Captive of Gor

by John Norman

  "Ho!" cried one of the warriors, and their exercises were finished.

  I turned and fled away.

  I went to examine the palisade about the camp. It was some twelve feet high and of sharpened logs.

  I traced its interior perimeter.

  I put my fingers and hands on the logs, which had been smoothed, and were closely fitted together. I looked up at the points, so far above my head. I could not have scaled the wall. I was closed within.

  I continued to walk about the inside wall. I avoided this only where the tarn compound adjoined it.

  Soon I had arrived at the gate.

  It, too, was of logs, though here they were separated somewhat. It was a double gate, with, in effect, log bars. It was shut, two beams in brackets, chained, locking it. To my surprise I saw that there was another gate, though of solid logs, beyond that one, and that the camp was ringed, actually, with a double palisade. The exterior palisade had a catwalk, for defending the wall. The interior palisade, on the side of the camp, was without a catwalk. I was angry. The exterior wall permitted them defense. The interior wall, high and smooth, a quite effective barrier, served well to keep their slaves within. I was furious.

  "You will not escape," had said Ena.

  "Girls may not linger by the gate," said a guard.

  "Yes, Master," I said, and turned away.

  How furious I was!

  I continued to walk about the wall. At one point I found a tiny door, no more than eighteen inches in height. It was such that one man, at a time, could crawl through it. And it, too, was secured, fastened shut with two heavy chains and locks. And it, too, was guarded.

  I saw that I could not, even by standing on the chains, remotely approach the top of the palisade. I imagined myself standing on my toes and stretching my arms and fingers. My fingers would have still been several feet beneath the points. It was so futile!

  I was well imprisoned within.

  "Move on, Girl," said the guard.

  "Yes, Master," I said, and again turned away.

  "You will not escape," had said Ena.

  Tomorrow I, Elinor Brinton, would be collared!

  I then began to walk through the camp. I saw the tents and the fires, and the men talking, and the girls about their tasks. I hated men. They made us work! Why did they not do their own cooking, and polish their own leather, and go to the stream or the washing shed and wash their own clothes? They did not do so because they did not wish to do so. They made girls do their work! I hated men. They dominated us and exploited us!

  I found, in one place in the camp, a grassy area, on a slight hill. There was a heavy metal ring there, near the top of the slight hill. It was fixed in a heavy stone, buried level with the grass.

  In another place I found a horizontal pole, itself set on two pairs of poles, leaning together and lashed at the top. It was, I gathered, a pole for hanging meat. Oddly enough, there was also an iron ring, set in a stone, buried in the ground, beneath the center of the horizontal pole. Off to one side, in an open area there was a small iron box, a square of some three feet in dimension. In the front of the box there was a small iron door, with two slits in it. One, near the top, was about seven inches in width and about a half inch in height; the other, its top formed by a rectangular opening in the bottom of the door, its bottom formed by the iron floor of the box, was about a foot wide and two inches in height. The door could be closed with two heavy, flat, sliding bolts, and locked with two padlocks. I wondered what could be kept in such a box.

  I continued to walk about the camp.

  In one place I found a long, low shed, formed of heavy logs. It was windowless. Its heavy plank door was locked with two hasps and staples, secured by two heavy padlocks. I supposed it a storage shed.

  My steps now, inadvertently, took me toward the center of the camp.

  I stood before a large, low tent of scarlet canvas, suspended on eight poles. Inside, through the opened tent flap, I could see the scarlet canvas was lined with silk. It was a low tent, and only near its center could a man walk upright. Inside, in a brass pan, there was a small fire of coals. Over the coals, on a tripod, there was, warming, a small metal wine bowl. Warriors of Treve, I had heard, had a fondness for warm wines. I supposed that Rask of Treve might have his wine so. It seemed strange to me to think of such tarnsmen, such brutal, wild men, caring for such a small pleasantry. Too, I had heard, they were fond of combing the hair of their slave girls. Cities and men, I thought, are so strange, so different. I suspected there were few men as fierce and terrible as those of Treve, dreaded throughout Gor, and yet they enjoyed their wine warmed and were fond of so simple a thing as smoothing the hair of a girl. Inside, the tent was floored with heavy, soft rugs, from Tor and Ar, perhaps the booty of caravan raids. And, within, from extensions of certain of the tent poles, there hung, on hooks, burning tharlarion-oil lamps of brass. It was a bit chilly tonight. And it was growing dark now. The interior of the tent seemed inviting, redly warm and dark. I put the thought from my mind that I wished I was within that tent. I wondered what it would be like to lie within such a tent, naked and collared, on its soft rugs, in the light of the small fire, the tent flaps tied shut, completely at the mercy of its master. Against its far wall I could see great chests, heavy and bound with iron, filled doubtless with a raider's abundant booty, gems and golden wire, and necklaces and coins, and pearls, and jewelries, and bracelets and bangles, set perhaps with precious stones, which might serve to adorn the limbs of exquisite female slaves. Much booty was there. And I reminded myself that I, too, as much as any coin or precious cup in such a chest, or in this entire camp, was booty. I, too, was booty. I wondered, too, if those chests might contain the light, precious chains of silver and gold, wrought by slavers so cunningly, to hold a girl in given positions, while she was subdued at a master's leisure. I trembled. And I wondered, too, if they might contain nose rings, and if one would be put on me. I shuddered.

  "Whose tent is this?" I asked a passing slave girl.

  "Foolish Kajira," she said, "it is the tent of Rask of Treve."

  I had known that it would be.

  Outside the entrance of the tent, squatting down, leaning on their spears, there were two guards. They were watching me.

  I stood outside the tent. Rask of Treve did not wish to see me now.

  "Be off with you," said one of the guards.

  I heard the flash of a pair of bangles and saw a dark-haired girl, the two golden bangles on her left ankle, come to the opening of the tent. She wore brief, diaphanous scarlet silk. She looked at me, and then quickly tied shut the tent flaps.

  The guard who had spoken to me rose to his feet.

  I fled away, back to the tent of the women.

  When I reached the women's tent, I flung myself down on its rugs and wept.

  Ena, who had been sewing a talmit, a headband sometimes worn by tarnsmen in flight, came to me. "What is wrong?" she asked.

  "I do not want to be a slave girl!" I wept.

  Ena held me. "It is hard to be a slave," she said.

  I sat up and held her. "Men are cruel," I said.

  "Yes," said Ena.

  "I hate them! I hate them!" I wept.

  She kissed me. She smiled.

  "May I speak?" I asked.

  "Surely," she said. "In this tent you are always free to speak."

  I looked down. "It is said," I said, "—I have heard—that Rask of Treve is a hard master."

  She smiled. "That is true," she said.

  "It is said," I blurted out, "that no man on Gor can so diminish or humble a woman as Rask of Treve."

  "I have not been diminished or humbled," said Ena. "On the other hand, if Rask of Treve wished to diminish or humble a woman, I expect he would do it quite well."

  "Suppose," I said, "a girl had been insolent, or arrogant, with him?"

  "Such a girl, doubtless," said Ena, "would then be well diminished and humbled." She laughed. "Rask of Treve would doubtless teach her her slavery
well."

  This news did not reassure me.

  I looked at her. "It is said he uses a woman but once," I wept, "and that he then, with contempt, brands her and discards her."

  "I have been used by him many times," said Ena. "Rask of Treve," she added, smiling, "is not a madman."

  "Were you branded with his name, after he used you?" I pressed.

  "No," she said, "I was branded with the mark of Treve." She smiled. "When Rask captured me I was free. It was natural that, after he had used me, had enslaved me in his arms, I should, the next day, in witness to this fact, be marked."

  "He enslaved you in his arms?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said, "in his arms I found myself a slave." She smiled. "I expect that in the arms of such a man as Rask of Treve any woman might find herself a slave."

  "Not I!" I cried.

  She smiled.

  "If a girl is already branded," I said, casually, but frightened, "she would not be again branded, would she?"

  "Commonly not," said Ena. "Though sometimes, for some reason, the mark of Treve is pressed into her flesh." She looked at me. "Sometimes, too," she said, "a girl may be branded as a punishment, and to warn others against her."

  I looked at her, puzzled.

  "Penalty brands," she said. "They are tiny, but clearly visible. There are various such brands. There is one for lying, and another for stealing."

  "I do not lie or steal," I said.

  "That is good," said Ena.

  "I have never seen the brand of Treve," I said.

  "It is rare," said Ena, proudly.

  "May I see your brand?" I asked. I was curious.

  "Of course," said Ena, and she stood up and, extending her left leg, drew her long, lovely white garment to her hip, revealing her limb.

  I gasped.

  Incised deeply, precisely, in that slim, lovely, now-bared thigh was a startling mark, beautiful, insolent, dramatically marking that beautiful thigh as that which it now could only be, that of a female slave.

  "It is beautiful," I whispered.

  Ena pulled away the clasp at the left shoulder of her garment, dropping it to her ankles.

  She was incredibly beautiful.

  "Can you read?" she asked.

  "No," I said.

  She regarded the brand. "It is the first letter, in cursive script," she said, "of the name of the city of Treve."

  "It is a beautiful mark," I said.

  She regarded the mark. "It is attractive," said she. She looked at me. Suddenly she posed as a slave girl.

  I gasped.

  "It enhances my beauty," she said.

  "Yes," I said. "Yes!" I found myself hoping, though I did not admit the thought to myself, that my brand might be as attractive on my body.

  Ena once again, gracefully, drew on her garment. "I like it," she said. She looked at me, and laughed. "So do men!" she laughed.

  I smiled.

  Then suddenly I was furious. What right had such brutes to brand us? To collar us? The Gorean right of the stronger, I told myself, to mark and claim the weaker as his own, should he choose to do so. I felt weak, and helpless. And then I was angry again, helplessly furious.

  I, the prisoner of Rask of Treve, in his war camp, struggled to control myself.

  I watched Ena close the clasp at the left shoulder of the lovely white garment, fastening it on her.

  Before she had dropped it to her ankles by loosening the clasp.

  I suddenly realized that a master might as easily undo the clasp and the garment, again, would then drop, in the same manner, about her ankles. So simply might the beautiful Ena be stripped before a master!

  Again I was angry.

  We could not even decide what we would wear; it would be decided for us, by men, and they would have us before them as they wished. We might propose garments, within the parameters permitted a slave, but it would be his decision, not ours, as to their acceptability, whether or not we would be permitted to wear them. The decision would be his. Our proposals, of course, were commonly motivated by our desire to please him. One wishes to be attractive to him. Indeed, the slave is expected, to the best of her ability, to be attractive to all men. She is, after all, in bondage. She wishes, accordingly, to be as beautiful, as desirable, as possible. She longs to come into the keeping of a man on whom she can bestow the infinite depths of her love. In many cities, a slave might not even clothe herself without first having received the permission of the master, or one acting in his stead.

  Ena knelt at one side of the tent, before an opened chest. She began to explore its contents. It was a large chest and apparently quite full. It seemed to contain linen, or such. I supposed it might contain napkins, towels, bedding, such things. She began to move various bits of cloth about, lifting some, and putting them to one side. They were small pieces of cloth, it seemed. I did not know what they were. Then she lifted one, and shook it out. I gasped. I then knew what the chest contained.

  Ena turned to look at me.

  "No," she said. "We can do better than this." She then drew forth another bit of cloth and shook it out. She then looked again at me, as though considering my hair and eye color, as though measuring me. "Better," she said. Then she said, "I wonder what sort of slave tunic the master will put you in. You have excellent legs, El-in-or. Therefore we know it will be quite short."

  "I have never worn a slave tunic," I said, "except in training."

  "What did you wear?" she asked. "You were brought in naked."

  "That is common, is it not?" I asked.

  "Oh, yes," she said.

  "Tied, stripped, over a saddle?" I asked.

  "That is not unusual," she said.

  "Was it done to you?" I asked.

  "Of course," she said.

  How beautiful I thought would have been Ena, in the straps, arched, supine, bound over the dark, oiled leather of a saddle, a tarnsman's prize, so tethered, so bared, so constrained, so helpless, so subdued.

  "A camisk," I said.

  "A camisk is fetching," she said. "But Rask of Treve prefers slave tunics on his girls."

  "His girls!" I exclaimed.

  "Yes," she said. "But I suppose there is not much to choose from between a camisk and a slave tunic. I think, however, that girls in slave tunics are raped less frequently in the streets."

  I shuddered.

  "The camisk," she said, "is perhaps better as a field garment. I wonder what your best color would be."

  "I don't want to wear a slave tunic!" I cried.

  "Consider the alternative," said Ena. "Many girls beg on their bellies, in tears, for a slave tunic. Besides, you know that a slave tunic is a lovely garment, and one that will show you off well. It is a beautiful garment. You know that."

  Yes, I knew that. And I knew that I would be an exciting marvel of a slave in such a garment. After the simple camisk, I could not wait to be exhibited in such a garment. In such a garment I knew I would be stunning, a muchly revealed, though, in a way, a demurely clad slave.

  "I see that you do," she said.

  "No!" I cried. "No!"

  How we were dressed for the pleasure of men! How distinctive, scandalous and sensual was the garb permitted us. Even the common slave tunic often had a disrobing loop at the left shoulder, that it would be convenient for a right-handed male.

  There would be no confusing us with free women. Free women had ambivalent attitudes toward the garmenture of slaves. They professed to approve of this degradation appropriately inflicted on mere slaves, but it was also said that they envied the slaves, the lightness of their garments, the air upon their bodies, the wonderful freedom accorded their limbs, so different from the heavy, bulky, confining layers of their own garmenture. It might be mentioned, in passing, that the Gorean free woman is commonly veiled, and that veils are denied to female slaves. This is appropriate, as they are animals. What fool would veil an animal? One of the most difficult adjustments which a free woman, enslaved, must make, is to the loss of the veil. This de
privation keenly shames her. Too, of course, her subtlest expressions are now available to the master, and this makes it easier to control her. Sometimes a new slave, thrown naked before her master, attempts to hide with one hand and arm the loveliness of her bosom, and, with the other hand, her features. "Lower your hands, slave girl," she is told. The master then examines her, totally, her face and features. Certainly he wishes to inspect his property. A Gorean master commonly will know every inch of his slave, every curve, every crease, every wen, every pimple, every hair. How many husbands of Earth, I wonder, know as much about their wives.

  Indeed, I wondered if the husbands would dare to know their own wives so thoroughly, that thoroughly, as a slave girl is known. I wondered if the wives would be terrified, to be so known. Would they then feel "too slave"? I wondered how many husbands kept their wives as slaves within their marriage, how many wives stripped and knelt upon command, how many served unquestioningly, how many begged for pleasure chains, how many were subject, if found displeasing in any particular, to binding and the lash. I wondered how many couples related in this manner, man dominant, the master, woman submissive, slave. I wondered how many couples might be so precious to one another. Each so magnificently and joyously fulfilled, living the biotruths of human nature, of man and woman, of masculine and feminine, of dominance and submission, how could either even consider leaving the other? I thought of the emptiness, the vacuity, of so many marriages. Might they not be redeemed, perhaps by so little as an act of will, a command, and a handful of thongs?