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, “which lies outside the city.” He laughed unpleasantly. “And there,” he said, “as a good man of Tharna should, I will revere her to my heart's content.”
I felt my hand clench on the hilt of my sword.
“Stay your hand, Warrior,” said Thorn. He turned to the girl. “To whom do you belong?” he asked.
“I belong to Thorn, Captain of Tharna,” she said.
I replaced the sword in my sheath, shattered, helpless. I could kill Thorn and his warrior perhaps, free her. But what then? Free her to the beasts of Gor, to another slaver? She would never accept my protection, and by her own actions she preferred Thorn and slavery to a favour from the man called Tarl of Ko-ro-ba.
I looked at her. “Are you of Ko-ro-ba?” I asked.
She stiffened, and looked at me with 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?” she asked.
“To avenge it,” I replied.
She looked into my eyes for a long time. And then, as Thorn and the warrior picked up the litter with their wounded companion and began to depart, she said to me, “Goodbye, Tarl of Ko-ro-ba.”
“I wish you well, Vera of the Towers of the Morning,” I said.
She turned quickly, following her master, and I remained standing alone in the field.
Chapter Eight:
THE CITY OF THARNA
The streets of Tharna were crowded, yet strangely silent. The gate had been open and though I had been carefullly scrutinised by its guards, tall spearmen in blue helmets, no one had objected to my entry. It must be as I had heard, that the streets of Tharna were open to all men who came in peace, whatever their city.
Curiously, I examined the crowds, all seemingly bent on their business, yet strangely tight lipped, subdued, much different from the normal, bustling throngs of a Gorean city. Most of the male citizens wore grey tunics, perhaps indicative of their superiority to pleasure, their determination to be serious and responsible, to be worthy scions of that industrious and sobre city.
On the whole they seemed to me a pale and depressed lot, but I was confident they could accomplish what they set their minds to, that they might succeed in tasks which the average Gorean male, with his impatience and lightness of heart, would simply abandon as distasteful or not worth the effort, for the average Gorean male, it must be admitted, tends to regard the joys of life somewhat more highly than its duties.
On the shoulders of their grey tunics only a small band of colour indicated caste. Normally the caste colours of Gor would be in abundant evidence, enlivening the streets and bridges of the city, a glorious spectacle in Gor's bright, clear air.
I wondered if men in this city were not proud of their castes as were, on the whole, other Goreans, even those of the so-called lower castes. Even men of a caste as low as that of the Tarn-Keepers were intolerably proud of their calling, for who else could raise and train those monstrous birds of prey? I supposed Zosk the Woodsman was proud in the knowledge that he with his great broad-headed ax could fell a tree in one blow, and that perhaps not even a Ubar could do as much. Even the Caste of Peasants regarded itself as the “Ox on which the Home Stone Rests” and could seldom be encouraged to leave their narrow strips of land, which they and their fathers before them had owned and made fruitful.
I missed in the crowd the presence of slave girls, common in other cities, usually lovely girls clad only in the brief, diagonally striped slave livery of Gor, a sleeveless, briefly skirted garment terminating some inches above the knee, a garment that contrasts violently with the heavy, cumbersome Robes of Concealment worn by free women. Indeed, it was known that some free women
“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, “which lies outside the city.” He laughed unpleasantly. “And there,” he said, “as a good man of Tharna should, I will revere her to my heart's content.”
I felt my hand clench on the hilt of my sword.
“Stay your hand, Warrior,” said Thorn. He turned to the girl. “To whom do you belong?” he asked.
“I belong to Thorn, Captain of Tharna,” she said.
I replaced the sword in my sheath, shattered, helpless. I could kill Thorn and his warrior perhaps, free her. But what then? Free her to the beasts of Gor, to another slaver? She would never accept my protection, and by her own actions she preferred Thorn and slavery to a favour from the man called Tarl of Ko-ro-ba.
I looked at her. “Are you of Ko-ro-ba?” I asked.
She stiffened, and looked at me with 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?” she asked.
“To avenge it,” I replied.
She looked into my eyes for a long time. And then, as Thorn and the warrior picked up the litter with their wounded companion and began to depart, she said to me, “Goodbye, Tarl of Ko-ro-ba.”
“I wish you well, Vera of the Towers of the Morning,” I said.
She turned quickly, following her master, and I remained standing alone in the field.
Chapter Eight:
THE CITY OF THARNA
The streets of Tharna were crowded, yet strangely silent. The gate had been open and though I had been carefullly scrutinised by its guards, tall spearmen in blue helmets, no one had objected to my entry. It must be as I had heard, that the streets of Tharna were open to all men who came in peace, whatever their city.
Curiously, I examined the crowds, all seemingly bent on their business, yet strangely tight lipped, subdued, much different from the normal, bustling throngs of a Gorean city. Most of the male citizens wore grey tunics, perhaps indicative of their superiority to pleasure, their determination to be serious and responsible, to be worthy scions of that industrious and sobre city.
On the whole they seemed to me a pale and depressed lot, but I was confident they could accomplish what they set their minds to, that they might succeed in tasks which the average Gorean male, with his impatience and lightness of heart, would simply abandon as distasteful or not worth the effort, for the average Gorean male, it must be admitted, tends to regard the joys of life somewhat more highly than its duties.
On the shoulders of their grey tunics only a small band of colour indicated caste. Normally the caste colours of Gor would be in abundant evidence, enlivening the streets and bridges of the city, a glorious spectacle in Gor's bright, clear air.
I wondered if men in this city were not proud of their castes as were, on the whole, other Goreans, even those of the so-called lower castes. Even men of a caste as low as that of the Tarn-Keepers were intolerably proud of their calling, for who else could raise and train those monstrous birds of prey? I supposed Zosk the Woodsman was proud in the knowledge that he with his great broad-headed ax could fell a tree in one blow, and that perhaps not even a Ubar could do as much. Even the Caste of Peasants regarded itself as the “Ox on which the Home Stone Rests” and could seldom be encouraged to leave their narrow strips of land, which they and their fathers before them had owned and made fruitful.
I missed in the crowd the presence of slave girls, common in other cities, usually lovely girls clad only in the brief, diagonally striped slave livery of Gor, a sleeveless, briefly skirted garment terminating some inches above the knee, a garment that contrasts violently with the heavy, cumbersome Robes of Concealment worn by free women. Indeed, it was known that some free women
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