"John Norman - Gor 03 - Priest - King of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

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are as one to them, that they can control the very forces of gravity and invisibly sway the hearts
of human beings, but of this latter claim I wonder, for once on a road to Ko-ro-ba, my city, I met
one who had been a messenger of Priest-Kings, one who had been capable of disobeying them, one
from the shards of whose burnt and blasted skull I had removed a handful of golden wire.

He had been destroyed by Priest-Kings as casually as one might jerk loose the thong of a sandal.
He had disobeyed and he had been destroyed, immediately and with grotesque dispatch, but the
important thing was, I told myself, that he had disobeyed, that he could disobey, that he had been
able to disobey and choose the ignominious death he knew must follow. He had won his freedom
though it had, as the Goreans say, led him to the Cities of Dust, where, I think, not even Priest-
Kings care to follow. He had, as a man, lifted his fist against the might of Priest-Kings and so
he had died, defiantly, though horribly, with great nobility.

I am of the Caste of Warriors, and it is in our codes that the only death fit for a man is that in
battle, but I can no longer believe that this is true, for the man I met once on the road to Ko-ro-
ba died well, and taught me that all wisdom and truth does not lie in my own codes.

My business with the Priest-Kings is simple, as are most matters of honour and blood. For some
reason unbeknown to me they have destroyed my city, Ko-ro-ba, and scattered its peoples. I have
been unable to learn the fate of my father, my friends, my warrior companions, and my beloved
Talena, she who was the daughter of Marlenus, who had once been Ubar of Ar - my sweet, fierce,
wild, gentle, savage, beautiful love, she who is my Free Companion, my Talena, forever the Ubara
of my heart, she who burns forever in the sweet, lonely darkness of my dreams. Yes, I have
business with the Priest-Kings.

Chapter Two: IN THE SARDAR

I looked down the long, broad avenue to the huge timber gate at its end, and beyond the gate to
the black crags of the inhospitable Sardar Range.

It took not much time to purchase a small bundle of supplies to take into the Sardar, nor was it
difficult to find a scribe to whom I might entrust the history of the events at Tharna. I did not
ask his name nor he mine. I knew his caste, and he knew mine, and it was enough. He could not
read the manuscript as it was written in English, a language as foreign to him as Gorean would be
to most of you, but yet he would treasure the manuscript and guard it as though it were a most
precious possession, for he was a scribe and it is the way of scribes to love the written word and
keep it from harm, and if he could not read the manuscript, what did it matter - perhaps someone
could someday, and then the words which had kept their secret for so long would at last enkindle
the mystery of communication and what had been written would be heard and understood.

At last I stood before the towering gate of black logs, bound with its wide bands of brass. The
fair lay behind me and the Sardar before. My garments and my shield bore no insignia, for my city
had been destroyed. I wore my helmet. None would know who entered the Sardar.

At the gate I was met by one of the Caste of Initiates, a dour, thin-lipped, drawn man woth deep
sunken eyes, clad in the pure white robes of his caste.