About Hunters of Gor

 

The Novel that inspires Forest Girls


Editorial comment Marlies Dasmijn:

I found myself reading Hunter of Gor because I role play a panther girl in SL gor  and since so many people that play this game take it so seriously I felt I should educate myself on its  foundation. The writing style can at times be captivating (no pun intended) and the action moves swiftly often turning the tables several times in a short space of time, but the philosophies Norman tries to put forth through the writing are a bit idiotic if not downright laughable. To imagine that women who are taken prisoner and forced into sexual relations are then broken, becoming totally enamored of their captors is absurd. Many women may like a little bit of rough sex but the idea that they would tolerate a steady diet of abasement is ludicrous as is exemplified by the present condition of women which continues to seek equalization in our society. It makes me wonder about John Norman’s relationship with his wife to say nothing of the insecurities he must have suffered being surrounded with brilliant women in a university setting.

Book passages:

It would gratify me, and give them a most humiliating memory to carry with them into their slavery, that they, the entire band, had been taken by a mere handful of males. They might be panther girls, but they were only women. We would take them easily.Hunters of Gor, page 118, 119

I saw a woman, in the brief skins of the panther women, turn and approach me.She wore ornaments of gold, an armlet, and anklet, a long string of tiny, pierced, golden cylinders looped four times about her neck.At her belt was a sleen knife.She stood over me. She looked down upon me. Her legs were shapely. She was marvellously figured.I pulled at the thongs on my wrists and ankles. My feet and arms had been tied separately, widely apart. I was stretched between four stakes. Several bands of binding fiber fastened each limb to its heavy stake. The stakes were notched to prevent the fiber from slipping. I could scarcely feel my hands and feet. I was well secured. I had been stripped.She looked down upon me.She carried a light spear.I turned my head to one side.With the blade of her spear she turned my head so that I must again face her.“Greetings, Slave,” she said.

I did not speak to her.

She looked down upon me, and laughed.

I, her captive, hated her.

Yet she did not permit me to take my eyes from her. The blade of her spear made me face her.

“Am I so difficult to look upon?” she asked.

She was one of the most exciting beautiful women I had ever seen.

I resented the brief, tight skins which concealed her from me.

Her blond hair, unbound, swirled below the small of her back. Her blue eyes, regarded me, contemptuously.

“No,” I said, “it is not difficult to look upon you.”

She was magnificent. She might have been bred from pleasure slaves and she-panthers. She was sinuous and arrogant, desirable, dangerous, feline. I had little doubt that she was swift of mind. She was surely proud and haughty. She was lithe. She was perhaps two inched taller than the average Gorean woman, and yet, due to the perfections of her proportions, as vigorous and stunning as a girl bred deliberately in the slave pens for such qualities.

Hunters of Gor, page 127, 128


Once again Verna stood over me. She looked down upon me. There was incredible pride and superiority in her gaze and carriage. She was barbaric, a panther girl, a beauty. She carried a spear. She wore at her belt a sleen knife. She wore the skins of forest panthers, primitive ornaments of beaten gold. Hunters of Gor, page 136

Verna looked down upon me. “You wished to take us as slaves,” she said, “it is you who have been taken slave.”

I looked up at her in horror. I pulled at the thongs.

“Shave him,” she said.

I fought, but two girls held my head, and Mira, laughing, with a small bowl of lather and a shaving knife, shave the two-and-one-half-inch degradation stripe on my head, from the forehead to the back of my neck.

“You are now well marked,” said Verna, “as a man who has fallen to women.”

Hunters of Gor, page 137

Dance of Panther girls

The girls now knelt about me, in a circle. They were silent. I looked up at the large, white, swift moons. There were three of them, a larger, and two smaller, looming, dominating.

The girls were breathing heavily. They had set aside their weapons.

They knelt, their hands on their thighs, occasionally lifting their eyes to the moons. Their eyes began to blaze. They put back their heads. Their lips parted. Their hair fell behind their heads, their faces lifted to the rays of the moons. Then, together, they began to moan and sway from side to side. Then they lifted their arms and hands to the moons, still swaying from side to side, moaning. I pulled at the thongs that bound me. Then their moaning became more intense and the swaying swifter and more savage, and, crying out and whimpering, they began to claw at the moons.

Mira leaped to her feet and tore her skins to the waist exposing her breasts to the wild light of the flooding moons. She shrieked and tore at the moons with her fingernails. In an instant another girl, and then another, and another, had followed her example. Only Verna still knelt, her hands on her thighs, looking at the moons. Beneath the moons, helplessly, I sought to free myself. I could not do so.

Mira now, the others following, crying out, tore away the scraps of panther skin that had yet concealed their beauty. They now wore only their gold, and their ornaments. Now, moaning, crying out, the she-beasts of the forest, the panther girls, hands lifted, clawing, began to stamp and dance beneath the fierce brightness of the wild moons.

Then suddenly they stopped, but stood, still, their hands lifted to the moons.

Verna threw back her head, her fists clenched on her thighs, and cried out, a wild scream, as though in agony.

She leaped to her feet and, looking at me, tore away her skins.

My blood leaped before her beauty.

But she had turned away and naked, her head back, had lifted her hands, too, clawing at the moons.

Then all of them, together, turned slowly to face me. They were breathing heavily. Their hair was dishevelled, their eyes wild.

I lay before them, helpless.

Suddenly, as one, they seized up their light spears, and, swaying, spears lifted, began to circle me.

They were incredibly beautiful.

A spear darted toward me, but did not strike me. It was withdrawn.

It could have killed me, of course, had its owner wished. But it had spared me.

Then, about me, the panther girls, circling, swaying, began a slow stalking dance, as of hunters.

I lay in the center of the circle.

Their movements were slow, and incredibly beautiful. Then suddenly one would cry out and thrust at me with her spear. But the spear was not thrust into my body. Its point would stop before it had administered its wound. Many of the blows would have been mortal. But many thrusts were only to my eyes, or arms or legs. Every bit of me began to feel exposed, threatened.

I was their catch.

Then the dance became progressively swifter and wilder, and the feigned blows became more frequent, and then, suddenly, with a wild cry, the swirling throng about me stood for an instant stock still, and then with a cry, each spear thrust down savagely toward my heart.

I cried out.

None of the spears had struck me.

The girls cast aside the spears. Then, like feeding she-panthers they knelt about me, each one, with her hands and tongue, touching and kissing me.

I cried out with anguish.

I knew I could not long resist them.

Verna lifted her head. She laughed, “You are going to be raped,” she said.

I fought the thongs, but, by their bodies, was thrust back. I felt Mira’s teeth in my shoulder.

Hunters of Gor, page, 137, 138, 139


“Rejoice that you are a woman,” said Marlenus. “It is only your sex that has saved you.”

She turned her head to one side. She pulled at the binding fiber, but she was helpless.

“Yes,” said Marlenus, “it is to your sex that you owe your life.”

She turned her head swiftly away. She had been spared because she was a female. She had been spared only because she was a female.

“I have information,” I said, “that, soon, there are more panther girls entering this portion of the forest. It might be well to withdraw before their arrival.”

Marlenus laughed. “They are the girls of Hura,” he said. “They are in my hire.”

Verna cried out with rage.

He looked down at Verna. “I thought they might prove useful in hunting for this one,” he said. He indicated Verna with his foot.

“But this one,” said Marlenus, reaching out and shaking Mira’s head with his large hand, “was the most useful of all.” He laughed. “With my gold, Hura has increased her band to many girls. It will be the strongest band in the forest. And, with my gold, I purchased our Mira the lieutenancy in that band.”

“And other gold for Mira, too,” she said.

“Yes,” said Marlenus. From his belt he took a heavy pouch.

He handed it to Mira.

Hunters of Gor, page 141


“Who are you?” asked Marlenus.

“I am Verna,” she said, “the outlaw.”

Then, to her astonishment, and that of all those watching, saving the Ubar himself, Marlenus took the key to her collar from his pouch. He opened the collar and replaced the key in his pouch. He then removed the collar from her throat and cast it to one side, in the dirt.

She looked up at him, puzzled.

“Hamstring the outlaw,” he said.

“No!” she cried. She leaped to her feet but two huntsmen, cowled in the heads of forest panthers, seized her by the arms. “No! No!” she screamed.

“May we go, Ubar?” pleaded Hura. Mira, too, wanted to rush to the gate.

“Remain where you are,” said Marlenus.

The two women, frightened, did not move.

“Ubar!” screamed Verna. “Ubar!”

At a gesture from Marlenus the shreds of pleasure silk which still clung to her were torn from her by two huntsmen, they, too, like the others, cowled in the heads of forest panthers.

She stood before him, free of his collar, stripped, held by huntsmen.

Hanging is a not uncommon penalty in the northern forests for outlawry. Another such penalty, not infrequently inflicted, is hamstringing.

“No, Ubar!” she said. “Please, Ubar!”

In hamstringing the two large tendons behind each knee are cut. The legs my then no longer be contracted. They are then useless. No longer can the subject walk or run, or ever stand erect.

The subject is, however, not without resource. He can, though it requires strength, and it is awkward and painful, drag himself about by the hands.

When an individual is hamstrung he is often taken to a city where he is left, that he may, if he can, earn his living by begging. Sometimes tavern keepers gather several such unfortunates together, enslave them, and keep their beggings for themselves. A slave with a tharlarion wagon puts them about the city in the morning and picks them up at night. Sometimes the tavern keepers blind or mutilate them as well, that they be more piteous, and their earnings accordingly increased.

Verna was looking at Marlenus with horror.

“Let the outlaw be hamstrung,” said Marlenus.

Two huntsmen threw Verna forward, holding her head toward the ground. Two others held her legs, somewhat higher, stretching them out.

I saw the tendons, beautiful, taut, behind her knees.

A fifth huntsman, at a sign from Marlenus, stepped behind the girl. He removed the sleen knife from its sheath. I saw the edge of the blade touch the right tendon.

“I am a woman!” screamed Verna. “I am a woman!”

“No,” said Marlenus. “You are an outlaw.”

“I am a woman!” screamed Verna. “I am a woman! I am a woman!”

“No,” said Marlenus. “You have only a body of a woman. inside your body you are a man.”

“No!” she wept. “No! Inside I am a woman! I am woman!”

“Is it true?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes, yes!” wept Verna.

“You acknowledge yourself a female then,” asked Marlenus, “within as well as without.”

“Yes,” cried Verna. “I am a female!”

“Completely?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes,” cried Verna, “I am completely a female.”

“And not a man as well?” pressed Marlenus.

“I am completely and only a female,” wept Verna.

“Then,” said Marlenus, “it seems we should not hamstring you as an outlaw.”

Verna’s body shuddered with relief. She shook in the arms of her captors.

But they did not release her.

“Then,” said Marlenus, “you may be hamstrung for being an escaped slave girl.”

Terror sprang anew into Verna’s eyes.

It was true. The second penalty for an escaping girl, one who has fled before, is not uncommonly hamstringing. I had seem hamstrung girls, begging, piteous in the streets of Ar. It was not a pleasant sight.

“Hamstring the slave,” said Marlenus.

“Master!” screamed Verna. “Master!”

Marlenus hand indicated that the knife, poised, hesitate. The words that she had spoken stunned us, all save Marlenus. She had called him Master.

The huntsmen held the slave.

“Please, Master!” wept Verna. “Do not hurt me! Do not hurt me!”

“The slave begs for mercy,” said one of the huntsmen.

“Is this true?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes, Master,” wept Verna. “I am yours. I am your girl. I am your slave. I beg for mercy. I beg for mercy, Master!”

“Release her,” said Marlenus. The huntsmen resheathed his sleen knife. The others released the girl. She knelt on the ground, her head down, her hair forward, her shoulders and body shaking, trembling with terror.

The other girls, too, were frightened. Verna’s girls, in their panther skins, chained by their right ankle. Hura, and Mira, too, were shaken.

Verna had been shattered. Her pride, her obstinacy were gone.

She looked up at Marlenus, as a slave girl looks to the eyes of a master.

She knew then she was his.

Without being told, she went to the collar, lying in the dirt, which Marlenus had cast aside. Trembling, she picked it up and knelt before Marlenus. She handed him the collar. There were tears in her eyes.

Marlenus wiped the collar on his sleeve. A length of binding cord was brought.

Verna knelt back on her heels. She lifted her arms to Marlenus, wrists crossed. She lowered her head between her arms.

“I submit myself,” she said.

The collar was locked on her throat. Her hands were tied.

She lowered her bound wrists and lifted her head to Marlenus. “I am your girl,” she said, “Master.”

Marlenus turned to a subordinate. “Have her cleaned and combed,” he said. “And perfume her.”

She put down her head.

“Then put her in yellow pleasure silk,” he said, “fresh silk, and place bells on her left ankle.”

“Yes, Ubar,” said the man.

Marlenus was regarding the slave who knelt before him, her head down.

“And have her ears pierced,” said Marlenus, “and fix in them earrings of gold, large ones.”

“Yes, Ubar,” said the man.

The slave, conquered, did not so much as lift her head. It would be done to her, what her master wished.

“And tonight,” said Marlenus, “when she is sent to my tent, see that she wears lipstick.”

“It will be done as you say, Ubar,” said the man. He looked down at Verna. “Come with me, Girl,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, and was led away.

I recalled the Flaminium, in the grip of Marlenus.

“These other slaves,” said Marlenus, indicating Verna´s former girls, “take them away.”

Hunters of Gor, page 160 to 163


I reminded myself that it was said that panther girls, once conquered, make excellent slaves.

I think it is a true saying.

Hunters of Gor, page 170


The men of Tyros glanced to one another. It was few free men who had ever looked, unbound, on the rites of panther girls.

Hunters of Gor, page 196

It might have been a rite not of women, but of she-panthers! How starved must be the lonely, hating panther women of the forests, so gross is their hostility, so fierce their hatred, and yet need, of men. They twisted, screaming now, clawing at the moons. I would scarcely have guessed at the primitive hungers evident in each movement of those barbaric, feline bodies. They would be masters of men. Proud, magnificent creatures. And yet by biology, by their beauty, by their aroused inwardness, could not, in fact, own but only, in their true fulfillment, belong, be taken, be conquered. It was little wonder such proud, fine women hated men, to whom nature had destined them. Woman is the natural love prey of men. She is natural quarry. She is complete only when caught, only when brought to the joy of her capture and conquest. It was not strange that the proud, intelligent women of the forest, and elsewhere, chose war with men, rather than admit the meaning of his strength and swiftness, the meaning of their own weakness and beauty. Set a woman to run down a man and she cannot do so. Set a man to run down a woman and he will be successful. Nature has not destined her to escape him. It has destined her to be his capture and love.

I smiled to myself at those who regarded the needs of women as inferior to those of men. The woman, I realized, looking down upon the panther girls, has an imperative, enormous need. It is as great as that of the male, I expected, perhaps greater, for she is less satiable, and the tissues of her womanhood are widely spread, and intricate and deep. Her entire body, is seems, is alive to feeling, and yielding and touching, is a need. Her beauty is she, and its meaning, from the turn of an ankle to the delicacy of her deft, sweet fingers, from the turn of a calf to her belly and the beauties of her breasts, to those of her shoulders and throat and the marvelousness of her head and hair, is a need. How tragic it is, I thought, that such incredible human beings should be so belittled, frustrated and abused. I do not refer to the cruelties of Gorean slavery, which celebrate women and, in their rude fashion, often uncompromisingly, force the helpless, total surrender she yearns in the heart of her to give, but the subtler, crueller slaveries of Earth, pretending to respect her and then, by education and acculturation, depriving her not only of status and independence, but of love.

Hunters of Gor, page 197, 198

The drum was now very heady, swift. The dance of the panther girls became more wild, more frenzied. Vicious, sinuous, clawing, lithe, these savage beauties, in their skins and gold, with their knives, their light spears, weapons darting, danced. They were terrible and beautiful, in the streaming, flooding light of the looming, primitive moons, their eyes blazing. The hair of all was unbound. Several had already, oblivious of the presence of the men of Tyros, torn away their skins to the waist, others completely. On some I could hear the movement of the necklaces of sleen teeth tied about their necks, the shivering and ringing of slender golden bangles on their tanned ankles. In their dance they danced among the staked-out bodies of the men of Marlenus, and about the great Ubar himself. Their weapons leapt at the bound men, but never did the blows fall.

The coals in the brazier formed a blazing cylinder in the firelit darkness of the circle. I could see, dark, the handle of the slave iron.The dance would soon strike its climax. It could continue little longer. The women would go mad with their need to strike and rape.Suddenly the drum stopped and Hura stopped, her body bent backward, her head back, her long black hair falling to the back of her knees.

She was breathing deeply, very deeply. Her body was covered with a sheen of sweat.

The girls not put down their weapons and crowded about the bound figure of Marlenus, looking at him, inching closer, breathing heavily, not speaking.

“Brand him,” said Hura.

Marlenus had once denied me bread, and fire and salt. He had once banished me from Ar.

My hatred of Marlenus, and my envy of his glory and success, raged within me.

He had made me seem a fool, and had devastatingly bested me in the game.

I smiled.

I owed him nothing, except perhaps a vengeance for a thousand slights and diminishments, for a thousand unintended, subtle defeats at his hands.

He would be branded, and taken to the coast as slave, for transportation to Tyros, island of his enemies. He would march in their triumph, branded, naked, chained to the back of a tharlarion wagon, amid blossoms cast by white-silk maidens dancing beside him. There would be jeering throngs. Then, with music and ceremony, he would be presented before them as he had marched, naked and in the chains of a slave, Sarus, leader of the men of Tyros in the forest, his captor, would them give him to the council. He would then be pronounced, by the council, slave of Tyros.. he might then be given a name more fitting a slave then Marlenus. He would then be disposed of as they saw fit. It would be a fit end for Marlenus, Ubar of Ar.

I smiled.

“Brand him!” called Hura. “Brand him!”

Several panther girls, their skins torn away in the dance, held the thigh of Marlenus.

The man of Tyros, grinning, brought the iron forward, in an instant the white-hot marking surface would be pressed deeply into, and held in, for some seconds, the flesh of Marlenus of Ar.

But the iron did not make its strike. It fell to the grass, setting it afire. Hura cried out with rage. The panther girls looked up from where they knelt beside Marlenus. The man of Tyros was bent over, and then, slowly, very slowly, he straightened. He seemed puzzled. Then he turned slowly and fell to the grass.

The steel-piled arrow, winged with the feathers of the vosk gull, had pierced his heart.

There was consternation below, screams, men of Tyros leaping to their feet, dirt being cast on fires.

I slipped from the branch on which I had stood, and disappeared in the night.

Hunters of Gor, page 198, 199, 200


Two panther girls were swift on her trail, running easily. They were superb athletes, far superior to the inept, clumsy Earth girl who, terrified, fled before them.

Ilene would soon be taken. She was easy prey. The panther girls ran easily, loops of binding fiber loose in their hands.

Ilene, stumbling, fled on. She would soon be taken.

Panther girls enjoy the capture of escaped female slaves in the forests. They despise them, and hunt them like the animals they are. They find it pleasant and delicious sport to take them. They are so helpless and weak.

Ilene fell, breathing heavily. The sound of pursuit was close behind her. Wild eyed, she leaped up and stumbled on again.

It would not be pleasant for Ilene, should she fall to them.

Panther girls hold slave girls in great contempt, and treat them with great cruelty. Slave girls, many of whom have been forced to yield themselves totally to a man, are an object of hatred to panther girls. They represent what the panther girl most fears and hates, her sex. Many slave girls, particularly if broken to the collar, find men extremely attractive, and are eager to serve intimately those they find most pleasing. Panther girls, whose life is predicated on the hatred of men, are not likely to look leniently on such women. The slave girl, of course, is given no choice but to be feminine, to be a female. Strangely this is not regarded as relevant by panther girls. That a girl may have fought to the last moment with the last ounce of her strength to avoid being conquered is of not interest to the panther girl. That she has been conquered is all that counts to them. That her owner had given her no choice but to yield totally is not considered. The panther girl understands only when it is she herself who has been captured and taught her womanhood, only when it is she herself who finds herself in the strong arms of a man who, with or without her consent, makes her wholly feminine, who forces her to yield to him, who is her conqueror.

Hunters of Gor, page 201, 202

The grand finalee

Verna´s women, startled, were freed of their bonds. They stood on the beach, among the stones, rubbing their wrists. One by one, collars were taken from their throats. They looked at Verna.

“I am not pleased with you,” said Verna to them. “You much mocked me when I knelt slave, and wore garments imposed upon me by men.” She then pointed to her ears. “You mocked me, too,” said she, “when rings were fastened in my ears.” She regarded them. :are there any among you,” she said, “who wish to fight me to the death?”

They shook their heads.

Verna turned to me. “Pierce their ears,” she said, “and put them all in slave silk.”

“Verna,” protested one of the women.

“Do you wish to fight me to the death?” demanded Verna.

“No, Verna,” she said.

“Let it be done as Verna has said,” said I to Thurnock. Orders were given.

In an Ahn, the girls of Verna knelt before her on the beach. Each wore only clinging, diaphanous slave silk. In their eyes were tears. In the ears of each, fastened through the lobes of each, were earrings, of a sort attractive in each woman.

The skins of the women who had protested “Verna!” were now worn by Verna herself.

She strode before them on the beach, looking at them. “You would make beautiful slave girls,” she told them.

I saw that the woman called Rena, whom I had used in Marlenus´ camp, before departing it, was especially beautiful.

I sat in the captain´s chair, in authority, but cripples, huddled in blankets, bitter. I knew that I was an important man, but I could not move the left side of my body.

It was all for nothing.

“You,” challenged Verna to the girl who had protested, “how do you like the feel of slave silk?”

She looked down.

“Speak!” ordered Verna.

“It makes me feel naked before a man,” she said.

“Do you wish to feel his hands, and his mouth, on your body?” she asked.

“Yes!” she cried, miserably, kneeling.

Verna turned and pointed out one of my men, an oarsmen. “Go to him and serve his pleasure,” ordered Verna.

“Verna!” cried the girl, miserably.

“Go!” ordered Verna.

The panther girl fled to the arms of the oarsmen. He threw her over his shoulder and walked to the sand at the foot of the beach.

“You will learn, all of you,” said Verna, “as I learned what it is to be a woman.”

One by one, she ordered the girls to serve the pleasure of oarsmen. The girl, Rena, fled instead to me, and pressed her lips to my hand.

“Do as Verna tells you,” I told her.

She kissed my hand again, and fled to him whom Verna had indicated she must serve.

Their cries of pleasure carried to me.

Marlenus regarded Verna. “Will you, too,” he asked, “not serve?”

“I know already what it is to be a woman,” she said. “You have taught me.”

He reached out his hand, to touch her. I had not seen so tender a gesture in the Ubar. I had not thought such a movement to be within him.

“No,” she said, stepping back. “No.”

He withdrew his hand.

“I fear your touch, Marlenus,” she said. “I now what you can do to me.”

He regarded her.

“I am not your slave,” she said.

“The throne of the Ubara of Ar,” he said, “is empty.

They looked at one another.

“Thank you,” she said, “Ubar.”

“I will have all arrangements made,” he said, “for your investiture as Ubara of Ar.”

“But,” she said, “Marlenus, I do not wish to be Ubara of Ar.”

His men gasped. My men could not speak. I, too, was struck with silence.

To be Ubara of Ar was the most glorious thing to which a woman might aspire. It meant that she would be the richest and most powerful woman on Gor, that armies and navies, and tarn cavalries, could move upon her very word, that the taxes of an empire the wealthiest on Gor could be laid at her feet, that the most precious of gems and jewelries might be hers, that she would be the most envied woman on the planet.

“I have the forests,” she said.

Marlenus could not speak.

“It seems,” he said, :that I am not always victorious.”

“No,” she said, “Marlenus, you have been victorious.”

He looked at her, puzzled.

“I love you,” she said. “I loved you even before I knew you, but I will not wear your collar and I will not share your throne.”

“I do not understand,” he said. I had not thought, ever, to see the Ubar as he stood there, looming over this woman, whom he might, did he choose, seize and own, but standing there numb, not understanding.”

“You do not understand,” said she, “because I am a woman.”

He shook his head.

“It is called freedom,” she said.

Then Verna turned away from him, in the skins of a panther woman. “I shall wait for my women in the forest,” she said. “Tell them to find me there.”

“Wait!” said Marlenus of Ar. His voice was agonized. His hand lifted, as though to beg her to return with him.

I was startled. Never had I understood that the Ubar of Ar could be thus. He had cared, he then understood, and we, too, for this lonely, proud, beautiful woman.

“Yes?” asked Verna, turning to regard him. in her eyes, too, I thought I saw moisture.

Whatever Marlenus might have said to her, he did not say. He stood still for a moment, and then straightened himself. With one hand he tore from his throat the leather and claws he wore there. I saw that among those barbaric ornaments was a ring. I gasped, for it was the seal of Ar, the signet of Glorious Ar. He threw it to Verna, as a bauble.

She caught it.

“With that,” he said, “you are safe in the realm of Ar. With that you can command the power of the city. This is as the word of the Ubar. With this you can buy supplies. With this you can command soldiers. Any who comes upon you and see this ring will know that behind you stands the power of Ar.”

“I do not want it,” she said.

“Wear it,” said Marlenus, “for me.”

Verna smiled. “Then,” said she, “I want it.” She tied the ring on a bit of leather about her neck.

“The Ubara of Ar,” said he,” might wear such a ring.”

“I have the forests,” she said. “Are they not more beautiful even that the city of Ar?”

They regarded one another.

“I will never see you again,” said Marlenus.

Verna shrugged. “Perhaps not,” she said. “But perhaps you will.”

He looked at her.

“Perhaps, sometime,” she said. “I will trek to Ar. I have heard that it is a fine city.”

He grinned.

“And perhaps,” said she, “from time to time, you might come again to hunt in the northern forests.”

“Yes,” he said. “Such is my intention.”

“Good,” she said. “Perhaps, sometimes, we can hunt together.”

Then she turned to depart.

“I wish you well. Woman,” said Marlenus of Ar.

She turned to face him, and smiled. “I, too,” said she, “wish you well.”

Hunters of Gor, page 300 to 302


© Lunacaleengpanthers/John Norman/Various

One comment

  1. there are very few moments in any of norman’s drivel that have Any emotional depth. It disturbs me to no end when one, such as this, is presented. I’d really rather think of him as the petulent, bitter emotional five year old that most of his writing indicates him to be.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s