by John Norman
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 stratagems 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 passed. My forehead was covered with sweat. The poison of the blade of Tyros lurked yet in my system. I had come north to avenge the slaying of the wench Telima. This resolution, the hatred, had driven me. Yet it seemed I had failed. In my pouch now lay the armlet, which Ho-Hak had given me in Port Kar, that found where Telima had been attacked. I had failed.
"Are you all right?" asked Ivar.
"Yes," I said.
"I have found your bow, and your arrows," said Gorm. "They were among weapons in the loot."
"I am grateful," I said. I strung the bow and drew it, and unstrung it. I slipped the quiver, with its arrows, flight and sheaf, over my left shoulder.
"In four days, when supplies can be gathered," said Svein Blue Tooth, "we shall have a great feast, for this has been a great victory."
"Yes," I said, "let us have a great feast, for this has been a great victory."
Chapter 19 - THE NOTE
The Kur came that night, the night of the battle, in the light of torches, ringed by men with spears. It held, in sign of truce, over its head, the two parts of a broken ax.
Many men stood about, armed, several with torches. Down a hall of men, standing in the field, came the Kur.
It stopped before Svein Blue Tooth and Ivar Forkbeard, who, on seats of rock, awaited it. Ivar, chewing on a vulo wing, motioned Hilda, and Gunnhild, Pudding and Honey Cake, who, naked and collared, his girls, knelt about him, to withdraw. They crept back, bond-maids, behind him. Their flesh was in the shadows. They knelt.
At the feet of the two leaders the Kur laid the pieces of the broken ax. Then it surveyed the grouping. To the astonishment of all the beast did not address itself to the two leaders.
It came and stood before me.
With one hand I thrust Leah to one side. I stood. The lips of the beast drew back from its teeth. It towered over me.
It did not speak. It reached into a pouch, slung over its shoulder, and handed me a paper, rolled, bound, incongruously, with a ribbon.
Then the beast went to Svein Blue Tooth and Ivar Forkbeard, and there, from the ground at their feet, lifted again the two parts of the ax.
There were angry cries from the men. Spears were lowered.
But Svein Blue Tooth, regal, stood. "The peace of the camp is on him," he said.
Again the lips of the Kur drew back from its teeth. Then, holding the pieces of the ax over his head, he departed, escorted by armed men from the fire, to the edge of the camp, past the guards.
The eyes of those of the camp, in the torchlight, were upon me. I stood, holding the piece of paper, rolled, bound with its ribbon.
I looked at Leah, standing back, the light of the torches felicitous and provocative on her flesh. Her eyes were terrified. She trembled. Her breasts, in her agitation, rose and fell, her hand at them. I smiled. Women fear Kurii, terribly. I was pleased that I had not given her clothing. She looked at me. Her collar became her. "Kneel, Slave," I said. Swiftly, Leah, the slave girl, obeyed the word of a free man.
I opened the note, and unrolled it.
"Where is the Skerry of Vars?" I asked.
"It is five pasangs to the north," said Ivar Forkbeard, "and two pasangs offshore."
"Take me there," I said.
"Very well," he said.
I crumpled the note. I threw it away. But inside the note curled within it, was a length of hair, long and blond. It was the hair of Telima. I put it in my pouch.
Chapter 20 - WHAT OCCURRED ON THE SKERRY OF VARS
The girl approached me.
She wore a long gown, white. She threw back the hood. She shook loose the long, blond hair.
"I have been a fool," I said. "I have come to the north, thinking you slain. I had come north, in fury, tricked, to avenge you."
It was near dusk. She faced me. "It was necessary," she said.
"Speak," I told her.
The Skerry of Vars is roughly a hundred foot, Gorean, square. It is rough, but, on the whole, flat. It rises some fifteen to twenty feet from the water. It is grayish rock, bleak, upthrust, igneous, forbidding.
We stood alone, facing one another.
"Are you unarmed?" she asked.
"Yes," I told her.
"I have arranged this meeting," she said.
"Speak," I told her.
"It is not I," she smiled, "who wishes to speak to you."
"I had supposed as much," I said. "Does Samos know of this?" I asked.
"He knows nothing," she said.
"You are acting, then, independently?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, drawing herself up, beautifully. I wondered if she were wise, to stand so beautifully before a Gorean warrior.
"You fled my house," I said. "You returned to the marshes."
She tossed her head. "You sought Talena," she said.
"Talena, once," I said, "was my companion."
Telima shrugged. She looked at me, irritably. I had forgotten how beautiful she was.
"When I, in the hall of Samos, before leaving for the northern forests to seek Talena, learned of your flight, I wept."
"Always," she said, "you were weak." Then she said, "We have more important things to discuss."
I regarded her.
"In the marshes," she said, "I was contacted by Kurii." She looked at me. "They desire peace," she said.
I smiled.
"It is true," she said, angrily. "Doubtless," she said, "you find it difficult to believe. But they are sincere. There has been war for centuries. They weary of strife. They need an envoy, one known to Priest-Kings, yet one independent of them, one whom they respect, a man of valiance and judgment, with whom to negotiate, one to carry their proposals to Priest-Kings."
"I thought you knew little of these matters," I said.
"What little I know," said Telima, "is more than enough. In the marshes was I contacted by a mighty Kur, but one courteous, one strong and gentle. It would be difficult to speak directly with you. It would be difficult to begin this work if Priest-Kings understood our enterprise."
"And so," I said, "you pretended to be slain in the marshes. A Kur was seen. Your screams were heard. A bloodied armlet, bloodied hair, was found on the rence. The Kur departed north. I, as expected, informed of this deed, took pursuit."
"And now," she smiled, "you are here.
It is the first act in the drama wherewith peace will be purchased between warring peoples."
"Your plan," said I, "was brilliant."
In the gown, long and white, flowing, Telima straightened, glowing.
"Your raiment," said I, "is of high quality. There is little like that in the rence."
"The Kurii, misunderstood," she said, "are a gentle people. They have treated me as a Ubara."
I looked now beyond Telima. I saw now, head first, then shoulders, then body, a Kur, climbing to the surface of the skerry. It was large, even for a Kur, some nine feet in height. Its weight, I conjectured, was some eight or nine hundred pounds. Its arms were some seven feet in length. About its left arm was a spiral band of gold. It carried, on its shoulder, a large, long, flattish object, wrapped in purple cloth, dark in the dusk. I knew the Kur. It had been he who had addressed the assembly. It had been he who had been first in the hall of Svein Blue Tooth, the night of the attack. It had been he who had rallied the Kurii in the raid on their camp, in the ensuing battle. It had been he, doubtless a Kur from the steel worlds themselves, who had commanded the Kurii army, who had been the leader of their forces.
I inclined my head to it. "We have met before, have we not?" I asked.
The Kur rested back on its haunches, some twenty feet from me. It laid the large, flattish object, wrapped in dark cloth, on the stone before him.
"May I present," inquired Telima, "Rog, emissary of peace from the Kurii."
"Are you Tarl Cabot?" asked the beast.
"Yes," I said.
"Have you come unarmed?" it asked.
"Yes," I said.
"We have sought you before," it said, "once in Port Kar, by poison."
"Yes," I said.
"That attempt failed," it said.
"That is true," I said.
He unwrapped the object which lay before him. "The woman has told you my name is Rog. That is sufficient. My true name could not be pronounced in your mouth. Yet, you shall hear it." It then, regarding me, uttered a sound, a modulated emanation from the cords in its throat, which I could not duplicate. It was not a human noise. "That," it said, "is whom you face. It is unfortunate that you do not know the ways of Kurii, or the dynasties of our clans. In my way, to use concepts you may grasp, I am a prince among my people, not only in blood, but by battle, for in such a way only does one become prince among the Kurii. I have been trained in leadership, and have, in assuming such a leadership, killed for the rings. I say this that you may understand that it is much honor that is done to you. The Kurii know you, and, though you are a human, an animal, this honor they do to you."
He now lifted the object from the cloth. It was a Kur ax, its handle some eight feet in length, the broad head better than two feet in sharpened width.
"You are a brilliant foe," said I. "I have admired your strategies, your efficiency and skills. The rally at the camp, misdirecting our attention by a diversion, was masterful. That you should stand first among such beasts as Kurii says much for your worth, the terribleness of your power, your intellect. Though I am only human, neither Kur nor Priest-King, I give you salute."
"I wish," it said, "Tarl Cabot, I had known you better."
It stood there, then, the ax in its right fist. Telima, eyes wide with horror, screamed. With his left paw the beast brushed her, rolling and sprawling, twenty feet across the stone.
It lifted the ax, now over its right shoulder, gripping it in both hands.
"Had you known me better," said I, "you would not have come to the skerry."
The ax drew back to the termination of its arc, ready for the flashing, circular, flattish sweep that would cut me in two. Then the beast stopped, puzzled. Scarcely had it seen the flash of Tuchuk steel, the saddle knife, its blade balanced, nine inches in length, which had slipped from my sleeve, turned, and, hurled, struck him. It tottered, eyes wild, not understanding, then understanding, the hilt protruding from its chest, stopped only by the guard, the blade fixed in the vast eight-valved heart. It took two steps forward. Then it fell, the ax clattering on the stone. It rolled on its back. Long ago, at a banquet in Turia, Kamchak of the Tuchuks had taught me this trick. Where one may not go armed, there it is well to go armed.
The huge chest shook. I saw it rise and fall. Its eyes turned toward me.
"I thought," it said, "humans were honorable."
"You are mistaken," I said.
It reached out its paw toward me. "Foe," it said. "Yes," I said. The paw gripped me, and I it. Long ago, in the Sardar, Misk, the Priest-King, had told me that Priest-Kings see little difference between Kurii and men, that they regarded them as equivalent species.
The lips of the Kur drew back. I saw the fangs. It was, I suppose, a frightening expression, terrifying, but I did not see it that way.
It was a Kur smile.
Then it died.
I rose to my feet and regarded Telima. She stood some ten feet away, her hand before her mouth.
"I have something for you," I told her. From my pouch I withdrew the golden armlet which had been hers. It had been that which, presented to me in Port Kar, bloodied, had lured me to the north, seeking to avenge her.
She placed the golden armlet on her upper left arm. "I shall return to the rence," she said.
"I have something else for you," I told her. "Come here."
She approached me. From my pouch I drew forth a leather Kur collar, with its lock, and, sewn in leather, its large, rounded ring. "What is it?" she asked, apprehensively. I took it behind her neck, and then, closing it about her throat, thrust the large, flattish bolt, snapping it, into the locking breech. The two edges of metal, bordered by the leather, fitted closely together. The collar is some three inches in height. The girl must keep her chin up. "It is the collar of a Kur cow," I told her.
"No!" she cried. I turned her about and, taking a pair of the rude iron slave bracelets of the north, black and common, with which bond-maids are commonly secured, locked her wrists behind her back. I then, with the bloodied Quiva, the Tuchuk saddle knife, cut her clothes from her. Then, by a length of binding fiber, looped double in the ring of her collar, tied her on her knees to the foot of the Kur. Then, with the knife, I knelt at the Kur's throat.
"Tarl! Tarl Red Hair!" I heard call. It was Ivar Forkbeard. I could see the longboat, four torches uplifted in it, men at the oars, putting in to the skerry.
I stood on the surface of the skerry.
Then I went down to meet the boat, finding my way among the rocks.
On the tiny rock promontory, footing the skerry, some eight or nine feet in width, I met Ivar Forkbeard, and his men. With him were Gorm, Ottar and Wulfstan of Torvaldsland.
The torches were lifted.
The men #landed. I lifted the head of the Kur in my right hand over my head. In my belt was thrust the spiral ring of gold, taken from its arm. To my belt, too, looped twice about it, was the length of binding fiber which went to the ring on Telima's collar. She knelt to my left, a bit behind me, on the stone. "I have here three objects," I said, "acquired on the skerry, the head of a Kur, he who was commander of the Kur army, a spiral ring of gold, taken as loot from his carcass, and a slave girl." I threw the head into the longboat. I then threw the ring after it. Then, unlooping the binding fiber from my belt, but leaving it looped, double, in her collar ring, with its loose ends, I crossed Telima's ankles and tied them together. Her wrists were still confined behind her back in the rude, black bracelets of the north, with their one heavy link. I carried her, wading on the stones, to the side of the longboat. She looked at me. Then I threw her into the boat, between the feet of the oarsmen.
Chapter 21 - I DRINK TO THE HONOR OF TYROS
"Permit me to kiss you, Master," begged Leah. She snuggled against me. She was naked on the rough bench of the north. My right arm was about her, holding her to me, in my right hand, held in its grip of golden wire, was a great horn of steaming mead. The girl, in her need, pressed herself against the coarse woolen tunic of Torvaldsl
and. I looked down into her uplifted eyes, pleading. It was the need of a slave girl. I turned from her and drank. She sobbed. I laughed, and turned toward her. I looked into the large dark eyes, moist. About her throat she wore the north's collar of black iron, riveted. Then our lips met.
Mead was replenished in the drinking horn by a dark haired bond-maid, who filled it, head down, shyly, not looking at me. She was the only one in the hall who was not stripped, though, to be sure, her kirtle, by order of her master, was high on her hips, and, over the shoulders, was split to the belly.
Like any other wench, on her neck, riveted, was a simple collar of black iron. She had worn a Kur collar before, and, with hundreds of others, had been rescued from the pens. The fixing of the Kur collar, it had been decided by Svein Blue Tooth, was equivalent to the fixing of the metal collar and, in itself, was sufficient to reduce the subject to slavery, which condition deprives the subject of legal status, and rights attached thereto, such as the right to stand in companionship.
Accordingly, to her astonishment, Bera, who had been the companion of Svein Blue Tooth, discovered suddenly that she was only one wench among others. From a line, as part of his spoils, the Blue Tooth picked her out. She had displeased him mightily in recent years. Yet was the Blue Tooth fond of the arrogant wench.
It was not until he had switched her, like any other girl, that she understood that their relationship had undergone a transformation, and that she was, truly, precisely what she seemed to be, now his bond-maid. No longer would her dour presence deprive his feasts of joy. No longer would she, in her free woman's scorn, shower contempt on bond-maids, trying to make them ashamed of their beauty. She, too, now, was no more than they.
