Marauders of Gor coc-9 Read online

  I would not prophesy for it a bright future.

  I looked again upon the slender, blondish girl, bored in the crowd. Again she looked at me, and looked away. She was richly dressed. The cape of white fur was a splendid fur. The scarlet vest, the blouse of white wool, the long woollen skirt, red, were fine goods. The buckle from Cos was expensive. Even the shoes of black leather were finely tooled. I supposed her the daughter of a rich merchant.

  There were other good looking wenches, too, in the crowd, generally blond girls, as are most of the northern girls, many with braided hair. They were in festival finery. This was holiday in Kassau. Ivar Forkbeard, in death, if not in life, was making pilgrimage to the temple, that his bones might be anointed at the hands of the High Initiate, would he so graciously deign to do so. This word had been brought from the wharves to the High Initiate. He had, in his mercy, granted this request. The hollow bars on their great chains, hanging from timber frames outside the temple, had been struck. Word had been spread. Ivar Forkbeard, the unregenerate, the raider, the pirate, he who had dared to make the fist of the hammer over his ale, would come at last, in death if not in life, humbly to the temple of Priest-Kings. There was much rejoicing in Kassau.

  In the crowd, with the poor, were many burghers of Kassau, stout men of means, the pillars of the town, with their families. Several of these stood on raised platforms, on the right, near the front of the temple. I understood these places to be reserved for dignitaries, men of substance and their families.

  I examined the younger women on the platform. None, it seemed to me, was as excellent as the slender blond girl in the cape of white sea-sleen fur and scarlet vest. One was, however, not without interest. She was a tall, statuesque girl, lofty and proud, grey-eyed. She wore black and silver, a full, ankle-length gown of rich, black velvet, with silver belts, or straps, that crossed over her breasts, and tied about her waist. From it, by strings, hung a silver purse, that seemed weighty. Her blond hair was lifted from the sides and back of her head by a comb of bone and leather, like an inverted isosceles triangle, the comb fastened by a tiny black ribbon about her neck and another such ribbon about her forehead. Her cloak, of black fur, from the black sea sleen, glossy and deep, swirled to her ankles. It was fastened by a large circular brooch of silver, probably from Tharna. She was doubtless the daughter of a very rich man. She would have many suitors.

  I looked again to the High Initiate, a cold, stern, dour man, hard faced, who sat in his high, white hat in his robes upon the throne within the white rail.

  Within that rail, above the altar, some in chests, others displayed on shelvings, was much rich plate, and vessels of gold and silver. There were the golden bowls used to gather the blood of the sacrificed animals; cups to pour libations to the Priest-Kings; vessels containing oils; lavers in which the celebrants of the rites might cleanse their hands from their work; there were even the small bowls of coins, brought as offerings by the poor, to solicit the favor of initiates that they might intercede with Priest-Kings on their behalf, that the food crops would not fail, the suls not rot, the fish come to the plankton, the verr yield her kid with health to both, the vulos lay many eggs.

  How hard to me, and cruel, seemed the face of the High Initiate. How rich they were, the initiates, and how little they did. The peasant tilled his fields, the fisherman went out in his boat, the merchant risked his capital. But the initiate did none of these things. Rather he lived by exploiting the superstitions and fears of simpler men. I had little doubt but that the High Initiate had long seen through his way of life, if he had not at first. Surely now he was no simple novice. But he had not changed his way of life. He had not gone to the fields, nor to the fishing banks, nor to the market. He had remained in the temple. I studied his face. It was not that of a simple man, or that of a fool. I had little doubt that the initiate knew full well what he was doing. I had little doubt but what he knew that he knew as little as others of Priest-Kings, and was as ignorant as others. And yet still he sat upon his throne, in the gilded temple, amid the incense, the ringing of the sistrum, the singing of boys.

  The child in the sack on the mother's back whimpered. "Be silent," she whispered to it. "Be silent!"

  Then, from outside, rang once the great hollow bar, hanging on its chain.

  Inside, the initiates, and the boys, at a sign from the High Initiate, a lifted, claw-like hand, were silent.

  Then the initiate rose from his throne, and went slowly to the altar and climbed the steps. He bowed thrice to the Sardar and then turned to face the congregation.

  "Let them enter the palace of Priest-Kings," he said.

  I now heard the singing, the chanting, of initiates from outside the door. Twelve of them had gone down to the ship, with candles, to escort the body of Ivar Forkbeard to the temple. Two now entered, holding candles. All eyes craned to see the procession which now, slowly, the initiates singing, entered the incense-filled temple.

  Four huge men of Torvaldsland, in long cloaks, clasped about their necks, heads down, bearded, with braided hair, entered, bearing on their shoulders a platform of crossed spears. On this platform, covered with a white shroud, lay a body, a large body. Ivar Forkbeard, I thought to myself, must have been a large man.

  "I want to see him," whispered the blond girl to the woman with whom she stood.

  "Be silent," hushed the woman.

  I am tall, and found it not difficult to look over the heads of many in the crowd.

  So this is the end, I thought to myself, of the great Ivar Forkbeard.

  He comes in death to the temple of Priest-Kings, that his bones may be anointed with the grease of Priest-Kings.

  It was his last will, now loyally, doggedly, carried out by his saddened men.

  Somehow I regretted that Ivar Forkbeard was dead.

  The initiates, chanting, now filed into the temple with their candles. The chant was taken up by the initiates, too, within the sanctuary. Behind the platform of crossed spears, heads down, filed the crew of Forkbeard. They wore long cloaks; they carried no weapons; no shields; they wore no helmets.

  Weapons, I knew were not to be carried within the temple of Priest-Kings.

  They seemed beaten, saddened dogs. They were not as I had expected the men of Torvaldsland to be.

  "Are those truly men of Torvaldsland?" asked the blonde girl, of the older woman, obviously disappointed.

  "Hush," said the older woman. "Show reverence for this place, for the Priest-Kings."

  "I thought they would be other than that," sniffed the girl.

  "Hush," said the older woman.

  "Very well," said the girl, irritably. "What weaklings they seem."

  To the amazement of the crowd, at a sign from the High Initiate of Kassau, two lesser initiates opened the gate to the white rail.

  Another initiate, sleek, fat, his shaved head oiled, shining in the light of the candles, carrying a small golden vessel of thickened chrism went to each of the four men of Torvaldsland, making on their foreheads the sign of the Priest-Kings, the circle of eternity.

  The crowd gasped. It was incredible honour that was being shown to these men, that they might, themselves, on the platform of crossed spears, carry the body of Ivar Forkbeard, in death penitent, to the high steps of the great altar. It was the chrism of temporary permission, which, in the teachings of initiates, allows one not consecrated to the service of Priest-Kings to enter the sanctuary. In a sense it is counted an anointing, though an inferior one, and of temporary efficacy. It was first used at roadside shrines, to permit civil authorities to enter and slay fugitives who had taken sanctuary at the altars. It is also used for workmen and artists, who may be employed to practice their craft within the rail, to the enhancement of the temple and the Priest-king's glory.

  Ivar Forkbeard's body was not anointed as it was carried through the gate in the rail.

  The dead need no anointing. Only the living, it is held, can profane the sacred.

  The four men of Torvaldsland ca
rried the huge body of Ivar Forkbeard up the steps to the altar, on the crossed spears. Then, still beneath the white shroud, they laid it gently on the highest step of the altar.

  Then the four men fell back, two to each side, heads down. The High Initiate then began to intone a complex prayer in archaic Gorean to which, at intervals, responses were made by the assembled initiates, those within the railing initially and now, too, the twelve, still carrying candles, who had accompanied the body from the ship through the dirt streets of Kassau, among the wooden buildings, to the temple. When the initiate finished his prayer, the other initiates began to sing a solemn hymn, while the chief initiate, at the altar, his back turned to the congregation, began to prepare, with words and signs, the grease of Priest-Kings, for the anointing of the bones of Ivar Forkbeard.

  Toward the front of the temple, behind the rail, and even at the two doors of the temple, by the great beams which close them, stood the mean of Forkbeard. Many of them were giants, huge men, inured to the cold, accustomed to war and the labor of the oar, raised from boyhood on steep, isolated farms near the sea, grown strong and hard on work, and meat and cereals. Such men, from boyhood, in harsh games had learned to run, to leap, to throw the spear, to wield the sword, to wield the axe, to stand against steel, even bloodied, unflinching. Such men, these, would be the hardest of the hard, for only the largest, the swiftest and finest might win for themselves a bench on the ship of a captain, and the man great enough to command such as they must be first and mightiest among them, for the men of Torvaldsland will obey no other, and that man had been Ivar Forksbeard.

  But Ivar Forksbeard had come in death, if not in life, to the temple of Priest-Kings, betraying the old gods, to have his bones anointed with the grease of Priest-Kings. No more would he make over his ale, with his closed fist, the sign of the hammer.

  I noted one of the men of Torvaldsland. He was of incredible stature, perhaps eight feet in height and broad as a bosk. His hair was shaggy. His skin seemed grayish. His eyes were vacant and staring, his lips parted. He seemed to me in a stupor, as though he heard or saw nothing.

  The High Initiate now turned to face the congregation. In his hands he held the tiny, golden, rounded box in which lay the grease of Priest-Kings. At his feet lay the body of the Forkbeard.

  The congregation tensed and, scarcely breathing, lifting their heads, intent, observed the High Initiate of Kassau. I saw the blond girl standing on her toes, in the black shoes, looking over the shoulders of the woman in front of her. On the platform the men of importance, and their families, observed the High Initiate, among them, craning her neck, looking over her father's shoulder, was the large blond girl, in her black velvet and silver.

  "Praises be unto the Priest-Kings!" called out the High Initiate.

  "Praises unto the Priest-Kings," responded the initiates.

  It was in that moment, and in that moment only, that I detected on the thin, cold face of the High Initiate of Kassau, a tiny smile of triumph.

  He bent down, on one knee, the tiny, rounded, golden box containing the grease of Priest-Kings in his left hand and drew back with his right hand the long, white shroud concealing the body of Ivar Forksbeard.

  Doubtless it was the High Initiate of Kassau who first knew. He seemed frozen. The eyes of the Forkbeard opened, and Ivar Forksbeard grinned at him.

  With a roar of laughter, hurling the shroud from him, to the horror of the High Initiate, and other initiates, and the congregation, Ivar Forksbeard, almost seven feet in height, leaped to his feet, in his right hand clutching a great, curved, single-bladed ax of hardened iron.

  "Praise be to Odin!" he cried.

  Then he with his ax, with a single swing, splattering blood on the sheets of gold, cut the head from the body of the High Initiate of Kassau, and leaped, booted, to the height of the very altar of the temple itself.

  He threw back his head and laughed with a wild roaring, the bloody ax in his hand.

  I heard the beams of the two doors of the temples being thrown in place, locking the people within. I saw the cloaks of the men of Torvaldsland hurled from them and saw, gripped in their two hands, great axes. I suddenly saw the large man of Torvaldsland, he of incredible stature, seem to come alive, veins prominent on his forehead, mouth slobbering, striking about himself almost blindly with a great ax.

  Ivar Forksbeard stood on the high altar. "The men of Torvaldsland," he cried, are upon you!"

  Chapter 3 - I MAKE THE ACQUAITANCE OF IVAR FORKBEARD AND BOOK PASSAGE ON HIS SHIP

  Screaming pierced my ears.

  I was almost thrown from my feet by the buffeting, shrieking bodies.

  I strained my eyes to see through the clouds of incense hanging in the temple.

  I smelled blood.

  A girl cried out.

  People, merchants, the rich, the poor, fishermen, porters, fled towards the great doors, there to be cut down with axes. They fled back to the center of the temple, huddled together. Axes cut through their midst. I heard shouts. I heard the harsh war cries of Torvaldsland. I heard golden sheets of metal being pried from the square pillars of the temple. The interior of the sanctuary was strewn with dead initiates, many hacked to pieces. The four boys who had sung in the services held to one another, crying, like girls. From the high altar, standing upon it, Ivar Forkbeard directed his men. "Hurry!" he cried. "Gather what you can!"

  "Kneel beneath the ax!" cried out one of the burghers of Kassau, who wore black satin, a silver chain about his neck. I gathered he might be administrator in this town.

  The people, obediently, began to kneel on the dirt floor of the temple, their heads down.

  I saw two men of Torvaldsland loading their cloaks with golden plate and vessels from the sanctuary, hurling them like tin and iron into the furs.

  A fisherman cringed near me. One of the men of Torvaldsland raised his ax to strike him. I caught the ax as it descended and held it. The warrior of Torvaldsland looked at me, startled. His eyes widened. At his throat was the point of the sword of Port Kar.

  Weapons are not to be carried in the temple of Priest-Kings but I had been taught, long ago, by Kamchak of the Tuchuks, at a banquet in Turia, that where weapons may not be carried, it is well to carry weapons.

  "Kneel before the ax," I told the fisherman.

  He did so.

  I released the ax of the man of Torvaldsland, and removed my blade from his throat. "Do not strike him," I told the man of Torvaldsland.

  He drew back his ax, and stepped away, regarding me, startled, wary.

  "Gather loot!" cried Forkbeard. "Are you waiting for the Sa-Tarna harvest!"

  The man turned away and began to pull the gold hanging from the walls.

  I saw, twenty feet from me, screaming, the giant, he of incredible stature, striking down at the kneeling people, who were crying out and trying to crawl away. The great blade dipped and cut, and swept up, and then cut down again. I saw the wild muscles of his bare arms bulging and knotted. Slobber came from his mouth. One man lay half cut through.

  "Rollo!" cried out Forkbeard. "The battle is done!"

  The giant, with the grayish face and shaggy hair, stood suddenly, unnaturally, quiet, the great, curved blade lifted over a weeping man. He lifted his head slowly, and turned it, slowly, towards the altar.

  "The battle is done!" cried Forkbeard.

  Two men of Torvaldsland then held the giant by the arms, and lowered his ax, and, gently, turned him away from the people. He turned and looked back at them, and they cowered away. But it did not seem that he recognized them. It seemed he did not know them and had not seen them before. Again his eyes seemed vacant. He turned away, and walked slowly, carrying his ax, toward one of the doors of the temple.

  "Those who would live," called out Forkbeard, "lie on the your stomachs."

  The people in the temple, many of them splattered with the blood of their neighbors, some severely wounded, threw themselves, shuddering, man and woman, and child, to their stomachs. They lay among
many of their own dead.

  I myself did not lie with them. Once I had been of the warriors.

  I stood.

  The men of Torvaldsland turned to face me.

  "Why do you not lie beneath the ax, Stranger?" called out Forkbeard.

  "I am not weary," I told him.

  Forkbeard laughed. "It is a good reason," he said. "Are you of Torvaldsland?"

  "No," I told him.

  "You are of the warriors?" asked Forkbeard.

  "Perhaps once," I told him.

  "I shall see," said Forkbeard. Then to one of his men, he said, "Hand me a spear." One of the spears which had formed the platform on which he had been carried, gaining entrance to Kassau and the temple, was handed to him.

  Suddenly behind me I heard a war cry of Torvaldsland.

  I turned and swept to the guard position, in the instant seeing the man's distance, and spun again to strike from my body, before it could penetrate it, the hurled spear of Ivar Forkbeard. It must be taken behind the point with the swift blow of the forearm. The spear caroomed away and struck the wall of the temple, fifty feet behind me. In the same instant I had spun again, in the guard position, to stand against the man with his ax. He pulled up short, and looked to Ivar Forkbeard. I turned again to face the Forkbeard.

  He grinned. "Yes," he said, "once perhaps you were of the warriors."

  I looked to the man behind me, and to the others. They lifted their axes in their right hand. It was a salute of Torvaldsland. I heard their cheers.

  "He remains standing," said Ivar Forkbeard.

  I sheathed my sword.