Swordsmen of Gor Read online

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “But I was not brought to the Prison Moon by him, or by one such as he,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “But do not be distressed, for he assured you that you would have been well worthy of selection and transportation, that you were exactly the sort of goods which would have been well enclosed, so to speak, in one of the capsules.”

  I had found myself, months ago, imprisoned in a container on the Prison Moon, sharing the container with two individuals, a young Englishwoman, Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym, and a lovely Kur Pet, who had later come to be the Lady Bina. These were both free women and I, who had seemingly displeased Priest-Kings had been, apparently, enclosed with them as an insidious punishment, that, sooner or later, as I weakened, becoming more bitter, frustrated, outraged, and needful, my honor would be compromised, or lost. And, after that, I do not know what fate they might have planned for me, perhaps a hideous death, perhaps a wandering life of exile, beggary, and shame. One does not know. Both were, at the time, though without Home Stones, yet free women, you see, and thus, given the nobility of their status, not to be lightly put to one’s pleasure, certainly not without suitable provocation. It is difficult to convey the dignity, importance, and social standing of the Gorean free woman to one with no first-hand awareness of the matter. They have a position and elevation in society which far transcends that of, say, the free woman of Earth who is usually not so much free as merely not yet enslaved. The analogy is imperfect but suppose a society of rigid status, of severe hierarchy, and the rank and dignity that might be attached to the daughter of, say, a royal or noble house. One in such a society would not be likely to think of bedding such an individual, at least as a serious project. To be sure, a Goth, a Turk, a Saracen, a Dane might have fewer inhibitions in such a matter.

  Kurii had raided the Prison Moon, freed me, and brought me to what was then the Steel World of Agamemnon.

  But this event and various ensuing events, as I understand it, have been elsewhere chronicled.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Ramar,” I said, “must be freed.”

  “Is that wise?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” I said. “But it was for this reason that I had him brought to Gor.”

  I had first seen Ramar in an arena on the Steel World, a milieu in which his ferocity, might, and cunning, in virtue of dozens of bloody victories, were renowned. Bred for dark sports, trained to hunt and kill, he was a prize of his breed, a champion of his kind. Later, in the insurrection, he, and other sleen, as Agamemnon grew more desperate, uncertain, and frightened, had been freed, that they might hunt down, destroy, and devour his foes, in particular ill-armed humans who might be party to the rebellion. A Kur, unarmed, is a match for a sleen. A Kur, armed, has little to fear, unless taken unawares. In turn, the revolutionaries, primarily the rebel Kurii, primarily on behalf of their human allies, had set a number of heavy, metal traps, more than two-hundred pounds in weight, baited with haunches of tarsk, traps fastened by heavy chains to large stakes sunk deeply into the ground, and in one such trap this beautiful animal, this great, fierce, dangerous, six-legged, sinuous monster, Ramar, had been caught. In this trap, held by its steel teeth, clamped deeply into his left rear leg, to the bone, bleeding and tortured, jerking against the stake and chain, then quiescent and silent, he would have died, of prolonged pain, or thirst. He was a large, noble animal, and beautiful in the hideous way in which a sleen can be beautiful, and it did not please me that such a creature should perish so miserably. Doubtless unwisely, I managed, with great difficulty, to open the trap, and the beast, freed, withdrew, vanished, limping, into the brush. He had not attacked me. Perhaps it had not occurred to him to do so. Later, we had encountered one another now and again. I think some record of this is elsewhere available. Following the denouement of the insurrection on the Steel World in question and, seemingly, in virtue of some interaction or agreement between Priest-Kings and victorious Kurii, it was determined that I, and others, were to be returned to Gor. Might we have hoped that our labors on the Steel World had pleased, or, at least, appeased, Priest-Kings? Could such forms of life be mollified? And could they not then have been satisfied, at last, and have seen fit, in their wisdom, to free us from their interests? Certainly we had, or some of us, however unintentionally or inadvertently, served them. Surely they now had less to fear from one of the greatest and most dangerous of the Kurii, Lord Agamemnon, an ambitious, skilled, determined, brilliant, gifted, implacable foe. In any event I had not been slain, or returned to the horrors of the Prison Moon. I now found myself again on Gor. I had then little hope that Priest-Kings had finished with me, as I would have fervently desired. Had that been so should I not have been returned, liberated and thanked, perhaps even bountifully rewarded, to my holding in Port Kar? But I was here, somehow, on this remote beach, the forest behind me. In leaving the Steel World I had brought Ramar with me. He deserved, I thought, the woods or forests, the plains or mountains, the openness and freedom, of Gor, not the steel platings and inserted gardens, the contrived geography, of a Steel World. Let him live as a sleen, in a world fit for him. Indeed, let men live in worlds fit for them. Too many live in their own Steel Worlds, and know not this, know not their prisons.

  “He will turn wild,” she said.

  “He is wild,” I said.

  “He will become dangerous,” she said.

  “He is dangerous now,” I said.

  I unbuckled the thick, spiked collar from the throat of the giant, lame sleen, Ramar, and pointed behind us, to the forest. The large, round eyes regarded me, as though quizzically.

  “Yes,” I said, “friend. Go.”

  A protestive growl emanated from the throat of the beast. It wound its body about me, moving, curling about me. I thrust the heavy body from me.

  “Go,” I said, sternly. “Yes, it is my wish.”

  “He does not want to go,” she said.

  “Go,” said I, to the sleen.

  I then, impulsively, knelt down and seized the massive body about the neck, and buried my face in the fur of his shoulder.

  “You are crying,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  I then stood, and wiped my eyes with the back of my forearm.

  “You are crying,” she said.

  I scorned to respond to so foolish an allegation.

  Ramar whimpered.

  “The forest is there!” I said to him, turning his head with my hand toward the forest. “That is your world!” I said, pointing. “Go! Go!”

  I watched the sleen take its leave, its left, hind foot marking the sand, where he dragged it behind him.

  Then he was gone.

  I then turned to regard her.

  “Wipe the tears from your cheek,” I told her.

  She obeyed.

  To be sure, emotion is acceptable for women, and certainly for such as she, the sort which, though the least, is the most female of all women.

  She had been one of the two women who had been enclosed with me in the small, transparent container on the Prison Moon, two who had been deliberately, carefully selected by Priest-Kings, with all their shrewdness and science, with all their malevolent expertise, to constitute exquisite temptations for me, who were intended to be such as would prove irresistible to me, either of them a suitable engine to accomplish in time the destruction of my honor, either one of which was a banquet to lure me, tormented and starving, inevitably, sooner or later, from the rigors of my codes.

  I regarded her.

  She who had become the Lady Bina had been, at that time, long ago, in the container, no more than a Kur pet, a human pet of a superior life form, the Kurii, one at that time not even speeched, one at that time no more than a simple, naive, luscious, appetitious little animal. Surely the little beast was exquisitely desirable, who could deny that, but even then the other, the dark-haired captive, the English girl, Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym, clearly the product of a pathologi
cal culture, inhibited, unpleasant, arrogant, nasty, with such clearly ambivalent feelings toward men, even hostility toward males, was the one on whom I most wished to lay my hands, she whom I most desired to seize and subdue, whom I thought it would be most amusing to have in my arms, and force to buck and squirm, and whimper and plead, and cry out and beg, and weep in my arms her helpless, unconditioned, grateful, rapturous submission, that of the shattered, devastated, begging female to the will of the possessive, uncompromising, owning male. I do not think that she was objectively superior to the Kur pet, and might even have brought a lower price than the Kur pet in most markets, but she was somehow very special to me. Indeed, I have little doubt that she had been selected for me, with great care and skill, perhaps from amongst thousands, that she had been matched expertly to my inclinations, preferences, and needs, inclinations, preferences, and needs of which I might not even have been aware. Two other factors, too, I suspect, were involved. As she had been matched to me, I suspect that I had been matched to her, as well. The Priest-Kings, I suspect, had, so to speak, fitted us together. Had she no need of such as I, the temptation would have been primarily mine, and it would have failed of its devastating symmetricality. But I, so desiring her, how helpless I would have been, had she been, sooner or later, similarly distressed and tormented. How could we have then failed to embrace, and therewith comply with the will and intrigues of Priest-Kings?

  Do they not use us as their pawns, their dupes, and instruments? Using our congruent natures how could we, so subtly manipulated, have failed to dance upon their strings?

  The other factor involved was one I sensed early, the deep nature of the lovely English female, but had confirmed only after the rupturing of the Prison Moon, after the destruction and melting of a steel gate, and the opening of the container, these events implicated in the Kur raid, in their hurried, transitory seizure of an artificial moon, or a portion thereof, in that fearful traversing of forbidden borders, an act of perhaps unwise transgression, the fruit perhaps of a strange wager, one in which the winnings, seemingly the liberation of a single, imprisoned warrior, and one commonly their foe, would seem small, put against the risks of loss, the possible retribution and reprisal of Priest-Kings, masters of Gor and her space.

  Surely much was rushed for time was short.

  Presumably within Ehn, so shortly, the ships of Priest-Kings might come to investigate, to succor, to retaliate, to recover their threatened, violated sphere, the Prison Moon.

  Squirming in terror on the flooring outside the container, on its metal plating, amongst the clawed feet of Kur raiders, fearing to be destroyed, even eaten, by what to her were fierce and incomprehensible beasts, she had cried out “Masters!”

  This had surprised me.

  I had been startled, though I had sensed even in the container something of the deep nature, the hidden reality, of the lovely, petty, snobbish, supercilious Miss Pym.

  Who knows the secret thoughts locked in the diary of a woman’s dreams? And how few of them would dare to open the pages of that intimate journal to a stranger’s perusal.

  How tragically alone such women are!

  And how natural it is that they should fear, at first, not to be alone!

  Many fear even to speak to themselves, let alone another.

  In her extremity, her elections of certain utterances were, of course, not to be unexpected in a female.

  They are common in the history of worlds.

  What have they to bargain with, save their beauty?

  And will it be enough?

  Is it sufficient? Is it enough that they will be spared, to be brought, perhaps rather sooner than later, to the sales block?

  But such a cry was to be expected, not only in any woman at the feet of males, but particularly from one such as she, who, in a thousand ways, I discerned, sensed the fittingness of her position, her prostration.

  Had she not been so, in one way or another, in her dreams, on the smooth, scarlet tiles of a conqueror’s palace, on the deep-piled rug within the tent of a desert chieftain, on the deck of a pirate’s vessel?

  In a pathological culture, of course, many things are kept concealed, often those which are most illuminating and meaningful, most important.

  She had shortly thereafter explicitly proposed herself as a slave, indeed had pathetically begged bondage. Indeed, a moment later, she had clearly, explicitly, pronounced herself slave.

  These words, “I am a slave,” were cried out in full consciousness. They came from the subterranean depths of her, as a quaking, helpless, unexpected eruption of truth from the volcano of her being.

  What a moment of release, of emotion, that must have been for her!

  In that moment she had grasped her womanhood, only, to be sure, to soon desire to repudiate it, again.

  But it was too late.

  With those words, she had, by her own deed, become a slave.

  And such words cannot be unspoken.

  It is done.

  She is then helpless to qualify, reduce, diminish, or revoke the words, for she is then a slave.

  All that remains is that she be claimed.

  That had been done later, weeks later, in the Pleasure Cylinder, a small adjunct or auxiliary world to the Steel World at that time ruled by Agamemnon, Theocrat of the World, Eleventh Face of the Nameless One. Three other such related worlds were the Hunting World, used for Kur sport, the Industrial World, in which its manufacturing was accomplished, and the Agricultural World, in which a variety of crops were raised under controlled conditions, largely by automation. Kurii are naturally carnivorous, but in the limited environments of the Steel Worlds a number of processed foods have been developed, with which they may be nourished. Humans, and other animals, too, of course, were commonly raised for food. Following the services of a number of human allies in the rebellion, however, humans are no longer eaten in the Steel World in question, and, I understand, in certain of the others. The “cattle humans” who were raised specifically for meat are herded about and cared for, or relocated, but no longer eaten. It is supposed they will eventually disappear as they are large, clumsy, lumbering beasts disinclined to mate. Their numbers in the past were increased by means of artificial insemination. The ships of Peisistratus, incidentally, were docked within the Pleasure Cylinder. It was from one of its locks that his ship had exited, and sped to Gor.

  “Ramar is gone,” she said, looking toward the forest.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You freed him,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said. “He should be free.”

  “Should I not be free?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “I do not mind being as I am,” she said.

  “It does not matter whether you do or not,” I said.

  “I see,” she said. “My will is nothing.”

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “You would keep me as I am?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “You are a female,” I said.

  “Many females are free,” she said.

  “True,” I said.

  “Do you think that women should be slaves?”

  “The most desirable ones, of course,” I said. “They are of the most interest. The others do not matter.”

  “I have heard that Goreans believe all women should be slaves,” she said.

  “You could probably find a Gorean free woman who does not accept that, but then she has not been in the collar.”

  “If she were in the collar, she would change her mind?”

  “If she were in the collar,” I said, “it does not matter whether she changed her mind or not.”

  “She would still be in the collar.”

  “Of course.”

  “I suppose that Gorean men,” she said, “believe all women should be slaves.”

  “I would not know what all Gorean men believe,” I said, “but many Gorean men believe that all women are slaves, only
that not all of them are in collars, as they should be.”

  “I see,” she said.

  I looked upon her, as one such as she may be looked upon.

  She straightened her body.

  “Shall I strip and assume inspection position?” she inquired.

  I did not respond to her. I recalled she had earlier referred to the Lady Bina, but had omitted her title, as “Lady.” That title is given only to free women, unless it might be, in virtue of its inappropriateness, bestowed in such a way as to terrify one such as she.

  In inspection position one such as she would normally be stripped, and standing with her feet spread, and her hands clasped either behind the back of her neck, or behind her head. In this way the breasts are lifted nicely, and, given the position of the hands, one has no interference to one’s vision, and, similarly, one may, perhaps walking about her, test her for firmness, and for vitality, and such things. Teeth are often examined, as well. A barbarian girl, brought from Earth, often can be told from fillings in the teeth. Another common mark is a vaccination mark, usually thought by Goreans to be an Earth brand. Goreans prefer, of course, Gorean brands, which are commonly clear, tasteful, unmistakable, and beautiful.

  “You are no longer on the Steel World,” I said. “Here is a planet, with openness. You are not now encircled with curving walls of steel. Perhaps you think things will be different for you here.”

  “Doubtless in some respects,” she said.

  “Essentially?”

  “I do not know,” she said.

  “They will not be,” I said. “This is Gor.”

  “I wear a collar,” she said.

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “Collar!” I snapped.

  Instantly she faced me, holding her hands slightly behind her, and lifted her chin.

  She had received, I saw, some training in the Pleasure Cylinder. This would have occurred before she had been claimed.

  It was appropriate, of course, that she should have been apprised of such things, or several such things, even before her claiming.

  In such a way, in so simple a manner, may be precluded various instructions with the leather.