Exotic Flower of Gor

The humiliation the Scribe had forced upon him in the purple tent, by giving him no choice but to sign the girl over still burned bright. Worse than the mere loss of the girl, the Barbarian had deprived him of profit. As he and his fellow Slavers fanned out in the woods moving toward the Inlander camp, the Slaver smiled. He'd have his due now.

Among City-Goreans, Slavers are much feared. They rarely have a difficult time capturing their prey once on their trail. Many consider them human sleen. As practiced hunters of Human flesh, Slavers send a dread along the spines of most honest citizens. Being caught by a Slaver, male or female, slave or Free, is to be avoided, at all costs. It is thus, in the normal course of things, that the Slaver-Caste holds the psychological edge.

Had the portly Slaver stopped to consider two salient facts, his confidence might've been somewhat dampened. His smile may have withered. For one thing, Mwindu and his men weren't Northerners, and so they lacked the culturally bred fear of Slavers. And second, the Inlander Askaris were by far the superior professional trackers.

Mwindu's askaris smelled the Slavers coming. Their body odor was detectible on the slight night breeze, smelling of stale sweat and paga. An elementary mistake. The Slavers should've approached the camp from downwind.

Night birds chirped.

The birdsong seemed to come from three directions around the skulking Slavers, from behind them and to their flanks, as the intruders approached the edge of the Inlanders' campsite. The two canvas tents were clearly visible in the fading light of the setting Moons.

The Slaver gestured with his sword, indicating his brothers should follow him into the clearing. The seven caste-members emerged from the sparse woods in a staggered line, their boots stirring the leaf littered dirt.

"Eeh," came an amused voice from the dark trees behind them.

The Slavers all turned, weapons pointed toward the unrelieved shadow of the woods.

"Eeh," came a disembodied voice to their left. "Eeh," came a voice from their right.

And suddenly the Slavers were trying to look, everywhere at once.

"Eeh," said Mwindu, emerging once more from his tent. His naked panga in his left hand. His teeth were white in his dark face as he smiled at his late-night visitors. "Jambo, Slaver."

The fat Slaver turned to face Mwindu but didn't reply, as the Askaris stepped into the Moons' light in the clearing. He realized, as well as did his men, that instead of being raiders attacking a sleeping camp, they had walked into a trap. But, his people counted seven and there were only four of the Barbarians. He figured the odds were still on his side.

"Give me the girl and we'll leave."

"Offer to give me your weapons, your money, your clothes, and your wagon and I may think about letting you leave," responded Mwindu, every inch the Mflame.

"There are seven of us to your four."

"Ndio. It is an improper match. You should have brought more men."

The Slaver snarled, there was that barbarian insolence which had so set his teeth on edge back at the Fair. "Have at them!" He yelled and ran, his short sword held high, toward Mwindu.

His six caste brothers found themselves hacking at men who had the advantage not only of longer arms, an Inlander racial trait, but they were armed with spears as well, giving them an overwhelming advantage in reach. The clang of weapons rang out in the clearing, Slaver gladius versus the short stabbing spears of the Askaris. Even outnumbering the loin-clothed warriors, two for every one, the Slavers had a difficult time of it from the outset of the fight.

In the Jungle, it is said that an Askari uses his spear with the ease a panther uses his claws.

Although a Scribe, Mwindu's panga wasn't merely for show, he knew how to use it. Just as among 'City Goreans', Inlanders of all classes were taught from childhood in weapon craft. This was not the first time Mwindu had stood ready to defend his life with his steel.

The Slaver, knowing his life was now in the balance, hoped to overwhelm his opponent with a berserker's offensive, whirling steel jabbing, thrusting, hacking. To overbear, confound, and ultimately overwhelm the arrogant Barbarian with the intensity of his attack.

Mwindu met the man's short sword with the edge of his panga, turning the Slaver's blade to the side and coming back with an intended killing stroke. But the edge of his machete only sliced through the Slaver's tunic, drawing blood from his right side. The Slaver grunted and hopped back out of reach, his belly wobbling. His blood was black on the cloth of the tunic. His eyes narrowed, realizing too late that he faced a left-handed opponent, which had thrown his timing off. Another error.

Mwindu continued to smile, slowly circling his nemesis, thrusting out his panga, feinting, keeping the Slaver off balance. A part of his mind registered the fact that there was no more clash of steel to be heard. He figured his men had dispatched the Slavers, else they would've come to their brother's assistance ere now. He could see that his chubby and bleeding adversary had much the same thoughts.

"I will pay you ten gold tarns to let me walk out of here," the Slaver rasped.

"Fifty," Mwindu laughed, jabbing, forcing the man to slash outward. The Scribe, anticipating the defensive stroke, slashed diagonally down across the Slaver's chest, ripping the tunic again. Opening another profusely bleeding wound.

"Fifty then," the Slaver screeched, in shock and growing pain from the gashes.

"One hundred."

"I don't have a hundred!"

"Then, it seems, we are unable to reach a satisfactory agreement, Slaver. Prepare to die."

"No!" The Slaver screamed, clearly outmatched and grievously wounded, he threw down his sword. It rang into the leaf litter as he fell to his knees. "Quarter, Barbarian. Mercy!"

Sneering, Mwindu walked up to the kneeling man, kicking the short sword beyond arm's reach. The sharp edge of his panga was dark with the Slaver's blood.

"Quarter," the man begged again, fumbling in his belt for his purse, throwing the heavy sack onto the leaves. "Take it, take it. It's all I have."

Mwindu nodded. "I will take it, asante, Slaver. But I beg to differ, it isn't quite all you have."

The Slaver's eyes were wide as he looked up at the dark barbarian. "My wagon, you mean my wagon. Aye, take it. It's yours, as are the three wenches chained within it. And the oxen. Take them, take it all. Just spare me," he pleaded in a shuddering whine.

Mwindu looked at his men. They stood over the inert forms of the six dead Slavers. Their expressions holding nothing but contempt for the man on his knees begging for his life. The Scribe looked back to the Slaver. "I will take all you have." Then quicker than the Slaver could follow, Mwindu's panga came down, thudding into the man's neck and slicing clean through.

The Slaver's head rolled off his shoulders and smacked to the ground. The torso tottered, then also fell.

"Eeh," said Mwindu. And he spit into the twitching face of the beheaded Slaver.

"Eeh," agreed his Askaris.

"See to their wagon and their goods," Mwindu instructed, wiping his bush knife clean of offal on the dead slaver's tunic. "And drag this refuse back closer to the road, for the sleen to find." And with that, Mfalme Mwindu, Ubar of the Ancient City, returned again to his tent.

"Maulana?" The exhausted girl asked sleepily, stirring as her master returned. "Mai heard a noise."

"Shh, girl. Go back to sleep, nothing but animals from the woods," the Scribe said.

"Hai, Maulana."

He put his panga on a table and climbed back under the pelts with his exotic kijakaza, closed his eyes, and in moments was fast asleep.

-end-