by John Norman
“Go to that tree,” said the red-haired girl, indicating a slender-trunked tree at the edge of the camp clearing. Ilene went to it. “Hold to that branch, pretty slave,” said the red-haired girl, indicating a branch over Ilene’s head. Tears in her eyes Ilene grasped it.
There was the swift hiss of the switch and then the slap of its strike. Ilene screamed with pain and fell, releasing the branch. She clutched the base of the tree’s trunk. She looked over her shoulder at the red-haired girl. “Please,” she wept.
“Hold the branch, pretty little slave,” said the red-haired girl, not much pleased with her.
Ilene regarded her with horror.
I strode to the tree and, with two short lengths of binding fiber, tied Ilene’s wrists to the branch.
She was weeping in pain.
“Let me beat her,” said the blond girl, one of the panther girls, in her ankle ring.
The red-haired girl went swiftly to the girl who had spoken and struck her twice. The blond girl, tears in her eyes, shrank back in the coffle, shoulder stinging, and hid herself among the other girls.
The red-haired girl then strode to Ilene.
The Earth girl must now endure nine strokes. The red-haired girl was excellent with the switch. She knew well how to beat a slave.
Ilene would not soon forget her beating.
It took more than two Ehn to deliver the next five strokes. Ilene did not know when, or where on her body, they would fall. She would stand there, her wrists bound over her head, apart, on the branch, waiting. Then suddenly there would be the hiss, and, somewhere on her body, the swift, lashing fall of the switch. The red-haired girl had handled the psychological dimension of the beating beautifully.
Even when she was not being struck Ilene would sometimes cry out. “No! Don’t hit me!” Sometimes, waiting, unstruck, she would cry out as though she had been struck. She jerked, trying to free her wrists. She twisted helplessly, but could not free herself. Then, shaking her head, weeping, she began to writhe and beg incoherently for mercy. She, of course, as a slave girl, would receive none. “Be silent, Slave,” said the red-haired girl.
“Yes, Mistress,” wept Ilene.
“Suppose,” said the red-haired girl to the slave, “it was not a switch, but the five-strap Gorean slave whip?” Ilene closed her eyes.
“Suppose,” said the red-haired girl, “it was not I who disciplined you, but, with such a whip, a male.” “Yes, Mistress,” wept Ilene, her head down.
“Rejoice,” said the red-haired girl, “that you are only switched, and by a woman.” “Yes, Mistress,” whispered Ilene, her face stained with tears. The red-haired girl had thrown Ilene’s long dark hair forward, that it not provide any shielding from the switch.
There were now six stripes on her body, from her ankles to the back of her neck. They were slender and red. Each was well placed. Spreading from each stripe there was a redness of pain. She clenched her fists in her bonds. Now her entire back burned scarlet.
The panther girls, in their chains, laughed. They enjoyed seeing the pretty Earth-girl slave beaten.
I nodded to the red-haired girl. Swiftly, across the back, in rapid succession, she delivered Ilene’s last four stinging stripes.
I then unfastened her wrists from the branch.
She was bent over with pain. I picked up the bit of yellow silk and threw it to her. She caught it, and held it before her body.
“It is you,” I told her,” “who will be sold in Port Kar.”
I then turned away from her.
I heard the red-haired girl addressing the panther women. “On your feet, Slaves,” she said, slapping the switch in her hand.
They stood up.
“Get bowls,” said the red-haired girl to Ilene. “And open a bag of slave meal. When the slaves pass you, give each half a bowl of meal.” “Yes, Mistress,” said Ilene.
“Then gather fruit and nuts for them,” said the red-haired girl.
“Yes, Mistress, ”said Ilene.
I went to the tree about which had been fastened the length of chain extending from the first girl’s Harl ring, that tethering the girls to the tree. I unsnapped it and refastened it about the left wrist of the first girl on the chain, that she might carry it as she had the day before.
The red-haired girl, to my satisfaction, but not asking me, took some of the silk we carried and cut it into strips, wrapping it in and around the ankle rings of her charges, and about the girl’s ankles, that their ankles be protected in the march. She was a good first girl. “Thank you, Mistress,” said one of the girls to her. “Be silent, Slave,” responded the red-haired girl. “Yes, Mistress,” responded the other. She was a good first girl. She, with her switch, maintained a harsh and perfect discipline among her charges, but she was not more cruel to them that it was customary to be with Gorean slaves. They were animals in her charge. She was, accordingly, solicitous for their welfare. From my point of view, of course, a girl with a scarred ankle is likely to bring a lower price than a perfect specimen. I thus approved of her action. “What is your name?” I asked her.
“Whatever master wishes,” she said.
“What have you been called that pleases you? I asked.
“If it pleases Master,” she said, “I should like to be called Vinca.” “You are Vinca,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
I regarded Ilene.
“No!” she said. “Please do not take my name away!”
“You no longer have a name,” I told her.
She looked at me with horror, and fell to her knees piteously before me. “Please,” she begged. “Please, no!” She looked up at me. She then realized that she was nameless. Her entire body, fresh from its switching, shook with the horror of it. Her identity, her very sense of self, from her earliest understandings had been fused with that name, inseparable from it. Now it was gone. Who was she? What could she be? She looked up at me, piteously. A she-verr, a tarsk sow, a tabuk doe had no more nor less name then she. The collared female animal, nameless, knelt at the feet of its owner.
“I will give you a name,” I told her. “It will be more convenient.” There were tears in her eyes.
“I will call you Ilene,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.
“There is a difference, of course,” I told her, “in the name Ilene you once wore, and in the name Ilene you now wear.” She nodded, miserably. Her old name, her old identity, had been taken from her forever. Her new name, though in sound the same, was not her old. Between them there was a difference of worlds, a gulf wider than that dividing planets. Her old name had been hers as a free person, publicly registered, legally certified, historically identified with her throughout her life, until her capture by slavers. It had been a proud, intimate possession, giving her pleasure and dignity. It had ennobled her. It had served, with other properties, to distinguish her as a precious person, a unique individual, among all others on the planet Earth. When asked who she was, it was with that name that she would answer. That was who she was. Then the name had been taken from her. She was then only an animal in bondage. In Gorean courts her testimony would normally be exacted only under torture. In such courts she could not, legally, be named, but would rather be described as, say, Ilene, the slave of Hesius of Laura, or Ilene, the slave of Bosk of Port Kar. Her name might be changed, or altered, as often as a master wished. Indeed, he need not even give her a name. Changing a girl’s name, or taking it away, are common modes of Gorean slave discipline. So I would call her Ilene.
But this was not her old name, though in sound it was the same. This was now a Gorean slave name. It carried no dignity nor civil significance. It might be changed; it might be wore that name now, and she knew it, only by the whim of her master. That was the name to which he had decided she would answer. Thus, simply, but his will, it was her name. The first name, Ilene, had been a proud Earth name; the second name, Ilene, was only a Gorean slave name. It was the second name to whic
h she would answer; it was the second name which she would now wear; it was the second name which was now, by my will, hers.
“You are Ilene,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said. Then she put down her head and wept.
I turned to Vinca. “Have the slaves prepare to lift their burdens,” I told her. There was much work to be done today.
“Coffle!” cried Vinca, striking two of the girls. Swiftly they lined up beside their burdens. “Posture!” cried Vinca. “Stand straight!” she struck another girl. “Straight!” cried Vinca. “Remember that you are beautiful slaves!” “We are not slaves!” cried one of the panther girls. “We are panther women!” I went to one of the boxes, that which contained uninscribed slave collars. As the girls stood straight in the coffle, looking directly ahead, fearing not to. I, from behind, one by one, moving their hair aside, snapped a slave collar on the throat of each.
I nodded to Vinca.
“Lift your burdens,” she called.
In tears the panther girls lifted their burdens. “Excellent”, called Vinca. “Remember now, you are graceful and beautiful slaves!” I strode from the clearing.
“March!” called Vinca. I heard the switch fall twice, and then heard, alternating with silence, the movement of the chain.
16 I Find Some Tunics of Tyros
Mira, who was the lieutenant of Hura, rolled to her side. She slept fitfully. The march of the men of Tyros had become a rout. Even before I had come upon the column in the morning, I had found abandoned baggage strewn along the trail. I had found also the chains and leg irons that had been fastened on the left ankles of the male prisoners. They had been struck off that the column might move with greater speed. That meant that the male slaves now were fastened in their coffle only by their neck chains. Too, of course, their hands were manacles behind their back.
It had been necessary to slow the column down, so I had done so.
Eight men of Tyros I felled near the front of the column.
There had been no flankers, no points set. The panther girls were apparently now terrified to leave the column. And the men of Tyros were unwilling to do so. I had heard fierce words being exchanged between them.
In my teeth I held two slender lengths of binding fiber. In my right hand I held a heavy wadding of fur. Looped loosely about my right wrist, so that it would fall when my hand was held downwards, was a thick, wide strip of panther skin, twisted in its center.
The arrows which had struck the men of Tyros had been those of panther girls, taken from their captures. The men of Tyros and the girls of Hura did not know the nature nor the number of their stalkers. The first man, felled at the conquest circle, had been felled with a pile arrow from the great bow. The others had fallen to the arrows of panther girls, of which I had acquired a great number.
Mira had first betrayed Verna. She had been betrayed Marlenus of Ar. Her treacheries were not yet completed.
I approached her with the stealth of a warrior. She lay in her own small shelter. Other girls lay about. I did not touch them in my passage. After I had felled the eight men at the beginning of the column I had withdrawn to the forest, where I slept for an Ahn. Then, refreshed, I had returned to the column. It had begun to move again. I felled men much as I pleased, in particular those who would dare to hold the whips to encourage the slaves in speed. Soon none would hold the whips.
The men of Ar, led by Marlenus, begin to sing in the coffle, a song of glorious Ar. They now marched, at their own pace, their heads high, with pride. Angry the men of Tyros demanded that they stop, but they did not do so. Even the panther girls in charge of the coffle of captive females struck them less now with the switch.
Vera now, in the coffle, walked well. Even though she wore slave silk, and lipstick and earrings, she walked well. There might not even have been slave bells on her ankle. I marveled at her. Her ears had been pierced. That is regarded, in Gorean eyes, as an almost ultimate degradation of a female. Yet her head was high, her gaze proud and fearless. The large, delicate golden rings in her ears were stunning. How beautiful a woman is in earrings! I could tell that she was no longer ashamed of them, but proud of them. Not only do earrings enhance a woman’s beauty, but they speak, openly to all, both men and women, regardless of social pressures and repercussions, of the pride and pleasure she takes in her womanhood. Verna was no longer a pretend man, or a pretend nothing. She was now full and perfect in what she was, in her own right, a human female, a woman. She walked well. She might have been a tatrix. Indeed, she was, though braceleted and collared, a tatrix of the forests.
The panther girls with the switches looked about themselves fearfully. They struck the girls in the coffle less frequently now. They only wished to hurry, to leave the forest, as soon as possible, to escape. As yet, they knew, none of the arrows had felled one of their number. Yet they did not seem reassured. They suspected perhaps, in terror, that another fate might be theirs.
Mira, the lieutenant of Hura, stirred again, turning from her left to her right side. Her head was on her arms. Her blond hair was unbound. She wore her skins. Her legs, particularly the right one, was drawn up.
There had been few fires in the camp. The men of Tyros and the girls of Hura had feared the light. There had been only two guards, and they were quite close to the camp. I had slipped between them. It was important that they suspect nothing.
In the day, through the morning and long afternoon, from cover, I had struck, again and again.
Answering quarrels from crossbows, meaningless, sometimes fell among the branches and leaves. They had no target.
In desperation, to my pleasure, some fifteen men of Tyros entered the forest. In all, throughout the day, the great bow had spoken forty-one times, and forty-one men of Tyros now lay scattered along the trail and in the forest, feed for prowling sleen.
I lay behind Mira in the darkness. Her back was to me. She lay on her right side, her head on her right arm. She twisted in her sleep. She was restless. I was patient.
She rolled over on her back, and extended her legs, her head turned from side to side. Then her head was still. She was now mine.
I knelt across her body, one leg on either side of her, pinning her, confining her movements.
Her eyes suddenly, startled, opened. She saw me. In terror, a reflex action, uncontrollable, her mouth, lips wild, opened. I thrust the heavy wadding deep in her mouth. She could utter not the smallest sound. As my right hand did this the loop of panther skin, twisted in its center, fell from my hand across her face. Swiftly, the twisted part deeply between her teeth, I knotted it with a warrior’s tightness behind the back of her neck. The wadding would not slip. I then turned her on her stomach and bound her wrists behind her back. Then I bent to her ankles, crossed them, and tied them together.
“Do not struggle,” I told her.
She felt the blade of the knife at her throat. Her eyes wild over her gag, she nodded her understanding.
“Do you understand what you are to do?” demanded Vinca.
“I can’t!” wept Mira. “I can’t!” Tears stained her cheeks from beneath the blindfold. I had fastened on her before bringing her to this predesignated clearing.
She could not see who it was who spoke to her. She knew only that she knelt, stripped, blindfolded and bound, before a harsh female interrogator, one whose uncompromising strictures and imperious tomes could only be interpreted as those of a leader of a large and important band of panther women.
Also, to her left and right, moving about, from time to time, were the other two paga slaves, those beside Vinca. Mira could have no way of knowing how many were present at her interrogation nor if those present were merely a delegation or smaller group drawn from a larger band. Indeed, she knew little more than that she was being severely addressed by one woman, and that there were others about. Ilene I had left with the other prisoners, chaining her, belly to a tree, by slave bracelets. Mira, kneeling blindfolded, interrogated, did not even know if I were still prese
nt.
Vinca, the red-haired girl, did her job well. From time to time, when not satisfied with an answer, or, sometimes, for no apparent reason at all, she would, unexpectedly, strike the blindfolded, bound, cowering Mira with the switch. Mira never knew when she would be struck. She wept. She would sometimes flinch from blows that had not even fallen.
“Please do not hit me again,” wept Mira.
“Very well,” said Vinca.
Mira lifter her head and, gasping, straightened her body.
Then suddenly the switch would fall again, with lashing ferocity.
Mira put down her head again, shuddering. I observed the fingers of her small, crossed, bound hands. I did not think it would take long now from Vinca to break her.
“Do you understand what you are to do?” demanded Vinca.
“I cannot!” wept Mira. “It is too dangerous! If I were found out, they would kill me! I cannot do it! I cannot do it!” I motioned to Vinca. No more blows fell.
“Very well,” said Vinca.
There was a long silence.
Mira lifted her head, unbelievingly. The ordeal was over. “Are you finished with me?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Vinca.
Mira’s head fell forward on her breast. Then she took a deep breath. She lifted her head.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“You will find out,” said Vinca. Then Vinca gestured to the two other paga slaves, my girls, in the skins of panthers. They unbound Mira’s ankles and pulled her, still blindfolded, to her feet. One on each arm they conducted her through the forest until they came to a place we had agreed upon, in which we had places four stakes. I followed silently.
Mira was put on her back and her two ankles were bound, widely apart, to two stakes.
Then her wrists were unbound from behind her and they, too, were bound widely apart, to two stakes.
“What are you doing with me?” begged Mira.
“We are staking you out for sleen,” said Vinca.
“No! No!” cried Mira.
The last knot was fastened, she was secured. “Please no!” cried Mira. I handed the sleen knife to Vinca. Mira, blindfolded, felt the blade on her thigh. “No!” she cried.
