Nomads of Gor (19 page)

They would run for us.

Kamchak raced his kaiila over to the edge of the crowd,

entering into swift negotiation with a warrior, one whose

wagon followed ours in the march of the Tuchuks. Indeed, it

had been from that warrior that Kamchak had rented the

girls who had dragged Elizabeth Cardwell about the wagons,

teaching her Gorean with thong and switch. I saw a flash of

copper, perhaps a tarn disk from one of the distant cities,

anal one of the warrior's girls, an attractive Turian wench,

Tuka, began to remove her fur.

She would run for one of the Kassars, doubtless Conrad.

Tuka, I knew, hated Elizabeth, and Elizabeth, I knew,

reciprocated the emotion with vehemence. Tuka, in the mat-

ter of teaching Elizabeth the language, had been especially

cruel. Elizabeth, bound, could not resist and did she try,

Tuka's companions, the others of her wagon, would leap

upon her with their switches flailing. Tuka, for her part,

understandably had reason to envy and resent the young

American slave. Elizabeth Cardwell, at least until now, had

escaped, as Tuka had not, the brand, the nose ring and

collar. Elizabeth was clearly some sort of favorite in her

wagon. Indeed, she was the only girl in the wagon. That

alone, though of course it meant she would work very hard,

was regarded as a most enviable distinction. Lastly, but

perhaps not least, Elizabeth Cardwell had been given for her

garment the pelt of a larl, while she, Tuka, must go about the

camp like all the others, clad Kajir.

I feared that Tuka would not run well, thus losing us the

match, that she would deliberately allow herself to be easily

snared.

But then I realized that this was not true. If Kamchak and

her master were not convinced that she had run as well as

she might, it wool not go easily with her. She would have

contributor to the victory of a Kassar over a Tuchuk. That

night, one of the hooded members of the Clan of Torturers

would have come to her wagon and fetched her away, never

to be seen again. She would run well, hating Elizabeth or

not. She would be running for her life.

Kamchak wheeled his kaiila and joined us. He pointed his

lance to Elizabeth Cardwell. "Remove your furs," he said.

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NOMADS or GOR

 
Elizabeth did so and stood before us in the pelt of the larl,

 
with the other girls.

 
Although it was late in the afternoon the sun was still

 
bright. The air was chilly. There was a bit of wind moving

 
the grass.

 
A black lance was fixed in the prairie about four hundred

 
yards away. A rider beside it, on a kaiila, marked its place. It

 
was not expected, of course, that any of the girls would reach

 
the lance. If one did, of course, the rider would decree her

 
safe. In the run the important thing was time, the dispatch

 
and the skill with which the thing was accomplished. Tuchuk

 
girls, Elizabeth and Tuka, would run for the Kassars; the two

 
Kassar girls would run for Kamchak and myself; naturally

 
each slave does her best for her master, attempting to evade

 
his competitor.

 
The time in these matters is reckoned by the heartbeat of

 
a standing kaiila. Already one had been brought. Near the

 
animal, on the turf, a long bask whip was laid in a circle,

 
having a diameter of somewhere between eight and ten feet.

 
The girl begins her run from the circle. The object of the

 
rider is to effect her capture, secure her and return her, in as

 
little time as possible, to the circle of the whip.

 
Already a grizzled Tuchuk had his hand, palm flat, on the

 
silken side of the standing kaiila.

 
Kamchak gestured and Tuka, barefoot, frightened, stepped

 
into the circle.

 
Conrad freed his bole from the saddle strap. He held in his

 
teeth a boskhide thong, about a yard in length. The saddle of

 
the kaiila, like the tarn saddle, is made in such a way as to

 
accommodate, bound across it, a female captive, rings being

 
fixed on both sides through which binding fiber or thong may

 
be passed. On the other hand, I knew, in this sport no time

 
would be taken for such matters; in a few heartbeats of the

 
kaiila the girl's wrists and ankles would be lashed together

 
and she would be, without ceremony, slung over the pommel

 
of the saddle, it the stake, her body the ring.

 
"Run," said Conrad quietly.

 
Tuka sped from the circle. The crowd began to cry out, to

 
cheer, urging her on. Conrad, the thong in his teeth, the bole

 
quiet at his side, watched her. She would receive a start of

 
fifteen beats of the great heart of the kaiila, after which she

 
would be about half way to the lance.

 
The judge, aloud, was counting.

 
At the count of ten Conrad began to slowly spin the bole.

It would not reach its maximum rate of revolution until he

was in full gallop, almost on the quarry.

At the count of fifteen, making no sound, not wanting to

warn the girl, Conrad spurred the kaiila in pursuit, bole

swinging.

The crowd strained to see.

The judge had begun to count again, starting with one, the

second counting, which would determine the rider's time.

The girl was fast and that meant time for us, if only

perhaps a beat. She must have been counting to herself

because only an instant or so after Conrad had spurred after

her she looked over her shoulder, seeing him approaching.

She must then have counted about three beats to herself, and

then she began to break her running pattern, moving to one

side and the other, making it difficult to approach her

swiftly.

"She runs well," said Kamchak.

Indeed she did, but in an instant I saw the leather flash of

the bole, with its vicious, beautiful almost ten-foot sweep,

streak toward the girl's ankles, and I saw her fall.

It was scarcely ten beats and Conrad had bound the

struggling, scratching Tuka, slung her about the pommel,

raced back, kaiila squealing, and threw the girl, wrists tied to

her ankles, to the turf inside the circle of the boskhide whip.

"Thirty," said the judge.

Conrad grinned.

Tuka, as best she could, squirmed in the bonds, fighting

them. Could she free a hand or foot, or even loosen the

thong, Conrad would be disqualified.

After a moment or two, the judge said, "Stop," and Tuka

obediently lay quiet. The judge inspected the thongs. "The

wench is secured," he announced.

In terror Tuka looked up at Kamchak, mounted on his

kaiila.

"You ran well," he told her.

She closed her eyes, almost fainting with relief.

She would live.

A Tuchuk warrior slashed apart the thongs with his quiva

and Tuka, only too pleased to be free of the circle, leaped up

and ran quickly to the side of her master. In a few moments,

panting, covered with sweat, she had pulled on her furs.

The next girl, a lithe Kassar girl, stepped into the circle

and Kamchak unstrapped his bole. It seemed to me she ran

excellently but Kamchak, with his superb skill, snared her

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72

      
easily. To my dismay, as he returned racing toward the circle

      
of the boskhide whip the girl, a fine wench, managed to sink

      
her teeth into the neck of the kaiila causing it to rear

      
squealing and hissing, then striking at her. By the time

      
Kamchak had cuffed the girl from the animal's neck and

      
struck the kaiila's snapping jaws from her twice-bitten leg

      
and returned to the circle, he had used thirty-five beats.

      
He had lost.

      
When the girl was released, her leg bleeding, she was

      
beaming with pleasure.

      
"Well done," said Albrecht, her master, adding with a grin,

      
"For a Turian slave."

      
The girl looked down, smiling.

      
She was a brave girl. I admired her. It was easy to see that

      
she was bound to Albrecht the Kassar by more than a length

      
of slave chain.

      
At a gesture from Kamchak Elizabeth Cardwell stepped

      
into the circle of the whip.

      
She was now frightened. She, and I as well, had supposed

      
that Kamchak would be victorious over Conrad. Had he been

      
so, even were I defeated by Albrecht, as I thought likely, the

      
points would have been even. Now, if I lost as well, she

      
would be a Kassar wench.

      
Albrecht was grinning, swinging the bole lightly, not in a

      
circle but in a gentle pendulum motion, beside the stirrup of

      
the kaiila.

      
He looked at her. "Run," he said.

      
Elizabeth Cardwell, barefoot, in the larl's pelt, streaked for

      
the black lance in the distance.

      
She had perhaps observed the running of Tuka and the

      
Kassar girl, trying to watch and learn, but she was of course

      
utterly inexperienced in this cruel sport of the men of the

      
wagons. She had not, for example, timed her counting, for

 
     
long hours, under the tutelage of a master, al against the

      
heartbeat of a kaiila, he keeping the beat but not informing

      
her what it was, until she had called the beat. Some girls of

      
the Wagon Peoples in fact, incredible though it seems, are

      
trained exhaustively in the art of evading the bole, and such

      
a girl is worth a great deal to a master, who uses her in

      
wagering. One of the best among the wagons I had heard

      
was a Kassar slave, a swift Turian wench whose name was

      
Dina. She had run in actual competition more than two