The Spiders of Gor
Please note that the Gorean Saga is a fictional series, and its world, customs,
and values may not align with modern societal standards or moral principles.
The Spiders of Gor
I remember the thrill of guiding a draft tarn, a majestic bird with a basket full of precious cargo suspended beneath her. We transported goods weighing up to seven stones, from spices and silks to precious metals and even slaves. The journey from one large city to another was supposed to be straightforward, but the skies were as treacherous as the seas.
From the perspective of a tarnsman, guiding a tarn was both an art and a science. We used leather straps as bridles, intricately designed to control the bird’s movements. Each strap was connected to a specific part of the tarn’s head, allowing us to direct its flight with precision. The tarn responded to the slightest tug, banking left or right, ascending or descending as needed.
The flight itself was a blend of exhilaration and vigilance. The wind whipped through my hair, the landscape below a blur of greens and browns. We had to remain constantly alert, scanning the skies for potential threats, whether they be hostile tarnsmen or natural obstacles.
As merchant tarnsmen, our attire was both practical and protective. We wore leather armor, reinforced with metal plates at critical points to guard against arrows and other projectiles. Our helmets provided maximum visibility while offering protection. Underneath, we wore tunics and trousers made of durable fabric, allowing for ease of movement.
Our personal weapons were essential for defense. Each tarnsman carried a longbow, ideal for engaging enemies at a distance. We also had short swords and daggers for close combat, should the need arise. The bows were crafted from the finest woods, their strings taut and ready to unleash a deadly volley of arrows.
During the transport of goods, strict protocols were followed to ensure the safety and efficiency of the convoy. We flew in a loose formation, maintaining enough distance to maneuver but close enough to provide mutual support. The lead tarnsman set the pace and direction, with the others following in a staggered pattern. Signals were crucial. We used a series of hand gestures and flag signals to communicate, ensuring that messages could be conveyed even during battle or adverse weather.
Guards were assigned to each basket, especially when transporting valuable or sensitive cargo. These guards monitored the goods and ensuring they remained secure throughout the journey. Long-distance flights required periodic rest stops. We would land in predetermined locations, allowing the tarns to rest and the men to check the cargo. These stops were also opportunities to scout for potential threats and plan the next leg of the journey.
In the event of an ambush or other emergencies, we had predefined protocols. The convoy would scatter, making it harder for attackers to target multiple tarns at once. Each tarnsman was trained to regroup at a secondary location, ensuring that the convoy could reassemble and continue the journey.
Reflecting on those days, I realize how much we relied on our skills, our equipment, and each other. The life of a merchant tarnsman was fraught with danger, but it was also filled with camaraderie and a sense of purpose. The skies were our domain, and we navigated them with a blend of courage and expertise that I still admire to this day.
The memory of a fateful day remains etched in my mind, a vivid tableau of chaos and violence. As we soared high above the landscape, the convoy of draft tarns from Vonda moved in a loose formation, each bird carrying precious cargo beneath it. The air was crisp, the sky clear, and the journey seemed uneventful—until the Votai Mountains loomed ahead, their peaks shrouded in mist.
Without warning, the tranquility was shattered. From the clouds, like shadows given form, emerged the hostile Tarnsmen of Treve. Their tarns were fierce and battle-hardened, their riders clad in dark leather and steel. They descended upon us with a terrifying speed, their tarns’ war cries echoing through the air.
The first strike came swiftly. A Tarnsman, his face obscured by a helmet, swooped down and slashed at the bindings of a nearby draft tarn. The basket of goods and one guardsman it carried was torn free, plummeting towards the ground below. The tarn screeched in panic, its rider struggling to regain control.
The battle tactics of the Tarnsmen are a sight to behold, a deadly ballet performed in the skies. As I recall that fateful encounter with the Raiders of Treve, the memory of their fierce combat techniques remains vivid.
The Tarnsmen of Treve are masters of aerial warfare, their skills honed through countless battles. They begin their assault from a distance, using powerful longbows to rain arrows upon their enemies. The speed and agility of their war tarns allow them to strike swiftly and retreat before their targets can respond. The arrows, tipped with razor-sharp points, pierce armor and flesh alike, causing chaos and confusion among the ranks of their foes.
As the distance closes, the Tarnsmen shift their tactics. They struggle to gain the upper hand by maneuvering their war tarns above their targets. From this vantage point, the tarns can use their vicious claws to rend the riders below, tearing through flesh and bone with terrifying ease. The Tarnsmen themselves are not idle during this time; they wield long spears, aiming to maim the enemy tarns. A well-placed thrust can cripple a tarn’s wing or pierce its heart, sending both bird and rider plummeting to their deaths.
The struggle for dominance in the skies is intense. The Tarnsmen must constantly adjust their positions, using the natural agility of their mounts to outmaneuver their opponents. War tarns, trained for battle, respond to the slightest touch of their riders, diving and weaving through the air with incredible precision.
Amid this chaos, the Tarnsmen also engage in close combat. They use short swords and daggers, slashing at any enemy who comes within reach. The goal is to unseat the opposing rider, sending them and their draft tarn tumbling to the ground far below to which the victorious riders would claim salvaging their reward for their daring. The harnesses that bind the riders to their mounts can become a deadly trap, the dismounted rider now hanging as dead weight ensuring that a fall from the sky is almost always fatal.
The battle is a whirlwind of feathers, steel, and blood. The sky becomes a deadly arena where only the most skilled and ruthless survive. Tarnsmen of Treve, with their unmatched prowess and ferocity, often emerge victorious, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.
As I watched the battle unfold that day, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of awe and terror. The Tarnsmen of Treve were a force to be reckoned with, their combat techniques a testament to their dominance in the skies. It was a lesson I would never forget, a reminder of the brutal reality of life on Gor.
“Hold steady, girl,” I whispered to my tarn hen, urging her to evade the attackers. But the odds were against us. The sky was filled with the flurry of wings and the clash of steel. The Tarnsmen of Treve were relentless, their tarns diving and weaving with deadly precision.
I saw one of our own, a young tarnsman from Vonda, desperately trying to fend off an attacker. His spear thrust forward, but the Tarnsman of Treve was quicker, parrying the blow and delivering a brutal counterstrike. The young tarnsman cried out as he was struck, his body tumbling from his mount pulling his tethered tarn behind him and disappearing into the mist below.
The air was thick with the sounds of battle—the screeches of tarns, the clash of weapons, and the shouts of men. Another draft tarn was hit, its cargo spilling out in a cascade of goods. The rider, a seasoned veteran, fought valiantly but was soon overwhelmed by two Tarnsmen who attacked in unison, their blades flashing in the dim light.
I guided my tarn hen into a steep dive, trying to avoid the fray. The ground rushed up to meet us, the swamp forests near the northern border of Ar coming into view. We landed roughly, the tarn hen skidding to a halt amidst the dense foliage. I dismounted, my heart pounding, and began searching for the scattered goods.
The battle above continued, the sky a chaotic dance of life and death. The Tarnsmen of Treve were merciless, their attacks precise and devastating. Our convoy was overwhelmed, the draft tarns and their riders falling one by one. In the darkness, I could hear the screams of both men and tarns now that the battle had been won. The sounds I heard where the victorious tarnsmen searching for the remains of the crushed baskets full of loot to be saddled to their war tarns saddles. But the screaming I heard was not that of wounded men or tarns, it was the screams of the survivors. They were the reward of the victorious tarns. Their victory feast.
As I gathered the fallen cargo, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of helplessness. The ambush had been swift and brutal, leaving us no chance to defend ourselves. The Tarnsmen of Treve had proven their dominance in the skies, and we were left to pick up the pieces.
It was then, amidst the aftermath of the battle, that I felt it—a presence, watching from the shadows. Emerging from the darkness, their forms blending seamlessly with the swamp, came the Spider People. They were as large as men, their bodies covered in fine, golden hairs. Despite their fearsome appearance, there was an air of intelligence and curiosity about them.
My heart pounded in my chest, and instinctively, I drew my sword; the blade gleaming in the dim light. My tarn hen, sensing my fear, screeched and flapped her wings, ready to defend herself and me. Tarns I think sometimes, are more intelligent than men. The Spider People halted their approach, their many eyes fixed on me.
One of them stepped forward, a mechanical translator attached to its abdomen. “You are in our territory, human,” it said in a voice that was both mechanical and melodic. “Why have you come?”
I tightened my grip on the sword, my mind racing. The translator’s voice was calm, almost soothing, but I was still on edge. The Spider People made no aggressive moves, their posture non-threatening. Slowly, I lowed my weapon, realizing that they meant no harm.
The leader of the Spider People raised a limb, and from it, a fine mist sprayed into the air. It had a calming effect, both on me and my tarn hen. The tension in my muscles eased, and my tarn hen settled, her wings folding back as she relaxed.
“We mean you no harm,” the Spider People continued. “We have seen your plight and wish to help.”
I explained our situation, the ambush, and the lost cargo. The Spider People listened intently, their many eyes reflecting the dim light of the swamp. To my surprise, they offered their help.
With their help, we recovered the scattered goods. The Spider People moved with grace and precision, their webs stretching across the swamp to retrieve the fallen items. In return, I offered them some goods as a token of gratitude.
As we prepared to leave, the leader of the Spider People spoke again. “Remember this day, Arealius then of Tancred’s Landing. The web of fate is intricate and far-reaching. Our paths may cross again.”
With those words echoing in my mind, I mounted the tarn hen and took to the skies once more. The journey to Vienna continued, but I knew that my encounter with the Spider People had changed me. It was a reminder that even in the most unexpected places, allies could be found, and that the web of fate was always weaving its intricate patterns.
Reflecting on those days, I realize how much we relied on our skills, our equipment, and each other. The life of a merchant tarnsman was fraught with danger, but it was also filled with camaraderie and a sense of purpose. The skies were our domain, and we navigated them with a blend of courage and expertise that I still admire to this day.
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