'I must fight him,' said Cuwignaka.
'No,' said Grunt. 'That would not be wise. He is one of the finest of the warriors of the Isbu.'
'Rise up, Mitakola, my friend,' said Cuwignaka to me. 'He is gone.'
I rose to my feet, whiping my face with my right forearms. Grunt handed me my clothing and moccasins. I donned them. I again mounted my kaiila.
Hci was now better than two pasangs away, at the finge of the kailiauk.
'Do you not wish to kill him?' aske Cuwignaka, bitterly.
I shrugged. 'He was not attacking me,' I said. 'He was attacking Canka. ' Too, I had accepted the collar. In doing thi, I had understood what I was doing. Hci, as would have been any other free person, had been fully within his rights. I had no delusions concerning my stauts. I was a slave.
'Do you not want to kill him?' asked Cuwignaka.
'No,' I said.
'I want to kill him,' said cuwignaka, bitterly.
'No, you do not,' said Grunt. 'He is of the Isbu, he is of your own band.'
'But I do not have to like him,' said Cuwignaka, suddenly, laughing.
'That is true.' grinned Grunt.
I looked after Hci. He seemed to be a bitter, driven young man. This had come about, I gathered after his disfigurement. From that time on he had seemed to live for little more than killing and vengeance, not only against the Yellow Knives but against any enemy, or reputed enemy, of the Kaiila.
'He is mad,' said Cuwignaka.
'He is bitter,' I said.
It interested me that Hci had taken the attitued he had towards his disfigurement. Many warriors would have been little concerned about such a mark, particularly as it did not impair them in any significant fashion. Others might have welcomed it as a sign of bravery, a revelatory token of courage in close combat. Still others might have welcomed it as a savage, brutal enhancement to their appearance. but not so Hci. He, like not a few of the red savages, had been excessively vain about his appearance. Indee, sometimes a young fellow will have his hair greased and braided, and will dress himself in finery and paint, and simply ride about camp, parading, in effect, before his fellow villagers, and, in particular, the maidens. This perhaps somewhat vain but surely splendid sight is not usual in a camp. But no longer, now, would Hci venture forth in such a fashion, displaying himself, and his kaiila and regalia, in the impressive glory of such a primitive promenage. It seemed now he would scarcely show his face but to the men of the tribe, and, in particular, to his brothers of the Sleen Soldiers. The canhpi of the Yellow Knife had done more than strike flesh and bone; it had cut, too, deeply, perhaps unaccountably, or mysteriously, into the vanity, the pride and self image of a man. The difficulty of relating to the disfgurement had perhaps been particularly cruel in Hci's case because he had been, apparently, extremely good-looking before this. Too, of course, he had had five prospects, and had been rich and highly placed in the tribe. He was even the son of Mahpiyasapa, the civil chief of Isbu. Then it seemed he found himself, at least to his own mind, marred, irrevocably, in one bloody moment.
I could no longer see Hci now, in the dust from the kailiauk. Indeed, I could not even, yet, see the end of the great, long, moving mass of animals. Even at the speed at which the animals were traveling, it could take them between four and five Ahn to pass a given point.
The vanity of human beings is interesting. From my own point of view it seemed that Hci retained a great deal of what must once have been an unusual degree of savage handsomeness. The marking of his countenance, though surely not what a fellow would be likely to elect for cosmetic purposes, did not seem to me sufficiently serious to warrant his reaction to it. It might even have been regarded by some, as I have suggested, in the rude heraldry of the plains, as an enhancement to their appearance. Surely the maidens of the Isbu did not seem to find the mark objectionable. Many of them would have been much pleased had Hci, such a splendid warrior, deigned to pay them court. But no longer did Hci come to sit cross-legged outside their lodges, playing the love flute, to lure them forth under the Gorean moons.
'Do not have trouble with Hci,' said Grunt to Cuwignaka. 'Your brother, Canka, already has difficulties enough with Mahpiyasapa.'
'You are right,' said Cuwignaka.
I thought of the slender, lovely, red-haired Winyela, the former debutante from Pennsylvania. Canka's slave. She had been brought into the Barrens by Grunt, chained in his coffle, all the way from Kailiauk, near the Ihanke. She was to have been sold to Mahpiyasapa, who was interested in such a woman, white and red-haired, for five hides of the yellow kailiauk. Last year he had, in effect, pt in an order for such a woman, an order which Grunt had agreed, to the best of his ability, to fill.
Cuwignaka and I, and Grunt, then turned our attention to survey the Pte, the kailiauk.
'It seems there is no end to them,' I said.
'They are glorious,' said Cuwignaka.
'Yes,' said Grunt, 'glorious.' Grunt, short-bodied, thick and muscular, still wore the broad-brimmed hat I remembered so well. Indeed, interestingly, I had never seen him without it.
'We must be going,' said Cuwignaka. 'We must return to camp.'
I looked again in the direction in which Hci had disappeared. He had killed the man who had struck him.
'They are glorious!' exclaimed Cuwignaka, and then he turned his kaiila and descended the small rise, moving towards the camp.
Grunt and I remained for a moment on the rise, gazing on the awsome sight in the distance.
'You are sure?' I asked him.
'Yes,' he said, 'it is the Bento herd.'
'It is early,' I said. It was not due in the country of the Kaiila until Kantasawi, the moon in which the plums become red. This was only Takiyuhawi, the moon in which the tabuk rut, or, as some call it, Canpasapawi, the moon in which the chokecherries are ripe.
'Yes,' he said. 'It is early.'
'Why?' I asked.
'I do not know,' he said.
We then brought our kaiila about and, descending the rise followed Cuwignaka toward the camp.
Chapter 2
THE PROCESSION OF THE ISANNA
Wasnapohdi, or Pimples, naked, her dark hair loose and wild behind her, strings of glass beads about her throat, put there by Grunt, marking her as his, in the tattered lodge I shared with Cuwignaka, clutched me, gasping, half rearing under me.
'Do not bite,' I warned her, 'or you will be beaten.'
She moaned, I felt her fingernails in my arms.
She sobbed, helplessly, begging wordlessly in my arms for a new thrust.
She had the helpless passion of a woman broken to slavery. I was pleased that Grunt, her master, let me use her. Canka, too, had encouraged me, Grunt being willing, to please myself with her. The desperate tensions of the strong male must be relieved, and well, else health must be replaced with illness, eccentricity or neuriosis. Perhaps the cruelest deprivation which a master or mistress can inflict on a male slave is to deny him access to soft, warm, yielding female flesh. Every strong man needs one or more slaves.
'Finish with her, quickly,' said Cuwignaka, entering the lodge. 'There is much to see. The Isanna, already, have come to the camp. They are in long lines. You must see them! Too, in moments, the medicine party will go forth to cut the pole. Many are going to accompany them. Hurry!'
Pimples looked at me, wildly, clutching me.
'Hurry! Finish with her!' said Cuwignaka.
My hands were hard on the upper arms of Pimples. I made as though to thrust her from me. TEars sprang
