Kur of Gor coc-28

by John Norman

  The martial dances, in part, supposedly assisted in spacing, and the maintaining of spacing. In actual battle, in the great formations, there is an almost inevitable drift to the right, as soldiers attempt to obtain some protection under the shield of the man to their right. As a consequence, it is common for each formation, as the battle continues, to be overreached, and outflanked, on the left. The right wing of each formation is almost invariably victorious, and the left wing of each almost always finds itself in jeopardy. Commanders commonly lead the right wing. Aside from matters of morale, exhibition, training, spirit, and such, the martial dances, then, with their emphasis on order and symmetry, are intended to compensate for the rightward drift of the great formations. In actual battle, of course, with the press and crowding, the buffeting, the noise, the shouting, the screaming, the shedding of blood, the dying, the rightward drift is seldom arrested.

  Tarn cavalries, as it is explained to me, have similar exercises, and maneuvers, to the beating of drums, these often coordinating the stroke of the great wings. Although I have never seen this, I am informed that these evolutions are remarkably beautiful, hundreds of birds, with their riders, ascending, descending, whirling about, separating, rejoining, and so on.

  Each night there was a feast.

  More than once raucous killer humans had to be separated, flung from one another.

  Once a knife had sped past him, and lodged deeply in the wall behind him. Somewhere in the hall he knew was Flavion, but he did not know where. He thought the knife had probably been intended for another. Or perhaps it had been flung for no more than delight, or sport, to a mark on a wall.

  He probably drank too much.

  Once he was startled to be served by a female Kur, collared. A dominant stood behind her, whip in hand.

  She wore no harnessing.

  From Cabot's point of view, in the glossiness of her oiled and scented coat, she was as concealed as ever.

  From the Kur point of view she was naked.

  From her diffidence, serving even a human, Cabot was well aware she knew herself a naked slave.

  Cabot preferred the human females, hurrying about, serving both humans and Kurii.

  How beautiful human females are, he thought. It is no wonder that men make them slaves.

  Lord Arcesilaus sat on a dais, at the head of a hundred tables, with Lord Zarendargar, Lord Grendel, and Statius; and Archon, of the forest humans, and Cestiphon, of the killer humans, sat with them.

  He found himself being served by one of Cestiphon's slaves.

  She was now collared.

  It was lovely on her neck.

  Collars much enhance the beauty of a female, aesthetically, certainly, but also in their meaning.

  Cestiphon's chosen sign for his females, the petal of a flower, was on the collar. There would thus be no doubt as to whom she belonged.

  When she turned away Cabot noted that she had been tastefully marked, high on the left hip.

  Many are the enhancements with which a civilization may acknowledge and express the primitive realities of nature.

  Some female slaves, who had been of the pleasure cylinder, danced, to music supplied by the men of Peisistratus.

  The humans were well pleased.

  Some of the slaves had been granted dancing silk. They were high-haltered and bare-bellied. The silk was low on their hips and swirled about their bangled ankles.

  How it enhances the dance, thought Cabot, and how easy it is to remove it.

  At a gesture from Peisistratus, his Corinna came and writhed before Cabot. Peisistratus, this evening, had chosen to deny her clothing. She was skilled, and danced well. Cabot was pleased and threw her a piece of hot, greasy meat, which she clutched to herself, gratefully, and swirled away.

  He gestured to a slave to kneel beside him and put down her head, that he might use her long hair to wipe his hands.

  "Master,” she begged, daring to look up at him.

  How needful they are, thought Cabot. How much they are in our power, once slave fires have been lit in their bellies.

  Excellent, he thought. A most pleasant way to bring them to our feet.

  The girl whimpered, piteously.

  Several were even now serving, on belly or back, moaning, squirming, crying out, begging for more, on cushions cast about the floor of the hall. Others knelt, head down, on the tiles.

  "Master, please, Master!” petitioned the girl.

  "Petition another,” said Cabot, and left the hall.

  * * * *

  "I understand you have been very busy, Tarl,” said the slave, peering through the bars.

  He did not respond to her.

  "I spoke perhaps too earnestly, too directly, before,” she said. “I understand that you are a commander, that you have been important in the war, that you may have many duties to attend to, that you must have many duties to attend to, but now you have returned."

  The bottom of the cage was wet, as were her knees, where she knelt in the dampness. One of the cleaning slaves had cast a bucket of water into the cage, to wash wastes from it, to be later cleaned. To one side, where she could reach it, through the bars, was a small bowl, in which lay a piece of fruit, and a crust of bread. On a nearby post hung a damp, bulging bag, and, on a nail driven into the same post, on a small string, hung a small metal cup. The cup was small enough to be passed through the bars.

  "I am understood to be a slave,” she said. “Accordingly I will need to be claimed. I am now ready to be released. I trust you will see to it, and soon."

  Cabot glanced to the other cages, in which the fair occupants were in first obeisance position, knowing themselves in the presence of a free person.

  "Tarl,” she said. “Please, Tarl!"

  Then he left.

  "Come back!” she cried after him. “Come back, Tarl! Come back, Tarl!"

  She then looked to the other slaves, and saw that they had now resumed positions of their choice, in their small, cramped quarters.

  Some were regarding her, curiously.

  * * * *

  "Well done,” said Flavion.

  Cabot did not respond to him.

  "Yes, well done,” said Flavion, and then politely withdrew.

  On the steel world in question, as well as on Gor, most festivals included a large number of competitions, agons, of one sort or another, usually races, spear casting, wrestling, log hurling, and such.

  Although it had not been cultural on the world until recently, archery had been included in the agons. Cabot had done well, coming in second in the contests. Lord Grendel had not competed in that agon. His skill, as suggested earlier, was remarkable, but he declined to draw attention to it, perhaps being somewhat embarrassed by it, and certainly feeling that the ax was a more respectable, Kurlike weapon.

  The winner of the archery contest was one of the men of Peisistratus, who had originally been of the peasants, of the village of Rarir.

  Cabot, however, was not unskilled. He could, reportedly, draw a bow with most peasants. His preferred weapons, however, as was expected of his caste, were the sword and spear. His skill with the former tool was said to be deft, exquisite, and lethal.

  On Gor, I am told, poetry of various sorts, literary efforts, musical compositions, choral dancing, enactments, and even song dramas are included in the agons.

  It might be mentioned, in passing, that Lord Grendel won the agon of the ax. That is, as you doubtless know, a weapon of high repute amongst Kurii. It is popular too, I understand, in certain areas on Gor, particularly in the north, toward, and in, Torvaldsland. He could split a post with an ax hurled from fifteen Kur paces, which is approximately twenty human paces.

  The crossbow and power weapons were not included in the agons. It was felt that the use of neither weapon, however dangerous and effective it might be, required enough skill to qualify it for inclusion in an agon. In the case of the crossbow this seems to the writer a mistake. The writer feels that, beyond a certain point, skill with the cross
bow is as respectable and rare as that with the great bow. The prejudice against the crossbow, the writer suspects, is due largely to the fact that it is, for obvious reasons, the assassin's weapon of choice.

  * * * *

  The next time Cabot visited the tiny cage of a brunette slave, she knelt as the other slaves had, with the palms of her hands down on the cage floor, and her head down to it, as well, in first obeisance position.

  "I gather,” she said, acidly, “this is the way you want me."

  But when she looked up, he had gone.

  "Is he your master?” asked a slave.

  "Do not think of me as a slave,” she snapped.

  "I think you are in a slave collar,” said one of the slaves.

  "Clearly she is in a slave collar,” said another.

  "Thus,” said another, “we would suppose you are a slave."

  "Few free women are in slave collars,” said a slave.

  "Crawl out of your cage, free woman,” said one of the slaves.

  "Perhaps in some sense,” said the brunette, “I am a slave."

  "You are either a slave or you are not,” said another.

  "And you are obviously a slave,” said another.

  "Fully,” said another.

  "Completely,” said another.

  "Totally,” said another.

  "Yes, slave,” pronounced another, with finality. “Slave, and only slave."

  "He is of another world,” said the brunette slave, “as I am. He will not think of me as a slave. He cannot so think of me."

  "Is he not Tarl Cabot?” asked one of the slaves.

  "Of Gor?” asked another.

  "Once of Earth,” said the brunette.

  "But now of Gor,” said one of the slaves.

  "Yes,” said the brunette, “now of Gor."

  "And you are a woman, are you not?” asked another slave.

  "Obviously,” said the brunette.

  "And you are in a collar."

  "Yes,” said the brunette.

  "Be afraid,” said one of the slaves.

  "Why has he not claimed you?” asked another.

  "I do not know,” said the brunette.

  "Perhaps he is going to sell you,” said a slave.

  "No!” cried the brunette, frightened, grasping the bars.

  "I would sell you,” said another of the slaves.

  "Sell me?” stammered the brunette.

  "Certainly,” said one of the slaves.

  "Who would want you?” asked another.

  "No one,” said another.

  "After first well beating you,” said another.

  The brunette turned pale.

  "What did you do?” asked a slave.

  "You must have displeased him,” said another.

  "That is it,” said another. “She is a slave who has displeased her master!"

  "She spoke to him other than as a slave dares speak,” said another.

  "We heard her!"

  "She used his name to him, putting it on her slave lips!"

  "What did you do?” asked a slave, she who had earlier asked this question.

  "I left a camp, without permission,” said the brunette.

  "A beating perhaps,” said one of the slaves, “but that would scarcely keep you in your cage."

  "I ran away!” said the brunette.

  This announcement was met with a silence, one of disbelief, of shock. The slaves regarded one another. Clearly they were frightened. More than one then looked at the brunette, frightened. And it was then, perhaps, that the brunette first began to grasp the nature of what she had done, and that she was one to whom such things were not permitted.

  "And now you have been caught!” said one of the slaves, peering at the brunette through the bars of her own cage.

  "Yes, I have been caught!” said the brunette, and flung herself down, legs drawn up, to the floor of her cage. “I have been caught,” she sobbed.

  "What if he should be of Gor, truly?” she thought. “And what if I should be a slave, truly?"

  She began to tremble, lying in the cage.

  "I have been caught,” she whispered, frightened, to the floor of the cage, to the bars. “I have been caught!"

  * * * *

  "I am going to claim a slave,” said Cabot, to Lord Grendel.

  "There are still days left of the feasting time,” said Lord Grendel.

  "I am going to venture into the forest,” said Cabot. “I am going to seek out our old camp, from which, long ago, we were to march on the palace."

  "I think I understand,” said Lord Grendel.

  "There is to be no secret about my departure,” said Cabot, “nor about my destination."

  "And what, supposedly, is to be the reason for this journey at this time?"

  "A journey,” said Cabot, “may have more than one reason."

  "And what,” asked Lord Grendel, “is that reason which lies open, and comprehensible, to all?"

  "To take a slave into the forest, far from civilization, and do with her as I will,” Cabot said.

  "That she may learn she is a slave?"

  "Yes."

  "I do not think I would care to be she,” said Lord Grendel.

  "When I am through with her,” said Cabot, “she will know what she is."

  "I do not doubt it,” said Lord Grendel.

  Chapter, the Seventy-Fifth:

  A SLAVE'S SCENT IS TAKEN;

  AN EARTH WOMAN IS TORTURED BY HER NEEDS,

  AND UNDERSTANDS THE MEANING OF THIS;

  NO FIRE HAS BEEN MADE

  "May I speak, Master!” begged the slave.

  "No,” said Cabot.

  She stumbled behind him, naked, back-braceleted, drawn on her leash.

  They were deep in the forest.

  Two days before she had been claimed.

  There had been no difficulty about it, as Cabot was now well known in the habitats, and the legend on the slave's collar was clear: I am the property of Tarl Cabot.

  A single glance, when he had entered the stable, had informed her that he had come for his slave. He was no longer in festive regalia, but a simple tunic, mottled with greens and browns, colors such as might be found in certain natural backgrounds, say, that of forest, a traveling cloak, similarly configured, and the bootlike sandals common to soldiers, and travelers. At his waist was a belt with pouch and knife. On his back, slung in straps, was an ax, long-handled, but of a size manageable by a human. A pack, which might be shoulder slung, to lie at the left hip, had been left at the stable gate. From his left hand dangled a pair of light slave bracelets, and the loops of a chain leash.

  She went to first obeisance position.

  She heard the attendant summoned and, in moments, heard the key turn in the two locks which secured the cage. The door was then swung open; she saw the shadows of the bars moving on the wooden floor.

  She saw before her the two heavy sandals. They had thick straps, wound high about the legs, almost to the knees. They had a blunt, brutal look about them.

  She lifted her head a little, saw his eyes, and then put her head down, again, quickly.

  She saw that he was to be addressed, as only a slave would address a master.

  There was so much she wanted to say to him, to tell him, to explain to him, to make clear to him, to pour out to him.

  He must understand her.

  She must make him understand her!

  "May I speak, Master?” she whispered.

  "No,” he said.

  The first day in the forest, Ramar, the great sleen, had joined them. To her terror, and horror, she had been put on her back on the leaves, and the sleen, at Cabot's urging, had taken her scent. She felt the hot breath of the beast on her body, the hairy snout, the licking tongue, the inhaling nostrils. She cried out with misery, and squirmed, and was turned, and positioned, in one manner or another, to facilitate the beast's work. “Oh!” she protested. “Oh!” And then again, “Oh!” and “Oh!” And then, “Please, no! Please, no! Oh! Oh!�
�� “Be silent, slave,” she was told. And the beast continued its work. Then she was again supine, and the beast was to the side, and Cabot stood over her, looking down on her. Her scent had been taken, as a slave's scent is taken. She felt raped. But, did she not know she was a slave?

  Cabot then crouched beside her, and took her by one arm, its hand braceleted behind her. He looked to Ramar, and then shook the slave, and said, “Cecily, Cecily."

  She looked at Cabot, with horror.

  This was a name she despised, a name fit, in her view, only for a shopgirl. Too, she knew, by now, that it would be recognized in Gorean markets as an Earth-girl name, the sort of name to be fastened on only the lowest and most degraded of slaves. Such names are sometimes given to Gorean slaves as punishment names. Gorean men often bid intensely for Earth girls, but not because they wish to show them respect, and such. Rather they want to have on their chain one of the lowest and most helplessly delicious of slaves.

  "Your scent has been taken,” said Cabot to the slave. “Too, it has been associated with a particular name. The purpose of this should be clear. The name, together with a given command, initiates the sleen's behavior. For example, given the “kill” command the sleen will locate and destroy the quarry, given a “drive” command, it will conduct the quarry to a predetermined location, or, if the quarry should prove recalcitrant, tear it to pieces. There are other commands, too, as you may suspect, but most are obvious, and I decline to make clear their nature. If you understand the purport of what I am saying, nod affirmatively."

  The slave, miserable, nodded, affirmatively.

  "What is your name?” asked Cabot.

  The slave looked at him.

  Then she said, tears in her eyes, “Cecily, Master,” adding “—if it pleases Master.” Then she blurted out, weeping, “May I speak, Master?"

  "No,” he said. “You will relieve yourself, and then sleep."

  "Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  "There,” he said, pointing.

  "Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  He then fastened her to a tree by the chain leash, bade her recline, and placed a blanket over her.