Rebels of Vulvar (Vulvarian Saga Book 2), стр. 29

of the darkness, a hand reached out and grabbed my sword wrist. To my amazement, the hand that grasped me felt as hardened and solid as the hide of a baacaas. Before I knew what was happening, my arm was jerked downward and twisted, and I had been thrown onto my back at the feet of a man. He kicked the katana from my hand, and I heard it skid across the ground beneath the caravan. He set his sizeable sandaled foot against my throat, and I felt him press the point of a sword against my chest. He laughed a mighty, roaring laugh, and threw his head back. The man, of gigantic stature, had a massive, lion-like head, with long dark hair and a wild, unkempt beard.

“I am Russell Cooke, Dabar of Nisa,” the man roared. “Now tell me. Who are you, and why do you skulk about my caravan in the darkness with a drawn sword?”

Dabar of Nisa

Bound in a kneeling position, an officer had flayed me with a whip, shredding the tunic and leaving my back bleeding from the lash. Warriors then had thrown me before the Dabar. Though I had been a prisoner for less than an hour, my captors had already much tortured and abused me.

One officer thrust his hand into my hair, gripped it, and forced my lips down to the Dabar’s sandal.

“Show respect to the Dabar!” the officer snarled.

I gathered that the Dabar had finally seen fit to end my suffering with the execution the rebel officers had promised, all the while they were whipping me.

Before me, on a large stone, sat Cooke, his long hair over his shoulders, his great scruffy beard reaching almost to his waist. He was a massive, muscular man, his slate grey eyes wild and menacing. He was a magnificent barbarian.

To either side of him stood warriors holding their shields and spears.

“I ask you once more, who are you?” Cooke demanded.

I remained silent and stared down at the ground.

Another warrior approached me. He grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head up so he could examine my face.

“I know this man, Dabar,” the warrior said with surprise. “This is the one called Tom Gray. We had sword training together when he was in the training cohort.”

“The deserter?” Cooke said.

“The same, my Dabar,” the warrior said.

Cooke regarded me with a malevolent grin.

“You are he who killed six of my warriors at the stockade, and freed my Thivan prisoners,” Cooke said. “Then, you killed the four who guarded the back gate of the city to make your escape.”

“Yes,” I said.

“It was well done,” said Cooke in grudging admiration. “But that means you are a traitor and a spy. You realize that you must die.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You are a brave, but foolish warrior,” Cooke said. “I have respect for your courage, but I am astonished that you have betrayed your own sex to aid our female enemies. Why? Does it please you to serve females as a slave?”

“I have been a slave on this world, and it has not pleased me,” I said. “I don’t approve of the cruelty females inflict on men here. But neither do I approve of men subjugating women and exploiting them for their pleasure. There should exist mutual respect between the sexes.”

“You are a fool, and naïve,” Cooke said. “What can you know of these things? The balance of mutual regard is always too delicate and cannot long be maintained. One sex must rule, the other must serve. On this world, females have enlarged their power at the expense of males. Nature’s laws require males to be dominant. It is essential to true manhood. That has been subverted on Vulvar. I intend to restore the natural order. I will end the retribution and cruelty that cloud the lives of men on this planet. Vulvar will become a world of honor and justice.”

“Your justice,” I said.

“Mine, if you like,” Cooke said.

“By what right,” I challenged, “does Russell Cooke bring justice to Vulvar?”

“You do not understand,” Cooke said. “Right itself, the right you speak of, owes its very existence to the laws of nature. Laws that dictate the dominance of men.”

“I think that is false,” I said, shifting my position while hoping to find relief from the pain of the whip cuts on my back. “I hope it is false. I prefer the ideal of mutual respect between males and females.”

“That is only fantasy,” Cooke said, rising to his feet. As if it were a signal, warriors stepped forward, seized me, and lifted me to my feet.

“Shall we impale him upon our spears?” an officer said.

“No, he is a collaborator and a spy,” Cooke said. “He does not deserve the honorable death of a warrior, but the death of a slave. He has earned the right of the veovark death.”

“He has indeed,” the officer said.

Cooke approached me until we were face to face. “You will be torn to pieces,” he said. “It will not be nearly as pleasant a death by impalement. Before you die, you will scream like the females you speak of so reverently.”

Cooke then struck me forcefully in the face with a massive fist. I shook my head, almost knocked senseless by the mighty blow. I tasted the coppery tang of blood in my mouth. Someone called for torches, and the warriors dragged me away from the caravans to a clearing where they had hobbled the veovarks.

Two warriors put the harnesses on a pair of veovarks while others untied my wrists from behind my back, before throwing me to the ground on my belly and tying separate lengths of leather rope to my wrists and ankles. Then they led a veovark to either side of me, with the heads of the great beasts pointed away from me. The warriors made fast two ropes to each of the strong animals. I then understood what was meant by the veovark death.

The warriors intended to lead the two beasts in opposite directions while I