by John Norman
I stood amazed at the greatness and smallness of man.
And then with shame I realized how nearly I myself had come to betraying my fellow creatures. I had intended to make use of that moment myself, pretending to have come with a message from Priest-Kings, to encourage man to live as I wished him to live, to respect himself and others, to be kind and to be worthy of the heritage of a rational animal, and yet of what worth would these things be if they came not from the heart of man himself, but from his fear of Priest-Kings or his desire to please them? No, I would not try to reform man by pretending that my wishes for him were the wishes of Priest-Kings, even though this might be effective for a time, for the wishes that reform man, that make him what he is capable of becoming, and has not yet become, must be his own and not those of another. If man rises, he can do so only on his own two feet.
And I was thankful that the High Initiate of Ar had interfered.
I thought how dangerous might be the Initiates if, intertwined with their superstitious lore and their numerous impressive ceremonies, there had been a truly moral message, something that might have spoken to the nobility of men.
The High Initiate of Ar gestured to the others who crowded about, pressing in on me.
"Stand back," he said, and he was obeyed.
Sensing that he wished to speak to me, I asked Vika to withdraw somewhat, and she did so.
The High Initiate of Ar and myself regarded one another.
Suddenly I did not feel him as an enemy any longer and I sensed that somehow he did not regard me either as a threat or foe.
"Do you know of the Sardar?" I asked him.
"Enough," he said.
"Then why?" I asked.
"It would be hard for you to understand," he said.
I could smell the smoke from the burning thigh of the bosk as it hissed and popped on the sacrificial fire.
"Speak to me," I said.
"With most," he said, "it is as you think, and they are simple, believing members of my caste, and there are others who suspect the truth and are tormented, or who suspect the truth and will pretend—but I, Om, High Initiate of Ar, and certain of the High Initiates are like none of these."
"And how do you differ?" I asked.
"I—and some others—" he said, "wait for man." He looked at me. "He is not yet ready."
"For what?" I asked.
"To believe in himself," said Om, incredibly. He smiled at me. "I and others have tried to leave open the gap that he might see it and fill it—and some have—but not many."
"What gap is this?" I asked.
"We speak not to man's heart," said Om, "but only to his fear. We do not speak of love and courage, and loyalty and nobility—but of practice and observance and the punishment of the Priest-Kings—for if we so spoke, it would be that much harder for man to grow beyond us. Thus, unknown to most members of my caste, we exist to be overcome, thus in our way pointing the way to man's greatness."
I looked at the Initiate for a long time, and wondered if he spoke the truth. These were the strangest things I had heard from the lips of an Initiate, most of whom seemed interminably embroiled in the rituals of their caste, in the arrogance and archaic pedantry of their kind.
I trembled for a moment, perhaps from the chill winds sweeping down the Sardar.
"It is for this reason," said the man, "that I remain an Initiate."
"There are Priest-Kings," I said at last.
"I know," said Om, "but what have they to do with what is most important for man?"
I thought about it for a moment. "I suppose," I said, "—very little."
"Go in peace," said the Initiate, stepping aside.
I extended my hand to Vika and she joined me.
The High Initiate of Ar turned to the other Initiates about. He raised his voice. "I saw no one emerge from the Sardar," he said.
The other Initiates regarded us.
"Nor did I," said several of them.
They parted, and Vika and I walked between them, and through the ruined gate and palisade which had once encircled the Sardar.
34
Men of Ko-ro-ba
"My father!" I cried. "My father!"
I rushed to the arms of Matthew Cabot who, weeping, caught me in his arms and held me as though he might never let me go.
Once again I saw that strong, lined face, that square jaw, that wild, flowing mane of fiery hair so much like my own, that spare, ready frame, those gray eyes, now rimmed with tears.
I felt a sudden blow on my back and nearly lost my breath and twisted to see the gigantic, brawny Older Tarl, my former Master at Arms, who clapped me on the shoulders, his hands like the talons of tarns.
There was a tugging at my sleeve and a blubbering and I looked down and nearly poked a scroll in my eye which was carried by the small blue-clad figure at my side.
"Torm!" I cried.
But the little fellow's sandy hair and pale, watery eyes were hidden in the vast sleeve of his blue robe as he leaned against my side and wept unabashedly.
"You will stain your scroll," I cautioned him.
Without looking up or missing a sob he shifted the scroll to a new position under his other arm.
I swept him off his feet and spun him around and the robes flew from his head and Torm of the Caste of Scribes cried aloud in joy and that sandy hair wheeled in the wind and tears ran sideways down his face and he never lost hold of the scroll although he nearly batted the Older Tarl with it in one of his orbits and then he began to sneeze and I gently put him down.
"Where is Talena!" I begged my father.
Vika, as I scarcely noted, stepped back when I had said this.
But in that instant my joy was gone, for my father's face became grave.
"Where is she!" I demanded.
"We do not know," said the Older Tarl, for my father could not bring himself to say the words.
My father took me by the shoulders. "My son," he said, "the people of Ko-ro-ba were scattered and none could be together and no stone of that city might stand upon another stone."
"But you are here," I said, "three men of Ko-ro-ba."
"We met here," said the Older Tarl, "and since it seemed the world would end we decided that we would stand together one last time—in spite of the will of Priest-Kings—that we would stand together one last time as men of Ko-ro-ba."
I looked down at the little scribe, Torm, who had stopped sneezing, and was now wiping his nose on the blue sleeve of his robes. "Even you, Torm?" I asked.
"Of course," said Torm, "after all a Priest-King is only a Priest-King." He rubbed his nose meditatively. "Of course," he admitted, "that is quite a bit to be." He looked up at me. "Yes," he said, "I suppose that I am brave." He looked at the Older Tarl. "You must not tell other members of the Caste of Scribes," he cautioned.
I smiled to myself. How clearly Torm wished to keep caste lines and virtues demarcated.
"I will tell everyone," said the Older Tarl kindly, "that you are the bravest of the Caste of Scribes."
"Well," said Torm, "thus qualified, perhaps the information will do no harm."
I looked at my father. "Do you suppose Talena is here?" I asked.
"I doubt it," he said.
I knew how dangerous it would be for a woman to travel unattended on Gor.
"Forgive me, Vika," I said, and introduced her to my father, to the Older Tarl and Torm, the Scribe, and explained as briefly as I could what had befallen us in the Sardar.
My father, the Older Tarl and Torm listened amazed to my account of the truths of the Sardar.
When I had finished I looked at them, to see if they believed me.
"Yes," said my father, "I believe you."
"And I," said the Older Tarl.
"Well," said Torm, thoughtfully, for it did not behoove a member of his caste to volunteer an opinion too rapidly on any matter, "it does not contradict any text with which I am familiar."
I laughed and seized the little fellow by the robes
of his caste and swung him about.
"Do you believe me?" I asked.
I swung him about by the hood of his garment twice more.
"Yes!" he cried. "I do! I do!"
I set him down.
"But are you sure?" he asked.
I reached for him again and he leaped backwards.
"I was just curious," he said. "After all," he muttered, "it is not written down in a text."
This time the Older Tarl lifted him up by the scruff of his robes and held him dangling, kicking, a foot from the ground. "I believe him!" cried Torm. "I believe him!"
Once safely down Torm came over to me and reached up and touched my shoulder.
"I believed you," he said.
"I know," I said, and gave his sandy-haired head a rough shake. He was, after all, a Scribe, and had the proprieties of his caste to observe.
"But," said Matthew Cabot, "I think it would be wise to speak little of these matters."
All of us agreed to this.
I looked at my father. "I am sorry," I said, "that Ko-ro-ba was destroyed."
My father laughed. "Ko-ro-ba was not destroyed," he said.
I was puzzled, for I myself had looked upon the valley of Ko-ro-ba and had seen that the city had vanished.
"Here," said my father, reaching into a leather sack that he wore slung about his shoulder, "is Ko-ro-ba," and he drew forth the small, flat Home Stone of the City, in which Gorean custom invests the meaning, the significance, the reality of a city itself. "Ko-ro-ba cannot be destroyed," said my father, "for its Home Stone has not perished!"
My father had taken the Stone from the City before it had been destroyed. For years he had carried it on his own person.
I took the small stone in my hands and kissed it, for it was the Home Stone of the city to which I had pledged my sword, where I had ridden my first tarn, where I had met my father after an interval of more than twenty years, where I had found new friends, and to which I had taken Talena, my love, the daughter of Marlenus, once Ubar of Ar, as my Free Companion.
"And here, too, is Ko-ro-ba," I said, pointing to the proud giant, the Older Tarl, and the tiny, sandy-haired scribe, Torm.
"Yes," said my father, "here too is Ko-ro-ba, not only in the particles of its Home Stone, but in the hearts of its men."
And we four men of Ko-ro-ba clasped hands.
"I understand," said my father, "from what you have told us, that now once more a stone may stand upon a stone, that two men of Ko-ro-ba may once again stand side by side."
"Yes," I said, "that is true."
My father and the Older Tarl and Torm exchanged glances. "Good," said my father, "for we have a city to rebuild."
"How will we find others of Ko-ro-ba?" I asked.
"The word will spread," said my father, "and they will come in twos and threes from all corners of Gor, singing, each carrying a stone to add to the walls and cylinders of their city."
"I am glad," I said.
I felt Vika's hand on my arm. "I know what you must do, Cabot," she said. "And it is what I want you to do."
I looked down at the girl from Treve. She knew that I must search out Talena, spend my life if need be in the quest for she whom of all women I had chosen for my Free Companion.
I took her in my arms and she sobbed. "I must lose all," she wept. "All!"
"Do you wish me to stay with you?" I asked.
She shook the tears from her eyes. "No," she said. "Seek the girl you love."
"What will you do?" I asked.
"There is nothing for me," said Vika. "Nothing."
"You may return to Ko-ro-ba," I said. "My father and Tarl, the Master-of-Arms, are two of the finest swords on Gor."
"No," she said, "for in your city I would think only of you and if you should return there with your love, then what should I do?" She shook with emotion. "How strong do you think I am, dear Cabot?" she asked.
"I have friends in Ar," I said, "even Kazrak, the Administrator of the City. You can find a home there."
"I shall return to Treve," said Vika. "I shall continue there the work of a physician from Treve. I know much of his craft and I shall learn more."
"In Treve," I said, "you might be ordered slain by members of the Caste of Initiates."
She looked up.
"Go to Ar," I said. "You will be safe there." And I added, "And I think it will be a better city for you than Treve."
"Yes, Cabot," she said, "you are right. It would be hard to live now in Treve."
I was pleased that she would go to Ar, where she, though a woman, might learn the craft of medicine under masters appointed by Kazrak, where she might found a new life for herself far from warlike, plundering Treve, where she might work as befitted the daughter of a skilled, courageous father, where she might perhaps forget a simple warrior of Ko-ro-ba.
"It is only, Cabot," she said, "because I love you so much that I do not fight to keep you."
"I know," I said, holding her head to my shoulder.
She laughed. "If I loved you only a little less," she said, "I would find Talena of Ar myself and thrust a dagger into her heart."
I kissed her.
"Perhaps someday," she said, "I will find a Free Companion such as you."
"Few," I said, "would be worthy of Vika of Treve."
She burst into tears and would have clung to me but I handed her gently into the arms of my father.
"I will see that she gets to Ar safely," he said.
"Cabot!" cried Vika and broke away from him and hurled herself into my arms weeping.
I held her and kissed her again, gently, tenderly, and then wiped the tears from her eyes.
She straightened herself.
"I wish you well, Cabot," she said.
"And I," I said, "wish you well, Vika, my girl of Treve."
She smiled and turned away and my father gently put his arm about her shoulder and led her away.
For some unaccountable reason tears had formed in my own eyes, though I was a Warrior.
"She was very beautiful," said the Older Tarl.
"Yes," I said, "she was very beautiful." I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes.
"But," said the Older Tarl, "you are a Warrior."
"Yes," I said, "I am a Warrior."
"Until you find Talena," he said, "your companion is peril and steel."
It was an old Warrior saying.
I drew the blade and examined it.
The Older Tarl's eyes, like mine, ran the edge, and I saw that he approved.
"You carried it at Ar," he said.
"Yes," I said. "The same."
"Peril and steel," said he.
"I know," I said. "I have before me the work of a Warrior."
I resheathed the blade.
It was a lonely road that I now had to walk, and I wished to set out upon it as soon as possible. I told the Older Tarl and Torm to say good-bye to my father, as I did not trust myself to see him longer, for fear that I would not wish so soon to part from him again.
And so it was that I wished my two friends well.
Though I had met them only for a moment in the shadow of the Sardar, we had renewed our affection and comradeship, one to the other, in the timeless instant of friendship.
"Where will you go?" asked Torm. "What will you do?"
"I don't know," I said, and I spoke honestly.
"It seems to me," said Torm, "that you should come with us to Ko-ro-ba and wait there. Perhaps Talena will find her way back."
The Older Tarl smiled.
"It is a possibility," said Torm.
Yes, I said to myself, it is a possibility, but not a likely one. The probability of so beautiful a woman as Talena finding her way through the cities of Gor, over the lonely roads, among the open fields to at last return to Ko-ro-ba was not high.
Somewhere even now she might be facing danger that she would not face in Ko-ro-ba and there might be none to protect her.
Perhaps she was even now threatened by savage
beasts or even more savage men.
Perhaps she, my Free Companion, even now lay chained in one of the blue and yellow slave wagons, or served paga in a tavern or was a belled adornment to some warrior's Pleasure Gardens. Perhaps even now she stood upon the block in some auction in Ar's Street of Brands.
"I will return to Ko-ro-ba from time to time," I said, "to see if she has returned."
"Perhaps," said the Older Tarl, "she attempted to reach her father, Marlenus, in the Voltai."
That was possible, I thought, for Marlenus, since his deposition from the throne of Ar, had lived as an Outlaw Ubar in the Voltai. It would be natural for her to try to reach him.
"If that is true," I said, "and it is heard that Ko-ro-ba is being rebuilt, Marlenus will see that she reaches the city."
"That is true," said the Older Tarl.
"Perhaps she is in Ar," suggested Torm.
"If so, and Kazrak knows of it," I said, "he will return her."
"Do you wish me to accompany you?" asked the Older Tarl.
I thought his sword might indeed have been welcome, but I knew his first duty lay to his city. "No," I said.
"Well then," said Torm, shouldering his scroll like a lance, "that leaves only two of us."
"No," I said to him. "Go with Tarl, the Master-of-Arms."
"You have no idea how useful I might be," said Torm.
He was right, I had no idea.
"I am sorry," I said.
"There will be many scrolls to examine and catalog when the city is rebuilt," observed the Older Tarl. "Of course," he added, "I might do the work myself."
Torm shook with horror. "Never!" he cried.
The Older Tarl roared with laughter and swept the little scribe under his arm.
"I wish you well," said the Older Tarl.
"And I wish you well," I said.
He turned and strode off, saying no more, Torm's chest and head sticking out behind from under his arm. Torm hit him several times with the scroll but the blows seemed not to faze him. At last Torm, before he disappeared from sight, waved his scroll in farewell.