Marauders of Gor coc-9

by John Norman

  "I shall drink it," I told Ivar Forkbeard.

  The Forkbeard looked upon Sarus of Tyros. "If he dies," he said, "your death will be neither swift nor pleasant."

  "I am your hostage," said Sarus.

  "You, you called Sarus of Tyros," said Ivar, "you drink first."

  "There is not enough," said Sarus of Tyros.

  "Chain him," said the Forkbeard. Chains were brought.

  "Sarus of Tyros," I said to Ivar, "is a guest in the hall of Svein Blue Tooth."

  The chains were not placed on Sarus.

  I lifted the vial to Sarus of Tyros. "I drink," I said, "I drink to the honor of Tyros."

  Then I downed the contents of the vial.

  Chapter 22 - I TAKE SHIP FROM THE NORTH

  Slave girls, naked, carrying burdens, loaded the ship of Ivar Forkbeard, the Hilda, moored at the wharf of the Thing Fields. We stood on the wooden boards of the wharf.

  "Will you not return to Port Kar with Sarus and myself?" asked Samos.

  "I think," said I, smiling, "I will take ship south with Ivar Forkbeard, for I have yet to learn to break the Jarl's Ax's gambit."

  "Perhaps," said Samos, "when you reach Port Kar, we may talk of weighty matters."

  I smiled. "Perhaps," I said.

  "I think," said Samos, "that I detect a difference in you. I think that here, somehow, in the north, you have found yourself."

  I shrugged.

  A seaman dragged Telima, by the arm, before us. She was stripped. Her hair was before her face. Her wrists were fastened behind her by the rude bracelets of the north. The Kur collar, leather, some three inches in height, ho]ding her chin up, with its ring, was still on her throat. She had spent the last five days chained in a small, log slave kennel. She looked at Samos, and then, swiftly, lowered her eyes.

  He looked upon the vulnerable, stripped girl with fury. He knew well, now, what had been her role, her willing role, in the plan of the Kurii.

  "I will see that she is well punished," he said.

  "You are speaking of one of my slave girls," I said.

  "Ah!" he said.

  "I will see that she is punished," I said. She looked at me. There was fear in her eyes.

  "Put her on the ship," I said to the seaman. He thrust her, ahead of him, stumbling, up the narrow gangplank, and put her on the ship.

  In Port Kar I would remove the Kur collar and put her in one of my own. I would, too, have her beaten. Afterwards she would serve in my house, as one of my slave girls.

  About my forehead I wore a Jarl's talmit. This morning Svein Blue Tooth, before cheering men, had tied it about my head. "Tarl Red Hair," had said he, "with this talmit accede to Jarlship in Torvaldsland!" I had been lifted on the shields of shouting men. In the distance I had seen the Torvaldsberg, and, to the west, gleaming Thassa.

  "Never before," had said Svein Blue Tooth, "has one not of the north been named Jarl amongst us." There had been much shouting, much clashing of weapons. Conscious I was indeed of the signal honor seen fit to be bestowed upon me. I had lifted my hands to them, standing on the shields, a Jarl of Torvaldsland, one who might now, in his own name if need be, send forth the arrow of war, summoning adherents; one who might, as it pleased him, command ships and men; one who might now say to the rough, bold seamen of the north, as it pleased him, "Follow me, there is work to be done," and whom they would then follow, gathering weapons, opening the sheds, sliding their ships on rollers to the sea, raising the masts, spreading the striped sails to the wind, saying, "Our Jarl has summoned us. Let us aid him. There is work to be done."

  "I am grateful," said I to Svein Blue Tooth.

  "I wish you well, Bosk of Port Kar," said Samos.

  "Tarl Cabot," said I to him.

  He smiled. "I wish you well, Tarl Cabot," he said.

  "I wish you well, Samos," said I.

  "I wish you well, Warrior," said Sarus.

  "I, too, wish you well, Warrior," said I, "Sarus of Tyros." Samos and Sarus turned about and left the wharf. They were going to the ship of Samos, on which they had come north.

  Coast gulls screamed overhead. The air was sharp and clear. The sky was very blue.

  I watched the girls loading the ship. Aelgifu, or Pudding, passed me, and then Gunnhild and Olga, bent under boxes carried on their backs. Pouting Lips and Pretty Ankles returned from the ship, down the gangplank, barefoot, to fetch more burdens. Hilda, bent over, a heavy sack of salt over her shoulders, staggered up the gangplank. Thyri returned down the gangplank, a yoke on her shoulders, from which dangled two empty baskets, on ropes. She had been carrying tospits and vegetables to the deck locker, to fill it. Wulfstan, once of Kassau, now of Torvaldsland, in charge of supplying the ship, leaned over the rail. "Fetch more tospits, Slave Girl," he called. "Yes, Master," said Thyri.

  I saw Rollo board the ship. He carried a great ax, weapons, a sleenskin bag filled with gear. He was the first of the oarsmen to board.

  Now came slave girls bearing skins of water. They walked slowly, bent over, placing each step carefully, that they not lose their balance, heavy skins, bulging and damp, across their shoulders. I saw Honey Cake among them, and the Forkbeard's golden girl, the southern silk girl, too, she laboring as any other bond-maid. I do not think that in the south she had been forced so to work. She staggered.

  "Hurry," said the girl behind her, "or we will be beaten!" The girl moaned, and staggered to the gangplank, and, slowly, foot by foot, her bare feet pressed by the weight deeply into the rough boards, climbed, carrying her burden, to the deck of the ship. Among the girls, too, I saw Bera, she one of the Blue Tooth's girls, one of several, who had been placed under the orders of Wulfstan to assist in the loading. She was naked. The other girls, resenting the tunic she had been given, had stripped her. Svein Blue Tooth had laughed. Masters do not interfere in the squabbles of slaves.

  I looked up at the sky. It was very blue. For more than a day I had lain in fever, in delirium, while in my body had been fought the battle of poison and antidote. I had sweated, and cried out, and raged, but, in the end, I had thrown the furs from me. "I want meat," I had said, "and a woman." The Forkbeard, who had sat near me through the hours of the lonely contest, clasped me about the shoulders. He had ordered roast bosk and hot milk, and then yellow bread and paga. Then, when I had finished, Leah had been thrown to my feet.

  I walked up the gangplank and stood on the decking, looking out to sea. There was a sweet wind on Thassa.

  My delirium this time, interestingly to me, had been much different than it had when, long ago, the poison had first raged in my body. At that time I had been miserable, and weak, even calling out to a woman, who was only a slave, to love me. But, somehow, in the north, in Torvaldsland, I had changed. This I knew. There was a different Tarl Cabot than ever there had been. Once there had been a boy by this name, one with simple dreams, naive, vain, one shattered by a betrayal of his codes, the discovery of a weakness where he had thought there was only strength. That boy had died in the delta of the Vosk; in his place had come Bosk of Port Kar, ruthless and torn, but grown into his manhood; and now there was another, one whom I might, if I wished, choose to call again Tarl Cabot. I had changed.

  Here, with the Forkbeard, with the sea, the wind, in his hall and in battle, I had become, somehow, much different. In the north my blood had found itself, learning itself, in the north I had learned strength, and how to stand alone.

  I thought of the Kurii. They were terrible foes. Suddenly, incredibly, I felt love for them. I recollected the head of the giant Kur mounted on its stake, in the ruins of the hall of Svein Blue Tooth. One cannot be weak who meets such beasts. I laughed at the weaknesses instilled into the men of Earth. Only men who are strong, without weakness, can meet such beasts. One must match them in strength, in intellect, in terribleness, in ferocity. In the north I had grown strong. I suddenly realized the supreme power of the united Gorean will, not divided against itself, not weak, not crippled like the wills of Earth. I felt a surge of pow
er, of unprecedented, unexpected joy. I had discovered what it was to be Gorean. I had discovered what it was, truly, to be male, to be a man. I was Gorean.

  Leah boarded the ship. She was barefoot. I had given her a brief, woolen slave tunic, which came high about her hips; it was sleeveless; it was split to the belly, belted with binding fiber. She carried, in a sleenskin bag, over her shoulders, much of my gear. I indicated to her the bench beneath which she might put it. She wore the black collar of the north. She turned and left the ship, going down the gangplank, to fetch more of my things. She walked well. She knew my eyes were on her, the sleek she-sleen. I enjoyed owning her.

  I looked again out to sea. Last summer, in journeying to the forests, to attempt to rescue Talena, I had, in a tavern in Lydius, encountered a wench once known, Vella, Elizabeth Cardwell. She had made a delicious paga slave. I recalled her, licking my lips. Intent on the rescue of Talena, not wishing to be burdened by another wench, I had not yielded to the entreaties of the girl to buy her and free her. What a stupid request, I thought, to make of a Gorean male. It would have occurred only to an Earth girl. But if Elizabeth was stupid, or, more likely, naive, she was at least pretty.

  I thought then, too, of Talena. She had been disowned by Marlenus of Ar. But she lived now in Ar, sequestered. She had insulted me in Port Kar. I smiled. I had left Vella, Elizabeth Cardwell, slave in Lydius. She had once, against my wishes fled the Sardar, when I had wished, as a foolish Earthling, to return her to her home planet, for safety. Such a courageous act on her part had not been without its risks. She had fallen slave. I had met her in a tavern in Lydius. Gor is a perilous world, and particularly so, perhaps, for beautiful women. It is seldom that they, if not protected by a city and a Home Stone, escape the slave collar, the brand, the chains of a master. Elizabeth's act had been courageous. But she had lost her wager. I left her slave in Lydius, to the mercies of Sarpedon, the tavern keeper, and his customers.

  It had been, as I now thought, a mistake. It had been a mistake because Elizabeth had been quite pretty. I would have been a fool to return so pretty a wench to Earth. When I returned to Port Kar I would arrange for an agent to buy her, if she had not already been sold to one who lusted for her and could pay her price. I would have been a fool to return so pretty a wench to Earth, I mused. Yes, I would, if it were commercially feasible, buy her, and keep her on Gor as my own slave.

  I recalled that in my first delirium, fighting the poison, long ago, I had wept, and, in my fevered ragings, had begged for her comfort, that she love me. That seemed to me now incredible, but I recalled it, clearly. But I had changed in the north. This time, in my delirium, the wench, I recalled, had figured quite differently. No longer, this time, did I call out to her, or beg for her comfort, or love. This time it had seemed I had seen her on a slave block, naked, under torchlight, guided by the whip, turning for buyers. I dreamed in the delirium I had purchased her. "Do not return me to Earth," she had begged. "I will not," I told her. Then she had looked at me with horror, and I had, upon my return to my house, thrown her among my other slaves.

  Ivar Forkbeard, with great strides, climbed the gangplank. Then, laughing, giggling, thrilled to be soon underway, approaching between two lines of seamen, came his slave girls. With them, less pleased, was the "golden girl," she with dark hair, and earrings. She dallied. One of the seamen took her by the back of the neck and thrust her, running, stumbling, half up the gangplank. She, too, then, weeping, boarded the Forkbeard's ship. "On your back," said a seaman to her, "and lift your legs, ankles crossed." The girl did so. He put the two piece, hinged, double ankle ring on her. This is a simple fetter, without links, holding the ankles crossed. It does not permit the girl to rise to her feet. When she had learned to be more pleasing, more radiant, her movements would be less restricted; I had little doubt that, by the time we reached Port Kar, she would be precisely what the Forkbeard wanted her to be. I looked at her. Our eyes met.

  She looked down, tears in her eyes. I had used her. She was quite good. But it had taken longer to arouse her than is common in a slave girl. The Forkbeard, I, and the crew, would improve her. The trip south would be long.

  Whereas it commonly takes a third of an Ahn to arouse a free woman female slave is often responsive from almost the first touch of the master.

  Why this should be I do not know. I suspect it is due, primarily, to two factors: the first is psychological. The collar itself, and the state of bondage, for no reason clear in my mind, commonly transforms even the tepid free woman into an orgasmic marvel of a slave. Perhaps the fear to be whipped if they are not pleasing? Perhaps, behaviorally, given no choice but to act as a passionate female slave, they find, suddenly, through simple psychological relationships, they, to their horror, have become only a passionate female slave. Perhaps it is the knowing that they are rightless, owned, dominated, which so deeply, so incredibly triggers the profound web of yielding, piteously receptive, helplessly submitting reflexes; perhaps in the depth of their bodies lies the secret need to be sexually subjugated, totally, without which they cannot attain their full sexuality. I do not know.

  The second reason is presumably simple. It is merely that the female slave, abandoned, responsive, owned constantly at her master's beck and call, ready constantly for his least pleasure, is frequently used. Female slaves are sometimes used, when the master's time permits, three and four, or more, times a day. It is not unusual to give an entire day to sport with a female slave, something unthinkable with a free woman.

  The slave girl, of course, has no rights. She may be used for hours. What counts is not her will, but her master's. Frequent use of the female slave, I suspect keeps her body honed to submissive perfection. Whatever be the reasons, a common female slave, and one of no unusual heat for a slave, will be carried through a series of multiple yieldings, dozens, before the average free woman can be warmed. Then, when the master wishes, scorning perhaps her helplessness in his arms, despising perhaps, to her misery, her vulnerability to him, he takes ruthlessly, perhaps contemptuously, his delight with her.

  As a note, it might be added, that the slave female, in her master's arms, must, if he so commands, under the threat of the whip or death, vocalize her sensations, then ventilating and reinforcing, multiplying, deepening, and increasing and intensifying them. Thus, cruelly, she is forced to help arouse herself and contribute to her own pleasures, and consequently, of course, those of the master. This command, sometimes, implicit, sometimes a matter of the master's policy with his girl or girls, under which she is placed, to vocalize her pleasures, and abundantly, as well as, in her abandon, nudity, and beauty, manifest them physically, guides, accurately and surely, the master in the detailed exploitation of her weaknesses, in his depredations practiced on her body. She must betray herself. Do not blame her. No choice is given her. She is an instrument of passion on which he plays, delighting himself with the music of her expressions, her movements, her cries, even the wild, unrestrainable odors of her collared slave body. She is forced to contribute to her own sexual subjugation. Do not blame her. No choice is given her.

  Following the rest of the girls, carrying the last of my gear, came Leah, who stood, small, beside me. Ottar then, and Gorm, and the other men of the Forkbeard boarded the craft. Thyri, who had boarded earlier, stood near the bench of Wulfstan, where, already, he gripped an oar. Near the mast, chained to it by the neck, eyes down, knelt Telima.

  Moorings were cast off. Poles thrust the Hilda from the wharf. Gorm held the tiller, mounted at the stern on the starboard side. The seamen brought their shields inboard, stowed their gear beneath their benches, grasped their oars. Slowly the tarnhead prow of the Forkbeard's sleek craft turned toward the sweep of Thassa. The oars dipped slowly. The great red and white striped sail fell, opening, snapping, from the spar of needlewood. I turned back to the wharf.

  The Forkbeard and I raised our hands, in salute, to the men there. We saw Svein Blue Tooth, the tooth of the Hunjer whale, stained blue, on its chain abou
t his neck. He lifted his hand. Near him, kneeling beside her master, behind the line of his heels, was Bera, one of his girls. I saw, too, Bjarni, of Thorstein Camp, who lifted his spear to me, and beside him, too, the young man, his friend, he, too, lifting his hand, whom I had, it now seemed long ago, championed at the dueling field. There were many men there, armed, and wenches, too.

  One of the seamen lifted the "golden girl," her crossed ankles in the fetter, that she might see. Then he threw her back to the deck, where, on her stomach, and elbows, head down, hair falling to the deck, she lay.

  I saw Telima, standing by the mast, to which she was chained by the neck. I looked at her, harshly. Immediately she knelt, eyes down.

  In my pouch there was a sapphire from distant Schendi. There, too, heavy and spiraled, was a ring of gold, which I had taken from the arm of the Kur I had slain. In the distance, as the ship moved to sea, the wind in its sail, oar dipping, I saw the bleak, white heights of the Torvaldsberg.

  Hrolf, from the East, had agreed to return the war arrow to the Torvaldsberg.

  We had given it to him. When he had left the ruins of the hall of Svein Blue Tooth I had run after him, and, a pasang from the camp, had stopped him. "What is your true name?" I had inquired.

  He had looked at me, and smiled. It was strange what he said. "My name," he said, "is Torvald." Then he had turned away, I watched him return to the mountain. I thought of the stabilization serums. "My name is Torvald," he had said. Then he had turned away.

  "Ho!" cried Ivar Forkbeard, striking me on the back, clasping me about the shoulders. "It is a good wind!" Then he turned away, to his duties on the ship.

  I walked between the benches, to the prow, and, standing on the high decking, at the stem, put one arm about the prow and looked out to sea. Leah heeled me there. I turned to face her. I could see the lovely curves of the interior cleavage of her breasts, revealed in the parting of the rough slave tunic. I looked at the collar, her eyes. I pulled the tunic down from her shoulders, to her waist.