Little Wars

Little Wars

The Slave Wars, incidentally, might be compared with the Kaiila Wars of the southern hemisphere. In the latter wars, fought among factions of the Wagon Peoples, the object, or principal object, was apparently the acquisition of the lofty, silken kaiila, the common mount of the Wagon Peoples. In those wars, as I understand it, the acquisition of female slaves was almost an afterthought, ropes being put on the necks of captured women, who were then, stripped, herded back with the captured kaiila to the wagons of the victors. To be sure, it did not take the Wagon Peoples long to learn the many exquisite pleasures attendant upon owning beautiful slaves.

With the unification of the Wagon Peoples under a Ubar San, Kamchak, of the Tuchuks, it is my impression that the riders of the swift kaiila now seldom ply their depredations against their own kind. Rather do they roam afield. It is said not a woman is safe within a thousand pasangs of the wagons. I would think that a very conservative estimate. Raiding parties of the Wagon Peoples have been reported as far north as Venna. Some claim to have seen them even in the vicinity of the Sardar. (Vagabonds of Gor)



Kurt the Kassar, still perched high upon his mount, turned and fled in the end.

"I bet this is the Year The Kassar Pissed in His Saddle!" I led the rabble rousing laughter after mimicking a vulo flapping its wings, as several Tuchuks watched the Kassar flee from the midst of our wagons. They'd not know the reason why I danced around upon one foot, was because the fellow came damn close to severing my Achille's tendon. He'd said I wasn't lucky not a few ehn earlier. I sure felt lucky! But hell if I'd ever admit that to another living soul! Not even Necessity had been allowed to witness, for he'd been tightly tethered and forced with his snout pointed to the ground the entire time.

Before he left, I had watched him reach slowly down and brush his fingers over the haft of his one blade the very same second I'd thrown two at him. One from each of my hands. One lodged in the toe of his boot, before he groaned and tugged it loose, only to throw it right back at me. He narrowly missed severing the tendon behind my ankle and struck the softer flesh beneath the joint instead. Yet I'd hurled two more quivas back at him as he'd finally managed to unsheath his own quiva. One landed with a thud, deeply imbedded in the man's saddle, while the other struck his hand and knocked his weapon right out of his grip.

Kurt wheeled around on his beast and rode off suddenly, leaving Sakmeta to cry out with bitterness over the fact that Kurt had come to steal the Singer rather than the Bead Maker. I have the strangest feeling that I still have not seen the last of him before I meet him on the Field of a Thousand Stakes.

By then Necessity was huffing and puffing and making a ruckus. Moreso because he'd been forced to stare at the ground the entire time during the quarrels, which had somehow transferred from men... to Sakmeta's outbursts and accusations. And finally my own when she insisted upon trying to be my mother again!

You just cannot tell that woman 'NO!' enough times. I think she doesn't hear the word at all. "I am not hurt! It's only a scratch!!" Many Tuchuk men die from the wounding of their Courage Scars. And bravely too! I think... I shall not keel over from the scratch of a Kassar's poor aim!

[ ... ]

She Wants To Ride My...

She Wants To Ride My...

The mount of the Wagon Peoples, unknown in the northern hemisphere of Gor, is the terrifying but beautiful kaiila.

The kaiila is a silken, carnivorous, lofty creature, graceful long-necked and smooth gaited. It is a viperous and undoubtedly mammalian, though there is no suckling of the young. The young are born vicious and by instinct, as soon as they can struggle to their feet, they hunt, it is an instinct of the mother, sensing the birth, to deliver the young animal in the vicinity of game. With the domesticated kaiila, a bound verr or a prisoner might be cast to the newborn animal. The kaiila, once it eats its fill, does not touch food for several days.

The kaiila is extremely agile, and can easily outmaneuver the slower, more ponderous high tharlarion. It requires less food, of course, than the tarn. A kaiila, which normally stands about twenty to twenty-two hands at the shoulder can cover as much as six hundred pasangs in a single day's riding.

The head of a kaiila bears two large eyes, one on each side, but these eyes are triply lidded, probably an adaptation to the environment which occasionally is wracked by severe storms of wind and dust; the adaptation, actually a transparent third lid permits the animal to move as it wishes under conditions that force other prairie animals to back into the wind or, like the sleen, to burrow into the ground. The kaiila is most dangerous under such conditions, and, as if it knew this, often uses such times for its hunt.
(Nomads of Gor)



"Necessity is a man's mount. Not a woman's plaything."

The Singer stood outside my wagon, shouting for me... asking whether or not I was home. "No!" I wasn't home! She didn't budge though, and hollared back that she was glad I wasn't home, as she intended to ride my Necessity in my absense.

After that I heard a lot of loud commotion and I was forced out from beneath my blanket to endure the freezing nip of the autumn morning air. You can just tell sometimes when you very first get out of bed, that a day will not be such a good day.

My leathers were still draped over the wagon's harness, and despite the fact that neither T'zuri nor Sakmeta (who was there waiving a cookpot in the air), thought to hand me my clothes. Yet they both made complaint that I was not wearing them when I stepped outside my wagon. It is a little hard to grease your skin with bosk fat... with clothes already on. Plus which, sleeping in leathers is just out of the question.

Yet soon enough I pulled my clothes on, after drawing water-squigglies in the mud behind the wagon.

"I brought you a pot, Kazhuye!" She sounded so smug, even though I had told her last time I had no need for women's things. I'd been just about to tell her again too... when it suddenly dawned on me that perhaps I'd not have to stand out in the freezing cold every morning at the crack of dawn to do my business. Instead I considered the posibility of reserving such business near the warmth of my own small firewell inside the comfort of my own wagon.

"You're welcome," she added a bit smugly later on. Though in truth, it was not something I asked her for to begin with. Why does she think I owe her a debt of gratitude?

"T'zuri... he is a warrior's kaiila!" Headstrong. That's what the Singer is. "He will throw you!" And laugh about it too! I raced ahead of her and wound Necessity's tether down so tight, that his snout lay perpendicular to the wagon's spoke, and the great beast was hunched over somewhat immobile. "Now come around here and sneak up very quietly behind him." I know my kaiila very well.

No sooner had I tethered him down and tied several knots... Kurt the Kassar came riding up on his own mount. Now was just not a good time, and though I tried to pull the knots loose... they were not about to budge! Mostly because Necessity was pulling hard against them in his aggitation.

"Have you come to withdraw your claim to the Stake, Kassar?"

Instead that Kassar had the a udacity to reach down as if he meant to hoist the Singer... the Tuchuk Singer! into his saddle and ride off with her. Too, he said he had no intention of withdrawing, and that I'd need all the luck I could get with him as my foe.

HA! "Luck has no part in it, Kassar. I intend to wipe the ground with you using sheer skill!" Afterall, a Tuchuk does not earn the moniker 'man of peace' by being light in the saddle or an amateur with the lance and quiva! Kurt! What the hell does that name mean? Alright... so it means 'bold.' I'm pretty sure it means 'small brain' too. Or... 'small parts.' That was Kurt, alright.

[ ... ]

Diamonds For a Slave

Diamonds For a Slave

He pointed to the necklace. "It is 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. (Nomads of Gor)




"Perhaps I will use them to buy a sweetheart." I was outnumbered four to one, as the women crowded in on me, closer and closer like a flock of vultures. Aiyana had taken over the interrogations, attempting to corner me into some game of match-making. Bah!

I had removed one of the diamond necklaces from my leather pouch, dangling it before the eyes of four very different women who'd joined me round the outer wagons' camp fire. While one or two of their eyes lit up, briefly betraying their indifference, it was only the clad kajir Raven who came to me swiftly and obediantly. I kissed her... sort of. Then I placed the jeweled bauble around her neck after allowing her to toy with it awhile.

A slave's favor is so easy to win. Perhaps more women should be slaves.

Anyhow, Raven was eager to help me with a small chore. "Go and pick a flower for me, Kajira." And she did just that. Without any protest or argument from her lips. When she returned, I whispered something to her along the lines of: "Go give it to that woman over there, and flatter her with something syrupy that women like to hear. Tell her it is from me."

Who better, afterall, should know the secret vanities of a woman than... another woman? The Singer had a look on her face for awhile that suggested she was a little less than pleased with my contribution to my end of the deal. So I lost the wager. I was... being nice to Sakmeta. Even if by proxy.

The kajira pleased me though. I think one day yes, I will buy myself such a sweetheart

as that.

[ ... ]

The Shrew

The Shrew

"Aphris looked about her. She lifted her head, and I could see the lovely line of her nose beneath the veil of white silk trimmed with gold .She sniffed twice. Then she clapped her little gloved hands twice and the feast steward rushed to her side. 'I smell bosk dung,' she said.

The feast steward looked startled, then horrified, then knowledgeable, and then bowed and spread his hands. He smiled ingratingly, apologetically. 'I am sorry, Lady Aphris,' said he, 'but under the circumstances...'

She looked about, and then it seemed she saw Kamchak. 'Ah!' she said, 'I see a Tuchuk of course.'

Kamchak, though sitting cross-legged, seemed to bounce twice on the cushions, slapping the small table, rattling dishes for a dozen feet on either side. He was rolling with laughter. 'Superb!' he cried.

'Please, if you wish, Lady Aphris, join us,' wheezed Saphrar.

Aphris of Turia, pleased with herself, assumed her place between the merchant and Kamchak, kneeling back on her heels in the position of a Gorean free woman. Her back was very straight and her head high, in the Gorean fashion. She turned to Kamchak.

'It seems we have met before,' she said.
'Two years ago,' said Kamchak, 'in such a place at such a time. You recall it was when you called me a Tuchuk sleen.'
'I seem to recall,' said Aphris, as though trying very hard to do so.
'I had brought you a five-belt necklace of diamonds,' said Kamchak, 'for I had heard you were beautiful.'
'Oh,' said Aphris, 'yes, I gave it to one of my slaves.'
Kamchak slapped the table in merriment again. 'It was then,' he said, 'that you turned away, calling me a Tuchuk sleen.'
'Oh yes!' laughed Aphris.
'And it was then,' said Kamchak, still laughing, 'that I vowed I would make you my slave.'" (Nomads of Gor)




Sakmeta. The one who deliberately gouged my leather tunic apart with a stick, rather than scratch the back of a warrior with her fingers... it is her that I must be pleasant to for an entire month! Twice now she has become a thorn in my side... this second time by failing to do what I wished her to do in the space of one hand. She made me lose my wager with T'zuri, the Singer, and left a scar on my flesh to linger.

Sakmeta comes and goes, often without rhyme of reason. I have much difficulty comprehending her stray moods, as well as her determination to become my surrogate mother. I had a mother already! I do not need another. Especially since I have outgrown my youthful years and have long since earned my own red scars.

For some reason, she seems determined to... break me. For the life of me, I cannot understand this woman's method. Paenuria is a much simpler creature of the female persuasion. Despite her little testy moods with the changing of the moons, she does often stand patiently while her teets are milked. And never ever complains much at all.

[ ... ]

Abigail's Moon Calendar

Abigail's Moon Calendar

The women of the Wagon Peoples, incidentally, keep a calendar based on the phases of Gor's largest moon, but this is a calendar of fifteen moons, named for the fifteen varieties of bosk, and functions independently of the tallying of years by snows. For example, the Moon of the Brown Bosk may at one time occur in the winter, at another time, years later, in the summer. This calendar is kept by a set of colored pegs set in the sides of some wagons, on one of which, depending on the moon, a round, wooden plate bearing the image of a bosk is fixed. (Nomads of Gor)



"You need a cooking pot," Sakmeta stated to me.

"Why do I need a cooking pot?" I asked most incredulously. "Cooking pots are women's things!"

"You need a pot to cook in, Kazhuye. You are going to burn your fingers in the fire, and your vulo will slide off your blade."

She is not my woman, and yet she nags at me as if she is. She seems to believe this is some right of hers. Though I think it more along the lines of a priveldge I have neither given, nor she earned.

I did not hear Necessity sneak up behind me, which he is often fond of doing before lowering his head down and smacking me against my backside with his large cranium. Most people do not even realize that a kaiila is able to laugh. Not the way men laugh. But in a more insipid fashion.

It angered me when my vulo slid right off the blade and landed in the dirt. Not so much because Necessity stole my supper. But because that woman was simply gloating. I told you so, I told you so. She does not understand the first thing about men. Or kaiilas. And we have been just fine all these years without a woman's cooking pot!

I withdrew inside my wagon and shut the women out of my sight. But not without snatching up Abigail's calendar from it's perch above my wagon wheel. No new beaded pegs this year... though I'm sure she smiled all the same from her final resting place, proud that I still remind her so much of my Pa.

[ ... ]

Trading

Trading

I had learned, to my surprise, that trade did occasionally take place with Turia. Indeed, when I had learned this, it had fired my hopes that I might be able to approach the city in the near future, hopes which, as it turned out, were disappointed, though perhaps well so. The Wagon Peoples, though enemies of Turia, needed and wanted her goods, in particular materials of metal and cloth, which are highly prized among the Wagons. Indeed, even the chains and collars of slave girls, worn often by captive Turian girls themselves, are of Turian origin.

The Turians, on the other hand, take factor or trade in trade for their goods obtained by manufacturing with other cities, principally the horn and hide of the bosk, which naturally the Wagon Peoples, who live on the bosk, have in plenty. The Turians also, I noted, receive other goods from the Wagon Peoples, who tend to be fond of the raid. Goods looted from caravans perhaps a thousand pasangs from the herds, indeed some of them even on the way to and from Turia itself. From these raids the Wagon Peoples obtain a miscellany of goods which they are willing to barter to the Turians, jewels, precious metals, spices, colored table salts, harnesses and saddles for the ponderous tharlarion, furs of small river animals, tools for the field, scholarly scrolls, inks and papers, root vegetables, dried fish, powdered medicines, ointments, perfume and women, customarily plainer ones they do not wish to keep for themselves; prettier wenches, to their dismay, are usually kept with the wagons; some of the plainer women are sold for as little as a brass cup; a really beautiful girl, particularly if of free birth and high caste, might bring as much as forty pieces of gold; such are, however, seldom sold; the Wagon Peoples enjoy being served by civilized slaves of great beauty and high station; during the day, in the heat and dust, such girls will care for the wagon bosk and gather fuel for the dung fires; at night they will please their masters. (Nomads of Gor)


It was the last thing out of Sakmeta's mouth, "You have nothing I want or need, Kazhuye! NOTHING!"

Women!

I had
heard talk among a few of the outriders that there was to be a raid on a merchant caravan on its way to Turia from Turmas. Because there was so little interest in the spoils from my own recent kill, I headed out to the furthest reaches of the Turian Plains and there made my trades with other Wagon Peoples. The trip lasted me over five days, and I now have forty new quivas to add to my armory in preparation for the Wintering journey north and the coming Love War in spring.

Fortunately when I arrived, there were several who both needed and wanted what I had. A whole lot of bull! Bosk, that is. On the black market, the leather hides especially can go for triple the normal exchange rate officiated by fair trade agreements under Merchant Law. Not that I give a damn about Merchant Law! It holds the same value as a gold ring hung from a bosk's snout does. Yet in my eyes, a sack of bosk dung holds the far greater value. For neither the Laws of city dwellers nor the gold rings hung in the snouts of bosk will keep a Tuchuk from freezing to death once the colder season turns severe.

Nevertheless, I returned home again to my wagon by the end of the hand, eight diamond necklaces, three brass cups, four Turian eating prongs, and nine bottles of paga richer. Oh... and twelve of those silver coins as well. Turian's seem fond of trading for them during Omen Year festivals. We shall see soon enough.

[ ... ]

The Year of the Paravaci's Tooth

The Year of the Paravaci's Tooth

"There were a large number of tethered animals about the outer edge of the circle, and, beside them, stood many haruspexes. Indeed, I supposed there must be one haruspex at least for each of the many altars in the field. Among the animals I saw many verrs; some domestic tarsks, their tusks sheathed; cages of flapping vulos, some sleen, some kaiila, even some bosk. By the Paravaci haruspexes I saw manacled male slaves, if such were to be permitted. Commonly, I understood from Kamchak, the Tuchuks, Kassars and Kataii rule out the sacrifice of slaves because their hearts and livers are thought to be, fortunately for the slaves, untrustworthy in registering portents. After all, as Kamchak pointed out, who would trust a Turian slave in the kes with a matter so important as the election of a Ubar San? It seemed to me good logic and, of course, I am sure the slaves, too, were taken with the cogency of the argument." (Nomads of Gor)




The evening grew past the usual prattle of folks gathered round the campfires, as most had already slipped off to their own wagons for the night, I offered the Singer a story of a particular year I had in mind. Oh not just any year, but one of the Omen Years that only comes around once in every two hands of years.

T'zuri left and returned later with her lyre in hand as we moved from the fire to the back of my flatbed wagon, still stained with the blood of a fresh kill. We both perched ourselves on the tailgate as I began the recitation of a particularly amusing year.

"You may not have heard of the Year Of the Pavaraci's Tooth," I told her. "Because it happened much before you were even alive."

Despite the fact she is one of the Singers, she is young and undoubtedly has not yet spent a great deal of time around the campfires with any of the camp's Year Keepers. The story was an amusing one, at best. And oddly... I noticed for the first time that she was prettier than I had originally suspected. Truth be told, I try not to really look too closely at women. They tend to think you like them if you look too close. And next you know, they want your wagon and your bed... and everything else you've worked so hard your whole life for.

At the tale's end, T'zuri laughed. Which is good, since the humor in the story would translate well into chorus... should she decide to engage others in the camp with a musical history lesson. If she does, I am certain to attend. She sings quite well... even if I chide her often and tell her that her singing is fit for the bosk.

[ ... ]

Kurt the Kassar

Kurt the Kassar

The warrior of the Wagon Peoples seldom approaches an enemy more closely than is required to bring him down with the bow, or if need be, the lance; the quiva itself is regarded, on the whole, as more of a missile weapon than a hand knife. I gather that the Wagon Peoples, if they wanted sabers or regarded them as valuable, would be able to acquire them, in spite of the fact that they have no metalworking of their own; there might be some attempt to prevent them from falling into the hands of the Wagon Peoples, but where there are gold and jewels, available merchants in Ar and elsewhere, would see that they were manufactured and reached the southern plains. Most quivas, incidentally, are wrought in the smithies of Ar. (Nomads of Gor)



Between the wagons on the outer peripheries of the large wagon camp, I had walked with T'zuri a little ways before we stopped. She was about to tell me something when a shining flash of metal blazed by and landed with a thud on the hitch of a wagon situated just a few horts between either of us.

I went on talking, pretending I'd neither seen the quiva nor noticed the sudden change on the Singer's expression. And yet no sooner had I glanced down at the quiva, making pointless remarks out loud over someone's carelessness with weapons, I turned swiftly on my heels and hurled it right back at a shadow I'd seen from the corner of my eye.

He cried out with curses and threats against me, though he was momentarily hobbled by the quiva's razored tip imbedded into his thigh. That was when I realized the man knew T'zuri. Moreover... she knew him!

Kurt was his name. Kurt the Kassar. And he had mistakenly assumed the Singer was my woman. Luckily he has poor aim, as I believe his intent was to kill me and run off with the Tuchuk woman.

Humiliated, Kurt limped off into the darkness and disappeared. Although I have a strange feeling it is not the last I shall see of him.

[ ... ]

The Roasting

The Roasting

"The Wagon Peoples grow no food, nor do they have manufacturing as we know it. They are herders and it is said, killers. They eat nothing that has touched the dirt. They live on the meat and milk of the bosk. They are among the proudest of the peoples of Gor, regarding the dwellers of the cities of Gor as vermin in holes, cowards who must fly behind walls, wretches who fear to live beneath the broad sky, who dare not dispute with them the open, windswept plains of their world.

The bosk, without which the Wagon Peoples could not live, is an oxlike creature. It is a huge, shambling animal, with a thick, humped neck and long, shaggy hair. It has a wide head and tiny red eyes, a temper to match that of a sleen, and two long, wicked horns that reach out from its head and suddenly curve forward to terminate in fearful points. Some of these horns, on the larger animals, measured from tip to tip, exceed the length of two spears.

Not only does the flesh of the bosk and the milk of its cows furnish the Wagon Peoples with food and drink, but its hides cover the domelike wagons in which they dwell; its tanned and sewn skins cover their bodies; the leather of its hump is used for their shields; its sinews forms their thread; its bones and horns are split and tooled into implements of a hundred sorts, from awls, punches and spoons to drinking flagons and weapon tips; its hoofs are used for glues; its oils are used to grease their bodies against the cold. Even the dung of the bosk finds its uses on the treeless prairies, being dried and used for fuel. The bosk is said to be the Mother of the Wagon Peoples, and they reverence it as such." (Nomads of Gor)



The Ubar Fonce was not present for the time being, and not able to speak for himself regarding the first gift... nor to read the omen. Though it was early still, and plenty of time for all the Tuchuks to participate in the division of the largest bull bosk... the very one whom I thanked for the priveldge of slaying him.

There were no expressions of joy. No attitude of feasting and merriment. And nothing but sharp words and ridicule from all those who sat complacently around the first fire. In fact they yawned and acted as if the Bosk was as common as the dirt beneath their boots. One woman addressed me as 'prospect' and said that I was nothing... refusing to recognize the red scar of courage on my cheeks. Refusing to recognize that I am Kazhuye, Warrior of the Tuchuks. It may just be one of the more significant things this year as the saying could well go... that was the Year When Tuchuks Turned Into City Dwellers .

The great bosk was drawn on the back of the flatbed wagon to the Outer Wagons where the Tuchuks have not grown too fat and complacent to honor and celebrate the Bosk and all that it represents. The Bosk is afterall... the Mother of Tuchuks.

Following the Roasting of meat and the drinking of much paga, the beast was divided and the remainder of its raw meat salted. The bones were cleaned and prepared for boiling before bleaching in the sun for many days, from which lance and dart tips may be made. Also needles, awls, and even spoons to eat with. The hooves too, I set aside in preparation for boiling and making glue.

The cleaning of the hide was saved for last, and it was only T'zuri of the Singers who came to participate. We dragged the hide into the stream and over the coarse of half the day or more, we scubbed the sinew from it's underside with stones. Even the sinew is saved aside, for it is useful to make thread for sewing leather pieces into clothing. Or for sewing the larger hides tightly around the domed tops of our wagons. In the end, it was only T'zuri with whom I shared a bounty of the spoils, giving her an abundance of the salted bosk shanks... as many as she could carry in her arms, all in one trip. She is... surprisingly strong for her size.

"Return to the fire again, T'zuri. I would have you make a new song to sing to the people."

"I will," she said.

"I will tell you the tale of the Year Of The Pavaraci's Tooth."

"I do not believe I remember that year," she mused.

"Of course not, Singer. You are not old enough."

[ ... ]

First Offering

First Offering

"The animals sacrificed, incidentally, are later used for food, so the Omen Taking, far from being a waste of animals, is actually a time of feasting and plenty for the Wagon Peoples..." (Nomads of Gor)




When I rode into the Tuchuk camp high atop my kaiila's saddle, it was to the First Wagon that I made the first stop. There to slit the belly of the great bull bosk who lay slain upon my wagon. His entrails spilled to the ground before the Ubar Fonce's wagon. A gift to see whether the omen is good for the coming omens. It is afterall, the Omen Year. The year in which the tribes of all Wagon Peoples gather together at the Omen Valley so that their haruspexes may read the omens and determine whether a Ubar-San will be elected to lead all of the people as one. It is said that there has not been a Ubar-San in over one hundred years... because the omens are always unfavorable.

[ ... ]

The Hunt

The Hunt

"I am Harold of the Tuchuks," he said, "I am a skilled tarnsman, I have ridden over a thousand tarns. I have spent more time in the tarn saddle than most men on their feet. I was conceived on tarnback, I was born on tarnback. I eat tarns. Fear me! I am Harold of the Tuchuks!"

The bird, if such emotions it could have, was looking at him, askance and baffled. Any instant I expected it to pick Harold from the roof with its beak, bite him in two and eat the pieces. But the bird seemed utterly startled, if possible, dumbfounded.

Harold turned to face me. "How do you ride a tarn?" he asked. (Nomads of Gor)



Unlike other beasts, the bosk is not swiftly out manuevered and killed. It takes great patience and stamina to bring one bull down. Several riders in fact, will single out the one bull and attempt to wear him down for hours as they ride up close beside him and repeatedly thrust their lances at his sides. It is only after the long chase and the loss of much blood that the bosk bull will begin to grow exhausted, and only then that men might slay him.

I was covered in sweat and dirt and blood after several hours giving chase to the largest bull bosk of the heard, myself quite exhausted from the long and arduous hunt. And yet it was my lance... mine alone that cause the great beast to heave his last and fall. So heavy was he, that he shook the ground upon impact. He was still alive, though barely... and as I peered into his red colored eyes, I thanked him solemnly just moments before I slit his gullet wide open and released him to the great Sky Ubar.

It took a team of four yoked bosk merely to drag the great bull's massive carcass up onto the flatbed wagon's gate, using many ropes, wheels, and leverage... while every kaiila kept the wagon from rolling away beneath the monstrous weight by pulling in the opposite direction.

It is not so often that a man's lance is the dividing point between which the bosk stands and falls... and so it is that he alone claims the victory for having slain the bosk. Too, upon arrival back to camp, it is anticipated that Tuchuks will honor the fortunate warrior with many cheers and praise. It is also anticipated that every Tuchuk will participate in the division of spoils, for there is much meat and hide, as well as bones, horns and hooves. Following this there is of course, the anticipation of a great feast on fresh roasted bosk meat, while the rest is caked in salt brine and left to dry for many days in the warm sun.

[ ... ]

Herds

Herds

"Are the bosk well?"
"As well as can be."
(Nomads of Gor)


Winter comes soon. Before we head north with the bosk herd, their grazing territory widens. I and the others must ride out now as far as the eye can see, and even farther as we near the Cartius and the lands of the Kassar. It is a time we must ensure our herds do not stray into their herds, lest there be war between us over grazing land.

When I returned back to the wagon camp tonight, I met with Mayala and T'zuri near the stream as I led my kaiila to drink. Necessity found their chatter most annoying
and tried to hurry me along with an extra push. I however, decided I would linger a little while and talk to the women. T'zuri was singing a song about the gray skies and rain, and I did my best to distract Mayala with compliments. I intend to win the wager... despite the feeling I have that T'zuri and Sakmeta have conspired to cheat. But that is how women are. And why Necessity and I have so little use for them.

Women, as with the bosk grazing, need to be herded and kept in line, where they
belong. It is said that many a war has been waged, not only over bosk... but women as well.

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Pearl Moon

Pearl Moon

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