Important and urgent!
A dead body has been found outside the Oasis, unknown to anyone. The Physicians will examine it. I have ordered the body to be taken to the Infirmary. All inhabitants of the Oasis, free and slave alike, are urged to report to the Physicians at once and submit to examination, lest an unknown plague break out.
— Rarius Yuroki
The warning spread quickly through the Oasis, carried by messengers and anxious whispers. Fear followed it like a shadow. Plague was a word no city of Gor took lightly.
The body lay upon a stone table near the infirmary, wrapped in a blood-soaked blanket. Even before it was uncovered, the smell announced death with brutal honesty. Flies swarmed thickly, humming in obscene celebration.
“AHHH… it stinks! And the flies!” Rarius Yuroki exclaimed, stepping back despite himself.
Luciana, who had first discovered the corpse, reported what she had seen: a man already well into decay, death most likely caused by a stab wound. An empty syringe lay upon a tray beside the body, its purpose unknown. The Physicians, repelled by the state of decomposition, took only cultures. Under the lens, the coagulated blood revealed no sign of contagion.
At least, not of the kind they feared.
Crassus Tace studied the corpse with narrowed eyes. Beneath the filth and rot, he saw details others missed.
“He appears to be of the Tahari,” he said slowly, “though perhaps that is what we are meant to believe.”
The mark upon the man’s face had been altered, partially removed even before death. His feet told another story: they bore no long habit of desert sandals. This was not a man of the dunes. Not truly.
“He has spent many years in the north,” Crassus continued. “And if there were plague, the worst of them would have shown by now.”
Rarius frowned. Perhaps an outlaw, lost and murdered between the dunes. Perhaps nothing more.
Yet Crassus hesitated.
“He reminds me of someone,” he said. “An assassin. From Var Kor. One who once followed you… or so it was believed.”
A silence settled between them.
“If that is so,” Crassus added quietly, “then who killed him? And who left him here?”
The question lingered like the stench.
Crassus lifted the corpse’s stiff arm and examined the hand. Thick calluses lined the palm.
“This hand wielded a gladius,” he said. “Not a scimitar.”
A northern weapon. Red-caste steel.
Rarius nodded slowly. The pieces did not yet form a picture, but unease crept in all the same. Trade routes, old agreements, Ar’s Station, whispers of Kur — all stirred uneasily in memory.
Then Crassus spoke the thought that changed everything.
“Perhaps,” he said, “this is not a victim at all. Perhaps it is a message.”
Nephtides na Neidos arrived not long after, greeting the men with respectful distance. He chewed thoughtfully on his pipe as he pulled on gloves.
“You don’t mean to rummage through the corpse’s entrails?” Rarius asked, grimacing.
Nephtides shrugged. “That’s a fair description of what warriors do. Usually the ones we open are still alive. This one has nothing to fear.”
Reluctantly, Rarius watched as Nephtides prepared himself, stuffing wool strips soaked with mint oil into his nostrils before drawing his dagger. The cloth was pulled away. The smell worsened, thick enough to taste.
Nephtides worked quickly, suppressing a gag.
Then Crassus stiffened.
“There,” he said sharply. “Beneath the ribs. That cut… that is no natural tear.”
Nephtides pried it open.
Foul gas escaped, but within the cavity something solid gleamed faintly. With pincers handed to him by his slave, Nephtides carefully withdrew a small vial, sealed at both ends. Inside sloshed a thick black liquid.
Crassus stared at it, his face draining of color.
He took the vial in trembling fingers, turning it slowly, watching the viscous substance crawl from end to end.
“This,” he said at last, “is a Kur weapon.”
The words fell heavily.
“A chemical agent,” Crassus continued, “designed to counteract the serum in barbarians. If consumed, it restores true age. Rapidly.”
Understanding dawned with horror.
“For Earth-born slaves,” Nephtides said slowly, “or freed ones of advanced age… this would be deadly.”
Crassus nodded. “Within twenty ahn, I would stand before you as a man of ninety-seven years.”
Silence followed. Even the kaiila recoiled from the corpse.
“They are telling you they have it,” Crassus said softly. “And that they know where we are.”
The body, now stripped of its purpose, was ordered burned before scavengers or vultures could spread what little corruption remained.
As the flames were prepared, Nephtides crossed his arms. “We should gather the agents of Sardar,” he said. “Strongholds are not filled with such riches without reason. Trouble is coming.”
Rarius Yuroki watched the vial one last time before it disappeared from sight.
“I do not like this kind of message,” he said quietly. “And I did not expect it.”
But on Gor, messages were rarely sent without intent.
And this one had been written in flesh.