Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  The woman outside held the lamp inside the alcove entrance. I then seized her wrist and drew her forcibly, swiftly, she crying out, on her belly, through the narrow opening. The lamp, spilling oil, briefly flaming in a rivulet on the alcove floor, went to the side of the alcove, and went out. I knelt across her body. She was carrying only her whip and some keys. I removed these from her. She struggled fiercely, silently. She was strong for a woman. She would have been much stronger than the chained girl. Still, when all was said and done, her strength was only that of a female. It amused me. I let her struggle for a time, until she realized the futility of her efforts. With a sob she ceased struggling. I then removed her leather from her. I thought perhaps the free woman might be able to use it. “Be silent,” I warned my captive. She was silent. I then felt on the floor for the binding fiber. I had it in a moment and tied my captive’s hands behind her, and then took her ankles and, crossing them and pulling them up tightly behind her, bound them to her wrists. She would not be going anywhere.

  “Who are you?” she hissed, on her side in the darkness, pulling at her bonds.

  “Tarl,” I said, “of Port Kar.”

  “They were looking for you,” she said.

  “They found one another,” I said. I then thrust my captive to the side. I then felt about for the lamp. I located it almost immediately, and swirled it a bit. There was a tiny bit of oil left in it. I relit the lamp with the lighter, or as the Goreans say “fire-maker,” from my pouch. It is a standard flint-and-wheel device, with its tiny wick and reservoir. Goreans do not smoke, of course, but, as they commonly use natural flame for cooking and light, they find such a device, and others like it, utilizing springs and pyrites, with cartridges of oil-saturated tinder moss, and such, of great utility. The common sulfur match, on the other hand, so common on Earth, I have never met with on Gor. The chemistry involved in such a device, interestingly enough, is forbidden on Gor. It is regarded as constituting a violation of the Weapons Laws imposed on Goreans by Priest-Kings. This is not as farfetched as it might sound at first. Sulfur, for example, is one of the primary ingredients in the composition of gunpowder.

  “You!” exclaimed the captive. “You told me you were called Bosk!”

  “I am called Bosk,” I said. “You appear to be well bound.”

  She struggled briefly.

  “Yes,” I said, “quite well bound.”

  “Release me,” she said.

  “One of these keys,” I said, “has a 27 on it. That, I take it, is the key to the chains in this alcove.”

  “Yes,” said the captive, sullenly.

  I took this key and assured myself that it opened the manacles of the blond prisoner.

  She threw me a grateful look.

  Then I reclosed the manacles, leaving her chained precisely as she had been before. She regarded me wildly, puzzled, in consternation. She jerked at her hands. They were still manacled to the ring behind her. The captive on the floor laughed.

  I crouched in the alcove, looking at the blond girl. “She is a pretty thing, isn’t she?” I said. She drew her knees up, and shrank back against the alcove wall.

  “Yes,” said my captive. “Take her, use her. We can then put her out in back, with a tarsk bit tied on her belly.”

  “She looks like she would make an excellent slave,” I commented.

  “Yes,” said my captive. “Look at her. She is that kind of woman.”

  “She looks like the kind of woman whom you manage, then slaves, of course, in the brothel.”

  “Yes,” said my captive. “She is exactly that sort of woman. She belongs in a collar. Doubtless one day she will find her neck in one. Who knows? Perhaps one day she will even be here, subject to me, as one of our girls.”

  “Would you like that?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said my captive.

  “You would make her serve men well?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You enjoy making women such as she serve men?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, with relish, “I do. And I would see to it that she served men superbly.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I despise such women,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “They belong to men,” she said.

  I picked up her whip. “Doubtless she would look well kissing the whip,” I said.

  “Yes,” laughed my captive.

  “Kiss it,” I said to my captive, holding it before her.

  “What?” she cried.

  “All women belong to men,” I said.

  She tried to pull back from the whip, frenziedly. She struggled.

  “Be careful,” I said. “You may cause your bonds to cut into your limbs.”

  She looked at me in helpless fury.

  I loosened the blades of the whip. “You will kiss it now,” I said, “or after you have felt it. To me it is a matter of indifference. The choice is yours.”

  “Do not whip me,” she said.

  “You are a free woman,” I said. “You have doubtless never even felt a slave whip.”

  “I will kiss it,” she said.

  I held it before her. Many free women, before they have felt it, are skeptical of the efficacy of the slave lash. Their skepticism vanishes, of course, as soon as they feel it. On the other hand, I did not think this one would be. She was quite familiar with it. She doubtless used it regularly in her work. It was one of her tools, a useful device for the instruction, correction, discipline, and punishment of slaves. She would be quite aware of its power, from its effect on her helpless charges.

  “You can do better than that,” I said. “Better. Very good. Now, with your tongue. Come now. That’s better, much better. Excellent. Now, again, kiss it. More lingeringly, more lovingly. Splendid.” I then drew the whip back.

  She looked up at me. “I have kissed your whip,” she said.

  I then turned her to her belly and freed her ankles.

  “No!” she cried.

  In a few Ehn I turned to the blond captive and ungagged her, carefully removing the gag binding and drawing the wet packing from her mouth. “I am not looking forward to hearing a great deal of noise from you in the immediate future,” I said. “Is that clear?”

  She nodded, not speaking.

  “Aargh,” said the captive on the floor as I pushed the wadding into her mouth and bound it in place. “Nor from you,” I informed her.

  I then took my quiva and addressed myself to the rather mannish leather I had removed from the captive. I shortened it, considerably. I cut away the sleeves, deeply. I find the arms and shoulders of a woman attractive. I cut down the neckline, opening it considerably, and then slashed it almost to the belly. This would be pretty, I thought. I then slashed the tunic on both sides, up to the waist. A flash of thigh is nice on a woman, even if the thigh is not branded.

  The blond prisoner, her hands chained behind her, watched. I then freed her hands from the manacles and pulled her hands up and over her head. I then slipped the improvised tunic, cut now in a more feminine fashion from the mannish leather, on her body. Swiftly she pulled it down about her thighs, as far as it would go. Swiftly, too, then, did she kneel, her knees now tightly together, in the fashion of the free woman. She looked at me, frightened.

  I glanced back to the captive, her wrists still tightly bound behind her. She was on one elbow, and her hip now, on the alcove floor. Her hair was down about her face. Her eyes seemed filled with disbelief, as though she might be trying to understand what had been done to her.

  “Look,” I said to the captive, indicating the blonde.

  The blonde tried to pull the tunic further down her thighs. She clenched her knees more closely together.

  “She does look as though she belonged in a collar, doesn’t she?” I asked the captive.

  The captive looked up at me.

  “Doesn’t she?” I asked.

  The captive uttered muffled noises.

  I seized the captiv
e’s head, pulling it up. “Doesn’t she?” I asked. “You may whimper once for “Yes,” and twice for “No.” I am sure you are familiar with the procedure.”

  She looked at me with fury. I shook her head. She whimpered once. “What?” I asked. She then whimpered again, once, clearly. “Do you wish to be beaten?” I asked. She whimpered twice, clearly. “I see that you are indeed familiar with the procedure,” I said, I then thrust her back to the floor of the alcove.

  I again regarded the blonde. “What are you going to do with me?” she whispered. I put my hands on her upper arms. “What?” she asked.

  I forced myself to remove my hands from her arms.

  “What?” she asked.

  “We are going to get out of here,” I said. I then looked back at the bound captive, and then located the leather thong with the tarsk bit threaded on it. She looked at me wildly over the gag. She shook her head. She whimpered twice, again and again, desperately. Then the thong was tied about her waist, knotted in the back, and the tiny coin, threaded on the thong, dangled at her belly. I pushed it into her belly so that she could feel its impression, and then released it. I then took her by the hair with my right hand. “Come along,” I said to her. I picked up the tiny lamp with my other hand. “Follow us,” I said to the blonde. I then left the alcove, holding the lamp, drawing the bound captive by the hair after me. The blonde followed. The one body in the tunnel was to the right. In a moment or so we had crawled around the other one, that which had been to the left. Their message, according to the fellow who had been on the right, had been a matter of life and death. I supposed that had been intended to be a witticism on his part. Doubtless he would have enjoyed reporting on the manner and the words with which he had delivered the “message.” He had spoken truly, it seems. But it had turned out to be a matter of my life and their death. In a moment or two, as we were near the end of the tunnel, we came to the back corridor. We could stand up there. We came to the rear entrance. There was a small lamp there, in a niche, and I extinguished the lamp I carried and put it down. In a moment I had left the building, pulling the captive behind me, her head held down at my waist, in leading position. We were followed by the blonde in the brief leather garment I had fashioned for her. The door latched behind us. We emerged into a yard, where the slaves presumably could get fresh air and be exercised. There were some treadmills there, and some wooden platforms, with chain holes in the planks, where, in good weather, girls might be secured for tanning. Beyond this yard was the narrow alley behind the buildings. The gate to this yard also latched behind us. We could not re-enter from the outside. It was still very early, and half dark. It was also quite chilly. I recalled that my captive had told the blonde that her wrists might be kept warm by the binding fiber. She herself now, of course, though I do not think she had counted on it, had the benefit of that narrow, encircling garmenture.

  I pulled my captive around and between buildings, and emerged onto the street called the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla, and then I went between more buildings and emerged on the Avenue of Turia. This is a splendid avenue, and there are many shops on it. There I put my captive on her knees, her back to a slave ring, fixed in a wall a foot or so above the level of the pavement. I then slipped the extra binding fiber dangling from her wrists, that with which I had earlier tied her ankles up behind her, to her wrists, through the ring and then crossed her ankles and knotted it securely about them. Once again then were her wrists fastened to her ankles, though she was this time secured as well to a slave ring.

  “This is a very busy street,” I said, “though it does not seem so at this hour. Doubtless you will soon attract your share of attention. Doubtless some of the customers of the Tunnels will recognize you. You may consider what you will say to guardsmen, to explain your presence here. You might consider in particular how to explain to them the meaning of the tarsk bit on your belly. But then they may be familiar with such things, and their meanings.”

  She looked up at me.

  “Farewell, Free Woman,” I said.

  She extended her head toward me, whimpering, tears in her eyes.

  “Do you beg for mercy, for release?” I asked.

  She shook her head, negatively.

  “Surely you know I would not give it to you,” I said.

  She nodded, tears in her eyes.

  “I am not that sort of man,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “What then?” I asked.

  She reached toward me with her head. I crouched down beside her. I touched her gently on the left side of her face. She pressed her cheek, the gag binding drawn back tight between her teeth, against mine. I felt her tears.

  “You are not unattractive,” I said. “And in you somewhere there is a female. Do not despise any longer other women, for you, too, are a woman. Let your female emerge and become one with you, until there is only you, who is the female.”

  She whimpered softly, piteously, gratefully.

  “I do not think you will long be much good for working at the Tunnels, at least in your former capacity,” I said.

  She put her head down.

  “For you have now discovered how inordinately precious and glorious it is to be a woman,” I said. “It is its own thing, and it is different from being a man. Too, it is not even to be a pseudo-man or facsimile male. It is quite different. Such things are unnatural and despicable. It is its own place, in its own country, and a whole marvelous life and being.”

  She kept her head down.

  I stood up, and looked down at her. “Have no fear,” I said. “You look well kneeling at the feet of a man.”

  She raised her head, tears running from her eyes.

  “A rag, or a bit of silk, would become you more than the masculine leather, so amusingly outlandish, so silly and absurd on your female body, which you seemed so fond of affecting,” I said, “if, indeed, a master would permit you clothing at all.” I regarded her. “Perhaps you should feel the whip,” I said. She shrank back. “And your neck is rather bare,” I said. “It could use an ornament—perhaps a steel collar.” I stepped back. “Yes,” I said, considering her, “you are not unattractive. You would make an acceptable possession. You yourself, like the girls you so terrorized and dominated, like all women, as you have perhaps guessed by now, are ultimately and appropriately the property of men.”

  She nodded, and lowered her head. Tears fell from her eyes to the pavement.

  “Come along,” I said to the blonde.

  “You will leave her here, like this?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “And it is much what would have happened to you except that you would have been free, naked and bound, the tarsk bit at your belly, to try and make your way home.”

  I then, leaving my former hostess behind me on her knees, naked, her hands and ankles tied behind her to the slave ring, the tarsk bit on her belly, conducted the blonde back between the buildings to the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla. It was on that street that there was to be found the insula of Achiates.

  “There is the Tunnels,” I said, crossing the street. “It is there that you were taken last night.”

  “Free women scarcely speak of it, except in whispers,” she said, shuddering. “It is one of the lowest of the slave brothels in Ar.”

  “It is there that you were taken,” I said.

  “What a grim and terrible place it seems,” she said.

  “It does look a bit grim now,” I admitted. “But then you are not seeing it at its best. It is closed now, and it is early morning. It is hard to look one’s best this early in the morning, I am sure you will agree. In the evening now, when it opens, it looks much better, warmer, cheerful, lit up, even perhaps a bit gaudy. You would have known that last night if you could have gotten your head out of the sack.”

  “I’m sure of it,” she said.

  “Perhaps you could drop by some evening, and get a better idea of it,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

/>   “But I would not come unescorted,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “I do not think so.”

  “It is not really a terrible place at all,” I said. “I think it is rather nice.”

  “You were not chained naked in a slave alcove,” she said.

  “Look at it this way,” I said. “Consider it an interesting experience. After all, how many free women have ever been chained in a slave alcove?”

  “I am one of the lucky ones,” she said.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “I must thank you,” she said.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “In the alcove,” she said, “I was much at your mercy.”

  “You were totally at my mercy,” I said, correcting her.