Raiders of Gor (4 page)

range, about a campfire, I heard sing of this bow.”

I said nothing.

He handed the bow to the fellow with the headband of pearls of the Vosk sorp

bound about his forehead. “String it,” said Ho-hak.

The fellow handed his marsh spear to a companion and turned to the bow. He took

it confidently. Then the look of confindence vanished. Then his face reddened,

and then the veins stood out on his forehead, and then he cried out in disgust,

and then he threw the bow back at Ho-Hak.

Ho-Hak looked at it and then set it against the instep of his left foot, taking

the bow in his left hand and the string in his right.

There was a cry of awe from about the circle as he strung the bow.

I admired him. He had strength, and much strength, for he had strung the bow

smoothly, strength it might be from the galleys, but strength, and superb

strength.

“Well done,” said I to him.

Then Ho-Hak took, from among the arrows on the mat, the leather bracer and

fastened it about his left forearm, that the arm not be lacerated by the string,

and took the small tab as well, putting the first and second fingers on his

right hand through, that in drawing the string the flesh might not be cut to the

bone. The he took, from the unwrapped roll of arrows, now spilled on the

elather, a flight arrow, and this, to my admiration, he fitted to the bow and

drew it to the very pile itself.

He held the arrow up, pointing it into the sky, at an angle of some fifty

degrees.

Then there came the clean, swift, singing flash of the bowstring and the flight

arrow was aloft.

There were cries from all, of wonder and astonishment, for they would not have

believed such a thing possible.

The arrow seemed lost, as though among the clouds, and so far was it that it

seemed vanished in its falling.

The group was silent.

Ho-Hak unstrung the bow. “It is with this,” he said, “that peasants defend their

holdings.”

He looked from face to face. The he replaced the bow, putting it with its

arrows, on the leather spread upon the mat of woven rence that was the surface

of the island.

Ho-Hak regarded me. “Are you skilled with this bow?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“See that he does not escape,” said Ho-Hak.

I felt the prongs of two marsh spears in my back. “He will not escape,” said the

girl, putting her fingers in the ropes that held my throat. I could feel her

knuckles in the side of my neck. She shoot the ropes. She irritated me. She

acted as though it were she herself who had taken me.

“Are you of the peasants?” asked Ho-Hak of me.

“No,” I said. “I am of the Warriors.”

“This bow, though,” said one of the men holding my neck ropes, “is of the

peasants.”

“I am not of the Peasants,” I said.

Ho-Hak looked at the man who wore teh headband of pearls of the Vosk sorp.

“With such a bow,” he said to that man, “we might live free in the marsh, free

of Port Kar.”

“It is a weapon of peasants,” said the man with the headband, he who had been

unable to bend the bow.

“So?” asked Ho-Hak.

“I,” said the man, “am of the Growers of Rence. I, for one, am not a Peasant.”

“Nor am I!” cried the girl.

The others, too, cried their assent.

“Besides,” said another man, “we do not have metal for the heads of arrows, nor

arrowwood, and Ka-la-na does not grow in the marsh. And we do not have cords of

strength enough to draw such bows.”

“And we do not have leather,” added another.

“We could kill tharlarion,” said Ho-Hak, “and obtain leather. And perhaps the

teeth of the marsh shark might be fashioned in such a way as to tip arrows.”

“There is no Ka-la-na, no cord, no arrowwood,” said another.

“We might trade for such things,” said Ho-Hak. “There are peasants who live

along the edges of the delta, particularly to the east.”

The man with the headband, he who had not been able to bend the bow, laughed.

“You, Ho-Hak,” said he, “were not born to rence.”

“No,” said Ho-Hak. “That is true.”

“But we were,” said the man. “We are Growers of the Rence.”

There was a murmur of assent, grunts and shiftings in the group.

“We are not Peasants,” said the man with the headband. “We are Growers of the

Rence!”

There was an angry cry of confirmation from the group, mutterings, shots of

agreement.

Ho-Hak once again sat down on the curved shell of the great Vosk sorp, that

shell that served him as a throne in this domain, an island of rence in the

delta of the Vosk.

“What is to be done with me?” I asked.

“Torture him for festival,” suggested the fellow with the headband of pearls of

the Vosk sorp.

Ho-Hak ears lay flat against the side of his head. He looked evenly at the

fellow. “We are not of Port Kar,” said he.

The man with the headband shrugged, looking about. He saw that his suggestion

had not met with much enthusiasm. This, naturally, did not displease me. He

shrugged again, and looked down at the woven surface of the island.

“So,” I asked, “what is to be my fate?”

“We did not ask you here,” said Ho-Hak. “We did not invite you to cross the line

of the blood mark.”

“Return to me my belongings,” I said, “and I shall be on my way and trouble you

no longer.”

Ho-hak smiled.

The girl beside me laughed, and so, too, did the man with the headband, he who

had not been able to bend the bow. Several of the others laughed as well.

“Of custom,” said Ho-Hak, “we give those we capture who are of Port Kar a

choice.”

“What is the choice?” I asked.

“You will be thrown bound to the marsh tharlarion, of course,” said Ho-Hak.

I paled.

“The choice,” said Ho’Hak, “is simple.” He regarded me. “Either you will be

thrown alive to the march tharlarion or, if you wish, we will kill you first.”

I struggled wildly against the marsh vine, futilely. The rence growers, without

emotion, watched me. I fought the vine for perhaps a full Ehn. Then I stopped.

The vine was tight. I knew I had been perfectly secured. I was theirs. The girl

beside me laughed, as did the man with the headband, and certain of the others.

“There is never any trace of the body,” said Ho-Hak.

I looked at him.

“Never,” he said.

Again I struggled against the vine, but again futilely.

“It seems to easy that he should die so swiftly,” said the girl. “He is of Port

Kar, or would be of that city.”

“True,” said the fellow with the headband, he who had been unable to bend the

bow. “Let us toture him for festival.”

“No,” said the girl. She looked at me with fury. “Let us rather keep him as a

miserable slave.”

Ho-Hak looked up at her.

“Is that not a sweeter vengeance?” hissed she. “that rightless he should serve

the Growers of Rence as a beast of burden?”

“Let us rather throw him to the tharlarion,” said the man with the headband of

the pearls of the Vosk sorp. “That way we shall be rid of him.”

“I say,” said the blondis girl, “let us rather shame him and Port Kar as well.

Let him be worked and beaten by day and tethered by night. Each hour with

labors, and whips and thongs, let us show him our hatred for Port Kar and those

of that city!”

“How is it,” I asked the girl, “that you so hate those of Port Kar?”

“Silence, Slave!” she cried and thrust her fingers into the ropes about my neck,

twisting her hand. I could not swallow, nor breathe. The faces about me began to

blacken. I fought to retain consciousness.

Then she withdrew her hand.

I gasped for breath, choking. I threw up on the mat. There were cries of

disgust, and derision. I felt the prongs of marsh spears in my back.

“I say,” said he with the headband, “let it be the marsh tharlarion.”

“No,” I said numbly. “No.”

Ho-hak looked at me. He seemed surprised.

I, too, found myself stunned. It had seemed the words had scarcely been mine.

“No, No,” i said again, the words again seeming almost those of another.

I began to sweat, and I was afraid.

Ho-Hak looked at me, curiously. His large ears leaned toward me, almost

inquisitively.

I did not want to die.

I shook my head, clearing my eyes, fighting for breath, and looked into his

eyes.

“You are of the warriors,” said Ho-Hak.

“Yes,” I said. “I know, yes.”

I found I desperately wanted the respect of this calm, strong man, he most of

all, be once a slave, who sat before me on the throne, that sell of the giant

Vosk sorp.

“The teeth of the tharlarion,” said he, “are swift, Warrior.”

“I know,” I said.

“If you wish,” said he, “we will slay you first.”

“I,” I said, “I do not want to die.”

I lowered my head, burning with shame. Im my eyes in that moment it seemed I had

lost myself, that my codes had been betrayed, Ko-ra-ba my city dishonored, even

the lbade I had carried soiled. I could not look Ho-hak again in the eyes. In

their eyes, and in mine, I could now be nothing, only a slave.

“I had thought the better of you,” said Ho-Hak. “I had thought you were of the

warriors.”

I could not speak to him.

“I see now,” said Ho-Hak, “you are indeed of Port Kar.”

I could not raises my head, so shamed I was. It seemed I could never lift my

head again.

“Do you beg to be a slave?” asked Ho-hak. The question cruel, but fair.

I looked at Ho-Hak, tears in my eyes. I saw only contempt on that broad, calm

face.

I lowered my head. “Yes,” I said. “I beg to be a slave.”

There was a great laugh from those gathered about, and, too, in those peals of

merriment I heard the laugh of he who wore the headband of the pearls of the

Vosk sorp, and most bitter to me of all, the laugh of contempt of the girl who

stood beside me, her thigh at my cheek.

“Slave,” said Ho-Hak.

“Yes,” said I, “—Master.” The word came bitterly to me. But a Gorean slave

addresses all free men as Master, all free women as Mistress, though, of course,

normally but one would own him.

There was further laughter.

“Perhaps now,” said Ho-Hak, “we shall throw you to the tharlarion.”

I put down my head.

There was more laughter.

To me, at that moment, it seemed I cared not whether they chose to throw me to

the tharlarion or not. It seemed to me that I had lost what might be more

precious than my life itself. How could I face myself, or anyone? I had chosen

ignominious bondage to the freedom of honorable death.

I was sick. I was shamed. It was true that they might now throw me to

tharlarion. According to Gorean custom a slave is an animal, and may be disposed

of as an animal, in whatever way the master might wish, whenever he might

please. But I was sick, and I was shamed, and I could not now, somehow, care. I

had chosen ignominious bondage to the freedom of honorable death.

“Is there anyone who wants this slave?” I heard Ho-Hak asking.

“Give him to me, Ho-Hak,” I heard. It was the clear, ringing voice of the girl

who stood beside

me.

There was a great laughter, and rich in that humiliating thunder was the snort

of the fellow who wore the headband, that formed of the pearls of the Vosk sorp.

Strangely I felt small and nothing beside the girl, only chattel. How straight

she stood, each inch of her body alive and splendid in her vigor and freedom.

And how worthless and miserable was the beast, the slave, that knelt, naked and

bound, at her feet.

“He is yours,” I heard Ho-Hak say.

I burned with shame.

“Bring the past of rence!” cried the girl. “Unbind his ankles. Take these ropes

from his neck.”

A woman left the group to bring some rence paste, and two men removed the marsh

vine from my neck and ankles. My wrists were still bound behind my back.

In a moment the woman had returned with a double handful of wet rence paste.

When fried, on flat stones it makes a kind of cake, sprinkled with rence seeds.

“Open you mouth, Slave,” said the girl.

I did so and, to the amusement of those watching, she forced the wet past into

my mouth.

“Eat it,” she said. “Swallow it.”

Painfully, almost retching, I did so.

“You have been fed my your Mistress,” she said.

“I have been fed by my Mistress,” I said.

“What is your name, Slave?” asked she.

“Tarl,” said I.

She struck me savagely across the mouth, flinging my head to one side.

“A slave has no name,” she said.

“I have no name,” I said.

She walked about me. “Your back is broad,” she said. “You are strong, but

stupid.” She laughed. “I shall call you Bosk,” she said.

The Bosk is a large, horned, shambling ruminant of the Gorean plains. It is

herded below the Gorean equator by the Wagon Peoples, but there are Bosk herds

on ranches in the north as well, and peasants often keep some of the animals.

“I am Bosk,” I said.

There was laughter.

“My Bosk!” she laughed.

“I should have thought,” said he with the headband, formed of the pearls of the

Vosk sorp, “that you might have preferred a man for a slave, one who is proud

and does not fear death.”

The girl thrust her hands into my hair and threw back my head. Then she spat in