Nomads of Gor Read Online Free PDF Page B

beautiful, is it not?" he
        asked.
        "Yes," I said.
          "It will buy ten bosks," said he, "twenty wagons covered
        with golden cloth, a hundred she-slaves from Turia."
        I looked away.
        "Do you not covet the stones," he prodded, "these riches?"
        "No," I said.
        Anger crossed his face. "You may have them," he said.
        "What must I do?" I asked.
        "Slay me!" he laughed.
         I looked at him steadily. "They are probably false stones,"
         I said, "amber droplets, the pearls of the Vosk sorp, the
         polished shell of the Tamber clam, glass colored and cut in
         Ar for trade with ignorant southern peoples."
         The face of the Paravaci, rich with its terrible furrowed
         scars, contorted with rage.
         He tore the necklace from his throat and flung it to my
         feet.
         "Regard the worth of those stones!" he cried.   I fished the necklace from                                   
         the dust with the point of my sword, it in the sun. It hung like a belt of light, sparkling with a spectrum of riches hundred merchants.
        "Excellent," I admitted, handing it back to him on the tip
        of the spear.
        Angrily he wound it about the pommel of the saddle.
        "But I am of the Caste of Warriors," I said, "of a high city
        and we do not stain our spears for the stones of men not,
        even such stones as these."
        The Paravaci was speechless.
        "You dare to tempt me," I said, feigning anger, "as if I
        beyond the dreams of a man, were of the Caste of Assassins or a common                 thief with his dagger in the night." I frowned at him. "Beware," I    warned,
       "lest I take your words as insult."
       The Paravaci, in his cape and hood of white fur, with the
       priceless necklace wrapped about the pommel of his saddle,
       sat stiff, not moving, utterly enraged. Then, furiously, the
       scars wild in his face, he sprang up in the stirrups and lifted
       both hands to the sky. "Spirit of the Sky," he cried, "let the
       lance fall to motto mel" Then abruptly, furious, he wheeled
       the kaiila and joined the others, whence he turned to regard
       me.
          As I watched, the Tuchuk took his long, slender lance and
       thrust it into the ground, point upward. Then, slowly, the
       four riders began to walk their mounts about the lance,
       watching it, right hands free to seize it should it begin to fall.
       The wind seemed to rise.
          In their way I knew they were honoring me, that they had
       respected my stand in the matter of the charging lances, that
       now they were gambling to see who would fight me, to whose
       weapons my blood must flow, beneath the paws of whose
       kaiila I must fall bloodied to the earth.
       I watched the lance tremble in the shaking earth, and saw
       the intentness of the riders as they watched its Lightest
       movement. It would soon fall.
          I could now see the herds quite clearly, making out indi-
       vidual animals, the shaggy humps moving through the dust,
       see the sun of the late afternoon glinting off thousands of
       horns. Here and there I saw riders, darting about, all
       mounted on the swift, graceful kaiila. The sun reflected from
       the horns in the veil of dust that hung over the herds was
       quite beautiful.
       The lance had not yet fallen.
          Soon the animals would be turned in on themselves, to mill
       together in knots, until they were stopped by the shaggy walls
       of their own kind, to stand and grew until the morning. The
       wagons would, of course, follow the herds. The herd forms
       both vanguard and rampart for the advance of the wagons.
          The wagons are said to be countless, the animals without
       number. Both of these claims are, of course,