Priest-Kings of Gor

Chapter Seven: I HUNT FOR PRIEST-KINGS

In spite of Vika's protests it was with a light heart that I strode into the passageway beyond her chamber.I would seek the Priest-Kings of Gor.

She followed me almost to the portal, and I can remember how the sensors set in that great threshold in the dimmed light of the energy bulbs began to glow and pulse as she neared them.

I could see her white garment and sense the pale beauty of her skin as she stood back from the portal in the semi-darkened chamber.

'Please do not go,' she called to me.

'I must,' I said.

'Come back,' she cried.

I did not answer her but began to prowl down the hallway.

'I'm afraid,' I heard her call.

I assumed she would be safe, as she had been on countless nights and so I went on.

I thought I heard her weep, and supposed that she did so for herself, because she was frightened.

I continued down the passageway.

My business was not to console her, not to tell her not to be afraid, not to give her the comfort of another human presence.My business was with the dread denizens of these dim passageways which had so inspired her terror; my business was not that of the comforter or friend, but that of the warrior.

As I went down the passageway I looked into the various chambers, identical with my own, which lined it.Each, like mine, lacked a gate or door, and had for its entrance only that massive portal, perhaps some twelve feet wide and eighteen feet high.I would not have enjoyed sleeping in such a room, for there was no way to protect oneself from the hall, and of course eventually one would need sleep.

Almost all of the chambers I passed, and I passed many, seemd to be empty.

Two, however, housed Chamber Slaves, girls like Vika, clad and collared identically.I suppose the only difference in the attire of the three girls would have been the numerals engraved on their collars.Vika of course had worn a scarf and these girls did not, but now Vika no longer wore her scarf; now her collar, steel and gleaming, locked, encircling her fair throat, was as evident and beautiful as theirs, proclaiming her to the eyes of all, like them, only a slave girl.

The first girl was a short, sturdy wench with thick ankles and wide, exciting shoulders, probably of peasant stock.Her hair had been braided and looped over her right shoulder; it was hard in the light to determine its colour.She had risen from her mat at the foot of the couch unbelievingly, blinking and rubbing her heavy-lidded, ovoid eyes.As far as I could tell she was alone in the chamber.When she approached the portal its sensors began to glow and pulse as had Vika's.

'Who are you?' asked the girl, her accent suggesting the Sa-Tarna fields above Ar and toward the Tamber Gulf.

'Have you seen Priest-Kings?' I asked.

'Not this night,' she said.

'I am Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,' I said and went on.

The second girl was tall, fragile and willowy, with slender ankles and large, hurt eyes; she had dark, curling hair that fell about her shoulders and stood out against the white of her garment; she may have been of High Caste; without speaking to her it would be hard to tell; even then it might be difficult to be sure, for the accents of some of the higher artisan castes approximate pure High Caste Gorean; she stood with her back against the far wall, the palms of her hands against it, her eyes fastened on me, frightened, scarcely breathing.As far as I could tell she too was alone.

'Have you seen Priest-Kings?' I asked.

She shook her head vigorously, No.

Still wondering if she were of High Caste, and smiling to myself, I continued down the passageway.

Both of the girls had in their way been beautiful but I found Vika superior to both.

My Chamber Slave's accent had been pure High Caste Gorean though I could not place the city.Probably her caste had been that of the Builders or Physicians, for had her people been Scribes I would have expected a greater subtlety of inflections, the use of less common grammatical cases; and had her people been of the Warriors I would have expected a blunter speech, rather belligerently simple, expressed in great reliance on the indicative mood and, habitually, a rather arrogant refusal to venture beyond the most straightforward of sentence structures.On the other hand these generalisations are imperfect, for Gorean speech is no less complex than that of any of the great natural language communities of the Earth nor are its speakers any the less diverse.It is, incidentally, a beautiful language; it can be as subtle as Greek; as direct as Latin; as expressive as Russian; as rich as English; as forceful as German.To the Goreans it is always, simply, The Language, as though there were no others, and those who do not speak it are regarded immediately as barbarians.This sweet, fierce, liquid speech is the common bond that tends to hold together the Gorean world.It is the common property of the Administrator of Ar, a herdsman beside the Vosk, a peasant from Tor, a scribe from Thentis, a metalworker from Tharna, a physician from Cos, a pirate from Port Kar, a warrior from Ko-ro-ba.

I found it difficult to remove from my mind the image of the two Chamber Slaves, and that of Vika, perhaps because the plight of these girls touched my heart, perhaps because each, though differently, was beautiful.I found myself congratulating myself that I had been taken to the chamber of Vika, for I had thought her the most beautiful.Then I wondered if my having been brought to her chamber, and not to that of one of the others had been simply my good fortune. It occurred to me that Vika, in some ways, resembled Lara, who was Tatrix of Tharna, for whom I had cared.She was shorter than Lara and more fully bodied but they would have been considered of the same general physical type.Vika's eyes were a sullen, smouldering, taunting blue; the blue of Lara's eyes had been brighter, as clear and, when not impassioned, as soft as the summer sky over Ko-ro-ba; when impassioned they had burned as fiercely, as beautifully, as helplessly as the walls of a raped city.Lara's lips had been rich and fine, sensitive and curious, tender, eager, hungry; the lips of Vika were maddening; I recalled those lips, full and red, pouting, defiant, scornful, scarlet with a slave girl's challenge to my blood; I wondered if Vika might be a bred slave, a Passion Slave, one of those girls bred for beauty and passion over generations by the zealous owners of the great Slave Houses of Ar, for lips such as Vika's were a feature often bred into Passion Slaves; they were lips formed for the kiss of a master.

And as I pondered these things I sensed that it had not been accident that I had been carried to Vika's chamber but that this had been part of a plan by the Priest-Kings.I had sensed that Vika had defeated and broken many men, and I sensed that the Priest-Kings might be curious to see how I might fare with her.I wondered if Vika herself had been instructed by Priest-Kings to subdue me.I gathered that she had not.It was not the way of Priest-Kings.Vika would be all unconscious of their machinations; she would simply be herself, which is what the Priest-Kings would desire.She would simply be Vika, insolent, aloof, contemptuous, provocative, untamed though collared, determined to be the master though she were the slave.I wondered how many men had fallen at her feet, how many men she had forced to sleep at the foot of the great stone couch, in the shadow of the slave ring, while she herself reclined on the pelts and silks of the master.

After some hours I found myself again in the Hall of Priest-Kings.I was gladdened to see once more the moons and stars of Gor hurtling in the sky above the dome.

My footsteps rang hollowly on the stones of the floor.The great chamber reposed in vastness and stillness.The empty throne loomed silent and awesome.

'I am here!' I cried.'I am Tarl Cabot.I am a warrior of Ko-ro-ba and I issue the challenge of a warrior to the Priest-Kings of Gor!Let us do battle!Let us make war!'

My voice echoed for a long time in the vast chamber, but I received no response to my challenge.

I called out again and again there was no response.

I decided to return to Vika's chamber.

On another night I might explore further, for there were other passageways, other portals visible from where I stood. It might take days to pursue them all.

I set out on my way back to Vika's chamber.

I had walked perhaps an Ahn and was deep inside one of the long, dimly lit passageways which led in the direction of her chamber when I seemed somehow to sense a presence behind me.

I spun quickly about drawing my sword in the same motion.

The corridor behind me was empty.

I slammed the blade back in the sheath and continued on.

I had not walked far when I again became uneasy.This time I did not turn, but walked slowly ahead, listening behind me with every fibre I could bend to the effort.When I came to a bend in the passageway I rounded it, and then pressed myself against the wall and waited.

Slowly, very slowly, I drew the sword, taking care that it made no sound as it left its sheath.

I waited but nothing occurred.

I have the patience of a warrior and I waited for a long time.When men stalk one another with weapons it is well to have patience, great patience.

It of course occurred to me a hundred times that I was follish for actually I was conscious of having heard nothing. Yet my awareness or sense that something followed me in the corridor might well have been occasioned by some tiny sound which my conscious mind had not even registered, but yet which had impinged on my senses, leaving as its only conscious trace a vague wind of suspicion.At last I decided to force the game.My decision was motivated in part by the fact that the hall allowed few concealments for ambush and I would presumably see my pursuer almost as soon as he saw me. If he were not carrying a missile weapon it would make little difference.And if he had been carrying a missile weapon why had he not slain me before?I smiled grimly.If it were a matter of waiting I acknowledged that the Priest-King, if such it were, who followed me had had the best of things. For all I knew a Priest-King could wait like a stone or tree, nerveless until necessary.I had waited perhaps better than an Ahn and I was covered with sweat.My muscles ached for motion.It occurred to me that whatever followed might have heard the cessation of my footsteps.That it knew that I was waiting.How acute would be the senses of Priest-Kings? Perhaps they would be relatively feeble, gaving grown accustomed to reliance on instrumentation; perhaps they would be other than the senses of men, sharper if only from a differing genetic heritage, capable of discriminating and interpreting sensory cues that would not even be available to the primitive five senses of men.Never before had I been so aware of the thin margin of reality admitted into the human nervous system, little more than a razor's width of apprehension given the multiple and complex physical processes which formed our environment.The safest thing for me would be to continue on as I had been doing, a pattern of action which would give me the benefit of the shield formed by the turn in the passage.But I had no wish to continue on.I tensed myself for the leap and cry that would fling me into the open, the sudden interruption in the stillness of the passageway that might be sufficient to impair the steadiness of a spear arm, the calm setting of a crossbow's iron quarrel on its guide.

And so I uttered the war cry of Ko-ro-ba and leaped, sword ready, to face what might follow me.

A howl of bitter rage escaped my lips as I saw that the passageway was empty.

Maddened beyond understanding I began to race down the passageway, retracing my steps to confront what might be in the passage.I had run for perhaps half a pasang when I stopped, panting and furious with myself.

'Come out!' I cried.'Come out!'

The stillness of the passageway taunted me.

I remembered Vika's words, When the Priest-Kings wish you, they will come for you.

Angrily I stood alone in the passageway in the dimmed light of its energy bulbs, my unused sword grasped futilely in my hand.

Then I sensed something.

My nostrils flared slightly and then as carefully as one might examine an object by eye I smelled the air of the passageway.

I had never much relied on this sense.

Surely I had enjoyed the scent of flowers and women, of hot, fresh bread, roasted meat, Paga and wines, harness leather, the oil with which I protected the blade of my sword from rust, of green fields and storm winds, but seldom had I considered the sense of smell in the way one would consider that of vision or touch, and yet it too had its often neglected store of information ready for the man who was ready to make use of it.

And so I smelled the passageway and to my nostrils, vague but undeniable, there came an odour that I had never before encountered.It was, as far as I could tell at that time, a simple odour, though later I would learn that it was the complex product of odours yet more simple than itself.I find it impossible to describe this odour, much as one miught find it difficult to describe the taste of a citrus fruit to one who had never tasted it or anything much akin to it.It was however slightly acrid, irritating to my nostrils.It reminded me vaguely of the odour of an expended cartridge.

Although there was nothing now with me in the passage it had left its trace.

I knew now that I had not been alone.

I had caught the scent of a Priest-King.

I resheathed my sword and returned to Vika's chamber.I hummed a warrior's tune, for somehow I was happy.