Norman, John - Gor 09 - Marauders of Gor.txt

by Marauders of Gor [lit]

  one of the loose ends about her left ankle, and the other about her right. It

  was the Gorean love bow. He then, regarding her, cut the Kur collar from her

  throat with the ship's knife. He threw it aside. She now wore only one collar,

  his. She closed her eyes. She moved, lying across it, on the body of the Kur. It

  was still warm. "It is we who are victorious," said he. She opened her eyes. "It

  is you who are victorious, Master," she said. Already her hips were moving. "I

  am only a slave girl," she wept. With a roaring laugh he fell upon her. "Ivar!

  Ivar!" cried a voice. We heard the slave girl cry out with pleasure. "Ivar!"

  cried a voice. Ivar Forkbeard looked up, to see Ottar up the slope of the

  valley, waving to him. We made our way toward Ottar, who stood near the burned,

  fallen tents of Thorgard of Scagnar. "Here are prisoners and much loot," said

  Ottar. He gestured at some eleven men of Thorgard of Scagnar. Thewere stripped

  of their helmets, belts and weapons. The stood, chained by the neck, their

  wrists shackled befor them. "I see only loot," said the Forkbeard. "Kneel!"

  ordered Ottar. "Sell them as slaves in Lydius," said the Forkbeard. He turned

  away from the men. "Heads down!" commanded Ottar. They knelt, their heads to the

  muddied dirt. The Forkbeard looked at many of the boxes and chests and sacks, of

  wealth. I had seen this, or much of it, earlier in the morning, when I had

  pursued the Kur to the tent of Thorgard of Scagnar. To one side knelt the silken

  girls I had seen in the tent. There were seventeen of them. Under the dark sky,

  kneeling in the mud, they looked much different than they had in the tent. Their

  silks were soiled, their legs and the bottom of their feet stained with mire.

  Their hands were tied behind their backs. They were fastened to one another by

  binding fiber in throat coffle. Those that had been wearing chains had had the

  locks unfastened, the keys found in one of the chests in a nearby tent. Over

  them, proud and regal, a switch in her hand, stood Olga. She waved the switch at

  them. "I took them all for you, my Jarl!" she elated. "I simply ordered them,

  with confidence and authority, to kneel in a line, facin away from me, to be

  bound. They did so!" The Forkbeard laughed at the lovely chattels. "They are

  slaves," he said None of the girls even dared to lift her eyes to him. We saw

  too, to one side, the former Miss Peggy Stevens of Earth, now Honey Cake. Her

  eyes were joyous, seeing the Fork beard, seeing that he lived. She ran to the

  Forkbeard, kneeling, putting her head to his feet. She, too, like Pretty Ankle

  had severed binding fiber knotted about her belly. By the ring of the Kur collar

  which she wore Ivar Forkbeard jerked he to her feet, so that she stood on her

  tiptoes, looking up a him. He grinned. "To the pen with you, Slave," he said. Sh

  looked at him, adoringly. "Yes, Master," she whispered. "Wait," said Olga. "Do

  not permit her to go alone." "How is this?" asked Ivar. "Recollect you, my

  Jarl," asked Olga, "the golden girl, she with ringed ears, from the south, who

  lost in the assessments of beauty to Gunnhild?" "Well do I do so," responded

  Ivar, licking his lips. "Behold," laughed Olga. She went to a piece of tent

  canvas, which, casually, loosely, was thrown over some object. She threw it

  back. Lying in the dirt, her legs drawn up, her wrists tied behind her back, was

  the deliciously bodied little wench, dark-haired, in gold silk, now dirtied and

  torn, in golden collar, and gold earrings, who had exchanged words with Ivar's

  wool-kirtled wenches at the thing. She was the trained girl, the southern silk

  girl. In fury, she squirmed to her feet. "I am not a Kur girl," she cried.

  Indeed, she did not wear the heavy leather collar, with ring and lock, which

  Kurii fastened on their female cattle. She wore a collar of gold, and earrings,

  and, torn and muddied, a slip of golden silk, of the sort with which masters

  sometimes display their girl slaves. It was incredibly brief. "I have a human

  master," she said, angrily, "to whom I demand to be imrnediately returned." "We

  took her, Honey Cake and I," said Olga. "Your master," said Ivar, thinking,

  recollecting the captain behind whom he had seen her heeling at the thing, "is

  Rolf of Red Fjord." Rolf of Red Fjord, I knew, was a minor captain. He, and his

  men, had participated in the fighting. "No!" laughed the girl. "After the

  contest of beauty, in which, through the cheating of the judges, I lost, I was

  sold to the agent of another, a much greater one than a mere Rolf of Red Fjord.

  My master is truly powerful! Release me this instant! Fear him!" Olga, to the

  girl's outrage, tore away her golden silk, revealing her to the Forkbeard. "Oh!"

  she cried, in fury. Gunnhild had won the contest, and won it fairly. But I was

  forced to admit that the wench now before us, struggling to free her wrists, now

  revealed to us, luscious, sensuous, short, squirming, infuriated, was incredibly

  desirable; we considered her body, her face, her obvious intelligence; she would

  bring a high price; she would make a delicious armful in the furs. "How is it

  that you have dared to strip me!" demanded the girl. "Who is your master?"

  inquired Ivar Forkbeard. She drew herself up proudly. She threw back her

  shoulders. In her eyes, hot with fury, was the arrogance of the high-owned

  slave. She smiled insolently, contemptuously. Then she said, "Thorgard of

  Scagnar." "Thorgard of Scagnar!" called a voice, that of Gorm. We turned.

  Thorgard of Scagnar, raiment torn, bloodied, a broken spear shaft bound behind

  his back and before his arms, his wrists pulled forward, held at the sides of

  his rib cage, fastened by a rope across his belly, herded by men with spears,

  stumbled forward. A length of simple, coarse tent rope, some seven feet in

  length, had been knotted about his neck. By this tether Gorm dragged him before

  Ivar Forkbeard. The golden girl regarded Thorgard of Scagnar with horror. Then,

  eyes terrified, she regarded Ivar Forkbeard, of Forkbeard's Landfall. "You are

  mine now," said the Forkbeard. Then he said to Honey Cake, "Take my new slave to

  the pen." "Yes, Master," she laughed. Then she took the golden girl, the

  southern girl, by the hair. "Come, Slave," she said. She dragged the bound silk

  girl, bent over, behind her. "I think," said Ivar Forkbeard, "I will give her

  for a month to Gunnhild, and my other wenches. They will enjoy having their own

  slave. Then, when the month is done, I will turn her over to the crew, and she

  will be, then, as my other bond-maids, no more or less." Ivar turned to regard

  Thorgard of Scagnar. He stood proudly, bound, feet spread. Hilda, naked, in her

  collar, knelt to one side and behind the Forkbeard. She covered herself with her

  hands as best she could, her head down. The Forkbeard gestured to the several

  captive slave girls, loot from Thorgard's tent, kneeling, wrists bound behind

  their backs, in their brief, mired silk, in throat coffle, those girls Olga,

  light-heartedly, had secured for him. "Take them to the pen," he said to Olga.

  Olga slapped her switch in the palm of her hand. "On your feet, Slaves," she

  said. The girls struggled to their feet. "To the pen, hurry!" she snapped. "You

  will be given to men!" The g
irls began to run. As each one passed Olga, she,

  below the small of the back, was expedited with a sharp stroke of the switch.

  Then Olga, much pleased, laughing, trotting beside them, herded the running,

  weeping, stumbling coffle toward the pen. Now the Forkbeard returned his

  attention to Thorgard of Scagnar, who regarded him evenly. "Some of his men

  escaped," said Gorm. Then Gorm said, "Shall we strip him?" "No," said the

  Forkbeard. "Kneel," said Gorm to Thorgard of Scagnar, roughly. He prodded him

  with the butt of a spear. "No," said the Forkbeard. The two men faced one

  another. Then the Forkbeard said, "Cut him loose." It was done. "Give him a

  sword,"said the Forkbeard. This, too, was done, and the men, and the girl, too,

  Hilda, stepped back, clearing a circle for the two men. Thorgard gripped the

  hilt of the sword. It was cloudy. "You were always a fool," said Thorgard to the

  Forkbeard. "No man is without his weakness," said Ivar. Suddenly, crying with

  rage, his beard wild behind him, Thorgard of Scagnar, a mighty foe, now armed,

  rushed upon the Forkbeard, who fended away the blow. I could tell the weight of

  the stroke by the way it fell on the blade, and how the Forkbeard's blade

  responded to it. Thorgard was an immensely strong man. I had little doubt that

  he could beat the arm of a man to weakness, and then, when it was slowed, tired,

  no longer able to respond with sureness, with reflexive swiftness, in a great

  attack, he would hack through to the body. I had seen such men fight before.

  Once the sheer weight of the attacker's blows had turned and driven, interposed,

  his opponent's sword half through the man's own neck. But I did not think the

  Forkbeard would weary. On his own ship he, not unoften, drew oar. He accepted

  the driving blows, like iron thunderbolts, on his own blade, turning them aside.

  But he struck little. Hilda, her hand before her mouth, eyes frightened, watched

  this war of two so mighty combatants. Too, of course, the weight of such blows,

  particularly with the long, heavy swords of Torvaldsland, take their toll from

  the striking arm, as well as the fending arm. Suddenly Thorgard stepped back.

  The Forkbeard grinned at him. The Forkbeard was not weakened. Thorgard stepped

  back another step, warily. The Forkbeard followed him. I saw stress in the eyes

  of Thorgard, and, for the first time, apprehension. He had spent much strength.

  "It is I who am the fool," said Thorgard. "You could not know," said the

  Forkbeard. Then Ivar Forkbeard, as we followed, step by step, drove Thorgard

  back. For more than a hundred yards did he drive him back, blow following blow.

  They stopped once, regarding one another. There seemed to be now little doubt as

  to the outcome of the battle. Then we followed further, even up the slope of the

  valley, and to a high place, cliffed, which overlooked Thassa. It puzzled me

  that the Forkbeard had not yet struck the final blow. At last, his back to the

  cliff, Thorgard of Scagnar could retreat no further. He could no longer lift his

  arm. Behind him, green and beautifill, stretched Thassa. The sky was cloudy.

  There was a slight wind, which moved his hair and beard. "Strike," said

  Thorgard. On Thassa, some hundreds of yards offshore, were ships. One of these I

  noted was Black Sleen, the ship of Thorgard. Gorm had told us that some of his

  men had escaped. They had managed to flee to the ship, and make away. Beside me,

  agonized, I saw the eyes of Hilda. "Strike," said Thorgard. It would have been a

  simple blow. The men of Ivar Forkbeaard were stunned. Ivar returned to us. "I

  slipped," he said. Gorm and others ran to the cliff. Thorgard, seizing his

  opportunity, had turned and plunged to the waters below. We could see him

  swimming. From Black Sleen we saw a small boat being lowered, rowing toward him.

  "It was careless of me," admitted the Forkbeard. Hilda crept to him, and knelt

  before him. She put her head softly to his feet, and then lifted her head and,

  tears in her eyes, looked up at him. "A girl is grateful," she said, "-my Jarl."

  "To the pen with you, Wench," said the Forkbeard. "Yes," she said, "my Jarl!

  Yes!" She leapt up. When she turned about, the Forkbeard dealt her a mighty

  blow, swift and stinging, with the flat of his sword. She was, after all, only a

  common bond-maid. She cried out, startled, sobbing, and stumbled more than a

  dozen steps before she regained her balance. Then she turned and, sobbing,

  laughing, cried out joyfully, "I love you, my Jarl! I love you!" He raised the

  weapon again, flat side threatening her, and she turned and, laughing, sobbing,

  only one of his girls, fled to the pen. The Forkbeard and I, and the others,

  returned to the tents of Thorgard of Scagnar. Svein Blue Tooth was there. We

  saw, in a long line, shackled, fur matted, Kurii being herded with spear butts

  through the camp. "The bridge of jewels worked well," said Svein Blue Tooth to

  Ivar Forkbeard. "Hundreds, fleeing, were slain by our archers. Arrows of

  Torvaldsland found the slaughter pleasing." "Did any escape?" inquired Ivar. The

  Blue Tooth shrugged. "Several," he said, "but I think the men of Torvaldsland

  now need fear little the return of any Kur army." I thought what he said

  doubtless true. Single, or scattered, Kurii might, as before, forage south, but

  I did not think they would again regroup in vast numbers. They had learned and

  so, too, had the men of Torvaldsland, that men could stand against them. This

  fact, red with blood of both beasts and men, had been demonstrated in a remote

  valley of the north. I smiled to myself. The demonstration would not have been

  lost, either, on the advanced Kurii of the steel worlds. It was ironic. I, Tarl

  Cabot, who had abandoned the service of Priest-Kings, had yet, in this far

  place, been instrumental in their work. The Forkbeard and I, it had been, who

  had found the arrow of war in the Torvaldsberg, who had touched it to other

  arrows, which, in hundreds of villages and camps, over thousands of square

  pasangs of rugged, inlet-cleft terrain, had been carried to the free men of the

  north, that they might fetch their weapons, rally and, shoulder to shoulder, do

  battle. And, too, I had fought. It was strange, as it seemed to me, that it

  should be so. I thought of golden Misk, the Priest-King, of once, long ago, when

  his antennae had touched the palms of my uplifted hands, and Nest Trust had been

  pledged between us. Then I dismissed the thought. I saw, to one side, large

  Hrolf, from the East, who had fought with us, he leaning on his spear. We knew

  little of him. But he had fought well; What else need one know of a man? "What

  is to be done with these captive Kurii?" I asked Svein Blue Tooth, indicating

  the line of imprisoned beasts, some wounded, being driven past us, survivors of

  the slaughter on the Bridge of Jewels. "We shall break the teeth from their

  jaws," he said. "We shall tear the claws from their paws. They, suitably chained

  will be used as beasts of burden." The great plan of the Others, of the Kurii of

  the steel worlds, their most profound and brilliant probe of the defenses of

  Priest-Kings, had failed. Native Kurii, bred from ship's survivors over

  centuries, would not, it seemed, if limited to the primitive weapons permitted

&n
bsp; men, be capable of conquering Gor, isolating the Priest-Kings in the Sardar,

  until they could be destroyed, or, alternatively, be used to lure the

  Priest-Kings into a position where they would be forced to betray their own

  weapons laws, arming men, which would be dangerous, or utilizing their own

  significant technology, thereby, perhaps, revealing the nature, location and

  extent oftheir power, information that might then be exploited at a later date

  by the strategists of the steel worlds. The plan had been brilliant, though

  careless of the value, if any, placed on Kurii life. I supposed native Kurii did

  not command the respect of the educated, trained Kurii of the ships. They were

  regarded, perhaps, as a different, lesser, or inferior breed, expendable in the

  strategems of their betters. The failure of the Kurii invasion, of course, moved

  the struggle to a new dimension. I wondered what plans now, alternate plans

  doubtless formed years or centuries ago, would now be implemented. Perhaps,

  already, such plans were afoot. I looked at the ragged line of defeated,

  shackled Kurii. They had failed. But already, I suspected, Kurii, fresh,

  brilliant, calculating, masters in the steel worlds, in their command rooms,

  their map rooms and strategy rooms, were, even before the ashes in this remote

  valley in the north had cooled, engaged in the issuance of orders. I looked

  about at the field of battle, under the cloudy sky. New coded instructions,

  doubtless, had already been exchanged among the distant steel worlds. The Kur is

  a tenacious beast. It seems well equipped by its remote, savage evolution to be

  a dominant life form. Ivar Forkbeard and Svein Blue Tooth might congratulate

  themselves on their victory. I, myself, more familiar with Kurii, with the

  secret wars of Priest-Kings, suspected that men had not yet heard the last of

  such beasts. But these thoughts were for others, not for Bosk of Port Kar, not

  for Tarl Red Hair. Let others fight for Priest-Kings. Let others do war. Let

  others concern themselves with such struggles. If I had had any duty in these

  matters, long ago I had discharged it. Suddenly, for the first time since I had

  left Port Kar, my left arm, my left leg, the left side of my body, felt suddenly

  cold, and numb. For an instant I could not move them. I nearly fell. Then it