Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  It had not been her beauty they sought but her blood.

  But did they understand so little?

  Did they think she was a free woman, of wealth and title, of placement and connections, who might threaten them, one to whom magistrates would carefully attend?

  She was only a slave.

  I know nothing, she thought. I have done nothing.

  I am not a free woman, she thought. Have I not at least the protection of my collar?

  Chain me, she thought. Market me, but do not kill me.

  The beasts stood across the grass, waiting.

  She moaned. Surely they would give her to the beasts, she of no account, a mere slave, thus winning their way free from this place of war.

  “No!” said Selius Arconious.

  She looked at him, wildly. Could he care for her? But, of course, no. It was merely his Gorean pride, that he would grant no concession to a foe, not a tarsk, not even an urt?

  “May I speak, Master?” cried Ellen.

  “Yes,” he said, puzzled.

  Doubtless the beasts thought she understood more than she did.

  “I know nothing, Masters!” she cried to the beasts. “I am a slave! I am a mere slave!”

  “Go!” cried Portus Canio, again waving toward the grasslands.

  Kardok looked at Ellen.

  “Go!” reiterated Portus Canio.

  “Yes,” said Kardok, docilely. “We will go.”

  She gasped for breath, in joyous relief. Surely they had believed her!

  “They will return,” said Mirus.

  She shuddered.

  Then she whispered to Selius Arconious. “Give me to them, Master.”

  “Be silent, slut,” said Selius Arconious, severely.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  Kardok and his ally then began to back away, and, in a few moments, were no longer visible. They had little to fear from sleen, they more terrible individually than most common sleen. Too, if there were foes, or mysterious figures, in the grasses, Ellen did not think they would choose to deter the beasts in their passage.

  “We are safe now,” said Tersius Major.

  “Prepare to withdraw,” said the officer to his men. “We have been long enough in this place.”

  He had but four men left of his original complement of troops. One of these was the soldier who had subjected the slave to unilateral, degrading, irresistible pleasures at the wheel, she helplessly braceleted, pleasures suitable to one of her condition, pleasures which one such as she must accept, pleasures, ecstasies, to which she must yield gratefully, unreservedly. She thought there was no one of those five who did not, somewhere on his body, bear the marks of claws or fangs.

  “The tharlarion is ready, the wagon is ready,” said Fel Doron.

  The officer held out his hand to Portus Canio. “Farewell, fond enemy, fond ally,” said he.

  Portus Canio unhesitantly grasped his hand. “Farewell,” said he, “fond enemy, fond ally.”

  “You may not have the slave,” said Selius Arconious.

  “Master!” breathed Ellen.

  “She is pretty, but a bit young,” said the officer. “Here,” he said, reaching into his pouch, “are the keys to her bracelets.”

  Slave bracelets, of course, are useful in the control and management of women, whether free or slave.

  Selius Arconious caught the keys. “Thank you,” he said. “But wait a moment. I shall return them momentarily, when I have freed her small wrists from those trivial impediments. We have, of course, our own bracelets.”

  “Keep them,” said the officer. “You may find use for an extra pair. You might meet another woman worth taking.”

  “True,” said Selius Arconious. “Thank you.”

  “It is nothing,” said the officer.

  “Please, no, Master!” protested Ellen.

  “I will do as I please,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered, head down, defeated.

  “If you have friends out there,” said the officer to Portus Canio, “I assume they will let us pass.”

  “Now,” smiled Portus Canio.

  “I will be curious to see them,” said the officer.

  “I do not think you will see them,” said Portus Canio.

  “Prepare to trek,” said the officer to his men.

  “Take me with you,” said Tersius Major.

  “Put aside the forbidden weapon,” said the officer.

  “No!” cried Tersius Major.

  “You are welcome to come with us,” said Portus Canio.

  “No, no!” said Tersius Major.

  “Then remain here,” said the officer, turning about.

  The report of the weapon was sharp, and close. And the officer, struck through the back, a sudden stain upon his tunic, fell forward, stumbling, and collapsed to the grass.

  Portus Canio hastened to the officer.

  The officer tried to rise, but fell to the side, twisted, and fell again, then upon his back. There was blood, too, on his chest. The projectile, at this range, had torn through the body.

  “Take me with you!” cried Tersius Major to the Cosians.

  Portus Canio closed the eyes of the officer.

  “Take me with you!” screamed Tersius Major.

  “That is the last of the lightning,” said Portus Canio, looking up.

  “No, no!” said Tersius Major.

  Portus Canio rose up, and took a step toward Tersius Major. Frenziedly, Tersius Major pulled the trigger again and again, full at the chest of Portus Canio. There was a sporadic, inconsequential succession of sharp, metallic clickings.

  “There is no more lightning,” said Portus Canio.

  Tersius Major then turned about and fled to the discarded weapons on the knoll, and scrambled amongst them, wildly, and lifted one after another, pointing it and pulling the trigger, with no results other than those which had preceded these new efforts.

  “A lengthy, unpleasant death,” said one of the soldiers, menacingly.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “I am safe here,” said Tersius Major. “I am surrounded by forbidden weapons!” Hastily he placed them in a circle about himself.

  The soldiers looked to one another.

  “Even an arrow would have to pass this barrier!” said Tersius Major.

  Portus Canio returned to where the officer had fallen. “He was a good officer,” he said.

  “We will take him with us, into the grasses,” said one of the soldiers. “We will find a suitable place, a green place, with stones about, where the wind and rain can find him. There we will bid him farewell. There we will salute him for the last time. There we will leave him, on his back, his face to the sky, a weapon at his side.”

  “And then?” asked Portus Canio.

  “Thence to Brundisium,” said the soldier.

  A litter was rigged of canvas wrapped about two spears.

  “What of him?” asked one of the soldiers, indicating Tersius Major crouching down fearfully in the midst of the discarded pistols.

  “Return to Brundisium,” said Portus Canio.

  Shortly thereafter the soldiers, the body on its litter, supported on their shoulders, took their leave of the camp.

  “It would be well to leave this area,” said Portus Canio. “There are still sleen about.”

  Selius Arconious, angrily, went to face Mirus. “You saved my life,” he said, red with fury.

  Mirus shrugged.

  “Here,” he said, angrily, “are the keys to the slave’s bracelets. She is yours.”

  “No, Master!” cried the slave.

  “To his feet,” snapped Mirus, “lick and kiss them, now! Render obeisance, slut! Appropriately! To your new master!”

  Frightened, distraught, weeping, Ellen scrambled on her knees the pace or two to Mirus, and lost her balance and fell to her side, and then got to her belly, and, wrists braceleted behind her, put her head down, and thus, prostrated as becomes a female slave, pressed ki
sses upon his feet. “No, Master! Please, no, Master!”

  “You will find her poorly trained, and worthless,” said Selius Arconious.

  “That is known to me,” said Mirus. “But I return her to you. Here are the keys to the slave’s bracelets.” And with those words he withdrew from Ellen and placed, as she turned and watched, from her side, the keys in the hands of Selius Arconious.

  “Why?” asked Selius Arconious.

  “Who wants a poorly trained, and worthless slave?” said Mirus.

  “Perhaps,” said Selius Arconious, wonderingly, “you are worthy of a Home Stone.”

  “Someday,” said Mirus, “I should like to be worthy of one.”

  “What will you do, where will you go?” asked Selius Arconious.

  “I will beg a tarpaulin and place my wounded fellow upon it, and draw him in that fashion to Brundisium. I think I cannot return to Ar. I think I must begin again, but as one of your world, not of mine.”

  “I think, then,” said Selius Arconious, “that you are indeed worthy of a Home Stone.”

  “Perhaps someday,” said Mirus.

  “My hand!” said Selius Arconious.

  “I take it gladly,” said Mirus. “I will now attend to my fellow.”

  “Master!” breathed Ellen.

  He turned to face her.

  “Your slave begs to be unbraceleted,” she said.

  He then crouched down beside her and freed her of the lovely restraints which had confined her so innocently and perfectly.

  She then knelt beside him and grasped his leg with her arms, and put her head against his thigh, and kissed it humbly. “I love you, Master!” she said. “I love you, I love you, my master!”

  “It is suitable,” he said, “that a slave should love her master.”

  “Yes, Master!” she wept, kissing him again, and yet again.

  The rope was still on her neck.

  She looked up at him. “I am leashed, Master,” she whispered.

  “Do not tempt me, slave girl,” said he.

  “Yes, Master,” she smiled. How could a slave girl not tempt a man, she asked herself delightedly, though she dared not speak out. Her entire being, and existence, is a temptation to a man!

  “Behold!” cried Fel Doron, from the other side of the wagon. “See, look here!”

  Then he emerged from the other side of the wagon. He carried, across his shoulders, the body of a freshly killed grass tabuk.

  “How came this to the camp?” inquired Portus Canio.

  “I know not,” he said, grinning.

  “We will feast this night,” said Portus Canio, looking out, over the grasses.

  “It seems,” said Mirus, “we are not alone.”

  “We may have been alone, we were not alone, now we may again be alone. It is hard to tell. One does not know.” He then went to the edge of the camp. “If you are there,” he called, “be thanked!”

  “I am hungry!” called Tersius Major, from within his circle of futile weapons.

  “Then come and feast with us,” invited Portus Canio, softly, his voice like a sheathed dagger.

  Tersius Major shrank back amongst the pistols on the knoll. He was thus raised somewhat above the level of the encampment. A bowman, Ellen realized, if he cared, would have little difficulty in capitalizing upon such a target. Thus, she thought, he does not care, or he is gone, again.

  Fel Doron threw the small tabuk to the grass before them. Then he looked about himself. “I will take the bodies into the fields,” he said. “There are sleen about, and more will come, I am sure of it.”

  The bodies, Ellen realized, would be surrendered to nature, to wind and rain, to sleet and snow, to heat and cold, to sleen, to urts, to jards, to the vast, mysterious nature from which, long ago, they had sprung.

  Goreans love and respect nature. Crimes against her are regarded as peculiarly heinous.

  “I will prepare the beast for the fire,” said Portus Canio, drawing out his knife.

  Ellen looked about. She was pleased that Kardok and his ally had left the locality, that she and the others were now safe.

  “May I remove the leash from my neck, Master?” she asked.

  Selius Arconious nodded, watching the work of Portus Canio.

  Ellen did not watch Canio’s work. She did not care to do so. Rather she addressed herself to removing the leash. It was not easy to do. It was tightly knotted, and she could not, of course, see the knot. I was well leashed, she thought, and felt, however unwillingly, a sudden heat in her belly, a sudden flaming within her upper thighs. She reddened. At least, she thought, it is common rope, and not a leash of knotted leather, or knotted binding fiber, because she knew that knots in such materials might be drawn so tightly that her small, delicate fingers, those of a woman, might lack the strength to undo them. At least, she was not in a lock leash, of chain or leather, or in a locked snap-leash that might be attached to her collar. She struggled. Then she looked pathetically at Selius Arconious. “Master,” she begged. He snapped his fingers that she should approach him and she ran to stand before him. He then removed the leash from her. “Thank you, Master,” she said, looking up, standing very close to him. “Temptress, she-urt,” he said, turning away. She smiled to herself. He wants you, she thought. You are suffering, aren’t you, Master, she thought, delightedly.

  “You will cook,” said Portus Canio, looking up from his work.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  How natural it seemed that she, the female, would cook. Even on Earth, she had sometimes fantasized that she was in a room with men, sitting about, she the only woman, supposedly a peer, and that one of the men had looked up, and had told her to go into the kitchen and cook. And she had done so, alone in the kitchen, while they had continued their conversation. She had been enflamed sexually.

  To be sure, in her ideological pride and her sense of political propriety, she had made it a point to learn little or nothing of cooking on Earth, feeling such a homely task, and one so often associated with women, was wholly inappropriate for her, a female intellectual. Indeed, she would have felt embarrassed to have such skills. They were not only beneath her, but would have been insulting, demeaning, to one such as she. In the house of Mirus, in Ar, of course, as a part of her training, all this had changed. There she had become desperately zealous, often naked, on her knees, in the shadow of a switch or whip, to master a battery of domestic skills, cooking amongst them, skills expected of a female slave. And, as time went on, she became aware that these tasks were not as menial and simple as she had conjectured, but that genuine skill was needed, and attention, to turn out a delectable sauce, to make small, fine stitches, to press a tunic with fire-heated irons so well that one would not feel the switches of the instructrices, and so on. In time, as her skills increased, and the sting of the switch became less frequent, she began to take pride in her performance of such tasks, those expected of a female slave. As even on Earth they seemed to her, no matter how often she had denied this, somehow fitting for women. The human species as she knew, but would not have called it to the attention of her classes, was radically, sexually dimorphic. It thus seemed natural that some division of labors, however such things might be sorted out, might be expected in a species characterized by such disparate natures. One hunts, one cooks, she thought. And is it not natural to suppose that the lighter labors might descend to the slighter beasts, the softer, prettier beasts who stood in need of male protection, those less fitted for war and long treks, those less wisely pitted against the mastodon, the cave bear, the panther, the stranger, those who must hope to please the larger, stronger, more aggressive, less patient animals, to whom they belonged.

  Too, of course, she had cooked in the tarn lofts of Portus Canio, for himself and his men.

  Yes, she thought, cooking and such things well reminds me that I am a woman, but such things are only amongst thousands of other such things, other reminders which I welcome and in which I rejoice, such as my tunic, so unmistakably a
nd publicly exhibiting my differences from men, my brand, marking me property, my collar, locked on me, encircling my throat, proclaiming me slave!

  How precious it is to be a woman amongst such men, to be a woman amongst masters!

  Thank you, Master Mirus, for bringing me to this world! Thank you for having me branded and collared, and sold!

  Thank you for bringing me to where I belong, and want to be, at the feet of men.

  And even cooking, you see, can be a sexual experience. And, indeed is not the entire life of a slave, her entire existence, in its way, a sexual experience?

  “Try to find fuel, stay close to the camp,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  In the grasslands the most common fuel is woodlike brush. Some peasants, out of a village, use tightly twisted ropes of grass, but one needs a good deal of this, as it burns very quickly. Some kindling, bits of wood, branches and such, was also carried, the larger branches bundled, in the wagon. This had been gathered not far from the festival camp. As this material was not readily available in the grasslands, it tended to be conserved, to be used when local fuel was difficult to obtain.

  She straightened her body, noted that Selius Arconious was watching her, and, pretending not to notice, pulled down the sides of her brief tunic, intently, tightly, this accentuating the flare of her hips, demurely.

  Within the Ahn the slave was attending to the meat, which had been cut by Portus Canio. It browned and sizzled. Fat dripped into the fire. Her gleanings of fuel from the grasslands near the camp, primarily cord and flower brush, had been supplemented with some of the wood carried in the wagon. This had been decided by Portus Canio, after her third trip back to the camp. The men did not wish her to range too far from the camp. There were sleen about. The flower brush gave off a sweet smoke, and this added a flavor to the meat. When the meat was done, she would not touch it, of course, but it was removed from the cooking rods and cut by Portus Canio, who distributed it, to Fel Doron, and Selius Arconious, and Mirus, who took some to his wounded fellow.