Swordsmen of Gor

Chapter Seven WE REACH A RESERVE; THE SIGNS VANISH; WE WILL WAIT

After an Ahn we came to the edge of a deep ditch, some twelve feet or so deep, and as wide. It extended for some hundreds of yards to the left and right. We could not see the corners, where it would turn and begin to enclose a large rectangle of ground.

It was a relief to have come through the tangles of our earlier passage. We had been moving largely eastward.

I stood at the edge of the ditch.

“Do not move closer,” I told Constantina and Cecily. “There is a drop here.”

I thought the reserve, what I could see of it, was awesomely impressive.

“Have you been here before?” I asked Pertinax.

“No,” he said.

“The signs continue,” I observed.

A wand was nearby, across the ditch and to the left. A ribbon dangled from it. I could see another wand or two, beyond it, to its left, along the ditch, and another to my right, perhaps a hundred yards away. I supposed such wands and ribbons, at intervals, lined the edges of the ditch.

“This is clearly a reserve,” I said.

“Clearly,” he agreed.

“It may be one of Port Kar,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“The ribbons will tell,” I said. They were green. That suggested Port Kar. Thassa, the sea, is generally green. Indeed, pirates commonly painted their ships green, to make them less discernible at sea, certainly while under oars, with the masts lowered. Colors in the Gorean high cultures, as in most cultures, have their connotations or symbolisms. Too, in the Gorean high culture, certain colors tend to be associated with certain castes, for example green with the Physicians, red, or scarlet, with the Warriors, yellow with the Builders, blue with the Scribes, white with the Initiates, and so on.

“This is very impressive,” I said. “I think I shall unhood Cecily for a moment. You may unhood your slave, too, briefly, if you wish.”

“How beautiful it is!” said Cecily.

“Unhood me!” demanded the Lady Constantina.

“Apparently,” I said to Pertinax, “your slave wishes one or more additional, corrective strokes of the switch.”

“No!” said the Lady Constantina.

She started to move awkwardly, turning about, pulling at her bound wrists, apprehensive, frightened, bewildered and helpless in the hood.

Was I behind her, again, with a switch?

“Be careful,” I said to her. “There is a drop.”

She stood very still then, whimpering.

“Hold still,” said Pertinax. “I will unhood you.”

“Wait,” I said to Pertinax. “I heard no suitable request.”

Constantina straightened her body, angrily. “Please,” she said, to Pertinax, in a voice venomous with irony, “unhood me,” adding, “— Master,” in a tone of voice which was more than anything else an insult.

“Of course,” he said, fumbling with the strings at her neck.

She would not have addressed me, I was sure, as she did Pertinax. Her contempt for him was in no way disguised. But then he was, of course, her employee, so to speak.

I was angry but would not interfere. She was, after all, a free woman. A slave who had spoken so to a Gorean master would have been instantly subjected to discipline, would have been instantly punished, and grievously, if not slain. She would never again dare to so address her master. In moments, sobbing, she would be at his feet, begging forgiveness. The slave addresses her master, and all free persons, with deference. She is a slave. She does not wish to die.

“It is beautiful,” I said, agreeing with Cecily.

“The prospect is not unpleasant,” said Constantina, freed of the hood.

The hair of both girls was damp, from the hood.

We stood before a reserve.

The trees were spaced, yards apart, and were lofty. There was a solemnity about the vista, as with colonnades stretching into far shadows, a world of living columns, with capitals of shimmering foliage.

They were Tur trees.

These are used mostly for strakes, keels, beams, and planking.

Needle trees, of which there were none here, are usually used for masts. They are a softer wood, and, less rigid, more flexible, are more inclined to bend with the wind and the yard, and so, under certain conditions, violent conditions, less likely to snap. Too, the wood is lighter and this is useful in the raising and lowering of masts. The yards, too, as would be supposed, are commonly of needle wood. Needle trees, too, come to maturity more rapidly than Tur trees, and may thus be the sooner and the more frequently harvested.

“Rehood your slave,” I said to Pertinax.

I was attending to this chore with Cecily.

Constantina jerked angrily, futilely, at her bound wrists and cast Pertinax a look of fury, which seemed to dare him to comply with my instruction.

“Now,” I said to Pertinax.

“Do you think it is necessary?” he asked.

“Do it,” I said.

“Very well,” he said.

Constantina’s angry features disappeared within the folds of the hood.

“Oh!” she said.

Pertinax had jerked the strings on the hood against the back of her neck, and had then knotted them snugly under her chin. She then knew herself nicely hooded. I think Pertinax enjoyed that. I thought there might be a man in him, somewhere. Indeed, I suspected he might now be ready to learn how to handle a slave leash, and I supposed that he would not be displeased to have Constantina on such a leash, a slave leash. Too, to get the girls across the ditch, it would help not to have them on a common leash.

So I cut the leash at the center, so that we had, in effect, two leashes. I then put Cecily over my shoulder, her head to the rear, as a slave is carried.

I was pleased to see Pertinax draw Constantina to him, on the leash.

I think she was surprised.

Perhaps she thought it was I.

When a girl is hooded it is hard for her to know who has her leash.

For example, a girl might be taken out, hooded, leashed, by one fellow, and, later, certain arrangements having previously taken place, arrangements unknown to her, she may, when she is knelt and unhooded, find herself, on her leash, looking up into the eyes of a stranger.

She has been sold.

To be sure, I supposed that Pertinax might at present be still somewhat diffident about leash-mastering a female.

Doubtless there was still much of Earth in him.

He could learn, of course.

I supposed a woman could usually tell, even in a hood, from the way the leash was used, whether or not she was in the custody of one accustomed to the leashing and handling of a woman.

When a woman is put through slave paces she is not unoften on a leash. Sometimes masters have contests with their girls in such a fashion. The winning girl often receives a sweet, the loser, often, two or three strokes of the switch, to encourage her to do better next time.

It is not unusual to leash a slave, for tethering her, for taking her on a walk, and such.

Slaves, on the leashes of their masters, are a common sight in the high cities, in the streets, on the bridges, and so on.

On a leash, a slave is nicely displayed.

“The signs continue,” I said. “We will enter the reserve.”

Pertinax made ready to lift Constantina in his arms.

“Do you think she is a free woman?” I inquired.

He looked at me, puzzled.

“See how I carry Cecily,” I said.

She was over my left shoulder, her head to the rear.

A slave is not likely to be accorded the dignities appropriate to a free woman. The free woman is to be carried, if carried at all, gently, respectfully, nestled in one’s arms. For example, one may not wish her to risk soiling the hem of her rich robes, or the brocade of her slippers. Sometimes a free woman will wait, before, say, a rivulet or puddle, even a small one, to be carried to safety by some lucky fellow. The manner of carrying the slave is usually quite different. She is carried as property, as though she might be no more than produce, and her head is to the rear so that, even were she not hooded, she cannot see where she is being carried. That is for the master to know, for the slave to learn. And so, in this way, even in such a small way, even in such a trivial way, we discover yet another way in which a distinction may be drawn between the slave and the free woman. In the manner of small fordings and such the slave will usually wade after the master, the water perhaps to her knees. Free women, of course, may own female slaves, whom they often treat with great cruelty. For example, if a female slave, owned by a free woman, dares to look at a male, she may be whipped. And it is not unusual, in these small fordings, and such, of which we spoke, for the free woman to put her slave into the mire, and use her body as a bridge, in this way protecting her garments and the daintiness of her feet and ankles.

In a moment then Pertinax had scooped up the Lady Constantina and had her over his shoulder, her head to the rear.

In this position even an unbound free woman is helpless.

I had seen more than one so carried, captured in war. She can do little but scream and pound her small fists futilely on a fellow’s back, squirm, kick her legs, and such.

I then, with some difficulty, descended into the ditch, and, then, on the other side, slowly, step by carefully placed step, made my way to the level. I was followed, momentarily, by Pertinax. Some dirt slipped, but he was then at my side. The declivity, though deep, was not steep. The ditch was not intended for defense. It was primarily a boundary, but it did, too, discourage the entry of animals into the reserve.

We put the girls on their feet, safely away from the edge of the ditch, into which they might have had a nasty tumble.

“There is the next sign,” said Pertinax, pointing.

“Yes,” I said.

I went to the nearest wand, and held up the green ribbon, which was dangling from it. I held it in two hands. As I had supposed, there was printing on the ribbon.

“Can you read this?” I asked Pertinax.

“Not well,” he said. “What does it say?”

“It is a simple legend,” I said. “It says ‘These are the trees of Port Kar.’”

“This is the reserve of Port Kar then,” he said.

“One of them,” I said. “These seem to be Tur trees, all Tur trees.”

I went to one of the trees a few yards back and to the left. It was tagged. It wore the badge of Port Kar.

“This beauty,” I said, looking upward, “has been marked. It is selected, marked for the arsenal, for the yard of Cleomenes.” I supposed it would be harvested in the fall, when it would have finished its season’s growth. The time of year, now, as nearly as I could tell, from the vegetation, was late summer. I hoped our business in the area could be finished before the onset of winter. Winters can be quite bitter in the northern forests. The yard of Cleomenes was one of the yards under the aegis of the arsenal of Port Kar, of which yards there were several.

I looked ahead, and some yards to the right, deeper into the reserve, where another sign, in its yellow, indicated our route.

“Let us continue our journey,” I said.

Pertinax offered me Constantina’s leash.

“Lead your own slave,” I said.

I moved ahead, with Cecily.

I heard Constantina gasp, as she was jerked forward.

We had been entered into the reserve now for perhaps the better part of an Ahn when the signs we had been following assiduously could no longer be detected.

I examined the last sign, the one beyond which we noted no other sign. It was clear, and, as yet, showed no sign of fading. It seemed unlikely then that the next sign, if there had been one, would have become undetectable.

“I think this is the last of the signs,” I said.

“No!” said Pertinax, alarmed.

“They seem not to continue,” I said.

“They must!” insisted Pertinax.

We looked about. Each sign had been reasonably obvious from the vantage point of the preceding sign. This pattern, however, clearly, no longer held.

“I do not understand,” said Pertinax, obviously concerned.

“What is wrong!” demanded Constantina.

“Was your slave given permission to speak?” I asked.

“She has a standing permission to speak,” said Pertinax, uneasily.

“Surely not when hooded,” I said.

“Oh?” said Pertinax.

“No,” I said.

“May I speak?” said Constantina, quickly.

Pertinax looked at me, and I nodded.

“Yes,” he said.

“Something is wrong!” she said. “What is going on? What is wrong?”

I smiled.

Women are so much at one’s mercy, so helpless, when bound, and hooded.

I went behind her and took her by the upper arms and held her. “Nothing is wrong,” I told her. “And, besides, curiosity is not becoming in a kajira.”

“Something is wrong, is it not?” asked Pertinax.

“I do not think so,” I said.

“What are we to do?” he asked.

“Wait,” I said.

“We have long trekked,” he said. “It will soon be dark.”

“We have some food, a bota of water,” I said.

“It is dangerous here,” he said. “There may be animals.”

“That is possible,” I said, “but I do not think there is much to fear in the reserve. The oddity of the ditch discourages the entrance of animals, and, as there is little grazing here, there would be few herbivores, and there being few herbivores, there will be few carnivores. Too, the human is unfamiliar prey to most carnivores, the panther, the sleen, the larl, and such. They will certainly attack humans, and humans are surely within their prey range, but, given a choice, they will usually choose prey to which they are accustomed, wild tarsk, wild verr, tabuk, and such.”

“There are no larls this far north,” said Pertinax.

“Yesterday, on the beach,” I said, “I heard one.”

Pertinax paled.

“We are probably too far north for panthers,” I said. “One is more likely to encounter them in the forests to the south.”

“Good,” said Pertinax.

“Unless, of course, some range this far north, but that is unusual. There should, however, be sleen about.”

I recalled one had been in the vicinity of Pertinax’s hut, when Constantina, who had annoyed me, had been put outside, gagged and bound, hands tied behind her, feet crossed, pulled up, and fastened closely to her hands, on the leaves.

It is an unpleasant tie.

I hoped she had found it instructive.

The common sleen burrows, and would have its den below the frost line. To be sure it is an adaptive, successful life form. In the vicinity of the Red Hunters, there are snow sleen. In certain waters, there are sea sleen, and so on.

“I wish I had a rifle,” said Pertinax.

“It is better that you do not,” I said. “If you possessed such a weapon, you would be in violation of the weapon laws of Priest-Kings, and liable to the flame death.”

“Surely there would be an inquiry, a trial, or such,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“At least you have a sword, a knife,” he said.

“Such tools would be of little help against large predators,” I said. “A spear would be better, or, if one had time, time for several arrows, the great bow.”

“I do not like this,” said Pertinax.

“Nor I,” I said. “Let us unhood the slaves. They know they are in the reserve. Thus, no security will be compromised.”

Both girls were then freed of their hoods.

I then sat them down, facing one another. We left the leashes on their necks.

“What are you doing?” asked Pertinax.

“I am tying their ankles together,” I said. “Now let us eat. We can feed them later.”

After Pertinax and I had fed, I went to Cecily, and knelt down, and she leaned forward, her hands tied behind her. I had some bread for her. She looked at me. I extended my hand. She kissed it, and licked it, the hand of her master. I then, bit by bit, fed her by hand, and then, when I thought she had had enough, I gave her of the bota. I then stood up, my shapely beast having been fed and watered.

“What of me?” demanded Constantina.

“What is done with you is up to your master,” I said. “Surely you know that, slave.”

“Untie me,” she said to Pertinax.

“Do not,” I said.

“I am hungry!” she said.

“Then you will take food from your master’s hand,” I said.

“Never!” she said.

“Then you will go hungry,” I said.

She tried to rise, but, as her feet, crossed, were bound to those of Cecily, crossed, she fell, and heavily, to her side. She struggled again, then, to her seated position. She realized then she could not rise.

Constantina cast me a look of fury, but, I fear, it was a mild thing compared to that with which she regaled Pertinax, who looked hastily away.

It was then an Ahn later.

Night, by then, was well fallen.

“I am hungry,” said Constantina. “Please feed me.”

“Are you ready to take food from your master’s hand?” I asked.

“Yes!” she said, angrily.

Pertinax, obligingly, approached her, and knelt down beside her.

“Not yet,” I told him. “You may beg to be fed,” I informed Constantina.

“I beg to be fed,” she said.

“Have you not forgotten something?” I asked.

“— Master,” she said.

Pertinax leaned forward.

“Not yet,” I told him. Then I addressed myself to the Lady Constantina. “You should be grateful that your master consents to feed you,” I told her.

She looked at me, angrily.

“Extend your hand to your slave,” I said to Pertinax. “Good,” I said, as he had done so. “Now,” I said to the Lady Constantina, “lick, and kiss, his hand, softly, tenderly, gratefully.”

“Ai!” said Pertinax.

I gathered that the Lady Constantina must, indeed, be very hungry.

“You may now feed the slave,” I informed Pertinax.

I thought this little exercise would do the proud Lady Constantina a world of good.

Certainly, now, she would better understand, even as a free woman, how she was in the power of men, should men choose to exercise their power.

Later, we separated the slaves, and tied the leash of each about a tree. We left their hands bound, but we untied their ankles.

I looked down at the Lady Constantina.

She lay on her side, looking up at me.

I glanced at her legs, and then I asked her, “Have you had slave wine?”

“What is slave wine?” she asked.

“It prevents conception,” I said. “Slaves are not to breed randomly. Their crossings are to be decided by masters.”

“I have not had slave wine!” she said.

“A pity,” I said.

“But I have had what I was told,” she said, “was the wine of ‘the noble free woman’.”

“Strange,” I said, “as you are a slave.”

“You know I am not a slave!” she whispered.

“Ah, yes,” I said, “sometimes, when I look at your legs, I forget.”

“Beast!” she hissed.

“As you have had ‘the wine of the noble free woman,’” I said, “it does not much matter. The substances, save in the pleasantness of their imbibings, are equivalent. Indeed, both have as their active ingredient sip root.”

“Do not touch me!” she said.

“I have no intention of doing so,” I said.

“I am a virgin!” she said.

“That surprises me,” I said.

“Why do you smile?” she asked.

“It is nothing,” I said. In some markets virgins sold well. That always seemed to me a bit strange. In any event, virgin slaves were rare.

“You think I am not attractive?” she asked.

“As a free woman of Earth,” I said, “I would think you are quite attractive.”

“I am!” she said.

“You are vain?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” she said, “but legitimately so. My beauty is obvious. It is a matter of fact.”

“I see,” I said.

“I am beautiful,” she said. “I am extremely beautiful!”

“For a free woman of Earth,” I said. “But you have not yet even been opened.”

“‘Opened’?” she said.

“For the pleasures of men,” I said.

“I see,” she said, icily.

“But more importantly,” I said, “you have not yet been awakened, softened, and sensitized. Your body is not yet a sheet of awareness. Are you even aware of the feel, the exact feel, consider it now, of the straps on your wrists?”

She shuddered.

“There are horizons, and vistas, of your sex,” I said, “sensations, feelings, hopes, apprehensions, awarenesses, fears, anticipations, yearnings, longings, of which you are totally unaware. You have not yet begun to learn yourself. You are still a stranger to nature, to yourself, and the world. You do not yet know who you are, or what you are.”

“I know very well who I am, and what I am,” she said.

“No,” I said. “It is only in the collar that women learn themselves. It is only in the collar that the flower of their sex opens, one by one, its vulnerable petals. It is only in the collar that a woman comes to her true happiness, and true beauty.”

“Kneeling before a man,” she said, angrily, “her lips pressed to his feet!”

“Certainly,” I said. “Can you not conceive of yourself so?”

“Yes,” she said, “in terror of my life.”

“Yes,” I said, “it often begins so.”

“Leave me,” she said.

“What do you think of Pertinax?” I asked.

“He is a despicable weakling,” she said.

I then left her, as she had requested. A Gorean male, commonly, complies with the wishes of a free woman.

They are, after all, free.

I turned about, and went to Pertinax. “Take the first watch,” I said.

I then went and lay down near Cecily.

“Master,” she whispered.

“Yes?” I said.

“My needs are much on me,” she said. “Caress me, please.”

“No,” I said.

The satisfaction of the slave’s needs is up to the master. Occasionally one frustrates them. It helps them to keep in mind that they are slaves. On the other hand, the sex lives of slaves are a thousand times richer and deeper than those of a free woman, if the free woman, with her hauteur and grandeur, has anything worth considering a sex life. There is no comparison with that of a free woman. The sexual experiences of slaves, as opposed to those of free women, are lavish, vital, frequent, and prolonged. The sexual experiences of the free woman are usually brief and disappointing. The life of the slave, on the other hand, is essentially a sexual life; sexuality irradiates her entire existence; it does not begin and end with a caress; in the collar she knows she is essentially a sexual creature, a slave, at the master’s bidding, and this knowledge imbues her entire life with an erotic glow, a permeating ambience. For the slave, polishing a master’s boots, tying his sandals, presenting him with food, greeting him at the door, kneeling, and such, are sexual experiences. Normally, of course, the slave’s petitions for attention will be entertained, and usually acceded to, and readily. This should be easy to understand. It is, naturally, usually quite pleasant to assuage the slave’s needs, as anyone who has done so knows. Having a slave at one’s mercy and forcing her through the throes, she perhaps jerking at her chains, of a succession of belly-wrenching, belly-rocking orgasms, is gratifying. Who does not want a naked slave, in her collar, sobbing, and bucking and squirming, and begging for more? Also, one usually has, if not a duty to content the slave, for nothing is owed to the slave, an inclination to do so. Surely this is easy to understand. She is so needful, and beautiful! Too, have not men been responsible for the tormenting acuity of those very needs which so distress her? Has it not been men who have seen to it, with an almost cruel intent, that slave fires will rage in her lovely belly? Should not those who have set such tinder alight satisfy the very needs they have done so much to ignite and intensify?

Cecily moaned, softly.

“Be silent,” I said to her, softly.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.”

In several Ahn I knew she would be even more needful and desperate. One of the controls a master has over a slave, as the control of her food, her clothing, and whether or not she is to be permitted clothing, and such, is the control he exercises over her in virtue of her sexual needs. Slave fires, even when extinguished by the mercy of the master, will soon rekindle.

Any woman in whose belly slave fires burn knows herself slave.

Such fires will put her at the mercy of even a hated master.

“Master,” said Cecily.

“Yes?” I said.

“The signs have vanished,” she said. “Why do we linger in the reserve?”

“Because the signs have vanished,” I said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“We will be met,” I said. “We will have a guide.”

“And signs are not to be risked?” she said.

“Not beyond this point, I gather,” I said.

“I see,” she said.