The Emma of Gor Trilogy: An Introduction

The 'Emma of Gor' trilogy is a series of fan-fiction books set on John Norman's Counter Earth world of Gor. Chronologically speaking, they occur in the following order:

The Shadow in the Dark (Part Nineteen)

 

Several years ago – Mount Holyoke College:

 

“I do think this has all gone a bit too far,” I said as I watched as Amelia Fenton was paraded around the grounds of Mount Holyoke college before being made to burn all the clothes she owned, one pretty garment at a time, dropping them, under the supervision of the Sorority Sisters, into a burning coal brazier that coughed up oily black smoke. Her once beautiful blonde hair, once so perfectly styled, had been rudely cropped by scissors and a cheap eclectic hair trimmer so that it was now just an uneven clump about her head, no more than a few centimetres long in places. Instead of the shimmering silk blouse and short leather miniskirt she had been ill-advised to wear last night when she had left the campus grounds to visit a night club in the town centre, she now wore an ugly one-piece boiler suit, a few sizes too big for her. The fabric was a dull, institutional colour of tired grey and it had gone soft in the wrong places while staying stiff where it ought to bend. The shoulders drooped, the torso sagged, and the legs bunched and wrinkled, swallowing her shape without even the decency of symmetry. The fit was especially unforgiving: too tight across the hips, too loose through the waist, it managed the rare trick of both straining and bagging at the same time. Seams pulled awkwardly when she moved, while excess cloth ballooned at her back and knees, creasing in thick, stubborn folds. The zipper never seemed to sit flat, and the cuffs dragged just enough to look careless without being practical. Even the pockets gaped uselessly, adding bulk where none was wanted. It made her look lumpy and unattractive, which was the point. Two of the large Sorority Sisters watched her as they stood holding switches. We all knew the girls – Trinny Marston and Victoria Hearst – both tall, strong looking, and broad through the shoulders, thick in the arms, weight carried low and solid, as if each step was part of a military march. Their faces were composed of plain and sturdy lines - jaws set, noses blunt, brows heavy enough to shade the eyes.

The Shadow in the Dark (Part Eighteen)

 

My scream brought a concerned Rosemary running up the short flight of stairs to my dormer bedroom.

 

No, not my bedroom, her daughter’s bedroom. 

 

This wasn’t my bedroom.

 

“Oh, honey, what’s wrong? Is it a horrible nightmare? Why, don’t be scared – my little Ada had nightmares too, sometimes. Here, I’ve brought you a nice glass of milk.”

 

I sat up on the edge of the bed in my stupid Frozen night slip, with the cartoon characters emblazoned on the front. One thin spaghetti strap had slipped past my shoulder and so I lifted it back in place as Rosemary sat down beside me and ran her hand through my hair. 

 

“You had such a nasty shock last night when you crashed your car. How was the bed?”

 

“STOP THIS! PLEASE! Just stop this!” I sobbed.

The Shadow in the Dark (Part Seventeen)

“You’re looking good, Elijah. You haven’t changed a bit in all the years since I last saw you.” 

 

Elijah smiled again. “You flatter me, Ashlee. But I could say the same for you. Have you been dipping yourself in the Fountain of Youth? What’s your secret? Do tell?”

 

I smiled back. It was true that I had yet to see any signs of encroaching age. My skin was as clear and wrinkle free as when I had been at college. I’m just lucky, I guess. “You live here?” I asked, as I gazed around the book lined study. 

 

“I do.” Elijah’s smile never wavered. 

 

“I suppose I should ask whether you’ve actually read all these books?”

 

“Hardly. This library belonged to Joseph Curwen. He bought the house in the 1970s. You’ve heard of him?

“Curwen. Yes. I read his case file in Quantico as one of my many assignments. I’m FBI these days. I bet that surprises you, Elijah? Me – FBI?”

 

“Nothing surprises me,” said Elijah as he leaned back in his leather armchair. “Tell me about Joseph Curwen.”

The Shadow in the Dark (Part Sixteen)

There was no mistaking the look of surprise on the woman’s face. For a moment she looked confused as her eyes confirmed I was wearing a white silk ribbon in my hair, and then those same eyes glanced down at my brief kilt skirt and white socks.

 

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You wear a white ribbon.”

 

“Uh, yes, but…” I hesitated. What was I going to say, that I hadn’t actually dressed myself this morning? That would sound crazy. “I’m Ashlee Ellis,” I said again. “I can’t believe those men aren’t helping you with your cases.”

 

“I know. It’s a deplorable state of affairs. They know who I am.”

 

I nodded. I didn’t know who she was, of course. I smiled, expecting an introduction of some sort. 

 

“Oh, yes,” she said, “of course. We haven’t been introduced. Cecily Jacqueline Ashton Croft. Of the Croft family.”

 

“Let me guess, you’re related to Lara?” I smiled at my own joke. She probably heard that all the time. 

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Uh, Lara Croft?” There was no recognition on her face. None whatsoever. 

 

“I really don’t know who she is. She must be a different branch of the family.”

 

Okay. Obviously, she didn’t hear that all the time. I tried to suppress a follow up smile that might come across as laughing at her. “So, you know Elijah?”

The Shadow in the Dark (Part Fifteen)

 

“Why are you surprised that I know Elijah Bannon?” I asked as Sheriff Root took the car down a side road which began to narrow the further we drove.

 

“Well, he’s an interesting person,” said the Sheriff.

 

“Interesting, how?” I turned to watch his facial expression, for I had been highly trained by the FBI to detect certain tics and reactions in the way a person reacts to questioning. 

 

“He’s a controversial figure around these parts. Quite the enigma. What was he like at school?”

 

“College,” I corrected him. “Mount Holyoke College. He was… driven, I suppose. Both of them were.”

 

“Both?” Sheriff Root seemed interested.

 

“He had a friend – Michael Emery. They were both ambitious young men from good families. They knew what they wanted in life.”

 

“I see.” The car began to bump along the road now as the asphalt gave way to a stretch of gravel. “Well, everyone’s heard of the Emerys and the Bannons. They’re practically two of the founding families of the United States of America.”

 

“So they say.” I gazed out of the window but there was nothing much to see beyond tall hedges on either side. I could tell we were driving up a gentle gradient. 

Barbarian of Gor Chapter Forty Two

 

Note from your lovely, scatter-brained, blonde storyteller: And now, finally, the last chapter of not only Barbarian of Gor but the whole Roland Martell trilogy. Buckle up, dear readers. The pain isn’t over quite yet. 😊

 

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The flagstones of the market square were slick beneath my sandals, slick with crushed figs and spilled wine and, now, my own blood. I felt it warm and sticky along my ribs where one of the warriors had kissed me with his blade; just a shallow cut, but every shallow cut added weight to my limbs. The market had emptied into a ring of faces, voices blurring into a single roar that surged and fell like waves against a harbour wall. I tried to breathe, but the air tasted of dust, iron and fear.

 

Three of them; I kept reminding myself, as if counting might make it less true. Three blades circling, points wavering like the tongues of snakes. No shields among us, just steel and arms holding the steel, and the enticing lie that skill alone will be enough. I was wrong about that. Skill bends when numbers press on it from all sides.

 

And standing to one side, watching with a cruel expression on her face, was Svetlana – several sword thrusts perpetually beyond my reach. 

 

I stepped left, forcing my back towards a fruit stall so at least one of them couldn’t get behind me. My heel kicked a fallen basket, and oranges burst and rolled away, bright as little suns. I nearly slipped as I side-stepped a further thrust from a sword. Screams rippled through the crowd as we fought, as the market square was unexpectedly plunged into violence. One of the men feinted high, and my sword rose to meet him on instinct. I was quick – another benefit of the difference in gravity on Gor, but it wouldn’t be enough to counter their greater numbers. The second man was already there, cutting low. I twisted my body, feeling the bite of cold steel scrape my thigh, fire flaring white-hot. I hissed and stumbled, and the third man darted in, his blade whispering past my ear close enough that I felt the wind of it.

 

Death.

 

If this was to be my death day I would greet it with honour like a man should.

Barbarian of Gor Chapter Forty One

 

Note from your fabulous, but still scatter-brained, blonde storyteller: okay, so I really did misjudge how long the ‘final chapter’ would be. Chapter forty-one isn’t quite the end. There’s going to be a final ‘chapter forty-two’ after this one. What am I like? 😉

 

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I raced down the spiralling stone steps of the tarn cot towers and out onto streets that were now bedecked with garlands and fluttering fabrics in anticipation of the joyful union between the cities of Corcyrus and Torcadino. Announcements were being made throughout the city of the impending companionship, and citizens of Torcadino were being promised a blessed holiday to feast and celebrate the coming alliance between two of Gor’s city states.

 

I pushed through a growing crowd as the overhead sun warmed the flagstones beneath my feet. The streets seemed to breathe with colour. Where yesterday there was only dust and the sober grey of tufa, today the city was being dressed like a triumphant bride. Garlands of laurel and ivy were strung from column to column, looping across the narrow streets so low that the leaves brushed my hair as I passed by. Fresh flowers - roses from the public gardens, bright marigolds, and sprays of myrtle - spilled from baskets hung on doorposts, their scent thick and sweet in the air.

Barbarian of Gor Chapter Forty

Note from your beloved, scatterbrained, blonde storyteller: So, this was supposed to be the final chapter to not only Barbarian of Gor, but the whole Roland Martell trilogy that began with Kajirus of Gor, went on to Outcast of Gor before concluding here in Barbarian of Gor. All told, this trilogy definitely counts as one of my ‘major works’ and is my pastiche of the Jason Marshall trilogy that Mr Norman wrote way back when. I layout my stories in broad brushstrokes before I begin writing, working out how many chapters I might need, or how many scenes I might need to fill the chapter count I have in mind. Thing is, this time around I misjudged just how much I still had left to cover in the final chapter. So, the long and short of it is, this isn’t the final chapter after all – there will be a chapter forty one to conclude everything. Think of it like one of those two part endings to a long running TV series. Forty chapters to Kajirus of Gor, forty chapters to Outcast of Gor, and, um, forty-one chapters to Barbarian of Gor. I apologise to anyone with OCD who likes to see things neat and tidy. 😉

 

Now on with the start of the two part finale:

 

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“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Kayra. The now empty goblet hung loosely from her fingers.  

 

“Corcyrus has just lost the war,” I said. “It’s over. It’s finally over.”

 

I paced the room, trying to think of something – anything – that might help now and save the day. Adam would know what to do. Adam always knew what to do, and Adam always had a backup plan for every eventuality, but Adam was out of the game now, readying his tarn to leave Torcadino for the sweeping dunes of the Tahari. I was all that was left.

 

“What are you talking about?” Kayra swept towards me, gathering up the long train of her skirts as she followed me to the windows where I gazed out onto the palace grounds. “Do you have some news? What has happened?”

Barbarian of Gor Chapter Thirty Nine

“Roland.” 

I turned quickly on the balls of my feet as I heard a woman speak my name. I was on the Avenue of Comus, heading back from the Slaver caste administration building when a richly robed Free Woman stepped forward from the mouth of a side street.

 

Her outer gown was fashioned from the finest, softest satin or shimmering silk, dyed in hues of a vibrant cinnabar red, long and flowing, cut to hang with deceptive simplicity, yet every seam spoke of a master artisan's touch. 

 

Beneath the gown, evident only from the cuffs and the lower hemline, I caught glimpses of a soft, fine linen inner garment that fell almost to her ankles, just slightly longer in length than the outer garment. Her waist was cinched with a girdle - a wide band of finely embroidered cloth, studded with oblique ornamentation. It served a practical purpose in subtly conveying the shape of her body in a way that unbelted robes would not. This is something of a daring proposition on Gor. While not explicitly condemned, as such, the belting of a Free Woman’s robes suggests she is open to being approached by a man, perhaps she is seeking a companionship, or wishing to acknowledge that she might be found pretty in some vain fashion. 

 

Her hair, carefully braided and oiled, was held by silver and gold pins that winked in the sunlight. Soft veils obscured the lower features of her face. Only her eyes made it possible to identify her, for it is said that Goreans are masters of identifying women by their eyes alone. The flash of eye direction, the widening of pupils, the flutter of lashes, the intensity of an interested gaze, or the coquettish nature of a glance to the side; all these things and more are like fingerprints on a woman if you already know her.

 

And I knew this woman.

Barbarian of Gor Chapter Thirty Eight

 

We dined well at breakfast time on what could possibly be my last day alive before I fell to a vicious sword thrust from Stannis Assante. Felix was my guest, for I wanted to make some vague gesture of contrition in respect of his wounded right arm. I recalled the first time I had seen him since the fight by the main gates of Torcadino; his right arm was in a sling and he was recovering from a vicious sword cut. I should have been there at his side, guarding his flank, but instead I had run after Miss Sally Reeve and been stabbed with her poisoned hair pin.

 

“I regret being unable, at present, to beat your head against that nearby wall,” Felix had remarked, indicating his wounded arm. “And repeatedly. You’ll forgive me, I hope, Roland, for postponing such a thing until my sword arm feels better?”

 

“That’s quite understandable,” I said. “Take your time. Your health comes first, Felix.”

 

Felix smiled and I could see in his eyes that I was sort of forgiven. Felix is a good man. One of the very beat. I swore then and there that I’d never desert him again. 

 

And so we dined lavishly on a late breakfast of sorts, served in the paga tavern of Rubin Clegane. I didn’t stint on the food – I simply ordered platters of everything.

Barbarian of Gor Chapter Thirty Seven

“Well, you can’t fight him, that’s for sure. You’ll be dead within the first ten ihn,” said Adam.

 

“I don’t intend fighting him. And thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt that I’d last even that long.” We were walking through the streets of Torcadino, having picked up some hot pastries from a nearby food stall. 

 

The ground under my sandals was uneven and dusty with large, worn flagstones that had been polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. It was midday and the streets were a cacophony of sounds: the clatter of cart wheels turning on stones, the shouts of merchants hawking their wares, and the murmur of a hundred passing conversations blending into one vast hum. Adam and I wove through the crowd, navigating a living river of togas and tunics, dodging slaves, soldiers, and citizens alike. The air was rich with a pungent mix of woodsmoke, sweat, and the thick aroma of roasting meat from the nearby thermopolium. I glanced up at the buildings lining the street—tall, imposing structures of brick and concrete, their upper floors occasionally adorned with vibrant frescoes. Torcadino was a thriving series of arteries that pulsed life throughout its maze-like rat run of cylinders and buildings. 

 

“Just give him the slave. That’s all he wants,” said Adam. 

 

“It’s got a little more complicated than that. It seems our beloved Sellius Gavia has heard of the challenge and he sees it as the opportunity for Corcyrus to prove it can stand up to Argentum, and is therefore worthy of having Torcadino as an ally. The long and short of it is, Sellius Gavia insists on having the Kajira Canjellne challenge fought out as a sideshow during Kayra’s Free Companionship ceremony. It’s not me against Stannis. It’s Corcyrus standing up to Argentum. If I back out, Sellius will decide that Corcyrian men are cowards.”

“There’s nothing cowardly about refusing to take part in a one on one challenge against Stannis Assante. That’s just common sense.”

 

“I know that, you know that, but Sellius wants gladiatorial combat before the vows are spoken. It’s not a question of whether I can win – it’s just demonstrating that I’m not afraid.”

 

“But you are afraid,” remarked Adam.

 

“Yeah, I’m practically shitting myself already, and the duel is still a couple of days away.” 

 

“And you’ll be dead,” said Adam.

 

“Yeah, probably.”

 

“There’s no probably about it.” 

Barbarian of Gor Chapter Thirty Six

Three days after our troubling encounter with Sellius Gavia, Stannis Assante rode into the city of Torcadino.

 

He was accompanied by the huntresses, Svetlana and Mishka, and a small band of his most loyal men. The news was delivered to me in my sumptuous apartments in the eastern wing of the palace by Gaius Antony.

 

“The matter is more than a little awkward,” Gaius admitted as he drank a small ka-la-na with me that afternoon. “Obviously, and I must stress this to set your mind at ease, you enjoy a degree of diplomatic protection as you are an ambassador from a city that is soon to be our ally.” 

 

“I should hope so,” I said by way of reply.

 

A dark haired slave knelt close enough to respond promptly to commands, but not so close that she might intrude in a conversation between men. At the mention of Stannis Assante her body seemed to react. She glanced up in surprise.

 

“Eyes down, girl,” I reminded her. The girl swiftly lowered her eyes again. She looked beautiful in her brief tunic and steel collar. She knelt in nadu with her thighs open before us for there were no Free Women present who might object. Her hands rested, palms down, on the softness of her thighs. Women are just so incredibly beautiful when they are collared. Steel seems so natural when locked about their delicate throats. And I think they know this when they are finally enslaved.