Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  “When did they leave?”

  “Sometime last night.”

  “In what watch?”

  “We do not know.”

  “How could they leave without detection by the watch?”

  “They are Warriors,” said a man.

  “Like shadows, like serpents, as silent as the leech plant bending toward its prey,” said another.

  “Where are they?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Why did they leave?” asked a man of Portus Canio.

  “I do not know,” said Portus Canio.

  Selius Arconious was no longer at her side. She struggled to her feet, and wiped the grit of sleep from her eyes.

  “Why did they leave?” pressed a man, again.

  “I do not know,” said Portus Canio.

  She saw Selius Arconious near the wagon. Fel Doron was standing in the wagon bed, scanning the endless grass about them. The tharlarion was not in harness, but hobbled nearby, grazing.

  “What did they know that we do not?” asked a man of Portus Canio.

  “I do not know,” said Portus Canio.

  “Why did they permit us to make so little ground yesterday?” asked another man of Portus Canio.

  “One does not question such men,” said Portus Canio.

  “Let us track them!” said a man, angrily.

  “They are of the Warriors,” said Portus Canio. “There will be no tracks, no trail that we could follow.”

  “Had we sleen!” said a man.

  “Yes, of course,” said Portus Canio. “— had we sleen.”

  “But we do not,” said another man.

  “Let us try to track them!” said the man.

  “Feel free to do so,” said Portus Canio.

  “I do not think I would care to follow such men, even had we sleen,” said another.

  Portus Canio’s original interlocutor turned white. “True,” he said, in a frightened whisper.

  “Why did they leave?” asked a man, anew.

  Portus Canio did not respond.

  “Why do you think they left?” asked the man.

  “Harness the tharlarion,” said Portus Canio. “We are breaking camp.”

  Selius Arconious returned to his bedding, and looked down, into the puzzled, frightened eyes of his slave, the Earth girl, Ellen.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Bosk of Port Kar and Marcus of Ar’s Station,” said he, “are not now in the camp. They left under the cover of darkness, last night. They informed no one. We do not know why they left, or where they have gone. Gather up my things, and help the others. We will be leaving soon. Stay close to the wagon.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  ****

  It had not been more than an Ahn since the harnessing of the tharlarion and the breaking of the camp than Portus Canio called the halt.

  Ellen, unbraceleted, barefoot, in her tunic, had been walking beside the wagon, on its left side, as one would face forward.

  Portus Canio was not the only one who had caught the scent. Men glanced warily at one another.

  Portus Canio climbed to the wagon box, beside Fel Doron, and stood, facing backward, shading his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

  Fel Doron had caught the scent first, perhaps because of his height on the wagon box. “Portus!” he had called.

  Selius Arconious had lifted his head, facing backward, nostrils flared, testing the wind, a moment later.

  Ellen, the wagon stopped, climbed one of the large, bronzeshod rear wheels, and, clinging to the side of the bed, her bare feet on a heavy, wooden, rounded spoke, looked backward.

  It was a scent she had experienced once before, on Targo’s sales shelf in the Kettle Market, though then it had been so suddenly, so unexpectedly, upon her, almost stifling, almost overwhelming, so hot, so suddenly close and terrible.

  There was no mistaking it, that scent, though now it was distant, and faint, a whisper on the wind. It was the same.

  “Arm yourselves,” said Portus Canio.

  A man removed a cylindrical bundle, tied with cord, from the wagon bed, and undid the cord, spilling bladed weapons on the grass. They were seized up. Another man removed two crossbows from beneath a canvas cover. In a moment these devices were set, the metal bands curved back, the cables tautened; quarrels were fitted to guides.

  “Free the spears,” said Portus Canio.

  Two spears, suspended in slings at the sides of the wagon, were drawn free.

  Ellen, from her place on the wheel, looked wildly at Selius Arconious, who, looking backward, was unaware of the anxiety of her regard.

  He had availed himself of one of the weapons, a gladius, light, wicked, short-bladed, double-edged.

  “They are tracking,” said Portus Canio. “If they were hunting they would approach from downwind.”

  “Praise the Priest-Kings,” said a man.

  “Have they seen us yet?” asked a man.

  “I would not think so,” said Portus Canio. “But they will have a sense of our distance, from the freshness of the scent.”

  “What men are with them?” asked a man.

  “It cannot be told at present,” said Portus.

  “Let us flee,” said a man.

  “If they are this close to us, it is unlikely they are afoot,” said Selius Arconious. “Look about,” he encouraged Portus Canio.

  Portus Canio, standing on the wagon box, looked then to all sides of the wagon, to each barren, windswept horizon.

  “When danger seems to threaten from one quarter,” said a man, “it is well to fear all quarters, and most that from which it seems to threaten least.”

  “I see nothing,” said Portus Canio. “Wait! I think I see men, behind us!”

  “Are there standards, banners?”

  “No.”

  “Have they seen us?”

  “I cannot tell,” said Portus Canio.

  “Are they Cosians?”

  “I do not think so,” said Portus Canio.

  “Cosians would be tarnborne, would be aflight, surely,” said a man.

  “Brigands, then,” said another.

  “Yes, brigands,” said another.

  “I think they have seen us,” said Portus Canio.

  “How many are there?” asked a man.

  “Six men,” said Portus Canio, slowly.

  “There is nothing to fear then,” said a man. “There are nine of us.”

  “They are not alone,” said Portus Canio, slowly. “There is something else, something with them.”

  “What?” asked one of the men.

  “I do not know,” said Portus Canio. “I truly do not know. They are large, lumbering things, yet they move swiftly, they are ungainly and yet graceful, they are huge, and dark. By the Priest-Kings they move swiftly. There are five of them, I think. Yes, five. I do not know what they are. I have never seen anything like them! I have never seen anything move like that. I do not know if they have two feet or four feet. Truly, I do not know! It is not clear, as they move. Ho! One is stopped! It is standing, upright! Upright! It is pointing. By the Priest-Kings, it is huge. It is pointing this way! Now it is again on all fours. These things are coming this way, the men, too. The men are on tharlarion, the things with them are not. They run beside the tharlarion, easily, in their strange gait, as tireless beasts of some sort!”

  Ellen trembled. She felt ill. She was miserable. She felt a coldness in the pit of her stomach. Why did she not rejoice? Was she not to be rescued from the grasp of he whom she feared and hated, her cruel master, Selius Arconious? She had little doubt then, though she could not yet see them, who followed them. As property, as slave, she knew she was subject to seizure and theft. She could be seized and carried away with no more compunction, no more consideration or thought, than would be accorded to a verr or tarsk, two other forms of domestic animal.

  “Can you see the sleen?”

  “Yes,
there are two. They are running, now fastened on long leashes, straining forward, excited now, before two of the riders.”

  Ellen descended from the wheel, and sank down, on her knees, beside it. She clung to the spokes, that she might not collapse to the grass.

  “Hit the sleen first,” said Portus Canio to the two bowmen. “They will be the most dangerous. You two with spears defend the bowmen while they prepare their bows for a second flight.”

  “The sleen will not be most dangerous unless they are set upon us,” said Selius Arconious.

  “Let us see what they want,” said a man. “They may be travelers returning from the great camp. They may wish company. They may be lost. They may want to join us, for mutual protection. If they are brigands, let them look about. Let them see that we do not have enough for them to risk war. If they wish to fight, we will fight. But I do not think that they will care to risk their lives for some biscuits, some blankets, a slave, a wagon, a tharlarion.”

  “They may not have the tharlarion,” said a man.

  “No,” said another.

  Ellen put her cheek against the spoke of the wagon wheel, better understanding her worth on this world. Lovely female slaves strive desperately to please, well aware of their abundance in this economy. She recalled the steam and misery, the cruel labors, of the laundry in the house of Mirus. Gor has many such employments for the inept and less than fully pleasing.

  She stood up then, clinging to the bronzeshod wheel.

  “Tal!” called Portus Canio, pleasantly enough, from before the bench of the wagon box, where he stood.

  Ellen saw the six riders, on tharlarion, in the hands of two of which were the leashes of two gray hunting sleen, which crouched down, their rear haunches trembling, as though readying themselves for a charge. Their hunt had been successful, and they were now ready for a reward, a feeding.

  “By the Priest-Kings,” whispered a man, regarding the five beasts who, some yards apart, were in advance of the riders.

  Ellen recognized one of the beasts, he spoken of as Kardok. She knew that it, and at least some of the others, could speak, or, at least, make sounds which might, with some transpositions, be understood as Gorean, at least by those she had taken to be their masters, or, better, by at least one of them, for only one of them, she recalled, had seemed to translate for the beasts.

  “In the matter of the quarrels,” said Portus Canio, softly, to the two bowmen, one on each side of the wagon, “use your discretion.” He was viewing the five beasts, who doubtless appeared far more awesome to him now, at a distance of a few yards, than they had when they were a quarter of a pasang away.

  Ellen saw Kardok’s ears lift slightly, the great body stiffen. Though the men on tharlarion, the strangers, doubtless heard nothing, she had little doubt but what Portus Canio’s soft remark, little more than a whisper, had been clearly audible to the beast. She feared, too, it might have been fully intelligible to that gross, shaggy auditor.

  “Tal!” repeated Portus Canio.

  He was not answered.

  Mirus urged his tharlarion, a swift, bipedalian tharlarion, forward. He was then something like seven or eight yards from the wagon, some two or three yards before the line of his fellows, the beasts and the two sleen.

  He looked about and, in a moment, noted Ellen, she standing beside the wagon, on its left side, facing him. She was in the brief tunic which had been permitted to her by Selius Arconious, was barefoot, and collared. The tunic was very short, and sleeveless. Such tunics are designed to well reveal the slave, and leave little to the imagination, only enough to encourage the master to tear it from her. She had little doubt that she was quite fetching in the garment. Surely Mirus seemed pleased with what he saw. Too, there was a collar on her neck. This, she knew, too, had its effect on men. Not only did it serve as an attractive adornment, rather like a necklace, contrasting with, and setting off, the slim, lovely, rounded softness of her throat, but she could not remove it. It was locked on her, publicly and obviously. It proclaimed her property, slave. Thus, on the symbolic level, where human sexuality luxuriates, thrives and flourishes, and aside from the obvious identificatory conveniences of Merchant Law, it was far more than a lovely piece of jewelry; it enhanced her beauty not only aesthetically but symbolically, overwhelmingly, devastatingly meaningfully. It speaks to him, who sees it on her throat, and it speaks to her, about whose throat it is snugly clasped. It tells them both that she belongs to men.

  “You do not return my greeting,” said Portus. “I find this unmannerly, even surly. What do you want here? We are poor men, but note that we are armed men. What do you seek?”

  Mirus smiled.

  “If you need food we will share some bread, your due in the hospitality of the wilderness, but you must then be on your way.”

  “Or,” said Selius Arconious, “you could butcher and roast one of your shaggy friends.”

  Ellen shuddered. She had little doubt but what the dark beasts were themselves carnivorous.

  “Though,” said Selius Arconious, “I expect their meat would be tough.”

  Most of the shaggy beasts did not respond to this, but one ran its long, dark tongue about its lips. Ellen saw the canine fangs glisten in the saliva, “It can understand, too,” she thought to herself.

  “What do you seek?” asked Portus, again, this time not pleasantly. He was, after all, Gorean.

  “Ask the slave,” suggested Mirus.

  Portus Canio, puzzled, looked to Ellen.

  “I fear, Master,” she said, “it is I whom they seek.”

  “Why?” asked Portus.

  “Wait,” said Selius Arconious, “I know you. You are the fellow who bid against me at the auction, and I was fool enough not to let you have this worthless bit of collar fluff. How rash I was! Surely you must have suspected how often I have regretted that lapse, that catastrophe of indiscretion.”

  “Permit me to be even more foolish,” said Mirus. “I am prepared to take her off your hands now.”

  “But misery and woe,” said Selius Arconious, “even if I were to give her to you for nothing, I would be cheating you. For she is less than worthless. I may be a poor businessman, but I am not a dishonest fellow. You may not have her.”

  “Oh?” said Mirus, seemingly amused.

  “She is not for sale,” said Selius Arconious.

  “But she could, of course, be sold,” said Mirus. Ellen did not doubt but what that remark was for her benefit, to remind her of what she was on this world.

  To be sure she needed no reminding.

  She well understood her status on this world, and had long understood it, that she was goods, a shapely commodity with which men might do as they wished.

  “Of course,” said Selius Arconious, “as she is a slave.”

  “I said nothing about buying,” said Mirus.

  Ellen heard the men move restlessly.

  “Do not think we do not know you,” said Mirus. “We recognize you as the tarnster who paid for a slave with Cosian gold, from the mint at Jad.”

  “I do not know from whence it came,” said Selius Arconious. “That seems to me quite mysterious. I merely found it.”

  “Where?”

  “Here and there.”

  “We have no Cosian gold,” said Portus Canio. “If you wish to look about, do so. Otherwise, be off. Our patience grows short.”

  “Then they have put it somewhere,” snapped one of the men behind Mirus. It was the first time he had spoken. Ellen had sensed, from some days ago, in the tent, that he stood high in the group, perhaps amongst the top two or three, at least amongst the men.

  “I have little interest in the Cosian gold,” said Mirus. “That is the concern of Cos. But know that the Cosians are interested in you, tarnster, and some others here, if I am not mistaken, who escaped chains in the festival camp. There is a reward out for you, tarnster, and for your fellows, if I am not mistaken. Cos would like to know your whereabouts. Tarn patrols abound. They may be signaled. G
ive me the slave, and we will leave.”

  “You have brought five men, and five beasts, and two sleen, to regain a single slave?” asked Portus Canio.

  Mirus shrugged. “They wished to accompany me. I, alone, with a sleen, would have been enough.”

  “We are nine men,” said Portus Canio, puzzled.

  “I have this,” said Mirus, reaching within his robes.

  Ellen cried out in misery.

  “Perhaps the slave can explain it to you,” said Mirus.

  In the hand of Mirus, brandished, glinting, there shone the grayish steel of an automatic pistol.

  “Beware, Masters!” cried Ellen. “It is a weapon!”

  “Surely an unlikely weapon,” said Selius Arconious. “It seems blunt for a knife, and small for a club.”

  “Perhaps he stabs melons with it,” said one of the fellows at the wagon.

  “And you draw the juice out through the hole?” speculated another.

  “It might do to give an urt a headache, if you hit it hard enough,” suggested another. “Perhaps that is what it is for.”

  “No, no, please, Masters!” cried Ellen. “I know what that is! I have seen such things! I do not know a word in Gorean for it. I do not think there is such a word. But it is dangerous. It can kill, kill! Believe me! It is a bow, a bow, or like that, or like a sling. It ejects pellets, stones, small knives, or however you can understand this! Try to understand what I am saying! Please! It is dangerous! It can kill! It is like lightning! Like lightning! I know! Please believe me, Masters!”

  “Shall I demonstrate?” asked Mirus.

  He was greeted by silence.

  “I have no wish to kill anyone,” said Mirus, “but I am prepared to do so, if necessary.”

  At this point the five men behind him loosened their outer riding robes, brushing them back over the left shoulder. Revealed then, in their keeping, sheathed, or, better, holstered, were similar devices. They did not move to draw them. The convenience, and stolid, latent menace of the devices, however, to any who understood them, was obtrusively evident.

  “You cannot stand against them, Masters!” wept Ellen. “Give me to them!”

  “This is called a gun, or a pistol,” said Mirus. “Now you have words for it. Now it is real to you.”

  “Do not hurt them, Master!” wept Ellen. “I will go with you!”