The King th-3

by John Norman

“Sell her!”

  Were men so foolish, Huta wondered, to think that, for a woman, death was preferable to slavery. Did they know so little of women? Did they not realize, so many of them, the sweet, simple fools, why women made such perfect slaves?

  “Kill her! Cut her throat!”

  “Put her on a slave block!”

  Huta pressed her tiny body into the rush-strewn dirt, terrified, while these cries rang about her.

  She was, in legality, already a slave.

  Too, she had begun to sense, deeply, the wonder of chains, and the whip, and obedience, and subjection to the master. She had begun to sense what it might be to be under discipline, with its identities, with its realities, its perils and ecstasies. Already a profound transformation of her consciousness had begun to come about. From puberty on, in its own inexorable time of unfolding maturations, of insights and intuitions, she had begun to suspect, and to be aware of dim mechanisms within her, genetic preparations, latent responses, awaiting longed-for, releasing stimuli, biological destinies and fittingnesses. She had begun to long for the unswerving master beast to whom her desirability and beauty would be categorically and uncompromisingly subject. Even as a girl, frightened and resistant, she had unaccountably begun to long for the mighty master of her dreams, the man before whom she could never be more than an eager, impassioned slave. She had begun to sense, you see, what it might be to be truly free to feel, and to be sexually free, truly, wildly and helplessly, as no woman can be who is not subject to command, and to love and serve, as she must, and as no free woman could.

  In the background women were being gambled for, and won.

  “Like this!” cried the fellow who was the cousin of Abrogastes, driving his ax into the dirt not more than an inch from Huta’s left ankle.

  She screamed.

  He looked up at Abrogastes, eagerly.

  But Abrogastes seemed to give him no attention.

  Another woman was forced into the tiny circle, on down upon her knees, and a fellow, his hand in her hair, bent her backward.

  Well was she displayed.

  Numbers were called out.

  “She is a beauty, milord,” said the clerk.

  “Yes,” said Abrogastes.

  “Milord!” protested the cousin of Abrogastes.

  “What of Huta?” called men.

  “Throw her to the dogs!” called a man.

  “Sell her!” demanded another, clutching a bag of coins, yet was not each, now, at those tables, rich? Had not Abrogastes, and the coffers of the Drisriaks, seen to that?

  “Put her on the slave block!” called a man.

  “Sell her to the highest bidder!” called another.

  “Kill her! Kill her!” cried others.

  Huta’s body shook with terror and tears.

  One of the women in the tiny circle, throwing her head about, seemed mad with fear. She rose up, suddenly, staggering. “Do not leave the circle or you die!” snarled a fellow. She knelt down then, sobbing. She was soon sold.

  “Huta! Huta!” called men.

  “Abrogastes!” called others, pressing for his attention.

  “This is not happening to me!” cried a woman in the small circle, but, in moments, she was on her belly, and her new master, kneeling across her body, was binding her hands behind her back. When he stood she turned, on her side, bound, and looked up at him, and then swiftly pressed her lips to his boot.

  Another woman was put in the circle.

  “Put your hands behind the back of your head, and bend backward,” she was told by the fellow at the circle. “Now put your hands on your hips, and flex your knees!”

  Wonderingly, frightened, the woman did so.

  “Now, move!” said the man at the circle.

  “Surely not, Master!” cried the woman.

  “Now!” he said.

  “Oh!” she cried.

  “There,” said the man, “now you have moved as a slave before men. I do not think you will ever forget this moment.”

  “No, Master!” she said, flushed, wonderingly, knowing she could never again, after that movement, be anything other than what she now was, a slave.

  “Slut! Slut!” cried one of the women in the larger circle.

  “Yes, yes,” wept the woman in the smaller circle. “I am a slut! I am a slave. I cannot now be anything different.”

  “I, too, am a slave!” cried one of the women in the larger circle.

  “I, too!” said others.

  “Take me next!” cried one. “I would be won!”

  “I am hot!” wept the woman in the smaller circle.

  “Yes, yes, I, too!” said another woman in the larger circle.

  Many held out their hands to be the next to be permitted to the smaller circle, but the one selected was she who had cried out, “Slut! Slut!”

  “You will have nothing from me!” she cried, as she was dragged, standing, to the circle. “I will be inert!”

  “The whip,” said a man, putting out his hand, into which the implement was promptly placed.

  “No, Master!” she said. “Please, no!”

  “Shall our little critic be lashed?” inquired the fellow, of the tables.

  “Let her perform!” called a man.

  “Interest them,” said the man with the whip.

  “Please, no!” she wept.

  The whip snapped.

  The men laughed as the distraught beauty attempted to interest them.

  “Is that the best you can do?” inquired the man with the whip. Again the whip cracked.

  “More,” said the man with the whip.

  There was laughter.

  “It seems the next stroke must be upon your body,” said the fellow with the whip.

  “No, no, Master!” she wept.

  He held her left arm with his left hand, and was behind her.

  “Aii!” she suddenly cried.

  There was, again, laughter, but this laughter was one not only of amusement, but one also of genuine interest.

  Gently, but surely, and unexpectedly, had the whip, coiled, touched her.

  The proud woman was now no more than a humbled, scarlet mass of shame in his hand.

  “It seems your body betrays your mouth,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Lying is not permitted to a slave girl,” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “Do you think, truly, you are different from other slaves?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “Do you think you will be an inert slave?” he asked.

  “No, Master!” she said. “Please, Master, let me be won swiftly!’’

  “Inertness is not permitted in a slave,” he said.

  “No, Master!” she said.

  She was soon won.

  Swiftly, eagerly, she crawled to her new master.

  Another woman, one eager to be won, was brought to the circle.

  “Hold, Abrogastes!” called Farrix, of the Borkons, who had risen to his feet.

  The woman in the circle shrank down, tiny.

  The dice stopped rattling.

  Abrogastes turned toward Farrix, for Farrix was on his feet, and a chieftain.

  “Let the pellets be cast,” said Farrix, grimly.

  “Beware, father,” whispered Ingeld.

  Abrogastes gave no sign he had heard the warning of Ingeld, Ingeld, who kept his thoughts muchly to himself.

  Huta, lying in the dirt before the dais, trembled, sensing suddenly that her fate might cease to depend on such simple matters as guilt or justice, or her desirability or lack of desirability as a female slave, but on other matters, subtle political matters, on rankings, on contests of will, on maneuverings for power.

  “Of course,” said Abrogastes, affably.

  She knew that Abrogastes despised and hated her, for her role in the business of the Ortungs, but she also suspected that he, the thought both alarming and stirring her, found her not without interest as a
slave. Surely more than once she had detected in his eyes, or thought she had, keen desire, even fierce desire, as for a slave to be uncompromisingly mastered and ravished. She had no hope of winning his love, that hope of almost every slave girl, to win the love of her master, but hoped that she might, if only by years of an abject slave’s service and devotion, win perhaps at least some particle of a begrudging sufferance.

  “How will Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks, cast his pellet?” inquired Farrix.

  “Sacrifice her, father,” whispered Ingeld.

  “How will Farrix cast his pellet?” inquired Abrogastes.

  “She is not worth the collar!” said another Borkon.

  “But she is not without interest,” said another Borkon, evenly.

  The hand of Farrix went to his dagger, but he withdrew it, and it was almost as though he had not moved.

  “The matter is trivial, and it had escaped my mind,” said Abrogastes.

  He nodded to the clerk.

  “Let the pellets be cast!” called the clerk.

  Huta was pulled to her knees, and turned to face the scales, that she might witness the deciding of her fate.

  “Death to her!” cried a man.

  “Life!” cried another.

  The feasters then, the women in the circle forgotten, even she in the smaller circle, waiting, small, kneeling there, to be won, began to leave the tables and file, one by one, to the table of pellets, and then each, to cries of acclamation, or anger, or derision, cast their pellets, those small, leaden counters, into the pan of their choice.

  Huta could scarcely kneel.

  “Straighten your body, head up,” said the fellow who had positioned her. “Place your hands, wrists crossed, as though they were bound, at the small of your back.”

  She tried to comply.

  Pellets struck into the pans.

  The pan of death began to descend even more.

  “See she who was once the proud Huta!” laughed a man.

  “See the slave,” said another.

  “She trembles,” said another.

  “She cannot even hold herself upon her knees,” laughed another.

  “Tie her wrists behind her back,” said Abrogastes.

  “Blindfold her,” said Abrogastes.

  “Put her on a double leash,” said Abrogastes.

  These things were done, that she might better hold her position, and then she knelt much as she had, save that now her small wrists, in reality, were fastened behind her back, her eyes were now bandaged, with a folded scarf, and on her neck were two leashes, the straps, short and taut, extending from the two leash collars on her neck to the fists of her keepers, one on each side. The residual lengths of the straps were muchly coiled, the higher coils wrapped about their fists.

  Huta moaned.

  The pellets, unseen by her now, continued to strike into the pans.

  She could not now, held as she was by the leashes, slip from her knees.

  “You can see the pans, father,” said Ingeld. “Give her up.”

  “What is she to me?” said Abrogastes.

  “Give her up,” said Ingeld.

  “No!” said Hrothgar. He rose from his place and cast a pellet into the pan for life.

  “See how Hrothgar casts his pellet,” said Abrogastes to Ingeld.

  “He sees only the shapely limbs of a slave,” said Ingeld.

  “How shall I cast my pellet?” Abrogastes asked the clerk.

  “You will cast it as you wish, milord,” said the clerk.

  “How should I cast my pellet?” Abrogastes asked his shieldsman, his own great sword in its sheath, over the fellow’s left shoulder.

  “I shall defend my lord to the death,” said the shieldsman, “whatever he does, whatever be his decision.”

  Hrothgar returned to his place, casting a dark glance at Ingeld.

  “Hrothgar is a fool,” said Ingeld. “He cares only for his horses and falcons.”

  “And, it seems,” said a man, “for slave girls.”

  “Yes,” said Ingeld, scowling, “and for slave girls.”

  The pellets continued to be placed into the pans.

  Huta trembled. Tears ran from her eyes, beneath the blindfold, to stain her cheeks.

  The warriors, the merchants, the envoys, all, filed past the scales.

  “The matter is evening itself,” said a man, wonderingly.

  Huta lifted her head, startled. She strained, as if to see through the dark layers of the blindfold. Her small wrists moved helplessly in the tight, confining thongs.

  “Now it inclines again toward death,” said a man.

  The hall was now muchly silent, the eyes of the men upon the scales.

  The guests filed past, each putting his pellet into the pan of his choice.

  “Remove her blindfold,” said Abrogastes.

  The blindfold was removed, and Huta saw that the pointer on the scale was poised, as though indecisive, restless, wavering, at the midpoint of the scale.

  “It seems your beauty is not without interest, slut,” said a man.

  “She danced well,” said another.

  “I think she might make an excellent slave,” said another.

  “Not everyone who may has cast a pellet,” said Farrix, quietly.

  He looked at Ingeld.

  Ingeld looked at Abrogastes.

  Ingeld then went to the pan and cast his pellet.

  “He casts it for life!” said a man.

  Abrogastes then descended to the floor and went to the table.

  The scale, still, was delicately difficult to read, so many pellets there were, so evenly were they distributed, so small the weight of each.

  “It points, does it not, to the collar,” said a man.

  At one termination of the dial on the scale there was the representation of a skull, at the other the representation of a slave collar.

  Abrogastes picked up a pellet.

  “Remember Ortog, remember the Ortungs, remember the division of the nation, remember treason,” said Farrix.

  “I remember those things,” said Abrogastes.

  “How then will you cast your pellet, mighty Abrogastes?” asked Farrix.

  “As I please,” said Abrogastes.

  The hall was silent.

  Abrogastes then tossed his pellet into the pan of life.

  “Aii!” cried men, and others.

  “Shieldsman,” said Abrogastes.

  The shieldsman came to him.

  “My sword,” said Abrogastes.

  The weapon was unsheathed, and placed in his hand.

  Abrogastes then threw the mighty weapon into the pan of life, and it bore the balance of the scale almost to the vertical. Pellets spilled from the pans. The pan of life, that of the collar, was borne as low as it might be, without breaking the small chains which held it to the balance.

  “And how will you, noble Farrix, cast your pellet?” asked Abrogastes.

  “For life, of course,” he said. He cast his pellet into the pan of life, it now so much descended. “Hail to the Alemanni,” he said.

  “Hail to the Alemanni,” said Abrogastes.

  The keepers who held the leashes of Huta played out leather, lowering her to the ground.

  “Continue your gambling, my friends, my brothers,” said Abrogastes, raising his hand.

  “Up, on your knees, slave!” said a fellow at the smaller circle, to the woman waiting to be won.

  Again there was shouting.

  “Forty!”

  “Forty-six!”

  Abrogastes looked down at the slave who, overcome, had lost consciousness.

  “Take the leashes off her neck,” he said. “Leave her bound. Revive her.”

  Then he said to another fellow, “Bring a common slave collar for her.”

  Dice rattled upon the boards.

  Another slave was won.

  And another was put to the circle, and another summoned, bells jangling, from the ditched island to the place of readines
s.

  Cold water was splashed upon the unconscious, fainted, overcome, bound Huta, who, coughing, gasping, frightened, comprehending that her hands were still bound, regained consciousness.

  She looked wildly at Abrogastes, the earth muddied about her.

  Abrogastes retrieved his sword from the pan in which it lay, withdrawing it from amongst the three tiny chains, and gave it to his shieldsman, who returned it to its sheath.

  He then returned his attention to Huta, while the gambling went on, in the background.

  Huta scrambled to her knees, and put her head to the ground before Abrogastes.

  “Collar her,” said Abrogastes.

  One of his men crouched by the slave, her head still to the muddied dirt, and fastened a slave collar on her neck. It was a common slave collar. It fit closely. It locked in the back.

  “Now that she has been collared, throw her a piece of meat,” said Abrogastes.

  “On your belly, slave,” said a man.

  Huta went to her belly and the meat was thrown into the mud, before her.

  Eagerly, starving, her hands bound behind her, she seized the bit of meat in her small, fine teeth and, pulling it about, gnawing, trying to get it in her mouth, fed on it.

  The leader of the three display slaves, as well as her two companions, all chained to the ring on the dais, frightened, watched her. She, and her companions, commonly fed from pans, put on the floor, their heads down, on all fours. In such small ways, and others, a woman can be reminded she is a slave.

  Another woman was won, and another brought to the small circle.

  Much attention was on the gambling.

  Granicus had won a second slave.

  She was now tethered, like the first, beneath his table.

  Huta, ravenous, finished the bit of meat, but there was no more.

  She looked to the keeper, beggingly.

  “We must be concerned for your figure,” he said. “Let us keep it trim.”

  “May I have water, Master?” she begged.

  “You have water,” he said.

  She put down her head and lapped at muddied water.

  It had not been thus when she was a consecrated virgin, and priestess.

  Ingeld regarded her. Her flanks, it was true, were not without interest.

  Another woman was won, and another put to the circle, and another readied.

  “My lord will retire now?” asked the clerk.

  “Yes,” said Abrogastes.

  Two men, secondary shieldsmen, rose from their places, to accompany Abrogastes, and his shieldsman, from the hall.