Kur of Gor (84 page)

Investigating, he detected a small stream pursuing its course. In it, twisting about, drifted some branches, some small blocks and plates of ice.

He removed his cloak.

Clearly, remarkable changes were occurring in the world. It seemed that a winter had been set aside, to be replaced with a damp, fragrant spring.

Wet, fallen leaves now appeared beneath his feet.

Here and there there were tiny ponds of water.

He could see branches of trees reflected in them.

The ground, here and there, for a time at least, would be wet, muddy.

When he resumed his journey, he would avoid such ground, insofar as it was possible.

He had feared to string the bow for days, for fear it would snap in the cold. He thought that it might soon be safe to do so, perhaps by noon. He shook the arrows in the quiver, and they moved well. They were loose, ready. The fletching was now damp, no longer stiff, cold to the touch. He had kept the strings wound about his body, for warmth.

Cabot shuddered, as though to throw the remains of cold from him, as a sleen might shudder, to rid itself of snow or water.

Light, sunlike, blazed within the world. Water began to drip from snowy branches.

Cabot stretched, and moved his hands and fingers. Now they felt as they usually had, and responded as he wished. His feet no longer ached with cold, were now no longer wrapped in crackling, frozen cloth.

Cabot pondered the unusual shift in the weather.

Presumably there might be many explanations for this change. They would not, of course, be entirely meteorological, for this was a steel world, and weathers and climates, droughts and storms, light and darkness, heat and cold, or the initial conditions for such, which might then produce their natural consequences, could be planned and produced, both with respect to their frequencies and durations.

The unnatural winter, Cabot supposed, had cessitated, as it was now no longer necessary, or, perhaps better, useful, given Agamemnon's victory. The weapon of the weather, a very effective and terrible weapon, with its devastating impact on the insurrectionists’ human allies, and surely even its seriously inconveniencing impact on its Kur allies, might now be put aside. The establishment secure, all things in their place, the world might now be returned to its normality.

The only thing Cabot did not understand was the strange message, repeated three times, consecutively, each time more insistently, more urgently, which had been earlier broadcast throughout the world: “Bring me a body."

Two days later Cabot had arrived at the abandoned camp of Lord Grendel, that in the more remote recesses of one of the world's farther forests, that from which they had long ago departed.

The gate was open, the palings were in place. Shelters had remained much as they had been, save for the effects of weather. The snow had melted and Cabot could find the ashes of cooking fires. There were some vessels about, one of them an overturned, dented metal bowl. In one place he found a stick, partly carved, not yet drilled. Such would have been intended for an arrow straightener. The small open-sided shelter in which the Lady Bina had been chained was still there. The stakes between which she had been fastened were also still there, but the chains, and belt, were gone.

This is a strange place, thought Cabot, for a human to end his life, on a steel world.

On the other hand, he supposed it was as good as any.

He might have preferred a field on Gor, with long green grass, with the wind rising from the east, in the morning, or perhaps a crag in the scarlet mountains, the mighty Voltai, or perhaps the stem castle or helm deck of a lateen-rigged galley, perhaps the
Dorna
or
Tesephone
. The thought crossed his mind of the mad shipwright, Tersites, filled with his dream of a ship so sturdy and mighty that it might see what lay on the far side of Thassa, to go so far that no mariner who had attained only to the first knowledge would dare to ply one of its oars, for fear of plunging over the world's cliff.

He thought of Lord Pyrrhus, slain in the arena, of Lord Arcesilaus, of the slaver, Peisistratus, of his dear friend, Lord Grendel. He thought of the forest humans, of the men of Peisistratus in the pleasure cylinder, of killer humans, bred for arena games, of the ponderous cattle humans, bred for stupidity and meat. He thought in sorrow of the beauty of the Lady Bina, and how she was now little more than a broken, torn, hideous, shapeless thing. Lord Grendel alone, it seemed, could bear to look upon her. He would, as though she were but a child, enfold her in his arms, and whisper to her, and try to comfort her.

Cabot looked up, quickly.

The animal was moving through the gate, a large animal, dragging something. It was making no effort to conceal its presence. Clearly it was not hunting.

"Ho,” said Cabot. “Tal, welcome, friend."

Cabot went to greet the large, sinuous thing.

He would not close the gate behind it, for such things can become uneasy, even dangerous, if they feel closed in.

Cabot knelt down and fondled the large, triangular, viperlike, furred head. It was better than eighteen inches in width at its widest point. He held it against his chest.

"You have continued to guard the camp,” observed Cabot, “though it is empty. Perhaps you were protecting it, perhaps you were waiting, patiently, for our return, wondering what had become of us, and it is only I who have returned."

There was a rumbling in the chest of the beast. This sound is not formed in the larynx. The noise is seldom heard by a human being.

"I am pleased to see you, as well,” said Cabot. “You bring me a gift, I see. It is part of a tarsk, which was buried, and you have dug it out of the ground for me, to share it. I think I may not eat it, but I appreciate the thought.” Cabot, curious, did wipe some dirt and leaves from the meat, which smelled, and put it to his tongue. After a time such meat, as it spoils, will form cadaverine alkaloids, which are potently toxic. Animals who might, long ago, have found the taste of such things agreeable would fail to replicate their genes. Similarly, animals who happened to find the taste disagreeable, say, in the case of humans, offensively bitter, would survive. It is not an inexplicable happenstance that foods which nourish beasts tend to have an agreeable taste to them and those unlikely to nourish them tend to have a disagreeable taste to them. The tastes may originally have been randomly allotted in a population, distributed with indifference, but the consequences of these tastes would weigh quite differently in the scales of life and death. A trail of misery and death in one case, and of health and vitality in another, lies at the roots, here and elsewhere, of what might seem to be a thousand matters of coincidence, but are no more coincidences, or inexplicable accidents, than the scimitarlike sharpness of the larl's fangs, or the erratic, bounding fleetness of the tabuk. Is not each the artist and designer of the other? Does not each, in his way, make the other more beautiful? And thus are played out the dark games of the Nameless One. The meat was not yet bitter, and so Cabot supposed it edible, if not palatable. Once the cadaverine alkaloids are formed not even the flocking, despised jard will feed. Cabot pretended to partake a bit of the meat and Ramar, the giant arena sleen, lamed in the left hind leg from a steel-toothed trap, began to tear at it contentedly, holding it down with his paws, and pulling at it, bit by bit, with his teeth. The rumbling in the animal's chest continued, as it fed, undiminished, for, as noted, the sound does not emanate from the animal's larynx, or throat, but its chest.

"I am hungry for meat, friend,” said Cabot. “After the supplies brought from the war camp, I have had little but berries, and, near the womb tunnel, some roots dug out from under the snow. So perhaps we will go hunting in the morning. I think you would like that. We may even make a fire. I would suppose you have never had cooked meat. I wonder if you would like it."

Ramar continued to feed, contentedly.

Chapter, the Sixty-Eighth:

AN ENCOUNTER IN THE FOREST

"Do not loose your arrow, if you are so armed!” called the Kur.

"We know you are out there, away from the fire!” called the second.

"We are starving,” called the first. “We smelled the cooking meat! Do not fire upon us, from the shadows, from the brush."

"We lift the broken spear,” called the second. “We come in need, and peace."

There was no carried broken spear, of course, but the meaning was clear, that a truce was sought.

"Put aside your power weapons,” called Cabot.

The first Kur looked about. He had no way of knowing how many might be in the vicinity. Perhaps a dozen bows might be trained upon them. Too, he seemed weak, resigned to what might ensue.

Each unharnessed a power weapon and put it down to the side. Near the weapons they placed a metal box, something about a cubic foot in dimension. They placed this box on the leaves tenderly, as with great solicitude.

Cabot then emerged from the brush, his bow relaxed.

At his side, low, crouched, crept a great sleen. Cabot had little doubt that any harm done to him would be at great risk to an assailant, particularly with the power weapons to the side.

"You are hungry,” he said. “Eat."

Roast tarsk, brought down but an Ahn before, in the dusk, skinned and gutted, was on the spit, and grease hissed, when it fell to the fire.

The two Kurii crouched down by the tarsk and watched Cabot.

"I have fed earlier from this, and my friend,” said Cabot. “Eat."

Both Kurii piteously seized at the meat. They clutched it, hot and burning, and crammed it into their jaws.

Cabot was puzzled at their hunger, for Kurii have a storage stomach. But perhaps they had not had an opportunity to fill it, or had long ago exhausted its contents.

Cabot wondered at what might be the contents of the metal box, which contained, he supposed, some artifact, some device, perhaps some treasure.

Ramar did not take his eyes from the pair of Kurii.

"I think I may know you,” said Cabot. “I am not sure. Have we met?"

"Doubtless we look much alike to humans,” said one of the Kurii.

"We know you,” said the other. “And we have met."

"Where?” asked Cabot.

"Does it matter?” asked the first.

"I suppose not,” said Cabot.

"Agamemnon,” said the first Kur, “was the greatest of all Kurii. Never before, and never again, will there be such a leader."

"Hail Agamemnon,” said the second, reverently.

"I do not understand,” said Cabot.

"May we have our weapons?” asked the first, eying Ramar.

"Have I your word you will not use them against me?” asked Cabot.

"You would trust us?” inquired the second Kur.

"Certainly,” said Cabot, “for you are Kur."

"Yes,” said the first, “we are Kur."

Neither seemed disposed to linger by the fire. Each retrieved his weapon, the first to carry it, easily, the second to sling it on his back, while he picked up, with great gentleness, the metal box.

"We give you our word that we will not use our weapons against you—now,” said the first, he with the weapon most ready.

"But perhaps later?” said Cabot.

"Yes, perhaps later,” said the first.

"You need not fear,” said the second. “Were we to fire now the smell of the charge would linger, and brush might be blackened and burned."

"I do not think you are hunters,” said Cabot. “Why are you here, alone? What are you doing, here, alone, in the forest?"

But the two Kurii had then disappeared into the darkness, amongst the trees. Ramar looked after them, and growled, softly.

"I wonder if they are criminals, or thieves,” thought Cabot. “There must have been something in the box, perhaps something precious, as it was handled. They were hungry, and needful. They feared to leave signs of their passage, seared brush, even the brief odor of a discharged weapon. Clearly they are fugitives. But from what are they running? And what were they carrying, with such care? They seemed to know me. Who might they be?"

Chapter, the Sixty-Ninth:

CABOT WILL HUNT;

FIRST, HE WILL FEAST

Cabot, from behind, slipped his hand over the female's mouth, and then held her helplessly, tightly, back, against him. She squirmed, and made tiny, helpless noises. She was barefoot, and nicely tunicked and collared. Her hands were braceleted before her, closely together. Slaves are often kept braceleted, or chained, bound or such, for no other reason than that they are slaves. “Do not struggle, well-formed beauty,” whispered Cabot, and she, commanded, was instantly quiet, not daring to move in the slightest.

"You may use her, if you wish!” called a merry voice. “Feel free to make her squeak and sob, and cry out!"

"Peisistratus!” cried Cabot, and released the slave. “Corinna!” he said, now recognizing her. But the slave was now kneeling, head down, shuddering, trying to overcome her terror at having been seized.

"We thought we might find you here!” said Archon.

Peisistratus and Archon, and others, rushed forward, to seize Cabot's hand, to embrace him, to weep with gladness at this reunion.

"We feared for you,” said Peisistratus.

"And I for you, and others,” said Cabot. “I see Kurii outside the gate. Are you prisoners?"

"Weaponed prisoners?” laughed Archon.

"They are our Kurii,” said Peisistratus.

"Yes,” said Cabot. “I see! Some I know!"

Ramar, the sleen, lay outside the gate, watching the arrivals, contesting the entry of none. The female slaves edged through the gate, knowing they must enter, but did their best to keep as much distance as was possible between themselves and the huge, watchful, six-legged, viperlike carnivore. The female slaves who were familiar with Gorean civilization were particularly wary of the sleen. They knew they were such as might be hunted by them, and torn to pieces by them, or might be apprehended by them, and then returned by them, being driven, herded, mercilessly, relentlessly, back to the mercies of dreaded, waiting masters. Too, it is one thing for a female slave to enter through such a gate, in the presence of such a watchman, if set there for such a duty, and quite another to exit through the gate. Similarly a verr might be admitted to a verr pen by a guard sleen, but would not be permitted to leave it, except in the company of a herdsman.