by John Norman
"Agamemnon is shrewd,” said Cabot. “The devising of such a trap would be well within his ken."
"How would he have known where to lay it, and when?” asked Statius.
"I do not know,” said Cabot.
"The Lady Bina,” said Statius, “fled the camp, days ago."
"Aii!” said Cabot, softly.
"It is true,” said Lord Grendel.
"She had overheard our plans,” said Statius.
"How could she escape from the camp,” asked Cabot. “Was she not belled. Was she not chained at night?"
"She slipped away from the camp master, before her chaining, perhaps with the assistance of a confederate,” said Statius. “As her hands were not bound behind her, as in our treks, she could hold the bell silent."
"You suspect her of revealing our plans?” said Cabot.
"Certainly,” said Statius.
"Agamemnon might have foreseen such an attack,” said Cabot.
"There was treachery, clearly,” said Lord Grendel. “Intelligence had described the security at the arsenal. It was only after the escape of the Lady Bina, and shortly prior to our attack, that it seemed to change, as though Agamemnon had decided at last, in virtue of our weakness, that such precautions were no longer necessary."
"And the ambush was laid,” said Cabot.
"In all its deadliness,” said Statius.
"Perhaps she is innocent,” said Cabot.
"It would not be the first time she has betrayed Kurii and others to Agamemnon,” said Lord Grendel.
"We will have her blood,” said Statius.
"Even now,” said Lord Grendel, “in robes and veils of beauty, she doubtless banquets with Agamemnon."
"We do not know that,” said Cabot.
"I do not think we will see her again,” said Lord Grendel.
"If we do,” said Statius, “it will be the privilege of Lord Grendel to gouge out and roast the first ounce of her flesh, to be eaten before her eyes."
With proper surgical attention this mode of execution can be extended over several days, before the more grievous tortures are inflicted, with the needles, and irons, the tiny flames, the dollops of acid, and such.
"I will defend her, to the death,” said Lord Grendel.
"She is guilty,” said Statius.
"Yes,” said Lord Grendel.
"Then, dear friend,” said Statius, “you will die with her."
"It is not clear she is guilty,” said Cabot.
"Why do you say that?” asked Statius.
"I do not know,” said Cabot. “It is something which continues to elude me, a small something, a something I cannot place, a something that has troubled me, like a whisper not really heard, now and again."
"Perhaps,” said Statius, “when, at the side of Agamemnon, in regalia, a tiara upon her brow, she presides over a thousand executions, those of our fellows, Kur and human, you might be convinced."
"Doubtless,” said Cabot.
"Do you love her?” asked Statius.
"No,” said Cabot. “But in my way I am fond of her. Another may love her."
"Who?” asked Statius.
"Another,” said Cabot.
"Lord Grendel?” said Statius.
"Perhaps,” said Cabot.
"The evidence, the incidents, the circumstances, a thousand details, are incontrovertible,” said Statius.
"Perhaps,” said Cabot.
"We will take you to the surface,” said Lord Grendel. “My dear Statius, will you gather the weapons."
"Yes,” said Statius.
Chapter, the Forty-Eighth:
THE AMNESTY
"You hear it?” said Lord Grendel.
"Of course,” said Cabot.
Interestingly, the message was in both Kur and Gorean.
The world rang with the words of Agamemnon, pronouncing peace and amnesty.
"There is little food left,” said Cabot.
"Do not feed me, Master,” said Lita.
"Take this,” said Cabot, pressing a rind of sul into her hands, and she put down her head and fed on it, kneeling, gratefully, her hair falling about her wrists.
How beautiful they are, thought Cabot. How desirable they are. How natural that men will take them, and make them their own, and put them in collars.
Lord Grendel's group was now small, consisting of some dozen Kurii, and some seven humans.
They were deep in the forested areas between the habitats and the far villages, those toward the far pole, and Lake Fear.
"We cannot run forever,” said a Kur.
The rebellion, or insurrection, was now devastated, the revolutionary groups decimated, and scattered, in flight, pursued.
Hundreds, both Kur and human, had responded to the conciliations offered by Agamemnon.
"We had eight power weapons,” said a Kur.
These were the weapons which had been acquired by Lords Grendel and Statius, and the human, Tarl Cabot, in the vicinity of the far pole, that beyond the small villages.
"Agamemnon has hundreds,” said a Kur.
"Go, pledge fidelity to him,” said another.
"Should we not have kept them all?” asked a human, Archon, now skilled with the bow.
"I think not,” said Lord Grendel.
The reasoning had been rather as follows. The eight weapons would doubtless have made one of the insurrectionary groups more formidable than otherwise, say, that of Lord Grendel, but presumably the eight such weapons would have been of little avail against the full, massed power which might be brought against them by a reasonably large contingent of enemy forces, and, of course, given such an arrangement, concentrating the weapons in a single group, the other rebels’ groups, now distributed, now muchly out of touch with one another, would have remained as before, limited to their original primitive, simple weaponry, sticks, spears, axes, knives, and such, and more dangerously, of course, and more happily for them, the arrow. Indeed, the arrow, loosed from the great bow, remained a not unformidable tool, even against foes equipped with a more sophisticated weaponry. It had then been decided, shortly after the defeats of the preceding days, on a variety of fronts, that eight of the several groups, of which Lord Grendel's was one, would have one weapon apiece, this at least, hopefully, acting as some deterrent for several of the groups, or bands, against a too rash approach by the forces of Agamemnon. Some thought had been given to the concentration of the eight weapons for a raid on the palace itself, but it was soon understood that the palace was not only closely guarded, but was, for most practical purposes, impregnable. Accordingly the weapons had been allotted amongst eight groups, of which Lord Grendel's was one. In his group, the power weapon, a shoulder rifle, in this case, to use a convenient term, one with several charges remaining, had been given into the keeping of the scout, Flavion. This seemed judicious considering his frequent departures from the camp, and the likely dangers of his encountering Purple Scarves.
Cabot was fond of his bow, and Lord Grendel, despite his skill with the small weapon, tended to prefer the weight of a Kur ax.
"How many have accepted the amnesty?” asked a Kur.
"Hundreds, I have heard,” said another. “They stream to the habitats, to surrender their weapons."
"Who would not do so?” asked another.
"Some, it seems,” said another.
Their eyes turned to the figure of their leader, large, as silent as rock, crouching back on his haunches, in Kur repose.
"Lord Grendel?” asked the first.
"Leave, if you will,” said Lord Grendel. “Your departure will not be challenged."
"You will not hunt, and kill us?"
"No,” said Grendel.
"Come with us,” urged another.
"No,” said Grendel.
"The amnesty is for all, Kur and human,” said one of the Kurii.
"Things will be as before,” said another.
"Agamemnon is tired of war,” said another. “The war is done. He grants mercy, and forgiveness to a
ll."
"To all,” said another, “even to those who most fiercely opposed him."
"It is his desire to return peace to the world,” said another.
"I do not doubt it,” said Lord Grendel.
"Come with us, Lord Grendel,” said another.
"No,” said Lord Grendel.
Chapter, the Forty-Ninth:
TRACKS
"Hold,” said Lord Grendel, nostrils flaring.
He and Cabot were some pasangs from their concealed camp.
"There,” said Grendel, “where the brush is awry. Set an arrow to your bow."
Cabot lowered the slain tarsk from his shoulders, and readied the great bow.
Half bent, head moving from side to side, ears erected, Grendel warily approached an opening in the brush.
"What is it?” whispered Cabot.
"Kur, Purple Scarf,” said Grendel. “Part of a Kur, part of a Purple Scarf."
Cabot looked about, and joined his friend.
"It was killed in the open, and then dragged here, see the track, to be hidden from view."
"It is half buried,” said Cabot.
"Sleen,” said Grendel.
"Yes,” said Cabot. The forest panther sometimes drags its prey into a tree, presumably to keep it safe from smaller predators, or from scavengers. The larl will often sleep in the vicinity of prey half eaten, thusly guarding it. Who would challenge a larl? Smaller beasts wait patiently, until it abandons its prey, and stalks away in its disinterested, lordly fashion. The sleen will commonly drag prey to a concealed location, where it may feed undisturbed, in solitude. Sometimes it buries part of the meat. The sleen is commonly nocturnal, usually emerging from its lair, or burrow, at night. It is in its way a single-minded beast and will follow a trail on which it has begun even through the midst of similar or different, even more desirable, prey animals. It is Gor's finest tracker. A common application of the sleen on Gor is the hunting of fugitive slaves.
"It is not the first,” said Cabot.
"No,” said Grendel.
"We have had foragers in this area, humans,” said Cabot. “None have been attacked."
"I do not understand,” said Grendel.
"Only Kurii have been killed,” said Cabot.
"It makes no sense,” said Grendel.
"It is almost as though the camp were being guarded,” said Cabot.
"Absurd,” said Grendel.
"Look,” said Cabot. “Here!” He pointed to the soft earth. “Tracks!"
"Sleen tracks,” said Grendel.
"Observe them,” said Cabot. “Closely."
"Interesting,” said Grendel.
"One track is lighter than the others,” said Cabot. “The paw barely touched the ground."
"The rear paw of the left side,” said Grendel.
"You understand this?” said Cabot.
"Certainly,” said Grendel. “It is lame."
Chapter, the Fiftieth:
THE HAND OF AGAMEMNON IS PLAYED,
BUT PERHAPS NOT WISELY
"I am thinking,” said Cabot to Lita, “of having you conducted to the theater of amnesty, in the habitats, where you might be spared, as the goods you are, later with others to be distributed or sold."
"Please, no, Master!” she cried, falling to her knees before him, and pressing her head to his feet.
Through her hair he glimpsed the collar on her neck, his collar. It is interesting, he thought, how one can grow fond of them, though they are only slaves, no more than domestic animals.
"You might then live,” he said.
"I would remain with you,” she wept.
"It is highly unlikely you would be slain,” he said, “as you are nicely curved, and would have value in the markets of Gor."
"Keep me!” she begged.
"It is only a matter of time until we are located and destroyed,” said Cabot. “I see no need for you to die, too."
"You care for me!” she cried.
His body tightened with anger.
How dare she so speak? What arrant presumption!
"Impudent, impertinent, presumptuous slut!” he cried.
"Master!” she cried.
With his foot he spurned her suddenly, angrily, violently, to the ground.
"Forgive me, Master,” she whispered, frightened, tears in her eyes, from her side on the earth.
How dare she, a slave, an article of goods, think that her master might care for her?
Did she not know what she was?
Or, more judiciously, more carefully put, how dare she suggest such a thing? Many a woman has been bound, hooded, and leashed, and conducted weeping to a market for such an indiscretion.
This is not to deny, of course, that many a slave is well aware of her place in a master's heart, even that he might die for her. Doubtless neither, neither slave nor master, have planned it so, but so it not unoften comes about. Is it so strange? That a slave might love her master, that a master might care for his slave? Might she not, to some extent, have brought this about, perhaps lamentably, by her beauty, her helplessness, her heat, her love, her devotion, her selfless service? Too, is she not, after all, a perfection of a female for a man, a slave, what he most desires and wants, something far beyond what he might obtain from a free woman? In a collar she is, after all, a creature of love. Is the collar itself not a symbol of this? That she exists for love? So, kneeling, needful, submitted, her own love opened like a flower, she begins to hope that something of her own feelings, so deep, so profound, so overwhelming, might be reciprocated, if only to a tiny extent, by her master. Scarcely had she dared hope for this that night when, to the double stroke of a whip, she was dragged in chains from the auction block. And as time passes she begins, fearfully, trying to conceal her joy, to suspect it may be so. Has her master not, for example, of late become less patient and more strict with her, as though he might be fighting something within himself, something unwelcome, which he was unwilling to acknowledge? Surely she must now strive to do nothing which might cause him to rid himself of her. She is well aware that he would be subjected to the scorn of his peers, did they, in amusement, suspect that he might care for a slave. But might they not, some of them, in the secrecy of their own domiciles, be as deplorably guilty in this regard? Certainly the joy, the radiance, of many slaves, encountered in the markets and streets, suggested that. But she is well aware that, given the man he is, she has much more to fear from his own possible self reproach than from the jibes of others. His sense of himself, of what is proper for him, might be her greatest danger. She feels vulnerable. She may be sold on a whim. She redoubles her efforts to be his humble, pleasing slave. Surely she strives to be acceptable to him, and wholly, as she must, and desires, in the way of the slave. And of course there is no diminishment in her slave fires. Does she not, eagerly and piteously, driven by her aroused needs, as before, crawl to his slave ring, soliciting his least touch? Even were he a cruel and hated master, even of an enemy city, she could not help but behave so. Men had seen to it. But, now, even well away from the slave ring, when he returns from his labors and she welcomes him, kneeling, looking up at him, to his domicile, when she serves his supper or wine, when he observes her polishing his leather, when he orders her to light the lamp of love, has there not been something different about him, perhaps a slightly different light in his eyes? So she suspects now, as she moves before him, subtly provoking his desire, as though unintentionally, as before, as the slave she is, as she serves, that he may have begun to care for her, despite the fact that she is only a submitted, vanquished property, a slave. It is one thing, of course, in all of this, for a slave, scarcely daring to hope, grateful and rejoicing, to understand, to suspect, how she may have now come to be regarded by her master, and quite another to speak of it. Is this not a secret, not to be spoken, though possibly shared, however reluctantly on the part of the master? She will, of course, continue to kneel and serve, and please. And if she does not please, she knows she will feel the lash, as any othe
r girl, and she would have it no other way, for she is proud of her master and his strength, proud to be owned by such a man. He is her master.
"Do not forget yourself,” he said. “You are not a free woman. You are an animal, a branded domestic animal, a meaningless work and love beast, purchasable, a thing to be set to labors, a passion toy, a sexual plaything, something to be exploited at the master's will, for his pleasure."
"Yes, Master,” she wept.
"If spared, some others might get some good from you."
"Yes, Master,” she whispered. And then she cried out with misery, and crawled to his feet, her head down. “Keep me!” she sobbed. “Keep me, please, Master!"
"I have decided the matter,” said Cabot. “You will be bound, and leashed, and taken from the camp. If necessary, you will be whipped from the camp."
"Master has never whipped me!” she said.
"I am prepared to do so,” said Cabot.
"Surely not, Master!” she said.
Cabot turned to Archon, and another. “Strip and tie her,” he said. “And bring me a whip."
"Master!” she protested.
In moments the slave, stripped, her wrists crossed and bound, and fastened over her head, to a stout, overhanging branch, that her beauty might be protected, that she might not be dashed against a post or tree trunk, was in whip position.
She looked wildly back at Cabot. “Have I not been pleasing?” she asked. “I have tried to be pleasing, my Master!"
"The whip has been uncoiled,” he said.
She moaned.
"Hark!” said a Kur, suddenly, lifting his paw.
Lord Grendel sprang to his feet.
"Someone is coming!” said a Kur.
Cabot cast the whip to the dirt.
All eyes turned toward the gate of the small camp.
A voice came through the palings. It was registered on Cabot's translator. “For Lord Arcesilaus,” it said.
"It is Lord Flavion,” said Grendel. “Open the gate!"
Flavion, armed, staggered into the camp. Behind him straggled a dozen or more humans, some helmeted, all garmented in cloth.
"Peisistratus!” exclaimed Cabot.