“You are a fool,” cried Sarus. Then he looked at me. “it is our great good fortune,” said he, that you have, of your own free will, delivered yourself to us. We did not count on such fortune.” “But I am not here,” I said, “to surrender myself.” “Your ruse has failed,” said Sarus.
“How is that?” I asked. “Your allies stand immobilized.”
“Free us!” begged Hura. “Free us!” begged Mira.
“Silence the slaves,” said Sarus.
A slave lash struck again and again. The women, one by one, did not seem to understand what was happening, but each, in turn, was struck twice, at an interval of a few Ihn, that the pain of the first blow be truly felt and understood before the second was delivered. At the first blow, the girls fell to their knees, eyes glazed, choking, unable to believe their pain. Then, trembling, shuddering, weeping some begging for mercy, they thrust their heads to the ground. Then, one by one, the second blow fell. They wept, crying out, belief in their eyes. Hura regarded Sarus after the first blow, disbelief in her eyes. She had not understood what it was to feel the lash. She shook her head, numbly, and fell to her knees. She looked at Sarus “Please Sarus,” she begged, “do not have me struck again.” “Strike her again,” said Sarus.
She put down her head and again the blow fell. She wept.
“Again!” said Sarus.
“Please, no, Master!” screamed Hura.
Again the lash fell. Hura was on her knees, head down, a piteous, lashed slave girl. “No, Master,” she wept. “Please, no Master.” The entire coffle, whipped, was on its knees, heads down, weeping. “Please, Masers,” they wept.
“The men of Tyros,” I said, “are harsh in their disciplining of women.” “I have heard,” said Sarus, “that the chains of a slave girl are heaviest in Port Kar.” I shrugged.
“Your ruse has failed,” said Sarus.
“Your allies,” I reminded him, “are immobilized.”
He looked at me, puzzled. “We do not need them,” he said.
“It is just as well,’ I said. “I would not car to have to slay them.” “Consider yourself, Bosk of Port Kar,” said he, “my prisoner.” “I offer you your life, and the lives of your men,” I said, “if you depart now, leaving behind all slaves.” Sarus looked about at his men, and they laughed, all of them.
The girls in the coffle looked up, with tears in their eyes.
“You may surrender your weapons,” I told them.
They looked at one another. Two laughed, not easily.
I heard the male slaves in the shadows rising to their feet. No one whipped them. No one paid them attention. In the shadows, in the background, by the light of the fire, two paces from me, I saw the tall, mighty frame of Marlenus of Ar. Standing beside him were Rim, and Arn. I could see the neck chains fastening them together, and to the others.
I met the eyes of Marlenus.
“Surrender,” said Sarus to me. “Surrender!”
“I do not think so,” I said.
“You are outnumbered,” said Sarus. “You have no chance.”
“He is mad,” whispered one of Sarus’ men.
“You are a fool to have come here,” whispered Sarus.
“I do not think so,” I said.
He looked at me.
“How many men do you have?” I asked.
“Fifty-five,” he said.
“I was not always of the merchants,” I told him.
“I do not understand,” said Sarus.
“Once,” I said, “long ago, I was of the warriors.”
“There are fifty-five of us,” said Sarus.
“My city,” I said, “was the city of Ko-ro-ba. It is sometimes called the Towers of Morning.” “Surrender,” whispered Sarus.
“Long ago,” I said, “I dishonored my caste, my Home Stone, my blade. Long ago, I fell from the warriors. Lone ago, I lost my honor.” Sarus slowly drew his blade, as did those behind him.
“But once,” I said, “I was of the city of Ko-ro-ba. Hat must not be forgotten. That cannot be taken from me.” “He is mad,” said one of the men of Tyros.
“Yes,” I said, “once long ago, in he delta of the Vosk, I lost my honor. I know that never can I find it again. That honor, which was to me my most precious possession, was lost. It is gone, and gone forever. It is like a tarn with wings of gold, that sits but once upon a warrior’s helm, and when it departs, it returns no more. It is gone, and gone forever.” I looked at them, and looked, too, upward at the stars of the Gorean night. They were beautiful, like points of fire, marking the camps of armies in the night. “Yes,” I said, again regarding the men of Tyros. “I have lost my honor, but you must not understand by that that I have forgotten it. On some nights, on such a night as this, sometimes, I recollect it.” “We are fifty-five men!” screamed Sarus.
“Marlenus!” I called. “Once, on the sands of an arena in Ar, we fought, as sword companions.” “It is true!” he called.
“Silence!” cried Sarus.
“And once I saw you remove your helm in the stadium of tarns, and claim again the throne of Ar.” “It is true!” called Marlenus.
“Let me hear again, now,” said I, “the anthem of Ar.”
The strains of the great song of Ar’s victories broke from the Ubar’s collared throat, and, too, from the throats of the men of Ar beside him.
“Silence!” cried Sarus.
He turned to face me, wildly. He saw that my blade was no drawn.
“You are not of Ar!” he cried.
“It would be better for you,” said I, “if I were.”
“You are mad,” he cried. “Mad!”
“My Home Stone,” I told him, “was once the Home Stone of Ko-ro-ba. Will it be you, Sarus, who will come first against me?”
20 What Occurred in the Stockade of Sarus of Tyros
I thrust.
A man reeled away.
“Kill him!” cried Sarus.
I thrust again, slipping to one side. He who had thrust at me fell, slipping to his hands and knees, startled, red swift in the firelit yellow of his tunic. He did not know his wound was mortal. He had challenged one of Ko-ro-ba. I turned. I thrust twice more. Two more men fell. I turned. Twice more I thrust, shallow thrust, swift, delicate, like the biting of the ost, that the blade not be ensnared. The heart lies but the width of a hand within the body, the jugular but the width of a finger.
“Kill him!’ screamed Sarus.
I moved, as an eyes moves, no longer where I had stood before. Twice again I thrust. I felt a blade cut my tunic, and felt blood at my waist. Again I moved. I heard the swift snap of the leaves of a crossbow, the leaping his of the quarrel. There was a scream behind me. I must move to the fire. Twice more I thrust. There was another loaded crossbow I knew. I thought I knew its location. I moved so to place a man of Tyros between me and the quarrel.
“Stand aside!” screamed a man.
I fended the blade of the man of Tyros from my heart. I did not fell him. I felt another blade cut down and my left sleeve leaped away from my arm. I felt blood course down my arm.
The war cry of Ko-ro-ba, wild, roared from my throat. Twice more I thrust, and then, kicking, broke the fire into a scattering of brands, plunging the stockade into darkness. The women of Hura, bound, naked, among the men and blades, screamed.
“Kill him!” I heard Sarus cry.
“Free us!” begged Hura. “Free us!”
“Fire! Torches!” cried Sarus.
I had not worn the yellow of Tyros for nothing. I moved among them, as one of them. And where I moved, men fell.
“Where is he?” cried one of my enemies.
“Lift torches!” cried Sarus.
Holding his mouth, I thrust my blade into the body of the man who carried the second crossbow. He should have realized he was important. He should have changed his position in the darkness. Did he not know I would come for him? In the darkness, amidst the shouting, I went swiftly to the slave girls, prone and bound, near the rear of the stockade.