Swordsmen of Gor Read online

  In this position the collar may be conveniently read.

  I held the collar with two hands.

  “What does the collar say?” I asked.

  “I cannot read,” she said. “I am told it says ‘I am the property of Tarl Cabot.’”

  “That is correct,” I informed her. “Who am I?”

  “Tarl Cabot,” she said.

  “Then whose property are you?” I asked.

  “Yours,” she said, “— Master.”

  “You are a slave,” I said.

  “Am I?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Even here?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you wish to be freed?” I asked.

  “There is nowhere to go,” she said. “I could not live.”

  “Do you wish to be freed?” I repeated.

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I beg not to be made to speak,” she said.

  “You are clad as a slave,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She wore a Gorean slave tunic.

  It was a brief, gray shipping tunic, from the ship of Peisistratus. It had a number inscribed on the upper left side, “27.” This number, as others, had been correlated with the numbers of a set of chaining rings, number 1 with ring 1, and so on. She with others of her sort had thus been chained in an orderly fashion, serially, in one of the ship’s corridors. By means of the numbers a girl, if removed from her chaining ring, can be returned to the same ring. Order, discipline, and precision are important in the closed environment of a ship. I had removed her from her ring several times during the voyage. The Lady Bina, on the other hand, had been accorded quarters, as she had insisted, in the cabin of Peisistratus himself, the captain, who then, with her guard, Grendel, had bunked with his men. It must not be thought surprising that the Lady Bina had been deferred to, for she was a free woman.

  The girl before me was fetching in the shipping tunic, but that was not surprising as such tunics, even such as hers, a shipping tunic, are not designed to conceal the charms of their occupant.

  The Gorean slave tunic, incidentally, is a form of garment with several purposes. In its revealing brevity and lightness it well marks the difference between the slave and the free woman, a difference of great consequence on Gor. From the point of view of the free woman it supposedly humiliates and degrades the slave, reminding her of her worthlessness, and that she can be bought and sold, that she is no more than a domestic animal, an article of goods, and such. The slave, on the other hand, as she grows accustomed to her status, and its remarkable value in the eyes of men, tends to revel in its enhancement of her charms, a pleasure which is likely to be seriously begrudged her by the more heavily clad free woman. Few women, of course, object to being found appealing, even excruciatingly desirable, by males. Do not even free women sometimes inadvertently disarrange their veils? So, many slaves, at least in the absence of free women, before whom they are likely to grovel and cower, and wisely, to avoid being beaten, luxuriate and rejoice in their beauty and its display. A slave tunic, you see, leaves little to the imagination. Other advantages, too, adhere to such garments. For example, as they commonly lack a nether closure, with the exception of the Turian camisk, the slave is constantly, implicitly, advised of her delicious vulnerability as a property, and reminded of one of her major concerns, which is to please the master, instantly and without question, to the best of her ability, in any way he may wish. The slave, on her part, too, cannot help but find such garments arousing. In their way they serve to ignite and stoke the slave fires in her lovely belly. It is no wonder slaves often find themselves at the feet of their master, kneeling, and begging. Too, such garments are supposed to make it difficult to conceal weapons. There is no place in such a garment, for example, for a dagger. To be sure, it can be a capital offense for a slave to touch a weapon without a free person’s permission, so there is little danger of the slave’s attempting to conceal a weapon in the first place. But the garment, too, makes it difficult, or impossible, to conceal a roll, a purloined larma, or such. When the slave shops, if she is permitted to use her hands, and is not sent out back-braceleted with a coin sack tied about her neck, she commonly holds the coins clenched in her fist, or, not unoften, either, holds them in her mouth. Such garments are cheap, too, of course, and require little cloth. Too, many are designed with a disrobing loop, by means of which the garment may be easily removed, to be swept from her, or dropped, to fall about her ankles, depending on the garment. The loop is usually at the left shoulder, as most masters are right-handed.

  She turned away from me.

  “We are now out of the Steel World,” she said.

  “So?” I said.

  “You freed Ramar,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Will you not now free me?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “Do not be absurd. You are not a sleen. You are nothing, only a human female.”

  “And one who belongs in a collar?”

  “Obviously,” I said.

  “In your collar?”

  “In a collar,” I said, “whomsoever’s it might be.”

  “In any man’s?” she said.

  “In some man’s,” I said.

  “Yours?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said, “but in some man’s collar.”

  “I belong in a collar?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I gather,” she said, “that female slavery exists on this world?”

  “That is true,” I said, “and male slavery, as well.”

  “But most slaves are female, are they not?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Slavery is a misfortune for the male, for the male, or most males, are naturally free, and master, but bondage is apt for the female.”

  “Females are not the same as males?” she said.

  “No,” I said. “They are quite different, profoundly, radically different.”

  “The male is to own, and the female is to be owned?”

  “The female, as a female,” I said, “can find her total fulfillment only in bondage, only at the feet of a powerful male, who will see her and treat her as the property she wishes to be, and nature intended her to be.”

  “I see,” she said.

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

  “I am in a collar.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked away.

  “I suppose female bondage has a justification,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Nature,” she said.

  “Certainly,” I said. “Nature. Let her tell you of the rightfulness of your collar.”

  She spun about, tears in her eyes. She clutched her collar. “She has told me!” she cried.

  “I know,” I said.

  “But we are no longer in the Steel World,” she said. “Here, surely, whether I will it or not, you will free me!”

  “If you are testing me, trying my patience,” I said, “I do not care for it.”

  “But we are alone,” she said. “You need not now, nor could you, continue to hold me in bondage!”

  “Do you wish to be freed?” I asked.

  “No,” she cried. “I do not wish to be free! But you must free me! You are not Gorean! You are of Earth, of Earth! You have no choice but to free me!”

  “I do not understand,” I said. Did she not know she stood on the soil of Gor, and was collared?

  “You must take me away from myself!” she sobbed. “You must rob me of myself!”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “You are of Earth, of Earth!” she said. You have no choice but to free me! You must free me!”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” she wept.

  “Certainly?” I inquired.

  “Certainly,” she said.

  “Remove your clothing,” I said, “and approach me, with your wr
ists crossed, before your body.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Now,” I said.

  In a moment I lashed her wrists together before her body. I then drew her, stumbling, by the loose end of the strap to the edge of the forest. There I thrust her against a tree, belly against the bark, and flung the free end of the strap over a branch. “Master!” she cried. I then drew her crossed, bound hands up, high, unpleasantly so, over her head, and fastened them in place, that by means of the same strap, it now tied beneath the straps on her wrist.

  “Master!” she wept.

  She was stretched, on her tiptoes.

  “You have not been pleasing,” I informed her.

  “Forgive me, Master!” she cried.

  I removed my belt.

  In a moment I was through with her, but it had been enough.

  “Do you think you will be freed?” I asked.

  “No, Master!” she wept.

  “Perhaps I will sell you,” I said. The former Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym had not been pleasing.

  “Please do not sell me!” she begged.

  I replaced my belt, freed her and turned away.

  In moments she had followed me, and was on her belly on the pebbled sand, naked, sobbing, licking and kissing my feet, in piteous supplication.

  “Do you think you will be freed?” I asked.

  “No, Master!” she wept. “No, Master!”

  “I am Gorean,” I said.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “Do you understand that, Earth female?” I said. “You are owned — owned by a Gorean.”

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “Do you understand the meaning of that?”

  “Yes, Master!” she said. “I am a slave, only a slave, and no more!”

  “The most abject, worthless, and meaningless of slaves,” I said.

  “Yes, Master!” she wept.

  “What a miserable lot is yours,” I said, “that of helpless, abject bondage.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Perhaps you understand better now the peril and degradation of your condition?”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “Do you still wish to be a slave?” I asked.

  “Do not make me speak!” she begged.

  “Speak,” I said.

  “Yes, Master!” she sobbed. “Yes, Master!”

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “For then,” she said, “as a woman, I am wholly myself!”

  “Do you think you will be kept as a slave for any reason of yours?” I asked. “Perhaps because you wish to be a slave?”

  “Master?” she said.

  “What you might wish is not only unimportant,” I said, “but meaningless, absurdly irrelevant.”

  She looked up at me, from her belly, tears in her eyes.

  “It is irrelevant,” I said, “whether or not you want to be a slave, or desire to be a slave, or need to be a slave.”

  “Master?” she said.

  “You will be kept as a slave,” I said, “because you are a slave, and should be a slave, and it pleases men that such as you should be owned.”

  “Yes, Master,” she sobbed.

  “Your will is nothing,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You were less than fully pleasing,” I informed her. “A slave is to be fully pleasing.”

  “Yes, Master!” she wept.

  “I think I will sell you,” I said.

  “Please, no, Master!” she wept. “I will try to please you, Master, fully, Master, fully, fully, perfectly, in all ways! Please do not sell me, Master! Keep me, I beg you!”

  “I will do as I wish,” I informed her.

  “Yes, Master,” she wept.

  “Perhaps you now better understand what it is to be a slave?”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Yes, Master.”

  She looked up at me, mine, her face run with tears.

  I regarded her.

  Her lips trembled with emotion.

  Her face was sensitive, soft, and beautiful. It was nicely framed in glossy, dark hair, still a bit short, perhaps, but it would grow. Long hair, as is well known, is favored in such as she. Much may be done with it, aesthetically, and in the furs. Too, it might be noted, in passing, that the female was highly intelligent. That much improves a girl’s price. That would be important if I chose to sell her. Such women make the best slaves. They quickly learn what they now are. Too, compared to the more ordinary, or average, woman, they tend to be, at least initially, more in touch with, and more aware of, and more open to, their own deepest needs, and desires. They come into the collar, thus, half-prepared for bondage.

  Gorean slavers do not bring stupid women to Gor. They do not sell well.

  I looked down upon her.

  I liked her as she was, at my feet, collared, naked.

  She belonged there.

  “Now,” I said, “we must welcome our visitor.”

  She looked up at me, wildly.

  “Clothe yourself, girl,” I said.

  She scrambled on her knees to her discarded garment, hastily pulled it on, over her head, and turned, on her knees, to face the visitor.

  She would remain kneeling until given permission to rise, as she was a slave in the presence of free men.

  “Tal,” said the fellow, standing back, amidst the trees, in the shadows.

  “Tal,” I rejoined.

  Chapter Two

  PERTINAX;

  A VESSEL WILL NOT BEACH

  “Come forward,” said the fellow, gesturing toward the forest.

  “You come forward,” I said, motioning him down, toward the beach. I did not know what might lurk in the forest.

  “You want me within the circuit of your steel,” he remarked.

  “You need not approach that closely,” I said. “Too, my blade is sheathed.”

  “That seems unwise,” he said, “when greeting a stranger.”

  “You do not appear to be armed,” I said.

  I wondered if he realized how swiftly a blade might be unsheathed.

  “Are you one of them?” he asked.

  “One of whom?” I asked.

  “I saw no ship,” he said.

  “From the sky,” I said. “Do you know such ships?”

  He wore a mottled tunic, irregularly green and brown. It would match in well with the background, with attendant shadows.

  He did not have the blue and yellow chevrons which sometimes characterizes the lower-left-hand sleeve of the slavers, different, of course, from their more formal regalia, or robes, commonly blue and yellow, their colors. Some view the Slavers as a caste, others as a subcaste of the Merchants. The colors of the Merchants are yellow and white, or gold and white.

  Had he been a slaver it was possible he might have been aware of the sky ships, so to speak, such as the disklike vessel of Peisistratus. On the other hand, the greater numbers, indeed, the vast majority, of Gorean slavers, one supposes, as Goreans of other sorts, had never seen such a ship. Indeed, many Gorean slavers, as many Goreans, might not even believe in the existence of such ships. They, of course, as most Goreans, would be well aware of the existence of Earth girls, from the markets, if from no other source, but they, as many Goreans, might suppose that Earth was somewhere on Gor, though doubtless far away. Much of Gor, you see, even from the point of view of Goreans, is, so to speak, terra incognita. Gor is somewhat smaller than Earth but having missed the cataclysm that drew, say, a sixth of Earth into space to form her magnificent single moon, leaving behind a mighty basin to become in time a vast ocean, her land area is quite possibly more extensive than that of Earth. In any event, much of Gor, to most Goreans, is unexplored, and consequently uncharted. There is thus no great difficulty in supposing the existence of unknown lands, even many of them, and one, perhaps, might be called “Earth.” And most Goreans, even today, would be as unacquainted with, and as skeptical of, the possibility of space travel as men of Earth mi
ght have been a thousand or more years ago.

  The fellow, observing me carefully, came forward, some yards down the beach.

  He was a tall man.

  He glanced at the slave. “Her name is ‘27’?” he asked.

  “You can read,” I said.

  “Passably,” he said.

  “‘27’ was a ring number,” I said. “Her name is Cecily.”

  “That is a strange name,” he said.

  “She is from Earth,” I said.

  “That is far away,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I am not unfamiliar with such women,” he said. “Some have been brought here, to content us.”

  “There are others then,” I said.

  “A few,” he said.

  Gorean men need women, and by “women” they commonly understand the most luscious and desirable of women, the female slave. To be sure, the forests are dangerous, and what free woman would care to frequent them? Girls brought on chains, of course, have little to say about such things.

  “She is pretty,” he said.

  “She is not muchly trained,” I said, “and there are doubtless thousands who would bring higher prices.”

  “Still, she is very pretty,” he said.

  “Do you wish to challenge for her?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I have a better.”

  Unless there should be some misunderstanding here, one might observe that such challenges are not frequent, and normally require almost a ritual of circumstances. For example, aside from the usual impropriety of challenging one with whom one might share a Home Stone, Gorean honor militates against, if it does not wholly preclude, casual or unprovoked challenges. Obviously a skilled swordsman would have an advantage in such matters, which it would be inappropriate, and perhaps dishonorable, to press. Normally challenges would take place to recover a stolen slave, to protect a mortally endangered slave, perhaps to obtain a slave once foolishly disposed of, without which one cannot then bear to live, such things. Too, there may be economic constraints, as well, for if the challenge is not accepted, one is sometimes expected, depending on the city, the castes, and circumstances, to pay for the slave, with a purse several times her value. Few potential challengers then care to risk a refused challenge, as it is likely they cannot afford the slave, and must then retire in embarrassment. Many other possibilities enter into these things, but these remarks, hopefully, will give any who might chance to peruse these several sheets a sense of some of the prevailing customs in these matters. To be sure, brigands, pirates, enemies, and such, are not likely to concern themselves with challenges, but are rather the more likely, as they see fit, to attack, and kill. Similarly, in raids, and wars, it is understood that the property of the enemy, or quarry, or target, including not only his livestock and slaves, but even his free women, is legitimate booty. A proper challenge, on the other hand, is more akin to a duel, sometimes even to the setting of a time and place.