Captive of Gor (47 page)

desirability, and my inaccessibility.

More than one cried out with rage and reached toward me, or shook his fist at

me, but I laughed, and danced back away from him.

Then, as the music struck towards its swirling peaks I unaccountably, boldly,

for no reason I understood, faced Rask of Treve, and before him, my master, I

danced. His eyes were expressionless. He sipped his wine. I danced my hatred for

him, to make him mad with the desire of me, which desire I could then frustrate,

which desire I could then, in my strength, for I was not as other women, for I

did not have their weaknesses, fail to fulfill! I could hurt him, and I would!

He had captured me! He had enslaved me! He had lashed and branded me! He had put

me in the slave box! I despised him. I hated him. I would make him suffer! How

desperately, in my dance, I tried to arouse him! Yet his eyes remained

expressionless. And, from time to time, observing me through narrowed lids, he

would sip his wine. And then I knew my body was dancing something to him that I

could not understand, that I feared. It was strange. It was as though my body

would, in its own right, speak to him, as though it were trying, on some level I

could not comprehend, to communicate to him. And then again I was as I was

before, and could dance my contempt and hatred for him. He seemed amused. I was

furious.

When the music finished, I fell to my knees, insolently, before him, my head to

the ground.

There were many shouts of acclaim, and pleasure, from the men, and even from the

girls, who struck their left shoulders with the palms of their hands.

“Shall I have her whipped?” asked a man of Rask of Treve.

I was frightened.

“No,” said Rask of Treve.

He gestured that I should leave the sand. “Bring others forward to dance,” he

said.

(pg. 330) I picked up the bit of silk which had been torn from me and left the

sand, putting it on. I was sweating, I was breathing heavily.

Inge and Rena thrust forward by Raf and Pron, that they might please the

feasters.

There was more shouting.

I walked into the darkness.

I encountered Ute, outside the rim of the firelight. “You are beautiful,

El-in-or,” she said.

I followed her to the kitchen shed. There, with water, and oils, and towels, she

bade me clean and refresh my body. I did so, and prepared to go to the shed.

“No,” said Ute.

I looked at her.

“Prepare yourself as you did before,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Do so,” she said.

Again I prepared myself, as I had been earlier in the evening, as a belled,

silken-clad, rouged Gorean slave girl.

“Now,” said Ute, “we will wait.”

For more than two Ahn we sat in the kitchen shed. Then the feasting grew less,

and the warriors, taking what wenches pleased them, went to their tents.

Ute approached me and, behind each ear, touched me afresh with perfume.

I looked at her puzzled. Then I shook my head. “No,” I cried, “no!”

Her eyes were hard.

“Go to the tent of Rask of Treve,” she said.

* * *

“Enter,” said Rask of Treve.

I was alone, defenseless in his war camp, his slave.

I entered the tent.

“Tie shut the tent flaps,” said he.

I turned and tied shut the flaps, with five cords, fastening myself in the tent

with him.

I turned to face him, his girl.

There was a small fire in the fire bowl in the tent, and (pg. 331) the tiny

tripod set above it, where wine might be warmed.

The interior of the tent was lined with red silk. The hangings were rich. There

were, here and there, small, brass tharlarion-oil lamps, hanging from

projections set on the tent poles. At the sides of the tent, where it sloped

downward, there were many chests, and kegs and sacks, filled with the booties

and plunders of many raid. Several of the chests were open, and from some of the

sacks, onto the rugs, spilled pieces of gold. I could see the glint of the

precious metals, and the refulgence of gems, reflecting the light of the fire

and the lamps.

Rask of Treve owned much.

“Come closer,” he said.

I heard the bells of a slave girl approach him.

I stopped, head down, several feet from him. My bare feet sunk into the deep,

soft, scarlet, intricately wrought rugs which floored the tent. I felt the pile

about my ankles.

“Come closer,” he said.

Once again there was a rustle of slave bells.

I stood before him.

“Lift your head, Girl,” he said.

I looked into his eyes. I wore his collar. I quickly dropped my head.

I felt his large hands part the bit of silk that I wore and, gently, drop it

about my ankles.

He turned from me and went to sit down, cross-legged, some feet behind the tiny

fire in the fire bowl.

We regarded one another.

“Serve me wine,” he said.

I turned and, among the furnishings of the tent, found a bottle of Ka-la-na, of

good vintage, from the vineyards of Ar, the loot of a caravan raid. I then took

the wine, with a small copper bowl, and a black, red-trimmed wine crater, to the

side of the fire. I poured some of the wine into the small copper bowl, and set

it on the tripod over the tiny fire in the fire bowl.

He sat cross-legged, facing me, and I knelt by the fire, facing him.

(pg. 332) After a time I took the copper bowl from the fire and held it against

my cheek. I returned it again to the tripod, and again we waited.

I began to tremble.

“Do not be afraid, Slave,” he said to me.

“Master!” I pleaded.

“I did not give you permission to speak,” he said.

I was silent.

Again I took the bowl from the fire. It was now not comfortable to hold the

bowl, but it was not painful to do so. I poured the wine from the small copper

bowl into the black, red-trimmed wine crater, placing the small bowl in a rack

to one side of the fire. I swirled, slowly, the wine in the wine crater. I saw

my reflection in the redness, the blondness of my hair, dark in the wine, and

the collar, with its bells, about my throat.

I now, in the fashion of the slave girl of Treve, held the wine crater against

my right cheek. I could feel the warmth of the wine through the side of the

crater.

“Is it ready?’ he asked.

A master of Treve does not care to be told that his girl thinks it is. He wished

t be told Yes or No.

“Yes,” I whispered.

I did not know how he cared for his wine, for some men of Treve wish it warm,

others almost hot. I did not know how he wished it. What if it were not as he

wished it!

“Serve me wine,” he said.

I, carrying the wine crater, rose to my feet and approached him. I then knelt

before him, with a rustle of slave bells, in the position of the pleasure slave.

I put my head down and, with both hands, extending my arms to him, held forth

the wine crater. “I offer you wine, Master,’ I said.

He took the wine and I watched, in terror. He sipped it, and smiled. I nearly

fainted. I would not be beaten.

I knelt there, while he, at his leisure, drank the wine.

When he had almost finished, he beckoned me to him, and I went to kneel at his

side. He put his hand in my hair and held my head back.

(pg. 333) “Open your mouth,” he said.

I did so, and he, spilling some from the broad rim of the crater, I feeling it

on my chin, and throat, as it trickled under the collar, and body, poured the

remainder of the wine down my throat. It was bitter from the dregs in the bottom

of the cup, and, to my taste, scalding. I, my eyes closed, my head held

painfully back, throat burning, swallowed it. When I had finished the wine he

thrust the wine crater into my hands. “Run, El-in-or,” he said, “put it back,

and return to me.” I ran to the side of the tent and put back the wine crater,

and fled back to his side.

“Stand,” he said.

I did so, unsteadily.

My head swirled. Suddenly, in my body, like a drum, I felt the hot wine. He had

made me run that I might feel it even the sooner.

I looked at him, unsteadily, angrily.

“I hate you!” I cried. Then I was terrified that I had uttered this. It was the

wine.

He did not seem angry, but sat there, regarding me.

I was emboldened.

I was suddenly conscious of the earrings in my ears. He was looked at them.

“I hate you!” I cried again.

He said nothing.

“You captured me!” I wept. “You put me in a collar!” I wept. I seized the collar

and tried to pull it from my throat. It remained inflexibly fastened on me,

marking me his slave. There had been only the jangle of bells Ute had tied to

the steel.

He said nothing.

“You branded me!” I cried. “You whipped me, and put me in the slave box!”

He did not deign to speak to me.

“You do not understand,” I cried. “I am not even of this world. I am not one of

your Gorean women, with whom you may do as you please. I am not a servile thing!

I am not a piece of property! I am not a pretty animal that you can buy and

sell! I am Elinor Brinton. I am of the planet (pg. 334) Earth! I belong in New

York City! I live on Park Avenue, in a great building! I am rich! I am educated!

On my world I am an important person! I am of Earth, of Earth! You cannot treat

me as a simple slave!” Then I put my head in my hands. What could he, an

ignorant barbarian warrior, know of such things. He must think me mad. I wept.

Then, to my terror, I realized he was standing beside me. He was so large. I

felt so small, and weak.

“I am of the warriors,” he told me, “which is a high caste. I have been educated

in the second knowledge, so I know of your world. Your accent marked you as

barbarian.”

I looked up at him.

“I know you are of the world which you call Earth,” he said.

I regarded him, dumbfounded.

“The women of Earth,” he said, “are worthy only to be the slaves of the men of

Gor.”

His hands were on my arms. I looked up at him, in terror.

“You are my slave,” he said.

I was speechless.

Suddenly he threw me from him, violently I was hurled stumbling and falling to

the rugs. I looked up at him from the rugs, terrified.

“You,” he said, :wear on your thigh the brand of a liar. You wear on your thigh

the brand of a thief. You wear on your thigh the brand of a traitress!”

“Please!” I wept.

“Pierced-eared girl!” he said, scornfully.

My hands, inadvertently, went to the rings in my ears. There were tears in my

eyes.

To my terror I saw him unroll heavy furs and cast them scornfully over the rugs

near the small fire.

Imperiously he pointed to them.

“Please!” I wept.

His finger inexorably indicated the furs.

I rose to my feet and, with a rustle of slave bells, approached him.

I felt his hands on my arms.

(pg. 335) “You come from a world,” he said, “in which women are the natural

slaves of such men as those of Gor.”

I could not look at him.

“And you are a liar,” he said, “and a thief, and a traitress.”

I then felt his face near mine.

“Do you know the perfume you wear?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“It is the perfume of a female slave,” he said.

I put down my head.

I felt his hand on my head, lifting it. He was regarding the earrings.

I put down my head again.

“Pierced-ear girl,” he said.

I could not speak, but only tremble.

I then felt, to my dismay, his hand tear the ribbon of white silk from my

collar. He threw it aside.

“No!” I begged him

“You will be treated as what you are,” he said, “as the lowest and miserable

slave on Gor.”

I dared not look into the eyes of my master.

“Lift your head, Girl,” he said.

I heard the bells on my collar move as I did as I was commanded.

I looked into his eyes, and then, helplessly, thrust down my head. My entire

body began to tremble, uncontrollably.

Never had I seen such eyes, terrible and dark, keen, those of a warrior.

I stood before him, alone with him in his tent, at his mercy. My head was down.

I felt small and helpless.

Then he took me in his arms.

With a jangle of slave bells and a cry of anguish I was forced back on the furs.

16
   
I Am Chained Beneath the Moons of Gor

“Let her be chained under the moons of Gor,” had said Verna.

Rask of Treve had laughed.

I pulled at the chain on my left ankle. It was fastened in the heavy ring, in

the heavy block of stone, set deep in the small, grassy knoll. I had seen this

small hillock, with its ring, in my exploration of the camp. It was in an

isolated portion of the camp. I was alone on the hillock, chained near its

rounded summit. I could see, some dozens of yards away, the back of tents. I

could see the points of the double palisade. The moons had not yet risen.

I was angry. I sat in the grass. I was naked. I lifted my ankle and felt the

heavy chain on it. How furious I was!

After my work for the day had been finished, I had hoped, breathlessly,

vulnerably, that I might be again summoned to the tent of Rask of Treve. I had

done my work well, and when I had finished early I had helped the other girls. I