Read Online Hunters of Gor by John Norman - Free Book Online
Authors: John Norman
Tags: Fiction, General, Erótica, Science-Fiction, adventure, Fantasy, Gor (Imaginary Place), Outer Space, Cabot; Tarl (Fictitious Character)
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side. There, lost to the bustle in the tavern, oblivious to the
music, sat two men across a board of one hundred red and yellow squares, playing
Kaissa, the game. One was a Player, a master who makes his living, though
commonly poorly, from the game, playing for a cup of paga perhaps and the right
to sleep in the taverns for the night. The other, sitting cross-legged with him,
was the broad-shouldered, blond giant from Torvaldsland whom I had seen earlier.
He wore a shaggy jacket. His hair was braided. His feet and legs were bound in
skins and cords. The large, curved, double-bladed, long-handled ax lay beside
him. On his large brown leather belt, confining the long shaggy jacket he wore,
which would have fallen to his knees, were carved the luck signs of the north.
Kaissa is popular in Torvaldsland as well as elsewhere on Gor. In halls, it is
often played far into the night, by fires, by the northern giants. Sometimes
disputes, which otherwise might be settled only by ax or sword, are willingly
surrendered to a game of Kaissa, if only for the joy of engaging in the game.
The big fellow was of Torvaldsland. The master might have been from as far away
as Ar, or Tor, or Turia. But they had between them the game, its fascination and
its beauty, reconciling whatever differences, in dialect, custom or way of light
might divide them.
The game was beautiful.
The girl who served us was also beautiful. We had finished with our meal. And we
were now finishing second cups of paga.
She again knelt beside us. “Do masters wish more?” she asked.
“What is your name?” asked Rim, his hand in her hair. He turned her head
slightly to the side.
She looked at him, for the side of her eyes. “Tendite,” she said, “if it pleases
Master.”
It was a Turian name. I had once known a girl by that name.
“Do masters wish more?” she asked.
Rim grinned.
There was, outside, the shouting of men in the street. We looked to one another.
Thurnock threw down a silver tarsk on the table.
I, too, was curious. So, too, was Rim. He regarded Tendite.
She moved to dart away. Quickly, he took her by the hair and pulled her quickly,
bent over, to a low, sloping side of the room. “Key” he called to the
proprietor, pointing toward the side of the room. The proprietor hurried over,
in his apron, and handed Rim a key. It was number six. Rim, taking the key in
his mouth, put the girl down rudely on her knees, her back to the low wall, took
her hands back and over her head and snapped them into slave bracelets, dangling
on a chain, passing through a heavy ring set in the wall. He then took the key,
which could open the bracelets, and dropped it in his pouch. She looked up at
him, in fury. It is a way of reserving, for a time, a girl for yourself.
“I shall return shortly,” he said.
She knelt there, in the darkness of the side of the room, in her yellow silk,
her hands locked above and behind her head.
“Do not run away,” Rim cautioned her.
He then turned to join us and, together, we left the tavern, to see what the
commotion might be outside. Many others, too, had left the tavern.
The girl had left the dancing sand. Even the musicians poured out of the tavern.
We walked along the front of the street, until we came to a side street, leading
down to the wharves. It was not more than a hundred yards from the tavern.
Men, and women and children, were lining the side street, and others were
pouring in from the street before the tavern.
We heard the beating of a drum and the playing of flutes.
“What is going on?” I asked a fellow, of the metal workers.
“It is a judicial enslavement,” he said.
With Rim and Thurnock, moving in the crowd, I craned for a look.
I saw first the girl, stumbling. She was already stripped. Her hands were tied
behind her back. Something, pushing her from behind, had been fastened on her
neck. Behind her came a flat-topped wagon, of some four feet in height. It
music, sat two men across a board of one hundred red and yellow squares, playing
Kaissa, the game. One was a Player, a master who makes his living, though
commonly poorly, from the game, playing for a cup of paga perhaps and the right
to sleep in the taverns for the night. The other, sitting cross-legged with him,
was the broad-shouldered, blond giant from Torvaldsland whom I had seen earlier.
He wore a shaggy jacket. His hair was braided. His feet and legs were bound in
skins and cords. The large, curved, double-bladed, long-handled ax lay beside
him. On his large brown leather belt, confining the long shaggy jacket he wore,
which would have fallen to his knees, were carved the luck signs of the north.
Kaissa is popular in Torvaldsland as well as elsewhere on Gor. In halls, it is
often played far into the night, by fires, by the northern giants. Sometimes
disputes, which otherwise might be settled only by ax or sword, are willingly
surrendered to a game of Kaissa, if only for the joy of engaging in the game.
The big fellow was of Torvaldsland. The master might have been from as far away
as Ar, or Tor, or Turia. But they had between them the game, its fascination and
its beauty, reconciling whatever differences, in dialect, custom or way of light
might divide them.
The game was beautiful.
The girl who served us was also beautiful. We had finished with our meal. And we
were now finishing second cups of paga.
She again knelt beside us. “Do masters wish more?” she asked.
“What is your name?” asked Rim, his hand in her hair. He turned her head
slightly to the side.
She looked at him, for the side of her eyes. “Tendite,” she said, “if it pleases
Master.”
It was a Turian name. I had once known a girl by that name.
“Do masters wish more?” she asked.
Rim grinned.
There was, outside, the shouting of men in the street. We looked to one another.
Thurnock threw down a silver tarsk on the table.
I, too, was curious. So, too, was Rim. He regarded Tendite.
She moved to dart away. Quickly, he took her by the hair and pulled her quickly,
bent over, to a low, sloping side of the room. “Key” he called to the
proprietor, pointing toward the side of the room. The proprietor hurried over,
in his apron, and handed Rim a key. It was number six. Rim, taking the key in
his mouth, put the girl down rudely on her knees, her back to the low wall, took
her hands back and over her head and snapped them into slave bracelets, dangling
on a chain, passing through a heavy ring set in the wall. He then took the key,
which could open the bracelets, and dropped it in his pouch. She looked up at
him, in fury. It is a way of reserving, for a time, a girl for yourself.
“I shall return shortly,” he said.
She knelt there, in the darkness of the side of the room, in her yellow silk,
her hands locked above and behind her head.
“Do not run away,” Rim cautioned her.
He then turned to join us and, together, we left the tavern, to see what the
commotion might be outside. Many others, too, had left the tavern.
The girl had left the dancing sand. Even the musicians poured out of the tavern.
We walked along the front of the street, until we came to a side street, leading
down to the wharves. It was not more than a hundred yards from the tavern.
Men, and women and children, were lining the side street, and others were
pouring in from the street before the tavern.
We heard the beating of a drum and the playing of flutes.
“What is going on?” I asked a fellow, of the metal workers.
“It is a judicial enslavement,” he said.
With Rim and Thurnock, moving in the crowd, I craned for a look.
I saw first the girl, stumbling. She was already stripped. Her hands were tied
behind her back. Something, pushing her from behind, had been fastened on her
neck. Behind her came a flat-topped wagon, of some four feet in height. It