Rebels of Gor Read Free Page A

leader, the soldier, the robber, the brigand, the warrior, the slayer, the commander, the Ubar?
    I thought so.
    Was this not ground from which to rule?
    What do men seek?
    Many traps are baited with silver.
    Many seek a cell, if only its bars be of gold?
    The wine of riches is a heady wine.
    But one knows a stronger wine, one for which many are willing to stake life itself.
    What delirium of kanda , I wondered, can compare with the rapture of that greater drug? But who, who listens carefully, can fail to hear the dark notes of terror in its bright song, to which the unwary hasten to succumb.
    Its wine is the headiest.
    I heard guardsmen call the watch, that all was well.
    Is the throne not, I wondered, its own prison.
    Is it worth the expenditure of blood and gold?
    Surely many believe so, certainly if others may be brought to pay the price.
    The wine of power is a heady wine.
    Men will die to clutch at a scepter.
    They will pay anything to rule forever, for a moment.
    The cry of the guardsman was echoed, from post to post. So all was well.
    But I, I knew, though of the scarlet caste, preferred the sky, the terrain below, mountains, the wind, the surging flight of the tarn, the exhilarating rush of air tearing at the jacket, and, of course, the recreation of the tarnsman, the loot one gathers, so pleasant, the collared, chained slave, at my feet, ready, soft, whimpering, hoping to be touched.
    So all was well.
    Yet this place could be taken, I knew. Numbers could be overwhelming, pressing incessantly at the trails. To some commanders blood is cheap when there is much of it to be expended. Within the holding itself, mutiny or revolution might occur. Gold might buy an opened gate. Reservoirs can go dry. Larders may be exhausted. Who knows in what corridors may be heard the songs of power?
    Drums do not herald the approach of treachery.
    It walks on light, soft feet.
    I turned away from the parapet.
    “Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Okimoto, “seems eager to return to his camp.”
    “I should be with my command,” I said.
    “You were not when the camp was struck,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “No,” I said.
    “Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, was fortunate in that respect,” said Lord Nishida.
    “It is so,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “He was summoned to the keep, by command of Lord Temmu,” said Lord Nishida.
    “Most fortunate,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “We shall supply, by tarn, what supplies we may secure,” I said. “The sky is open.”
    “It seems,” said Lord Okimoto, “that supplies are scarce, and deliveries infrequent.”
    “The commander,” said Lord Nishida, “will do what is possible. We may expect no more.”
    “Of course,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “Fields have been lost, burned, acquired by the enemy,” said Lord Nishida. “Lines are attenuated. There is occasionally the danger of arrow fire. And there are well over three thousand men in the holding.”
    “We will do what we can,” I said.
    “Our people,” said Lord Okimoto, “may unsheathe ritual blades.”
    “Our mercenaries,” said Lord Nishida, “do not know our ways nor share them.”
    “They may be gathered together with some pretext and fallen upon, and the matter is done within Ehn.”
    “All is not lost,” I said.
    “I fear,” said Lord Nishida, “we lie within the shadow of the iron dragon.”
    “Let us trust not,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “While strength remains,” I said, “we might rush forth, if only to fall beneath the blades of greater numbers.”
    “That would be honorable,” said Lord Nishida.
    “Might it not be a grander gesture to unsheathe the ritual knives, in their thousands?” asked Lord Okimoto. “That is a death for heroes, a noble death, scorning life, preferring honor. Would not rushing about, when all is hopeless, and known to be such, be undignified, even shameful, an act of desperation, contemptible, base, and disgraceful, like the bound tarsk squirming and squealing on the sacrificial altar? If our foes break