Swordsmen of Gor cog[oc-29

by John Norman

  “Surely she might bribe discretion,” said a man.

  “And what bribe might she, unthroned and sought, a fugitive, offer to better the bounty of ten thousand tarn disks?” asked a fellow.

  “Of double weight!” laughed another.

  How much could the fleeing Ubara have taken with her, I wondered, given the suddenness of the turn of events, the surprise of the rising. A handful of economic resources, seized in a moment of panic-stricken flight, would not be likely to last long.

  “Might she not have loyal retainers?” I asked. “Men who would die for her?”

  “None would stand by her,” said a fellow, “once she no longer stood within the palisade of foreign spears.”

  “She was despised,” said another, “even by those welcomed within the chambers of her treason.”

  Too, I thought, how foolish to look for loyalty amongst the disloyal, to hope for honor from those who were without honor. Would the ultimate motivation of the conspirator not be the sanctity of his own skin? Frightened urts will turn on their fellows and lacerate them. They will kill one another for a drop of blood. Betrayal is a not infrequent behavior, and it is one to which one may easily become habituated.

  “It is only a matter of time,” said a fellow, “until she is thrown, naked and in chains, to the tiles at the foot of the Ubar’s throne.”

  “Woe to Talena,” said a fellow.

  “She is a traitress to her Home Stone,” said a man.

  “True,” said the fellow. “Let it then be done to her according to the ways of Gor.”

  “And the mercy of Marlenus,” said another.

  At this there was a coursing of rude, cruel, unfeeling mirth amongst the rough fellows on the beach.

  And these fellows, I thought, were the very fellows from whom she might have hoped succor, for it had been blades such as theirs which had placed her upon, and protected her upon, the usurped throne of Ar.

  But they were Gorean, and she was a female, and one who had betrayed her Home Stone. I did not doubt but what any one of them would have been pleased to have her bound at his feet.

  On Gor a traitress is a prize.

  Anything may be done with her.

  “Are we to make camp here?” asked a fellow.

  “No,” I said.

  The fellows who had disembarked yesterday, even later in the day than the present Ahn, had entered the forest.

  Too, I thought their employers, whoever they might be, would not want them to camp in the open.

  I had gathered that the arrivals of these mysterious, armed visitors was surreptitious.

  Obviously I could not inquire too closely into their business, their expectations, plans, and such, for it would be supposed I knew as much, or more, than they did at this point. I had learned a great deal in the past Ahn, but there was much I still did not know.

  I wandered over to the huddled, kneeling cargo which had been rudely disembarked, that put into the water, with the crates, boxes, and such.

  Some four or five of the newcomers followed me.

  “Form a line,” I said to the girls, “facing me.”

  On all fours, they formed this line, looking up at me.

  There were, as I had earlier supposed, fifteen on the chain.

  The chain, heavy and black, much heavier than it needed to be, dangled between them. The collars, as noted, were somewhat unusual, rather like punishment collars.

  There was a cool breeze sweeping in from Thassa.

  The cargo had not been brought much onto the beach and, as they were, on all fours, the cool surf washed up about them, swirling about their feet and knees, and covering their hands to the wrist.

  The bodies of the girls glistened with water, from the nature of their arrival. Drops of water clung to their eyelashes. Their hair was soaked. In some cases it fell about their faces. It seemed, too, in some cases to have been hastily, unevenly, cut. Whereas long hair is commonly favored in slaves, it is seldom that a slave is brought to the block with ankle-length hair. On the other hand, Gorean free women often have quite long hair, in which they take great pride. It is not unusual that it might reach to the back of their knees. When they are enslaved it is commonly shortened, considerably. There are various reasons for this, as I understand it, for example, the slave learns that she is no longer a free woman, that her hair, its length, dressing, and such, is now at the disposal of masters, that the distinction between her and the free woman is to be clearly drawn, even in a matter as simple as hair, and that the envy of the free woman is not to be aroused at the sight of hair in a slave which might be the pride of a free woman. Too, the shorn hair is of value in a number of ways, not only for wigs, falls, and such, but, too, interestingly, because it makes the best cordage for catapults, far superior to common hemp, and such. Too, I supposed, if one wished to alter the appearance of a free woman, or, more likely, a former free woman, for some reason, perhaps to afford her something in the nature of a disguise, her hair might be shortened.

  Here and there wet sand clung about their bodies.

  The chain, and the collars, were dark with water.

  One or two of the girls whimpered, with fear, or cold.

  They were naked, as this is the way slaves are commonly transported. In this way there is less bother with clothing, its soiling, its cleaning, repair, and such. Too, in this fashion it is easier to keep the girls clean, with cast buckets of water, or forcing them into pools and streams, and such. In slave ships the heads are usually shaved, this reducing to some extent the dangers of insect infestation. Slave dips are not uncommon, too, after transportation, as a precaution against such infestation.

  I examined the line. “Not all are branded,” I said.

  “Not yet,” said a fellow.

  “Position!” I snapped.

  Three of the girls immediately went to position. Others, startled, looked about, in consternation, trying to understand what they must do, or perhaps, even, if “position” was truly to be expected of them.

  Many free women, incidentally, have never seen a slave in “position,” though they may, to their disgust, or delight and envy, have heard the attitude described. This is not as surprising as it sounds for free women are not allowed in paga taverns, and such places, and would seldom have an opportunity to observe what takes place between a female slave, particularly a pleasure slave, and her master. The female slave, before a free woman, kneels, certainly, but commonly demurely, not as she would, and must, if she is a pleasure slave, before a male.

  I called attention to one of the girls. “This is ‘position,’” I told the others. The others then, though doubtless some with misgivings, for a woman is extremely vulnerable before a male when she is in “position,” attempted, to a greater or lesser extent, to duplicate the posture and bodily attitude of the girl to whom I had called their attention.

  I attended then to the line. “Oh!” cried more than one, when I kicked apart her knees.

  I called the attention of the men to one of the girls, not branded, who was now, like the others, in position. Her lips were slightly parted. There was a slightly startled expression in her eyes, as of suddenly sensed possibilities and sensations.

  “This one,” I said to the men, “will be soon heated.”

  She lowered her eyes, but, in position, because of the collar, she could not lower her head.

  “Yes,” said one of the fellows.

  She shuddered. Was it with cold? Or was it because she had suddenly sensed, however fearfully, or curiously, or eagerly, the long-suspected latencies of her lovely belly?

  “Soon enough,” said another fellow, “they will all heat quickly.”

  I nodded. I did not doubt it.

  “Some of these are new to the collar,” I said, “not even branded. Where did you get them?”

  “These are all of Ar,” said one of the men. “The three who went immediately to position were taken from a paga tavern, which had purchased them, after their consignment to the collar by the
judgment of Talena, then Ubara.”

  I recalled that several women had been brought publicly, on various days, before the judgment of Talena, in her open-air court on the platform near the Central Cylinder. I supposed that she had been given quotas to fill by her superiors, largely under the pretext of reparations due the invaders, these because of the misdeeds of Ar, but how she filled the quotas might, I supposed, be muchly up to her. It did provide her with a convenient opportunity for evening a variety of scores and such, particularly with free women who might have found her diminishment in Ar, and her sequestration, a matter of some satisfaction or amusement. I recalled she had designated Claudia Tentia Hinrabia, who had been the daughter of a former administrator of Ar, Minus Tentius Hinrabius, for the collar. Claudia, a rival and critic of Talena, was the last of the Hinrabians. She was also a rival in beauty to the Ubara. These other women, however, I had not seen. They were new to me.

  “When the fighting began, and it became clear how desperate it was,” said a fellow, “and how the city would be lost to us, we sought, in a brief surcease of battle, to sack up what coin we might, and other valuables, and prepared to fight our way toward the pomerium.”

  “That is when we entered a paga tavern, the Kef, to gather in, and take with us, some recollected items of flesh loot,” said a man. He pointed, one by one, to the three women with brands, who had instantly gone to position, obedient to my command.”

  I nodded. These were the women taken from a paga tavern. Perhaps once they had been free women of Glorious Ar but they were now marked-thigh girls, slaves.

  All were quite attractive.

  But that was not unusual with Gorean slaves.

  The “Kef,” incidentally, is the first letter of the Gorean expression, ‘Kajira‘, which is the most common Gorean word for a female slave. More than one paga tavern is so designated, though not on the same street. There might be, say, a “Kef” on Teiban, another on Venaticus, another on Emerald, and so on. The small, cursive “Kef” is also the most common brand on Gor for a female slave. Each of the three slaves bore it, on the left thigh, high, under the hip.

  “They came with us, willingly,” said a fellow.

  “Quite willingly,” laughed another.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Those unfamiliar with the ways of Gor might suppose that a foregone consequence of the liberation of a city would be the freeing of certain slaves, say, those of the city who had been impressed into bondage. That is not, however, how the Gorean sees such things. Many Goreans are fatalists and believe that any woman who falls into bondage belongs in bondage, even that it is the will of Priest-Kings that her throat should be enclosed in the lovely circlet of servitude. Most, however, understand that when a woman has worn the collar, it is quite likely that she, in her heart, even if freed, will always wear the collar. She will need a master, and long for one. She understands herself as something which, ideally, belongs wholly to a man. In her heart, and her belly, she will always treasure the collar. The vanities and inanities of the free woman, with her hypocrisies and pretensions, will no longer satisfy her. She will always remember what it was, to kneel, to be bound, and to love. She will always remember the wholeness and beauty of her life as a slave, and the raptures of the collar. She has been, as it is said, “spoiled for freedom.” Too, Gorean honor enters into these things. That, say, a daughter should fall slave, is taken not so much as a lamentable tragedy, as it might be in some cultures, as an intolerable affront to a family’s honor. Goreans, after all, are well aware of the many remarkable and fulfilling aspects of female bondage, for they may own slaves of their own. They have little doubt that the embonded daughter will well serve her master. Indeed, she had better do so. But she is then an animal and regarded as lost, and well lost, to her family and Home Stone. Tarsks, verr, kaiila, and such, of course, do not have Home Stones. Thus, the family puts the thought of her aside, for she is now a slave. And, of course, to assuage the family’s honor she will be left a slave. To be sure, a woman of a city found enslaved within the city is commonly sold out of the city. Slavers, for example, will seldom sell a woman in what was once her own city. I was not surprised then that the three paga slaves, former free women of Ar, would accompany the mercenaries willingly, even eagerly. It would be far preferable to being pilloried naked, subjected to the blows and abuse of irate citizens, being publicly, ceremoniously, whipped, and then being transported out of the city, naked, standing, wrists lashed to an overhead bar, on a flat-bedded, public slave wagon, to the jeers of free citizens. In such a way, it is supposed, might be wiped away the dishonor which her bondage had inflicted on the city, at least to some extent.

  “You knew these women?” I asked.

  “They frequently brought us paga,” said a man.

  “I see,” I said.

  “We can rent them on leashes,” said a fellow. “They will bring good coin in the furs.”

  “They are hot?” I said.

  “A touch will make them beg,” said another fellow.

  “Excellent,” I said.

  I looked then to the other women.

  “These others, too,” I said, “were then designated for the collar by Talena, then Ubara?”

  “Not at all,” said a fellow. “These were confidantes, even cohorts, of the Ubara, women of high caste, rich, well-placed, favorers of the policies of the occupation, not only condoners but abettors of the predations of Tyros and Cos. Several became rich.”

  “Collaborators?” I said.

  “Precisely,” said a man.

  “Several, in the fighting, learned they were on the proscription lists, copies of which were posted on the public boards,” said another.

  “They knew themselves in frightful danger,” said another.

  “They came to us and flung themselves to our feet, begging to be protected, to be permitted to accompany us in our flight.”

  “We were in haste,” said a fellow, “as you may well suppose. Enemies were at hand, ransacking houses, scouring bridges, searching towers, closing in upon us. Our heads were at stake. We must seize what loot we could and flee for our lives.”

  “‘Take us with you!’ they begged!”

  “‘Remain behind, as befits your crimes,’ we told them.”

  “‘No! Mercy!’ they cried.”

  “‘Loathsome she-urts, detestable profiteers and traitresses,’ we cried, ‘remain behind, be hurled to eels, be cast amongst leech plants, be weighted and thrown into carnariums, view the city you betrayed from the height of high impaling stakes!’”

  “‘No, please!’ they wept. ‘Show us mercy!’”

  “‘What interest have we in free women?’ we asked.”

  “‘In free women?’ they said, bewildered.”

  “‘None,’ we informed them. We could hear the shouts of foes, nearing our hiding place.”

  “We gathered what we could, which was little enough.”

  “‘Take us with you!’ they wept. They were on their knees, their hands extended to us in piteous, frantic supplication.”

  “Time was short.”

  “We turned to face them.”

  “‘Take us with you!’ they cried.”

  “‘Why?’ we inquired.”

  “They did not understand this question,” laughed a fellow.

  “Free women are so stupid,” said another.

  “‘Please, please!’ they cried.”

  “‘Remove your veils,’ ordered Torgus,” said one of the men, indicating a large fellow nearby.

  “‘Never,’ they cried,” recalled another fellow, grinning.

  “We turned then to leave,” said another fellow, “but we heard ‘Wait! Please, wait!’ When we looked back they begged that we remove their veils, even to the ripping of them from them, as might be done with the insolence, amusement, and scorn of a slaver. But this, in our anger and contempt, we refused to do. ‘Remove your own veils,’ we told them.”

  “‘Do not so shame us!’ they wept.”

/>   “But in moments, by their own small, desperate hands, their faces were bared to men, men neither of their families nor companionship.”

  “By their own hand they had face-stripped themselves,” said one of the fellows.

  At this moment three or four of the girls on the chain burst into tears.

  This is perhaps difficult for those unfamiliar with Gor to understand, one supposes, but the matter is cultural, certainly in the high cities. The face of a free woman, particularly one of high caste, of station, and such, is secret to herself, and to those to whom she might choose to bare it. It is not like the face of a slave, exposed to any herdsman or peddler, any passer-by, who might choose, however casually, to look upon it.

  Some of the girls, careful to retain the posture in which they had been placed, lest they be struck, wept. They had not forgotten the moment, it seemed. Later, the sting of that humiliation would fade, and they would rejoice to be freed of the encumbrances of veiling, and revel in the feel of the air on their face, a face whose soft, luscious, inviting, vulnerable lips were now exposed to the sight, and kisses, of men.

  Perhaps the closest analogy to this would be a woman of Earth complying with an order to remove her clothing before imperious strangers.

  From the Gorean point of view, the face of a woman, you see, is the key to her self, the face, with its beauty, its softness, its special uniqueness, its myriad expressions, proclamatory of her feelings, her thoughts, and moods. How beautiful is a woman’s face, and how its subtlest expressions, even inadvertently, even unbeknownst to herself, may be fraught with the delicious treasures of betraying disclosures! The master reads the face of a slave; he may ponder the thoughts, the motivations, and intentions of the veiled free woman.

  How precious is the veil to the free woman; she is not a slave.

  The free woman is mysterious; the slave is not; she is at a man’s feet.

  “‘Hurry, hurry!’ we were urged,” recollected one of the fellows.

  “We could hear the men of Ar on the street, doors away,” said another.

  “‘Submit, strip, pronounce yourself slave, hurry to the rope,’ barked Torgus to the dismayed, frightened women,” said a man.