Nomads of Gor (63 page)

         
for him to do. I would rather have expected Kamchak to

      
   
have stood before the walls of Turia, his kaiila saddled, his

         
arrows at hand, until the winds and snows had at last driven

         
him, the Tuchuks, the wagons and the bask away from the

         
gates of the beleaguered city, the nine-gated, high-walled

         
stronghold of Turia, inviolate and never conquered.

         
This train of thought was interrupted by the sounds of an

         
altercation below, the shouting of an annoyed guardsman at

         
the gate, the protesting cries of the driver of the merchant

         
wagon. I looked down from the wall, and to my amusement,

         
though I felt sorry for the distraught driver, saw that the

         
right, rear wheel of the wide, heavy wagon had slipped the

         
axle and that the wagon, obviously heavily loaded, was now

         
tilting crazily, and then the axle struck the dirt, imbedding

         
itself.

         
The driver had immediately leaped down and was gesticu-

         
lating wildly beside the wheel. Then, irrationally, he put his

         
shoulder under the wagon box and began to push up, trying

         
to right the wagon, surely an impossible task for one man.

         
This amused several of the guards and some of the pas-

         
sersby as well, who gathered to watch the driver's dis-

         
comfiture. Then the officer of the guard, nearly beside him-

         
self with rage, ordered several of his amused men to put their

         
shoulders to the wagon as well. Even the several men, togeth-

         
er with the driver, could not right the wagon, and it seemed

         
that levers must be sent for.

         
I looked away, across the prairie, bemused. Dina was still

         
watching the broil below and laughing, for the driver seemed

         
so utterly distressed and apologetic, cringing and dancing

         
about and scraping before the irate officer. Then I noted

         
across the prairie, hardly remarking it, a streak of dust in the

         
sky.

       
  
Even the guards and townsfolk here and there on the wall

         
seemed now to be watching the stalled wagon below.

         
I looked down again. The driver I noted was a young man,

         
well built. He had blond hair. There seemed to be something

         
familiar about him.

         
Suddenly I wheeled and gripped the parapet. The streak of

         
dust was now more evident. It was approaching the main

         
gate of Turia.

           
I seized Dina of Turia in my arms.

           
"What's wrong!" she said.

 
I whispered to her, fiercely. "Return to your home and

 
lock yourself in. Do not go out into the streets!"

 
"I do not understand," said she. "What are you talking

 
about?"

 
"Do not ask questions," I ordered her. "Do as I say! Go

 
home, bolt the door to your rooms, do not leave the house!"

   
"But, Tarl Cabot," she said.

  
"Hurry!" I said.

   
"You're hurting my arms," she cried.

   
"Obey mel" ~ commanded.

 
Suddenly she looked out over the parapet. She, too, saw

 
the dust. Her hand went to her mouth. Her eyes widened in

 
fear.

   
"You can do nothing," I said. "Run!"

 
I kissed her savagely and turned her about and thrust her a

 
dozen feet down the walkway inside the wall. She stumbled a

 
few feet and turned. "What of you?" she cried.

   
"Run!" I commanded.

 
And Dina of Turia ran down the walkway, along the rim

 
of the high wall of Turia.

 
Beneath the unbelted tunic of the Bakers, slung under my

 
left arm, its lineaments concealed largely by a short brown

 
cloak worn over the left shoulder, there hung my sword and

 
with it, the quiva. I now, not hurrying, removed the weapons

 
from my tunic, removed the cloak and wrapped them inside it.

  
I then looked once more over the parapet. The dust was

  
closer now. In a moment I would be able to see the kaiila,

  
the flash of light from the lance blades. Judging from the

  
dust, its dimensions, its speed of approach, the riders, perhaps

  
hundreds of them the first wave, were riding in a narrow

  
column, at full gallop. The narrow column, and probably the

  
Tuchuk spacing, a Hundred and then the space for a Hun-

  
dred, open, and then another Hundred, and so on, tends to

  
narrow the front of dust, and the spaces between Hundreds

  
gives time for some of the dust to dissipate and also, inciden-

  
tally, to rise sufficiently so that the progress of the conse-

  
quent Hundreds is in no way impeded or handicapped. I

  
could now see the first Hundred, five abreast, and then the

  
open space behind them, and then the second Hundred. They

  
were approaching with great rapidity. I now saw a sudden

  
flash of light as the sun took the tips of Tuchuk lances.

  
Quietly, not wishing to hurry, I descended from the wall

  
and approached the stalled wagon, the open gate, the guards.

      
Surely in a moment someone on the wall would give the

alarm.

        
At the gate the officer was still berating the blond-haired

        
fellow. He had blue eyes, as I had known he would, for I had

 
       
recognized him from above.

        
"You will suffer for this!" the commander of the guard

        
was crying. "You dull fool!"

         
"Oh mercy, master!" whined Harold of the Tuchuks.

         
"What is your name?" demanded the officer.

     
   
At that moment there was a long, wailing cry of horror

        
from the wall above. "Tuchuks!" The guards suddenly looked

        
about themselves startled. Then two more people on the wall

        
took up the cry, pointing wildly out over the wall. "Tuchuks!

        
Close the gates!"

        
The officer looked up in alarm, and then he cried out to

        
the men on the windlass platform. "Close the gates!"

        
"I think you will find," said Harold, "that my wagon is in

        
the way."

        
Suddenly understanding, the officer cried out in rage and

        
whipped his sword from his sheath but before he could raise

        
his arm the young man had leaped to him and thrust a quiva

        
into his heart. "My name," he said, "is Harold of the

        
Tuchuks!"

        
There was now screaming on the walls, the rushing of

        
guardsmen toward the wagon. The men on the windlass

        
platform were slowly swinging the great double gates shut as

        
much as possible. Harold had withdrawn his quiva from the

        
breast of the officer. Two men leaped toward him with

        
swords drawn and I leaped in front of him and engaged

        
them, dropping one and wounding the other.

          
"Well done, Baker," he cried.

  
      
I gritted my teeth and met the attack of another man. I

        
could now hear the drumming of kaiila paws beyond the

        
gate, perhaps no more than a pasang away. The double gate

        
had closed now save for the wagon wedged between the two

        
parts of the gate. The wagon bask, upset by the running

        
men, the shouting and the clank of arms about them, were

        
bellowing wildly and throwing their heads up and down,

        
stomping and pawing in the dust.

        
My Turian foe took the short sword under the heart. I

        
kicked him from the blade barely in time to meet the attack

        
of two more men.

        
I heard Harold's voice behind me. "I suppose while the

        
bread is baking," he was saying, "there is little to do but

        
stand about and improve one's swordplay."

  
I might have responded but I was hard pressed.

 
"I had a friend," Harold was saying, "whose name was

 
Tarl Cabot. By now he would have slain both of them."

  
I barely turned a blade from my heart.

  
"And quite some time ago," Harold added.

 
The man on my left now began to move around me to my

 
left while the other continued to press me from the front. It

 
should have been done seconds ago. I stepped back, getting

 
my back to the wagon, trying to keep their steel from me.

 
"There is a certain resemblance between yourself and my

 
friend Marl Shot," Harold was saying, "save that your

 
sword is decidedly inferior to his. Also he was of the caste

 
of warriors and would not permit himself to be seen on his

 
funeral pyre in the robes of so low a caste as that of the

 
Bakers. Moreover, his hair was red like a larl from the

 
sun whereas yours is a rather common and, if I may say so,

 
a rather uninspired black."

 
I managed to slip my blade through the ribs of one man

 
and twist to avoid the-thrust of the other. In an instant the

 
position of the man I had felled was filled by yet another

 
guardsman.

 
"It would be well to be vigilant also on the right," re-

 
marked Harold.