by John Norman
“Treachery!” I cried.
There was nothing living on Gor I knew that could take the impact of a tharlarion charge.
Elizabeth Cardwell screamed, throwing her hands before her face.
To my astonishment the warriors of the Wagon Peoples seemed to be paying very little attention to the bestial avalanche that was even then hurtling down upon them. Some were haggling with the vendors, others were talking among themselves.
I wheeled the Kaiila, looking for Elizabeth Cardwell, who, afoot, would be slain almost before the tharlarion had crossed the lines of the stakes. She was standing facing the charging tharlarion, as though rooted to the earth, her hands before her face. I bent down in the saddle and tensed to kick the kaiila forward to sweep her to the saddle, turn and race for our lives.
“Really,” said Kamchak.
I straightened up and saw that the lines of the tharlarion lancers had, with much pounding and trampling of the earth, with shouting, with the hissing of the great beasts, stopped short, abruptly, some fifteen yards or so behind their line of stakes.
“It is a Turian joke,” said Kamchak. “They are as fond of the games as we, and do not wish to spoil them.”
I reddened. Elizabeth Cardwell’s knees seemed suddenly weak but she staggered back to us.
Kamchak smiled at me. “She is a pretty little barbarian, isn’t she, he said.
“Yes,” I said, and looked away, confused.
Kamchak laughed.
Elizabeth looked up at us, puzzled.
I heard a cry from the Turians across the way. “The wenches!” he cried, and this shout was taken up by many of the others. There was much laughing and pounding of lances on shields.
In a moment, to a thunder of kaiila paws on the turf, racing between the lines of stakes, scattering sand, there came a great number of riders, their black hair swirling behind them, who pulled up on their mounts, rearing and squealing, between the stakes, and leaped from the saddle to the sand, relinquishing the reins of their mounts to men among the Wagon Peoples.
They were marvellous, the many wild girls of the Wagons, and I saw that chief among them was the proud, beauteous Hereena, of the First Wagon. They were enormously excited, laughing. Their eyes shone. A few spit and shook their small fists at the Turians across the way, who reciprocated with good-natured shouts and laughter.
I saw Hereena notice the young man Harold among the warriors and she pointed her finger imperiously at him, gesturing him to her.
He approached her. “Take the reins of my kaiila, Slave,” she said to him, insolently throwing him the reins.
He took them angrily and, to the laughter of many of the Tuchuks present, withdrew with the animal.
The girls then went to mingle with the warriors. There were between a hundred and a hundred and fifty girls there from each of the four Wagon Peoples.
“Hah!” said Kamchak, seeing now — the lines of tharlarion part for a space of perhaps forty yards, through which could be seen the screened palanquins of Turian damsels, borne on the shoulders of chained slaves, among them undoubtedly men of the Wagon Peoples.
Now the excitement of the throng seemed mostly to course among the warriors of the Wagon Peoples as they rose in their stirrups to see better the swaying, approaching palanquins, each reputedly bearing a gem of great beauty, a fit prize in the savage contests of Love War.
The institution of Love War is an ancient one among the Turians and the Wagon Peoples, according to the Year Keepers antedating even the Omen Year. The games of Love War, of course, are celebrated every spring between, so to speak, the city and the plains, whereas the Omen Year occurs only every tenth year. The games of Love War, in themselves, do not constitute a gathering of the Wagon Peoples, for normally the herds and the free women of the peoples do not approach one another at these times; only certain delegations of warriors, usually about two hundred from a people, are sent in the spring to the Plains of a Thousand Stakes.
The theoretical justification of the games of Love War, from the Turian point of view, is that they provide an excellent arena in which to demonstrate the fierceness and prowess of Turian warriors, thus perhaps intimidating or, at the very least, encouraging the often overbold warriors of the Wagon Peoples to be wary of Turian steel. The secret justification, I suspect, however, is that the Turian warrior is fond of meeting the enemy and acquiring his women, particularly should they be striking little beasts, like Hereena of the First Wagon, as untamed and savage as they are beautiful; it is regarded as a great sport among Turian warriors to collar such a wench and force her to exchange riding leather for the bells and silks of a perfumed slave girl. It might also be mentioned that the Turian warrior, in his opinion, too seldom encounters the warrior of the Wagon Peoples, who tends to be a frustrating, swift and elusive foe, striking with great rapidity and withdrawing with goods and captives almost before it is understood what has occurred. I once asked Kamchak if the Wagon Peoples had a justification for the games of Love War. “Yes,” he had said. And he had then pointed to Dina and Tenchika, clad Kajir, who were at that time busy in the wagon. “That is the justification,” said Kamchak. And he had then laughed and pounded his knee. It was only then that it had occurred to me that both girls might have been acquired in the games; as a matter of fact, I however, I later learned that only Tenchika had been so
wenches!” he cried, and this sand
The wagon girls, watching this, some of them chewing on fruit or stalks of grass, jeered.
One by one, clad in the proud arrays of resplendent silks, each in the Robes of Concealment, the damsels of Turia, veiled and straight-standing, emerged from their palanquins, scarcely concealing their distaste for the noise and clamour about them.
Judges were now circulating, each with lists, among the Wagon Peoples and the Turians.
As I knew, not just any girl, any more than just any warrior, could participate in the games of Love War. Only the most beautiful were eligible, and only the most beautiful of these could be chosen.
A girl might propose herself to stand, as had Aphris of Turia, but this would not guarantee that she would be chosen, for the criteria of Love War are exacting and, as much as possible, objectively applied. Only the most beautiful of the most beautiful could stand in this harsh sport.
I heard a judge call, “First Stake! Aphris of Turial”
“Hah!” yelled Kamchak, slapping me on the back, nearly knocking me from the back of my kaiila.
I was astonished. The Turian wench was beautiful indeed, that she could stand at the first stake. This meant that she was quite possibly the most beautiful woman in Turia, certainly at least among those in the games this year.
In her silks of white and gold, on cloths thrown before her, Aphris of Turia stepped disdainfully forward, guided by a judge, to the first of the stakes on the side of the Wagon Peoples. The girls of the Wagon Peoples, on the other hand, would stand at the stakes nearest Turia. In this way the Turian girls can see their city and their warriors, and the girls of the Wagons can see the plains and the warriors of the Wagon Peoples. I had also been informed by Kamchak that this places the girl farther from her own people. Thus, to interfere, a Turian would have to cross the space between the stakes, and so, too, would one of the Wagon Peoples, thus clearly calling themselves to the attention of the judges, those officials supervising the Games.
The judges were now calling names, and girls, both of the Wagon Peoples and of Turia, were coming forward.
I saw that Hereena, of the First Wagon, stood Third Stake, though, as far as I could note, she was no less beautiful than the two Kassar girls who stood above her.
Kamchak explained that there was a slight gap between two of her teeth on the upper right hand side in the back.
“Oh,” I said.
I noted with amusement that she was furious at having been chosen only third stake. “I, Hereena of the First Wagon, am superior,” she was crying, “to those two Kassar she-kaiila!”
But the jud
ge was already four stakes below her.
The selection of the girls, incidentally, is determined by judges in their city, or of their own people, in Turia by members of the Caste of Physicians who have served in the great slave houses of Ar; among the wagons by the masters of the public slave wagons, who buy, sell and rent girls, providing warriors and slavers with a sort of clearing house and market for their feminine merchandise. The public slave wagons, incidentally, also provide Paga. They are a kind of combination Paga tavern and slave market. I know of nothing else precisely like them on Gor. Kamchak and I had visited one last night where I had ended up spending four copper tarn disks for one bottle of Paga. I hauled Kamchak out of the wagon before he began to bid on a chained-up little wench from Port Kar who had taken his eye.
I looked up and down the lines of stakes. The girls of the Wagon Peoples stood proudly before their stakes, certain that their champions, whoever they were to be, would be victorious and return them to their peoples; the girls of the city of Turia stood also at their stakes, but with feigned indifference.
I supposed, in spite of their apparent lack of concern, the hearts of most of the Turian girls were beating rapidly. This could not be for them an ordinary day.
I looked at them, veiled and beautiful in their silks. Yet I knew that beneath those Robes of Concealment many wore the shameful Turian camisk, perhaps the only time the hated garment would touch their bodies, for should their warrior lose this match they knew they would not be permitted to The stake in the robes in which they came. They would away as free women.
To myself, wondering if Aphris of Turia, standing first stake, wore beneath the robes of while of a slave girl. I guessed not. She would wench?
Egg his kaiila through the crown
He leaned down from the saddle. “Good morning, little Aphris,” he said cheerily.
She stiffened, and did not even turn to regard him. “Are you prepared to die, Sleen?” she inquired.
“No,” Kamchak said.
I heard her laugh softly beneath the white veil, trimmed with silk.
“I see you no longer wear your collar,” observed Kamchak.
She lifted her head and did not deign to respond.
“I have another,” Kamchak assured her.
She spun to face him, her fists clenched. Those lovely almond eyes, had they been weapons, would have slain him in the saddle like a bolt of lightning.
“How pleased I shall be,” hissed the girl, “to see you on your knees in the sand begging Kamras of Turia to finish you!”
“Tonight, little Aphris,” said Kamchak “as I promised you, you shall spend your first night in the dung sack.”
“Sleen!” she cried. “Sleen! Sleen!”
Kamchak roared with laughter and turned the kaiila away.
“Are the women at stake?” called a judge.
Prom down the long lines, from other judges, came the confirming cry. “They are at stake.”
“Let the women be secured,” called the first judge, who stood on a platform near the beginning of the stake lines, this year on the side of the Wagon Peoples.
Aphris of Turia, at the request of one of the minor judges, irritably removed her gloves, of silk-lined white verrskin, trimmed with gold, and placed them in a deep fold of her robes.
“The retaining rings,” prompted the judge.
“It is not necessary,” responded Aphris. “I shall stand quietly here until the sleen is slain.”
“Place your wrists in the rings,” said the judge, “or it shall be done for you.”
In fury the girl placed her hands behind her head, in the rings, one on each side of the stake. The judge expertly lipped them shut and moved to the next stake.
Aphris, not very obviously, moved her hands in the rings, fed to withdraw them. She could not, of course, do so. I ought I saw her tremble for just an instant, realizing herself cured, but then she stood quietly, looking about herself as though bored. The key to the rings hung, of course, on a small hook, about two inches above her head.
“Are the women secured?” called the first judge, he on the platform.
“They are secured,” was relayed up and down the long lines.
I saw Hereena standing insolently at her stake, but her brown wrists, of course, were bound to it by steel.
“Let the matches be arranged,” called the judge.
I soon heard the other judges repeating his cry.
All along the lines of stakes I saw Turian warriors and those of the Wagon Peoples press into the area between the stakes.
The girls of the wagons, as usual, were unveiled. Turian warriors walked along the line of stakes, examining them, stepping back when one spit or kicked at him. The girls jeered and cursed them, which compliment they received with good humour and pointed observations on the girls’ real or imaginary flaws.
At the request of any warrior of the Wagon Peoples, a judge would remove the pins of the face veil of a Turian girl and push back the hood of her robes of concealment, in order that her head and face might be seen.
This aspect of the games was extremely humiliating for the Turian girls, but they understood its necessity; few men, especially barbarian warriors, care to fight for a woman on whose face they have not even looked.
“I would like to take a look at this one,” Kamchak was saying, jerking a thumb in the direction of Aphris of Turia.
“Certainly,” remarked the nearest judge.
“Can you not remember, Sleen,” asked the girl, “the face of Aphris of Turia?”
“My memory is vague,” said Kamchak. “There are so many faces.”
The judge unpinned her white and gold veil and then, with a gentle hand, brushed back her hood revealing her long, lovely black hair.
Aphris of Turia was an incredibly beautiful woman.
She shook her hair as well as she could, bound to the, “Perhaps now you can remember?” she queried acidly.
“It’s vague,” muttered Kamchak, wavering, “I had in mind I think the face of a slave there was, as I recall, a collar”
“You tharlarion,” she said. “You sleety”
“What do you think?” asked Kamchak.
“She is marvellously beautiful,” I said.
“She must be plain indeed,” remarked Kamchak, looking closely again at Aphris.
“No,” said the judge, “it is because she is defended by Kamras, Champion of Turia.”
“Oh, no!” cried Kamchak, throwing his fist to his forehead in mock despair.
“Yes,” said the judge, “he.”
“Surely you recall?” laughed Aphris merrily.
“I had had much Paga at the time,” admitted Kamchak.
“You need not meet him if you wish.” said the judge.
I thought that a humane arrangement that two men must understand who it is they face before entering the circle of sand. It would indeed be unpleasant if one suddenly, unexpectedly, found oneself facing a superb, famed warrior, say, a Kamras of Turia.
“Meet him!” cried Aphris.
“If no one meets him,” said the judge, “the Kassar girl will be his by forfeit.”
I could see that the Kassar girl, a beauty, at the stake opposite Aphris of Turia was distressed, and understandably so. It appeared she was to depart for Turia without so much as a handful of sand kicked about on her behalf.
“Meet him, Tuchuk!” she cried.
“Where are your Kassars?” asked Kamchak.
I thought it an excellent question. I had seen Conrad about, but he had picked out a Turian wench to fight for some six or seven stakes away. Albrecht was not even at the games. I supposed he was home with Tenchika.
“They are fighting elsewhere!” she cried. “Please, Tuchuk!” she wept.
“But you are only a Kassar wench,” pointed out Kamchak.
“Please!” she cried.
“Besides,” said Kamchak, “you might look well in Pleasure Silk.”
“Look at the Turian wench!” cried the girl. “
Is she not beautiful? Do you not want her?”
Kamchak looked at Aphris of Turia.
“I suppose,” he said, “she is no worse than the rest.”
“Fight for met” cried Aphris of Turia
“All right,” said Kamchak. “I will.”
The Kassar girl put her back against the stake, trembling with relief.
“You are a fool,” said Kamras of Turia.
I was a bit startled, not realizing he was so close. I looked at him. He was indeed an impressive warrior. He seemed strong and fast. His long black hair was now tied behind his head. His large wrists had been wrapped in boskhide straps. He wore a helmet and carried the Turian shield, which is oval. In his right hand there was a spear. Over his shoulder was slung the sheath of a short sword.
Kamchak looked up at him. It was not that Kamchak was particularly short, but rather that Kamras was a very large man.
“By the sky,” said Kamchak, whistling, “you are a big fellow indeed.”
“Let us begin,” proposed Kamras.
At this word the judge called out-to clear the space between the stakes of Aphris of Turia and the lovely Kassar wench. Two men, from Ar, I took it, came forward with rakes and began to smooth the circle of sand between the stakes, for it had been somewhat disturbed in the inspection of the girls.
Unfortunately for Kamchak, I knew that this was the year in which the Turian foeman might propose the weapon of combat. Fortunately, however, the warrior of the Wagon Peoples could withdraw from the combat any time before his name had actually been officially entered in the lists of the games. Thus if Kamras chose a weapon with which Kamchak did not feel at ease, the Tuchuk might, with some grace, decline the combat, in this forfeiting only a Kassar girl, which I was sure would not overly disturb the philosophical Kamchak.
“Ah, yes, weapons,” Kamchak was saying, “what shall it be the kaiila lance, a whip and bladed bola perhaps the quiva?”