John Norman - Priest-Kings of Gor

“Yes,” I said, “I am a Warrior.”

“Until you fine Talena,” he said, “your companion is peril and steel.”

It was an old Warrior saying.

I drew the blade and examined it.

The Older Tarl’s eyes, like mine, ran the edge, and I saw that he approved.

“You carried it at Ar,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “The same.”

“Peril and steel,” said he.

“I know,” I said. “I have before me the work of a Warrior.”

I resheathed the blade.

It was a lonely road that I now had to walk, and I wished to set out upon it as soon as possible. I told the Older Tarl and Torm to say good-bye to my father, as I did not trust myself to see him longer, for fear that I would not wish so soon to part from him again.

And so it was that I wished my two friends well.

Though I had met them only for a moment in the shadow of the Sardar, we had renewed our affection and comradeship, on to the other, in the timeless instant friendship.

“Where will you go?” asked Torm. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” I said, and I spoke honestly.

“It seems to me,” said Torm, “that you should come with us to Ko-ro-ba and wait there. Perhaps Talena will find her way back.

The Older Tarl smiled.

“It is a possibility,” said Torm.

Yes, I said to myself, it is a possibility, but not a likely one. The probability of so beautiful a woman as Talena finding her way through the cities of Gor, over the lonely roads, among the open fields to at last return to Ko-ro-ba was not high.

Somewhere even now she might be facing danger that she would not face in Ko-ro-ba and there might be none to protect her.

Perhaps she was even now threatened by savage beasts or even more savage men.

Perhaps she, my Free Companion, even now lay chained in one of the blue and yellow slave wagons, or serve Paga in a tavern or was a belled adornment to some warrior’s Pleasure Gardens. Perhaps even now she stood upon the block in some auction in Ar’s Street of Brands.

“I will return to Ko-ro-ba from time to time,” I said, “to see if she has returned.”

“Perhaps,” said the Older Tarl, “she attempted to reach her father, Marlenus, in the Voltai.”

That was possible, I thought, for Marlenus, since his deposition from the throne of Ar, had lived as an Outlaw Ubar in the Voltai. It would be natural for her to try to reach him.

“If that is true,” I said, “and it is heard that Ko-ro-ba is being rebuilt Marlenus will see that she reaches the city.”

“That is true,” said the Older Tarl.

“Perhaps she is in Ar,” suggested Torm.

“If so, and Kazrak knows of it,” I said, “he will return her.”

“Do you wish me to accompany you?” asked the Older Tarl.

I thought his sword might indeed have been welcome, but I knew his first duty lay to his city. “No,” I said.

“Well then,” said torm, shouldering his scroll like a lance, “that leaves only two of us.”

“No,” I said to him. “Go with Tarl, the Master-of-Arms.”

“You have no idea how useful I might be,” said Torm.

He was right, I had no idea.

“I am sorry,” I said.

“There will be many scrolls to examine and catalogue when the city is rebuilt,” observed the Older Tarl. “Of course,” he added, “I might do the work myself.”

Torm shook with horror. “Never!” he cried.

The Older Tarl roared with laughter and swept the little scribe under his arm.

“I wish you well,” said the Older Tarl.

“And I wish you well,” I said.

He turned and strode off, saying no more, Torm’s chest and head sticking out behind from under his arm. Torm hit him several times with the scroll but the blows seemed not to phase him. At last Torm, before he disappeared from sight, waved his scroll in farewell.

I lifted my hand to him. “I wish you well, little Torm,” I said, I would miss him, and the Older Tarl. And my father, my father. “I wish all of you well,” I said softly.

Once more I looked to the Sardar.

I was alone again.

There were a few, almost none on Gor, who would believe my story.

I supposed that there would be few on my Old World — Earth — too, who would believe it.

Perhaps it was better that way.

Had I not lived these things, did I not know whereof I speak, I ask myself if I — Tarl Cabot himself — would accept them, and I tell myself frankly, in all likelihood, No. So then why have I written them? I do not know, save that I thought these things worth recording whether they are to be believed or not.

There is little more to tell now.

I remained some days beside the Sardar, in the camp of some men from Tharna, whom I had known several months before. I regret that among them was not the dour, magnificent, yellow-haired Kron of Tharna, of the Caste of Metal Workers, who had been my friend.

These men of Tharna, mostly small tradesmen in silver, had come for the autumn fair, the Fair of Se`Var, which was just being set up at the time of the gravitational lessening. I remained with them, accepting their hospitality, while going out to meet various delegations from different cities, as they came to the Sardar for the fair.

Systematically and persistently I questioned these men of various cities about the whereabouts of Talena of Ar, hoping to find some clue that might lead me to her, even if it might be only the drunken memory of some herdsmen of a vision of beauty once encountered in a dim and crowded tavern in Cos or Port Kar. But in spite of my best efforts I was unable to uncover the slightest clue to her fate.

This story is now, on the whole, told.

But there is one last incident which I must record.

IT OCCURRED LATE LAST NIGHT.

I had joined a group of men from Ar, some of whom remembered me from the Siege of Ar more than seven years before.

We had left the Fair of Se`Var and were making our way around the perimeter of the Sardar Range before crossing the Vosk on the way to Ar.

We had made camp.

We were still within sight of the crags of the Sardar.

It was a windy, cold night and the three moons of Gor were full and the silvery grasses of the fields were swept by the chill blasts of the passing wind. I could smell the cold tang of approaching winter. There had already been a heavy frost the night before. It was a wild, beautiful autumn night.

“By the Priest-Kings!” should a man, pointing to a ridge. “What is it?”

I and the others leaped to our feet, swords drawn, to see where he had pointed.

About two hundred yards above the camp, toward the Sardar, whose crags could be seen looming in the background against the black, star-shattered night was a strange figure, outlined against one of the white, rushing moons of Gor.

There were gasps of astonishment and horror from all save myself. Men seized weapons.

“Let us rush on it and kill it!” They cried.

I sheathed my sword.

Outlined against the largest of Gor’s three hurtling moons was the black silhouette, as sharp as a knife, of a Priest-King.

“Wait here!” I shouted and I ran across the field and climbed the knoll on which it stood.

The two peering eyes, golden and luminous, looked down at me. The antennae, whipped by the wind, focussed themselves. Across the left eye disk I could see the whitish seam that was the scar left from the slashing bladelike projection of Sarm.

“Misk!” I cried, rushing to the Priest-King and lifting my hands to receive the antennae, which was gently placed in them.

“Greetings, Tarl Cabot,” comes from Misk’s translator.

“You have saved our world,” I said.

“It is empty for Priest-Kings,” he said.