Kur of Gor by John Norman

Author:John Norman
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter, the Thirty-Fourth: The Storm; The Cave

“The wind is rising,” said Cabot. “How is that? Is the climate not controlled within the world?”

“It is controlled,” said Grendel. “That is why it is rising.”

“How could the behemoth body of Agamemnon have been brought to the lake?” asked Cabot. “I have seen little of cartage adequate to such a load.”

“There are vehicles,” said Grendel, “but I do not think they were used. Rather I suspect the body was housed near the lake.”

“And Agamemnon came to it?”

“Or was brought to it,” said Grendel.

“I do not understand,” said Cabot.

“It is a thought, no more,” said Grendel.

“Agamemnon is Kur, surely,” said Cabot.

“Certainly,” said Grendel, “but what is Kur?”

“I do not understand,” said Cabot.

“Master,” said the slave, shivering, “it grows cold.”

“The blanket is lost,” said Cabot.

“Master would have given it to me?” she said.

“Certainly,” said Cabot. “One cares for the beasts which belong to one.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Why should the temperature be falling?” asked Cabot.

“I am not cold,” said Grendel.

“It has to do with humans?” asked Cabot.

“I fear so,” said Grendel.

“The revolution has begun?” asked Cabot.

“Perhaps, rather,” said Grendel, “this will prevent it from beginning.”

“Weather is a weapon,” said Cabot.

“In this world,” said Grendel.

The slave suddenly shuddered, and moaned.

“What is wrong?” asked Cabot.

“I am miserable, Master,” she said, “and hungry. Please forgive me.”

“By morning,” said Grendel, “perhaps tonight, I do not know, we will make landfall. There should be forage ashore.”

The slave put her arms about herself, and trembled with cold. The small tunic afforded negligible warmth, and it was still wet, as was her hair, from the events of an Ahn earlier, those in which they had been so grievously imperiled, only to be succored unexpectedly by Agamemnon, Theocrat of the World, or by means of a body under his control.

“The lake grows choppy,” said Cabot.

“There is going to be a storm,” said Grendel.

The raft, mighty as it was, began to respond to the force of swift, rising swells. A wind whipped Cabot’s tunic about him, and tore through the fur of Grendel.

The slave, crouched down, whimpered in misery.

The raft lifted, and fell, and tipped, and bucked, and pitched about. Muchly was it at the mercy of the lake’s tumult, whether one meaningless and blind, or contrived.

How helpless are even we in the face of such masses and forces!

“Ai!” said Cabot, nearly losing his balance.

“Get down,” said Grendel. “Cling to the ropes.”

Cabot crouched down by the slave, and, holding to a rope, put an arm about her, and she put her dark, wet hair against his shoulder.

“It grows dark!” said Cabot.

Too suddenly it seemed that darkness fell.

A driving rain began to fall.

The wind rose further, roaring, lashing the air.

“Grendel!” called Cabot.

“I am here!” he heard, a voice scarcely heard against the wind.

Cold waters washed over the raft. Even Grendel then threw himself down and fastened himself within the raft ropes.

The raft was lifted a dozen feet into the air, again and again, and dropped, and was flung from side to side. Cabot felt the logs loosening beneath him.

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