I had been seated across from him in the place of honor. Then from his chests,
within the hall, he had given me a long, swirling cloak of the fur of sea sleen;
a bronze-headed spear; a shield of painted wood, reinforced with bosses of iron;
the shield was red in color, the bosses enameled yellow; a helmet, conical, of
iron, with hanging chain, and a steel nosepiece, that might be raised and
lowered in its bands; and, too, a shirt and trousers of skin; and, too, a broad
ax, formed in the fashion of Torvaldsland, large, curved, single-bladed; and
four rings of gold, that might be worn on the arm. "My gratitude," said I. "You
play excellent Kaissa," had said he. I surmised to myself that the help of the
Forkbeard might, in the bleak realities of Torvaldsland, be of incalculable
value. He might know the haunts of Kurii; he might know dialects of the north,
some of which are quite divergent from standard Gorean, as it is spoken, say, in
Ar or Ko-ro-ba, or even in distant Turia; the habits and customs of the northern
halls and villages might be familiar to him; I had no wish to be thrown bound
beneath the hoes of thralls because I had inadvertently insulted a free
man-at-arms or breached a custom, perhaps as simple as using the butter before
someone who sat closer to the high-seat pillars than myself. Most importantly,
the Forkbeard was a mighty fighter, a brave man, a cunning mind; in my work in
the north I was grateful that I might have so formidable an ally. To put a
collar on the throat of the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar seemed small enough
price to pay for the assistance of so mighty a comrade. Thorgard of Scagnar,
vicious and cruel, one of the most powerfill of the northern Jarls, was my
enemy. Too, he had, in his ship, Black Sleen, hunted us at sea. I smiled. Let
his daughter, Hilda the Haughty, beware. I looked to the Forkbeard. He had one
arm about the full, naked waist of the daughter of the administrator of Kassau,
Pudding, and the other about the waist of marvelously breasted, collared
Gunnhild. "Taste your Pudding, my Jarl," begged Pudding. He kissed her.
"Gunnhild! Gunnhild!" protested Gunnhild. Her hand was inside his furred shirt.
He turned and thrust his mouth upon hers. "Let Pudding please you," wept
Pudding. "Let Gunnhild please you!" cried Gunnhild. "I will please you better,"
said Pudding "I will please you better!" cried Gunnhild. Ivar Forkbeard stood
up; both bond-maids looked up at him, touching him "Run to the furs," said Ivar
Forkbeard, "both of youl'' Both girls quickly fled to his furs. He stepped over
the bench, and followed them. At the foot of the ground level, which is the
sleeping level, which lies about a foot above the dug-out floor, the long center
of the hall, on the floor, against the raised dirt, here and there were rounded
logs, laid lengthwise. Each log is ten to fifteen feet long, and commonly about
eight inches to a foot thick. If one thinks of the sleeping level, on each side,
as constituting, in effect, a couch, almost the length of the hall, except for
the cooking area, the logs lie at the foot of these two couches, and parallel to
their foot. About each log fitting snugly into deep, wide, circular grooves in
the wood, were several iron bands. These each contained a welded ring, to which
w.as attached a length of chain, termmating in a black-iron fetter. Gunnhild
thrust out her left ankle; the Forkbeard fettered her; a moment later Pudding,
too, had thrust, forth her ankle, and her ankle, too, was locked in a fetter of
the north. The Forkbeard threw off his jacket. There was a rustle of chain as
the two bond-maids turned, Puddingon her left side, Gunnhild on her right,
waiting for the Forkbeard to lie between rhem. I heard men, down the table
laughing. One of the new girls, from Kassau, had been thrown on her back, on the
table. She lay in meat, and spilled mead. She was kicking and laughing, trying
to push back from her body the pressing jackets of fur of the men of
Torvaldsland. Another girl, I saw, was seized and thrown to the darkness of the
sleeping platform. I saw her white body, briefly, trying to crawl away, but he
who had thrown her upon the furs, seized her ankle and drew her to him. She was
thrown mercilessly under him, her shoulders pressed back, her beauty his prize.
I saw her head lift, thrusting her lips to his, but it was then thrust back, and
she whimpered, her body squirming, held helpless, loot, his to be done with as
he pleased. When he lifted his mouth from hers, she put her arrns about his
neck, and thrust up her head again, lips parted. "My Jarl!" she wept. "My Jarl!"
Then he again thrust her back to the furs, with such force that she cried out,
and then he, with rudeness and incredible force, used her for his pleasure. I
saw her body struck again and again, she clinging to him, helplessly. He gave
her no quarter. Bond-maids are treated without mercy. "I love you, my Jarl!" she
screamed. Men at the tables, mead spilling, chewing on meat, laughed at her. She
wept, and cried out with pleasure. When the oarsman had finished with her and
would return to the table, she tried to hold him. He struck her back on the
furs. Weeping she held out her arms to him. He returned to his mead. I saw
another oarsman then crawl to her and, by the hair, pull her into his arms. In a
moment I saw her collared body, desperately pressing and rubbing against hirn,
he in her small, white arms, her belly thrust against the great buckle of the
master belt. Then he, too, threw her to her back. "I love you, my Jarls," she
wept. "I love you, my Jarls!" There was much laughter. I looked to one side;
there, at a bench, lethargic, somnolent, like a great stone, or a sleeping larl,
sat Rollo, he of such great stature, with grayish skin. He was bare-chested.
About his neck, looped, was a cord of woven, golden wire, with a golden pendant,
in the shape of an ax. He was shaggy haired. He seemed not to be aware of the
wildness of the feast, he seemed not to hear the laughter, the screams of the
yielding bond-maids; he sat with his hands on his knees; hls eyes were closed. A
bondmaid, passing him, carrying mead, brushed him. Frightened, she hurried past
him. His eyes did not open. Rollo rested. "Oh, no!" I heard Pudding say. I
turned to look to the Forkbeard's couch. From about his neck he had taken the
silver chain which had been the symbol of office of Gurt, Administrator of
Kassau. He had forcibly drawn Pudding's hands behind her, and, cunningly
twisting the chain, had fastened her wrists behind her with it. She sat on the
furs, her left ankle clasped in the iron fetter which chained her to the log at
the foot of the Forkbeard's couch, her wrists fastened behind her with her
father's chain of office. She looked at the Forkbeard with fear. He then threw
her to her back. "Do not forget Gunnhild," whined Gunnhild pressing her lips to
the Forkbeard's shoulder. I heard the movement of her own chain on the log Male
thralls are chained for the night in the bosk sheds. Bondmaids are kept in the
hall, for the pleasure of the free men. They are often handed from one to the
other. It is the responsibility of he who last sports with them to secure them.
I heard screams of pleasur
e I looked down at Thyri, kneeling beside my bench.
She looked up at me, frightened. She was a beautiful girl, with a beautifill
face. She was delicate, sensitive. Her eyes were highly intelligent, beautiful
and deep. A collar of black iron was riveted on her throat. "Run to the furs,
Bondmaid," I said, harshly Thyri leaped to her feet and fled to my furs,
weeping. I finished a horn of mead, rose to my feet, and went to my sleeping
area. She lay there, her legs drawn up. "Ankle," I said to her. I looked upon
her. Her eyes were on mine, frightened. Her body, small, white, curved,
luscious, contrasted with the shadowed redness and blackness o~ the soft, deep
furs on which she lay. She trembled. "Ankle," I told her. She extended her
shapely limb. I took her ankle and, about it, closed the fetter of black iron. I
then joined her upon the furs. Chapter 7 The Kur The next five days were
pleasant ones for me. In the mornings, under the eye of Ottar, keeper of
Forkbeard's farm, I learned the ax. The blade bit deep into the post. "More
back," laughed Ottar. "Put more back into it!" The men cried out with pleasure
as the blade then, with a single stroke, split through the post. Thyri, and
other bond-maids, leaped and clapped their hands. How alive and vital they
seemed! Their hair was loose, in the fashion of bond-maids. Their eyes shone;
their cheeks were flushed; each inch of them, each marvelous imbonded inch of
them, was incredibly alive and beautiful . How incredibly feminine they were, so
living and uninhlbited and delightful, so utterly fresh, so free, so
spontaneous, so open in their emotions and the movements of their bodies; they
now moved and laughed and walked, and stood, as women, pride was not permitted
them; joy was. Only a kirtle of thin, white wool, split to the belly, stood
between their beauty and the leather of their masters. "Again! Again! Please, my
Jarl!" cried Thyri. Once more the great ax struck the post. It jerked in the
earth, and another foot of it, splintering, flew from the ax. "Well done!" said
Ottar. Then suddenly he struck at me with his own ax. I caught the blow on its
handle, with the handle of my ax, and, lifting my left fist, not releasing my
ax, hurled him from his feet to his left. He sprawled on the turf and I leaped
over him, my ax raised. "Splendid!" he cried. The bond-maids cried out with
pleasure, Gunnhild, Pouting Lips, Olga, Thyri and others. Ottar leaped up,
laughing, and raised his ax against the delighted girls. They fled back from
him, squealing and laughing. "Olga," he said, "there is butter to be churning in
the churning shed." "Yes, my Jarl," said she, holding her skirt up, running from
the place of our exercises. "Gunnhild, Pouting Lips," said he, "to the looms."
"Yes, Jarl," said they, turning, and hurrying toward the hall. Their looms lay
against its west wall. "You, little wench," said Ottar to Thyri. She stepped
back. "Yes, Jarl," she said. "You," he said, "gather verr dung in your kirtle
and carry * to the sul patch!" "Yes,Jarl," she laughed, and turned away. I
watched her, as she ran, barefoot, to do his bidding. She was exquisite. "You
other lazy girls," cried Ottar, addressing the remaining bond-maids, "is it your
wish to be cut into strips and fed to parsit fish ?" "No, my Jarl!" they cried.
"To your labors!" cried he. Shrieking they turned about and fled away. "Now,
twice more," said Ottar to me, his hand on his broad black belt inlaid with
gold. "Then we will find another post !" There are many tricks in the use of the
ax; feints are often used, and short strokes; and the handle, jabbing and
punching; a full swing, of course, should it miss, exposes the warrior; certain
elementary stratagems might be mentioned; the following are typical: it is
pretended to have taken a full swing, even to the cry of the kill, but the swing
is held short and not followed through; the antagonist then, if unwary, may rush
forward, and be taken, the ax turned, offguard, by the back cut, from the left
to right; sometimes it is possible, too, lf the opponent carries his shield too
high, to step to the left, and, with a looping stroke, cut off the shield arm; a
low stroke, too, can be dangerous, for the human foot, as swift as a sapling,
may be struck away; defensively, of course, if one can lure the full stroke and
yet escape it, one has an instant to press the advantage; this is sometimes done
by seeming to expose more of the body than one wary to the ax might, that to
tempt the antagonist, he thinking he is dealing with an unskilled foe, to
prematurely commit the weight of his body to a full blow. The ax of Torvaldsland
is one of the most fearful of the weapons on Gor. If one can get behind the ax,
of course, one can meet it; but it is not easy to get behind the ax of one who
knows its use, he need only strike one blow; he is not likely to launch it until
it is assured of its target. An Ahn later the Forkbeard, accompanied by Ottar,
keeper of his farm, and Tarl Red Hair, now of Forkbeard's Landfall, inspected
his fields. The northern Sa-Tarna, in its rows, yellow and sprouting, was about
ten inches high. The growing season at this latitude, mitigated by the
Torvaldstream, was about one hundred and twenty days. This crop had actually
been sown the preceding fall, a month following the harvest festival. It is sown
early enough, however, that, before the deep frosts temporarily stop growth, a
good root system can develop. Then, in the warmth of the spring, in the
softening soil, the plants, hardy and rugged, again assert themselves. The yield
of the fall-sown Sa-Tarna is, statistically, larger than that of the spring-sown
varieties. "Good," said the Forkbeard. He climbed to his feet. He knocked the
dirt from the knees of his leather trousers. "Good," he said. Sa-Tarna is the
major crop of the Forkbeard's lands, but, too, there are many gardens, and, as I
have noted, bosk and verr, too, are raised. Ottar dug for the Forkbeard and
myself two radishes and we, wiping the dirt from them, ate them. The tospits, in
the Forkbeard's orchard, which can grow at this latitude, as the larma cannot,
were too green to eat. I smiled, recalling that tospits almost invariably have
an odd number of seeds, saving the rarer, long-stemmed variety. I do not care
too much for tospits, as they are quite bitter. Some men like them. They are
commonly used, sliced and sweetened with honey, and in syrups, and to flavor,
with their juices, a variety of dishes. They are also excellent in the
prevention of nutritional deficiencies at sea, in long voyages, containing, I
expect, a great deal of vitamin C. They are sometimes called the seaman's larma.
They are a fairly hardfleshed fruit, and are not difficult to dry and store. On
the serpents they are carried in small barrels, usually kept, with vegetables,
under the overturned keel of the longboat. We stopped by the churning shed,
where Olga, sweating, had finished making a keg of butter. We dipped our fingers
into the keg. It was quite good. "Take it to the kitchen," said the Forkbeard.
"Yes, my Jarl," she said. "Hurry, lazy girl," said he. "Yes, my Jarl," she said,
seizing the rope handle of the keg and, leaning to the right to balance it,
hurried
from the churning shed. Earlier, before he had begun his tour of
inspection, Pudding had come to him, and knelt before him, holding a plate of
Sa-Tarna loaves. The daughter of Gurt, the Administrator of Kassau, was being
taught to bake. She watched fearfully as the Forkbeard bit into one. "It needs
more salt," he had said to her. She shuddered. "Do you think you are a bond-maid
of the south?" he asked. "No, my Jarl," she had said. "Do you think it is enough
for you to be pleasant in the furs?" he asked. "Oh, no, my Jarl!" she cried.
"Bond-maids of the north must know how to do useful things," he told her. "Yes,
my Jarl !" she cried. "Take these," said he, "to the stink pen and, with them,
swill the tarsks!" "Yes, myJarl," she wept, leaping to her feet, and fleeing
away. "Bond-maid!" called he. She stopped, and turned. "Do you wish to go to the
whipping post ?" he asked. This is a stout post, outside the hall, of peeled
wood, with an iron ring near the top, to which the wrists of a bond-maid,
crossed, are lashed over her head. Near the bosk shed there is a similar post,
with a higher ring, used for thralls. "No, my Jarl!" cried Pudding. "See then,"
said he, "that your baking improves!" "Yes, myJarl," she said, and fled away.
"It is not bad bread," said Ivar Forkbeard to me, when she had disappeared from
sight. He broke me a piece. We finished it. It was really quite good, but, as
the Forkbeard ha said, it could have used a dash more salt. When we left the
side of the hall we had stopped, briefly, to watch Gunnhild and Pouting Lips at
the standing looms. They worked well and stood beautifully, under the eyes of
the Forkbeard. Otto had then joined us and we had begun our inspection. Shortly
before concluding our inspection, we had stopped at the shed of the smith, whose
name was Gautrek. We had then continued on our way. On the way back to the hall,
cutting through the tospit trees, we had passed by the sul patch. In it, his
back to us, hoeing, was the young broad-shouldered thrall, in his white tunic,
with cropped hair. He did not see us. Approaching him, her kirtle held high in
two hands, it filled with verr dung, was blond, collared Thyri. "She has good
legs," said Ottar. We were quite close to them; neither of them saw us. Thyri,
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