Captive of Gor (39 page)

men must be, I thought, to stand so to one another, so close, in combat so near,

face to face, wrist to wrist, eye to eye, short, vicious, sharpened ringing

blade to short, vicious, sharpened ringing blade. I could not have done this. I

would have cried out and fled. What could a woman be but the prize of such men?

For a moment I wished myself back on Earth where there was little for a man to

do which could not be done as well, or better, by a woman. But then, as I

watched the (pg. 272) warriors at their practice, something deep in me did not

wish this. Something deep in me, primitive, helpless, and vulnerable, rejoiced

that I stood not on Earth, but on Gor, where there were such men. Suddenly my

legs felt very bare, and my arms. I was suddenly frightened. What if they should

finish their sport, and turn to look upon me, and command me to serve them?

Would I not, as a woman, have to give them immediate response? Could I have

helped myself, kept myself from yielding immediately and completely to them?

When such men command, what could a woman do?

“Ho!” cried one of the warriors, and their exercises were finished.

I turned and fled away.

I went to examine the palisade about the camp. It was some twelve feet high and

of sharpened logs.

I traced its interior perimeter.

I put my fingers and hands on the logs, which had been smoothed, and were

closely fitted together. I looked up at the points, so far above my head. I

could not have scaled the wall. I was closed within.

I continued to walk about the inside wall. I avoided this only where the tarn

compound adjoined it.

Soon I had arrived at the gate.

It, too, was of logs, though here they were separated somewhat. It was a double

gate, with, in effect, log bars. It was shut, two beams in brackets, chained,

locking it. To my surprise I saw that there was another gate, though of solid

logs, beyond that one, and that the camp was ringed, actually, with a double

palisade. The exterior palisade had a catwalk, for defending the wall. The

interior palisade, on the side of the camp, was without a catwalk. I was angry.

The exterior wall permitted them defense. The interior wall, high and smooth, a

quite effective barrier, served well to keep their slaves within. I was furious.

“You will not escape,” had said Ena.

“Girls may not linger by the gate,” said a guard.

“Yes, Master,” I said, and turned away.

How furious I was!

I continued to walk about the wall. At one point I found (pg. 273) a tiny door,

no more than eighteen inches in height. It was such that one man, at a time,

could crawl through it. And it, too, was secured, fastened shut with two heavy

chains and locks. And it, too, was guarded.

I saw that I could not, even by standing on the chains, remotely approach the

top of the palisade. I imagined myself standing on my toes and stretching my

arms and fingers. My fingers would have still been several feet beneath the

points. It was so futile!

I was well imprisoned within.

“Move on, Girl,” said the guard.

“Yes, Master,” I said, and again turned away.

“You will not escape,” had said Ena.

Tomorrow I, Elinor Brinton, would be collared!

I then began to walk through the camp. I saw the tents and the fires, and the

men talking, and the girls about their tasks. I hated men. They made us work!

Why did they not do their own cooking, and polish their own leather, and go to

the stream or the washing shed and wash their own clothes? They did not do so

because they did not wish to do so. They made girls do their work! I hated men.

They dominated us and exploited us!

I found, in one place in the camp, a grassy area, on a slight hill. There was a

metal ring there, near the top of the slight hill. It was fixed in a heavy

stone, buried level with the grass.

In another place, I found a horizontal pole, itself set on two pairs of poles,

leaning together and lashed at the top. It was, I gathered, a pole for hanging

meat. Oddly enough, there was also an iron ring, set in a stone, buried in the

ground, beneath the center of the horizontal pole. Off to one side, in an open

area there was a small iron box, a square of some three feet in dimension. In

the front of the box there was a small iron door, with two slits in it. One,

near the top, was about seven inches in width and about a half inch in height;

the other, its top formed by a rectangular opening in the bottom of the door,

its bottom formed by the iron floor of the box, was about a foot wide and two

inches in height. The door could be closed with (pg. 274) two heavy, flat,

sliding bolts, and locked with two padlocks. I wondered what could be kept in

such a box.

I continued to walk about the camp.

In one place I found a long, low shed, formed of heavy logs. It was windowless.

Its heavy plank door was locked with two hasps and staples, secured by two heavy

padlocks. I supposed it a storage shed.

My steps now, inadvertently, took me toward the center of the camp.

I stood before a large, low tent of scarlet canvas, suspended on eight poles.

Inside, through the opened tent flap, I could see the scarlet canvas was lined

with silk. It was a low tent, and only near its center could a man walk upright.

Inside, in a brass pan, there was a small fire of coals. Over the coals, on a

tripod, there was, warming, a small metal wine bowl. Warriors of Treve, I had

heard, had a fondness for warm wines. I supposed that Rask of Treve might have

his wine so. It seemed strange to me to think of such tarnsmen, such brutal,

wild men, caring for such a small pleasantry. Too, I had heard, they were fond

of combing the hair of their slave girls. Cities and men, I thought, are so

strange, so different. I suspected there were few men as fierce and terrible as

those of Treve, dreaded throughout Gor, and yet they enjoyed their wine warmed

and were fond of so simple a thing as smoothing the hair of a girl. Inside, the

tent was floored with heavy, soft rugs, from Tor and Ar, perhaps the booty of

caravan raids. And, within, from extensions of certain of the tent poles, there

hung, on hooks, burning tharlarion-oil lamps of brass. It was a bit chilly

tonight. And it was growing dark now. The interior of the tent seemed inviting,

redly warm and dark. I put the thought from my mind that I wished I was within

that tent. I wondered what it would be like to lie within such a tent, naked and

collared, on its soft furs, in the light of the small fire, the tent flaps tied

shut, completely at the mercy of its master. Against its far wall I could see

great chests, heavy and bound with iron, filled doubtless with a raider’s

abundant booty, gems and golden wire, and necklaces and coins, and pearls, and

jewelries and bracelets and bangles, (pg. 275) set perhaps with precious stones,

which might serve to adorn the limbs of exquisite female slaves. Much booty was

there. And I reminded myself that I, too, as much as any coin or precious cup in

such a chest, or in this entire camp, was booty. I, too, was booty. I wondered,

too, if those chests might contain the light, precious chains of silver and

gold, wrought by slavers so cunningly, to hold a girl in given positions, while

she was subdued at a master’s leisure. I trembled. And I wondered, too, if they

might contain nose rings, and if one would be put on me. I shuddered.

“Whose tent is this?” I asked a passing slave girl.

“Foolish Kajira,” she said, “it is the tent of Rask of Treve.”

I had known that it would be.

Outside the entrance of the tent, squatting down, leaning on their spears, there

were two guards. They were watching me.

I stood outside the tent. Rask of Treve did not wish to see me now.

“Be off with you,” said one of the guards.

I heard the flash of a pair of bangles and saw a dark-haired girl, the two

golden bangles on her left ankle, come to the opening of the tent. She wore

brief, diaphanous scarlet silk. She looked at me, and then quickly tied shut the

tent flaps.

The guard who had spoken to me rose to his feet.

I fled away, back to the tent of the women.

When I reached the women’s tent, I flung myself down on its rugs and wept.

Ena, who had been sewing a talmit, a headband sometimes worn by tarnsmen in

flight, came to me. “What is wrong?’ she said.

“I do not want to be a slave girl!” I wept.

Ena held me. “It is hard to be a slave,” she said.

I sat up and held her. “Men are cruel.” I said.

“Yes,” said Ena.

“I hate them! I hate them!” I wept.

She kissed me. She smiled.

“May I speak?” I asked.

(pg. 276) ”Surely,” she said. “In this tent you are always free to speak.”

I looked down. “It is said,” I said, “—I have heard—that Rask of Treve is a hard

master.”

She smiled. “That is true,” she said.

“It is said,” I blurted out, “that no man on Gor can so diminish or humble a

woman as Rask of Treve.”

“I have not been diminished or humbled,” said Ena. “On the other hand, if Rask

of Treve wished to diminish or humble a woman, I expect he would do it quite

well.”

“Suppose,” I said, “ a girl had been insolent, or arrogant with him?”

“Such a girl, doubtless,” said Ena, “would then be well diminished and humbled.”

She laughed. “Rask of Treve would doubtless teach her her slavery well.”

This news did not reassure me.

I looked at her. “It is said he uses a woman but once,” I wept, “and that he

then, with contempt, brands her and discards her.”

“I have been used by him many times,” said Ena. “Rask of Treve,” she added,

smiling, “is not a madman.”

“Were you branded with his name, after he used you?’ I pressed.

“No,” she said. “I was branded with the mark of Treve.” She smiled. “When Rask

captured me I was free. It was natural that, after he had used me, had enslaved

me in his arms, I should, the next day, in witness to this fact, be marked.”

“He enslaved you in his arms?’ I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “in his arms I found myself a slave.” She smiled. “I expect

that in the arms of such a man as Rask of Treve any woman might find herself a

slave.”

“No I!” I cried.

She smiled.

“If a girl is already branded,” I said, casually, but frightened, “she would not

be again branded, would she?”

“Commonly not,” said Ena. “Though sometimes, for some reason, the mark of Treve

is pressed into her flesh.” She looked at me. “Sometimes, too,” she said, “a

girl may be (pg. 277) branded as a punishment, and to warn others against her.”

I looked at her, puzzled.

“Penalty brands,” she said. “They are tiny, but clearly visible. There are

various such brands. There is one for lying, and another for stealing.”

“I do not lie or steal,” I said.

“That is good,” said Ena.

“I have never seen the brand of Treve,” I said.

“It is rare,” said Ena, proudly.

“May I see your brand?” I asked. I was curious.

“Of course,” said Ena, and she stood up and, extending her left leg, drew her

long, lovely white garment to her hip, revealing her limb.

I gasped.

Incised deeply, precisely, in that slim, lovely, now bared thigh was a startling

mark, beautiful, insolent, dramatically marking that beautiful thigh as that

which it now could only be, that of a female slave.

“It is beautiful,” I whispered.

Ena pulled away the clasp at the left shoulder of her garment, dropping it to

her ankles.

She was incredibly beautiful.

“Can you read?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

She regarded the brand. “It is the first letter, in cursive script,” she said,

“of the name of the city of Treve.”

“It is a beautiful mark,” I said.

“It enhances my beauty,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes!” I found myself hoping, though I did not admit the thought

to myself, that my brand might be as attractive on my body.

Ena once again, gracefully, drew on her garment. “I like it,” she said. She

looked at me, and laughed. “So do men!” she laughed.

I smiled.

Then suddenly I was furious. What right had such brutes (pg. 278) to brand us?

To collar us? The Gorean right of the stronger, I told myself, to mark and claim

the weaker as his own, should he choose to do so. I felt weak, and helpless. And

then I was angry again, helplessly furious.

I, the prisoner of Rask of Treve, in his war camp, struggled to control myself.

I wanted to know more of the men who had captured me, whose saddle I had

helplessly graced, whose locked collar I would tomorrow wear.

“It is said that Rask of Treve,” I said, “has a great appetite for women, and

contempt, for them.”

“He is fond of us,” smiled Ena, “that is true.”

“But he has contempt for us!” I cried, my fury, my helpless rage, my

frustration, uncontrollably bursting forth.

“Rask of Treve is a man, and a warrior,” she said. “It is common for them to

view us as mere women, and see us in terms of their sport and pleasure.”

“That is contempt!” I cried.

Ena, kneeling, rocked back on her heels and laughed merrily. “Perhaps,” she

laughed.

“I will not accept that!” I cried.

“Pretty little Kajira,” laughed Ena.