Oasis of Lame Kaiila

Let it be known beneath the Sun of Gor:

Rarius Yuroki doth hereby proclaim that Zagan Bararaq Yuroki hath been taken as his son by adoption.

Zagan Bararaq ibn Yuroki shall dwell within the Oasis, under the protection and name of his Father.

Though his years be few, he is to be shown due respect, and shall not be dismissed for the smallness of his age.

Thus is it spoken. Let it be remembered.

[03:27] Crow (melchior.wardell) watched how the merchants were doing their job. He had to kick off his boots to let the sand stream out of them. He had been told several names and yet … none of those he passed or met went by those names. None spoke of the events and he would not mention them. Surely not to raise any suspicion. His mission one that was both dangerous and difficult to explain. It held a lot of third knowledge that was gifted to him by the trust of the Priest Kings. As he stood there he could considered what to do as to leave without more would make it even harder to continue his mission. So he placed a scarecrow in the center of the market. He was sure those that new of him – would understand the message. ‘Find me – quick’. Of course he would keep his ear to the wind and whispers.

The desert wind carried the stench before the cloth was lifted.

Nephtides na Neidos worked with practiced calm. From Ganima he took a strip of red wool, smiling faintly as he packed it into his nostrils. From a small, costly vial he let a single drop of mint-and-tospit oil soak into the wool. Only then did he draw his dagger.

Steel whispered.

With a steady hand he lifted the cloth from the dead man’s face.

Crassus Tace leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
“There,” he said quietly. “Beneath the ribs. That cut. Is it… flesh? Or an incision?”

Nephtides said nothing. He placed the needle-fine tip of his damascene dagger against the wound and gently pried it open.

“Ganima. The pincer.”

She placed it into his waiting hand and turned away, one hand covering her mouth.

The cut released a foul gas, thick and rotting. Nephtides waved the air aside sharply and reached inside. When he withdrew his hand, he held a small vial slick with corruption.

Crassus stared. “A vial? By the Sardar…”

Even the kaiila nearby flattened their ears and turned their heads.

“Nothing on the front,” Nephtides muttered after finishing his inspection. “Still intact. No Beni Saqab work.” He had the body rolled over. The back was worse—blackened blood pooled beneath failing tissue. “Burn him quickly. Even vultures shouldn’t eat this.”

Crassus took the vial, turning it slowly between his fingers.
“Have you ever had trouble with the Kur, Nephtides? Or with a man named Tyr Connel?”

The question hung heavy.

Nephtides snorted. “A few disagreements. The Kur and I rarely see eye to eye.”

Crassus swallowed. “If this is what I think it is… this is a Kur weapon. A chemical agent. Designed to counteract the serum Earth-born barbarians take.”

Understanding dawned slowly, terribly.

“If I drank this,” Crassus continued, voice low, “within twenty ahn you would see a man of nearly a hundred years standing before you. All at once.”

Silence followed.

“So,” Nephtides said carefully, “it is lethal to aged Earth-born slaves. Or freed ones.”

“Yes,” Crassus replied. “And this is their message. Tyr and I didn’t destroy all of it.”

Anger flashed across his face. “Damn it.”

Nephtides crossed his arms, gaze hard.
“Then we prepare. The Good Kings do not place this many agents and riches in one oasis for nothing.”

Crassus nodded grimly. “You will have trouble again. With the Kur. And with my former colleague.”

At last, the truth came spilling out—of stolen ships from Earth, of wives taken by slavers, of Kur plots to poison the waters of Ar itself. Of Eva, his companion, unknowingly fitted with a Priest King implant and made Ubara of a hidden city. Of Tyr, condemned to slavery, escaped, and now hunting blood.

“You tried to remove the implant,” Nephtides said slowly. “While she lived.”

“Yes,” Crassus snapped. “I would not let her remain a puppet. She would be free—or die.”

Nephtides’ eyes darkened.
“You may have created something far worse.”

The desert seemed to lean closer.

At length, Nephtides held out his hand.
“Give me the vial. My specialists will examine it. And you will write down everything you remember. Every detail.”

Crassus released it without hesitation. “Activation is through the lymphic system. One of the Black Caste knows of this—an assassin named Crow. He may still oppose the Kur.”

Nephtides took the vial using his caste-colored shawl, never touching it directly.

“This goes to the physicians,” he said. “And you—dispose of the body. Two dunes south. Over the gray drop. Let the desert finish it.”

Crassus laughed quietly. “I wish you well, Nephtides.”

“May you always have water,” Nephtides replied.

Later, as the sun bled into the dunes, a strange, fat desert bird landed at Nephtides’ feet. Its belly opened with a hiss, cold vapor spilling from within. The vial vanished into its cryostasis chamber.

“Only to be opened by Arcady physicians,” Nephtides ordered.

The mechanical bird flapped skyward, clumsy but determined, disappearing beyond the dunes.

Nephtides watched it go, then turned to his slaves, leashes in hand.

“That man,” he growled softly, “is a dangerous psychopath.”

The sands whispered agreement.

Important and urgent!
A dead body has been found outside the Oasis, unknown to anyone. The Physicians will examine it. I have ordered the body to be taken to the Infirmary. All inhabitants of the Oasis, free and slave alike, are urged to report to the Physicians at once and submit to examination, lest an unknown plague break out.
— Rarius Yuroki

The warning spread quickly through the Oasis, carried by messengers and anxious whispers. Fear followed it like a shadow. Plague was a word no city of Gor took lightly.

The body lay upon a stone table near the infirmary, wrapped in a blood-soaked blanket. Even before it was uncovered, the smell announced death with brutal honesty. Flies swarmed thickly, humming in obscene celebration.

“AHHH… it stinks! And the flies!” Rarius Yuroki exclaimed, stepping back despite himself.

Luciana, who had first discovered the corpse, reported what she had seen: a man already well into decay, death most likely caused by a stab wound. An empty syringe lay upon a tray beside the body, its purpose unknown. The Physicians, repelled by the state of decomposition, took only cultures. Under the lens, the coagulated blood revealed no sign of contagion.

At least, not of the kind they feared.

Crassus Tace studied the corpse with narrowed eyes. Beneath the filth and rot, he saw details others missed.

“He appears to be of the Tahari,” he said slowly, “though perhaps that is what we are meant to believe.”

The mark upon the man’s face had been altered, partially removed even before death. His feet told another story: they bore no long habit of desert sandals. This was not a man of the dunes. Not truly.

“He has spent many years in the north,” Crassus continued. “And if there were plague, the worst of them would have shown by now.”

Rarius frowned. Perhaps an outlaw, lost and murdered between the dunes. Perhaps nothing more.

Yet Crassus hesitated.

“He reminds me of someone,” he said. “An assassin. From Var Kor. One who once followed you… or so it was believed.”

A silence settled between them.

“If that is so,” Crassus added quietly, “then who killed him? And who left him here?”

The question lingered like the stench.

Crassus lifted the corpse’s stiff arm and examined the hand. Thick calluses lined the palm.

“This hand wielded a gladius,” he said. “Not a scimitar.”

A northern weapon. Red-caste steel.

Rarius nodded slowly. The pieces did not yet form a picture, but unease crept in all the same. Trade routes, old agreements, Ar’s Station, whispers of Kur — all stirred uneasily in memory.

Then Crassus spoke the thought that changed everything.

“Perhaps,” he said, “this is not a victim at all. Perhaps it is a message.”

Nephtides na Neidos arrived not long after, greeting the men with respectful distance. He chewed thoughtfully on his pipe as he pulled on gloves.

“You don’t mean to rummage through the corpse’s entrails?” Rarius asked, grimacing.

Nephtides shrugged. “That’s a fair description of what warriors do. Usually the ones we open are still alive. This one has nothing to fear.”

Reluctantly, Rarius watched as Nephtides prepared himself, stuffing wool strips soaked with mint oil into his nostrils before drawing his dagger. The cloth was pulled away. The smell worsened, thick enough to taste.

Nephtides worked quickly, suppressing a gag.

Then Crassus stiffened.

“There,” he said sharply. “Beneath the ribs. That cut… that is no natural tear.”

Nephtides pried it open.

Foul gas escaped, but within the cavity something solid gleamed faintly. With pincers handed to him by his slave, Nephtides carefully withdrew a small vial, sealed at both ends. Inside sloshed a thick black liquid.

Crassus stared at it, his face draining of color.

He took the vial in trembling fingers, turning it slowly, watching the viscous substance crawl from end to end.

“This,” he said at last, “is a Kur weapon.”

The words fell heavily.

“A chemical agent,” Crassus continued, “designed to counteract the serum in barbarians. If consumed, it restores true age. Rapidly.”

Understanding dawned with horror.

“For Earth-born slaves,” Nephtides said slowly, “or freed ones of advanced age… this would be deadly.”

Crassus nodded. “Within twenty ahn, I would stand before you as a man of ninety-seven years.”

Silence followed. Even the kaiila recoiled from the corpse.

“They are telling you they have it,” Crassus said softly. “And that they know where we are.”

The body, now stripped of its purpose, was ordered burned before scavengers or vultures could spread what little corruption remained.

As the flames were prepared, Nephtides crossed his arms. “We should gather the agents of Sardar,” he said. “Strongholds are not filled with such riches without reason. Trouble is coming.”

Rarius Yuroki watched the vial one last time before it disappeared from sight.

“I do not like this kind of message,” he said quietly. “And I did not expect it.”

But on Gor, messages were rarely sent without intent.

And this one had been written in flesh.

The inhabitants of the oasis were very surprised when the infirmary in the main square was suddenly scaffolded. A large crane had even been mounted on the roof. The construction workers were busy, but not very talkative. Could it be that the small infirmary was being renovated or even enlarged?

A large group of armed men gathered yesterday in the main square of the Oasis of Lame Kaiila. They had responded to a call to track down and capture a band of outlaws who, according to caravan leaders from the Oasis of Klima, were hiding near the Exchange Point. Or perhaps near the ruins of the Oasis of Mandara; no one knew for sure.

Those who knew the area waited warily, fearing the dangers, especially the ever-present quicksand and the difficulty of attacking the exchange point should someone happen to be entrenched there.

The expedition was ill-fated from the very beginning. Everyone had hoped that Salt Ubar would send its elite troops, the Guards of the Dunes. But that didn’t happen. They waited in vain. Consequently, there was a lack of organization and experienced military leadership. The men began to grumble in frustration. One heard disrespectful remarks like, “He’s a man who values ​​comfort more than fighting,” or “He just sits in his palace and does nothing.”

At least the ruins of the Oasis of Mandala were reached without incident, and nobody got lost.

But when we reached the enormous rocks that protect the Oasis of Klima from the sandstorms, and passed the well-known rocky outcrop, what many had feared came to pass: the outlaws had prepared and ambushed the expedition.

There was great confusion, and no one knew who was friend or foe because, of course, everyone involved was masked for protection from the sand, and no one was giving proper orders. Unfortunately, all of us were hacked down, shot, and without exception, bound.

Fortunately, it turned out that the band of outlaws had arrived at the Exchange Point purely by chance and had no idea how to get back to an oasis or where the paths were. We pointed out to them that without the help of the locals, they would have perished miserably from thirst.

Someone offered to bring the outlaws back if they simply released the majority of the prisoners. There was supposedly a tunnel system near the ruins to bypass the quicksand. This was, of course, a trick and a lie, but the outlaws fell for it.

In the labyrinth, which had already been explored several times, they managed to lead the outlaws astray. And the few who reached the surface again wandered among the dunes. All the prisoners were freed. No one knows where the outlaws are now. But one cannot be sure that they are still near the ruins, because that is the only place with water.

The men blamed Salt Ubar for his shameful neglect of the dangers posed by outlaws and the safety of the caravans.

^{A caravan of Kaiila is being prepared in the Oasis to move to the Exchange Point of the Oasis of Klima.}

Urgent: A very large group of outlaws, including women, has been seen near the ruins of the Oasis of Mandara. They appear to be heading towards the Oasis of Klima’s Exchange Point. Perhaps they are simply lost and don’t know where they are. However, they have attacked a caravan.

The caravan leaders refuse to march to Klima as long as the area remains unsafe.

The Southern Trade Alliance (STA) is currently assembling the largest possible number of armed men. We need help!

All male members of the STA who are able to carry weapons are needed!

Next march to the Oasis of Klima: November 29 (Saturday) noon SLT / 8pm GMT, 21:00 GMT+1-german time)
Start main place Oasis of Lame Kaiila

A slave auction was held at the Oasis of Lame Kaiila. Up for sale were slaves who had recently been abducted from Earth—from an island called “Cuba.” The Oasis’s lecture hall was packed to capacity; some attendees even had to stand. The event was a resounding success.