Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Still, pretty,” said the man.

  “All women look well, so,” said Tullius Quintus, “bound, helpless, at one’s feet.”

  “True,” said the man.

  I was angry. At the supper, had not Tullius Quintus averred that he had seen pleasure slaves who were not so attractive as I? Had he now changed his mind? Too, I had been a slave for months, and had worn, in this time, several collars, and it is well known that in bondage a woman grows more beautiful. As a slave, given attention to cleanliness, appearance, deportment, and such, she has little choice other than to do so. More importantly, one supposes, a number of biological and psychological elements contribute to this matter, having to do with nature, sexual dimorphism, the resolution of ambivalences, fulfillment, self-discovery, and such.

  “See her squirm,” said one of Lysander’s men, amused.

  “You cannot free yourself, kajira,” said the other.

  I knew that was true. I was helpless. My struggles subsided. I had been thonged by a Gorean male.

  “Slip her into the slave sack,” said Tullius Quintus. “I am eager to be away.”

  I shook my head negatively, tears in my eyes, mutely pleading. Such a device was unpleasant. Too, such a device was seldom used for slaves, despite its name, for slaves were commonly coffled, chained in wagons, chained to a stirrup, or such. It might be useful, of course, in disciplining slaves, or stealing slaves. But I was not being disciplined, nor was I being stolen. Such a device could be useful, of course, in removing a captured free woman, perhaps one so unwise as to having intruded into a paga tavern, from her own city or town. Perhaps then she might find herself a paga girl elsewhere, given which denouement her presumed curiosity might be well satisfied.

  “The information on which I acted,” said Tullius Quintus, “may have been available to others, as well. If not, even so, my venture may have been suspected. I may have been followed to this house.”

  “The grounds, and nearby streets, are deserted,” said one of Lysander’s men.

  “The enemy is not always seen,” said Tullius Quintus.

  One of the two men shrugged. Is the unseen enemy not the most dangerous?

  “What of watchmen?” asked Tullius Quintus.

  “There may be a watchman, or so,” said one of the men.

  I whimpered a little, plaintively, as I was thrust, head first, into the sack. The sack is narrow. One could not turn about within its confines. It was of a size made for women, a common slave sack. It was laced shut, some inches behind my feet.

  “Carry her downstairs, to the tunnel portal, and thence to the wagon,” said Tullius Quintus. “Then ensconce her, and tie shut the canvas.”

  Large Gorean houses are often constructed with more in mind than comfort and convenience, luxury or impressiveness; they are often sturdy and defensible, as well. Too, it is not unusual for them to have secret chambers and passages, at least one of which is likely to lead, by means of a tunnel, to another house, or structure, perhaps a quarter of a pasang distant. The burrow of the sleen, for example, has two, sometimes three, openings. In this way an animal might escape a larger, more formidable animal entering its burrow, or, more frequently, utilize the additional opening to withdraw from its lair unnoticed, which may be of advantage in deceiving watchful prey, in surprising an enemy, and so on.

  I had not known, until then, that there was a tunnel portal. I did know that a large Gorean house usually had a number of possible entrances and exits, not always obvious.

  Somewhere a wagon was to be waiting.

  I did not know if the wagon was to be drawn by bosk, tharlarion, or kaiila. The wagons of Raymond of Ti, which had transported me, and others, from the Vosk to Torcadino had been drawn by bosk. They were the first bosk I had seen, broad horned and shaggy. I knew that tharlarion, at least of certain varieties, also served as draft beasts, but I had never, as yet, seen one. I did know something about them, and their varieties, from one or another of the dealer’s men in Victoria. I had also heard from them of kaiila. The latter beast, I had gathered, in its varieties, was less likely to be utilized as a draft beast than as a mount. It is apparently less common in the northern hemisphere than in the southern hemisphere. One of the dealer’s men, interestingly, had never seen one. Another form of draft beast is the draft slave, male or female. Several males may draw a rubble wagon or a wagon of cut stones in the quarries, or an ore wagon in a mining district, such things. Lighter labors might be assigned to females used as draft slaves. They are often used, for example, to draw the cart of a peddler. Some free women enjoy using harnessed female slaves to draw their carriages, or, chained to their poles, to carry their palanquins.

  Little love is lost between free women and kajirae.

  I was lifted in the arms of someone, presumably one of Lysander’s men, and carried from the room and down the stairs, and, after a time, down another flight of stairs. Later, from the sound of it, a trap was lifted. I felt myself handed downward from one fellow to another. I heard the trap, as I supposed it to be, dropped behind me. At the foot of some more stairs, I was carried on a level for some time, at least for seven or eight minutes. I heard the sandals of the men occasionally scuff pebbles, and, twice, splash a little, as if wading through some shallow expanse of water. Even within the sack I had a sense of coolness, and that the air might be damp and clammy.

  “Let us hurry,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “You will be off well before dawn,” said the fellow not carrying me. “Too, the streets for a pasang about are deserted, save perhaps for a watchman.”

  “The wagon has been concealed,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “It is in the stable’s wagon yard,” said the man. “It was brought there yesterday. The walls are high.”

  “Is it far yet?” asked Tullius Quintus.

  “No,” said one of the men.

  “The tharlarion?” inquired Tullius Quintus.

  “From the stable, itself,” said the man.

  “All is well,” said the fellow carrying me.

  “Hurry,” said Tullius Quintus.

  Shortly thereafter the men stopped, and there were more stairs, these ascending, and then, again, I was on a level, and sandals were treading planks and crushing straw. I smelled what must be dung. Then a door was swung open and it became cooler, chilling the moisture and sweat in the sack, and I was sure they had emerged into the night air. I heard a grunting noise, as of large animals, and, from the conversation in the tunnel, I knew these heavy, bestial sounds must have been emitted from tharlarion. I heard no new voices, either masculine or feminine, so I supposed the grooms must have retired for the night, and the stable slaves, if there were such, would be on their chains until dawn. The slavery of the stable slave is not one hoped for by girls in the presale exposition cages or waiting at the foot of a block, for their turn to be shown to men. Stable slaves often have their heads shaved, for purposes of cleanliness. They are, of course, at the disposal of the grooms.

  I heard the unlatching of a wagon gate and then I was lifted and thrust, head first, onto the floor of the wagon bed, near the gate, and the gate was closed. The wagon moved a fraction, as its draw beasts stirred.

  “Has a curfew been imposed?” asked Tullius Quintus.

  “No,” said one of Lysander’s men. “It was thought that would arouse suspicion.”

  “The streets have been cleared, save for an occasional watchman,” said the other.

  “There may be other wagons about then?” said Tullius Quintus.

  “At night,” said one of Lysander’s men. “By law, heavy drayage is confined to the hours of darkness.”

  “Surely you are familiar with that, as you are of Ar,” said the other fellow.

  “Of course,” said Tullius Quintus, I thought uneasily.

  I had the sense, then, he had climbed to the wagon bench.

  “Shou
ld another wagon pass this way, we will detain it, on some pretext or another, for a time,” said one of Lysander’s men.

  “My thanks,” said Tullius Quintus.

  I heard the creaking of what must have been two leaves of a gate, a large gate.

  “On!” called Tullius Quintus.

  I heard the grunting, and hissing, of one large beast, and then that of another, and the sound of a blow, striking on a massive body, and the wagon lurched forward, and I was shaken on the boards of the wagon bed.

  “On, on!” called Tullius Quintus.

  I heard another such blow.

  A whip is used with bosk or kaiila, but it serves little purpose with tharlarion, given the thickness of their hide, and their comparative lack of responsiveness. In their case a long, supple drive wand, or baton, is normally used, which device may be used either to strike or prod the beast.

  The wagon turned, almost immediately, and we were doubtless in the street. I heard metal-rimmed wheels rolling over stones. I knew the sound. The wagons of Raymond of Ti had had wheels rimmed with iron.

  We had scarcely made our turn when we, perhaps no more than twenty yards from the gate, from behind us, heard Lysander’s men, perhaps rushed out into the street, crying out, “Hold! Hold up your beasts! Hold! Inspection, inspection, in the name of the Administrator!”

  Their futile, frustrated cursing then fell behind us.

  Tullius Quintus began, desperately, to urge his beasts on, with cries and blows.

  The wagon rattled onward.

  It took me only moments to realize that something was surely amiss, from the frenzy of Tullius Quintus. Something unexpected, but perhaps feared, must have occurred.

  We were being followed!

  Our wagon went faster and faster. The domestic tharlarion, both quadrupedalian and bipedalian, differ considerably from most wild tharlarion, most commonly in tractability, stamina, and speed. They are bred, over generations, for such attributes. Even so, the ancient brain lurks within those broad skulls, and ancient instincts, bred for the rivers, swamps, and flood plains, sometimes reassert themselves, and the beasts, as though then strangers to harnesses, reins, and drive wands, become uncontrollable, and, in some cases, dangerous. Most domestic tharlarion are draft beasts, but they also have their applications in sport and war. There are, for example, racing and hunting tharlarion, and tharlarion bred for battle, some of which, ponderous, and armored, can shatter lines and topple siege towers.

  We made a sudden turn, and the wagon, veering, was on two wheels, and I was rolled to the side, and then, the vehicle righting itself, we plunged on.

  I guessed the metal-rimmed wheels struck sparks in the night, coursing over the cobbles of Market of Semris.

  I fought my bonds. I could utter only tiny sounds.

  The wagon veered again, and I was rolled to the other side.

  “On!” cried Tullius Quintus.

  We continued, apace, for several minutes.

  “On, on!” cried Tullius Quintus.

  I now heard a protestive bellowing from our beasts. I feared that Tullius Quintus, whom I supposed was not a drayman, might drive them to their death. Surely the pounding thunder that had previously marked our pace had become less assured, more erratic. “On!” cried Tullius Quintus. “On!” There were more strikings from the drive wand, now delivered savagely, again and again.

  Suddenly, the massive brake was applied, and the wagon, wheels squealing against the pressure, stopped.

  “The ferry!” cried a voice. “Are you mad? Come about! Onto the ferry!”

  I knew that a waterway, a barge canal, separated east Market of Semris from west Market of Semris, and gathered we had reached that point.

  Almost at the same time, I heard a cry from behind. “Hold that wagon! Hold that wagon!”

  Instantly Tullius Quintus released the brake and struck the beasts forward, and the wagon, tipping downward, rattled down a slope and struck into the water. The draft tharlarion are quadrupedalian and, as all such animals, willing or not, borne up by their configuration, have no difficulty in negotiating a liquid terrain. As they would walk on land, so they swim in water. Water surged into the wagon bed. Cold water rushed into the sack within which I was confined. I thrashed. Gagged, I could not scream. The gag was tight and sopped. Then the wagon, drawn, swaying and bobbing, was lifted by the water, and sheets of water drained from the wagon bed, and I lay then in no more than two or three inches of water, which quantity would remain in place, the wagon, as any wooden object, displacing water, having found its equilibrium in the medium.

  “On, on!” called Tullius Quintus to his beasts.

  I heard no evidence of a pursuit, and conjectured that it had been abandoned, or that the pursuing vehicle, rather than risking the water, and the possible confusion or rebellion of its team, would utilize the ferry. If so, Tullius Quintus would have gained an advance of some minutes on he, or those, who followed us. Perhaps this delay, I conjectured, would be acceptable to a pursuer, as the track of a wagon would be difficult to conceal. Tullius Quintus had tharlarion furnished by the stable of Lysander, presumably average beasts. A pursuer, realizing a pursuit would take place, would presumably supply himself with strong, agile beasts, beasts of superior quality, a lighter wagon, and such. I suspected the pursuer was astute, determined, and patient. If an encounter was inevitable, the expenditure of some minutes, spent to eliminate a variety of risks, would be understood as an excellent bargain. If an encounter is assured, it makes little difference whether it takes place now or nearly now.

  After some four or five minutes I heard the bluntly clawed feet of the tharlarion scrambling on a bank, tumbling pebbles about, and the wagon, tilted upward, sharply, was dragged from the water. I slid to the back of the wagon bed.

  In a moment the wagon was level again.

  But Tullius Quintus had halted the vehicle.

  The gate of the wagon bed was unlatched, and I was dragged, apparently by the laces on the sack, near my feet, from the wagon bed, and placed on the ground. The laces were then, hurriedly, cut, not untied, and I was drawn from the sack. I lay on the bank of the waterway then, on wet grass, while it was still dark. Tullius Quintus was cutting at the sack, now removed from my body. He cut off the top quarter, or so, of it. He then, by the hair, jerked me to a sitting position, and drew that part of the bag over my head. It fitted, hoodlike, and extended down over my arms, almost to my elbows. I whimpered, but he paid me no attention, not even commanding me to silence. He then seized up the drive wand and smote the tharlarion several times, running beside them, driving them to the right. He then returned, and bent to my ankles, and, with the knife, severed the thongs that had bound them. He then jerked me to my feet, I unable to see, in the improvised hood, by the left arm.

  My hands were still tied behind me.

  “He will follow the wagon,” he said to me.

  I had no idea, of course, of whom he might be speaking. But I suspected he, my master, knew.

  “He will soon discover the wagon is empty,” he said. “But we will have time.”

  He then began to move rapidly away from the bank, to our left, and then forward. He rushed me beside him, his right hand hard on my left arm, I stumbling, and I would have fallen several times, were it not for his grip.

  I was miserable with cold, in the predawn air. My legs began to ache. The coarse grass, knife grass, cut at my ankles.

  I whimpered, again, for mercy, that I might be pitied.

  I was not a peasant woman, not a large, coarse woman, not a brothel mistress, not a female fighting slave.

  For whatever reasons men had seen fit to put me in a collar, it was clearly not for such purposes.

  “It is not far now,” he said. Shortly thereafter, he began to tread more slowly, more carefully, as though he might be treading amongst stakes. He held me closer to him, tightly, by the arm
. Then I felt boards beneath my feet. I was not aware of having entered a dwelling, passing through a portal, or such. I might be on some sort of platform.

  “No footprints,” said he, “appear on clouds. Not even a sleen can traverse the tarn road.”

  I understood nothing.

  But then I heard a scratching on wood, as though heavy, restless knives were drawn through it.

  I sensed something large, and alive, was on the platform with us.

  I was conducted to the side.

  Something was done before me.

  I made a tiny noise, as I was lifted, and then, lowered, placed, sitting, on some heavy wickerwork surface.

  My ankles were then, again, crossed, and bound.

  A heavy leather belt was fastened about my waist.

  The remains of the sack, which had enveloped my head and shoulders, hoodlike, were pulled away and cast aside, through what appeared to be an open, wickerwork gate to my right.

  I blinked, and shook my head, my hair loose about me.

  I found myself sitting, bound hand and foot, the heavy strap about my waist, holding me in place, in some sort of sturdy basket, its opened wickerwork gate to my right.

  I could see little from within the basket other than through the opened gate, the boards outside, but there were numerous, tiny openings between the woven fibers.

  I could see the gray sky above me.

  Tullius Quintus then inserted his knife, carefully, between the side of my neck and the gag straps, and cut away the gag. I expelled the sodden wadding into his open, waiting hand, which device he then cast aside, as he had the improvised hood, and I looked up at him, confused, and frightened.

  “Master!” I exclaimed.

  I was cuffed, sharply, the blow jerking my head to the right.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said. “May I speak?”

  “No,” he said, and lashed my face to the left with a second cuff, a sharp, stinging, backhand slap.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said, tears in my eyes.

  Tullius Quintus then withdrew from the basket.