Zork (10) by Peony D Beckside

 

Zork

Peony D Beckside
Illustrations by Arizona Wanderer

In appreciation of, and with thanks to John Norman for creating the wonderful world of Gor, in which this story is set.

Chapter Ten: Lydius

 

The Narrative of Kiki

 

We are on the edge of the town of Lydius.  This town is close to the mouth of the Cartius River; the Northern Cartius, not to be confused with the equatorial one.  It’s been a long journey from Ko-Ro-Ba.  Some would see coming this far west as going out of our way, but given the trackless nature of the Northern Forests, the consensus was that keeping close to the coast might be easier and safer than trying to cut directly across from some crossing point further east.  It’s remarkably difficult to keep a straight course through thick woodland.  There’s a tendency to find oneself walking in a circle.  Getting lost in such a manner, not being wise.  If we follow the coast as best we can, we will get to Torvaldsland more surely, though it take longer. It has the added advantage of us being able to resupply at Kassau and Helmutsport.

There is an abandoned barn here on the outskirts of the town.  Cadmus addresses Zork.

“I think that we are likely to be in this vicinity for some three to four days, perhaps more .  Will you be safe sleeping here?”

“I am safe anywhere I can swing my axe!”

“Yes, I know that Zork, but can you keep out of sight?  If you are seen, a mob of citizens might try to kill you.  We can bring you food; a verr, a tarsk, even a bosk from time to time.”

“I not hungry for verr, tarsk, or bosk...”

I for one shiver.  I know the kind of meat Zork craves.  I can tell from the faces of Clystemous and Cadmus that they are not happy at the prospect of Zork killing a human, but Zork is Zork.  He is his own being.  He will do what he wishes irrespective of the feelings of the men, even less mine.

“Make sure you aren’t seen then, Zork.  Clystemus, Kiki, and I are going into town.  We will be back at least once every day.  That fine with you, Zork?”

“Yes, go.  I know you need companionship of your own kind from time to time.”

“Thank you for your consideration, Zork.  You are the most understanding of beasts!”

I climb back on board the wagon as it trundles into the heart of the town.

Shortly before the core of this rough-and-ready burgh, Cadmus notices a leather-worker’s shop.

  He calls out to the man in apparent charge.

“What time do you close your business for the night, please sir.”

“At this time of year about the seventeenth Ahn.  The light’s giving out by then.”

“But you can measure by lamplight?”

“Yes, but why?”

“We will have business for you.  We will return shortly after the seventeenth Ahn this evening[1]  You will understand why we cannot come earlier in your business day, then.  We pay well!”

“Very well.  I will see you then.”

Cadmus drives the tharlarion wagon forward into an ever thickening crowd.  He stops outside a paga tavern. Why doesn’t that surprise me?  What does, is that instead of leaving me chained to the wagon, he unfastens my leash and takes me inside with him and Clystemous.  Before he does though, taking a marking stick, he writes on my décolletage.  It’s difficult to read upside down and at such an angle, but I think that I decipher the words as ‘Private slave, not for general use.  Yes, I can read.  One of my previous Master’s had me taught so I could help in the administration of his business.  I know then from the sign outside, that this is the ‘Tavern of Sarpedon’, not that that means much to me.

The men sit on cushions at a small table opposite an open sand-filled area next to which three musicians tune their instruments.  I kneel next to Clystemous, hoping that my camisk is long enough that I’m not showing my all to those on the opposite side of what I take to be a dancing floor.

A lithe dark woman wearing little more than two strategically placed scarves comes forwards and kneels before the Masters.

“How may ‘Hot-lips’ please you, Masters?  She may provide you with anything you desire.  What is your preference, Masters?”

She freights her greeting with every sexual innuendo of word or body posture.  I hate her!  They are mine! Yes, I know that I am Cadmus’, not he mine, but that still doesn’t help me curb my jealousy.

“Paga, for two.  A small ka-la-na wine cut with water, for our slave.”

I am genuinely grateful.

“Thank you, Master”

The girl scurries off.

“Yes indeed, Master.  She returns as rapidly as is possible, so as to serve you in whatever other way she may.”

I have a horrible feeling that tonight I will be sleeping alone, chained away from the warmth of one or other of the two men; neither of them wanting me.

There is a skirl of music.  It’s ‘catchy’.  Compared to the music I inculcated in my youth on Earth, the rhythm has a barbaric boisterousness to it.  It’s not unpleasant, and though not a piece I specifically know, I am now familiar with the sound of Czehar, double-flute, Kalika and Kaska drums enough to appreciate them.

Onto the dance-floor springs a veiled woman swathed in layers of diaphanous silk.  What she wears is a pastiche, a caricature, a travesty of a free-woman’s robes of concealment.  The dancer shuffles around the floor imitating the half-hearted dancing steps of just such a free-woman.  There are cries of disapprobation and disgust.  Some, I suspect are fake, to set the atmosphere.  There is the sound of a whip-crack.  The dancer shudders and cries out, her fingers reaching for and unfastening, discarding a veil from round her shoulders.  Her arms are bare now.  At her wrists are copper bangles that are faintly reminiscent of shackles but without a linking chain.  The woman’s dancing is more lively now; still very stiff and restrained but not as much as before.  The whip cracks again.  Again the woman acts as if struck by the lash.  She hastily unwraps herself some more, revealing her midriff, her slave-belly as it is called here.  This woman is carrying not the slightest amount of extra weight.  The trimness of her waist is breathtaking.  I have no sexual interest in women, but even I can see that such a waist bespeaks a true beauty of body underneath what’s left of her costume.  I’m not the only one that thinks so.  Several men strike their left shoulder in applause, even though the dance is far from over yet.  The woman’s movements have become more fluid still.  I am transfixed by her and the skill with which she’s teasing the audience.  The whip cracks yet again.  The dancer unwraps a long piece of cloth from around her legs, revealing them in all their glory.  She now, in addition to hood, veil, and bodice, only has a thin pelmet of a skirt, a travesty, a belt.  Like a camisk, this skirt barely hides the dancer’s private parts and ass, yet still the woman dances ever more wildly yet somehow without revealing her intimate flesh!  I am in awe.  How can a woman do that?  The whip cracks.  The hood of the dancer is removed, revealing burnished well-kept hair, which she swishes enticingly.  Her dancing is increasingly wild.  Another crack and the fullness of the dancer’s bosom is on display and being jiggled excitedly.  I am astounded to realise that my heartbeat is elevated, my breathing shallowed, a tightness in my breasts, yes there’s even an incipient dampness between my thighs.  This cannot be!  I’m becoming aroused watching this woman’s dance.  How can it be?!  I am not, to use an Earth word, a lesbian, so why this excitement?

The woman now only sports a face veil, her pelmet skirt and a scarf round her throat; the latter doubtless to hide her collar, implying that within the dance she’s still a free-woman.  It wouldn’t surprise me if this scarf wasn’t intended to be the last garment removed, symbolically showing her finally enslaved. What’s to be next?!  With bated breath I, and I suspect most of the rest of the audience, wait for the whip to crack again.  The pelmet skirt is gone.  The dancer cavorts wildly.  Onto the dancing floor steps a man.  With his posture he restricts the room for the dancer to work in until he stands directly in front of the woman.  She is ‘at bay’.  The man reaches for the woman’s face veil and rips it off.  The woman’s face is a rictus of utter horror at this symbolic face-stripping, even though she’s been effectively stripped of everything else.  So well does she act this moment, that the applause is plentiful.

The dance is not quite over.  The woman twists away from the man, wildly running  and leaping round the dance floor, as though seeking an escape from the slavery that’s so symbolically inevitable.  The man closes in ready to remove the neck scarf, effectively revealing her collar, enslaving her.

Something’s wrong!  The woman’s lost her footing!  She cries out in basic English.

“God Damn-it!”

Her attempt to recover has her landing badly.  The dancer cries out in pain, falling right in front of Cadmus and Clystemous.  Clystemous is up and picking the dancer up almost before anyone is aware of her injury. The dancer whimpers as she tries to stand, to put her weight on her injured leg.  Clystemous lowers the slave onto the cushion he’s just vacated.  Such an honour is unheard of, a slave sitting as a free person would. Sitting, well, almost reclining.  The slave is naked, and is clearly used to being so, so she has no need to try and cover herself up.  I look into the eyes of the dancer; she has tears of pain in hers.

Clystemous kneels beside the girl feeling along her leg ankle and foot.  The slave whimpers as Clystemous gently manipulates the dancer’s ankle feeling for what the problem is.

The tavern owner, Sarpedon, arrives.

“You clumsy fool, Vella!  You can do better than that.  Perhaps I should have you whipped to encourage you to do better.”

Cadmus corrects the tavern-keeper.

“Sir!  The slave is not at fault.  She was tripped!  A young man, barely old enough to be in here, fair haired, thought it a joke, a prank.  Clearly he’s not yet old enough to know that there are consequences to what we do and when we do things.”

“This is true, sir?”

“I saw it with my own eyes…”

“I think I know who you might mean.  I’ll have to have words with him…”

Sarpedon turns to Clystemous.

“You are a physician, sir?  Is she badly hurt?”

“I was once sir, until I was captured and enslaved.  I have since been manumitted, but reinstatement into the caste is not retrospective.  There are no broken bones, but the ankle is badly sprained.  For a couple of days she’ll be barely able to walk.  She shouldn’t dance again though for at least a week.  If she does there’s a danger of crippling her permanently.  I don’t suppose you have access to ice at all?”

“Not at this time of year, sorry.”

Clystemous turns to me.

“Kiki.  Go to the wagon and bring the box of the physicians.  You know the one I  mean?”

“Yes, Master.”

I scurry out to the wagon, thinking on the curse-words in English, the dancer had used.  Is she like me, what is called ‘barbarian’, an Earth girl.  Will I get the chance to talk to her.  I hope so, but am not optimistic.  The box is big and heavy.  I can carry it, but not hurry with it.  I deposit it at the side of Clystemous.

Clystemous turns to Sarpedon.

“You may leave the slave’s care in my hands, good sir.  At least for now.”

“Your help is appreciated, physician.  Your party will not be charged for your paga today.  If you need payment, as long as it’s not unreasonable, then I will consider it.”

“The paga will be welcome, mine host, but not currently being in the caste, I cannot charge for my services.  I’ll give you a full report on the girl as soon as I’ve done what I can for her.”

“Thank you, again.  I didn’t catch your name, sir.”

“Clystemous.  Originally of Ar.  Now a simple traveller.”

Sarpedon nods and returns to his business.  I request of Master.

“Master, may I speak with the woman?  I think that like me she’s a barbarian, there’s a lot of catching up to do.”

“You want to use your barbarian language?”

“Yes, Master.  I fear that I’m in danger of forgetting much of it.”

I see from the corner of my eye that this ‘Vella’ is intrigued and hoping Master says yes.

“Very well, but you will be respectful, and discreet.  You understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

Neither Master, not Clystemous have ever given any indication that they know any English at all, but I begin to wonder if perhaps one or other of them do.  I turn to ‘Vella’ and switch to English.  After a couple of ehn of listening to the dancer and I chattering, Master gets up and seeks out Sarpedon.

“Greetings sister.  I suspect that you understand me in this language.  I’m Barbara Gledhill formerly of London, now named Kiki, and you?”

“Pleased to meet you, Barbara, I’m Elizabeth Cardwell formerly of New York City.  They call me Vella now, but you already know that.  I can’t remember when I last met anyone I could talk to in English.  Tell a lie!  It was when Tarl Cabot abandoned me here.  Worse still he told Sarpedon that I was a trained dancer.  I got whipped for not telling Sarpedon that.  Do me a favour and if you come across the rat, stab him for me.”

It’s a wish only.  She knows that I won’t even if an opportunity presents.  For a slave to kill a free-man, she would probably die a most excruciating death.

“So, Barbara, what are you doing here in this ‘end-of-the-world’ town, then?”

“Just passing through.  We’re going north, through the forests to Torvaldsland.”

“I’d ask you if that’s wise, but since you aren’t free to decide, all I can say is ‘take care’.”

“Why not wise, Elizabeth… Liz?  Lizzie? Betty? Bessy?  What do you prefer?”

“Liz will do.”

“Thanks, Liz.  Not wise?  How?”

Clystemous interupts our little tête-à-tête.

“Vella, I’m going to spread some ointment on you ankle.  It’s going to sting.  Then I’m going to wrap it in a long thin cloth.  The cloth must be kept tight.  Only slacken it off if your foot begins to go blue.  You understand?  You heard what I said to your Master.  You shouldn’t dance, or even practise for a week at least.  I know it’s not your choice, but do all you can to rest this ankle of yours.”

“Yes, Master.  Thank you, Master.”

Liz turns back to me.

“Have you never heard of Panther girls?”

“No, can’t say I have.”

“They’re women who’ve gone wild.  Some have fled unwanted free-companionships, others are fled slaves who’ve managed somehow to get their collars off.  They live wild in the forest, living off the land.  Don’t be fooled, and don’t underestimate them.  From what I hear, over the years they’ve captured and enslaved many unwary travellers, mostly men.”

“Enslaving men!?”

“Precisely, which is why you shouldn’t underestimate them.  It’s said, when the take a man, they shave a strip of his head at the centre from back to front, to designate them slave.  When they bore of a slave, they take him to a beach on the coast and stake him out for passing ships captains to see. Galley captains always need fresh oarsmen.  The slaves are sold for metal arrow-points & candies and the like.  If they can’t sell a given slave, they simply cut his throat.  At least that’s the story, and I believe it.  There’s been hundreds of men that have come here, gone into the forest, but never came back.”

After a short while, Clystemous takes ‘Hot-lips’ to a slave alcove.  I know not how long he’ll be gone.  It’s not my business anyway.  Later, as we return to the barn where Zork is lodged, I apprise Cadmus what Liz had told me, particularly as regards the dangers of the Panther Girls.  Clystemous would, I’m sure laugh them off as being ‘merely girls’ that a man, any man should be able to brush aside.  Cadmus is, I feel a more cautious and prudent man; one less inclined to complacency.

 

The Narrative of Cadmus

 

“Tavern-keeper, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name, I wonder if you can help me.”

“Sarpedon…  If I can, I will.”

“Ah! The eponymous Sarpedon.  Thank you.  I understand that there’s a ferry across the river here in Lydius?  You wouldn’t happen to know any details of it?  My companions and I would go north through the edge of the forest to Kassau, and perhaps beyond.”

“Sure.  Usually three times a day, just after dawn, at the tenth ahn[2] and again at about the sixteenth ahn, so as to be able to get back before sunset.”

“Thank you.  Does the ferry take wagons?”

Sarpedon laughs.

“There are no roads, no tracks beyond the small village on the other side of the river.  No, it’s passengers only, though it’s big enough for a large hunting party.”

The part about there being no roads  or tracks, I’d already gleaned, hence the appointment with the leather worker.  I laugh sardonically.

“I don’ t suppose that you know anyone who’d be interested in buying a tharlarian and wagon, do you?”

Sarpedon thinks for a moment.

“You could try Frankel.  He runs a freighting business between here and Piedmont.  That’s him over there...”

He points to a table on the other side of the dance-floor.

“Thank you.  One more question, if I may?  Is it possible to get a guide, someone who knows the forest, and the way through to Kassau, and beyond?”

“Don’t know anyone this side of the river.  Might be someone in the village on the other side…”

“I thank you, for your time, mine-host.”

“It’s nothing!  I appreciate your companion’s assistance with Vella.  The sooner her ankle mends, the better.  Her  dancing brings in a surprising number of customers.  I need her on the dance-floor.  Best of luck in the forest.  It can be dangerous.”

I head off to talk to Frankel about disposing of the wagon.  I take him out to examine the merchandise.  He gouges me terribly on price, but then I half expected that.  I told him that we’d need it for at least the next four or five days, and that I would deliver it to him on the fifth or earlier.

I return to our table in just nice time for Clystemous to be enticed by that sexy little witch, Hot-lips into an alcove for all sorts of ‘fun and games’.  He at least had the grace to hold off until I returned.  He’s not so irresponsible as to leave Kiki unattended in this room full of osts[3], we might never see her again!

 

The Narrative of Zork.

 

It is dropping dark, almost totally so.  Cadmus, Clystemous, and Kiki have returned.  Cadmus advises.

“It is time,  The leather-worker will be expecting us.”

For the humans there is just enough light for them to see where we are going.  I do not have that problem.  It is clear when we reach the premises of this artisan, that I will not be able to get through the door.  I circle the building and see that there is a yard at the back, with a wall I can easily climb over.  Cadmus goes back to the front to announce our arrival.  I climb silently into the yard.  I hear faintly through the walls and windows, the conversation.

“Good evening, sir.  Thank you for waiting.  I’m sure that you are curious.  I’m sorry, but I didn’t enquire your name, sir.  I am Cadmus of Ar.”

“Faucher, of here”

he jokes.

“How can I help you, please?”

“We are going north into the forests, and ultimately to Torvaldsland.  As I understand it, we can go no further with a wagon…”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“We require backpacks for our party.”

“Not a problem, but why the secrecy?  I can probably outfit the three of you from stock.”

“There is another of us.  He awaits us in your yard.  I suggest bringing a lamp.”

I stand in a shadow so that the man doesn’t fear enough to retreat back into the building.  The four humans stand in the centre of the yard.

“Where is this other person and why is he afraid to come to my front door?”

I respond as I step into the yet faint moonlight.

“I am here.  I would not get through your door.  Nor would I willingly terrify your neighbours, and subsequently rouse the whole town.”

The flatness of inflection of my translator does nothing to ameliorate the fear that springs into the heart of this Faucher.

“What the…!  Priest Kings save me!”

Cadmus calms the man.

“He will not harm you as long as you do not do or say anything threatening.  He is intelligent and honourable.  You can see surely, why Zork being open in daylight, in the town, would cause fear and consternation.  We need you to measure my friend for a kur-size backpack.  Yes, his species is called Kur.  Zork’s backpack to incorporate in it a sheath for his axe, so he may be able to quickly bring it into action should he need to.”

I lift my, to humans, fearsome axe.  This Faucher nearly faints again.  He pulls himself together and reaches for his tape measure.

“Lord, er..., Zork, would you be so kind as to turn round and sit, so I can measure your back, your chest, your shoulders.”

I let him measure me.  When he’s finished, using a claw, I draw in the sand of the yard, what I have in mind. Faucher asks some questions to check that he understands, he even makes a couple  of suggestions.

“You will make it good and strong?  It will be carrying much more weight than a pack for a human. I’d not want to have to return…”

I let the implied threat dangle before returning to practicalities.

“How long to make pack?”

“Four days, Lord.”

“Cadmus, can the rest of you be ready for then?”

“Absolutely, Zork!”

“Excellent, Faucher.  We will return in four days time.  Please arrange payment, Cadmus.”

 

It is almost dawn on the sixth day.  Yesterday we packed what we think we will need into the backpacks. Those things left over, have been abandoned, or sold by Cadmus before he delivered the wagon and tharlarion to the man he said he’d met in the tavern.

It is time to go.  Unusually, there being three moons here, there is no moonlight this night.  The streets are pitch-black,  Cadmus fastens a rope to the back of my pack; the humans holding onto it so not to get lost.  I lead the way, adjusting my speed so that even heavily loaded Kiki can keep up.

Within the hour we are at the quayside where the ferry departs.  I find a building side that will remain in shadow as the day lightens.  I hear the ferryboat crew arrive before they are visible to the humans.  The crew prepare the boat, and a small number of passengers shuffle towards the craft.  I suggest to Cadmus that he lead.  He seems very clever at calming down frightened humans.

Cadmus approaches the person in charge.

“We need space for five people and a slave.  One of our number is rather large.”

I loom out of the semi-darkness.  The man like many others looks terrified.

“What is that!  I’m not carrying that!”

Cadmus tries to soothe the man.

“He’s not a problem.  We are taking him away from your town…”

He lays stress on the word ‘your’.

“He’ll kill us all!”

Clearly in this case Cadmus’ arguments are not working.  I reach for my axe and turn up the volume on my translator a little.

“Take us across, or I will kill you…  You have five ihn to comply.”

The ferryman recognises the cogency of Zork’s argument.

“Please get aboard Sir, or whatever you are.”

Within an hour we clamber out of the ferry up to the small village nestling on the edge of the forest.

---

[1]     About eight-thirty PM

[2]     About midday

[3]     Ost: a small and deadly poisonous snake.