Norman, John - Gor 09 - Marauders of Gor.txt

by Marauders of Gor [lit]

  commonly kept isolated on the farm, she is more often than her northern sister

  put to the switch or whip; I think she lives under a harsher discipline;

  southern masters are harder with their girls, expecting more from them and

  seeing that they get it; northern girls, for example, are seldom trained in the

  detailed, intricate sensuous arts of the female slave; the southern girl, to her

  misery, must often learn these to perfection; moreover, upon command, she must

  perform, joyfully and skillfully. The silk girl was heeling her master, a

  captain of Torvaldsland. She wore, indeed, a brief tunic of the south, of golden

  silk. She wore a collar of gold, and, hanging in her ears, were loops of gold.

  "High-farm girls!" she whispered, as she passed the bond-maids of Ivar

  Forkbeard. In the south the southern slave girl commonly regards her northern

  counterparts as bumpkins, dolts from the high farms on the slopes of the

  mountains of Torvaldsland; she thinks of them as doing little but swilling tarsk

  and dunging fields; she regards them as, essentially, nothing more than a form

  of bosk cow, used to work, to give simple pleasure to rude men, and to breed

  thralls. "Cold fish!" cried out Pudding. "Stick!" cried out Pouting Lips. The

  silk girl, passing them, did not appear to hear them. "Pierced-ear girl!"

  screamed Pouting lips. The silk girl turned, stricken. She put her hands to her

  ears. There were sudden tears in her eyes. Then weeping, she turned away, her

  head in her hands, and fled after her master. The bond-maids of Ivar Forkbeard

  laughed delightedly. The Forkbeard reached out and seized Pudding by the back of

  the neck. He looked at her. He also looked at Pouting Lips, who shrank back. He

  turned Pudding's head. "You wenches," he said, "might look well with pierced

  ears." "Oh, no, my Jarl." Wept Pudding. "No!" "No," wept Pouting Lips. "Please,

  no, my Jarl!" "Perhaps," mused the Forkbeard, "I shall have it done to the batch

  of you upon my return. Gautrek can perform this small task, I expect." "No,"

  whimpered the girls, huddled together. The Forkbeard turned then, and we

  contimued on our way. The Forkbeard whistled. He was in an excellent mood. In

  moments the girls, too, were again laughing and sporting, and pointing out

  sights to one another. There was only one of the Forkbeard's wenches who did not

  sport and laugh. Her name was Dagmar. There was a strap of binding fibre knotted

  about her collar. She was led by Thyri. Her hands were tied together, behind her

  back. She had been brought to the thing to be sold off. "Let us watch duels,"

  said the Forkbeard. The duel is a device by which many disputes, legal and

  personal, are settled in Torvaldsland. There are two general sorts, the formal

  duel and the free duel. The free duel permits all weapons; there are there are

  no restrictions on tactics or field. At the thing, of course, adjoining squares

  are lined out for these duels. If the combatants wished, however, they might

  choose another field. Such duels, commonly, are held on wave-struck skerries in

  Thassa. Two men are left alone; later, at nightfall, a skiff returns, to pick up

  the survivor. The formal duel is quite complex, and I shall not describe it in

  detail. Two men meet, but each is permitted a shield bearer; the combatants

  strike at one another, and the blows, hopefully, are fended by each's shield

  bearer; three shields are permitted to each combatant; when these are hacked to

  pieces or otherwise rendered useless, his shield bearer retires, and he must

  defend himself with his own weapon alone; swords not over a given length, too,

  are prescribed. The duel takes place, substantially, on a large, square cloak,

  ten feet on each side, which is pegged down on the turf; outside this cloak

  there are two squares, each a foot from the cloak, drawn in the turf. The outer

  corners of the second of the two drawn squares are marked with hazel wands;

  there is this a twelve-foot-square fighting area; no ropes are stretched between

  the hazel wands. When the first blood touches the cloak the match may, at the

  agreement of the combatants, or in the discretion of one of the two referees, be

  terminated; a price of three silver tarn disks is then paid to the victor by the

  loser; the winner commonly then performs a sacrifice; if the winner is rich, and

  the match of great importance, he may slay a bosk; if he is poor, or the match

  is not considered a great victory, his sacrifice may be less. These duels,

  particularly of the formal variety, are sometimes used disreputably for gain by

  unscrupulous swordsmen. A man, incredibly enough, may be challenged risks his

  life among the hazel wands; he may be slain; then, too, of course, the stake,

  the farm, the companion, the daughter, is surrendered by law to the challenger.

  The motivation of this custom, I gather, is to enable strong, powerful men to

  obtain land and attractive women; and to encourage those who possess such to

  keep themselves in fighting condition. All in all I did not much approve of the

  custom. Commonly, of course, the formal duel is used for more reputable

  purposes, such as settling grievances over boundaries, or permitting an

  opportunity where, in a case of insult, satisfaction might be obtained. One case

  interested us in particular. A young man, not more than sixteen, was preparing

  to defend himself against a large burly fellow, bearded and richly helmeted. "He

  is a famous champion," said Ivar, whispering to me, nodding to the large burly

  fellow. "He is Bjarni of Thorstein Camp." Thorstein Camp, well to the south, but

  yet north of Einar's Skerry, was a camp of fighting men, which controlled the

  countryside about it, for some fifty pasangs, taking tribute from the farms.

  Thorstein of Thorstein's Camp was their Jarl. The camp was od wood, surrounded

  by a palisade, built on an island in an inlet, called the inlet of Thorestein

  Camp, formally known as the inlet of Parsit, because of the rich fishing there.

  The stake in this challenge was the young man's sister, a comely, blond lass of

  fourteen, with braided hair. She was dressed in the full regalia of a free woman

  of the north. The clothes were not rich, but they were clean, and her best. She

  wore two brooches; and black shoes. The knife had been removed from the sheath

  at her belt; she stood straight, but her head was down, her eyes closed; about

  her neck, knotted, was a rope, it fastened to a stake in the ground near the

  dueling square. She was not otherwise secured. "Forfeit the girl," said Bjarni

  of Thorstein Camp, addressing the boy, "and I will not kill you." "I do not care

  much for the making women of Torvaldsland bond," said Ivar. "It seems improper,"

  he whispered to me. "They are of Torvaldsland!" "Where is the boy's father?" I

  asked one who stood next to me. "He was slain in an avalanche," said the man. I

  gathered then that the boy was then owner of the farm. He had become, then, the

  head of his household. It was, accordingly, up to him to defend as best he

  could, against such a challenge. "Why do you challenge a baby?" asked Ivar

  Forkbeard. Bjarni looked upon him, not pleasantly. "I want the girl for

  Thorstein Camp," he said. "I have no quarrel with children." "Will she be

  branded there, and collared?" aske
d Ivar. "Thorstein Camp has no need for free

  women." "She is of Torvaldsland," said Ivar. "She can be taught to squirm and

  carry mead as well as any other wench," said bjarni. I had no doubt this was

  true. Yet the girl was young. I doubted that a girl should be put in collar

  before she was fifteen. Ivar looked at me. "Would you like to carry my shield?"

  he asked. I smiled. I went to the young man, who was preparing to step into the

  area of hazel wands. He was quite a brave lad. Another youngster, about his own

  age, probably from an adjoining farm, would carry his shield for him. "What's

  your name, Lad?" I asked the young man preparing to enter the square marked off

  with the hazel wands. "Hrolf," said he, "of the Inlet of Green Cliffs." I then

  took both of the boys, by the scruff, and threw them, stumbling, more than

  twenty feet away to the grass. I stepped on the leather of the cloak. "I'm the

  champion," said I, "of Hrolf of Inlet of Green Cliffs." I unsheathed the sword I

  wore at my belt. "He is mad," said Bjarni. "Who is your shield bearer?" asked

  one of the two white-robed referees. "I am!" called the Forkbeard, striding into

  the area of hazel wands. "I appreciate the mad bravery," said I, "of the good

  fellow Thorgeir of Ax Glacier, but, as we all know, the men of Ax Glacier, being

  of a hospitable and peaceful sort, are unskilled in weapons." I looked at the

  Forkbeard. "We are not hunting whales now," I told him, "Thorgeir." The

  Forkbeard spluttered. I turned to the referee. "I cannot accept his aid," I told

  him. "It would too much handicap me," I explained, "being forced, doubtless, to

  constantly look out for, and protect, one of his presumed ineptness."

  "Ineptness!" thundered the Forkbeard. "You are of Ax Glacier, are you not?" I

  asked him, innocently. I smiled to myself. I had, I thought, hoisted the

  Forkbeard by his own petard. He laughed, and turned about, taking his place on

  the side. "Who will bear your shield?" asked one of the referees. "My weapon is

  my shield," I told him, lifting the sword. "He will not strike me." "What do you

  expect to do with that paring knife?" asked Bjarni of Thorstein Camp, looking at

  me puzzled. He thought me mad. "Your long sword," I told him, "is doubtless

  quite useful in thrusting over the balwarks of ships, fastened together by

  grappling irons, as mine would not be, but we are not now, my dear Bjarni,

  engaging in combat over the bulwarks of ships." "I have reach on you!" he cried.

  "But my blade will protect me," I said. "Moreover, the arc of your stroke is

  wider then mine, and your blade heavier. You shall shortly discover that I shall

  be behind your guard." "Lying sleen!" cried out the man of Thorstein Camp. The

  girl, the rope on her throat, looked wildly at me. The two boys, white-faced,

  stood behind the hazel wands. They understood no more of what was transpiring

  than most others of those present. The chief referee looked at me. His office

  was indicated by a golden ring on his arm. To his credit, he had, obviously, not

  much approved of the former match. "Approve me," I told him. He grinned. "I

  approve you," said he, " as the champion of Hrolf of Inlet of Green Cliffs."

  Then he said to me, "As you are the champion of the challenged, it is your right

  to strike the first blow." I tapped the shield of Bjarni of Thorstein Camp, it

  held by another ruffian from his camp, with the point of my sword. "It is

  struck," I said. With a cry of rage the shield bearer of Bjarni of Thorstein

  Camp rushed at me, to thrust me back, stumbling, hopefully to put me off my

  balance, for the following stroke of his swordsman. I stepped to one side. The

  shield bearer's charge carried him almost tot he hazel wands. Bjarni, sword

  high, had followed him. I now stood beside Bjarni, the small sword at his neck.

  He turned white. "Let us try again," I said. Quickly he fled back, and was

  joined by his shield bearer. In the second charge, though I do not know if it

  were elegant or not, given the properties of the formal duel, I tripped the

  shield bearer. One is not supposed to slay the shield bearer but, as far as I

  knew, tripping, though perhaps not in the best of form, was acceptable. I had,

  at any rate, seen it done in an earlier match. And, as I expected, neither of

  the referees warned me of an infraction. I gathered, from the swift looks on

  their faces, that they had thought it rather neatly done, though they are

  supposed to be objective in such matters. The fellow went sprawling. Bjarni,

  quite wisely, he obviously brighter than his shield bearer, had not followed him

  so closely this time, but had hung back. Our swords met twice, and then I was

  under his guard, the point of my sword under his chin. "Shall we try again?" I

  asked. The shield bearer leaped to his feet. "Let us fight!" he cried. Bjarni of

  Thorestein Camp looked at me. "No," he said. "Let us not try again." He took the

  point of his sword and made a cut in his own forearm, and held it out, over the

  leather. Drops fell to the leather. "My blood," said Bjarni of Thorstein Camp,

  "is on the leather." He sheathed his sword. The girl and her brother, and his

  friend, and others cried with pleasure. Her brother ran to her and untied the

  rope from about her neck. His friend, though she was but fourteen, took her in

  his arms. Bjarni of Thorstein Camp went to the boy whom he had challenged. From

  his wallet he took forth three tarn disks of silver and placed them, one after

  the other, in the boy's hand. "I am sorry, Hrolf of the Inlet of Green Cliffs,"

  he said, "for having bothered you." Then Bjarni came to me and put out his hand.

  We shook hands. "There is fee for you in Thorstein Camp," said he, "should you

  care to share our kettles and our girls." "My thanks," said I. "Bjarni of

  Thorstein Camp." Then he, with his shield bearer, left the leather of the square

  of hazel wands. "These I give to you, Champion," said the boy, trying to push

  into my hands the three tarn disks of silver. "Save them." Said I, "for your

  sister's dowry in her companionship." "With what then," asked he, "have you been

  paid?" "With sport," I said. "My thanks, Fighter," said the girl. "My thanks,

  too, Champion," said the boy who held her. I bowed my head. "Boy!" cried the

  Forkbeard. The boy looked at him. The Forkbeard threw him a golden tarn disk.

  "Buy a bosk and sacrifice it," said the Forkbeard. "Let there be much feasting

  on the farms of the Inlet of Green Cliffs!" "My thanks, Captain!" cried the boy.

  "My thanks!" There was cheering from the men about, as I, the Forkbeard, some of

  his men, and some of his bond-maids, left the place of dueling. We passed one

  fellow, whom we noted seized up two bars of red hot metal and ran some twenty

  feet, and then threw them from him. "What is he doing?" I asked. "He is proving

  that he has told the truth," said the Forkbeard. "Oh," I said. I noted that the

  bond-maids of Ivar Forkbeard attracted more then their expected share of

  attention. They were quite beautiful, from collars to low bellies, and the turn

  of their legs. "Your girls walk well." I told Ivar. "They are bond-maids," said

  he, "under the eyes of strange men." I smiled. The girls wore their kirtles as

  they did not simply that the riches owned by Ivar Forkbeard might be well
r />   displayed, the better to excite the envy of others and brighten his vanity, but

  for another reason as well; the female slave, knowing she is slave, finds it

  stimulating to be exposed to the inspection of unknown men; do they find her

  body pleasing; do they want it; is she desired; she sees their looks, their

  pleasure; these things, for example, do they wish they owned her, she finds

  gratifying; she is female; she is proud of her allure, her beauty; further, she

  is stimulated by knowing that one of these strange men might buy her, might own

  her, and that then she would have to please him, and well; the eyes of a

  handsome free man and a slave girl meet; she sees he wonders how she would be in

  the furs; he sees that she, furtively, speculates on what it would be like to be

  owned by him; she smiles, and, in her collar, hurries on; both receive pleasure.

  "When we return to Forkbeard's Landfall," said the Forkbeard, "they will be

  better, for having looked, and having been looked upon." In the south, a girl is

  sometimes sent to the market clad only in her brand and collar; not

  infrequently, upon her return home, she begs her master for his touch. To be

  seen and desired is stimulating to the female slave. A girl must be careful, of

  course; should she in anyway irritate, or not please, her master she may be

  switched or whipped. In some cities, once a day, a girl must kneel and kiss the

  whip which, if she is not sufficiently pleasing to her master, will be used to

  beat her. A farmer, in the crowd, reached forth. His heavy hand, swiftly, from

  her left hip to her right breast, caressed Thyri, lingering momentarily on her

  breast. She stopped, startled. Then she darted away. "Buy me, my Jarl!" she

  laughed. "Buy me!" The Forkbeard grinned. His girls, he knew, were good. Few who

  looked upon them would not have liked to own them. We saw thralls, too, in the

  crowd, and rune-priests, with long hair, in white robes, a spiral ring of gold

  on their left arms, about their waist a bag of omens chips, pieces of wood

  soaked in the blood of the sacrificial bosk, slain to open the thing; these

  chips are thrown like dice, sometimes several times, and are then read by the

  priests; the thing-temple, in which the ring of the temple is kept, is made of

  wood; nearby, in a grove, hung from poles, were bodies of six verr; in past