Tribesmen of Gor (46 page)

"Beware," I said to T'Zshal.

"He's coming!" cried one of the men.

The long, vast body hurtled through the water, tail switching. Almost at the edge of the raft the great body lifted in the water, turning to its side, jaws dropping open, lunging, falling, biting, onto the beams, thrashing. T’Zshal thrust the long lance, almost bead-on, toward the monster, and it cut, slicing, a long wound, a yard in length, along its side. The teeth caught the wide cloth of the trouser, turning T'Zshal, spinning him, tearing away cloth to the hip. T'Zshal struck again with the lance, driving it into the tail of the monster as it twisted off the raft.

"Light a torch. Lift it high," said T'Zshal.

He held the lance ready. On the left leg of T'Zshal, where the cloth had been torn away, I could see, white and wide, jagged, descending, a long, irregular scar. It almost encircled the leg and ranged from a half of an inch to two inches in width.

"We are old friends, Old One," called T'Zshal, across the water. "Come, call again."

I had not seen the scar before. I then had no doubt that at some time in the past, T'Zshal and the Old One had become acquainted.

"Come, Old One," whispered T'Zshal. "Come, Old One." He held the lance ready.

T'Zshal, and the Old One, as he had said, were old friends. I wondered how many men of T'Zshal had been killed by the Old One. I suspected it was not few.

In the lamplight, on tile raft, on the dark water, among us, waiting, he held the lance ready.

We did not speak.

None of us suspected it. It came by surprise, from the back, from beneath the surface, then without warning men screaming wood splintering amongst us seeing it striking me others too tumbling gone then men crying out arms in the water one lamp only tiny alive in that blackness.

"Light torches," I cried. From the lamp torches were lit. We saw the Old One emerge from the water, rising up, more than a dozen feet of that great, mighty body rearing upward, Water streaming from it, in its jaws the body of T'Zshal.

I leaped from the raft, striking the surface of the water. I reached the side of the Old One before I realized fully the possibilities of my action. The teeth of the Old One, like that of the long-bodied sharks of Gor, and related marine species, as well as similarly evolved forms of Earth, bend rearward; each bite anchors the bitten material, which can be dislodged conveniently only in the direction of the throat. In short, the Old One could not easily release its quarry. Further, the reflex instinct of the beast would be to hold, not to release the quarry. Even for the Old One, in the black, almost barren waters, food would be scarce. In such an environment one would expect the holding instinct would be as near to inflexible as such an instinct could be. I seized the lateral fin on the right side of the beast. It dove, and rubbed itself, twisting, in the salt at the bottom of the pit. I did not release my hold. I thrust my hand toward the jaws. They were open, clenched on the body of T’Zshal. I could not reach into the jaws. Then the beast swept upward and I, clinging to the fin, erupted with it, eyes and nostrils stung with salt, half blinded, more than ten feet into the air. I was aware of torches across the water on the raft, men crying out, then the fish, I clinging to it, fell into the water, thrashing. As the fish fell back into the water it rolled, lifting me into the air. I shook my head and released the fin, lunging for the jaws which were held open by T’Zshal’s body. My arm entered the jaws. The fish rolled. I lost my grip. I seized T'Zshal's body. Again I reached my arm into the jaws, grasping. I got my hand on the hilt of the dagger. The fish leaped again from the water and I had the dagger free, plunging it, ripping, into the gill tissue below its jaw, one of the salt-adaptations of marine life in the pit. I did not know the number of its hearts or their location. These vary in Gorean sharks. Too, the heart is deep within the body. I did not think I could reach it with the blade at my disposal. But the gill tissue is delicate, like layers of petals, essential for drawing oxygen from the environment. Madly did the great marine beast thrash; its jaws distended, trying to disgorge its victim, but it was held by the teeth; it tried to bite through the body in its jaws but the body was wedged well within the jaws and it could exert little leverage. Then the thrashing grew weaker. The Old One was still alive when I was drawn away from it, pulled by Hassan and another man to the surface of the raft. I could not release the dagger. Hassan pried it from my fingers with his hands. I lay on my back on the beams of the raft. Near me lay T'Zshal. I crawled to my hands and knees and went to him.

   
"You let the Old One seize you," I told him.

"I was clumsy," he smiled.

Flesh hung, ripped from his body. I tried to press together the wounds.
    
"The Old One?" asked T'Zshal.

"Dead," I said.

The carcass lay in the water, whitish, buoyed by the salt. It was longer than the raft itself.

"Good," said T'Zshal. Then he closed his eyes.

"He is dead," said one of the men.

"Find the lance head," said I, "take the lacings from the blade. Bring me the dagger."

"You cannot save him," said Hassan. The beams beneath the body of the kennel master were drenched with blood. My forehead was drenched with sweat. I saw the wounds in the shifting torchlight above and behind me. There was salt on my hands, blood. I pressed together, as I could, the serrated flesh.

"I did not know there could be so much blood in a man," said one of the men behind me.

"Bring me what I asked for," I said.

The lance shaft broken, was found floating near the raft. The lacings which had reinforced the head were removed. The dagger was thrust in the wood beside me.

     
"Help me," said I, "Hassan."

"Be merciful," said Hassan. "Kill him."

"Help me." I said.

"There is no hope," said he.

"We have shared salt," I said.

"I will help you," said Hassan.

Using the dagger as an awl, punching through the flesh, and the long lacing from the lance head, while Hassan held together the edges of the ripped furrows, I crudely sewed together the rent, bloodied meat before me.

Once T'Zshal opened his eyes. "Let me die," he begged.

"I thought you once made the march to Klima," I said.

"I did," said T'Zshal.

"March again to Klima," I told him.

The fists of the kennel master clenched. A bit later be slept.

I leaned back from the body of T'Zshal. "You would not qualify as one of the caste of physicians," said a man behind me.

"I myself," said Hassan, "would not admit him to the leather workers."

We laughed. T'Zshal slept.

"What of the Old One?" asked one of the men.

"Leave him," I said. The lelts, as yet, had not even dared approach the shifting, buoyant carcass of the Old One. In time their hunger would bring them, nosing and nibbling, to its bulk, and the blind feast in the black waters would begin.

"Return to the salt docks," I said.

The men picked up their poles. The great raft turned and began to make its way back toward the docks.

18

I RETRIEVE A BIT OF SILK;

WE ENTER THE DESERT

"What would you have for saving my life?" asked T'Zshal.

   
"How is it," I asked, "that this interview takes place in the domicile of the Salt Master?"

   
I stood on cool tiles, blue and yellow, in a vaulted room, in the, keep of the Salt Master. I stood before a draped couch, on which lay T'Zshal. Guards were about. Near me stood Hassan.

   
"I am the Salt Master," said T'Zshal. Men of the caste of physicians, slave, too, at Klima, stood about the couch. "What would you have?"

   
"My freedom," said I, "and water." I regarded T'Zshal. He lay upon the couch, stripped to the waist, not deigning to bide the fierce, sewn wounds, which encircled his body.

   
"There are no kaiila at Klima," said T'Zshal.

   
"I know," I said.

   
"You would enter the desert afoot?" he asked.

   
"I have business away from Klima," I said, to him.

   
"You saved my life," said T'Zshal. "In return, you ask only your own death?"

   
"No," I said. "I ask freedom and water."

   
"You do not know the desert," he said.

   
"I will accompany him," said Hassan. "I, too, ask freedom and water. I, too, have business away from Klima."

   
"You know the desert?" asked T'Zshal.

   
"The desert is my mother, and my father," said Hassan. It was a saying of the Tahari.

   
"And yet you would leave Klima afoot?"

   
"Furnish me kaiila," said Hassan. "And I will not refuse them."

   
"I could place both of you high at Klima," said T'Zshal.

   
"Our business lies elsewhere," I said.

   
"You are determined?" asked T'Zshal.

   
"Yes," I said.

   
"I, too," said Hassan.

   
"Very well," said T'Zshal, "stake them out in the sun."

   
We were seized from behind by guards. We struggled. "I saved your life!" I cried.

   
"Stake him out in the sun," said T'Zshal.

   
"Sleen!" cried Hassan.

   
"He, too," said T'Zshal.

   
I pulled at the stake to which my right wrist was fastened.

   
"Lie still," said the guard. I felt the point of his lance at my throat.

   
He retired to the canopy beneath which, with water, he sat, cross-legged, with his companion. Between them they had, in the crusts, scratched a board for Zar. This resembles the Kaissa board. Pieces, however, may he placed only on the intersections of lines either within or at the edges of the board. Each player has nine pieces of equal value which are originally placed on the intersections of the nine interior vertical lines with what would be the rear horizontal line, constituted by the back edge of the board, from each player's point of view. The corners are not used in the original placement, though they constitute legitimate move points after play begins. The pieces are commonly pebbles, or bits of verr dung, and sticks. The "pebbles" move first. Pieces move one intersection at a time, unless jumping. One may jump either the opponent's pieces or one's own. A jump must be made to an unoccupied point. Multiple jumps are permissible. The object is to effect a complete exchange of original placements. The first player to fully occupy the opponent's initial position wins. Capturing, of course, does not occur. The game is one of strategy and
   
maneuverability.

   
"Hassan." I said.

   
"Lie still," he said. "Do not speak. Try to live."

   
I was silent.

   
"Ali," cried one of the guards. He had just made a move, which pleased him.

   
I kept my eyes closed, that I be not blinded.

   
I was cold.

   
I moved the stake, to which my right wrist was fastened, a quarter of an inch.

"Hassan," I said. "Do you live?"

   
"Yes," said he, from near me.

   
We had been staked out in the crusts.

The sun was now down.

   
Under the Tahari sun some men last as little as four hours, even those who have made the march to Klima.

   
Water had been nearby, but we had not been given any. We kept company with the stakes. One moves as little as possible. One must not sweat. Further, one shields, with one's body, the surface on which one lies. The surface temperature can reach one hundred and seventy-five degrees by late afternoon.

   
Oddly, I was now cold. It was the Tahari night. I could see the stars, the three moons.

   
The two guards had now gone.

   
"By noon tomorrow, we shall be dead." said Hassan.

   
I moved the stake again, to which my right wrist was fastened, another quarter of an inch. Then, slowly, bit by bit, I drew it from the crusts.

   
Hassan's face was turned toward me.

   
"Do not speak," I told him.