“I think he is less than a man,” said another. “He is part of a man.”
“Men are various,” said another. “He is one thing a man can be.”
“A single, terrible thing,” said another.
“Within him resides a demon,” said another.
“And a holiness,” said another.
“Or an evil,” said another.
“He is a monster,” said another.
“He is the blade’s brother,” whispered another.
“He listens to the sword,” said another. “It speaks to him.”
“The sharpness of his blade, unmoving in the water, can divide a floating blossom,” said a man.
I had seen that sort of thing, and did not doubt it.
It was not unusual for silk to fall, parted, from a shaken blade.
“His stroke can descend like lightning, cutting in two a grain of sa-tarna placed on the forehead of a man, without creasing the skin,” said another.
This was possible, I supposed, but I would not have cared to be the fellow involved in the demonstration.
“One stroke can cut through seven bodies,” claimed another.
If we were talking of the bodies of men this was unlikely. The force required would surpass the violence of a hurricane.
“He can strike out in eight directions at once,” claimed another.
Some of these things seemed to me obviously impossible, and were clearly the fruits of imagination, and myth, but it is common to suppose that at the foot of legends, in the lost soil of the remote past, there is a seed from which such legends sprang, and I had little doubt, in any event, that the mysterious fellow who had just appeared, and then departed, was both unusual and remarkable.