Gods of Gor Chapter Eight

 

Chapter Eight: A Question of Honour

 

Kwame rose slowly, his grin vanishing, replaced by a thunderous scowl, muscles tensing like coiled vines. "You placed the flowers around her shoulders. You took Meralisha under them. You bound yourself before the spirits!"

 

“A simple misunderstanding,” said Brinn, as he regarded Kwame with a soppy smile. 

 

Here’s the thing – people sometimes misunderstand Brinn’s expression. When he’s trying to be diplomatic (and believe me, it doesn’t come easy to him) he ends up with this dopey expression on his face, and people either assume he’s intimidated (he really isn’t), he’s mentally deficient (okay, so the jury is sometimes out on that one) or he’s being patronising (Brinn is the least patronising person I’ve ever met. He always means exactly what he says). And I could see that right now he had that expression on his face, and Kwame was reading it as Brinn mocking his family.

 

“You bedded my sister!” snarled Kwame.

 

And here’s the other thing – arguments aren’t helped by delays, where Mina has to translate back and forth. Brinn would say something, Kwame wouldn’t understand him, and then both men would have to stare at each other and wait for Mina to find the words in the corresponding language. And God knows what important subtleties were lost in translation. And all the while a dark mood was boiling amongst the tribal men and women, and that in turn was making Brinn more defensive. Right now he would be thinking they weren’t listening to him, and they weren’t appreciating just how ‘nice’ he was being about the situation.

 

This was going to be a bloodbath.

 

We were all going to die.

 

Well, maybe not me. Several men in the tribe would seize me as spoils after Brinn was killed, and they would probably end up fighting over ownership of the blonde barbarian. So even more blood. But one surviving man would declare I belonged to him, and then I’d live out the rest of my life as a white slave girl in a river village a hundred pasangs east of Schendi, scrubbing clothes in the river while the free women whipped me for looking like a slut, and then being pushed face down in the dirt and fucked from behind every single night. Thank you so much, Master!

 

“Kwame – tell your people to stop shouting,” said Brinn. He was growing irritated by the clamour.

 

At first MIna didn’t want to translate that, but when both men insisted, she did as she was told. “You must be quiet,” she said. I winced.

 

Kwame’s face twisted in rage. “You took my sister!”

 

I guess it was considered non-consensual, even if it was consensual, if Brinn hadn’t intended to Companion Meralisha. 

 

“What is he saying?” said Brinn as he looked down at Mina. “Keep up, kajira!”

 

“He said you have taken his sister by force.”

 

“What?!” Brinn looked angry now. “She offered herself to me!”

 

Now Kwame was demanding a translation. When Mina found the words it came out something like, “Lady Meralisha begged him for sex.”

 

If Kwame looked angry before, he was close to a blood frenzy now. 

 

“Why is everyone being so unreasonable,” snarled Brinn. “I thanked them for their hospitality! They have meat, tonight, thanks to me.”

 

Do not ever nominate Brinn for a negotiating team. 

 

The elders shifted, spears grounding with heavy thuds, women drawing back with gasps. Meralisha stood now, trembling, tears welling in her dark eyes as the reality crashed over her - abandoned, her honour a broken promise, the village's joy turned to ash. "Brinn," she said, voice cracking, reaching for him. "You said... you promised..." But he stepped back gently, his face unreadable, though I saw the flicker of regret in his eyes - a rare crack in my Master’s armour.

 

Kwame's hand went to his spear, face twisting with fury. "You thief! You take her purity, her heart, and spit on our ways? You die for this!" The challenge rang out, and the village tensed, ready for blood. Brinn met his gaze, sword hand steady. A challenge to combat. This he understood. 

 

“You want this?” he said to Kwame, his eyes narrowing. “Really?”

 

The translation came out as “You are a fool to want this.” 

 

For fuck’s sake – I could translate better than Mina! 

 

Meralisha collapsed to her knees then, a sob tearing from her throat, hands covering her face as the weight of abandonment crushed her. "No - Kwame, don't - Brinn, please..." Her hysteria built, voice rising in wails that cut through the night, drawing the women to her side. But the men formed the circle, the duel inevitable now, honour demanding its due.

 

“This is ridiculous, Tijani. There is no need for this,” said Brinn as he checked the edge and point of his sword, as Kwame did likewise with his spear point on the other side of the clearing. “I’m going to have to kill Kwame, now, and for what? Why is he being so unreasonable?”

 

Tijani cleared his throat. “And supposing Kwame had taken Cassandra to his bed?”

 

“Cassandra wouldn’t have gone to his bed,” remarked Brinn, as if the thought was beyond comprehension.

 

“It is a hypothetical question, friend Brinn. Supposing he had put your sister to use?”

 

Brinn’s eyes flashed with anger. “Have a care how you speak of my sister.”

 

“Fine.” Tijani raised his hands in mock surrender. “There’s obviously no point in even discussing this.” Perhaps it was my imagination, but I think Tijani cast me a sympathetic expression, as if to say, ‘I understand now what you have to put up with.”

 

“I don’t WANT to kill him,” said Brinn as he turned the sword in his hand. “Kwame is a fine man.”

 

“Perhaps you could just wound him, friend Brinn?” suggested Tijani.

 

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Brinn. “This is a duel to the death, over a matter of honour. Kwame will expect me to kill him. It would be insulting to show him mercy. How would he be able to face his friends and family if I spared his life? I have more respect for him than that.”

 

Yes, Brinn really does talk like that. He will think he is doing you a favour as he kills you. 

 

Anyway, I had something I had to say to Mina.

 

“Your translations are terrible!”

 

“What?” Mina stared at me.

 

“You made things worse! You completely mistranslated the inflexion of the words! Are you doing this on purpose?”

 

“I translated perfectly, kajira! What makes you think you have a better grasp of Ushindi than me? I lived among these people.”

 

“Then you must have done this on purpose! Everything Brinn said, you made worse – which takes some doing - but you did it.”

 

Mina stepped forward suddenly and got right up in my face. “Do not accuse me of treachery, kajira!” And then she pushed me backwards. My feet skidded in the slick mud as I squared up against her, my heart beating furiously. 

 

“I’m not scared of you!” I screamed.

 

“Yes you are,” said Mina, calmly. She stared deep into my eyes and I had to look away. And then she laughed. “Be glad that I find you so adorable, kajira. Even when you are angry with me. You are very pretty. Now run along. The men will be fighting soon.”

 

Bitch!

 

I ran back to Brinn. “Please, Master, let me translate for you. Just apologise. Make it sincere. I’ll make it sincere for you!”

 

“Apologise?” Brinn looked at me as if I was mad.

 

“You have offended the men. Please apologise Master. Make some sort of reparations.”

 

“They are clearly too sensitive. Frankly, I am disappointed with them. We shared a hunt together.”

 

“Kwame is defending his sister!”

 

“A noble thing for a man to do. I approve very much,” said Brinn as she stared at Kwame. “He is a good man. I shall mourn him later.”

 

“He might kill you?!”

 

“Have you completely taken leave of your senses, Emma?” Brinn held the edge of his blade so that it caught the rays of the sun. It was a fine looking weapon. 

 

“What if you die? What happens to me?”

 

“I will not die. The Priest Kings have not yet determined the day of my passing.”

 

“It doesn’t fucking work like that!”

 

“Again you use that crude barbarian word. I seem to recall it is an expletive?”

 

“Yes! Yes, it fucking is! Master – someone is going to die!”

 

“Kwame,” he said.

 

“Or you! You don’t need to do this! Let me translate for you! I can speak on your behalf! Please, Master.”

 

“There is a time for talking and a time for fighting.” He gazed at my naked breasts and then added with a grin, “and a time for taking slaves in the long grass.”

 

Incredible. The horny goat was actually considering putting me on my back and having me, just minutes before he was due to fight a duel to the death with a seasoned warrior. The prospect of fighting always made Brinn horny, but even so…

 

“Master – yes - you can enjoy me instead of fighting! Just say the word and I will run to your furs. I will give you such pleasure… you know I will. But first, let me speak to the men of the tribe on your behalf and then…”

 

“A moment, Kwame,” said Brinn as he picked me up without warning and slung me over his shoulder, my ass facing front, my head to the rear. “My blood is up. We shall fight to the death, as you wish, but my slave is too distracting. I beg your indulgence.”

 

I don’t think the tribal men knew what to make of this as Brinn strode into the long grass and tossed me down onto my rump. The groin of his tunic was already ‘tented’ out with a prominent bulge. To their mind he was either insane or so supremely confident he was going to fuck one of his slaves before fighting to the death. Someone should have objected, but even Kwame stared in disbelief as Brinn reached down, pushed me to my back and stripped the cloth from my hips. 

 

“Master – you have a duel…” I squirmed myself up on my elbows as Brinn pulled his tunic from his body. Everyone got a good look at the size of his penis, quivering with need, stiff as a hunting spear as he grinned at me.

 

“No one is in a hurry to die,” he said as he crouched down beside me and thrust my thighs apart. “Kwame - you may use Chloe while you are waiting, if you wish. I’ll be half an ahn or so.”

 

The duel circle had already formed in the long grass at the village edge - a ring of tribal men, their dark bodies painted with ochre stripes like wounds from the earth itself, spears grounded, shields at rest, eyes hard and unblinking. Kwame stood at one end, spear in hand, shield strapped to his arm, his face a mask of fury carved from obsidian, betrayal burning in his gaze after Brinn's confession had shattered the illusion of companionship. Meralisha knelt nearby, her sobs muffled now into ragged breaths, her hands twisting in the wilted garland that hung limp from her neck like a noose of broken promises. The village women clustered behind her, murmuring prayers to the river spirits, while children were hushed and kept back. The three moons hung low, their silver light turning the grass into a sea of whispering blades, the river murmuring beyond like a distant judge.

 

The tribesmen watched in stunned silence, spears forgotten, faces a mosaic of shock and fascination. Kwame's knuckles whitened on his spear, his body rigid, but he did not intervene. The duel had not begun, and this... this was a pale warrior's way, alien and audacious. Meralisha sobbed hysterically, hands clawing at the earth as though to pull her brother back from the edge, her world shattering in the firelight. "Stop… please, serpent spirits of the river, stop this!" she cried, her voice breaking into a plea that pierced the night.

 

But my Master was oblivious to it all. Brinn entered me then, quick, hungry, deliberate, his weight pinning me to the grass, the blades tickling my back as I gasped, arching beneath him, my hands clutching his shoulders as he moved, deep and unrelenting. The world narrowed to him - his breath hot against my neck, his voice murmuring low, "You’re mine, Emma. Always mine." My body began to respond the way it always did when a man takes me like this. Pleasure coiled tight, helpless and fierce, my cries mingling with the river's murmur, the drums silent now but my pulse throbbing like their echo. Brinn seized my wrists in his strong grip and pressed them down, either side of my head, the way he knew I liked to be held – to be completely mastered. The tribesmen's astonishment hung heavy. Men whispered, "he claims his slave... before death?" but Brinn ignored them, taking me with a warrior's rhythm, each thrust a defiance of the circle, of Kwame, of the spirits themselves.

 

When it ended, we came together - my cry sharp and breathless, his low growl vibrating through me. He held me a moment longer, breath ragged, then rose, retrieving his scarlet tunic, buckling his belt, picking up his sword and shield. The grass clung to my skin as I knelt again, my breech cloth discarded, body trembling in the afterglow and the chill of exposure. Meralisha's hysteria peaked. her wails turning to screams, her body rocking as women held her back.

 

Brinn turned to Kwame, sword ready. "Now we fight," he said calmly, as though the delay had been nothing - a mere breath before the storm.

 

The challenge was accepted in the old Ushindi way - no elders' debate, no spirits invoked, just a circle cleared in the packed earth, ringed by the village men with spears grounded, women clustered behind, children hushed and wide-eyed. Meralisha stood at the edge, her face ashen, hands twisting in her wrap as though to wring the pain from her heart. She knew - oh, how she knew - the risk: her brother, strong as a tharlarion, risking his life to avenge a broken promise she had believed was eternal. Tears glistened in her eyes, but she did not speak. To beg would shame them both.

 

I knelt at the circle's edge, close to Mina, Saffron, and Chloe. My heart hammered like the village drums, fear coiling in my belly for my master. Brinn was no stranger to blood - he had fought as often as he had fucked slaves, but this was different. This was honour, raw and tribal, with death as the only end. Tijani stood nearby, hand on his own hilt, ready to intervene if the circle broke, but his face was grim. "Fight well, brother," he murmured, despite his feelings towards this unnecessary duel.

 

Brinn stepped forward, buckling on a small round shield of hardened leather and wood - traded from a Schendi merchant - and drawing his short sword, the blade glinting wickedly in the light. Kwame mirrored him, his own shield broad and oval, etched with river serpents, his spear long and tipped with blackened iron that caught the sun like a promise of pain. He wore only a loincloth, his body oiled and painted, muscles rippling like the river in flood.

 

The two men stepped into the circle, the crowd falling silent. No words were spoken - no chants, no blessings. Only the jungle's breath: leaves rustling, distant bird calls, the river's murmur like a watching spirit. They circled each other slowly, feet shifting in the dirt, eyes locked. Kwame moved first - a feint with the spear, thrusting low toward Brinn's thigh, shield held high to guard his chest. Brinn parried with his own shield, the impact ringing like a struck drum, and countered with a quick slash that Kwame blocked, the wood cracking under the force.

 

The fight exploded then, vivid and brutal, a whirlwind of motion that made my breath catch in my throat. Kwame was a storm - his spear lancing out like lightning, thrusting high for Brinn's throat, then sweeping low to hook his leg. He moved with the grace of a jungle predator, feet dancing in the dirt, shield a blur as he deflected Brinn's probing strikes. Once he nearly caught my master - spear tip grazing Brinn's arm, drawing a thin line of blood that welled bright red against his pale skin. The crowd murmured, Meralisha's hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror and hope.

 

But Brinn was the sea - relentless, adaptive, his short sword a viper's strike. He closed the distance where Kwame's spear was weakest, shield bashing forward to unbalance the tribesman, blade slashing in arcs that forced Kwame back. The clash of wood on wood echoed like thunder, metal ringing on metal when spear tip met sword edge. Brinn's muscles bunched and flexed, sweat flying from his brow, his grin feral now as he pressed the advantage. He feinted left, drawing Kwame's shield wide, then spun right - a low sweep of his sword that clanged against Kwame's parry, drawing a grunt of pain.

The duel turned savage. Kwame roared, lunging with his spear in a flurry of thrusts - high, low, centre - driving Brinn back toward the circle's edge. The crowd tensed, spears lifting slightly. Meralisha whispered something - a prayer, perhaps - her face twisted in anguish, realizing the man who had claimed her body now fought to abandon her, and her brother risked everything to avenge a love she had thought eternal. But Brinn held, his shield absorbing the blows with cracks that splintered the wood, his sword parrying the spear shaft until sparks flew.

 

Then the opening came. Kwame overextended - a thrust too far, his shield dropping for a fraction of an ihn. Brinn exploded forward, shield bashing Kwame's arm wide, short sword thrusting low and true. The blade sank into Kwame's thigh, blood blooming dark against his skin. Kwame staggered, spear faltering, and Brinn pressed - another slash across the arm, then a brutal shield slam to the chest that sent Kwame sprawling in the dirt.

 

The tribesman rose with a bellow, blood streaming, spear raised for a final, desperate lunge. Brinn met it head-on, parrying the spear aside, closing in, sword flashing in a downward arc that bit deep into Kwame's shoulder. Kwame dropped to one knee, shield falling, spear clattering away. Brinn stood over him, breathing hard, sword poised.

Brinn's blade fell - a clean thrust to the heart. Kwame gasped once, eyes widening, then slumped forward, lifeless, blood pooling in the dirt like spilled wine.

 

The circle fell silent. No cheers, no cries - only the jungle's breath and the river's murmur. Then Meralisha shattered it. She broke from the crowd with a wail that tore through the air like a spear - raw, hysterical, a sound of pure anguish that made my own heart clench. She flung herself to Kwame's body, hands clutching his painted chest, blood smearing her fingers as she rocked him, sobs wracking her frame. "Brother! No, no, you can't - Kwame!" Her voice broke into incoherent keens, tears streaming down her face, body shaking as though the river spirits themselves had gripped her soul.

 

The village men shifted, spears lowering, faces grim. No one moved to attack. Kwame had challenged, Brinn had won fairly. But Meralisha's hysteria echoed on, a lament that filled the clearing, her nails digging into her brother's lifeless flesh as though to pull him back from the spirits' grasp. She turned wild eyes on Brinn, voice cracking. "You took him! You took everything - my heart, my honour, my brother! Curse you, pale thief - may the river serpents drag you under! May you lose everything you have ever loved!"

 

Brinn sheathed his sword, face unreadable, blood streaking his arm. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. The duel was done, honour avenged in blood, but the cost hung heavy in the air like storm clouds.