by John Norman
The figure of the woman, swathed in black, heavily veiled, descended the steps of the slave wagon. Once at the foot of the stairs she stopped and stood for a long moment. Then the musicians began, the hand-drums first, a rhythm of heartbeat and flight.
To the music, beautifully, it seemed the frightened figure ran first here and then there, occasionally avoiding imaginary objects or throwing up her arms, ran as though through the crowds of a burning city alone, yet somehow suggesting the presence about her of hunted others. Now, in the background, scarcely to be seen, was the figure of a warrior in scarlet cape. He, too, in his way, though hardly seeming to move, approached, and it seemed that wherever the girl might flee there was found the warrior. And then at last his hand was upon her shoulder and she threw hack her and lifted her hands and it seemed her entire hotly was wretchedness and despair. He turned the figure to hen and, with both hands, brushed away hood and veil.
There was a cry of delight from the crowd.
The girl’s face was fixed in the dancer’s stylized moan of terror, but she was beautiful. I had seen her before, of course, as had Kamchak, but it was startling still to see her thus in the firelight her hair was long and silken black, her eyes dark, the colour of her skin tarnish.
She seemed to plead with the warrior but he did not move.
She seemed to writhe in misery and try to escape his grip but she did not.
Then he removed his hands from her shoulders and, as the crowd cried out, she sank in abject misery at his feet and performed the ceremony of submission, kneeling, lowering the head and lifting and extending the arms, wrists crossed.
The warrior then turned from her and held out one hand.
Someone from the darkness threw him, coiled, the chain and collar.
He gestured for the woman to rise and she did so and stood before him, head lowered.
He pushed up her head and then, with a click that could be heard throughout the enclosure, closed the collar a Turian collar about her throat. The chain to which the collar was attached was a good deal longer than that of the Sirik, containing perhaps twenty feet of length.
Then, to the music, the girl seemed to twist and turn and move away from him, as he played out the chain, until she stood wretched some twenty feet from him at the chain’s length. She did not move then for a moment, but stood crouched down, her hands on the chain.
I saw that Aphris and Elizabeth were watching fascinated.
Kamchak, too, would not take his eyes from the woman.
The music had stopped.
Then with a suddenness that almost made me jump and the crowd cry out with delight-the music began again but this time as a barbaric cry of rebellion and rage and the wench from Port Kar was suddenly a chained she-larl biting and tearing at the chain and she had cast her black robes from her and stood savage revealed in diaphanous, swirling yellow Pleasure Silk. There was now a frenzy and hatred in the dance, a fury even to the baring of teeth and snarling. She turned within the collar, as the Turian collar is designed to permit. She circled the warrior like a captive moon to his imprisoning scarlet sun, always at the length of the chain.
Then he would take up a fist of chain, drawing her each time inches closer. At times he would permit her to draw back again, but never to the full length of the chain, and each time he permitted her to withdraw, it was less than the last.
The dance consists of several phases, depending on the general orbit allowed the girl by the chain. Certain of these phases are very slow, in which there is almost no movement, save perhaps the turning of a head or the movement of a hand; others ate defiant and swift; some are graceful and pleading; some stately, some simple; some proud, some piteous; but each time, as the common thread, she is drawn closer to the caped warrior. At last his fist was within the Turian collar itself and he drew the girl, piteous and exhausted, to his lips, subduing her with his kiss, and then her arms were about his neck and unresisting, obedient, her head to his chest, she was lifted lightly in his arms and carried from the firelight.
Kamchak and I, and others, threw coins of gold into the sand near the fire.
“She was beautiful,” cried out Aphris of Turia.
“I never knew a woman,” said Elizabeth, her eyes blazing, showing few signs of the Paga, “could be so beautiful!”
“She was marvellous,” I said.
“And I,” howled Kamchak, “have only miserable cooking-pot wenches!”
Kamchak and I were standing up. Aphris suddenly put her head to his thigh, looking down. “Tonight,” she whispered, “make me a slave.”
Kamchak put his fist in her hair and lifted her head to stare up at him. Her lips were parted.
“You have been my slave for days,” said he.
“Tonight,” she begged, “please, Master, tonight!”
With a roar of triumph Kamchak swept her up and slung her, hobbled as she was, over his shoulder and she cried out and he, singing a Tuchuk song, was stomping away with her from the curtained enclosure.
At the exit he stopped briefly and, Aphris over his shoulder, turned and faced Elizabeth and myself. He threw up his right hand in an expansive gesture. “For the night,” he cried, “the Little Barbarian is yours!” Then he turned again and, singing, disappeared through the curtain.!
I laughed.
Elizabeth Cardwell was staring after him. Then she looked up at me. “He can do that, can’t he?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Of course,” she said, numbly. “Why not?” Then suddenly she jerked at the hobble but could not rise and nearly fell, and pounded her left fist into the dirt before her. “I don’t want to be a slaver” she cried. “I don’t want to be a slave!”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She looked up at me. There were tears in her eyes. “He has no right!” she cried.
“He has the right,” I said.
“Of course,” she wept, putting her head down. “It is like a book, a chair, an animal. She is yours! Take her! Keep her until tomorrow! Return her in the morning when you are finished with her!”
Head down she laughed and sobbed.
“I thought you wished,” I said, “that I might buy you.” I thought it well to jest with her.
“Don’t you understand?” she asked. “It could have been anyone to whom I was given, not just to you, but to anyone, anyone!”
“That is true,” I said.
“To anyone!” she wept. “Anyone! Anyone!”
“Do not be distraught,” I said.
She shook her head, and looked up at me, and through the tears smiled.
“It seems, Master,” she said, “that for the hour I am yours.”
“It would appear so,” I said.
“Will you carry me over your shoulder to the wagon;” she asked, lightly, “like Aphris of Turia?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I bent to the girl’s shackles and removed them.
She stood up and faced me. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked. She smiled. “Master?”
I smiled. “Nothing,” I told her. “Do not fear.”
“Oh?” she asked, one eyebrow rising sceptically. Then she dropped her head. “Am I truly so ugly?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “you are not ugly.”
“But you do not want me?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
She looked at me boldly, throwing back her head. “Why not?” she asked.
What could I tell her? She was lovely, but yet in her condition piteous. I felt moved on her behalf. The little secretary, I thought to myself, so far from her pencils, the typewriter, the desk calendars and steno pads so far from her world so helpless, so much at Kamchak’s mercy and this night, should I choose, at mine.
“You are only a little barbarian,” I said to her. Somehow I thought of her still as the frightened girl in the yellow shift caught up in games of war and intrigue beyond her comprehension and, to a great extent, mine. She was to be protect
ed, sheltered, treated with kindness, reassured. I could not think of her in my arms nor of her ignorant, timid lips on mine for she was always and would remain only the unfortunate Elizabeth Cardwell, the innocent and unwitting victim of an inexplicable translocation and an unexpected, unjust reduction to shameful bondage. She was of Earth and knew not the flames which her words might have evoked in the breast of a Gorean warrior nor did she understand herself truly nor the relation in which she, slave girl, stood to-a free man to whom she had been for the hour given I could not tell her that another warrior might at her-very glance, have dragged her helpless to the darkness between the high wheels of the slave wagon itself. She was gentle, not understanding, naive, in her way foolish a girl of Earth but not on Earth not a woman of Gor female on her own barbaric world she would always be of Earth the bright, pretty girl with the stenographer’s pad like many girls of Earth, not men but not yet daring to be woman. “But,” I admitted to her, giving her head a shake, “you are a pretty little barbarian.”
She looked into my eyes for a long moment and then suddenly dropped her head weeping. I gathered her into my arms to comfort her but she pushed me away, and turned and ran from the enclosure.
I looked after her, puzzled.
Then, shrugging, I too left the enclosure, thinking that perhaps I should wander among the wagons for a few hours, before returning.
I recalled Kamchak. I was happy for him. Never before had I seen him so pleased. I was, however, confused about Elizabeth, for it seemed to me she had behaved strangely this night. I supposed that, on the whole, she was perhaps distraught because she feared she might soon be supplanted as first girl in the wagon; indeed, that she might soon be sold.
To be sure, having seen Kamchak with his Aphris, it did not seem to me that either of these possibilities were actually unlikely. Elizabeth had reason to fear. I might, of course, and would, encourage Kamchak to sell her to a good master, but Kamchak, cooperative to a point, would undoubtedly have his eye fixed most decisively on the price to be obtained. I might, of course, if I could find the money, buy her myself and attempt to find her a kind master. I thought perhaps Conrad of the Kassars might be a just Master. He had, however, I, knew recently won a Turian girl in the games.
Moreover, not every man wants to own an untrained barbarian slave, for much, even if given to them, must be fed
crawl under the rope that joined them, my assailant was gone. All I received for my trouble were the angry shouts of the man leading the kaiila string. Indeed, one of the vicious beasts even snapped at me, ripping the sleeve on my shoulder.
Angry I returned to the wagon and drew the quiva from the boards.~
By this time the owner of the wagon, who was naturally curious about the matter, was beside me. He held a small torch, lit from the fire bowl within the wagon. He was examining, not happily, the cut in his planking. “A clumsy throw,” he remarked, I thought a bit ill-humoredly.
“Perhaps,” I admitted.
“But,” he added, turning and looking at me, “I suppose under the circumstances it was just as well.”
“Yes,” I said, “I think so.”
I found the Paga bottle: and noted that there was a bit of liquid left in it, below the neck of the bottle. I wiped off the neck and handed it to the man. He took about half of it and then wiped his mouth and handed it back. I then finished the bottle. I flung it into a refuse hole, dug and periodically cleaned by male slaves.
“It is not bad Paga,” said the man.
“No,” I said, “I think it is pretty good.”
“May I see the quiva?” asked the man.
“Yes,” I said.
“Interesting,” said he.
“What?” I asked.
“The quiva,” said he.
“But what is interesting about it?” I asked.
“It is Paravaci,” he said.
Chapter 13
THE ATTACK
In the morning, to my dismay, Elizabeth Cardwell was not to be found.
Kamchak was beside himself with fury. Aphris, knowing the ways of Gor and the temper of Tuchuks, was terrified, and said almost nothing.
“Do not release the hunting sleep,” I pleaded with Kamchak.
“I shall keep them leashed,” he responded grimly.
With misgivings I observed the two, six-legged, sinuous, tawny hunting sleen on their chain leashes. Kamchak was holding Elizabeth’s bedding a rep-cloth blanket for them to smell. Their ears began to lay back against the sides of their triangular heads; their long, serpentine bodies trembled; I saw claws emerge from their paws, retract, emerge again and then retract; they lifted their heads, sweeping them from side to side, and then thrust their snouts to the ground and began to whimper excitedly; I knew they would first follow the scent to the curtained enclosure within which last night we had observed the dance.
“She would have hidden among the wagons last night,” Kamchak said.
“I know,” I said, “The herd sleep.” They would have torn the girl to pieces on the prairie in the light of the three Gorean moons.
“She will not be far,” said Kamchak.
He hoisted himself to the saddle of his kaiila, a prancing and trembling hunting sleen on each side of the animal, the chains running to the pommel of the saddle.
“What will you do to her?” I asked.
“Cut off her feet,” said Kamchak, “and her nose and ears, and blind her in one eye, then release her to live as she can among the wagons.”
Before I could remonstrate with the angry Tuchuk the hunting sleen suddenly seemed to go wild, rearing on their hind legs, scratching in the air, dragging against the chains. It was all Kamchak’s kaiila could do to brace itself against their sudden madness.
“Hah!” cried Kamchak.
I spied Elizabeth Cardwell approaching the wagon, two leather water buckets fastened to a wooden yoke she carried over her shoulders. Some water was spilling from the buckets.
Aphris cried out with delight and ran to Elizabeth, to my astonishment, to kiss her and help with the water.
“Where have you been?” asked Kamchak.
Elizabeth lifted her head innocently and gazed at him frankly. “Fetching water,” she said.
The sleen were trying to get at her and she had backed away against the wagon, watching them warily. “They are vicious beasts,” she observed.
Kamchak threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Elizabeth did not so much as look at me.
Then Kamchak seemed sober and he said to the girl. “Go into the wagon. Bring slave bracelets and a whip. Then go to the wheel.”
She looked at him, but did not appear afraid. “Why?” she asked.
Kamchak dismounted. “You were overly long in fetching water,” he said.
Elizabeth and Aphris had gone into the wagon.
“She was wise to return,” said Kamchak.
I agreed with him but would not say so. “It seems she was fetching water,” I pointed out.
“You like her, don’t you?” asked Kamchak.
“I feel sorry for her,” I said.
“Did you enjoy her yesterday?” asked Kamchak.
“I did not see her after she left the enclosure of the dance,” I said.
“If I had known that,” said Kamchak, “I would have had the sleen out last night.”
“Then,” I said, “it is fortunate for the girl that you did not know it.”
“Agreed,” smiled Kamchak. “Why did you not make use of her?” he inquired.
“She is only a girl,” I said.
“She is a woman,” said Kamchak, “with blood.”
I shrugged.
By this time Elizabeth had returned with the whip and bracelets, and had handed them to Kamchak. She then went to stand by the left, rear wheel of the wagon. There Kamchak braceleted her wrists thigh over her head about the rim and over one of the spokes. She faced the wheel.
“There is no escape from the wagons,” he said.
Her head was high. “I know,” she said.
“You lied to me,” he said, “saying you went to fetch water.”
“I was afraid,” said Elizabeth.
“Do you know who fears to tell the truth?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“A slave,” said Kamchak.
He ripped the larl’s pelt from her and I gathered that she would wear the garment no longer.
She stood well, her eyes closed, her right cheek pressed against the leather rim of the wheel. Tears burst from between the tightly pressed lids of her eyes but she was superb, restraining her cries.
She had still uttered no sound when Kamchak, satisfied, had released her, but fastening her wrists before her body with the bracelets. She stood trembling, her head down. Then he took her braceleted hands and with one hand raised her hands over her head. She stood so, her knees slightly flexed, head down.
“You think,” said Kamchak to me, “she is only a girl.”
I said nothing.
“You are a fool, Tarl Cabot,” said he.
I did not respond.
Coiled, in his right hand, Kamchak still held the slave whip.
“Slave,” said Kamchak.
Elizabeth looked at him.
“Do you wish to serve men?” he asked.
Tears in her eyes she shook her head, no, no, no. Then her head fell again to her breast.
“Observe,” said Kamchak to me.
Then, before I could realize what he intended, he had subjected Miss Cardwell to what, among slavers, is known as the Whip Caress. Ideally it is done, as Kamchak had, unexpectedly, taking the girl unawares. Elizabeth suddenly cried out throwing her head to one side. I observed to my amazement the sudden, involuntary, uncontrollable response to the touch. The Whip Caress is commonly used among Slavers to force a girl to betray herself.
“She is a woman,” said Kamchak. “Did you not see the secret blood of her? That she is eager and ready that she is fit prize for the steel of a master that she is female, and,” he added, “slave?”
“Nor” cried Elizabeth Cardwell. “Nor” But Kamchak was pulling her by the bracelets toward an empty sleen cage mounted on a low cart near the wagon, into which, still braceleted, he thrust her, then closing the door, locking it.
