Outlaw of Gor

by John Norman

  The surface of the area, white sand, perfumed and sparkling with mica and red lead, added to the colorful mien of the place. Hanging over favored 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 colors 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 silver masks, the lofty women of Tharna, reclining on benches softened with cushions of colored silk—come to view the Amusements.

  I also noted the gray of 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 gray 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.

  Hail 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 splendor, 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 colorful 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!"

  We were thrown on our feet again, and, to my horror, our yokes were fitted with steel horns, eighteen inches in length and pointed like nails.

  Andreas, as his yoke was similarly garnished with the deadly projections, spoke to me. "This may be farewell, Warrior," said he. "I hope only that we are not matched."

  "I would not kill you," I said.

  He looked at me strangely. "Nor would I kill you," he said, after a time. "But," he said, "if we are matched and we do not fight, we will both be slain."

  "Then so be it," I said.

  Andreas smiled at me. "So be it, Warrior," he agreed. Though yoked, we faced one another, men, each knowing that he had found a friend on the sands of the arena of Tharna.

  My opponent was not Andreas, but a squat, powerful man with short-clipped yellow hair, Kron of Tharna, of the Caste of Metal Workers. His eyes were blue like steel. One ear had been torn from his head.

  "I have survived the Amusements of Tharna three times," he said as he faced me.

  I observed him carefully. He would be a dangerous opponent.

  The man with wrist straps circled us with the whip, his eye on the throne of the Tatrix. When the glove of gold once more lifted, the dread conflict would begin.

  "Let us be men," I said to my opponent, "and refuse to slay one another for the sport of those in silver masks."

  The yellow, short-cropped head glared at me, almost without comprehension. Then it seemed as though what I had said struck, deep within him, some responsive chord. The pale blue eyes glimmered briefly; then they clouded.

  "We would both be slain," he said.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Stranger," said he, "I intend to survive the Amusements of Tharna at least once more."

  "Very well," I said, and squared off against him.

  The hand of the Tatrix must have lifted. I did not see it for I did not care to take my eyes from my opponent.

  "Begin," said the man in wrist straps.

  And so Kron and I began to circle one another, slightly bent so that the projections on the yoke might be used to best advantage.

  Once, twice, he charged, but pulled up short, seeing if he could bring me forward, off balance to meet the charge. We moved cautiously, occasionally feinting with the terrible yokes. The stands grew restless. The man in wrist straps cracked his whip. "Let there be blood," he said.

  Suddenly the foot of Kron swept through the white perfumed sand, bright with mica and red lead, and kicked a broad sheet of particles toward my eyes. It came like a silver and crimson storm, taking me by surprise, blinding me.

  I fell on my knees almost instantly, and the charging horns of Kron passed over me. I reared up under his body, heaving it on my shoulder, backwards, over on the sand. I heard it hit heavily behind me, and heard Kron's grunt of anger and fear. I couldn't turn and drive the spikes through him because I could not risk missing.

  I shook my head wildly; my hands, yoked helplessly, tried vainly to reach my eyes, to tear the blinding particles from my vision. In the sweat and blindness, unsteady under the violently swinging yoke, I heard the squeals of the frenzied crowd.

  Blinded, I heard Kron regain his feet, lifting the heavy yoke that bound him. I heard his harsh breathing, like the snorting of an animal. I heard his short, quick, running steps in the sand, thudding toward me in a bull-like charge.

  I turned my yoke obliquely, slipping between the horns, blocking the blow. It sounded like anvils hurled together. My hands
sought his, but he kept his fists clenched and withdrawn as far as he could in the bracelet of the yoke. My hand clutched his withdrawn fist and slipped off, unable to keep its grip from the sweat, his and mine. Once, twice more he charged, and each time I managed to block the blow, withstanding the shock of the crashing yokes, escaping the thrust of the murderous horns. Once I was not so fortunate and a steel horn furrowed my side, leaving a channel of blood. The crowd screamed in delight.

  Suddenly I managed to get my hands under his yoke.

  It was hot, like mine in the sun, and my hands burned on the metal. Kron was a heavy but short man, and I lifted his yoke, and mine, to the astonishment of the stands, which had fallen silent.

  Kron cursed as he felt his feet leave the sand. Painfully, as he writhed, hung in the yoke, I carried him to the golden wall, and hurled him against it. The shock to Kron, bound in the yoke, might have killed a lesser man, breaking his neck.

  Kron, still a captive of the yoke, now unconscious, slid down the wall, the weight of the yoke tumbling his inert body sideways in the sand. My sweat and the tears from the burning irritation of the sand had now cleared my vision.

  I looked up into the glittering mask of the Tatrix. Beside her I saw the silver mask of Dorna the Proud.

  "Slay him," said Dorna the Proud, gesturing to the unconscious Kron.

  I looked about the stands.

  Everywhere I saw the silver masks, and heard the shrill command, "Slay him!" On every side I saw the merciless gesture, the extended right hand, palm turned inwards, the cruel, downward chopping motion. Those who wore the silver masks had risen to their feet, and the force of their cries pressed in on me like knives, the air itself seemed filled with the bedlam of their command, "Slay him!"

  I turned and walked slowly to the center of the arena.

  I stood there, ankle deep in the sand, covered with sweat and sand, my back open from the lash of the race, my side torn from the driving horn of Kron's yoke. I stood unmoving.

  The fury of the stands was uncontrolled.

  As I stood there in the center of the arena, alone, silent, aloof, not seeming to hear them, those hundreds, rather thousands, who wore the silver masks understood that their will had been spurned, that this creature alone on the sand beneath them had thwarted their pleasure. Standing, screaming, shaking their silver-gloved fists at me, they hurled their frustration, their invective and abuse on my head. The shrill rage of these masked creatures seemed to know no bounds, to verge on hysteria, on madness.

  Calmly I waited in the center of the arena for the warriors.

  The first man to reach me was the man in wrist straps, his face livid with rage. He savagely struck me across the face with his coiled whip. "Sleen," cried he, "you have spoiled the Amusements of Tharna!" Two warriors hastily unbolted the horns from the yoke and dragged me to the golden wall.

  Once more I stood beneath the golden mask of the Tatrix.

  I wondered if my death would be quick.

  The stands fell silent. There was a tenseness in the air, as all waited for the words of the Tatrix. Her golden mask and robes glittered above me. Her words were clear, unmistakable.

  "Remove his yoke," she said.

  I could not believe my ears.

  Had I won my freedom? Was it thus in the Amusements of Tharna? Or had the fierce, proud Tatrix now recognized the cruelty of the Amusements? Had that heart hidden in those cold, glistening robes of unfeeling gold at last relented, shown itself to be susceptible of compassion? Or had the call of justice at last triumphed in her bosom, that my innocence might be acknowledged, my cause vindicated, that I might now be sped honorably on my way from gray Tharna?

  One emotion leapt in my heart, gratitude. "Thank you, Tatrix," I said.

  She laughed. "—that he may be fed to the tarn," she added.

  14

  The Black Tarn

  I was unyoked.

  The other prisoners, still yoked, had been whipped from the arena, to the dungeons below, to be used yet again in the Amusements of Tharna, or perhaps sent to the mines. Andreas of Tor tried to remain at my side, to share my fate, but he was beaten and dragged senseless from the arena.

  The crowd seemed eager to observe what would happen next. It stirred impatiently beneath the billowing silk of the awnings, rearranged its silken cushions, partook distractedly of candies and sweetmeats distributed by gray-robed figures. Mingled with calls for the tarn, occasional taunts and jibes carried across the sand.

  Perhaps the Amusements of Tharna were not spoiled at all; perhaps the best was yet to come? Surely my death beneath the beak and talons of a tarn would provide a gratifying spectacle for the insatiable masks of Tharna, adequate compensation for the disappointments of the afternoon, for the disregard of their will, for the defiance they had witnessed?

  Though I sensed I was to die, I was not ill pleased at the manner. Hideous though the death might seem to the silver masks of Tharna, they did not know that I was a tarnsman, and knew these birds, their power, their ferocity; that in my way I loved them; and that as a warrior I would not find a death by tarn ignoble.

  Grimly I smiled to myself.

  Like most members of my Caste, more than the monstrous tarns, those carnivorous hawklike giants of Gor, I dreaded such creatures as the tiny ost, that diminutive, venomous reptile, orange, scarcely more than a few inches in length, that might lurk at one's very sandal and then, without provocation or warning, strike, its tiny fangs the prelude to excruciating torment, concluding only with sure death. Among warriors, the bite of an ost is thought to be one of the most cruel of all gates to the Cities of Dust; far preferable to them are the rending beak, the terrible talons of a tarn.

  I was not bound.

  I was free to wander on the sand, enclosed only by the walls. I rejoiced in this new freedom, in the absence of the yoke, though I knew it was given to me only in order to improve the spectacle. That I might run, that I might scream and grovel, that I might try to cover myself in the sand would surely delight the silver masks of Tharna.

  I moved my hands and shoulders, my back. My tunic had long since been torn to my waist and now I ripped it away to my belt, angry at the tattered cloth. The muscles rolled exuberantly under my flesh, delighting in their liberty.

  I walked slowly to the foot of the golden wall, where lay the golden scarf of the Tatrix, that scarf whose fluttering signal had initiated the Amusements.

  I picked it up.

  "Keep it as a gift," rang a haughty voice from above me.

  I looked up into the glittering, golden mask of the Tatrix.

  "As something by which to remember the Tatrix of Tharna," said the voice behind the golden mask, amused.

  I grinned up at the golden mask, and taking the scarf slowly wiped the sand and sweat from my face.

  Above me the Tatrix cried out in rage.

  I looped the scarf about my shoulders and went to the center of the arena.

  No sooner had I reached the center than one of the sections of the wall rolled back, revealing a portal almost as high as the wall and perhaps thirty feet in width. Through this portal, in two long lines, lashed by overseers, yoked slaves harnessed in chains drew a great wooden platform mounted on heavy wooden wheels. I waited for the platform to emerge into the sunlight.

  There were cries of awe and wonder, of pleasure, from the thrilled silver masks of Tharna.

  Slowly as the creaking platform rolled out onto the sand, drawn by its struggling slaves, yoked like oxen, I saw the tarn revealed, a black giant, hooded, its beak belted together, a great bar of silver chained to one of its legs. It would not be able to fly, but it could move about, dragging the bar of silver. It, too, in Tharna, wore its yoke.

  The platform drew closer, and to the wonder of the crowd I went to meet it.

  My heart was beating wildly.

  I scrutinized the tarn.

  Its lineaments were not unfamiliar. I examined the glistening, sable plumage; the monstrous yellow beak now cruelly belted to
gether. I saw the great wings snap, smiting the air, the hurricane from their blow spilling slaves into the sand, tangling chains, as the great beast, lifting its head and smelling the open air, struck it with his wings.

  It would not attempt to fly while hooded; indeed, I doubted that the bird would attempt to fly while it dragged its bar of silver. If it was the bird I thought it to be, it would not futilely contest the weight of the degrading hobble, would not provide a spectacle of its helplessness for its captors. I know this sounds strange, but I believe some animals have pride, and if any did, I knew that this monster was one of them.

  "Stand back," cried one of the men with a whip.

  I jerked the whip from his hand, and with my arm struck him aside. He flew tumbling into the sand. I threw the whip scornfully after him.

  I stood near the platform now. I wanted to see the ankle ring the bird wore. I noted with satisfaction that its talons were shod with steel. It was a War Tarn, bred for courage, for endurance, for combat in the skies of Gor. My nostrils drank in the wild, strong odor of the tarn, so offensive to some, yet an ambrosia to the nostrils of the tarnsman. It recalled the tarn cots of Ko-ro-ba and Ar, the Compound of Mintar in Pa-Kur's City of Tents on the Vosk, the outlaw encampment of Marlenus among the crags of the Voltai Range.

  As I stood beside the bird, I felt happy, though I knew it was intended to be my executioner. It was perhaps the foolish affection which a tarnsman feels for these dangerous, fierce mounts, almost as much a threat to him as to anyone else. Yet it was perhaps more, for as I stood by the bird, I felt almost as though I had come home to Ko-ro-ba, as though I stood here now with something in this gray, hostile city that knew me and mine, that had looked upon the Towers of the Morning, and had spread its wings above the glistening cylinders of Glorious Ar, that had carried me in battle and had borne Talena, my love, and me back from the siege of Ar to the Feast of our Free Companionship at Ko-ro-ba. I seized the ankle ring, and noted as I had expected that the name of its city had been filed away.

  "This bird," I said to one of the yoked slaves, "is from Ko-ro-ba."