Magicians of Gor by John Norman

five copper tarsks.
    “Very well,” I said.
    There was some commendation from others about. “Good fellow,” said more than one
    fellow.
    “Surely you do not intend to wear your sandals,” said the owner of the wineskin.
    “Of course not,” I said, slipping them off. I then rubbed my feet well in the
    dirt near the skin.
    “Let me help you up,” said the fellow.
    “That will not be necessary,” I said.
    “Here, let me help you,” he said.
    “Very well,” I said. I had not been able to get on the skin.
    “Are you ready?” asked the owner, steadying me.
    “—Yes,” I said. I wished Lecchio, of the troupe of Boots Tarsk-Bit, were about.
    He might have managed this.
    “Ready?” asked the owner.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Time!” he cried, letting go of me.
    “How well you are doing!” he cried, at which point I slipped from the skin. I
    sat in the dirt, laughing. “How marvelously he did!” said a fellow. “Has he
    gotten on the skin yet?” asked another, a wag, it seems. “He has already fallen
    off,” he was informed. “He did wonderfully,” said another. “Yes,” said another,
    “he must have been on the skin for at least two Ihn.” I myself thought I might
    have managed a bit more than that. To be sure, on the skin, an Ihn seems like an
    Ehn. Before one becomes too critical in these matters, however, I recommend that
    one attempt the same feat. To be sure, some fellows do manage to stay on the
    skin and win the wine.
    “Next?” inquired the owner of the wineskin.
    I looked about, and picked up my sandals. I had scarcely retrieved them when I
    noticed a stillness about, and the men looking in a given direction. I followed
    their gaze. There, at the edge of the circle, emerged from the darkness, there
    was a large man, bearded, in a tunic and cloak. I took him as likely to be of
    the peasants. He looked about himself, but almost as though he saw nothing.
    “Would care to try your luck?” asked the owner of the wineskin. I was pleased
    that he had addressed the fellow.
    (pg. 64) The newcomer came forward slowly, deliberately, as though he might have
    come from a great distance.
    “One tries to stand upon the skin,” said the owner. “It is a tarsk bit.”
    The bearded man then stood before the owner of the wineskin, who seemed small
    before him. The bearded fellow said nothing. He looked at the owner of the
    wineskin. The owner of the wineskin trembled a little. Then the bearded man
    placed a tarsk bit in his hand.
    “One tries to stand on the skin,” said the owner again, uncertainly.
    The large man looked at him.
    “Perhaps you will win,” said the owner.
    “What are you doing?” cried the owner.
    No one moved to stop him, but the large man, opening his cloak, drew a knife
    from his belt sheath and slowly, deliberately, slit the skin open. Wine burst
    forth from the skin, onto the ankles of the large fellow, and, flowing about,
    seeking its paths, sank into the dirt. The dust was reddened. It was not unlike
    blood.
    The large fellow then sheathed his knife, and stood on the rent, emptied skin.
    “I have won,” he said.
    “The skin is destroyed,” said the owner. “The wine is lost.”
    “But I have won,” said the bearded man.
    The owner of the rent skin was silent.
    “Twenty men were with me,” said the large, bearded man. “I along survived.”
    “He is of the peasant levies!” said a fellow.
    “Speak, speak!” cried men, anxiously.
    “The skin is rent,” said the man. “The wine is gone.”
    “Speak!” cried others.
    The fellow pulled his cloak away and put it over his arm.
    “He is wounded!” said a man. The left side of the fellow’s tunic was matted with
    blood. The cloak had clung to it a bit, when he removed it.
    “Speak!’ cried men.
    “I have won,” said the man.
    “He is delirious,” said a fellow.
    “No,” I said.
    “I have won,” said the man, dully.
    “Yes,” I said. “You have stood upon the skin. You have won.”
    “But the skin