Swordsmen of Gor cog[oc-29

by John Norman

  “Please, Master,” whispered the slave.

  I rose from her side and returned the lantern to its place.

  I heard her sob behind me.

  I returned to her side.

  “Master?” she whispered, disbelievingly.

  She had thought, I supposed, that I had abandoned her.

  “Are you still in heat, girl?” I inquired.

  One would seldom use so vulgar an expression, I supposed, in the case of a free woman, but it is often used in the case of animals, which makes it acceptable in the case of a slave, as she is an animal, a lovely form of domestic animal.

  “Yes,” she said.

  It is not unusual for a slave girl to approach her master, kneel before him, kiss his feet, straighten up, and inform him that she is in heat, openly, clearly, frankly, honestly, and innocently. The slave is not ashamed of her sexual needs, no more than it would occur to the free woman to be ashamed of her needs for, say, food and water. “Master’s girl is in heat,” she might say. “She begs for his caress.”

  I lightly touched the interior of her right thigh.

  “Yes,” she said. “A touch will free me, the least touch!”

  I bent gently to her and, to her astonishment, put my tongue to her heat.

  In an instant I had to place my right hand over her mouth, tightly, that her cries might not disturb the camp. It was hard to hold her in place, even with my right hand over her mouth, and my left hand grasping her arm, above the elbow. She thrashed wildly, gratefully, kicking mud about, half rising up, and twisting from side to side, and then lay back, and still. I became, only a bit later, aware that she was kissing and licking at the palm of my right hand, desperately, gratefully. I drew it away a bit and she still sought it with her kisses, on the side of the hand, on the back, and fingers, and wrist.

  “Thank you, Master,” she whispered. “Thank you, Master!”

  “You are not a Talena,” I informed her. “You are a Lita.”

  “Lita, Master?” she said.

  “You are a camp slave, are you not?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You have been renamed ‘Lita’,” I said. “If any object, have them bring their complaint to me.”

  “And who is Master?” she asked.

  “Tarl Cabot,” I said.

  “He who is captain, commander, of the cavalry?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then I am Lita,” she said.

  I then stood up and brushed away some mud, and wiped my hands on my tunic. I gathered in the edged buckler.

  “Master!” called another girl.

  “Please, Master,” called another.

  “No,” I said, and continued on my rounds.

  I had not realized that others had been aware of my presence.

  I supposed we were bound for the Alexandra.

  If there were ships there, they could not make voyage, of course, until the spring.

  Yet, from the time of the attack on the camp, Lord Nishida had made it clear to me that his plans, whatever they might be, must be advanced. It seemed he would, at least, change camps. That must be all. He surely could not be mad enough to contemplate braving Thassa unseasonably, between the winter solstice and the spring equinox.

  My interlude with the needful slave, a girl once of Cos, who had been named ‘Talena’, now ‘Lita’, put me naturally in mind of the former Ubara, and her possible fates.

  I recalled that, long ago, Miss Margaret Wentworth, before she became the slave, Saru, had spoken of a hold over me, by means of a woman. This had made little sense to me at the time.

  I thought now, however, from my rendezvous with Seremides, once of the Taurentians, the woman would be Talena.

  But how could someone or something think they had a hold over me, in virtue of one such as she, a false Ubara, now deposed, last seen bound on the height of the Central Cylinder in Ar, kneeling at the feet of men, fearing apprehension, fittingly placed in the rag of a slave?

  How could anyone, or anything, think that?

  But, if so, how grievously then had someone, or something, whether human, Kur, or Priest-King miscalculated!

  What now would Talena be to me?

  I did not want her.

  I would not now buy her, even as a pot girl for my kitchens in Port Kar.

  She had been beautiful, but, too, she had been proud, ambitious, selfish, vain, and cruel. Had I not understood that, long ago? Had I not then understood that she belonged, if at all, only under the whip? I recalled how badly she had treated me and how with such delight and venom she had scorned me in the holding of Samos of Port Kar, when I had been confined to the chair of an invalid, thought perhaps never to walk again, imprisoned there by the lingering effects of a poison contrived by Sullius Maximus, a renegade captain of Port Kar, then in the fee of Chenbar, the Sea Sleen, Ubar of Tyros. Later, at the first opportunity, escaping her sequestration in the Central Cylinder of Ar where she, disowned by her father, had been confined in dishonor, having begged to be purchased, a slave’s act, in the northern forests, she had betrayed her Home Stone, conspiring with the forces of Cos and Tyros to bring down, belittle, and subdue her own city, mighty Ar, to achieve a meretricious ascent to a Ubara’s throne, to reign there as a puppet, her strings in the keeping of enemies and invaders. But then her father had somehow returned, it seemed from the Voltai, and the insurrection had subsequently occurred, casting forth, violently and bloodily, the occupying forces and restoring the rightful governance of the city.

  I smiled to myself.

  How fitting that I had had her trapped and embonded in the Metellan district, then arranging that she should be returned to the throne of Ar, though knowing herself, so secretly, as then a slave. How she must have lived in terror, fearing that this secret might be revealed, which was then indisputable and certifiable. What hubris that a slave should dare to don the garments of a free woman, let alone take a place on a Ubara’s throne! Would not each tiny particle of her flesh, one after another, have been publicly removed over weeks, or months, on a needle’s point?

  I had seen to it that she was enslaved, in her own city, making use of a couching law of Marlenus himself, Ubar of Ubars.

  It had been easily and perfectly done. I trusted that she, to her rage, consternation, and chagrin, in all her utter helplessness, that of a female in the hands of men, had realized that.

  How pleasant it is to enslave a woman.

  How better can one degrade them? But how strange it is that they so thrive in their degradation. Do they not understand what has been done to them, or do they understand it only too well? How is it that they kiss your feet in gratitude, leap instantly to do your bidding, kiss their fingertips and touch them to their collars, buck and squirm in your arms, gasping and writhing in grateful, uncontrollable, orgasmic ecstasy, kneel, heads bowed, before you. How radiant and joyful they are in their collars! Are they not born to thongs? Is it so strange that they find their joy and fulfillment at a man’s feet, or is it merely to be expected, given a genetic heritage of the surrenders of love, without which a woman cannot be whole?

  Who is the man who truly loves a woman, he who denies reality or he who recognizes it, and embraces it, he who betrays her and panders to propagandas, or he who consents to answer the cries of her heart?

  So Talena was now a slave, no different from any other slave, save for the bounty on her head.

  Excellent, I thought, save for the bounty.

  I did not think I would buy her even for a pot girl. And surely many were the slaves more beautiful than she!

  She had thought herself the most beautiful woman on all Gor.

  How absurd that was!

  She had never been ranged naked in a coffle, standing, legs widely spread, hands clasped behind the back of her head, for assessment.

  Yes, she was beautiful, but there were thousands more beautiful than she. Had she not once been the daughter of a Ubar, what might she have brought? Perhaps
three silver tarsks? Much would depend on the market, and the season. Spring is a good time for selling slaves.

  If then some thought to have a hold over me in virtue of a slut named Talena, doubtless even now somewhere in a collar and a slave’s rag, if that, they were muchly, and profoundly, mistaken!

  I wondered where she might be.

  In any event, it was no concern of mine.

  There was suddenly a rush from my left, and something emerged from the darkness, from the trees, and I knelt down, on my right knee, heard the scrape of a blade on the metal, and, almost simultaneously, rose up, swinging the edged buckler up, violently, to the left, and it met resistance, and there was an ugly gurgling cry, and something stumbled back, and fell, away from the buckler. I crouched down, alert. At the same time, from within the trees, I heard a screaming, and a shaking and a tearing, as though an arm might be being torn from its shoulder. Within moments lanterns were rushing toward me, and men, and guards. “Call Lord Nishida!” I heard.

  In the light of the lanterns I looked down on the shape at my feet. The edged buckler had caught it under the chin, and taken the head half from the body. From the trees there was a hideous wailing and four Pani, glaives ready, slipped amongst the trees. In moments they drew forth from the darkness, dragging it, a sobbing, mauled figure, the left arm missing. It was trying to stanch the flooding stream bursting from its body with its free hand, and then it was thrown to the mud amongst us, several mercenaries and Pani now having hurried forward.

  I watched the living figure twitch before us. Then I thought perhaps it felt no pain, its body perhaps then flooded with endorphins. Its eyes were wide with shock. Blood ran freely between the fingers of its right hand.

  “Stanch his wound,” I said.

  The fellow’s hand was pulled away and cloth was thrust into the hole in his body.

  “Where is the arm?” asked a man.

  Two Pani, with lanterns, entered the forest.

  I became aware of Lord Nishida, now standing at my side. “What is going on?” he asked.

  “I know not,” I said.

  “Give me a lantern,” said Lord Nishida, and was handed a lantern. He bent down, to examine the two fellows before us. And then he stood up.

  The two Pani who had just entered the forest returned. One carried a crossbow.

  “The assassin’s weapon,” said Lord Nishida.

  “A weapon commonly employed by assassins,” I granted him.

  “We could not find the arm,” said one of the Pani, he without the crossbow. “It was a sleen attack,” said the other. “The beast must have carried it away, into the trees, to feed.”

  “We caught the scent of a sleen in the vicinity earlier,” said a mercenary, one of the guards.

  “Apparently the bowman did not,” said a fellow.

  “Nor would he,” I said.

  “Double the guard,” said Lord Nishida.

  “Behold,” said one of the Pani, indicating with the shaft of his long glaive the figure brought recently to the road. “This man is dead.”

  “He bled to death,” said a mercenary.

  “Unfortunate,” said Lord Nishida. “We might have learned much from him.”

  A man drew the wadded, blood-soaked cloth from the inert body.

  “Well, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Nishida, “we have solved one of our problems.”

  “How is that?” I asked.

  “We have discovered our assassin,” said Lord Nishida. “This man, whose head is still muchly in his helmet, is Lykourgos, and this other, he with the crossbow, is Quintus, so one or the other, perhaps both, are of the Assassins.”

  “Both may have attempted the work of the assassin,” I said, “but neither, I fear, are of the Assassins.”

  “How so?” asked Lord Nishida, interested.

  “This man,” I said, indicating he who had been caught beneath the chin by the edged buckler, “rushed clumsily from the darkness. He lacked the skill one would expect from a professional at dark work, and the other, he with the crossbow, did not risk a miss, preferring to leave the strike to the knife of his confederate, he himself then serving muchly as support, either for a second strike, or, more likely, to disconcert any who might too quickly approach, to cover the retreat of his companion. The professional assassin, I would suppose, would have trusted to his own quarrel, and not waited. Too, the professional assassin will usually choose to work alone, depending on himself, no others.”

  “Interesting,” said Lord Nishida.

  Although I said nothing, it seemed to me that we had now limited the suspicions of Lord Nishida, expressed to me earlier in Tarncamp, in his tent after I had left the feast, if they were warranted, that they had now been narrowed to Fabius, Telarion, and Tyrtaios

  “But why, then,” asked Lord Nishida, “would these men attack you?”

  “I think,” I said, “this has to do with a personal matter, which I would prefer to keep to myself.”

  “As you wish,” said Lord Nishida.

  Doubtless he supposed this had something to do with the seemingly inveterate and irascible tensions and tempers of barbarians. I myself supposed the attack was founded on my failure to satisfy Seremides in our interview of some nights ago. I had not furnished him with information as to the whereabouts of Talena, former Ubara of Ar, so was now useless to him, and he had revealed to me his identity and his interests in her pursuit, both matters he doubtless preferred to be kept unknown. He must have had a way of contacting his minions at Tarncamp or in the march, but I suspected he had had no more than two with us. If that were the case, I had nothing to concern myself with at present from that quarter. I hoped not. Similarly, if there were spies or assassins in the camp, it seemed to me that their target of primary interest, once it was decided to strike, would be not me but Lord Nishida.

  “May I have a lantern?” I asked one of the Pani, and, given this artifact, I moved back, between the trees. Two or three men accompanied me, and, too, so did Lord Nishida.

  It was easy to discover where Quintus had been attacked, from the dislodgment of the leaves, the rupture of the earth, the sight and smell of blood. There was no doubt the attack had been by a sleen, as there were sleen tracks about. One could see where the sleen had made its leap, from the deeper indentations in the soil, and the absence of prints between that point and the point where the prey was struck. It was several feet. The sleen must have been large, and powerful. The slight wind moving the branches would have been toward the sleen. This was what I would have expected.

  “Sleen do not normally attack humans, do they?” asked Lord Nishida.

  “Not usually,” I said.

  “You are sure those are sleen tracks?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you notice anything unusual about the tracks?”

  “No,” he said.

  “The sleen was lame,” I said.

  “Interesting,” said Lord Nishida.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  we emerge from the forest

  I heard the cries of joy from forward, and knew the scouts, if not others, had now emerged from the forest, and beheld, in the morning sun, sparkling below in the valley, the winding Alexandra.

  Men rushed forward.

  Slaves crowded, as they could, to the sides of the wagons, on their tethers, striving to understand the commotion.

  Saru, in her wagon, precariously in her shackles, stood up, trying to peer ahead.

  I heard more shouts now, and was sure the first wagons had emerged from the forest.

  I saw Sumomo and Hana, shading their eyes, emerge from the portal on their closed wagon and, standing on its small porch, strain to see what might be the cause of the ebullition.

  Tharlarion, down the long line, lifted their heads, distended their nostrils, and bellowed. They could smell the water, perhaps the verdant grazing near the river.

  Pertinax was with me.

  Knowing that we should reach the Alexandra in the late morning we had freed
Cecily and Jane.

  “Master!” cried Cecily, elated.

  “Heel us,” I snapped.

  Dutifully the girls fell in behind us, on our left.

  No matter how indulgent or permissive one is with slaves, they must never be permitted to forget they are slaves. If necessary, they may be whipped, to remind them. Indeed, some masters feel that a slave should be occasionally whipped, if only to help them keep in mind that they are slaves. To be sure, given Gorean discipline, a slave is seldom likely to be in any doubt about the matter. Certain prosaic regularities contribute to this purpose, that the slave will commonly kneel upon entering the master’s presence, that she may speak only when having the master’s permission to do so, that she must often kneel and kiss the whip or switch in the morning, that she may not clothe herself without his permission, that she may not take food before the master, that she may not leave the domicile without his permission, and she must give an account of her intentions before leaving and an account of her activities upon returning, and so on. Many such things remind her of her bondage. Too, one must not forget what occurs at her master’s slave ring.

  “I will relish a bathing in the river,” said Pertinax.

  “I did not know barbarians were fastidious,” I remarked.

  I feared all on the march, with the exception of the contract women and Saru were the much the worse for the past few days.

  “May we bathe, Master?” asked Cecily.

  “You will be better off to seek oils and a heated tub,” I said. “The river will be cold.”

  Too, I thought the slaves should soon be better garmented, for in spite of the late summer, so to speak, it was now fall, and the weather, with the season, must soon chill.

  The march had certainly been cold enough and miserable enough, even for the men.

  “Tarl Cabot, tarnsman!” called Tajima, hurrying beside the wagons, toward us. He, with the cavalry, had come ahead, days ago.

  We bowed to one another. He was uncomfortable, I had gathered, with the clasping of hands, even the mariner’s grip, wrist to wrist. Much varies from culture to culture.