John Norman - Counter Earth02 - Outlaw Of Gor

by Outlaw Of Gor(Lit)

  'Yes,' she said with shame. 'I wear 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, not speaking. There was no sound in that dark, cold place. The shadows of the tiny tharlarion lamp far above flickered on the walls, on the face of the girl.

  Her hand reached out and touched the silver yoke I wore. 'They are cruel,' she said.

  Then, without speaking more, she picked up the bread from the pan, and held it for me. I bit two or three voracious mouthfuls of the coarse stuff and chewed it and gulped it down.

  I noted her throat was encircled by a collar of grey metal. I supposed it indicated that she was a state slave of Tharna.

  She reached into the cistern, first scraping the surface of the water to clear it of the green scum that floated there, and then, in the palms of her cupped hands, carried water to my parched lips.

  'Thank you,' I said.

  She smiled at me. 'One does not thank a slave,' she said.

  'I thought women were free in Tharna,' I said, gesturing with my head toward the grey metal collar she wore.

  'I will not be kept in Tharna,' she said. 'I will be sent from the city, to the Great Farms, where I will 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 I am only a Degraded Woman, for I allowed myself to love.'

  'That is no crime,' I said.

  The girl laughed merrily. I love to hear the sudden glad music of a woman's laughter, that laughter that so delights a man, that acts on his senses like Ka-la-na wine.

  Suddenly it seemed I no longer felt the weight of the yoke.

  'Tell me about him,' I said, 'but first 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 have concluded that she shared her cell with an outlaw. She sat back on her heels, her eyes happy. 'He was,' she said, 'not even of this city.'

  I whistled. That would be a serious matter in Gorean eyes.

  'And worse than that,' she laughed, clapping her hands, 'he was of the Caste of Singers.'

  It could have been worse, I thought. After all, though the Caste of Singers, or Poets, was not a high caste, it had more prestige than, for example, the Caste of Pot-Makers or Saddle-Makers, with which it was sometimes compared. On Gor, the singer, or poet, is regarded as a craftsman who makes strong sayings, much like a pot-maker makes a good pot or a saddle-maker makes a worthy saddle. He has his role to play in the social structure, celebrating battles and histories, singing of heroes and cities, but also he is expected to sing of living, and of love and joy, not merely of arms and glory; and, too, it is his function to remind the Goreans from time to time of loneliness and death, lest they should forget that they are men.

  The singer was thought to have an unusual skill, but so, too, were the tarn-keeper and the woodsman. Poets on Gor, as in my native world, were regarded with some skepticism and thought to be a little foolish, but it had not occurred to anyone that they might suffer from divine madness or be the periodic recipients of the inspiration of the gods. The Priest-Kings of Gor, who served as the divinities of this rude planet, inspired little but awe, and occasionally fear. Men lived in a truce with the Priest-Kings, keeping their laws and festivals, making the required sacrifices and libations, but, on the whole, forgetting about them as much as possible. Had it been suggested to a poet that he had been inspired by a Priest-King the fellow would have been scandalised. '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 the Poet, or Singer, was loved on Gor. It had not occurred to him that he owed misery and torment to his profession, and, on the whole, the Caste of Poets was thought to be a most happy band of men. 'A handful of bread for a song,' was a common Gorean invitation extended to members of the caste, and it might occur on the lips of a peasant or a Ubar, and the poet took great pride that he would sing the same song in both the hut of the peasant and the halls of the Ubar, though it won for him only a crust of bread in one place and a cap of gold in the other, gold often squandered on a beautiful woman who might leave him nothing but his songs.

  Poets, on the whole, did not live well on Gor, but they never starved, were never forced to burn the robes of their caste. Some had even sung their way from city to city, their poverty protecting them from outlaws, and their luck from the predatory beasts of Gor. Nine cities, long after his death, claimed the man who, centuries ago, had called Ko-ro-ba the Towers of the Morning.

  'The Caste of Poets is not so bad,' I said to Linna.

  'Of course not,' she said, 'but they are outlawed in Tharna.'

  'Oh,' I said.

  'Nonetheless,' she said, her eyes happy, 'this man, Andreas, of the Desert City of Tor, crept into the city - looking for a song he said.' She laughed. 'But I think he really wanted to look behind the silver masks of our women.' She clapped her hands with delight. 'It was I,' she continued, 'who apprehended and challenged him, I who saw the lyre beneath his grey robes and knew him for a singer. In my silver mask I followed him, and determined that he had been within the city for more than ten hours.'

  'What is the significance of that?' I asked, for I had heard something of the sort before.

  'It means one is made welcome in Tharna,' said the girl, 'and this means one is sent to the Great Farms to be a Field Slave, to cultivate the soil of Tharna in chains until ond dies.'

  'Why are strangers not warned of this,' I asked, 'when they enter the gates?'

  'That would be foolish indeed, would it not?' laughed the girl. 'For how then would the ranks of Field Slaves be replenished?'

  'I see,' I said, now understanding for the first time something of the motivation behind the hospitality of Tharna.

  'As one who wore the silver mask,' continued the girl, 'it was my duty to report this man to the authorities. Yet I was curious for I had never known a man not from Tharna. I followed him, until we were alone, and then I challenged him, informing him of the fate that lay before him.'

  'Then what did he do?' I asked.

  She dropped her head shyly. 'He pulled away my silver mask and kissed me,' she said, 'so that I could not even cry for help.'

  I smiled at her.

  'I had never been in the arms of a man before,' she said, 'for the men of 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, arranges these matters.'

  'I see,' I said.

  'Yet,' she said, 'though I had worn the silver mask, and counted myself a woman of Tharna, when he took me in his arms, I did not find the situation unpleasant.' She looked at me, a little sadly. 'I knew then that I was no better than he, no better than a beast, worthy only to be a slave.'

  'You do not believe that?' I demanded.

  'Yes,' she said, 'but I do not care, for I would rather wear the camisk and have felt his kiss, than live forever behind my silver mask.' Her shoulders shook. I wished that I could have taken her in my arms, and comforted her. 'I am a degraded creature,' she said, 'shamed, a traitress to all that is highest in Tharna.'

  'What happened to the man?' I asked.

  I sheltered him, she said, 'and managed to smuggle him from the city.' She sighed. 'He made me promise to follow him, but I knew that 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 and confessing all. It was decreed that I mus
t lose my silver mask, don the camisk and be collared, and be sent to the Great Farms to carry water to Field Slaves.'

  She began to weep.

  'You should not have given yourself to the High Council,' I said.

  'Why?' she asked. 'Was I not guilty?'

  '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 he not come searching for you, re-enter the city?'

  'No,' she said. 'He will think I no longer love him.' She lowered her head. 'He will go away, and find himself another woman, one more 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 be sent 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 of fools, of the Caste of Singers, of Poets?'

  Linna sprang to her feet.

  Through the door of the dungeon a yoked figure was thrust by the butt ends of two spears. He stumbled through the entire room before he struck the wall with the yoke. He managed to turn the yoke and slide down the wall to a seated position.

  He was an unkempt, strong-looking lad, with cheerful blue eyes and a mop of hair like the mane of a black larl. He sat on the straw, and smiled at us, a jolly, impish, shamefaced smile. He stretched his neck in the yoke and moved his fingers.

  'Well, Linna,' he said. 'I have come to carry you off.'

  'Andreas,' she cried, rushing to him.

  Chapter Thirteen: THE AMUSEMENTS OF THARNA

  The sun hurt my eyes. The white sand, perfumed, sprinkled with mica and red lead, burned my feet. I blinked again and again, trying to lessen the torture of the glare. Already I could feel the heat of the sun soaking into the silver yoke I wore.

  My back felt the jab of spears as I was prodded ahead and stumbled forward, unsteady under the weight of the yoke, my feet sinking to their ankles in the hot sand. On both sides of me were other wretched fellows, similarly yoked, some whining, some cursing, as they, too, were driven forward like beasts. One, silent, to my left, I knew to be Andreas of the Desert City of Tor. At last I no longer felt the spear point in my back.

  'Kneel to the Tatrix of Tharna,' commanded an imperious voice, speaking through some type of trumpet.

  I heard the voice of Andreas next to me. 'Strange,' said he, 'usually the Tatrix does not attend the Amusements of Tharna.'

  I wondered if I might be the reason that the Tatrix herself was present.

  '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 the butt of a spear, and, with a groan he sank downwards. The spear struck me, too, again and again, in the back and across the shoulders, but I stood, somehow strong in the yoke, like an ox. Then with a harsh crack a lash suddenly struck my legs and curled 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 sands of an arena.

  It was an oval enclosure, perhaps a hundred yards in diameter on its longest axis, and enclosed by walls about twelve feet high. The walls were divided into sections, which were brightly coloured, with golds, purples, reds, oranges, yellows and blues.

  The surface of the area, white sand, perfumed and sparkling with mica and red lead, added to the colourful mien of the place. Hanging over favoured portions of the stands, which ascended on all sides, were giant striped awnings of billowing red and yellow silk.

  It seemed that all the glorious colours of Gor which had been denied the buildings of Tharna were lavished on this place of its amusements.

  In the stands, shaded by the awnings, I saw hundreds of sliver masks, the lofty women of Tharna, reclining on benches softened with cushions of coloured silk - come to view the Amusements.

  I also noted the grey of the men in the stands. Several were armed warriors, perhaps stationed there to keep the peace, but many must have been common citizens of Tharna. Some seemed to be conversing among themselves, perhaps laying wagers of one sort or another, but most sat still on the stone benches, glum and silent in their grey robes, their thoughts not easily read. Linna, in the dungeon, had told Andreas and me that a man of Tharna must attend the Amusements of Tharna at least four times a year, and that, failing that, he must take part in them himself.

  There were cries of impatience from the stands, shrill, female voices oddly contrasting with the placidity of the silver masks. All eyes seemed turned to one section of the stands, that before which we knelt, a section that gleamed with gold.

  I looked above the wall and saw, vested in her robes of gold, regal on a golden throne, she who alone might wear a golden mask, she who was First in Tharna - Lara, the Tatrix herself.

  The Tatrix arose and lifted her hand. Pure in its glove of gold it held a golden scarf.

  The stands fell silent.

  Then, to my astonishment, the men of Tharna who were yoked in the arena, kneeling, rejected by their city, condemned, chanted a strange paean. Andreas and I, not being of Tharna, were alone silent, and I would guess he was as surprised as I.

  Though we are abject beasts

  Fit only to live for your comfort

  Fit only to die for your pleasure

  Yet we glorify the Masks of Tharna.

  Hail to the Masks of Tharna.

  Mail to the Tatrix of our City.

  The golden scarf fluttered to the sands of the arena and the Tatrix resumed her throne, reclining upon its cushions.

  The voice speaking through the trumpet said, 'Let the Amusements of Tharna begin.'

  Squeals of anticipation greeted this announcement but I had little time to listen for I was jerked roughly to my feet.

  'First,' said the voice, 'there will be the Contests of Oxen.'

  There were perhaps forty yoked wretches in the arena. In a few moments the guards had divided us into teams of four, harnessing our yokes together with chains. Then, with their whips, they drove us to a set of large blocks of quarried granite, weighing perhaps a ton apiece, from the sides of which protruded heavy iron rings. More chains fixed each team to its own block.

  The course was indicated to us. The race would begin and end before the golden wall behind which, in lofty splendour, sat the Tatrix of Tharna. Each team would have its driver, who would bear a whip and ride upon the block. We painfully dragged the heavy blocks to the golden wall. The silver yoke, hot from the sun, burned my neck and shoulders.

  As we stood before the wall I heard 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 the presence of the Tatrix. He approached us, individually, checking the harness chains. As he examined my yoke and chain, he said, 'Dorna the Proud has wagered a hundred golden tarn disks on this block. 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 lifted slightly, almost languorously, from the arm of her throne, and the race began.

  Our block did not lose.

  Savagely, our backs breaking, stinging under the frenzied lashing of our driver, cursing the colourful sands of the arena that mounted before the
block as we dragged it foot by foot about the course, we managed to come first within the zone of the golden wall. When we were unchained we discovered we had been dragging one man who had died 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 hundred others. Soon the stands themselves seemed to ring with the cry. 'The Battles of Oxen,' cried the women of Tharna. 'Let them begin!'