Magicians of Gor

by Norman, John;

  "Yes," I said.

  "It is a form of Kaissa, is it not?" he asked.

  "Of course," I said.

  "Well played," he said.

  "Perhaps," I said. "But it is difficult to foresee the continuations."

  "I do not like such games," he said.

  "You prefer a fellow at sword point, in an open field, at noon?" I asked.

  "Of course," he said.

  I was sympathetic with his view. The board had a thousand sides, and surfaces and dimensions, the pieces were of an unknown number, and nature and value, the rules were uncertain, often you did not know whom you played, or where they were, often the moves must be made in darkness, in ignorance of your opponent's position, his pieces, his strengths, his skills, his moves.

  "Perhaps I, too," I mused. Yet I had known men who enjoyed such Kaissa, the games of politics and men. My friend, Samos, of Port Kar, was one such.

  "You enjoy such things," said Marcus.

  "Perhaps," I said. "I am not sure." It is often easier to know others than ourselves. Perhaps that is because there is less need to tell lies about them. Few of us recognize the stranger in the shadows, who is ourself.

  "I am a simple warrior," said Marcus. "Set me a formation, or a field, or a city. I think I know how to solve them, or set about the matter. Let things be clear and plain. Let me see my foe, let me meet him face to face."

  "Subtlety and deception are not new weapons in the arsenal of war," I said. "They are undoubtedly as ancient as the club, the stone, the sharpened stick."

  Marcus regarded me, angrily.

  "Study the campaigns of Dietrich of Tarnburg," I said.

  Marcus shrugged, angrily.

  "He has sowed silver and harvested cities," I said.

  "'More gates are opened with gold than iron,'" he said.

  "You pretend to simplicity," I said. "Yet you quote from the Diaries." These were the field diaries attributed by many to Carl Commenius, of Argentum. The reference would be clear to Marcus, a trained warrior.

  "That I do not care for such games," said Marcus, "does not mean I cannot play them."

  "How many are in the Delta Brigade?" I asked him.

  "Two," he smiled. "We are the Delta Brigade."

  "No," I said, "there are more."

  He looked at me, puzzled.

  "This morning," I said, "four soldiers, doubtless Cosians, were found slain in the vicinity of the Avenue of Turia. The delka was found there."

  Marcus was silent.

  "We have allies," I said. "Too, I have learned that the delka appears elsewhere in Ar, presumably mostly in poorer districts."

  "I do not welcome unknown allies," he said.

  "At least we cannot betray them under torture, nor they us."

  "Am I to derive comfort from that thought?" he asked.

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "We cannot control them," he said.

  "Nor they us," I said.

  "We began this," said Marcus. "But I do not know where it will end."

  "Cos will be forced to unsheath her claws."

  "And then?" he asked.

  "And then we do not know where it will end," I said.

  "What of the Home Stone of Ar's Station?" he asked.

  "Is that your only concern?" I asked.

  "For all I care, traitorous Ar may be burned to the ground," he said.

  "It will be again publicly displayed," I said.

  "That is part of your Kaissa?" he asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "You see far ahead," he said.

  "No," I said. "It is a forced continuation."

  "I do not understand," he said.

  "Ar will have no choice," I said.

  "And if the Home Stone of Ar's Station is again displayed, what then?" he asked. "It was displayed before."

  "I know a fellow who can obtain it for you," I said.

  "A magician?" he asked.

  I smiled.

  "The Delta Brigade," he asked, "all two of us?"

  "I think there are more," I said.

  "Enough to take the Central Cylinder?" he asked.

  "Certainly not now," I said.

  He looked at the delka, scratched on the exterior wall of the shop.

  "You are curious as to its meaning, and its power?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  "So, too, am I," I said.

  "I am afraid," he said.

  "So, too, am I," I said.

  "And what of this?" asked Marcus, indicating the chest on the street, near us.

  "Bring it along," I said.

  "What are we going to do with it?" he asked.

  "You will see," I said.

  "You saw her mouth was uncovered," he said. "She belongs with other lewd women in the loot pits of the Anbar district, awaiting their brands and collars."

  "With other needful women," I said.

  "She is a slave slut," he said.

  "And will perhaps one day find her rightful master," I said.

  "What are we going to do with her?" he asked.

  "You will see," I said.

  We then went to the chest. "Help me lift it," I said.

  In a moment we had it in hand. It was a bit bulky to be easily carried by one man, but it was not heavy.

  We felt its contents move within it.

  12

  The Countries of Courage

  "Put it down here," I said.

  We were in a deserted alleyway, about two pasangs from the shop, rather between it and the Anbar district. It might well appear then that we had been on our way to that district.

  "Over here, more," I said. Marcus and I put the chest against one wall, that it might not move further in that direction. I then stepped back a bit and forcibly, with the flat of my foot, with four or five blows, kicked back the side of the chest, forcing it some inches inward, breaking it muchly from the ends, tearing it free of the nails and the lid. I delivered similar blows to the two ends of the chest, splintering it loose of nails and the back. The girl within cried out in misery. I then, with my hands, seizing it, now muchly freed, flung up the lid, revealing her within, and she cried out again, and hid her head, putting her hands over it. She lay there, terrified, amongst the splinters and nails, the sides and ends muchly loosened, collapsed about her. I then turned the shambles of the chest to its side, spilling her to the stones of the alley. Shuddering she was on her belly to us and crawled to my feet, pressing her lips to them.

  "She desires to please, as a slave," observed Marcus.

  "Do you object?" I asked.

  She now pressed her lips similarly upon the feet of Marcus.

  "No," he said.

  Such deferences and attentions are suitable in a slave. One of the first lessons a girl is taught in the pens is how to lick and kiss a man’s feet. This helps her to learn her collar. Indeed, there are few acts which better convey to a female that she is a slave. Too, it soon, she understanding herself as a sexual suppliant, becomes sexually arousing to her.

  Needless to say, too, it is pleasant for a fellow to have a woman so at his feet.

  What true man would decline this delicate act of rightful homage?

  In this act it is made clear, of course, that the slave is slave and the master master. This act, too, obviously, has erotic significance, or symbolism, and erotic power. It has erotic significance, or symbolism, in two ways, first, it expresses the social and cultural relations in which the master and slave stand, that she is his property, sexual and otherwise, and that he may do with her what he wishes, for he is master, and, second, perhaps more profoundly, it expresses the sublime, pervasive sexual equations of nature, those pertinent to a species with a radically dimorphic sexuality, the equations of dominance and submission. And these things really are not so different; they fit together, or supplement one another. Gorean civilization, you see, unlike some civilizations, was developed to abet and express nature, even enhance her, not to contradict, destroy, or poison her. And it has erotic power, give
n what we have said, and the decrees of nature, because it ignites the desires of both the slave, prostrate, and erotically submitted, and the master who has now at his feet this vulnerable, delicious, needful property. The act, thus, is keenly arousing to both the slave and the master.

  Many slaves, too, use it as a way of showing their slavery, and their helplessness, and their needs. It is a common way of begging to be caressed. Something similar occurs when the slave, on all fours, approaches the master, his whip held delicately between her teeth. She then kneels before him, her head down, the whip between her teeth. He then has the option of beating or caressing her. Usually he takes the whip gently from her and holds it before her, that she may lick and kiss it, for a few moments, until she can stand it no longer and moans for his touch. Then, perhaps after a fierce snap of the disciplinary device, she scurries to the furs, joyfully, to await him, he who may chain her helplessly for his pleasure, should he wish, her master. It might be noted, in passing, that the business of kissing a man’s feet, as kneeling, bellying, rendering various obeisances, and such, is not really a simple matter. If it were, there would be little point in teaching it. Various techniques, timings, rhythms, mixings of tongue and lips, and teeth, are involved. A skilled slave can drive a man mad at his feet. This is also a way in which many slaves placate a master, and turn away his wrath. Too, at a man’s feet, a girl can show her love for her master, and her joy, that he should see fit to have her in his collar.

  Perhaps a last remark would not be amiss, one perhaps unnecessary, but one which might prove useful in obviating possible misunderstandings, a remark of some general significance, a remark pertaining to the whip, its significance and its employment. This remark is largely relevant to cultural exegesis. The Gorean culture, as its unspoiled world, is robust and salubrious. In it, as hitherto in most of the high cultures of Earth, slavery is an ingredient institution. In it, too, not surprisingly, the whip has its place. This is a special place, and a well-understood place. For those who may be unfamiliar with these matters, let them be better understood.

  Let us suppose the slave is in the throes of sexual need. She might then, kneeling before the master, her head down to his feet, beg him to be permitted to bring him his whip. This permission granted, she fetches the whip and brings it to him, kneeling before him, lifting it to him with both hands, her head down. She may then say, "Beat me or caress me." "Which would you prefer?" he asks. "To be caressed, Master," she responds. The master will then, normally, accede to the request of his fair petitioner, perhaps after first having her kiss, lick and tongue the whip, thus permitting her to tenderly, gratefully acknowledge her subjection to it. Two things are to be noted here. First, the significance of the whip. Second, the employment, or lack of employment, of the whip. First, the significance of the whip. The slave understands herself as subject to the master’s whip, for she is a slave. This subjection she has acknowledged in the first disjunct of her address. She is his; over her he has whip rights. On the other hand, it is highly unlikely that the slave wishes to feel the whip. She has doubtless already felt it upon occasion and is well aware of its unpleasant aspects, and what it can do to her. It hurts. Accordingly, she is usually concerned to avoid it if at all possible. If this were not the case, it would be meaningless as an instrument of discipline. Her interest and hope, of course, is invested in the second disjunct of her address, in which she petitions his touch. The whip is a symbol of the mastery, and her master’s dominance over her. It is a potent symbol, but, too, of course, it is a real whip. Its blow may be a symbol, but its blow is also a blow. The mere presence of the whip in the slave’s vicinity, perhaps dangling from a hook where she can see it, is often enough to ensure a lovely perfection of female service. It might not be used on her, ever, but it can be used on her. This is something she understands very well. Secondly, one might allude to the employment, or lack of employment, of the whip. The typical Gorean master has no interest whatsoever in whipping a slave merely to whip her, any more than he would whip another animal, say, a verr or kaiila, merely to whip them. That would be pointless and stupid. It is not Gorean. The Gorean master wants his slave, of course, to be perfect in attentiveness, obedience, responsiveness, and such. He expects, and will have, instant and perfect compliance with his wishes. Accordingly he keeps her under a firm and perfect discipline, but a consistent discipline. The Gorean master, after a training period, is extremely unlikely to be cruel to a slave who is sincerely trying to serve and be pleasing. He finds her lovely to look upon, and excruciatingly physically desirable. She is, after all, a slave, and his. Why should he hurt her? Why would he wish to do so? What would be the point of it? What would it accomplish? To do so, too, would be counterproductive. It would be inconsistent discipline, and would be likely to dismay and confuse her. Rather he is likely to encourage her, and to commend her when she does well. She may be thrown a candy, on her belly, or allowed a pastry. Perhaps he may grant her clothing, if she has been hitherto denied it. Slave garb, of course. Scanty, revealing, exciting, garb in which she and others are in no doubt as to her slavery. He may send her on an errand, or take her with him on a leash. Slaves are grateful for small kindnesses. The better an animal is treated the more devoted it is likely to be. This is part of the management and husbandry of slaves. This is not to deny, as suggested, that a slave may be subjected to numerous blows, commands and strictures in her training. That is not unusual, but the girls, most of whom are highly intelligent, learn quickly. It is only the stupid girls who have more than their share of stripes, but, sooner or later, even they learn. But, a girl who is beyond her initial trainings, who has well learned her lessons, her movements, attitudes, services, and such, who has come to understand her collar, and that she is truly in it, and that her master is truly her master, and who is sincerely and honestly, and humbly, and passionately and devotedly, endeavoring to please him is unlikely to much feel the lash; she knows, of course, that she will be whipped if she exhibits the least laxity in her service or demeanor. That she expects, as a slave. On the other hand, it should be understood, and clearly, that to cause severe, unwonted, gratuitous pain is not Gorean. That is not the Gorean way. I do not think that Goreans would even understand that. The Gorean culture is so open and sexually fulfilling that females, at least slaves, are almost invariably looked upon not with hostility but with great pleasure and interest, as loot, as properties, as prizes and treasures, as something to be mastered, to be owned, to be relished and ravished, not hurt.

  What the typical Gorean usually desires in the beginning is merely a good slave, one beautiful, intelligent, and needful.

  To be sure, she should be such, ideally, as to enhance his image or prestige with his friends. He would like to be able to show her off to them. After all there is a tendency to judge men by their slaves, as by their other possessions.

  So he goes to the market and buys her.

  A typical Gorean biography of the master/slave relationship is likely, one way or another, with one slave or another, to proceed along the following lines. He buys the girl to serve as a mere instrument of his pleasure, much as he might buy any other object or tool. She is likely to be treated imperiously or callously, or neglectfully, or, sometimes, even as though unnoticed. She is in his domicile, laboring, and trying to please, as she must. He seems to pay her little attention, except for matters of discipline, that to improve her service. She knows she is nothing to him, only a slave. She is commanded almost as though she did not exist. Often she is utilized, when his need is upon him, casually, unilaterally, briefly, sometimes brutally, utilized as a mere object, a simple warm, squirming, gasping, meaningless, helpless convenience to the assuagement of his lusts. And she knows that as a slave she is entitled to expect no more. But, given the nature of the female heart, which is essentially, tenderly and beautifully, a slave heart, now fulfilled in bondage, it is difficult for her not, after a time, and perhaps even from the first moment her eyes meet his and she is put in his collar, to long for h
is attention and caring, that of the man who owns her and by whom she will shortly be categorically mastered. At night she will lie sleepless, red-eyed and miserable, lonely, neglected, grieving in her chains. She wants her master’s attention; she dares to hope for his affection, though she is merely a slave. She weeps. She sobs, softly. Alas, the poor little fool is in love! It is hard for a woman to belong to a man, you see, to kneel before him, to respond instantly to his commands, to struggle to please him, as she must, and not eventually become his, in all ways. To be sure, she knows she has no right to love a free man. Even the thought can terrify a slave. She fears, should her temerity be suspected, to be mercilessly whipped. He is immeasurably above her. She, in her collar, is less than the dust beneath his feet. Indeed, such things, relations of affections amongst masters and slaves, however common they may be, and they are extremely common, are officially frowned upon. A man who loves a slave is generally regarded as a fool, and is likely to be an object of ridicule and raillery to his friends. Indeed, a master will often struggle fiercely against succumbing to such an attachment. It is regarded as preposterous for a free man, as unworthy of a free man. Is he so stupid, so weak? She is only a slave, goods, a purchasable animal! Sometimes, fearing his growing feelings, a man will rid himself of the vulnerable, troubling little beast, giving her away or selling her. To be sure, she may, on the other hand, become his love slave. Such things, however regrettable, can happen. If this occurs, it is not uncommon for the master to attempt, at least for a time, to conceal this from his peers, perhaps treating the slave in public with sharpness and peremptory disdain. They are unlikely, however, to be long fooled, for the signs are clear enough, and, soon enough, the couple will be generally recognized as love slave and love master. And this will elicit the fury of free women. How is it possible that a free man could come to care for a slave, a collared, half-clad curvaceous little beast who desires only to serve him, and love him, and please him, as her master? How incomprehensible! Why rather, does he not piteously sue for the inestimable regard of a lofty, noble free woman, one who may, even, share with him a Home Stone?