OUTLAW OF GORVolume two of the

Chronicles of Counter-Earth

by John NormanPublished Dec, 1967, by

DelRey/BallantineCover art by Boris Vallejo

This ePub edition byDead^Man Dec, 2010

Tarl Cabot's long exile was over. Againhe was back on Gor, the strange world of

counter earth, where he had once beenthe proudest warrior and mightiestTarnsman of that savage planet.

But nothing was as it had been. His homecity Ko-Ro-Ba was destroyed, razed untilnot one stone remained standing. Hisbeautiful mate Talena, was dead orvanished. His family and friends wherescattered across the globe.

And Cabot was now declared a outlaw,with all men ordered to kill him on sight.His only chance was to find the strangePriest-Kings who ruled Gor and to submithimself to them.

But Tarl Cabot was not about to submit!

CONTENTSA NOTE ON THE

MANUSCRIPTChapter One: THE

STATEMENT OF HARRISONSMITH

Chapter Two: RETURN TOGOR

Chapter Three: ZOSKChapter Four: THE SLEENChapter Five: THE VALLEY OF

KO-RO-BAChapter Six: VERAChapter Seven: THORN,

CAPTAIN OF THARNAChapter Eight: THE CITY OF

THARNAChapter Nine: THE KAL-DA

SHOP

Chapter Ten: THE PALACE OFTHE TATRIX

Chapter Eleven: LARA,TATRIX OF THARNA

Chapter Twelve: ANDREAS OFTHE CASTE OF POETS

Chapter Thirteen: THEAMUSEMENTS OF THARNA

Chapter Fourteen: THE BLACKTARN

Chapter Fifteen: A BARGAIN ISSTRUCK

Chapter Sixteen: THE PILLAROF EXCHANGES

Chapter Seventeen: THE MINESOF THARNA

Chapter Eighteen: WE ARE OF

THE SAME CHAINChapter Nineteen: REVOLT IN

THE MINESChapter Twenty: THE

INVISIBLE BARRIERChapter Twenty-One: I BUY A

GIRLChapter Twenty-Two: YELLOW

CORDSChapter Twenty-Three:

RETURN TO THARNAChapter Twenty-Four: THE

BARRICADEChapter Twenty-Five: THE

ROOF OF THE PALACEChapter Twenty-Six: A LETTER

FROM TARL CABOT

A NOTE ON THEMANUSCRIPT

My friend, Harrison Smith, ayoung lawyer of the city, hasrecently given me a secondmanuscript, purportedly by theindividual Tarl Cabot. It was hisdesire that I bring this seconddocument, as I did the first, to theattention of a publisher. This time,however, because of the numerousclaims and inquiries generated bythe first manuscript Tarnsman ofGor (pertaining to various mattersranging from further alleged

documentation for the existence ofthe Counter-Earth to disputesconcerning the authorship of themanuscript), I have prevailed uponSmith to write something in theway of a preface to this secondaccount, making clear his own rolein these matters and telling us abit more about Tarl Cabot, whom Ihave never had the good fortune tomeet in person.

John Norman

Chapter One:THE STATEMENT OF

HARRISON SMITH

I first met Tarl Cabot at a smallliberal arts college in NewHampshire, where we had bothaccepted first year teachingappointments. He was an instructorin English history and I, intending towork for some three years to savemoney toward law school, hadaccepted an appointment as aninstructor in physical education, afield which, to my annoyance,Cabot never convinced himselfbelonged in the curriculum of aneducational institution.

We hiked a good deal, talked and

fenced, and, I hoped, had becomefriends. I liked the young, gentleEnglishman. He was quiet andpleasant, though sometimes heseemed remote, or lonely, somehowunw1illing to break through thatprotective shield of formalitybehind which the educatedEnglishman, at heart perhaps assentimental and hot-blooded as anyman, attempts to conceal hisfeelings.

Young Cabot was rather tall, agood-sized man, well-built, with ananimal ease in his walk that perhapsbespoke the docks of Bristol, hisnative city, rather than the cloisters

of Oxford, at one of whose collegeshe had obtained his later education.His eyes were clear, and blue,direct and honest. He was fairlycomplected. His hair, lamentablyperhaps, though some of us lovedhim for it, was red, but not merelyred–it was rather a tangled, blazingaffront to the properties of the well-groomed academician. I doubt thathe owned a comb, and I would bewilling to swear that he would nothave used one if he had. All in all,Tarl Cabot seemed to us a young,quiet, courteous Oxford gentleman,except for that hair. And then weweren't sure.

To my consternation and that ofthe college, Cabot disappearedshortly after the conclusion of thefirst semester. I am sure that thiswas not of his own intention. Cabotis a man who honours hiscommitments.

At the end of the semester, Cabot,like the rest of us, was weary of theacademic routine, and was seekingsome diversion. He decided to gocamping–by himself–in the nearbyWhite Mountains, which were verybeautiful then, in the white, brittlesplendour of a New HampshireFebruary.

I loaned him some of my camping

gear and drove him into themountains, dropping him off besidethe highway. He asked me, and I amcertain he was serious, to meet himat the same place in three days. Ireturned at the determined time, buthe failed to keep the rendezvous. Iwaited several hours, and thenreturned at the same time the nextday. Still he did not appear.Accordingly, then alarmed, Inotified the authorities, and, byafternoon, a large-scale search wasunderway.

Eventually we found what wesupposed to be the ashes of his fire,near a large flat rock some nine

hours' climb from the highway. Oursearch, otherwise, was fruitless.Yet, several months later, Iunderstand that Tarl Cabot stumbledout of these same mountains, aliveand well, but apparently under thestress of some emotional shockwhich had culminated in amnesia–atleast for that period during whichhe had been missing.

He never returned to teach at thecollege, to the relief of several ofmy elder colleagues who nowconfessed that they thought thatyoung Cabot had never really fittedin. Shortly thereafter I determinedthat I did not fit in either, and left

the college. I did receive a chequefrom Cabot to cover the cost of mycamping equipment, which he hadapparently lost. It was a thoughtfulgesture but I wish instead that hehad stopped to see me. I wouldhave seized his hand and forced himto speak to me, to tell me what hadhappened.

Somehow, unlike my colleaguesat the school, I had found theamnesia account too simple. It wasnot an adequate explanation; itcouldn't be. How had he lived forthose months, where had he been,what had he done?

It was almost seven years after I

had known Tarl Cabot at thecollege when I saw him on thestreets of Manhattan. By that time Ihad long ago saved the money Ineeded for law school and had nottaught for three years. Indeed, I wasthen completing my studies at theschool of law associated with oneof New York's best known privateuniversities.

He had changed very little, if atall. I rushed over to him andwithout thinking seized him by theshoulder. What happened nextseemed almost too unbelievable tocomprehend. He spun like a tigerwith a sudden cry of rage in some

strange tong1ue and I found myselfseized in hands like steel and withgreat force hurled helplessly acrosshis knee, my spine an inch frombeing splintered like kindlingwood.

In an instant he released me,apologising profusely even beforerecognising me. In horror I realisedthat what he had done had been asmuch a reflex as the blinking of aneye or the jerking of a knee under aphysician's hammer. It was thereflex of an animal whose instinct itis to destroy before it can bedestroyed, or of a human being whohas been tooled into such an animal,

a human being who has beenconditioned to kill swiftly,savagely, or be killed in the samefashion. I was covered with sweat.I knew that I had been an instantfrom death. Was this the gentleCabot I had known?

âœarrison!âhe cried. âœarrisonSmith!âHe lifted me easily to myfeet, his words rapid and stumbling,trying to reassure me. âœ'msorry,âhe kept saying, âœorgive me!Forgive me, Old Man!â/p>

We looked at one another.He thrust out his hand

impulsively, apologetically. I tookit and we shook hands. I'm afraid

my grip was a bit weak, and that myhand shook a little. âœ'm reallyfrightfully sorry,âhe said.

There was a knot of people whohad gathered, standing a safedistance away on the sidewalk.

He smiled, the ingenuous boyishsmile I remembered from NewHampshire. âœould you like adrink?âhe asked.

I smiled too. ✠could use one,âIsaid.

In a small bar in midtownManhattan, little more than adoorway and a corridor, Tarl Cabotand I renewed our friendship. Wetalked of dozens of things, but

neither of us mentioned his abruptresponse to my greeting, nor did wespeak of those mysterious months inwhich he had disappeared in themountains of New Hampshire.

In the ensuing months, my studiespermitting, we saw one anotherfairly often. I seemed to answer adesparate need for humanfellowship in that lonely man, and,for my part, I was more than happyto count myself hisfriendâ“nfortunately perhaps, hisonly friend.

I felt that the time would comewhen Cabot would speak to me ofthe mountains but that he himself

would have to choose that time. Iwas not eager to intrude into hisaffairs, or his secrets as the casemight be. It was enough to be oncemore his friend. I wondered uponoccasion why Cabot did not speakto me more openly on certainmatters, why he so jealouslyguarded the mystery of those monthsin which he had been absent fromthe college. I now know why he didnot speak sooner. He feared Iwould have thought him mad.

It was late one night, in earlyFebruary, and we were drinkingonce more at that small bar inwhich we had had our first drink

that incredible sunny afternoonsome months before. Outside therewas a light snow falling, soft ascoloured felt in the lonely neonlights of the street. Cabot watchedit, between swallows of Scotch. Heseemed to be morose, moody. Irecalled it was in February that hehad departed from the college,years earlier.

âœerhaps we had better gohome,âI said.

Cabot continued to stare out thewindow, watching the neon snowdrifting aimlessly down to the gray,trampled sidewalk.

✠love her,âsaid Cabot, not

really speaking to me.âœho?âI asked.He shook his head, and continued

to watch the snow.âœet's go home,âI said. âœt's

late.â/p>âœhere is home?âasked Cabot,

staring into the half-filled glass.âœour apartment, a few blocks

from here,âI said, wanting him toleave, wanting him to get out ofthere. His mood was alien toanything I had seen in him before.Somehow I was frightened.

He would not be moved. Hepulled his arm away from my hand.âœt is late,âhe said, seeming to

agree with me but intending perhapsmore. âœt must not be too late,âhesaid, as though he had resolved onsomething, as though by the sheerforce of his will he would stop theflow of time, the random track ofevents.

I leaned back in my chair. Cabotwould leave when he was ready.Not before. I became aware of hissilence, and the light subdued patterof conversation at the bar, the clinkof glasses, the sounds of a footscraping, of liquid swirling into asmall, heavy glass.

Cabot lifted his Scotch again,holding it before him, not drinking.

Then, ceremoniously, bitterly, hepoured a bit of it onto the table,where it splattered, partly soakinginto a napkin. As he performed thisgesture, he uttered some formula inthat strange tongue I had heard butonce beforeâ“hen I had nearlyperished at his hands. Somehow Ihad the feeling that he wasbecoming dangerous. I was uneasy.

âœhat are you doing?âI asked.✠am offering a libation,âhe

said. âœa-Sardar-Gor.â/p>âœhat does that mean?âI asked,

my words fumbling a bit, blurred bythe liquor, made unsteady by myfear.

âœt means,âlaughed Cabot, amirthless laugh, ✀to the Priest-Kings of Gor!â/p>

He rose unsteadily. He seemedtall, strange, almost of anotherworld in that subdued light, in thatquiet atmosphere of small, genialcivilised noises.

Then without warning, with abitter laugh, at once a lament and acry of rage, he hurled the glassviolently to the wall. It shatteredinto a million sporadic gleamingfragments, shocking the place into amoment of supreme silence. And inthat sudden instant of startled, awe-struck silence, I heard him clearly,

intensely, repeat in a hoarsewhisper that strange phrase, âœa-Sardar-Gor!â/p>

The bartender, a heavy, soft-faced man, waddled to the table.One of his fat hands nervouslyclutched a short leather truncheon,weighted with shot. The bartenderjerked his thumb toward the door.He repeated the gesture. Cabottowering over him seemed not tocomprehend. The bartender liftedthe truncheon in a menacing gesture.Cabot simply took the weapon,seeming to draw it easily from thestartled grip of the fat man. Helooked down into the sweating,

frightened fat face.âœou have lifted a weapon

against me,âhe said. âœy codespermit me to kill you.â/p>

The bartender and I watched withterror as Cabot's large firm handstwisted the truncheon apart,splitting the stitching, much as Imight have twisted apart a roll ofcardboard. Some of the shotdropped to the floor and rolledunder the tables.

âœe's drunk,âI said to thebartender. I took Cabot firmly bythe arm. He didn't seem to be angryany longer, and I could see that heintended no one any harm. My touch

seemed to snap him out of hisstrange mood. He handed the ruinedtruncheon meekly back to thebartender.

âœ'm sorry,âsaid Cabot.âœeally.âHe reached into his walletand pressed a bill into thebartender's hands. It was a hundreddollar bill.

We put on our coats and went outinto the February evening, into thelight snow.

Outside the bar we stood in thesnow, not speaking. Cabot, stillhalf-drunk, looked about himself, atthe brutal electric geometry of thatgreat city, at the dark, lonely shapes

that moved through the light snow,at the pale glimmering headlights ofthe cars.

“This is a great city,” said Cabot,“and yet it is not loved. How manyare there here who would die forthis city? How many who woulddefend to the death its perimeters?How many who would submit totorture on its behalf?”

“You're drunk,” I said, smiling.“This city is not loved,” he said.

“Or it would not be used as it is,kept as it is.”

He walked sadly away.Somehow I knew that this was

the night on which I would learn the

secret of Tarl Cabot.“Wait!” I cried to him suddenly.He turned and I sensed that he

was glad that I had called to him,that my company on that night meanta great deal to him.

I joined him and together wewent to his apartment. First hebrewed a pot of strong coffee, andact for which my swirling senseswere more than grateful. Thenwithout speaking he went into hiscloset and emerged carrying astrongbox. He unlocked this with akey which he carried on his ownperson, and removed a manuscript,written in his own clear, decisive

hand and bound with twine. Heplaced the manuscript in my hands.

It was a document pertaining towhat Cabot called the Counter-Earth, the story of a warrior, of thesiege of a city, and of the love of agirl. You perhaps know it asTarnsman of Gor.

When, shortly after dawn, I hadfinished the account, I looked atCabot, who, all the time, had beensitting at the window, his chin onhis hands, watching the snow, lostin what thoughts I could scarcelyconjecture.

He turned and faced me.“It's true,” he said, “but you need

not believe it.”I didn't know what to say. It

could not, of course, be true, yet Ifelt Cabot to be one of the mosthonest men I had ever known.

Then I noticed his ring, almostfor the first time, though I had seenit a thousand times. It had beenmentioned in the account, thatsimple ring of red metal, bearingthe crest of Cabot.

“Yes,” said Cabot, extending hishand, “this is the ring.”

I gestured to the manuscript.“Why have you shown me this?” Iasked.

“I want someone to know of

these things,” said Cabot simply.I arose, now conscious for the

first time of a lost night of sleep, theeffects of the drinking, and of theseveral cups of bitter coffee. Ismiled wryly. “I think,” I said, “I'dbetter go.”

“Of course,” said Cabot, helpingme on with my coat. At the doorwayhe held out his hand. “Good-bye,”he said.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” I said.“No,” he said. “I am going again

to the mountains.”It was in February, at this time,

that he had disappeared seven yearsbefore.

I was s1hocked into clearconsciousness. “Don't go,” I said.

“I am going,” he said.“Let me come with you,” I said.“No,” he said, “I may not come

back.”We shook hands, and I had the

strange feeling that I might neversee Tarl Cabot again. My hand wasclenched firmly on his, and his onmine. I had meant something to him,and he to me, and now as simply asthis it seemed that friends might partforever, never to see or talk to oneanother again.

I found myself in the bleak whitehallway outside his apartment,

blinking at the exposed bulb in theceiling. I walked for some hours, inspite of my fatigue, thinking,puzzling about these strange thingsof which I had heard.

Then suddenly I turned and,literally, ran back to his apartment.I had left him, my friend. To what Ihad no idea. I rushed to the door ofthe apartment and pounded on itwith my fists. There was no answer.I kicked in the door, splintering thelock from the jamb. I entered theapartment. Tarl Cabot was gone!

On the table in that smallfurnished apartment was themanuscript I had read through the

long night–with an envelopefastened under the twine. Theenvelope bore my name andaddress. Inside was the simplenote: “For Harrison Smith, shouldhe care to have it.” Dismal, I leftthe apartment, carrying themanuscript which was subsequentlypublished as Tarnsman of Gor. Thatand memory were all that remainedof my friend, Tarl Cabot.

My examinations came and weresuccessfully completed. Later,following more examinations, I wasadmitted to the bar in New YorkState, and I entered one of theimmense law offices in the city,

hoping to obtain eventually enoughexperience and capital to open asmall practice of my own. In therush of working, in theinterminable, demanding jungle ofdetail required in my trade, thememory of Cabot was forced frommy mind. There is perhaps littlemore to say here, other than the factthat I have not seen him again.Though I have reason to believe helives.

Late one afternoon, after work, Ireturned to my apartment. There–inspite of the locked doors andwindows–on a coffee table beforethe settee, was a second manuscript,

that which now follows. There wasno note, no explanation.

Perhaps, as Tarl Cabot onceremarked, “The agents of the Priest-Kings are among us.”

Chapter Two:RETURN TO GOR

Once again, I, Tarl Cabot, strodethe green fields of Gor.

I awakened naked in the wind-swept grass, beneath that blazingstar that is the common sun of mytwo worlds, my home planet, Earth,

and its secret sister, the Counter-Earth, Gor.

I rose slowly to my feet, myfibers alive in the wind, my hairtorn by its blasts, my muscles eachaching and rejoicing in their firstmovements in perhaps weeks, for Ihad again entered that silver disk inthe White Mountains which was theship of the Priest-Kings, used forthe Voyages of Acquisition, and, inentering, had fallen unconscious. Inthat state, as once long before, I hadcome to this world.

I stood so for some minutes, tolet each sense and nerve drink in thewonder of my return.

I was aware again of thesomewhat lesser gravity of theplanet, but this awareness would1pass as my system accomodateditself naturally to the newenvironment. Given the lessergravity, feats of prowess whichmight seem superhuman on earthwere commonplace on Gor. Thesun, as I remembered it, seemed abit larger than it did when viewedfrom the earth, but as before it wasdifficult to be altogether sure ofthis.

In the distance I could see somepatches of yellow, the Ka-la-nagroves that dot the fields of Gor.

Far to my left I saw a splendid fieldof Sa-Tarna, bending beautifully inthe wind, that tall yellow grain thatforms a staple in the Gorean diet.To the right, in the far distance, Isaw the smudge of mountains. Fromtheir extent and height, as far as Icould judge, I guessed them to bethe mountains of Thentis. Fromthem, if this were true, I couldgather my bearings for Ko-ro-ba,that city of cylinders to which,years ago, I had pledged my sword.

So standing, the sun upon me,without thinking I raised my arms inpagan prayer to acknowledge thepower of the Priest-Kings, which

had once again brought me fromEarth to this world, the powerwhich once before had torn me fromGor when they were finished withme, taking me from my adopted city,my father and my friends, and fromthe girl I loved, dark-hairedbeautiful Talena, daughter ofMarlenus, who had once been theUbar of Ar, the greatest city of allknown Gor.

There was no love in my heartfor the Priest-Kings, thosemysterious denizens of the SardarMountains, whoever or whateverthey might be, but there wasgratitude in my heart, either to them

or to the strange forces that movedthem.

That I had been returned to Gorto seek out once more my city andmy love was, I was sure, not thespontaneous gesture of generosity,or of justice, that it might seem. ThePriest-Kings, Keepers of the HolyPlace in the Sardar Mountains,seeming knowers of all thatoccurred on Gor, masters of thehideous Flame Death that couldwith consuming fire destroywhatever they wished, wheneverthey might please, were not socrudely motivated as men, were notsusceptible to the imperatives of

decency and respect that can uponoccasion sway human action. Theirconcern was with their own remoteand mysterious ends; to achievethese ends, human creatures weretreated as subservient instruments.It was rumoured they used men asone might use pieces in a game, andwhen the piece had played its roleit might be discarded, or perhaps,as in my case, removed from theboard until it pleased the Priest-Kings to try yet another game.

I noticed, a few feet from me,lying on the grass, a helmet, shieldand spear, and a bundle of foldedleather. I knelt to examine the

articles.The helmet was bronze, worked

in the Greek fashion, with a unitaryopening somewhat in the shape of aY. It bore no insignia and its crestplate was empty.

The round shield, concentricoverlapping layers of hardenedleather riveted together and boundwith hoops of brass, fitted with thedouble sling for carrying on the leftarm, was similarly unmarked.Normally the Gorean shield ispainted boldly and has infixed in itsome device for identifying thebearer's city. If this shield wereintended for me, and I had little

doubt it was, it should have carriedthe sign of Ko-ro-ba, my city.

The spear was a typical Goreanspear, about seven feet in height,heavy, stout, with a tapering bronzehead some eighteen inches in length.It is a terrible weapon and, abettedby the somewhat lighter gravity ofGor, when cast with considerableforce, can pierce a shield at closequarters or bury its head a foot deepin solid wood. With this weapongroups of men hunt even the larl inits native haunts in the VoltaiRange, that incredible pantherlikecarnivore which may stand six toeight feet high at the shoulder.

Indeed, the Gorean spear is suchthat many warriors scorn lessermissile weapons, such as thelongbow or crossbow, both ofwhich are not uncommonly found onGor. I regretted, however, that nobow was among the weapons at mydisposal, as I had, in my previoussojourn on Gor, developed a skillwith such weapons, and admittedlya fondness for them, a liking whichhad scandalised my former master-at-arms.

I recalled him with affection, theOlder Tarl. Tarl is a common nameon Gor. I looked forward eagerly toseeing him again, that rough, Viking

giant of a man, that proud, bearded,affectionately belligerentswordsman who had taught me thecraft of arms as practised by thewarriors of Gor.

I opened the leather bundle. In it Ifound the scarlet tunic, sandals andcloak which constitute the normalgarb of a member of the Caste ofWarriors. This was as it should be,as I was of that caste, and had beensince that morning, some sevenyears ago, when in the Chamber ofthe Council of High Castes I hadaccepted weapons from the handsof my father, Matthew Cabot,Administrator of Ko-ro-ba, and had

taken the Home Stone of that city asmy own.

For the Gorean, though he seldomspeaks of these things, a city ismore than brick and marble,cylinders and bridges. It is notsimply a place, a geographicallocation in which men have seen fitto build their dwellings, acollection of structures where theymay most conveniently conducttheir affairs.

The Gorean senses, or believes,that a city cannot be simplyidentified with its natural elements,which undergo their transformationseven as do the cells of a human

body.For them a city is almost a living

thing, or more than a living thing. Itis an entity with a history, as stonesand rivers do not have a history; itis an entity with a tradition, aheritage, customs, practices,character, intentions, hopes. When aGorean says, for example, that he isof Ar, or Ko-ro-ba, he is doing agreat deal more than informing youof his place of residence.

The Goreans generally, thoughthere are exceptions, particularlythe Caste of Initiates, do not believein immortality. Accordingly, to beof a city is, in a sense, to have been

a part of something less perishablethan oneself, something divine inthe sense of undying, Of course, asevery Gorean knows, cities too aremortal, for cities can be destroyedas well as men. And this perhapsmakes them love their cities themore, for they know that their city,like themselves, is subject to mortaltermination.

The love of their city tends tobecome invested in a stone which isknown as the Home Stone, andwhich is normally kept in thehighest cylinder in the city. In theHome Stone–sometimes little morethan a crude piece of carved rock,

dating back perhaps severalhundred generations to when thecity was only a cluster of huts bythe bank of a river, sometimes amagnificent and impressivelywrought, jewel-encrusted cube ofmarble or granite–the city finds itssymbol. Yet to speak of a symbol isto fall short of the mark. It is almostas if the city itself were identifiedwith the Home Stone, as if it wereto the city what life is to man. Themyths of these matters have it thatwhile the Home Stone survives, so,too, must the city.

But not only is it the case thateach city has its Home Stone. The

simplest and humblest village, andeven the most primitive hut in thatvillage, perhaps only a cone ofstraw, will contain its own HomeStone, as will the fantasticallyappointed chambers of theAdministrator of so great a city asAr.

My Home Stone was t1he HomeStone of Ko-ro-ba, that city towhich I had seven years agopledged my sword. I was noweager to return to my city.

In the bundle, wrapped inside thetunic and cloak I found the shoulderbelt, sheath and short sword of theGoreans. I took the blade from its

sheath. It was well balanced,vicious, double-edged and abouttwenty to twenty-two inches inlength. I knew the handle, and Icould recognise certain marks onthe blade. It was the weapon I hadcarried at the siege of Ar. It feltstrange to hold it again in my hand,to feel its weight, the familiar graspof the hilt. This blade had fought itsway up the stairs of the CentralCylinder of Ar, when I had rescuedMarlenus, embattled Ubar of thatcity. It had crossed with that of Pa-Kur, master assassin, on the roof ofAr's Cylinder of Justice, when I hadfought for my love, Talena. And

now again I held it in my hand. Iwondered why, and knew only thatthe Priest-Kings had intended it so.

There were two items I hadhoped to find in the bundle whichwere not there, a tarn-goad and atarn-whistle. The tarn-goad is arodlike instrument, about twentyinches long. It has a switch in thehandle, much like an ordinaryflashlight. When the goad isswitched to the on-position and itstrikes an object, it emits a violentshock and scatters a shower ofyellow sparks. It is used forcontrolling tarns, the gigantichawklike saddle-birds of Gor.

Indeed, the birds are conditioned torespond to the goad, almost fromthe egg.

The tarn-whistle, as one mightexpect, is used to summon the bird.Usually, the most highly trainedtarns will respond to only one note,that sounded by the whistle of theirmaster. There is nothing surprisingin this inasmuch as each bird istrained, by the Caste of TarnKeepers, to respond to a differentnote. When the tarn is presented to awarrior, or sold to one, the whistleaccompanies the bird. Needless tosay, the whistle is important andcarefully guarded, for, should it be

lost or fall into the hands of anenemy, the warrior has, for allpractical purposes, lost his mount.

I now dressed myself in thescarlet garb of a warrior of Gor. Iwas puzzled that the garb, like thehelmet and shield, bore no insignia.This was contrary to the ways ofGor, for normally only thehabiliments of outlaws and exiles,men without a city, lack theidentifying devices of which theGorean is so proud.

I donned the helmet, and slung theshield and sword over my leftshoulder. I picked up the massivespear lightly in my right hand.

Judging by the sun, and knowingthat Ko-ro-ba lay northwest of themountains, I strode in the directionof my city.

My step was light, my heart washappy. I was home, for where mylove waited for me was home.Where my father had met me aftermore than twenty years ofseparation, where my warriorcomrades and I had drunk andlaughed together, where I had metand learned from my little friend,Torm, the Scribe, there was home.

I found myself thinking inGorean, as fluently as though I hadnot been gone for seven years. I

became aware that I was singing asI walked through the grass, awarrior song.

I had returned to Gor.

Chapter Three:ZOSK

I had walked for some hours inthe direction of Ko-ro-ba when Iwas delighted to come on one of thanarrow roads to the city. Irecognised it, and even had I not,the cylindrical pasang stones thatmarked its length were eachinscribed with the sign of the city

and the appropriate pasang count toits walls. A Gorean pasang isapproximately .7 of a mile.

The road, like most Goreanroads, was built like a wall in theearth and was intended to last ahundred generations. The Gorean,having little idea of progress in oursense, takes great care in hisbuilding and workmanship. What hebuilds he expects men to use untilthe storms of time have worn it todust. Yet this road, for all theloving craft of the Caste of Builderswhich had been lavished upon it,was only an unpretentious,subsidiary road, hardly wide

enough for two carts to pass.Indeed, even the main roads to Ko-ro-ba were a far cry from the greathighways that led to and from ametropolis like Ar.

Surprisingly, though the pasangstones told me I was close to Ko-ro-ba, stubborn tufts of grass weregrowing between the stones, andoccasional vines were inching out,tendril by tendril, across the greatstone blocks.

It was late afternoon and, judgingby the pasang stones, I was stillsome hours from the city. Though itwas still bright, many of thecolourfully plumed birds had

already sought their nests. Here andthere swarms of night insects beganto stir, lifting themselves under theleaves of bushes by the road. Theshadows of the pasang stones hadgrown long, and, judging by theangle of these shadows (for thestones are set in such a way as toserve also as sundials) it was pastthe fourteenth Gorean Ahn, or hour.The Gorean day is divided intotwenty Ahn, which are numberedconsecutively. The tenth Ahn isnoon, the twentieth, midnight. EachAhn consists of forty Ehn, orminutes, and each Ehn of eighty Ihn,or seconds.

I wondered if it would bepractical to continue my journey.The sun would soon be down, andthe Gorean night is not without itsdangers, particularly to a man onfoot.

It is at night that the sleen hunts,that six-legged, long-bodiedmammalian carnivore, almost asmuch a snake as an animal. I hadnever seen one, but had seen thetracks of one seven years before.

Also, at night, crossing the brightdisks of Gor's three moons mightoccasionally be seen the silent,predatory shadow of the ul, a giantpterodactyl ranging far from its

native swamps in the delta of theVosk.

Perhaps I most dreaded thosenights filled with the shrieks of thevart pack, a blind, batlike swarm offlying rodents, each the size of asmall dog. They could strip acarcass in a matter of minutes, eachcarrying back some flutteringribbon of flesh to the recesses ofwhatever dark cave the swarm hadchosen for its home. Moreover,some vart packs were rabid.

One obvious danger lay in theroad itself, and the fact that I had nolight. After dark, various serpentsseek out the road for its warmth, its

stones retaining the sun's heatlonger than the surroundingcountryside. One such serpent wasthe huge, many-banded Goreanpython, the hith. One to be fearedeven more perhaps was the tiny ost,a venemous, brilliantly orangereptile little more than a foot inlength, whose bite spelled anexcruciating death within seconds.

Accordingly, in spite of myeagerness to return to Ko-ro-ba, Idecided that I would withdraw fromthe road, wrap myself in my cloakand spend the night in the shelter ofsome rocks, or perhaps crawl intothe tangle of some thorn bushes,

where one might sleep in relativesecurity. Now that I wasconsidering discontinuing myjourney, I suddenly became acutelyaware that I was both hungry andthirsty. No rations or water flaskhad been in the leather packagefound with the weapons. I hadscarcely stepped from the stones ofthe road when, coming down theroad, each step carefully measuredand solid, I saw a wide, hunchedfigure, bending under a giganticbundle of sticks, strapped to hisback by two cords which he heldtwisted in his fists in front of hisbody. His stature and burden

proclaimed him as a member of theCaste of Carriers of Wood, orWoodsmen, that Gorean castewhich, with the Caste of CharcoalMakers, provides most of thecommon fuel for the Gorean cities.

The weight the man was carryingwas prodigious, and would havestaggered men of most castes, eventhat of the Warriors. The bundlereared itself at least a man's heightabove his bent back, and extendedperhaps some four feet in width. Iknew the support of that weightdepended partly on the skillful useof the cords and back, but sheerstrength was only too obviously

necessary, and this man, and hiscaste brothers, over the generations,had been shaped to their task.Lesser men had turned outlaw ordied. In rare cases, one might havebeen permitted by the Council ofHigh Castes to raise caste. None ofcourse would accept a lower caste,and there were lower castes, theCaste of Peasants, for example, themost basic caste of all Gor.

The man approached moreclosely. His eyes were almostcovered with a white, shaggy,inverted bowl of hair, matted withtwigs and leaves. The whiskers hadbeen scraped from his face,

probably by the blade of the broad,double-headed wood ax bound ontop of the bundle. He wore theshort, tattered sleeveless robe of istrade, with its leather back andshoulders. His feet were bare, andblack to the ankles.

I stepped into the road beforehim.

“Tal,” I said, lifting my right arm,palm inward, in a common Goreangreeting.

The shaggy creature, broad,powerful, monstrous in the prouddeformation of his craft, stoodbefore me, his feet planted firmlyon the road. His head lifted. Its

wide, narrow eyes, pale like water,regarded me through the brush ofhair that almost concealed them.

In spite of his slow reaction tomy presence, his deliberate andpatient movements, I gathered thathe was surprised. He hadapparently not expected to meetanyone on this road. That puzzledme.

“Tal,” he said, his voice thick,almost less than human.

I sensed that he was consideringhow quickly he could get to the axbound across the bundle.

“I mean you no harm,” I said.“What do you want?” asked the

carrier of wood, who must nowhave noticed that my shield andaccouterments bore no insignia, andwould have concluded that I was anoutlaw.

“I am not an outlaw,” I said.He obviously did not believe me.“I am hungry,” I said. “I have had

nothing to eat in many hours.”“I, too, am hungry,” he said, “and

have had nothing to eat in manyhours.”

“Is your hut near?” I asked. Iknew it would be from the time ofday at which I had encountered him.The sun regulates the schedule ofmost Gorean crafts and the

woodsman would now be returningwith his day's cutting.

“No,” he said.“I mean you and your Home

Stone no harm,” I said. “I have nomoney and cannot pay you, but I amhungry.”

“A warrior takes what hewishes,” said the man.

“I do not wish to take anythingfrom you,” I said.

He regarded me, and I thought thetrace of a smile cracked through1the stubbled leather of his broadface.

“I have no daughter,” he said. “Ihave no silver, and no goods.”

“Then I wish you prosperity,” Ilaughed, “and will be on my way.” Ipassed him and continued down theroad.

I had moved but a few stepswhen his voice arrested me. It washard to understand the words, forthose of the lonely Caste ofWoodsmen do not often speak.

“I have peas and turnips, garlicand onions in my hut,” said the man,his bundle like a giant's hump on hisback.

“The Priest-Kings themselves,” Isaid, “could not ask for more.”

“Then, Warrior,” said the man,issuing Gor's blunt invitation to a

low caste dinner, “share my kettle.”“I am honoured,” I said, and I

was.Whereas I was of high caste and

he of low, yet in his own hut hewould be, by the laws of Gor, aprince and sovereign, for then hewould be in the place of his ownHome Stone. Indeed, a cringingwhelp of a man, who would neverthink of lifting his eyes from theground in the presence of a memberof one of the high castes, a crushedand spiritless churl, anuntrustworthy villain or coward, anavaricious and obsequious peddlaroften becomes, in the place of his

own Home Stone, a veritable lionamong his fellows, proud andsplendid, generous and bestowing,a king be it only in his own den.

Indeed, frequent enough were thestories where even a warrior wasovercome by an angry peasant intowhose hut he had intruded himself,for in the vicinity of their HomeStones men fight with all thecourage, savagery andresourcefulness of the mountainlarl. More than one are the peasantfields of Gor which have beenfreshened with the blood of foolishwarriors.

The broad-chested carrier of

wood was grinning from ear to ear.He would have a guest tonight. Hewould speak little himself, beingunskilled in speech, and being tooproud to form sentences which heknew would most likely bestumbling and ungrammatical, butwould sit by the fire until dawnrefusing to let me sleep, wanting meto talk to him, to tell him stories, torecount adventures, to give himnews of faraway places. What Isaid, I knew, would be lessimportant than the fact thatsomething was said, that he had notbeen alone again.

“I am Zosk,” he said.

I wondered if it were a use-name, or his real name. Members oflow castes often call themselves bya use-name, reserving the real namefor intimates and friends, to protectit against capture by a sorceror orworker of spells who might use it todo them harm. Somehow I sensedthat Zosk was his real name.

“Zosk of what city?” I asked.The low-slung, broad frame

seemed to stiffen. The muscles inhis legs seemed suddenly to bulgelike cable. The rapport I had feltwith him seemed suddenly gone,like a sparrow flown or a leaf tornsuddenly from a branch.

“Zosk...” he said.“Of what city?” I asked.“Of no city,” he said.“Surely,” I said, “you are of Ko-

ro-ba.”The squat, misformed giant of a

man seemed almost to recoil as ifstruck, and to tremble. I sensed thatthis simple, unaffected primate of aman was suddenly afraid. Zosk, Ifelt, would have faced a larl armedonly with his ax, but yet, here, heseemed fright1ened. The great fistsholding the cords of the bundle ofwood turned white; the sticksrattled in the bundle.

“I am Tarl Cabot,” I said. “Tarl

of Ko-ro-ba.”Zosk uttered an inarticulate cry,

and began to stumble backwards.His hands fumbled on the cords andthe great bundle of wood loosenedand clattered to the stone flooring ofthe road. Turning to run his footslipped on one of the sticks and hefell. He fell almost on top of the axwhich lay on the road. Impulsively,as though it were a life-giving plankin the maelstrom of his fear, heseized the ax.

With the ax in his hands,suddenly he seemed to rememberhis caste, and he crouched in theroad, there in the dusk, a few feet

from me, like a gorilla clutching thebroad-headed ax, breathing deeply,sucking in the air, mastering hisfear.

His eyes glared at me through thegrizzled, matted locks of his hair. Icould not understand his fear, but Iwas proud to see him master it, forfear is the great common enemy ofall living things, and his victory Ifelt somehow was also mine. Iremembered once when I hadfeared thus in the mountains of NewHampshire, and how shamefully Ihad yielded to my fear and had run,a slave to the only degradingpassion of man.

Zosk straightened as much as hisgiant bow of a backbone wouldallow him.

He was no longer afraid.He spoke slowly. His voice was

thick, but it was fully under hiscontrol.

“Say you are not Tarl Cabot ofKo-ro-ba,” he said.

“But I am,” I said.“I ask your favour,” said Zosk,

his voice thick with emotion. Hewas pleading. “Say you are not TarlCabot of Ko-ro-ba.”

“I am Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” Irepeated firmly.

Zosk lifted his ax.

It seemed light in his massivegrip. I felt it could have felled asmall tree with a single blow. Stepby step, he approached me, the axheld over his shoulder with bothhands.

At last he stopped before me. Ithought there were tears in his eyes.I made no move to defend myself.Somehow I knew Zosk would notstrike. He struggled with himself,his simple wide face twisted inagony, his eyes tortured.

“May the Priest-Kings forgiveme!” he cried.

He threw down the ax, whichrang on the stones of the road to

Ko-ro-ba. Zosk sank down and satcross-legged in the road, hisgigantic frame shaken with sobs, hismassive head buried in his hands,his thick, guttural voice moaningwith distress.

At such a time a man may not bespoken to, for according to theGorean way of thinking pityhumiliates both he who pities andhe who is pitied. According to theGorean way, one may love but onemay not pity.

So I moved on.I had forgotten my hunger. I no

longer considered the dangers of theroad.

I would make it to Ko-ro-ba bydawn.

Chapter Four:THE SLEEN

In the darkness I stumbled ontowards the walls of Ko-ro-ba,striking the stones of the road withthe butt of mt spear, to keep on theroad and to drive possible serpentsfrom my pat1h. It was a nightmarishjourney, and a foolish one, trying torush on through the night to find mycity, bruising, falling, scrapingmyself in the darkness, yet drivenon by such a torment of doubt and

apprehension that I could allowmyself no rest until I stood again onthe lofty bridges of Ko-ro-ba.

Was I not Tarl of Ko-ro-ba? Wasthere not such a city? Each pasangstone proclaimed there was–at theend of this road. Yet why was theroad untended? Why had it not beentraveled. Why had Zosk of the Casteof Carriers of Wood acted as hehad? Why did my shield, my helmet,my accouterments not bear theproud sign of Ko-ro-ba?

Once I shouted in pain. Twofangs had struck into my calf. Anost, I thought! But the fangs heldfast, and I heard the popping,

sucking sound of the bladderlikeseed pods of a leech plant, as theyexpanded and contracted like smallugly lungs. I reached down andjerked the plant from the soil at theside of the road. It writhed in myhand like a snake, its pods gasping.I jerked the two fanglike thornsfrom my leg. The leech plant strikeslike a cobra, and fastens twohollow thorns into its victim. Thechemical responses of thebladderlike pods produce amechanical pumping action, and theblood is sucked into the plant tonourish it. As I tore the thing frommy leg, glad that the sting had not

been that of the venomous ost, thethree hurtling moons of Gor brokefrom the dark cover of the clouds. Iheld the quivering plant up. Then Itwisted it apart. Already my blood,black in the silvery night, mixedwith the juices of the plant, stainedthe stem even to the roots. In amatter of perhaps two or threeseconds, it had drawn perhaps a gillof liquid. With a shudder I hurledthe loathsome plant away from theroad. Normally such plants arecleared away from the sides of theroads and from inhabited areas.They are primarily dangerous tochildren and small animals, but a

grown man who might lose hisfooting among them would not belikely to survive.

I prepared to set forth on myjourney again, grateful that now thethree moons of Gor might guide mypath on this perilous road. I askedmyself, in a sane moment, if Ishould not seek shelter, and I knewthat I should, but I could not–because questions burned within methat I could not dare to answer.Only the evidence of my eyes andears could allay my fears, mybewilderment. I sought a truth I didnot know, but knew I mustdiscover–and it lay at the end of

this road.I caught a strange, unpleasant

scent, much like a common weaselor ferret, only stronger. In thatinstant every sense was alert.

I froze, an almost animalresponse.

I was silent, seeking the shelterof stillness and immobility. Myhead turned imperceptibly as Iscanned the rocks and bushes aboutthe road. I thought I heard a slightsniffling, a grunt, a small doglikewhine. Then nothing.

It too had frozen, probablysensing my presence. Most likely itwas a sleen; hopefully a young one.

I guessed it had not been hunting meor I would not have been likely tohave smelled it. Perhaps I stoodthus for six or seven minutes. Then Isaw it, on its six short legs,undulate across the road, like afurred lizard, its pointed, whiskeredsnout swaying from side to sidetesting the wind.

I breathed a sigh of relief.It was indeed a young sleen, not

more than eight feet long, and itlacked the patience of an olderanimal. Its attack, if it should detectmy presence, would be noisy, awhistling rush, a clumsy squealingcharge. It glided away into the

darkness, perhaps not fullyconvinced that it was not alone, ayoung animal ready to neglect andoverlook those slight traces that canspell the1 difference between deathand survival in Gor's brutal andpredatory world.

I continued my journey.Black, scudding clouds again

obscured the three moons of Gor,and the wind began to rise. I couldsee the shadows of tall Ka-la-natrees bending against the darknessof the night, their leaves lifting andrustling on the long branches. Ismelled rain in the air. In the fardistance there was a sudden flash of

lightning, and the sound or remotethunder reached me some secondslater.

As I hurried on, I became moreapprehensive. By now it seemed tome that I should be able to see thelights of the cylinder city of Ko-ro-ba. The wind gathered force,seeming to tear at the trees.

In a flash of light I spied a pasangstone and eagerly rushed to it. In themounting wind and darkness Itraced the numbering on the stone. Itwas true. I should now be able tosee the lights of Ko-ro-ba. Yet Icould see nothing. The city must bein darkness.

Why were the lanterns not hungon the lofty bridges? Why were thelamps of a hundred colours andflames not lit in the compartmentsof the city, telling in the lamp codesof Gor of talk, or drinking, of love?Why were the huge beacons on thewall not burning, not summoningKo-ro-ba's far-roving tarnsmenback to the shelter of her walls?

I stood by the pasang stone,trying to understand. I wasconfused, uncertain. Now that I hadnot seen the lights of Ko-ro-ba, as Iwould have expected, it struck memore forcibly that I had not evenseen the lights of peasant cooking

fires glowing in the hillssurrounding the city, or the torchesof rash sportsmen who hunt thesleen by night. Yes, and by now Ishould have been challenged adozen times by Ko-ro-ba's nightpatrols!

A monstrous chain of lightningexploded in the night about me,deafening me with the shock androar of its thunder, splitting thedarkness in violent fragments,breaking it to pieces like a claybowl struck with a hammer of fire,and with the lightning, the stormdescended, fierce cold torrents oficy rain whipped by the wind.

In a moment I was drenched inthe icy water. The wind tore at mytunic. I was blinded in the fury ofthe storm. I wiped the cold waterfrom my eyes, and thrust my fingersin my hair to force it back. Theblinding fury of the lightning like awhip of electricity struck again andagain into the hills dazzling me foran instant of crashing agony, thenvanishing again into the darkness.

A bolt of lightning shattered onthe road not fifty yards before me.For an instant it seemed to standlike a gigantic crooked spearpoised in my path, luminous,uncanny, forbidding, then vanished.

It had fallen in my path. The thoughtcrossed my mind that it was a signfrom the Priest-Kings that I shouldturn back.

I continued forward and stoodwhere it had struck. In spite of theicy wind and rain I could feel theheat of the stones through mysandals. I raised my eyes to thestorm, and my spear and shield, andshouted into the storm, a defiantpuff of wind hurled against theforces that seemed arrayed againstme.

“I am going to Ko-ro-ba!” Icried.

I had hardly moved another step

when, in a flash of lightning, I sawthe sleen, this time a fully grownanimal, some nineteen or twentyfeet long, charging toward me,swiftly, noiselessly, its ears straightagainst its pointed head, its fur slickwith rain, its fangs bared, its widenocturnal eyes bright with the lustof the kill.

A strange noise escaped me, anincredible laugh. It was a t1hing Icould see, could feel, could fight!

With an eagerness and a lust thatmatched that of the beast itself, Irushed forward in the darkness andwhen I judged its leap I lungedforward with the broad-headed

spear of Gor. My arm felt wet andtrapped, and was raked with fangsand I was spun as the animalsquealed with rage and pain androlled on the road. I withdrew myarm from the weak, aimlesslysnapping jaws.

Another flash of lightning and Isaw the sleen on its belly chewingon the shaft of the spear, its widenocturnal eyes unfocused andglazed. My arm was bloody, but theblood was mostly that of the sleen.My arm had almost rammed itselfdown the throat of the animalfollowing the spear I had flung intoits mouth. I moved my arm and

fingers. I was unhurt.In the next flash of lightning I saw

the sleen was dead.A shudder involuntarily shook

me, though I do not know if this wasdue to the cold and the rain or thesight of the long, furred, lizardlikebody that lay at my feet. I tried toextract the spear but it was wedgedbetween the ribs of the animal.

Coldly I took out my sword andhacked away the head of the beastand jerked the weapon free. Then,as sleen hunters do, for luck, andbecause I was hungry, I took mysword and cut through the fur of theanimal and ate the heart.

It is said that only the heart of themountain larl brings more luck thanthat of the vicious and cunningsleen. The raw meat, hot with theblood of the animal, nourished me,and I crouched beside my kill on theroad to Ko-ro-ba, another predatoramong predators.

I laughed. “Did you, Oh DarkBrother of the Night, think to keepme from Ko-ro-ba?”

How absurd it seemed to me thata mere sleen should have stoodbetween me and my city.Irrationally I laughed, thinking howfoolish the animal had been. Buthow could it have known? How

could it have known that I was Tarlof Ko-ro-ba, and that I wasreturning to my city? There is aGorean proverb that a man who isreturning to his city is not to bedetained. Was the sleen not familiarwith that saying?

I shook my head, to clear it of thewild thoughts. I sensed that I wasirrational, perhaps a bit drunk afterthe kill and the first food I had hadin several hours.

Then, soberly, though Iacknowledged it as a superstition, Iperformed the Gorean ritual oflooking into the blood. With mycupped hands I drank a mouthful of

blood, and then, holding another inmy hands, I waited for the next flashof lightning.

One looks into the blood in one'scupped hands. It is said that if onesees one's visage black and wastedone will die of disease, if one seesoneself torn and scarlet one will diein battle, if one sees oneself old andwhite haired, one will die in peaceand leave children.

The lightning flashed again, and Istared into the blood. In that briefmoment, in the tiny pool of blood Iheld, I saw not myself but a strangeface, like a globe of gold withdisklike eyes, a face like none I had

ever seen, a face that struck an errieterror into my heart.

The darkness returned, and in thenext flash of lightning I examinedthe blood again, but it was onlyblood, the blood of a sleen I hadkilled on the road to Ko-ro-ba. Icould not even see myself reflectedin the surface. I drank the blood,completing the ritual.

I stood up, and wiped the spearas well as I could on the fur of thesleen. Its heart had given mestrength.

“Thank you, Dark Brother of theNight,” I said to the animal.

I saw that water had gathered in

the concave side of the shield.Gratefully, I lifted it and drank fromit.

Chapter Five:THE VALLEY OF KO-RO-BA

I began to climb now.The road was familiar, the long,

relatively steep ascent to the crestof that series of ridges beyondwhich lay Ko-ro-ba, an ascent thatwas the bane of strap-masters ofcaravans, of bearers of burdens likepoor Zosk, the woodsman, of alltravellers afoot.

Ko-ro-ba lay in the midst of

green and rolling hills, somehundreds of feet above the level ofthe distant Tamber Gulf and thatmysterious body of water beyond it,spoken of in Gorean simply asThassa, the Sea. Ko-ro-ba was notset as high and remote as forexample was Thentis in themountains of Thentis, famed for itstarn flocks, but it was not a city ofthe vast plains either, like theluxurious metropolis of Ar, or ofthe shore, like the cluttered,crowded, sensuous Port Kar on theTamber Gulf. Whereas Ar wasglorious, a city of imposinggrandeur, acknowledged even by its

blood foes; whereas Thentis had theproud violence of the rudemountains of Thentis for its setting;whereas Port Kar could boast thebroad Tamber for her sister, and thegleaming, mysterious Thassabeyond, I thought my city to be trulythe most beautiful, its variegatedlofty cylinders rising so gently, sojoyfully, among the calm, greenhills.

An ancient poet, who incrediblyenough to the Gorean mind had sungthe glories of many of the cities ofGor, had spoken of Ko-ro-ba as theTowers of the Morning, and it issometimes spoken of by that name.

The actual word Ko-ro-ba itself,more prosaically, is simply anexpression in archaic Goreanreferring to a village market.

The storm had not abated but Ihad ceased to mind it. Drenched,cold, I climbed on, holding myshield obliquely before me todeflect the wind and make the climbeasier. At last on the crest I waitedand wiped the cold water from myeyes, waited for the flash oflightning that after these long yearswould reveal my city.

I longed for my city, and for myfather, the magnificent MatthewCabot, once Ubar, now

Administrator of Ko-ro-ba, and formy friends, the proud Older Tarl,my master-at-arms, and Torm, thecheerful, grumbling little scribewho regarded even sleep and foodas part of a conspiracy to separatehim from the study of his belovedscrolls; and mostly, I longed forTalena, she whom I had chosen formy companion, she for whom I hadfought on Ar's Cylinder of Justice,she who had loved me, and whom Iloved, dark-haired, beautifulTalena, daughter of Marlenus, onceUbar of Ar.

“I love you, Talena!” I cried.And as the cry parted from my

lips there was a great flash oflightning and the valley between thehills stood stark and white and Isaw the valley was empty.

Ko-ro-ba was gone!The city had vanished!The darkness followed the flash

of lightning and the shock of thethunder shook me with horror.

Again and again the lightningflashed, the thunder pounded in onme, and the darkness engulfed meonce more. And each time I sawwhat I had seen before. The valleyempty. Ko-ro-ba was gone.

“You have been touched byPriest-Kings,” said a voice behind

me.I spun about, shield before me,

spear ready.In the next flash of lightning I saw

the white robes of an Initiate, theshaven head and the sad eyes of oneof the Blessed Caste, servants it issaid of the Priest-Kings themselves.He stood with his arms in his robe,tall on the road, watching me.

Somehow this man seemeddifferent to me than the otherInitiates I had met on Gor. I couldnot place the difference, yet itseemed there was something in him,or about him, that set him apart fromthe other members of his caste. He

might have been any other Initiate,yet he was not. There was nothingextraordinary about him, unlessperhaps it was a brow somewhatmore lofty than is common, eyesthat might have looked on sightsfew men had seen.

The thought struck me that I, Tarlof Ko-ro-ba, a mortal, here in thenight on this road, might be lookingupon the face of a Priest-King.

As we faced one another, thestorm ceased, the lightning nolonger shattered the night, thethunder no longer roared in my ears.The wind was calm. The clouds haddissipated. In pools of cold water

lying among the stones of the road Icould see the three moons of Gor.

I turned and looked upon thevalley in which Ko-ro-ba had lain.

“You are Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” saidthe man.

I was startled. “Yes,” I said, “Iam Tarl of Ko-ro-ba.” I turned toface him.

“I have been waiting for you,” hesaid.

“Are you,” I asked, “a Priest-King?”

“No,” he said.I looked at this man, seeming to

be a man among other men, yetmore.

“Do you speak for the Priest-Kings?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.I believed him.It was common, of course, for

Initiates to claim to speak for thePriest-Kings; indeed, it waspresumably the calling of their casteto interpret the will of the Priest-Kings to men.

But this man I believed.He was not as other Initiates,

though he wore their robes.“Are you truly of the Caste of

Initiates?” I asked.“I am one who conveys the will

of the Priest-Kings to mortals,” said

the man, not choosing to answer myquestion.

I was silent.“Henceforth,” said the man, “you

are Tarl of no city.”“I am Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” I said

proudly.“Ko-ro-ba has been destroyed,”

said the man. “It is as if it had neverbeen. Its stones and its people havebeen scattered to the corners of theworld, and no two stones and notwo men of Ko-ro-ba may standagain side by side.”

“Why has Ko-ro-ba beendestroyed?” I demanded.

“It was the will of the Priest-

Kings,” said the man.“But why was it the will of the

Priest-Kings?” I shouted.“Because it was,” said the man,

“and there is nothing higher invirtue of which the will of thePriest-Kings may be determined orquestioned.”

“I do not1 accept their will,” Isaid.

“Submit,” said the man.“I do not,” I said.“Then be it so,” he said, “you are

henceforth condemned to wanderthe world alone and friendless, withno city, with no walls to call yourown, with no Home Stone to

cherish. You are henceforth a manwithout a city, you are a warning toall not to scorn the will of thePriest-Kings–beyond this you arenothing.”

“What of Talena?” I cried. “Whatof my father, my friends, the peopleof my city?”

“Scattered to the corners of theworld,” said the robed figure, “andnot a stone may stand upon a stone.”

“Did I not serve the Priest-Kings,” I asked, “at the siege ofAr?”

“The Priest-Kings used you fortheir ends, as it pleased them to doso.”

I lifted my spear, and felt that Icould have slain the robed figure socalm and terrible before me.

“Kill me if you wish,” said theman.

I lowered the spear. My eyeswere filled with tears. I wasbewildered. Was it on my accountthat a city had perished? Was it Iwho had brought disaster to itspeople, to my father, to my friendsand Talena? Had I been too foolishto understand that I was nothingbefore the power of the Priest-Kings? Was I now to wander theforlorn roads and fields of Gor inquilt and agony, a wretched

example of the fate which thePriest-Kings could mete out to thefoolish and proud?

Then suddenly I ceased to pitymyself, and I was shocked, forlooking into the eyes of the robedfigure I saw human warmth in them,tears for me. It was pity, theforbidden emotion, and yet he couldnot restrain himself. Somehow thepower I had felt in his presenceseemed to have vanished. I wasnow only in the presence of a man,a fellow human being even thoughhe wore the sublime robes of theproud Caste of Initiates.

He seemed to be struggling with

himself, as though he wanted tospeak his own words and not thoseof the Priest-Kings. He seemed toshake with pain, his hands pressedagainst his head, trying to speak tome, trying to tell me something. Onehand stretched out to me, and thewords, his own, far from the ringingauthority of his former tones, werehoarse and almost inauduble.

“Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” he said,“throw yourself upon your sword.”

He seemed ready to fall, and Iheld him.

He looked into my eyes. “Throwyourself upon your sword,” hebegged.

“Would that not frustrate the willof the Priest-Kings?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.“Why do you tell me this?” I

demanded.“I followed you at the siege of

Ar,” he said. “On the Cylinder ofJustice I fought with you against Pa-Kur and his assassins.”

“An Initiate?” I asked.He shook his head. “No,” he

said, “I was one of the guards ofAr, and I fought to save my city.”

“Ar the Glorious,” I said,speaking gently.

He was dying.“Ar the Glorious,” he said, weak,

but with pride. He looked at meagain. “Die now, Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” he said, “Hero of Ar.” Hise1yes seemed to begin to burn in hishead. “Do not shame yourself.”

Suddenly he howled like atortured dog, and what happenedthen I cannot bring myself todescribe in detail. It seemed asthough the entire inside of his headbegan to burst and burn, to bubblelike some horrid vicious lava insidethe crater of his skull.

It was an ugly death–his forhaving tried to speak to me, forhaving tried to tell me what was inhis heart.

It was becoming light now, anddawn was breaking across thegentle hills that had sheltered Ko-ro-ba. I removed the hated robes ofthe Initiates from the body of theman and carried the naked body farfrom the road.

As I began to cover it with rocks,I noted the remains of the skull, nowlittle more than a handful of shards.The brain had been literally boiledaway. The morning light flashedbriefly on something golden amongthe white shards. I lifted it. It was awebbing of fine golden wire. Icould make nothing of it, and threwit aside.

I piled rocks on the body, enoughto mark the grave and keeppredators away.

I placed a large flat rock near thehead of the cairn and, with the tip ofmy spear, scratched this legend onit. “I am a man of Glorious Ar.” Itwas all I knew about him.

I stood beside the grave, anddrew my sword. He had told me tothrow myself upon it, to avoid myshame, to frustrate for once the willof the might Priest-Kings of Gor.

“No, Friend,” I said to theremains of the former warrior ofAr. “No, I shall not throw myselfupon my sword. Nor shall I grovel

to the Priest-Kings nor live the lifeof shame they have allotted me.”

I lifted the sword toward thevalley where Ko-ro-ba had stood.“Long ago,” I said, “I pledged thissword to the service of Ko-ro-ba. Itremains so pledged.”

Like every man of Gor I knew thedirection of the Sardar Mountains,home of the Priest-Kings, forbiddenvastness into which no man belowthe mountains, no mortal, maypenetrate. It was said that theSupreme Home Stone of all Gor laywithin those mountains, that no manhad looked upon a Priest-King andlived.

I resheathed my sword, fastenedmy helmet over my shoulder, liftedmy shield and spear and set out inthe direction of the SardarMountains.

Chapter Six:VERA

The Sardar Mountains, which Ihad never seen, lay more than athousand pasangs from Ko-ro-ba.Whereas the Men Below theMountains, as the mortals arecalled, seldom enter the mountains,and do not return when they do,many often venture to their brink, if

only to stand within the shadows ofthose cliffs that hide the secrets ofthe Priest-Kings. Indeed, at leastonce in his life every Gorean isexpected to make this journey.

Four times a year, correlatedwith the solstices and equinoxes,there are fairs held in the plainsbelow the mountains, presided overby committees of Initiates, fairs inwhich men of many cities minglewithout bloodshed, times of truce,times of contests and games, ofbargaining and marketing.

Torm, my friend of the Caste ofScribes, had been to such fairs totrade scrolls with scholars from

other cities, men he would neverhave seen were it not for the fairs,men of hostile cities who yet lovedideas more than they hated theirenemies, men like Torm who soloved learning1 that they would riskthe perilous journey to the SardarMountains for the chance to disputea text or haggle over a covetedscroll. Similarly men of such castesas the Physicians and Buildersmake use of the fairs to disseminateand exchange information pertainingto their respective crafts.

The fairs do much to uniteintellectually the otherwise soisolated cities of Gor. And I

speculate that the fairs likewise dotheir bit toward stabilising thedialects of Gor, which mightotherwise in a few generations havediverged to the point of beingmutually unintelligible–for theGoreans do have this in common,their mother tongue in all itshundred permutations, which theysimply refer to as the Language, andall who fail to speak it, regardlessof their pedigree or background, oftheir standards or level ofcivilisation, are regarded as almostbeyond the pale of humanity. Unlikethe men of Earth, the Gorean hadlittle sensitivity to race, but much to

language and city. Like ourselves,he finds his reasons for hating hisfellow-men, but his reasons aredifferent.

I would have given much for atarn in my journey, though I knew notarn would fly into the mountains.For some reason neither the fearlesshawklike tarns, nor the slow-wittedtharlarions, the draft and ridinglizards of Gor, would enter themountains. The tharlarions becomeunmanageable and though the tarnwill essay the flight the bird almostimmediately becomes disoriented,uncoordinated, and drops screamingback to the plains below.

Gor, sparsely inhabited by humanbeings, teems with animal life, andin the next weeks I had no difficultyin living by hunting. I supplementedmy diet with fresh fruit picked frombushes and trees, and fish spearedin Gor's cold, swift-flowingstreams. Once I brought the carcassof a tabuk, one of Gor's single-horned, yellow antelopes, which Ihad felled in a Ka-la-na thicket, tothe hut of a peasant and his wife.Asking no questions, as wassuitable given the absence ofinsignia on my garments, theyfeasted me on my own kill, andgave me fiber, and flints and a skin

of wine.The peasant on Gor does not fear

the outlaw, for he seldom hasanything worth stealing, unless it bea daughter. Indeed, the peasant andoutlaw on Gor live in an almostunspoken agreement, the peasanttending to protect the outlaw and theoutlaw sharing in return some of hisplunder and booty with the peasant.The peasant does not regard this asdishonest on his part, or asgrasping. It is simply a way of lifeto which he is accustomed. It is adifferent matter, of course, if it isexplicitly known that the outlaw isfrom a city other than one's own. In

that case he is usually regarded asan enemy, to be reported to thepatrols as soon as possible. He is,after all, not of one's city.

As was wise I avoided cities inmy long journey, though I passedseveral, for to enter a city withoutpermission or without satisfactoryreason is tantamount to a capitalcrime, and the punishment is usuallya swift and brutal impalement.Pikes on the walls of Gorean citiesare often surmounted with theremains of unwelcome guests. TheGorean is suspicious of thestranger, particularly in the vicinityof his native walls. Indeed, in

Gorean the same word is used forboth stranger and enemy.

There was reputedly oneexception to this generallyprevalent attitude of hostilitytowards the stranger, the city ofTharna, which, according torumour, was willing to engage inwhat on Gor might be accounted theadventure of hospitality. Therewere many things supposedlystrange about Tharna, among themthat she was reportedly ruled by aqueen, or Tatrix, and, reasonablyenough in the circumstances, that theposition of women in that city, incontrast with most Gorean custom,

was one of privilege andopportunity.1

I rejoiced that in at least one cityon Gor the free women were notexpected to wear the Robes ofConcealment, confine theiractivities largely to their ownquarters, and speak only to theirblood relatives and, eventually, theFree Companion.

I thought that much of thebarbarity on Gor might perhaps betraced to this foolish suppression ofthe fair sex, whose gentleness andintelligence might have made such acontribution in softening their harsh

ways. To be sure, in certain cities,as had been the case in Ko-ro-ba,women were permitted statuswithin the caste system and had arelatively unrestricted existence.

Indeed, in Ko-ro-ba, a womanmight even leave her quarterswithout first obtaining permissionof a male relative or the FreeCompanion, a freedom which wasunusual on Gor. The women of Ko-ro-ba might even be found sittingunattended in the theatre or at largereading of epics.

In the cities of Gor that I knew,with the possible exception ofTharna, women had been most free

in Ko-ro-ba, but now Ko-ro-ba wasno more.

I wondered if I might be able tosecure a tarn in the intriguing city ofTharna. It would shorten the trip tothe Sardar Mountains by weeks. Ihad no money with which topurchase a tarn but I reasoned myhiring price as a swordsman mightbe sufficient to purchase a mount.For that matter, though I did notseriously consider the possibility,being without a city, in effect anoutlaw, I was entitled in the Goreanway of thinking to take the bird orits purchase price in any way I sawfit.

As I was pondering thesematters, I observed, approachingme, but not seeing me, in thedistance, moving across a greenmeadow, a dark figure, that of awoman. Though she was young shewalked slowly, mournfully,heedlessly, aimlessly.

It is unusual to find a womanunescorted outside the walls of acity, even near the walls. I wasstartled to see her alone in thiswild, deserted place, far from roadsand cities. I decided to wait for herto approach.

I was puzzled.On Gor a woman normally

travels only with a suitable retinueof armed guards. Women, on thisbarbaric world, are often regarded,unfortunately, as little more thanlove prizes, the fruits of conquestand seizure. Too often they are seenless as persons, human beings withrights, individuals worthy ofconcern and regard than as potentialpleasure slaves, silken, bangledprisoners, possible adornments tothe pleasure gardens of theircaptors. There is a saying on Gorthat the laws of a city extend nofurther than its walls.

She had not yet seen me. I leanedon my spear and waited.

The harsh, exogamous institutionof capture is woven into the veryfabric of Gorean life. It is regardedas meritorious to abduct one'swomen from a foreign, perfereablyhostile city. Perhaps this institution,which on the surface seems sodeplorable, is profitable from thestandpoint of the race, preventingthe gradual inbreeding of otherwiselargely isolated, self-sufficientcities. Few seem to object to theinstitution of capture, not even thewomen who might seem to be itsvictims. On the contrary, incrediblyenough, their vanity is terriblyoutraged if they are not regarded as

worth the risks, usually mutilationand impalement. One cruelcourtesan in the great city of Ar,now little more than a toothless,wrinkled hag, boasted that morethan four hundred men had diedbecause of her beauty.

Why was the girl alone?Had her protectors been killed?

Was she perhaps an escaped slave,fleeing from a hated master? Couldshe be, like myself, an exile fromKo-ro-ba? Its people have beenscattered, I said to myself, and notwo stones and no two men of Ko-ro-ba may stand again side by side.I gritted my teeth. The thought ran

through my head, no stone maystand upon another stone.

If she were of Ko-ro-ba, I knewthat I could not, for her ownwelfare, stay with her or help her. Itwould be to invite the Flame Deathof the Priest-Kings for one or theother, perhaps both of us. I had seena man die the Flame Death, the Highinitiate of Ar on the summit of Ar'sCylinder of Justice, consumed in thesudden burst of blue fire thatbespoke the displeasure of thePriest-Kings. Slim though herchances might be to escape wildbeasts or slavers, they would begreater than the chance of escaping

the wrath of the Priest-Kings.If she were a free woman and not

unfortunate, to be alone in this placewas unwise and foolish.

She must know this, yet she didnot seem to care.

Something of the nature of theinstitution of capture, and theGorean's attitude toward it becomesclear when it is understood that oneof the young tarnsman's firstmissions is often the capture of aslave for his personal quarters.When he brings home his captive,bound naked across the saddle ofhis tarn, he gives her over,rejoicing, to his sisters, to be

bathed, perfumed and clothed in thebrief slave livery of Gor.

That night, at a great feast, hedisplays the captive, now suitablyattired by his sisters in thediaphanous, scarlet dancing silks ofGor. Bells have been strapped toher ankles, and she is bound inslave bracelets. Proudly, hepresents her to his parents, hisfriends and warrior comrades.

Then, to the festive music offlutes and drums, the girl kneels.The young man approaches her,bearing a slave collar, its engravingproclaiming his name and city. Themusic grows more intense,

mounting to an overpowering,barbaric crescendo, which stopssuddenly, abruptly. The room issilent, absolutely silent, except forthe decisive click of the collar lock.

It is a sound the girl will neverforget.

As soon as the lock closes, thereis a great shout, congratulating,saluting the young man. He returnsto his place among the tables thatline the low-ceilinged chamber,hung with glowing brass lamps. Hesits in the midst of his family, hisclosest well-wishers, his swordcomrades, cross-legged on the floorin the Gorean fashion behind the

long, low wooden table, laden withfood, which stands at the head ofthe room.

Now all eyes are on the girl.The restraining slave bracelets

are removed. She rises. Her feet arebare on the thick, ornately wroughtrug that carpets the chamber. Thereis a slight sound from the bellsstrapped to her ankles. She is angry,defiant. Though she is clad only inthe almost transparent scarletdancing silks of Gor, her back isstraight, her head high. She isdetermined not to be tamed, not tosubmit, and her proud carriagebespeaks this fact. The spectators

seem amused. She glares at them.Angrily she looks from face to face.There is no one she knows, or couldknow, because she has been takenfrom a hostile city, she is a womanof the enemy. Fists clenched, shestands in the centre of the room, alleyes upon her, beautiful in the lightof tha hanging lamps.

She faces the young man, wearinghis collar.

“You will never tame me!” shecries.

Her outburst provokes laughter,skeptical observations, some good-natured hooting.

“I will tame you at my pleasure,”

replies the young man, and signalsto the musicians.

The music begins again. Perhapsthe girl hesitates. There is a slavewhip on the wall. Then, to thebarbaric, intoxicating music of theflute and drums, she dances for hercaptor, the bells on her anklesmarking each of her movements, themovements of a girl stolen from herhome, who must now live to pleasethe bold stranger whose bindingfibre she had felt, whose collar shewore.

At the end of her dance, she isgiven a cup of wine, but she maynot drink. She approaches the young

man and kneels before him, herknees in the dictated position of thePleasure Slave, and, head down,she proffers the wine to him. Hedrinks. There is another generalshout of commendation and wellwishing, and the feast begins, fornone before the young man maytouch food on such occasions. Fromthat moment on, the young man'ssisters never again serve him, forthat is the girl's task. She is hisslave.

As she serves him again andagain throughout the long feast, shesteals glances at him, and sees thathe is even more handsome than she

had thought. Of his courage andstrength she had already had ampleevidence. As he eats and drinkswith gusto on this occasion of histriumph, she regards him furtively,with a strange mixture of fear andpleasure. “Only such a man,” shetells herself, “could tame me.”

Perhaps it should only be addedthat the Gorean master, though oftenstrict, is seldom cruel. The girlknows, if she pleases him, her lotwill be an easy one. She willalmost never encounter sadism orwanton cruelty, for thepsychological environment thattends to breed these diseases is

largely absent from Gor. This doesnot mean that she will not expect tobe beaten if she disobeys, or fails toplease her master. On the otherhand, it is not too unusual a set ofcompartments on Gor where themaster, in effect, willingly wearsthe collar, and his lovely slave, bythe practice of the delightful wilesof her sex, with scandalous successwheedles her way triumphantlyfrom the satisfaction of one whim tothe next.

I wondered if the girlapproaching was beautiful.

I smiled to myself.Paradoxically, the Gorean, who

seems to think so little of women insome respects, celebrates themextravagantly in others. The Goreanis keenly susceptible to beauty; itgladdens his heart, and his songsand art are often paeans to its glory.Gorean women, whether slave orfree, know that their simplepresence brings joy to men, and Icannot but think that this pleasesthem.

I decided the girl was beautiful.Perhaps it was something in hercarriage, something subtle andgraceful, something which could notbe concealed by the dejected cast ofher shoulders, her slow gait and

apparent exhaustion, no, not even bythe coarse heavy robes she wore.Such a girl, I thought, would surelyhave a master or, I hoped for hersake, a protector and companion.

There is no marriage, as weknow it, on Gor, but there is theinstitute of the Free Companionship,which is its nearest correspondent.Surprisingly enough, a woman whois bought from her parents, for tarnsor gold, is regarded as a FreeCompanion, even though she maynot have been consulted in thetransaction. More commendably, afree woman may herself, of her ownfree will, agree to be such a

companion. And it is not unusual fora master to free one of his slavegirls in order that she may share thefull privileges of a FreeCompanionship. One may have, at agiven time, an indefinite number ofslaves, but only one FreeCompanion. Such relationships arenot entered into lightly, an1d theyare normally sundered only bydeath. Occasionally the Gorean,like his brothers in our world,perhaps even more frequently,learns the meaning of love.

The girl was now quite close tome, and yet had not seen me. Herhead was down. She was clad in

Robes of Concealment, but theirtexture and colour were a far cryfrom the glorious vanities oftenexpressed in such garments, thesilken purples, yellows and scarletsthat the Gorean maiden delighted in;the robes were of coarse browncloth, tattered and caked with dirt.Everything about her bespokemisery and dejection.

“Tal,” I said, quietly, that I mightnot startle her too much, lifting myarm in gentle salute.

She had not known of mypresence, and yet she did not seemmuch surprised. This was a momentshe had apparently expected for

many days, and now it had come.Her head lifted and her eyes, fine,grey eyes, dulled with sorrow andperhaps hunger, regarded me. Sheseemed to take no great interest inme, or her fate. I gathered that Imight have been anyone.

We faced one another withoutspeaking for a moment.

“Tal, Warrior,” she said, softly,her voice emotionless.

Then, for a Gorean woman, shedid an incredible thing.

Without speaking, she slowlyunwound the veil from her face anddropped it to her shoulders. Shestood before me, as it is said, face-

stripped, and that by her own hand.She looked at me, openly, directly,not brazenly, but without fear. Herhair was brown and fine, thesplendid grey eyes seemed evenmore clear, and her face, I saw,was beautiful, even more beautifulthan I had imagined.

“Do I please you?” she asked.“Yes,” I said. “You please me

very much.”I knew that this might be the first

time a man had looked upon herface, except perhaps a member ofher own family, if she had such.

“Am I beautiful?” she asked.“Yes,” I said, “you are

beautiful.”Deliberately, with both hands,

she slipped her garment someinches down her shoulders, fullyrevealing her white throat. It wasbare, not encircled by one of theslender, graceful slave collars ofGor. She was free.

“Do you wish me to kneel to becollared?” she asked.

“No,” I said.“Do you wish to see me fully?”

she asked.“No,” I said.“I have never been owned

before,” she said. “I do not knowhow to act, or what to do–save only

that I know I must do whatever youwish.”

“You were free before,” I said,“and you are free now.”

For the first time she seemedstartled. “Are you not one of them?”she asked.

“One of whom?” I asked, nowalert, for if there were slavers onthe trail of this girl it would meantrouble, perhaps bloodshed.

“The four men who have beenfollowing me, men from Tharna,”she said.

“Tharna?” I asked, genuinelysurprised. “I thought the men ofTharna revered women, alone

perhaps of the men of Gor.”She laughed bitterly. “They are

not in Tharna now,” she said.“They could not take you to

Tharna as a slave,” I said. “Wouldthe Tatrix not free you?”

“They would not take me toTharna,” she responded. “Theywould use me and sell me, perhapsto some passing merchant, perhapsin the Street of Brands in Ar.”

“What is your name?” I asked.“Vera,” she said.“Of what city?” I asked.Before she could respond, if

respond she would have, her eyessuddenly widened in fear, and I

turned. Approaching across themeadow, ankle deep in the wetgrass, were four warriors, helmetedand carrying spears and shields. Bythe shield insignia and blue helmetsI knew them to be men of Tharna.

“Run!” she cried, and turned toflee.

I held her arm. She stiffened inhate. “I see!” she hissed. “You willhold me for them, you will claimright of capture and demand aportion of my price!” She spat inmy face.

I was pleased at her spirit.“Stand quiet,” I said. “You

would not get far.”

“I have fled from those men forsix days,” wept the girl, “living onberries and insects, sleeping inditches, hiding, running.”

She could not have run if she hadwished. Her legs seemed to quiverunder her. I put my arm about her,lending her my support.

The warriors approached meprofessionally, fanning out. One, nottheir officer, approached medirectly; another, a few feet behindthe first and on their left, followedhim. The first, if necessary wouldengage me, and the second drive inon my right with his spear. Theofficer was the third man in the

formation, and the other warriorhung several yards in the rear. Itwas his business to observe theentire field, for I might not be alone,and to cover the retreat of hisfellows with his spear should theneed arise. I admired the simplemaneuvre, executed withoutcommand, almost a matter of reflex,and sensed why Tharna, in spite ofbeing ruled by a woman, hadsurvived among the hostile cities ofGor.

“We want the woman,” said theofficer.

I gently disengaged myself fromthe girl, and shoved her behind me.

The meaning of the action was notlost on the warriors.

The eyes of the officer werenarrow in the Y-like opening of hishelmet.

“I am Thorn,” he said, “a Captainof Tharna.”

“Why do you want the women?” Itaunted. “Do not the men of Tharnarevere women?”

“This is not the soil of Tharna,”said the officer, annoyed.

“Why should I yield her to you?”I asked.

“Because I am a Captain ofTharna,” he said.

“But this is not the soil of

Tharna,” I reminded him.From behind me the girl

whispered, an abject whisper.“Warrior, do not die for my sake. Inthe end it will all be the same.”Then, raising her voice, she spoketo the officer. “Do not kill him,Thorn of Tharna. I will go withyou.”

She stepped out from behind me,proud but resigned to her fate, readyto give herself over to thesewretches to be collared andchained, stripped and sold in themarkets of Gor.

I laug1hed.“She is mine,” I said, “and you

may not have her.”The girl gave a gasp of

astonishment and looked at mequestioningly.

“Unless you pay her price,” Iadded.

The girl closed her eyes,crushed.

“And her price?” asked Thorn.“Her price is steel,” I said.A look of gratitude flashed in the

girl's face.“Kill him,” said Thorn to his

men.

Chapter Seven:THORN, CAPTAIN OF

THARNA

With one sound three bladessprang from their sheaths, mine, thatof the officer and that of the warriorwho would first engage me. Theman on the right would not draw hisblade but wait until the first warriorhad made his attack and would thenstrike from the side with his spear.The warrior in the rear only liftedhis spear, ready to cast it should aclean opening present itself.

But it was I who attacked first.I suddenly turned on the warrior

on my right with the spear and withthe swiftness of the mountain larl

sprang at him, evaded his clumsy,startled thrust, and drove my bladebetween his ribs, jerking it free andturning just in time to meet thesword attack of his companion. Ourblades had not crossed six timeswhen he, too, lay at my feet,crowded into a knot of pain,clutching at the grass.

The officer had rushed forwardbut now stopped. He, like his men,had been taken aback. Though theywere four and I was one I hadcarried the battle to them. Theofficer had been an instant too late.Now my sword stood between himand my body. The other warrior,

behind him, his spear poised, hadapproached to within ten yards. Atthat distance he would not be likelyto miss. Indeed, even if the missilestruck and penetrated my shield, Iwould have to cast the shield awayand would find myself at a seriousdisadvantage. Yet, the odds weremore even now.

“Come, Thorn of Tharna,” I said,beckoning to him. “Let us try ourskill.”

But Thorn backed away andsignaled to the other warrior tolower his spear. He removed hishelmet, and sat on his heels in thegrass, the warrior behind him.

Thorn, Captain of Tharna, lookedat me, and I at him.

He had a new respect for menow, which meant that he would bemore dangerous. He had seen theswift engagement with hisswordsmen and he was probablyconsidering whether or not he couldmatch my prowess. I felt that hewould not cross blades with meunless he were convinced he couldwin, and that he was not altogetherconvinced, at least not yet.

“Let us talk,” said Thorn ofTharna.

I squatted down on my heels, ashe did.

“Let us talk,” I agreed.We resheathed our weapons.Thorn was a large man, big

boned, powerful, now tending tocorpulence. His face was heavy andyellowish, but mottled with patchesof purple where small veins hadburst under the skin. He was notbearded, save for the trace of a tinywisp of hair that marked each sideof his chin, almost like a streak ofdirt. His hair was long, and boundin a knot behind his head1 inMongol fashion. His eyes, likethose of an urt, one of the smallhorned rodents of Gor, were setobliquely in his skull. They were

not clear, their redness andshadows testifying to long nights ofindulgence and dissipation. It wasobvious that Thorn, unlike my oldenemy Pa-Kur, who presumably hadperished at the siege of Ar, was nota man above sensual vices, not aman who could with fanatical purityand single-minded devotionsacrifice himself and entire peoplesto the ends of his ambition andpower. Thorn would never make aUbar. He would always be ahenchman.

“Give me my man,” said Thorn,gesturing to the figure that lay in thegrass, still moving.

I decided that Thorn, whatever hewas or wasn't, was a good officer.

“Take him,” I said.The spearman beside Thorn went

to the fallen man and examined hiswound. The other warrior wasclearly dead.

“He may live,” said thespearman.

Thorn nodded. “Bind hiswound.”

Thorn turned to me again.“I still want the woman,” he said.“You may not take her,” I said.“She is only one woman,” said

Thorn.“Then give her up,” I said.

“One of my men is dead,” saidThorn. “You can have his share ofher selling price.”

“You are generous,” I said.“Then it is agreed?” he asked.“No,” I said.“I think we can kill you,” said

Thorn, plucking a stalk of grass andmeditatively chewing on it,regarding me all the while.

“Perhaps,” I admitted.“On the other hand,” said Thorn,

“I do not wish to lose another man.”“Then give up the woman,” I

said.Thorn looked at me intently,

puzzled, chewing on the piece of

grass.“Who are you?” he asked.I was silent.“You are an outlaw,” he said.

“That I can see by the lack ofinsignia on your shield and tunic.”

I saw no reason to dispute hisopinion.

“Outlaw,” said he, “what is yourname?”

“Tarl,” I responded.“Of what city?” he asked.It was the inevitable question.“Ko-ro-ba,” I said.The effect was electric. The girl,

who had been standing behind us,stifled a scream. Thorn and his

warrior sprang to their feet. Mysword was free of its sheath.

“Returned from the Cities ofDust,” gasped the warrior.

“No,” I said, “I am a living man,as you.”

“Better you had gone to the Citiesof Dust,” said Thorn. “You arecursed by the Priest-Kings.”

I looked at the girl.“Your name is the most hated on

Gor,” she said, her voice flat, 1hereyes not meeting mine.

We four stood together, notspeaking. It seemed a long time. Ifelt the grass on my ankles, still wetfrom the morning dew. I heard a

bird cry in the distance.Thorn shrugged.“I will need time,” he said, “to

bury my man.”Silently, Thorn and the other

warrior scooped out a narrowtrench and buried their comrade.Then wrapping a cloak about twospears, and fastening it with bindingfibre, they formed an improvisedlitter. On this, Thorn and hiswarrior placed the woundedcompanion.

Thorn looked at the girl and, tomy astonishment, she approachedhim and extended her wrists. Hesnapped slave bracelets on them.

“You do not need to go withthem,” I told her.

“I would bring you no pleasure,”she said bitterly.

“I will free you,” I said.“I accept nothing from the hands

of Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” she said.I reached out my hand to touch

her, and she shuddered and drewback.

Thorn laughed mirthlessly.“Better to have gone to the Cities ofDust than to be Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,”he said.

I looked at the girl, now after herlong days of suffering and flight atlast a captive, her slender wrists

encircled at last by Thorn's hatedbracelets, beautifully wroughtbracelets, like many, of exquisiteworkmanship, bright with colour,set even with jewels, but like allslave bracelets, of unyielding steel.

The bracelets contrasted with themeanness of her coarse browngarment. Thorn fingered thegarment. “We will get rid of this,”he told her. “Soon, when you havebeen properly prepared, you willbe dressed in costly pleasure silk,given sandals perhaps, scarves,veils and jewels, garments togladden the heart of a maiden.”

“Of a slave,” she said.

Thorn lifted her chin with hisfinger. “You have a beautifulthroat,” he said.

She looked at him angrily,sensing his meaning.

“It will soon wear a collar,” hesaid.

“Whose?” she demandedhaughtily.

Thorn looked at her carefully.The chase had apparently in hiseyes been well worth it. “Mine,” hesaid.

The girl almost swooned.My fists were clenched.“Well, Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” said

Thorn, “it ends thus. I take this girl

and leave you to the Priest-Kings.”“If you take her to Tharna,” I

said, “the Tatrix will free her.”“I will not take her to Tharna, but

to my villa,” said Thorn, “whichlies outside the city.” He laughedunpleasantly. “And there,” he said,“as a good man of Tharna should, Iwill revere her to my heart'scontent.”

I felt my hand clench on the hiltof my sword.

“Stay your hand, Warrior,” saidThorn. He turned to the girl. “Towhom do you belong?” he asked.

“I belong to Thorn, Captain ofTharna,” she said.

I replaced the sword in mysheath, shattered, helpless. I couldkill Th1orn and his warriorperhaps, free her. But what then?Free her to the beasts of Gor, toanother slaver? She would neveraccept my protection, and by herown actions she preferred Thornand slavery to a favour from theman called Tarl of Ko-ro-ba.

I looked at her. “Are you of Ko-ro-ba?” I asked.

She stiffened, and looked at mewith hatred. “I was,” she said.

“I am sorry,” I said.She looked at me, tears of hatred

burning in her eyes. “Why have you

dared to survive your city?” sheasked.

“To avenge it,” I replied.She looked into my eyes for a

long time. And then, as Thorn andthe warrior picked up the litter withtheir wounded companion andbegan to depart, she said to me,“Goodbye, Tarl of Ko-ro-ba.”

“I wish you well, Vera of theTowers of the Morning,” I said.

She turned quickly, following hermaster, and I remained standingalone in the field.

Chapter Eight:THE CITY OF THARNA

The streets of Tharna werecrowded, yet strangely silent. Thegate had been open and though I hadbeen carefullly scrutinised by itsguards, tall spearmen in bluehelmets, no one had objected to myentry. It must be as I had heard, thatthe streets of Tharna were open toall men who came in peace,whatever their city.

Curiously, I examined thecrowds, all seemingly bent on theirbusiness, yet strangely tight lipped,subdued, much different from thenormal, bustling throngs of aGorean city. Most of the male

citizens wore grey tunics, perhapsindicative of their superiority topleasure, their determination to beserious and responsible, to beworthy scions of that industriousand sobre city.

On the whole they seemed to mea pale and depressed lot, but I wasconfident they could accomplishwhat they set their minds to, thatthey might succeed in tasks whichthe average Gorean male, with hisimpatience and lightness of heart,would simply abandon asdistasteful or not worth the effort,for the average Gorean male, itmust be admitted, tends to regard

the joys of life somewhat morehighly than its duties.

On the shoulders of their greytunics only a small band of colourindicated caste. Normally the castecolours of Gor would be inabundant evidence, enlivening thestreets and bridges of the city, aglorious spectacle in Gor's bright,clear air.

I wondered if men in this citywere not proud of their castes aswere, on the whole, other Goreans,even those of the so-called lowercastes. Even men of a caste as lowas that of the Tarn-Keepers wereintolerably proud of their calling,

for who else could raise and trainthose monstrous birds of prey? Isupposed Zosk the Woodsman wasproud in the knowledge that he withhis great broad-headed ax could fella tree in one blow, and that perhapsnot even a Ubar could do as much.Even the Caste of Peasantsregarded itself as the “Ox on whichthe Home Stone Rests” and couldseldom be encouraged to leave theirnarrow strips of land, which theyand their fathers before them hadowned and made fruitful.

I missed in the crowd thepresence of slave girls, common inother cities, usually lovely girls

clad only in the brief, diagonallystriped slave livery of Gor, asleeveless, briefly skirted garmentterminating some inches above theknee, a garment that contras1tsviolently with the heavy,cumbersome Robes of Concealmentworn by free women. Indeed, it wasknown that some free womenactually envied their lightly cladsisters in bondage, free, thoughwearing a collar, to come and gomuch as they pleased, to feel thewind on the high bridges, the armsof a master who celebrated theirbeauty and claimed them as hisown. I remembered that in Tharna,

ruled by its Tatrix, there would befew, if any, female slaves. Whetheror not there were male slaves Icould not well judge, for the collarswould have been hidden by the greyrobes. There is no distinctivegarment for a male slave on Gor,since, as it is said, it is not well forthem to discover how numerousthey are.

The purpose, incidentally, of thebrief garment of the female slave isnot simply to mark out the girl inbondage but, in exposing hercharms, to make her, rather than herfree sister, the favoured object ofraids on the part of roving tarnsmen.

Whereas there is status in thecapture of a free woman, there isless risk in the capture of a slave;the pursuit is never pressed asdeterminedly in their cases, and onedoes not have to imperil one's lifefor a girl who might, once theRobes of Concealment have beencast off, turn out to have the face ofan urt and the temper of a sleen.

Perhaps I was most startled onthe silent streets of Tharna by thefree women. They walked in thiscity unattended, with an imperiousstep, the men of Tharna moving tolet them pass–in such a way thatthey never touched. Each of these

women wore resplendent Robes ofConcealment, rich in colour andworkmanship, standing out amongthe drab garments of the men, butinstead of the veil common withsuch robes the features of eachwere hidden behind a mask ofsilver. The masks were of identicaldesign, each formed in thesemblance of a beautiful, but coldface. Some of these masks hadturned to gaze upon me as I passed,my scarlet warrior's tunic havingcaught their eye. It made me uneasyto be the object of their gaze, to beconfronted by those passionless,glittering silver masks.

Wandering in the city I foundmyself in Tharna's marketplace.Though it was apparently a marketday, judging from the numerousstalls of vegetables, the racks ofmeat under awnings, the tubs ofsalted fish, the cloths and trinketsspread out on the carpets before theseated, cross-legged merchants,there was none of the noisy clamourthat customarily attends the Goreanmarket. I missed the shrill,interminable calls of the vendors,each different; the good-naturedbanter of friends in the marketplaceexchanging gossip and dinnerinvitations; the shouts of burly

porters threading their way throughthe tumult; the cries of childrenescaped from their tutors andplaying tag among the stalls; thelaughter of veiled girls teasing andbeing teased by young men, girlspurportedly on errands for theirfamilies, yet somehow finding thetime to taunt the young swains of thecity, if only by a flash of their darkeyes and a perhaps too casualadjustment of their veil.

Though on Gor the free maiden isby custom expected to see her futurecompanion only after her parentshave selected him, it is commonknowledge that he is often a youth

she has met in the marketplace. Hewho speaks for he hand, especiallyif she is of low caste, is seldomunknown to her, although theparents and the young people aswell solemnly act as though thiswere the case. The same maidenwhom her father must harshly orderinto the presence of her suitor, thesame shy girl who, her parentsapprovingly note, finds herselfdelicately unable to raise her eyesin his presence, is probably thesame girl who slapped him with afish yesterday and hurled such astream of invective at him that hisears still smart, and all because he

accidentally happened to be lookingin her direction when anunpredictable wind had, in spite ofher be1st efforts, temporarilydisarranged the folds of her veil.

But this market was not like othermarkets I had known on Gor. Thiswas simply a drab place in whichto buy food and exchange goods.Even the bargaining that went on,for there are no fixed prices in aGorean market, seemed dreary,grim, lacking the zest and rivalry ofother markets I had seen, theglorious expletives and superlativeinsults traded between buyer andseller with such incomparable style

and gusto. Indeed, upon occasion, inother markets, a buyer who hadsucceeded in winning the hagglingwould bestow five times as manycoins on the seller as he had agreedto pay, humiliating him with a smug,“Because I wish to pay you what itis worth.” Then, if the seller issufficiently outraged, he might giveback the buyer the coins, includingmost of those he had agreed to pay,saying, with mock contrition, “I donot wish to cheat you.” Thenanother round of insults occurs, and,eventually, both parties satisfied,some compromise having beenreached, the transaction is

concluded. Buyer and seller part,each convinced that he has had byfar the best part of the bargain.

I this market, on the other hand, asteward would simply approach avendor and point to some article,and hold up a certain number offingers. The vendor would thenhold up a higher number, sometimesbending his fingers at the knuckle toindicate a fraction of the value unit,which would be, presumably, thecopper tarn disk. The steward mightthen improve his offer, or prepareto depart. The vendor would theneither let him go or lower his price,by expressionlessly lifting fewer

fingers than before. When eitherparty called off the bargaining, hisfists were closed. If a sale had beenmade, the steward would take anumber of pierced coins, threadedon a string hung about his leftshoulder, hand them to the vendor,pick up his article and depart. Whenwords were exchanged, they werewhispered and curt.

As I left the marketplace, I notedtwo men, furtive, round-shoulderedin their nondescript grey robes, whofollowed me. Their faces wereconcealed in the folds of theirgarments, which had been drawnover their heads in the manner of a

hood. Spies, I thought. It was anintelligent precaution for Tharna totake, to keep an eye on the stranger,lest her hospitality be abused. Imade no effort to elude theirsurveillance, for that might perhapshave been interpreted as a breach ofetiquette on my part, perhaps even aconfession of villainous intention.Besides, as they did know that Iknew they followed me, this gaveme a certain advantage in thematter. It was possible, of course,that they were merely curious. Afterall, how many scarlet-clad warriorsappeared from day to day in thedrab streets of Tharna?

I climbed one of the towers ofTharna, wanting to look out uponthe city. I emerged on the highestbridge I could find. It was railed, asmost Gorean briges, high or low,are not. Slowly I let my eye wanderthe city, surely in its people andtheir customs one of the mostunusual on Gor.

Tharna, though a city ofcylinders, did not seem to my eye asbeautiful as many other cities I hadseen. This was perhaps thecylinders were, on the whole, lesslofty than those of other cities, andmuch broader, giving an impressionof a set of squat, accumulated disks,

so different from the lofty forests ofsky-challenging towers andbattlements distinguishing mostGorean cities. Moreover, incontrast to most cities, the cylindersof Tharna seemed excessivelysolemn, as if overcome by theirown weight. They were scarcelydistinguishable from one another, anaggregate of greys and browns, sodifferent from the thousand gaycolours that gleamed in most cities,where each cylinder in toweringsplendour lodged its claim to be thebravest and most beautiful of all.

Even the horizontal plains aboutTharna, marked by their occasional

outcroppings of weatheredboulders, seemed to be grey, rathercold and gloomy, perhaps sad.Tharna was not a city to lift theheart of a man. Yet I knew that thiscity was, from my point of view,one of the most enlightened andcivilised on Gor. In spite of thisconviction, incomprehensibly, Ifound myself depressed by Tharna,and wondered if it, in its way, werenot somehow, subtly, morebarbaric, more harsh, less humanthan its ruder, less noble, morebeautiful sisters. I determined that Ishould try to secure a tarn andproceed as quickly as possible to

tha Sardar Mountains, to keep myappointment with the Priest-Kings.

“Stranger,” said a voice.I turned.One of the two nondescript men

who had been following me hadapproached. His face wasconcealed in the folds of his robe.With one hand he held the foldstogether, lest the wind should liftthe cloth and reveal his face, andwith the other hand, he clutched therail on the bridge, as ifuncomfortable, uneasy at the height.

A slight rain had begun to fall.“Tal,” I said to the man, lifting

my arm in the common Gorean

greeting.“Tal,” he responded, not taking

his arm from the rail. Heapproached me, more closely than Iliked.

“You are a stranger in this city,”he said.

“Yes,” I said.“Who are you, Stranger?”“I am a man of no city,” I said,

“whose name is Tarl.” I wanted nomore of the havoc I had wreakedearlier by the mere mention of thename of Ko-ro-ba.

“What is your business inTharna?” he asked.

“I should like to obtain a tarn,” I

said, “for a journey I have in mind.”I had answered him rather directly.I assumed him to be a spy, chargedwith learning my reasons forvisiting Tharna. I scorned toconceal this reason, though theobject of my journey I reserved tomyself. That I was determined toreach the Sardar Mountains he neednot know. That I had business withthe Priest-Kings was not hisconcern.

“A tarn is expensive,” he said.“I know,” I said.“Have you money?” he asked.“No,” I said.“How then,” he asked, “do you

propose to obtain your tarn?”“I am not an outlaw,” I said,

“though I wear no insignia on mytunic, or shield.”

“Of course not,” he said quickly.“There is no place in Tharna for anoutlaw. We are a hard-working andhonest folk.”

I could see that he did notbelieve me, and somehow I did notbelieve him either. For no goodreason I began to dislike him. Withboth hands I reached to his hoodand jerked it from his face. Hesnatched at the cloth and replaced itquickly. I had caught a briefglimpse of a sallow face, with skin

like a dried lemon and pale blueeyes. His comrade, who had beenfurtively peering about, startedforward and then stopped. Thesallow-faced man, clutching thefolds of the hood about his face,twisted his head to the left and theright to see if anyone might be near,if anyone might have observed.

“I like to see to whom I speak,” Isaid.

âœf course,âsaid the maningratiatingly, a bit unsteadily,drawing the hood even moreclosely about his features.

✠want to obtain a tarn,âI said.âœan you help me?âIf he could not,

I had decided to terminate theinterview.

âœes,âsaid the man.I was interested.✠can help you obtain not only a

tarn,âsaid the man, âœut a thousandgolden tarn disks and provisions foras lengthy a journey as you mightwish.â/p>

✠am not an assassin,âI said.âœh!âsaid the man.Since the siege of Ar, when Pa-

Kur, Master Assassin, had violatedthe limits of his caste and hadpresumed, in contradiction to thetraditions of Gor, to lead a hordeupon the city, intending to make

himself Ubar, the Caste ofAssassins had lived as hated,hunted men, no longer esteemedmercenaries whose services weresought by cities, and, as often byfactions within cities. Now manyassassins roamed Gor, fearing towear the sombre black tunic of theircaste, disguised as members ofother castes, not infrequently aswarriors.

✠am not an assassin,âIrepeated.

âœf course not,âsaid the man.âœhe Caste of Assassins no longerexists.â/p>

I doubted that.

âœut are you not intrigued,Stranger,âasked the man, his paleeyes squinting up at me through thefolds of the grey robe, âœy the offerof a tarn, gold and provisions?â/p>

âœhat must I do to earn this?âIasked.

âœou need kill no one,âsaid theman.

âœhat then?âI said.âœou are bold and strong,âhe

said.âœhat must I do?âI asked.âœou have undoubtedely had

experience in affairs of thissort,âsuggested the man.

âœhat would you have me do?âI

demanded.âœarry off a woman,âhe said.The light drizzle of rain, almost a

gray mist matching the miserablesolemnity of Tharna, had notabated, and had, by now, soakedthrough my garments. The wind,which I had not noticed before now,seemed cold.

âœhat woman?âI asked.âœara,âsaid he.âœnd who is Lara?âI asked.âœatrix of Tharna,âhe said.

Chapter Nine:THE KAL-DA SHOP

Standing there on the bridge, inthe rain, facing the obsequious,hooded conspirator, I felt suddenlysad. Here even in the noble city ofTharna there was intrigue, politicalstrife, ambition that would notbrook confinement. I had been takenfor an assassin, or an outlaw, beenassessed as a likely instrument forthe furtherance of the foul schemesof one of Tharna's dissatisfiedfactions.

✠refuse,âI said.The small lemon-faced man drew

back as if slapped. ✠represent apersonage of power in this city,âhe

said.✠wish no harm to Lara, Tatrix

of Tharna,âI told him.âœhat is she to you?âasked the

man.âœothing,âI said.âœnd yet you refuse?â/p>âœes,âI said, ✠refuse.â/p>âœou are afraid,âhe said.âœo,âI said, ✠am not

afraid.â/p>âœou will never get your

tarn,âhissed the man. He turned onhis heel and still clinging to therailing on the bridge scurried to thethreshhold of the cylinder, hiscomrade before him. At the

threshhold he called back. âœouwill never leave the walls ofTharna alive,âhe said.

âœe it so,âI said, ✠will not doyour bidding.â/p>

The slight, grey-robed figure,almost as insubstantial as the mistitself, appeared ready to leave, butsuddenly hesitated. He appeared towaver for a moment, then he brieflyconferred with his companion. Theyseemed to reach some agreement.Cautiously, his companionremaining behind, he edged out ontothe bridge again.

✠spoke hastily,âhe said. âœodanger will come to you in Tharna.

We are a hard-working and honestfolk.â/p>

✠am pleased to hear that,âIsaid.

Then to my surprise he pressed asmall, heavy leather sack of coinsinto my hand. He smiled up at me, atwisted grin visible through theobscuring folds of the grey robe.âœelcome to Tharna!âhe said, andfled across the bridge and into thecylinder.

âœome back!âI cried, holding thebag of coins out to him. âœomeback!â/p>

But he was gone.

At least this night, this rainynight, I would not sleep again in thefields, for thanks to the puzzling giftof the hooded conspirator, I had themeans to purchase lodging. I left thebridge, and descended through thespiral stairwell of the cylinder,soon finding myself on the streetsagain.

Inns, as such, are not plentiful onGor, the hostility of cities beingwhat it is, but usually some can befound in each city. There must, afterall, be provision made forentertaining merchants, delegationsfrom other cities, authorised

visitors of one sort or another, andto be frank the innkeeper is notalways scrupulous about thecredentials of his guests, asking fewquestions if he receives his handfulof copper tarn disks. In Tharna,however, famed for its hospitality, Iwas confident that inns would becommon. It was surprising then thatI could locate none.

I decided, if worst came toworst, that I could always go to asimple Paga Tavern where, if thoseof Tharna resembled those of Ko-ro-ba and Ar, one might, curled in arug behind the low tables,unobtrusively spend the night for the

price of a pot of Paga, a strong,fermented drink brewed from theyellow grains of Gor's staple crop,Sa-Tarna, or Life-Daughter. Theexpression is related to Sa-Tassna,the expression for meat, or for foodin general, which means Life-Mother. Paga is a corruption ofPagar-Sa-Tarna, which meansPleasure of the Life-Daughter. Itwas customary to find diversionsother than Paga in the Paga Tavernsas well, but in grey Tharna thecymbals, drums and flutes of themusicians, the clashing of bangleson the ankles of dancing girls wouldbe unfamiliar sounds.

I stopped one of the anonymous,grey-robed figures hurrying throughthe wet, cold dusk.

âœan of Tharna,â I asked,“where can I find an inn?”

“There are no inns in Tharna,”said the man, looking at me closely.“You are a stranger,” he said.

“A weary traveler who seekslodging,” I said.

“Flee, Stranger,” said he.“I am welcome in Tharna,” I

said.“Leave while you have time,” he

said, looking about to see if anyonewere listening.

“Is there no Paga Tavern near,” I

asked, “where I can find rest?”“There are no Paga Taverns in

Tharna,” said the man, I thoughtwith a trace of amusement.

“Where can I spend the night?” Iasked.

“You can spend it beyond thewalls in the fields,” he said, “oryou can spend it in the Palace of theTatrix.”

“It sounds to me as though thePalace of the Tatrix were the morecomfortable,” I said.

The man laughed bitterly. “Howmany hours, Warrior,” asked he,“have you been within the walls ofTharn?”

“At the sixth hour I came toTharna,” I said.

“It is then too late,” said the man,with a trace of sorrow, “for youhave been within the walls for morethan ten hours.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.“Welcome to Tharna,” said the

man, and hurried away into thedusk.

I had been disturbed by thisconversation and without reallyintending it had begun to walk to thewalls. I stood before the great gateof Tharna. The two giant beams thatbarred it were in place, beams thatcould only be moved by a team of

broad tharlarions, draft lizards ofGor, or by a hundred slaves. Thegates, bound with their bands ofsteel, studded with brass plates dullin the mist, the black wood loomingover me in the dusk, were closed.

“Welcome to Tharna,” said aguard, leaning on his spear in theshadows of the gate.

“Thank you, Warrior,” I said, andturned back to the city.

Behind me I heard him laugh,much the same bitter laugh that I hadheard from the citizen.

In wandering through the streets,I came at last to a squat portal in the

wall of a cylinder. On each side ofthe door, in a small niche shelteredfrom the drizzle, there sputtered theyellow flame of a small tharlarionoil lamp. By this flickering light Icould read the faded lettering on thedoor:

KAL-DA SOLD HEREKal-da is a hot drink, almost

scalding, made of diluted Ka-la-nawine, mixed with citrus juices andstinging spices. I did not care muchfor this mouth-burning concoction,but it was popular with some of thelower castes, particularly thosewho performed strenuous manuallabour. I expected its popularity

was due more to its capacity towarm a man and stick to his ribs,and to its cheapness (a poor gradeof Ka-la-na wine being used in itsbrewing) than to any gustatoryexcellence. But I reasoned on thisnight of all nights, this cold,depressing wet night, a cup of Kal-da might go well indeed. Moreover,where there was Kal-da thereshould be bread and meat. I thoughtof the yellow Gorean bread, bakedin the shape of round, flat loaves,fresh and hot; my mouth watered fora tabuk steak or, perhaps, if I werelucky, a slice of roast tarsk, thef1ormidable six-tusked wild boar

of Gor's temperate forests. I smiledto myself, felt the sack of coins inmy tunic, bent down and pushed thedoor open.

I descended three steps, andfound myself in a warm, dimly lit,low-ceilinged room, cluttered withthe low tables common on Gor,around which huddled groups offive or six of the grey-robed men ofTharna. The murmer ofconversation ceased as I entered.The men regarded me. Thereseemed to be no warriors in theroom. None of the men appeared tobe armed.

I must have seemed strange to

them, a scarlet-clad warrior,bearing weapons, suddenlyentering, a man from another cityunexpectedly in their midst.

“What is your business?” askedthe proprietor of the place, a small,thin, bald-headed man wearing ashort-sleeved grey tunic and slickblack apron. He did not approach,but remained behind the woodencounter, slowly, deliberatelywiping the puddles of spilt Kal-dafrom the stained surface.

“I am passing through Tharna,” Isaid. “And I would like to purchasea tarn to continue my journey.Tonight I want food and lodging.”

“This is not a place,” said theman, “for one of High Caste.”

I looked about, at the men in theroom, into the dejected, haggardfaces. In the light it was difficult todetermine their caste for they allwore the grey robes of Tharna andonly a band of colour on theshoulder indicated their station inthe social fabric. What struck memost about them had nothing to dowith caste, but rather their lack ofspirit. I did not know if they wereweak, of if they merely thoughtpoorly of themselves. They seemedto me to be without energy, withoutpride, to be flat, dry, crushed men,

men without self-respect.“You are of high caste, of the

Caste of Warriors,” said theproprietor. “It is not proper that youshould remain here.”

I did not much care for theprospect of emerging again into thecold, rainy night, of tramping oncemore through the streets, miserable,chilled to the bone, looking for aplace to eat and sleep. I took a coinfrom the leather sack and threw it tothe proprietor. He snatched itexpertly from the air like askeptical cormorant. He examinedthe coin. It was a silver tarn disk.He bit against the metal, the

muscles on his jaw bulging in thelamplight. A trace of avariciouspleasure appeared in his eyes. Iknew he would not care to return it.

“What caste is it?” I demanded.The proprietor smiled. “Money

has no caste,” he said.“Bring me food and drink,” I

said.I went to an obscure, deserted

table near the back of the room,where I could face the door. Ileaned my shield and spear againstthe wall, set the helmet beside thetable, unslung the sword belt, layingthe weapon across the table beforeme, and prepared to wait.

I had hardly settled myselfbehind the table when theproprietor had placed a large, fatpot of steaming Kal-da before me. Italmost burned my hands to lift thepot. I took a long, burning swig ofthe brew and though, on anotheroccasion, I might have thought itfoul, tonight it sang through my bodylike the bubbling fire it was, asizzling, brutal irritant that tasted sobad and yet charmed me so much Ihad to laugh.

And laugh I did.The men of Tharna who were

crowded in that place looked uponme as though I might be mad.

Disbelief, lack of comprehension,was written on their features. Thisman had la1ughed. I woundered ifmen laughed often in Tharna.

It was a dreary place, but theKal-da had already made it appearsomewhat more promising.

“Talk, laugh!” I said to the menof Tharna, who had said not a wordsince my entrance. I glared at them.I took another long swig of Kal-daand shook my head to throw theswirling fire from eyes and brain. Iseized my spear from the wall andpounded it on the table.

“If you cannot talk,” I said, “ifyou cannot laugh, then sing!” They

were convinced they were in thepresence of one demented. It was, Isuppose, the Kal-da, but I like tothink, too, it was just impatiencewith the males of Tharna, theintemperate expression of myexasperation with this grey, dismalplace, its glum, solemn, listlessinhabitants. The men of Tharnaresfused to budge from theirsilence.

“Do we not speak theLanguage?” I asked, referring to thebeautiful mother tongue spoken incommon by most of the Goreancities. “Is the Language not yours?”I demanded.

“It is,” mumbled one of the men.“Then why do you not speak it?”

I challenged.The man was silent.The proprietor arrived with hot

bread, honey, salt and, to mydelight, a huge, hot roasted chunk oftarsk. I crammed my mouth withfood and washed it down withanother thundering draught of Kal-da.

“Proprietor!” I cried, poundingon the table with my spear.

“Yes, Warrior,” cried he.“Where are the Pleasure

Slaves?” I demanded.The proprietor seemed stunned.

“I would see a woman dance,” Isaid.

The men of Tharna seemedhorrified. One whispered, “Thereare no Pleasure Slaves in Tharna.”

“Alas!” I cried, “not a bangle inall Tharna!”

Two or three of the men laughed.At last I had touched them.

“Those creatures that float in thestreet behind masks of silver,” Iasked, “are they truly women?”

“Truly,” said one of the men,restraining a laugh.

“I doubt it,” I cried. “Shall I fetchone, to see if she will dance forus?”

The men laughed.I had pretended to rise to my feet,

and the proprietor, with horror, hadshoved me back down, and rushedfor more Kal-da. His strategy wasto pour so much Kal-da down mythroat that I would be unable to doanything but roll under the table andsleep. Some of the men crowdedaround the table now.

“Where are you from?” askedone eagerly.

“I have lived all my life inTharna,” I told them.

There was a great roar oflaughter.

Soon, pounding the time on the

table with the butt of my spear, Iwas leading a raucous round ofsongs, mostly wild drinking songs,warrior songs, songs of theencampment and march, but too Itaught them songs I had learned inthe caravan of Mintar the Merchant,so long ago, when I had first lovedTalena, songs of love, of loneliness,of the beauties of one's cities, andof the fields of Gor.

The Kal-da flowed free that nightand thrice1 the oil in the hangingtharlarion lamps needed to berenewed by the sweating, joyfulproprietor of the Kal-da shop. Menfrom the streets, dumbfounded by

the sounds which came from within,pressed through the squat door andsoon had joined in. Some warriorsentered, too, and instead ofattempting to restore order hadincredibly taken off their helmets,filled them with Kal-da and satcross-legged with us, to sing anddrink their fill.

The lights in the tharlarion lampshad finally flickered and gone out,and the chill light of dawn at lastbleakly illuminated the room. Manyof the men had left, more hadperhaps fallen on the tables, or layalong the sides of the room. Eventhe proprietor slept, his head across

his folded arms on the counter,behind which stood the great Kal-da brewing pots, at last empty andcold. I rubbed the sleep from myeyes. There was a hand on myshoulder.

“Wake up,” demanded a voice.“He's the one,” said another

voice, I seemed to remember.I struggled to my feet, and

confronted the small, lemon-facedconspirator.

“We've been looking for you,”said the other voice, which I nowsaw belonged to a burly guardsmanof Tharna. Behind him in their bluehelmets stood three others.

“He's the thief,” said the lemon-faced man, pointing to me. His handdarted to the table where the bag ofcoins lay, half spilled out in thedried puddles of Kal-da.

“These are my coins,” said theconspirator. “My name is stitchedinto the leather of the sack.” Heshoved the sack under the nose ofthe guardsman.

“Ost,” read the guardsman. It wasalso the name of a species of tiny,brightly orange reptile, the mostvenemous on Gor.

“I am not a thief,” I said. “Hegave me the coins.”

“He is lying,” said Ost.

“I am not,” I said.“You are under arrest,” said the

guardsman.“In whose name?” I demanded.“In the name of Lara,” said the

man, “Tatrix of Tharna.”

Chapter Ten:THE PALACE OF THE

TATRIX

Resistance would have beenuseless.

My weapons had been removedwhile I slept, foolish and trusting inthe hospitality of Tharna. I faced theguards unarmed. Yet the officer

must have read defiance in my eyesbecause he signaled his men, andthree spears dropped to threaten mybreast.

“I stole nothing,” I said.“You may plead your case before

the Tatrix,” said the guard.“Shackle him,” insisted Ost.“Are you a warrior?” asked the

guardsman.“I am,” I said.“Have I your word that you will

accompany me peaceably to thepalace of the Tatrix?” asked theguardsman.

“Yes,” I said.The guardsman spoke to his men.

“Shackles will not be necessary.”“I am innocent,” I told the

guardsman.He looked at me, his grey eyes

frank in the Y-slot in his sombreblue helmet of Tharna. “It is for theTatrix to decide,” he said.

“You must shackle him!”wheezed Ost.

“Quiet, worm,” said theguardsman, and the conspiratorsubsided into squirming silence.

I followed the guardsman, yetringed with his men, to the palaceof the Tatrix. Ost scurried alongbehind us, puffing and gasping, hisshort, bandy legs struggling to keep

pace with the stride of warriors.I felt that even had I chosen to

forswear my pledge, which as awarrior of Gor I would not, mychances of escape would have beensmall indeed. In all likelihood threespears would have transfixed mybody within my first few stepstoward freedom. I respected thequiet, efficient guardsmen ofTharna, and I had alreadyencountered her skilled warriors ina field far from the city. I wonderedif Thorn were in the city, and ifVera now wore her pleasure silk inhis villa.

I knew that if justice were done

in Tharna I would be acquitted, yetI was uneasy–for how was I toknow if my case would be fairlyheard and decided? That I had beenin possession of Ost's sack of coinswould surely seem good prima-facie evidence of guilt, and thismight well sway the decision of theTatrix. How would my word, theword of a stranger, weigh againstthe words of Ost, a citizen ofTharna and perhaps one ofsignificance?

Yet, incredibly perhaps, I lookedforward to seeing the palace and theTatrix, to meeting face to face theunusual woman who could rule, and

rule well, a city of Gor. Had I notbeen arrested I guessed I might, ofmy own free will, have called uponthe Tatrix of Tharna, and, as onecitizen had expressed it, spent mynight in her palace.

After we had walked for perhapssome twenty minutes through thedrab, graveled, twisted streets ofTharna, its grey citizens parting tomake way for us and to stareexpressionlessly at the scarlet-cladprisoner, we came to a broadwinding avenue, steep and pavedwith black cobblestones, still shinyfrom the rains of the night. On eachside of the avenue was a gradually

ascending brick wall, and as wetrudged upward the walls on eachside became higher and the avenuemore narrow.

At last, a hundred yards ahead,cold in the morning light, I saw thepalace, actually a rounded fortressof brick, black, heavy, unadorned,formidable. At the entrance to thepalace the sombre, wet avenueshrunk to a passage large enoughonly for a single man, and the wallsat the same time rose to a height ofperhaps thirty feet.

The entrance itself was nothingmore than a small, simple irondoor, perhaps eighteen inches in

width, perhaps five feet in height.Only one man could come or go at atime from the palace of Tharna. Itwas a far cry from the broad-portaled central cylinders of manyof the Gorean cities, through whicha brace of golden-harnessedtharlarions might be driven withease. I wondered if within thisstern, brutal fortress, this palace ofthe Tatrix of Tharna, justice couldbe done.

The guardsman motioned to thedoor, and stepped behind me. I wasfacing the door, first in the narrowpassage.

“We do not enter,” said the

guardsman. “Only you and Ost.”I turned to regard them, and three

spears dropped level with my chest.There was a sound of sliding

bolts and the iron door swung open,revealing nothing but darknesswithin.

“Enter,” commanded theguardsman.

I glanced once more at thespears, smiled grimly at theguardsman, turned and, lowering myhead, entered the small door.

Suddenly I cried out in alarm,pawing at nothing, hurtlingdownward. I heard Ost scream withsurprise and terror as he was

shoved through the door behind me.Some twenty feet below the level

of the door, in the absolutedarkness, with brutal impact, Istruck bottom, a stone floor coveredwith wet straw. Ost's body struckmine almost at the same time. Ifought for breath. My vision seemedringed with gold and purple specks.I was dimly conscious of beingseized by the mouth of some largeanimal and being tugged through around tunnel-like opening. I tried tostruggle, but it was useless. Mybreath had been driven from me, thetunnel allowed me no room tomove. I smelled the wet fur of the

animal, a rodent of some kind, thesmells of its den, the soiled straw. Iwas aware, far off, of Ost'shysterical screams.

For some time the animal,moving backwards, its prey seizedin its jaws, scrambled through thetunnel. It dragged me in a series ofquick, vicious jerks through thetunnel, scraping me on its stonewalls, lacerating me, ripping mytunic.

At last it dragged me into around, globelike space, lit by twotorches in iron racks, which wereset into the fitted stone walls. Iheard a voice of command, loud,

harsh. The animal squealed indispleasure. I heard the crack of awhip and the same command, moreforcibly uttered. Reluctantly theanimal released its grip and backedaway, crouching down, watchingme with its long, oblique blazingeyes, like slits of molten gold in thetorchlight.

It was a giant urt, fat, sleek andwhite; it bared its three rows ofneedlelike white teeth at me andsquealed in anger; two horns, tuskslike flat crescents curved from itsjaw; another two horns, similar tothe first, modifications of the bonytissue forming the uper ridge of the

eye socket, protruded over thosegleaming eyes that seemed to feastthemselves upon me, as if waitingthe permission of the keeper to hurlitself on its feeding trough. Its fatbody trembled with anticipation.

The whip cracked again, andanother command was uttered, andthe animal, its long hairless taillashing in frustration, slunk intoanother tunnel. An iron gate,consisting of bars, fell behind it.

Several pairs of strong handsseized me, and I caught a glimpse ofa heavy, curved, silverish object. Itried to rise but was pressed down,my face to the stone. A heavy

object, thick as a hinged beam, wasthrust beneath and over my throat.My wrists were held in position,and the device closed on my throatand wrists. With a sinking sensationI heard the snap of a heavy lock.

“He's yoked,” said a voice.“Rise, Slave,” said another.I tried to rise to my feet, but the

weight was too much. I heard thehiss of a whip and gritted my teethas the leather coil bit at my flesh.Again and again it struck downwardlike lightning bolts of leather fire. Imanaged to get my knees under me,and then, painfully, heaved the yokeupward, struggling unsteadily to my

feet.“Well done, Slave,” said a

voice.Amidst the burning of the lash

wounds I felt the cold air of thedungeon on my back. The whip hadopened my tunic, I would bebleeding. I turned to look at the manwho had spoken. It was he whoheld the whip. I noted grimly that itsleather was wet with my blood.

“I am not a slave,” I said.The man was stripped to the

waist, a brawny fellow wearingbuckled leather wrist straps, hishair bound back on his head with aband of grey cloth.

“In Tharna,” said he, “a man suchas you can be nothing else.”

I looked about the room, whichcurved to a dome some twenty-fivefeet above the floor. There wereseveral exits, most of them rathersmall, barred apertures. From someI heard groaning. From some othersI heard the shuffling and squealingof animals, perhaps more of thegiant urts. By one wall there was alarge bowl of burning coals, fromwhich protruded the handles ofseveral irons. A rack of some sortwas placed near the bowl of coals.It was large enough to accomodatea human being. In certain of the

walls chains were fixed, and hereand there, other chains dangledfrom the ceiling. On the walls, asthough in some workshop, therehung instruments of various sorts,which I shall not describe, otherthan to say that they wereingeniously designed for the tormentof human beings.

It was an ugly place.“Here,” said the man proudly,

“peace is kept in Tarna.”“I demand,” I said, “to be taken

to the Tatrix.”“Of course,” said the man. He

laughed unpleasantly. “I shall takeyou to the Tatrix myself.”

I heard the winding of a chain ona windlass, and saw one of thebarred gates leading from thechamber slowly lifting. The mangestured with his whip. Iunderstood I was to go through theopening.

“The Tatrix of Tharna isexpecting you,” he said.

Chapter Eleven:LARA, TATRIX OF THARNA

I passed through the opening, andpainfully began to climb a small,circular passage, staggering witheach step under the weight of the

heavy metal yoke. The man with thewhip, cursing, urged me to greaterspeed. He poked me savagely withthe whip, the narrowness of thepassage not allowing him to use itas he wished.

Already my legs and shouldersached from the strain of the yoke.

We emerged in a broad, but dimhall. Several doors led from thishall. With his whip, prodding mescornfully, the man in wrist strapsdirected me through one of thesedoors. This door led again into acorridor, from which again severaldoors led, and so it continued. Itwas like being driven through a

maze or sewer. The halls were litoccasionally by tharlarion oil lampsset in iron fixtures mounted in thewalls. The interior of the palaceseemed to me to be deserted. It wasinnocent of colour, of adornment. Istaggered on, smarting from thewhip wounds, almost crushed bythe burden of the yoke. I doubted if Icould, unaided, find my way fromthis sinister labyrinth.

At last I found myself in a large,vaulted room, lit by torches set inthe walls. In spite of its loftiness, ittoo was plain, like the other roomsand passageways I had seen,sombre, oppressive. Only one

adornment relieved the walls oftheir melancholy aspect, the imageof a gigantic golden mask, carved inthe likeness of a beautiful woman.Beneath this mask, there was, on ahigh dais, a monumental throne ofgold.

On the broad steps leading to thethrone, there were curule chairs, onwhich sat, I supposed, members ofthe High Council of Tharna. Theirglittering silver masks, each carvedin the image of the same beautifulwoman, regarded meexpressionlessly.

About the room, here and there,stood stern warriors of Tharna,

grim in their blue helmets, eachwith a tiny silver mask on thetemple–members of the palaceguard. One such helmeted warriorstood near the foot of the throne.There seemed to be somethingfamiliar about him.

On the throne itself there sat awoman, proud, lofty in haughtydignity, garbed regally in majesticrobes of golden cloth, wearing amask not of silver but of pure gold,carved like the others in the imageof a beautiful woman. The eyesbehind the glittering mask of goldregarded me. No one need tell methat I stood in the presence of Lara,

Tatrix of Tharna.The warrior at the foot of the

throne removed his helmet. It wasThorn, Captain of Tharna, whom Ihad met in the fields far from thecity. His narrow eyes, like those ofan urt, looked upon mecontemptuously.

He strode to face me.“Kneel,” he commanded. “You

stand before Lara, Tatrix ofTharna.”

I would not kneel.Thorn kicked my feet from under

me, and, under the weight of theyoke, I crashed to the floor,helpless.

“The whip,” said Thorn,extending his hand. The burly manin wrist straps placed it in his hand.Thorn lifted the instrument to lay myback open with its harsh stroke.

“Do not strike him,” said animperious voice, and the whip armof Thorn dropped as though themuscles had been cut. The voicecame from the woman behind thegolden mask, Lara herself. I wasgrateful.

Hot with sweat, each fibre in mybody screaming in agony, I managedto gain my knees. Thorn's handswould allow me to rise no further. Iknelt, yoked, before the Tatrix of

Tharna.The eyes behind the yellow mask

regarded me, curiously.“Is it thus, Stranger,” she asked,

her tones cold, “that you expectedto carry from the city the wealth ofTharna?”

I was puzzled, my body wasracked with pain, my vision wasblurred with sweat.

“The yoke is of silver,” said she,“from the mines of Tharna.”

I was stunned, for if the yoke wastruly of silver, the metal on myshoulders might have ransomed aUbar.

“We of Tharna,” said the Tatrix,

“think so little of riches that we usethem to yoke slaves.”

My angry glare told he that I didnot consider myself a slave.

From the curule chair beside thethrone rose another woman,wearing an intricately wroughtsilver mask and magnificent robesof rich silver cloth. She stoodhaughtily beside the Tatrix, theexpressionless silver maskgleaming down at me, hideous inthe torchlight it reflected. Speakingto the Tatrix, but not turning themask from me, she said, “Destroythe animal.” It was a cold, ringingvoice, clear, decisive, authoritative.

“Does the law of Tharna not giveit the right to speak, Dorna theProud, Second in Tharna?” askedthe Tatrix, whose voice, too, wasimperious and cold, yet pleased memore than the tones of she whowore the silver mask.

“Does the law recognisebeasts?” asked the woman whosename was Dorna the Proud. It wasalmost as if she challenged herTatrix, and I wondered if Dorna theProud was content to be Second inTharna. The sarcasm in her voicehad been ill concealed.

The Tatrix did not choose torespond to Dorna the Proud.

“Has he still his tongue?” askedthe Tatrix of the man with the wriststraps, who stood behind me.

“Yes, Tatrix,” said the man.I thought that the woman in the

silver mask, who had been spokenof as Second in Tharna, seemed tostiffen with apprehension at thisrevelation. The silver mask turnedupon the man in wrist straps. Hisvoice stammered, and I wondered if, behind me, his burly frametrembled. “It was the wish of theTatrix that the slave be yoked andbrought to the Chamber of theGolden Mask as soon as possible,and unharmed.”

I smiled to myself, thinking of theteeth of the urt and the whip, both ofwhich had found my flesh.

“Why did you not kneel,Stranger?” asked the Tatrix ofTharna.

“I am a warrior,” I responded.“You are a slave!” hissed Dorna

the Proud from behind thatexpressionless mask. Then sheturned to the Tatrix. “Remove histongue!” she said.

“Do you give orders to she whois First in Tharna?” asked theTatrix.

“No, Beloved Tatrix,” saidDorna the Proud.

“Slave,” said the Tatrix.I did not acknowledge the

salutation.“Warrior,” she said.Beneath the yoke I raised my

eyes to her mask. In her hand,covered with a glove of gold, sheheld a small, dark leather sack, halffilled with coins. I assumed theywere the coins of Ost and wonderedwhere the conspirator might be.“Confess that you stole these coinsfrom Ost of Tharna,” said theTatrix.

“I stole nothing,” I said. “Releaseme.”

Thorn laughed unpleasantly from

behind me.“I advise you,” said the Tatrix,

“to confess.”I gathered that, for some reason,

she was eager that I plead guilty tothe crime, but as I was innocent, Irefused.

“I did not steal the coins,” I said.“Then, Stranger,” said the Tatrix,

“I am sorry for you.”I could not understand her

remark, and my back felt ready tosnap under the weight of the yoke.My neck ached under its weight.The sweat poured down my bodyand my back still stung from thelash.

“Bring in Ost!” ordered theTatrix.

I thought Dorna the Proud stirreduneasily in the curule chair. Shesmoothed the silver folds of herrobes with a nervous hand, glovedin silver.

There was a whimpering and ascuffling from behind me, and, tomy astonishment, one of theguardsmen of the palace, the tinysilver mask blazed across the lefttemple of his helmet, flung Ost, theconspirator, yoked and sniveling, tothe foot of the throne. Ost's yokewas much lighter than mine but, ashe was a smaller man, the weight

might have been as much for him.“Kneel to the Tatrix,”

commanded Thorn, who stillretained the whip.

Ost, squealing with fear, tried torise, but could not lift the yoke.

Thorn's whip hand was raised.I expected the Tatrix to

inte1rvene on his behalf, as she hadon mine, but, instead, she saidnothing. She seemed to be watchingme. I wondered what thoughtsglittered behind that placid mask ofgold.

“Do not strike him,” I said.Without taking her eyes from me,

Lara spoke to Thorn. “Prepare to

strike,” she said.The yellowish, purple-marked

face split into a grin and Thorn's fisttightened on the whip. He did nottake his eyes from the Tatrix,wanting to strike at the first instantshe permitted the blow.

“Rise,” said the Tatrix to Ost,“or you will die on your belly likethe serpent you are.”

“I can't,” wept Ost. “I can't.”The Tatrix coldly lifted her

gloved hand. When it fell so toowould the whip.

“No,” I said.Slowly, every muscle straining to

keep my balance, the cords in my

legs and back like tortured cables, Ireached out my hand to Ost's and,struggling in agony to keep mybalance, added the weight of hisyoke to mine as I drew him to hisknees.

There was a gasp from thesilver-masked women in the room.One or two of the warriors,heedless of the proprieties ofTharna, acknowledged my deed bysmiting their shields with the bronzeheads of their spears.

Thorn, in irritation, hurled thewhip back into the hands of the manwith wrist straps.

“You are strong,” said the Tatrix

of Tharna.“Strength is the attribute of

beasts,” said Dorna the Proud.“True,” said the Tatrix.“Yet he is a fine beast, is he

not?” asked one of the silver-masked women.

“Let him be used in theAmusements of Tharna,” urgedanother.

Lara held up her gloved hand forsilence.

“How is it,” I asked, “that youspare a warrior the whip and woulduse it on so miserable a wretch asOst?”

“I had hoped you guiltless,

Stranger,” said she. “The guilt ofOst I know.”

“I am guiltless,” I said.“Yet,” said she, “you admit you

did not steal the coins.”My brain reeled. “That is true,” I

said, “I did not steal the coins.”“Then you are guilty,” said the

voice of Lara, I thought sadly.“Of what?” I asked to know.“Of conspiracy against the throne

of Tharna,” said the Tatrix.I was dumbfounded.“Ost,” said the Tatrix, her voice

like ice, “you are guilty of treasonagainst Tharna. It is known that youconspire against the throne.”

One of the guards, the fellowwho had brought Ost in, spoke. “Itis as your spied reported, Tatrix. Inhis quarters were found seditiousdocuments, letters of instructionpertaining to the seizure of thethrone, sacks of gold to be used inobtaining accomplices.”

“Has he confessed these things aswell?” asked Lara.

Ost blubbered helplessly formercy, his thin neck wiggling in theyoke.

The guardsman laughed. “Onesight of the white urt and headmitted all.”

“Who, Serpent,” asked the

Tatrix, “supplied the gold? Fromwhom came the letters ofinstruction?”

“I do not know, Beloved Tatrix,”whined Ost. “The letters and thegold were delivered by a helmetedwarrior.”

“To the urt with him!” sneeredDorna the Proud.

Ost writhed, squealing for mercy.Thorn kicked him to silence him.

“What more do you know of thisplot against the throne?” asked Laraof the sniveling Ost.

“Nothing, Beloved Lara,” hewhimpered.

“Very well,” said Lara, and

turned the glittering mask to theguardsman who had hurled theyoked Ost to her feet, “take him tothe Chamber of the Urts.”

“No, no, no!” whimpered Ost. “Iknow more, more!”

The silver-masked womenleaned forward in their chairs. Onlythe Tatrix herself and Dorna theProud sat straight. Although theroom was cool I noted that Thorn,Captain of Tharna, was sweating.His hands clenched and unclenched.

“What more do you know?”demanded the Tatrix.

Ost looked about himself as wellas he could, his eyes bulging with

terror.“Do you know the warrior who

brought you the letters and gold?”she demanded.

“Him I do not know,” said Ost.“Let me,” begged Thorn, “bloody

the yoke.” He drew his sword. “Letme end this wretch here!”

“No,” said Lara. “What morethen do you know, Serpent?” sheasked the miserable conspirator.

“I know,” said Ost, “that theleader of the conspiracy is a highperson in Tharna–one who wearsthe silver mask, a woman.”

“Unthinkable!” cried Lara, risingto her feet. “None who wear the

silver mask could be disloyal toTharna!”

“Yet it is so,” sniveled Ost.“Who is the traitress?” demanded

Lara.“I do not know her name,” said

Ost.Thorn laughed.“But,” said Ost, hopefully, “I

once spoke with her and I mightrecognise her voice if I were butallowed to live.”

Thorn laughed again. “It is a trickto buy his life.”

“What think you, Dorna theProud?” asked Lara of she who wasSecond in Tharna.

But instead of answering, Dornathe Proud seemed strangely silent.She extended her silver-glovedhand, palm facing her body andchopped brutally down with it, asthough it might have been a blade.

“Mercy, Great Dorna!” screamedOst.

Dorna repeated the gesture,slowly, cruelly.

But the hands of Lara wereextended, palms up, and she liftedthem slightly; it was a graciousgesture that spoke of mercy.

“Thank you, Beloved Tatrix,”whimpered Ost, his eyes burstingwith tears, “Thank you!”

“Tell me, Serpent,” said Lara,“did the warrior steal the coinsf1rom you?”

“No, no,” blubbered Ost.“Did you give them to him?” she

demanded.“I did,” he said. “I did.”“And did he accept them?” she

asked.“He did,” said Ost.“You pressed the coins upon me

and ran,” I said. “I had no choice.”“He accepted the coins,”

muttered Ost, looking at memalevolently, determinedapparently that I would sharewhatever fate lay in store for him.

“I had no choice,” I said calmly.Ost shot a venomous look in my

direction.“If I were a conspirator,” I said,

“if I were in league with this man,why would he have charged mewith the theft of the coins, whywould he have had me arrested?”

Ost blanched. His tiny, rodentlikemind scurried from thought tothought, but his mouth only moveduncontrollably, silently.

Thorn spoke. “Ost knew himselfto be suspected of plotting againstthe throne.”

Ost looked puzzled.“Thus,” said Thorn, “to make it

seem he had not given the money tothis warrior, or assassin as the casemay be, he pretended it had beenstolen from him. In that way hemight at one time appear free fromguilt and destroy the man who knewof his complicity.”

“That is true,” exclaimed Ostgratefully, eager to take his cuefrom so powerful a figure as Thorn.

“How is it that Ost gave you thecoins, Warrior?” asked the Tatrix.

“Ost gave them to me,” I said, “...as a gift.”

Thorn threw back his head andlaughed.

“Ost never gave anything away in

his life,” roared Thorn, wiping hismouth, struggling to regain hiscomposure.

There was even a slight sound ofamusement from the silver-maskedfigures who sat upon the steps to thethrone.

Ost himself snickered.But the mask of the Tatrix

glittered upon Ost, and his snickerdied in his thin throat. The Tatrixarose from her throne, and pointedher finger at the wretchedconspirator. Her voice was cold asshe spoke to the guardsman whohad brought him to the chamber.“To the mines with him,” she said.

“No, Beloved Tatrix, no!” criedOst. Terror, like a trapped cat,seemed to scratch behind his eyes,and he began to shake in his yokelike a diseased animal. Scornfullythe guardsman lifted him to his feetand dragged him stumbling andwhimpering from the room. Igathered the sentence to the mineswas equivalent to a sentence ofdeath.

“You are cruel,” I said to theTatrix.

“A Tatrix must be cruel,” saidDorna.

“That,” I said, “I would hearfrom the mouth of the Tatrix

herself.”Dorna stiffened at the rebuff.After a time the Tatrix, who had

resumed her throne, spoke. Hervoice was quiet. “Sometimes,Stranger,” she said, “it is hard to beFirst in Tharna.”

I had not expected that answer.I wondered what sort of woman

was the Tatrix of Tharna, what layconcealed behind that mask of gold.For a moment I felt sorry for thegolden creature before whosethrone I knelt.

“As for you,” said Lara, her maskglittering down upon me, “youadmit that you did not steal the

coins from Ost, and in thisadmission you admit that he gavethem to you.”

“He thrust them in my hand,” Isaid, “and ran.” I looked at theTatrix. “I came to Tharna to obtaina tarn. I had no money. With Ost'scoins I could have purchased oneand continued my journey. Should Ihave thrown them away?”

“These coins,” said Lara, holdingthe tiny sack in her hand, gloved ingold, “were to buy my death.”

“So few coins?” I askedskeptically.

“Obviously the full sum wouldfollow upon the accomplishment of

the deed,” she said.“The coins were a gift,” I said.

“Or so I thought.”“I do not believe you,” she said.I was silent.“What full sum did Ost offer

you?” she asked.“I refused to be a party to his

schemes,” I said.“What full sum did Ost offer

you?” repeated the Tatrix.“He spoke,” I said, “of a tarn, a

thousand golden tarn disks andprovisions for a long journey.”

“Golden tarn disks–unlike thoseof silver–are scarce in Tharna,”said the Tatrix. “Someone is

apparently willing to pay highly formy death.”

“Not your death,” I said.“Then what?” she asked.“Your abduction,” I said.The Tatrix stiffened suddenly,

her entire body trembling with fury.She rose, seemingly beside herselfwith rage.

“Bloody the yoke,” urged Dorna.Thorn stepped forward, his blade

raised.“No,” screamed the Tatrix, and,

to the astonishment of all, herselfdescended the broad steps of thedais.

Shaking with fury she stood

before me, over me, in her goldenrobes and mask. “Give me thewhip!” she cried. “Give it to me!”The man with the wrist strapshastily knelt before her, lifting it toher hands. She snapped it cruelly inthe air, and its report was sharp andvicious.

“So,” she said to me, both handsclenched on the butt of the whip,“you would have me before you onthe scarlet rug bound with yellowcords, would you?”

I did not understand her meaning.“You would have me in a camisk

and collar would you?” she hissedhysterically.

The women of the silver masksrecoiled, shuddering. There wereexclamations of anger, of horror.

“I am a woman of Tharna,” shescreamed, “First in Tharna! First!”

Then, beside herself with rage,holding the whip in both hands, shelashed madly at me. “It is the kiss ofthe whip for you!” she screamed.Again and again she struck me, yetthrough it all I managed to stay onmy knees, not to fall.

My senses reeled, my b1ody,tortured by the weight of the silveryoke, now wrapped in the flames ofthe whip, shook with uncontrollableagony. Then, when the Tatrix had

exhausted herself, by some effort Ifind it hard to comprehend, Imanaged to stand on my feet,bloody, wearing the yoke, my fleshin tatters–and look down upon her.

She turned and fled to the dais.She ran up the steps and turned onlywhen she stood at last before herthrone. She pointed her handimperiously at me, that handwearing its glove of gold, nowspattered with my blood, wet anddark from the sweat of her hand.

“Let him be used in theAmusements of Tharna!” she said.

Chapter Twelve:

ANDREAS OF THE CASTEOF POETS

I had been hooded and driventhrough the streets, stumbling underthe weight of the yoke. at last I hadentered a building and haddescended a long, swirling ramp,through dank passages. When I wasunhooded, my yoke had beenchained to the wall of a dungeon.

The place was lit by a small, foultharlarion lamp set in the wall nearthe ceiling. I had no idea how farbelow ground it might be. The floorand the walls were of black stone,quarried in giant blocks of perhaps

a tone apiece. The lamp dried thestone in its vicinity, but, on the floorand most of the walls, there was adampness and the smell of mold.Some straw was scattered on thefloor. From where I was chained, Icould reach a cistern of water. Afood pan lay near my foot.

Exhausted, my body aching fromthe weight of the yoke and the stingof tha lash, I lay on the stones andslept. How long I slept I didn'tknow. When I awoke, each of mymuscles ached, but now it was adull, cold ache. I tried to move andmy wounds tortured me.

In spite of the yoke I struggled to

a cross-legged sitting position, andshook my head. In the food pan Isaw half a loaf of coarse bread.Yoked as I was, there was no wayto pick it up and get it to my mouth.I might crawl to it on my belly, andif my hunger were great enough, Iknew I must, but the thought angeredme. The yoke was not simply adevice to secure a man, but tohumiliate him, to treat him as if hewere a beast.

“Let me help you,” said a girl'svoice.

I turned, the momentum of theyoke almost carrying me into thewall. Two small hands caught it,

and struggling, managed to swing itback, keeping my balance.

I looked at the girl. Perhaps shewas plain, but I found her attractive.There was a warmth in her I wouldnot have expected to find in Tharna.Her dark eyes regarded me, filledwith concern. Her hair, which wasreddish brown, was bound behindher head with a coarse string.

As I gazed on her she loweredher eyes shyly. She wore only asingle garment, a long, narrowrectangle of rough, brown material,perhaps eighteen inches in width,drawn over her head like a poncho,falling in front and back a bit above

her knees and belted at the waistwith a chain.

“Yes,” she said with shame. “Iwear the camisk.”

“You are lovely,” I said.She looked at me, startled, yet

grateful.We faced each other in the half

darkness of the dungeon, notspeaking. There was no sound inthat dark, cold place. The shadowsof the tiny tharlarion lamp far aboveflickered on the walls, on the faceof the girl.

Her hand reached out andtouched the silver yoke I wore.“They are cruel,” she said.

Then, without speaking more, shepicked up the bread from the pan,and held it for me. I bit two or threevoracious mouthfuls of the coarsestuff and chewed it and gulped itdown.

I noted her throat was encircledby a collar of grey metal. Isupposed it indicated that she was astate slave of Tharna.

She reached into the cistern, firstscraping the surface of the water toclear it of the green scum thatfloated there, and then, in the palmsof her cupped hands, carried waterto my parched lips.

“Thank you,” I said.

She smiled at me. “One does notthank a slave,” she said.

“I thought women were free inTharna,” I said, gesturing with myhead toward the grey metal collarshe wore.

“I will not be kept in Tharna,”she said. “I will be sent from thecity, to the Great Farms, where Iwill carry water to Field Slaves.”

“What is your crime?” I asked.“I betrayed Tharna,” she said.“You conspired against the

throne?” I asked.“No,” said the girl. “I cared for a

man.”I was speechless.

“I once wore the silver mask,Warrior,” said the girl. “But now Iam only a Degraded Woman, for Iallowed myself to love.”

“That is no crime,” I said.The girl laughed merrily. I love

to hear the sudden glad music of awoman's laughter, that laughter thatso delights a man, that acts on hissenses like Ka-la-na wine.

Suddenly it seemed I no longerfelt the weight of the yoke.

“Tell me about him,” I said, “butfirst tell me your name.”

“I am Linna of Tharna,” she said.“What is your name?”

“Tarl,” I said.

“Of what city?”“Of no city.”“Ah!” said the girl, smiling, and

inquired no further. She would haveconcluded that she shared her cellwith an outlaw. She sat back on herheels, her eyes happy. “He was,”she said, “not even of this city.”

I whistled. That would be aserious matter in Gorean eyes.

“And worse than that,” shelaughed, clapping her hands, “hewas of the Caste of Singers.”

It could have been worse, Ithought. After all, though the Casteof Singers, or Poets, was not a highcaste, it had more prestige than, for

example, the Caste of Pot-Makersor Saddle-Makers, with which itwas sometimes compared. On Gor,the singer, or poet, is regarded as acraftsman who makes strongsayings, much like a pot-makermakes a good pot or a saddle-makermakes a worthy saddle. He has hisrole to play in the social structure,celebrating battles and histories,singing of heroes and cities, butalso he is expected to sing of living,and of love and joy, not merely ofarms and glory; and, too, it is hisfunction to remind the Goreans fromtime to time of loneliness and death,lest they should forget that they are

men.The singer was thought to have

an unusual skill,1 but so, too, werethe tarn-keeper and the woodsman.Poets on Gor, as in my nativeworld, were regarded with someskepticism and thought to be a littlefoolish, but it had not occurred toanyone that they might suffer fromdivine madness or be the periodicrecipients of the inspiration of thegods. The Priest-Kings of Gor, whoserved as the divinities of this rudeplanet, inspired little but awe, andoccasionally fear. Men lived in atruce with the Priest-Kings, keepingtheir laws and festivals, making the

required sacrifices and libations,but, on the whole, forgetting aboutthem as much as possible. Had itbeen suggested to a poet that he hadbeen inspired by a Priest-King thefellow would have beenscandalised. “I, So-an-So of Such-and-Such a City, made this song,”he would say, “not a Priest-King.”

In spite of some reservations thePoet, or Singer, was loved on Gor.It had not occurred to him that heowed misery and torment to hisprofession, and, on the whole, theCaste of Poets was thought to be amost happy band of men. “Ahandful of bread for a song,” was a

common Gorean invitation extendedto members of the caste, and itmight occur on the lips of a peasantor a Ubar, and the poet took greatpride that he would sing the samesong in both the hut of the peasantand the halls of the Ubar, though itwon for him only a crust of bread inone place and a cap of gold in theother, gold often squandered on abeautiful woman who might leavehim nothing but his songs.

Poets, on the whole, did not livewell on Gor, but they never starved,were never forced to burn the robesof their caste. Some had even sungtheir way from city to city, their

poverty protecting them fromoutlaws, and their luck from thepredatory beasts of Gor. Ninecities, long after his death, claimedthe man who, centuries ago, hadcalled Ko-ro-ba the Towers of theMorning.

“The Caste of Poets is not sobad,” I said to Linna.

“Of course not,” she said, “butthey are outlawed in Tharna.”

“Oh,” I said.“Nonetheless,” she said, her eyes

happy, “this man, Andreas, of theDesert City of Tor, crept into thecity–looking for a song he said.”She laughed. “But I think he really

wanted to look behind the silvermasks of our women.” She clappedher hands with delight. “It was I,”she continued, “who apprehendedand challenged him, I who saw thelyre beneath his grey robes andknew him for a singer. In my silvermask I followed him, anddetermined that he had been withinthe city for more than ten hours.”

“What is the significance ofthat?” I asked, for I had heardsomething of the sort before.

“It means one is made welcomein Tharna,” said the girl, “and thismeans one is sent to the GreatFarms to be a Field Slave, to

cultivate the soil of Tharna inchains until one dies.”

“Why are strangers not warned ofthis,” I asked, “when they enter thegates?”

“That would be foolish indeed,would it not?” laughed the girl.“For how then would the ranks ofField Slaves be replenished?”

“I see,” I said, nowunderstanding for the first timesomething of the motivation behindthe hospitality of Tharna.

“As one who wore the silvermask,” continued the girl, “it wasmy duty to report this man to theauthorities. Yet I was curious for I

had never known a man not fromTharna. I followed him, until wewere alone, and then I challengedhim, informing him of the fate thatlay before him.”

“Then1 what did he do?” I asked.She dropped her head shyly. “He

pulled away my silver mask andkissed me,” she said, “so that Icould not even cry for help.”

I smiled at her.“I had never been in the arms of a

man before,” she said, “for the menof Tharna may not touch women.”

I must have looked puzzled.“The Caste of Physicians,” she

said, “under the direction of the

High Council of Tharna, arrangesthese matters.”

“I see,” I said.“Yet,” she said, “though I had

worn the silver mask, and countedmyself a woman of Tharna, when hetook me in his arms, I did not findthe situation unpleasant.” Shelooked at me, a little sadly. “I knewthen that I was no better than he, nobetter than a beast, worthy only tobe a slave.”

“You do not believe that?” Idemanded.

“Yes,” she said, “but I do notcare, for I would rather wear thecamisk and have felt his kiss, than

live forever behind my silvermask.” Her shoulders shook. Iwished that I could have taken herin my arms, and comforted her. “Iam a degraded creature,” she said,“shamed, a traitress to all that ishighest in Tharna.”

“What happened to the man?” Iasked.

I sheltered him, she said, “andmanaged to smuggle him from thecity.” She sighed. “He made mepromise to follow him, but I knewthat I could not.”

“What did you do?” I asked.“When he was safe,” she said, “I

did my duty, giving myself to the

High Council of Tharna andconfessing all. It was decreed that Imust lose my silver mask, don thecamisk and be collared, and be sentto the Great Farms to carry water toField Slaves.”

She began to weep.“You should not have given

yourself to the High Council,” Isaid.

“Why?” she asked. “Was I notguilty?”

“You were not guilty,” I said.“Is love not a crime?” she asked.“Only in Tharna,” I said.She laughed. “You are strange,

too,” she said, “like Andreas of

Tor.”“What of Andreas?” I asked.

“When you do not join him, will henot come searching for you, re-enterthe city?”

“No,” she said. “He will think Ino longer love him.” She loweredher head. “He will go away, andfind himself another woman, onemore lovely than a girl of Tharna.”

“Do you believe that?” I asked.“Yes,” said she. “And,” she

added, “he will not enter the city.He knows he would be caught and,considering his crime, he might besent to the mines.” She shuddered.“Perhaps even be used in the

Amusements of Tharna.”“So you think he will fear to

enter the city?” I asked.“Yes,” said she, “he will not

enter the city. He is not a fool.”“What,” cried a merry young

voice, insolent and good natured,“could a wench like you know offools, of the Caste of Singers, ofPoets?”

Linna sprang to her feet.Through the door of the dungeon

a yoked figure was thrust by the buttends of two spears. He stumbledthrough the entire room before hestruck the wall with the yoke. Hemanaged to turn the yoke and slide

down the wall to a seated position.He was an unkempt, strong-

looking lad, with cheerful blue eyesand a mop of hair like the mane of ablack larl. He sat on the straw, andsmiled at us, a jolly, impish,shamefaced smile. He stretched hisneck in the yoke and moved hisfingers.

“Well, Linna,” he said. “I havecome to carry you off.”

“Andreas,” she cried, rushing tohim.

Chapter Thirteen:THE AMUSEMENTS OF

THARNA

The sun hurt my eyes. The whitesand, perfumed, sprinkled withmica and red lead, burned my feet. Iblinked again and again, trying tolessen the torture of the glare.Already I could feel the heat of thesun soaking into the silver yoke Iwore.

My back felt the jab of spears asI was prodded ahead and stumbledforward, unsteady under the weightof the yoke, my feet sinking to theirankles in the hot sand. On bothsides of me were other wretchedfellows, similarly yoked, somewhining, some cursing, as they, too,

were driven forward like beasts.One, silent, to my left, I knew to beAndreas of the Desert City of Tor.At last I no longer felt the spearpoint in my back.

“Kneel to the Tatrix of Tharna,”commanded an imperious voice,speaking through some type oftrumpet.

I heard the voice of Andreas nextto me. “Strange,” said he, “usuallythe Tatrix does not attend theAmusements of Tharna.”

I wondered if I might be thereason that the Tatrix herself waspresent.

“Kneel to the Tatrix of Tharna,”

repeated the imperious voice.Our fellow prisoners knelt. Only

Andreas and I remained standing.“Why do you not kneel?” I asked.“Do you think that only warriors

are brave?” he asked.Suddenly he was struck from

behind, brutally in the back by thebutt of a spear, and, with a groan hesank downwards. The spear struckme, too, again and again, in the backand across the shoulders, but Istood, somehow strong in the yoke,like an ox. Then with a harsh cracka lash suddenly struck my legs andcurled about them like a fiery snake.My legs were jerked from beneath

me and I fell heavily in the sand.I looked about myself.As I had expected I and my

fellow prisoners knelt in the sandsof an arena.

It was an oval enclosure, perhapsa hundred yards in diameter on itslongest axis, and enclosed by wallsabout twelve feet high. The wallswere divided into sections, whichwere brightly coloured, with golds,purples, reds, oranges, yellows andblues.

The surface of the area, whitesand, perfumed and sparkling withmica and red lead, added to thecolourful mien of the place.

Hanging over favoured portions ofthe stands, which ascended on allsides, were giant striped awnings ofbillowing red and yellow silk.

It seemed that all the gloriouscolours of Gor which had beendenied the buildings of Tharnaw1ere lavished on this place of itsamusements.

In the stands, shaded by theawnings, I saw hundreds of slivermasks, the lofty women of Tharna,reclining on benches softened withcushions of coloured silk–come toview the Amusements.

I also noted the grey of the men inthe stands. Several were armed

warriors, perhaps stationed there tokeep the peace, but many must havebeen common citizens of Tharna.Some seemed to be conversingamong themselves, perhaps layingwagers of one sort or another, butmost sat still on the stone benches,glum and silent in their grey robes,their thoughts not easily read. Linna,in the dungeon, had told Andreasand me that a man of Tharna mustattend the Amusements of Tharna atleast four times a year, and that,failing that, he must take part inthem himself.

There were cries of impatiencefrom the stands, shrill, female

voices oddly contrasting with theplacidity of the silver masks. Alleyes seemed turned to one sectionof the stands, that before which weknelt, a section that gleamed withgold.

I looked above the wall and saw,vested in her robes of gold, regal ona golden throne, she who alonemight wear a golden mask, she whowas First in Tharna–Lara, theTatrix herself.

The Tatrix arose and lifted herhand. Pure in its glove of gold itheld a golden scarf.

The stands fell silent.Then, to my astonishment, the

men of Tharna who were yoked inthe arena, kneeling, rejected bytheir city, condemned, chanted astrange paean. Andreas and I, notbeing of Tharna, were alone silent,and I would guess he was assurprised as I.

Though we are abject beastsFit only to live for your comfortFit only to die for your pleasureYet we glorify the Masks of Tharna.Hail to the Masks of Tharna.Hail to the Tatrix of our City.

The golden scarf fluttered to thesands of the arena and the Tatrixresumed her throne, reclining uponits cushions.

The voice speaking through thetrumpet said, “Let the Amusementsof Tharna begin.”

Squeals of anticipation greetedthis announcement but I had littletime to listen for I was jerkedroughly to my feet.

“First,” said the voice, “therewill be the Contests of Oxen.”

There were perhaps forty yokedwretches in the arena. In a fewmoments the guards had divided usinto teams of four, harnessing ouryokes together with chains. Then,with their whips, they drove us to aset of large blocks of quarriedgranite, weighing perhaps a ton

apiece, from the sides of whichprotruded heavy iron rings. Morechains fixed each team to its ownblock.

The course was indicated to us.The race would begin and endbefore the golden wall behindwhich, in lofty splendour, sat theTatrix of Tharna. Each team wouldhave its driver, who would bear awhip and ride upon the block. Wepainfully dragged the heavy blocksto the golden wall. The silver yoke,hot from the sun, burned my neckand shoulders.

As we stood before the wall Iheard the laughter of the Tatrix and

my vision blackened with rage.Our driver was the man in wrist

straps, he from the Chamber of Urts,who had first brought me into thepresence of the Tatrix. Heapproached us, individually,checking the harness chains. As heexamined my yoke and chain, hesaid, “Dorna the Proud has wagereda hundred golden tarn disks on thisblock. See that it does not lose.”

“What if it does?” I asked.“She will have you all boiled

alive in tharlarion oil,” he said,laughing.

The hand of the Tatrix liftedslightly, almost languorously, from

the arm of her throne, and the racebegan.

Our block did not lose.Savagely, our backs breaking,

stinging under the frenzied lashingof our driver, cursing the colourfulsands of the arena that mountedbefore the block as we dragged itfoot by foot about the course, wemanaged to come first within thezone of the golden wall. When wewere unchained we discovered wehad been dragging one man who haddied in the chains.

Shamelessly we fell in the sand.“The Battles of Oxen,” cried one

of the silver masks, and her cry was

taken up by ten and then a hundredothers. Soon the stands themselvesseemed to ring with the cry. “TheBattles of Oxen,” cried the womenof Tharna. “Let them begin!”

We were thrown on our feetagain, and, to my horror, our yokeswere fitted with steel horns,eighteen inches in length andpointed like nails.

Andreas, as his yoke wassimilarly garnished with the deadlyprojections, spoke to me. “This maybe farewell, Warrior,” said he. “Ihope only that we are not matched.”

“I would not kill you,” I said. Helooked at me strangely. “Nor would

I kill you,” he said, after a time.“But,” he said, “if we are matchedand we do not fight, we will bothbe slain.”

“Then so be it,” I said.Andreas smiled at me. “So be it,

Warrior,” he agreed.Though yoked, we faced one

another, men, each knowing that hehad found a friend on the sands ofthe arena of Tharna.

My opponent was not Andreas,but a squat, powerful man withshort-clipped yelow hair, Kron ofTharna, of the Caste of MetalWorkers. His eyes were blue likesteel. One ear had been torn from

his head.“I have survived the Amusements

of Tharna three times,” he said ashe faced me.

I observed him carefully. Hewould be a dangerous opponent.

The man with wrist strapscircled us with the whip, his eye onthe throne of the Tatrix. When theglove of gold once more lifted, thedread conflict would begin.

“Let us be men,” I said to myopponent, “and refuse to slay oneanother for the sport of those insilver masks.”

The yellow, short-cropped headglared at me, almost without

comprehension. Then it seemed asthough what I had said struck, deepwithin him, some responsive chord.The pale blue eyes glimmeredbriefly; then they clouded. “Wewould both be slain,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.“Stranger,” said he, “I intend to

survive the Amusements of Tharnaat least once more.”

“Very well,” I said, and squaredoff against him.

The hand of the Tatrix must havelifted. I did not see it for I did notcare to take my eyes from myopponent. “Begin,” said the man inwrist straps.

And so Kron and I began tocircle one another, slightly bent sothat the projections on the yokemight be used to best advantage.

Once, twice, he charged, butpulled up short, seeing if he couldbring me forward, off balance tomeet the charge. We movedcautiously, occasionally feintingwith the terrible yokes. The standsgrew restless. The man in wriststraps cracked his whip. “Let therebe blood,” he said.

Suddenly the foot of Kron sweptthrough the white perfumed sand,bright with mica and red lead, andkicked a broad sheet of particles

toward my eyes. It came like asilver and crimson storm, taking meby surprise, blinding me.

I fell on my knees almostinstantly, and the charging horns ofKron passed over me. I reared upunder his body, heaving it on myshoulder, backwards, over on thesands. I heard it hit heavily behindme, and heard Kron's grunt of anger,and fear. I couldn't turn and drivethe spikes through him because Icould not risk missing.

I shook my head wildly; myhands, yoked helplessly, triedvainly to reach my eyes, to tear theblinding particles from my vision.

In the sweat and blindness, unsteadyunder the violently swinging yoke, Iheard the squeals of the frenziedcrowd.

Blinded I heard Kron regain hisfeet, lifting the heavy yoke thatbound him. I heard his harshbreathing, like the snorting of ananimal. I heard his short, quick,running steps in the sand, thuddingtoward me in a bull-like charge.

I turned my yoke obliquely,slipping between the horns,blocking the blow. It sounded likeanvils hurled together. My handssought his, but he kept his fistsclenched and withdrawn as far as

he could in the bracelet of the yoke.My hand clutched his withdrawnfist and slipped off, unable to keepits grip from the sweat, his andmine.

Once, twice more he charged,and each time I managed to blockthe blow, withstanding the shock ofthe crashing yokes, escaping thethrust of the murderous horns. OnceI was not so fortunate and a steelhorn furrowed my side, leaving achannel of blood. The crowdscreamed in delight.

Suddenly I managed to get myhands under his yoke.

It was hot, like mine in the sun,

and my hands burned on the metal.Kron was a heavy, but short man,and I lifted his yoke, and mine, tothe astonishment of the stands,which had fallen silent.

Kron cursed as he felt his feetleave the sand. Painfully, as hewrithed, hung in the yoke, I carriedhim to the golden wall, and hurledhim against it. The shock to Kron,bound in the yoke, might have killeda lesser man, breaking his neck.

Kron, still a captive of the yoke,now unconscious, slid down thewall, the weight of the yoketumbling his inert body sideways inthe sand. My sweat and the tears

from the burning irritation of thesand had now cleared my vision.

I looked up into the glitteringmask of the Tatrix. Beside her I sawthe silver mask of Dorna the Proud.

“Slay him,” said Dorna theProud, gesturing to the unconsciousKron.

I looked about the stands.Everywhere I saw the silver

masks, and heard the shrillcommand, “Slay him!” On everyside I saw the merciless gesture, theextended right hand, palm turnedinwards, the cruel, downwardchopping motion. Those who worethe silver masks had risen to their

feet, and the force of their criespressed in on me like knives, the airitself seemed filled with the bedlamof their command, “Slay him!”

I turned and walked slowly to thecentre of the arena.

I s1tood there, ankle deep in thesand, covered with sweat and sand,my back open from the lash of therace, my side torn from the drivinghorn of Kron's yoke. I stoodunmoving.

The fury of the stands wasuncontrolled.

As I stood there in the centre ofthe arena, alone, silent, aloof, notseeming to hear them, those

hundreds, rather thousands, whowore the silver masks understoodthat their will had been spurned,that this creature alone on the sandbeneath them had thwarted theirpleasure. Standing, screaming,shaking their silver-gloved fists atme, they hurled their frustration,their invective and abuse on myhead. The shrill rage of thesemasked creatures seemed to knowno bounds, to verge on hysteria, onmadness.

Calmly I waited in the centre ofthe arena for the warriors.

The first man to reach me was theman in wrist straps, his face livid

with rage. He savagely struck meacross the face with his coiledwhip. “Sleen,” cried he, “you havespoiled the Amusements ofTharna!” Two warriors hastilyunbolted the horns from the yokeand dragged me to the golden wall.

Once more I stood beneath thegolden mask of the Tatrix.

I wondered if my death would bequick.

The stands fell silent. There wasa tenseness in the air, as all waitedfor the words of the Tatrix. Hergolden mask and robes glitteredabove me. Her words were clear,unmistakable.

“Remove his yoke,” she said.I could not believe my ears.Had I won my freedom? Was it

thus in the Amusements of Tharna?Or had the fierce, proud Tatrix nowrealised the cruelty of theAmusements? Had that heart hiddenin those cold, glistening robes ofunfeeling gold at last relented,shown itself to be susceptible ofcompassion? Or had the call ofjustice at last triumphed in herbosom, that my innocence might beacknowledged, my causevindicated, that I might now be spedhonourably on my way from greyTharna?

One emotion leapt in my heart,gratitude. “Thank you, Tatrix,” Isaid.

She laughed. “—that he may befed to the tarn,” she added.

Chapter Fourteen:THE BLACK TARN

I was unyoked.The other prisoners, still yoked,

had been whipped from the arena,to the dungeons below, to be usedyet again in the Amusements ofTharna, or perhaps sent to themines. Andreas of Tor tried toremain at my side, to share my fate,

but he was beaten and draggedsenseless from the arena.

The crowd seemed eager toobserve what would happen next. Itstirred impatiently beneath thebillowing silk of the awnings,rearranged its silken cushions,partook distractedly of candies andsweetmeats distributed by grey-robed figures. Mingled with callsfor the tarn, occasional taunts andjibes carried across the sand.

Perhaps the Amusements ofTharna were not spoiled at all;perhaps the best was yet to come?Surely my death beneath the beakand talons of a tarn would provide

a gratifying spectacle for theinsatiable masks of Tharna,adequate compensation for thedisappointments of the afternoon,for the disregard of their will, forthe defiance they had witnessed?

Though I sensed I was to die, Iwas not ill pleased at the manner.Hide1ous though the death mightseem to the silver masks of Tharna,they did not know that I was atarnsman, and knew these birds,their power, their ferocity; that inmy way I loved them; and that as awarrior I would not find a death bytarn ignoble.

Grimly I smiled to myself.

Like most members of my Caste,more than the monstrous tarns, thosecarnivorous hawklike giants of Gor,I dreaded such creatures as the tinyost, that diminutive, venomousreptile, orange, scarcely more thana few inches in length, that mightlurk at one's very sandal and then,without provocation or warning,strike, its tiny fangs the prelude toexcruciating torment, concludingonly with sure death. Amongwarriors, the bite of an ost isthought to be one of the most cruelof all gates to the Cities of Dust; farpreferable to them are the rendingbeak, the terrible talons of a tarn.

I was not bound.I was free to wander on the sand,

enclosed only by the walls. Irejoiced in this new freedom, in theabsence of the yoke, though I knewit was given me only in order toimprove the spectacle. That I mightrun, that I might scream and grovel,that I might try to cover myself inthe sand would surely delight thesilver masks of Tharna.

I moved my hands and shoulders,my back. My tunic had long sincebeen torn to my waist and now Iripped it away to my belt, angry atthe tattered cloth. The musclesrolled exuberantly under my flesh,

delighting in their liberty.I walked slowly to the foot of the

golden wall, where lay the goldenscarf of the Tatrix, that scarf whosefluttering signal had initiated theAmusements.

I picked it up.“Keep it as a gift,” rang a haughty

voice from above me.I looked up into the glittering,

golden mask of the Tatrix.“As something by which to

remember the Tatrix of Tharna,”said the voice behind the goldenmask, amused.

I grinned up at the golden mask,and taking the scarf slowly wiped

the sand and sweat from my face.Above me the Tatrix cried out in

rage.I looped the scarf about my

shoulders and went to the centre ofthe arena.

No sooner had I reached thecentre than one of the sections of thewall rolled back, revealing a portalalmost as high as the wall andperhaps thirty feet in width.Through this portal, in two longlines, lashed by overseers, yokedslaves harnessed in chains drew agreat wooden platform mounted onheavy wooden wheels. I waited forthe platform to emerge into the

sunlight.There were cries of awe and

wonder, of pleasure, from thethrilled silver masks of Tharna.

Slowly as the creaking platformrolled out onto the sand, drawn byits struggling slaves, yoked likeoxen, I saw the tarn revealed, ablack giant, hooded, its beak beltedtogether, a great bar of silverchained to one of its legs. It wouldnot be able to fly, but it could moveabout, dragging the bar of silver. It,too, in Tharna, wore its yoke.

The platform drew closer, and tothe wonder of the crowd I went tomeet it.

My heart was beating wildly.I scrutinised the tarn.Its lineaments were not

unfamiliar. I examined theglistening, sable plumage; themonstrous yellow beak now cruellybelted together. I saw the greatwi1ngs snap, smiting the air, thehurricane from their blow spillingslaves into the sand, tanglingchains, as the great beast, lifting itshead and smelling the open air,struck it with his wings.

It would not attempt to fly whilehooded; indeed, I doubted that thebird would attempt to fly while itdragged its bar of silver. If it was

the bird I thought it to be it wouldnot futilely contest the weight of thedegrading hobble, would notprovide a spectacle of itshelplessness for its captors. I knowthis sounds strange, but I believesome animals have pride, and if anydid, I knew that this monster wasone of them.

“Stand back,” cried one of themen with a whip.

I jerked the whip from his hand,and with my arm struck him aside.He flew tumbling into the sand. Ithrew the whip scornfully after him.

I stood near the platform now. Iwanted to see the ankle ring the bird

wore. I noted with satisfaction thatits talons were shod with steel. Itwas a War Tarn, bred for courage,for endurance, for combat in theskies of Gor. My nostrils drank inthe wild, strong odour of the tarn,so offensive to some, yet anambrosia to the nostrils of thetarnsman. It recalled the tarn cots ofKo-ro-ba and Ar, the Compound ofMintar in Pa-Kur's City of Tents onthe Vosk, the outlaw encampment ofMarlenus among the crags of theVoltai Range.

As I stood beside the bird, I felthappy, though I knew it wasintended to be my executioner. It

was perhaps the foolish affectionwhich a tarnsman feels for thesedangerous, fierce mounts, almost asmuch a threat to him as to anyoneelse. Yet it was perhaps more, foras I stood by the bird, I felt almostas though I had come home to Ko-ro-ba, as though I stood here nowwith something in this grey, hostilecity that knew me and mine, that hadlooked upon the Towers of theMorning, and had spread its wingsabove the glistening cylinders ofGlorious Ar, that had carried me inbattle and had borne Talena, mylove, and me back from the siege ofAr to the Feast of our Free

Companionship at Ko-ro-ba. Iseized the ankle ring, and noted as Ihad expected that the name of itscity had been filed away.

“This bird,” I said to one of theyoked slaves, “is from Ko-ro-ba.”

The slave shook in his yoke at themention of this name. He turnedaway, eager to be unchained andled like a beast to the safety of thedungeons.

Though to most of those whoobserved it would seem that the tarnwas unusually quiet, I sensed that itwas trembling, like myself, withexcitement. It seemed uncertain. Itshead was high, alert in the leather

darkness of its hood. Almostinaudibly it sucked in air throughthe slits in its beak. I wondered if ithad caught my scent. Then the greatyellow beak, hooked for rendingprey, now belted shut, turnedcuriously, slowly toward me.

The man in wrist straps, the burlyfellow who had so delighted instriking me, he with the band ofgrey cloth wound about hisforehead, approached me, his whiplifted.

“Get away from there,” he cried.I turned to face him. “I am not

now a yoked slave,” I said. “Youconfront a warrior.”

His hand tightened on the whip.I laughed in his face. “Strike me

now,” I said, “and I will kill you.”“I am not afraid of you,” he said,

his face white, backing away. Hisarm with the whip lowered. Ittrembled.

I laughed again.“You will be dead soon enough,”

he said, stammering on the words.“A hundred tarnsmen have tried tomount this beast, and one hundredtarnsmen have died. The Tatrixdecreed it as only to be used in theAmusements, to feed on sleen likeyou.”

“Unhood it,” I commanded. “Free

it!”The man looked at me as though I

might have been insane. To be sure,my exuberance astonished even me.Warriors with spears rushedforward, forcing me back, awayfrom the tarn. I stood in the sand,away from the platform, andwatched the ticklish business ofunhooding the tarn.

No sound came from the sands.I wondered what thoughts passed

behind the golden mask of Lara,Tatrix of the city of Tharna.

I wondered if the bird wouldrecognise me.

A nimble slave, wasting no time,

and held on the shoulders of afellow slave, loosened the belts thatheld the beak of the tarn and thehood that bound its head. He did notremove them but only loosenedthem, and as soon as he had, he andhis fellow scurried for the safety ofthe open section of wall, which thenslid noiselessly shut.

The tarn opened its beak and thebelts that bound it loosely flewasunder. It shook its head, as if tothrow water from its feathers andthe leather hood was thrown far intothe air and behind the bird. Now itspread its wings and smote the air,and lifted its beak and uttered the

terrifying challenge scream of itskind. Its black crest, nowunconfined by the hood, sprangerect with a sound like fire, and thewind seemed to lift and preen eachfeather.

I found him beautiful.I knew that I gazed upon one of

the great and terrible predators ofGor.

But I found him beautiful.The bright round eyes, the pupils

like black stars, gleamed at me.“Ho! Ubar of the Skies!” I cried,

holding my arms extended. My eyesglistened with tears. “Do you notknow me? I am Tarl! Tarl of Ko-ro-

ba!” I cried. I know not what effectthis cry may have had on the standsof the arena, for I had forgottenthem. I addressed myself to thegiant tarn, as though he had been awarrior, a member of my caste.“You at least,” I said, “do not fearthe accents of my city.”

Regardless of the danger I ran tothe bird. I leaped to the heavywooden platform on which it stood.I flung my arms around its neck,weeping. The great beakquestioningly touched me. Therecould be no emotion, of course, insuch a beast. Yet as its great roundeyes regarded me I wondered what

thoughts might course through itsavian brain. I wondered if it toorecalled the thunder of the wind, theclash of arms as tarnsmen dueled inflight, the sight of Gor's tarncavalries wheeling in formation tothe beat of the tarn drums, or thelong, steady, lonely soaring flightswe had known together over thegreen fields of Gor. Could itremember the Vosk, like a silverribbon beneath its wings; could itrecall fighting the blasts andupwinds of the rugged VoltaiRange; could it recall Thentis,famed for its tarn flocks, Ko-ro-ba'sgleaming towers, or the lights of Ar

as they had blazed that night of thePlanting Feast of Sa-Tarna, whenwe two had dared to strike for theHome Stone of the greatest city ofall known Gor? No, I suppose thatnone of these memories, so dear tome, could find their place in thesimple brain of this plumed giant.Gently the bird thrust its beakbeneath my arm.

I knew that the warriors ofTharna would have to kill two ofus, for the huge tarn would1 defendme to the death.

It lifted its huge, terrible head,scrutinizing the stands. It shook theleg which was chained to the great

silver bar. It would be able tomove, dragging that weight, but itcould not fly.

I knelt to examine the hobble. Ithad not been forged in placeinasmuch as it would be removed inthe confines of the tarn cot, to allowthe bird its perch, its exercise.Luckily it had not been locked inplace. It had, however, been bolted,fastened with a heavy, square-headed bolt, much like an oversizedmachine bolt, the shaft of whichwas perhaps an inch and a half indiameter.

My hands tried the bolt. It wastight. It had been affixed with a

wrench. My hands locked on it,trying to twist it open. It held. Istruggled with it. I cursed it.Inwardly I screamed for it to open.It would not.

I was now aware of cries fromthe stands. They were not simplycries of impatience but ofconsternation. The silver maskswere not simply cheated of aspectacle, but dumbfounded,confused. It did not take long forthem to understand that the tarn, forwhatever strange reason, was notgoing to attack me, and, whateverthey considered my chances, it tookonly a moment longer to determine

that it was my intention to free thebird.

The voice of the Tatrix driftedacross the sands. “Kill him,” shecried. I heard, too, the voice ofDorna the Proud urging the warriorsto the task. Soon the spearmen ofTharna would be upon us. Alreadyone or two had leapt over the wallfrom the stands and wereapproaching. The great doorthrough which the tarn had beendrawn was also opening, and a lineof warriors was hurrying throughthe opening.

My hands clenched even moretightly on the pieces of the bolt. It

was now stained with my blood. Icould feel the muscles of my armand back pitting their strengthagainst the obdurate metal. A spearsank into the wood of the platform.Sweat burst out from every pore onmy body. Another spear struck thewood, closer than the first. Itseemed the metal would tear theflesh from my hands, break thebones of my fingers. Another spearstruck the wood, creasing my leg.The tarn thrust its head over me anduttered a piercing, fierce scream,aterrible cry of rage that must haveshaken the hearts of all within theconfines of the arena. The spearmen

seemed frozen, and dropped back,as if the great bird could havefreely attacked them.

“Fools!” cried the voice of theman with wrist straps. “The bird ischained! Attack! Kill them both!”

In that instant the bolt gave, andthe nut spun from the shaft!

The tarn, as if it understood itwas free, shook the hated metalfrom its leg and lifted its beak to theskies and uttered such a cry as musthave been heard by all in Tharna, acry seldom heard except in themountains of Thentis or among thecrags of the Voltai, the cry of thewild tarn, victorious, who claims

for his territory the earth and all thatlies within it.

For an instant, perhaps anunworthy instant, I feared the birdwould immediately take to theskies, but though the metal wasshaken from its leg, though it wasfree, though the spearmen advanced,it did not move.

I leapt to its back and fastenedmy hands in the stout quills of itsneck. What I would have given for atarn saddle and the broad purplestrap that fastens the warrior in thesaddle!

As soon as it felt my weight thetarn cried again and with an

explosion of its broad wings spranginto the air, climbing in dizzycircles. Some spears fell in lazyloops below us, short by far,falli1ng back again into the gala-coloured sand of the arena. Therewere cries of rage that drifted upfrom below as the silver masks ofTharna began to understand thatthey had been cheated of their prey,that the Amusements had turned outbadly.

I had no way to guide the tarnproficiently. Normally the tarn isguided by a harness. There is athroat strap to which, customarily,six reins are attached in a

clockwise fashion. These pass fromthe throat strap to the main saddlering, which is fixed on the saddle.By exerting pressure on these reins,one directs the bird. But I lackedboth saddle and harness. Indeed, Idid not even have a tarn-goad,without which most tarnsmen wouldnot even approach their fiercemounts.

I did not fear much on this score,however, as I had seldom used thegoad on this bird. In the beginning Ihad refrained from using it oftenbecause I feared that the effect ofthe cruel stimulus might bediminished through overfrequent

application, but eventually I hadabandoned its use altogether,retaining it only to protect myself incase the bird, particularly whenhungry, should turn on me. Inseveral cases tarns have devouredtheir own masters, and it is notunusual for them, when loosed forfeeding, to attack a human beingwith the same predatory zest theybestow on the yellow antelope, thetabuk, their favourite kill, or the ill-tempered, cumbersome bosk, ashaggy, long-haired wild ox of theGorean plains. I found that the goad,with this monster at least, did notimprove, but rather impaired his

performance. He seemed to resentthe goad, to fight it, to behaveerratically when it was used; whenstruck with it he might even slowhis flight, or deliberately disobeythe commands of the tarn straps.Accordingly the goad had seldomleft its sheath on the right side of thesaddle.

I wondered sometimes if thatbird, my Ubar of the Skies, that tarnof tarns, spoken of by Goreans asBrothers of the Wind, might haveconsidered himself as above thegoad, resented its shocks andsparks, resented that that punyhuman device would pretend to

teach him, he, a tarn of tarns, how tofly, how swiftly and how far. But Idismissed such thoughts as absurd.The tarn was but another of thebeasts of Gor. The feeling I wastempted to ascribe to it would liebeyond the ken of so simple acreature.

I saw the towers of Tharna, andthe glittering oval of its arena, thatcruel amphitheatre, dropping awaybeneath the wings of the tarn.Something of the same exhilarationwhich I had felt in my first wildflight on a tarn, this very giant, nowthrilled in me again. Beyond Tharnaand its gloomy soil, continually

broken by its stony outcroppings, Icould see the green fields of Gor,glades of yellow Ka-la-na tress, theshimmering surface of a placid lakeand the bright blue sky, open andbeckoning.

“I am free!” I cried.But I knew even as I cried out

that I was not free, and I burnedwith shame that I had so bespokemyself, for how could I be freewhen others in that grey city werebound?

There was the girl, warm-eyedLinna, who had been kind to me,whose auburn hair was knotted withcoarse string, who wore the grey

collar of a state slave of Tharna.There was Andreas of Tor, of theCaste of Singers, young, valiant,irrepresible, his hair wild like themane of a black larl, who wouldrather die than try to kill me,condemned to the Amusements orthe mines of Tharna. And therewere how many more, yoked andunyoked, bound and free, in themines, on the Great Farms, in thecity itself who suffered the miseryof Tharna and her laws, who weresubject to the crushing weight of hertraditions, and knew at best nothingbetter in life than a bowl of cheapKal-da at the end of a day's

arduous, inglorious labour?“Tabuk!” I cried to the plumed

giant. “Tabuk!”The tabuk is the most common

Gorean antelope, a small gracefulanimal, one-horned and yellow, thathaunts the Ka-la-na thickets of theplanet and occasionally venturesdaintily into its meadows in searchof berries and salt. It is also one ofthe favourite kills of a tarn.

The cry of “Tabuk!” is used bythe tarnsman on long flights whentime is precious, and he does notwish to dismount and free the birdto find prey. When he spots a tabukin the fields below, or, indeed, any

animal in the prey range of the tarn,he may cry “Tabuk!” and this is thesignal that the tarn may hunt. Itmakes its kill, devours it, and theflight resumes, the tarnsman neverleaving the saddle. This was thefirst time I had called “Tabuk!” butthe bird would have beenconditioned to the call by the tarn-keepers of Ko-ro-ba years ago, andmight still respond. I myself hadalways freed the bird to feed. Ithought it well to rest the bird,unsaddle it, and, also, frankly I didnot find myself eager to be presentat the feeding of a tarn.

The great sable tarn, upon

hearing the cry of 'Tabuk!', to myjoy, began to describe its long,soaring hunting circles, almost as ifit might have received its trainingyesterday. It was truly a tarn oftarns, my Ubar of the Skies!

It was a desparate plan I hadseized upon, no more than onechance in a million, unless the greattarn could tip the scales in myfavour. Its wicked eyes gleamed,scanning the ground, its head andbeak thrust forward, its wings still,gliding silently in great sweeps,lower and lower, over the greytowers of Tharna.

Now we passed over the arena of

Tharna, still boiling with itsthrobbing, angry multitudes. Theawnings had been struck, but thestands were still filled, as thethousands of silver masks of Tharnawaited for the golden Tatrix herselfto be the first to leave that scene ofthe macabre amusements of the greycity.

Far below in the midst of thecrowd I caught sight of the goldenrobes of the Tatrix.

“Tabuk!” I cried. “Tabuk!”The great predator wheeled in

the sky, turning as smoothly as aknife on wire. It hovered, the sun atits back. Its talons, shod with steel,

dropped like great hooks; it seemedto tremble almost motionless in theair; and then its wings, parallel,lifted, almost enfolding me, andwere still.

The descent was as smooth andsilent as the falling of a rock, theopening of a hand. I clung fiercelyto the bird. My stomach leaped tomy throat. The stands of the arena,filled with its robes and masks,seemed to fly upward.

There were shrill screams ofterror from below. On every hand,robes and regalia flying, the silvermasks of Tharna which had soinsolently screamed but moments

before for blood fled now for theirlives in panic-stricken rout,trampling one another, scratchingand tearing at one another,scrambling over the benches,thrusting one another even over thewall into the sands below.

In one instant that must have beenthe most terrifying in her life theTatrix stood alone, looking up,deserted by all, on the steps beforeher golden throne in the midst oftumbled cushions and trays ofcandies and sweetmeats. A wildscream issued from behind thatplacid, expressionless golden mask.The golden arms of her robe, the

hands gloved in gold, were flungacross her face. The eyes behind themask, which I saw in that splitsecond, were hysterical with fear.

The tarn struck.Its steel-shod pinioning talons

closed like great hooks on the bodyof the screaming Tatrix. And so foran instant stood the tarn, its headand beak extended, its wingssnapping, its prey locked in itsgrasp, and uttered the terrifyingcapture scream of the tarn, at once ascream of victory, and of challenge.

In those titanic, merciless talonsthe body of the Tatrix was helpless.It trembled in terror, quivering

uncontrollably like that of agraceful, captured tabuk, waiting tobe borne to the nest. The Tatrixcould no longer even scream.

With a storm of wings the tarnsmote the air and rose, in the sightof all, above the stands, above thearena, above the towers and wallsof Tharna, and sped toward thehorizon, the golden-robed body ofthe Tatrix clutched in its talons.

Chapter Fifteen:A BARGAIN IS STRUCK

The tabuk-cry is the only word towhich a tarn is trained to react.

Beyond this it is all a matter of thetarn-straps and the tarn goad. Ibitterly criticised myself for nothaving conditioned the bird torespond to voice commands. Now,of all times, without a harness andsaddle, such a training would havebeen invaluable.

A wild thought occurred to me.When I had borne Talena homefrom Ar to ko-ro-ba I had tried toteach her the reins of the tarn-harness and help her, at least withme at hand, to learn to master thebrute.

In the whistling wind, as the needarose, I had called the straps to her,

'One-strap!', “Six-strap!” and so on,and she would draw the strap. Thatwas the only association betweenthe voice of a man and thearrangements of the strap harnesswhich the tarn had known. The bird,of course, could not have beenconditioned in so short a time, norfor that matter had it even been myintention to condition the bird–for Ihad spoken only for the benefit ofTalena. Moreover, even if it hadbeen the case that the bird had beeninadvertantly conditioned in thatshort a time, it was not possible thatit would still retain the memory ofthat casual imprinting, which had

taken place more than six years ago.“Six-strap!” I cried.The great bird veered to the left

and began to climb slightly. “Two-strap!” I called, and the bird nowveered to the right, still climbing atthe same angle.

“Four-strap!” I called, and thebird began to drop toward the earth,preparing to land.

“One-strap!” I laughed,delighted, bursting with pleasure,and the plumed giant, that titan ofGor, began to climb steeply.

I said no more and the birdleveled off, its wings striking theair in great rhythmical beats,

alternating occasionally with along, soaring, shallow glide. Iwatched the pasangs flow bybelow, and saw Tharna disappearin the distance.

Spontaneously, without thinking,I threw my arms around the neck ofthe great creature and hugged it. Itswings smote on, unresponsive,paying me no attention. I laughed,and slapped it twice on the neck. Itwas, of course, only another of thebeasts of Gor, but I cared for it.

Forgive me if I say that I washappy, as I should not have been inthe circumstances, but my feelingsare those that a tarnsman would

understand. I know of fewsensations so splendid, so godlike,as sharing the flight of a tarn.

I was one of those men, atarnsman, who would prefer thesaddle1 of one of those fierce,predatory titans to the throne of aUbar.

Once one has been a tarnsman, itis said, one must return again andagain to the giant, savage birds. Ithink that this is a true saying. Oneknows that one must master them orbe devoured. One knows that theyare not dependable, that they arevicious. A tarnsman knows that theymay turn upon him without warning.

Yet the tarnsman chooses no otherlife. He continues to mount thebirds, to climb to their saddle witha heart filled with joy, to draw themonster aloft. More than the gold ofa hundred merchants, more than thecountless cylinders of Ar, hetreasures those sublime, lonelymoments, high over the earth, cut bythe wind, he and the bird as onecreature, alone, lofty, swift, free.Let it be said simply I was pleased,for I was on tarnback again.

From beneath the bird there camea long, shivering moan, a helpless,uncontrolled sound from the goldenprey seized in its talons.

I cursed myself for a thoughtlessfool, for in the exhilaration of theflight, incomprehensible though itseems to me now, I had forgottenthe Tatrix. How frightful for hermust have been those few minutesof flight, grasped in the talons,hundreds of feet above the plains ofTharna, not knowing if she might bedropped at any instant, or carried tosome ledge to be ripped to piecesby that monstrous beak, thosehideous steel-shod talons.

I looked behind me to see if therewas pursuit. It would surely come,on foot and on tarnback. Tharna didnot maintain large cavalries of

tarns, but it would surely be able tolaunch at least some squadrons oftarnsmen to rescue and avenge itsTatrix. The man of Tharna, taughtfrom birth to regard himself as anunworthy, ignoble and inferiorcreature, at best a dull-witted beastof burden, did not, on the whole,make a good tarnsman. Yet I knewthere would be tarnsmen in Tharna,and good ones, for her name wasrespected among the martial, hostilecities of Gor. Her tarnsmen mightbe mercenaries, or perhaps menlike Thorn, Captain of Tharna, whoin spite of their city thought well ofthemselves and maintained at least

the shreds of caste pride.Though I scrutinised the sky

behind me, looking for those tinyspecks that would be distant tarns inflight, I saw nothing. It was blueand empty. By now every tarnsmanin Tharna should be flying. Yet Isaw nothing.

Another moan escaped the goldencaptive.

In the distance, perhaps someforty pasangs away, I saw a set ofridges, lofty and steep, rearing outof a broad, yellow meadow oftalenders, a delicate, yellow-petaled flower, often woven intogarlands by Gorean maidens. In

their own quarters, unveiled Goreanwomen, with their family or lovers,might fix talenders in their hair. Acrown of talender was often wornby the girl at the feast celebratingher Free Companionship.

In perhaps ten minutes the ridgeswere almost below us.

“Four-strap!” I shouted.The great bird paused in flight,

braking with its wings, and thensmoothly descended to a high ledgeon one of the ridges, a ledgeaccessible only on tarnback.

I leaped from the back of themonster and rushed to the Tatrix, toprotect her in case the tarn should

begin to feed. I pulled the lockedtalons from her body, calling to thetarn, shoving its legs back. The birdseemed puzzled. Had I not cried'Tabuk!'? was this thing it hadseized not now to be devoured?Was it not prey?

I shoved the tarn back and awayfrom the girl, and gathered her inmy arms. I set her down gentlyagainst the far wall of1 the cliff, asfar from the edge as I could. Therocky shelf on which we foundourselves was perhaps twenty feetwide and twenty feet deep, aboutthe size that a tarn chooses fornesting.

Standing between the Tatrix andthe winged carnivore, I cried“Tabuk!” It began to stalk towardthe girl, who rose to her knees, herback pressed against the unyieldingwall of the cliff, and screamed.

“Tabuk!” I cried again, taking thegreat beak in my hands and turningit toward the open fields below.

The bird seemed to hesitate, andthen, with a motion almost tender, itthrust its beak against my body.“Ta-buk,” I said quietly, once moreturning it toward the open fields.

With one last look at the Tatrixthe bird turned and stalked to thebrink of that awesome ledge and,

with a single snap of its greatwings, leaped into space, itssoaring shadow a message of terrorto any game below.

I turned to face the Tatrix.“Are you hurt?” I asked.Sometimes when the tarn strikes

a tabuk, the animal's back is broken.It was a risk which I had decided totake. I did not feel I had muchchoice. With the Tatrix in hand, Imight be in a position to bargainwith Tharna. I did not think I wouldbe able to work any reform in herharsh ways, but I did hope to suefor the freedom of Linna andAndreas, and perhaps for that of the

poor wretches whom I had met inthe arena. It would surely be asmall enough price for the return ofthe golden Tatrix herself.

The Tatrix struggled to her feet.It was customary on Gor for a

female captive to kneel in thepresence of her captor, but she was,after all, a Tatrix, and I did notwish to enforce the point. Herhands, still in their gloves of gold,went to the golden mask, as if shefeared most that it might not be inplace. Only then did her hands try toarrange and smooth her torn robes. Ismiled. They had been ripped bythe talons, tattered by the raging

winds. Haughtily she drew themabout herself, covering herself asbest she could. Aside from themask, metallic, cold, glittering asalways, I decided the Tatrix mightbe beautiful.

“No,” she said proudly, “I amunhurt.”

It was the answer I had expected,though undoubtedly her body wasalmost broken, her flesh bruised tothe bone.

“You are in pain,” I said, “butmostly, now, you are cold and numbfrom the loss of circulation.” Iregarded her. “Later,” I said, “itwill be even more painful.”

The expressionless mask gazedupon me.

“I, too,” I said, “was once in thetalons of a tarn.”

“Why did the tarn not kill you inthe arena?” she asked.

“It is my tarn,” I said simply.What more could I tell her? That ithad not killed me, knowing thenature of tarns, seemed almost asincredible to me as it did to her.Had I known more of tarns, I mighthave guessed that it held me insome sort of affection.

The Tatrix looked about,examining the sky. “When will itreturn?” she asked. Her voice had

been a whisper. I knew that if therewas anything that struck terror intothe heart of the Tatrix, it was thetarn.

“Soon,” I said. “Let us hope itfinds something to eat in the fieldsbelow.”

The Tatrix trembled slightly.“If it doesn't find game,” she

said, “it will return angry andhungry.”

“Surely,” I agreed.“It may try to feed on us–” she

said.“Perhaps,” I said.At last the words came out,

slowly, carefully formed. “If it

doesn't find game,” she asked, “areyou going to give me to the tarn?”

“Yes,” I said.With a cry of fear the Tatrix fell

to her knees before me, her handsextended, pleading. Lara, Tatrix ofTharna, was at my feet, asupplicant.

“Unless you behave yourself,” Iadded.

Angrily the Tatrix scrambled toher feet. “You tricked me!” shecried. “You tricked me intoassuming the posture of the captivefemale!”

I smiled.Her gloved fists struck at me. I

caught her wrists and held her fast. Inoted that her eyes behind the maskwere blue. I allowed her to twistfree. She ran to the wall, and stood,her back to me.

“Do I amuse you?” she asked.“I'm sorry,” I said.“I am your prisoner, am I not?”

she asked, insolently.“Yes,” I said.“What are you going to do with

me?” she asked, her face to thewall, not deigning to look upon me.

“Sell you for a saddle andweapons,” I said. I thought it wellto alarm the Tatrix, the better toimprove my bargaining position.

Her frame shook with fear, andfury. She spun about to face me, hergloved fists clenched. “Never!” shecried.

“I shall if it pleases me,” I said.The Tatrix, trembling with rage,

regarded me. I could scarcelyconjecture the hatred that seethedbehind that placid golden mask. Atlast she spoke. Her words were likedrops of acid.

“You are joking,” she said.“Remove the mask,” I suggested,

“in order that I may better judgewhat you will bring on the Street ofBrands.”

“No!” she cried, her hands flying

to the golden mask.“I think the mask alone,” I said,

“might bring the price of a goodshield and spear.”

The Tatrix laughed bitterly. “Itwould buy a tarn,” she said.

I could tell that she was notcertain that I was serious, that shedid not really believe I could meanwhat I said. It was important to myplans to convince her that she stoodin jeopardy, that I would dare to puther in a camisk and collar.

She laughed, testing me, holdingthe tattered hem of her robe towardsme. “You see,” she said, in mockdespair, “I will not bring much in

this poor garment.”“That is true,” I said.She laughed.“You will bring more without it,”

I added.She seemed shaken by this matter

of fact answer. I could tell she wasno longer confident of where shestood. She decided to play hertrump card. She squared off againstme, regal, haughty, insolent. Hervoice was 1cold, each word acrystal of ice. “You would notdare,” she said, “to sell me.”

“Why not?” I asked.“Because,” she said, drawing

herself to her full height, gathering

the golden tattered robes about her,“I am Tatrix of Tharna.”

I picked up a small rock andthrew it from the ledge, watching itsail toward the fields below. Iwatched the clouds scudding acrossthe darkening sky, listened to thewind whistling among those lonelyridges. I turned to the Tatrix.

“That will improve your price,” Isaid.

The Tatrix seemed stunned. Herhaughty manner deserted her.

“Would you truly,” she asked,her voice faltering, “put me up forsale?”

I looked at her without

answering.Her hands went to the mask.

“Would it be taken from me?”“And your robes,” I said.She shrank back.“You will be simply another

slave girl among slave girls,” Isaid, “neither more nore less.”

The words came hard to her.“Would I be–exhibited?”

“Of course,” I said.“—unclothed?”“Perhaps you will be permitted

to wear slave bracelets,” I snappedin irritation.

She looked as though she mightswoon.

“Only a fool,” I said, “would buya woman clothed.”

“No–no,” she said.“It is the custom,” I said simply.She had backed away from me,

and now her back touched theobdurate granite of the cliff wall.Her head was shaking. Althoughthat placid mask showed noemotion, I could read the despair inthe body of the Tatrix.

“You would do this to me?” sheasked, her voice a frightenedwhisper.

“Within two nights,” I said, “youwill stand stripped on the block atAr and be sold to the highest

bidder.”“No, no, no,” she whimpered,

and her tortured body refused tosustain her any longer. Shecrumpled piteously against the wall,weeping.

This was more than I had countedon, and I had to resist an urge tocomfort her, to tell her that I wouldnot hurt her, that she was safe, but,mindful of Linna and Andreas, andthe poor wretches in theAmusements, I restrained mycompassion. Indeed, as I thought ofthe cruel Tatrix, of what she haddone, I wondered if, in fact, Ishould not take her to Ar and

dispose of her on the Street ofBrands. Surely she would be moreharmless in the Pleasure Gardens ofa tarnsman than on the throne ofTharna.

“Warrior,” she said, her headlifting piteously, “must you exact soterrible a vengeance on me?”

I smiled to myself. It soundednow as though the Tatrix mightbargain. “You have wronged memightily,” I said sternly.

“But you are only a man,” shesaid. “Only a beast.”

“I, too, am human,” I told her.“Give me my freedom,” she

begged.

“You put m1e in a yoke,” I said.“You lashed me. You condemnedme to the Arena. You would havefed me to the tarn.” I laughed. “Andyou ask for your freedom!”

“I will pay you a thousand timeswhat I would bring on the block atAr,” she pleaded.

“A thousand times what youwould bring on the block at Ar,” Isaid harshly, “would not satisfy myvengeance–only you on the block atAr.”

She moaned.Now, I thought, is the time.

“And,” I said, “not only have youinjured me, but you have enslaved

my friends.”The Tatrix rose to her knees. “I

will free them!” she cried.“Can you change the laws of

Tharna?” I demanded.“Alas,” she cried, “not even I can

do that, but I can free your friends! Iwill free them! My freedom fortheirs!”

I appeared to think the matterover.

She sprang to her feet. “Think,Warrior,” she cried, “of yourhonour.” Her voice was triumphant.“Would you satisfy your vengeanceat the price of slavery for yourfriends?”

“No,” I cried angrily, inwardlydelighted, “for I am a warrior!”

Her voice was exultant. “Then,Warrior, you must bargain withme!”

“Not with you!” I cried,attempting to sound dismayed.

“Yes,” she laughed, “my freedomfor their!”

“It is not enough,” I growled.“Then what?” she cried.“Free all those used in the

Amusements of Tharna!”The Tatrix seemed taken aback.“All,” I cried, “—or the block at

Ar!”Her head dropped. “Very well,

Warrior,” she said. “I will freethem all.”

“Can I trust you?” I asked.“Yes,” she said, not meeting my

gaze, “you have the word of theTatrix of Tharna.”

I wondered if I could trust herword. I realised I had little choice.

“My friends,” I said, “are Linnaof Tharna and Andreas of Tor.”

The Tatrix looked up at me.“But,” she said, unbelievingly,“they have cared for one another.”

“Nonetheless,” I said, “freethem.”

“She is a Degraded Woman,”said the Tatrix, “and he a member

of a caste outlawed in Tharna.”“Free them,” I said.“Very well,” said the Tatrix

humbly. “I shall.”“And I will need weapons and a

saddle,” I said.“You shall have them,” she said.In that moment the shadow of the

tarn covered the ledge and, with agreat beating of wings, the monsterrejoined us. In its talons it held agreat piece of meat, bloody andraw, which had been torn fromsome kill, perhaps a bosk more thantwenty pasangs away. It droppedthe great piece of meat before me.

I did not move.

I had no wish t1o contest thisprize with the great bird. But thetarn did not attack the meat. Igathered that it had already fedsomewhere on the plains below. Anexamination of its beak confirmedthis guess. And there was no nest onthe ledge, no female tarn, noscreeching brood of tarnlings. Thegreat beak nudged the meat againstmy legs.

It was a gift.I slapped the bird affectionately.

“Thank you, Ubar of the Skies,” Isaid.

I bent down, and with mu handsand teeth, tore a chunk free. I saw

the Tatrix shudder as I attacked theraw flesh, but I was famished, andthe niceties of the low tables, forwhat they were, were abandoned. Ioffered a piece to the Tatrix, but herbody swayed as though she were illand I would not insist.

While I fed on the tarn's gift, theTatrix stood near the edge of therocky shelf, gazing out on themeadow of talenders. They werebeautiful, and their delicatefragrance was wafted even to theharsh ledge. She held her robesabout her and watched the flowers,like a yellow sea, roll and ripple inthe wind. I thought she seemed a

lonely figure, rather forlorn andsaid.

“Talenders,” she said to herself.I was squatting beside the meat,

my mouth chewing, filled with rawflesh. “What does a woman ofTharna know of Talenders?” Itaunted her.

She turned away, not answering.When I had eaten, she said,

“Take me now to the Pillar ofExchanges.”

“What is that?” I asked.“A pillar on the borders of

Tharna,” she said, “where Tharnaand her enemies effect the exchangeof prisoners. I will guide you.” She

added, “You will be met there bymen of Tharna, who are waiting foryou.”

“Waiting?” I asked.“Of course,” she said, “have you

not wondered why there was nopursuit?” she laughed ruefully.“Who would be fool enough tocarry away the Tatrix of Tharnawhen she might be ransomed for thegold of a dozen Ubars?”

I looked at her.“I was afraid,” she said, her eyes

downcast, “that you were such afool.” There seemed to be anemotion in her voice that I could notunderstand.

“No,” I laughed, “it is back toTharna with you!”

I still wore the golden scarfabout my neck, from the arena, thatscarf which had initiated the games,and which I had picked up from thesand to wipe away the sand andsweat. I took it from my neck.

“Turn around,” I said to thaTatrix, “and place your handsbehind your back.”

Her head in the air, the Tatrix didas she was told. I pulled the glovesof gold from her hands and thrustthem in my belt. Then, with thescarf, using the simple capture knotsof Gor, I lashed her wrists together.

I threw the Tatrix lightly to theback of the tarn and leaped upbeside her. Then, holding her in onearm, and fastening one hand deep inthe quills of the tarn's neck, I called“One-strap!” and the beast sprangfrom the ledge and began climbing.

Chapter Sixteen:THE PILLAR OF

EXCHANGES

Guided by the Tatrix, in perhapsno more than thirty minutes1, wesaw, gleaming in the distance, thePillar of Exchanges. It lay about onehundred pasangs northwest of the

city, and was a lonely white columnof solid marble, perhaps fourhundred feet in height and a hundredfeet in diameter. It was accessibleonly on tarnback.

It was not a bad place for theexchange of prisoners, and offeredan almost ideal situation from thepoint of view of avoiding ambush.The solid pillar would not allowentrance to men on the ground, andapproaching tarns would be easilyvisible for miles before they couldreach it.

I examined the countrysidecarefully. It seemed bare. On thepillar itself there were three tarns,

and as many warriors, and onewoman, who wore the silver maskof Tharna. As I passed over thepillar, a warrior removed hishelmet, and signaled for me to bringthe tarn down. I saw that it wasThorn, Captain of Tharna. I notedthat he and his fellows were armed.

“Is it customary,” I asked theTatrix, “for warriors to carryweapons to the Pillar ofExchanges?”

“There will be no treachery,”said the Tatrix.

I considered turning the tarn andabandoning the venture.

“You can trust me,” she said.

“How do I know that?” Ichallenged.

“Because I am Tatrix of Tharna,”she said proudly.

“Four-strap!” I cried to the bird,to bring it down on the pillar. Thebird seemed not to understand.“Four-strap!” I repeated, moreseverely. For some reason the birdseemed unwilling to land. “Four-strap!” I shouted, commanding itharshly to obey.

The great giant landed on themarble pillar, its steel-shod talonsringing on the stone.

I did not dismount, but held theTatrix more firmly.

The tarn seemed nervous. I triedto calm the bird. I spoke to it in lowtones, patted it roughly on the neck.

The woman in the silver maskapproached. “Hail to our BelovedTatrix!” she cried. It was Dorna theProud.

“Do not approach more closely,”I ordered.

Dorna stopped, about five yardsin advance of Thorn and the twowarriors, who had not moved at all.

The Tatrix acknowledged thesalutation of Dorna the Proud withmerely a regal nod of her head.

“All Tharna is yours, Warrior,”cried Dorna the Proud, “if you but

relinquish out noble Tatrix! The cityweeps for her return! I fear therewill be no more joy in Tharna untilshe sits again upon her goldenthrone!”

I laughed.Dorna the Proud stiffened. “What

are your terms, Warrior?” shedemanded.

“A saddle and weapons,” Ianswered, “and the freedom ofLinna of Tharna, Andreas of Tor,and those who fought this afternoonin the Amusements of Tharna.”

There was silence. “Is that all?”asked Dorna the Proud, puzzled.

“Yes,” I said. Behind her, Thorn

laughed.Dorna glanced at the Tatrix. “I

shall add,” she said, “the weight offive tarns in gold, a room of silver,helmets filled with jewels!”

“You truly love your Tatrix,” Isaid.

“Indeed, Warrior,1” said Dorna.“And you are excessively

generous,” I added.The Tatrix squirmed in my arms.

“Less,” said Dorna the Proud,“would insult our Beloved Tatrix.”

I was pleased, for though I wouldhave little use for such riches in theSardar Mountains, Linna andAndreas, and the poor wretches of

the arena, might well profit fromthem.

Lara, the Tatrix, straightened inmy arms. “I do not find the termssatisfactory,” she said. “Give himin addition to what he asks, theweight of ten tarns in gold, tworooms of silver and a hundredhelmets filled with jewels.”

Dorna the Proud bowed ingracious acquiescence. “Indeed,Warrior,” said she, “for our Tatrixwe would give you even the stonesof our walls.”

“Are my terms satisfactory toyou?” asked the Tatrix, rathercondescendingly I thought.

“Yes,” I said, sensing the affrontthat had been offered to Dorna theProud.

“Release me,” she commanded.“Very well,” I said.I slid down from the back of the

tarn, the Tatrix in my arms. I set heron her feet, on the top of that windypillar on the borders of Tharna, andbent to remove the golden scarfwhich restrained her.

As soon as her wrists were freeshe was once again every inch theroyal Tatrix of Tharna.

I wondered if this could be thegirl who had had the harrowingadventure, whose garments were

tattered, whose body must still bewretched with pain from its sojournin the claws of my tarn.

Imperiously, not deigning tospeak to me, she gestured to thegloves of gold which I had placedin my belt. I returned them to her.She drew them on, slowly,deliberately, facing me all thewhile.

Something in her mien made meuneasy.

She turned and walkedmajestically to Dorna and thewarriors.

When she had reached their sideshe turned and with a sudden swirl

of those golden robes pointed animperious finger at me. “Seizehim,” she said.

Thorn and the warriors leapedforward, and I found myself ringedwith their weapons.

“Traitress!” I cried.The voice of the Tatrix was

merry. “Fool!” she laughed, “doyou not know by now that one doesnot make pacts with an animal, thatone does not bargain with a beast?”

“You gave me your word!” Ishouted.

The Tatrix drew her robes abouther. “You are only a man,” she said.

“Let us kill him,” said Thorn.

“No,” said the Tatrix,imperiously, “that would not beenough.” The mask glittered on me,reflecting the light of the descendingsun. It seemed, more than everbefore, to possess a ferocity, to behideous, molten. “Shackle him,” shesaid, “and send him to the mines ofTharna.”

Behind me the tarn suddenlyscreamed with rage and its wingssmote the air.

Thorn and the warriors werestartled, and in this instant I leaptbetween their weapons, seizedThorn and a warrior, dashed themtogether, and threw them both,

weapons clattering, to the marbleflooring of the pillar. The Tatri1xand Dorna the Proud screamed.

The other warrior lunged at mewith his sword and I side-steppedthe stroke and seized the wrist ofhis sword arm. I twisted it andthrust it up and high over my leftarm, and with a sudden downwardwrench snapped it at the elbow. Hecollapsed whimpering.

Thorn had regained his feet andleaped on me from behind, and theother warrior a moment later. Igrappled with them, fiercely. Then,slowly, as they cursed helplessly, Idrew them inch by inch over my

shoulders, and threw them suddenlyto the marble at my feet. In thatmoment both the Tatrix and Dornathe Proud plunged sharpinstruments, pins of some sort, intomy back and arm.

I laughed at the absurdity of this,and then, my vision blackening, thepillar whirling, I fell at their feet.My muscles no longer obeyed mywill.

“Shackle him,” said the Tatrix.As the world slowly turned under

me I felt my legs and arms, limp, asweak as fog, thrown roughlytogether. I heard the rattle of a chainand felt my limbs clasped in

shackles.The merry victorious laugh of the

Tatrix rang in my ears.I heard Dorna the Proud say,

“Kill the tarn.”“It's gone,” said the uninjured

warrior.Slowly, though no strength

returned to my body, my visioncleared, first in the centre, and thengradually toward the edges, until Icould once again see the pillar, thesky beyond and my foes.

In the distance I saw a flyingspeck, which would be the tarn.When it had seen me fall it hadapparently taken flight. Now, I

thought, it would be free, escapingat last to some rude habitat where itmight, without saddle and harness,without a silver hobble, reign as theUbar of the Skies that it was. Itsdeparture saddened me, but I wasglad that it had escaped. Better thatthan to die under the spear of one ofthe warriors.

Thorn seized me by the wristshackles and dragged me across thetop of the pillar to one of the threetarns that waited. I was helpless.My legs and arms could not havebeen more useless if every nerve inthem had been cut by a knife.

I was chained to the ankle ring of

one of the tarns.The Tatrix had apparently lost

interest in me, for she turned toDorna the Proud and Thorn, Captainof Tharna.

The warrior whose arm had beenbroken knelt on the marble flooringof the pillar, bent over, rockingback and forth, the injured arm heldagainst his body. His fellow stoodnear me, among the tarns, perhapsto watch me, perhaps to steady andsoothe the excitable giants.

Haughtily the Tatrix addressedDorna and Thorn. “Why,” she askedthem, “are there so few of mysoldiers here?”

“We are enough,” said Thorn.The Tatrix looked out over the

plains, in the direction of the city.“By now,” she said, “lines ofrejoicing citizens will be setting outfrom the city.”

Neither Dorna the Proud, norThorn, Captain of Tharna, answeredher.

The Tatrix walked across thepillar, regal in those tattered robes,and stood over me. She pointedacross the plains, towards Tharna.“Warrior,” said she, “if you were toremain long enough on this pillaryou would see processions come towelcome me back to Tharna.”

The voice of Dorna1 the Prouddrifted across the pillar. “I thinknot, Beloved Tatrix,” she said.

The Tatrix turned, puzzled. “Whynot?” she asked.

“Because,” said Dorna theProud, and I could tell that behindthat silver mask, she smiled, “youare not going back to Tharna.”

The Tatrix stood as if stunned,not understanding.

The uninjured warrior had nowclimbed to the saddle of the tarn, towhose ankle ring I lay helplesslychained. He hauled on the one-strapand the monster took flight.Painfully I was wrenched into the

air and, cruelly hanging by myshackled wrists, I saw the whitecolumn dropping away beneath me,and the figures upon it, twowarriors, a woman in a sliver mask,and the golden Tatrix of Tharna.

Chapter Seventeen:THE MINES OF THARNA

The room was long, low, narrow,perhaps four feet by four feet, and ahundred feet long. A small, foultharlarion lamp burned at each end.How many such rooms lay beneaththe earth of Tharna, in her manymines, I did not know. The long line

of slaves, shackled together,stooped and crawled the length ofthe room. When it was filled withits wretched occupants, an irondoor, containing a sliding ironobservation panel, closed. I heardfour bolts being shoved into place.

It was a dank room. There werepools of water here and there on thefloor; the walls were damp; waterin certain places dripped from theceiling. It was ventilatedinadequately by a set of tinycircular apertures, about an inch indiameter, placed every twenty feet.One larger aperture, a circular holeperhaps two feet in diameter, was

visible in the centre of the longroom.

Andreas of Tor, who wasshackled at my side, pointed to it.“That hole,” he said, “floods theroom.”

I nodded, and leaned backagainst the damp, solid stone thatformed the sides of the chamber. Iwondered how many times, underthe soil of Tharna, such a chamberhad been flooded, how manychained wretches had beendrowned in such dismal, sewerliketraps. I was no longer puzzled thatthe discipline in the mines ofTharna was as good as it was. I had

learned that only a month before, ina mine not five hundred yards fromthis one, there had been adisturbance created by a singleprisoner. “Drown them all,” hadbeen the decision of theAdministrator of the Mines. I wasnot surprised then that the prisonersthemselves looked with horror uponthe very thought of resistance. Theywould strangle one of their fellowswho thought of rebellion, ratherthan risk the flooding of thechamber. Indeed, the entire mineitself could, in an emergency, beflooded. Once, I was told, it hadhappened, to quell an uprising. To

pump out the water and clear theshafts of bodies had taken weeks.

Andreas said to me, “For thosewho are not fond of life, this placehas many conveniences.”

“To be sure,” I agreed.He thrust an onion and a crust of

bread into my hands. “Take this,”he said.

“Thanks,” I said. I took them andbegan to chew on them.

“You will learn,” he said, “toscramble with the rest of us.”

Before we had been ushered intothe cell, outside, in a broad,rectangular chamber, two of themine attendants had poured a tub of

bread and vegetables into the feedtrough fixed in the wall, and theslaves 1had rushed upon it, likeanimals, screaming, cursing,pushing, jostling, trying to thrusttheir hands into the trough and carryas much as they could before it wasgone. Revolted, I had not joined inthis wretched contest, though by mychains I had been dragged to thevery edge of the trough. Yet I knew,as Andreas had said, I would learnto go to the trough, for I had no wishto die, and I would not continue tolive on his charity.

I smiled, wondering why it wasthat I, and my fellow prisoners,

seemed so determined to live. Whywas it that we chose to live?Perhaps the question is foolish, butit did not seem so in the mines ofTharna.

“We must think of escape,” I saidto Andreas.

“Be quiet, you fool!” hissed athin, terrified voice from perhaps adozen feet away.

It was Ost of Tharna, who, likeAndreas and myself, had beencondemned to the mines.

He hated me, blaming mesomehow for the fact that he foundhimself in this dire predicament.Today, more than once, he had

scattered the ore which, on myhands and knees, I had chippedfrom the narrow shafts of the mine.And twice he had stolen the pile ofore I had accumulated, poking itinto the canvas sack we slaveswore about our necks in the mines. Ihad been beaten by the Whip Slavefor not contributing my share to theday's quota of ore required of thechain of which I was a member.

If the quota was not met, theslaves were not fed that night. If thequota was not met three days in arow, the slaves would be whippedinto the long cell, the door bolted,and the cell flooded. Many of the

slaves looked upon me withdisfavour. Perhaps it was becausethe quota had been increased theday that I was added to their chain.I myself guessed this was more thancoincidence.

“I shall inform against you,”hissed Ost, “for plotting an escape.”

In the half light, from the smalltharlarion lamps set in each end ofthe room, I saw the heavy, squatfigure beside Ost loop his wristchain silently about the creature'sthin throat. The circle of chaintightened, and Ost scratchedhelplessly at it with his fingers, hiseyes bulging. “You will inform

against no one,” said a voice, whichI recognised as that of the bull-likeKron of Tharna, of the Caste ofMetal Workers, he whose life I hadspared in the arena during theBattles of Oxen. The chaintightened. Ost shuddered like aconvulsing monkey.

“Do not kill him,” I said to Kron.“As you wish, Warrior,” said

Kron, and dropped the frightenedOst, roughly disengaging his chainfrom the creature's throat. Ost layon the damp floor, his hands on histhroat, gasping for breath.

“It seems you have a friend,”said Andreas of Tor.

With a rattle of chain and a rollof his great shoulders, Kronstretched himself out as well as hecould in the cramped quarters.Within a minute his heavy breathingtold me he was asleep.

“Where is Linna?” I askedAndreas.

For once his voice was sad. “Onone of the Great Farms,” he said. “Ifailed her.”

“We have all failed,” I said.There was not much conversation

in the cell, for the men perhaps hadlittle to say, and their bodies wereworn with the cruel labours of theday. I sat with my back against the

damp wall, listening to the soundsof their sleep.

I was far from the SardarMountains,1 far from the Priest-Kings of Gor. I had failed my city,my beloved Talena, my father, myfriends. There would not be a stoneset upon another stone. The riddleof the Priest-Kings, of their cruel,incomprehensible will, would notbe solved. Their secret would bekept, and I would die, sooner orlater, whipped and starved, in thekennels that were the mines ofTharna.

Tharna has perhaps a hundred ormore mines, each maintained by its

own chain of slaves. These minesare tortuous networks of tunnelsworming themselves inch by inchirregularly through the rich ores thatare the foundation of the wealth ofthe city. Most of the shaft tunnels donot allow a man to stand upright inthem. Many are inadequatelybraced. As the slave works thetunnel, he crawls on his hands andknees, which bleed at first butgradually develop calluses of thick,scabrous tissue. About his neckhangs a canvas bag in which piecesof ore are carried back to thescales. The ore itself is freed fromthe sides of the mine by a small

pick. Light is supplied by tinylamps, no more than small cups oftharlarion oil with fibre wicks.

The working day is fifteenGorean hours (Ahns), which,allowing for the slight difference inthe period of the planet's rotation,would be approximately eighteenEarth hours. The slaves are neverbrought to the surface, and onceplunged into the cold darkness ofthe mines never again see the sun.The only relief in their existencecomes once a year, on the birthdayof the Tatrix, when they are serveda small cake, made with honey andsesame seeds, and a small pot of

poor Kal-da. One fellow on mychain, little more than a toothlessskeleton, boasted that he had drunkKal-da three times in the mines.Most are not so fortunate. The lifeexpectancy of the mine slave, giventhe labour and food, if he does notdie under the whips of theoverseers, is usually from sixmonths to one year.

I found myself gazing at the largecircular hole in the ceiling of thenarrow cell.

In the morning, though I knew itwas morning only by the curses ofthe Whip Slaves, the cracking of the

whips, the cries of slaves and therattle of chains, I and my fellowprisoners crawled from our cell,emerging again into the broad,rectangular room which lay directlybeyond.

Already the feed trough had beenfilled.

The slaves edged toward thetrough, but were whipped back. Theword had not been given whichwould allow them to fall upon it.

The Whip Slave, another of theslaves of Tharna, but one in chargeof the chain, was pleased with histask. Though he might never see thelight of the sun, yet it was he who

held the whip, he who was Ubar inthis macabre dungeon.

The slaves tensed, their eyesfixed on the trough. The whip lifted.When it fell, that would be thesignal that they might rush to thetrough.

There was pleasure in the eyes ofthe Whip Slave as he enjoyed thetormenting moment of suspensewhich his uplifted whip inflicted onthe ragged, hungry slaves.

The whip cracked. “Feed!” heshouted.

The slaves lunged forward.“No!” I cried, my voice checking

them.

Some of them stumbled and fell,sprawling with a rattle of chains onthe floor, dragging others down. Butmost managed to stand upright,catching their balance, and, almostas one man, that wretched degradedhuddle of slaves turned itsfrightened, empty eyes upon me.

“Feed!” cried the Whip Slave,cracking the whip again.

“No,” I said.The huddle of men wavered.Ost tried to pull toward the

trough, but he was chained to Kron,who refused to move. Ost might aswell have been chained to a tree.

The Whip Slave approached me.

Seven times the whip struck me,and I did not flinch.

Then I said, “Do not strike meagain.”

He backed away, the whip armfalling. He had understood me, andhe knew that his life was in danger.What consolation would it be tohim if the entire mine were flooded,if he had first perished with mychain about his throat?

I turned to the men. “You are notanimals,” I said. “You are men.”

Then, gesturing them forward, Iled them to the trough.

“Ost,” I said, “will distribute thefood.”

Ost thrust his hands into thetrough, and crammed a fistful ofbread into his mouth.

Kron's wrist chains struck himacross the cheek and ear, and thebread flew from his mouth.

“Distribute the food,” said Kron.“We choose you,” said Andreas

of Tor, “because you are known foryour honesty.”

And amazing to say, thosechained wretches laughed.

Sullenly, while the Whip Slavestood by and watched, angryfearful, Ost distributed the poor farethat lay in the trough.

The last piece of bread I broke in

two, taking half and giving the otherhalf to Ost. “Eat,” I said.

In fury, his eyes darting back andforth like those of an urt, he bit intothe bread and gulped it down. “Thechamber will be flooded for this,”he said.

Andreas of Tor said, “I, for one,would be honoured to die in thecompany of Ost.”

And again the men laughed, and Ithought that even Ost smiled.

The Whip Slave watched whilewe filed up the long incline to theshafts, his whip arm limp.Wondering, he watched us, for oneof the men, of the Caste of Peasants,

had begun to hum a plowing song,and, one by one, the others joinedhim.

The quota was well met that day,and the day following.

Chapter Eighteen:WE ARE OF THE SAME

CHAIN

Occasionally a bit of newsfiltered down into the mines,brought by the slaves who filled thefeeding trough. These slaves werefortunate for they had access to thecentral shaft. Each of the hundredmines of Tharna, at one level or

another, opened on this shaft. It is tobe distinguished from the muchsmaller ore shafts, which areindividual to each mine. The oreshafts are like narrow wells sunk inthe stone and their platforms canscarcely accomodate a slave's sackof ore.

It is through the central shaft thatthe mines of Tharna are supplied.Down that shaft comes not onlyfood but, when needed, canvas,tools and chains. Drinking water, ofcourse, is supplied by the naturalsumps in each mine. I myself, andmy fellow slaves, had descendedthe central shaft. Only dead slaves

made the ascent.Beginning with the slaves who

worked the pulleys t1hat controlledthe supply platform in the centralshaft, the news had spread, fromone mine to another, until at last ithad reached even ours, which wasthe deepest on the shaft.

There was a new Tatrix inTharna.

“Who is the new Tatrix?” Iasked.

“Dorna the Proud,” said theslave, who tumbled onions, turnips,radishes, potatoes and bread intothe feed trough.

“What happened to Lara?” I

asked.He laughed. “You are ignorant!”

he exclaimed.“News does not travel fast in the

mines,” I said.“She was carried off,” he said.“What?” I cried.“Yes,” said he, “by a tarnsman,

as it turned out.”“What is his name?” I asked.“Tarl,” said he, and his voice fell

to a whisper, “—of Ko-ro-ba.”I was dumbfounded.“He is an outlaw,” said the man,

“who survived the Amusements ofTharna.”

“I know,” I said.

“There was a tarn, wearing thesilver hobble, that was to kill him,but he freed the tarn, leaped on itsback and made good his escape.”The slave put down the tub ofvegetables and bread. His eyeswere wet with amusement and heslapped his thigh. “He returned onlylong enough to tarnstrike tha Tatrixherself,” he said. “The tarn carriedher off like a tabuk!” His laughter,which spread to the other slaves inthe room, those chained to me, wasuproarious, and I understood betterthan I had understood before theaffection with which the Tatrix ofTharna was held in the mines.

But I alone did not laugh.“What of the Pillar of

Exchanges?” I asked. “Was theTatrix not returned at the Pillar, andfreed?”

“Everyone thought she wouldbe,” said the slave, “but thetarnsman apparently wanted hermore than the riches of Tharna.”

“What a man!” cried one of theslaves.

“Perhaps she was verybeautiful,” said another.

“She was not exchanged?” Iasked the slave with the food tub.

“No,” he said. “Two of thosewho are highest in Tharna, Dorna

the Proud, and Thorn, a Captain,went to the Pillar of Exchanges, butthe Tatrix was never returned.Pursuit was launched, the hills andfields combed without success.Only her tattered robes and themask of gold were found, by Dornathe Proud and Thorn, Captain ofTharna.” The slave sat down on thetub. “Now,” said he, “Dorna wearsthe mask.”

“What,” I asked, “do you surmiseto be the fate of Lara, who wasTatrix?”

The slave laughed, and so, too,did some of the others.

“Well,” said he, “we know she

no longer wears her golden robes.”“Doubtless,” said one of the

slaves, “some more suitableraiment has replaced them.”

The slave laughed. “Yes,” heroared, slapping his thigh.“Pleasure silk!” He rocked on thetub. “Can you imagine!” he laughed,“Lara, the Tatrix of Tharna, inpleasure silk!”

The chain of slaves laughed, allexcept myself, and Andreas of Tor,who regarded me questioningly. Ismiled at him, and shrugged. I didnot have the answer to his question.

Little by little, I tried to restore

the self-respect of my fellowslaves. It began simply enough atthe feeding trough. Then I began toencourage them to speak to oneanother, and to call one another bytheir names, and their cities, andthough there were men of differentcities there, they shared the samechain and trough, and they acceptedone another.

When one man was ill, otherssaw that his ore sack was filled.When one man was beaten, otherswould pass water from hand tohand that his wounds might bebathed, that he might drink thoughthe chain did not allow him to the

water. And in time, each of us knewthe others who shared his chain. Wewere no longer dark, anonymousshapes to one another, huddling inthe dampness of the mines ofTharna. In time only Ost remainedfrightened by this change, for hecontinually feared the flooding ofthe chamber.

My chain of men worked well,and the quota was filled day afterday, and when it was raised, it wasfilled again. Sometimes even, themen would hum as they worked, thestrong sound resonant in the tunnelsof the mine. The Whip Slaveswondered, and began to fear us.

News of the distribution of foodat the feeding trough had spread, bymeans of the slaves who carried thetubs of food, from mine to mine.And, too, they told of the stranger,new things that happened in themine at the bottom of the centralshaft, how men helped one another,and could find the time and will toremember a tune.

And as time passed I learnedfrom the food slaves that thisrevolution, as unannounced andsilent as the foot of a larl, hadbegun to spread from mine to mine.Soon I noticed that the food slavesspoke no more, and gathered that

they had been warned to silence.Yet from their faces I knew that thecontagion of self-respect, ofnobility, flamed in the minesbeneath Tharna. Here, underground,in the mines, home of that whichwas lowest and most degraded inTharna, men came to look upon oneanother, and themselves, withsatisfaction.

I decided it was time.That night, when we were herded

into the long cell, and the boltswere shoved in place, I spoke to themen.

“Who among you,” I asked,“would be free?”

“I,” said Andreas of Tor.“And I,” growled Kron of

Tharna.“And I!” cried other voices.Only Ost demurred. “It is

sedition to speak thus,” hewhimpered.

“I have a plan,” I said, “but itwill require great courage, and youmay all die.”

“There is no escape from themines,” whimpered Ost.

“Lead us, Warrior,” saidAndreas.

“First,” I said, “we must have thechamber flooded.”

Ost shrieked with terror, and

Kron's great fist shut on hiswindpipe, silencing him. Ostsquirmed, scuffling in the dark,helpless. “Be quiet, Serpent,” saidthe bull-like Kron. He dropped Ost,and the conspirator crawled to thelength of his chain and huddledagainst the wall, trembling withfear.

Ost's shriek had told me what Iwanted to know. I now knew howwe could arrange to have thechamber flooded.

“Tomorrow night,” I said simply,looking in Ost's direction, “we willmake our break for freedom.”

The next day, as I had expected,an accident befell Ost. He seemedto injure his foot with the pick, andhe pleaded so earnestly with theWhip Slave that the fellow removedhim from the chain and, putting acollar on his throat, led him limpingaway. This would have been anunusual solicitation on the part ofthe Whip Slave but it was obviousto him as to the rest of us that Ostwished to speak with him alone, tocommunicate information ofextreme importance.

“You should have killed him,”said Kron of Tharna.

“No,” I said.

The bull-like man of Tharnalooked at me questioningly andshrugged.

That night the slaves who broughtthe tub of food were accompaniedby a dozen warriors.

That night Ost was not returnedto the chain. “His foot requirescare,” said the Whip Slave,gesturing us toward the long cell.

When the iron door was shut andthe bolts shot into place, I heard theWhip Slave laugh.

The men were despondent.“Tonight,” said Andreas of Tor,

“you know the chamber will beflooded.”

“Yes,” I said, and he looked atme in disbelief.

I called to the man at the far endof the chamber. “Pass the lamp,” Isaid.

I took the lamp and went, some ofmy fellow prisoners perforceaccompanying me, and held it to thecircular shaft, about two feet indiameter, down which the waterwould hurtle. There was an irongrating set in the stone, about eightfeet high in the shaft. Fromsomewhere above we heard themovement of a valve.

“Lift me!” I cried, and on theshoulders of Andreas and the slave

shackled beside me, I was liftedinto the shaft. Its sides were smoothand slimy. My hands slipped onthem.

Chained as I was I could not getto the grating.

I cursed.Then it seemed that Andreas and

the slave grew beneath my feet.Other slaves knelt beneath them,giving their backs that the two mightrise higher. Standing side by sidethey lifted me higher into the shaft.

My shackled wrists seized thegrating.

“I have it,” I cried. “Drag medown!”

Then Andreas and the slave fellin the shaft and I felt the chains thatfastened my wrists and ankles totheirs tearing at my limbs. “Pull!” Icried, and the hundred slaves in thelong room began to draw on thechains. My hands bled on thegrating, the blood falling back in myupturned face, but I would notrelease the bars. “Pull!” I cried.

A trickle of water from abovemoved down the sides of the stones.

The valve was opening.“Pull!” I cried again.Suddenly the grating sprang free

and I and it fell clattering with arattle of chains and metal to the

floor.Now there was a stream of water

flowing down the shaft.“First on the chain!” I called.With a rattle of chains a small

man with a wisp of straw-colouredhair across 1his forehead snakedpast the others and stood before me.

“You must climb,” I said.“How?” he asked, bewildered.“Brace your feet against the wall

of the shaft,” I said. “Use yourfeet!”

“I can't,” he said.“You will,” I said.I and his fellow took him and

thrust him bodily through the

opening.We heard him in the shaft,

grunting, gasping, the sounds ofchains scraping on stones as hebegan the tortuous inch by inchascent.

“I'm slipping!” he cried, andrattled down the shaft and fell to thecell floor weeping.

“Again!” I said.“I can't,” he cried hysterically.I seized him by the shoulders and

shook him. “You are of Tharna,” Isaid. “Show us what a man ofTharna can do!”

It was a challenge which hadbeen put to few men of Tharna.

We lifted him again into the shaft.I set the second on the chain

beneath him, and the third on thechain beneath the second.

The water was sloshing throughthe aperture now, in a stream aboutas wide as my fist. In the tunnel itrose to our ankles.

Then the first man on the chainsupported his own weight, and thesecond, chains rattling, began toascend the vertical tunnel,supported by he who was third,who now stood on the back of thefourth man, and so it continued.

Once the second man slipped,dragging the first down with him,

and causing the third to lose hisgrip, but by now there was a solidchain of men in the tunnel, and thefourth and fifth men held. The firstbegan his tortuous ascent oncemore, followed by the second andthird.

The water was perhaps two feethigh in the cell, pressing upward tothe low ceiling, when I followedAndreas into the tunnel. Kron wasthe fourth man behind me.

Andreas, Kron and I were in thetunnel, but what of the poorwretches on the chain behind us?

I looked up the long shaft, at theline of slaves moving upward, inch

by inch.“Hurry!” I cried.The stream of water now seemed

to press us down, to impede ourprogress. It was like a smallwaterfall.

“Hurry! Hurry!” cried the voiceof a man still below, a hoarse,terrified cry. The first man on thechain had now ascended the tunnelto the very source of the water,another tunnel. We heard a sudden,loud swift rushing of water. Hecried out in fear, “It's coming, all ofit!”

“Brace yourselves!” I shouted tothose above and below me. “Drag

the last men into the tunnel!” Iyelled. “Get them out of the cell!”

But my last words were drownedin a hurtling plunging cataract ofwater that shattered on my body likea great fist, knocking my breath out.It roared down the shaft, poundingon the men. Some lost their footing,and bodies were wedged into theshaft. It was impossible to breathe,to move, to see.

Then as suddenly as it had begun,the cataract ceased. Above,whoever worked the valve musthave grown impatient and thrown itopen completely, or 1perhaps thesudden torrent of water had been

intended as a gesture of mercy todrown any survivors quickly.

As soon as I had caught mybreath, I shook the sopping hairfrom my eyes. I peered up into thesodden blackness, crowded withchained bodies.

“Keep climbing,” I said.In perhaps another two or three

minutes I had reached the horizontaltunnel down which the tumult of thewater had been fed into the verticaltunnel. I found those ahead of me onthe chain. Like myself they weresoaked to the skin and shivering, butalive. I clutched the first man by theshoulders.

“Well done!” I said to him.“I am of Tharna,” he said

proudly.At last each man of the chain was

within the horizontal tunnel, thoughthe last four men had of necessitybeen dragged to its level, for theyhung limp in their chains. How longthey had been under water was hardto say.

We worked on them, bendingover them in the darkness, I andthree men from Port Kar, whounderstood what must be done. Theother slaves on the chain waitedpatiently, not one complaining, notone urging us to greater speed. At

last, one by one, the inert bodiesstirred, their lungs opening to drawin the damp, cold air of the mine.

The man whom I had savedreached up and touched me.

“We are of the same chain,” Isaid.

It was a saying we haddeveloped in the mines.

“Come!” I said to the men.Leading them in two lines,

shackled behind me, we crawleddown the horizontal tunnel.

Chapter Nineteen:REVOLT IN THE MINES

“No, no!” Ost had screamed.We found him at the valve which

emptied the reservoir of water intothe slave dungeon more than twohundred feet below. He now worethe habiliments of the Whip Slave, areward for his treachery. He threwdown the whip and tried to run,scurrying like an urt, buteverywhere he turned, the chain ofhaggard, violent men confined him,and as the chain closed, Ost fellquivering to his knees.

“Do not harm him,” I said.But the bull-like Kron of

Tharna's hand was on the neck ofthe conspirator.

“This is a matter for the men ofTharna,” said he. Those blue eyeslike steel looked about theunyielding faces of the chainedslaves.

And the eyes of Ost, too, likethose of a terrified urt, looked fromface to face, pleading, but Ost foundno pity in those eyes that lookedupon him as though they might havebeen composed of stone.

“Is Ost of the chain?” askedKron.

“No,” cried a dozen voices. “Heis not of the chain.”

“Yes,” cried Ost. “I am of thechain.” He peered like a rodent into

the faces of his captors. “Take mewith you. Free me!”

“It is sedition to speak thus,” saidone of the men.

Ost trembled.“Tie him and leave him here,” I

said.“Yes,” begged O1st hysterically,

groveling at the feet of Kron. “Dothat, Masters!”

Andreas of Tor spoke up. “Do asTarl of Ko-ro-ba asks,” he said.“Do not stain your chains with theblood of this serpent.”

“Thank you, Masters,” said Ost,snivelling with relief, his face oncemore resuming that pinched, sly

look I knew so well.But Kron looked down into the

face of Ost, and Ost turned white.“You will have a better chance

than you gave us,” said the bull-likeman from Tharna.

Ost shrieked with terror.I tried to press forward, but the

men of the chain held firm. I couldnot come to the conspirator'sassistance.

He tried to crawl toward me, hishands extended. I put out my hands,but Kron had seized him and pulledhim back.

Bodily the small conspirator wasthrown from slave to slave down

the length of the chain until the lastman hurled him, headfirst,screaming for mercy, down thatdark narrow channel which we hadascended. We heard his body hit thesides a dozen times, and hisfrightened scream fading, only to besilenced by the distant, hollowsplash in the water far below.

It was a night like no other in themines of Tharna.

Leading the chain of slaves intwo lines behind me, we sweptthrough the shafts like an eruptionfrom the molten core of the earth.Armed only with ore and the picks

that chip the ore from the walls westormed into the quarters of WhipSlaves and guardsmen, who hadscarcely time to seize theirweapons. Those not killed in thesavage fighting, much of it in thedarkness of the shafts, were lockedinto leg shackles and herded intostorage chambers, and the men ofthe chain did not treat their formeroppressors gently.

We has soon come on hammersthat would strike our chains from usand, one by one, we filed past thegreat anvil where Kron of Tharna,of the Caste of Metal Workers, withexpert blows, struck them from our

wrists and ankles.“To the Central Shaft!” I cried,

holding a sword that had been takenfrom a guardsman now chained inthe shafts behind.

A slave who had carried tubs offood to the troughs below was onlytoo pleased to guide us.

At last we stood by the CentralShaft.

Our mine opened on it perhaps athousand feet below the surface. Wecould see the great chains danglingdown the shaft, outlined by thesmall lamps in the openings of othermines above us, and, very highabove, by the white reflection of

moonlight. The men crowded outonto the floor of the shaft, which layonly a foot below the opening ofour mine, for our mine was thelowest of all.

They stared upward.The man who had boasted that he

had drink Kal-da three times in themines of Tharna wept as he gazedupward and caught sight of one ofthe three hurtling moons of Gor.

I sent several men climbing to thetop of the chains, so high above.

“You must protect the chains,” Isaid. “They must not be cut.”

Determined dark shapes, agilewith the fury of hope, began to

climb the chain toward the moonsabove.

To my pride none of the mensuggested that we follow them, nonebegged that we might steal ourfreedom before the general alarm1could be given.

No! We climbed to the secondmine!

How terrible those moments forthe guards and Whip Slaves, tosuddenly see, unchained andirresistible, the avalanche of wrathand vengaence that broke in uponthem! Dice and cards and gameboards and drinking gobletsscattered to the rocky floors of the

guard chambers as Whip Slaves andguardsmen looked up to find at theirthroats the blades of desperate andcondemned men, now drunk withthe taste of freedom and determinedto free their fellows.

Cell after cell was emptied of itswretched chained occupants, onlyto be refilled with shackledguardsmen and Whip Slaves, menwho knew that the least sign ofresistance would bring only a swiftand bloody death.

Mine after mine was freed, andas each mine was freed, its slaves,forsaking their own best chance ofsafety, poured into the mines above

to liberate their fellows. This wasdone as if by plan and yet I knewthat it was the spontaneous action ofmen who had come to respectthemselves, the men of the mines ofTharna.

I was the last of the slaves toleave the mines. I climbed one ofthe great chains to the hugewindlass set above the shaft andfound myself among hundreds ofcheering men, their chains struckoff, their hands boasting weaponseven if only a piece of jagged rockor a pair of shackles. The darkcheering shapes, many of themcrooked and wasted with their

labours, saluted me in the light ofthe three rushing moons of Gor.They shouted my name, and withoutfear, that of my city. I stood uponthe brink of the great shaft and feltthe wind of the cold night upon me.

I was happy.And I was proud.I saw the great valve which I

knew would flood the mines ofTharna, and saw that it remainedclosed.

I was proud when I saw that myslaves had defended the valve, forabout it lay the bodies of soldierswho had tried to reach it; but I wasmost proud when I realised that the

slaves had not now opened thevalve, when they knew that below,in the confines of those dismalshafts and cells, chained andhelpless, were their oppressors andmortal enemies. I could imagine theterror of those poor creaturescringing in those traps beneath theground waiting to hear the distantrush of water through the tunnels.Yet it would not come.

I wondered if they wouldunderstand that such an action wasbeneath the hand of a truly free man,and that the men who fought them–who had conquered on this windyand cold night, who had fought like

larls in the darkness of the tunnelsbelow, who had not sought theirown safety but the liberation oftheir fellows–were such men.

I leaped to the windlass andraised my arms, the darkness of thecentral shaft looming beneath me.

There was silence.“Men of Tharna,” I cried, “and of

the Cities of Gor, you are free!”There was a great cheer.“Word of our deeds even now

hurries to the Palace of the Tatrix,”I cried.

“Let her tremble!” cried Kron ofTharna in a terrible voice.

“Think, Kron of Tharna,” I cried,

“soon tarnsmen will fly from thewalls of Tharna and the infantrywill move against us.”

There was a mutter ofapprehensions from the masses offreed slaves.

“Speak, Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” saidKron,1 using the name of my city aseasily as he might have said thename of any other.

“We do not have the weapons orthe training or the beasts we wouldneed to stand against the soldiers ofTharna,” I said. “We would bedestroyed, trampled like urtsunderfoot.” I paused. “Thereforewe must scatter to the forests and

the mountains, taking cover wherewe can. We must live off the land.We will soon be sought by all thesoldiers and guardsmen Tharna canset upon our trail. We will bepursued and ridden down by thelancers who ride the hightharlarions! We will be hunted andslain from the air by the bolts oftarnsmen!”

“But we will die free!” criedAndreas of Tor, and his cry wasechoed by hundreds of voices.

“And so must others!” I cried.“You must hid by day and move bynight. You must elude yourpursuers. You must carry your

freedom to others!”“Are you asking us to become

warriors?” cried a voice.“Yes!” I cried, and such words

had never before been spoken ofGor. “In this cause,” I said,“whether you are of the Caste ofPeasants, or Poets, or MetalWorkers, or Saddle-Makers, youmust be warriors!”

“We shall,” said Kron of Tharna,his fist holding the great hammerwith which he had struck off ourshackles.

“Is this the will of the Priest-Kings?” asked a voice.

“If it is the will of the Priest-

Kings,” I said, “let it be done.” Andthen I raised my hands again andstanding on the windlass over theshaft, blown by the wind, with themoons of Gor above me, I cried.“And if it be not the will of thePriest-Kings–still let it be done!”

“Let it be done,” said the heavyvoice of Kron.

“Let it be done,” said the men,first one and then another, untilthere was a sobre chorus of assent,quiet but powerful, and I knew thatnever before in this harsh worldhad men spoken thus. And it seemedstrange to me that this rebellion, thiswillingness to pursue the right as

they saw it, independently of thewill of the Priest-Kings, had comenot first from the proud Warriors ofGor, nor the Scribes, nor theBuilders nor the Physicians, nor anyof the high castes of the many citiesof Gor, but had come from the mostdegraded and despised of men,wretched slaves from the mines ofTharna.

I stood there and watched theslaves depart, silently now, likeshadows, forsaking the precincts ofthe mines to seek their outlawfortunes, their destinies beyond thelaws and traditions of their cities.

The Gorean phrase of farewell

came silently to my lips. “I wishyou well.”

Kron stopped by the shaft.I walked across the bar of the

windlass and dropped to his side.The squat giant of the Caste of

Metal Workers stood with his feetplanted wide. He held that greathammer in his massive fists like alance across his body. I saw that theonce close-cropped hair was now ashaggy yellow. I saw that thoseeyes, usually like blue steel,seemed softer than I rememberedthem.

“I wish you well, Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,” he said.

“I wish you well, Kron ofTharna,” I said.

“We are of the same chain,” hesaid.

“Yes,” I said.Then he turned away, abruptly I

thought, and 1moved rapidly intothe shadows.

Now only Andreas of Torremained at my side.

He mopped back that mane ofblack hair like a larl's and grinnedat me. “Well,” said he, “I have triedthe Mines of Tharna, and now Ithink I shall try the Great Farms.”

“Good luck,” I said.I fervently hoped that he would

find the auburn-haired girl in thecamisk, gentle Linna of Tharna.

“And where are you off to?”asked Andreas lightly.

“I have business with the Priest-Kings,” I said.

“Ah!” said Andreas, and wassilent.

We faced one another under thethree moons. He seemed sad, one ofthe few times I had seen him so.

“I'm coming with you,” he said.I smiled. Andreas knew as well

as I that men did not return from theSardar Mountains.

“No,” I said. “I think you wouldfind few songs in the mountains.”

“A poet,” said he, “will look forsongs anywhere.”

“I am sorry,” I said, “but I cannotallow you to accompany me.”

Andreas clapped his hands on myshoulders. “Hear, dull-witted scionof the Caste of Warriors,” he said,“my friends are more important tome than even my songs.”

I tried to be light. I feignedskepticism. “Are you truly of theCaste of Poets?”

“Never more truly than now,”said Andreas, “for how could mysongs be more important than thethings they celebrate?”

I marveled that he had said this,

for I knew that the young Andreas ofTor might have given his arm oryears of his life for what might havebeen a true song, one worthy ofwhat he had seen and felt and caredfor.

“Linna needs you,” I said. “Seekher out.”

Andreas of the Caste of Poetsstood in torment before me, agonyin his eyes.

“I wish you well,” I said, “—Poet.”

He nodded. “I wish you well,” hesaid, “—Warrior.”

Perhaps both of us wondered thatfriendship should exist between

members of such different castes,but perhaps both of us knew, thoughwe did not say so, that in the heartsof men arms and song are never fardistant.

Andreas had turned to go, but hehesitated, and faced me once more.“The Priest-Kings,” he said, “willbe expecting you.”

“Of course,” I said.Andreas lifted his arm. “Tal,” he

said, sadly. I wondered why he hadsaid this, for it is a word ofgreeting.

“Tal,” I said, returning the salute.I think perhaps he wanted to greet

me once more, that he did not

believe he would ever again havethe opportunity.

Andreas had turned and wasgone.

I must begin my journey to theSardar Mountains.

As Andreas had said, I would beexpected. I knew that little passedon Gor that was not somehowknown in the Sardar Mountains. Thepower and knowledge of the Priest-Kings is pe1rhaps beyond thecomprehension of mortal men, or asit is said on Gor, the Men Belowthe Mountains.

It is said that as we are to theamoeba and the paramecium so are

the Priest-Kings to us, that thehighest and most lyric flights of ourintellect are, when compared to thethought of the Priest-Kings, but thechemical tropisms of the unicellularorganism. I thought of such anorganism, blindly extending itspseudopodia to encircle a particleof food, an organism complacent inits world–perhaps only an agarplate on the desk of some higherbeing.

I had seen the power of thePriest-Kings at work–in themountains of New Hampshire yearsago when it was so delicatelyexercised as to affect the needle of

a compass, in the valley of Ko-ro-ba where I had found a citydevastated as casually as one mightcrush a hill of ants.

Yet, I knew that the power of thePriest-Kings–rumoured even toextend to the control of gravity–could lay waste cities, scatterpopulations, separate friends, tearlovers from one another's arms,bring hideous death to whomsoeverit might choose. As all men of Gor Iknew that their power inspiredterror throughout a world and that itcould not be withstood.

The words of the man of Ar, hewho had worn the robes of the

Initiates, he who had brought me themessage of the Priest-Kings on theroad to Ko-ro-ba that violent nightmonths before, rang in my ears,“Throw yourself upon your sword,Tarl of Ko-ro-ba!”

But I knew then that I would notthrow myself upon my sword, andthat I would not now. I knew then asI knew now that I would go insteadto the Sardar Mountains, that Iwould enter them and seek thePriest-Kings themselves.

I would find them.Somewhere in the midst of those

icy escarpments inaccessible evento the wild tarn they waited for me,

those fit gods of this harsh world.

Chapter Twenty:THE INVISIBLE BARRIER

In my hand I held a sword, takenfrom one of the guardsmen in themines. It was the only weapon Icarried. Before starting for themountains, it seemed wise toimprove my equipment. Most of thesoldiers who had fought the slavesat the top of the shaft had beenkilled or fled. Those who had beenkilled had been stripped of clothingand weapons, both of which the ill-clad, unarmed slaves required

desperately.I knew that I didn't have a great

deal of time, for the avengingtarnsmen of Tharna would soon bevisible against the three moons.

I examined the low, woodenbuildings which dotted the uglylandscape in the vicinity of themines. Almost all of them had beenbroken into by slaves, and whateverthey held had been taken orscattered. Not a piece of steelremained in the arms shed; not acrust of bread remained in the tubsin the commissary huts.

In the office of the Administratorof the Mines, he who had once

given the command, “Drown themall,” I found a stripped body,slashed almost beyond recognition.Yet I had seen it once before, whenI had been turned over by thesoldier to his gentle care. It was theAdministrator of the Mines himself.The corpulent, cruel body was nowrent in a hundred places.

On the wall there was an emptyscabbard. I hoped that he had hadtime to seize its blade before theslaves rushed in and fell upon him.Though I found it easy to hate him Idid not wish him to have diedunarmed.

In the frenetic melee in the

darkness, or in the light of thetharlarion lamp, perhaps the slaveshad not noticed the scabbard, orwanted it. The sword itself, ofcourse, was gone. I decided I coulduse the scabbard, and took it fromthe wall.

In the first streak of light, nowgleaming through the dusty hutwindow, I saw that the scabbardwas set with six stones. Emeralds.Perhaps not of great value, butworth taking.

I thrust my weapon into the emptyscabbard, buckled the sword beltand, in the Gorean fashion, loopedit over my left shoulder.

I left the hut, scanning the skies.There were no tarnsmen yet in sight.The three moons were faint now,like pale white disks in thebrightening sky, and the sun washalf risen from the throne of thehorizon.

In the bleak light the ruin of thenight stood revealed in stark, brutallucidity. The ugly grounds of thecompound, its lonely wooden huts,its brown soil and bare hard rocks,were deserted save by the dead.Among the litter of pillaging–papers, opened boxes, brokenstaves, split boards and wire–therelay, sprawled frozen in stiff,

grotesque postures, the unsubtleshapes of death, the scattered,contorted, slashed bodies of nakedmen.

Some wisps of dust swirled pastlike animals sniffing about the feetof the bodies. A door on one of thesheds, its lock broken, swung looseon its hinges, banging in the wind.

I walked across the compoundand picked up a helmet which layhalf hidden in the litter. Its strapswere broken but they could beknotted together. I wondered if ithad been noticed by the slaves.

I had sought equipment, but I hadfound only a scabbard and a

damaged helmet, and soon thetarnsmen of Tharna would arrive.Using the Warrior's Pace, a slowjog that can be prolonged for hours,I left the Compound of the Mines.

I had only reached the shelter ofa line of trees when I saw, somethousand yards behind me,descending on the Compound of theMines, like clouds of wasps, thetarnsmen of Tharna.

It was in the vicinity of the Pillarof Exchanges, three days later, that Ifound the tarn. I had seen itsshadow and feared it was wild, andhad prepared to sell my life dearly,

but the great beast, my own plumedgiant, who may have haunted thePillar of Exchanges for weeks,settled on the plains no more thanthirty yards from me, its great wingsshaking, and stalked to my side.

It was for this reason that I hadreturned to the Pillar, hoping thatperhaps the monster might linger inits vicinity. There was good huntingnearby, and the ridges where I hadcarried the Tatrix afforded shelterfor its nest.

When it approached me andextended its head, I wondered ifwhat I had dared not hope might betrue, that the bird might have been

waiting for me to return.He offered no resistance, he

showed no anger, when I leaped tohis back and cried, as before, “One-strap!” at which signal, with a shrillcry and a mighty spring, thosegigantic wings cracked like whipsand beat their way aloft in the gloryof flight.

As we passed over the Pillar ofExchanges I remembered that it wasthere I had been betrayed by shewho was once Tatrix of Tharna. Iwondered what had been her fate. Iwondered too at her treachery, herstrange hatred of me, for somehowit seemed not to fit well with the

lonely girl on the ledge, who hadstood quietly gazing at the field oftalenders while a warrior hadgorged himself on the kill of histarn. Then, again, my memoryblackened with fu1ry at the thoughtof her imperious gesture, thatinsolent command, “Seize him!”

Whatever her fate, I insisted tomyself that it would have beenrichly deserved. Yet I found myselfhoping that perhaps she had notbeen destroyed. I wondered whatvengeance would have satisfied thehatred borne to Lara, the Tatrix, byDorna the Proud. I guessedunhappily that she might have had

Lara hurled into a pit of osts orwatched her boil alive in the fouloil of tharlarions. Perhaps shewould have been thrown naked intothe clutches of the insidious leechplants of Gor or have had her fed tothe giant urts in the dungeonsbeneath her own palace. I knew thehatred of men is but a feeble thingcompared to the hatred of women,and I wondered how much it wouldtake to slake the thirst forvengeance of such a woman asDorna the Proud. What would havebeen enough to satisfy her?

It was now the month of the

vernal equinox on Gor, calledEn'Kara, or the First Kara. The fullexpression is En'Kara-Lar-Torvis,which means, rather literally, TheFirst Turning of the Central Fire.Lar-Torvis is a Gorean expressionfor the sun. More commonly, thoughnever in the context of time, the sunis referred to a Tor-tu-Gor, or LightUpon the Home Stone. The month ofthe autumnal equinox is called fullySe'Kara-Lar-Torvis, but usuallysimply Se'Kara, The Second Kara,or the Second Turning.

As might be expected there arerelated expressions for the monthsof the solstices, En'Var-Lar-Torvis

and Se'Var-Lar-Torvis, or, againrather literally, The First Restingand the Second Resting of theCentral Fire. These however, likethe other expressions, usually occurin speech only as En'Var andSe'Var, or The First Resting andThe Second Resting.

Chronology, incidentally, is thedespair of scholars on Gor, for eachcity keeps track of time by virtue ofits own Administrator Lists; forexample, a year is referred to as theSecond Year when so-and-so wasAdministrator of the City. Onemight think that some stabilitywould be provided by the Initiates

who must keep a caldendar of theirfeasts and observances, but theInitiates of one city do not alwayscelebrate the same feast on the sameday as do those of another city. Ifthe High Initiate of Ar should eversucceed in extending his hegemonyover the High Initiates of rivalcities, a hegemony which he claimshe possesses already incidentally, aunified calendar might beintroduced. But so far there hasbeen no military victory of Ar overother cities and, accordingly, freeof the sword, the Initiates of eachcity regard themselves as supremewithin their own walls.

There are, however, some factorswhich tend to reduce thehopelessness of the situation. One isthe fairs at the Sardar Mountains,which occur four times a year andare numbered chronologically. Theother is that sometimes cities arewilling to add, in their records,beside their own dating, the datingof Ar, which is Gor's greatest city.

Chronology in Ar is figured,happily enough, not from itsAdministrator Lists, but from itsmythical foundings by the first manon Gor, a hero whom the Priest-Kings are said to have formed fromthe mud of the earth and the blood

of tarns. Times is reckoned'Constanta Ar', or “from thefounding of Ar.” The year,according to the calendar of Ar, if itis of interest, is 10,117. Actually Iwould suppose that Ar may not be athird of that age. Its Home Stone,however, which I have seen, atteststo a considerable antiquity.

Some four days after I hadrecovered the tarn, we sighted inthe distance the Sardar Mountains.Had I possessed a Gorean compass,its needle would have pointedinvariably to those mountains, asthough to indicate the home of the

Priest-Kings. Before themo1untains, in a panorama of silkand flags, I saw the pavilions of theFair of En'Kara, or the Fair of theFirst Turning.

I wheeled the tarm in the sky, notwanting to approach more closelyyet. I looked upon those mountainswhich I now saw for the first time.A chill not of the high winds whichbuffeted me on tarnback now creptinto my body.

The mountains of the Sardarwere not such a vast, magnificentrange as the rugged scarlet crags ofthe Voltai, that almost impenetrablemountains vastness in which I had

once been the prisoner of theoutlaw Ubar, Marlenus of Ar,ambitious and warlike father of thefierce and beautiful Talena, shewhom I loved, whom I had carriedon tarnback to ko-ro-ba yearsbefore to be my Free Companion.No, the Sardar Range was not thesuperb natural wilderness that wasthe Voltai. Its peaks did not scornthe plains below. Its heights did nottaunt the sky nor, in the cold of thenight, defy the stars. In it would notbe heard the cry of tarns and theroar of larls. It was inferior to theVoltai in both dimension andgrandeur. Yet when I looked upon

it, more than the gloriously savage,larl-haunted Voltai, I feared it.

I took the tarn closer.The mountains before me were

black, except for the high peaks andpasses, which showed whitepatches and threads of cold,gleaming snow. I looked for thegreen of vegetation on the lowerslopes and saw none. In the SardarRange nothing grew.

There seemed to be a menace,and intangible fearful effect aboutthose angular shapes in the distance.I took the tarn as high as I could,until his wings beat franticallyagainst the thin air, but could see

nothing in the Sardar Mountains thatmight be the habitation of Priest-Kings.

I wondered–an eerie suspicionthat suddenly swept through me–ifthe Sardar Mountains might actuallybe empty–if there might be nothing,simply nothing but the wind and thesnow in those gloomy mountains,and if me worshipped,unknowingly, nothing. What of theinterminable prayers of the Initiates,the sacrifices, the observances, therituals, the innumerable shrines,altars and temples to the Priest-Kings? Could it be that the smoke ofthe burning sacrifices, the fragrance

of the incense, the mumbling of theInitiates, their prostrations andgrovellings were all addressed tonothing but the empty peaks of theSardar, to the snow, and the coldand the wind that howled amongthose black crags?

Suddenly the tarn screamed andshuddered in the air!

The thought of the emptiness ofthe Sardar Range was banishedfrom my mind, for here wasevidence of the Priest-Kings!

It was almost as if the bird hadbeen seized by an invisible fist.

I could sense nothing.The bird's eyes, perhaps for the

first time in his life, were filledwith terror, blind uncomprehendingterror.

I could see nothing.Protesting, screaming, the great

bird began to reel helplesslydownward. Its vast wings, futilely,wildly, struck out, uncoordinatedand frenetic, like the limbs of adrowning swimmer. It seemed thevery air itself refused any longer tobear his weight. In drunken, dizzycircles, screaming, bewildered,helpless, the bird fell, while I, formy life, desperately clung to thethick quills of his neck.

When we had reached an altitude

of perhaps a hundred yards from theground, as suddenly as it had come,the strange effect passed. The birdregained his strength and senses,except for the fact that it remainedagitated, a1lmost unmanageable.

Then to my wonder, the valiantcreature began once more to climb,determined to regain the altitude hehad lost.

Again and again he tried to riseand again and again he was forceddown.

Through the beast's back I couldfeel the straining of his muscles,sense the mad pounding of thatunconquerable heart. But each time

we attained a certain altitude, theeyes of the tarn would seem to losetheir focus, and the unerring balanceand coordination of the sablemonster would be disrupted. It wasno longer frightened, only angry.Once again it would attempt toclimb, ever faster, ever morefiercely.

Then mercifully I called “Four-strap!”

I feared the courageous beastwould kill himself beforesurrendering to the unseen force thatblocked his path.

Unwillingly the bird alighted onthe grassy plains about a league

from the Fair of En'Kara. I thoughtthose great eyes looked at mereproachfully. Why did I not leapagain to his back and once more cry“One-strap!” Why did we not tryonce more?

I slapped his beak affectionatelyand, digging among his neckfeathers with my fingers, scratchedout some of the lice, about the sizeof marbles, that infest wild tarns. Islapped them on his long tongue.After a moment of impatient,feather-ruffling protest, the tarnsuccumbed, if reluctantly, to thisdelicacy, and the parasitesdisappeared into the curved

scimitar of a beak.What had happened would have

been regarded by the untrainedGorean mind, particularly that of alow caste individual, as evidenceof some supernatural force, as somemagical effect of the will of thePriest-Kings. I myself did notwillingly entertain such hypotheses.

The tarn had struck a field ofsome sort, which perhaps acted onthe mechanism of the inner ear,resulting in the loss of balance andcoordination. A similar device, Isupposed, might prevent the entry ofhigh tharlarions, the saddle lizardsof Gor, into the mountains. In spite

of myself I admired the Priest-Kings. I knew now that it was true,what I had been told, that those whoentered the mountains would do soon foot.

I regretted having to leave thetarn, but he could not accompanyme.

I talked to him for perhaps anhour, a foolish thing to do perhaps,and then gave his beak a hardy slapand shoved it from me. I pointed outover the fields, away from themountains. “Tabuk!” I said.

The beast did not stir.“Tabuk!” I repeated.I think, though it may be absurd,

that the beast felt that he might havefailed me, that he had not carriedme into the mountains. I think, too,though it is perhaps still moreabsurd, that he knew that I wouldnot be waiting for him when hereturned from his hunt.

The great head moved quizzicallyand dipped to the ground, rubbingagainst my leg.

Had it failed me? Was I nowrejecting it?

“Go, Ubar of the Skies,” I said.“Go.”

When I had said Ubar of theSkies, the bird had lifted its head,now more than a yard above my

own. I had called him that when Irecognised him in the arena ofTharna, when we had been aloft asone creature in the sky.

The great bird stalked away fromme, about fifteen yards, and thenturned, looking at me again.

I gestured to the fields away fromthe mountains.

It shook its wings and screamed,and hurled itself against the wind. Iwatched it until, a tiny speck againstthe blue sky, it disappeared in thedistance.

I felt unaccountably sad, andturned to face the mountains of theSardar.

Before them, resting on thegrassy plains beneath, was the Fairof En'Kara.

I had not walked more than apasang when, from a cluster of treesto my right, on the other side of athin, swift stream that flowed fromthe Sardar, I heard the terrifiedscream of a girl.

Chapter Twenty-One:I BUY A GIRL

Out from my scabbard leaped thesword and I splashed across the

cold stream, making for the grove oftrees across the way.

Once more the terrified screamrang out.

Now I was among the trees,moving rapidly, but cautiously.

Then the smell of a cooking firecame to my nostrils. I heard the humof unhurried conversation. Throughthe trees I could see tent canvas, atharlarion wagon, the strap-mastersunharnessing a brace of lowtharlarions, the huge, herbivorousdraft lizards of Gor. For all I couldtell neither of them had heard thescream, or paid it any attention.

I slowed to a walk and entered

the clearing among the tents. One ortwo guardsmen eyed me curiously.One arose and went to check thewoods behind me, to see if I werealone. I glanced about myself. Itwas a peaceful scene, the cookingfires, the domed tents, theunharnessing of the animals, one Iremembered from the caravan ofMintar, of the Merchant Caste. Butthis was a small camp, not like thepasangs of wagons that constitutedthe entourage of the wealthy Mintar.I heard the scream once again.

I saw that the cover of thetharlarion wagon, which had beenrolled back, was of blue and yellow

silk.It was the camp of a slaver.I thrust my sword back in the

scabbard and took off my helmet.“Tal,” I said to two guardsmen

who crouched at the side of a fire,playing Stones, a guessing game inwhich one person must guesswhether the number of stones heldin the fist of another is odd or even.

“Tal,” said one guardsman. Theother, attempting to guess thestones, did not even look up.

I walked between the tents andsaw the girl.

She was a blond girl with goldenhair that fell behind her to the small

of her back. Her eyes were blue.She was of dazzling beauty. Shetrembled like a frantic animal. Sheknelt, her back against a slender,white birchlike tree to which shewas chained naked. Her hands werejoined over her head and behind thetree by slave bracelets. Her ankleswere similarly fastened by a shortslave chain which encircled thetree.

Her eyes had turned to me,begging, pleading, as though I mightdeliver her from her predicament,but when she looked upon me, thosefear-glazed eyes, if possible,seemed even more terrified. She

uttered a hopeless cry. She began toshake uncontrollably and her headfell forward in despair.

I gathered she had taken me foranother slaver.

There was an iron brazier neart1he tree, which was filled withglowing coals. I could feel its heatten yards away. From the brazierprotruded the handles of three irons.

There was a man beside theirons, stripped to the waist, wearingthick leather gloves, one of theminions of the slaver. He was agrizzled man, rather heavy,sweating, blind in one eye. Heregarded me without too much

interest, as he waited for the ironsto heat.

I noted the thigh of the girl.It had not yet been branded.When an individual captures a

girl for his own uses, he does notalways mark her, though it iscommonly done. On the other hand,the professional slaver, as abusiness practice, almost alwaysbrands his chattels, and it is seldomthat an unbranded girl ascends theblock.

The brand is to be distinguishedfrom the collar, though both are adesignation of slavery. The primarysignificance of the collar is that it

identifies the master and his city.The collar of a given girl may bechanged countless times, but thebrand continues throughout tobespeak her status. The brand isnormally concealed by the brieflyskirted slave livery of Gor but, ofcourse, when the camisk is worn, itis always clearly visible, remindingthe girl and others of her station.

The brand itself, in the case ofgirls, is a rather graceful mark,being the initial letter of the Goreanexpression for slave in cursivescript. If a male is branded, thesame initial is used, but rendered ina block letter.

Noting my interest in the girl, theman beside the irons went to herside, and, taking her by the hair,threw back her face for myinspection. “She's a beauty, isn'tshe?” he said.

I nodded agreement.I wondered why those piteous

eyes looked upon me with suchfear.

“Perhaps you want to buy her?”asked the man.

“No,” I said.The heavy-set man winked his

sightless eye in my direction. Hisvoice lowered to a conspiratorialwhisper. “She's not trained,” he

said. “And she is as hard to manageas a sleen.”

I smiled.“But,” said the man, “the iron

will take that out of her.” Iwondered if it would.

He withdrew one of the ironsfrom the fire. It glowed a fiery red.

At the sight of the glowing metalthe girl uncontrollably screamed,pulling at the slave bracelets, at theshackles that held her to the tree.

The heavy-set man thrust the ironback into the brazier.

“She's a loud one,” he said,shamefacedly. Then, with a shrug inmy direction, as if to ask my

pardon, he went to the girl and tooka handful of her long hair. Hewadded it into a small, tight balland suddenly shoved it in hermouth. It immediately expanded,and before she could spit the hairout, he had looped more of her hairabout her head and tied it, in such away as to keep the expanded ball ofhair in her mouth. The girl chokedsilently, trying to spit the ball ofhair from her mouth, but of courseshe could not. It was an old slaver'strick. I knew tarnsmen sometimessilenced their captives in the sameway.

“Sorry, Sweet Wench,” said the

grizzled man, giving the girl's heada friendly shake, “but we don't wantTargo coming over here with hiswhip and beating the tharlarion oilout of us both, do we?”

Sobbing silently the girl's headfell down again in her breast.

The grizzled man absent-mindedly hummed a caravan tunewhile waiting for the irons to heat.

My emotions were mixed. I hadrushed to the scene to free the girl,to protect her. Yet when I arrived, Ifound that she was merely a slave,and that her owner, quite properlyfrom Gor's point of view, wasattending to the routine business of

marking his property. Had Iattempted to free her, it would havebeen as much an act of theft as if Ihad driven off the tharlarion wagon.

Moreover, these men bore thegirl no animosity. To them she wasjust another wench on her chain,perhaps more poorly trained andless docile than most. If anythingthey were merely impatient withher, and thought she made too muchof a fuss about things. They wouldnot comprehend her feelings, herhumiliation, her shame, her terror.

I supposed even other girls, theother freight of the caravan, mightthink she made a bit too much of

things. After all, did a slave notexpect the iron? And the whip?

I saw the other girls some thirtyyards away, in camisks, thecheapest of slave garments,laughing and talking to one another,disporting themselves aspleasurably as free maidens mighthave. I almost did not notice thechain that lay hidden in the grass. Itpassed through the ankle ring ofeach and, at each end, encircled atree to which it was padlocked.

The irons would soon be hot.The girl before me, so helpless in

her chains, would soon be marked.I have wondered upon occasion

why brands are used on Goreanslaves. Surely Goreans have at theirdisposal means for indelibly butpainlessly marking the human body.My conjecture, confirmed to someextent by the speculations of theOlder Tarl, who had taught me thecraft of arms in Ko-ro-ba years ago,is that the brand is used primarily,oddly enough, because of itsreputed psychological effect.

In theory, if not in practice, whenthe girl finds herself branded likean animal, finds her fair skinmarked by the iron of a master, shecannot fail, somehow, in thedeepest levels of her thought, to

regard herself as something whichis owned, as mere property, assomething belonging to the brutewho has put the burning iron to herthigh.

Most simply the brand issupposed to convince the girl thatshe is truly owned; it is supposed tomake her feel owned. When the ironis pulled away and she knows thepain and degradation and smells theodour of her burned flesh, she issupposed to tell herself,understanding its full and terribleimport, I AM HIS.

Actually I suppose the effect ofthe brand depends greatly on the

girl. In many girls I would supposethe brand has little effect besidescontributing to their shame, theirmisery and humiliation. With othergirls it might well increase theirintractability, their hostility. On theother hand, I have known of severalcases in which a proud, insolentwoman, even one of greatintelligence, who resisted a masterto the very touch of the iron, oncebranded became instantly apassionate and obedient PleasureSlave.

But all in all I do not know if thebrand is used primarily for itspsychological effect or not. Perhaps

it is merely a device for merchantswho must have some such means fortracing runaway slaves, whichwould otherwise constitute a costlyhazard to their trade. Sometimes Ithink the iron is simply ananachronistic survival from a moretechnologically backward age.

One thing was clear. The poorcreature before me did not wish theiron.

I felt sorry for her.The minion of the slaver

withdrew another iron from the fire.His one eye regarded itappraisingly. It was white hot. Hewas satisfied.

The girl shrank against the tree,her back against its white, roughbark. Her wrists and ankles pulledat the chains that fastened thembehind the tree. Her breathing wasspasmodic; she trembled. Therewas terror in her blue eyes. Shewhimpered. Any other sound shemight have uttered was stifled bythe gag of hair.

The slaver's minion locked hisleft arm about her right thigh,holding it motionless. “Don'twiggle, Sweet Wench,” he said, notwithout kindness. “You might spoilthe brand.” He spoke to the girlsoothingly, as if to calm her. “You

want a clean, pretty brand, don'tyou? It will improve your price andyou'll get a better master.”

The iron was now poised for thesudden, firm imprint.

I noted that some of the delicategolden hair on her thigh, from thevery proximity of the iron, curledand blackened.

She closed her eyes and tensedherself for the sudden, inevitable,searing flash of pain.

“Don't brand her,” I said.The man looked up, puzzled. The

terror-filled eyes of the girl opened,regarded me questioningly.

“Why not?” asked the man.

“I'll buy her,” I said.The minion of the slaver stood up

and regarded me curiously. Heturned to the domed tents. “Targo!”he called. Then he thrust the ironback into the brazier. The girl'sbody sagged in the chains. She hadfainted.

From among the domed tents,wearing a swirling robe of broadlystriped blue and yellow silk, with aheadband of the same material,there approached a short, fat man,Targo the Slaver, he who wasmaster of this small caravan. Targowore purple sandals, the straps ofwhich were set with pearls. His

thick fingers were covered withrings, which glittered as he movedhis hands. About his neck, in themanner of a steward, he wore a setof pierced coins threaded on asilver wire. From the lobe of eachsmall, round ear there hung anenormous earring, a sapphirependant on a golden stalk. His bodyhad been recently oiled, and Igathered he may have been washedin his tent but moments ago, apleasure of which caravan mastersare fond at the end of a day's hot,dusty trek. His hair, long and blackbeneath the band of blue and yellowsilk, was combed and glossy. It

reminded me of the groomed,shining pelt of a pet urt.

“Good day, Master,” smiledTargo, bowing as well as he couldfrom the waist, hastily takingaccount of the unlikely stranger whostood before him. Then he turned tothe man who watched the irons. Hisvoice was now sharp andunpleasant. “What's going on here?”

The grizzled fellow pointed tome. “He doesn't want me to markthe girl,” he said.

Targo looked at me, not quiteunderstanding. “But why?” heasked.

I felt foolish. What could I tell

this merchant, this specialist in thetraffic of flesh, this businessmanwho stood well within the ancienttraditions and practices of histrade? Could I tell him that I did notwish the girl to be hurt? He wouldhave thought me a mad man. Yetwhat other reason was there?

Feeling stupid, I told him thetruth. “I do not wish the see he1rhurt.”

Targo and the grizzled master ofthe irons exchanged glances.

“But she is only a slave,” saidTargo.

“I know,” I said.The grizzled man spoke up. “He

said he'd buy her.”“Ah!” said Targo, and his tiny

eyes gleamed. “That's different.”Then an expression of great sadnesstransformed his fat ball of a face.“But it is sad she is so expensive.”

“I have no money,” I said.Targo stared at me,

uncomprehendingly. His fat smallbody contracted like a pudgy fist.He was angry. He turned to thegrizzled man, and looked no more atme. “Brand the girl,” he said.

The grizzled man knelt to pullone of the irons from the brazier.

My sword pushed a quarter of aninch into the belly of the merchant.

“Don't brand the girl,” saidTargo.

Obediently the man thrust the ironback into the fire. He noted that mysword was at the belly of hismaster, but did not seem undulydisturbed. “Shall I call theguardsmen?” he asked.

“I doubt they could arrive intime,” I said evenly.

“Don't call the guardsmen,” saidTargo, who was now sweating.

“I have no money,” I said, “but Ihave this scabbard.”

Targo's eyes darted to thescabbard and moved from oneemerald to the other. His lips

moved silently. Six of them hecounted.

“Perhaps,” said Targo, “we canmake an arrangement.”

I resheathed the sword.Targo spoke sharply to the

grizzled man. “Awaken the slave.”Grumbling, the man went to fetch

a leather bucket of water from thesmall stream near the camp. Targoand I regarded one another until theman returned, the leather buckethung over his shoulder by its straps.

He hurled the bucket of coldwater, from the melted snow in theSardar, on the chained girl, whosputtering and shivering opened her

eyes.Targo, with his short, rolling

steps, went to the girl and placedone thumb, wearing a large rubyring, under her chin, pushing herhead up.

“A true beauty,” said Targo.“And perfectly trained for months inthe slave pens of Ar.”

Behind Targo I could see thegrizzled man shaking his headnegatively.

“And,” said Targo, “she is eagerto please.”

Behind him the man winked hissightless eye and stifled a snort.

“As gentle as a dove, as docile

as a kitten,” continued Targo.I slipped the blade of my sword

between the girl's cheek and thehair that was bound across hermouth. I moved it, and the hair, aslightly as though it had been airfloated from the blade.

The girl fixed her eyes on Targo.“You fat, filthy urt!” she hissed.

“Quiet, She-Tharlarion!” he said.“I don't think she's worth very

much,” I said.“Oh, Master,” c1ried Targo,

swirling his robes in disbelief that Icould have uttered such a thought. “Ipaid a hundred silver tarn disks forher myself!”

Behind Targo the grizzled manquickly held up his fingers, openingand closing them five times.

“I doubt,” I said to Targo, “thatshe is worth more than fifty.”

Targo seemed stunned. Helooked at me with a new respect.Perhaps I had once been in thetrade? Actually, fifty silver tarndisks was an extremely high price,and indicated the girl was probablyof high caste as well as extremelybeautiful. An ordinary girl, of lowcaste, comely but untrained, might,depending on the market, sell for aslittle as five or as many as thirtytarn disks.

“I will give you two of the stonesfrom this scabbard for her,” I said.Actually I had no idea of the valueof the stones, and didn't know if theoffer was a sensible one or not. Inannoyance, looking over the rings ofTargo and the sapphires which hungfrom his ears, I knew he would be amuch better judge of their valuethan I.

“Preposterous!” said Targo,shaking his head vehemently.

I gathered that he was notbluffing, for how could he haveknown that I did not know the truevalue of the stones? How could heknow that I had not purchased them

and had them set in the scabbardmyself?

“You drive a hard bargain,” Isaid. “Four -”

“May I see the scabbard,Warrior?” he asked.

“Surely,” I said, and removed itfrom the belt and handed it to him.The sword itself I retained, knottingthe scabbard straps and thrusting theblade into them.

Targo gazed at the stonesappreciatively. “Not bad,” said he,“but not enough -”

I pretended to impatience. “Thenshow me your other girls,” I said.

I could see that this did not

please Targo, for apparently hewished to rid his chain of the blondgirl. Perhaps she was atroublemaker, or was dangerous toretain for some other reason.

“Show him the others,” said thegrizzled man. “This one will noteven say 'Buy Me, Master'.”

Targo threw a violent look at thegrizzled man, who smiling tohimself knelt to supervise the ironsin the brazier.

Angrily Targo led the way to thegrassy clearing among the trees.

He clapped his hands sharplytwice, and there was a scurryingand tumbling of bodies and the

sound of the long chain slippingthrough the ankle rings. The girlsnow knelt, each in the position ofthe Pleasure Slave, in their camiskson the grass, in a line between thetwo trees to which their chain wasfastened. As I passed each sheboldly raised her eyes to mine andsaid, “Buy Me, Master”.

Many of them were beauties, andI thought that the chain, thoughsmall, was a rich one, and thatalmost any man might find thereon awoman to his taste. They werevital, splendid creatures, many ofthem undoubtedly exquisitelytrained to delight the senses of a

master. And many of the cities ofGor were represented on that chain,sometimes spoken of as the Slaver'sNecklace–there was a blond girlfrom lofty Thentis, a dark-skinnedgirl with black hair that fell to herankles from the desert city of Tor,girls from the miserable streets ofPort Kar in the delta of the Vosk,girls even from the high cylinders ofGreat Ar itself. I wondered howmany of them were bred slaves, andhow many had o1nce been free.

And as I paused before eachbeauty in that chain and met hereyes and heard her words, “BuyMe, Master,” I asked myself why I

should not buy her, why I should notfree her instead of the other girl.Were these marvelous creatures,each of whom already wore thegraceful brand of the slave girl, anythe less worthy than she?

“No,” I said to Targo. “I will notbuy any of these.”

To my surprise a sigh ofdisappointment, even of keenfrustration, coursed down the chain.Two of the girls, she from Tor andone of the girls from Ar wept, theirheads buried in their hands. Iwished I had not looked at them.

Upon reflection it seemed to meclear that the chain must, in the end,

be a lonely place for a girl, filledwith life, knowing that he brand hasdestined her for love, that each ofthem must long for a man to careenough for them to buy them, thateach must long to follow a manhome to his compartments, wearinghis collar and chains, where theywill learn his strength and his heartand will be taught the delights ofsubmission. Better the arms of amaster than the cold steel of theankle ring.

When they had said to me, “BuyMe, Master,” it had not been simplya ritual phrase. They had wanted tobe sold to me–or I supposed, to any

man who would take them from thehated chain of Targo.

Targo seemed relieved.Clutching me by the elbow, heguided me back to the tree wherethe blond girl knelt chained.

As I looked at her I asked myselfwhy she, and why not another, orwhy any? What would it matter ifher thigh, too, should wear thatgraceful brand? I supposed it wasmostly the institution of slavery Iobjected to, and that that institutionwas not altered if I should, as an actof foolish sentiment, free one girl.She could not go with me into theSardar, of course, and when I

abandoned her, she, alone andunprotected, would soon fall preyto a beast or find herself on yetanother slaver's chain. Yes, I toldmyself, it was foolish.

“I have decided not to buy her,” Isaid.

Then, strangely, the girl's headlifted and she looked into my eyes.She tried to smile. The words weresoft, but clearly and unmistakablyspoken, “Buy me, Master”.

“Ai!” cried the grizzled man, andeven Targo the Slaver lookedbaffled.

It had been the first time the girlhad uttered the ritual phrase.

I looked upon her, and saw thatshe was indeed beautiful, butmostly I saw that her eyes pleadedwith mine. As I saw that, myrational resolve to abandon herdissipated, and I yielded, as Isometimes had in the past, to an actof sentiment.

“Take the scabbard,” I said toTargo. “I will buy her.”

“And the helmet!” said Targo.“Agreed,” I said.He seized the scabbard and the

delight with which he clutched ittold me that I had been, in his mind,sorely bested in the bargaining.Almost as an afterthought, he

plucked the helmet from my grasp.Both he and I knew it was almostworthless. I smiled ruefully tomyself. I was not much good in suchmatters, I supposed. But perhaps if Ihad better known the value of thestones?

The girl's eyes looked into mine,perhaps trying to read in my eyeswhat would be her fate, for her fatewas now in my hands, for I was hermaster.

Strange and cru1el are the waysof Gor, I thought, where six smallgreen stones, weighing perhapsscarcely two ounces, and adamaged helmet, could purchase a

human being.Targo and the grizzled man had

gone to the domed tent to fetch thekeys to the girl's chains. “What isyou name?” I asked the girl. “Aslave has no name,” she said. “Youmay give me one if you wish.”

On Gor a slave, not being legallya person, does not have a name inhis own right, just as, on earth, ourdomestic animals, not being personsbefore the law, do not have names.That name which he has had frombirth, by which he has calledhimself and knows himself, thatname which is so much a part of hisown conception of himself, of his

own true and most intimate identity,is suddenly gone.

“I gather you are not a bredslave,” I said.

She smiled and shook her head.“No,” she said.

“I am content,” I said, “to callyou by the name you bore when youwere free.”

“You are kind,” she said.“What was your name when you

were free?” I asked.“Lara,” she said.“Lara?” I asked.“Yes, Warrior,” she said. “Do

you not recognise me? I was Tatrixof Tharna.”

Chapter Twenty-Two:YELLOW CORDS

When the girl had been unchainedI lifted her in my arms and carriedher into one of the domed tents thathad been indicated to me.

There we would wait until hercollar had been engraved.

The floor of the tent was coveredwith thick, colourful rugs, and theinside was decorated withnumerous silken hangings. The lightwas furnished by a brass tharlarionoil lamp which swung on threechains. Cushions were scattered

about on the rugs. On one side ofthe tent there stood, with its straps,a Pleasure Rack.

I set the girl gently down.She looked at the rack.“First,” she said, “you will use

me, will you not?”“No,” I said.Then she knelt at my feet and put

her head to the rug, throwing herhair over her head, exposing herneck.

“Strike,” she said.I lifted her to her feet.“Didn't you buy me to destroy

me?” she asked, bewildered.“No,” I said. “Is that why you

said to me, 'Buy Me, Master'?”“I think so,” she said. “I think I

wanted you to kill me.” Then shelooked at me. “But I am not sure.”

“Why did you want to die?” Iasked.

“I who was Tatrix of Tharna,”she said, her eyes downcast, “didnot wish to live as a slave.”

“I will not kill you,” I said.“Give me your sword, Warrior,”

said she, “and I will throw myselfupon it.”

“No,” I said.“Ah yes,” she said, “a war1rior

is unwilling to have the blood of awoman on his sword.”

“You are young,” I said, “—beautiful and much alive. Put theCities of Dust from your mind.”

She laughed bitterly.“Why did you buy me?” she

asked. “Surely you wish to exactyour vengeance? Have youforgotten it was I who put you in ayoke, who whipped you, whocondemned you to the Amusements,who would have given you to thetarn? That it was I who betrayedyou and sent you to the mines ofTharna?”

“No,” I said, my eyes hard. “Ihave not forgotten.”

“Nor have I,” she said proudly,

making it clear that she would askme for nothing, and expect nothingof me, not even her life.

She stood bravely before me, yetso helpless, so much at my mercy.She might have stood thus before alarl in the Voltai. It was importantto her to die well. I admired her forthis, and found her in herhopelessness and defiance verybeautiful. Her lower lip trembled,ever so slightly. Almostimperceptibly she bit it to controlits movement, lest I should see. Ifound her magnificent. There was atiny drop of blood on her lips. Ishook my head to drive away the

thought that I wanted with mytongue to taste the blood on her lips,to kiss it from her mouth.

I said simply, “I do not wish toharm you.”

She looked at me, notcomprehending.

“Why did you buy me?” sheasked.

“I bought you to free you,” I said.“You did not then know I was

Tatrix of Tharna,” she sneered.“No,” I said.“Now that you know,” she asked,

“what will you do with me? Will itbe the oil of tharlarions? Will youthrow me to leech plants? Will you

stake me out for your tarn, use me tobait a sleen trap?”

I laughed at her, and she lookedat me, bewildered.

“Well?” she demanded.“You have given me much to

think about,” I admitted.“What will you do with me?” she

demanded.“I will free you,” I said.She stepped back in disbelief.

Her blue eyes seemed filled withwonder, and then they glistenedwith tears. Her shoulders shookwith sobs.

I put my arms around her slendershoulders and to my amazement she

who had worn the golden mask ofTharna, she who had been Tatrix ofthat great city, put her head upon mychest and wept. “No,” she said, “Iam worthy only of being a slave.”

“That is not true,” I said.“Remember once you told a man notto beat me. Remember once yousaid it was hard to be first inTharna. Remember that once youlooked upon a field of talenders andI was too dull and foolish to speakto you.”

She stood within my arms, hertear-filled eyes lifted to mine. “Whydid you return me to Tharna?” sheasked.

“To barter you for the freedom ofmy friends,” I said.

“And not for the silver andjewels of Tharna?” she asked.

“No,” I said.She stepped back. “Am I not

beautiful?”I regarded her.“You are indeed beautiful,” I

said. “—so beautiful that a thousandwarriors might give their lives tosee your face, so beautiful that ahundred cities might come to ruinon your behalf.”

“Would I not please–a beast?”she asked.

“It would be a victory for a man

to have you on his chain,” I said.“And yet, Warrior,” she said,

“you would not have kept me–youthreatened to put me on the blockand sell me to another.”

I was silent.“Why would you not keep me for

your own?”It was a bold question, strange to

come from this girl, once Tatrix ofTharna. “My love is Talena,” Isaid, “daughter of Marlenus whowas once Ubar of Ar.”

“A man may have many slavegirls,” she sniffed. “Surely in yourPleasure Gardens–wherever theymay be–many beautiful captives

wear your collar?”“No,” I said.“You are a strange warrior...”I shrugged.She stood boldly before me. “Do

you not want me?”“To see you is to want you,” I

admitted.“Then take me,” she challenged.

“I am yours.”I looked down at the rug,

wondering how to speak to her.“I don't understand,” I said.“Beasts are fools!” she

exclaimed.After this incredible outburst she

went to the side of the tent, and held

one of the hangings with her fist,thrusting her face against it.

She turned, still clutching thehanging in her fist. Her eyes werefilled with tears, but angry. “Youreturned me to Tharna,” she said,almost as if making an accusation.

“For the love of my friends,” Isaid.

“And honour!” she said.“Perhaps honour too,” I admitted.“I hate your honour!” she cried.“Some things,” I said, “are more

compelling than even the beauty ofa woman.”

“I hate you,” she said.“I'm sorry.”

Lara laughed, a small, sad laugh,and sat down on the rug at the sideof the tent, tucking her knees underher chin. “I don't hate you, youknow,” she said.

“I know.”“But I did–I did hate you. When I

was Tatrix of Tharna I hated you. Ihated you so.”

I was silent. I knew she hadspoken the truth. I had sensed thosevirulent feelings with which she hadunaccountably, to my mind regardedme.

“Do you know, Warrior,” sheasked, “why I–now only amiserable slave–hated you so?”

“No,” I said.“Because when I first saw you I

knew you from a thousandforbidden dreams.” Her eyes soughtme out. She spoke softly. “In thesedreams I had been proud in mypalace surrounded by my counciland warriors and then, shatteringthe roo1f like glass, a great tarndescended, bearing a helmetedwarrior. He scattered my counciland defeated my armies and tookme and stripped me and bound menaked across the saddle of his birdand then, with a great cry, hecarried me to his city, and there I,once proud Tatrix of Tharna, wore

his brand and collar.”“Do not fear these dreams,” I

said.“And in his city,” said the girl,

her eyes bright, “he put bells uponmy ankles and dressed me indancing silk. I had no choice youunderstand. I must do as he wished.And when I could dance no more hetook me in his arms and like a beastforced me to serve his pleasure.”

“It was a cruel dream,” I said.She laughed, and her face burned

with shame. “No,” she said, “it wasnot a cruel dream.”

“I don't understand,” I said.“In his arms I learned what

Tharna could not teach. In his armsI learned to share the flamingsplendour of his passion. In hisarms I learned mountains andflowers and the cry of wild tarnsand the touch of a larl's claw. Forthe first time in my life my senseswere kindled–for the first time Icould feel the movements ofclothing on my body, for the firsttime I noticed how an eye opensand what, truly, is the feel of ahand's touch–and I knew then that Iwas no more nor less than he or anyother living creature and I lovedhim!”

I said nothing.

“I would not,” she said, “havegiven up his collar for all the goldand silver in Tharna, not for all thestones of her grey walls.”

“But you were not free in thisdream,” I said.

“Was I free in Tharna?” sheasked.

I stared down at the intricatepattern on the rug, not speaking.

“Of course,” she said, “as onewho wore the mask of Tharna I putthis dream from me. I hated it. Itterrified me. It suggested to me thatI, even the Tatrix, might share theunworthy nature of the beast.” Shesmiled. “When I saw you, Warrior,

I thought that you might be thewarrior of this dream. So it was Ihated you and wanted to destroyyou because you threatened me andall that I was, and at the same time Ihated you I feared you, and Idesired you.”

I looked up, surprised.“Yes,” she said. “I desired you.”

Her head fell and her voice becamealmost inaudible. “Though I wasTatrix of Tharna,” she said, “Iwanted to lie at your feet on thescarlet rug. I wanted to be boundwith yellow cords.”

I recalled that she had saidsomething of a rug and cords in the

council chamber of Tharna, whenshe had seemed consumed withrage, when it seemed she wanted tolash the flesh from my bones.

“What is the significance of therug and cords?” I asked.

“In ancient days, in Tharna,” saidLara, “things were different thanthey are today.”

And then, in the slaver's tent,Lara, who had been Tatrix ofTharna, told me something of thestrange history of her city. In thebeginning Tharna had been much asother cities of Gor, in which womenwere too little regarded andenjoyed too few rights. In those

days it had been a portion of theRites of Submission, as practiced inTharna, to strip and bind the captivewith yellow cords and place her ona scarlet rug, the yellow of the cordbeing symbolic of talenders, aflower often associated withfemi1nine love and beauty, thescarlet of the rug being symbolic ofblood, and perhaps of passion.

He who had captured the girlwould place his sword to her breastand utter the ritual phrases ofenslavement. They were the lastwords she would hear as a freewoman.

Weep, Free Maiden.

Remember your pride and weep.Remember your laughter and weep.Remember you were my enemy andweep.Now you are my helpless captive.Remember you stood against me.Now you lie at my feet.I have bound you with yellowcords.I have placed you on the scarlet rug.Thus by the laws of Tharna do Iclaim you.Remember you were free.Know now you are my slave.Weep, Slave Girl.

At this point the captor woulduntie the girl's ankles and complete

the rite. When she rose from the rugto follow him, she was, in his eyesand hers, a slave.

Over a period of time this cruelpractice fell into disuse and thewomen of Tharna came to be morereasonably and humanely regarded.Indeed, through their love andtenderness, they taught their captorsthat they, too, were worthy ofrespect and affection. And, ofcourse, as the captors camegradually to care for their slaves,the desire to subjugate them becameless, for few men long desire tosubjugate a creature for whom theygenuinely care, unless perhaps it be

they fear to lose her should she befree.

Yet as the status of womenbecame more ennobled and lessclearly defined the subtle tensionsof dominance and submission,instinctual throughout the animalworld, tended to assert themselves.

The balance of mutual regard isalways delicate and, statistically, itis improbable that it can long bemaintained throughout an entirepopulation. Accordingly, graduallyexploiting, perhaps unconsciously,the opportunities afforded by thetraining of children and theaffections of their men, the women

of Tharna improved their positionconsiderably over the generations,also adding to their social powerthe economic largesse of variousfunds and inheritances.

Eventually, largely via theconditioning of the young and thecontrol of education, thosesuperiorities which the femalenaturally possesses came to beenlarged on at the expense of thosepossessed by the male. And just asin our own world it is possible tocondition entire populations tobelieve what is, from the standpointof another population,incomprehensible and absurd, so in

Tharna both the men and the womencame eventually to believe themyths or the distortionsadvantageous to female dominance.Thus it was, gradually andunnoticed, that the gynocracy ofTharna came to be established, andhonoured with the full weight oftradition and custom, thoseinvisible bonds heavier than chainsbecause they are not understood toexist.

Yet this situation, socially viablethough it might be for generations,is not one truly productive of humanhappiness. Indeed, it is notaltogether clear that it is preferable

to the male dominated ethos of mostGorean cities, which, too, surelyhas its unfortunate side. In a citysuch as Tharna the men, taught toregard themselves as beasts, asinferior beings, seldom develop thefull respect for themselves essentialto true manhood. But even morestrangely the women of Tharna donot seem content under thegynocracy. Although they despisemen and congratulate themselves ontheir more lofty status it seems tome that they, too, fail to respectthemselves. Hating their men theyhate themselves.

I have wondered sometimes if a

man to be a man must not master awoman and if a woman to be awoman must not know herselfmastered. I have wondered howlong nature's laws, if laws they are,can be subverted in Tharna. I havesensed how a man in Tharna longsto take the mask from a woman, andI have suspected how much awoman longs for her mask to betaken. Should there ever be arevolution in the ways of Tharna Iwould pity her women–at least atfirst–for they would be the object ofthe pent-up frustrations ofgenerations. If the pendulum shouldswing in Tharna, it would swing

far. Perhaps even to the scarlet rugand yellow cords.

Outside the tent we heard Targo'svoice.

To my surprise Lara dropped toher knees, placing them in theposition of a Pleasure Slave, anddropped her head submissively.

Targo burst into the tent carryinga small bundle and approvinglynoted the girl's posture.

“Well, Master,” he said, “itseems with you she learns quickly.”He beamed up at me. “I havecleared my records. She is yours.”He thrust the bundle into my hands.It was a folded camisk, and in its

folds was a collar. “A token of myappreciation of your business,” saidTargo. “There will be no extracharge.”

I smiled to myself. Mostprofessional slavers would havefurnished far more. I noted thatTargo did not even furnish thecustomary slave livery of Gor butmerely a camisk, which had clearlybeen worn before.

Targo then dug into the pouchwhich he wore at his side and heldout two yellow cords, abouteighteen inches apiece. “I noted bythe blue helmet,” he said, “that youwere of Tharna.”

“No,” I said, “I am not ofTharna.”

“Ah well,” said Targo, “how isone to know?” He tossed the cordsto the rug before the girl.

“I have no more slave whips,”said Targo, shrugging his shoulderssadly, “but your sword belt will doas well.”

“I'm sure it will,” I said, handingback the collar and camisk.

Targo looked puzzled.“Bring her the clothing of a free

woman,” I said.Targo's mouth dropped open.“—of a free woman,” I repeated.Targo squinted at the Pleasure

Rack at the side of the tent, perhapslooking for perspiration stains onthe straps.

“Are you sure?” he asked.I laughed and spun the fat little

fellow about and, with one hand onthe collar of his robes and the otherhand firmly affixed south of thecollar, flung him stumbling towardthe exit of the tent.

He caught his balance there and,earrings swinging, turned to regardme as though I might have lost mysenses. “Perhaps Master is makinga mistake?” he suggested.

“Perhaps,” I admitted.“Where,” asked Targo, “in the

camp of a legitimate slaver do youexpect me to find clothing suitableto a free woman?”

I laughed, and Targo smiled andleft.

I wondered on how many nightsfree women, bound captives, hadbeen thrown to his feet to beassessed and purchased, how manyfree women had in his campexchanged their rich garments for acamisk and an ankle ring on hischain.

In a few moments Targostumbled back into the tent, his armsbulging with cloth. He threw itdown on the rug, puffing. “Take

your pick, Master,” he said, andbacked out of the tent,1 shaking hishead.

I smiled and looked on Lara.The girl had risen to her feet.To my surprise she went to the

tent flaps and closed them, tyingthem shut on the inside.

She turned to face me, breathless.She was very beautiful under the

lamp, against the rich hangings ofthe tent.

She picked up the two yellowcords and, holding them in herhands, knelt before me in theposition of the Pleasure Slave.

“I am going to free you,” I said.

Humbly she held the cords up forme to accept, her eyes bright,entreating, raised to mine.

“I am not of Tharna,” I said.“But I am,” she said.I saw that she knelt upon a scarlet

rug.“I am going to free you,” I said.“I am not yet free,” she said.I was silent.“Please,” she begged, “—

Master.”And so it was that I took the

cords from her hand, and in thesame night Lara who had once beenthe proud Tatrix of Tharna becameaccording to the ancient rites of her

city my slave girl–and a freewoman.

Chapter Twenty-Three:RETURN TO THARNA

Outside the camp of Targo, Laraand I climbed a small hill and stoodon its crest. I could see before me,some pasangs away, the pavilionsof the Fair of En'Kara, and beyondthose the looming ridges of theSardar, ominous, black, sheer.Beyond the Fair and before themountains, which rose suddenlyfrom the plains, I could see thetimber wall of black logs,

sharpened at the top, whichseparated the Fair from themountains.

Men seeking the mountains, mentired of life, young idealists,opportunists eager to learn thesecret of immortality in its recesses,would use the gate at the end of thecentral avenue of the Fair, a doublegate of black logs mounted on giantwooden hinges, a gate that wouldswing open from the centre,revealing the Sardar beyond.

Even as we stood on the hill Icould hear the slow ringing of aheavy, hollow tube of metal, whichbetokened that the black gate had

opened. The sad, slow soundreached the hillock on which westood.

Lara stood beside me, clad as afree woman but not in the Robes ofConcealment. She had shortenedand trimmed one of the graciousGorean garments, cutting it to thelength of her knees and cutting awaythe sleeves so that they fell only toher elbows. It was a bright yellowand she had belted it with a scarletsash. Her feet wore plain sandals ofred leather. About her shoulders, atmy suggestion, she had wrapped acloak of heavy wool. It was scarlet.I had thought she might require this

for warmth. I think she thought shemight require it to match her sash. Ismiled to myself. She was free.

I was pleased that she seemedhappy.

She had refused the customaryRobes of Concealment. Shemaintained that she would be moreof a hindrance to me so clad. I hadnot argued, for she was right. As Iwatched her yellow hair sweptbehind her in the wind and regardedthe joyful lineaments of her beauty,I wa1s glad that she had not chosen,whatever might be her reason, toclothe herself in the traditionalmanner.

Yet though I could not repress myadmiration of this girl and thetransformation which had beenwrought in her from the cold Tatrixof Tharna to the humiliated slave tothe glorious creature who nowstood beside me my thoughts weremostly in tha Sardar, for I knew thatI had not yet kept my appointmentwith the Priest-Kings.

I listened to the slow, gloomytolling of the hollow bar.

“Someone has entered themountains,” said Lara.

“Yes,” I said.“He will die,” she said.I nodded.

I had spoken to her of my work inthe mountains, of my destiny whichlay therein. She had said, simply, “Iwill go with you.”

She knew as well as I that thosewho entered the mountains did notreturn. She knew as well as I,perhaps better, the fearful power ofthe Priest-Kings.

Yet she had said she would comewith me.

“You are free,” I had said.“When I was your slave,” she

had said, “you could have orderedme to follow you. Now that I amfree I will accompany you of myown accord.”

I looked at the girl. How proudlyand yet how marvelously she stoodbeside me. I saw that she hadpicked a talender on the hill, andthat she had placed it in her hair.

I shook my head.Though the full force of my will

drove me to the mountains, thoughin the mountains the Priest-Kingswaited for me, I could not yet go. Itwas unthinkable that I should takethis girl into the Sardar to bedestroyed as I would be destroyed,that I should devastate this younglife so recently initiated into theglories of the senses, which had justawakened into the victories of life

and feeling.What could I balance against

her–my honour, my thirst forvengeance, my curiosity, myfrustration, my fury?

I put my arm about her shoulderand led her down from the hillock.

She looked at me questioningly.“The Priest-Kings must wait,” I

said.“What are you going to do?” she

asked.“Return you to the throne of

Tharna,” I said.She pulled away from me, her

eyes clouding with tears. I gatheredher to my arms and kissed her

gently.She looked up at me, her eyes

wet with tears.“Yes,” I said, “I wish it.”She put her head against my

shoulder.“Beautiful Lara,” I said, “forgive

me.” I held her more closely. “Icannot take you to the Sardar. Icannot leave you here. You wouldbe destroyed by beasts or returnedto slavery.”

“Must you return me to Tharna?”she asked. “I hate Tharna.”

“I have no city to which I mighttake you,” I said. “And I believeyou can make Tharna such that you

will hate it no longer.”“What must I do?” she asked.“That you must decide yourself,”

I said.I kissed her.Holding her head in my hands I

looked into her eyes.“Yes,” I said proudly, “you are

fit to rule.”I wiped the tears from her eyes.“No tears,” I said, “for you are

Tatrix of Tharna.”She looked up at me and smiled,

a sad smile. “Of course, Warrior,”she said, “there must be no tears–for I am Tatrix of Tharna and aTatrix does not cry.”

She pulled the talender from herhair.

I reached to her feet and replacedit.

“I love you,” she said.“It is hard to be first in Tharna,” I

said, and led her down the hillock,away from the Sardar Mountains.

The fires which had begun toburn in the Mines of Tharna had notbeen quenched. The revolt of theslaves had spread from the mines tothe Great Farms. Shackles had beenstruck off and weapons seized.Angry men, armed with whatevertools of destruction they might find,

prowled the land, evading thesorties of Tharna's soldiers, huntingfor granaries to rob, for buildings toburn, for slaves to free. From farmto farm spread the rebellion and theshipments to the city from the farmsbecame sporadic and then ceased.What the slaves could not use orhide, they cut down or burned.

Not more than two hours from thehillock where I had made thedecision to return Lara to her nativecity the tarn had found us, as I hadthought he would. As at the Pillar ofExchanges the bird had haunted thevicinity and now, for the secondtime, its patience was rewarded. It

lit some fifty yards from us and weran to its side, I first and Lara afterme, she still apprehensive of thebeast.

My pleasure was such that Ihugged the neck of that sablemonster.

Those round blazing eyesregarded me, those great wingslifted and shook, his beak was liftedto the sky and he screamed the shrillcry of the tarn.

Lara cried out in terror as themonster reached for me with hisbeak.

I did not move and that greatterrible beak closed gently on my

arm. Had the tarn wished, with awrench of its glorious head, it mighthave torn the limb from my body.Yet its touch was almost tender. Islapped its beak and tossed Lara toits broad back and leaped up besideher.

Again the indescribable thrillpossessed me and I think this timethat even Lara shared my feelings.“One-strap!” I cried, and the tarn'smonstrous frame addressed itselfonce more to the skies.

As we flew, many were thefields of charred Sa-Tarna we sawbelow us. The tarn's shadow glidedover the blackened frames of

buildings, over broken pens fromwhich livestock had been driven,over orchards that were now nomore than felled trees, their leavesand fruit brown and withered.

On the back of the tarn Lara weptto see the desolation that had cometo her country.

“It is cruel what they have done,”she said.

“It is also cruel what had beendone to them,” I said.

She was silent.The army of Tharna had struck

here and there, at reported hidingplaces of slaves, but almostinvariably they had found nothing.

Perhaps some broken untensils, theas1hes of campfires. The slaves,forewarned of their approach byother slaves or by impoverishedpeasants, supplanted by the GreatFarms, would have made good theirdeparture, only to strike whenready, when unexpected and instrength.

The sorties of tarnsmen weremore successful, but on the wholethe slave bands, now almostregiments, moved only at night andconcealed themselves during theday. In time it became dangerousfor the small cavalries of Tharna toassault them, to brave the storm of

missile weapons which would seemto rise almost from the very grounditself.

Often indeed ambushes were laidwherein a small band of slaveswould allow itself to be trailed intothe rocky passes of the ridgecountry about Tharna, where theirpursuers would be assailed byhidden cohorts; sometimes tarnsmenwould descend to capture a slaveonly to meet the arrows of ahundred men concealed in coveredpits.

Perhaps in time, however, theundisciplined but courageous bandsof slaves would have been

scattered and destroyed by the unitsof Tharna, save that the veryrevolution which had begun in themines and spread to the GreatFarms now flamed in the city itself.Not only slaves of the city raisedthe banner of defiance but men oflow caste, whose brothers orfriends had been sent to the minesor used in the Amusements, nowdared at last to seize the instrumentsof their trade and turn on guardsmenand soliders. It was said therebellion in the city was led by ashort, powerful man with blue eyesand short-cropped hair, formerly ofthe Caste of Metal Workers.

Certain portions of the city hadbeen burned to exterminate therebellious elements and this cruelact of repression had only ralliedconfused and undecided men to theside of the rebels. Now it was saidthat entire portions of the city werein rebel hands. The silver masks ofTharna, when they were able, hadescaped to the porions of the citystill in the command of the soldiers.Many were reported to cower in theconfines of the royal palace itself.The fate of those who had notescaped rebel hands was not clear.

It was late in the afternoon of thefifth day that we saw in the distance

the grey walls of Tharna. We werenot threatened nor investigated bypatrols. It was true that we couldsee tarnsmen and their mounts hereand there among the cylinders, butnone came to challenge us.

At several places in the city longropes of smoke spiraled upwardand then unravelled into vague, darkstrands.

Down below a door hung openon its hinges, and small isolatedfigures scurried in and out. Therewere no tharlarion wagons or linesof woodsmen or pedlars makingtheir way to or from the city.Outside the walls several small

buildings had been burned. On thewall itself over the gate in hugeletters there was scrawled thelegend 'Sa'ng-Fori', literally'Without Chains' but perhaps bettertranslated simply as 'Freedom' or'Liberty'.

We brought the tarn down on thewalls near the gate. I freed the bird.There was no tarn cot at hand inwhich to enclose him, andmoreover, even if there had been, Iwould not have trusted him to thetarn-keepers of Tharna. I did notknow who was and who was not inrebellion. Perhaps mostly I wantedthe bird to be free in case my hopes

met with disaster, in case the Tatrixand I were to perish in some backstreet of Tharna.

On the summit of the wall weencountered the crumpled form of afallen guardsman. It moved slightly.There was a small sound of pain.He had apparently been left fordead and was only now recoveringconsciousness. His grey garmentwith its scarlet strip of cloth on theshoulder was stained with blood. Iunbuckled the helmet strap andgently removed the helmet.

One side of the helmet had beencracked open, perhaps by the blowof an axe. The helmet straps, the

leather inside, and the blond hair ofthe soldier were soaked with hisblood. He was not much more thana boy.

As he felt the wind on the wallsreach his head he opened hisgreyish blue eyes. One handattempted to clutch his weapon butthe sheath had been emptied.

“Don't struggle,” I said to him,looking at the wound. The helmethad largely absorbed the blow butthe blade of the striking instrumenthad creased the skull, accountingfor the flow of blood. Most likelythe force of the blow had renderedhim unconscious and the blood had

suggested to his assailant that thejob was finished. His assailant hadapparently not been a warrior.

With a portion of Lara's cloak Ibound the wound. It was clean andnot deep.

“You'll be all right,” I said tohim.

His eyes looked from one of us tothe other. “Are you for the Tatrix?”he asked.

“Yes,” I said.“I fought for her,” said the boy,

lying back against my arm. “I didmy duty.”

I gathered that he had not enjoyedthe performance of his duty, and that

perhaps his heart lay with therebels, but the pride of his caste hadkept him at his post. Even in hisyouth he had the blind loyalty of thewarrior, a loyalty which I respectedand which was perhaps no moreblind than some I myself had felt.Such men made fearsomeantagonists, eben though theirswords might be pledged to themost despicable of causes.

“You did not fight for yourTatrix,” I said evenly.

The young warrior started in myarms. “I did,” he cried.

“No,” I said, “you fought forDorna the Proud, pretender to the

throne of Tharna–a usurper andtraitress.”

The eyes of the warrior widenedas they regarded us.

“Here,” I said, gesturing to thebeautiful girl at my side, “is Lara,the true Tatrix of Tharna.”

“Yes, brave Guardsman,” saidthe girl, placing her hand gently onhis forehead as though to soothehim, “I am Lara.”

The guardsman struggled in myarms, and then fell back, shutting hiseyes with pain.

“Lara,” he said, through closedlids, “was carried away by thetarnsmen in the Amusements.”

“I am he,” I said.The greyish blue eyes slowly

opened and gazed at my face for along time, and gradually recognitiontransformed the features of theyoung guardsman. “Yes,” said he, “Iremember.”

“The tarnsman,” said Lara,speaking softly, “returned me to thePillar of Exchanges. There I wasseized by Dorna the Proud andThorn, her accomplice, and soldinto slavery. The tarnsman freed meand has now returned me to mypeople.”

“I fought for Dorna the Proud,”said the boy. His greyish blue eyes

filled with tears. “Forgive me, trueTatrix of Tharna,” he begged. Andhad it not been forbidden that he, aman of Tharna should touch her, awoman of Tharna, I think he wouldhave reached his hand toward her.

To his wonder Lara took his handin hers. “You did well,” she said. “Iam proud of you, my guardsman1.”

The boy closed his eyes and hisbody relaxed in my arms.

Lara looked at me, her eyesfrightened.

“No,” I said, “he is not dead. Heis just young and he has lost muchblood.”

“Look!” cried the girl, pointing

down the length of the wall.Some six shapes, grey, carrying

spears and shields were movingrapidly in my direction.

“Guardsmen,” I said, drawing mysword.

Suddenly I saw the shields shift,facing us obliquely, and saw theright arms raise, spears high, withno change in the rapid pace of themen. In another dozen steps the sixspears would fly hurled from thatswift even pace.

Losing not a moment I thrust mysword into my belt and seized Laraby the waist. As she protested Iturned and forced her to run at my

side.“Wait!” she pleaded. “I will

speak to them!”I swept her to my arms and ran.No sooner had we reached the

spiraling stone stairwell which leddown from the wall than the sixspears, their points describing acircle of perhaps a yard indiameter, struck the wall over ourhead with a splintering of rock.

Once we reached the bottom ofthe wall we kept close to its baseso as not to afford a target forfurther spear play. On the otherhand I did not believe theguardsmen would cast their

weapons from the wall. If theymissed, or if they did not, it wouldnecessitate descending from thewall to retrieve the weapons. It wasunlikely a small party like thatabove would freely lose the heightof the wall to pursue two rebels.

We began to work our tortuousway through the grim, bloodstainedstreets of Tharna. Some of thebuildings had been destroyed.Shops had been boarded up. Litterwas everywhere. Rubbish burned inthe gutters. Largely the streets weredeserted save that here and therelay a body, sometimes that of a

warrior of Tharna, more often oneof its grey-clad citizens. On many ofthe walls the legend 'Sa'ng-Fori'could be read.

On occasion terrified eyesscrutinised us fearfully from behindthe shutters of windows. I suspectedthere was not a door in Tharna butwas not barred that day.

“Halt!” cried a voice, and westopped.

From in front of us and behind usa group of men had seemed tomaterialise. Several of them heldcrossbows; at least four others hadspears poised; some boastedswords; but many of them carried

nothing more than a chain or asharpened pole.

“Rebels!” said Lara.“Yes,” I said.We could read the sullen

defiance, the resolve, the capacityto kill in those eyes, bloodshot withloss of sleep, the desperate carriageof those grey-clad bodies, hungryand vicious with the strain of streetfighting. There were wolves in thestreets of Tharna.

I slowly drew my sword, andthrust the girl to the side of thestreet against the wall.

One of the men laughed.I too smiled for resistance was

useless, yet I knew that I wouldresist, that I would not be disarmeduntil I lay dead on the stones of thestreet.

What of Lara?What would be her fate at1 the

hands of this pack of maddened,desperate men? I regarded myragged foes, some of whom hadbeen wounded. They were filthy,savage, exhausted, angry, perhapsstarving. She would probably beslain against the wall by which shestood. It would be brutal but quick,on the whole merciful.

The spear arms drew back, thecrossbows leveled. Chains were

grasped more firmly; the fewswords lifted toward me; even thesharpened poles inclined towardmy breast. “Tarl of Ko-ro-ba!”cried a voice, and I saw a smallman, thin with a wisp of sandy hairacross his forehead, press throughthe ragged band of rebels thatconfronted us.

It was he who had been first onthe chain in the mines, he who hadof necessity been first to climb theshaft from the slave kennel tofreedom.

His face was transfigured withjoy and he rushed forward andembraced me.

“This is he!” the man cried. “Tarlof Ko-ro-ba!”

At this point, to my wonder, theragged band lifted their weaponsand uttered a wild cheer. I wasswept from my feet and thrown totheir shoulders. I was carriedthrough the streets and others of therebels, appearing from doorwaysand windows, almost from the verystones of the street, joined whatturned into a procession of triumph.

The voices of these haggard buttransformed men began to sing. Irecognised the tune. It was aploughing song I had first heardfrom the peasant in the mines. It had

become the anthem of therevolution.

Lara, as mystified as I, ran alongwith the men, staying as close to meas the jostling crowds permitted.

Thus borne aloft, from street tostreet, in the midst of joyousshouting, weapons raised on allsides in salute, my ears ringing withthe ploughing song, once a song ofthe freeholds of Tharna, long sincesupplanted by the Great Farms, Ifound myself brought to that fatefulKal-da shop I remembered so well,where I had dined in Tharna andhad awakened to the treachery ofOst. It had become a headquarters

of the revolution, perhaps becausemen of Tharna recalled that it wasthere they had learned to sing.

There, standing before the lowdoorway, I looked once more uponthe squat, powerful figure of Kron,of the Caste of Metal Workers. Hisgreat hammer was slung from hisbelt and his blue eyes glistenedwith happiness. The huge, scarredhands of a metal worker were heldout to me.

Beside him, to my joy, I saw theimpudent features of Andreas, thatsweep of black hair almostobliterating his forehead. BehindAndreas, in the dress of a free

woman, unveiled, her throat nolonger encircled by the collar of astate slave, I saw the breathless,radiant Linna of Tharna.

Andreas bounded past the men atthe door and rushed to me. Heseized me by the hands and draggedme to the street, roughly grapplingmy shoulders and laughing with joy.

“Welcome to Tharna!” said he.“Welcome to Tharna!”

“Yes,” said Kron, only a stepbehind him, seizing my arm.“Welcome to Tharna.”

Chapter Twenty-Four:THE BARRICADE

I ducked my head and shovedopen the heavy wooden door of theKal-da shop. The sign KAL-DASOLD HERE had been repainted inbright letters. Also, smeared acrossthe letters, written with a finger,was the defiant rallying call of therebellion–'Sa'ng-Fori'.

I descended the low, wide stepsto the interior. This time the shopwas crowded. It was hard to seewhere to step. It was wild andnoisy. It might have been a PagaTavern of Ko-ro-ba or Ar, not asimple Kal-da shop of Tharna. Myears were assailed by the din, the

jovial uproar of men no longerafraid to laugh or shout.

The shop itself was now hungwith perhaps half a hundred lampsand the walls were bright with thecaste colours of the men who drankthere. Thick rugs had been thrownunder the low tables and werestained in innumerable places withspilled Kal-da.

Behind the counter the thin, bald-headed proprietor, his foreheadglistening, his slick black apronstained with spices, juices andwine, busily worked his longmixing paddle in a vast pot ofbubbling Kal-da. My nose

wrinkled. There was no mistakingthe smell of brewing Kal-da.

From behind three or four of thelow tables, to the left of the counter,a band of sweating musicians sathappily cross-legged on the rug,somehow producing from thoseunlikely pipes and strings anddrums and disks and wires the everintriguing, wild, enchanting–beautiful–barbaric melodies of Gor.

I wondered at this for the Casteof Musicians had been, like theCaste of Poets, exiled from Tharna.Theirs, like the Caste of Poets, hadbeen a caste regarded by the sobremasks of Tharna as not belonging in

a city of serious and dedicated folk,for music, like Paga and song, canset men's hearts aflame and whenmen's hearts are aflame it is noteasy to know where the flame mayspread.

As I entered the room the menrose to their feet and shouted andlifted their cups in salute.

Almost as one they cried out,“Tal, Warrior!”

“Tal, Warriors!” I responded,raising my arm, addressing them byall by the title of my caste, for Iknew that in their common causeeach was a warrior. It had been sodetermined at the Mines of Tharna.

Behind me down the stairs cameKron and Andreas, followed byLara and Linna.

I wondered what impression theKal-da shop would have on the trueTatrix of Tharna.

Kron seized my arm and guidedme to a table near the centre of theroom. Holding Lara by the hand Ifollowed him. Her eyes werestunned but like a child's were widewith curiosity. She had not knownthe men of Tharna could be likethis.

From time to time as one of themregarded her too boldly shedropped her head and blushed.

At last I sat cross-legged behindthe low table and Lara, in thefashion of the Gorean woman, kneltbeside me, resting on her heels.

When I had entered the music hadbriefly stopped but now Kronclapped his hands twice and themusicians turned to theirinstruments.

“Free Kal-da for all!” criedKron, and when the proprietor, whoknew the codes of his caste, tried toobject, Kron flung a golden tarndisk at him. Delightedly the manducked and scrambled to pick it upfrom the floor.

“Gold is more common here than

bread,” said Andreas, sitting nearus.

To be sure the food on the lowtables was not plentiful and wascoarse but one could not haveknown this from the good cheer ofthe men in the room. It might havebeen to them food from the tables ofthe Priest-Kings themselves. Eventhe foul Kal-da to them, reveling inthe first intoxication of theirfreedom, was the rarest and mostpotent of beverages.

Kron clapped his hands againand to my surprise there was asudden sound of bells and fourterrified girls, obviously chosen for

their beauty and grace, stood beforeour table clad only in the scarletdancing silks of Gor. They threwback their heads and lifted theirarms and to the barbaric decadenceset by the musicians danced beforeus.

Lara, to my surprise, watchedthem with delight.

“Where in Tharna,” I asked, “didyou find Pleasure Slaves?” I hadnoted that the throats of the girlswere encircled by silver collars.

Andreas, who was stuffing apiece of bread in his mouth,responded, his words a cheerymumble. “Beneath every silver

mask,” he averred sententiously,“there is a potential PleasureSlave.”

“Andreas!” cried Linna, and shemade as if to slap him for hisinsolence, but he quieted her with akiss, and she playfully began tonibble at the bread clenchedbetween his teeth.

“Are these truly silver masks ofTharna?” I asked Kron, skeptically.

“Yes,” said he. “Good, aren'tthey?”

“How did they learn this?” Iasked.

He shrugged. “It is instinctive ina woman,” he said. “But they are

untrained of course.”I laughed to myself. Kron of

Tharna spoke as might any man ofany city of Gor–other than a man ofTharna.

“Why are they dancing for you?”asked Lara.

“They will be whipped if they donot,” said Kron.

Lara's eyes dropped.“You see the collars,” said Kron,

pointing to the slender gracefulbands of silver each girl wore ather throat. “We melted the masksand used the silver for the collar.”

Other girls now appeared amongthe tables, clad only in a camisk and

a silver collar, and sullenly,silently, began to serve the Kal-dawhich Kron had ordered. Eachcarried a heavy pot of the foul,boiling brew and, cup by cup,replenished the cups of the men.

Some of them looked enviouslyat Lara, others with hatred. Theirlook said to her why are you notclad as we are, why do you notwear a collar and serve as weserve?

To my surprise Lara removed hercloak and took the pot of Kal-dafrom one of the girls and began toserve the men.

Some of the girls looked at her in

gratitude for she was free and indoing this she showed them that shedid not regard herself as abovethem.

“That,” I said to Kron, pointingout Lara, “is the Tatrix of Tharna.”

As Andreas looked upon her hesaid softly, “She is truly a Tatrix.”

Linna arose now and began tohelp with the serving.

When Kron had tired of watchingthe dancers he clapped his handstwice and with a discordant jangleof their ankle bells they fled fromthe room.

Kron lifted his cup of Kal-da and

faced me. “Andreas told me youintended to enter the Sardar,” hesaid. “I see that you did not do so.”

Kron meant that if I had enteredthe Sardar I would not havereturned.

“I am going to the Sardar,” I said,“but I first have business inTharna.”“Good!” said Kron. “We need yoursword.”

“I have come to place Lara oncemore on the throne of Tharna,” Isaid.

Kron and Andreas looked at mein wonder.

“No,” said Kron. “I do not know

how she has bewitched you but wewill have no Tatrix in Tharna!”

“She is everything that we fightagainst,” protested Andreas. “If sheagain ascends the throne, our battlewill have been lost. Tharna wouldonce more be the same.”

“Tharna,” I said, “will neveragain be the same.”

Andreas shook his head as iftrying to comprehend what I mightmean. “How can we expect him tomake sense?” asked Andreas ofKron. “After all, he is not a poet.”

Kron did not laugh.“Or a metal worker,” added

Andreas hopefully.

Still Kron did not laugh.His dour personality formed over

the anvils and forges of his tradedid not take lightly to the enormityof what I had said. “You wouldhave to kill me first,” said Kron.

“Are we not still of the samechain?” I asked.

Kron was silent. Then regardingme evenly with those steel-blueeyes he said, “We are always of thesame chain.”

“Then let me speak,” I said.Kron nodded curtly.Several other men had by now

crowded about the table.“You are men of Tharna,” I said.

“But the men you fight are also ofTharna.”

One of the men spoke. “I have abrother in the guards.”

“Is it right that the men of Tharnalift their weapons against oneanother, men within the samewalls?”

“It is a sad thing,” said Kron.“But it must be.”

“It need not be,” I protested.“The soldiers and guardsmen ofTharna are pledged to the Tatrix,but the Tatrix they defend is atraitress. The true Tatrix of Tharna,Lara herself, is within this room.”

Kron watched the girl, who was

unconscious of the conversation.Across the room she was servingKal-da to the men whose cups werelifted to her.

“While she lives,” said Kron,“the revolution is not safe.”

“That is not true,” I said.“She must die,” said Kron.“No,” I said. “She too has felt the

chain and whip.”There was a murmur of

astonishment from the men about thetable.

“The soldiers of Tharna and herguardsmen will forsake the falseTatrix and serve the true Tatrix,” Isaid. “If she lives—” agreed Kron,

looking at the innocent girl acrossthe room.

“She must,” I urged. “She willbring a new day to Tharna. She canunite both the rebels and the menwho oppose you. She has learnedhow cruel and miserable are theways of Tharna. Look at her!”

And the men watched the girlquietly pouring the Kal-da,willingly sharing the labours of theother women of Tharna. It was notwhat one would have expected1 ofa Tatrix.

“She is worthy to rule,” I said.“She is what we fought against,”

said Kron.

“No,” I said, “you fought againstthe cruel ways of Tharna. Youfought for your pride and yourfreedom, not against that girl.”

“We fought against the goldenmask of Tharna,” shouted Kron,pounding his fist on the table.

The sudden noise attracted theattention of the entire room and alleyes turned toward us. Lara, herback graceful and straight, set downthe pot of Kal-da and came andstood before Kron.

“I no longer wear the goldenmask,” she said.

And Kron looked on the beautifulgirl who stood before him with such

grace and dignity, with no trace ofpride or cruelty, or fear.

“My Tatrix,” he whispered.

We marched through the city, thestreets behind us filled like greyrivers with the rebels, each manwith his own weapon, yet the soundof those rivers, converging on thepalace of the Tatrix was anythingbut grey. It was the sound of theploughing song, as slow andirresistible as the breaking of ice infrozen rivers, a simple, melodicpaean to the soil, celebrating thefirst breaking of the ground.

At the head of that splendid,

ragged procession five marched;Kron, chief of the rebels; Andreas,a poet; his woman, Linna of Tharna,unveiled; I, a warrior of a citydevastated and cursed of the Priest-Kings; and a girl with golden hair, agirl who wore no mask, who hadknown both the whip and love,fearless and magnificent Lara, shewho was true Tatrix of Tharna.

It was clear to the defenders ofthe palace, which formed the majorbastion of Dorna's challengedregime, that the issue would bedecided that day and by the sword.Word had swept ahead as if on thewings of tarns that the rebels,

abandoning their tactics of ambushand evasion, were at last marchingon the palace.

I saw before us once again thatbroad, winding but ever narrowingavenue which led to the palace ofthe Tatrix. Singing, the rebels beganto climb the steep avanue. Theblack cobblestones could be feltclearly through the leather of oursandals.

Once more I noted that the wallsbordering the avenue rose as theavenue narrowed, but this time,long before we neared the smalliron door, we saw a double rampartthrown across the avenue, the

second wall topping the first andallowing missiles to be raineddown on those who might storm thefirst wall. The rampart was thrownbetween the walls where they stoodat perhaps fifty yards from eachother. The first rampart wasperhaps twelve feet high; thesecond perhaps twenty.

Behind the ramparts I could seethe blaze of weaponry and themovement of blue helmets.

We were within crossbow range.I motioned to the others to remain

back and, carrying a shield andspear in addition to my sword,approached the rampart.

On the roof of the palace beyondthe double rampart I couldoccasionally see the head of a tarnand I heard their screams. Tarns,however, would not be tooeffective against the rebels in thecity. Many of them had cut longbows and many of them were armedwith the spears and crossbows offallen warriors. It would be riskybusiness coming close enough tobring talons into play.

And should the warriors haveattempted to use the tarns merely tofire1 down on the crowd, theywould have suddenly found thestreets deserted, until the shadow of

the bird had passed and the rebelscould move another hundred yardscloser to the palace. Trainedinfantry, incidentally, might moverapidly through the streets of a citywith shields locked over theirheads, much in the fashion of theRoman testudo, but this formationrequires discipline and precision,martial virtues not to be expected inhigh degree of the rebels of Tharna.

About a hundred yards from therampart I put down the shield andspear, signifying a temporary truce.

A tall figure appeared on therampart and did as I had done.

Though he wore the blue helmet

of Tharna I knew that it was Thorn.Once again I began to approach

the rampart.It seemed a long walk.Step by step I climbed the black

avenue wondering if the trucewould be respected. If Dorna theProud had ruled upon that rampartrather than Thorn, a Captain, and amember of my own caste, I wascertain that a bolt from somecrossbow would have pierced mybody without warning.

When at last I stood unslain onthe black cobblestones at the foot ofthe double rampart I knew thatthough Dorna the Proud might rule

in Tharna, though it might be shewho sat upon the golden throne ofthe city, that it was the word of awarrior that ruled on those rampartsabove me.

“Tal, Warrior,” said Thorn,removing his helmet.

“Tal, Warrior,” I said.Thorn's eyes were clearer now

than I remembered them, and thelarge body which had been tendingto corpulence had, in the stress offighting, hardened into muscularvigour. The purplish patches thatmarked his yellowish face seemedless pronounced now than before.Two strands of hair still marked his

chin in parallel streaks and on theback of his head his long hair wasstill bound in a Mongol knot. Thenow clear, oblique eyes regardedme.

“I should have killed you on thePillar of Exchanges,” said Thorn.

I spoke loudly so that my voicemight carry to all who manned thedouble rampart.

“I come on behalf of Lara, who istrue Tatrix of Tharna. Sheathe yourweapons. No more shed the bloodof men of your own city. I ask thisin the name of Lara, and of the cityof Tharna and its people. And I askit in the name of the codes of your

own caste, for your swords arepledged to the true Tatrix–Lara–notDorna the Proud!”

I could sense the reaction of themen behind the rampart.

Thorn too now spoke loudly forthe benefit of the warriors. “Lara isdead. Dorna is Tatrix of Tharna.”

“I live!” cried a voice behind meand I turned and to my dismay I sawthat Lara had followed me to therampart. If she were killed thehopes of the rebels might well beblasted, and the city plungedinterminably into civil strife.

Thorn looked at the girl and Iadmired the coolness with which he

regarded her. His mind must havebeen in tumult for he could not haveexpected that the girl produced bythe rebels as the true Tatrix wouldactually be Lara.

“She is not Lara,” he said coldly.“I am,” she cried.“The Tatrix of Tharna,” sneered

Thorn, looking on the unconcealedfeatures of Lara, “wears a goldenmask.”1p>

“The Tatrix of Tharna,” saidLara, “no longer chooses to wear amask of gold.”

“Where did you get this campwench, this imposter?” askedThorn.

“I purchased her from a slaver,” Isaid.

Thorn laughed and his menbehind the barricade laughed too.“The slaver to whom you sold her,”I added.

Thorn laughed no longer. I calledout to the men behind the barricade.“I returned this girl–your Tatrix–tothe Pillar of Exchanges where Igave her into the hands of Thorn,this Captain, and Dorna the Proud.Then treacherously I was set uponand sent to the Mines of Tharna, andDorna the Proud and Thorn, thiscaptain, seized Lara, your Tatrix,and sold her into slavery–sold her

to the slave Targo, whose camp isnow at the Fair of En'Kara, sold herfor the sum of fifty silver tarndisks!”

“What he says is false,” shoutedThorn.

I heard a voice from behind thebarricade, a young voice. “Dornathe Proud wears a necklace of fiftysilver tarn disks!”

“Dorna the Proud is boldindeed,” I cried, “to flaunt the verycoins whereby her rival–your trueTatrix–was delivered into thechains of a slave girl!”

There was a mutter ofindignation, some angry shouts from

the barricade.“He lies,” said Thorn.“You heard him,” I cried, “say to

me that he should have killed me onthe Pillar of Exchanges! You knowthat it was I who stole your Tatrixat the Amusements of Tharna. Whyshould I have gone to the Pillar ofExchanges if not to surrender her tothe envoys of Tharna?”

A voice cried out from behindthe barricade. “Why did you nottake more men with you to the Pillarof Exchanges, Thorn of Tharna?”

Thorn turned angrily in thedirection of the voice.

I responded to the question. “Is it

not obvious?” I asked. “He wantedto protect the secret of his plan toabduct the Tatrix and put Dorna theProud upon her throne.”

Another man appeared at the topof the barricade. He removed hishelmet. I saw that it was the youngwarrior whose wound Lara and Ihad tended on the wall of Tharna.

“I believe this warrior!” hecried, pointing down at me.

“It is a trick to divide us!” criedThorn. “Back to your post!”

Other warriors in the bluehelmets and grey tunics of Tharnahad climbed to the top of thebarricade, to see more clearly what

befell.“Back to your posts!” cried

Thorn.“You are warriors!” I cried.

“Your swords are pledged to yourcity, to its walls, to your people andyour Tatrix! Serve her!”

“I shall serve the true Tatrix ofTharna!” cried the young warrior.

He leaped down from thebarricade and laid his sword on thestones at Lara's feet.

“Take up your sword,” she said,“in the name of Lara, true Tatrix ofTharna.”

“I do so,” he said.He knelt on one knee before the

girl and grasped the hilt of theweapon. “I take up my sword,” hesaid, “in the name of Lara, who istrue Tatrix of Tharna.”

He rose to his feet and salutedthe girl with the weapon. “Who istrue Tatrix of Tharna!” he cried.

“That is not Lara!” cried Thorn,pointing to the girl.

“How can you be so certain?”asked one of the warriors on thewall.

Thorn was silent, for how couldhe claim to know that the girl wasnot Lara, when presumably he hadnever looked upon the face of thetrue Tatrix?

“I am she,” cried the girl. “Arethere none of you here who haveserved in the Chamber of theGolden Mask? None of you whorecognise my voice?”

“It is she!” cried one of the men.“I am sure!” He removed hishelmet.

“You are Stam,” she said, “firstguardsman of the north gate and cancast your spear farther than any manof Tharna. You were first in themilitary games of En'Kara in thesecond year of my reign.”

Another warrior removed hishelmet.

“You are Tai,” said she, “a

tarnsman, wounded in the war withThentis in the year before Iascended the Throne of Tharna.”

Yet another man took from hishead the blue helmet.

“I do not know you,” she said.The men on the wall murmured.“You could not,” said the man,

“for I am a mercenary of Ar whotook service in Tharna only withinthe time of the revolt.”

“She is Lara!” cried another man.He leaped down from the wall andplaced his sword also on the stonesat her feet.

Once again she graciouslyrequested that the weapon be lifted

in her name, and it was.One of the blocks of the

barricade tumbled into the street.The warriors were dismantling it.

Thorn had disappeared from thewall.

Slowly the rebels, waved aheadby me, approached the wall. Theyhad cast down their weapons and,singing, they marched to the palace.

The soldiers streamed over thebarricade and met them in theavenue with joy. The men of Tharnaseized one another in their arms andclaspled their hands in concord.Rebels and defenders mingledgladly in the street and brother

sought brother among those whohad minutes before been mortalfoes.

My arm about Lara, I walkedthrough the barricade, and behind uscame the young warrior, others ofthe defenders of the barricade, andKron, Andreas, Linna and many ofthe rebels.

Andreas had brought with him theshield and spear which I had putdown in token of truce, and I tookthese weapons from him. Weapproached the small iron door thatgave access to the palace, I in thelead.

I called for a torch.

The door was loose and I kickedit open, covering myself with theshield.

Within there was only silenceand darkness.

The rebel who had been first onthe chain in the mines thrust a torchin my hands.

I held this in the opening.The floor seemed solid, but this

time I knew the dangers itconcealed.

A long plank from the scaffoldingof the barricade was brought andwe 1laid this from the thresholdacross the floor.

The torch lifted high, I entered,

careful to stay on the plank. Thistime the trap did not open and Ifound myself in a narrow unlithallway opposite the door to thepalace.

“Wait here,” I commanded theothers

I did not listen to their protestsbut saying no more began mytorchlit journey through the nowdarkened labyrinth of the palacecorridors. My memory and sense ofdirection began to carry meunerringly from hall to hall, guidingme swiftly toward the Chamber ofthe Golden Mask.

I encountered no one.

The silence seemed uncanny andthe darkness startling after thebright sunlight of the street outside.I could hear nothing but the quiet,almost noiseless sound of my ownsandals on the stones of thecorridor.

The palace was perhapsdeserted.

At last I came to the Chamber ofthe Golden Mask.

I leaned against the heavy doorsand swung them open.

Inside there was light. Thetorches on the walls still burned.Behind the golden throne of theTatrix loomed the dull gold mask,

fashioned in the image of a cold andbeautiful woman, the reflection ofthe torches set in the wallsflickering hideously on its polishedsurface.

On the throne there sat a womanclad in the golden robes and maskof the Tatrix of Tharna. About herneck was a necklace of silver tarndisks. On the steps before the thronethere stood a warrior, fully armed,who held in his hands the bluehelmet of his city.

Thorn lowered his helmet slowlyover his features. He loosened thesword in its scabbard. He unslunghis shield and the long, broad-

headed spear from his left shoulder.“I have been waiting for you,” he

said.

Chapter Twenty-Five:THE ROOF OF THE

PALACE

The war cries of Tharna and Ko-ro-ba mingled as Thorn hurledhimself down the stairs toward meand I raced toward him. Both of uscast our spears at the same instantand the two weapons passed oneanother like tawny blurs oflightning. Both of us had in castingour weapon inclined our shields in

such a way as to lessen the impactof a direct hit. Both of us cast welland the jolt of the massive missilethundering on my shield spun mehalf about.

The bronze head of the spear hadcut through the brass loops on theshield and pierced the sevenhardened concentric layers of boskhide which formed it. The shield, soencumbered, was useless. Hardlyhad my shield been penetrated whenmy sword leaped from its sheathand slashed through the shoulderstraps of the shield, cutting it frommy arm.

Only an instant after myself

Thorn's shield too was flung to thestones of the chamber floor. Myspear had been driven a yardthrough it and the head had passedover his left shoulder as hecrouched behind it.

His sword too was free of itssheath and we rushed on oneanother like larls in the Voltai, ourweapons meeting with a sharp, freeclash of sound, the tremblingbrilliant ring of well-temperedblades, each tone ringing in theclear, glittering music ofswordplay.

Seemingly almost impassive, thegolden-robed figure on the throne

watched the two warriors movingbackward and forward before her,one cl1ad in the blue helmet andgrey tunic of Tharna, the other in theuniversal scarlet of the GoreanCaste of Warriors.

Our reflections fought oneanother in the shimmering surface ofthe great golden mask behind thethrone.

Our wild shadows likemisformed giants locked in combatagainst the lofty walls of the torchlitchamber.

Then there was but one reflectionand but one gigantic, grotesqueshadow cast upon the walls of the

Chamber of the Golden Mask.Thorn lay at my feet.I kicked the sword from the hand

and turned over the body with myfoot. Its chest shook under thestained tunic; its mouth bit at the airas if trying to catch it as it escapedits throat. The head rolled sidewayson the stones.

“You fought well,” I said.“I have won,” he said, the words

spit out in a sort of whisper, acontorted grin on his face.

I wondered what he might mean.I stepped back from the body and

looked to the woman upon thethrone.

Slowly, numbly, she descendedthe throne, step by step, and then tomy amazement she fell to her kneesbeside Thorn and lowered her headto his bloody chest weeping.

I wiped the blade on my tunicand replaced it in the sheath.

“I am sorry,” I said.The figure seemed not to hear

me.I stepped back, to leave her with

her grief. I could hear the sounds ofapproaching men in the corridors. Itwas the soldiers and rebels, and thehalls of the palace echoed theanthem of the ploughing song.

The girl lifted her head and the

golden mask faced me.I had not known that a woman

such as Dorna the Proud could havecared for a man.

The voice, for the first time,spoke through the mask.

“Thorn,” she said, “has defeatedyou.”

“I think not,” I said, wondering,“and you Dorna the Proud are nowmy prisoner.”

A mirthless laugh soundedthrough the mask and the hands intheir gloves of gold took the maskand, to my astonishment, removedit.

At the side of Thorn knelt not

Dorna the Proud, but the girl Veraof Ko-ro-ba, who had been hisslave.

“You see,” she said, “my masterhas defeated you, as he knew hecould, not by the sword but by thepurchase of time. Dorna the Proudhas made good her escape.”

“Why have you done this!” Ichallenged. She smiled. “Thorn waskind to me,” she said.

“You are now free,” I said.Once again her head fell to the

stained chest of the Captain ofTharna and her body shook withsobs.

At that moment into the room

burst the soldiers and rebels, Kronand Lara in the lead.

I pointed to the girl on the floor.“Do not harm her!” I commanded.“This is not Dorna the Proud butVera of Ko-ro-ba, who was theslave of Thorn.”

“Where is Dorna?” demandedKron.

“Escaped,” I said glumly.Lara looked at me. “But the

palace is surrounded,” she said.“The roof!” I cried, remembering

the tarns. “Quick!”Lara raced ahead of me and I

followed as she led the way to theroof of the palace. Through the

darkened hallways she sped withthe familiarity of long acquaintance.At last we reached a spiralstairwell.

“Here!” she cried.I thrust her behind me and, my

hand on the wall, climbed the darkstairs as rapidly as I could. At thetop of the stairs I pressed against atrap and flung it open. Outside Icould see the bright blue rectangleof the open sky. The light blindedme for a moment.

I caught the scent of a largefurred animal and the odour of tarnspoor.

I emerged onto the roof, my eyes

half shut against the intense light.There were three men on the

roof, two guardsmen and the manwith the wrist straps, who hadserved as the master of thedungeons of Tharna. He held,leashed, the large, sleek white urtwhich I had encountered in the pitinside the palace door.

The two guardsmen were fixing acarrying basket to the harness of alarge brown-plumaged tarn. Thereins of the tarn were fixed to a ringin the front of the basket. Inside thebasket was a woman whosecarriage and figure I knew to be thatof Dorna the Proud, though she now

wore only a simple silver mask ofTharna.

“Stop!” I cried, rushing forward.“Kill!” cried the man in wrist

straps, pointing the whip in mydirection, and unleashing the urt,which charged viciously towardme.

Its ratlike scamper wasincomprehensibly swift and almostbefore I could set myself for itscharge it had crossed the cylinderroof in two or three bounds andpounced to seize me in its baredfangs.

My blade enetered the roof of itsmouth pushing its head up and away

from my throat. The squeal musthave carried to the walls of Tharna.Its neck twisted and the blade waswrenched from my grasp. My armsencircled its neck and my face waspressed into its glossy white fur.The blade was shaken from itsmouth and clattered on the roof. Iclung to the neck to avoid thesnapping jaws, those three rows ofsharp, frenzied white laceratingteeth that sought to bury themselvesin my flesh.

It rolled on the roof trying to tearme from its neck; it leaped andbounded, and twisted and shookitself. The man with wrist straps

had picked up the sword and withthis, and his whip, circled us,waiting for an opportunity to strike.

I tried to turn the animal as wellas I could to keep its scramblingbody between myself and the manwith wrist straps. Blood from theanimal's mouth ran down its fur andmy arm. I could feel it splattered onthe side of my face and in my hair.

Then I turned so that it was mybody that was exposed to the blowof the sword carried by the man inwrist straps. I heard his grunt ofsatisfaction as he rushed forward.An instant before I knew the blademust fall I released my grip on the

animal's neck and slipped under itsbelly. It reached for me with awhiplike motion of its furred neckand I felt the long sharp white teethrake my arm but at the same time Iheard another squeal of pain and thegrunt of horror from the man inwrist straps.

I rolled from under the animaland turned to see it facing the manwith wrist straps. One ear had beenslashed away from its head and thefur on its left side was soake1dwith spurting blood. It now had itseyes fixed on the man with thesword, he who had struck this newblow.

I heard his terrified command,the feeble cracking of that whipheld in an arm almost paralysedwith fear, his abrupt almostnoiseless scream.

The urt was over him, itshaunches high, its shoulders almostlevel with the roof, gnawing.

I shook the sight from my eyesand turned to the others on the roof.

The carrying basket had beenattached and the woman stood in thebasket, the reins in her hands.

The impassive silver mask wasfastened on me and I sensed that thedark eyes behind it blazed withindescribable hatred.

Her voice spoke to the twoguardsmen. “Destroy him.”

I had no weapons.To my surprise the men did not

raise their arms against me. One ofthem responded to her.

“You choose to abandon yourcity,” he said. “Henceforth you haveno city, for you have chosen toforsake it.”

“Insolent beast!” she screamed athim. Then she ordered the otherwarrior to slay the first.

“You no longer rule in Tharna,”said the other warrior simply.

“Beasts!” she screamed.“Were you to stay and die at the

foot of your throne we wouldfollow you and die by your side,”said the first warrior.

“That is true,” said the second.“Stay as a Tatrix, and our swordsare bound in your service. Flee as aslave and you give up your right tocommand our metal.”

“Fools!” she cried.The Dorna the Proud looked at

me those yards across the roof.The hatred she bore me, her

cruelty, her pride, were as tangibleas some physical phenomenon, likewaves of heat or the forming of ice.

“Thorn died for you,” I said.She laughed. “He too was a fool,

like all beasts.”I wondered how it was that

Thorn had given his life for thiswoman. It did not seem it couldhave been a matter of casteobligation for this obligation hadbeen owed not to Dorna but to Lara.He had broken the codes of hiscaste to support the treachery ofDorna the Proud.

I suddenly knew the answer, thatThorn somehow had loved thiscruel woman, that his warrior'sheart had been turned to her thoughhe had never looked upon her face,though she had never given him asmile or the touch of her hand. And

I knew then that Thorn, henchmanthough he might have been,dissolute and savage antagonist, hadyet been greater than she who hadbeen the object of his hopeless,tragic affection. It had been hisdoom to care for a silver mask.

“Surrender,” I called to Dornathe Proud.

“Never,” she respondedhaughtily.

“Where will you go and whatwill you do?” I asked.

I knew that Dorna would havelittle chance alone on Gor.Resourceful as she was, evencarrying riches as she must be, she

was still only a woman and, onGor, even a silver mask needs thesword of a man to protect her. Shemight fall prey to beasts, perhapseven to her own tarn, or be capturedby a roving tarnsman or a band ofslavers1.

“Stay to face the justice ofTharna,” I said.

Dorna threw back her head andlaughed.

“You too,” she said, “are a fool.”Her hand was wrapped in the

one-strap. The tarn was movinguneasily.

I looked behind me and I couldsee that Lara now stood near,

watching Dorna, and that behind herKron and Andreas, followed byLinna, and rebels and soldiers, hadascended to the roof.

The silver mask of Dorna theProud turned to Lara, who wore nomask, no veil. “Shameless animal,”she sneered, “you are no better thanthey–beasts!”

“Yes,” said Lara, “that is true.”“I sensed this in you,” said

Dorna. “You were never worthy tobe Tatrix of Tharna. I alone wasworthy to be true Tatrix of Tharna.”

“The Tharna of which youspeak,” said Lara, “no longerexists.”

Then as if with one voicesoldiers, guardsmen and rebelslifted their weapons and salutedLara as true Tatrix of Tharna.

“Hail Lara, true Tatrix ofTharna!” they cried, and as was thecustom of the city, five times werethose weapons brandished and fivetimes did that glad shout ring out.

The body of Dorna the Proudrecoiled as if struck by five blows.

Her silver-gloved handsclenched in fury upon the one-strapand beneath those shimmeringgauntlets I knew the knuckles,drained of blood, were white withrage.

She looked once more at therebels and soldiers and guardmenand Lara with a loathing I couldsense behind the impassive mask,and then that metal image turnedonce more upon me.

“Farewell, Tarl of Ko-ro-ba,”she said. “Do not forget Dorna theProud for we have an account tosettle!”

The hands in their gloves ofsilver jerked back savagely on theone-strap and the wings of the tarnburst into flight. The carrying basketremained a moment on the roof andthen, attached by its long ropes,interwoven with wire, it slid for a

pace or two and lurched upward inthe wake of the tarn.

I watched the basket swingingbelow the bird as it winged its wayfrom the city.

Once the sun flashed upon thatsilver mask.

The the bird was only a speck inthe blue sky over the free city ofTharna.

Dorna the Proud, thanks to thesacrifice of Thorn, her captain, hadmade good her escape, though towhat fate I dared not conjecture.

She had spoken of settling anaccount with me.

I smiled to myself, reasoning that

she would have little opportunityfor such matters. Indeed, if shemanaged to survive at all, shewould be fortunate not to findherself wearing an ankle ring onsome slaver's chain.

Perhaps she would find herselfconfined within the walls of somewarrior's Pleasure Gardens, to bedressed in silk of his choosing, tohave bells locked on her ankles andto know no will other than his;perhaps she would be purchased bythe master of a Paga Tavern, oreven of a lowly Kal-da shop, todance for, and to serve and pleasehis customers.

Perhaps she might be purchasedfor the scullery in a Goreancylinder and discover her life to bebounded 1by the tile walls and thesteam and soap of the cleaning tubs.She would be given a mat of dampstraw and a camisk, leavings fromthe tables of the dining roomsabove, and lashings if she shoulddare to leave the room or shirk herwork.

Perhaps a peasant would buy herto help with the ploughing. Iwondered, if this happened, if shewould bitterly recall theAmusements of Tharna. If thismiserable fate were to be hers, the

imperious Dorna the Proud,stripped and sweating, her backexposed to the ox whip, wouldlearn in harness that a peasant wasa hard master.

But I put from my mind thesethoughts as to what might be the fateof Dorna the Proud.

I had other things with which tooccupy my mind.

Indeed, I myself had business toattend to–an account to settle–onlymy affairs would lead me to theSardar Mountains, for the businessto which I must attend was with thePriest-Kings of Gor.

Chapter Twenty-Six:A LETTER FROM TARL

CABOT

Inscribed in the City of Tharna, theTwenty-Third day of En'Kara in theFourth Year of the Reign of Lara,Tatrix ofTharna, the Year 10,117 from theFounding of Ar.

Tal to the men of Earth—

In these past days in Tharna Ihave taken the time to write thisstory. Now that it is told I mustbegin my journey to the Sardar

Mountains.Five days from now I shall stand

before the black gate in thepalisades that ring the holymountains.

I shall strike with my spear uponthe gate and the gate will open, andas I enter I will hear the mournfulsound of the great hollow bar thathangs by the gate, signifying thatanother of the Men Below theMountains, another mortal man, hasdared to enter the Sardar.

I shall deliver this manuscript tosome member of the Caste ofScribes whom I shall find at theFair of En'Kara at the base of the

Sardar. From that point whether ornot it survives will depend like somany other things in this barbaricworld I have come to love–on theinscrutable will of the Priest-Kings.

They have cursed me and mycity.

They have taken from me myfather and the girl I love, and myfriends, and have given me sufferingand hardship, and peril, and yet Ifeel that in some strange way inspite of myself I have served them–that it was their will that I came toTharna. They have destroyed a city,and in a sense they have restored acity.

What manner of things they are Iknow not, but I am determined tolearn.

Many have entered the mountainsand so many must have learned thesecret of the Priest-Kings, thoughnone has returned to tell it.

But let me now speak of Tharna.Tharna is now a different city

than it had ever been within thememory of living man.

Her ruler–the gracious andbeautiful Lara–is surely one of thewisest and most just of rulers onthis barbaric wo1rld, and hers hasbeen the tortuous task of reuniting acity disrupted by civil strife, of

making peace among factions anddealing fairly with all. If she werenot loved as she is by the men ofTharna her task would have beenimpossible.

As she ascended once more thethrone no proscription notices wereposted but a general amnesty wasgranted to all, both those who hadespoused her cause and those whohad fought for Dorna the Proud.

From this amnesty only the silvermasks of Tharna were excepted.

Blood was high in the streets ofTharna after the revolt and angrymen, both rebels and defenders,joined in the brutal hunt for silver

masks. These poor creatures werehunted from cylinder to cylinder,from room to room.

When found they were draggedforth into the street, unmasked,cruelly bound together and driven tothe palace at the point of weapons,their masks hanging about theirnecks.

Many silver masks werediscovered hiding in obscurechambers in the palace itself andthe dungeons below the palacewere soon filled with chains of fair,lamenting prisoners. Soon theanimal cages beneath the arena ofthe Amusements of Tharna had to be

pressed into service, and then thearena itself.

Some Silver Masks werediscovered even in the sewersbeneath the city and these weredriven by giant, leashed urts throughthe long tubes until they crowdedthe wire capture nets set at theopenings of the sewers.

Other Silver Masks had takenrefuge in the mountains beyond thewalls and these were hunted likesleen by converging rings of iratepeasants, who drove them into thecentre of their hunting circles,whence, unmasked and bound, theywere herded to the city to meet their

fate.Most of the silver masks

however, when it was understoodtheir battle had been lost and thelaws of Tharna were irrevocablyshattered came of their own freewill into the streets and submittedthemselves in the traditional fashionof the captive Gorean female,kneeling, lowering the head, andlifting and raising the arms, wristscrossed for binding.

The pendulum in Tharna hadswung.

I myself had stood at the foot ofthe steps to the golden throne whenLara had commanded that the giant

mask of gold which hung behind itbe pried by spears from the walland cast to the floor at our feet.

No more would that cold serenevisage survey the throne room ofTharna.

The men of Tharna watchedalmost in disbelief as the greatmask loosened, bolt by bolt, fromthe wall, leaned forward and at last,dragged down by its own weight,broke loose and plunged clatteringdown the steps of the throne,breaking into a hundred pieces.

“Let it be melted,” Lara had said,“and cast into the golden tarn disksof Tharna and let these be

distributed to those who havesuffered in our day of troubles.”

“And add to the golden tarndisks,” she had exclaimed, “tarndisks of silver to be formed fromthe masks of our women, forhenceforth in Tharna no woman maywear a mask of either gold orsilver, not even though she beTatrix of Tharna herself!”

And as she had spoken,according to the customs of Tharna,her words became the law and fromthat day forth no woman in Tharnamight wear a mask.

In the streets of Tharna shortlyafter the end of the revolt the caste

colours of Gor began to appearopenly in the garments of thecitizens. The marvelous glaz1ingsubstances of the Caste of Builders,long prohibited as frivolous andexpensive, began to appear on thewalls of the cylinders, even on thewalls of the city itself. Graveledstreets are now being paved withblocks of coloured stone set inpatterns to delight the eye. Thewood of the great gate has beenpolished and its brass burnished.New paint blazes upon the bridges.

The sound of caravan bells is nolonger strange in Tharna and stringsof traders have found their way to

her gates, to exploit this mostsurprising of all markets.

Here and there the mount of atarnsman boasts a golden harness.On market day I saw a peasant, hissack of Sa-Tarna meal on his back,whose sandals were tied withsilver straps.

I have seen private apartmentswith tapestries from the mills of Arupon the walls; and my sandalshave sometimes found underfootrichly coloured, deeply woven rugsfrom distant Tor.

It is perhaps a small thing to seeon the belt of an artisan a silverbuckle of the style worn in

mountainous Thentis or to note thedelicacy of dried eels from PortKar in the marketplace, but thesethings, small though they are, speakto me of a new Tharna.

In the streets I hear the shouting,the song and clamour that istypically Gorean. The marketplaceis no longer simply some acres oftile on which business must bedourly conducted. It is a placewhere friends meet, arrangedinners, exchange invitations,discuss politics, the weather,strategy, philosophy and themanagement of slave girls.

One change that I find of interest,

though I cannot heartily approve, isthat the rails have been removedfrom the high bridges of Tharna. Ihad thought this pointless, andperhaps dangerous, but Kron hadsaid simply, “Let those who fear towalk the high bridges not walk thehigh bridges.”

One might also mention that themen of Tharna have formed thecustom of wearing in the belt oftheir tunic two yellow cords, eachabout eighteen inches in length. Bythis sign alone men of other citiescan now recognise a man of Tharna.

On the twentieth day followingpeace in Tharna the fate of the

silver masks was determined.They were herded, roped throat

to throat, unveiled, wrists boundbehind their backs, in long lines tothe arena of the Amusements ofTharna. There they would hear thejudgement of Lara, their Tatrix.They knelt before her–once proudsilver masks, now terrified andhelpless captives–on the samesparkling sand that had so oftenbeen stained with the blood of themen of Tharna.

Lara had thought long on thesematters and had discussed themwith many, including myself. In theend her decision was her own. I do

not know that my own decisionwould have been so harsh, but Iadmit that Lara knew her city andits silver masks better than I.

I recognised that it was notpossible to restore the old order ofTharna, nor was it desirable. Too Irecognised that there was no longerany adequate provision–given thedestruction of Tharna's institutions–for the indefinite shelter of largenumbers of free women within herwalls. The family, for example, hadnot existed in Tharna forgenerations, having been replacedby the division of the sexes and thesegregated public nurseries.

And too it must be rememberedthat the men of Tharna who hadtasted her women in the revolt nowdemanded them as their right. Noman who has seen a woman inPleasure Silk, or watched herdance, or heard the sound of abelled ankle or watched a woman'shair, unbound, fall to her waist canlong live without the posses1sion ofsuch a delicious creature.

Also it should be noted that itwas not realistic to offer the silvermasks the alternative of exile, forthat would simply have been tocondemn them to violent death orforeign enslavement.

In its way, under thecircumstances, the judgement ofLara was merciful–though it wasgreeted with wails offrom the ropedcaptives.

Each silver mask would have sixmonths in which she would be freeto live within the city and be fed atthe common tables, much as beforethe revolt. But within that sixmonths she is expected to find aman of Tharna to whom she willpropose herself as a FreeCompanion.

If he does not accept her as aFree Companion–and few men ofTharna will be in a mood to extend

the priveleges of FreeCompanionship to a silver mask–hemay then, without further ado,simply collar her as his slave, or ifhe wishes he may reject hercompletely. If she is rejected shemay propose herself similarly to yetanother of the men of Tharna, andperhaps yet another and another.

After the six months, however–perhaps she has been reluctant toseek a master?–her initiative inthese matters is lost and she belongsto the first man who encircles herthroat with the graceful, gleamingbadge of servitude. In such a caseshe is considered no differently,

and treated no differently than if shewere a girl brought in on tarnbackfrom a distant city.

In effect, considering the temperof the men of Tharna, Lara'sjudgement gives the silver masksthe opportunity, for a time, tochoose a master, or after that timeto be themselves chosen as a slavegirl. Thus each silver mask will intime belong to a beast, though atfirst she is given some opportunityto determine whose yellow cordsshe will feel, on whose rug theceremony of submission will takeplace.

Perhaps Lara understood, as I did

not, that women such as silvermasks must be taught love, and canlearn it only from a master. It wasnot her intention to condemn hersisters of Tharna into interminableand miserable bondage but to forcethem to take this strange first stepon the road she herself has traveled,one of the unusual roads that maylead to love. When I had questionedher, Lara had said to me that onlywhen true love is learned is theFree Companionship possible, andthat some women can learn loveonly in chains. I wondered at herwords.

There is little more to tell.

Kron remains in Tharna, wherehe stands high in the Council of theTatrix Lara.

Andreas and Linna will leave thecity, for he tells me there are manyroads on Gor he has not wanderedand thinks that on some of these hemay find the song for which he hasalways searched. I hope with all myheart that he will find it.

The girl Vera of Ko-ro-ba, atleast for the time, will reside inTharna, where she will live as afree woman. Not being of the cityshe is exempted from the stricturesimposed on the silver masks.

Whether or not she will choose

to remain in the city I do not know.She, like myself, and all of Ko-ro-ba, is an exile, and exilessometimes find it hard to call aforeign city home; sometimes theyregard the risks of the wilderness aspreferable to the shelter of alienwalls. And, too, in Tharna wouldbe found the memory of Thorn, acaptain.

This morning I said good-bye tothe Tatrix, the noble and beautifulLara. I know that we have cared forone another, but that our destiniesare not the same.

In parting we kissed.“Rule well,” I said.

“I shall try,” she said.Her head was against my

shoulder.“And should I ever again be

tempted to be proud or cruel,” shesaid, a smile in her voice, “I shallmerely remind myself that I wasonce sold for fifty silver tarn disks–and that a warrior once purchasedme for only a scabbard and ahelmet.”

“Six emeralds,” I corrected her,smiling.

“And a helmet,” she laughed.I could feel the dampness of her

tears through my tunic.“I wish you well, Beautiful

Lara,” I said.“And I wish you well, Warrior,”

said the girl.She looked at me, her eyes filled

with tears, yet smiling. She laugheda little. “And if the time shouldcome, Warrior, when you shoulddesire a slave girl, some girl towear your silk and your collar, yourbrand if you wish–remember Lara,who is Tatrix of Tharna.”

“I shall,” I said. “I shall.”And I kissed her and we parted.She will rule in Tharna and rule

well, and I will begin the journey tothe Sardar.

What I shall find there I do not

know.For more than seven years I have

wondered at the mysteriesconcealed in those dark recesses. Ihave wondered about the Priest-Kings and their power, their shipsand agents, their plans for theirworld and mine; but mostimportantly I must learn why mycity was destroyed and its peoplescattered, why it is that no stonemay stand upon another stone; and Imust learn the fate of my friends, myfather and of Talena, my love. But Igo to the Sardar for more than truth;foremost in my brain there burns,like an imperative of steel, the cry

for blood-vengeance, mine bysword-right, mine by the affinitiesof blood and caste and city, minefor I am one pledged to avenge avanished people, fallen walls andtowers, a city frowned upon byPriest-Kings, for I am a Warrior ofKo-ro-ba! I seek more than truth inthe Sardar; I seek the blood ofPriest-Kings!

But how foolish it is to speakthus.

I speak as though my frail armmight avail against the power ofPriest-Kings. Who am I to challengetheir power? I am nothing; not evena bit of dust, raised by the wind on

a tiny fist of defiance; not even ablade of grass that cuts at the anklesof trampling gods. Yet I, TarlCabot, shall go to the Sardar; I shallmeet with Priest-Kings, and ofthem, though they be the gods ofGor, I shall demand an accounting.

Outside on the bridges I hear thecry of the Lighter of Lanterns.“Light your lamps,” he calls. “Lightthe lamps of love.”

I wonder sometimes if I wouldhave gone to the Sardar had not mycity been destroyed. It now seemsto me that if I had simply returned toGor, and to my city, my father, myfriends and my beloved Talena, I

might not have cared to enter theSardar, that I would not have caredto relinquish the joys of life toinquire into the secrets of thosedark mountains. And I havewondered sometimes, and thethought awes and frightens me, ifmy city might not have beendestroyed only to bring me to themountains of the Priest-Kings, forthey would surely know that Iwould come to challenge them, thatI would come to the Sardar, that Iwould climb to the moons of Goritself, to demand my satisfaction.

Thus it is that I perhaps move inthe patterns of Priest-Kings–that

perhaps I pledge my vengeance andset out for the Sardar as they knewthat I would, as they had calculatedand understood and planned. Buteven so I tell myself that it is still Iwho move myself, and not Priest-Kings, even though I might move intheir patterns; if it is their intentionthat I should demand an accounting,it is my intention as well; if it theirgame, it is also mine.

But why would Priest-Kingsdesire Tarl Cabot to come to theirmountains? He is nothing to them,nothing to any man; he is only awarrior, a man with no city to callhis own, thus an outlaw. Could

Priest-Kings, with their knowledgeand power, have need of such aman? But Priest-Kings need nothingfrom men, and once more mythoughts grow foolish.

It is time to put aside the pen. Iregret only that none return from theSardar, for I have loved life. Andon this barbaric world I have seenit in all its beauty and cruelty, in allits glory and sadness. I havelearned that it is splendid andfearful and priceless. I have seen itin the vanished towers of Ko-ro-baand in the flight of a tarn, in themovements of a beautiful woman, inthe gleam of weaponry, in the sound

of tarn drums and the crash ofthunder over green fields. I havefound it at the tables of swordcompanions and in the clash of themetals of war, in the touch of agirl's lips and hair, in the blood of asleen, in the sands and chains ofTharna, in the scent of talenders andthe hiss of the whip. I am grateful tothe immortal elements which haveso conspired that I might once be.

I was Tarl Cabot, Warrior of Ko-ro-ba.

That not even the Priest-Kings ofGor can change.

It is toward evening now, and thelamps of love are lit in many of the

windows of the cylinders ofTharna. The beacon fires are setupon her walls, and I can hear thecry of distant guardsmen that all iswell in Tharna.

The cylinders grow dark againstthe darkening sky. It will soon benight. There will be few to note thestranger who leaves the city,perhaps few to remember that hewas once within their walls.

My weapons and my shield andhelmet are at hand.

Outside I hear the cry of the tarn.I am satisfied.I wish you well,Tarl Cabot

Table of ContentsA NOTE ON THE

MANUSCRIPTChapter One:Chapter Two:Chapter Three:Chapter Four:Chapter Five:Chapter Six:Chapter Seven:Chapter Eight:Chapter Nine:Chapter Ten:Chapter Eleven:

Chap1ter Twelve:Chapter Thirteen:Chapter Fourteen:Chapter Fifteen:Chapter Sixteen:Chapter Seventeen:Chapter Eighteen:Chapter Nineteen:Chapter Twenty:Chapter Twenty-One:Chapter Twenty-Two:Chapter Twenty-Three:Chapter Twenty-Four:Chapter Twenty-Five:Chapter Twenty-Six:

Table of Contents

A NOTE ON THEMANUSCRIPT

Chapter One:Chapter Two:Chapter Three:Chapter Four:Chapter Five:Chapter Six:Chapter Seven:Chapter Eight:Chapter Nine:Chapter Ten:Chapter Eleven:Chapter Twelve:Chapter Thirteen:Chapter Fourteen:Chapter Fifteen:

Chapter Sixteen:Chapter Seventeen:Chapter Eighteen:Chapter Nineteen:Chapter Twenty:Chapter Twenty-One:Chapter Twenty-Two:Chapter Twenty-Three:Chapter Twenty-Four:Chapter Twenty-Five:Chapter Twenty-Six: