Tribesmen of Gor

20 The Kur Will Re-Enter the Dune Country; I Accompany Him

“It is there,” said Hassan. “But you are mad to approach it.”

“It could have killed us in the trench,” I said. “It did not.”

The storm, surprisingly, had abated. It had lasted only a bit less than one day.

The landscape seemed rearranged, but we had little difficulty in finding our way back to the trench. We had not been able to move far in the storm. We had gone perhaps less than a pasang when we fell, rolled from our feet, and lay in the sand, protecting our heads and the water. Almost as soon as it had come, it had, with a shifting of wind to the north, disappeared. “There will be other such storms,” said Hassan. “It was too short.” He looked at me. “We must move while we can, before another, a longer, occurs.”

“I am returning to the trench,” I told him.

“I will go with you,” he said.

From a small rise, we saw the remains of the trench, filled with sand, to within six inches of its top. The sun was high. Beside the trench, on its back, half covered with sand, lay the Kur.

When we approached it, it turned its head toward us. “It is not dead,” said Hassan.

“It seems weak,” I said.

“We, too, are weak,” said Hassan. “We have scarcely the strength to carry the water.”

I walked about the Kur, which closed its eyes. Its fur was coated with sand.

I crouched down near it. It opened its eyes, and regarded me.

On its left forepaw, or hand, on one of the six digits, was a heavy ring, seemingly of gold.

I had not seen such an ornament on a Kur before. I had seen rings of the sort worn on arms and wrists, and earrings, but no ring of the sort which might encircle a digit. Many Kurii are vain beasts.

“I have seen this Kur before,” I said. I had seen it in a dungeon in the house of Samos. It had been apprehended months before apparently enroute to the Tahari. Samos had bought it as a beast from hunters. Six men had died in its capture. The eyes, rimmed with sand, were black-pupiled; the corneas, usually yellow, seemed pale, flattishly colored; the leathery snout seemed dry, the lips were drawn back about the fangs; the tongue, black, seemed large; it seemed thin for a Kur, haggard; I realized then that its tissues reflected dehydration. That the Kur had been bound for the Tahari had been a portion of the mystery, which had initiated my venture to the desert. What business had it in the Tahari? “It will die soon,” said Hassan. “Leave it.”

I remained near the Kur, looking upon it. “It needs water,” I said.

“Do not approach it!” warned Hassan.

I supposed men had few enemies as terrible as the fearsome Kur, unless it be other men. Such beasts and Priest-Kings were locked in relentless war, two worlds, two planets, Gor and Earth lying at the stake. Men seemed puny allies to either species. Before me lay my enemy, helpless.

“Kill it,” said Hassan.

“It is a rational beast,” I said. “It needs water.”

“Desist in this madness!” cried Hassan.

I lifted the shaggy head, more than a foot wide. Between the rows of fangs, the bag over my shoulder, I thrust the spike of the water bag.

The paws of the beast reached up, slowly, and placed themselves on the bag. I saw them indent the bag, the spread of the digits was more than fifteen inches in width. There were six digits, multiply jointed, furred. I saw the golden ring, heavy, strangely set, it seemed with a tiny square of silver, against the brown leather of the bag. It did not seem a normal ring. “This morning,” I said, “before dawn, it could have killed us and taken the water. It did not do so.”

Hassan did not speak.

Slowly the Kur rose to his feet. I closed the bag, twisting in the plug. There was only a gallon or so of water in the bag. It would last a human a day, then he must draw on his own tissues.

Hassan stood back.

The Kur turned away from us. Very slowly it lifted it’s head, as though literally feeling the water flowing through the vessels of his body. It was frightening in a way to see it. It was as though it was coming alive, and it was a Kur.

“You are insane,” whispered Hassan. The desert would have killed it for you.”

“It did not kill us when it could have,” I said. “It did not take the water.”

“So it was mad from the desert, the storm,” said Hassan. “It will now be thinking clearly.”

I watched the Kur. It fell to all fours; then it rose to a half-crouched, shambling position, knuckles to the dirt, as a Kur most naturally moves. It suddenly rolled in the sand. Then it stood up. It reached out with one paw, The paw encircled the heavy, twisted interlacings of stems of a thick clump of narrow-leafed scrub brush. Like most desert plants it is deeply rooted. With one motion the Kur tore the brush from the ground and lifted it over his head, and threw it from him. It leaped in the sand, and struck the sand with its right fist. Then, exposing the claws on its prehensile appendage, that heavy, six digited hand, it tore down into the dirt, and threw dirt behind it. Then it straightened its body and howled, and, dropping to all fours, turned toward us, observing us. Then, slowly, half-crouched, shambling, knuckles to the dirt, it approached us.

The corneas of its eyes were vivid yellow now. Its snout wore a sheen of sweat.

Its tongue moved about its lips, which were wet.

It stopped a few feet from us. I had little doubt that it could kill two unarmed men in the desert.

But it did not attack. Instead, it looked at me. And it pointed back, toward the dune country.

It straightened up, perhaps to appear more like a man. I saw then that it had been wounded. In places its fur had been slashed away. Several cuts half-healed, marked its body. It must, at one time, lost much blood.

“I know this Kur, “ I said. I regarded it. “Can you understand me?” I asked.

It gave no sign that it could understand me.

“I had it freed from a dungeon in Port Kar, “ I told Hassan. “In Tor, in a courtyard, several men waited to slay me. Havoc and slaughter was wrought among them, such that only a Kur might accomplish. In prison in Nine Wells, though strangely I could not see it, a Kur came to my cell. It could have killed me, I helplessly chained. It did not. I think it might have tried to free me. It was surprised by Ibn Saran and his men. It was nearly killed, trapped in the cell.

It was much wounded. Ibn Saran told me the beast had been killed. It had not been. This is he. This is that Kur. I know him, Hassan. He is, if only for this moment, my ally. I think, Hassan, strange though it may seem, that we hold a cause in common.”

“A man and a Kur!” protested Hassan. “It is impossible!”

The Kur pointed to the dune country.

I turned to Hassan. “I wish you well, Hassan,” I said.

“It is madness to enter the dune country again,” he said. “The water is almost gone.”

“Try to reach Four Palms,” I said. “Your first business lies with your tribe.

There is soon to be war in the Tahari. When the Kavars ride, you must ride with them.”

“It is a hard choice you impose upon me,” said Hassan, “to choose between my brother and my tribe.” Then he said, “I am of the Tahari. I must choose my brother.”

“The water decides it,” I said. “Your tribe awaits.”

Hassan looked at the Kur. Then he looked at me. “I wish you well, my brother,” he said. He smiled. “May your water bags be never empty. May you always have water.”

“May your water bags be never empty,” I said. “May you have always water.”

Hassan turned away. I wished him well. It was my hope that he would reach Four Palms.

Already, loping, then turning back, then moving ahead again, the Kur moved before me, back toward the long, ragged edge of dunes which lay on our left.

I followed him.