Gods of Gor Chapter Seven

 

Chapter Seven: Blood Brothers

 

“I wear scarlet,” said Brinn, thumping his tightly muscled chest with the clenched fist of his right hand. “I am of the warriors – a High Caste on Gor. I do not… sneak around… like some common thief in Port Kar. Do not speak of this again, Emma.”

 

This was going to be difficult. 

 

I sighed, fearing the worst now. “They will try and kill you, Master. There will be spears raised and…”

 

“It is a misunderstanding – nothing more. But were I to slink away in the dead of night, then what would men say of my honour?”

 

“They might say you’re still alive?” suggested Tijani as he gazed out of the hut towards the river.

 

“Thank you, Master!” I said, grateful at least that Tijani was taking my side. 

 

“I am sometimes concerned you may not fully appreciate the concept of honour,” said Brinn, frowning now, to Tijani. “It is a complex principle, of course, but even so…”

 

“I’m a pirate,” said Tijani with a grin. “I reave, I pillage, and I wench. Not necessarily in that order.”

 

“Those things can be done honourably,” suggested Brinn.

 

“But not for long,” added Tijani. “Men like you always spoil things by demanding – say – one on one combat... to the death.”

 

“That is one of the most honourable things a man can accept,” suggested Brinn. “It gives his life meaning.”

 

“Please, Masters – I know I’m just a slave, but…”

 

“You’re just a slave, Emma. Men are talking,” said Brinn. He slapped the rump of my ass – hard - and made me cry out. Mina and Saffron both giggled as they saw me jump and rub my ass cheeks with a less than happy expression on my face.

 

Brinn was as stubborn as a pot-bellied tarsk. He wasn’t going to take the sensible option of sneaking away in the dead of night and putting several pasangs between us and the village before they realised he’d abandoned Meralisha. No, he had to do this the fucking hard way. 

 

“So what are you going to do then, Master?” I asked. “If a slave may enquire?”

 

Yes. Let’s hear your fucking brilliant plan. 

 

“I shall explain matters to the men, and to the gentle Lady Meralisha, of course, and then we shall all part as the best of friends, laughing good naturedly at the misunderstanding, which could have happened to anyone.”

 

“You could always enslave her?” suggested Tijani. “Then, technically at least, you will not have abandoned her?”

 

Brinn frowned. He didn’t even dignify Tijani suggestion with a reply. 

 

“There is room in the canoe,” added Tijani. “And an extra paddle. I think we have a spare collar.”

 

The next day, Tijani and Brinn were invited to join the men of the river village, hunting. Tijani declined, preferring to spend some more time with the Lady Taleisha, but Brinn quickly accepted. 

 

“Ah, hunting!” said Brinn, as he grinned with a sense of excitement I had last seen when he had fought a sleen with a long fruit knife. He was suddenly in his happy place. Brinn has two happy places. One involves slave girls parting their thighs, and the other involves killing things in a ‘fair fight’. Actually, three happy places, if you count drinking as a separate one, but in my experience he often combines that with either one of the first two. 

 

His kajirae – Chloe and myself – attended as pack bearers and, alongside some of the tribal women, bush beaters. 

 

The air felt thick with anticipation, the scent of woodsmoke and oiled spears mingling with the ever-present rot of leaves and the faint metallic tang of blood long dried as we set out into the long grass, that I feared might conceal all manner of venomous snakes. I stumbled along with the weight of several spears resting heavy across my shoulders. These were not mere hunts for food; they were often sacred acts of communion, woven into the tribe's survival and their pact with the spirits of forest and river. East of Schendi, where the Nyoka river twisted through dense equatorial green, the rituals varied by prey and season, but each carried the same solemn weight: to take a life was to owe a debt, and the debt must be paid in respect, preparation, and offering.

 

Mina told me of the ceremonial hunts when men sometimes hunted the black larl, the river tharlarion, or the massive, horned bosk that sometimes wandered down from the open plains. When a young hunter came of age or a seasoned warrior sought to reclaim honour after failure, the village elders would choose the target from omens: the direction a flock of tospore birds flew at dawn, the pattern of ripples in a still pool, or the sudden silence of insects at dusk. Once decided, the hunter fasted for three days - no meat, no paga, only water drawn from the river at first light and herbs chewed to sharpen the senses.

 

On the fourth dawn, before the sun rose fully, the hunter was painted. His kin - brothers, cousins, sometimes his mother or sisters - gathered in a circle around the central firepit. They dipped their fingers in pots of red ochre mixed with river mud and the powdered wing scales of the tospore bird, then traced spiralling patterns across his chest, arms, and thighs: curling vines for the forest's embrace, jagged lightning for speed, concentric circles around the heart to protect it from the prey's dying rage. Each stroke was accompanied by a low chant, words in the old Ushindi tongue that invoked the spirits to guide the spear true and to forgive the blood about to be spilled. The hunter stood motionless, eyes closed, breathing the smoke of burning herbs - sweet-resined wood and dried river lotus - that curled thick and heady around him, making his head swim and his muscles hum with readiness.

 

The spear itself received its own blessing. Before the hunt, the weapon - long-shafted, tipped with blackened steel traded from Schendi merchants - was laid across the firepit's embers until the metal glowed dull red. The elder shaman then spat a mixture of saliva and crushed leaves onto the blade, whispering to it as though it were alive: “Drink deep, but drink clean. Take only what is given.” The spear cooled slowly, acquiring a faint, iridescent sheen from the herbs, said to make it invisible to the prey's spirit until the moment of strike.

 

The hunt itself was always silent - no drums, no shouts. The hunter moved alone or with one trusted companion (never more, lest the spirits feel crowded). He tracked by scent, by broken twig, by the faint musk left on leaves. When he found his quarry, he did not rush. He watched. He waited until the animal lifted its head, nostrils flaring, eyes meeting his across the green gloom. Only then did he speak the words of debt aloud, soft enough that only the prey and the spirits heard: “I take your strength because my people hunger. Forgive me, brother/sister of the wild. Your life joins mine.” The spear flew - or the knife flashed - and if the strike was clean, the animal fell without cry. If it struggled, the hunter knelt beside it, pressing his forehead to its own, breathing its last breath into his lungs so their spirits might mingle without enmity.

 

The return was triumphant but reverent. The carcass was carried back on a litter of woven vines, never dragged. Blood from the kill was smeared on the hunter's face in a single vertical stripe from brow to chin; this mark he wore for three days, unwashed, as proof of the debt honoured. The heart of the beast was cut out first, still warm, and placed on a flat stone at the riverbank as offering - left for the spirits, the saurians, the birds. Only after the heart was given did the village feast: meat roasted over open fires, shared without rank, the hunter eating last as penance and gratitude.

 

For smaller game - antelope, monkeys, river fish - the rituals were simpler but no less observed: a quick prayer whispered to the kill, a drop of blood returned to the earth or water, and the hunter's hands washed in the river before touching food. To neglect any step was to invite misfortune - empty nets, failed crops, or the wrath of a wounded animal's spirit returning in nightmares or sickness.

 

It was the morning after the third night, when the village still buzzed with the illusion of our welcome - Brinn as the pale Companion to Meralisha, Tijani as his shadow-brother, and us slaves as mere extensions of their whims. The air hung heavy with mist, the overhead sun filtering through the canopy in dappled shafts that turned the forest floor into a mosaic of light and gloom. Kwame – Meralisha’s oldest brother - had invited Brinn to join the hunt, slapping his back like a kin, his dark face splitting into a grin that showed teeth white as river pearls. "Come, brother," he had said, voice rich and warm. "We hunt the black larl today. Let the river spirits see your spear fly true." Mina translated, as she understood both the river tribes dialect and common Gorean.

 

Brinn had laughed, that deep rumble that always made my stomach flutter, and accepted with a nod. There was no hint of the storm to come in his eyes then - just the thrill of the chase, the easy camaraderie of two warriors sharing the wild. Tijani stayed behind with Saffron, packing supplies or trading tales with the elders, and perhaps talking indiscreetly with the Lady Taleisha, but Chloe and I were yoked like beasts of burden for the trek. Heavy leather harnesses strapped across our shoulders and chests, woven baskets laden with spears, waterskins, coils of vine rope, and bundles of dried meat slung over our backs. The weight bit into my skin immediately, the straps chafing against shoulders, already damp with sweat before we had taken ten steps. Chloe, the First Girl, bore it with her usual stoic grace, muscles straining under the load as she led the way behind the men. I followed, staggering slightly, the basket's edges digging into my hips, my arms aching from the awkward balance. Every step was a battle - lift, shift, place - my bare feet sinking into the soft, loamy earth that sucked at my soles like hungry mouths. Mina walked beside us, unburdened, for her task was merely to be the translator for Brinn and Kwame. 

 

“Any chance you could carry a spear or three,” I said between deep breaths.

 

“I am not a beast of burden,” said Mina, proudly. “I was the Ubara of the Black Coast. Now I serve your Master as his ears and voice.” 

 

The forest enveloped us as we left the village path, the green wall closing behind like a living curtain. Kwame moved ahead, his oiled body gliding through the underbrush with the silence of smoke, spear balanced lightly in one hand, shield slung over his back. Brinn followed close, his sandals heavier but adapting quickly, the two men trading low words that carried back to me in snatches. "Step soft, brother," Kwame murmured, demonstrating with a fluid stride that barely rustled a leaf. "Not with the heel - roll from toe to ball, like the larl itself. The forest hears everything; make it think you're part of it." Brinn nodded, as Mina translated the words, mimicking the motion, his usual warrior swagger softening into something more predatory, more attuned. They laughed quietly when Brinn snapped a twig - Kwame clapping his shoulder like an older brother. "Good, but quieter. See here - the leaves whisper if you crush them wrong. Listen to the silence between sounds."

 

I was listening too, but specifically to Kwame’s words and Mina’s rolling translation. I wanted to learn the language so that Mina wouldn’t have such a monopoly on my Master. 

 

I watched them through the haze of my own misery, envying their ease while dread gnawed at my gut. Kwame treated Brinn like family now, sharing secrets of the hunt with a warmth that twisted my heart - teaching him to read the tracks: the faint depression in mud where a larl's paw had pressed, the broken fern stem smeared with musk, the scattering of feathers where a tospore bird had fled. "Smell that?" Kwame said, crouching low, Brinn kneeling beside him. "Larl urine - sharp, like vinegar mixed with earth. Fresh. It's close." Brinn inhaled deeply, nodding with genuine interest, and for a moment they were two hunters bound by the thrill, brothers in the green, counterpoint to the blood that would soon spill between them. I dreaded the confession I knew was coming - the day Brinn would shatter this fragile bond, confessing the garland was no vow, that Meralisha was no Companion. Kwame's laughter now would turn to fury; this camaraderie would curdle into betrayal. The thought weighed heavier than the basket on my back, making my steps falter.

 

Sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes, soaking the cloth wrap about my hips until it clung like a second skin. The load shifted with every step - the spears clattering softly against the waterskins, the rope coils digging into my shoulders like claws. Chloe ahead of me bore it better, her strides even, but I stumbled often, the basket's weight throwing me off balance on the uneven ground. Vines snagged at my legs, roots rose like traps beneath the leaves, and paranoia gripped me - every rustle was a snake, every shadow a coiled viper ready to strike. I had seen them in the village: sleek, black-scaled things that blended with the roots, their fangs dripping venom that could fell a man in heartbeats. What if I stepped on one? The thought made my breath come short, my feet hesitant, testing each placement as though the earth might bite. "Watch your step, Emma," Chloe whispered over her shoulder, her voice steady but strained under her own burden. "The men lead; we follow. You are kajira. Remember your collar. Don't think, just move."

 

The forest deepened, the air growing thicker, alive with sounds: the screech of distant birds, the drip of dew from leaves, the faint growl of something unseen. Kwame paused often, teaching Brinn to track - the bent grass where the larl had passed, the claw marks scored into bark like warnings. "See how the scratches are fresh? Sap still weeps. It's hunting too - hungry, like us." Brinn chuckled, clapping Kwame's arm. "Then let's make sure we're the ones who eat tonight, brother." Their bond shone in those moments - easy laughs, shared glances, a warrior's respect that made my dread sharper, knowing it was built on sand.

 We pushed on, my arms burning, shoulders numb, the load a constant torment that turned each step into agony. Sweat dripped into my eyes, blurred my vision, but I dared not complain - kajirae endured. Yet inside, the paranoia swirled: a snake in the leaves, a root to trip me, and worst, the shattering confession looming like a storm cloud. 

 

Then the roar shattered the green silence - a thunderous bellow that vibrated through the trees, shaking leaves loose like rain. The men froze, spears lifting. "There," Kwame breathed, pointing to a thicket where shadows moved. The black larl exploded from the brush, a nightmare of sleek muscle and midnight fur, eyes glowing red in the dim light, fangs bared in a snarl that chilled my blood. It was massive - eight feet at the shoulder, claws raking the earth as it charged, tail lashing like a whip.

Brinn and Kwame moved as one. Kwame hurled his spear first, the shaft whistling through the air, embedding in the larl's shoulder with a wet thud. The beast roared, twisting mid-leap, blood spraying dark against the leaves. Brinn was there in an instant, his own spear thrusting low, catching the larl's flank as it swiped with claws that raked his shield, splintering wood. They danced with it - Kwame dodging a paw swipe that tore bark from a tree, Brinn circling to flank, their shouts mingling: "Left, brother - strike now!" Kwame's second spear grazed the beast's throat, drawing more blood, while Brinn closed in, blade drawn for the kill. The larl lunged one last time, jaws gaping, but Brinn met it head-on - shield bashing its maw, sword plunging deep into its chest. The beast shuddered, roared a final, guttural defiance, then collapsed, its body twitching in the dirt.

 

The men stood panting, blood-streaked and triumphant, clasping forearms in victory. "A fine kill, brother," Kwame said, grinning wide. Again, Mina translated, though I understood the words myself. "The spirits favoured us today." Brinn laughed, clapping his back. " We'll feast well tonight, Kwame." 

 

The suns had long set by the time Brinn and Kwame returned to the village, the massive black larl's carcass slung between poles carried by four strong hunters, its midnight fur matted with blood, its eyes already dull in death. The village erupted in low, rhythmic cheers - drums starting slow, then building, the deep throb echoing off the stilted huts and through the trees like the heartbeat of the forest itself. Women and children ran to meet them, hands outstretched to touch the beast's pelt, voices rising in wordless praise for the kill that would feed them all.

 

The clearing at the village centre had been transformed while we were gone. A great fire pit roared, flames leaping high from logs piled with fragrant wood - pod tree bark and river lotus - sending sparks spiralling into the night like tiny stars. Low tables of woven mats were spread with clay bowls of yams mashed with river spices, heaps of smoked fish, baskets of ripe fruit dripping juice, and gourds of palm wine already fermenting in the heat. Torches of bundled reeds burned along the edges, casting long shadows that danced with every beat of the drums. The men who had stayed behind - elders, fishermen, the young who had not yet earned their first kill - formed a loose circle, spears grounded, faces painted fresh with ochre in honour of the hunt.

 

Brinn and Kwame entered the clearing side by side, shoulders touching, laughing as they lowered the poles and let the larl's body settle on a bed of broad leaves. The crowd pressed close, hands reaching to stroke the fur, voices murmuring thanks to the spirits for the gift. Kwame raised his spear high, blood still wet on the tip, and called out in the rich Ushindi tongue: "The black larl has given its strength! The river spirits have favoured us! Tonight we eat, we drink, we remember - life from death, bounty from the hunt!" The drums answered with a thunderous roll; the women began their swaying dance, hips rolling, arms lifted, bare feet stamping the earth in rhythm.

 

Brinn stood tall beside Kwame, sweat-streaked and blood-spattered, his short sword sheathed but his shield still slung across his back. He accepted a gourd of palm wine from an elder, drank deeply, then passed it to Kwame with a grin. "To brothers in the green," he said, voice carrying over the drums. Kwame took it, drank, and clapped Brinn's shoulder hard enough to make the pale warrior stagger. "To family," Kwame replied, eyes bright with the night's joy. "Meralisha's man has proven himself. The spirits smile on us tonight."

 

I saw the concern etched on Mina’s face as she made an effort to translate those words from Kwame. “Family,” she emphasised. “Meralisha’s man,” she added with a knowing look at my Master. But Brinn was caught up in the cheering and he seemed oblivious to Mina’s implied warning. 

 

Meralisha herself moved through the crowd like a shadow made flesh, her dark skin gleaming with oil and firelight, a fresh garland of orchids and lilies draped across her shoulders - the same flowers Brinn had woven days before, now renewed by village women in celebration. She came to him, eyes shining, and placed a hand on his arm, her touch light but possessive. "You brought home strength," she murmured, voice soft beneath the drums. "Tonight we feast as one." Brinn smiled down at her - warm, easy, the mask of the Companion still firmly in place - and drew her close for a moment, kissing her forehead while the crowd cheered louder. I watched from the edge, kneeling beside Mina, Saffron, and Chloe. The heat licked at my skin, the scent of roasting meat making my stomach twist with hunger we would not be allowed to sate until the free men and women had eaten first.

 

The feast unfolded in waves of colour and sound. Men carved the larl with long knives, slicing thick slabs of dark meat that sizzled as they were laid across greenwood grates over the flames. Fat dripped, hissing, sending up clouds of fragrant smoke that carried the rich, gamey scent across the clearing. Women passed bowls of spiced yam paste, ladled with river herbs and crushed peppers that burned the tongue; gourds of palm wine circulated, sweet and heady, loosening tongues and limbs. The drums never stopped - deep, insistent, driving the dancers in circles around the fire, their bodies swaying, hips rolling, breasts and thighs gleaming with sweat and oil. Meralisha danced closest to Brinn, her movements fluid and proud, a celebration of the man she believed was hers forever.

 

Kwame sat beside Brinn on a low mat, their shoulders touching as they ate - meat torn with hands, wine drunk from shared gourds. They laughed over the hunt's details: Kwame mimicking the larl's final roar, Brinn recounting the moment his sword found the heart. "You fight like a man born to the green," Kwame said, raising his gourd. "Meralisha chose well." Brinn met his eyes, smile steady. "And you taught me well, brother." The word hung between them – brother - warm and true in that moment, a bond sealed in blood and firelight. I watched it all from my knees, heart aching with the knowledge that this joy was so fragile. The drums throbbed like a warning; the flames leaped higher; the wine flowed freer. Meralisha came to sit between them, leaning against Brinn's side, her hand resting on his thigh, her laughter bright as she fed him strips of meat from her fingers. 

 

An ahn later, I knelt at the edge of the mat where Brinn and Kwame sat, my chains staked lightly to a post, the weight of the day's burdens still aching in my shoulders from the hunt. Saffron and Chloe knelt beside me, our brief wrap garments clinging damply to our skin, eyes lowered but watchful. The village pulsed with life – men and women laughing, children darting through the shadows like fireflies. Meralisha sat close to Brinn, her hand resting possessively on his thigh, her dark eyes shining with a joy that twisted my heart. She believed it all - the garland, the binding, the promise of forever. Kwame, her brother, clapped Brinn's back again, raising a gourd in toast. "To the pale warrior who hunts like one of us!" Mina lay on the ground beside Brinn, translating every word – her steel collar gleaming in the firelight. 

 

Brinn took the gourd, drank deeply, but I saw the shift in his eyes - a flicker of resolve beneath the easy smile. Now, as the drums throbbed like a warning heartbeat, he set the gourd down and rose, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the fire.

 

The laughter quieted as he stood, the village sensing the change, drums slowing to a murmur. Kwame tilted his head, brow furrowing. Meralisha looked up at him, her smile fading into confusion. Brinn's voice carried clear over the clearing, steady as his sword hand, as he motioned for Mina to translate what he had to say. "Friends - Kwame, Meralisha, elders - I thank you for the welcome, the hunt, the feast. The black larl's strength fills us all tonight." Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd, but he raised a hand. "But I must speak truth. The garland... it was a misunderstanding born out of joy. The wine a night's pleasure. I am no Companion to Meralisha. I am only Brinn of the Sardar, a traveller through your lands. Tomorrow, I sail on at dawn with my sword brother and my slaves. I thank you for your hospitality."

 

Mina said nothing for a moment. And then, conscious of Brinn’s insistence, she translated the words, keeping her head bowed and her eyes closed. 

 

The words fell like a spear into still water, ripples spreading outward in shocked silence. Meralisha's hand froze on Brinn’s thigh, her face draining of colour, eyes widening as though he had struck her. "No," she whispered, voice breaking like a fragile reed. "The moons saw... the river saw..." She clutched the fresh garland at her throat, petals crumbling under her fingers.