Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  “Gladly,” said Portus.

  “How many tarns have you?” asked the officer.

  “Eighteen,” said Portus. “Eleven on the premises.”

  “You can account for the others?”

  “Of course,” said Portus. He then went toward his office.

  The officer turned to his men. “Search this place,” he said. “Search it well.”

  Immediately the soldiers began to ransack the loft area, casting saddles and harnesses about, pulling down tarn baskets, emptying boxes, stirring, and probing, thrusting about, beneath straw with their spears. They examined even Ellen’s stall. She heard the point of a spear move her chain, that fastened to the heavy ring in the floor. She was seldom chained there now at night, but the chain was still there, and it could be put again on her neck at any time, and then, if so, she must remain there again, held at the ring, fastened in place by the neck, awaiting the pleasure of men. They even went into the kitchen, and the rooms of Portus Canio and the others, emptying chests, pulling things down from shelves, scattering things about in the pantry, cutting into sacks. They did not, of course, enter the area occupied by the tarns. They did examine the empty cage areas, among them the cage where Ellen, head down, not looking up, her hair forward, scrubbed the boards carefully, lengthwise, as was required, going with their grain. As her hair was forward, she realized that the lock on the back of her collar, a close-fitting, common slave collar, would be visible to the men. She also knew, uneasily, that the sight of a collar on a woman’s neck, locked there, as of course it would be in the case of a slave, tended to be sexually stimulatory to men. After all, it shows that its wearer is a slave, proclaiming her so, manifesting her so, with all that that can mean to a lustful, powerful, domineering, possessive beast, a man.

  “What have you found?” asked the officer, emerging from Portus’s office, a sheaf of papers in his hands, doubtless to be examined by others, elsewhere. He wadded these papers, these documents, into a pouch, slung at his side.

  “Nothing,” he was told.

  “There is a slave there,” said one of the men, indicating Ellen.

  The officer turned and regarded Ellen, and she, aware now of his gaze, put aside her brush and, frightened, knelt facing him, her head down, beside the bucket of water. She spread her knees.

  “Slut,” hissed Selius Arconious.

  Ellen cast him an angry glance. Of course she must kneel with her knees spread! That was the sort of slave she was! She did not wish to be beaten. And had he not, himself, often enough, required exactly this posture of her?

  “Belly, and to me, slave,” said the officer.

  Ellen went to her belly and, across the wet floor, through the opened gate of the empty cage, across the dry, straw-strewn floor, squirmed to his feet. She then lay before him, prone, her head turned to the right, her elbows bent, the palms of her hands on the floor.

  “Do you not know enough to kiss a man’s feet?” she was asked.

  Ellen, now no more than a young, enslaved beauty, Earth and her Ph.D. far behind her, kissed his feet, submissively, a docile slave.

  “Slut, slut!” chided Selius Arconious.

  “What of the tarn cage?” asked the officer. “Has it been searched?”

  His men looked at one another. “No,” said one of the men.

  “Search it,” said the officer.

  “There are tarns there,” said a man.

  “Give me a tarn goad,” said the officer to Portus Canio.

  Portus made a negligible gesture, as of regret. “There are no tarn goads here,” he said.

  The officer regarded him, angrily.

  “These are only draft tarns,” said Portus, “slow, clumsy, gentle birds. Of what need would be a goad?”

  The officer then went to the cage door and, with two hands, flung up the latch, and, with both hands, swung the gate open a foot. The gates are large, and heavy, and barred, some fourteen to fifteen feet in height, some ten feet in width. A tarn can thus stalk through one, but could not spread its wings and fly through one. Normally they are harnessed in the cage, and then led through the opening. In returning to the loft, from a flight, they are normally unharnessed outside, save for a halter, by means of which they are led within, the halter then being removed. The tarns instantly, alertly, regarded him. At the entrance he hesitated.

  “Only cowards fear tarns,” said Portus Canio.

  The officer thrust through the gate, but scarcely had he entered the area, a stranger, one unknown to the tarns, than one of the birds flew at him, aggressively, and he sprang back through the narrow opening and the great, yellow, scimitarlike beak snapped on the bars, not a foot from his hand.

  “They are so tame?” inquired the officer, irritably, turning to regard Portus Canio.

  “I do not know what could be the matter,” said Portus Canio. “Perhaps it is just that they do not know you.”

  “It is growing late,” said one of the men. “We have other areas to search.”

  “Several,” said another.

  “Stand,” snapped the officer, to Ellen, who, instantly, so addressed, a slave, stood.

  The officer then, appraisingly, walked about her. He felt her breasts, admiringly. She gasped, softly, reluctantly, stimulated, but she dared not resist or protest. She was a slave. She could be felt and handled as men wished. He lowered his hand to her left hip and she drew back, inadvertently, frightened. He smiled, and drew back his hand.

  “Open your mouth,” said the officer.

  Ellen opened her mouth, widely, and the officer, putting his fingers to her mouth, held it open, uncomfortably, and looked within. He then released her and she closed her mouth, keeping her head down.

  “She is a barbarian,” said Portus.

  “I can see that,” said the officer. “Too, she has the barbarian brand on her upper left arm.” That was, as would be supposed, a vaccination mark.

  “She is a barbarian,” repeated Portus, disparagingly.

  “No matter,” said the officer. “And the little scars on the upper left arm do not, I have found, reduce their value in the markets.”

  “She is a poor piece of barbarian slave meat,” said Selius Arconious, from his knees.

  “I think she is rather pretty,” said the officer. “I think she would look well, chained by the neck, being marched in a slave coffle. I do not think she would be the worst bead on a slaver’s necklace.”

  “A meaningless barbarian,” said Portus.

  “Certainly she is meaningless,” said the officer, “as she is a slave, and particularly so, as she is a mere barbarian.”

  “She is a low slave, a cheap slave,” said Portus, “good only for the cleaning of cages, the scrubbing of floors, the carrying of water, the replenishing of straw, such things.”

  “She is not a draft slave,” said the officer. “She is a slight and beautiful slave. She would be better applied to softer, more feminine labors, the licking of a man’s feet, and such.”

  “Surely you can see what a poor slave she is,” said Portus, “how insignificant she is, what poor goods she is.”

  “I cannot really see that,” said the officer.

  “I have seen toads who are more attractive,” said Selius Arconious.

  How hateful you are, Selius Arconious, she thought.

  “Toads like this one sell well,” said the officer.

  Take that, Selius Arconious, she thought.

  “She is plain,” said Selius Arconious.

  Not so plain, she thought, not so plain at all!

  “Too, be sure, she should be washed, and combed, and brushed,” said the officer.

  “A low slave,” said Portus, disparagingly.

  “Think of her belled, in a diaphanous thread of slave silk,” said the officer.

  “In a paga tavern, in Cos?” asked Portus.

  “Why not?” said the officer.

  “She is quite homely,” said Selius Arconious.

  Not at all, she thought. I have seen myse
lf in the mirror!

  “She is young,” said the officer, “but if you think she is homely, I suspect you have serious difficulties with your vision.”

  There, Selius Arconious, she thought.

  “Surely you cannot find her of the least interest,” said Selius Arconious.

  “She has exquisite features and a slight, but beautiful figure,” said the officer.

  How men might think, and speak, of her!

  But was she not goods?

  Ellen was acutely aware of the collar on her neck.

  “She is nothing,” said Selius Arconious.

  “No,” said the officer. “You are wrong. She is an exquisitely beautiful slave.”

  “Absurd,” said Selius Arconious.

  Not absurd, she thought. Have you not heard the appraisal? He is an officer. He has doubtless judged many women. Could it be, she asked herself, that I am beautiful, even exquisitely beautiful, if only as a slave is beautiful?

  “I confiscate her in the name of Cos,” said the officer.

  “No!” cried Selius Arconious, who would have sprung to his feet, save that the butt of a spear, pressing down on his shoulder, kept him in place.

  “Please, no, Master!” begged Ellen.

  “Were you given permission to speak?” asked the officer.

  “No, Master,” said Ellen. “Forgive me, Master!” But the officer had put his left hand in her hair, to hold her in place, and he then lashed her face back and forth, striking her twice, first with the stinging flat of his right hand, then with the slashing back of the right hand. Ellen tasted blood in her mouth. “Forgive me, Master,” she whimpered, her head down. “Please forgive me, Master.”

  Ellen was then aware that the officer had opened his pouch, and, in another moment, that he had wired a small, thin, rectangular metal tag to her collar. She did not doubt but what there were other tags such as that in the pouch.

  “I will send a man here tonight, a slaver, or slaver’s man, to pick her up,” said the officer to Portus Canio.

  “Cos treats her allies well,” said Portus Canio.

  “The laws of Cos march with the spears of Cos,” said the officer.

  He then turned to leave, and his men prepared to follow him.

  “Sir,” said Portus Canio.

  The officer turned about.

  “There seems to be some disturbance in the city, some commotion in the streets,” said Portus Canio. “What is going on?”

  “Nothing,” said the officer. He then left the loft area, followed by his men.

  “They may return later, with tarn goads,” said Fel Doron.

  Portus went to Ellen, who was still standing. He turned the tag which dangled from her collar. “‘Confiscated in the name of Cos,’” he read.

  “You must give her up, Portus,” said Tersius.

  “No!” cried Selius Arconious.

  Ellen looked at him, startled.

  He could do nothing to prevent her confiscation, for she was a mere property.

  Why did he cry out so, she wondered.

  Certainly he could not care for her. He was incapable of such feelings. He was no more than a vain, insensitive, arrogant brute. Too, men did not care for such as she; for she was not free; she was only a slave.

  But she recalled the effect she had had upon him and must obviously still have. Certainly he had cried out.

  She recalled how she despised and hated him.

  Too, she would be frightened to belong to him. She knew he lusted for her, like the lion for hot meat. She, a former woman of Earth, feared naturally, understandably enough, to belong to a Gorean male. The men of her world had not prepared her for such a fate. She was terrified to think of herself as a helpless slave at the mercy of such men, Gorean males, at the mercy of such virile, severe, demanding, untamed, bestial predators, and she realized that, in that desperate predicament, she would be choiceless, absolutely so, that she would be the vulnerable, helpless object of powerful, uncompromising, unbridled lust, and that she must assuage and serve it with all her embonded loveliness, instantly, perfectly, unquestioningly.

  How I hate him, she thought.

  Soon I will be rid of him! Excellent! And I will have a new slavery and new masters. Splendid!

  And she recalled how she had been muchly pleased to keep him at a distance, how amused she had been that he might burn with need, writhe with desire.

  Tears sprang to her eyes.

  Then she saw his eyes were upon her, and she smiled, smugly, and tossed her head, insolently. Burn, she thought, Selius Arconious, burn! You will never have me! Suffer! Suffer! Burn! Burn!

  She saw he looked upon her with fury. I am not yours, she thought. Then, when she was sure he was looking, she turned her head away, smiling. To be sure, her gesture might have been a bit more effective if she had had her tunic.

  “I fear Fel Doron is right,” said Tersius Major. “They may return later, with tarn goads.”

  “We will not be here,” said Portus.

  “What?” said Fel Doron.

  “Give the signal,” said Portus.

  “It is premature! It is not yet time!” said Tersius Major.

  “We must act,” said Portus. “Give the signal.”

  Fel Doron nodded. He lit a lamp.

  For a moment he lifted the lamp, and regarded Ellen. Thus under the scrutiny of a free man, Ellen, appropriately, knelt.

  “Doubtless it causes less ill will to confiscate slaves at night,” muttered Fel Doron.

  “We are taking her with us,” said Portus. “She figures in our plans.”

  This intelligence startled Ellen. Surely they could not take her with them. Had she not been confiscated? Did she not have a Cosian tag wired to her collar?

  Fel Doron took the lamp outside. He returned a moment later. “It is done,” he said.

  “Gather your goods, anything you want,” said Portus to Fel Doron and Tersius Major. “We fly tonight.”

  “What is going on?” asked Selius Arconious.

  “Selius,” said Portus, “attend to the slave. See that she is fed and watered, and that she relieves herself.”

  “Very well,” said Selius, puzzled.

  “Then go below, and see if you can learn what transpires in the streets.”

  “I will do so,” said Selius Arconious.

  When Ellen looked up, from her knees, she saw, in the half darkness, Selius Arconious looming over her.

  She did not find it a particularly welcome sight.

  “Oh!” she cried in pain, for he had reached to her hair and yanked her to her feet, and was now leading her, she painfully bent over, her head at his right hip, his hand tightly in her hair. She stumbled beside him, hurrying, trying to put her hands on his thick wrist. “Please, Master!” she cried. “Stop! You are hurting me!”

  “Be silent, slut,” he snarled.

  He drew her to the kitchen and threw her to her knees. Then he took a pan, threw it to the floor, and kicked it before her. He shook some biscuits into the pan, and they struck the pan and rattled about within it. She looked up, in misery. From a hook in the pantry he had taken down a slave whip. It was now in his hand. “Eat,” he said.

  Quickly she put down her head and, on all fours, addressed herself to the biscuits. They were dry and it was hard for her to eat them. She looked up, in misery. He lifted the whip. She again put down her head, sobbing. Perhaps she was slow. Perhaps he was impatient. He pulled her by the hair to an upright kneeling position and held her by the hair with his left hand, the loop at the butt of the whip about his wrist, where it hung against her right cheek, and, reaching into the pan, took the last two biscuits and thrust them into her mouth. She tried to chew, wildly, terrified. She half choked, she struggled to swallow. She was still gasping when he put a pan of water before her, which she went to seize gratefully but found the whip interposed between her mouth and the pan. She looked up at him piteously, crumbs and flakes of biscuit about her face and mouth. His eyes were stern. “Like the sl
eek little she-urt you are,” he said. She put her head down and drank. “More quickly, slut!” said he. She wept. The salt of her tears mixed with the water. Her lips and tongue felt sometimes the sides of the pan, sometimes its bottom, so desperate were her efforts. Her hair was wet where it fell into the water. “You are too slow,” said he, and lifted the pan before her. “Open your mouth, slut,” said he, and he then, unceremoniously, impatiently, too rapidly, poured water down her throat, but much of it, too, went about her chin, and throat, and under her collar, and ran down, too, plentifully, between her breasts. When he threw the pan to the side with a clatter she was trembling and sobbing. She was then drawn again to her feet and led, bent over, as a slave, to her own stall. “Squat,” said he, “slave.” “Please!” she begged. He lifted the whip. She relieved herself before him.

  “Wipe yourself,” he said, “slovenly creature.”

  She wiped herself with a handful of straw from the stall, depositing the straw in the wastes container.

  She then was kneeling before him, looking up at him, in the half darkness, sobbing, shaking with humiliation.

  “You may speak,” he said, amused.

  “I hate you! I hate you!” she cried.

  “You might be easily used,” said he, “on the straw of your stall.”

  She shrank back.

  “Are you a creature of ice?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she wept. “Where you are concerned!”

  “So you will still pretend to be the little figurine of ice, carved in the semblance of a slave girl?”

  “I am ice,” she cried. “I am ice!”

  “I see,” said he. “You are a cold slave?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I am cold! I am a cold slave!”

  “I see,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  He had put her to her belly on the straw.

  “Have no fear, little icicle,” he said.

  He then, with two thongs, bound her, hand and foot. As she struggled, helpless, he lifted her in his arms.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Portus wants me to go below, and see what is occurring in the streets,” he said.