Kur of Gor

Chapter, the Seventy-Second: THE TREACHERY OF FLAVION

Cabot flung himself to the leaves and fired twice, and one blast struck a tree, cracking it open, setting it afire, as if it might have been smitten with lightning, and the other charge took off the head of a Kur.

"Kill him! Kill him!” Flavion was shrieking, with a rattle of chain, the translator conveying this imperative in Gorean with its customary passionless professionalism.

Another Kur raised his head, cautiously, warily, only feet away. It would have been better for him had he been more patient, and waited even Ahn, or until night, but he had not. And so he died, and Cabot changed his position again.

It was quiet then in the glade.

Cabot discarded one rifle, and had at his disposal then only two charges, those configured to the second weapon.

Cabot was then within the enclave, and saw the vessels, the stores, the half-buried amphora for water, the mats for sleeping. There were six such mats. Cabot detected no sign of chains or cages.

"Draw his fire, find his position!” he heard Flavion screaming.

But Cabot had made the determinations he wished. What he had sought, something soft, in a collar, was clearly not here, nor any sign that it had been. Nor was there any sign of coffers, or sacks, which might have bulged with coin.

Fire from various quarters burned into the grass. Some of it blackened and burst into flame just over his head.

Cabot might have obtained a kill with one of the charges, as he placed its source from the pencillike fire stream, but, had he done so, his own position might have been similarly revealed, and the power weapons could sweep out swaths of terrain, and there had been six sleeping mats. Thus, not counting Flavion, he supposed there might be four, or more, Kurii left in the vicinity.

Cabot withdrew.

With him, more silent in the grass than he, came Ramar.

"Better, dear Flavion,” Cabot thought, “I had left you in the trap. Perhaps, however, we will meet again."