Hunters of Gor

11 Marlenus Holds a Flaminium

In the camp of Marlenus, some pasangs north of Laura, I supped with the great Ubar.

His hunting tent, hung on its eight great poles, was open at the sides. From where we sat, cross-legged, across from one another, before the low table, I could see the tent ropes stretched taut to stakes in the ground, the drainage ditch cut around the base of the tent, the wall of saplings, sharpened, which surrounded the camp. I could see, too, Marlenus’ men at their fires and shelters. Here and there were piled boxes, and rolls of canvas, and, too, at places, were poles and frames on which skins were stretched, trophies of his luck in the sport. He had, too, taken two sleen alive, and four panthers, and these were in stout cages of wood, lashed together with leather.

“Wine,” said Marlenus.

He was served by the beautiful slave girl.

“Would you care for a game?” asked Marlenus, indicating a board and pieces which stood to one side. The pieces, tall, weighted, stood ready on their first squares.

“No,” I said to him. I was not in a mood for the game.

I had played Marlenus before. His attack was fierce, devastating, sometimes reckless. I myself am an aggressive player, but against Marlenus it seemed always necessary to defend. Against him one played defensively, conservatively, postitionally, waiting, waiting for the tiny misjudgment, the small error or mistake. But it was seldom made.

Marlenus was a superb player.

He had not been able to handle me as well as he liked on the board. This had whetted his appetite to crush me. He had not been able to do so. In the past year, in Port Kar, I had grown much fond of the game. I had tried to play frequently with players of strength superior to my own. I found myself often, eventually, capable of beating them. Then I would seek others, stronger still. I had studied, too, the games of masters, in particular those of the young, handsome, lame fiery Scormus of Ar, and of the much older, almost legendary master of Cos, gentle, white-haired Centius, he of the famed Centian opening. Scormus was fierce, arrogant and brilliant. The medallion and throne of Centius was no, by many, said to be his. But there were those who did not agree. The hand of Centius now sometimes shook, and it seemed his eyes did not see the board as once they did. But there few men on Gor who did not fear as the hand of Centius thrust forth his Ubar’s Tarnsman to Physician Seven. It was said that Scormus of Ar and Centius of Cos would sometime meet at the great fair of En’kara, in the shadow of the Sardar. Never as yet had the two sat across from one another. Cos, like Tyros, is a traditional enemy of Ar. It was said that Gor awaited this meeting. Already weights of gold had been wagered on its outcome. Players, incidentally, are free to travel where they wish on the surface of Gor, no matter what might be their city. By custom, they, like musicians, and like singers, there are few courts at which they are not welcome. That he had once played a man such as Scormus of Ar, or Centius of Cos it the sort of thing that a Gorean grandfather will boast of to his grandchildren.

“Very well,” said Marlenus. “Then we shall not, now, play.”

I held forth my cup, for wine. The slave girl filled it.

“When will you fare forth to an exchange point?” I asked.

Marlenus had now been in his camp for five days, hunting. He had made no effort to reach the exchange point, or its vicinity, where Talena was held slave. It would lie through the forests to the west, above Lydius, on the coast of Thassa. “I have not yet finished hunting,” said Marlenus. He was in no hurry to free Talena.

“A citizen of Ar,” I said, “lies slave.”

“I have little interest,” said Marlenus, “in slaves.”

“She is a citizen of Ar,” I said.

Marlenus looked down into his cup, swirling the liquid. “Once, perhaps,” said Marlenus, “she was a citizen of Ar.” I looked at him.

“She is no longer a citizen of Ar,” said Marlenus. “She is a slave.” In the eyes of Goreans, and Gorean law, the slave is an animal. She is not a person, but an animal. She has no name, saving what her master might choose to call her. She is without caste. She is without citizenship. She is simply an object, to be bartered, or bought or sold. She is simply an article of property, completely, nothing more.

“She is Talena,” I said.

“I know of no person by that name,” said Marlenus.

“Surely,” I said, “you will have pity on a slave, however unworthy, who was once a citizen of Ar?” “I shall free her, or have her freed,” said Marlenus. He looked down. Then he looked up at me. “I will send men to free her, while I return to Ar,” he said. “I see,” I said.

“But,” said Marlenus, “I think I will have a few days hunting first.” I shrugged. “I see,” I said, “Ubar.” Marlenus snapped his fingers, pointing to his cup on the table.

The slave girl came forward, from where she knelt to one side, and, kneeling, from a two-handled vessel, filled it. She was very beautiful.

“I, too, shall have wine,” I said.

She filled my cup. Our eyes met. She looked down. She was barefoot. Her one garment was a brief slip of diaphanous yellow silk. Her brand was clearly visible beneath it, high on the left thigh. On her throat, half concealed by her long blond hair, was a collar of steel, the steel of Ar.

“Leave us, Slave,” said Marlenus.

She did so.

The girl had been beaten earlier in the afternoon. She had run away. Marlenus, with two huntsmen, had taken her within the Ahn. Marlenus, who had hunted in the forests since his boyhood, was a master of woodcraft. She had been unable to elude him. Dazed, shocked, she had been swiftly caught and returned to camp. Marlenus had then handed her over to a huntsman. She had been stripped and, hands tied over her head to a post, had been given ten lashes. Marlenus, and most of those about the camp, had not bothered to watch. It was simply a slave girl being punished. The punishment was so light because it was the first time the girl had attempted to run away. Also, she was new to her collar, and did not yet fully understand the futility of her condition. During her beating, and afterward, Marlenus and I had been engaged in playing the game. Her had beaten me once, and I had drawn twice. After her beating, she had been left bound to the post for two Ahns. When Marlenus ordered her freed from the post, he stood nearby. “Do not attempt to run away again,” he told her, and then turned away. Verna made a beautiful slave girl. She was exquisitely bodied, extremely intelligent and extremely proud.

Marlenus treated her no differently than any other new girl.

This infuriated Verna. She had been one of the most famed outlaw women on Gor. In the camp of Marlenus she was only another girl.

Long ago, more than a year ago, when he had first captured Verna on a hunting expedition, prior to her escape and acquisition of Talena, and her return to the forests, he had intended to bring her to Ar in triumph and there, in the great square before Ar’s central cylinder, publicly enslave her. This time, he had put the iron to her, and her girls, the first night he had arrived in his camp north of Laura, as though they might have been the meanest of captures. She had been branded eleventh, casually and insolently, in her turn, for that had been her place in the slave coffle when the camp had been reached. With a similar lack of ceremony Marlenus had fastened her collar on her.

But in some respects Marlenus had treated her differently from the others, as more of a slave, more of a common girl. The others were treated, for the time, more as panther girls. She was treated more as a common wench, who might have been any slave girl.

The panther girls, in Marlenus’ camp, though they were kept chained, were permitted to wear the skins of panthers.

Verna had stood before him, waiting to be given the skins of panthers. Instead, she had been thrown slave silk.

“Put it on,” had said Marlenus.

She had done so.

I noted, and I do not doubt but that it was detected, too, by Marlenus, that her body, as she drew the brief, exotic, degrading silk about her, subtly and mistakably, was shaken by an involuntary tremor of sensuality. Then she was again Verna. I suppose it was the first time her body had felt silk. I have often wondered at the excitement generated in women by the simple feel of silk on their bodies. I gather that it is a sensuous experience. Surely it would be difficult for a woman to wear silk and not, by that much more, be aware of her womanhood. But perhaps Verna’s response was not simply to silk. Indeed, that would hardly account for the totality of her involuntary response, her body’s betrayal. It was not ordinary silk Marlenus had thrown to her. It was not ordinary silk which she then, for the first time, felt on her body. It was the softest and finest of diaphanous silks, clinging and betraying. It had been milled to reveal a woman most exquisitely and beautifully to a master. It was brief, exotic, humiliating, degrading. It was, of course, slave silk. I wondered if Verna had ever dreamed of herself in such silk. She now stood before Marlenus, so clad. She tried to stand as a panther girl, but he had laughed at her. Her girls too, had jeered her. She turned away, and fled to the wall of the stockade, weeping.

It seemed important to Marlenus to separate her girls from her.

That was perhaps part of his plan. That was perhaps one reason for putting her in slave silk. Another reason, of course, was that it pleased him, her master, to see her so.

Once, she so clad, her hands braceleted before her, her arm held by a guard, she was led past her girls, in their skins, chained by one of the stockade walls. “Pretty slave!’ they had jeered at her.

She had tried to kick at them and fall upon them but her guard, controlling her easily, for she was only a woman, dragged her away. The girls had jeered after her.

She was taken to the kitchen tent, where she was given lessons, as a slave girl, in the preparation and serving of food. She would also, of course, be taught how to sew, and to wash and iron clothing. When Marlenus took his meals in his tent, or wished refreshments or win, Verna, the new girl, served him “Have you used her yet?” I asked Marlenus.

The girl poured us our wine. One may speak freely before slaves.

“That is enough,” said Marlenus, and the girl withdrew to one side, to wait until she must serve again.

Marlenus turned and looked at her. “No,” he said. “She is a raw girl, ignorant.” Verna, from where she knelt, looked at him, angrily, holding the two-handled wine vessel. At her throat was his collar, in her thigh, burned, his brand, on her body, his silk. She looked away.

“If you will observe,” said Marlenus, who had studied thousands of women, “she seems ready, even marvelous, but yet there is a subtle unreadiness, a subtle stiffness in her body. Note the shoulders, the wrists, the diaphragm.” The girl’s fists clenched on the twin handles of the wine vessel.

“Remove you clothing, and stand,” said Marlenus.

The slave did so.

“You see?” asked Marlenus.

I studied her. The girl looked away. She was incredibly beautiful. Yet there did seem something subtly different about her, something which separated her softness, proud and vulnerable in the tent of her master, from the incomparable, delicious yielded softness, eager, tender, at times pleading, of a girl such as Cara.

Perhaps it was partly a stiffness in the shoulders. Perhaps it was something about the wrists. The backs of her hands faced us. The normal fall of a girl’s hands places her palms at her thighs.

“Place your palms on your thighs,” said Marlenus.

“Beast,” she hissed. She did so. She felt her brand.

I also noted a tenseness about her diaphragm, doubtless that which Marlenus had wished to indicate. It was tight, not vital and expectant.

“Turn about,” said Marlenus. She did so. I noted the exquisite curvatures of her.

“She is beautiful,” I said. Her fists were clenched.

“Yes,” said Marlenus. “But note how she stands.”

“I see,” I said.

It was indeed interesting. She stood very proudly, very angrily. Her head was high, her fists were clenched. Her weight was equally on the balls of her feet. I could see the hamstrings, the beautiful, resilient tendons behind her knees, now like tight, proud cords, holding her erect.

“Disregard,” said Marlenus, “the obvious things, her pride, her anger, the clenched fists.” “Yes,” I said.

I tired to imagine how Cara might have stood, had she been in the place of Verna.

She would have turned quietly, obediently, gracefully. She would have known that she, a slave, was arousing free men, masters, and this would have excited her, and this excitement would have been revealed in her body.

She would not know what their next command would be. And this waiting, not facing us, would have been revealed beautifully in her body.

Commonly the slave girl, when not facing her master, if she is right handed, as are most girls, will have her weight on the ball of her left food. Her left leg will be slightly, subtly, flexed, and her right leg will be substantially flexed. Her head will be turned slightly to the right, as though she would look over her right shoulder. Her hamstrings will not be tight. They will be merely beautifully resilient, heady to turn her eagerly, at his command, to face him. We observed Verna.

“You see,” said Marlenus.

“Yes,” I said.

“Face us,” said Marlenus.

Verna, seething, did so.

“You see then in this woman,” said Marlenus, “though she is beautiful, an unreadiness.” “Yes,” I said.

“You may clothe yourself,” said Marlenus.

Verna, in fury, reach down and snatched up the bit of slave silk. She jerked it about her body. She then stood there, facing us.

“Look upon her,” said Marlenus.

I did.

“Raw and ignorant,” he said.

He then indicated that she should again kneel to one side, and take up the two-handled wine vessel, that she be ready, when we wished, to serve us once more.

Marlenus did not take his eyes from the beautiful slave.

She looked away.

“In her, as yet,” said Marlenus, “there is a coldness, an arrogance, a loftiness, a stubborn defiance, a pride, an ice.” “In the eleventh passage hand,” I said, “many rivers are frozen.” She looked at Marlenus, in fury.

“But in En’Kara,” I said, “again the rivers flow free.”

“Serve us wine,” said Marlenus, “and then leave.”

The girl did so.

When she had left, Marlenus looked at me. “I did not permit ice in the bodies of my slave girls,” he said.

I smiled. “In time,” I said, “she will doubtless learn that she had been branded. She will doubtless learn her silk and her collar.” I took a sip of wine. “In En’Kara,” I said, “perhaps the rivers will flow free.” Marlenus laughed.

I looked at him.

“I am a Ubar,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“What is it to me,” he asked, “if she should, in months, of her own accord, come to understand her brand, her silk and her collar. What is it to me, if she should, in months, of her own accord, choose to fasten a talender in her hair?” I regarded him.

“Do you truly think,” he asked, “that I, Marlenus of Ar, will wait for En’Kara.” “I suppose not,” I said.

“Other men,” said Marlenus, “might be content to wait for the breezes of En’Kara to loosen the ice, to soften it and let the river run unimprisoned.” I looked into his eyes.

“In owning a woman,” said Marlenus, “as in the game, one must seize the initiative. One must force through an attack that is overwhelming and shattering. She must be crushed, devastated.” “Mastered?” I asked.

“Utterly,” he said.

Marlenus played a savage game. I did not envy Verna. She was totally unsuspecting.

There was a shallow bowl of flowers, scarlet, large-budded, five-petaled flaminiums, on the small, low table between us.

He reached out with his large hand and took one of the flowers.

He held it in the palm of his hand. His hand began to close.

“If you were this flower,” asked Marlenus, “and you could speak, what would you do?” “I suppose,” I said, “if I were such a flower, I would beg for mercy.” “Yes,” said Marlenus.

“Verna,” I said, “Is strong willed. She is extremely proud, extremely intelligent.” “Excellent,” said Marlenus.

His hand closed more on the flower.

“Such women,” said Marlenus, “ once conquered, make the most abject and superb slaves.” “I have heard this,” I said.

Incidentally, brilliant and imaginative women, particularly if beautiful and high-born, are avidly sought in Gorean slave markets. High intelligence, and imagination, perhaps interestingly from the point of view of a man of Earth, are highly prized in women by Gorean men. Indeed, a woman who is known to be intelligent and imaginative will bring a much higher price than some duller, but more beautiful, sister in bondage. Goreans, unlike many men of Earth, have very little interest in stupid women. The ideal candidate, for the Gorean slavers snare is a highly intelligent, beautiful, imaginative woman, one who is strong willed, proud and free. It is such women that Goreans enjoy making slaves. Perhaps, surprisingly, once conquered, once they have learned their brand, once they have learned their collar and silk, they make the most helpless, the most incredibly delicious slaves.

“Suppose,” I said to Marlenus, “the flower does not beg for mercy.” “Then,” said he, beginning to close his fist on the flower, “it is destroyed.” “You play a savage game,” said I, “Marlenus.” He dropped the flower back into the shallow bowl, among other, unthreatened, buds.

“I am a Ubar,” he said.

Marlenus would not wait for the ice in the river to melt. He was a Ubar. He would shatter it.

Verna was totally unsuspecting.

“I will tell her,” said Marlenus, “when to put a talender in her hair.” I nodded. Verna’s conquest would be total. She would be made his, utterly. “When does you game begin?” I asked Marlenus.

“It has already begun,” said Marlenus.

“How is that?’ I asked.

“She will attempt to escape tonight,” said Marlenus.

I regarded him, puzzled.

“Surely, together,” he smiled, “we have motivated such an attempt?” It was true. I doubted that Verna, unless conquered, would willingly endure another examination of the sort to which we had casually subjected her this evening, the rather detailed appraisal of a slave girl by masters.

“Did you note,” asked Marlenus, “how deferentially she served us the last cup of wine?” I smiled. “Yes,” I said. “It was served almost as if a slave girl served it.” “It was her attempt,” said Marlenus, “to pretend to be a slave. She served it as she thinks slave girls serve.” He smiled. “Later,” he said, “when she knows herself owned, she will serve, and naturally, as a slave girl serves.” I supposed it was true. The true slave girl knows that she is owned. This makes a difference in how she performs many tasks. Her body, in almost all of its movements, will betray her bondage. It is difficult for a free woman to imitate the actions of a slave girl. She does not know truly what it is to be slave. She has never been taught. She has not been slave. Similarly it is difficult for a slave girl to imitate the actions of a free woman. Knowing that she is, in actuality, owned, it is very difficult for her to act as though she were free. She is frightened to do so. Sometimes slavers use these differences to separate the two categories of Gorean female. Sometimes, when a city is being sacked, high-born free women, fearful of falling into the hands of chieftains of the enemy, have themselves branded and collared, and don slave tunics, and mix with their own slave girls, to prevent their identity from being known. Such high-born women may, by a practiced eye, be detected among true slave girls. They are then handed over to chieftains, for use in the public humiliation ceremonies to be inflicted upon the conquered city, for public rebranding and recollaring, and subsequent public distribution to high officers. The test may be as simple as removing a girl’s tunic and telling her to walk across a room. It may be as simple as telling her to present her lips to those if a warrior. Similarly, slave girls, attempting to escape, can be separated out from free women, even when all are veiled and wear the robes of concealment. Again, the tests may be simple. Once, in Ko-ro-ba, I saw a slaver, before a magistrate, distinguish such a girl, not even one of his own, from eleven free women. Each, in turn, was asked to pour him a cup of wine, and then withdraw, nothing more. At the end, the slaver rose to his feet and pointed to one of the women. “No!” she had cried. “I am free!” officers of the court, by order of the magistrate, removed her garments. If she were free, the slaver would be impaled. When her last garment had been torn away, there was applause in the court. The girl stood there. On her thigh was the brand. She was braceleted and leashed, and given to the slaver. He led her, weeping, away to his slave chain.

“She attempted to serve as a slave,” said Marlenus, “to put us off our guard.” “Then you think,” I asked, “that tonight she will attempt an escape?” “Of course,” said Marlenus. “And I expect that by now she has left the camp.” I looked at him, astonished.

“I gave orders for her departure not to be noticed,” smiled Marlenus. “It is dark,” I said. “She will have a long start.” “We can get her back when we wish,” he said. “I have arranged for the girls of Hura, more than a hundred of them, to be in the forests about the camp. If they do not pick her up, I shall go forth in a day or so and retrieve her myself.” “You seem confident,” I said.

“There is little possibility of losing her,” said Marlenus. “I had her bedding, a blanket changed this morning. She thinks that she washed her blanket but I substituted another, an identical one from another girl.” “Tonight,” I said, “she would not have slept on the cleaned blanket.” “Of course not,” said Marlenus.

“And,” I said, “in Laura there are trained sleen.”

“Yes,” said Marlenus. “And given the scent of her blanket there will not be difficulty in picking her up, even if we begin to search days from now.” The sleen is Gor’s most perfect hunter.

“Even,” said Marlenus, “if we did not have the blanket the smell of the shelter in which she slept last night should be sufficient for the sleen.” “You are thorough,” I said.

“More thorough than you understand,” smiled Marlenus. He went to a heavy chest at the side of the room and, with a key hung at his belt, unlocked it. He drew from it some bits of scarlet slave silk. “I had her put these on yesterday,” he said. He grinned. “One of my men, unknown to her, pretended to be a merchant, arrived in the camp. He pretended he wished me to buy a consignment of pleasure silk for use in my pleasure gardens. He seemed anxious that I buy. He begged that Verna, who stood nearby, be permitted to display the product, so that I might better judge its sheen and quality. I consented and ordered her to do so. I pretended to purchase several rolls. When she removed the silks we put them to one side, as though for washing.” He laughed. “Of course,” he said, “when she was gone I locked them in the chest.” I thought of the fierce sleen, with their fangs and blazing eyes, long-bodied, six-legged, like a furred lizard.

“She has no chance of escape,” I said.

“She thinks, however,” said Marlenus, “that she had an excellent chance. She does not know Hura’s band. She thinks her bedding has been changed. She knows of no clothing, unwashed, which remains behind her. She will fear only that sleen, if we used them, might pick up her scent from the shelter in which she slept.” “She will think, then,” I said, “that she has a chance, perhaps and excellent on, with her lead and the darkness, of escaping.” “Yes,” said Marlenus.

“But she has no chance of escape,” I said.

Marlenus nodded his head. “That is true,” he said. “She had no chance of escape. “Ubar,” said a voice. It was one of the guards.

“The girl, Verna,” he said, “had fled.”

“Thank you, Warrior,” said Marlenus, dismissing the man. Then Marlenus turned to me. ”You see,” said he, the game is already begun.” I nodded.

Marlenus looked about himself. He saw, to one side, the large board of one hundred yellow and red squares, the tall weighted pieces.

“Would you care for a game?” asked Marlenus.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “It is late now, Ubar.”

He laughed. “Good-night,” he said.

I turned and left. I looked back once, to see Marlenus regarding the board, intently, it placed now before him on the table. He was moving pieces, trying combinations, lines and permutations.

I thought of Verna fleeing through the night forest, swiftly, silently, wary, excited, elated, heart beating.

I looked again to see the Ubar in his tent, his fist beneath his chin, regarding the board of the game.

Verna was a lovely tabuk. Unknown to herself she was still on his tether. Scarcely had Marlenus flung his Ubar’s Tarnsman to Ubar’s Builder’s Seven when we heard the cry at the gate.

It was a hot afternoon, late in the afternoon. It was the day following Verna’s flight.

We rose together, and went to the gate, and had it opened. We saw Verna immediately. There were two short choke straps on her neck, each half by a different panther girl. Her wrists had been bound behind her back. Further, at two places, across her shoulders and belly, her arms with coils of binding fiber, very tight, were pinioned. She knelt between her two captors. There were several more girls, armed, behind her.

She looked up, angrily. Her head was high.

A dark-haired, tall girl strode forward.

“Greetings, Hura,” said Marlenus.

“Greetings, Ubar,” said the woman. I saw that Mira stood behind her. Mira was much pleased.

Verna was clad only in the bit of yellow slave silk she had worn when she escaped. It was half torn from her. Shreds of it were held by the binding fiber on her body. She was barefoot. There were many scratches on her legs and body. About her neck, and shoulders and arms, and back, she had been switched. “We have caught an escaped slave,” said Hura.

Verna struggled in the bonds.

“A branded girl, collared,” said Hura. She struck Verna in the shoulder with the butt of her spear, that of a free woman.

Hura reached to Verna’s collar. She dug her fingers between the neck and the steel, and jerked it, twice. “The collar of this slave girl, she said, “says that she belongs to Marlenus of Ar.” “That is true,” said Marlenus.

Hura laughed. She was a tall, long-legged girl, rather hard looking, not unbeautiful. She seemed strong. I did not trust her. She spoke loudly. Her laugh was not pleasant.

Marlenus was looking down on Verna, bound kneeling at his feet. She looked up at him, boldly, angrily.

“It is true,” said Marlenus. “This is one of my girls.”

“I am not one of your girls!” screamed Verna. “I am not one of your girls! I am Verna! Verna, the outlaw woman! Verna, the panther girl!” “She is pretty, isn’t she?” asked Hura.

“A lovely girl,” said one of the panther girls, holding one of the choke straps. “Slave silks befits such a pretty little bird,” said another girl.

Verna struggled in her bonds.

“Do not injure your pretty body,” warned Hura, “You will be less pleasing to men.” “She-sleen!” wept Verna.

“Doubtless,” said Mira, “she would be even prettier in cosmetics and earrings.” “Traitress!” screamed Verna. “Traitress!” “Slave girl!” said Mira. “Slave girl!” “She fled from us last night,” said Marlenus.

“We have caught her,” said Hura.

“I will give you a steel knife,” said Marlenus,and forty arrow points for her.” “Very well,” said Hura.

The knife and arrow points were brought, and Hura took them.

The choke straps were removed from Verna’s throat. With her foot, spurning her, Hura thrust her to the ground at the feet of Marlenus. She lay on her left shoulder, looking up at him.

“Next time you may not be so fortunate, Marlenus,” she said.

“Get up,” he said.

She struggled to her feet. He took her hair in his hand and bent her over, her head at his waist, holding her as one does a female slave.

“You, Hura,” said Marlenus, “and your lieutenant, Mira, may watch, if you wish.” “We would be honored, Ubar,” said Hura. She, and Mira, followed Marlenus, he holding Verna as a slave girl, within the stockade. I followed them. Behind us the gates were swung shut and locked.

“I do not care if you beat me,” said Verna, in pain. “I have felt the whip.” But Marlenus dragged her past the whipping post. I could see that this frightened her.

Marlenus stopped at the side of his great tent, in an open space.

“Summon the camp,” he said. “Bring, too, the slaves.”

He forced Verna to her knees beside him. He removed his hand from her hair. Soon the camp had gathered around, huntsmen, tarnsmen, retainers, slaves. Watching, too, circled about, were Verna’s girls, in their panther skins, chained together by the right ankle. There was no one in the camp who was not present. Present, too, of course, were Hura and Mira, Verna’s enemies. When we had all gathered about, there was a silence.

It was in the late afternoon. A bird cried in the distance. There was not much stir in the air. It was hot.

Verna looked up at Marlenus, proudly, defiantly.

“Remove her bonds,” said Marlenus.

She looked up at him, startled. A huntsman, one of Marlenus’ retinue, cowled in the head of a forest panther, stepped behind her. With his sleen knife he freed the girl’s arms and hands.

She still knelt, apprehensive.

“Who are you?” asked Marlenus.

“I am Verna,” she said, “the outlaw.”

Then, to her astonishment, and that of all those watching, saving the Ubar himself, Marlenus took the key to her collar from his pouch. He opened the collar and replaced the key in his pouch. He then removed the collar from her throat and cast it to one side, in the dirt.

She looked up at him, puzzled.

“Hamstring the outlaw,” he said.

“No!” she cried. She leaped to her feet but two huntsmen, cowled in the heads of forest panthers, seized her by the arms. “No! No!” she screamed.

“May we go, Ubar?” pleaded Hura. Mira, too, wanted to rush to the gate. “Remain where you are,” said Marlenus.

The two women, frightened, did not move.

“Ubar!” screamed Verna. “Ubar!”

At a gesture from Marlenus the shreds of pleasure silk which still clung to her were torn from her by two huntsmen, they, too, like the others, cowled in the heads of forest panthers.

She stood before him, free of his collar, stripped, held by huntsmen. Hanging is a not uncommon penalty in the northern forests for outlawry. Another such penalty, not infrequently inflicted, is hamstringing.

“No, Ubar!” she said. “Please, Ubar!”

In hamstringing the two large tendons behind each knee are cut. The legs my then no longer be contracted. They are then useless. No longer can the subject walk or run, or ever stand erect.

The subject is, however, not without resource. He can, though it requires strength, and it is awkward and painful, drag himself about by the hands. When an individual is hamstrung he is often taken to a city where he is left, that he may, if he can, earn his living by begging. Sometimes tavern keepers gather several such unfortunates together, enslave them, and keep their beggings for themselves. A slave with a tharlarion wagon puts them about the city in the morning and picks them up at night. Sometimes the tavern keepers blind or mutilate them as well, that they be more piteous, and their earnings accordingly increased.

Verna was looking at Marlenus with horror.

“Let the outlaw be hamstrung,” said Marlenus.

Two huntsmen threw Verna forward, holding her head toward the ground. Two others held her legs, somewhat higher, stretching them out.

I saw the tendons, beautiful, taut, behind her knees.

A fifth huntsman, at a sign from Marlenus, stepped behind the girl. He removed the sleen knife from its sheath. I saw the edge of the blade touch the right tendon.

“I am a woman!” screamed Verna. “I am a woman!”

“No,” said Marlenus. “You are an outlaw.”

“I am a woman!” screamed Verna. “I am a woman! I am a woman!”

“No,” said Marlenus. “You have only a body of a woman. inside your body you are a man.” “No!” she wept. “No! Inside I am a woman! I am woman!” “Is it true?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes, yes!” wept Verna.

“You acknowledge yourself a female then,” asked Marlenus, “within as well as without.” “Yes,” cried Verna. “I am a female!” “Completely?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes,” cried Verna, “I am completely a female.”

“And not a man as well?” pressed Marlenus.

“I am completely and only a female,” wept Verna.

“Then,” said Marlenus, “it seems we should not hamstring you as an outlaw.” Verna’s body shuddered with relief. She shook in the arms of her captors. But they did not release her.

“Then,” said Marlenus, “you may be hamstrung for being an escaped slave girl.” Terror sprang anew into Verna’s eyes.

It was true. The second penalty for an escaping girl, one who has fled before, is not uncommonly hamstringing. I had seem hamstrung girls, begging, piteous in the streets of Ar. It was not a pleasant sight.

“Hamstring the slave,” said Marlenus.

“Master!” screamed Verna. “Master!”

Marlenus hand indicated that the knife, poised, hesitate. The words that she had spoken stunned us, all save Marlenus. She had called him Master.

The huntsmen held the slave.

“Please, Master!” wept Verna. “Do not hurt me! Do not hurt me!”

“The slave begs for mercy,” said one of the huntsmen.

“Is this true?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes, Master,” wept Verna. “I am yours. I am your girl. I am your slave. I beg for mercy. I beg for mercy, Master!” “Release her,” said Marlenus. The huntsmen resheathed his sleen knife. The others released the girl. She knelt on the ground, her head down, her hair forward, her shoulders and body shaking, trembling with terror.

The other girls, too, were frightened. Verna’s girls, in their panther skins, chained by their right ankle. Hura, and Mira, too, were shaken.

Verna had been shattered. Her pride, her obstinacy were gone.

She looked up at Marlenus, as a slave girl looks to the eyes of a master. She knew then she was his.

Without being told, she went to the collar, lying in the dirt, which Marlenus had cast aside. Trembling, she picked it up and knelt before Marlenus. She handed him the collar. There were tears in her eyes.

Marlenus wiped the collar on his sleeve. A length of binding cord was brought. Verna knelt back on her heels. She lifted her arms to Marlenus, wrists crossed. She lowered her head between her arms.

“I submit myself,” she said.

The collar was locked on her throat. Her hands were tied.

She lowered her bound wrists and lifted her head to Marlenus. “I am your girl,” she said, “Master.” Marlenus turned to a subordinate. “Have her cleaned and combed,” he said. “And perfume her.” She put down her head.

“Then put her in yellow pleasure silk,” he said, “fresh silk, and place bells on her left ankle.” “Yes, Ubar,” said the man.

Marlenus was regarding the slave who knelt before him, her head down. “And have her ears pierced,” said Marlenus, “and fix in them earrings of gold, large ones.” “Yes, Ubar,” said the man.

The slave, conquered, did not so much as lift her head. It would be done to her, what her master wished.

“And tonight,” said Marlenus, “when she is sent to my tent, see that she wears lipstick.” “It will be done as you say, Ubar,” said the man. He looked down at Verna. “Come with me, Girl,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, and was led away.

I recalled the flaminium, in the grip of Marlenus.

“These other slaves,” said Marlenus, indicating Verna’s former girls, “take them away.” Frightened, on their chain, they were herded away. There was not one of them but what knew that what had happened to Verna might have happened to any one of them. I suspected that each of them would be very conscious that night of the ring locked on their right ankle, and the chain that fastened them to the two stakes.

“May we leave, Ubar?” asked Hura.

Marlenus looked upon Hura and Mira. They were very conscious that they were women that stood among men.

“Yes,” said Marlenus.

The two women, in their brief skins, hurried to the gate, which was opened to let them pass. Outside, the panther girls were waiting for them. Hura, Mira, and Hura’s band swiftly disappeared in the forest.

They did not remain long in the vicinity of the camp of Marlenus, Ubar of Ar. ”Think, Ubar,” I said, “that I choose to return to my ship soon, at the banks of the Laurius.” “You are welcome to leave when you wish,” said Marlenus, “but enjoy my hospitality another day.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Do we not have a game on the board?” “Yes,” I smiled. “We do.” I had almost forgotten the game we had scarcely begun, before we had heard the cry at the gate, heralding Hura’s return of an escaped slave girl.

At the entrance to Marlenus’ tent, I stopped.

Marlenus looked at me.

“Ubar,” said I, “if the girl Verna had not cried out for mercy, if she had not wept and yielded herself, completely and utterly, to you as slave, would you have truly done what you threatened?” “I do not understand,” said Marlenus.

“Would you truly have hamstrung her?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Marlenus. “I am a Ubar.”

“When you leave,” said Marlenus, regarding the board, “it is my wish that you go to your ship.” It was his move.

“That is my intention,” I said.

“It is not my wish,” said Marlenus, “that you fare forth to an exchange point to set free a former citizen of Ar.” “I understand,” I said.

“I, as her former Ubar, will treat of that business,” said Marlenus. She had much shamed him. I did not envy the girl, Talena.

“What is your intention with regard to her?” I asked.

“She will be kept in Ar,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

Marlenus looked up. “Put her from your mind,” he said. “She is unworthy of a free man.” I nodded. It was true what he had said. Talena, once the beautiful daughter of a great Ubar, shamed and disowned, was now nothing. No longer did she have family. No longer did she have position, wealth and power. She was now nothing. She now had only her beauty, and that wore a brand. Even if she were freed, she would not, in virtue of the disownment, have a caste. The lowest peasant wench on Gor, secure in her caste rights, would be far above her. Talena, once the marvelous and beautiful Talena, was now nothing. She was nothing, nothing.

No longer was she a desirable match. No longer was she acceptable, no longer was she suitable.

She was nothing.

Marlenus and I, Goreans, sat across the board from one another.

“A slave, said a man, standing outside the tent.

“Send her in,” said Marlenus, studying the board. I looked up.

Verna was stunningly beautiful. Her hair, long and blond, was loosed and combed back. she wore a bit of yellow pleasure silk, very short and diaphanous. It clung to her, sweet with her breathing. On her left ankle, locked, were slave bells. I caught the scent of her perfume, a delicate Torian scent, feminine. She wore lipstick. She carried wine.

She was one of the most beautiful female slaves I had ever seen.

Marlenus lifted his head and regarded her. Her breathing quickened. “Put down the wine,” said Marlenus, “and step before us.” The girl did so.

“Lift your hair away from your ears,” said Marlenus, “and turn your head from side to side.” Verna displayed the earrings, large and gold, which had been fastened in her ears.

They were beautiful.

“Remove the silk,” said Marlenus, ”and face us.”

The slave did so.

She stood beautifully. She did not stand as might have Cara, or another girl, who had well known the touch of a man, but she did stand as though owned. The resistance was gone from her shoulders and diaphragm. Even the palms of her hands, naturally now fell at her thighs, her left palm over her brand. She had not been taught to stand in this fashion. The difference, subtle and interesting, had been accomplished in the enslavement of the afternoon… Now, naturally, unaware of it, she stood as a slave girl. She knew now she stood before the man who was her complete master, open to him, his slave. She stood as a slave, because she now knew herself as a slave, and this knowledge was reflected, inevitably, in her stance. It was natural that she now stand as a slave. She was a slave.

“Turn,” said Marlenus.

Verna did so, gracefully, obediently. She stood, facing away from us. “You see?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes,” I said.

Verna knew that she was beautiful. Moreover, she knew that her beauty was now being surveyed, candidly, by two free men. I could sense, in her breathing, and her carriage, that this excited her. It may well have excited her, for she was a mere slave, and belonged to one of the men present. A girl in a collar, as it is said, is not permitted inhibitions.

We observed her.

She stood on the ball of her left foot. The left leg was slightly, subtly, flexed, and her right leg was flexed, too, and much more than the left. Her head was turned slightly to the right, as though she might wish, did she dare, to look over her right shoulder. I noted the hamstrings. They were not tight. They were lovely, beautifully resilient. Marlenus played a savage game. I was pleased that they had not bee severed.

“You see?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes,” I said.

“There is now a readiness,” said Marlenus. “She is still a raw girl, an ignorant girl, but now there is a readiness.” I nodded. “Face us,” said Marlenus.

“Yes, Master,” said Verna. I marveled. Her lips were parted. She faced Marlenus. I saw her breathing. She was excited. A girl in a collar is not permitted inhibitions. Simply standing before her master, in his collar, she was visibly excited. I could scarcely conjecture the helplessness and violence of her responses to Marlenus, should he deign to touch her.

“Do you sense in yourself a readiness,” Marlenus asked her, “to serve as a slave girl?” “Yes,” she said, “yes, Master!” “Clothe yourself,” said Marlenus.

Unsteadily, tears in her eyes, she did so.

Marlenus’ attention was again upon the board of the game.

“Ubara’s Builder to Ubara’s Builder Nine,” said Marlenus. He moved the piece. I responded to this with Scribe to Ubara’s Builder Two.

Marlenus looked up. He glanced at the girl, absently.

“Serve us wine,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I observed the board.

I wondered at women. It seems that they, in reality, care for tender, loving men, who treat them with great consideration and solicitude. Yes, in their dreams, it seems they find themselves forced to surrender, totally, to fierce, dominating masters, who insolently and cruelly, though often with ironic courtesy and tenderness, exact from their bodies, over a period of hours, every last minute sensation of response of which their bodies are capable, strong men, warriors, who, patiently, permit them no shield, who permit them to withhold nothing, who permit them to save not a particle of their honor, who will force them to yield themselves totally, helplessly, in complete and utter surrender. Gorean culture, of course, differs greatly from Earth culture. On Gor, for better or for worse, the reality in which a woman, terrified, might find herself is not altogether unlike that of her feared dreams on Earth, but on Gor it is not a dream; it is as real as the steel of slave bracelets and the commanding touch of a master.

I looked at Marlenus of Ar.

He was lost in the game, his attention on the board. I had not thought much of it before, but I now realized that he must be attractive, enormously attractive, to women. He was broad and strong. He was fierce and highly intelligent. He was as insolent, and rugged and handsome as the crags of the mighty Voltai. He was uncompromising; he was powerful; he was wealthy’ he controlled cities and men’ he was a tarnsman, master of the great, predatory saddlebirds of Gor. He had taken, and owned many women. He seemed a natural master of female flesh. Many women, just seeing him, had a spontaneous desire to yield to him. Some high-born beauties of Ar, I knew, had begged for his collar.

“Ubara to Ubara Four,” said Marlenus.

I moved my Ubar’s Physician to my Ubara Six, interposing it between the Ubara and the Home Stone.

Marlenus and I watched her pour the wine. She poured it differently than she had before. She knelt, her head down, the hair forward. I could see it in her shoulders. She, a slave girl, poured wine for masters. That she was owned was revealed, beautifully, in her serving.

I saw his collar gleaming at her throat.

Marlenus looked at me and smiled. I nodded. Verna was a slave.

She lifted her eyes to him, helplessly.

“Later,” said Marlenus. “I must finish this game.”

“Yes, Master!” she whispered.

She withdrew, kneeling, and watched. Her eyes were on the board, but I could see that she did not understand the game. It was only pieces to her. Yet she sensed the struggle.

Sometimes she looked away from the board. She was breathing deeply. Her fists would clench and unclench. There was a light sheen of sweat on her body. The slave silk clung to her the more closely. She put her head back. Her thighs moved. She was in the torment of her need, often visible in a female slave. “Tarnsman to Ubara Six,” said Marlenus. He moved his tarnsman to his Ubara Six, my Ubara Four.

“Capture of the Home Stone,” said Marlenus.

I had been crushed.

I shrugged. I stood up.

Verna’s eyes shone. I had been defeated, and devastatingly, by her master. She did not play the game, but this much she knew. She could read it in the tone of Marlenus, the swiftness with which he had moved, his insolent handling of the pieces, the vigor and arrogance of his carriage. I had been driven before his attack, stumbling and reeling before him. I could not defend myself. I had been helpless. He had crushed me.

This Verna knew. She could not take her eyes from him.

Marlenus set aside the board, and looked upon her. He had now set aside the things of men, and was ready for her, a woman.

I walked to one side of the tent.

“Remove the silk,” said Marlenus, “and come to my arms.”

Verna parted the slave silk, and dropped it to the side. He was sitting cross-legged, and she crept to him, trembling. He took her and held her across his knees, cradling her in his left arm. She looked up at him, vulnerable, helpless. His right hand was at her thigh, over her brand. There was the slight sound of slave bells, locked on her left ankle.

“You seem a woman,” said Marlenus.

“I am a woman,” said Verna.

“Are you free?” asked Marlenus.

“No,” she whispered. “I am a slave. I am your slave.”

With his hand Marlenus turned her head from side to side. Her hair was back. “These are lovely earrings,” he said.

I could see, from across the tent, the tiny shadows, where the small golden wires were thrust through the softness of her ear lobes.

They were indeed beautiful.

“Yes,” whispered Verna, a lowly pierced-ear girl in the arms of her master. “Do you like them?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes,” she whispered. “They excite me. They excite me as a woman.”

“That is one of their purposes,” said Marlenus.

She attempted to lift her lips, delicately, to his, but his hand prevented them from touching his.

“Do you like your lipstick?” asked Marlenus.

“Yes,” she whispered, “yes, Master!”

“It, too, excites you, does it not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“How is that?” he asked.

“It, like the earrings,” she whispered, “males me feel more female, more slave.” “You are female, and slave,” said Marlenus.

“Yes, Master, she whispered. “I know. I have been taught.”

He then, with his right hand, this first kiss that he placed upon the lips of his slave girl, a kiss in which she was, by intent, permitted no part, save to feel the bruising of it in her body. When he thrust her back there was blood at her mouth, and fear in her eyes. She was now frightened of him, terribly frightened. But he put her to her back, swiftly, casually, and his hand was at her body. Then, though there was fear in her eyes, her body, as though of its own will, began to leap to his touch, that of her master. Her body, as though of its own will, obeyed the touch of Marlenus. Then she cried out, “Oh yes, Master, yes!” Her head was back. Her eyes were closed. She twisted. “I love you, Master!” she wept, “I love you!” “Tomorrow,” said Marlenus, “you will put a talender in your hair.” “Yes, Master,” she cried. “I will. I will!” I slipped from the tent. I looked back once. I saw, to one side, a bowl of scarlet, five-petaled flaminiums.

As I walked into the darkness I heard Verna’s helpless cries of joy. I heard, too, the sound of slave bells. They had been locked on her left ankle. They could not be removed, save by a key in the keeping of Marlenus.

“I love you, Master,” I heard her cry. “I love you. I cannot help myself. I love you, Master! I love you, my Master!” I envied Marlenus his girl, Verna. She was a beauty, and, in time, would be a prize slave. I thought of Sheera. Many times the thought of her had crossed my mind. I had told her I was going to sell her in Lydius. Perhaps I would not. I found myself lonely for Sheera. I called myself a fool. She was only a slave. But she was a slave not without promise. I recalled her in my shelter beside the Tesephone, in the darkness, and in the following day. She was not displeasing. Perhaps, with training, something could be made of her. I reminded myself that it was said that panther girls, once conquered, made excellent slaves. Lying in the darkness, wrapped in my blankets, I heard, in the distance, Verna’s cries of pleasure.

I threw away the blankets. I walked through the camp, until I came to the chain of Verna’s girls, they in their skins, each chained by the right ankle, the long chain fastened between the two stakes.

They were asleep, on the ground. Marlenus had told me that any of the women in the camp, save Verna, were free to me.

I looked along the chain, until I found one that pleased me.

She was sweet-bodied, wide-shouldered, dark-haired, like Sheera.

I knelt beside her and place my hand over her mouth. She squirmed helplessly. I held her. She eyes, over my hand, were wild.

“Be silent,” I told her.

Then I removed my hand from her mouth. She looked up at me.

I took her skins by the shoulders, and drew them from her body, leaving them about her right ankle, where it was fastened to the chain.

She lifted her arms to me, and her lips. I held her, gently, and them began to touch her. I felt her lips on mine. “Be silent,” I whispered to her. “Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Yes, Master.” It was nearly dawn when I left her side. At times I had to keep her mouth covered with my hand.

“What is your name?” I asked her.

“Rena,” she whispered.

“It is a lovely name,” I said, “and you, Rena, are a lovely slave.” “Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

I returned to my blankets, to get an Ahn’s sleep, if I could, before the camp became too much astir.

I looked up at the moons. I recalled Sheera. Yes, I did not think I would sell her in Lydius.

I recalled her, as I had seen her chained at the bar in Lydius. Even then I had wanted her. And I recalled her in the hold of the Tesephone, and later, in the camp, in my shelter beside the Tesephone, that hot night, and the sweet day that had followed.

No, when I returned, I would be in no hurry to sell her. She was a juicy slave, and one of high intelligence. She was not without interest. I rather liked the look of my collar on her throat.

I reminded myself that it was said that panther girls, once conquered, make excellent slaves.

I think it is a true saying.

I rolled over in my blankets, and fell asleep. In the morning I must make my way back to the Tesephone.