Dunes of Gor Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Two: Sarissa

Javad Mohsen examined the harnesses and high saddles of the troop of kaiila that stood in the shaded courtyard of the great Keep of Al-Quada-a-Dhum. He had twenty lancers with their mounts on standby, and as their commanding officer he wished to ensure that the harness kit was clean, polished and secured correctly. The kaiila were all belled, for it was customary in the Tahari to bell your animals. The bells meant you could be heard approaching and therefore implied you were friendly. Raiders of course didn’t bell their kaiila, and therefore any man in the desert with an un-belled mount was assumed to have hostile intentions and would receive a hostile greeting in turn. 

Water bags sufficient for several days’ worth of travel hung either side of the kaiila, even though Javad expected to be out in the desert for no more than eighteen ahn at worst for the round trip. His men were predominantly of Torvaldsland – warriors who had been lured south with the promise of gold, women and luxurious living. The Emir appreciated the fighting prowess of the northmen and he tended to recruit them for his personal guard. They tended to be taller by at least a head span than the average desert raider, and their thick set bodies, burned bronze by the sun, spoke of a hard life in the far north where ice giants were said to roam the land.

Ten ehn had gone by since the deadline for Reyhan to appear. Javad had told her that his men would stand in the courtyard for fifteen ehn in total, not an ihn longer. He chewed a piece of hard salted beef as he shaded his eyes from the noon day sun, set high in the sky. Perhaps the Lady had decided not to come. He would understand that. He had set strict conditions after all. She was to be naked under the haik, collared and belled. He smiled as he imagined the Lady in her chambers, walking backwards and forwards, wrestling with self-doubt, torn between whether she could do this or not. What she wished to do was daring, audacious and not without risk. He was not going to make it easy for her. He was curious what kind of woman Reyhan Shahzad was. And this was a good way of finding out. 

The journey to Al Janish would take maybe five to seven ahn, so she could reasonably expect to be back the next day, if, as Javad assumed, she would spend the night as the guest of her cousin. But even so, they would be travelling through Kavar territory, and the Kavars were raiders as well as nomadic herdsmen. 

As he waited in the pleasant shade of the courtyard, Javad’s thoughts turned to his pretty slave, Tupa. The other girls had been working her hard, it seemed. He had often seen her on her knees, scrubbing flagstones in the stone keep with a stiff two-handed bristle brush, sweat tangled hair hanging about her shoulders. He sometimes saw switch marks on her thighs and ass from where Ella had no doubt inflicted discipline. He had often been aware of how the girl would look at him, eyes distraught that he seemed to be paying her little attention. He would often happen to pass by her crouching body on the way to meetings, but he would offer no obvious sign of recognition. She was just a kettle girl, dirty, sweaty, unkempt, working hard with the others. But yes, the desperation was beginning to show in her face. He had seen the way she would sometimes lift her body as he passed by, almost as if she wanted to display herself before her master and plead for his touch. How could he not see her, she would think! Did he not know she wore his collar? Javad felt confident that she was oiling quite nicely in her desperation. He felt sure that when he did finally deign to notice her, she would be incredibly grateful for the brief few ehn he paused to speak to her. It would be interesting to see if, when he then turned to leave her, whether she might beg him to stay. He felt sure she would. 

It was good to own a slave, thought Javad as he chewed some more of the dry beef. When he did take her, he wanted her to be a ripe fruit, begging for his touch. She would still be ignorant, unskilled, but she would be desperate to be found pleasing. He would teach her a few things that first night, and then he would expect her to learn from the other girls. 

Javad heard the sensual jingling of slave bells as a girl in a black haik descended the broad flight of steps from the Keep. Slave bells on the ankle of a woman were delightful, he thought to himself. The sound of them promised so much. He watched as the girl seemed to hesitate. She stood perhaps halfway down the steps, barefoot of course, unused perhaps to the feel of rough stone underfoot. She moved again, and there was another sound of delicious slave bells. Slaves wore the haik when they had permission to enter the town to carry out chores. They would be routinely belled so that they could not be mistaken for free women who also wore the haik. That was very important. Slowly, unsure of herself, the girl descended the remainder of the steps and approached him where he stood close to the first in line of the kaiila.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Sarissa,” said the girl. 

Javad recognised the voice as he smiled. “You wear slave bells.”

“Yes.”

“Do you also wear a collar?” He noticed the girl’s left hand was clenched as if she might be holding something. Something precious to her, he guessed. Something she did not want to lose. The black haik of a slave girl had no pockets on either the inside or the outside.

“Yes.”

“And are you naked beneath that haik?”

“I am,” said the girl, furiously. 

“Then it seems I am to convey you to Al Janish, Sarissa. This way.” He motioned for her to follow him towards the kaiila on whose back was strapped the simple slave kurdah. A set of steps had been placed to permit a girl to climb up and enter the kurdah. Often the girl would simply be hoisted up there by the hands of a man, a man who might also enjoy touching her intimately while he did so, but Javad had chosen not to take liberties with the Lady. This was to be a deception, not a humiliation. 

Even so, as Reyhan climbed up on the first of the short steps, her ankles and lower calves were briefly revealed under her haik. Javad smiled, enjoying the brief glimpse of the high caste woman.

“One moment.” He reached and took hold of the girl’s left wrist before she could ascend to the kurdah. “Open your hand.”

“No.”

“Open your hand.” His voice now was a command. A command that a man would make to a slave. Reyhan reluctantly opened the palm of her left hand to reveal two small keys.

“I thought as much,” said Javad. “Slaves are not permitted to carry the keys to their collar or ankle bells. Give them to me.” He held out his right hand, releasing her left wrist.

“I am not going to travel without the keys to the locks,” whispered Reyhan beneath her haik.

“I think perhaps I should return you to the chambers of your Mistress,” remarked Javad as he held the woman’s gaze. “You are obviously disagreeable and should remain in this Keep.”

“Very well.” Reyhan placed both keys in Javad’s palm. “There. You now hold my keys, Sardaukar.” She watched as he closed his hand around them and then placed the keys in a belt pouch.

“So I do. I will unlock you when we reach Al Janish. Now, into the kurdah with you.”

Reyhan tried to climb into the kurdah as decently as possible, but the hem of the haik rode up as she lifted herself up past the flanks of the animal. Once inside she quickly pulled the rep cloth curtains shut and crouched there on the cushioned platform, breathing rapidly. She was naked under the haik, and she did wear a collar and bells. This wasn’t something she relished, but for the sake of her House she needed a Sardaukar escort to reach her sister and negotiate a compromise before the desert ran red with the blood of her family. No matter the risk to her personal dignity, Reyhan would move mountains to keep her man and her daughters safe. My own dignity matters little, she thought to herself. For my daughters alone, I would sacrifice everything.

She heard the kaiila bells begin to ring as one by one they began to leave the courtyard, through the Shade Gate. Her own kaiila followed in the middle of the formation, and she breathed easier once she became used to the gentle undulating motion of the kaiila. This kurdah felt different to the elaborate one she had travelled in from Tor. This kurdah had no luxurious chair fixed in place, nor foot rests. Here she had to kneel, balancing her weight on one hip, a hand thrust out to steady herself on the cushion platform. Now she was travelling as a slave girl, albeit still clad in her haik. Other girls might travel naked, save for a gossamer veil. 

After maybe an ahn of travel, Reyhan parted the rep cloth curtain at the front of her kurdah and peered out. She could see the line of Sardaukar ahead of her, lances resting in their saddle sockets, and she could see the wind swept dunes of the desert stretching out on all sides. Behind her would be the other lancers, pacing out and maintaining a steady gait. 

Javad scanned the horizon as his light cavalry travelled the silk trail used by caravans and Bedouins. The silk trails were the familiar trade routes that navigated between signposted landmarks and, more importantly, water wells and Kasbahs. In the desert it was wise to stick to these routes, if only because you were then confident that you would meet other travellers eventually if something went wrong. If you were travelling with a pack kaiila or two and your mount went lame, someone would find you before your water ran out. There is also less danger of being attacked on the formal trade routes because in theory those places were routinely patrolled by men based in the neighbouring Kasbahs. In practice however, patrols were often sporadic and reluctant to engage the enemy if they encountered them. It was not unheard of for patrols to pretend they didn’t spot bands of raiders prowling the area. Often they would simply acknowledge one another politely and ride past quickly. Neither side had anything to gain from fighting.

Javad’s Sardaukar were another matter entirely of course. The Sardaukar had a reputation of never surrendering. They rode with their pennants flying in the wind (it was always windy in the flat dunes of the erg based desert) and they maintained a display of troop discipline that marked them out as no ordinary light cavalry. Out here in the desert, Javad’s men were worth three times their number against the warriors of the Tahari, and five times that against poorly formed rabble. And of course they carried with them the authority of the Emir of Tor who would avenge any attack on his personal guard with bloody retribution. Even so, Javad knew well enough not to push his authority too far with the Bedouin people. Like most men of Gor, they would be proud men, and pride often overrode common sense where men were concerned. He only had to consider the rash mistake that Daan Shahzad had made when he had abducted the Sasani daughter. Men often acted recklessly without thinking clearly, and then dealt with the consequences later.

Javad was not like that though. He had a cool head and a good sense of strategy. He knew when to fight and when to make peace. Sometimes it was better in the long run to placate the warlords of the desert. The Sardaukar were superb warriors, but they could not be everywhere at once. 

They passed a slow moving caravan after the second ahn. Like them it was walking the Silk Road, having come from Al Janish in the East. Javad hailed the men and paused to hear news.

“There are Kavars riding in large numbers,” had said the caravan Master, with unease. “I am pleased to see the Emir’s Sardaukar here. The Kavars will keep well away, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps.” Javad scanned the far horizon, but saw nothing unusual. “What do you carry?”

“Date bricks, mostly. And some rugs. Lots of rugs. Do you buy rugs?”

“I am not here to buy rugs,” said Javad.

“I have a few slave girls too.” The caravan master indicated a line of tired looking girls, trudging through the endless sand in a wrist chain coffle. “And you?”

“I am to deliver a soft, perfumed gift to the Khuda of Al Janish.” He motioned to the slave Kurdah. “It is a gift from House Shahzad. The new governor wishes peace and co-operation in this province and so he makes gifts to the Khudas of the Kasbahs. Have the Kavars attacked any caravans?” asked Javad.

“Ha! They claim not to attack caravans! But they ride up to us and offer ‘protection’. They are shifty sleen! They seek to protect us against Aretai raiders for a not inconsiderable fee.”

“There are Aretai raiders out here?”

“Of course not,” scoffed the caravan master. “This is Kavar territory, there are no Aretai here, and yet they levy a fee regardless. They are quite pleasant really, in their thinly veiled threats, and they set out their fees in a detailed and polite fashion over the serving of tea.”

“This seems nothing less than extortion,” suggested Javad.

“I agree, though a Kavar might be distressed if I said as much to him.”

“Distressed?” 

“Indeed. He might perhaps cut my nose from my face to teach me some manners.”

“Ah. You would not wish to be parted from your nose I suppose?”

“Certainly not. It is a very fine nose, do you not think?”

“I am hardly an expert on such matters,” remarked Javad. “But it seems free from unsightly plague blemishes and contains the requisite number of nostrils for breathing.”

“Women like my nose,” said the caravan master. They often say as much.”

“A fine nose it must be then,” said Javad. “Best to keep it well away from a Kavar skinning knife. Have you seen any patrols from Al Janish? Outriders employed to keep this trade route secure?”

“Why yes, and lazy, corrupt sleen they are too. They ride around, prancing on their jingling kaiila, making a big show of looking to the left and the right for the tell-tale dust clouds of raiders, but as soon as they get a whiff of any such thing, off they ride in the opposite direction. Need I mention that they often pause a caravan to collect voluntary contributions towards the cost of keeping the silk roads safe from raiders?”

“They extort you as well?”

“Again, I would not say as much to one of their Captains, for fear of losing an ear.”

“An ear? Not a nose?”

“They would not cut off my nose! These are honourable guardsmen of Al Janish! They do not practise such barbaric customs as the Kavar courtesy of separating men from their noses.”

“I see... And yet an ear?”

“I have two,” pointed out the caravan master. “As do most men. The nose is harder to live without.”

After a while the men parted company, the caravan moved on towards Al-Quada-a-Dhum, and Javad signalled for his kaiila troop to ride further into the blazing desert. 

“Are you comfortable, Sarissa?” asked Javad as he paced his kaiila beside the slave kurdah. The caravan he had spoken to, twenty ehn ago, had now passed into the distance. There was a jingling of slave bells from within the tent canopy as Reyhan knelt forward and parted the curtain to peer out at the Sardaukar captain.

“Yes.” She regarded him carefully, her eyes achieving a prominence on account of the fact that the rest of her face and body was so concealed by the haik. “Did the man you spoke to say anything of interest?”

“Only that the Kavar ride wild in this region. They are exacting tribute from any who pass. They couch their demands as if they are offering protection against the Aretai.”

“No doubt the Aretai offer the same thing in respect of the Kavar?”

“You are a perceptive slave girl, Sarissa,” said Javad with a chuckle. “Your mistress must be proud of you”

“I suppose she is,” said Reyhan. “I am a woman of many talents. She is actually much like me in many ways, you know,” she said with a crinkling of her eyes that denoted a smile behind her veil. 

“Is she now?” Javad smiled back. “Which of you is the more beautiful, do you think?”

“It is hard to say,” remarked Reyhan. “If you placed us side by side – something that might prove difficult to do – I think you would find us similar in appearance.”

“I have never seen your mistress naked, nor you for that matter. I conjecture however she has well rounded curves, from the cut of her clothes.”

“Bold Sardaukar,” said Reyhan with a tell-tale tutting. “You should not speculate on the curves of my mistress. That is beneath you.”

“May I speculate instead on the body of her slave girl who resides even now in this kurdah, belled so beautifully?” 

“I can hardly stop you,” said Reyhan. “You are a man, and you hold the keys to my collar and anklet.”

Javad laughed at the girl’s witty word play. “You have courage, Lady. I rarely pay compliments to women, for it is often a waste of words upon the air, but I admire your courage. And that you are prepared to do things that most women would baulk at, in order to help your family.”

“I am a free woman. I have a responsibility to my man and my children that overrides my own happiness or safety. But I think you for your compliment.”

“The Khuda of House Shahzad chose wisely when he took you as a companion. I will keep you safe, Lady. Of that you have no fear.”

“Should you be conversing so long with a simple slave girl?” said Reyhan. She leaned a little further out of the kurdah front and rested her veiled chin on the soft palm of one hand, its elbow resting on the polished wood of the kurdah frame. 

“Men enjoy the company of slaves, Sarissa. We do more than just fur with them. We like to hear their thoughts, their dreams, their fantasies, their opinions, and so forth. It is a dull man who does not wish to converse with his slave after using her for a time.”

“I had no idea.”

“It is true. Men speak longer and more honestly with kajirae than they do with free women. You would perhaps be surprised.”

“Javad…” Reyhan’s eyes squinted as she gazed to the left of him. She gazed up at the far horizon, at a crest of high dunes where, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, she saw tiny ripples of white pinpointing the dunes. “I think there are… men out there…”

Javad wheeled his kaiila round and then he saw them too; tiny white figures, cresting the wide expanse of sand dunes, forming a crescent line as they paced down towards the flat stony ground through which the Sardaukar rode.

“Bedouins,” said Javad as he signalled to his men. “And I do not hear any kaiila bells. The wind blows towards us, yet I hear no kaiila bells.”

“Raiders then,” said Reyhan as she began counting. She did so quickly, estimating the size of the force by counting a small group and then supposing the same numbers multiplied over the stretch of ground, as their mounts seemed evenly dispersed. “Over a hundred.”

“Get back inside your kurdah, and do not part the curtain unless I say so.” Javad turned his kaiila and rode now up and down his line of men. “We have company,” he said as his troop came to full attention.