"John Norman - Gor 01- Tarnsman of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

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"He's fast enough," said the man who had cast the spear. "I shall accept him."

This was my introduction to my instructor in arms, whose name was also Tarl. I shall call him the
Older Tarl. He was a blond Viking giant of a man, a bearded fellow with a cheerful, craggy face
and fierce blue eyes,

who strode about as though he owned the earth on which he stood. His whole body, his carriage, the
holding of his head bespoke the warrior, a man who knew his weapons and, on the simple world of
Gor, knew that he could kill almost any man who might stand against him. If there was one
outstanding impression I gathered of the Older Tarl in that first terrifying meeting, it was that
he was a proud man, not arrogant, but proud, and rightfully so. I would come to know this skilled,
powerful, proud man well.

Indeed, the largest part of my education was to be in arms, mostly training in the spear and
sword. The spear seemed light to me because of the gravity, and I soon developed a dexterity in
casting it with considerable force and accuracy. I could penetrate a shield at close distance, and
I managed to develop a skill sufficient to hurl it through a thrown hoop about the size of a
dinner plate at twenty yards. I was also forced to learn to throw the spear with my left hand.

Once I objected.

"What if you are wounded in the right arm?" demanded the Older Tarl. "What will you do then?"

"Run?" suggested Torm, who occasionally observed these practice sessions.

"No!" cried the Older Tarl. "You must stand and be slain like a warrior!"

Torm tucked a scroll, which he had been pretending to read, under his arm. He wiped his nose
sagely on the sleeve of his blue robe. "Is that rational?" he asked.

The Older Tarl seized a spear, and Torm, lifting his robes, hastily departed the training area.

In despair, with my left arm I lifted another spear from the spear-rack, to try once more.
Eventually, perhaps more to my surprise than that of the Older Tarl, my performance became almost
creditable. I had increased my margin of survival by some obscure percentage.

My training in the short, stabbing sword of the Goreans
was as thorough as they could make it. I had belonged to a fencing club at Oxford and had fenced
for sport and pleasure at the college in New Hampshire, but this current business was serious.
Once again, I was supposed to learn to wield the weapon equally well with either hand, but, again,
I could never manage to develop the skill to my genuine satisfaction. I acknowledged to myself
that I was inveterately, stubbornly right=handed, for better or worse.

During my training with the sword, the Older Tarl cut me unpleasantly a number of times, shouting
out, annoyingly enough, I thought, "You are dead!" At last, near the end of my training, I managed