could smell cheese. The smell, too, of Bazi tea was clear. I heard the guard
move, drowsy, on his chair outside the door. I could smell his sweat, and the
veminium water he had rubbed about his neck.
Then I sat back against the stones. It seemed I had been mistaken.
I closed my eyes. “Surrender Gor,” had come the message, presumed from the steel
worlds. “Surrender Gor.” And, earlier, months ago, a caravan boy, Achmed, the
son of the merchant, Farouk of Kasra, had found the inscription on a rock,
“Beware the steel tower.” There had been, too, the message girl, Veema, whose
very body had borne the warning, “Beware Abdul.” I thought little of that now,
however, for Abdul had been the water carrier in Tor, surely a minor agent of
Others, the Kurii, little to be feared, no more than a gnat in the desert. I had
not chosen to press the juices from the body of that insect. I had let him flee
in terror. I still did not know, however, who had sent the warning, “Beware
Abdul.” I smiled. There seemed little reason to beware of such a nonentity.
On the tip to Nine Wells, in the company of Achmed; his father, Farouk; Shakar,
captain of the Aretai; Hamid, his lieutenant, and a guard of fifteen riders, I
had seen the stone, led to it by Achmed.
“The body is gone!” cried Achmed. “It lay here!”
The stone, however, remained, and the message scratched upon it. It was
scratched in Taharic, the lettering of the Tahari peoples. Their language is
Gorean, but they, like certain other groups, usually isolated groups, did not
use the common Gorean script. I had studied the Taharic alphabet. Since the
alphabet is correlated with Gorean phonemes, it is speedily mastered, little
more than an incomplete cipher, by one who knows Gorean. One oddity about it,
from the point of view of one who reads Gorean, is that it possesses signs for
only four of the nine vowels in Gorean. There was, however, even for me, no
difficulty in reading the inscription. No vowel sound had to be interpolated, or
determined from context, in this message. Each sign was clear. The message as a
whole was explicit, unmistakable. The vowel sounds which are explicitly
represented, incidentally, are represented by tiny marks near the other letters,
rather like accent marks. They are not, in themselves, full-fledged letters.
Vowel sounds which are not explicitly represented, of course, must be inserted
by the reader. At one time in Taharic, apparently, no vowel sounds were
represented. Some Taharic scholars, purists, refuse to countenance vowel signs,
regarding their necessity as a convenience for illiterates.
“There is no body here now,” had said Shakar, captain of the Aretai.
“Where could it have gone?” asked Hamid, his lieutenant.
His question was not an ill-advised one. There was no sign about of picked
bones, or of the work of scavengers. Had there been sand storms the rock, too,
presumably, would have been covered. Sand storms in the Tahari, incidentally,
though upon occasion lengthy and terrible storms, may rearrange dunes, but they
seldom bury anything. The whipping sand is blasted away almost as swiftly as it
is deposited. Further, of course, a body in the Tahari decomposes with great
slowness. The flesh of a desert tabuk which dies in the desert, perhaps
separated from its herd, and unable to find water, if undisturbed by the
salivary juices of predators, remains edible for several days. The external
appearance of the animal, beyond this, can remain much the same for centuries.
“It is gone,” said Shakar, turning his kaiila, and returning to the caravan.
The others followed him.
I lingered a bit longer, looking on the inscription. “Beware the steel tower.”
Then I, too, turned my kaiila, and returned to the caravan.
“Surrender Gor,” I thought.
I leaned back against the stone. I moved my head a bit, turning my neck inside
the heavy collar. I pulled a bit at the wrist manacles, on my left and right. I
heard the chain subside to the stones. I felt a trickle of sweat move down my
left forearm, and slip under the iron on my left wrist. I pulled wildly against
the wrist manacles, the collar cut into my neck; I twisted my ankles in the
ankle irons, and pulled the chain against the ring. Then, furious, I sat back
against the stones. I was a prisoner. I was absolutely helpless.
I closed my eyes again. Suleiman had not died. The blow of the assassin, in the
confusion. had failed to find its mark.
The judge, on the testimony of Ibn Saran, and that of two white-skinned, female
slaves, one named Zaya, a red-haired girl, the other a dark-haired girl, whose
name was Vella, had sentenced me as a criminal, a would-be assassin, to the
secret brine pits of Klima, deep in the dune country, there to dig until the
salt, the sun, the slave masters, had finished with me. From the secret pits of
Klima, it was said, no slave had ever returned. Kaiila are not permitted at
Klima, even to the guards. Supplies are brought in, and salt carried away, by
caravan, on which the pits must depend. Other than the well at Klima, there is
no other water within a thousand pasangs. The desert is the wall at Klima. The
locations of the pits, such as those at Klima, are little known, and, to protect
the resource, are kept secret by mine agents and merchants. Women are not
permitted at Klima, lest men kill one another for them.
Then again, unmistakably, this time, the odor came to my nostrils. The hair rose
on the back of my neck.
I strained against the iron, the chains. I was nude. I was completely helpless.
I could not even put my hands before my body.
I must wait.
I smelled Kur.
“Is there someone there?” called the guard. I heard his chair scrape. I heard
him get to his feet.
He received no answer. There was only silence.
I sat still. I moved not even the chain.
He walked toward the threshold of the large room, or hall, which gives access to
the cells. He walked carefully. There is no door on the threshold. It is a
narrow threshold, lying at the foot of a set of narrow twisting concave stairs.
“Who is there?” he called. He waited. There was no answer.
He turned about and went back to his chair. I heard him sit down again. But in a
moment, suddenly, the chair scraped back again, and he was on his feet. “Who is
there!” he challenged. I heard his scimitar leave its sheath.
“Who is there!” I heard him cry once more, then heard him turning, wildly,
facing about, here and there, in the hall.
Then I heard a startled inarticulate cry of horror, quick cut short. There was a
snap, as of gristle.
There was little sound then, only that of a large tongue, moving in blood,
tasting, curious. The man had had smeared about the base of his neck veminium
water.
I heard then the body, dropped. I did not hear the sound of feeding. I heard a
pawing about the body, and it’s clothing. Then I sensed, outside, a large body
lift itself to its feet, and turn, slowly, toward the door of my cell.
I sensed then that it stood before the door of my cell. I could not take my eyes
from the smal
l window in the door. I saw nothing outside. Yet I sensed that it
stood there, and that it was looking through the bars.
I heard the key move in the lock.
The door swung open. I saw nothing in the threshold. Beyond, crumpled on the
floor, I saw the remains of the guard, head, awry, lying on its side, strung by
torn vessels to the body, the back of the neck bitten through. I saw straw move
within the cell. The smell of Kur was strong. I sensed it stood before me.
The chain at my left wrist was lifted. Twice, it was pulled against the wall
ring. Then was it dropped to the stones.
I sensed that the beast stood.
In a moment I heard voices, those of several men. They were nearing.
Among them, imperious, I heard the voice of Ibn Saran. I heard men descending
the steps. There was a cry of horror. I could see through the door of my cell,
now swung open. Ibn Saran, himself, in black cloak, and white kaffiyeh with
black cording, emerged through the threshold.
Instantly was his scimitar unsheathed, the reflex of a desert warrior. He did
not look upon the gruesome sight which lay upon the stones at his feet. Rather
did he, with one lightning glance, examine the room.
“Unsheath your weapons,” cried he to his daunted men. Some of them were unable
to take their eyes from what lay on the stones. With the flat of his blade he
struck more than one of them. “Back to back,” he said. “Stand ready!” Then he
said, “Block the door!”
He looked within the cell. I saw him, outside. I was chained in a sitting
position. I could not pull far against the ring of my ankle irons for my back
was against the wall; I could not pull forward, nor to the side, from the wall
because of the chains on my collar; my hands wire chained down and toward the
wall, on each side, back from my body; I could, by the intention of my captors,
exert little leverage; I was perfectly chained. Ibn Saran smiled. “Tal,” said
he. I was his prisoner. “Tal,” said I. I could see his scimitar.
“What could have done this horrible thing?” asked one of his men.
“I was warned of this,” said Ibn Saran.
“A Djinn?” asked one of the men.
“Smell it?” said Ibn Saran. “Smell it! It is still here!”
I heard the Kur breathing, near me.
“Block the door!” said Ibn Saran.
The two men by the door, who had been standing there, looked about themselves,
brandishing their scimitars, frightened.
“Do not fear, my fellows,” said Ibn Saran. “This is not a Djinn. It is a
creature of flesh and blood. But be wary! Be wary!” He then formed his men into
a line, against the far wall of the outer room, that into which the threshold
gave access. “I had warning of this possibility,” he said. “It has now occurred.
Do not fear. It can be met.”
The men looked to one another, wild-eyed.
“Upon my signal,” said Ibn Saran, speaking in swift: Gorean, “attacking in a
line, slash every inch of this room. He who first makes contact, let him cry
out, and the others, then, must converge on that spot, cutting, as it were, the
very air into pieces.”
One of the men looked at him. “There is nothing here,” he whispered.
Ibn Saran, scimitar poised, smiled. “It is here,” he said. “It is here.” Then
suddenly he cried, “Ho!” and leapt forward, the blade, in rapid, diagonal
figure-eight strokes, backhand upswept, shallowly curved, blade turning,
forehand descending, shallowly curved, tracing its razor pattern. His right,
booted foot stamped forward, his body turned to the left, minimizing target, his
head to the right, maximizing vision, his rear foot at right angles to the
attack line, maximizing leverage, assuring balance. His men, some of them
timidly thrusting out, poking, touching, followed him. “There is nothing here,
noble master,” said one of them.
Ibn Saran stood in the threshold of the cell. “It is in the cell,” he said.
I observed the scimitar. It was a wickedly curved blade. On such a blade, I
knew, silk dropped, should the blade be moved, would fall parted to the floor.
Even a light stroke of such a blade, falling across an arm, would drop through
the flesh, leaving its incised record, a quarter of an inch deep, in the bone
beneath.
“It will be most dangerous,” said Ibn Saran, “to enter the cell. You will follow
me swiftly, forming yourselves in a line, backs against the near wall.”
“Let us close the door, and lock it,” said a man, “trapping it within.”
“It would tear the bars from the window and escape,” said Ibn Saran.
“How could it do this?” asked the man.
I gathered that the man did not know the strength of Kurii. I found it of
interest that Ibn Saran did.
“Such a beast,” said he, “must not be found within the cell. Its body must be
disposed of.”
I could understand the reasoning of this. Few on Gor knew of the secret war of
Priest-Kings and Others, the Kurii. The carcass of a Kur, lying about, would
surely prompt many questions, much curiosity, perhaps shrewd speculations. It
might also, of course, attract the vengeance of Kurii on the community or
district involved.
“I will first enter the cell,” said Ibn Saran. “You will then follow me.” There
seemed nothing soft or languid about Ibn Saran now. When there is need the men
of the desert can move with swift, menacing efficiency. The contrast with their
more normal, acculturated, paced form of motion, unhurried, even graceful, is
startling. I further decided that Ibn Saran was a brave man.
With a cry, thrusting through the threshold of the cell, then slashing about, he
leaped into the cell. His men, frightened, sped into the cell behind him, and,
white-faced, backed themselves against the wall in a line behind him. No longer
was the outer threshold, that opening onto the twisting, ascending stairs,
guarded. The door to the cell, however, by Ibn Saran, was.
“There is nothing here, Master!” cried one of the men.
“This is madness!”
“It is gone,” I told Ibn Saran.
Ibn Saran smiled. “No,” he said. “It is here. It is here somewhere.” Then he
said to his men. “Be silent! Listen!”
I could not even hear men breathing. The light fell from the barred window onto
the gray stones of the straw-strewn floor. I looked at the men, the walls, the
matted, dried kort rinds on the floor, near the metal dish. On the rinds the
spiders continued to hunt vints.
We did hear a man calling outside, selling melons. We heard two kaiila plod by,
their bells.
“The cell is empty,” said one of the men, whispering.
Suddenly one of the men of Ibn Saran screamed horribly. I looked up, in the
collar, chains pulling at my throat. I jerked at my wrist chains, held. Men
shrank back, “Save me!” cried the man. “Help!”
Abruptly, horribly, had he seemed, from his feet, sideways, to hurtle upward.
Ten feet in the air, against the stones of the ceiling, twisting, crying out,
screaming, he writhed.
“Help me!” he cried.
“Do not break your position,” said Ibn Saran. “Hold positio
n!”
“Please!” wept the man.
“Hold position!” said Ibn Saran.
Then the man, the sleeves of his garments, above his elbows, tight to his body,
was slowly lowered.
“Please!” he said.
Then he cried out, a short cry, brief; there was a sound, exploding,
velvet-soft, like a bubble of air being forced up ward through water; the side
of his neck had been bittern way; arterial blood, driven by the blind pump of
the heart, pulsed.
“Hold position!” cried Ibn Saran,
I admired his generalship. Had his men charged, initially, the captured man
would have been hurled against them. In the breaking of their formation the Kur
would have slipped away. Had they now rushed to their comrade, again the
formation would be broken, and the Kur, by now, had assuredly changed his
position.
Ibn Saran himself, a brave man, blocked the open door to the cell.
“Scimitars ready!” he cried. “Ho!”
Across the floor, now wet with blood, and blood-soaked straw, the men, in their
line, Ibn Saran remaining at the door, charged. The blood, between the stones,
formed tiny rivers.
“Aiii!” cried a man, wheeling back, horrified. There was blood on his scimitar.
He was terrified. “A Djinn!” he cried.
In that moment, Ibn Saran, at the door, thrust out, wickedly, deeply.
There was a roar of pain, a howl of rage, and I saw that his scimitar, to six
inches, was splashed with bright blood of the Kur, clearly visible.
“We have it!” cried Ibn Saran. “Strike! Strike!” The men looked about. “There!”
cried Ibn Saran. “The blood! The blood!” I saw a stain of blood on the floor,
and then a bloody print, of a heavy, clawed foot. Then drops of blood, as if
from nowhere dropping, one after the other, to the stones. “Attack at the
blood!” cried Ibn Saran. The men converged at the blood, striking. I heard two
more howls of rage, for twice more had they struck the beast. Then a man reeled
back, turning. His face was gone.
The men now circled where the blood fell, which marked the path of the beast.
Suddenly there was a scrambling sound and I saw the bars in the small window
shake and scrape, one wrenching loose, with a shower of stone and dust from the
wall.
“To the window!” cried Ibn Saran. “It will escape!” He leaped to the barred
Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt Page 16
