Assassin of Gor

by Norman, John;

  I heard the girl’s voice again. “Take dear Vancius,” she was saying, “bind his wrists and ankles, and put him in a slave hood, one with a gag. I may use him for my pleasure later.”

  “Who is there!” I demanded.

  “What of the other guard?” asked a girl’s voice.

  “Bind him as well,” said the first girl.

  “May I have him?” asked the second girl.

  “Yes,” said the first girl. “Tie him with Vancius.”

  I felt a man’s hands then fumbling with the steel hood I wore.

  “Who is there!” I demanded.

  I heard the key move in the lock, and felt air as the helmet was lifted.

  “Ho-Tu!” I cried.

  “Be quiet,” said Ho-Tu. “There are other men of Cernus about.”

  “It was said you had gone to Tor to buy slaves!” I said.

  “This is scarcely the time to go to Tor and buy slaves,” smiled Ho-Tu.

  “You did not go?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” said Ho-Tu.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Ho-Tu grinned.

  “Your life is in danger,” I told him.

  “We are all in danger,” said Ho-Tu. “Great danger.”

  I looked beyond him, to see a long-legged, black-haired girl, her hands on her hips, regarding me.

  “It is you!” she laughed.

  “And it is you!” I said.

  It was the leader of the girls of the Street of Pots. I saw two of her girls behind her.

  “What are you all doing here?” I demanded.

  “It is on this day,” said she, “that Ar will be free or slave.”

  “I do not understand,” I stammered.

  There was the sound of another trumpet, the second.

  “There is no time!” said Ho-Tu. “Bring the other helmet!”

  One of the girls presented Ho-Tu with another helmet. It seemed identical to the one I had worn. Then I saw that it was perforated.

  “It is such a helmet,” said Ho-Tu, “that your opponents, the finest swordsmen in the Taurentians, will wear.”

  He fitted it over my head.

  “I like it better,” I said grimly, “than the former one.”

  One of the girls had found the key to the chain that bound me by the waist to the stone table. She sprang open the lock. Another girl, from the body of the unconscious, now hooded and bound Vancius, found the key to my manacles. She handed it to Ho-Tu. Ho-Tu wore the garb of one of the guards of the House of Cernus. He now took up the discarded helmet of Vancius and drew it on. He unbuckled his own sword belt and buckled it about me. He drew the sword. I smiled. It was my own, carried even at the siege of Ar, so many long years ago.

  “Thank you,” said I, “Ho-Tu.”

  He resheathed the blade in my scabbard.

  He was now buckling about his waist the sword and belt of Vancius.

  Within the helmet I saw him grin.

  We heard then the third trumpet, signaling the beginning of the sport.

  “They are waiting for you,” said Ho-Tu, grinning, “Warrior.”

  “Do not yet lock the helmet,” said the leader of the girls of the Street of Pots.

  “They are waiting for him,” protested Ho-Tu.

  “Let them wait,” said she.

  She then lifted the helmet from my head and kissed me.

  “Hurry!” said Ho-Tu.

  I returned her kiss.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Phais,” she said.

  “It is a beautiful name,” I said.

  She smiled.

  “Truly beautiful,” I said.

  “If you wish,” she said, “come again to the Street of Pots.”

  “If I do,” I said, “I think that I shall bring an army with me.”

  She smiled. “We would like that,” she said.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” cried Ho-Tu.

  He set the helmet over my head, and Phais locked it, putting the key in my belt.

  I heard the crowd crying far off.

  I heard the snapping of a whip. It was Ho-Tu. “Hurry! Hurry!” he said.

  Then, pretending to grope with my manacled hands, deliberately stumbling and scraping, smiling, I left the room. Ho-Tu came behind me, fiercely cracking the whip, crying out, “Hurry, Lazy Slave! Hurry!”

  I heard men in the tunnel laugh.

  At the entrance to the Stadium of Blades the blaze of the sun off the white sand momentarily blinded me. I felt Ho-Tu remove the manacles with the key stolen from Vancius.

  “Hurry!” I heard a stadium attendant call. I did not look directly at the man, fearing that perhaps he might note the nature of the helmet I wore. The man was one of those slaves who, garbed in black, armed with iron hooks, drag the dead, human or beast, from the sand.

  The trumpet of beginning blared again, frantically.

  The crowd was hooting and howling.

  Ho-Tu shoved me with the whip, cracking it occasionally. I permitted myself to be apparently driven to a place before the box of the Ubar. The Ubar, of course, was not in the box, but an agent of his was, Philemon, of the Caste of Scribes. I noted other men, apparently miserable wretches in blind helmets, being driven to a place before the box. I did not look at them closely. I knew them to be Taurentians. I knew they wore helmets through which they could see.

  One or two of them, acting their roles, were whining piteously. Another had fallen to his knees and was begging mercy from the crowd, which jeered him.

  At last we were lined up, facing one another, before the box.

  “Raise your swords!” called a man.

  Obediently we unsheathed our blades.

  There was great laughter from the crowd.

  “Salute!” ordered the man.

  There was another roar of laughter from the crowd. It was done much as though we were actually trained arena fighters, instead of, supposedly, poor fools and criminals brought in for the sport of the patrons of Ar’s cruelest games.

  The salute was an ancient one, and I have little doubt it was brought to Gor centuries earlier, perhaps by men who had been familiar with arena sports and had initiated them in luxurious Ar, men doubtless from other places and times. I recalled the antiquity of the Voyages of Acquisition, once conducted by Priest-Kings.

  Hail Cernus, Ubar of Ar!

  We who are about to die salute you!

  I did not join in this salute.

  Four trumpets blared and we squared off against one another.

  I observed my opponent swinging about as though he could not see me, stumbling here and there, being poked in my direction by an attendant with a whip. Another with a hot iron stood nearby, shouting at the other pairs. I knew they would not injure one another though they would appear to fight. Men in these games, in actual blind helmets, often, not really knowing, exchanged opponents; sometimes several would join in a slashing melee.

  “He is straight ahead of you,” cried out an attendant to the man moving toward me. He seemed to thrash about wildly with his sword. For sport I, too, took a few wild swings, to the delight of the crowd. I noted however, that, my opponent was moving subtly but obviously intently toward me. He was crying out as though in rage and fear. I rather admired his performance. I did not think it would last longer than I cared. I have little to commend me. There are others more learned than I, others doubtless shrewder and more subtle, others before whom, for their many talents, I stand in awe. I, Tarl Cabot, am a simple man, poor in many qualities, one who is doubtless much excelled. There is little, I suspect, that I could do better than many others. I am a man who is surely next to nothing, one unworthy of note. Yet I think there is one talent I have, though it is unimportant and unworthy, a gift toward which I have mixed feelings, a gift which is both boon and curse, one which has caused me feelings of horror and guilt, and yet to which I have owed my life and that of those I have loved. It is a gift I have sought not to exercise, a gift I have feared, and sometim
es would put aside, but cannot do so. He who is a Singer must sing; he who weaves the beautiful rugs of Ar or Tor must weave; the Physician must heal; the Builder build; the Merchant buy and sell; and the Warrior must fight.

  The steel struck my own and I parried the blow, moving the blade aside easily.

  I saw the Taurentian step back, could sense his surprise.

  I felt the sword in my hand, brought to me by Ho-Tu, the sword I had carried in the siege of Ar, years before, which I had taken to Tharna, which I had carried to the very nest of Priest-Kings, which had been with me on the vast, southern prairies of Gor, and which I had brought once more to the gates of Glorious Ar months before.

  Then the Taurentian struck again and again I moved his steel to one side.

  He then stood back, stunned, and withdrew a step, and put himself at the ready.

  The crowd cried out, confused, not understanding, then angry.

  I laughed, the keen ring of the fine steel still burning in my ear.

  My entire body suffused with pleasure. Elation, like Ka-la-na, suddenly flooded every muscle and vessel in my being. I laughed again. Gone was the guilt. I had heard the ring of steel. The Physician must heal; the Builder build; the Merchant buy and sell.

  “I am Tarl Cabot,” I laughed. “Know that. Know too that I understand that you can see. Know as well that I can see you. Leave the arena now or I will kill you.”

  With a cry of rage he threw himself at me and the cry died in his throat, he sprawling in his astonishment, his death and his blood, crosswise in the sand.

  I went to the next man and spun him about.

  “I do not play games,” I told him. “You are a Taurentian. I am Tarl Cabot. I am your enemy. Leave the sand or die upon it.”

  The man turned and attacked and I laughed suddenly with the thrill of the steel, the flashing ring of work upon the Warrior’s anvil.

  He cried out and fell before me, twisting in the sand, clawing at it.

  “He can see!” cried one of the Taurentians.

  The crowd, struck, was silent. Then, sensing the intended execution, some of them began to scream angrily.

  The other men in the helmets, and the attendants as well, one for each original pair, turned to face me. One or two of the attendants ran from the arena. I gathered they had no wish to stand between Warriors.

  “Leave the arena,” I told the Taurentians. “Men die in this place.”

  “Together!” cried their leader. “Attack!”

  He died first, being the first to reach me.

  In a moment I fought surrounded by Taurentians, said to be among the finest in the guard.

  The crowd now began to scream angrily as the many rushed upon and swirled about the one. The fans of the games of Ar had been fooled. They did not relish being witness to the private joke of some high person, doubtless the Ubar himself. As fans they shouted their anger at the deceit which had been practiced; as men they roared their fury at the unfair odds now designate upon the sand.

  My world now was small, bright, alive, consisting of little other than swift, flashing, ringing patterns before me, then to the side, and once more before me. I moved swiftly drawing one Warrior or another after me, and he who was swiftest died first; I turned and spun, accepting or not accepting an attack, always to isolate a man; vaguely, as though far off, I heard the screaming of Philemon in the Ubar’s box, the shouting of Taurentians; in a moment’s respite I saw a Taurentian slay a citizen who would have leaped into the arena to aid me; other Taurentians, with their spears, were forcing back the crowd, which seemed enraged.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” I heard Philemon screaming.

  Another Taurentian fell from my sword.

  One of the attendants with a whip struck me as I fought and I spun on him. He threw the whip to the sand and ran howling from the arena. Another approached me warily with his hot iron.

  “Begone,” I told him.

  He looked about himself and dropped the iron and fled. The other attendants followed him.

  I now stood and faced some six Taurentians, who stood in the defensive picket formation, three men forward in this case, and, in the interstices, three men back. This permits the men in reserve to move into the forward line to form a solid line, or, if the first line withdraws, to have space to take its place. It allows a great deal of mobility and, on the level of squad tactics, has its affinity to the Torian Squares; the space allows the swordsmen, of course, room in which to handle their weapons, room in which to properly attack or defend themselves; in this case I expected the center man to engage me, defending himself on the whole, while the flanking men would strike; should one of these three fall, of course, his place would be taken by one of the men in the reserve line.

  Slowly, swords ready, the picket advanced on me. I stepped back, over fallen bodies. It is hard to break or attack the picket. I pretended to stumble and the center man rushed forward to press his putative advantage.

  “Wait!” cried the leader, in the rear rank.

  The man who had been the center man was at that time dead.

  I pretended my blade had been wedged between the ribs of the center man.

  Another Taurentian, by instinct, but not trained instinct, hurled himself forward, and so died.

  The four remaining men attempted to retain the picket. Moving back warily I remained as close as I could to the picket, but out of reach, hoping to draw yet another Warrior prematurely into attack. They remained together. As a Warrior, though it was not to my advantage, I found this satisfying.

  A close-formed military formation is difficult to maintain over rough terrain. Indeed, the Torian Squares, which I have mentioned, common among Gorean infantries, with their superior mobility and regrouping capacities, had, long ago, made the phalanxes of such cities as Ar and, in the south, Turia, obsolete. The Gorean phalanx, like its predecessors of Earth, consisted of lines of massed spearmen, carrying spears of different lengths, forming a wall of points; it attacked on the run, preferably on a downgrade, a military avalanche, on its own terrain and under optimum conditions, invincible; the Torian Squares had bested the phalanx by choosing ground for battle in which such a formation would break itself in its advance. The invention and perfecting of the Torian Squares and the consequent attempts to refine and improve the phalanx, failures, were developments which had preceded the use of tharlarion and tarn cavalries, which radically changed the face of Gorean warfare. Yet, in the day of the tharlarion and tarn, one still finds, among infantries, the Torian Square; the phalanx, though its impact could be exceeded only by the tharlarion wedge or line, is now unknown, except for a defensive relic known as the Wall, in which massed infantry remains stationary, heroically bracing itself, when flight is impossible, for the devastating charge of tharlarion. It seemed to me obvious that the men who faced me intended to do so as a group; already two had been lured from the picket and had died; I did not expect that another of the four would singly rush upon me. I backed among the bodies of the fallen Taurentians. Unevenly, with difficulty, the picket followed, their eyes on me. Then the picket charged but, as I had intended, across the field of their own fallen. I leaped to one side. The end man stumbled in an attempt to turn to me and I passed the side of the blade beneath the helmet and was behind them. Attempting to remain together they wheeled, each in place. One man lunged for me, but stumbled across another fallen Taurentian and his fellow, moving forward, fell across him; rather than attack the men who had fallen, on whom the attack would be expected, I struck the remaining man, he standing, the leader, engaging him singly in the moment and felling him. The remaining two Taurentians who had stumbled scrambled to their feet, scraping awkwardly back through the sand.

  He of the two who was senior told the other, “Withdraw.” No longer did they wish to press the battle. No longer could they be as confident of the odds as they had been but a moment before.

  The two men withdrew.

  The crowd was howling with pleasure, well pleased at what spectacle t
hey had witnessed.

  Then they began to scream with anger. Taurentians, perhaps two hundred of them, were filing rapidly to the sand, weapons ready.

  So it is thus I die, I said to myself.

  I heard the leader of the men I had attacked laugh.

  “How does it feel,” he asked, “you who are about to die?”

  The laugh died in his throat for through his breast there suddenly flew a heavy Gorean arena spear.

  I spun and saw, standing beside me, on my right, sword drawn, in the heavy helmet of the arena fighter, with the small round shield, the sheathed right arm and shoulder, Murmillius.

  My heart leaped.

  “Charge!” cried the leader of the new Taurentians, those who had rushed down to the arena.

  The crowd began to press against the spears of the Taurentians in the tiers, who, at the edge of the tiers, at the top of the wall overtopping the sand, resolutely held them back.

  The Taurentians rushed upon us and, side by side, with the marvelous and gigantic Murmillius, I fought.

  Steel rang on steel and then we stood back to back, cutting and jabbing. Foe upon foe fell from those two fierce blades.

  And then there stood another with us, in the garb of an arena fighter.

  “Ho-Sorl!” I cried.

  “You were long in coming,” commented Murmillius, meeting steel upon steel, dropping a foe.

  Ho-Sorl laughed, lunging here and there, kicking back a Taurentian. “Cernus had planned that I, too, wear the blind helmet,” said he. “But Ho-Tu, of his house, did not care for the plan.”

  Another stood beside us, and we four fought.

  “Relius!” I exclaimed.

  “I, too,” said he, blade flashing, “was destined for the sport of the blind helmet. Fortunately I too encountered Ho-Tu.”

  “And,” grunted Murmillius, laughing, turning back an attack, “I wager the girls of the Street of Pots.”

  “If it must be known,” granted Relius, driving his blade between the ribs of a Taurentian.

  Murmillius, with a marvelous thrust, as though weary of sustaining the attack of his man, dropped him. “A likely lot of wenches they are,” said he.