leaping hope, for that afternoon, and that evening, too, no more arrows strode
forth, telling, from the green concealments of the leafed branches.
Perhaps I was no longer with them. Perhaps their stalker had tired. Perhaps he
had give up the chase, the hunt.
They marched long that day. It was late when they made their camp.
They were buoyant, and the mood was one of celebration. I watched my slave,
Mira, smiling, jesting and pouring wine for many of the panther girls of Hura’s
band.
The hour was late. It would be dawn in four Ahn. The drug was a strong one. It
had been intended for the bodies of men, not the smaller bodies of women. I did
not know the duration of its effect in a woman. Mira had, under Vinca’s strict
questioning, told us that it would render a man unconscious for several Ahn,
usually a half a day.
My own slave coffle, unknown to the men of Tyros and the girls of Hura, was
camped not more than two pasangs away.
It might be necessary to waken some of Hura’s girls forcibly from the drug.
We did not wish to lose too many hours.
I decided I would need sleep, and so left the vicinity of the camp of the men of
Tyros and the girls of Hura.
In examining baggage discarded along the trail, abandoned in flight, I had found
little of interest. It was mostly furs and clothing. Three furs I had brought
back to Vinca and the other two paga slaves, that they might be comforted from
the hard ground and protected from the cold forest nights. I brought no furs for
Ilene or the other slaves. The panther girls, chained together, had one another
for warmth, and the tarpaulin. Ilene had nothing. When she grew too miserable
she would creep to my side for warmth. I would then use her. Her responses were
becoming rapid, deep and organic, almost spontaneous. A slave girl is best
either when she is often used, or when she has been deliberately, for some time,
deprived. A free woman may go days or weeks without the touch of her companion.
For a slave girl, who has learned her collar, this would be almost unspeakable
misery. Two nights without a master’s touch would be agony for her. Slave pens
are often filled with girls, second and third collar girls, begging to be sold.
Sometimes their sales are even postponed that their desperation, piteous and
supplicatory, their longing to surrender their small bodies, their softness, and
beauty, to the hard, strong arms of a master, may be more evident on the block.
It is interesting to note a woman, in the process of her vending, who attempts,
out of self-hatred, or hatred of men, or pride, to conceal this deprivation,
this need. In the hands of a skilled auctioneer she is forced to reveal,
incontrovertibly, her passionate latencies, the suppressed pleadings of her
womanhood for a master’s touch. Before the auctioneer closes his hand on a price
for her, it will be clear to all in the market, including the woman, that her
beauty is truly for sale, and fully. Also among the discarded baggage I had
found some tunics of Tyros. I had selected one and taken it to my camp. I
thought that perhaps, at some time, it might prove useful.
17 I Add Jewels to the Slaver’s Necklace
I strode among the unconscious bodies of panther girls. They slept late. I would
not, in the future, allow them that luxury.
“Add them to the slave chain,” I told Vinca.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
From our coffle we had separated eight girls and chained them in pairs, left
ankle to right ankle, running the Harl ring chained of one to the second welded
ring on the Harl ring of the other. They were thus double chained and separated
by about a yard. Each pair was under the command of one of my slaves. Even Ilene
in her slave silk, had a switch, and was given her pair of girls to command.
She struck them with the switch. “Hurry, Slavs!” she told them.
The chained work slaves, under their switches, began to gather up the
unconscious panther girls and carry them and place them on the grass in a line,
their feet at, and vertical to, what would have been an extension of the coffle
line.
“I am glad there are more slaves,” said the blond girl, in her ankle ring. “That
way there will be less for us to carry.”
I had thoroughly scouted out the camp and surrounding area.
I looked about. Once more there was the sign of a rout. This morning the men of
Tyros had doubtless awakened pleased and confident, eager to be again on their
way to the sea. Then, to their horror, and that of the girls of Hura, it had
been impossible to rouse many of the panther girls, indeed, all who had last
night drunk of Mira’s proffered wine.
The girls would have been deeply unconscious. They would have responded to
nothing, save perhaps with a twist of their bodies and an almost fevered moan.
The men of Tyros, as I had expected, had not elected to remain at the camp, to
protect and defend the girls until they had regained consciousness. They did not
know but what this event had been the prelude to a full attack. They did not
know the number nor nature of their enemies. They desired to preserve their own
lives. Further, they did not elect to impede themselves and their chain by
carrying them. Some, I expected, perhaps high girls in Hura’s band, had been
carried by their sisters of the forests. Most, however, had been abandoned, left
behind with the tenting and baggage.
I saw two slaves dragging another girl by, under the supervision of the
dark-haired paga slave.
I heard a switch fall twice. Ilene had beaten her girls. They were dragging
another fair prisoner. “Hurry!” scolded Ilene. They did not fear her. They
feared Vinca. Accordingly they obeyed Ilene perfectly. She exulted in her
absolute control of two other girls. She struck then again. “Hurry!’ she cried.
I looked down at two of the unconscious girls. They had gone to sleep after the
wine, warmed and drowsy. They would not have known it was drugged. When they
awakened they would expect it would be morning and they would resume their
march. They doubtless would be startled, upon awakening, to find themselves
stripped, members of a slave chain, their fair ankles locked in Harl rings.
Suddenly I was alert. I detected in one of the small, narrow, open tents,
abandoned, a movement.
Giving no sign I continued as before, looking about the camp. Then, when my
presence was concealed by the side of the tent, I slipped into the brush.
In a few moments I discovered, kneeling in the tent, her back to me, with drawn
bow, a panther girl. She had been pretending to be drugged, but had not been.
she had had as yet no opportunity for a clean, favorable shot. She could not
risk a miss. Other tents, and moving women, had been between us. I admired her,
muchly. What a fine, marvelous, brave woman she was. Others had fled. She had
stayed behind, to defend her fallen sisters of the forest.
It, of course, had been her mistake.
From behind I took her by the arms. She cried out with misery.
I bound her hand and foot.
“What is your name?” I asked, as I fastened he knots on her wrists, behind her
/> back.
“Rissia,” she said.
I carried her to where the other girls lay and put her on the grass among them.
I then looked again about the camp. I found a girl over whom a blanket had been
thrown. I had her, too, carried to a place in the line.
“Return the work slaves to the coffle,” I said.
The paga slaves and Ilene brought their work slaves back to the coffle.
“Stand there to be chained!” said Ilene.
“Yes, Mistress,” they said. Ilene laughed.
I fastened them again in the coffle, and moved the coffle forward, so that its
last girl now stood where the first of the unconscious girls, lying on the
grass, might now be conveniently shackled to her.
Vinca came toward the line. She was leading, by the arm, a stumbling,
half-conscious panther girl.
“Where am I? Who are you?” the girl was asking.
“You are at your camp,” said Vinca. “And I am Vinca.”
“Where are you taking me?” asked the girl.
“To be enslaved,” said Vinca.
“Lie here,” said Vinca.
The girl lay on the grass, tried to get up, and then fell unconscious.
“Remove their clothing,” I told Vinca and her girls. Their clothing, weapons,
pouches, everything was removed from the panther girls. It was thrown to one
side and burned. It is customary on Gor to strip a woman before shackling her.
Why I do not know.
I then, Harl ring by Harl ring, ankle by ankle, began to fasten the girls in the
slave coffle. There were not, however, enough Harl rings. With a long length of
slave chain, however, and several sets of slave bracelets I completed the
coffle. I snapped one bracelet on the left wrist of the last girl and snapped
its matching bracelet through one of the heavy links in the slave chain.
The remaining girls, eleven of them, I had placed on their stomachs, head toward
the chain and their left arms extended, their wrists lying over the chain. Then,
snapping one bracelet through a convenient link of the chain, I fastened them in
the coffle. One of the girls began to stir, moaning. Another twisted, uttering a
tiny noise.
I took the uninscribed slave collars and, girl by girl, collared them.
When I cam to Rissia our eyes met. Then she dropped her head. I thrust her hair
to one side. I collared her. Then I smoothed her hair over the collar. She was
lovely. Her ankle was already locked in a Harl ring. Then I cut the binding
fiber with which I had fastened her hands and feet.
When I came to one girl she opened her eyes and looked at me, lost in her
stupor, not comprehending. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I am putting you in a slave collar,” I told her.
“No,” she said, “weakly, and then put her head to one side, and was again
unconscious.
I surveyed the entire line.
Mira had done her work superbly. She had then, apparently, fled with the others.
It was possible they had not understood her part in the treachery. Perhaps she
had not known the wine was drugged? Perhaps it had not been the wine, but other
food with which someone had tampered?
I looked at the slaves. They were a splendid lot.
I had had, before the morning, twenty-five girls, captured, in the coffle. That
had left, by my count, not including Hura, seventy-nine panther girls.
“It is an excellent catch,” said Vinca, looking down the long line.
It was indeed.
Fifty-eight new slaves lay at the chain.
Mira had done her work well. We had taken them as easily as flowers.
Hura had had, by my count, one hundred and four girls. She now retained
twenty-one, including Mira. The remaining eighty-four could be accounted for by
reference to the jewels fastened on the slave chain of Bosk, a merchant of Port
Kar.
Sarus, leader of the men of Tyros, by my count, when the march had begun had had
one hundred and twenty-five men. I had reduced that number, over several days,
to fifty-six. Sarus himself, yesterday morning, had slain one. He now had
fifty-five men.
I expected that he would soon begin to abandon slaves. I expected he would fear
to slay them.
Doubtless his main concern would be to reach the sea, for his rendezvous with
the Rhoda and the Tesephone. If necessary he might abandon all slaves with the
exception of Marlenus of Ar.
I looked down the trail. It was time I visited, once more, the caravan of Sarus
of Tyros.
“No! No! No! No!” I heard.
I looked back. One of the panther girls was on her feet, wild, hysterically
trying to force the slave bracelet from her left wrist. The chain was moved, the
bodies of other girls, still unconscious, like inanimate, beautiful weights,
their left wrist imprisoned by the bracelet and chain, jerked to and fro.
Instantly Vinca was on the girl with her switch, striking. “Kneel as a pleasure
slave, head down, and be silent!” she cried.
“Yes, Mistress,” wept the girl. “Yes, Mistress!”
I saw other girls beginning to move about, to show signs of restlessness. Some
had been disturbed by the crying of the hysterical panther girl, which had
doubtless seemed to hem far off, and something having little to do with them.
Other girls, shielded their eyes with their arms from the overhead sun, pouring
down on them.
Another girl then began to scream and Vinca, too, was on her in an instant.
Almost immediately she had her kneeling as a pleasure slave, with her head to
the ground. Her hair was spread on the grass. She was shuddering, but silent.
“The slaves have slept long enough,” I told Vinca. “Bring water and awaken
them.”
“Yes, Master,” said Vinca.
“Then follow as before,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” said Vinca.
I then left the chain, and took up again the trail of the men of Tyros, and that
of the girls of Hura, who were now of the number of twenty-one.
18 The Shore of Thassa
“The sea! The sea!” cried the man. “The sea!”
He stumbled forth from the thickets, and, behind them, the lofty trees of the
forest.
He stood alone, high on the beach, his sandals on its pebbles, a lonely figure.
He was unshaven. The tunic of Tyros, once a bright yellow, was now stained and
tattered.
He had then stumbled down the beach, falling twice, until he came to the
shallows and the sand, among driftwood, stones and damp weed, washed ashore in
the morning tide. He stumbled into the water, and then fell to his knees, in
some six inches of water. In the morning wind, and the fresh cut of the salt
smell, the water flowed back from him, leaving him on the smooth wet sand. He
pressed the palms of his hands into the sand and pressed his lips to the wet
sand. Then, as the water moved again, in the stirrings of Thassa, the sea, in
its broad swirling sweep touching the beach, he lifted his head and stood
upright, the water about his ankles.
He turned to face the Sardar, thousands of pasangs away. He did not see me,
among the darkness of the trees. He lifted his hands to the Sardar, to the
Priest-Kings of Gor. Then he fell again to his knees in the water
and, lifting
it with his hands, hurled it upward about him, and I saw the sun flash on the
droplets.
He was laughing, haggard. And then he turned about, and, slowly, step by step,
marking the drier sand with his wet sandals, made his way again back up the
beach.
“The sea!” he cried into the forest. “The sea!”
He was a brave man, Sarus of Tyros, Captain of the Rhoda. He had himself
advanced, alone, before his men.
And it had been he who had first glimpsed Thassa. The days and the nights of
their terrible dream, he surmised, were now behind him.
They had come through to the sea.
I had permitted them to do so.
I scanned the breadth of the western horizon. Beyond the breakers, and the white
caps, there was only the calm placid lines of gleaming Thassa, its vastness
untroubled, meeting the bright, hard blue sky in a lonely plane, as unbroken and
simples as the mark of a geometer’s straight edge.
There were no sails, no distant particles of yellow canvas, bespeaking the ships
of Tyros, that cluttered that incredible vast margin, the meeting place of the
great elements of the sky and the sea.
The horizon was empty.
Somewhere men strained at oars. Somewhere, how far away I knew not, the strike
of the hammer of the keuleustes governed the stroke of those great sweeping
levers, the oars of the Rhoda, and doubtless, not more than fifty yards abeam,
those, too, of the light galley, the Tesephone, she of Port Kar.
These two ships would have rendezvous with Sarus and his men.
Yet on the trackless beaches, lining the western edge of the great northern
forests for hundreds of pasangs, below the bleakness of Torvaldsland, it would
not be easy to make rendezvous. There would have to be, I knew, a signal.
“The sea!” cried others, now stumbling from the forests.
Sarus stood to one side, worn.
His men, fifty-five men of Tyros, some falling, made their way down the beach,
across the stones, to the edge of the water.
They had not thought, many of them, to again see the sea.
They had come through the forest.
I had permitted them to do so.
I, too, had a rendezvous with the Rhoda and the Tesephone.
The Rhoda had been instrumental in my affairs, in ways that had not pleased me.
And in the hold of the Tesephone were numbers of my men, captured at the camp on
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