Outlaw of Gor (24 page)

“Yes,” I said, “I wish it.”

She put her head against my shoulder.

“Beautiful Lara,” I said, “forgive me.” I held her more closely. “I cannot take you to the Sardar. I cannot leave you here. You would be destroyed by beasts or returned to slavery.”

“Must you return me to Tharna?” she asked. “I hate Tharna.”

“I have no city to which I might take you,” I said. “And I believe you can make Tharna such that you will hate it no longer.”

“What must I do?” she asked.

“That you must decide yourself,” I said.

I kissed her.

Holding her head in my hands I looked into her eyes.

“Yes,” I said proudly, “you are fit to rule.”

I wiped the tears from her eyes.

“No tears,” I said, “for you are Tatrix of Tharna.”

She looked up at me and smiled, a sad smile. “Of course, Warrior,” she said, “there must be no tears–for I am Tatrix of Tharna and a Tatrix does not cry.”

She pulled the talender from her hair.

I reached to her feet and replaced it.

“I love you,” she said.

“It is hard to be first in Tharna,” I said, and led her down the hillock, away from the Sardar Mountains.

The fires which had begun to burn in the Mines of Tharna had not been quenched. The revolt of the slaves had spread from the mines to the Great Farms. Shackles had been struck off and weapons seized. Angry men, armed with whatever tools of destruction they might find, prowled the land, evading the sorties of Tharna's soldiers, hunting for granaries to rob, for buildings to burn, for slaves to free. From farm to farm spread the rebellion and the shipments to the city from the farms became sporadic and then ceased. What the slaves could not use or hide, they cut down or burned.

Not more than two hours from the hillock where I had made the decision to return Lara to her native city the tarn had found us, as I had thought he would. As at the Pillar of Exchanges the bird had haunted the vicinity and now, for the second time, its patience was rewarded. It lit some fifty yards from us and we ran to its side, I first and Lara after me, she still apprehensive of the beast.

My pleasure was such that I hugged the neck of that sable monster.

Those round blazing eyes regarded me, those great wings lifted and shook, his beak was lifted to the sky and he screamed the shrill cry of the tarn.

Lara cried out in terror as the monster reached for me with his beak.

I did not move and that great terrible beak closed gently on my arm. Had the tarn wished, with a wrench of its glorious head, it might have torn the limb from my body. Yet its touch was almost tender. I slapped its beak and tossed Lara to its broad back and leaped up beside her.

Again the indescribable thrill possessed me and I think this time that even Lara shared my feelings. “One-strap!” I cried, and the tarn's monstrous frame addressed itself once more to the skies.

As we flew, many were the fields of charred Sa-Tarna we saw below us. The tarn's shadow glided over the blackened frames of buildings, over broken pens from which livestock had been driven, over orchards that were now no more than felled trees, their leaves and fruit brown and withered.

On the back of the tarn Lara wept to see the desolation that had come to her country.

“It is cruel what they have done,” she said.

“It is also cruel what had been done to them,” I said.

She was silent.

The army of Tharna had struck here and there, at reported hiding places of slaves, but almost invariably they had found nothing. Perhaps some broken untensils, the ashes of campfires. The slaves, forewarned of their approach by other slaves or by impoverished peasants, supplanted by the Great Farms, would have made good their departure, only to strike when ready, when unexpected and in strength.

The sorties of tarnsmen were more successful, but on the whole the slave bands, now almost regiments, moved only at night and concealed themselves during the day. In time it became dangerous for the small cavalries of Tharna to assault them, to brave the storm of missile weapons which would seem to rise almost from the very ground itself.

Often indeed ambushes were laid wherein a small band of slaves would allow itself to be trailed into the rocky passes of the ridge country about Tharna, where their pursuers would be assailed by hidden cohorts; sometimes tarnsmen would descend to capture a slave only to meet the arrows of a hundred men concealed in covered pits.

Perhaps in time, however, the undisciplined but courageous bands of slaves would have been scattered and destroyed by the units of Tharna, save that the very revolution which had begun in the mines and spread to the Great Farms now flamed in the city itself. Not only slaves of the city raised the banner of defiance but men of low caste, whose brothers or friends had been sent to the mines or used in the Amusements, now dared at last to seize the instruments of their trade and turn on guardsmen and soliders. It was said the rebellion in the city was led by a short, powerful man with blue eyes and short-cropped hair, formerly of the Caste of Metal Workers.

Certain portions of the city had been burned to exterminate the rebellious elements and this cruel act of repression had only rallied confused and undecided men to the side of the rebels. Now it was said that entire portions of the city were in rebel hands. The silver masks of Tharna, when they were able, had escaped to the porions of the city still in the command of the soldiers. Many were reported to cower in the confines of the royal palace itself. The fate of those who had not escaped rebel hands was not clear.

It was late in the afternoon of the fifth day that we saw in the distance the grey walls of Tharna. We were not threatened nor investigated by patrols. It was true that we could see tarnsmen and their mounts here and there among the cylinders, but none came to challenge us.

At several places in the city long ropes of smoke spiraled upward and then unravelled into vague, dark strands.

Down below a door hung open on its hinges, and small isolated figures scurried in and out. There were no tharlarion wagons or lines of woodsmen or pedlars making their way to or from the city. Outside the walls several small buildings had been burned. On the wall itself over the gate in huge letters there was scrawled the legend 'Sa'ng-Fori', literally 'Without Chains' but perhaps better translated simply as 'Freedom' or 'Liberty'.

We brought the tarn down on the walls near the gate. I freed the bird. There was no tarn cot at hand in which to enclose him, and moreover, even if there had been, I would not have trusted him to the tarn-keepers of Tharna. I did not know who was and who was not in rebellion. Perhaps mostly I wanted the bird to be free in case my hopes met with disaster, in case the Tatrix and I were to perish in some back street of Tharna.

On the summit of the wall we encountered the crumpled form of a fallen guardsman. It moved slightly. There was a small sound of pain. He had apparently been left for dead and was only now recovering consciousness. His grey garment with its scarlet strip of cloth on the shoulder was stained with blood. I unbuckled the helmet strap and gently removed the helmet.

One side of the helmet had been cracked open, perhaps by the blow of an axe. The helmet straps, the leather inside, and the blond hair of the soldier were soaked with his blood. He was not much more than a boy.

As he felt the wind on the walls reach his head he opened his greyish blue eyes. One hand attempted to clutch his weapon but the sheath had been emptied.

“Don't struggle,” I said to him, looking at the wound. The helmet had largely absorbed the blow but the blade of the striking instrument had creased the skull, accounting for the flow of blood. Most likely the force of the blow had rendered him unconscious and the blood had suggested to his assailant that the job was finished. His assailant had apparently not been a warrior.

With a portion of Lara's cloak I bound the wound. It was clean and not deep.

“You'll be all right,” I said to him.

His eyes looked from one of us to the other. “Are you for the Tatrix?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I fought for her,” said the boy, lying back against my arm. “I did my duty.”

I gathered that he had not enjoyed the performance of his duty, and that perhaps his heart lay with the rebels, but the pride of his caste had kept him at his post. Even in his youth he had the blind loyalty of the warrior, a loyalty which I respected and which was perhaps no more blind than some I myself had felt. Such men made fearsome antagonists, eben though their swords might be pledged to the most despicable of causes.

“You did not fight for your Tatrix,” I said evenly.

The young warrior started in my arms. “I did,” he cried.

“No,” I said, “you fought for Dorna the Proud, pretender to the throne of Tharna–a usurper and traitress.”

The eyes of the warrior widened as they regarded us.

“Here,” I said, gesturing to the beautiful girl at my side, “is Lara, the true Tatrix of Tharna.”

“Yes, brave Guardsman,” said the girl, placing her hand gently on his forehead as though to soothe him, “I am Lara.”

The guardsman struggled in my arms, and then fell back, shutting his eyes with pain.

“Lara,” he said, through closed lids, “was carried away by the tarnsmen in the Amusements.”

“I am he,” I said.

The greyish blue eyes slowly opened and gazed at my face for a long time, and gradually recognition transformed the features of the young guardsman. “Yes,” said he, “I remember.”

“The tarnsman,” said Lara, speaking softly, “returned me to the Pillar of Exchanges. There I was seized by Dorna the Proud and Thorn, her accomplice, and sold into slavery. The tarnsman freed me and has now returned me to my people.”

“I fought for Dorna the Proud,” said the boy. His greyish blue eyes filled with tears. “Forgive me, true Tatrix of Tharna,” he begged. And had it not been forbidden that he, a man of Tharna should touch her, a woman of Tharna, I think he would have reached his hand toward her.

To his wonder Lara took his hand in hers. “You did well,” she said. “I am proud of you, my guardsman.”

The boy closed his eyes and his body relaxed in my arms.

Lara looked at me, her eyes frightened.

“No,” I said, “he is not dead. He is just young and he has lost much blood.”

“Look!” cried the girl, pointing down the length of the wall.

Some six shapes, grey, carrying spears and shields were moving rapidly in my direction.

“Guardsmen,” I said, drawing my sword.

Suddenly I saw the shields shift, facing us obliquely, and saw the right arms raise, spears high, with no change in the rapid pace of the men. In another dozen steps the six spears would fly hurled from that swift even pace.

Losing not a moment I thrust my sword into my belt and seized Lara by the waist. As she protested I turned and forced her to run at my side.

“Wait!” she pleaded. “I will speak to them!”

I swept her to my arms and ran.

No sooner had we reached the spiraling stone stairwell which led down from the wall than the six spears, their points describing a circle of perhaps a yard in diameter, struck the wall over our head with a splintering of rock.

Once we reached the bottom of the wall we kept close to its base so as not to afford a target for further spear play. On the other hand I did not believe the guardsmen would cast their weapons from the wall. If they missed, or if they did not, it would necessitate descending from the wall to retrieve the weapons. It was unlikely a small party like that above would freely lose the height of the wall to pursue two rebels.

We began to work our tortuous way through the grim, bloodstained streets of Tharna. Some of the buildings had been destroyed. Shops had been boarded up. Litter was everywhere. Rubbish burned in the gutters. Largely the streets were deserted save that here and there lay a body, sometimes that of a warrior of Tharna, more often one of its grey-clad citizens. On many of the walls the legend 'Sa'ng-Fori' could be read.

On occasion terrified eyes scrutinised us fearfully from behind the shutters of windows. I suspected there was not a door in Tharna but was not barred that day.

“Halt!” cried a voice, and we stopped.

From in front of us and behind us a group of men had seemed to materialise. Several of them held crossbows; at least four others had spears poised; some boasted swords; but many of them carried nothing more than a chain or a sharpened pole.

“Rebels!” said Lara.

“Yes,” I said.

We could read the sullen defiance, the resolve, the capacity to kill in those eyes, bloodshot with loss of sleep, the desperate carriage of those grey-clad bodies, hungry and vicious with the strain of street fighting. There were wolves in the streets of Tharna.

I slowly drew my sword, and thrust the girl to the side of the street against the wall.

One of the men laughed.

I too smiled for resistance was useless, yet I knew that I would resist, that I would not be disarmed until I lay dead on the stones of the street.

What of Lara?

What would be her fate at the hands of this pack of maddened, desperate men? I regarded my ragged foes, some of whom had been wounded. They were filthy, savage, exhausted, angry, perhaps starving. She would probably be slain against the wall by which she stood. It would be brutal but quick, on the whole merciful.

The spear arms drew back, the crossbows leveled. Chains were grasped more firmly; the few swords lifted toward me; even the sharpened poles inclined toward my breast. “Tarl of Ko-ro-ba!” cried a voice, and I saw a small man, thin with a wisp of sandy hair across his forehead, press through the ragged band of rebels that confronted us.

It was he who had been first on the chain in the mines, he who had of necessity been first to climb the shaft from the slave kennel to freedom.

His face was transfigured with joy and he rushed forward and embraced me.

“This is he!” the man cried. “Tarl of Ko-ro-ba!”

At this point, to my wonder, the ragged band lifted their weapons and uttered a wild cheer. I was swept from my feet and thrown to their shoulders. I was carried through the streets and others of the rebels, appearing from doorways and windows, almost from the very stones of the street, joined what turned into a procession of triumph.