Hunters of Gor coc-8

by John Norman

  They would be given gold, and conducted in honor and safety to their cities. “Very well,” she said. There were tears in her eyes. She had known I would free her.

  “A cripple,” I said, “had no need of a beautiful slave.”

  She kissed my arm. “I care for you,” she said, “sweet Bosk of Port Kar.” “Is it your wish to remain with me?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No,” she smiled.

  I nodded.

  “No, sweet Bosk,” she said. “It is not because you are crippled.”

  I looked at her, puzzled.

  “Men,” she laughed, “understand so little.” She put down her head. “Men are fools,” she said, “and women are greater fools for they love them.” “Remain with me then,” I said.

  “It was not my name you cried out,” she said, tears in her eyes, “when you lay in fever in the cabin of the Tesephone.” I looked out to sea.

  “I wish you well, sweet Bosk of Port Kar,’ said she.

  “I wish you well, Sheera,” said I. I felt her kiss my hand, and then she went to Thurnock, that he might remove her collar, that she, like Verna, might disappear into the forest. Marlenus had said that the wind on the beach was cold, and had stung his eyes. Too, it stung my eyes.

  “Rim,” said I.

  “Captain,” said he.

  “You are captain of the Rhoda,” I said. “Weigh anchor with the tide.” “I will, Captain,” said he.

  “You know what you are to do?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said he. “I will sell those in the hold, the men of Tyros who crewed the Rhoda and Tesephone, in Port Kar.” “Is there nothing else?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Yes,” said he. “We shall, first, journey up the Laurius to Laura. We will have business with one named Hesius of Laura, who sent paga slaves and drugged wine to our camp. I shall burn the tavern. His women will find themselves in our chains. We shall bring them to Port Kar and dispose of them there in the slave markets.” “Good,” I said.

  “And Hesius himself?” he asked.

  “His strong box,” I said, “must be seized. Distribute its contents to the poor of Laura.” “And Hesius himself?” asked Rim.

  “Strip him and leave him poor and penniless in Laura.” I said. “he will serve our purposed well in telling and retelling, for a coin, the story of the vengeance of those of Port Kar.” “Our ships should be safe thereafter in Laura,” said Rim.

  “I expect so,” I said.

  “I must attend to arrangements,” said Rim.

  “Be about your duties” said I, “Captain.”

  Rim, followed by Cara, turned about and went to a longboat.

  Verna’s women, one by one, were now taking leave of those of my men, whom they had served.

  They, some weeping, some turning about, tears in their eyes, lifting their hands, bade crewmen farewell.

  The men stood on the sand and watched them depart. Some lifted their hands to them.

  Then suddenly one girl turned from the forest and fled to a crewman, kneeling before him, back on her heels, head down, arms extended, wrists crossed as though for binding. He gestured that she should rise and get into a longboat. She did so, his slave.

  To my amazement, one after another of the girls than ran down the beach. Each, before he who had touched her, knelt before him, making herself his and his alone.

  She, too, was ordered to a longboat, abruptly, as one commands a slave. In the forest Verna would wait for her women, until she understood they were not coming.

  I then understood her wisdom as I had not before. She had known the touch of a man, and such a man as Marlenus. She had feared his touch, and, even in parting, would not permit him to so much as place his hand on hers. In Verna, as in others, two natures warred, that to surrender and that to be free. These matters are complex, and much remains speculative. Goreans, in their simplistic fashion, often contend, categorically, that man is naturally free and woman s naturally slave. But even for them the issues are more complex than these simple formulations would suggest. For Example, there is no higher person, nor one more respected, than the Gorean free woman. Even a slaver who has captured a free woman often treats her with great solicitude until she is branded. Then his behavior toward her is immediately and utterly transformed. She is then merely an animal, and treated as such. Goreans do believe, however, that every woman has a natural master or set of masters, with respect to whom she could not help but be a complete and passionate slave girl. These men occur in her dreams and fantasies. She lives in terror that she might meet one in real life. Further, of course, if a girl should be enslaved, her slavery is supported by the entire Gorean culture. There are hundreds of thousands of women who are also slaves. In such a situation, with no escape, a girl has no choice but to make the best of her bondage. Further, in the Gorean view, female slavery is a societal institution which enables the females, as most Earth societies would not, to exhibit, in a reinforcing environment, her biological nature. It provides a rich soil in which the flower of her beauty and nature, and its submission to a man, may thrive.

  The Goreans, do not believe, incidentally, that the human being is a simple function of the independent variables of his environment. They have never endorsed the “hollow body” theory of human beings, in which a human being is regarded as being essentially a product of externalities. They recognize the human being has a genetic endowment which may not be, scientifically, canceled out in favor of the predilection of theories developed by men incompetent in physiology. For example, it would not occur to a Gorean to speak of the “role” of a female sparrow feeding her young or the “role” of a lion in providing meat for its cubs. Goreans do not see the world in terms of metaphors taken from the artificialities of the theater. It is certain, of course, that certain genetic endowments have been selected by environmental considerations, and, in this sense, the environment is a significant factor. The teeth of the lion have had much to do with the fleetness of the antelopes.

  In Gorean thinking man and woman are natural animals, with genetic endowments shaped by thousands of generations of natural and sexual selection. Their actions and behavior, thus, though not independent of certain long-range environmental and sexual relationships, cannot be understood in terms of mere responses to the immediate present environment. The immediate environment determines what behavior will be successful, not what behavior is performed. Woman, like man, is the product of evolution, and, like man, is a complex genetic product, a product not only of natural selections but sexual selections. Natural selections suggest that a woman who wished to belong to a man, who wished to remain with him, who wished to have children, who wished to care for them, who loved them, would have an advantage, in the long run, as far as her genetic type was concerned, of surviving, over a woman who did not care for men, who did not wish for children, and so on. Female freedom, of a full sort, would not have been biologically practical. The loving mother is a type favored by evolution. It is natural then that in modern women certain instincts should be felt. The sparrow does not feed her young because the society has fooled her into playing that exploitative role. Similarly, sexual selection, as well as natural selection, is a significant dynamic of evolution, without which it is less comprehensible. Men, being stronger, have had, generally, the option of deciding on women that pleases them. If women had been stronger, as in the spiders, for example, we might have a different race.

  It is not unlikely that men, over the generations, have selected out for breeding, for marriage, women of certain sorts. Doubtless women are much more beautiful now than a hundred generations ago. Similarly, a woman who was particularly ugly, threatening, vicious, stupid, cruel, etc., would not be a desirable mate. No man can be blamed for not wishing to make his life miserable. Accordingly, statistically, he tends to select out women who are intelligent, loving and beautiful. Accordingly, men have, in effect, bred a certain kind of woman. similarly, of course, is so far as choice had been theirs, women have tended to select out m
en who are, among other things, intelligent, energetic and strong. Few women, in their hearts, despite propaganda, really desire weak, feminine men. Such men, at any rate, are not those who figure in their sexual fantasies.

  Goreans believe it is the nature of a man to own, that of a woman to be owned. I observed Verna’s women, no longer hers, but now the slaves of their masters, in the longboats.

  Verna had given them their choice, had indeed forced the choice upon them. I wondered if, in the forest, she had expected any of them to return to her. She had had them clad in slave silk. She had had earrings put in their ears. Perhaps she had already gone her own way. Her women, now slaves, waited in longboats to be carried to the Rhoda, the Tesephone.

  They had made their choice, to surrender to a man. They had yielded to their womanhood.

  Verna would hunt alone in the forests. She would have her freedom. About her neck she wore the signet ring of Ar. She would be swift and free in the dark green glades. She would be alone. I wondered if, at times, she would lie in the darkness, clutching the ring of Marlenus, and twist, and weep. Her pride stood between herself, and her womanhood. Yet in the darkness, as she lay on the leaves in her lair, in her ears would glint the gold of earrings. She had not removed them. They had been fastened in her ears upon the order of Marlenus, when he had been her master. She would never forget, in her freedom, nor did she wish to do so, that she had been once his utter slave. Perhaps from time to time she would long for his collar and touch. She had made her choice, for her independence. She had not been exchanged that even for the throne of Ar. Her women had, too, made their choice. Verna was free. They were shamed, as slaves. I did not know which was happiest. They sat silently in the longboats, obedient. The hands of each were now being fastened behind her back. I saw Rena’s wrist secured. They, new slaves, were shy. But they did not seem unhappy. I wondered if any, as her wrists were drawn together behind her back and fastened together, regretted her decision. If she did, it was too late. The binding fiber was upon her. But they did not seem unhappy. They had yielded to their womanhood. They had surrendered themselves to bondage, and love. This gift, this choice, which she had refused for herself, Verna had given them.

  Doubtless now, alone, somewhere within the forest, in freedom and solitude there was a panther girl. She hunted. Her name was Verna. I wished her well. I wondered if she might, sometime, trek to Ar, to call upon its Ubar, or if he, attending to his hunting in the northern forests, might once more chance upon her. I did not suppose it likely. “She is only a woman,” he had said. But he had given her the signet of Ar. I wondered if Verna knew that she who wore that ring about her neck was the Ubara of Ar.

  “We have set the logs of the palisade in the form of a great beacon,” aid Thurnock.

  I looked to the stony beach. There, high on the stones, rose the beacon, tier upon tier of crossed logs.

  “Pour oil upon it,” I said.

  “Yes, Captain,” he said.

  Oil was poured.

  I sat high on the beach, wrapped in blankets, in the captain’s chair, cold. I looked at the beacon.

  Its light would be seen more than fifty pasangs at sea.

  I turned back to the beach. My men stood about.

  “Put the slave Rissia, before me, she who was of Hura’s band,” I said. I heard Ilene’s switch strike Rissia, twice across the back. Rissia stripped, her ankles, wrists and throat locked in the graceful chain and rings of the sirik, stumbled forward. She knelt before my chair, on the sand. Twice more fell Ilene’s switch, and I saw bloody stripes leap on the girl’s exposed back. Her knees were in the sand, her head was down.

  “Withdraw,” I said to Ilene, who stood over Rissia in her white woolen slave tunic, herself barefoot, my collar at her throat. Ilene backed away, the switch still in her hand, to stand to one side.

  “This woman,” said I to Thurnock, indicating Rissia, “remained behind in the camp of Sarus and Hura, when many of her fellow panther women were drugged.” Thurnock nodded.

  “She had a bow,” I said, “ with an arrow to the string. It was her intention to defend her drugged sisters, to protect them.” “I see, Captain,” said Thurnock.

  “She might have slain me,” I said.

  Thurnock smiled.

  “What should be her fate?”

  “That,” said he, “is for my captain to decide.”

  “Her act,” I asked, “does it not seem brave?”

  “It does indeed, my captain,” said Thurnock.

  “Free her,” I told him.

  Grinning, Thurnock bent to the shackles which graced Rissia’s fair limbs, removing them one by one.

  Rissia lifted her head, looking at me, dumbfounded.

  “You are free,” I told her. “Depart.”

  “My gratitude, Captain,” she whispered.

  “Depart!” I commanded.

  Rissia turned about and regarded Ilene. He Earth girl took a step backward. “May I not remain a moment, Captain?” asked Rissia. She turned to face me. “Very well,” I said.

  “I ask the rite of knives,” she said.

  “Very well,” I said.

  One of my men held Ilene by the arms. She was frightened.

  Two daggers were brought. One was given to Rissia. The other was pressed into the unwilling hand of Ilene.

  “I–I do not understand,” stammered Ilene, “You are to fight to the death,” I told her.

  She looked at Rissia. “No!” she wept. “No!’ Ilene threw away the knife. “Kneel,” ordered Rissia.

  Ilene did.

  Rissia stood behind her.

  “Do not hurt me,” begged Ilene.

  “Address me as Mistress,” said Rissia.

  “Please do not hurt me, Mistress,” begged Ilene.

  “You do not seem so proud now, Slave, without your switch,” said Rissia. “No, Mistress,” whispered Rissia.

  With her knife, from the back, Rissia cut away Ilene’s slave tunic, stripping her.

  Rissia picked up the discarded sirik. She reached over Ilene’s head and fastened the collar about her throat, the chain dangling before her body. Then, reaching about her, she fastened Ilene’s hands in the bracelets attached to the chain, confining them before her body. She then drew the chain between her legs and under her body and fastened the two ankle rings, attached to the chain, on her ankles. Ilene knelt stripped in sirik.

  “With your permission, Captain,” said Rissia.

  I nodded.

  Picking up the switch from the sand, with which Ilene had often beaten her, she struck her.

  Ilene cried out. “Please do not beat me!” she wept. “Please do not beat me, Mistress!” “I do not choose,” said Rissia, “to comply with the request of a slave.” She beat Ilene until Ilene wept and screamed, and then could weep and scream no more.

  Then she threw aside the switch and disappeared into the forest.

  Ilene, tears in her eyes, her head turned to the side, lay on her stomach in the sand, confined in the sirik. The entire back of her body was hot and bright with the scarlet marks of the switch.

  “To your knees,” I told her.

  Ilene struggled to her knees, and looked up at me.

  “Take her to the Tesephone,” I told two of my men, “and put her in the hold with the other female slaves.” “Please, Master,” wept the girl.

  “And then,” said I, “see that she is sold in Port Kar.”

  Weeping, Ilene, the Earth-girl slave, was dragged from my presence. She would be sold in Port Kar, a great slave-clearing port. Perhaps she would be sold south to Shendi or Bazi, or north to a jarl of Torvaldsland, Scagnar or Hunjer, or across Thassa to Tabor or Asperiche, or taken up the Vosk in a cage to an island city, perhaps eventually to find herself in Ko-ro-ba, Thentis or Tharna, or even Ar itself. Perhaps she would be carried south in tarn caravans, or by slave wagons of the Wagon Peoples, the Tuchuks, the Kassars, the Kataii, the Paravaci. Perhaps she would be, even, the slave of peasants. It was not known where the lovely
Ilene would wear her collar; it was known, though, that she would wear it, and wear it well; a Gorean master would see to that.

  I looked to the beacon. I looked, too, to the Tesephone. Rim’s men had the Rhoda ready for the tide.

  “Carry my chair,’ I said, “to the longboat.”

  Four crewmen reached to lift the chair.

  “Wait,” I said.

  “Captain!” called a voice. “I have caught two women!”

  I saw one of my men, one of those set at guard about the beach.

  He approached, pushing two captives before him. They wore the skins of panther girls. Their hands were tied behind their backs. They were fastened together by a single branch, tied behind their backs.

  I did not recognize the,’ “They were spying,” said her.

  “No,” said one. “We were looking for Verna.”

  “Strip them,” I said. It is easier to get a woman to talk when she is nude. It was done.

  I knew who these women must be.

  “Speak,” I said to the comeliest of the two.

  “We were in the hire of Verna,” she said, “but we are not of her band.” “You task,” I told them, “was to guard a female slave.” They looked at me, startled. “Yes,” she said.

  “This slave,” I said, “was the daughter of Marlenus of Ar.”

  “Yes,” whispered one.

  “Where is she?’ I demanded.

  “When Marlenus disowned her,” said one, frightened, “and she was no longer of value, Verna, through Mira, instructed us to dispose of her, taking a price on her.” “For what did she sell?” I asked.

  “For ten gold pieces,” said the comeliest of the two captives.

  “It is a high price for a wench without caste of family,” I said.

  “She is very beautiful,” said one of the girls.

  The other wench looked at me. “Did the captain wish her?” she asked. I smiled. “I might have bought her.” I said.

  “We did not know!” cried the comely girl. “Do not punish us, Captain!” “Do you still have the money?” I asked.

  “In my pouch,” cried the comelier of the two captives.