Marauders of Gor

Chapter 8 Hilda of Scagnar

“So is this the perfume that the high-born women of Ar wear to the song-dramas in En’Kara?” asked the blond girl, amused.

“Yes, Lady,” I assured her, bowing before her, lisping in the accents of Ar.

“It is gross,” said she. “Meaningless.”

“It is a happy scent,” I whined.

“For the low-born,” said she.

“Lalamus!” said I.

My assistant, a large fellow, but obviously stupid, smoothshaven as are the perfurners, in white and yellow silk, and golden sandals, bent over, hurried forward. He carried a tray of vials.

“I had not realized, Lady,” said I, “that perception such as yours existed in the north.”

My accent rnight not have fooled one of Ar, but it was not bad, and to those not often accustomed to the swift, subtle liquidity of the spfflh of Ar, melodius yet expressive, it was more than adecluate. My assistant, unfortunately, did not speak.

The eyes of Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, flashed. “You of the south think we of the north are barbarians!” she snapped.

“Such fools we were,” I admitted, putting my head to the floor.

“I might have you fried in the grease of tarsk,” she said, “boiled in the oil of tharlarion!”

“Will you not take pity, great Lady,” I whined, “on thom who did not suspect the civilization, the refinements of the north?”

“Perhaps,” said she. ”Have you other perfumes?”

My assistant, hopefully, lifted a vial.

“No,” I hissed to him. “In an instant such a woman wi see through such a scent.”

“Let me smell it,” said she.

“It is nothing, lady,” I whined, “though among the highes born and most beautiful of the women of the Physicians i is much favored.”

“Let me smell it,” she said.

I removed the cork, and turned away my head, as thougl shamed.

She held it to her nose. “It stinks,” she said.

Hastily I corked the vial and, angrily, thrust it back intc the hand of my embarrassed assistant, who returned it tc its place.

Hilda sat in a great curule chair, carved with the sign o~ Scagnar, a serpent-ship, seen frontally. On each post of the chair, carved, was the head of a snarling sleen. She smiled, coldly.

I reached for another vial.

She wore rich green velvet, closed high about her neck, trimmed with gold.

She took the next vial, which I had opened for her. “No,” she said, handing it back to me.

Her hair, long, was braided. It was tied with golden string.

“I had no understanding,” said she, “that the wares of Ar were so inferior.”

Ar, populous and wealthy, the greatest city of known Gor, was regarded as a symbol of quality in merchandise. The stamp of Ar, a single letter, that which appears on its Home Stone, the Gorean spelling of the city’s name, was often forged by unscrupulous tradesmen and placed on their own goods. It is not a difflcult sign to forge. It has, however, in spite of that, never been changed or embellithed; the stamp of Ar is a part of its tradition. In my opinion the goods of Ko-ro-ba were as good, or better, than those of Ar but, it is true, she did not have the reputation of the great city to the southeast, across the Vosk. Ar is often looked to, by those interested in such matters, as the setter of the pace in dress and manners. Fashions in Ar are eagerly inquired into; a garment “cut in the fashion of Ar” may sell for more than one of better cloth but less “stylish”; “as it is done in Ar” is a phrase often heard. Sometimes I had little objection to the spreadings of such fashions. After the restoration of Marlenus of Ar, in 10,1 19 Contasta Ar, from the founding of Ar, he had at his victory feast decreed a two-hort, about two and one half inches, shortening of the already briefly skirted garment ofthe female state slave. This was adopted immediately in Ar, and, city by city, became rather general. Proving that I myself am not above fashion I had had this scandalous alteration implemented in my own house; surely I would not have wanted my girls to be embarrassed by the excessive length of their livery; and, in fact, I did the Ubar of Ar one better, by ordering their hemlines lifted by an additional quarter inch; most Gorean slave girls have lovely legs; the more I see of them the better; I wondered how many girls, even as far away as Turia, knew that more of their legs were exposed to free men because, long ago, drunkenly, Marlenus of Ar, at his victory feast, had altered the length of the livery of the female state slaves of Ar. Another custom, long practised in the far south, below the Gorean equator, in Turia, for example, is the piercing of the ears of the female slave; this custom, though of long standing in the far south, did not begin to spread with rapidity in the north until, again, it was introduced in Ar. At a feast Marlenus, as a special treat for his high officers, presented before them a dancer, a female slave, whose ears had been pierced. She had worn, in her degradation, golden loops in her ears; she had not been able, even, to finish her dance; at a sign from Marlenus she had been seized, thrown to the tiles on which she had danced, and raped by more than a hundred men. Ear piercing, from this time, had begun to spread rapidly through the north, masters, and slavers, often inflicting it on thei glrls. Interestingly, the piercing of the septum, for the in sertion of a nose ring, is regarded, generally, a great dea more lightly by female slaves than the piercing of the ears Perhaps this iS partly because, in the far south, the free women of the Wagon Peoples wear nose rings; perhaps it is because the piercing does not show; I do not know. The piercing of the ears, however, is regarded as being the epito me of a slave girl’s degradation. Any woman, it is said, with pierced ears, is a slave girl.

“You insult me,” said Hilda the Haughty, “to present me with such miserable merchandise! Is this the best that great Ar can offer?”

Had I been of Ar I might have been angry. As it was I was somewhat irritated. The perfumes I was displaying to her had been taken, more than six months ago, by the Forkbeard from a vessel of Cos. They were truly perfumes of Ar, and of the finest varieties. “Who,” I asked myself, “is Hilda, the daughter of a barbarian, of a rude, uncouth northern pirate, living in a high wooden fortress, overlooking the sea, to so demean the perfumes of Ar?”

One might have thought she was a great lady, and not the insolent, though curvacious, brat of a boorish sea rover.

I put my head to the floor. I grovelled in the white and yellow siLk of the perfumers. “Oh, great lady,” I whined, “the finest of Ar’s, perfumes may be too thin, too frail, too gross, for one of your discernment and taste.”

Her hands wore many rings. About her neck she wore, looped, four chains of gold, with pendants. On her wrists were bracelets of silver and gold.

“Show me others, men of the south,” said she, contemptuously.

Again and again we tried to please the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar. We had little success. Sometimes she would wince, or make a face, or indicate disgust with a tiny motion of her hand, or a movement of her head.

We were almost finished with the vials in the flat, leather case.

“We have here,” said I, “a scent that might be worthy of a Ubara of Ar.”

I uncorked it and she held it, delicately, to her nostrils.

“Barely adequate,” she said.

I restrained my fury. That scent, I knew, a distillation of a hundred flowers, nurtured like a priceless wine, was a secret guarded by the perfumers of Ar. It contained as well the separated oil of the Thentis needle tree; an extract from the glands of the Cartius river urt; and a preparation formed from a disease calculus scraped from the intestines of the rare Hunjer Long Whale, the result of the inadequate digestion of cuttlefish. Fortunately, too, this calculus is sometimes found free in the sea, expelled with feces. It took more than a year to distill, age, blend and bond the ingredients.

“Barely adequate,” she said. But I could tell she was pleased.

“It is only eight stone of gold,” said I, obsequiously, “for the vial.”

“I shall accept it,” said she, coldly, “as a gift.”

“A gift!” I cried.

“Yes,” said she. “You have annoyed me. I have been patient with you. I am now no longer patient!”

“Have pity, great lady!” I wept.

“Leave me now,” said she. “Go below. Ask there to be stripped and beaten. Then swiftly take your leave of the house of Thorgard of Scagnar. Be grateful that I perrnit you your lives.”

I hastily, as though frightened, made as though to close the flat, leather case of vials.

“Leave that,” she said. She laughed. “I shall give it to my bond-maids.”

I smiled, though secretly. The haughty wench would rob us of our entire stores! None of that richness, I knew, would grace the neck or breasts of a mere bond-maid. She's Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, would kee,~) it for hersel~;

I attempted to conceal one vial, which we had not permitted her to sample. But her eye was too qwck ~or me.

“What is that?” she asked, sharply.

“It is nothing,” I said.

“Let me smell it,” she said.

“Please, no, great lady!” I begged.

“You thought to keep it from me, did you?” she laughed.

“Oh, no, great lady,” I wept.

“Give it to me,” she said.

“Must I, lady?” asked I.

“I see,” said she, “beating is not enough for you. It seems you must be boiled in the oiI of tharlarion as well!”

I lifted it to her, piteously.

She laughed.

My assistant and I knelt before her, at her feet. She wore, beneath her green velvet, golden shoes.

“Uncork it for me, you sleen,” said she. I wondered if I had, in my life, seen ever so scornful, so proud, so cold a woman.

I uncorked the vial.

“Hold it beneath my nostrils,” she said. She bent forward. I held the vial beneath her delicate nostrils.

She closed her eyes, and breathed in, deeply, expectantly.

She opened her eyes, and shook her head. “What is this?” she said.

“Capture scent,” I said.

I held her forearms. Ivar Forkbeard quickly pulled the bracelets and rings from her wrists and fingers. He then threw from her neck the golden chains. I pulled her to her feet, holding her wrists. Ivar tore the golden string from her hair, loosening it. It fell behind her, blond, below the small of her back. He tore the collar of her gown back from her throat, opening it at her neck.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He snapped fetters of black iron on her wrists. They, by the fetters and their single link, were held about three mches apart.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“A friend of your father,” said he. He tore away from his body, swiftly, the gown of the perfumers, that of white and yellow silk. I, too, cast aside the perfumer’s gown.

She saw that we wore the leather and fur of Torvaldsland.

“No!” she cried.

My hand was over her mouth. Ivar’s dagger was at her throat.

“While Thorgard roves at sea,” said the Forkbeard, “we rove in Scagnar.”

“Shall I hold again the via] beneath her nose?” I asked. Soaked in a rag and scarf and hel-l over the nose and mouth of a female it can render her unconscious in five Ihn. She squirrned wildly for an Ihn or two, and then sluggishly, and then fell limp. It is sometimes used by tarnsmen; it is often used by slavers. Anaesthetic darts, too, are sometimes used in the taking of females; these may be flungj or entered into her body by hand; they take effect in about forty Ihn; she awakens often, stripped, in a slave kennel.

“No,” said lvar. “It is important for my plan that she be conscious.

I melt the mouth of the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar move beneath my hand.

The Forkbeard’s dagger’s point thrust slightly into her throat.

She winced.

“If you speak now above a whisper,” said he, “you die. Is that understood?”

· She nodded her head miserably. At a gesture from the Forkbeard, I released her mouth. I continued to hold her arm.

“You will never get me past the guards,” she hissed.

The Forkbeard was looking about the room. From a smoll chest, he took a thick, covering cloth, orange. From her chest he took a scarf.

“There are guards,” she hissed. “You are fools! You will never get me past the guards!”

“I have no intention of getting you past the guards,” said Ivar Forkbeard.

She looked at him, puzzled. He went to the high window of her room, high in the wooden fortress, on its cliff, overlooking the dark bay below. We could hear waves crashing on rocks.

Ivar went to the window. He looked down. Then he cameback into the room and took a clay lamp, lit, and went agam to the window. He moved the lamp up and down once. I went to the window, holding the girl. Together we looked down into the wave-crashing blackness. Then we saw, brlefly, uncovered and then covered again, a ship’s lantern. Below, at the nineteenth hour, in the longboat of Ivar’s ship, was Gorm, with four oarsmen.

“You have no ropes to lower me to your b~at,” she said. She lifted her wrists. “Remove, and swiftly,” said she, “these dlsgusting fetters!”

Ivar Forkbeard went to the door of her room and, silently slipped the two beams into place, in their iron brackets.

She looked to the floor; on it, scattered, lay her bracelets, her rings, the golden chains she had worn about her neck Her throat, where Ivar had torn away the coliar of the green gown, was now bared.

“Do you not want my rings, “ she asked, “my golden chains my bracelets?”

“It is only for you that I have come to this place,” he said. He grinned.

I, too, grinned. It was mighty insult to Thorgard of Scagnar. The golden chains, the rings, the bracelets, stripped from her, would be left behind. How could it be made more clear that her captor scorned these as baubles, that he had no need of them, and that it had been the girl herself, and only she, her body and her person, that had been sought and boldly taken.

Ivar Forkbeard then bent to the girl’s feet and pulled away her golden shoes, and, his hands at her legs, she, her eyes closed, ren oved from her, too, her scarlet, silken hose, She stood, her arm held by my hand, in the fetters, in the dress of green velvet, it torn open at the collar to reveal her throat; she had been stripped of her rings, the bracelets, the chains; her hair was loose; her hose and shoes had been removed.

“Are you going to tie my ankles?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“You have no rope to lower me,” she said.

“No,” he said.

She looked at him, puzzled.

“I will bring high ransom,” she said. She looked down at her jewelry on the floor. “I will bring higher ransom,” she said, “if I am adorned.”

“Your adornments,” said he, “will be simple, a kirtle of white wool, a brand, a collar of iron.”

“You are insane!” she hissed. “I am the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar!”

“Wench,” said he, “I did not take you for ransom.”

“For what reason then,” begged she, “have I been taken?”

“Are you so cold, Hilda the Haughty,” asked he, “that you cannot guess?”

“Oh, no!” she hissed. “No! No!”

“You will be well taught to heel and obey,” said he.

“No!” she hissed.

He lifted the orange coverlet, to throw it over her head.

“I ask only one thing,” she begged, “should you be successful in this mad scheme.”

“What is that?” asked Ivar Forkbeard.

“Never, never,” she said, “let me fall into the hands of Ivar Forkbeard!”

“I am Ivar Forkbeard,” said Forkbeard.

Her eyes widened with horror.

He threw the mantle over her head and, with the scarf, turned twice about her neck, and knotted tightly, tied it under her chin.

He had not rendered her unconscious, or gagged her, or tied her ankles. He wanted her to be able to cry out; her cries, of course, would be muffled; they would not be discernible on the height of the fortress; they rnight, however, be heard by Gorm and those in the boat; too, he wanted her to be able to thrash about; this, too, would help Gorm to locate her in the darkness.

The Forkbeard then lifted her from her feet, lightly. He] dress slid back, over her knees. We heard her muffled voice ‘No!” she wept. “I cannot swim!”

The Forkbeard then hurled her from the window and she fell, twisting and crying out, some hundred feet to the black waters below. With the waves, striking on rocks about, we did not hear the splash.

We gave Gorm time to find her and fish her out, throwing her in the boat and bind;ng her ankles. Then the Forkbeard stood on the sill of the tall window, poised, and then he dived into the darkness; after about an Ehn, giving hirn time to surface and swim to the boat, I followed him.

In less than another Ehn, soaked and cold, teeth chattering, I had crawled over the bulwark of the longboat and Joined the Forkbeard. He had already stripped and was rubbing himself with a fur cloak. I followed his example, and soon both of us were warmed and in dry clothes. The Forkbeard then bent to the soaked, shuddering captive. He removed one of the fetters and jerked the girl’s hands behind her back. He then fettered her hands behind her. Her ankles had already been crossed and bound by Gorm. The Forkbeard then threw Hilda the Haughty face down in the longboat, and, fiom Gorm, took the tiller. She lay lengthwise, head toward the stem, between his booted feet.

“Shhh!” said the Forkbeard.

The men rested on the oars. We carried no lights.

We were much surprised. To one of the wharves of the holding of Thorgard of Scagnar, silently, like the serpent of the sea it was, carrying two lanterns at its prow, came Black Sleen. We had thought Thorgard’s roving, his gathering of the harvests of the sea, would have taken him much longer. We saw men running down the boards ofthe wharf, carrying lanterns. Words were exchanged. I looked up. I could see the window of the quarters of Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar. There was a lamp lit still in the room. Apparently she stayed up late. Outside the door of the compartment of her five bond-maids, curled sleeping on the floor, on their straw-filled mats, chained by their ankles, which area led into her own apartment, somnolent and bored, were four guards. Hilda whimpered. The Forkbeard kicked her with his boot. “Be silent,” he said to her. I saw her hands twist futilely in the manacles. She, on her belly, soaked, miserable, lay silent.

“Go closer,” said the Forkbeard. Almost noiselessly oars dipped, bringing us closer to the hull of Black Sleen.

We saw mooring ropes tossed and caught.

The oars were brought inboard. The men were weary. We saw shields, one by one, being tied over the bulwarks.

A gangplank was slid over the gunwale to the wharf. Then we saw Thorgard of Scagnar, cloak swirling, in his horned helmet, descend the gangplank. He was met by his men, and, high among them, by his holding’s keeper, and the keeper of his farms.

He spoke to them shortly and then, in the light of the lanterns, strode down the wharf.

The men did not follow him, nor did his men on the ship yet leave it.

I gasped.

I heard, too, the intake of breath of the Forkbeard, and of Gorm, and the oarsmen.

Another shape emerged from the darkness of the ship.

It moved swiftly, with an agility startling in so huge a bulk. I heard the scrape of claws on the gangplank. It was humped, shaggy.

It followed Thorgard of Scagnar.

After it, then, came his men, timidly, those who had met Thorgard and those, too, from the ship. A wharf crew then busied themselves about the ship.

The Forkbeard looked at me. He was puzzled. “One ofthe Kurii,” he said.

It was true. But the beast we had seen was not an isolated, degenerate, diseased beast, of the sort we had encountered at Forkbeard's Landfall. It had seemed in its full health, swift and powerfill.

“What has such a beast to do with Thorgard of Scagnar?”

“What has Thorgard of Scagnar to do with such a beast?” smiled Ivar Forkbeard.

“I do not understand this,” I said.

“Doubtless it means nothing,” said Ivar Forkbeard. “And at least it is of no concern to us.”

“I shall hope not,” I said.

“I have an appointment with Svein Blue Tooth,” said Ivar Forkbeard. He kicked the captive with the side of his boot. She uttered a small noise, but made no other sound. “The Thing will soon be held,” he said.

I nodded. What he had said was true. “But surely,” I said, “you will not dare, an outlaw, attend the Thing?”

“Perhaps,” said Ivar. “Who knows?” He grinned “Then,” said he, “if I should survive, we will hunt Kurii.”

“I hunt on]y one,” I said.

“Perhaps the one you hunt,” said Ivar, “is even now within the holding of Thorgard of Scagnar.”

“It is possible,” I said. “I do not know.” It seemed to me no~ unlikely that the Forkbeard’s speculation might be true. But I had no wish to pursue Kurii at random.

“How will you know the one ofthe Kurii whom you seek?” Ivar had asked me, in his hall.

“I think,” I had said, “he will know me.”

Of this I had little doubt.

I was certain that the Kur which I sought would know me, and well.

I did not know it, but I did not think that would make much difference.

It was my intention to hunt openly, and, I expected, this understood, my quarTy, hunting, too, would find me, and, together, we would do war.

It had doubtless been its plan to lure me to the north. I smiled. Surely its plan had been successful.

I looked at the holding-of Thorgard of Scagnar. If the Kur within it were he whom I sought, I had little doubt but that we should later meet. If it were not it which I sought, I had, as far as I knew, no quarrel with it.

But I wondered what it might be doing in the holding of Thorgard of Scagnar. The Kurii and men, as far as I knew, met only in feeding and killing.

“Let us go,” said I to Ivar Forkbeard.

“Oars,” said he, softly, to his oarsmen.

The oars, gently, noiselessly, entered the water, and the boat moved aw.~y, into the darkness.

There was a small sound, from the fetters on the prone girl’s wrists.

The Forkbeard will attend the Thing.

“My Jarl!” cried Thyri, running into my arms. I lifted he and swung her about. She wore the k;irtle of white wool, th riveted collar of black iron.

I drank long at the lips of the bond-maid.

About me I heard the joyous cries of the men of Ivar’s farm, the excited cries of bond-maids.

Ivar Forkbeard crushed to his leather Pudding and Gunn hild, kissing first one and then the other, as each eagerl~ sought his lips, their hands, too, those of bond-maids, eage; upon his body.

Other bond-maids pressed past me to greet favorite among the oarsmen of Forkbeard’s serpent.

Behind Forkbeard, and to his left, her head high, disdain ful, stood Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar.

The men, and the bond-maids, many in one another’s arms, fell back to regard her.

She stood behind the Forkbeard, and to his left. Her back was quite straight; her head was in the air. She was nol fettered. Her dress of green velvet, trimmed in gold, she still wore; it was torn back from the collar, as the Forkbeard had done in Scagnar, revealing the whiteness of her throat, hinting at the delights of her bosom; the gown, however, now, was discolored, stained and torn; much of the trip she had been fettered, her belly to the mast; also, on the right side, it was torn to the hip, revealing her thigh, ca1f and ankle; this had happened when, on the voyage, she had been put on the oar; her hose and shoes had been removed in Scagnar. She stood proudly. She was what the Forkbeard had-sought; she was his prize.

“So that,” said Ottar, his hands on his heavy belt, inlaid with gold, “is Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar!”

“Gunnhild is better!” said Pouting Lips.

“Who is Gunnhild?” asked Hilda, coldly.

“I am Gunnhild,” said ~unnhild. She stood proudly on the arrn of the Forkbeard, the white kirtle split to her beliy, the black iron at her throat.

“A bond-maid!” laughed Hilda, contemptuously.

Gunnhild stared at her, in fury.

“Gunnhild;s better!” said Pouting Lips.

“Strip them and see,” said Ottar.

Hilda turned white.

The Forkbeard turned about and, one arm about Pudding, the other about Gunnhild, started from the dock.

Hilda followed him, to his left.

“She heels nicely,” said Ottar. The men and bond-maids laughed. The Forkbeard stopped. Hilda’s face burned red with fury, but she kept her head high.

Pet sleen are taught to heel; so, too, sometimes, are bondmaids; I was familiar with this sort of thing, of course; in the south it was quite common for slave girls, in various fashions in various cities, to heel their masters.

Hiida, of coursej was a free woman. For her to heel was an incredible humiliation.

The Forkbeard started off again, and then again stopped. Again, Hilda followed him as before.

“She is heeling!” laughed Ottar.

There were tears of rage in Hilda’s eyes. What he said, of course, was true. She was heeling. On his ship the Forkbeard had taught her, though a free woman, to heel.

It had not been a pleasant voyage for the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar. She had been, from the beginning, fettered with her belly to the mast. For a filll day, too, the coverlet had been left tied over her head, fastened by the twice-turned, knotted scarf about her neck. On the secon day, it had been thrust up only that the spike of a water bath could be thrust between her teeth, and then replaced; on he third day the coverlet was torn away and, with the scarf thrown overboard; Ivar Forkbeard, on that day, watered her and, with a spoon, fed her a bit of bond-maid gruel.

Starving she had snatched at jt greedily.

“How eagerly you eat the gruel of bond-maids,” he had commented.

Then she had refused to eat more. But, the next day, to his amusement, she reachedl forth her mouth eagerly for the nourishment.

On the fifth day, and thereafter, for her feedings, he would tie her ankles and release her from the mast, her wr1sts then tettered before her, that she might feed herself.

After the fifth day he fed her broths and some meats, that she might have good color.

With the improvement n her diet, as was his expectation, something of her haughtiness and temper returned.

On the eighth day he released her from the mast, that she mlght walk about the ship.

Atter she had walked about, he had said to her, “Are you ready to heel?”

“I am not a pet sleen!” she had cried.

“Put her to the oar,” had said the Forkbeard.

Hilda, clothed, had been roped, hand and foot, and body,on her back, head down, to one of the nineteen-foot oars.

“You cannot do Ihis to me,” she cried.

Then, to her misery, she felt the oar move. “I am a free woman!” she cried.

Then, like any bond-maid, she found herself plunged beneath the cold green surface of Thassa.

The oar lifted.

“I arn the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar!” she cried, spitting water, half blinded.

Then Ihe oar dipped again. When it pulled her next from the water, she was ciearly terrified. She had swallowed water. She had learned what any bond-maid swiftly learns, that one must apply oneself, and be rational, if one will survive on the oar. One must follow its rhythm, and, as soon as th~surface is broken, expel air and take a deep breath. In this fashion a girl may live on the oar.

For a time the Forkbeard watched her, leaning on hi elbows, on the rail, but then he left the rail.

He did, however, have Gorm watch her, with a spear. Twice in the afternoon Gorm struck away sea sleen frorn the girl’s body. Once he thrust away one of the white sharks of the northern waters, The second of the sea sleen it had been which, with its sharp teeth, making a strike, but falling short, had torn away her green velvet gown on the right side from the hip to the hemline; a long strip of it, like a ribbon, was in its teeth as it darted away.

She had not been on the oar for half an Ahn when she had begun to beg her release; a few Ehn later, she had begun to beg to heel the Forkbeard.

But it was not until evening that the oar lifted, and she was released. She was fed hot broths and fettered again tO the mast.

The Forkbeard said nothing to her, but, the next day, when the sun was hot on the deck, and he released her for her exercise, and he waIked about the deck, she, though a free woman, heeled him perfectly. The crew had roared with laughter. I, too, had smiled. Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Ths)rgard o~ Scagn~r, had been taught to heel.

Ivar Forkbeard left the dock, his arm~ about Pudding and Gunnhild, who leaned against him.

Hilda, head high, followed him.

Pouting Lips rall beside her. “Gunnhild is better!” she cried.

Hilda paid her no attention.

“Thick ankles!” said Pretty Ankles.

“She has a rowing bench inside her gown,” said Olga.

“Broad in the beam!” laughed another girl.

Suddenly, in fury, Hilda struck at them. The Forkbeard turned about. “What is going on here?” he asked.

“We were telling her how ugly she is,” said Pouting Lips.

“I am not ugly!” cried Hilda.

“Remove your clothing,” said the Forkbeard.

Her eyes widened with horror. “Never!” she cried. “Never!”

The men and bond-maids about laughed.

“You have taught me to heel,” she said, “Ivar Forkbeard, but you have not taught me to obey!”

“Strip her,” said the Forkbeard to the bond-maids. They leaped eagerly upon Hilda the Haughty.

In moments the proud girl, naked, was held before the Forkbeard. Olga held one arm, Pretty Ankles the other.

“Gunnhild is better,” said Pouting Lips.

It was true. But Hilda the Haughty was a superb piece of female flesh. In almost any market she would surely have drawn a high price.

She struggled, held. She had a fair throat, good shoulders; she was marvelously breasted; her waist was such that one could get his hands on it well; she n~ight have been a bit broad in the beam but I had no objection to this; in the north it is called the love cradle; it was well adapted to cushion the shocks of an oarsman’s pleasure; in the south she would have been said to be sweetly hipped; if the Forkbeard wished to breed her she would bear healthy, strong young to his thralls, enriching his ~arm; her thighs, too, were lovely, and her calves; her ankles, while not thick, as Pretty Ankles had asserted, were heavier than those of Thyri, or Pretty Ankles herse~; Hilda was, of course, a somewhat large~ girl; she was probably some five years oider than Pretty Ankles, and a year or so older than Thyri; Gunnhild was larger than Hilda; she was also, I ex~?ected, about a year or two older. I had no objection to Hilda’s ankles; I found them quite lovely; they would take a common girlf~tter nicely, with about a quarter inch tolerance.

Then Hilda stopped struggling and, held, head high, regarded the Forkbeard.

He examined her with grloat care, as he had his Sa-Tarna, and his animals, when he had inspected his farm.

He got up from his knees, where he had been feeling the firmness of her left calf and ankle.

Then he said to the bond-maids, “Take her to the whipping post.”

The bond-maids, laughing, dragged Hilda to the post, stout, of peeled wood, which stood outside the hall. Ottar then, with a scrap of binding fiber, crossed and rudely bound, before her body, the wrists of the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar; he then, reaching up, fastened her wrists to the heavy iron ring over her head. Her breasts were against the post; she could not place her heels on the ground.

“How dare you place me in this position, Ivar Forkbeard!” she demanded. “I am a free woman!”

“Bring the five-strap slave slash,” said Ivar Forkbeard to Gunnhild.

“Yes, my Jarl,” she said, smiling. She ran to fetch it.

“I am the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar,” said Hilda. “Release me immediately.”

The lash was placed by Gunnhild in the hand of Ivar Forkbeard.

Ottar threw the girl’s hair forward, so that it fell before her shoulders.

“No!” cried Hilda.

The Forkbeard touched her back with the whip; his fist held the handle and, too, beneath his fist, folded back, were the five straps. He tapped her twice.

“No!” she cried. “Please, no!”

We fell back to give the Forkbeard room, and he shook loose the straps and drew back his arm.

The first stroke threw her against the post; I saw the astonishrnent,~n her eyes, then the pain; the daughter of Thorgard seemed stunned; then she howled in misery; it was only then that she realized what the whip might do to a girl. “I will obey you!” she screamed. “I will obey you!” Ivar Forkbeard, experienced in the disciplining of women, did not deliver the second stroke for a full Ehn. In this time, she screamed, over and over, “I will obey you!” Then he struck again. Her body, again, was struck against the post; her hands twisted in the binding fiber; her entire body rubbed on the post, in agony, pressing against it; tears burst from he eyes; she was on her tiptoes, pressing against the post; hes thighs were on either side of the post; but the post did not yield; she was fastened to it. Then he struck again. She writhed, twisting and howling.

“I ask only to obey you!” she cried. “I beg to obey you!”

When he next struck she could only close her eyes in pain. She could then scarcely breathe. She gasped. No longer could she howl or scream. She tensed, teeth gritted, her body itself a silent scream of agony. But the blow did not then fall. Was the beating done. Then she was struck again. The last five blows were de livered with her hanging in the binding fiber, her body against the post, her face to one side of it. She was then released from the post and fell to her hands and knees. The beating had been quite light, only twenty strokes. Yet I did not think it would be soon that the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar would wish to find herself again at the post. The beating had been, though light, quite adequate to its purpose, which was to teach her, a captive, the whip.

No female forgets it.

She looked up at the Forkbeard in misery.

“Bring her clothing,” said the Forkbeard.

It was brought.

“Garb yourself,” said the Forkbeard.

Painfully, almost unable to stand, tears in her eyes, inch by inch, the girl drew on her garments.

She then stood there among us, bent over, tears staining her cheeks. She wore the dress of green velvet trimmed with gold, it torn from the collar, it ripped at the right side.

She looked at him.

“Remove your clothing,” he said.

She stripped herself.

“Gather the clothing,” said the Forkbeard.

She dld so.

“Go now to the kitchen of the hall,” said he. “In the fire there, burn your clothing, completely.”

“Yes, Ivar Forkbeard,” she said.

“Gunnhild will accompany you,” he said. “When you have burned your garments, every bit of them, then beg Gunnhild to set you about your duties.”

“What duties, my Jarl,” asked Gunnhild.

“Tonight we feast,” said Ivar Forkbeard. “The feast must be prepared.”

“She is to help prepare the feast?” asked Gunnhild.

“And serve it,” said the Forkbeard.

“I see, then, the nature of her duties,” said Gunnhild, smiling.

“Yes,” said Ivar Forkbeard. He regarded Hilda. “You will beg Gunnhild to set you about the duties of a bond-maid.”

“Yes,” said she, “Ivar Forkbeard.”

“Hurry now,” laughed he.

Weeping, clutching her clothing, she ran to the hall. The men and bond-maids laughed muchly. I, too, roared with laughter. Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, had been taught to obey.

The shrieking of Pouting Lips, as she yielded to Gorm, supine, kicking in the furs, rang through the low, smoking hall.

I thrust Thyri from my lap, and seized Olga by the wrist, as she hurried past, throwing her across my knees. She, laughing, was fleeing Ottar who, drunkenly, was stumbling after her. I pulled Olga’s face to mine and our lips met, I forcing my kiss to her teeth. Her naked body, collared, suddenly responded to mine, and she reached for me with her hands. “MyJarl!” she whispered. But I thrust her up, holding her by the arms, into the hands of Ottar, who, laughing, tbrew her lightly over his shoulder and turned about. I saw her head and shoulders, and her body, to the waist, over his shoulder, her small fists pounding meaninglessly on his back. He carried her into the darkness and threw her to the furs. “MyJarl,” whimpered Thyri, crouching beside me, touching me. With a laugh, she crying out with pleasure, I took again the young lady of Kassau, the bond-maid, Thyri, in my arms.

Pretty Ankles hurried past, carrying a great trencher of roast meat on her small shoulder.

“Mead!” called Ivar Forkbeard, from across from me.

“Mead!” He held out the great, curved horn, with its rim fillgreed gold.

Pudding and Gunnhild knelt on the bench, snuggli~ against him, one on either side. But they did not run to fet~ his mead. That duty, this night, befell another.

Hilda the Haughty, ~daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, stripped as any bond-maid, from a large bronze vess~ poured mead for the Forkbeard.

The men laughed.

She, though free, poured mead as a bond-maid. The h~ roared with pleasure. Mighty insult had thus been wroug] upon Thorgard of Scagnar, enemy of Ivar Forkbeard. H daughter, stripped, poured mead in the hall of his enemie.

Too, they had taught her to heel and obey. Rich was tl pleasure of Ivar Forkbeard.

He reached out his hand, to touch the daughter of Tho gard of Scagnar.

She shrank back, terrified.

The Forkbeard looked upon her, amused. “Would you n care to play in the furs?” he asked her.

“No,” she said, shuddering.

“Let me play,” whimpered Pudding. “Let me play,” whimpered Gunnhild.

“Do not misunderstand me, Ivar Forkbeard,” whispere Hilda. If you order me to the furs I shall obey you, an swlftly. I will comply with your slightest wish, exactly an promptly. I will do whatever I am told.”

Pudding and Gunnhild laughed.

Ottar stumbled up, putting his hand on one of the post~ By a length of ship’s rope, he had tied Olga to his belt. Sh looked at me; her eyes shone; her lips were parted; she pu out her hand; I paid her no attention; she looked down, fis clenched, and whimpered. I smiled. I would use her befor the night was done.

“It is said,” intoned Ottar, “that Hilda the Haughty daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, is the coldest of women.’

“Do you find men of interest?” asked the Forkbeard c.

“No,” she said. “I do not.”

Ottar laughed.

“Are you not curious,” asked Ivar of the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, “what it would be to feel on your body their hands, their mouths?”

‘sMen are beasts!” she cried.

“Their teeth?” he asked.

“Men are hateful,” she wept. “They are terrible beasts, using girls as their prey!” She looked about at the bondmaids. “Resist them!” she cried. “Resist them!”

Pudding threw back her head and laughed. “Resistance is not permitted,” she laughed.

“Throw her in the furs,” cried Pretty Ankles. “Then she will learn whether she knows what she is telling about or not.

“Throw her in the furs,” cried another bond-maid. “Throw her in the furs,” called yet another.

“Throw her in the furs,” cried the bond-maids.

Hilda shuddered, terrified.

“Silence!” called out Ivar Forkbeard.

There was silence.

“What,” asked Ivar Forkbeard of Hilda, “if I should order you to the furs?”

“I would obey you immediately,” she said. “I have felt the whip,” she explained.

“But of your own free will you would be unlikely to enter upon the furs?” asked Ivar.

“Of course not,” she said.

— Gorm, who had now disentangled himself from Pouting Lips, joined the circle about the table, where we sat, others standing. She was behind him, combing her hair with a comb of horn.

“She is Hilda the Haughty,” laughed Ottar. “She is the coldest of women!”

Hilda stood straight, her head high.

“Ottar, Gorm,” said the Forkbeard. “Take her to the ice shed. Leave her there, bound hand and foot.”

The bond-maids shrieked with pleasure. Men pounded their left shoulders with the palms of their right hand ~ome pounded their plates on the heavy boards of the wooden table.

Ottar delayed only long enough to untie Olga from h belt. He had tied her there by ship’s rope, knotted about h~ stomach. He left the rope about her stomach, but, with i free end, pulling her arms about one of the roof posts, tie her hands together.

He then left, following Gorm, who had dragged Hild from the hall.

She tried futilely to free herself. She looked at me, agc nized. “Untie me,” she begged.

I looked at her.

“My body wants you, Tarl Red Hair,” she wept. “My body needs you!”

I looked away from her, paying her no more attention. I heard her moan, and rub her body on the post.

“I need you Tarl Red Hair,” she whimpered.

I would let her smolder for another Ahn or two. By thal time her body would be ready. To my slightest touch it would leap, helpless, squirming, in my arms. I would use her twice, the second time in the lengthy use of the Gorean master, that use in which, over an Ahn, the female slave or bond-maid is shown no mercy.

“Mead!” I called. Pretty Ankles rushed to serve me. I again bent to kiss the lips of Thyri.

Late and fully were we feasting when the thrall-boy, tugging on the sleeve of Ivar Forkbeard, said to him, “MyJarl, the wench in the ice shed begs to be freed.”

“How long has she begged?” asked the Forkbeard.

“For more than two Ahn,” said the boy, grinning. He was male.

“Good boy,” said the Forkbeard, and tore him a piece of neat.

“Thank you, my Jarl,” said the boy. The boy, unlike the adult male thralls, was not chained at night in the bosk shed Ivar was fond of him. He slept, chained, in the kitchen.

“Red Hair, Gorrn,” said the Forkbeard. “Fetch the little Ubara of Scagnar.”

We smiled.

“Gorm,” said the Forkbeard. “Before she is freed, see that her thirst is assuaged.”

“Yes, Captain,” said Gorm.

We carried a torch to the ice shed. We opened the heavy door, lined with leather, and lifted the torch, closing the door behind us.

In the light of the torch we saw Hilda. We approached more closely.

She lay on her side, in misery, across great blocks of ice; she could lift her head and shoulders no more than six inches from the ice; she could draw her ankles toward her body no more than six inches; small chips of wood, in which the ice is packed, clung about her body; she was bound, hand and foot, her wrists behind her, her ankles crossed and tied. Two ropes prohibited her from struggling to either a sitting or kneeling position, one running from her right ankle across the ice to a ring in the side of the shed, the other runnin,~ from her throat across the ice to a similar ring on the other side of the shed.

“Please,” she wept.

Her teeth chattered; her lips were blue.

She lay before us, on her back.

“Please,” she wept, piteously, “I beg to be permitted to run to the furs of Ivar Forkbeard.”

We looked down on her. “I beg!” she cried. “I beg to be permitted to run to his furs!”

Gorm unbound the rope from her ankle, that which hadheld her legs straight, and that on her throat, which had prevented her from lifting her shoulders and head.

He did not unbind her wrists and ankles. He lifted her to a sitting position. She trembled with cold, whimpering. “I have brought you a drink,” he said. ‘Drink it eagerly, Hilda the Haughty.”

“Yes, yes!” she whispered, her teeth chattering.

Then, holding her head back, and lifting the cup to her mouth, he gave her of the drink he had brought with him.

And eagerly, whimpering, shuddering with cold, did Hilda tke Haughty drink down the slave wine.

Gorm unbound her and threw her over his shoulder; so stiff and trembling with cold, and stiff from the ropes, was she that she could not stand.

I put my hand on her body; it was like ice. She was whimpering with cold, her head hanging down, over Gorm’s back; her long hair fell to the back of his knees.

I lit the way with the torch, and we took her to the hall of the Forkbeard.

We carried her through the darkness and smoke of the hall, between the posts.

The Forkbeard was sitting on the end of his couch, his boots on the fioor.

Gorm threw her, on her knees, at the feet of the Forkbeard. Her head was down; her hair was over his boots. She trembled with cold.

Men and bond-maids gathered about.

The left side of her body was illuminated dully, redly, from the coals of the fire pit. The right side of her body was in darkness.

“Who are you?” demanded the Forkbeard.

“Hilda,” she wept, “daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar.”

“Hilda the Haughty?” he asked.

“Yes,” she wept, head down, “Hilda the Haughty.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“To share your furs,” she wept.

“Are you not a free woman?” he asked.

“I beg to share your furs, Ivar Forkbeard,” she wept.

He rose to his feet and shoved back a long table, and a bench, on the other side of the fire pit. With his heel he drew in the dirt of the floor a bond-maid circle.

She looked at him.

Then he gestured that she might enter his couch. Gratefully, she crawled upon the couch, his section of that furcovered, dirt sleeping level, and, trembling, shuddering with cold, drawing her body up, drew the furs about her. She lay huddled in the furs. Her body shook beneath them. We heard her moan.

“Mead!” called Ivar Forkbeard, returning to the table. Pudding was first to reach him, with a horn of mead.

“Please come to my side, Ivar Forkbeard!” wept Hilda. “I freeze! Hold me! Please hold me!”

“Let that be a lesson in passion to you other bond-maids,” laughed Ottar.

There was much laughter, and most from the beautiful, nude slaves of the men of TorvaldsIand, hot, collared, and eager in their brawny arms.

The Forkbeard, laughing, drained the horn. “Mead!” he cried. Gunnhild served him.

After this second horn of mead the Forkbeard, wiping his mouth with his arm, turned about and went to his furs.

He howled with misery.

“She is the coldest of women!” laughed Ottar.

“Hold me, Forkbeard!” she wept. “Hold me please!”

“Will you serve me well?” asked the Forkbeard.

“Yes,” she cried. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

But the Forkbeard did not make her serve him then but, firmIy, held her body, locked in his arms, that of his prisoner, to his, warming her. After half of an Ahn I saw her, delicately, eyes frightened, lift her head and put her lips to his shoulder; softly, timidly, she kissed him; and then looked into his eyes. Suddenly she was flung on her back and his huge hand, roughened from the hilt of the sword, the handle of the ax, was at her body. “Oh no!” she cried. “No!”

Bets were made at the table. I bet on Ivar Forkbeard. Within an Ahn, Hilda the Haughty, to the jeers of men, the taunts of bond-maids, on her hands and knees, head down, hair falling forward, crept to the circle of the bond-maid, which Ivar Forkbeard had drawn in the dirt of the hall floor between the posts. The coals of the fire pit illuminated the left side of her body. She crawled before the bond-maids the oarsmen. She entered the circle, and then, within the circle, stood up. She stood very straight, and her head was up. “I am yours, Ivar Forkbeard,” she said. “I am yours!”

He gestured to her, and she fled from the circle, to join him, to throw herself at his side, to beg his touch, his bondmaid.

I collected nine tarn disks and two pieces of broken plate, plundered two years ago from a house on the eastern edge of Skjern.

Gunnhild had been given by the Forkbeard to Gorm for the night. I saw him holding her by the arm and pushing her ahead of him to his furs. This night her ankle wouId be held by his fetter, — not that of the Forkbeard. The Forkbeard had offered me Pudding, but, generously, thinking to have Thyri, I had, after using her once, given her for the night to Ottar. Even now she was, kneeling on his furs, being fettered by the keeper of Ivar Forkbeard’s farm. You can imagine my irritation when I saw Thyri led past me, her left wrist in the grip of an oarsman. She looked over her shoulder at me, agonized. I blew her a kiss in the Gorean fashion, kissing and gesturing, my fingers at the right side of my mouth, almost vertical, then, with the kiss, brushing gently toward her. I had no special claim on-the pretty little bond-maid, no more than any other among t~he Forkbeard’s men. The delicious little thing, like the other goods of the hall, was, for most practical purposes, for the use of us all. I heard the movements of chain, the moans of the bondmaids in the arms of their masters, men of-Torvaldsland.

I thought I would sleep alone this night.

“Tarl Red Hair,” I heard.

I followed the sound of the voice and, to my delight, as Ottar had left her, she slipping his mind apparently, as she had mine, her hands still tied before her, about the post, kneeling in the dirt, was Olga.

“I hate you, Tarl Red Hair,” she said.

I knelt beside her. I had intended to permit her to smolder for a time, she much aroused, and then later, when she had been much heated with need and desire, when, cruelly deprived, she had been aching to break into flame, throw her to my furs, but, unfortunately, I had forgotten about her.

“I forgot about you,” I told her.

“I hate you, Tarl Red Hair,” she said.

I reached out to touch her. She shrank back in fury.

“Would you please untie me?” she asked.

I did not wish to sleep alone. I wondered if the fires in Olga which, earlier, had burned so deeply, so hotly, could be truly out. I wondered if they might be rekindled.

I slipped, kneeling, behind her. I heard her body move against the post.

I pushed her collar up, under her chin, and, with two fingers of my right hand and two fingers of my left, rubhed the sides of her throat.

“Please untie me,” she whispered.

Her hands writhed in the bonds; her body pressed against the post; her left cheek was at the right side of the post~.

My hands lowered themselves on her body. And then, her hands tied about the post, we both kneelingg I caressed her. She tried to resist, in fury, but I was patient. At last I heard her sob. “You are master,” she said, “Tarl Red Hair.” I kissed her on the back of the right shoulder. She put back her head. “Take me to your filrs?” she begged. I untied her hands from the post, taking, too, the rope from her b~lly, by which Ottar had fastened her to his belt, but lett the rope on her right wrist, its free end in my hand, to lead her. But I needed not lead her. She followed eagerly, trying to press her lips to my left shoulder.

Before my sleeping area, my rude couch, my furs, I stopped. I stood behind her.

She stood very still, facing the couch, at its foot. She was a bond-maid. She was property. She was owned. “Force me,” she whispered. Bond-maids know they are chattel, and relish being treated as such. Deep in the belly, too, of every female is a desire, more ancient than the caves, to be forced to yield to the ruthless domination of a magnificent, uncompromising male, a master; deep within them they all wish to submit, vulnerably and completely. nude, to such a beast. This is completely clear in their fantasies; Earth culture, of course, gives little scope to these blood needs of the beauties of our race; accordingly, these needs, frustrated, tend to express themselves in neurosis, hysteria and hostility. Technology and social structures, following their own dynamics, integral to their development and expansion, have left behind the pitiful, rational animals who are their builders and their victims. We have built our own cage, and demind it against those who would shatter its locks.

My lett hand held her left arm, with my right hand I forced her right wrist behind her back; I thrust it up. she cried out, suddenly, with misery; I threw her to the furs; scarcf ly had she struck them, crying out, belly down, than I had clasped the tetter of black iron about her ankle; chained, she turned to face me, sitting on the furs, tears in her eyes, her hands back, her legs flexed. I discarded the leather and tur of Torvaldsland. With a movement of the chain she knelr on the turs, her head down. I entered upon the furs. “To your belly,” I said, “ankles a foot apart.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” she said. I then began to caress her, beneath the hins, on the inside of her feet, behind the backs of her knees at the sides of her breasts, high between her thighs. By the densility of her muscles, the movements of her body, sometin es her tiny cries, her breathing, she instructed me in her weakness, which I, as a warrior, might then exploit. When I was satisfied, I threw her to her back.

“I am told,” I told her, “that Olga is one of the best of the bond-maids.”

She lifted her body to me, begging for my touch. I fondled the extent of her, kissing and licking.

“What have you done to my body?” she whispered. “I have never felt this way, this deeply, this fully, before.”

“What does your body tell you?”, I asked.

“That I will be a marvel to you, Tarl Red Hair,” she whispered. “A marvel!”

“Please me,” I told her.

“Yes, my Jarl,” she wept. “Yes!”

And when she had much pleased me, I finished with her, in the lirs taking.

“Hold me,” she wept.

“I shall hold you,” I told her, “and then, in a time, bond-maid, you will be again used.”

She looLed at me, startled.

“This,” I told her, “is the first taking. It’s purpose is only to warm you for the second.”

She clutched me, not speaking.

I held her, tightly.

“Can I endure such pleasure?” she asked, frightened.

“You are bond,” I told her. “You will have no choice.”

“I~Iy Jarl,” she asked, frightened, “is it the second taking of the Gorean master, to which you intend to subject me?”

“Yes,” I told her.

“I have heard of it,” she wept. “In it,” she gasped, “the girl is permitted no quarter, no mercy!”

“That is true,” I told her.

We lay together, silently, I holding her, she against me, chained, for something like half of an Ahn. Then I touched.

“She lifted her head. “Is it beginning?” she asked.

“Yes,” I told her.

“~lay a bond-maid beg one favor of her Jarl?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

She leaned over me. I felt her hair brush my body. “Be merciless,” she whispered. “Be merciless,” she begged.

“That is my intention,” I told her, and threw her to he.

“Never have I yielded as I yielded now,” she wept, “ would not exchange my collar for all the jewels on Gor!”

I held her. In time, she slept. I, too, then, slept. It was two Ahn before dawn. In one Ahn Ottar and the Forkbeard would be up, arousing the men. The serpent, the afte noon before, had been readied. This morning, at dawn the serpent would leave the small wharf, dipping oars, gliding through fog on the inlet, the result of the cooler la winds moving over the somewhat warmer water ol the croaching Torvaldstream. Ivar Forkbeard, not wisely perhaps, was determined to attend the Thing. He had there, his opinion, an appointment to keep, with Svein Blue Toot a great Jarl of Torvaldsland, who had outlawed him.