Explorers of Gor coc-13

by John Norman

  I looked at Janice, harshly. “Are you not a slave girl in the presence of free men?” I asked.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she cried. Swiftly she knelt. The small men regarded her, startled and frightened.

  “Put your head to their feet,” I said. “Kiss their feet. Beg their forgiveness for the affront you have shown them.”

  Janice put down her head and kissed the feet of the small men. “Forgive me, Masters,” she begged.

  They looked at her in wonder.

  “Get up,” I told the girl. I then, roughly, tied her hands together behind her back. The small men gathered around, seeing that her hands, truly, were tightly tied.

  “This is a slave,” I told them.

  They spoke quickly among themselves. It was not in Gorean.

  “We are the slaves of the talunas,” said one of the men. their leader.

  I nodded. I had thought so, from their behavior. It was from the talunas, too, doubtless, that they had learned their Gorean.

  “We fish and hunt for them, and make cloth, and serve them,” said one of the men.

  “Men should not be the slaves of women,” I said. “Women should be the slaves of men.”

  “We are small,” said a man. “The talunas are too large and strong for us.”

  “They may be taken. and made slaves, as any women.” I said.

  “Help us to rid ourselves of the talunas,” said the leader.

  “I have business on the river,” I said.

  Their leader nodded.

  I then turned about and, followed by the girl, my slave, made my way back to the lagoon. To my surprise the small men, in single file, followed me. At the lagoon I retrieved the girl’s bark-cloth skirt and beads, which she had discarded while bathing. I slung the beads about her neck. I adjusted the bark-cloth skirt on her body. I made certain it was well down on her hips. I then looked about at the forest, and then up at the sun. I adjudged it too late to hunt further that day. I then turned about and, followed by the bound girl, my slave, made my way back towards our camp. To my surprise the small men, in single file, again followed me.

  “Kisu!” I called, alarmed. “Ayari! Tende! Alice!”

  Unmistakably in the small camp I saw the signs of struggle. Too, on the ground, I saw shed blood.

  “They are gone,” said the leader of the small men. “They were taken by the Mamba people, those who file their teeth.”

  The word ‘Mamba’ in most of the river dialects does not refer to a venomous reptile as might be expected, given its meaning in English, but, interestingly, is applied rather generally to most types of predatory river tharlarion. The Mamba people were, so to speak, the Tharlarion people. The Mamba people ate human flesh. So, too, does the tharlarion. It Is thus, doubtless, that the people obtained their name.

  “How do you know it was the Mamba people?” I asked.

  “They came through the forest on foot,” said the leader of the small people. “Doubtless they were following you. Doubtless they wished to surprise you.”

  “How do you know it was they?” I asked.

  “We saw them,” said one of the men.

  “It is our country,” said another. “We know much of what occurs here.”

  “Did you see the attack?” I asked.

  “We did not wish to be too close,” said another man.

  “We are a small people,” said another. “There were many of them, and they are large.”

  “We saw those of your party being led away,” said another man.

  “They were then alive,” I said.

  “Yes,” said another man.

  “Why did you not tell me of these things sooner?” I asked. “We thought you knew of the attack,” said one of the men, “and had fled, thus escaping.”

  “No,” I said. “I was hunting.”

  “We will give you meat, if you wish,” said one of the small men. “Our hunting earlier today was successful.”

  “I must attempt to rescue those of my party,” I said.

  “There are too many of the Mamba people,” said one of the small men. “They have spears and knives.”

  “I must make the attempt,” I said.

  The small men looked at one another. They spoke swiftly in a language I could not follow. Certain of the words, but very few of them, were recognizable. There are linguistic affinities among most of the lake and river dialects. The language they spoke, however, was far removed from the speeches of Ushindi or Ukungu.

  In a moment the small men turned to regard me. “Let us exchange gifts,” said their chieftain. “Rid us of the talunas, and we will help you.”

  “You must be very brave,” I told them.

  “We can be brave,” said one of the men.

  “You are spear and net hunters,” I said. ‘This is my plan.”

  45. I Capture The Chief Of The Talunas

  Lightly I dropped down within the stockade of the talunas. It contained several small, thatched huts. It was not difficult to see in the light of the three moons.

  I made my way quietly, crawling, stopping upon occasion to listen, toward the more central huts. In one of the huts, one with a door tied shut from the outside, I heard a rustle of chain.

  I picked that hut which seemed the largest and most impressive, one in the center of the camp.

  On my belly, quietly, I entered it. Moonlight filtered in through the thatched roof and between the sticks which formed the sides of the hut. She was sleeping within, in her brief skins. Her weapons were at the side of the hut. She lay on a woven mat, her blond hair loose about her head. I examined her thighs, moving back the skins she wore. They had never been branded. She turned, restlessly. She was the girl who had feigned being chained at the post, to lure us into a trap. She was, I was sure, the leader of the talunas. She had given commands in our pursuit. She did not share her hut with another girl. She threw her arm restlessly over her head. I saw her hips move. I smiled. She was a woman in need. She moaned. I waited until her arms were again at her sides, and she lay upon her back. I saw her lift her haunches in her sleep. She was starved for a man’s touch. Such women, in their waking hours, are often tense and restless; it is not unusual, too, for them to be irritable; and many times they are hostile toward men; many times they are not even fully aware of the underlying causes of their uncomfortable conscious states; how horrified they might be if they were told that they were women, and desired a master; yet must they not, on some level, be aware of this; would not their hostility toward the male who does not understand their needs or is too cowardly or weak to satisfy them not be otherwise inexplicable; what other hurt could the uncooperative male be inflicting upon them; the more he tries to please them the more they demand; the more he tries to do what they claim to wish the more he finds himself disparaged and despised; can he not see that what they really want is to be thrown to his feet and subjected, totally, to his will? They wish to be women, that is all. But how can they be women if men will not be men? How cruel a man is to deny to a woman the deepest need of her womanhood. Can they not care for them? Can they not see how beautiful they are, and how marvelous?

  But I steeled myself against thoughts of mercy for the blond beauty. She was an enemy.

  Her head was then turned to the side. She twisted restlessly in her sleep.

  I waited until her head was back, and she lay upon her back, her arms at her side. Her small fists were clenched. She whimpered, needing a man.

  She was indeed beautiful. I thought she would look well naked, on a slave block.

  Swiftly I knelt across her body, pinning her down, pinning her arms to her sides. Almost instantly, frightened, she wakened. The trapped girl’s first impulse is to scream. This may be depended upon. As her mouth opened I, with my thumb, thrust the rolled-cloth wadding deep into it. In a moment I had lashed it in place. I then threw her to her stomach and tied her hands behind her back. I then put her again on her back. Her eyes were wild, terrified, over the gag. With my knife I cut the skins from h
er. “You will not be needing these,” I told her. I regarded her. Such women bring high prices. I took her in my arms. Her eyes were frightened. She shook her head fiercely, negatively. But her body, as though in sudden relief, desperately clasped me. She twisted her head to the side, and then, again, looked at me. She shook her head, negatively. But her body thrust itself against me, asking no quarter, piteously and helplessly soliciting its full impalement. “Very well,” I told her. She looked at me in fury. “Your eyes say, ‘No,’” I told her “but your body says ‘Yes.’” Her hips and thighs then began to move. She put back her head in misery on the mat. Then, in a moment, there were tears in her eyes, and she tried to lift her head and gagged mouth to touch me. When later I crouched over her she sat up, shuddering, and put her cheek to my left shoulder. I felt the lashings of the gag against my shoulder.

  I thrust her to her back on the mat. “You are only bait,” I told her. I then tied her ankles together and, putting her over my shoulders, her head hanging down over my back, left the hut. I left by way of the stockade gate. I would leave an obvious trail.

  46. The Balance Of The Talunas Have Now Been Captured; I Hear Of The Marchers

  “There they are! We have them now!” cried the slender-legged, dark-haired girl.

  I plunged through brush, dragging the bound, gagged blond girl, running and stumbling, bent over, by the hair at my side.

  The talunas, more than forty of them, plunged after us, brandishing their weapons, in hot pursuit.

  I turned when I heard their sudden cries of surprise, and then of rage, and then of fear.

  I tied the blond girl by her hair to a slender palm and strode back to the nets.

  Some of the talunas lay upon the ground, tangled in nets, the spear blades of the small men at their throats and bellies. More than twenty of them struggled, impeding one another’s movement, in a long vine net about them.

  The first girl I pulled from a net was the slender-legged, dark-haired girl. I cuffed her, and then threw her on her belly and bound her hand and foot. I then drew forth another girl and treated her similarly. Then, in a row, lying on the jungle floor, there were forty-two captives. I then released the blond girl from the palm tree and, tying her ankles, threw her with the rest. I did not bother to ungag her.

  “Release us,” said the dark-haired girl, squirming in her bonds.

  “Be silent,” said the leader of the little men, jabbing his spear blade below her left shoulder blade.

  The girl gritted her teeth, frightened, and was quiet.

  “Remove their clothing and ornaments,” I told the little men.

  This was done. The little men then tied a vine collar on the throat of each girl and, by the arms, dragged them, one by one, to a long-trunked, fallen tree. About this tree, encircling it, were a number of vine loopings. The little men then knelt each girl at one of the vine loopings. Pushing down their heads, they then, with pieces of vine rope, fastened both under the vine collars on the girls, tied down their heads, close to the trunk. The forty-three girls then knelt, naked, hands tied behind them, ankles crossed and bound, at the trunk of the fallen tree, their heads tied down over it. They could not slide themselves free sideways, moving the vine loopings, because of the roots of the tree at one end and its spreading branches at the other. They were well secured in place, their heads over the tree trunk. One of the little men then, with a heavy, rusted panga, probably obtained in a trade long ago, walked up and down near them. They shuddered. They knew that, if the little men wished, their heads might be swiftly cut from them.

  “There are the mighty talunas,” I said.

  Many of the little men leaped up and down, brandishing their spears and singing.

  “At the stockade of the talunas,” I said, “there was a prison hut. Within it I heard the chains of a prisoner. The chains were heavy. It is probably a male. Women such as talunas sometimes keep a male slave or two. They are useful, for example, in performing draft labors. I would keep him chained until a determination can be made of his nature. He may be a brigand. I then suggest that the stockade be examined for any other slaves, or objects of interest or value. Then I would, if I were you, burn the stockade.”

  “We will do these things,” grinned the leader of the small men.

  “I now,” I said, “must address myself to the attempt to rescue those of my party.”

  “We must move quickly,” said the leader of the small men, “for there is going to be war on the river.”

  “War?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “a great force of men is coming up the river, and the peoples of the river are joining, that they may be stopped.” He looked up at me. “There will be great fighting,” he said, “like never before on the river.”

  I nodded. I had thought that it would be only a matter of time until the peoples of the river would mass in an attempt to stop the advance of Bila Huruma. Apparently they were now on the brink of doing so.

  “How many men may I have?” I asked.

  “Two or three will be sufficient,” said the leader of the small men, “but because we are so fond of you, I, and nine others, will accompany you.”

  “That is perhaps generous,” I said, “but how do you propose that the camp of the Mamba people be stormed with so few men?”

  “We shall recruit allies,” said the small man. “‘They are nearby even now.”

  “How many do you think you can recruit?” I asked.

  “So high I cannot count,” he said.

  “Can you not give me some impression?” I asked. I knew that the mathematics of these men, who had no written tradition, who had no complex cultural accumulation of intricate tallyings and abstract inventions, would be severely limited.

  “They will be like the leaves on the trees, like the bits of sand at the shore,” he said.

  “Many?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you jest with me?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “This is the time of the marchers.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  47. The Attack Of The Marchers; We Conclude Our Business In The Village Of The Mamba People

  Within the stockade of the Mamba people there was much light and noise. I could hear the sounds of their musical instruments, and the pounding of their drums. Within the stockade, too, we could hear the chanting of the people and the beating of sticks, carried in the hands of dancers.

  I knew the stockade, for it was the same from which we had, earlier, stolen away in the night.

  Two days ago the leader of the small people had led me into the jungle, leaving behind the clearing where we had secured the lovely talunas, their necks at the mercy of the panga.

  We had trekked but a short way into the jungle when the leader of the small men held up his hand for silence. I had then heard, as I had once before, but had been unable to place the noise, the sound, that strange sound, as of a small wind moving leaves. I had heard it before on the edge of the lagoon, but had not understood it.

  Soon, as we approached more closely, quietly, the sound became much louder. It was now clearly distinguishable as a quite audible rustling or stirring. But there was no wind.

  “The marchers,” said the leader of the small men, pointing.

  The hair on the back of my neck rose.

  I saw now that the sound was the sound of millions upon millions of tiny feet, treading upon the leaves and fallen debris of the jungle floor. Too, there may have been, mixed in that sound, the almost infinitesimal sound, audible only in its cumulative effect, of the rubbings and clickings of the joints of tiny limbs and the shiftings and adjustments of tiny, black, shiny exoskeletons, those stiff casings of the segments of their tiny bodies.

  “Do not go too close,” said the leader of the small men.

  The column of the marchers was something like a yard wide. I did not know how long it might be. It extended ahead through the jungle and behind through the
jungle farther than I could see in either direction. Such columns can be pasangs in length. It is difficult to conjecture the numbers that constitute such a march. Conservatively some dozens of millions might be involved. The column widens only when food is found; then it may spread as widely as five hundred feet in width. Do not try to wade through such a flood. The torrent of hurrying feeders leaves little but bones in its path.

  “Let us go toward the head of the column,” said the little man.

  We trekked through the jungle for several hours, keeping parallel to the long column. Once we crossed a small stream. The marchers, forming living bridges of their own bodies, clinging and scrambling on one another, crossed it also. They, rustling and black, moved over fallen trees and about rocks and palms. They seemed tireless and relentless. Flankers marshaled the column. Through the green rain forest the column moved, like a governed, endless, whispering black snake.

  “Do they march at night?” I asked,

  “Often,” said the small man. “One must be careful where one sleeps.”

  We had then advanced beyond the head of the column by some four hundred yards.

  “It is going to rain,” I said. “Will that stop them?”

  “For a time,” he said. “They will scatter and seek shelter, beneath leaves and twigs, under the debris of the forest, and then, summoned by their leaders, they will reform and again take up the march.”

  Scarcely had he spoken but the skies opened up and, from the midst of the black, swirling clouds, while lightning cracked and shattered across the sky and branches lashed back and forth wildly in the wind, the driven, darkly silver sheets of a tropical rain storm descended upon us.

  “Do they hunt?” I shouted to the small man.

  “Not really,” he said. “They forage.”

  “Can the column be guided?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he grinned, rubbing the side of his nose. Then he and the others curled up to sleep. I looked up at the sky, at the sheets of rain, the lashing branches. Seldom had I been so pleased to be caught in such a storm.