Outcast of Gor Chapter Thirty Three

 

Trust me when I say, a sky diving tarn is a terrifying prospect. 

 

The typical war tarn has a wing span of thirty or more feet and is a monstrous, savage, killing machine that can power dive from cloud level without warning, emitting a terror screech that can curdle the blood of even the bravest warrior. In military combat, the only protection against a sudden tarn strike is a phalanx formation of long spears that can bristle out like the spines of a hedgehog. Arrayed in tight formation, such a spear wall can unnerve a tarn and perhaps entice it to find other prey. But here in the open park grounds of the city market of Caphius, the lone guardsmen were armed only with short swords, lacking even a shield. 

 

Screams sounded from every direction as men and women fled in panic, trampling one another in an uncoordinated rout to escape the talons and razor beak of this war tarn. 

 

But this was no random assault. I could see the tarnsman was guiding his mount with the four strap which compels the great bird to descend at a speed relative to the pressure on the strap, aiming to swoop low across the ground in the direction of the richly dressed female. She too was fleeing, but like all Free Women, she was encumbered by her heavy gowns and robes, making it impossible to run at normal speeds. The long gowns of a woman reach to her ankles and effectively restrict the movement of her legs. Her garments effectively hobble her and make it comparatively easy for a tarnsman to seize such a prize. Slaves of course are not hindered by their brief slave tunics, and they are quite capable of fleeing at top speed.  

 

The tarnsman levelled his bird at a height just above the tops of the market stalls, through alternating pressure on the one and four straps, and then pulled lightly on the two strap to bank right and position himself for a direct snatch of the richly dressed woman. 

 

I could clearly see she was doomed. The talons of the tarn tore apart the flimsy market stalls as it sped swiftly across their path. The wooden frames splintered like matchwood, scattering goods and people to either side. I saw a man move too slowly out of the way, and a rake of the birds talons tore his shoulder open. He screamed and fell – his right arm now hanging, bloody and useless. 

 

The tarnsman readied his capture loop – essentially a lasso made of leather, formed with slip knots and designed to be dropped over a leg, head, or arm and swiftly pulled tight. This sort of capturing device in the hands of a trained tarnsman is very effective as it will hold a person securely until the captor releases the knot. Often a capture loop can be dropped and tightened over the body of a fleeing female, and then, as the tarn rises into the air, her body is pulled from the ground, legs flailing, to trail behind the tarn as it rises back into the sky. How terrifying that must be for a female, to not only know herself captured by a man, but to hang suspended from the leather rope, trailing the bird in flight until the tarnsman draws her writhing body up onto his saddle where he will undoubtedly bind and strip her with a slave knife.

 

I took hold of Clara’s hair and thrust her onto her knees and then, with a second thrust, pushed her quickly under the open wooden frame of the pleasure rack on which the Lady Kostantia was secured. 

 

“Stay there,” I said. “Crouch low and keep the wooden cross beams above you.” In such a fashion it would be difficult for the swooping tarn to seize her in its talons, or the mounted tarnsman to snag her with his capture loop. Clara was screaming, of course. The Lady Kostantia was screaming, too. In fact, everyone seemed to be screaming. 

 

Market stalls near me were torn apart as the tarn banked to the right. The richly garbed female was barely five yards from me, which put me squarely in the danger zone from the oncoming tarn. I heard the female scream from beneath her veils as I think she somehow sensed the tarn was diving towards her. In moments, then, the capture loop would be about her body and she would be dragged helplessly into the air. 

 

But then she was suddenly flung aside. Her slim body was thrown in my direction by her guardsman who, unlike the other fleeing citizens in the market place, was hell bent on defending her. It was suicide, of course. He was armed only with a short sword. The bravery of the man was exceptional. He must have been terrified as the head and razor beak of the tarn swept towards him, but he stood his ground, buying the richly dressed female some precious moments to scramble as best she might on her hands and knees, further away from the flight path, directly towards me. 

 

I don’t think the guardsman was suicidal, and he certainly had an opportunity to run, but he knew if he did so, the tarn might be turned by alternating pressure on the five strap and six strap, to then pursue the helpless female in the rich robes and veils. He therefore stood his ground and effectively ran at the underbelly of the approaching tarn, sword held out as high as possible. The tarn would have to engage with him, and therefore would not have a chance at capturing the female until after it flew past, turned in a circle and made a second attack run. 

 

He was brave. He was incredibly brave. I heard him cry out some words – perhaps some last scream of defiance, honouring his Home Stone, his caste, and perhaps the reputation of the Free Woman he was defending. I saw his sword lunge upwards a split second before the talons of the tarn ripped his torso open in its flight. Perhaps he had managed to stab the tarn in passing. I don’t know. It all happened too fast. The man was thrown to the side - his chest torn apart – and so his duty and responsibility to the Lady was over. 

 

Now the war tarn rose again as it sped past the Lady, who now lay on all fours, her veils disarrayed about her face, her hood thrown back. I saw the tarnsman pull hard on the one strap to rise in altitude, and then pull on the three strap to right turn and decrease altitude, circling round for a second attack run on the Lady who now had no man in place to defend her. 

 

She screamed. What was she thinking? She saw her guardsman lying on the grass, if not dead, then certainly dying. His blade lay three feet from his open hand, close to me. There was no one else around, save the Free Women of Isurium, bound helplessly to the Pleasure Racks, and Clara, hiding fearfully beneath a wooden frame, and me, too stupid to abandon my precious slave girl in the face of danger. For a moment my eyes met those of the richly garbed Lady. I saw a little of her features, as her veils hung loosely now from a single set of pins to the left of her face. She was young, and she was beautiful. She raised her hands, palms forward, in supplication to me, though she must have understood there was nothing I could do to save her. And then a breeze rippled the veils sufficiently that I saw her lips. And such lips they were! 

 

I heard the terror screech of the great tarn as it began its second attack run on the weeping woman. And then I saw what else lay on the grass, ten feet or so from my right hand. It was a crossbow, and some loose quarrels, thrown from a broken market stall across the park space. 

 

I ran for the crossbow, cranked the string back, and, trying not to think of the impending approach of the war tarn, placed a steel tipped quarrel to the groove that ran along the stock of the weapon. I would have one shot. Just one shot. 

 

I turned, swiftly, knowing what I would see. The bird was almost upon us. The mounted tarnsman swung his capture loop above his head with his right hand, ready to loose it on the richly dressed female with the ripe, luscious, pouting lips, while his left held onto the tarn straps.

 

I fired my single bolt and shot the tarnsman through his throat. His body jerked back, the capture loop dropping from his right hand, while his left pulled randomly on the tarn straps in shock. The war bird obeyed the tug on the two strap – which is the random strap it felt – and suddenly veered up and to the right. Its talons missed the female by a matter of a yard or so, as its rider fell back within the limits of the restraint harness that he wore. The motion of his dying body pulled down on the five strap, and now the bird obeyed that signal to bank left and decrease altitude, but that was a mistake and it crashed through a long series of market stalls, quickly entangling itself in long lengths of guy ropes and flapping canvas. It screamed as it beat with its wings, crazed by the ropes that were now tangled in its feet, and the trails of torn canvas and wooden tent frames that dragged along the ground attached to those ropes. The bird began to panic, crashing through even more tents, becoming even more tangled in the process. 

 

I ran towards the female. She had half risen on her hands and knees, her eyes wild, as she understood that the war tarn had missed her. She seemed paralysed with fear, with shock, her body trembling and convulsing as I gathered her up in my arms.

 

“You are safe, Lady. You are safe.”

 

Now I could see city guardsmen arriving with crossbows of their own. They trailed the floundering tarn as it tried to rise into the air, but failed, constrained by a tangle of guy ropes and the dragged remains of broken market stalls that trailed in its wake. One by one the guardsmen began to fire and reload their crossbows. The tarn began to scream, causing even more damage to the area, but gradually, as each crossbow bolt struck its body, its resistance began to fade, until, with one last screech it fell, resting its head on a broken stall, finally dead. 

 

I felt the young Lady in the rich garments clutch at my body – the instinctive response of a female who has found succour with a man.

 

“Thank you!” Thank you!” she wept. I held her, feeling her soft, lovely body pressed close to mine. I felt dizzy from the headrush of adrenaline that was beginning to recede. Adrenalin gives you the momentary strength you need in a crisis situation, but then leaves you shaking and fatigued. And so we held each other for a moment, me gazing down at the lovely bundle in my arms, her veils hanging loosely now from a single sparkling pin. I could see just how exquisite her young features were, and oh those lips! I could well see why she wore veils to hide such lips. On Gor a woman who possessed such lips would be well advised to do so. 

 

Her hood was down, and her hair, that had been pinned high above her head in an elaborate fashion, had now mostly tumbled down about her shoulders. Her hair was red – a deep, vibrant shade, and it framed her delicate bone structure beautifully. 

 

Gently, I lifted her veils – for in her panic, she didn’t seem to understand that many of her pins had come loose – and I began to rearrange them as best I could. Some of the securing pins were gone, and so I held the veils to the right side of her face until she realised what had happened, and then she raised her own right hand to hold those precious strips of fabric in place. 

 

“Who are you?” I said. “The tarnsman meant you for his target.”

 

“I am no one,” she sobbed. “No one.”

 

But evidently she was someone. I was suddenly surrounded by city guardsman, one of whom had spoken to the dying man who had also saved the woman’s life before I had intervened with the crossbow. Had he not given his life for this woman, I would not have had time to load and ready my weapon. 

 

“Unhand her, and stand back!” demanded one of the guards as he pointed a blade at me.

 

“Hey, I saved her life,’ I protested. 

 

“Unhand the woman or suffer the consequences,” said a second guardsman.

 

I did as I was told, releasing the body of the Lady, and took a couple of steps back, raising my shaking hands. Men suddenly seized me and took my hands behind my back, tying them with binding fibre. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” I protested.

 

“Did he hurt you, Lady?” A guardsman approached her. He seemed very concerned that I had lain my hands upon her. The next thing I knew, my legs were kicked out from under me and I was forced down onto the grass, down onto my belly. “For fuck’s sake!” I said that by accident in English. The men had no idea what it meant, but they probably understood the angry intonation. 

 

“Please don’t hurt him, Sir,” said the Lady to the guardsman as she continued to hold her veils to her face. “He did save me.”

 

The guards looked at one another in alarm. The man in charge quickly interrupted the Lady before she might say anything more. “Do not speak,” he said. “Not one more word. Be silent.”

 

She seemed startled that he dared to speak so to her. And then something seemed to have occurred to her. She gasped in dismay, as if suddenly understanding something – something the guardsman had understood only too well - as she then turned to regard me, trembling.

 

“Yes,” said the guardsman. “Do not say anything more.”

 

“I didn’t mean…” she began, flustered, fearful. 

 

“Take him in custody,” said the leader of the men, pointing at me. “Do not let him speak to anyone.”

 

“Hey, what is going on!” I said. 

 

“Be silent.” He kicked me in the ribs, but it was a warning blow, not meant to incapacitate me. “You heard nothing,” he said.

 

I didn’t understand what he was talking about. 

 

“I understand I just saved a Free Woman of Corcyrus. She told you as much! Is this how you treat a man who saves one of your women?!”

 

The man looked angry now, but more than that, the leader of the guards looked worried. Beside him, the richly dressed woman raised both her hands to her veils. Her eyes seemed fearful as she gazed down at me. But some of the other guardsmen had different expressions. They seemed uncomfortable with what was happening to me.

 

“Athicus, you heard her. She owes her life to this man. We should not be treating him like this.”

 

“Be quiet, Marco.”

 

“I heard it, too,” said another man. “Many here saw what happened. This is not right.”

 

“None of you heard anything,” warned the leader. “You heard nothing!”  

 

I was dragged away, forcibly so, by three guardsmen. I saw Clara still lying beneath the wooden frame of the Pleasure rack on which Lady Kostantia was bound. 

 

Half an ahn later I was thrown into a holding cell, somewhere in the city. I was pushed and prodded down a set of stone steps to a sunken basement in which small rooms were maintained for prisoners who were to be kept in isolation. My protests through the streets had been rewarded with cuffings from the lead guard who had commanded me to silence, and then, after some thought, I was hooded with a sack drawn over my head and fastened securely about my throat. I had no idea where I was going until I was thrust into the small stone cell, the hood removed and my wrists unbound. 

 

“What is wrong with you people?” I said to the lead guard who folded the sack away. “I saved that woman. I didn’t try to kidnap her!” I was worried now, not only for myself, but also for Clara, my slave girl. Would she have the common sense to make her way back to the market of Kadriya where my rented shelf space could be found, and present herself to the Lady Herminia for chaining? I hoped so. I didn’t relish what might happen to the sweetly hipped Clara if she simply wandered the city alone. 

 

“Say something! Fucking say something!” No one would speak to me. The lead guard simply shoved me back against the far wall and then, as I stood there, he left the small stone room and closed the heavy wooden door, locking it in place.

 

The cell I was confined in was perhaps ten feet by twelve feet in size, plain, except for a flat wooden bench that might serve as a bed. Aside from that bench, the cell was featureless, save for some wooden ceiling beams and a tiny barred window set above by my head at what might be street level. Some sunlight filtered through that eighteen inches by twelve inches space. 

 

I spent the day there, mostly seated on the flat wooden bench, and then, restlessly pacing about the small cell. No one came to feed me. No one came to give me water. Late in the afternoon I banged on the cell door, but there was no response. 

 

Fucking Goreans! So much for their fucking honour!  I had saved the life of a high born Lady of their city, and this is how their so called honour served to repay me? What a fucking joke. 

 

I was more angry than concerned for my own well-being, which turned out to be a naïve mistake on my part. Surely, I thought, someone with some rational common sense would soon determine that I was the good guy here? Surely I’d soon be let out and offered contrite apologies? I imagined there might even be some sort of reward – citizenship, perhaps, and a gold stipend from the city. 

 

It was naïve thinking on my part. But then I didn’t have any way of understanding the situation. 

 

“Hey, I could do with some water, you know?!” I yelled through the shut door. “And something to eat?”

 

Fucking barbarians. 

 

I was furious. Fuck Corcyrus. Fuck every single city on this fucking insane planet. 

 

The sun was setting when the door to my cell finally opened. In the doorway stood the lead guard who had ordered me taken in captivity. With him was another man who dwarfed both me and his fellow in size. 

 

There was something about the way they now looked at me that sent a shiver down my spine.

 

“I want to talk to someone in charge,” I said. The corridor outside this cell seemed quiet. There was no one else around. “What the fuck is going on?”

 

And then I saw what the second man – the huge man – what he was carrying in his hands. It was a rope noose. I saw him gaze up at the wooden ceiling beams, and then he turned his gaze back on me, and I suddenly understood, only too clearly. 

 

They were going to hang me, and make it look like suicide.