commonly kept isolated on the farm, she is more often than her northern sister
put to the switch or whip; I think she lives under a harsher discipline;
southern masters are harder with their girls, expecting more from them and
seeing that they get it; northern girls, for example, are seldom trained in the
detailed, intricate sensuous arts of the female slave; the southern girl, to her
misery, must often learn these to perfection; moreover, upon command, she must
perform, joyfully and skillfully. The silk girl was heeling her master, a
captain of Torvaldsland. She wore, indeed, a brief tunic of the south, of golden
silk. She wore a collar of gold, and, hanging in her ears, were loops of gold.
"High-farm girls!" she whispered, as she passed the bond-maids of Ivar
Forkbeard. In the south the southern slave girl commonly regards her northern
counterparts as bumpkins, dolts from the high farms on the slopes of the
mountains of Torvaldsland; she thinks of them as doing little but swilling tarsk
and dunging fields; she regards them as, essentially, nothing more than a form
of bosk cow, used to work, to give simple pleasure to rude men, and to breed
thralls. "Cold fish!" cried out Pudding. "Stick!" cried out Pouting Lips. The
silk girl, passing them, did not appear to hear them. "Pierced-ear girl!"
screamed Pouting lips. The silk girl turned, stricken. She put her hands to her
ears. There were sudden tears in her eyes. Then weeping, she turned away, her
head in her hands, and fled after her master. The bond-maids of Ivar Forkbeard
laughed delightedly. The Forkbeard reached out and seized Pudding by the back of
the neck. He looked at her. He also looked at Pouting Lips, who shrank back. He
turned Pudding's head. "You wenches," he said, "might look well with pierced
ears." "Oh, no, my Jarl." Wept Pudding. "No!" "No," wept Pouting Lips. "Please,
no, my Jarl!" "Perhaps," mused the Forkbeard, "I shall have it done to the batch
of you upon my return. Gautrek can perform this small task, I expect." "No,"
whimpered the girls, huddled together. The Forkbeard turned then, and we
contimued on our way. The Forkbeard whistled. He was in an excellent mood. In
moments the girls, too, were again laughing and sporting, and pointing out
sights to one another. There was only one of the Forkbeard's wenches who did not
sport and laugh. Her name was Dagmar. There was a strap of binding fibre knotted
about her collar. She was led by Thyri. Her hands were tied together, behind her
back. She had been brought to the thing to be sold off. "Let us watch duels,"
said the Forkbeard. The duel is a device by which many disputes, legal and
personal, are settled in Torvaldsland. There are two general sorts, the formal
duel and the free duel. The free duel permits all weapons; there are there are
no restrictions on tactics or field. At the thing, of course, adjoining squares
are lined out for these duels. If the combatants wished, however, they might
choose another field. Such duels, commonly, are held on wave-struck skerries in
Thassa. Two men are left alone; later, at nightfall, a skiff returns, to pick up
the survivor. The formal duel is quite complex, and I shall not describe it in
detail. Two men meet, but each is permitted a shield bearer; the combatants
strike at one another, and the blows, hopefully, are fended by each's shield
bearer; three shields are permitted to each combatant; when these are hacked to
pieces or otherwise rendered useless, his shield bearer retires, and he must
defend himself with his own weapon alone; swords not over a given length, too,
are prescribed. The duel takes place, substantially, on a large, square cloak,
ten feet on each side, which is pegged down on the turf; outside this cloak
there are two squares, each a foot from the cloak, drawn in the turf. The outer
corners of the second of the two drawn squares are marked with hazel wands;
there is this a twelve-foot-square fighting area; no ropes are stretched between
the hazel wands. When the first blood touches the cloak the match may, at the
agreement of the combatants, or in the discretion of one of the two referees, be
terminated; a price of three silver tarn disks is then paid to the victor by the
loser; the winner commonly then performs a sacrifice; if the winner is rich, and
the match of great importance, he may slay a bosk; if he is poor, or the match
is not considered a great victory, his sacrifice may be less. These duels,
particularly of the formal variety, are sometimes used disreputably for gain by
unscrupulous swordsmen. A man, incredibly enough, may be challenged risks his
life among the hazel wands; he may be slain; then, too, of course, the stake,
the farm, the companion, the daughter, is surrendered by law to the challenger.
The motivation of this custom, I gather, is to enable strong, powerful men to
obtain land and attractive women; and to encourage those who possess such to
keep themselves in fighting condition. All in all I did not much approve of the
custom. Commonly, of course, the formal duel is used for more reputable
purposes, such as settling grievances over boundaries, or permitting an
opportunity where, in a case of insult, satisfaction might be obtained. One case
interested us in particular. A young man, not more than sixteen, was preparing
to defend himself against a large burly fellow, bearded and richly helmeted. "He
is a famous champion," said Ivar, whispering to me, nodding to the large burly
fellow. "He is Bjarni of Thorstein Camp." Thorstein Camp, well to the south, but
yet north of Einar's Skerry, was a camp of fighting men, which controlled the
countryside about it, for some fifty pasangs, taking tribute from the farms.
Thorstein of Thorstein's Camp was their Jarl. The camp was od wood, surrounded
by a palisade, built on an island in an inlet, called the inlet of Thorestein
Camp, formally known as the inlet of Parsit, because of the rich fishing there.
The stake in this challenge was the young man's sister, a comely, blond lass of
fourteen, with braided hair. She was dressed in the full regalia of a free woman
of the north. The clothes were not rich, but they were clean, and her best. She
wore two brooches; and black shoes. The knife had been removed from the sheath
at her belt; she stood straight, but her head was down, her eyes closed; about
her neck, knotted, was a rope, it fastened to a stake in the ground near the
dueling square. She was not otherwise secured. "Forfeit the girl," said Bjarni
of Thorstein Camp, addressing the boy, "and I will not kill you." "I do not care
much for the making women of Torvaldsland bond," said Ivar. "It seems improper,"
he whispered to me. "They are of Torvaldsland!" "Where is the boy's father?" I
asked one who stood next to me. "He was slain in an avalanche," said the man. I
gathered then that the boy was then owner of the farm. He had become, then, the
head of his household. It was, accordingly, up to him to defend as best he
could, against such a challenge. "Why do you challenge a baby?" asked Ivar
Forkbeard. Bjarni looked upon him, not pleasantly. "I want the girl for
Thorstein Camp," he said. "I have no quarrel with children." "Will she be
branded there, and collared?" aske
d Ivar. "Thorstein Camp has no need for free
women." "She is of Torvaldsland," said Ivar. "She can be taught to squirm and
carry mead as well as any other wench," said bjarni. I had no doubt this was
true. Yet the girl was young. I doubted that a girl should be put in collar
before she was fifteen. Ivar looked at me. "Would you like to carry my shield?"
he asked. I smiled. I went to the young man, who was preparing to step into the
area of hazel wands. He was quite a brave lad. Another youngster, about his own
age, probably from an adjoining farm, would carry his shield for him. "What's
your name, Lad?" I asked the young man preparing to enter the square marked off
with the hazel wands. "Hrolf," said he, "of the Inlet of Green Cliffs." I then
took both of the boys, by the scruff, and threw them, stumbling, more than
twenty feet away to the grass. I stepped on the leather of the cloak. "I'm the
champion," said I, "of Hrolf of Inlet of Green Cliffs." I unsheathed the sword I
wore at my belt. "He is mad," said Bjarni. "Who is your shield bearer?" asked
one of the two white-robed referees. "I am!" called the Forkbeard, striding into
the area of hazel wands. "I appreciate the mad bravery," said I, "of the good
fellow Thorgeir of Ax Glacier, but, as we all know, the men of Ax Glacier, being
of a hospitable and peaceful sort, are unskilled in weapons." I looked at the
Forkbeard. "We are not hunting whales now," I told him, "Thorgeir." The
Forkbeard spluttered. I turned to the referee. "I cannot accept his aid," I told
him. "It would too much handicap me," I explained, "being forced, doubtless, to
constantly look out for, and protect, one of his presumed ineptness."
"Ineptness!" thundered the Forkbeard. "You are of Ax Glacier, are you not?" I
asked him, innocently. I smiled to myself. I had, I thought, hoisted the
Forkbeard by his own petard. He laughed, and turned about, taking his place on
the side. "Who will bear your shield?" asked one of the referees. "My weapon is
my shield," I told him, lifting the sword. "He will not strike me." "What do you
expect to do with that paring knife?" asked Bjarni of Thorstein Camp, looking at
me puzzled. He thought me mad. "Your long sword," I told him, "is doubtless
quite useful in thrusting over the balwarks of ships, fastened together by
grappling irons, as mine would not be, but we are not now, my dear Bjarni,
engaging in combat over the bulwarks of ships." "I have reach on you!" he cried.
"But my blade will protect me," I said. "Moreover, the arc of your stroke is
wider then mine, and your blade heavier. You shall shortly discover that I shall
be behind your guard." "Lying sleen!" cried out the man of Thorstein Camp. The
girl, the rope on her throat, looked wildly at me. The two boys, white-faced,
stood behind the hazel wands. They understood no more of what was transpiring
than most others of those present. The chief referee looked at me. His office
was indicated by a golden ring on his arm. To his credit, he had, obviously, not
much approved of the former match. "Approve me," I told him. He grinned. "I
approve you," said he, " as the champion of Hrolf of Inlet of Green Cliffs."
Then he said to me, "As you are the champion of the challenged, it is your right
to strike the first blow." I tapped the shield of Bjarni of Thorstein Camp, it
held by another ruffian from his camp, with the point of my sword. "It is
struck," I said. With a cry of rage the shield bearer of Bjarni of Thorstein
Camp rushed at me, to thrust me back, stumbling, hopefully to put me off my
balance, for the following stroke of his swordsman. I stepped to one side. The
shield bearer's charge carried him almost tot he hazel wands. Bjarni, sword
high, had followed him. I now stood beside Bjarni, the small sword at his neck.
He turned white. "Let us try again," I said. Quickly he fled back, and was
joined by his shield bearer. In the second charge, though I do not know if it
were elegant or not, given the properties of the formal duel, I tripped the
shield bearer. One is not supposed to slay the shield bearer but, as far as I
knew, tripping, though perhaps not in the best of form, was acceptable. I had,
at any rate, seen it done in an earlier match. And, as I expected, neither of
the referees warned me of an infraction. I gathered, from the swift looks on
their faces, that they had thought it rather neatly done, though they are
supposed to be objective in such matters. The fellow went sprawling. Bjarni,
quite wisely, he obviously brighter than his shield bearer, had not followed him
so closely this time, but had hung back. Our swords met twice, and then I was
under his guard, the point of my sword under his chin. "Shall we try again?" I
asked. The shield bearer leaped to his feet. "Let us fight!" he cried. Bjarni of
Thorestein Camp looked at me. "No," he said. "Let us not try again." He took the
point of his sword and made a cut in his own forearm, and held it out, over the
leather. Drops fell to the leather. "My blood," said Bjarni of Thorstein Camp,
"is on the leather." He sheathed his sword. The girl and her brother, and his
friend, and others cried with pleasure. Her brother ran to her and untied the
rope from about her neck. His friend, though she was but fourteen, took her in
his arms. Bjarni of Thorstein Camp went to the boy whom he had challenged. From
his wallet he took forth three tarn disks of silver and placed them, one after
the other, in the boy's hand. "I am sorry, Hrolf of the Inlet of Green Cliffs,"
he said, "for having bothered you." Then Bjarni came to me and put out his hand.
We shook hands. "There is fee for you in Thorstein Camp," said he, "should you
care to share our kettles and our girls." "My thanks," said I. "Bjarni of
Thorstein Camp." Then he, with his shield bearer, left the leather of the square
of hazel wands. "These I give to you, Champion," said the boy, trying to push
into my hands the three tarn disks of silver. "Save them." Said I, "for your
sister's dowry in her companionship." "With what then," asked he, "have you been
paid?" "With sport," I said. "My thanks, Fighter," said the girl. "My thanks,
too, Champion," said the boy who held her. I bowed my head. "Boy!" cried the
Forkbeard. The boy looked at him. The Forkbeard threw him a golden tarn disk.
"Buy a bosk and sacrifice it," said the Forkbeard. "Let there be much feasting
on the farms of the Inlet of Green Cliffs!" "My thanks, Captain!" cried the boy.
"My thanks!" There was cheering from the men about, as I, the Forkbeard, some of
his men, and some of his bond-maids, left the place of dueling. We passed one
fellow, whom we noted seized up two bars of red hot metal and ran some twenty
feet, and then threw them from him. "What is he doing?" I asked. "He is proving
that he has told the truth," said the Forkbeard. "Oh," I said. I noted that the
bond-maids of Ivar Forkbeard attracted more then their expected share of
attention. They were quite beautiful, from collars to low bellies, and the turn
of their legs. "Your girls walk well." I told Ivar. "They are bond-maids," said
he, "under the eyes of strange men." I smiled. The girls wore their kirtles as
they did not simply that the riches owned by Ivar Forkbeard might be well
for another reason as well; the female slave, knowing she is slave, finds it
stimulating to be exposed to the inspection of unknown men; do they find her
body pleasing; do they want it; is she desired; she sees their looks, their
pleasure; these things, for example, do they wish they owned her, she finds
gratifying; she is female; she is proud of her allure, her beauty; further, she
is stimulated by knowing that one of these strange men might buy her, might own
her, and that then she would have to please him, and well; the eyes of a
handsome free man and a slave girl meet; she sees he wonders how she would be in
the furs; he sees that she, furtively, speculates on what it would be like to be
owned by him; she smiles, and, in her collar, hurries on; both receive pleasure.
"When we return to Forkbeard's Landfall," said the Forkbeard, "they will be
better, for having looked, and having been looked upon." In the south, a girl is
sometimes sent to the market clad only in her brand and collar; not
infrequently, upon her return home, she begs her master for his touch. To be
seen and desired is stimulating to the female slave. A girl must be careful, of
course; should she in anyway irritate, or not please, her master she may be
switched or whipped. In some cities, once a day, a girl must kneel and kiss the
whip which, if she is not sufficiently pleasing to her master, will be used to
beat her. A farmer, in the crowd, reached forth. His heavy hand, swiftly, from
her left hip to her right breast, caressed Thyri, lingering momentarily on her
breast. She stopped, startled. Then she darted away. "Buy me, my Jarl!" she
laughed. "Buy me!" The Forkbeard grinned. His girls, he knew, were good. Few who
looked upon them would not have liked to own them. We saw thralls, too, in the
crowd, and rune-priests, with long hair, in white robes, a spiral ring of gold
on their left arms, about their waist a bag of omens chips, pieces of wood
soaked in the blood of the sacrificial bosk, slain to open the thing; these
chips are thrown like dice, sometimes several times, and are then read by the
priests; the thing-temple, in which the ring of the temple is kept, is made of
wood; nearby, in a grove, hung from poles, were bodies of six verr; in past
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