John Norman - Nomads of Gor

“Fifteen!” called the judge, and I streaked on kailla back from the circle of the boskhide whip.

I rode at full speed, for there was not a beat to lose. Even if by good fortune I managed to tie Albrecht, Elizabeth would still belong to the Kassars, for Conrad had a clear win over Kamchak. It is dangerous, of course, to approach any but a naive, straight-running, perhaps terrified, girl at full speed, for should she dodge or move to one side, one will have to slow the kaiila to turn it after her, lest one be carried past her too rapidly, even at the margins of bola range. But I could judge Dina’s run, two left, one right, so I set the kaiila running at full speed for what would seem to be the unwilling point of rendezvous between Dina and the leather of the bola. I was surprised at the simplicity of her pattern. I wondered how it could be that such a girl had never been taken in less than thirty-two beats, that she had reached the lance forty times.

I would release the bola in another beat as she took her second sprint to the left.

Then I remembered the intelligence of her eyes, her confidence, that never had she been taken in less than thirty-two beats, that she had reached the lance forty times. Her skills must be subtle, her timing marvellous.

I released the bola, risking all, hurling it not to the expected rendezvous of the second left but to a first right, unexpected, the first break in the two-left, one-right pattern. I heard her startled cry as the weighted leather straps flashed about her thighs, calves and ankles, in an instant lashing them together as tightly as though by binding fibre. Hardly slackening speed I swept past the girl, turned the kaiila to face her, and again kicked it into a full gallop. I briefly saw a look of utter astonishment on her beautiful face. Her hands were out, trying instinctively to maintain her balance; the bola weights were still snapping about her ankles in tiny, angry circles; in an instant she would fall to the grass; racing past I seized her by the hair and threw her over the saddle; scarcely did she comprehend what was happening before she found herself my prisoner, while yet the kaiila did still gallop, bound about the pommel of the saddle. I had not taken even the time to dismount. Only perhaps a beat or two before the kaiila leapt into the circle had I finished the knots that confined her. I threw her to the turf at the judge’s feet.

The judge, and the crowd, seemed speechless.

“Time!” called Kamchak.

The judge looked startled, as though he could not believe what he had seen. He took his hand from the side of the standing kaiila.

“Time!” called Kamchak.

The judge looked at him. “Seventeen,” he whispered.

The crowd was silent, then, suddenly, as unexpectedly as a clap of thunder, they began to roar and cheer

Kamchak was thumping a very despondent looking Conrad and Albrecht on the shoulders.

I looked down at Dina of Turia. Looking at me in rage, she began to pull and squirm in the thongs, twisting in the grass.

The judge allowed her to do so for perhaps a few Ihn, maybe thirty seconds or so, then he inspected her bonds. He stood up a smile on his face. “The wench is secured,” he said.

There was another great cry and cheer from the crowd. They were mostly Tuchuks, and were highly pleased with what they had seen, but I saw, too, that even the Kassars and the one or two Paravaci present and the Kataii were unstinting in their acclaim. The crowd had gone mad.

Elizabeth Cardwell was leaping up and down clapping her hands.

I looked down at Dina, who lay at my feet, now no longer struggling.

I removed the bola from her legs.

With my quiva I slashed the thong on her ankles, permitting her to struggle to her feet.

She stood facing me, clad Kajir, her wrists still thonged behind her.

I refastened the bola at my saddle. “I keep my bola, it seems,” I said.

She tried to free her wrists, but could not, of course, do so.

Helpless she stood waiting for me.

I then took Dina of Turia in my arms and, at some length, and with a certain admitted satisfaction, collected my winnings. Because she had annoyed me the kiss that was hers was that of master to a slave girl; yet was I patient because the kiss itself was not enough; I was not satisfied until, despite herself, I read in my arms her body’s sudden, involuntary admission that I had conquered. “Master,” she said, her eyes glazed, too weak to struggle against the thongs that encircled her wrists. With a cheerful slap I sped her back to Albrecht, who, angry, with the tip of his lance, severed the bonds that had confined her. Kamchak was laughing, and Conrad as well. And, too, many in the crowd. Elizabeth Cardwell, however, to my surprise, seemed furious. She had pulled on her furs. When I looked at her, she looked away, angrily.

I wondered what was the matter with her.

Had I not saved her?

Were not the points between Kamchak and I, and Conrad and Albrecht even?

Was she not safe and the match at an end?

“The score is tied,” said Kamchak, “and the wager is concluded. There is no winner.”

“Agreed,” said Conrad.

“No,” said Albrecht.

We looked at him.

“Lance and tospit,” he said.

“The match is at an end,” I said.

“There is no winner,” protested Albrecht.

“That is true,” said Kamchak.

“There must be a winner,” said Albrecht.

“I have ridden enough for today,” said Kamchak.

“I, too,” said Conrad. “Let us return to our wagons.”

Albrecht pointed his lance at me. “You are challenged,” he said. “Lance and tospit.”

“We have finished with that,” I said.

“The living wand!” shouted Albrecht.

Kamchak sucked in his breath.

Several in the crowd shouted out, “The living wand!”

I looked at Kamchak. I saw in his eyes that the challenge must be accepted. In this matter I must be Tuchuk.

Save for armed combat, lance and tospit with the living wand is the most dangerous of the sports of the Wagon Peoples.

In this sport, as might be expected, one’s own slave must stand for one. It is essentially the same sport as lancing the tospit from the wand, save that the fruit is held in the mouth of a girl, who is slain should she move or in any way withdraw from the lance.

Needless to say many a slave girl has been injured in this cruel sport.

“I do not want to stand for him!” cried out Elizabeth Cardwell.

“Stand for him, Slave,” snarled Kamchak.

Elizabeth Cardwell took her position, standing sideways, the tospit held delicately between her teeth.

For some reason she did not seem afraid but rather, to my mind, incomprehensibly infuriated. She should have been shuddering with terror. Instead she seemed indignant.

But she stood like a rock and when I thundered past her the tip of my lance had been thrust through the tospit.

The girl who had bitten the neck of the kaiila, and whose leg had been torn by its teeth, stood for Albrecht.

With almost scornful ease he raced past her lifting the tospit from her mouth with the tip of his lance.

“Three points for each,” announced the judge.

“We are finished,” I said to Albrecht. “It is a tie. There is no winner.”

He held his saddle on his rearing kaiila. “There will be a winner!” he cried. “Facing the lance!”

“I will not ride,” I said.

“I claim victory and the woman” shouted Albrecht.

“It will be his,” said the judge, “if you do not ride.”

I would ride.

Elizabeth, unmoving, faced me, some fifty yards away.

This is the most difficult of the lance sports. The thrust must be made with exquisite lightness, the lance loose in the hand, the hand not in the retaining thong, but allowing the lance to slip back, then when clear, moving it to the left and, hopefully, past the living wand. If well done, this is a delicate and beautiful stroke. If clumsily done the girl will be scarred, or perhaps slain.