John Norman - Priest-Kings of Gor

One Initiate stood on his feet.

I was pleased to see that.

“Do you come from Priest-Kings?” he asked.

He was a tall man, rather heavy, with bland soft features, but his voice was very deep and would have been quite impressive in one of the temples of the Initiates, constructed to maximise the acoustical effects of such a voice. His eyes, I noted, in contrast with his bland features, his almost pudgy softness, were very sharp and shrewd. He was no man’s fool. His left hand, fat and soft wore a heavy ring set with a large, white stone, carved with the sign of Ar. He was, I gathered, correctly as it turned out, the High Initiate of Ar, he who had been appointed to fill the post of the former High Initiate whom I had seen destroyed by the Flame Death years earlier.

“I come from the place of the Priest-Kings,” I said, raising my voice so that as many could hear as possible. I wanted to carry on no private conversation with this fellow, which he might later report as he saw fit.

I saw his eye furtively flit to the smoke of one of the sacrificial fires.

It was now ascending in a gentle swirl to the blue sky of Gor.

He knew!

He knew as well as I that the gravitational field of the planet was re-established.

“I wish to speak!” I cried.

“Wait,” he said, “oh welcome messenger of Priest-Kings!”

I kept silent, waiting to see what he wanted.

The man gestured with his fat hand and a white bosk, beautiful with its long, shaggy coat and its carved, polished horns, was led forward. Its shaggy coat had been oiled and groomed and colored beads were hung about it horns.

Drawing a small knife from his pouch the Initiate cut a strand of hair from the animal and threw it into a nearby fire. Then he gestured to a subordinate, and the man, with a sword opened, opened the throat of the animal and it sank to its knees, the blood from its throat being caught in a golden laver held by a third man.

While I waited impatiently two more men cut a thigh from the slain beast and this, dripping with grease and blood, was ordered cast upon the fire.

“All else has failed!” cried the Initiate, weaving back and forth, his hands in the air. Then he began to mumble prayers very quickly in archaic Gorean, a language in which the Initiates converse among themselves and conduct their various ceremonies. At the end of this long but speedily delivered prayer, refrains to which were rapidly furnished by the Initiates massed about him, he cried, “Oh Priest-Kings, let this our last sacrifice turn aside your wrath. Let this sacrifice please your nostrils and now consent to hear our pleas! It is offered by Om, Chief among all the High initiates of Gor!”

“No!” cried a number of other Initiates, the High Initiates of various other cities. I knew that the High Initiate of Ar, following the policies of the High Initiate before him, wished to claim hegemony over all other Initiates, and claimed to possess this already, but his claim, of course, was denied by the other High Initiates who regarded themselves as supreme in their own cities. I surmised that, pending some form of military victory of Ar over the other cities or some form of large-scale political victory of Ar over the other cities or some form of large-scale political reordering of the planet, the Initiate of Ar’s claims would remain a matter of dispute.

“It is the sacrifice of all of us!” Cried one of the other High Initiates.

“Yes!” cried several of the others.

“Look!” cried the High Initiate of Ar. He pointed to the smoke which was now rising in an almost natural pattern. He jumped up once and came down, as though to illustrate a point. “My sacrifice has been pleasing to the nostrils of the Priest-Kings!” he cried.

“Our sacrifice!” cried the other Initiates, joyfully.

A wild, glad shout broke from the throats of the assembled multitude as the men suddenly began to understand that their world was returning to its normal order. There were thousands of cheers and cries of gratitude to the Priest-Kings.

“See!” cried the High Initiate of Ar. He pointed to the smoke which, as the wind had changed somewhat, was now drifting toward the Sardar. “The Priest-Kings inhale the smoke of my sacrifice.

“Our sacrifice!” insisted the other High Initiates.

I smiled to myself. I could well imagine the antennae of the Priest-Kings shuddering with horror at the very thought of that greasy smoke.

Then somewhat to his momentary embarrassment the wind shifted again and the smoke began to blow away from the Sardar and out toward the crowd.

Perhaps the Priest-Kings are exhaling now, I thought to myself, but the High Initiate had more practise in the interpretation of signs than myself.

“See!” he cried. “Now the Priest-Kings blow the breath of my sacrifice as a blessing upon you, letting it travel to the ends of Gor to speak of their wisdom and mercy!”

There was a great cry of joy from the crowed and shouts of gratitude to the Priest-Kings.

I had hoped that I might have used those moments, that priceless opportunity, before the men of Gor realised the restoration of gravity and normal conditions was occurring, to command them to give up their warlike ways and turn to the pursuit of peace and brotherhood, but the moment, before I realised it, had been stolen from me by the High Initiate of Ar, and used for his own purposes.

Now as the crowd rejoiced and began to disband I knew that I was no longer important, that I was only another indication of the mercy of the Priest-Kings, that someone — who had it been? — Had returned from the Sardar.

At that moment I suddenly realised I was ringed by Initiates.

Their codes forbade them to kill but I knew that they hired men of other castes for this purpose.

I faced the High Initiate of Ar.

“Who are you, Stranger?” he asked.

The words for “stranger” and “enemy” in Gorean, incidentally, are the same word.

“I am no one,” I said.

I would not reveal to him my name, my caste, nor city.

“It is well,” said the High Initiate.

His brethren pressed more closely about me.

“He did not truly come from the Sardar,” said another Initiate.

I looked at him, puzzled.

“No,” said another. “I saw him. He came from the crowd and only went within the ring of the palisade and wandered towards us. He was terrified. He did not come from the mountains.”

“Do you understand?” asked the High Initiate.

“Perfectly,” I said.

“But it is not true,” cried Vika. “We were in the Sardar. We have seen Priest-Kings!”

“She blasphemes,” said one of the Initiates.

I cautioned Vika to silence.

Suddenly I was very sad, and I wondered what would be the fate of humans from the Nest, if they should attempt to return to their cities or the world above. Perhaps, if they were silent, they might return to the surface, but even then, probably not their own cities, for the Initiates of their cities would undoubtedly recall that they had left for, and perhaps entered, the Sardar.

With great suddenness I realised that what I knew, and what others knew, would make no difference to the world of Gor.

The Initiates had their way of life, their ancient traditions, their given livelihood, the prestige of their caste, which they claimed to be the highest on the planet, their teachings, their holy books, their services, their role to play in the culture. Suppose that even now if they knew the truth — what would change? Would I really expect them — at least on the whole — to burn their robes, to surrender their claims to secret knowledge and powers, to pick up hoes of Peasants, the needles of the Cloth Workers, to bend their energies to the humble task of honest work?