Interviews with the great Goreans continue
Amyr Gorzilla Mahalah Ryu (assassin of Gor)
Introduction:
Amir Mahalah (watching his portrait being hung on the wall in the Gorean Gallery) inclines his head toward Darian, the weight of Northern respect in the small gesture. "Tal, Darian. Traveler, penman, and seeker of truth. Your presence is always welcome." A faint smile touches his scarred face. "May your roads be safe and your ink never run dry. Thank you for taking the time today." He turns his head toward Darian, his eyebrows rising slightly at the man's words. A portrait hung by a traveler and chronicler. It was no small gesture. "Tal, Darian... it is an honor," he says quietly, the deep rumble softened by sincerity. "Thank you. Few things outlive a man: if my image hangs in your hall, then I am in good company." A small nod follows, respectful and genuine. "You have my gratitude."
He squints at the portrait, leaning forward slightly. "Is that... Harry Horchester in the photo?" A faint, amused growl escapes his chest.
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sir Amyr Mahlaha Ryu
-I invite Sir Amyr to sit with me in the gallery room, inviting him to tell me his story, surely a fascinating one, like all old Goreans.
Amir Mahalah He was smoking beside me. rests his forearms on his knees, lowering his gaze for a moment as his memories are colder than the north wind on the surface. His voice is calm, firm, free of exaggeration. "I was born in the far north, Hunjer... harsher than most can imagine. Snow as deep as a man, winds that peel flesh, nights so long you forget the sun's existence." A faint breath escapes him, not quite a sigh. "Hunted since I could walk. I needed it, otherwise I wouldn't have lived long. No tribe. No hall. Only steel, instinct, and the creatures that roam the ice." His eyes rise slightly. "The snow larks... those were my companions. Cubs I raised when their mother fell to a fanged beast. They followed me, grew up with me, slept against my side for warmth. I
- I look at the sad expression in his eyes; the harshness of life has hardened him.
Darian met Amyr
AmirMahalah: attempt." Amyr's gaze shifts, tracing long-buried memories. "He told me he once became a cartographer for a year, just to map the habits of his mark's family. A doctor for another, to care for a man he would later kill. A merchant the following year, learning about weights, exchanges, and the poisons that could be hidden in spices." A brief silence lingers: a boundary. "There are things I cannot discuss in this interview," he says finally, his tone becoming granite. "Murderers who live long do so in silence. That is why the best among us are nothing but myth. Whispers. Stories told by men who think they have seen only a shadow." He shifts slightly, straightening his spine. “I don't call myself one of the best. That's foolish talk. Instead, I know what I am: a good hunter and a decent fighter. Enough to kill when necessary. Enough to survive.
Amir Mahalah maintains his steady posture, the cold mask of an old assassin settling effortlessly on his face as he continues, his voice low and unhurried. "Back then, I wasn't yet what they call me now. I was just a hunter from the North. I lived on what I could kill: snow sleen, tabuk, and, when fate was kind, a larl kill that fed me for weeks. I sold pelts and furs in small trades... meat when the season was good." His eyes droop slightly, remembering the white plains and the red trails they left behind. "Larls are great hunters," he mutters. "Better than any man. But one must never rest quietly beside them." When hunger bites deep enough, even a beast that knows your scent will turn on you. I learned that early." A slow breath. "The assassin I met in Skjern
A low chuckle escapes him, rare, raspy, and short-lived.
So yes, Darian... anyone could be a cross-dresser. Even that one-eyed girl you ignored at the tavern will pay, as long as something hangs naturally between her legs. On Gor, death travels lightly—sometimes wearing an apron."
You don't owe them money. They'll find you. Even in a snowstorm. Especially in a snowstorm." He shifts slightly, the edge of an old lesson in his voice. "When I studied medicine for a while, I learned something important: a small cut is more deadly than most men realize. A cut in the wrong vein, and even an Ubar falls like a sack of spoiled grain." Then he leans back, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, albeit one laced with humor. "That's why you should never assume who might be an assassin. Could be a warrior. Could be a scribe. Could be... a hideous slave with a ladle and a bad temper." He raises his eyebrows, impassive. "I once saw one almost kill a man by leaving hot stew in his lap. Accidentally, I think." A soft chuckle escapes him: rare, harsh, and short-lived. "So yes, Darian."
(He glances at Darian's pen scratching across the page, the journalist's concentration so sharp it almost touches his spleen. A faint rumble of amusement warms his tone as he continues.) "I've traveled extensively in Gor," he says. "The long roads, the forgotten paths, the places even the maps pretend don't exist. The North suits me: cold, clean, honest. The heat, though..." He grunts, his shoulders heaving in discomfort. "Tharna, Schendi, even Port Kar on a bad day: too hot. I'm starting to sweat like a tarsk in heat, and every slave insists on offering me water I don't want. I'm a man of ice, not roasted wood." He pauses, reflecting. "Things are learned on the road. The thieves' caste? Trustworthy when you need information quickly... or silently. They know everything before the scribes write it down. They even know what you have, butand assassins protect those bound by contract. A mercenary will defend a city he serves. An assassin will protect the customer who purchased his steel. But only one caste is legally authorized to kill.” He nods slightly, acknowledging its weight. “If the sign at the gate is seen… if the guards recognize the wanted man… the law stands aside. The Black Caste holds the right. No magistrate questions it.” A faint smile crosses his face, dark and laced with humor. “I was once denied entry to Treve. The guards examined me and said the city was ‘closed to hunters and assassins.’ Reasonable men.” The smile deepens. “So I entered two days later as a trader. He wore a false beard, carried spices, even haggled over the price like a stingy Tor trader. I hunted the target in silence. When the body was found, I left dressed as a mercenary. He maintains his firm tone, letting Darian's pen continue to scratch relentlessly across the parchment as he folds his hands freely before him, his eyes half-closed by the weight of memory and truth. "There is a great difference between Mercenaries and Assassins," he begins, his voice low but confident. "A mercenary fights for money: loyal to the money, not the purpose. An assassin fights for the contract... and that's not the same thing." He tilts his chin slightly, a subtle nod that sharpens his words. "The most important distinction is this: a mercenary can be bought. Bribed. Persuaded. Transformed. An assassin cannot. Once a mark has been named and the gold has crossed hands, the path is set. No amount of pleading, no silver tongue, no second purse can change that. Not even the Priest-Kings themselves could convince a true Black Caste to sus-
I found the body an hour later." A long, slow breath leaves him: a murderer's truth clearly stated. "No one escapes justice on Gor. If the Warriors fail, if the Magistrates fail... the Black Caste does not. Gold is the compass. A name is the path. And until the task is complete, we walk it without hesitation." His gaze meets Darian's for a moment: flat, firm, not rude, but carved in the cold logic of his caste. "That is the difference."
“That is the weight of the color we wear. Not glory. Not fame. Just fear… and the knowledge that if our name is spoken in gold, the next breath someone takes might be their last.”
[08:55] AmirMahalah: mark, then he was spared. But that is nothing to celebrate. That mercy branded him with true failure. A warning to anyone who would break the Code.” A slight nod, almost respectful. “That act shaped a generation of assassins. A reminder that even in the shadows, there are lines we do not cross. Many men across Gor have sought glory… and been forgotten. But who sought to honor the Caste? Their stories endure, whispered in training halls and old scroll rooms. For they did not seek fame, they sought propriety.” He shifts slightly, his tone softening. “You asked about the sleen,” he adds. “We use them because they track better than any living man. They smell guilt, fear, and lies. Smell a sleen, and it'll follow you through crowds, storms, even water. They're perfect hunters, though, just like boys,
... black hides blood. Especially yours if the job goes badly. He leans back, his voice hoarse and amused. “Murderers are hated everywhere, feared even more. Some cities see the black robe and barricade their doors. Others whisper prayers. We sneeze softly, and half the tavern gasps. We drop a spoon, and someone thinks it's a sign.” His mouth curves in a small, knowing smile. “That's the weight of the color we wear. Not glory. Not fame.” Only fear... and the knowledge that if our name is spoken in gold, the next breath someone takes may be their last."
He lets out a long breath, settling deeper into his chair as the topic shifts to the only thing heavier than steel: Honor, as understood by the Caste, who claim to have none but live by a code more rigid than that of any warrior. "Honor for an assassin is not the same as honor for a warrior," he begins softly. "A warrior's honor is strong, seen in the shield he carries, the songs he earns, the crowds that cheer his name. Our honor is silent. It lies in doing exactly what we swore to do... no more, no less. No boasting. No exaggeration. No bending of the contract." His eyes droop slightly, recalling old pages of the Chronicles. "Failure, for us, is not dying. Death comes to all. Failure is leaving a name unpaid. Leaving lives
Him. "And why do assassins wear black when hunting?" He laughs softly. "The truth is that black hides blood. Especially yours if the job goes badly." He leans back, his voice becoming hoarse and amused. "Assassins are hated everywhere, feared even more. Some cities see the black tunic and barricade their doors. Others whisper prayers. We sneeze softly and half the tavern gasps. We drop a spoon and someone thinks it's a signal." His mouth curves in a small, knowing smile. "That's the weight of the color we wear. Not of glory. Not of fame. Only fear... and the knowledge that if our name is spoken in gold, the next breath someone takes may be their last.
Caste. He wore black, swore our oaths falsely, was killed without a contract. When he was exposed, he chose the only solution that spared Gor from contagion: he threw himself on his own dagger. A warning to anyone who would break the Code.” A slight nod, almost respectful. “That act shaped a generation of assassins. A reminder that even in the shadows, there are lines we do not cross. Many men across Gor have sought glory... and been forgotten. But who sought to honor the Caste? Their stories endure, whispered in training halls and old scroll rooms. For they did not seek fame, they sought propriety.” He shifts slightly, his tone softening. “You asked about the sleen,” he adds. “We use them because they track better than any living man. They smell guilt, fear, and lies. Give a sleen a scent, and it will follow you through crowds, storms, and the like.
“That is the weight of the color we wear. Not glory. Not fame. Just fear… and the knowledge that if our name is spoken in gold, the next breath someone takes might be their last.” mark, then he was spared. But that is nothing to celebrate. That mercy branded him with true failure. A warning to anyone who would break the Code.” A slight nod, almost respectful. “That act shaped a generation of assassins. A reminder that even in the shadows, there are lines we do not cross. Many men across Gor have sought glory… and been forgotten. But who sought to honor the Caste? Their stories endure, whispered in training halls and old scroll rooms. For they did not seek fame, they sought propriety.” He shifts slightly, his tone softening. “You asked about the sleen,” he adds. “We use them because they track better than any living man. They smell guilt, fear, and lies. Smell a sleen, and it'll follow you through crowds, storms, even water. They're perfect hunters, though, just like boys,
... black hides blood. Especially yours if the job goes badly. He leans back, his voice hoarse and amused. “Murderers are hated everywhere, feared even more. Some cities see the black robe and barricade their doors. Others whisper prayers. We sneeze softly, and half the tavern gasps. We drop a spoon, and someone thinks it's a sign.” His mouth curves in a small, knowing smile. “That's the weight of the color we wear. Not glory. Not fame.” Only fear... and the knowledge that if our name is spoken in gold, the next breath someone takes may be their last."
He lets out a long breath, settling deeper into his chair as the topic shifts to the only thing heavier than steel: Honor, as understood by the Caste, who claim to have none but live by a code more rigid than that of any warrior. "Honor for an assassin is not the same as honor for a warrior," he begins softly. "A warrior's honor is strong, seen in the shield he carries, the songs he earns, the crowds that cheer his name. Our honor is silent. It lies in doing exactly what we swore to do... no more, no less. No boasting. No exaggeration. No bending of the contract." His eyes droop slightly, recalling old pages of the Chronicles. "Failure, for us, is not dying. Death comes to all. Failure is leaving a name unpaid. Leaving lives
AmirMahalah slowly rises, the weight of old stories settling in the silence between them. He reaches into his belt pouch, extracts a few coins—quietly, deliberately, respectfully—and places them on the table next to Darian's scroll. "You have given me your time," he says softly. "And a historian's time is worth more than a coin. Take it... as payment for your art." His gaze softens, just enough to reveal the sincerity beneath the steel. "Blessings on your travels, Darian. It's not often I share stories with a man who will remember them better than I." He drapes his heavy black fur cloak over his shoulders, protecting it against the northern cold, even here, far from Hunjer. With a final, determined nod, like a true warrior, he turns and walks away, returning his boots to the world that forged him.
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Epilogue:
I was impressed by Sir Amyr's story. It's the first time in my travels and over the years that I've had the honor of speaking with a great Gorean of the black caste. They're often avoided and ignored on the streets, and many are afraid.
darianeditor
