Slave of Sarma

by Jeffrey Lord

  Blade stroked her and nodded at Pelops. “Ask him.”

  Pelops, who was to go as Blade’s servant - not slave - rubbed his fuzzy skull and said that if Blade was familiar with arms, which he said he was, then he should have no trouble. There was not a man in Sarma to match Blade in strength.

  “Unless,” Pelops hedged, “it be Mokanna. The High Captain of Battlemen. I have never seen him, or seen him fight, but I have heard that he is a monster among men.”

  Blade shrugged his big shoulders. “That may be. Let us go, then, and meet this Mokanna and find out. You, Zeena, will do as we have agreed.”

  Zeena, as a Princess of Sarma, had the right to sponsor a battleman. She would pay for his keep and his education and he would fight for her in the lists. This, Pelops explained, was often done. And it was not unusual for a woman to marry a successful battleman.

  “It is the best way,” Blade said. “Go to Sarmacid, Zeena, and tell your story. As a Princess of the Blood you will not be questioned too much - “

  “My mother the Queen will question,” said Zeena with a tight laugh. “She questions everything, my mother. She is a witch and jealous of all her daughters.”

  By this time Blade was aware that no love was lost in the Palace. Zeena, as she prattled between love bouts, told him some weird tales of intrigue and double-dealing and murder.

  “No mind,” said Blade. “Go tell your story. Pelops and I surrendered to you. You took mercy on us and did not turn us over to the slave patrol. Instead we are to train at Barracid and I am to represent you at the next great battle show. Do it, Zeena. It is a story that will be believed.”

  “But I will miss you too much, Blade. I will not have you to bed me.”

  “If you do not,” said Blade grimly, “I will eventually be hunted down, as will Pelops, and then I will be made a slave in fact, perhaps even executed for aiding Pelops. Is that what you wish?”

  Zeena had gone to Sarmacid. A royal escort was provided by the High Captain of Battlemen, Mokanna, with much fawning and servility. At first it amused Blade, then gave him serious thought, to see the power of a woman so absolute. Sarma was a matriarchy with a vengeance. Blade cautioned .himself not to forget it. Life in any Dimension X was tricky enough - in a land ruled by women it might prove to be fatally so.

  They were quartered in rude stone huts on a vast brown plain not far beyond the black lake called Patmos Tarn. Beyond the pale khaki mountains lay the city of Sarmacid. On the plain outside the encampment, near a row of T gallows, stood a small stone image of Bek-Tor. The God of Sarma.

  On this day Blade was running. Each battleman did five miles a day for conditioning. They were not watched, or even guarded very closely, for all logic was against any attempt to escape. Legally the battlemen were either slaves - though not often treated as such - or men who had volunteered to escape slavery and perhaps make their fortunes. In certain cases a man might be given such a choice. Much depended on the judge - always a woman, because women held all power in Sarma.

  Blade, clad only in a loin strap and carrying a sweat rag, stopped to gaze at the statue of Bek-Tor. The thing fascinated him and made him uneasy at the same time. Yet his survival depended on understanding, and unless he understood Bek-Tor and the dark religion He-She represented he could not understand the Sarmaians.

  He-She. Bek-Tor was a hermaphrodite god.

  Blade wiped sweat from his face and stared at the god with the revulsion he always felt. Not a usual thing with him. He understood well enough that all men, in all times and all cultures - and it would seem all dimensions - created their gods as they must. An inexorable law - that man must create a god of some kind.

  Blade wiped sweat from his eyes and grimaced. With a grin, on impulse, he cocked a snook at the stone image. The face gave him a stony leer in return.

  The face might have been that of a lovely woman or a beautiful man. The hair was cut short and thickly curled. The breasts were full and pointed with long nipples, the waist slim and incurving.

  At the waist the figure changed into that of a man - and a woman. The legs were sturdy and powerfully muscled. Both sexes were represented in the genitals - there was a mons veneris, a stone vulva, and below this dangled a penis and testicles.

  This was Bek-Tor. Bek the woman - good. Tor the man - evil. Tor was never mentioned when it could be avoided. Sarmaians did not like to speak of evil. When they made the sign of the T it was to invoke Bek, but more to propitiate Tor. They warred, these gods sharing the same body, and sometimes Bek won, sometimes Tor. Bek looked upward, to good. Tor looked down, to the earth where evil reigned.

  Blade had heard of the bestial sacrifices made to Bek-Tor. Girl babies cast into flames. Male children were not considered important enough to sacrifice.

  He spat in disgust and was about to turn away when someone called his name. Mokanna stepped from behind the statue of Bek-Tor His grin was evil, his stumpy teeth stained black from chewing a tree gum the Sarmaians called chicso. He carried a whip and around his paunchy waist was belted a short sword.

  Mokanna pointed with his whip to the stone image. “You have committed sacrilege, Blade. I saw it.” He pointed to the gallows. “For that I can have you hanged and whipped.”

  It was a cruel punishment which Blade had witnessed once. For sacrilege, for disobeying an order, for failing to do your best in practice, for any number of things a man could be hanged. A slender but strong cord was looped around the penis and testicles and spliced into a longer and thicker rope. The man’s hands and feet were bound and he was hauled up. The duration of punishment varied with the offense. Few men survived the ordeal and those who did, as the grim joke had it, would never marry and make children.

  Blade stared back at the man. Ever since his arrival at Baracid he had been expecting trouble with Mokanna and here it was. Mokanna resented Blade’s physique and skill with arms. While Blade lived he was a challenge, as yet unspoken, to Mokanna’s authority. Blade knew well enough that were he not a protege of Zeena, sponsored by her, both he and Pelops would be dead by now.

  He forced himself to speak calmly. “No sacrilege, Mokanna. I only spat. I have been running and my mouth is dry. What can you make of that?”

  Mokanna showed his black teeth. He was shorter than Blade by a foot, but by Sarmaian standards he was an enormous man. His bowed legs were like tree trunks and over a round belly his chest and shoulders were massive and knotted with muscle.

  “I make of it what I wish,” said Mokanna. He snapped the whip idly in Blade’s direction. “If I wish to make sacrilege of it I will do so. If I wish to string you to a gallows I will also do that. I do not like you, Blade. You are a stranger, such as we have never seen in Sarma, and I do not trust you. In short. Blade, I wish you evil. I invoke Tor to do you harm.”

  Blade was puzzled. What was the man getting at?

  He crossed his arms on his chest and met Mokanna’s glittering dark stare. He gazed beyond the man at the cluster of stone huts on the far horizon.

  “You have come a long dusty way, Mokanna, to tell me that which I already knew! Come, man! You are a monster and I will not weep when you are killed; but you are no fool. Nor am I. What really brought you to spy on me?”

  Mokanna laughed, a harsh sound, and drew the plaits of the whip through his fingers. “No, Blade, you are not a fool. I give you that. And you are right. I did not come to accuse you of sacrilege against Bek-Tor.” He bowed to the image and made the T sign.

  Blade waited patiently. He was curious - and alert. They were alone on the vast plain. Mokanna had the sword and whip. Was it murder?

  Mokanna took a step toward him. Blade leaped backward in a defensive karate position. Lord Leighton’s work on Blade’s midbrain had been extensive. He forgot nothing. He brought all his skills into Dimension X.

  Mokanna stopped, flicked the whip in the dust, and laughed again. “I do not seek to harm you, Blade. You have my word on that.”

  Blade barely kept the sneer from his voice. H
e did not really want to push the man too far at this time. His own position was not a strong one.

  So he muted it. “I trust no man. Say what you must and leave me alone.”

  Mokanna shrugged his big shoulders, on which the black hair grew in profusion. He wore only a leather vest and short breeches of the same material. A chain of some silvery metal hung around his thick neck as a badge of office.

  “I come here that we may speak in secret, Blade. There is a man called Equebus. You know of him?”

  Blade’s puzzlement increased. Equebus, the Captain of the Slave Patrol? The same who had made the pass at Zeena on the beach and been lashed with a riding crop for his pains? What had Equebus to do with him?

  He nodded. “I know of the man. What matter?”

  Mokanna prodded at his ugly mouth with the butt of the whip. “Much matter, Blade. Equebus came to me last night, after you battlemen were bedded down. We spoke of you, Blade. We wasted three torches in speaking of you. Equebus is also your enemy, Blade, as I am.”

  Blade smiled coldly. “So? In my land a man is known by his enemies.”

  Mokanna shook his head. “I do not understand that. Nor you. Nor this land you speak of. But I do understand Sarma - and Equebus. The man is ambitious. He wishes to be the first husband of the virgin Zeena.”

  “He comes a little late for that,” said Blade. And could have kicked himself. It was a mistake.

  Mokanna leered. “So that is how it is, eh? T had that thought myself, when the Princess was so concerned about you and that little man of yours, Pelops? Ah, I had that very thought. But it is not my place to think about such matters, so I forgot it. You are not just a stranger, a slave, who gave yourself up and begged mercy. You have known the Princess. You are married to her!”

  Blade waited. He was still puzzled as to Mokanna’s motives and could not see where all this was leading.

  Suddenly the other man went into a gale of rough laughter. He slapped his hairy thigh with the whip. “Equebus is not going to like this when he knows - unless he already knows, or guesses, which is possible. But it still changes nothing, Blade. Equebus wants you dead. Last night he promised me money and promotion if I would see to it.”

  Blade retreated another step. Mokanna was fingering the hilt of his sword.

  Blade said: “Are you, Mokanna? Going to see to it?”

  The Captain frowned. He narrowed his eyes in thought. He half drew the sword, then thrust it back into the scabbard with a clang.

  “I am tempted,” he said at last. “Vastly tempted, Blade. I have no love for you. But if you are really married to Zeena it makes a difference. Are you?”

  Having already made the mistake, Blade decided to gain what he could from it. He nodded. “Yes. I did not lie. By your Sarmaian law we are married.”

  “Hah!” Mokanna rubbed his chin. “So. Married. And you train here as a battleman while she goes to Sarmacid to sooth the Queen and prepare her for the news. That is about the truth of it?”

  Blade nodded curtly. “In part. But I am to be a battleman and fight under Zeena’s sponsorship. That is no trick. There will be no begging off. I must earn my way.” He did not add that only by so doing would he achieve status and freedom enough to continue the search for his double.

  Mokanna was silent for a long time, his brow creased in thought. Such deep thinking, Blade noted, was foreign to the man.

  “A man must choose the winning side,” Mokanna said at last.

  Blade smiled and nodded. “If possible. It is not always so easy to know.”

  Mokanna grumblingly agreed. “But you are already half way to what Equebus aspires to. Position and preferment in Sarmacid. And you have known the Princess Zeena, married her, and she works for you in the city. You are far ahead in this matter, Blade. I will choose your side.” He beamed at Blade as though he were bestowing an accolade.

  Blade made a mock bow. “I thank you, Mokanna. You do me a great honor.”

  The sarcasm was wasted on the Captain. He waved a huge hand. “It is really nothing. But there is a slight problem - I have taken money from Equebus and made him certain promises. But one does not have to honor promises, or return money, to a dead man. You must kill him, Blade. This very night. It will be easy. I have arranged everything.”

  Blade nodded. “I would have bet on that.”

  Mokanna blinked, then went on. “There will be one small change. Instead of Equebus slaying you, as an escaping slave - for legally you are a slave - you will slay Equebus. It will be simple. Then, you will tell the Princess about me, describing me as your friend and the man who saved your life, and I will get the position in Sarmacid that Equebus seeks. It is agreed, then?”

  “I make no promises,” said Blade. “But I will listen. Tell me the details of this plan of yours.”

  Mokanna stared at the stone huts in the distance. Clouds of dust hovered over them now as the battlemen drilled and practiced killing with wooden swords and lances. “Come,” said the Captain. “It is a long walk and I am hungry and dry. I will tell you on the way.”

  Blade joined him, still wary and keeping his distance. Mokanna laughed at that. “You need not fear me, Blade, until I find that you are not going to win. Then beware me.”

  A faint smile quirked Blade’s mouth. “You are an honest rogue, Mokanna. I give you that. I may even have some regrets when the time comes to kill you.”

  Mokanna pointed away in the distance. Flags were fluttering from the signal pole in camp.

  “Equebus,” explained the Captain. “He is signaling from the black lake, where he and his men are waiting. He will be wanting to know how his plans go.”

  Blade said nothing. He must take Mokanna’s word for it. Pelops could read the flags. Blade could not. It was a thing he must do - learn to read the signal flags.

  “It is a simple plan,” Mokanna was saying. “There’s to be a slave uprising tonight in the huts. A conspiracy of the battlemen to kill me and escape. I myself have arranged it, for I have many spies among the slaves, and you are to be the leader, Blade.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. At least you will be accused of it. I have already paid my spies, with Equebus’ money, to swear that it is true - that you are the ring leader. Equebus and his slave patrol will be waiting nearby. You will be taken, the uprising will fail, and you will be executed immediately. It is a good plan, yes?”

  Blade agreed. “It was. Until you told me.”

  “Yes,” said Mokanna. “Now it is a better one. I will tell you where Equebus waits and all you have to do is kill him. Be sure you kill him, Blade. I do not want him for an enemy.”

  Blade thought a moment. “One thing I do not understand, Mokanna. How came Equebus by this knowledge of me, and of the Princess Zeena? How did he know that I am here in Barracid, training as a battleman?”

  Mokanna looked at him in surprise. “The flags, man. All Sarma knows. When the Princess disappeared a signal was sent to Sarmacid at once. Queen Pphira herself sent a signal back. Equebus relayed it to me. I sent another signal to Sarmacid to relieve the Queen’s mind about the Princess. And Equebus has been signaling me every day to know of you. Simple? What was not so simple was to drive a bargain with Equebus.”

  Simple. Blade supposed it was. Zeena, when she arrived in Sarmacid, would find her mother the Queen in full possession of the facts. Possibly mixed with a few lies and some gossip. Well, Zeena would just have to handle it as best she could.

  Flags. Poles. A primitive form of communication - and so effective. Blade felt a little stunned. For a people, a culture who had not yet guessed the secret of the wheel, the Sarmaians were pretty crafty.

  He felt uneasy. Matters were beginning to slip out of his hands. He was being forced into doing things he did not really want to do.

  “Of course,” said Kokanna, “if Equebus kills you tonight I will have to swear that you did lead a slave uprising.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was a trap. Blade had feared this, yet when
Mokanna provided him with a real sword and shield, and a short stabbing knife, instead of the dummy weapons he had been using, Blade decided to go through with it. If Equebus was such an enemy as his plotting indicated, if he would spend so much money and time to get rid of Blade, then the sooner he was taken care of the better. There was always danger in Dimension X. Blade lived with it. Every threat known and dispatched was so much gain for Blade, and increased his chances of survival by just that much.

  Now, under a blood red Sarmaian moon, he stalked the little ravine where Equebus was supposed to be hiding, a mere crease in the brown plain, and he found nothing. Far off he could see the moon shadows of the T gallows and the stone image of Bek-Tor.

  Mokanna had explained: “Equebus will ride to the ravine and wait. His slave patrol will hang back. My spies will start the slave uprising and one of them will force a sword and shield on you. When there is uproar and confusion enough I will make a torch signal and Equebus will pass it on to his men. They will move in and the rising will be crushed and you, Blade, will be taken in arms. Equebus will say that he only chanced to be riding past, or had camped nearby, and came to my aid when I signaled. You will be executed at once and Equebus can dream again of becoming the first husband of Princess Zeena. But you, Blade, must kill him first. Then come to me at once. With Equebus dead I will be able to command the Slave Patrol, for in this region I am next in rank to Equebus.”

  The ravine was empty. Blade made sure of that, then lay in the shadow of a great rock and scanned the plain roundabout. Nothing. He had been duped. But why? By whom? Was Mokanna more crafty than he seemed?

  Blade studied the grim encampment of stone huts called Barracid. Only one light showed, in the largest of the huts where Mokanna lived and had his headquarters. The other huts were dark. In one of them, Blade knew, Pelops was awake and crying in the dark. Timid Pelops. Poor little cowardly man. Blade shook his head. Pelops had warned him against this thing.

  “It is a snare,” Pelops cried when Blade told him of the plan. “I know it. You forget, Blade, sire, that once I lived and taught in the palace. I heard much. I saw much of intrigue. Equebus is an ambitious man, too ambitious, which is why he was sent to the dreary work of slave patrolling, and he is determined to go as far as a man can go in Sarma. He is far from a fool - and he and Mokanna have been enemies for a long time. I think they plot against each other, Blade, and are using you. Do not go tonight.”