Magicians of Gor

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After the disaster of the delta campaign, Ar is essentially defenseless. The forces of Cos and her allies are welcomed into the city as liberators. Ar’s Station, which held out so valiantly against superior forces in the North, is denounced as traitorous. Veterans of the delta campaign are despised and ridiculed. Patriotism and manhood are denigrated. Lawlessness and propaganda are rampant. Marlenus, the great ubar, who might have organized and led a resistance, who might have rallied the city, is presumed dead, ...

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Magicians of Gor

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After the disaster of the delta campaign, Ar is essentially defenseless. The forces of Cos and her allies are welcomed into the city as liberators. Ar’s Station, which held out so valiantly against superior forces in the North, is denounced as traitorous. Veterans of the delta campaign are despised and ridiculed. Patriotism and manhood are denigrated. Lawlessness and propaganda are rampant. Marlenus, the great ubar, who might have organized and led a resistance, who might have rallied the city, is presumed dead, somewhere in the Voltai Mountains. Tarl is concerned with a warrior’s vengeance upon sedition and treachery, and, in particular, with meeting one who stands high among the conspirators—a beautiful woman now enthroned as ubara, whose name is Talena.

Rediscover this brilliantly imagined world where men are masters and women live to serve their every desire.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781497644915
  • Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media LLC
  • Publication date: 5/6/2014
  • Series: Gorean Saga Series , #25
  • Pages: 612
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.30 (h) x 1.60 (d)

Meet the Author

John Norman, born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1931, is the creator of the Gorean Saga, the longest-running series of adventure novels in science fiction history. Starting in December 1966 with Tarnsman of Gor, the series was put on hold after its twenty-fifth installment, Magicians of Gor, in 1988, when DAW refused to publish its successor, Witness of Gor. After several unsuccessful attempts to find a trade publishing outlet, the series was brought back into print in 2001. Norman has also produced a separate science fiction series, the Telnarian Histories, plus two other fiction works (Ghost Dance and Time Slave), a nonfiction paperback (Imaginative Sex), and a collection of thirty short stories, entitled Norman InvasionsThe Totems of Abydos was published in spring 2012. 

All of Norman’s work is available both in print and as ebooks. The Internet has proven to be a fertile ground for the imagination of Norman’s ever-growing fan base, and at Gor Chronicles (, a website specially created for his tremendous fan following, one may read everything there is to know about this unique fictional culture. 

Norman is married and has three children.

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Read an Excerpt

Magicians of Gor

The Gorean Saga: Book 25

By John Norman


Copyright © 1988 John Norman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-0045-4


The Street

"Surely you understand the law, my dear," he said.

She struggled in the net, dropped from the ceiling, then held about her by guardsmen sprung from concealment at the sides of the room.

"No!" she cried. "No!"

She was then turned about, twice in the net, on the couch, so that she was thoroughly entangled, doubly, in its toils.

"No!" she wept.

The guardsmen, four of them, held the net.

Her eyes were wild. Her fingers were in the knotted mesh. She was like a frightened animal.

"Please," she wept. "What do you want?"

The fellow did not then answer her, but regarded her. She was naked in the toils of the net, and now lay on her side, her legs drawn up in it, now seemingly small and very vulnerable, so bared and caught, on the deep furs of the huge couch.

Needless to say, a naked, netted woman, startled, frightened, knowing herself caught, knowing herself helpless in the hands of men, is a pleasant sight. One almost sees her in a collar. One almost sees her on the block.

"Milo!" she cried to a tall, handsome fellow to one side. "Help me!"

"But I am a slave," pointed out Milo, donning his purple tunic.

She looked at him, wildly.

"I am sure you are familiar with the law," said the first fellow, flanked by two magistrates.

"No!" she cried.

The magistrates were ex officio witnesses, who could certify the circumstances of the capture. The net was a stout one, and weighted.

"Any free woman who couches with another's slave, or readies herself to couch with another's slave, becomes herself a slave, and the slave of the slave's master. It is a clear law."

"No! No!" she wept.

"Think of it in this fashion, if you wish," he said. "You have given yourself to Milo, but Milo is mine, and can own nothing, and thus you have given yourself to me. An analogy is the coin given by a free person to a street girl, which coin, of course, does not then belong to the girl but to her master. What is given to the slave is given to the master."

She regarded him with horror.

"I loathe you!" she cried. "Bring me my clothing!" she wept to the guardsmen.

"When the certifications are approved, and filed, and in this case there will be no ambiguity or difficulty about the matter, you will be mine."

"No!" she wept.

"Put her on her knees, on the couch, in the net," he said.

This was done.

She looked wildly at Milo. There were tears in her eyes. "Will I then, as a slave, be your woman?" she asked.

"I do not think so," said Milo, smiling.

"The handsome, charming, suave, witty Milo," said the fellow, "is a seduction slave."

"A seduction slave?" she wept.

"Yes," he said. "He has much increased my stock of slaves."

She tore at the net, in tears, but was helpless.

"Had you, and your predecessors, not been so secretive, so much concerned to conceal your affairs with a slave, Milo's utility as a seduction slave would have doubtless been much diminished by now. On the other hand, the concern for your reputation and such, so natural in you free women, almost guarantees the repeatability, and the continued success, of these small pleasant projects."

"Release me!" she begged.

"Some of Milo's conquests are used in my fields, and others in my house," he said. "But most, and I am sure you will be one of these, are exported, sold out of the city to begin your new life."

"My new life?" she whispered.

"That of a female slave," he smiled.

She struggled, futilely.

"Raise the net to her waist, and lower it to her neck," he said, "and tie it about her. Then put her in a gag and hood."

"No!" she wept.

"By tonight," he said, "you will be branded and collared."

"No, please!" she wept.

The net was then adjusted on the female, in accordance with the fellow's instructions, in such a way that her legs and head were free, but her arms were confined. It was then bound tightly in place.

The fellow then glanced at the handsome slave. "You will leave by another exit," he said.

"Yes, Master," said the slave.

The free woman watched the slave withdraw. "Milo!" she whispered.

"You are now kneeling on a couch," said the fellow, "which, for a female slave, is a great honor. You may be months into your bondage before you are again permitted such an honor."

Female slaves are commonly not allowed the surface of the couch. Usually they serve at the foot of the couch, gratefully, on furs, or a slave mat.

"Milo!" she wept, after the slave.

The leather bit of the gag, a fixture of the hood, was then forced back between her teeth, and tied in place.

She made a tiny noise, of protest.

The hood itself was then drawn over her head, covering it completely. It was then fixed on her, buckled shut, beneath her chin.

"What have you seen?" asked Marcus.

I stepped back from the crack in the shutters, through which I had observed the preceding scene.

"Nothing," I said.

We were in a street of Ar, a narrow, crowded street, in which we were much jostled. It was in the Metellan district, south and east of the district of the Central Cylinder. It is a shabby, but not squalid district. There are various tenements, or insulae, there. It is the sort of place, far enough from the broad avenues of central Ar, where assignations, or triflings, might take place.

"Is Ar this crowded always?" asked Marcus, irritably.

"This street, at this time of day," I said.

My companion was Marcus Marcellus, of the Marcelliani, formerly of Ar's Station, on the Vosk. We had come to Ar from the vicinity of Brundisium. He, like myself, was of the caste of warriors. With him, clinging closely, about him, as though she might fear losing him in the crowd, and attempting also, it seemed, not unoften, to make herself small and conceal herself behind him, was his slave, Phoebe, this name having been put on her, a slender exquisite, very lightly complexioned, very dark-haired girl. She had come into his keeping in the vicinity of Brundisium, some months ago.

"As we do have the yellow ostraka and our permits do not permit us to remain in the city after dark," said Marcus, "I think we should venture now to the sun gate."

Marcus was the sort of fellow who was concerned about such things, being arrested, impaled, and such.

"There is plenty of time," I assured him. Most cities have a sun gate, sometimes several. They are called such because they are commonly opened at dawn and closed at dusk, thus the hours of their ingress and egress being determined by the diurnal cycle. Ar is the largest city of known Gor, larger even, I am sure, than Turia, in the far south. She has some forty public gates, and, I suppose, some number of restricted smaller gates, secret gates, posterns, and such. Long ago, I had once entered the city through such a passage, its exterior access point reached by means of a putative Dar-Kosis pit, which passage, I had recently determined, descending into the pit on ropes, was now closed. I supposed that this might be the case with various such entrances, if they existed, given Ar's alarm at the announced approach of Cos. In a sense I regretted this loss, for it had constituted a secret way in and out of the city. Perhaps other such passages existed. I did not know.

"Let us go," suggested Marcus.

I saw a slave girl pass, in a brief, brown tunic, her back straight, her beauty protestingly full within her tiny, tight garment, balancing a jar on her head with one hand. The bottom of the jar rested in a sort of improvised shallow stand or mount, formed of a dampened, wrapped towel. In Schendi the white slave girls of black masters are sometimes taught to carry such vessels on their heads without the use of their hands or such devices as the towel. And woe to the girl who drops it. Such exercises are good for a girl's posture. To be sure, the lower caste black women of Schendi and the interior do such things commonly. I looked at the girl. Yes, I thought, she could be similarly trained, without doubt. If I owned her, I thought, I might so train her. If she proved clumsy or slow to learn she could be whipped. I did not think she would prove slow to learn. Our eyes met, briefly, and she lowered her eyes swiftly, still keeping her burden steady. She trembled for a moment. I think she had seen, in that glance, that I could be her master, but then, so, too, of course, could be many men. A slave girl is often very careful about meeting the eyes of a free man directly, particularly a stranger. They can be cuffed or beaten for such insolence. The collar looked well on her, gleaming, close-fitting, locked. She was barefoot. Her brief garment was all she wore. It would have no nether closure. Thusly on Gor are female slaves commonly garbed. She hurried on.

I thought briefly of the netted woman, observed a bit ago. Soon, she, too, if permitted clothing, might find herself in the brief tunic of yet another delicious, purchasable, embonded slut. Noting such is one of the delights of a Gorean city.

"Let us be on our way," said Marcus. Phoebe clung close to him, her tiny fingers on his sleeve.

"In a moment," I said.

"I do not like such crowds," said Marcus.

We were buffeted about a bit.

"There is a date on the permits," Marcus reminded me, "and they will be checking at the gate to see who has left the city and who has not."

"I think they will be coming out in a moment or two," I said, "there, at that door."

"Who?" he asked.

"There," I said.

I saw the fellow who had been in the room emerge through the door. He was followed by the two magistrates, who had probably now made the entries in their records. They were followed by four guardsmen, in single file. "Make way, make way!" said the fellow from the room, and the crowds parted a little, to let them pass. The third of the three guardsmen carried a burden on his right shoulder. It was a naked woman whose upper body was thoroughly and tightly wrapped in several turns of a heavy net, tied closely about her. Her head was covered with a buckled hood. She squirmed a little, helplessly. She was being carried with her head to the rear, as a slave is carried.

"So that is what you were watching," said Marcus, "a caught slave."

"In a sense," I said.

About at the same time, coming toward us, down the street, following the other party by several yards, was a large, graceful fellow, blond and curly-haired, who was astoundingly handsome, almost unbelievably so. On his left wrist, locked, there was a silver slave bracelet. His tunic was of a silken purple. He had golden sandals.

"Who is that?" I asked a fellow in white and gold, the colors of the merchants, when the handsome fellow had passed. Such a one, I assumed, might be generally known. He was no ordinary fellow.

"That is the actor, Milo," said the man.

"He is a slave," I said.

"Owned by Appanius, the agriculturalist, impresario and slaver," said the fellow, "who rents him to the managements of various theaters."

"A handsome fellow," I said.

"The handsomest man in all Ar," said the merchant. "Free women swoon at his feet."

"And what of slaves?" asked Marcus, irritably, scowling at Phoebe.

"I swoon at your feet, Master," she smiled, putting down her head.

"You may kneel and clean them with your tongue," said Marcus, angrily.

"Yes, Master," she said, and fell to her knees, putting down her head. His slave, Phoebe, had been Cosian.

"The appearance of Milo in a drama assures its success," said the merchant.

"He is popular," I said.

"Particularly with the women," he said.

"I can understand that," I said.

"Some men do not even care for him," said the merchant, and I gathered he might be one of them.

"I can understand that," I said. I was not certain that I was enthusiastic about Milo either. Perhaps it was merely that I suspected that Milo might be even more handsome than I.

"I wish you well," said the merchant.

"Perhaps Milo serves, too, in capacities other than that of an actor," I said.

"What did you have in mind?" asked the merchant.

"Nothing," I said.

"It is Milo," whispered one free woman to another. They were together, veiled.

"Let us hurry after him, to catch a glimpse of him," said one of them.

"Do not be shameless!" chided the first.

"We are veiled," the second reminded her.

"Let us hurry," urged the first then, and the two pressed forward, through the crowd, after the purple-clad figure.

"Fellows as handsome as he," complained the merchant, "should be forced to go veiled in public."

"Perhaps," I granted him. Free women in most of the high cities on Gor, particularly those of higher caste, go veiled in public. Also they commonly wear the robes of concealment which cover them, in effect, from head to toe. Even gloves are often worn. There are many reasons for this, having to do with modesty, security, and such. Slave girls, on the other hand, are commonly scandalously clad, if clad at all. Typically their garments, if they are permitted them, are designed to leave little of their beauty to the imagination. Rather they are designed to call attention to it, and so reveal and display it, sometimes even brazenly, in all its marvelousness. Goreans are not ashamed of the luscious richness, the excitingness, the sensuousness, the femininity, the beauty of their slaves. Rather they prize it, treasure it and celebrate it. To be sure, it must be admitted that the slave girl is only an animal, and is under total male domination. To understand this more clearly, two further items might be noted. First, she must go about in public, denied face veiling. Men, as they please, may look freely upon her face, witnessing its delicacy, its beauty, its emotions, and such. She is not permitted to hide it from them. She must bare it, in all its revelatory intimacy, and with all the consequences of this, to their gaze. Second, her degradation is completed by the fact that she is given no choice but to be what she is, profoundly and in depth, a human female, and must thus, willing or not, sexually and emotionally, physically and psychologically, accept her fulfillment in the order of nature.

"I wish you well," I said to the merchant.

He turned away.

"Make way," I heard. "Make way!"

A house marshal was approaching, carrying a baton, with which he touched folks and made a passage amongst them. He was preceding the palanquin of a free woman, apparently a rich one, borne by some eight male slaves. I stepped to one side to let the marshal, the palanquin and its bearers move past. The sides of the palanquin were veiled.

"Odd that a palanquin of such a nature should be in the Metellan district," I said.

"Perhaps we should consider saving our lives now," said Marcus.

"Phoebe is not finished with your feet," I said.

Phoebe looked up, happily.

"Up," said Marcus irritably, snapping his fingers. Immediately she sprang to her feet. She stood beside him, her head down, docile. She, I noted, attracted her share of attention. I was not too pleased with this, as I did not wish to be conspicuous in Ar. On the other hand, it is seldom wise to interfere in the relationship between a master and a slave.

I looked back down the street. I could no longer see any sign of the fellow who had been in the room, the magistrates, or the guardsmen, with their shapely prisoner. She had been on a guardsman's shoulder, being carried, her head to the rear, as a slave. Later I did not think she would be often accorded the luxury of such transportation. Soon, perhaps in a day or two, she would be learning how to heel a man and to walk gracefully on his leash.

"Oh!" said Phoebe.

Someone in the crowd, in passing, had undoubtedly touched her. Marcus looked about, angrily. I did not know, really, what he expected.

I looked back down the street. I could see the head of Milo, with its blond curls, over the heads of the crowd, about fifty yards away. He was standing near a wall. The free woman's palanquin had stopped briefly by him, and then, after a time, continued on its way.

"Oh!" said Phoebe again.

Marcus turned about again, swiftly, angrily. There was only the crowd.

"If you do not care for such things," I said, "perhaps you should give her a garment."

"Let her go naked," he said. "She is only a slave."

"Perhaps some article of clothing would not be amiss," I said.

"She has her collar," he said.

"You may never have noticed," I said, "but she is an exquisitely beautiful female."

"She is the lowest and most despicable of female slaves," he said.

"Of course," I said.

"Too," said he, "do not forget that I hate her."


Excerpted from Magicians of Gor by John Norman. Copyright © 1988 John Norman. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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