by John Norman
I carefully regarded the small, rotund gentleman who stood framed so incongruously in the massive stone portal. I found it impossible to believe that he could be dangerous, that he could in any way be associated with the dreaded Priest-Kings of Gor. He was simply too cheerful, too open and ingenious, too frank, and only too obviously pleased to see and welcome me. It was impossible not to be drawn to him; I found that I liked him, though I had just met him; and that I wanted him to like me, and that I felt he did, and that this pleased me.
If I had seen this man in my own world, this small, rotund, merry gentleman with his florid colouring and cheerful manner I would have thought him necessarily English, and of a sort one seldom encounters nowadays. If one had encountered him in the Eighteenth Century one might take him for a jolly, snuff-sniffing, roisterous country squire, knowing himself the salt of the earth, not above twitting the parson nor pinching the serving girls; in the Nineteenth Century he would have owned an old book shop and worked at a high desk, quite outdated, kept his money in a sock, distributed it indiscriminately to all who asked him for it, and publicly read Chaucer and Darwin to scandalise lady customers and the local clergy; in my own time such a man could only be a college professor, for there are few other refuges save wealth left in my world for men such as he; one could imagine him ensconced in a university chair, perhaps affluent enough for gout, reposing in his tenure, puffing on his pipe, a connoisseur of ales and castles, a gusty aficionado of bawdy Elizabethan drinking songs, which he would feel it his duty to bequeath, piously, as a portion of their rich literary heritage, to generations of recent, proper graduates of Eton and Harrow. The small eyes regarded me, twinkling.
With a start I noticed that the pupils of his eyes were red.
When I started a momentary flicker of annoyance crossed his features, but in an instant he was again his chuckling, affable, bubbling self.
“Come, come,” he said. “Come along, Cabot. We have been waiting for you.”
He knew my name.
Who was waiting?
But of course he would know my name, and those who would be waiting would be the Priest-Kings of Gor.
I forgot about his eyes, for it did not seem important at the time, for some reason. I suppose that I thought that I had been mistaken. I had not been. He now stepped back into the shadows of the passage.
“You are coming, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“My name is Parp,” he said, standing back in the passage. He puffed once on his pipe. “Parp,” he repeated, puffing once again.
He had not extended his hand.
I looked at him without speaking.
It seemed a strange name for a Priest-King. I do not know what I expected. He seemed to sense my puzzlement.
“Yes,” said the man, “Parp.” He shrugged. “It’s not much of a name for a Priest-King, but then I’m not much of a Priest – King.” He chuckled.
“Are you a Priest-King?” I asked.
Again a momentary flicker of annoyance crossed his features. “Of course,” he said.
It seemed that my heart stopped beating.
At that moment one of the larls gave a sudden roar. I shivered, but to my surprise the man who called himself Parp clutched his pipe in his white hand and seemed to give a start of terror. In a moment he was quite recovered. I found it strange that a Priest-King should fear a larl.
Without waiting to see if I would follow him he turned suddenly and went back down the passage.
I gathered my weapons and followed him. Only the rumbling growl of the now sullen mountain larls as I passed between them convinced me that I could not be dreaming, that I had come at last to the Hall of Priest-Kings.
Chapter Four
THE HALL OF PRIEST-KINGS
As I followed the man who called himself Parp down the stone passage the portal behind me closed. I remember one last glimpse of the Sardar Range, the path I had climbed, the cold, blue sky and two snowy larls, one chained on either side of the entrance.
My host did not speak but led the way with a merry stride, an almost constant curl of smoke from his little round pipe encircling his bald pate and muttonchop whiskers and drifting back down the passage.
The passage was lit with energy bulbs, of the sort which I had encountered in the tunnel of Marlenus which led beneath the walls of Ar. There was nothing in the lighting of the passage, or its construction, to suggest that the Priest – Kings’ Caste of Builders, if they had one, was any more advanced than that of the men below the mountains. Too, the passage was devoid of ornament, lacking the mosaics and tapestries with which the beauty-loving Goreans below the mountains are wont to glorify the places of their own habitation. The Priest-Kings, as far as I could tell, had no art. Perhaps they would regard it as a useless excrescence detracting from the more sobre values of life, such as, I supposed, study, meditation and the manipulation of the lives of men.
I noted that the passage which I trod was well worn. It had been polished by the sandals of countless men and women who had walked before where I now walked, perhaps thousands of years ago, perhaps yesterday, perhaps this morning.
Then we came to a large hall. It was plain, but in its sheer size it possessed a severe, lofty grandeur.
At the entrance to this room, or chamber, I stopped, overcome with a certain sense of awe.
I found myself on the brink of entering what appeared to be a great and perfect dome, having a diameter I am sure of at least a thousand yards. I was pleased to see that its top was a sparkling curvature of some transparent substance, perhaps a special glass or plastic, for no glass or plastic with which I was familiar would be likely to withstand the stresses generated by such a structure. Beyond the dome I could see the welcome blue sky.
“Come, come, Cabot,” remonstrated Parp.
I followed him.
In this great dome there was nothing save that at its very centre there was a high dais and on this dais there was a large throne carved from a single block of stone.
It seemed to take us a long time to reach the dais. Our footsteps echoed hollowly across the great stone floor. At last we arrived.
“Wait here,” said Parp, who pointed to an area outside a tiled ring which surrounded the dais.
I did not stand precisely where he asked but several feet away, but I did remain outside the tiled ring.
Parp puffed his way up the nine steps of the dais and climbed onto the stone throne. He was a strange contrast to the sever regality of the majestic seat on which he perched. His sandaled feet did not reach the floor, and he made a slight grimace as he settled himself on the throne.
“Frankly,” said Parp, “I think we made a mistake in sacrificing certain creature comforts in the Sardar.” He tried to find some position that would satisfy him. “For example, a cushion would not be out of place on such a throne, do you think, Cabot?”
“On such a throne it would be out of place,” I said.
“Ah yes,” sighed Parp, “I suppose so.”
Then, smartly, Parp cracked his pipe a few times against the side of the throne, scattering ashes and unsmoked tobacco about on the floor of the dais.
I regarded him without moving.
Then he bagan to fumble with the wallet which was slung from his belt, and removed a plastic envelope. I watched him closely, following every move. A frown crossed my face as I saw him take a pinch of tobacco from the bag and refill his pipe. Then he fumbled about a bit more and emerged with a narrow cylindrical, silverish obect. For an instant it seemed to point at me.
I lifted my shield.
“Please, Cabot!” said Parp, with something of impatience, and used the silverish object to light his pipe.
I felt foolish.
Parp began to puff away contentedly on a new supply of tobacco. He had to turn slightly on the throne to look at me, as I had not chosen to stand directly where he had suggested.
“I do wish you would be more cooperative,” he said.
Tapping the floor with the butt of my spear, I finally stood where he had directed.
Parp chuckled and puffed away.
I did not speak and he smoked one pipe. Then he cleaned it as before, knocking it against the side of the throne, and refilled it. He lit it again with the small, silverish object, and leaned back against the throne. He gazed up at the dome, so hihh above, and watched the smoke curl slowly upward.
“Did you have a good trip to the Sardar?” asked Parp.
“Where is my father?” I asked. “What of the city of Ko-ro – ba?” My voice choked. “What of the girl Talena, who was my Free Companion?”
“I hope you had a good trip,” said Parp.
Then I began to feel rage creeping like hot, red vines through my blood.
Parp did not seem concerned.
“Not everyone has a good trip,” said Parp.
My hand clenched on the spear.
I began to feel the hatred of all the years I had nursed against the Priest-Kings now uncontrollably, slowly, violently growing in my body, wild, fierce, those foliating scarlet vines of my fury that now seemed to encircle me, to enfold me, to engulf me, swelling, steaming, now writhing aflame about my body and before my eyes in the turbulent, burned air that separated me from the creature Parp and I cried, “Tell me what I want to know!”
“The primary difficulty besetting the traveler in the Sardar,” continued Parp, “is probably the general harshness of the environment – for example, the inclemencies of the weather, particularly in the winter.”
I lifted the spear and my eyes which must have been terrible in the apertures of my helmet were fixed on the heart of the man who sat upon the throne.
“Tell me!” I cried.
“The larls also,” Parp went on, “are a not unformidable obstacle.”
I cried with rage and strode forward to loose my spear but I wept and retained the weapon. I could not do murder.
Parp puffed away, smiling. “That was wise of you,” he said.
I looked at him sullenly, my rage abated. I felt helpless.
“You could not have injured me, you know,” said Parp.
I looked at him with wonder.
“No,” he said. “Go ahead, if you wish, cast your spear.”
I took the weapon and tossed it toward the foot of the dais. There was a sudden splintering burst of heat and I fell back, staggering. I shook my head to drive out the scarlet stars that seemed to race before my eyes.
At the foot of the dais there was a bit of soot and some droplets of melted bronze.
“You see,” said Parp, “it would not have reached me.”
I now understood the purpose of the tiled circle which surrounded the throne.
I removed my helmet and threw my shield to the floor.
“I am your prisoner,” I said.
“Nonsense,” said Parp, “you are my guest.”
“I shall keep my sword,” I said. “If you want it, you must take it from me.”
Parp laughed merrily, his small round frame shaking on the heavy throne. “I assure you,” he said, “I have no use for it.” He looked at me, chuckling. “Nor have you,” he added.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“What others?” asked he.
“The other Priest-Kings,” I said.
“I am afraid,” said Parp, “that I am the Priest-Kings. All of them.”
“But you said before “We are waiting”,” I protested.
“Did I?” asked Parp.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then it was merely a manner of speaking.”
“I see,” I said.
Parp seemed troubled. He seemed distracted.
He glanced up at the dome. It was getting late. He seemed a bit nervous. His hands fumbled more with the pipe; a bit of tobacco spilled.
“Will you speak to me of my father, of my city, and of my love?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” said Parp, “but now you are undoubtedly tired from your journey.”
It was true that I was tired, and hungry.
“No,” I said, “I would speak now.”
For some reason Parp now seemed visibly uneasy. The sky above the dome was now grey and darkening. The Gorean night above, often black and beautiful with stars, now seemed to be approaching with swift stealth.
In the far distance, perhaps from some passage leading away from the Hall of Priest-Kings, I heard the roar of a larl.
Parp seemed to shiver on the throne.
“Is a Priest-King frightened of a larl?” I asked.
Parp chuckled, but not quite so merrily as usual. I could not understand his perturbation. “Do not be afraid,” he said, “they are well secured.”
“I am not afraid,” I said, looking at him evenly.
“Myself,” he said, “I’m forced to admit I’ve never quite gotten used to that awful racket they make.”
“You are a Priest-King,” I said, “why do you not simply lift your hand and destroy it?”
“Of what use is a dead larl?” asked Parp.
I did not reply.
I wondered why I had been allowed to reach the Sardar, to find the Hall of Priest-Kings, to stand before this throne.
Suddenly there was the sound of a distant, reverberating gong, a dull but penetrating sound which carried from somewhere even into the Hall of Priest-Kings.
Abruptly Parp stood up, his face white. “This interview,” he said, “is at an end.” He glanced about himself with ill – concealed terror.
“But what of me,” I asked, “your prisoner?”
“My guest,” insisted Parp irritably, nearly dropping his pipe. He pounded it once sharply against the throne and thrust it into the wallet he wore at his side.
“Your guest?” I asked.
“Yes,” snapped Parp, darting his eyes from right to left, “– at least until it is time for you to be destroyed.”
I stood without speaking.
“Yes,” he repeated, looking down at me, “until it is time for you to be destroyed.”
Then it seemed in the impending darkness in the Hall of Priest-Kings as he looked down on me that the pupils of his eyes for an instant glowed briefly, fiercely, like two tiny fiery disks of molten copper. I knew then that I had not been mistaken before. His eyes were unlike mine, or those of a human being. I knew then that Parp, whatever he might be, was not a man.
Then again came the sound of that great unseen gong, that distant sound, dull, penetrating, reverberating even in the vastness of the great hall in which we stood.
With a cry of terror Parp cast one last wild glance about the Hall of Priest-Kings and stumbled behind the great throne.
“Wait!” I cried.
But he had gone.
Wary of the tiled circle I traced its perimeter until I stood behind the throne. There was no sign of Parp. I walked the full ambit of the circle until I stood once more before the throne. I picked up my helmet and tossed it toward the dais.
It clattered noisily against the first step. I followed it across the tiled circle which seemed harmless now that Parp had left.
Once more the distant and unseen gong rang out, and once more the Hall of Priest-Kings seemed filled with its ominous vibrations. It was the third stroke. I wondered why Parp had seemed to fear the coming of night, the sound of the gong.
***
I examined the throne and found no trace of a door behind it, but I knew that one must exist. Parp was, I was sure, though I had not touched him, as palpable as you or I. He could not simply have vanished.
It was now night outside.
Through the dome I could see the three moons of Gor and the bright stars above them.
They were very beautiful.
Then seized by an impulse I sat myself down on the great throne in the Hall of Priest-Kings, drew my sword and placed it across my knees.
I recalled Parp’s words, “until it is time for you to be destroyed.”
For some reason I laughed and my laugh was
the laugh of a warrior of Gor, full and mighty, unafraid, and it roared in the dark and lonely Hall of Priest-Kings.
Chapter Five
VIKA
I awakened to the soothing touch of a small sponge that bathed my forehead.
I grasped the hand that held the sponge and found that I held a girl’s wrist.
“Who are you?” I asked.
I lay on my back on a large stone platform, some twelve feet square. Beneath me, twisted and tangled, lay heavy sleeping pelts, thick robes of fur, numerous sheets of scarlet silk. A cushion or two of yellow silk lay randomly on the platform.
The room in which I lay was large, perhaps forty feet square, and the sleeping platform lay at one end of the room but not touching the wall. The walls were of plain dark stone with energy bulbs fixed in them; the furnishings seemed to consist mostly of two or three large chests against one wall. There were now windows. The entire aspect was one of severity. There was no doo on the room but there was a great portal, perhaps twelve feet wide and eighteen feet high. I could see a large passageway beyond.
“Please,” said the girl.
I released her wrist.
She was comely to look on. Her hair was very light, the colour of summer straw; it was straight and bound simply behind the back of her neck with a small fillet of white wool. Her eyes were blue, and sullen. Her full, red lips, which could have torn the heart of a man, seemed to pout; they were sensuous, unobtrusively rebellious, perhaps subtly contemptuous.
She knelt beside the platform.
Beside her, on the floor, rested a laver of polished bronze, filled with water, a towel and a straight-bladed Gorean shaving knife.
I rubbed my chin.
She had shaved me as I slept.
I shivered, thinking of the blade and my throat. “Your touch is light,” I said.
She bowed her head.
She wore a long, simple sleeveless white robe, which fell gracefully about her in dignified classic folds. About her throat she had gracefully wrapped a scarf of white silk.
“I am Vika,” she responded, “your slave.”
I sat upright, cross-legged in the Gorean fashion, on the stone platform. I shook my head to clear it of sleep.
