Nomads of Gor (5 page)

   
almost double, like finely tempered steel, before they break.

   
A loose loop of boskhide, wound twice about the right fist,

   
helps to retain the weapon in hand-to-hand combat. It is

   
seldom thrown.

   
"I come in peace!" I shouted to them.

   
The man behind me called out, speaking Gorean with a

   
harsh accent. "I am Tolnus of the Paravaci." Then he shook

   
away his hood, letting his long hair stream behind him over

    
the white fur of the collar. I stood stock still, seeing the face.

   
From my left came a cry. "I am Conrad, he of the

   
Kassars." He threw the chain mask from his face, back over

   
the helmet and laughed. Were they of Earth stock, I asked

   
myself. Were they men?

     
     
From my right there came a great laugh. "I am Hakimba

    
of the Kataii," he roared. He pulled aside the wind scarf with

    
one hand, and his face, though black, bore the same marks as

    
the others.

     
     
Now the rider in front of me lifted the colored chains

    
from his helmet, that I might see his face. It was a white

    
face, but heavy, greased; the epicanthic fold of his eyes

    
bespoke a mixed origin.

     
     
I was looking on the faces of four men, warriors of the Wagon Peoples.
  

     
On the face of each there were, almost like corded chev-

     
roes, brightly colored scars. The vivid coloring and intensity
  

     
of these scars, their prominence, reminded me of the hideous

     
markings on the faces of mandrills; but these disfigurements,

     
as I soon recognized, were cultural not genetic. They
 

     
bespoke not the natural innocence of the work of genes but

     
the glories and status, the arrogance and prides, of their

     
bearers. The scars had been worked into the faces, with

     
needles and knives and pigments and the dung of basks over

     
a period of days and nights. Men had died in the fixing of

     
such scars. Most of the scars were set in pairs, moving

     
diagonally down from the side of the head toward the nose

     
and chin. The man facing me had seven such scars ceremo-

     
nially worked into the tissue of his countenance, the highest

     
being red, the next yellow, the next blue, the fourth black,

     
then two yellow, then black again. The faces of the men I

     
saw were all scarred differently, but each was scarred. The

     
effect of the scars, ugly, startling, terrible, perhaps in part

     
calculated to terrify enemies, had even prompted me, for a

     
wild moment, to conjecture that what I faced on the Plains

     
of Turia were not men, but perhaps aliens of some sort,

     
brought to Gor long ago from remote worlds to serve some

     
now discharged or forgotten purpose of Priest-Kings; but

  
   
now I knew better; now I could see them as men; and now,

     
more significantly, I recalled what I had heard whispered of

     
once before, in a tavern in Ar, the terrible Scar Codes of the

     
Wagon Peoples, for each of the hideous marks on the face of

     
these men had a meaning, a significance that could be read

     
by the Paravaci, the Kassars, the Kataii, the Tuchuks as

     
clearly as you or I might read a sign in a window or a

     
sentence in a book. At that time I could read only the top

     
scar, the red, bright, fierce cordlike scar that was the Cour-

     
age Scar. It is always the highest scar on the face. Indeed,

     
without that scar, no other scar can be granted. The Wagon

     
Peoples value courage above all else. Each of the men facing

     
me wore that scar.

     
     
Now the man facing me lifted his small, lacquered shield

     
and his slender, black lance.

     
"Hear my name," cried he, "I am Kamchak of the

     
Tuchuks!"

     
     
As suddenly as he had finished, as soon as the men had

     
named themselves, as if a signal had been given, the four

     
kaiila bounded forward, squealing with rage, each rider bent

     
low on his mount, lance gripped in his right hand, straining to

     
be the first to reach me.

                   
3

          
The Spear Gambling

     
     
One, the Tuchuk, I might have slain with a cast of the

     
heavy Gorean war spear; the others would have had free

     
play with their lances. I might have thrown myself to the

    
 
ground as the tart hunters from- Ar, once their weapon is

     
cast, covering myself with the shield; but then I would have

     
been beneath the clawed paws of four squealing, snorting

     
kaiila, while the riders jabbed at me with lances, off my feet,

     
helpless.

     
     
So gambling all on the respect of the Wagon Peoples for

     
the courage of men, I made no move to defend myself but,

     
heart pounding, blood racing, yet no sign visible of agitation

     
on my face, without a quiver of a muscle or tendon betraying

     
me, I stood calmly erect.

     
On my face there was only disdain.

     
     
At the last instant, the lances of four riders but a hand's
    

     
breadth from my body, the enraged, thundering kaiila, hissing
  

     
and squealing, at a touch of the control straps, arrested their

     
fierce charge, stopping themselves, tearing into the deep turf
 

     
with suddenly emergent claws. Not a rider was thrown or

     
seemed for an instant off balance. The children of the Wagon
    

     
Peoples are taught the saddle of the kaiila before they can
    

     
walk.
                                                 

     
"Aieee" cried the warrior of the Kataiil

     
     
He and the others turned their mounts and backed away a

     
handful of yards, regarding me.
                        

     
I had not moved.
                                                                                                  

    
"My name is Tarl Cabot," I said. "I come in peace.

     
The four riders exchanged glances and then, at a sign from

     
the heavy Tuchuk, rode a bit away from me.

     
I could not make out what they were saying, but an

     
argument of some sort was in progress.

     
I leaned on my spear and yawned, looking away toward

     
the bosk herds.

     
My blood was racing. I knew that had I moved, or shown

     
fear, or attempted to flee, I would now be dead. I could have

     
fought. I might perhaps then have been victorious but the

     
probabilities were extremely slim. Even had I slain two of

     
them the others might have withdrawn and with their arrows

     
or boles brought me to the ground. More importantly, I did

     
not wish to introduce myself to these people as an enemy. I

     
wished, as I had said, to come in peace.

     
At last the Tuchuk detached himself from the other three

     
warriors and pranced his kaiila to within a dozen yards of

     
me.

     
"You are a stranger," he said.

     
"I come in peace to the Wagon Peoples," I said.

     
"You wear no insignia on your shield," he said. "You are

     
outlaw."

     
I did not respond. I was entitled to wear the marks of the

     
city of Ko-ro-ba, the Towers of the Morning, but I had not

     
done so. Once, long, long ago, Ko-ro-ba and Ar had turned

     
the invasion of the united Wagon Peoples from the north,

     
and the memories of these things, stinging still in the honest

     
songs of camp skalds, would rankle in the craws of such

     
fierce, proud peoples. I did not wish to present myself to

     
them as an enemy.

    
"What was your city?" he demanded.

    
But to such a question, as a warrior of Ko-ro-ba, 1 could

    
not but respond.

    
"I am of Ko-ro-ba," I said. "You have heard of her."

    
The Tuchuk's face tightened. Then he grinned. "I have

    
heard sing of Ko-ro-ba," he said.

    
I did not reply to him.

    
He turned to his fellows. "A Koroban!" he cried.

    
The men moved on their mounts, restlessly, eagerly said

    
something to one another.

    
"We turned you back," I said.

    
"What is your business with the Wagon Peoples?" demand-

    
ed the Tuchuk.

    
Here I paused. What could I tell him? Surely here, in this

    
matter, I must bide my time.

   
"You see there is no insignia on my shield or tunic," I said.

    
He nodded. "You are a fool," he said, "to flee to the

   
Wagon Peoples."

   
I had now led him to believe that I was indeed an outlaw,

   
a fugitive.

   
He threw back his head and laughed. He slapped his thigh.

  
"A Koroban! And he flies to the Wagon Peop1es!" Tears of

   
mirth ran from the sides of his eyes. "You are a fool" he

   
said.