Captive of Gor

by John Norman

  It had been as obvious as crawling on my knees to the bars of a small slave cage and extending my arms imploringly to him!

  "A smelly, dirty little Kajira, with pierced ears, who steals meat from peasant villages?" he asked.

  I groaned.

  "I would not even put you with my women," he said.

  I closed my eyes.

  I realized then that such a warrior had undoubtedly captured many women, that many beauties, both slave and free, before me, and doubtless after me, would, as bound prizes, helplessly grace his saddle. Among such riches, I, Elinor Brinton, realized that to such a man, a warrior, a tarnsman among tarnsmen, I was of little account, only another girl and perhaps a poor sort of one at that. He had little more interest in me than in a piece of meat, which he had captured and tied.

  "You should be sold to a peddler," he said. "Or I should have left you in the peasant village. Peasants know well how to treat thieving wenches."

  "Please sell me in Ar," I begged. "I am white silk."

  He looked at me. I could see the mouth grinning.

  I shuddered.

  "You are unworthy of being sold in Ar," he said. "Perhaps you might be sold at a smaller town, a village, or a border outpost."

  "Please," I begged.

  "I will dispose of you as I wish," he said. "Now be silent on the matter."

  I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them, I saw him regarding me. He was grinning.

  "I am white silk!" I cried. "I will bring a higher price if I am sold white silk!"

  "You mistake me, Lady," said he, courteously, "if you think that I am interested only in gold."

  "No!" I cried. "No!"

  He bent to undo the lashings at my ankles.

  I screamed, helplessly.

  Suddenly, before he had even touched the lashings at my ankles, he turned about, abruptly, in the saddle.

  A crossbow bolt flashed by, like a swift, hissing needle in the sky.

  In one moment, as I screamed, terrified, thrown rudely against my bonds, he had jerked his shield from the saddle straps and wheeled the tarn, with a cry of rage, a strange war cry, to face his foe.

  He was met with another war cry, and suddenly, only feet from us, another tarn streaked past, and I heard the forcible, tearing scrape of a broad, bronze spear blade, its blow turned, sliding across the metal-bound, layered, boskhide shield of my captor.

  The other tarn streaked away, and its rider, standing in his stirrups, braced in the saddle, held to it by the broad safety strap, was redrawing his crossbow, a quarrel held in his teeth.

  My captor attacked, giving him no instant in which to set again his bow.

  When only yards separated us, the other man flung away his bow and quarrel, seizing up his shield. My captor, standing in his stirrups, flung his own great spear. It struck the other's shield, piercing it. If the other man had not been fastened in his saddle by the great strap the force of my captor's blow would have struck him from the saddle. As it was, it spun him, tearing the shield from his arm.

  He cursed. "For Skjern!" he cried.

  The two tarns wheeled again, for another passage.

  Again the other's spear struck, and again the blow was countered by my captor's shield. I again heard the terrible, startling scrape of the spear blade diverted by the seven-layered, metal-bound boskhide shield. Twice more the attacker pressed in, and each time, again, the shield turned the blow, once but inches from my body. My captor was trying to close with him, to bring him within the range of his own steel, his now-drawn, swift, unadorned blade.

  Again the spear struck, but this time my captor took the point in the shield. I, bound, saw, suddenly, the bronze point, a foot of it, inches from my face, explode through the hide. I screamed. My captor then wheeled away, the other, his blade now drawn, trying to press close. My captor had wished to rid his enemy of the spear, because of its reach, but, to do so, his own defense was impaired. With incredible strength, his sword dangling from its wrist strap, commonly used by tarnsmen in flight, I saw him withdraw the spear from the shield, but at the same time the other's tarn struck ours, and his blade, flashing downwards, struck the heavy shaft of the spear, splintering it, half severing it. He struck again and the spear shaft, with a scattering of wood, split apart. My captor now thrust his shield before him, and over my body. I heard the blade of the other strike twice, ringing on the metal hoops of the shield that guarded me. Then my captor again had his sword in his grip, but the other dragged his tarn upward, cursing, and its long, curved talons raked downwards, clutching for us. I heard the talons tear across the shield. My captor was thrusting upward, to keep the bird away. Then its talons locked over the shield and it smote its wings, ripping the shield straps, half tearing my captor from the saddle, and the tarn was away, the shield then dropping like a penny, turning, toward the field below.

  "Yield her!" I heard the cry.

  "Her price is steel!" was the answer that met the attacker.

  Bound, I screamed, helplessly.

  Then the tarns swooped together again, side by side, saddle to saddle, while blades flashed over my head, in a swift dialogue of steel, debating my possession.

  I screamed.

  The tarns then, rearing up in the sky, facing one another, began to tear at one another with their beaks and talons, and then, talons locked, they began, beaks snapping and tearing, to twist and roll, turning, locked together, falling, climbing, tumbling, wings beating, screaming in rage.

  I was thrown one way and the other, violently, helplessly. Sometimes it seemed I was standing as the tarn would veer, or hanging head downwards as it would veer, turning wildly, in another direction. When it spun onto its back, tearing upwards at its foe, I hung stomach downwards, my full weight on the lashings, seeing in terror the earth hundreds of feet below.

  The men fought to regain control of their mounts.

  And then again, saddle to saddle, they fought, and once more steel flashed about my face and body. My ears, had they been tongues, would have screamed for mercy. Sparks from the steel stung my body.

  Then, suddenly, with a cry of rage, of frustration, the blade of the other struck downwards toward my face. My captor's steel interposed itself. I saw the broad blade of his sword but an inch from my face, for one terrifying instant of immobility, the other's blade, edge downward, resting on it, stopped. The blow would have cut my face in two.

  There was blood on my face. I did not know whose it was, even if it might be mine.

  "Sleen!" cried my captor. "I have played with you enough."

  Once more, over my head, there was a flash of steel, and I heard a cry of pain, and then suddenly the other tarn veered sharply away, and I saw its rider, clutching his shoulder, reeling in the saddle.

  His tarn spun crazily, and then, a hundred yards away, to one side and below us, turned and fled.

  My captor did not pursue him.

  I looked up at my captor, the tarnsman whose lashings bound me.

  I still lay before him, over the saddle, his.

  He looked down upon me, and laughed. I turned my head away.

  He turned his tarn and we continued our journey. I had seen that his left arm, high, above the elbow, about two inches below the shoulder, had been cut. It had been blood from this cut which had struck my face.

  Soon, unable to resist, I turned again, in my bonds, to look upon my captor.

  The cut was not serious.

  It had already stopped bleeding, the fierce wind having clotted the blood in a ragged line. On the left side of his arm, running from the wound, there were several almost horizontal, reddish lines, where, but moments before, tiny trickles of blood, unable to flow downward, had been whipped backward by the wind.

  He saw me looking at him, and grinned.

  I looked up at the sky. It was very blue, and there were white clouds.

  "That was your friend," he said.

  I looked at him.

  "Haakon of Skjern," he said.

  H
e looked down upon me.

  I was frightened.

  "How is it you know of Haakon of Skjern?" he asked.

  "I was his preferred slave," I said. "I fled."

  We flew on, not speaking.

  Then, after perhaps a quarter of an Ahn, I asked, "May a girl speak?"

  "Yes," he said.

  "To be the preferred slave of a man such as Haakon of Skjern, who is rich and powerful, you must understand that I am unusual, quite beautiful and skilled."

  "I see," he said.

  "Accordingly," I said, "I should be sold in Ar. And, further, since I am white silk, I should not be used. My price will be higher if I am sold white silk."

  "It is unusual, I would suppose," said the man, "for the preferred slave of a man such as Haakon of Skjern to be white silk."

  I reddened, all of me, before him.

  "Say to me the alphabet," he said.

  I did not know the Gorean alphabet. I could not read. Elinor Brinton, on Gor, was ignorant and illiterate.

  "I do not know the alphabet," I confessed.

  "An illiterate slave girl," said the man. "Further, your accent marks you as barbarian."

  "But I am trained!" I cried.

  "I know," he said, "in the pens of Ko-ro-ba."

  I looked at him, dumbfounded.

  "Further," he said, "you have never belonged to Haakon of Skjern."

  "Oh yes!" I cried. "I did!"

  His eyes became suddenly hard. "Haakon of Skjern is my enemy," he said. "If you were truly his preferred slave, it is your misfortune to have fallen into my hands. I shall have much sport with you."

  "I lied," I whispered. "I lied."

  "Now you lie," he said, sternly, "to save your flesh from the irons and the whips."

  "No!" I cried.

  "On the other hand," he said, "if you were indeed his preferred slave, doubtless you would bring a high price in Ar, and would be much bid for by rich gentlemen."

  I was in anguish. "Warrior," I said, "I was truly, I confess, the favored slave of Haakon of Skjern, but I fled from him, so do not be cruel to me!"

  "What is the fate of a slave girl who lies?" he asked me.

  "Whatever the master wishes," I whispered.

  "What would you do if one of your slaves lied?" he asked.

  "I—I would beat her," I said.

  "Excellent," he said. Then he looked down at me. His eyes were not pleasant. "What is the name of the lieutenant of Haakon of Skjern?" he asked.

  I writhed in the lashings. "Do not beat me!" I begged. "Do not beat me!"

  He laughed.

  "You are El-in-or," he said, "who was the slave of Targo, of the Village of Clearus, in the realm of Tor. In the pens it was well known that you did not clean your cage, and that you were a liar and a thief." He slapped my belly. "Yes," he said, "I have quite a catch here. What could it be about you that I could have found of interest?"

  "You have seen me before?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  "My beauty?" I asked.

  He laughed. "There are many beautiful women," he said.

  I felt weak before him.

  "Then," I whispered, "it is your intention to put me in your collar?"

  "Yes," he said.

  I closed my eyes. I knew then that I, Elinor Brinton, of Earth, would wear the degrading, locked metal collar of a Gorean slave girl, this man's, the collar of this brute who had captured me, and that I, Elinor Brinton, though once a free human female of Earth, would soon belong to him, totally, by all the rights and laws of Gor. I would be completely his, to do with as he pleased. I would be his female slave.

  I looked again upon him. How strong he seemed.

  I thought for a moment how privileged I would be, Elinor Brinton, only an Earth girl, to wear the collar of such a man.

  But how frightful to be in a collar!

  But I knew that from the first moments, when he had bound me across his saddle, I wanted his collar.

  Yes, I wanted to wear his collar!

  Oh, how I would try to serve him well.

  How terrible to be a collared slave!

  But it is not, really, of course, you know.

  To be sure, we must fear, and we are helpless.

  Can the free women of Earth understand how we love our collars? They have perhaps never worn one.

  It is not terrible, really, at all, to wear a collar.

  We do not find it so.

  Rather it is a great pleasure to wear your master's collar, and know that you belong to him.

  Slavery puts an end to a woman's "identity crisis," if one may speak so. She needs to search for her "self" no longer. It is pulled forth, stripped, and shown to her. In the collar she will be under no delusions as to what she is. Her position in the society is clear, socially, institutionally, and legally. She is slave. A thousand customs and protocols define her, and in the order of nature. Her garmenture is prescribed for her, and must be of certain sorts. She must be clearly identifiable. She is to be clearly aware of, and respect and employ, the postures, attitudes, positions, and such required of her. Deference and obedience are essential. Too, of course, she is marked, and collared. If she is displeasing, she must expect punishment. Free women are never punished, but she is not a free woman. She must know how, too, to do little things, like kiss a man's feet properly, how to bring him, on all fours, in her mouth, the slave whip, and such. Domestic chores, of course, are also expected of her, cooking, sewing, dusting, laundering, cleaning, and so on. Perhaps, most importantly, she is expected to serve well "in the furs." If she does not do so she must expect the strap or lash. Too, some masters think it useful to tie and whip her occasionally, even if she is a model slave, simply to remind her of what she is, that she is a slave. There are manuals on the care and management of female slaves, as there are on various other forms of stock. Passion is, of course, expected of her. But this is not a problem as bondage muchly intensifies and increases the frequency, extent, and depth of a woman's sexual needs. There is no other condition which puts a woman so helplessly in a man's power and thus makes her so dependent on him for the satisfaction of her newly discovered, painfully aroused needs. Once the "slave fires" begin to burn in her belly she is locked in chains of need more obdurate than those of iron; periodically then she must beg the master, subtly or not, implicitly or explicitly, for the release of her tensions.

  Rather, it is glorious to wear a collar, glorious to know that one has been found beautiful enough, and desirable enough, for a collar; how reassuring and flattering that one is such that a man would deign to collar one, that he would look upon one, and find one, that one, worthy of enslavement.

  Is this so hard to understand? I wonder. Does not every man, in his heart, long for his slave? Does not every woman, in her heart, long for her master?

  What an amazing tribute to the beauty and desirability of a woman, that she has been found worthy of a collar.

  How angry, how resentful, must free women be, at the sight of a female slave!

  Who could blame them, seeing the exposure of her beauty, and knowing how she must obey?

  Too, we must understand the nature of the Gorean male, who finds women so attractive, so maddeningly desirable, that nothing less than their complete possession will satisfy him.

  He is fond of them; he decides that he will own them.

  I wonder how many women of Earth are so powerfully desired, desired so avidly, so greedily, so rapaciously, are so ferociously wanted, that nothing less will satisfy the male than having her fully, than having the literal owning of her.

  How many women of Earth, I wonder, know what it is to be loved to that extent.

  Beside the hearty, unapologetic, magnificent lust of the Gorean male the sexual desires of the typical man of Earth, confused, sexually reduced, defeated, are, I fear, mild indeed. I wonder if the typical man of Earth could even understand the passion of the Gorean male.

  He is not interested in working out "meaningful sexual relationships," but
in placing his woman, as he wishes, in the most meaningful of sexual relationships, bondage. He is not interested in treating her as a pretended equal, but in putting her to his feet, before him, in her place, naked and chained. He is not concerned with contractual niceties designed to cripple and stunt his manhood but with biological realities.

  The Gorean man desires to own his female, to possess her absolutely, to have all power over her, to have her, hurrying and kneeling, at his beck and call.

  I do not evaluate these matters, but report them as cultural facts.

  Gorean slave girls, statistically, despite their vulnerability, their helplessness, and the degradation in which their culture holds them, seem to be the happiest of women, radiant and liberated, certainly muchly different from their frustrated, petulant sisters of Earth, alienated from the biotruths of nature, embonded to barren sterilities, the true slaves of alien values.

  The collar is a badge of beauty, a tribute to the desirability of a woman.

  It is no wonder free women hate us so.

  We are fulfilled, and the men are fulfilled, each in our own way. It is no wonder then that the masters refuse to relinquish their power; nor do we wish them to do so; we are women; our collars are too precious to us; it is precious to us to kneel and obey.

  But, too, we fear the lash.

  How could we respect a man who is too weak to keep us in line, to keep us in the place we desire to be?

  "You sought me?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said. He grinned down upon me. "I have hunted you for days."

  I turned my head to the side in misery. Even when I had thought myself most free, after the escape from Targo, after betraying Ute, and escaping in the Ka-la-na thicket, this beast, with his laugh, his leather rope, and his slave collar, had been upon my trail. He had marked me for his collar, and his pleasure.

  How could I, a mere girl, have hoped to elude him, such a man, such a huntsman?

  "You saw me in the pens of Ko-ro-ba?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Who are you?" I asked.

  "Do you not know me?" he asked.

  "No," I said, turning to face him.