A Barbarian Pirate in Gor

by PuzzleRaven

Summary:

Taken from her ship and crew, a new arrival upon Gor finds herself confronted at every turn by those telling her to be men's slave or who would force her to serve men.

Wait, this is what they call men?

Well, she's twice the swordsman they are, and Gor is delightfully unplundered.

For Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, it is ripe for the taking.

Notes:

Re-uploading due to database corruption on the original.

Chapter 1: Blood on the Sands

A Hyborean Pirate in Gor

Gresh sat up in the saddle uttering an oath and pointing. Halket followed his gaze. A lone woman was walking through the sands, a bedroll slung across her back, but for her to stop in her tracks as she saw them. The draft tharlarion lumbered onwards, and Gresh smirked for his luck was changing. Halket had won the bet to ride the High Tharlarion escort, while he was stuck on the low-caste cargo animal, but the High Tharlarion was no capture mount. Gresh would have first chance at gaining a slave and easing this damnably boring duty.

It was all Halket's fault for spying the new white-silk. They'd been distracted on duty, and caught at it. The caravan master had beaten the slave black and blue, and sold her upon the market. Gresh and Halket had sent to travel the supply-run to the town for food and the like, with no slaves to do the work. It was far too harsh a punishment for so minor a transgression; the goods had been loaded by the merchants' slaves, but they must do the day-long journey alone. They had not even been given coin for a coin girl, but that was no hardship: they found one anyway and once she had entertained them both sufficiently, Gresh had cuffed her round the head for being displeasing and left her sobbing in the gutter. The vision before him made her seem drab.

The woman was a beauty by any reckoning. Her hair, the colour of sun-spun gold, had been hacked off level with her jaw by someone with no regard to her looks, though that scarcely marred her beauty. The milk-white skin of her face mirrored that bared between the bottom of her white silk bodice and red scarlet leggings, the colours a bewitching mix of innocence and experience, and the legs bared between the tops of those pantaloons and her leather boots were slender and shapely. The straight double-edged sword that hung at one sweet hip, and the dirk at the other did nothing to change his impression, confirmed by the pierced holes his experienced eye found in each ear.

A runaway slave then, and one who carried a man's blades. The law said she should die, but relieved of those unwomanly weapons and restored by the ministrations of an experienced slave master, she would be a beauty to grace any pleasure couch, and her fetching form would fetch quite a price. He'd enjoy disarming her and teaching her her place.

To find such a treasure was a gift he'd not overlook. It would have been greater entertainment on their kaila, to run the girl down and pin her between them, but on such a dull duty he'd take what sport he could get. Halket was grinning back, and he saw they shared the same thought. The high tharlarion Halket rode would most likely eat her, and they'd lose their amusement, so the game belonged to Gresh. He nudged the slow, massive, beast towards her, and the other draft animal followed.

The woman's sea-blue eyes were stormy as she watched them, her hand dropping to rest on one shapely hip and the hilt of the sword that hung upon it. He let his gaze linger on the soft skin bared at her midriff, with an air that should have her prostrated and begging to please. She did not belly herself, and he smiled. One truly wayward then, who thought herself free, perhaps the equal of a man since she carried their weapons. A shame the sleen were at camp, or he reconsidered, that was a good thing, for he had no desire to lose such a prize to the hungry reptiles. His thalarion swung its head, brainlessly seeking food, and he pulled it up.

"Woman, you are far from home." She scowled, and he repeated it in those other languages he knew from his journeys to capture slave-stock from far off worlds.

"Truth indeed," the beauty called back, her voice carrying clearly. She spoke not the language of Gor, but a bastardised English from that corrupted place called Earth. She was but newly bought here by the Priest-Kings then, and he thanked them for their gift. "Where is this place?

"Gor, the city-state of Ko-Ro-Ba." He swung his leg over his saddle, dismounting as he pulled a rope from his pouch. A lower caste may fear a blade even in a woman's hands, but Gresh wore the blue and yellow and knew the truth of women. Had he his kaila, to ride her down and scoop her up would be the temptation, for she could not know the use of those weapons she carried. On the larger, slower, thalarion, she may harm him or his cargo by accident in her panicked flailing, even if she was but a woman and could not do so by skill. "Where are your companions?"

"In Selos." He coiled the rope between his hands, looping the snare ready. The beauty had not the sense to run, or too much confidence, her fingers curled loosely about her sword as she watched the rope. Oh, she knew the use of that and, as he had hoped, it drew her eyes. His off-hand dropped to his waist casually, closed round the handle. His whip flicked forward, the end unravelling far longer than the short binding rope, to loop her shoulders, waist, and snare her arms.

Like lightning she moved, dropped to her belly like a panther not a slave, five slender fingers hitting dirt as her raised hand whipped the sword free, slicing up and across the length of the whip that passed above her. Full three feet of leather dropped, flopped, in the dirt and she was back to her feet and out of range of what was left. He curled the whip back, curved it round and over his head in loops, and began to circle.

Her blade was keen as a razor; it shone silver-white, not the healthy yellow tint of bronze. A fine weapon, too fine, of steel and surely in breach of the Priest-Kings' law, and he would keep it as a trophy for all that. He flicked the whip out again, fast, at her feet so she must misstep and let him close and then at her arm to snare it and bring himself a pace nearer, and then he caught her wrist to twist it so she must drop her sword, and he gasped. There was a searing pain in his gut, and the glint of victory in her eyes. It could not have been a trap - he was a man and warrior!

Uncomprehending, Gresh felt the strength flee his grip. The woman twisted, crouching to confront Halket's charging mount, as her dirk slid from his opened belly. His entrails hit the dirt, his knees fell atop them, not supporting him, and Gresh of Ko-Ro-Ba, captor of a thousand slaves, fell on his face in the dirt and died.

+

The wingless dragon was tall, broad and two-legged, intimidating for sheer size though it had no great speed. Its huge legs pounded forward in lengthening strides, too close to her to build momentum. It could not turn with any ease, but if she was before it, those giant feet would beat her into the dirt. Its great toothed head could swing to savage her if she was not wary. Still, if the mount was strange, the fight was not. Cavalry was an old, familiar, foe.

She let it close, ran aside from its path at the last breath. Its head swung towards her, but its own speed carried it onwards as she closed. Her raised longsword guarded her head from the rider's slashing blow. Her dirk skated across the lizard's thick scales to cut the saddle girths through. The rider fell, flailing, his saddle still under him, but his mount not beneath the saddle. In but a heartbeat his saddle struck the earth, his arms thrown up in surprise. One step back upon her heel, a lunge, and her longer sword was thrust out and down. It struck home in his eye, and deeper, to bury inches within the skull beyond. The slaver twitched, grunted, choked, as he spasmed and was still.

His mount skidded to an ungainly stop, and stood, an expression of shocked surprise upon its face. She walked round it warily, and it hissed, turning its gaping mouth upon her. A mouthful of hand-long teeth bearing down on her was also not new, and she rounded on it, slapping the flat of her blade across the nose as she would turn aside a shark. The dragon roared its protest, paced back, at bay but not beaten. She did not lower her guard, though she stood, her eyes never from the beast as her blade cut the belt free from the corpse. There was no more upon the body she wished to keep, and it stank of sweat and riding. With no better use for it, she gripped the ankle, heaved the body as she would a boarding rope, straight towards its former mount. The creature sniffed it, then pounced.

With the beast safely distracted, she noted the poor make of the swords. Testing them with disgust, she took the longest and best-made of the unwieldy bronze blades to strap across her back until she could find a better. If these slavers rode, or she must fight a-dragon back, she would prefer reach. Their pouches of gold coins she tossed it in the air in delight, pouring all the gold into one pouch for ease. These were familiar, even in this unfamiliar place, and gold she always knew the use of. Stripping what little else she found useful from the corpse, she tossed it to the dragon who was eating as if it were long famished. The larger four-footed beasts stood off and watched placidly, wary of the hunting beast though there was little intelligence in their eyes.

She smiled, for life was good. Money, a sword and a mount was all she needed, and these slavers had kindly provided. With a mount and cargo beasts she could cover much ground and carry twice the plunder. If they would not let her ride, they could be eaten, though reptile meat was rank.

A barbarian does not think like civilised men; they do not agonise over what maybe or borrow tomorrow's troubles. So it was with her. Conan had been with her, now he was not. He may at some future time find his way to her, he may not. She saw no need to think much upon such happenstance, when she could strike for the coast, commandeer a ship, and slay those aboard who would not serve her until she was pirate queen again. And then let the cities of the coast beware for Valeria of the Red Brotherhood would teach them the true meaning of plunder!

Chapter 2: Under Wing

Summary:

In which Valeria discovers that the men of Gor do not seem to learn - but then they rarely live long enough to.

Under Wing

Where desert gave way to wide scrub-lands, a rider travelled, mounted upon on a great four-footed reptile and leading another of its kind. The lonely rider would have drawn eyes had there been any near, for her beauty, her foreign clothes, and for the two swords at her sides. For this was Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, who tales are told of wherever sailors gather, and yet she found herself far from the sea.

Upon the scrub-lands, not even rivers ran, but Valeria sniffed at the air and unerringly turned her head. With a barbarian's knowledge of the land, her keen senses smelt water though none was in sight. The afternoon was in its midst, the heat oppressive, and she cast about eagerly for a place to camp, her knife-cut, blonde, hair stirring in the faint breeze.
Turning the reptiles with shouting and hard pulls upon the reins until she was happy with their path, she raised a hand to shield her eyes. Though the heat haze of midday was dying down to a barely cooler afternoon, the air still shimmered, but to her reckoning there was a darker patch upon the ground a way ahead.

The reptiles trundled on, like ships on a sandy sea, as their captain stood, balancing upon their backs sure-footed, and gazed ahead. Now they too sensed it, and their pace picked up, so much as a mountain can be said to lumber. Far behind her, lost to sight in the shimmering heat gaze of the sands, a great bipedal reptile lay dead. Valeria would have preferred it for her mount, for it had been faster and better for battle, but it had proved incorrigibly vicious. She had been forced to slay it, though that feat had not been easy and there were many marks upon her. A place to rest would be most welcome.

Ahead, it was no oasis, she saw, but a small watering hole in the desert, hardly below the level of the sand, with just enough green and scrub grasses to darken the land about it. Valeria looked about it, seeing the faint signs of wheel ruts in the dirt where others had watered their beasts. Satisfied it was safe, for the water was clear and crystal where it rose from the sand and there was no discolouration or foulness in sight, she let the beasts drink. As the reptiles sunk their noses in the water, Valeria slid down from their backs. She stooped to refill her water bottles, soothing her sore and sun-reddened skin in the clear water.

It was mid-afternoon, early to cease for the day, but this was the first water she had found for two days. A break and a sleep before she travelled onwards would be wise. She could not see a city's smoke on the horizon, but at night their lights would shine against the sky.

She gathered twigs and what sticks she could find, and laid a fire, leaving it unlit. When night fell it would be needed, for the desert nights were as cold as the days scorching. Searching the supplies upon the reptiles' backs, she found the rations from their former riders, and a little dried fruit. Settling herself at the edge of the pond, dangling her legs in it to ease cramps from too long riding a strange steed, she tore into the hard jerky with her teeth. The sweet juices of the fruit stained her fingers and left her mouth sticky so, uncaring of her garb, she plunged into the water and washed herself clean, stretching out on the sands so the sun would have her, clothes and all, quickly dry.

She had been lying a while in the warm, when a shadow fell across her as she lay. Her eyes flew open and her hand went to her sword, but the threat was not near for she had heard nothing. Raising a hand, Valeria squinted into the sun. That birds should circle above travellers in the sands was not strange, for vultures are ever opportunists. Keen-eyed as any who make their life at sea, she knew the shape of vultures, and these were not they. The pointed dagger-like wings were those of raptors, not the finger-like fringes of scavengers, and there was no collar of feathers at the throat but a smooth sweep. Their shadows upon the ground should have them at a height where she could see their shapes and colours clearly, but distance blurred them to silhouettes.

Large birds, then. Larger than any she knew, and circling with the form and patterns of hunting raptors, and Valeria swore on sea-gods and reached to fasten the quiver at her side.

Three she counted, three and a fourth to the north that wheeled away, losing interest for so small a morsel as a girl would be little food for them. Her mounts would be much.

There was no cover, no rocks, nor forest, merely plain sand for miles and the small scrub of the watering hole. Swiftly she pulled an arrow from the quiver, wrapped and tied a rag around the tip, not taking her eyes from the great hawks above. As swiftly she served the rest of her arrows the same, striking flint sparks on to tinder where her fire was laid. Most animals fear fire and those that do not are still harmed by it. Most certainly, Valeria knew, those with feathers or fur have reason to know caution.

These did not turn aside. Hungry then, or stupid, and Valeria cursed her luck. Indeed as the smoke rose, they dropped closer and their shadows grew to engulf the lizards. Eagles, she saw, eagles and man-sized, and - she glowered and spat - ridden by men. Valeria thought little of the men of this land. Those she had met had, to a last one, tried to collar her or name her slave, and to the last they had persisted until they had died for it. On bird-back, they'd not even carry much gold as consolation for her troubles.

Now, if she could take one as a mount that would be fine indeed. She had grown so frustrated with the reptiles, placid though they were, that if it had not meant carrying water herself she'd have skinned the pair for leather.

Above, the riders on their backs were small shapes but clear, holding a complex web of reins that led to the birds' heads. The first faint sound of shouts carried to her. Directing their birds. or planning among themselves and waiting for fear of their mounts to cow her, it did not matter to her jot. The cruel, hooked, beaks and wide talons easily the span of a man's waist were fearsome indeed and she did not discount them. But Valeria had fought worse - on first meeting Conan, they had shared a dragon's death between them - and she was no cowering girl.

She wet handfuls of leaves and threw them on the fire to raise a great plume of black and choking smoke. Should they dive on her from downwind, they must fly blind and within a plume of sparks which were no friend to feathers. From upwind, she stood where they must stoop upon her and the fire both. Her bow to hand, she knew it shot too short to reach them where they circle. She would have to snipe them as they stooped.

She swept the arrow through burning embers, set it smouldering to her bow and yet still they circled above, debating no doubt, who should pounce upon her.

"Cowards and dogs," she cried and the embers of her arrow smouldered less than the embers of her eyes "Are you afraid to face me?" Whether it was her words, or that they had settled their argument themselves mattered not. One of the great birds folded its wings, stooping like a sea-eagle for fish, to snatch her up in those great talons.

Blazing fast it fell, from sky to earth in a breath. Valeria was faster. Not for nothing was she named lightning with a blade. Her title of terror of the seas had been well-earned. She drew her burning arrow upon a dot, released it into a bird's silhouette, and it sunk its full length into the broad feathered breast that filled her view even as she dived forward, rolling between its talons. The wind of its passing knocked her ungracefully flat, the trailing slash of a talon drew blood from her back and a cry from her lips, drowned by the ear-splitting shriek of a bird. She, hurt, scrambled to her feet. It could not. Its length was part-buried in a trough of dirt many feet long, and its head was twisted so its beak lay upon its back. All this she saw in an eye-blink and set aside as quick, for there were two more birds and the shadow of a second was upon her.

She flung herself aside, the wind of its passing tearing her bow from her hand. Her sword whipped out, drawn from its sheath without thought, striking out to cut nothing but air, for it was passed her and rising again and she must throw herself to the dirt as its fellow's stoop nearly had her.

With daring admirable in a friend, detestable in a foe, the great bird's wings snapped wide. It turned on a wing-tip, near in its own width and Valeria was caught! Iron-shod talons closed on her and she turned herself desperately, that they would wrap her body and not pierce it. Her sword was in her hand and she struck upwards, once, twice, and again. One blow sunk but inches into feathers, one slid across them to hit upwards into leather, striking skin and drawing a man's cry, and the third, as ground became more danger than safety, bounced from the iron of the talon and struck deep into the leg that held her.

The talons opened. The smooth ivory she grasped at slipped between her fingers, and she fell, striking the earth with a force that knocked the wind from her.

To lie stunned and witless in battle is to die. Valeria, gasping, came to her feet, stumbling not for the sword she had dropped in her fall, but for the fire. Her arrows were by it, and her bow, and the beast above circled so low she might shoot it with ease.

Valeria's eyes widened, some instinct warned her, as smoke billowed forward. She leapt aside, threw herself her length on the ground to slide the last feet as the smoke plume was torn apart by wings and talons and one of her damnably daring opponents risked the blind attack. Buffeted, rolled away, her hair wildly in her face from the wind as it passed, she cared not. She had her bow ready, and her arrows, and she plunged three of them into the scattered coals. It was not the bite of the tip the eagles feared - but tiny needles to such huge beasts - but the touch of fire that may set themselves ablaze. The riders knew it also, and feared it, for they rose again, set themselves to circling with their ally if not so high as they had been.

"Cowards and curs!" she taunted again, in a voice to cut through Southern storms and carry ship to ship. "Two men aloft and one woman afoot, and you cannot defeat her? I think you not men at all!" Her taunts riled them. One, younger maybe, or brasher, turned his bird's head to dive. In an eye-blink she had drawn and fired, set and drawn again even as the first arrow was knocked aside by the sweep of giant wings. Her second struck one of the great pinions, by the joint as it hunched and flexed. With a screech that chilled her, it broke off the dive, making for the sky as her last lit arrow struck the narrow fan of its tail. The rider turned, flailing, beating out the flames with what seemed a cudgel or goad. Valeria smiled, for all that she had but seven arrows left.

"Fleeing for a few scorched feathers?" She called, cheerily. "Come back here and I'll singe your beard too - if you're old enough to grow one."

"I'll collar you and gift you to every man in Ko-Ro-Ba!" The shout back had the uncertain, newly-broken, sound of a youth's. She scoffed aloud.

"There are no men in Ko-Ro-Ba!" A movement caught her eye. The rider of the fallen bird was stalking her, her own sword in his hand. She set an arrow, unlit, not drawn and raised her bow.

"Kneel, and I'll not slay you," she offered, for she still knew little of this land and company would be welcome were it pleasant.

"Hah!" He laughed, not slowing. "Belly yourself at my feet. You'll not find me an unkind master!"

"I find you no master at all. Lay yourself in the dirt, or I'll put you there." With a bark of laughter he lunged for her, her own sword swinging. He aimed not for her body, but her bow, a strike she saw before even he started moving. Her arrow was drawn back, released full into his face. He struck it aside, with a bark of laughter, and his sword diverted, his efforts earned him her foot full-force to the parts men value most, and her dirk stabbed into the thigh he turned to protect them.

The thick muscle of his thigh severed and blood sprayed, for she had struck the thick vein beneath it. He clutched at the wound as he fell, as if he would keep his life blood within him. She kicked him in the face for good measure and tore her longsword from his weakening grip to stick it through her belt. Arrows were the better weapon here, arrows and her voice.

The eagles still circled above. Flushed with the thrill of battle, Valeria tossed her head and railed at them.

"Come then! How can you bed a woman if you fear to come in arms reach?"

"You have no honour!" The shout came from above, an affronted youth's. Valeria laughed freely. A barbarian viewed honour as something the civilised spoke of, but with no real meaning. A pirate viewed it as something better found in their foes.

"Among thieves I've found plenty." She laughed, again and freely. "Gold, I value more. Run back to your mother's skirts and hide there, boy!"

Her words struck home. A cry of rage echoed from above. The rider turned his mount towards her, grey smoke trailing from tail and wing, and she set arrow to bow - and did not draw.

The great bird had baulked. The rider flailed at it with crop and goad, yanked at the reins to force its head. The bird did not take such treatment meekly. It bucked, dived, climbed and tossed its head with such force the goad was ripped from his hands to dangle from his wrist and snare in the reins. Had it not been for his ropes, surely the rider must have been flung from his mount.

The other rider turned towards her, not caring for his colleague's distress. His bird stooped to the attack and she turned an arrow to him. In a blink she saw it for the feint it was, did not waste the arrow as the eagle passed too high to threaten or to shoot. She crouched against the wind, her hair lashing at her face as the dust rose and raced, and wiped her face against her shoulder to clear it from her view.

Above her, the rider still struggled. Valeria need not ride the great birds to see that the youth's plight was dire indeed. It was the better for her, for it left but one for her to be concerned about. That one was shouting to the youth, but his tones were not the advice of a mentor but the mockery of a bully. When mounts were restive, be they horse or ship, or even bird, Valeria knew to turn their heads from trouble not towards it. The youth did not know this, or - too young, too proud, too brash - he had forgotten it. He yanked once more at the web of reins, violently, as the bird tried to shake him from its back, and then it plunged and dived.

Valeria drew and loosed, leading on it, yet the bird's wings snapped wide and it stalled, hung in the sky. Her arrow missed, sailed high, striking not the vital part of the chest but the more vital part - the rider. He screamed, clutching his shoulder. The reins dropped from nerveless fingers and the bird, given its head, turned westwards and fled. The shout of the older rider echoed after him instantly, and Valeria did not need to know the language to know that he cursed him for a coward. It did not matter: the bird flew but two wing-beats before it rolled.

With a startled, despairing, scream a small figure dropped away, falling, flailing, trailing a broken purple strap like a sash. Behind it, wheeling on the wing, came its erstwhile mount; not to rescue but stooping, talons spread wide, like the gigantic beast of prey it was. In the same breath as the rider struck dirt and was silenced, its talons speared into and around him. It arched its head, and its cruel beak over-topped Valeria's head for all that she was tall even for the lands of her birth. Its wings mantled round its fallen rider as it opened its beak and hissed a warning. Then it dipped its head. When it rose again, the beak was red.

All this Valeria saw, but paid scant mind to. Her thoughts and her weapons were turned to the foe above, as a gust of stinking smoke sent her crouching, coughing and blind. A great buffet of wind knocked her from her feet, sent her tumbling a dozen feet or more, extinguished the embers of her arrows, and left her lying in the dirt. Her sword was gone from her belt, her bow from her grip. To one not used to the blast of cannons, the whistle of mortars, it would have left them stunned and crying.

Valeria was no civilised man, to ponder and shake. She was a pirate, and warrior to the marrow of her, and when thought flees a warrior's instinct remains: Instinct that flipped her over to her back as iron-shod talons a yard long dug into the dirt by her head. Instinct that snatched her fallen bow from the ground. Instinct that, as the cruel hooked beak flashed down, edges like razors spread wide, baring a tongue longer than her arm, that drove the tip of the un-arrowed bow straight into the heart of the shiny black eye above her.

It shrieked and reared its head, a dreadful cry fit to chill a man's blood and set a woman cowering and crying. She rolled to her feet, wit returning though thought was slow to, and raced for her longsword where it glittered in the dirt. Behind her came the curses of a man and the hisses of an eagle as it stomped after her like a lesser bird stalks a mouse.

It was half a hundred paces to the sword, and for each Valeria took, the eagle's pace covered three of hers. The longsword was beyond her reach, the dirk too short, the bow unarmed. The shadow on the ground eclipsed her own, and she ducked aside frantically, under the shade of one vast wing as the beak struck out too slow to catch her. Fire flashed through her shoulder, blinded her in a shock of white light that sent her to her knees. Only the nearness of the talons and the fear of the beak drove her onwards, forwards, under the wing and behind it in the hope that on the ground it could not turn so fast.

A man's mocking laughter straightened her spine, leant strength to her limbs. Thought returned in a rush, for she knew that laugh and what it portended. For such a laugh, she had killed a captain of the Free Companions, for all he was cousin to the Sultan, and Conan had killed his men. For such a laugh, she had knifed Red Ortho himself and fought free of his brotherhood. Deep in her savage heart, her fury was roused, and he faced now not the pirate queen who fought for the pleasure of it, but the woman who razed cities for such insults.

All this passed within her in an instant. Her foe, for all his skill, could not know what he had wakened in her. Indeed, he may have thought her flushed face and proud stance a lust of quite a different kind; the thought of writhing impaled below him on a couch, and not the thought of him and all he loved impaled upon spikes that their stolen gold may be squandered.

The beat of wings sent another great blast of air at her, but this she was wise to. Valeria jumped, rode the gale, rolled with it as she would a sea-wind. As the great iron-shod talons struck earth, she was at her longsword faster than ever she could have run, and the razor-edged steel was at home in her hand.

Now she laughed, for all she was out-reached, out-paced, out-numbered, she laughed for she was armed, and she would fight and win or lose, she would make it a battle not quickly forgot. Valeria moved herself nimbly, so that should the bird rise again the gust should carry her towards fire and arrows. As it stomped towards her she uttered a great war-cry and lunged, feinted, towards its sore and weeping eye. It bridled back and turned its head to regard her solely with the furious, brimming, malice, of the other.

Such openings were what she sought, dashing forward to slash at the wide, feathered, throat. The rider's reach was long enough that his cudgel struck her blade, struck it aside, ad as it did lightning cracked between her weapon and his. Had her hilt not been leather-wrapped, she would surely have dropped the blade as she recovered.

"Belit's tits!" Valeria cursed aloud and freely, as her stinging fingers went numb. Only the threat of her sword, feinting in ineffectual threat at its face, turned aside a fierce stab of the beak. The bird reared back a step, would have taken a second but for the rider's harsh curse and strike of the lightning stick to its neck. The great bird thrust its head forward, screamed a war-cry that had Valeria crouching in spite of herself, chills racing down her spine as something primal told her to flee and was driven silent by the fierce rage that she, of all woman, should fear such.

While it was screeching, the great bird was not moving. Valeria was. Its rider, complacent, or struggling with his steed, paid her less attention than he should. She swayed, the length of her body skimming the dirt, as nimble as any dancer, her arm stretched full above her head, and swept up from the dirt not her bow but arrows. With as graceful a stoop as the eagle's, she bowed, and in the same stroke the arrows swept through the coals and kindled.

A beat of the great wings drove a gale of dust against her, set the embers to a furnace, kindled the arrows she held from smouldering to ablaze, and Valeria crouched low to not be blown bodily from her feet. She thrust her makeshift torch at its head, followed through with a strike of her sword, not at the bird but at the web of reins the rider held, barely swaying back to dodge his return strike and the sorcerous cudgel struck down.

Defeated by her dodge and by the size of his own mount limiting his reach, the rider cursed, pulling on the web of reins to draw the bird's head round to her. Two straps moved: the third dangled, cut short beneath its beak. As he reached for it, she paced back, seeking the bow she had discarded. In flight the eagles were hard to hit, but on the ground they made for a large target. Valeria reckoned five arrows would be enough. Her feet struck wood, and she glanced down. Dirk and cudgel lay upon the ground, ground that was stained red with the blood of her first kill. Her foe now had the reins between is hands, was knotting them with a sneer. The glance he gave across her body was one she knew to well and cared nothing for. The frustration and rage within it when he met her eyes, Valeria had earned and warmed her pride.

"She-sleen!" he swore at her, and she laughed, keeping one eye upon him while she sought her bow. He had the reins knotted now, and her arrows were burning close to uselessness. "Kneel, or I'll not collar your neck, I'll hack it through!"

"Worthless words," she retorted. "Two of yours lie in the dirt, and I think you no better fighter!"

"Urt! You'll give me two sons for the one you slew!" Valeria paid him no heed. Her eyes were on the bow, tangled in a low brush in the desert scrub. She ran for it. Her slim hands yanked the yew wood free, heedless of the scratches, and she looped the string. From behind she heard him cry out: 'Tabret' and then cursing. Turning on her heel she set the arrow, near burned through, drew the bow, and loosed, taking in in an eye-blink that the bird had not turned on her on the command, but to her lizard mounts. The rider's goad was raised to thrash it once again. Her arrow caught him below the arm, pierced but little for the burning wrapping behind the tip stopped it, and drew a scream.

The second, the third, struck feathers and held, burning. The bird reared and the rider sat tall, pulling it back. Quick as lightning, Valeria struck the last arrow against the dirt, snapped tip and burning wrapping from the shaft, and fired. The shaft took him in the throat, sank in it until the feathers were against skin and a full foot stood out beyond his neck. He reached up for it, the goad falling from his hand to dangle useless at his wrist. Gripping the end he made to pull it free, and a great gout of blood erupted between his fingers. Sensing its rider's distress, the eagle turned its beak back with that marvellous facility birds have, to stare its rider in the face. He swore, clutching he neck and struck weakly with the goad, hitting not the feathers but the weeping, damaged, eye.

With a shriek of outrage, the bird's hooked beak closed round the man's head and with a snap and a crack it jerked. Red spurted as it raised its beak skywards, gulping its morsel down. Turning back, it tore again, wit more confidence for the pain of the goad had not come. It pulled at an arm that flopped, then with more cleverness, beneath its wing for a trailing leg that it severed with a bite.

Valeria did not tarry. There was but one corpse to loot, and that one's mount was dead. With haste, and an eye on the two great birds at their meals, she took all from the body to explore later, yelping as she took up the sorcerer's stick and tossed it to catch the loop like one who has picked up a brand by the wrong end.

Throwing her new bounty across her saddle she mounted one lizard, lead the other, and left with what pace the lumbering beasts could make. Nor did it seem they were averse to leaving; that pace was more than she had seen from them yet. It seemed they had no more liking for the great birds than she had. While riding one had its appeal to Valeria, she preferred a mount that would not try to eat her, or one that would be easier to kill if it did.

Behind her a great creeling arose, a trailing screech that sent a trill of terror down her spine. In the fading light, her fire nothing but scattered ashes, there were but two great shapes silhouetted against the setting sun. Shapes that lifted a limp form between them and, with a single powerful yank, tore it in two.

Valeria did not take her hand from her sword until they were out of sight. Nor did she slow the lizards in their panicked flight until the sky was truly dark and true birds would be at their rest. Though their pace slowed, she did not stop. The desert had given way to scrub grasses, and then true grasses, and these were eagles, not owls to fly at night, but they would be aloft at dawn and she wished distance between them by then.

They travelled the night through, but it was only as day broke again, the sun rose - and as Valeria knew, birds with it - that she saw somewhere safe to stop. A copse, sheltered by a rising hill from which a clear spring bubbled to a lake just visible between the sheltering trees. Yet Valeria pulled the lizards back, chiding them when they would have gone for the water. For though the place was sheltered from birds by the rich canopy of leaves, her eyes narrowed as she counted the figures between the trees.

Chapter 3: Trials upon the Trail

Summary:

Warning for Gorean attitudes to women, and Hyborean attitudes to murder.

Trials upon the Trail

Valeria eyed the copse warily. While this land claimed to be civilised, this did not mean it was welcoming. A barbarian would often offer hospitality at his hearth, and woe betide the guest who broke such rights. Among those who called themselves civilised, such agreements held no force at all. Here, among the men of this land, she had found only lies and attacks, and had duly repaid each with steel. Much to her bemusement, none seemed to guess that a woman who carried swords might know the use of them. Still, that was to her advantage, for none of the men here were worth more than the Stygian guards who accounted themselves the best in the world. She had been their better.

The trees would hide her from the great birds, and from those bandits that travelled on land. That did not mean they did not hide other perils, and Valeria did not rush to them.

Wisely she drew up the lizards behind a clump of bushes, tying their reins so they could not wander nor be seen. They followed placidly, raising their huge heads and tearing with vigour at the leaves, which made enough noise that she feared they would be heard. Pulling down upon the reigns did nothing, for the lizards had their very small minds focused. She did not have the strength to turn them, indeed she found herself hanging from the reins as t lifted its head to higher branches.

Leaving them to their meal, she crouched low.  Her belly to the earth, she snaked forward across the low scrub. Safe behind a low bush she pulled in her legs, and watched. Nothing came forth. Her lizards were either unheard, or perils were patient. The veteran of a thousand betrayals, Valeria gave it time enough before she moved again. From bush to bush she darted, allowing the trees to hide her from anything within the thicket. Whatever was within did not know she was there, or was waiting for her and would not venture forth. Stealthy even on sand and grass she found herself a place close enough to see and made herself very small behind a thorn bush.

Between the trees, there was a small lake, or large pond and by its shore what seemed a trade caravan. But a single covered wagon she spied, crudely made but serviceable, and beyond it six horses tied to and partly obscured by the trees of the copse. The horses seemed oddly shaped, but what in this strange world was not? 

She peered closer, looked for the colours of yellow and blue of the sorcerers who had brought her here. She did not spy them.  The colours on the wagon were of brown and black, the men who wandered and talked wore red, but Valeria was not fool enough to think that made them safe.

Six men she counted, and there were six horses. Six was no great matter, to sneak from bushes and cut throats, or to match steel with. Yet she made no move. That within the wagon was unknown, and she was no fool to charge danger unwarned. She was without sleep and saddle-sore, and they were fresh. The scrapes and grazes of the fight the day before were still tender.

A pirate did not live long enough to be legend without knowing the value of caution. The wagon was but serviceable and spoke of no great riches. The escorts were but six and tended to their steeds with some irritation, speaking of poor training and that they were not of great expense. They were, as she saw, breaking camp and soon would be gone from the pool she sought. There was nothing here worthy of a fight, Valeria judged. Still, she did not lower her guard.

Watchful, she waited, still and silent. A warrior rose, walked to the edge of the trees. She held herself very still, the red of her trews the colour of the berries behind which she crouched. She did not look at him directly, so the reflection of her eyes would not betray her, but watched the ground for shadows, listened for the sounds of approach. There were none.

After a time, there came the crunching and grinding of iron carriage wheels upon grit. She risked a glance to see their direction. The caravan was on the move, its wagon flanked to each side by three riders. There was something in their posture that piqued her. She had seen the same when she had been hired by the Lords of Dereth to guard their treasure fleet from the depredations of pirates in their waters: pirates who were her own fleet. That had been a good haul, indeed! There was something within the caravan they were guarding, but also something they were keeping within. The possibility of treasure drew her interest, but water and rest came first.

The route they took was not well-travelled, going north if Valeria judged by the sun correctly. The ground was dry and their tracks easy to follow. She would see to her needs first, and then she would follow.

The land was flat, and it took them long minutes to move beyond view. Once they were beyond easy view, she went back to untie her mounts from the now depleted bushes. The first beast barely moved, it mouth full of leaves, until she struck the recalcitrant thing upon the rump with the flat of her blade and hauled its head round with main force towards the lake. What passed for intelligence sparked in its eyes. Valeria found herself jogging beside it as it lumbered forward over the bushes towards the lake. Its companion followed, tearing up the bush it had been tied to in its haste for the water.

She let go of the reigns before she was dashed into a tree, and watched her beasts plunge their heads deep into the pond. With words that fitted her pirate heritage, Valeria picked up the reins and untangled the remains of the bush. Knowing what horses could be like when left to their own devices, she looped the reins round a tree that seemed stout enough, more for encouragement that the lizards stay than any foolish hope they could not uproot it if they so desired. She tore into the rations within the supplies and refilled her water bottles, splashing the road dust from her skin. Done and dry, her stolen bedroll was calling her. 

She unfolded it upon the ground, but did not sleep. Her hand went to her sword, for that sense gained in the wilds prickled at her neck. Caution whispered, and she froze, strained her ears. There was no noise within the trees; even the chirping of insects had ceased. The unseen songbirds that had serenaded her were silenced. Her hand began to ease the blade from sheath.

The faint cry came on the wind, shrieking, creeling. A shiver ran down her spine, and something small crouched and huddled below a bush. The reptiles had stopped drinking, raised their heads to the sky, and backed up to place themselves below the canopy so far as their leashes allowed. As much a creature of the wild as any of them, Valeria moved close to a tree trunk, looking up to where danger must come. The cry came again, louder, drawing a shiver down her spine. She knew it then for the great hunting birds that she had fought. The great shadow of one passed across the trees, dimming the light where she sheltered, and was gone, onwards. The light returned, and with it, slowly the sounds and light of the forest. 

Valeria traced its path for what she knew of the land, and knew she was not the only predator hunting the caravan. That was the warriors' concern and not hers. It was too her advantage, in fact, for the great birds may thin the numbers for her and predators did not eat gold. 

Still, some wariness remained. To be stooped on in her sleep by such a bird would be to die, and there were other predators to fear. She bundled the bedroll tight round bags of cloth, shaping a passable person-shape, and lay the poor weapons she had captured by it, where a man would have them to hand. A few bags of copper coins were laid within the decoy, that it would jingle and wake her if she was asleep when trouble came. That done, she took a blanket, stained it with dirt so it should blend in, and bundled herself within it, in the thickest of the thorn bushes, a thing that even the reptiles did not eat. She had suffered more uncomfortable berths, and swiftly she was asleep.

#

A pirate sleeps with one eye open, for those that do not will quickly lose both, and their life. A woman in a mercenary company must have ears open as well; being ready to defend both gold and honour at the slightest sound. So it was that Valeria awoke in a heartbeat, before even copper clinked. The man was not stealthy, jumping from his mount so his boots struck the dirt loudly, and striding not sneaking across the grass. He left his mount, which Valerie saw to be no horse at all, and strode to her bedroll with the cracking of twigs underfoot. Had she been within it, she could have skewered him twice over, if he were no better warrior than he seemed.

"Tal!" he cried out, then some words she did not understand. Valeria said nothing, easing her right hand to her dirk. Her longsword was no easy weapon to draw within the close confines of a bush and the blanket that enveloped her. The man frowned, receiving no reply, and drew his own short sword. He prodded a little at the bundle, and the rattle of coins was loud. Valeria took the chance, moved so she could roll free from bush and blanket both, and covered the noise of her movement with the noise of the bedroll. He threw back the covers upon it and laughed. He scanned the ground casually, seeking tracks, and called out again. She did not understand his words, but his tone, jovial though it was, she knew too well. She stayed still, her dirk but half-drawn.

He grinned, looked more closely at the ground. Valeria would have cursed. Her tracks were not so covered as they should have been. She had been tired, and though they wound a path, those marks she had left would inevitably lead to her.

He called out again, amused, more words she did not know, and began to follow the marks. For him to talk, to keep his eyes to the ground suited Valeria's purposes. She must steal each inch of steel against clinging thorns and branches that threatened to snap and warn him. He had gone to the waters' edge, then to the lizards and checked the knots that held them. He called out something again, but she had not yet found a man within this place who'd not attacked her and she knew better than to trust a stranger. She pulled again.

Disaster! A branch, thorns caught upon the blanket, snapped like a bow-shot. Her dirk was free of its sheath as she drew it. He turned in a breath and Valeria threw herself free of the bush, uncaring of the cuts as the thorns sliced her. The bush was between them, her dirk too short to reach across it.

"Who are you to raid my camp?" she challenged. He stopped, puzzled for a second, and smiled widely, walking towards her.

"You knot the thalarion well. Learned from your master no doubt." Now he spoke a tongue she knew, though his accent was foreign.

"No, from my Captain." She raised the dirk, going on guard. "Not one step closer." 

"A pretty knife you have there," he called across, as jovial as before, but his face darkened. "Such things are not for women. Drop it before I take it and give you a blow for your trouble."

"I'll keep it, and give you twice the blow for your effort," she retorted, her blood roused. When the fight is inevitable, a barbarian knows is to be enjoyed. He stopped, looking her over, and now he seemed puzzled. The lay of the bush had hidden her longsword, and she saw no need to reveal her blade unless she must.

"You wear warrior red, not slave silks," he said. The dirk was in her right hand, he must think it her sole weapon. Yet the longsword hung to her left, and for all she could fight with it in either hand, to draw a longsword on its same side and not across the body was no easy thing to do. "Do you think you are a warrior? You are a woman."

"I am both."

"There is no such thing."

"There are many!" Valeria retorted, stung. "Have you heard nothing of Belit, scourge of the southern waters, or Yasmina, of the ten thousand horses?"

"Nothing at all." He was grinning as a man may humour a child. "Where are you from?"

"Hyboria," she answered, naming the entire world for a pirate has no home. There was no recognition in his eyes.

"Then you are far from your homestone." He shrugged. "But you are in Gor now, and will learn your place." He began to circle round the bush, with less caution than her dirk merited. Valeria kept pace opposite, keeping the barrier between them. He spoke her language, and his words had told her more of this strange world than any man she had encountered before. He had also lived longer.

"What land is this Gor?" she questioned, for if he still breathed, that breath could be useful to her.

"Gor is the whole world, no mere land." He was humouring her; a private joke at her expense and Valeria did not like it. "You have come to the lands ruled by Ko-Ro-Ba"

"I have come nowhere," she rebutted, still circling, for if the fool let her reach her bow she'd give him an arrow or two for her trouble. "I slept aboard ship and I awoke here."

"Brought by the Priest-Kings then," he said, and Valeria hawked and spat, for she did not like this talk of sorcery.

"Where may I find them then? I've a scar or two to give them before they send me back!"

"They dwell within the walls of Sardar, but none may set foot within them." Valeria grinned, for that was challenge indeed. "None have seen them, and to oppose their will is to die in fire."

"I shall find them, and I shall kill them." He scowled, and his amusement fell away.

"You shall not. You will give up your swords and be a slave as you were meant." He lunged for her round the bush, but Valeria was faster, and retreated as he recovered. "Come, girl, you'll not find me a cruel master. You should be honoured."

"Honoured?" she spat incredulously. "To be named slave? By you?"

"You were scouted by a slaver," he explained to her as she stared disbelieving. "They scout only the most beautiful, pleasing, girls who they see a slave fire within to be roused. Such girls are most valued once they know their place, for they can please a man like no other." Anger, for Valeria, was like fire: a tool in a fight, but a bad master. Nonetheless, it was roused within her, and her fingers grew tight on her dirk. 

"Do these slavers wear blue and yellow?"

"Those are caste colours. Did you flee those who bought you?"

"I killed them all," she said, and her fury rang in her voice. "And I shall kill any others who wear such and cross my path, and then I shall go to Sardar and tear it down around the Priest-Kings' ears. They will send me home or die on my blades."

"A pointless boast."

"I can do no less for the sake of my own self-respect!"

"A slave does not need self-respect," he laughed and lunged across the bush. His leather jerkin turned the thorns. The down stroke of his sword should have dashed her dirk from her hand, had it met it. It did not.

It is hard to draw a longsword with same hand it hangs by. There are many pirate tricks and methods said by some to be dishonourable to manage such a thing. Valeria knew them all. As his blade descended, she turned, put her dirk behind her, made herself but a slight target. Her longsword came from its sheath like lightning, drawn underhand in her off-hand, a barrier of shining steel between her side and his blade. Blade met blade with a ring of steel, yet full half the length of hers was still in its sheath. She slammed her sword back down into its sheath, her cross-guard catching his sword and forcing his blade down and safely aside, driving hand and blade both deeply into the thorns between them. Her dirk rose as she reversed her turn, and lunged. Now he must pull his sword-arm back to recover or receive her point. 

He barely missed a beat, his off-hand catching her right to twist the dirk from her grip, pulling them close. Her longsword flashed up from its scabbard again. But a foot of the cold steel blade was bared before the crowned, toothed, pommel crashed into and under the lowest of his ribs. His grip loosened with a shout, Valeria twisted free and now it was he who must dance back unless he wished the point of her dirk in his belly. 

Valeria, too, retreated, crouching in full defence. She drew the longsword underhand, rolling it round her fingers to get the proper grip. He eyed her critically.

"Set that aside," he said, like a man chiding a child.

"Afraid I might use it?"

"Bah," he spat, disgusted. "Men's things are lessened when women use them."

"You think swords are men's things?" she said, amused and affronted. 

"They aren't women's."

"Brave words," she retorted. "Come prove them." He hefted his blade, struck a few blows at her sword, not testing as a warrior might but toying with her. She met them easily, deflecting and dodging, for he was the stronger. She wasn't fool enough to lock blades.

"You have lost," he said, smugly. Valeria looked askance, for to her mind they had but exchanged a few strikes, little more than the prelude to true battle.

"We have barely fought!" she scoffed. 

"Your blade is too long. Shorter is best." Valeria raised an eyebrow for that bit of doggerel was new to her, and seemed nonsense. "A warrior knows this."

"And should a man with long arms trim his fingers then?" she taunted, and he laughed scornfully.

"The weight of the sword becomes too much. You have not won in two strikes, so you have no stamina for more. Now I need but strike your blade aside to strike you," he lectured. 

"Should you get within my guard so easily, I'd have earned the blow!" Valeria grinned as she retorted. The exchange of insults and blades was meat and drink to her, and it made her heart glad. He laughed.

"There's the slave fire in your eyes. So eager to lick-" His blow should have been a surprise, but Valeria was a veteran of a thousand such strikes. She leaned back, and pounced as he struck full-force to her sword, not to her. Her sword flicked his aside, leaning into the opening he left, recovering unharmed as he reversed his stroke upwards. Her dirk slid into the space it left, drawing blood from his shoulder. He shouted, pulling back. Cold fury blazed in his eyes, matching the wild glee in hers.

He struck out again, wildly, and now battle was truly joined. He was stronger, she was faster. The length of her blade matched the reach of his arms. When he pushed passed one blade, the second was waiting. 

She fought wrong-handed, and was in no hurry to correct that. He did not adapt so well, for her style was unknown to him. Where he expected shield or sword-breaker there was a sword the match of his own. When he would reverse a strike, her dirk was there to meet it. Yet he was fresh and she was weary.

Valeria gritted her own teeth now, for she knew she was slowing. This was not a fight to lose, for it would cost her dearly. Circling, seeking openings, she saw her chance.

With a flurry of blades she launched her own attack, not seeking the inside line that any swordsman must, but down the outside into the teeth of his offence. With her sword wrong-handed, he must defend back-handed, or turn into her strikes and give her second blade an opening. He shouted in triumph even as he made his mistake. He did neither.

He lunged fully, striking instead at her own body, his sword inside her guard. Valeria turned side-on, her dirk pushing his blade beyond her supple waist as his arm extended fully. Her longsword already descending, she drove it down upon arm and shoulder both with all the strength in her body. Bone cracked and he screamed. His sword dropped from his fingers, and he dropped to his knees, cradling his arm.

Valeria scowled, accounting herself more tired than she knew. She had not turned the sword in time. Her blow had been struck with the flat, not the edge, and that had not been her intent. Kicking his sword into the brush, she kept hers a threat, not close enough to grab. She'd not put her own blades within his reach when she could take his life as well with a simple lunge. There were other threats to think of.

"If I am no warrior, what are you?" she taunted, no malice in her triumph. "I should enslave you myself."

"A woman cannot enslave a man!" He clambered to his feet, as if she and her blades were no threat at all. She slapped the longsword flat against his shoulder, sending him reeling back to lean against a tree.

"What price would you bring?" she pondered aloud, not quite serious.

"For you? You do not even speak a civilised tongue!" Valeria spoke many of the languages of Hyborea, but the language here was new to her.

"So which should I speak?" She had an eye to making something of herself in this place, and demanding surrender in the correct language was an aid to piracy.

"The one true language Gorean, not this bastardised English you manage," he said with breathtaking arrogance. "You do not even greet a man, La Kajira."

"You sound like the grunting apes of Kor," Valeria commented, sure that whatever he had said was an insult.

 "You'd flee apes in terror."

"I killed them. Their pelts are greatly prized." He straightened up, using the tree as support. His gaze was measuring, not undressing for the first time since she had arrived here.

"You are warrior caste," he said, thinking, and she drew herself up straight. It was the first within this land to so acknowledge her, and it was welcome.

"I have been a warrior since I could walk," she said, and it was no mere boast. 

"Your name?" he asked, and there was a frank appraisal in his gaze

"I am Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, scourge of the shores of Stygia." He did not know the name, that was plain, but he nodded, his decision made. 

"Set aside your blades. I'll take you with me."

"As slave?"

"No, as Free Companion." Valeria paused, for the Free Companions were well-known to her. She had fought as one of them, then alongside them, and sometimes against them, for the Red Brotherhood and the Free Companions often found themselves in those places where war raged and gold flowed. Where there is war there are mercenaries, and she was not averse to joining a new company.

"On what terms?" she asked, her sword drawing lazy circles as she took his measure.

"You will dress as a free woman, not in slave silks."

"And how do free women dress?"

"They wear the robes of concealment. They hide your face and form from other men so slavers do not take you."

"I've killed many slavers. So long as I have my swords, they will learn or they will die." she boasted, and he frowned.

"Free woman do not carry swords. They do not need them." Valeria scowled.

"You want me as camp follower, not warrior!" she objected. "How does a woman protect herself without a blade?"

"She does not. Her man protects her."

"So far here, all I have need of protection from is men," she grumbled, "and how does she protect herself from her man?" 

"By being pleasing to him."

"And if she fails or he tires of her, she is slaved?" This place was like Stygia, Valeria decided. She had heard such offers before, most recently from the Sultan's cousin whom she had slain and whose shores she had ravaged in return.

"A free woman is not slaved within the borders of her own homestone," he explained, and her interest piqued. 

"A homestone?" Should such a thing be enough to prevent this nuisance of slavers, it was to Valeria's liking.

"You do not even know that? Truly you are in need of a man's protection." He warmed to his subject, mistaking her growing stillness for agreement. "A homestone is the heart of a city. It is priceless beyond measure. You would share mine. You would dwell within my house, with all my slaves to tend to your woman's whims. Think of the sons I could breed on you-"
 
Valeria cut his throat.
 
As he kicked and flailed, she cleaned her blades until he was quite still. Then she looted the body. More strange coins, in quite a quantity of gold and silver that always spent no matter the form. A serviceable knife and the short-sword, not badly made but no match for hers. She rolled them in his tunic and trews, for the lizard-beasts could carry more without effort. Dragging him to the bushes she left him for the scavengers and went for his mount.

No horse, but a thing that looked half-cat, with claws instead of hooves and a muzzle not soft nose. It snapped at her, and she stared at the fangs. Its flanks were well-muscled, she judged for fighting and for speed not endurance. Its shape was not that of the scrubby steeds of the desert but the great cats that pounced like lightning and were spent as quickly. Its high, peaked ears stood up like a horse's, but one was marked with a notch. The bay coat was well-groomed. The claws were trimmed and clean as it flexed them in the dirt.

"Free Companion, by Crom's tarse!" she swore, like the pirate she was. From the saddle hung collars and cuffs of leather and steel, ropes coiled ready, and a blanket of blue and yellow stowed beneath the light saddle. The beast eyed her like an ill-tempered stallion, lowering its head to tear up grass as if it tore into flesh. Staring at her from baleful eyes, it chewed as if it intended her hand between its teeth.

Valeria laughed, for she'd not risk a mount that might eat her, but breaking a wild steed that merely wanted her dead was no new thing. The saddle and harness were akin to those she knew. The rein came from a hole within the nostril, limiting for a warrior who should use their knees.

She approached from the front and it snaked its head forward. As it snapped, she punched it on the nose as she would a curious shark and it sulked back. A second blow settled its temper and she unbuckled the saddlebags.

A barbarian knows safety is not to be squandered, unlike lesser thing such as gold. Before she set herself to the trail of the caravan, Valeria would make sure she was better prepared for such a fight. 

It was late in the afternoon when Valeria left the copse. She rode on a sleek bay horse-cat, with two great lizards following obediently. A fresh sheath of arrows hung from her back, fletched in red leather, and the curved cavalry sword hung from her saddle. Her path followed the tracks of the caravan, for though there were five against one, surely they could answer some questions. It would be best to come upon them at night as they slept and thin the numbers she must fight, or take them unawares.

Homestones were the protection from slaving, it seemed. The heart of a city, he had said and priceless. Important, priceless things were often of gold and gems as Valeria had often found. If so, she thought, how much would one be worth if she stole it? 

 #

 
Late in the afternoon, Valeria came upon her quarry. The distance made them barely more than dots, but the caravan had stopped in a place where the shores of a stream were shallow and their mounts could drink and sooth road-sore hooves. If she had not stopped, she may not have caught them before night, for the lizards with her were not even so fast as the ox that drew the wagon and she was loathe to leave such supplies as she had gained behind. 

She staked the lizards to bushes, knowing the leaves held them better than the ropes. The horse-cat she rode closer to spy out the lay of the land. It tossed its head, sensing her mood and she patted its neck firmly to settle it, guiding it from her knees though she gathered the reigns loosely in her hand. 

There were five of them now, ever from argument. More likely she had left the sixth dead and stripped in the thicket that morning. They were standing idle; arguing about something for as she watched one shoved another. If they spied her they must have thought her their lagging companion, for she rode his steed and at such distance telling one rider from another took keen eyes indeed. 

They should have been more alert, but their quarrel was taking all their attention. One thumped hard upon the carriage door. With the sun behind her, she could see better than they could see her, and her eyes narrowed. The blue and yellow was clear here, worn on blankets and upon the warriors themselves. Valeria grinned for she would have killed them for their treasure alone. Now she could take a measure of personal pleasure in it.

Five on one, mounted, on open ground, was poor odds. No matter, she had no plans to fight five. Looping the reins loose to the saddle-bow, she unhooked her short bow and strung it. In the manner of the Devi Yasmina's horse-archers she held it and four arrows in her fist, ready to be drawn up and fired. The curved cavalry sword she moved to her side, for it was better in such a fight than her dirk though it was of poorer make.

Then, eagerly, she urged her steed to a run, leaning forward in the saddle as she shouted her command. It obeyed, powerful muscles bunching as it sprang forward. It did not gallop like a horse; at its full pace it stretched itself and arched its back in bounds like the spotted cats of the plains. 

They saw her coming, but barely looked from their argument. Still they thought her their late companion, and she was nearly in bow range before their off-hand welcome shout turned to alarm as they saw her true. One raced for his mount. He was first to die. She sat up in the saddle, gripping with her knees as she drew and loosed in a single movement. Before it had even hit, her fingers, following the string forward, caught the fletching of the next to fit notch to string and draw the arrow up in one movement. 

Her first arrow had sunk into his side, her crude leather fletching not as accurate as feathers. Her second, aimed for his chest, sprouted from his neck and he fell and clawed at the dirt. She was firing again, another warrior, the arrow punching into a red tunic so far the fletching pinned the front to the skin, and the leather tented grotesquely behind his back. Now she was among them, passing the cat-horses at the stream. Her last arrow, and now she was so close she must fire downwards, struck the open, bared, back of a warrior as he pulled himself into the saddle. His mount reared, pricked by whatever of the tip had passed through him, and he went down beneath its paws.

Two remained, afoot and the nearest stood in her path. Valeria dropped the bow to draw the sabre, gripped the reins tight, for fear her mount would baulk at riding him down. It did not, its eyes fixed upon it like a cat with a mouse. In the last heartbeat the man leapt aside, his own sword swinging for her mount's legs. She tensed, leaned forward. The cat-horse, reading or misreading her, extended itself in a great bound above him, and his sword fell short. Valeria wasted no chance, though she was nearly unseated and slashed downwards.  

The sword was too short, her mount too high. She cut but air. Her mount ran on as Valeria swore by Crom's broken blade. She had a full six arrows remaining, but her bow was behind her upon the ground. Without a bow it must come to swords. Drawing her dirk, alongside her sabre, she wheeled her mount and guided it back the fight. It went eagerly, need barely be bidden, for its blood was as hot as her own. 

While one warrior scrabbled in the dirt, the other had mounted. He shouted challenge; and her mount bugled a stallion's challenge in reply. Yanking at his reins, kicking his steed into run, the man rode towards her; one hand on his reins, sword brandished round his head in the other, and Valeria saw his weakness and her opening before ever they closed. As he struck overhead at her, she guarded her head with the cavalry sabre and opened his belly with the dirk, for his guarding hand was on reins and not defence. As he gaped and died, she pushed him from the saddle for he gripped no more with his knees when he was dead, than he had when he lived.

The last remained, and she turned her reluctant mount aside when it would chase the dying rider's. The warrior, the slaver, was afoot, sword in hand, and she guided her mount between him and the scattering steeds.

"Yield," she called, for he, like the last, might know her language. She needed to know more of this land, for while plundering gold was good, the better part was squandering it. "Yield and keep your life."

He stared at her and waved his sword, saying a string of liquid syllables in a way that sounded profane. She caught the words 'Kajira' and 'urt' often, and shrugged. He wasn't dropping his sword, and that was answer enough. She did not have her bow, dismounting to get it left her open, and any swordsman could deflect a thrown knife at this range. It would be swords.

She urged her mount forward, raised her cavalry sabre over her head for a mighty stroke. He raised his sword with a smirk, ready to jump aside and slash at belly or legs. The same trick would not save her twice. It did not have to.

He tensed, jumped. She hurled the cavalry sabre at his head. He whipped his sword up, knocked it aside as he must or be struck, and was an instant to slow to move. The clawed feet came down, beating him into the dirt. To Valeria's shock and delight, her mount stopped in a blink, its clawed back feet kicking out backwards. The double-blow knocked him rolling in the dirt and sent the sword arcing from his grip. 

The cat-horse wheeled like a warhorse, front claws rearing high, and brought them slamming down to dig into earth and warrior alike. She held on, let it have its head as it ducked its muzzle, raising it with the warrior dangling like a cat with a mouse, or a destrier with a peasant. With a toss the man was thrown aside, but to be trampled and torn to shreds as its claws pulled him down. Seeing no further threats, save that strange, silent, wagon, Valeria let it play until there was little but scraps and red earth under its paws. 

Sliding from its back, she gave an affectionate pat to its neck, and a firm clout to the nose when it snapped at her half-heartedly. Resigned that she was not easy prey, it lowered its head to graze the grass, and some stray fingers it snapped up in the same mouthful and devoured with great relish.

"By Belit's tits!" Valeria swore out loud. "Are the giant lizards the only thing in this accursed place that don't eat people?" The wagon still stood, and that she could turn her attention to. Perhaps within it, with such guards was one of the Priest-Kings, to who she would repay every whip-stripe and insult she had received since her arrival.

Leaving the cat-horse to its feast, she drew her longsword and her dirk, and approached the wagon with her guard up, for treasures are often trapped. What she had taken for a pile of cloth piled before the door was trembling. Wise to the risks, for guard beasts and traps could hide so, Valeria threw a clod of dirt upon it. It jumped, with a startled yelp as it unfolded. It was, in fact, a man, one that stood up as she approached. He pulled a short knife from his sleeve, pointing it at her with both hands, for it took both to keep it from shaking. 

"I am man, you are woman. Kneel." She had heard similar many times since she had arrived, but normally spoken with utterly misplaced conviction. This was said in the tone of one who desperately hopes it is true, and, more importantly, in words she could understand. 

Valeria did not lower her guard, but watched assessing. This was quite a different manner of man from the warriors; red-cheeked, and plump to the point he jiggled. The knife was shaking more than his jowls.

"You've killed the warriors. Take their things and leave us alone!" He was plump as a wealthy merchant she saw, but his clothes were plain. The blade - now inscribing jagged and unthreatening circles that were vaguely aimed in her direction - was short, single-edged, with a straight, cutting, edge and flat, curved, back meant for a finger. Valeria smiled, and when he drew himself up affronted, she laughed aloud.

"You're a cook," she guessed, sheathing her swords for they were unneeded. To her reckoning, if she but shouted he'd drop the knife fast enough.

"A baker!" he exclaimed, affronted. "Do you not see my caste colours?" 

"I see colours, but they mean nothing." She shrugged.

"You are new to Gor then?"

"I am." She pointed to the wagon. "And what is within there that must be guarded? Gold?"

"No! My family." His cry rang true, but there was something here Valeria did not understand. Unless they were people of worth, an escort of six warriors was excessive. Had there been danger, would they not travel with a caravan of many? She looked around, wary of an ambush.

As she did, the man screamed a wild cry and flung himself at her from the wagon steps, paring knife held valiantly before him. She barely bothered to move, caught him by neck and belt and threw him over her hip. He landed flat on his back in the dirt, and she kicked the paring knife from his grip. He reached for it and froze. The tip of her broadsword rested by the bridge of his nose. 

"I've killed six warriors today. I haven't killed a baker, yet," she said, affably enough. If he reached for her sword or her leg, she'd stab him through the eye quickly enough. His hand stopped dead where he had been reaching up, and his eyes uncrossed from her sword tip to meet hers. "Gold?"

"We don't have any! I swear it," he said, pale. "The warriors took everything of value."

"They were bandits?" That would explain much but not all of it.

"We hired them as guards, but two days out of town the tarn-riders attacked-" He broke off as Valeria nudged him with her boot. 

"Tarn-riders?" 

"Giant birds of prey. Men ride them." He stopped, too focused on her sword tip to speak. She had to nudge him again.

"They took the gold, and they took the warriors' slaves." He sniffled. "The warriors fought, but they saw no need to die for a baker." Valeria frowned. 

"I thought warriors wore red. These wear blue and yellow."

"They changed their coats when we left town." He sniffed, "I thought I was saving my family. They said that warriors can't be without slaves."

"So they took you."

"No, they took my daughter." Valeria pulled her blade back with a curse. The baker rolled to all-fours. "My wife offered herself, but they said she was too old-"

"Where is she?" Valeria was not averse to slavery, for it paid well when plunder was poor, but the existence of these blue and yellow wearing men was beginning to gall her. The wagon door creaked and she looked up, raising her sword, and moving to keep baker and door both in sight. A grey form, so robed and swaddled in its garb that its outline was barely discernible as human, peered through the gap.

"Come out, all of you," Valeria ordered. One by one they came; the woman, Valeria guessed, smothered in her robes with a babe swaddled in her arms. Behind her, clinging to her legs, came another small form, just as well-wrapped. "Which one is the girl?" she demanded, once all were out.

The baker, scrambling to his family to set himself protectively if pointlessly between her and them, pointed to one of the scattered cat-horses. "The warrior took her..." Valeria groaned, looked at the saddle-roll over the creature's back. It was long enough for a child, if the child were not large. It was too small to wrap a woman, even if Valeria herself was to bend herself in half. 

"Stay here." Her cat-horse was paying enough attention that it came when she slapped her leg. Valeria mounted, guiding it easily to circle the yellow and push it back towards the wagon. When it snapped at her, her mount was quick enough to snap back and cow it enough that she could grasp the reins and lead it back.

Dismounting, she left her steed to teach the other manners, and pulled the saddle roll from its back. Cautious of traps, she dumped it to the dirt, rolling it away from her for treachery was the nature of this land. Valeria lunged, sliced the ties that held it closed, and recovered, ready for attack. When none came, she pushed it with her boot so it unrolled its length in the dirt.

The girl that rolled out had the gawkiness of a child, not a woman's curves, and was trussed with her wrists and ankles in one knot behind her back. The thick metal collar round her neck was too large, and the skin was bruised where it had moved and bitten in.

"She's but a child!" Valeria exclaimed. Her memories of Stygia were clear, but to see such again angered her.

"They said she was old enough to serve as women should," the baker said, miserably. "I spoke up, but they said if I was not silent they'd kill me and collar the rest. I am but a baker. They are six warriors!" She ignored him, hearing the usual - and true - complaints of a weak and civilised man confronted with force, and looked over the girl. The scraps of barely see-through silk she wore revealed bruises, but no worse. Easily, Valeria flipped the girl onto her front and sliced the ropes, stepping away while she freed herself. 

"So these warriors took your gold, failed you, and betrayed you?" She did not laugh, though it amused her more than a little. Six dead slavers and a new mount had put her in a mood to be generous. "Take what's yours. I'll have the rest."

"Thank you." The baker was hugging his wife, her tears staining the wool from within. "I do not know how we shall continue. I knew the risks of the journey, but I thought I had averted them. It has already cost me my daughter." Valeria found that strange enough, and pointed her sword at the girl.

"She's is sitting there." The child was rubbing feeling into fingers turned purple by the force of the knots, wincing as she touched at her ankles that were rope-burned. 

"No," the baker said, sorrowfully. "That is but an animal with my daughter's form." Valeria scowled, dropping down into guard, her blades towards the girl. Some shape-changer, perhaps, or a sorcerous art that took minds. She was no stranger to such.

"She seems human," she said, watching slowly for the claws or marks of a demon.

"You are a stranger," he said, holding his weeping wife. "Once one is made slave, they are animal, not person. It cannot be undone." Valeria threw her head back and swore on Crom and Belit, sheathing her blades. Picking up a knife from one of the corpses so she'd not ruin the edge of her own she set to the latch and loop on the girl's collar. It snapped open easily enough, as many locks had done before and would after.

"And when you make them not a slave?"

"Once a woman has felt the collar she cannot ever be truly free. It rouses their base slave nature." Valeria scoffed as he spoke, for all it had roused in her was a desire to kill those who had collared her. Her ire rose as he spoke on. "Slavers always know. They can pick one who is slave by nature from any line of free woman." That, she deemed nonsense. They had picked her, and well it had worked out for them. "Had you felt the collar, you would know."

"They collared me when I came here." She smiled, and it was a bloodthirsty thing indeed. "I strangled his servants with my cuffs, and roasted his face through in his branding fire." She had done worse, but the baker had frozen, his wife's sobs stilled, and they stared upon her as if she was some mythical beast. Valeria shrugged, and pointed to the girl, who had covered herself in the blanket from the bedroll.

"She has no brand, her ears aren't pierced,-" she tried to think of any of other idiocies that marked slaves here and failed "and the rope and collar marks will fade within a few days. You can't see them under those sheets you wear anyway."

"But she has been made slave..." The wife's protest was quiet and half-hearted. 

"And who knows that?" Valeria's gaze swept the bodies. Theirs followed hers.

"There was another..."

"Dead and left under a tree for the scavengers," Valeria said, carelessly.

"You slew them," the wife said suddenly, and clutched her husband's arm. "Companion, does that not mean that everything they have is hers? We can buy her papers, can we not?"

"I don't want to own my own daughter," he protested. Valeria chuckled.

"You have no money," she reminded them. "Girl, where are your papers?" As the girl pointed to the saddle-bags on the ground, Valeria split the seams with the ruined knife, spilling gold and a bundle of parchments of various types tied with a blue and yellow ribbon. She could not read the script, and there were many here.

There was no fire handy. She swiped the papers through the opened belly of a warrior and held them up to the yellow cat-horse. It snaked its head forward, snapping them from her grasp. They were devoured, with relish and quite messily. Horse-scat, she deemed, was all they were worth.

"No papers, no proof. She's free." The baker looked perplexed, as his wife dashed passed him. It took him a heartbeat to catch up and throw his arms round them both. As the family celebrated their reunion, Valeria set to looting the corpses. By the time she was done, the last of the light was fading and she was tired. 

"I'm camping here," she informed them. You may stay or go as you please."

"But without warriors we will not survive upon the road!" the baker complained pitifully. "I have two daughters and a wife with a baby."

"Your misfortune," Valeria said, setting out her bedroll. The gravel of the shore crunched underfoot, and she had little fear they'd be stealthy enough to approach her in her sleep.

"Travel with us," he begged, and she looked up. 

"What can you pay me?" A collar and cuffs in the nearest town, she had no doubt, but she was growing tired of constant attacks from people she could not even boast to of her conquests.

"I'll teach you the language, and how to read. It is a low caste skill for a warrior like yourself-" Now, Valeria saw, he called her warrior, but the offer was to her liking. 

She pulled out her tinder box, striking flint to pyrite to light the fire his wife had laid. Without being asked, the woman was tending to the cat-horses and lizards, another skill of use.

"Where are you bound?" she asked idly, for if she wandered with no aim their path was as good as any other. 

"Dara, two weeks from here in the line the sun travels. "

"You know the way?"

"I have a map."

"And is it city or town?"

"A small village, but town enough to have walls and tarn defences." Filled with warriors and slavers no doubt, but also a good place for the gaining of gold and the squandering of it.

"And a homestone?"

"Yes," he said, puzzled. "I was born to it and have kin there. I will be welcome."

"Very well. I shall trade you two weeks of my sword skills for your language and all else you may teach me." She had designs upon the cat-horses, and food, and because she was no fool added: "And you will not enslave me, trade me to slavers, or betray me."

He swore, and though she doubted a man in this land could give his word and keep it, she accepted.

#

Valeria learned much upon the road, that the cat-horses were called kaila, the lizards draft thalarion, and the management of both. If she never slept without a knife to hand and traded her food plate with one of theirs each evening, that was merely a pirate's caution. When they reached the walls of Dara, they did so on good terms. 

Nearly a month she stayed, before she took to travel once more. The sea was in Valeria's eyes and in her blood, and to dwell upon the shore for long held little interest for her - less when the guards had begun to enquire over certain trade caravans leaving lighter than they should and groaning slavers found in back-streets with their pouches emptied.

She had learned much from the baker, that a man with daughters could not travel beyond his own homestone in case they were slaved. That woman wore robes of concealment, such as the set rolled up behind her saddle, so that slavers would not see their bodies and pick them for the collar and that needles laced in poison were common, hidden in needles and in hair. The frobicain bottle she had been gifted from the baker's wife, Valeria was saving for her blades; blades that women were not allowed to touch. An odd rule, to refuse a woman right or means to defend themselves, then say that when she is unable it means she wants to be slave.

An odder thing to have to smuggle herself out of town merely to conceal that she was a woman alone, but such solo escapes were things she had experience with. It was no hardship to leave her packs beyond the walls, attach her kaila to a caravan and then follow on foot and steal them back by night. The draft tharlarion she had passed the baker to sell, for a good amount of gold from his guild. Likewise with the unwanted kaila, sold to warriors who could tell their fettle, even if they were poor riders by her standards. The tarn goads and whistle she had kept.

On the whole, Valeria did not find Gor a place to her liking. The warriors here were a sad bunch, some skill with a blade, but they considered a bow or poison to be dishonourable, where she considered fighting without them not trying. It was however to her liking they should handicap themselves so, for honour was not something she gave a wit for.

More to her liking she had a greater knowledge of homestones, and 'Ria' had sworn to Dara's. It was a common stone, not something she would have told from any other, yet it was placed on their highest point and guarded day and night. That spoke to Valeria of value, and if Dara was too small to have more than granite, surely a larger city would have ruby, or perhaps diamond. 

The sea, a great river estuary was four weeks travel to the west. The city of Ko-Ro-Ba much the same to the north east. The desert was to the south, and beyond that the great pirate ports. Valeria headed west, for she would arrive at those pirate ports in a ship, and it would be her own, with plunder a plenty for the spending.

For before she arrived there, she was determined, there would be many cities between here and yon to learn the name of Valeria. 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Barbarian Pirate in Gor