by John Norman
Beside him, but as Ubars, rode three other men, whom I took to be chief among the Kassars, the Kataii, the Paravaci I could see, surprisingly near the forefront of their respective lines, the other three men I had first seen on coming to the Wagon Peoples, Conrad of the Kassars, Hakimba of the Kataii and Tolnus of the Paravaci. These, like Kamchak, rode rather near their respective standard bearers. The standard of the Kassars is that of a scarlet, three-weighted bola, which hangs from a lance; the symbolic representation of a bola, three circles joined at the centre by lines, is used to mark their bosk and slaves; both Tenchika and Dina wore that brand; Kamchak had not decided to rebrand them, as is done with bosk; he thought, rightly, it would lower their value; also, I think he was pleased to have salves in his wagon who wore the brand of Kissers, for such night lie taken as evidence of the superiority of Tuchuks to Kassars, that they had bested them and taken their slaves; similarly Kamchak was pleased to have in his herd bosk, and he had several, whose first brand was that of the three-weighted bola; the standard of the Kataii is a yellow bow, bound across a black lance; their brand is also that of a bow, facing to the left; the Paravaci standard is a large banner of jewels beaded on golden wires, forming the head and horns of a bosk its value is incalculable; the Paravaci brand is a symbolic representation of a bosk head, a semicircle resting on an inverted isosceles triangle.
Elizabeth Cardwell, barefoot, in the larl’s pelt, walked beside Kamchak’s stirrup. Neither Tenchika nor Dina would be with us. Yesterday afternoon, for an incredible forty pieces of gold, four quivas and the saddle of a kaiila, Kamchak had sold Tenchika back to Albrecht. It was one of the highest prices ever paid among the wagons for a slave and I judged that Albrecht had sorely missed his little Tenchika; the high price he was forced to pay for the girl was made even more intolerable by Kamchak’s amusement at his expense, roaring with laughter and slapping his knee because only too obviously Albrecht had allowed himself to care for the girl, and she only slave! Albrecht, while binding her wrists and putting his thong on her neck, had angrily cuffed her two or three times, calling her worthless and good for nothing; she was laughing and leaping beside his kaiila, weeping with joy; I last saw her running beside his stirrup, trying to press her head against his fur boot. Dina, though she was slave, I had placed on the saddle before me, her legs over the left forequarters of the animal; and had ridden with her from the wagons, until in the distance I could see the gleaming, white walls of Turia. When I had come to this place I set her on the grass She looked up at me, puzzled.
“Why have you brought me here?” she had asked.
I pointed into the distance. “It is Turia,” I said, “your city.”
She looked up at me. “Is it your wish,” she asked, “that I run for the city?”
She referred to a cruel sport of the young men of the wagons who sometimes take Turian slave girls to the sight of Turia’s walls and then, loosening bola and thong, bid them run for the city.
“No,” I told her, “I have brought you here to free you.”
The girl trembled.
She dropped her head. “I am yours so much yours,” she said, looking at the grass. “Do not be cruel.”
“No,” I said, “I have brought you here to free you.”
She looked up at me. She shook her head.
“It is my wish,” I said.
“But why?” she asked.
“It is my wish,” I said.
“Have I not pleased you?” she asked.
“You have pleased me very much,” I told her.
“Why do you not sell me?” she asked.
“It is not my wish,” I said.
“But you would sell a bosk or kaiila,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why not Dina?” she asked.
“It is not my wish,” I said.
“I am valuable,” said the girl. She simply stated a fact.
“More valuable than you know,” I told her.
“I do not understand,” she said.
I reached into the pouch at my belt and gave her a piece of gold. “Take this,” I said, “and go to Turia find your people and be free.”
Suddenly she began to shake with sobs and fell to her knees at the paws of the kaiila, the gold piece in her left hand. “If this is a Tuchuk joke,” she wept, “kill me swiftly.”
I sprang from the saddle of the kaiila and kneeling beside her held her in my arms, pressing her head against my shoulder. “No,” I said, “Dina of Turia. I do not jest. You are free.”
She looked at me tears in her eyes. “Turian girls are never freed,” she said. “Never.”
I shook her and kissed her. “You, Dina of Turia,” I said, “are free.” Then I shook her again. “Do you want me to ride to the walls and throw you over?” I demanded.
She laughed through her tears. “No,” she said, “no.”
I lifted her to her feet and she suddenly kissed me. “Tarl Cabot!” she cried. “Tarl Cabot!”
It seemed like lightning to us both that she had cried my name as might have a free woman. And indeed it was a free woman who cried those words, Dina, a free woman of Turia.
“Oh, Tarl Cabot,” she wept.
Then she regarded me gently. “But keep Dina a moment longer yours,” she said.
“You are free,” I said.
“But I would serve you,” she said.
I smiled. “There is no place,” I said.
“Ah, Tarl Cabot,” she chided, “there is all the Plains of Turia.”
“The Land of the Wagon Peoples, you mean.”
She laughed. “No,” she said, “the Plains of Turia.”
“Insolent wench,” I observed.
But she was kissing me and by my arms was being lowered to the grasses of the spring prairie.
When I had lifted her to her feet I noted, in the distance, a bit of dust moving from one of the gates of the city towards us, probably two or three warriors mounted on high tharlarion.
The girl had not yet seen them. She seemed to me very happy and this, naturally, made me happy as well. Then suddenly her eyes clouded and her face was transformed with distress. Her hands moved to her face, covering her mouth.
“Oh!” she said.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I cannot go to Turia!” she cried.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I have no veil!” she cried.
I cried out in exasperation, kissed her, turned her about by the shoulders and with a slap, hardly befitting a free woman, started her on the way to Turia.
The dust was now nearing.
I leaped into the saddle and waved to the girl, who had run a few yards and then turned. She waved to me. She was crying.
An arrow swept over my head.
I laughed and wheeled the kaiila and raced from the place, leaving the riders of the ponderous tharlarion far behind.
They circled back to find a girl, free though still clad Kajir, clutching in one hand a piece of gold, waving after a departed enemy, laughing and crying.
When I had returned to the wagon Kamchak’s first words to me had been, “I hope you got a good price for her.”
I smiled.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked.
I recalled the Plains of Turia. “Yes,” I said, “I am well satisfied.”
Elizabeth Cardwell, who had been fixing the fire in the wagon, had been startled when I had returned without Dina, but had not dared to ask what had been done with her. Now her eyes were on me, wide with disbelief. “You sold her?” she said, uncomprehendingly. “Sold?”
“You said she had fat ankles,” I reminded her.
Elizabeth regarded me with horror. “She was a person” said Elizabeth, “a human person”
“No!” said Kamchak, giving her head a shake. “An animal! A slaver” Then he added, giving her head another shake, “Like yourself!”
Elizabeth looked at him with dismay.
“I think” said Kamchak, “I will sell
you.”
Elizabeth’s face suddenly seemed terrified. She threw a wild, pleading look at me.
Kamchak’s words had disturbed me as well.
I think it was then, perhaps the first time since her first coming to the Wagon Peoples, that she fully understood her plight for Kamchak had, on the whole, been kind to her he had not put the Tuchuk ring in her nose, nor had he clothed her Kajir, nor put the brand of the bosk horns on her thigh, nor even enclosed her lovely throat with the Turian collar. Now, again, Elizabeth, visibly shaken, ill, realized that she might, should it please Kamchak’s whims, be sold or exchanged with the same ease as a saddle or a hunting sleen.
She had seen Tenchika sold. Now she assumed that the disappearance of Dina from the wagon was to be similarly explained. She looked at me disbelievingly, shaking her head.
For my part I did not think it would be a good idea to tell her that I had freed Dina. What good would that information do her? It might make her own bondage seem more cruel, or perhaps fill her with foolish hopes that Kamchak, her master, might someday bestow on her the same beautiful gift of freedom. I smiled at the thought. Kamchak, Free a slaver And, I told myself, even if I myself owned Elizabeth, and not Kamchak, I could not free her for what would it be to free her? If she approached Turia she would fall slave to the first patrol that leashed and hooded her; if she tried to stay among the wagons, some young warrior, sensing she was undefended and not of the Peoples, would have his chain on her before nightfall. hand I myself did not intend to stay among the wagons. I had now learned, if the information of He that the golden sphere, doubtless the egg of Priest-Kings, lay in the wagon of Kutaituchik. I must attempt to obtain it and return it to the Sardar. This, I knew, might well cost me my life. No, it was best that Elizabeth Cardwell believe I had callously sold the lovely Dina of Turia. It was best that she understand herself for what she was, a barbarian slave girl in the wagon of Kamchak of the Tuchuks.
“Yes,” said Kamchak, “I think I will sell her.”
Elizabeth shook with terror and put her head to the rug at Kamchak’s feet. “Please,” she said, in a whisper, “do not sell me, Master.”
“What do you think she would bring?” asked Kamchak.
“She is only a barbarian,” I said. I did not wish Kamchak to sell her.
“Perhaps I could have her trained” mused Kamchak.
“It would considerably improve her price,” I admitted. I also knew a good training would take months, though much can be done with an intelligent girl in only a few weeks.
“Would you like to learn,” asked Kamchak of the girl, “to wear silk and bells, to speak, to stand, to walk, to dance to drive men mad with the desire to own and master you?”
The girl said nothing but shuddered.
“I doubt if you could learn,” said Kamchak.
Elizabeth said nothing, her head down.
“You are only a little barbarian,” said Kamchak wearily.
Then he winked at me. “But,” said he, “she is a pretty little barbarian, is she not?”
“Yes,” I said, “She is that indeed.”
I saw Miss Cardwell’s eyes close and her shoulders shake with shame. Her hands then covered her eyes.
I followed Kamchak out of the wagon. Once outside, to my astonishment, he turned to me and said, “You were a fool to free Dina of Turia.”
“How do you know I freed her?” I asked.
“I saw you put her on your kaiila and ride toward Turia,” he said. “She was not even running beside the kaiila bound.”
He grinned. “And I know that you liked her that you would not wager for her and,” he added, nodding toward the pouch at my belt, “your pouch is no heavier now than when you left.”
I laughed.
Kamchak pointed to the pouch. “You should have forty pieces of gold in that pouch,” he said. “That much for her at least maybe more because she was skilled in the games of the bola.” He chuckled. “A girl such as Dina of Turia is worth more than a kaiila,” he said. “And, too,” he added, “she was a beauty!” Kamchak laughed. “Albrecht was a fool,” he said, “but Tarl Cabot was a bigger one!”
“Perhaps,” I admitted.
“Any man who permits himself to care for a slave girl,” said Kamchak, “is a fool.”
“Perhaps someday,” I said, “even Kamchak of the Tuchuks will care for a slave girl.”
At this Kamchak threw back his head and roared, and then bent over slapping his knee.
“Then,” I said, determinedly, “he may know how it feels.”
At this Kamchak lost all control over himself and he leaned over backward slapping his thighs with the palms of his hands, laughing as though he were demented. He even reeled about roaring as though he were drunk and slapped the wheel of a neighbour’s wagon for a minute or two until his laughter turned into spasmodic gasps and, making strange noises, he wheezingly fought to get a mouthful or two of air under his shaking ribs. I would not have much minded if he had asphyxiated himself on the spot.
“Tomorrow,” I said, “you fight on the Plains of a Thousand Stakes.”
“Yes,” he said, “so tonight I will get drunk.”
“It would be better,” I said, “to get a good night’s sleep.”
“Yes,” said Kamchak, “but I am Tuchuk so I will get drunk.”
“Very well,” I said, “then I, too, shall get drunk.”
We then spat to determine who would bargain for a bottle of Paga. By starting from the side and turning his head quickly, Kamchak bested me by some eighteen inches. In the light of his skill my own effort seemed depressingly naive, quite simple-minded, unimaginative and straightforward. I had not known about the head-twisting trick. The wily Tuchuk, of course, had had me spit first.
Now this morning we had come to the Plains of a Thousand Stakes.
For all his uproarious stomping about the wagon last night, Paga bottle in hand, singing gusty Tuchuk songs, half frightening Miss Cardwell to death, he seemed in good spirits, looking about, whistling, occasionally pounding a little rhythm on the side of his saddle. I would not tell Miss Cardwell but the rhythm was the drum rhythm of the Chain Dance. I gathered Kamchak had his mind on Aphris of Turia, and was, perilously to my mind, counting his wenches before he had won them.
I do not know if there are, by count, a thousand stakes or not on the Plains of a Thousand Stakes, but I would suppose that there are that many or more. The stakes, flat-topped, each about six and half feet high and about seven or eight inches in diameter, stand in two long lines facing one another in pairs. The two lines are separated by about fifty feet and each stake in a line is separated from the stake on its left and right by about ten yards. The two lines of stakes extended for more than four pasangs across the prairie. One of these lines is closest to the city and the other to the prairies beyond. The stakes had recently been, I observed, brightly painted, each differently, in a delightful array of colours; further, each was trimmed and decorated variously, depending on the whim of the workman, sometimes simply, sometimes fancifully, sometimes ornately. The entire aspect was one of colour, good cheer, light heartedness and gaiety. There was something of the sense of carnival in the air. I was forced to remind myself that between these two lines of stakes men would soon fight and die.
I noted some of the workmen still affixing small retaining rings to some of the stakes, bolting them one on a side, usually about five feet to five and a half feet from the ground. A workman sprang a pair shut, and then opened them with a key, which he subsequently hung from a tiny hook near the top of the stake.
I heard some musicians, come out early from Turia, playing a light tune behind the Turian stakes, about fifty yards or so away.
In the space between the two lines of stakes, for each pair of facing stakes, there was a circle of roughly eight yards in diameter. This circle, the grass having been removed, was sanded and raked.
Moving boldly now among the Wagon Peoples were vendors from Turia, selling their cakes, their wines
and meats, even chains and collars.
Kamchak looked at the sun, which was now about a quarter of the way up the sky.
“Turians are always late,” he said.
From the back of the kaiila I could now see dust from Turia. “They are coming,” I said.
Among the Tuchuks, though dismounted, I saw the young man Harold, he whom Hereena of the First Wagon had so sorely insulted at the time of the wagering with Conrad and Albrecht. I did not, however, see the girl. The young man seemed to me a strong, fine fellow, though of course unscarred. He had, as I mentioned, blond hair and blue eyes, not unknown among the Tuchuks, but unusual. He carried weapons. He could not, of course, compete in these contests, for there is status involved in these matters and only warriors of repute are permitted to participate. Indeed, without the Courage Scar one could not even think of proposing oneself for the competition. It might be mentioned, incidentally, that without the Courage Scar one may not, among the Tuchuks, pay court to a free woman, own a wagon, or own more than five bosk and three kaiila. The Courage Scar thus has its social and economic, as well as its martial, import.
“You’re right,” said Kamchak, rising in the stirrups. “First the warriors.”
On long lines of tharlarion I could see warriors of Turia approaching in procession the Plains of a Thousand Stakes.
The morning sun flashed from their helmets, their long tharlarion lances, the metal embossments on their oval shields, unlike the rounded shields of most Gorean cities. I could hear, like the throbbing of a heart, the beating of the two tharlarion drums that set the cadence of the march. Beside the tharlarion walked other men-at-arms, and even citizens of Turia, and more vendors and musicians, come to see the games.
On the heights of distant Turia itself I could see the flutter of flags and pensions. The walls were crowded, and I supposed many upon them used the long glasses of the Caste of Builders to observe the field of the stakes.
The warriors of Turia extended their formation about two hundred yards from the stakes until in ranks of four or five deep they were strung out in a line as long as the line of stakes itself. Then they halted. As soon as the hundreds of ponderous tharlarion had been marshalled into an order, a lance, carrying a fluttering pennon, dipped and there was a sudden signal on the tharlarion drums. Immediately the lances of the lines lowered and the hundreds of tharlarion, hissing and grunting, their riders shouting, the drums beating, began to bound rapidly towards us.
