Kur of Gor (92 page)

"I will have you on your knees quickly enough,” said Flavion, “when your feet have been cut off."

"Let us proceed,” said Cabot.

"Be patient with me, dear Cabot,” said Flavion. “I have waited a long time for this moment."

"You seem confident of the outcome,” said Cabot.

"No human can stand against a Kur, with the ax,” said Flavion. “How unfortunate for you that power weapons have been outlawed in the world."

"Let us fight,” said Cabot.

"Very well,” said Flavion. He then looked to the slave, to the side.

"Chain her,” he said.

Cabot went to the slave, and pulled her to her feet, his hand on her left arm. He dragged her to the post of discipline. “Please, no, Master!” she begged. That she, a slave, had dared to speak, angered him. He struck the ax lightly into the post, that its handle was within an easy grasp, and it was lightly held in the wood. He then turned the back of the slave to Flavion, so that he could see him. He was some yards away, behind the ashes of the fire, and the gate was some yards behind him. Cabot then took the hair of the slave in his left hand and held her head up, before him. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. Did she not know she had spoken without permission? He then, sharply, cuffed her thrice, first her left cheek, and then, with the back of his hand, her right cheek, and then with the palm of his hand, her left cheek, again, the triple cuffing, a common cuffing for a slave. He then turned her about and thrust her, belly to the wood, against the post. In a moment, passing the slave bracelets through the high ring, he had fastened her to the post, her hands above her head. He then freed the ax easily, and returned to his side of the fire pit. She jerked at the bracelets, again and again, futilely, in misery, and frustration. How well she was held in place, the steel snugly encircling her small wrists! Cabot and Flavion, who was well pleased, measured one another. The slave, helplessly fastened, looked over her left shoulder, to see what events might ensue, events of great consequence to her, but events on which she, as is commonly the case with slaves, was absolutely incapable of exerting the least influence. She would await the outcome, as the tethered animal she was.

Cabot had come to the forest camp, that Flavion would follow. He had little doubt that Flavion would act, sooner or later, and thought it best to bring the matter to a conclusion sooner rather than later. After Flavion dealt with him, Cabot had little doubt but what Lord Grendel would be next, either in the habitats, or not. Thus, in a way, Cabot hoped to protect his friend. Certainly Lord Grendel would not violate the amnesty by killing Flavion without provocation, nor, indeed, would Cabot. For example, it would presumably have been easy enough for Cabot, bow in hand, and a quiver filled with the birds of death, to have slain Flavion days ago, in the forest. But that, obviously, would have violated the amnesty. This business has to do then, rather clearly, with a sense of honor, well acted upon, or not. Accordingly, it was important to Cabot that Flavion be the first to violate the amnesty, and thus voluntarily deprive himself of its sheltering. Whereas Cabot was familiar with the ax, from Torvaldsland, he was uncertain of his ability to withstand the onslaught of the mighty ax of the Kurii, which a human could scarcely lift, in the grip of a Kur. His uncertainty, as it proved, was more than justified.

A Kur smile, grimacelike, contorted the broad muzzle of Flavion, and moist fangs protruded from the sides of his jaw.

"I have waited long for this,” said Flavion.

Cabot moved to Flavion's left, and Flavion lurched after him.

Flavion's ax was some seven feet in length, and outreached that of Cabot by some two feet. Too, it was of solid metal, and the blades were forged from the haft itself.

A swift flight of this mighty tool swept toward Cabot and he sprang back. Such a blow would have cut off two legs. It could have split apart the palings of the stockade, could have shattered the gate of the compound into a dozen pieces.

"You cannot escape,” said Flavion, grinning, lurching after Cabot. “How long can you run, little thing? Do you call that little stick you carry an ax? You cannot even reach me with it! You are human! I am Kur! Close with me! Close with me! Hold still! Stand! Fight!"

Cabot circled, as he could, to the left, looking for an opening, but now Flavion held the ax more closely, was more guarded in his movements, in his strokes, even poked at Cabot, trying to force him backward, to fall, or to pin him against the palings.

The slave, braceleted at the post, jerked and jerked at the snug steel on her wrists. The links of the chain joining the bracelets scraped again and again at the iron ring, and pulled futilely against it, but her frenzied efforts were not in the least availing. The steel, the links, the ring, the post, such things, were not designed to concede the least possibility of escape to their selected prisoners. They are designed to hold them, and do hold them, with perfection.

She sobbed, and screamed, and jerked at the bracelets, and was helpless, a slave, fastened in place, as masters would have her.

Cabot lifted his ax above his head, such a comparatively tiny, frail thing, to hold back the haft of Flavion's pressing ax, and Cabot was forced down, to one knee, miserably, and then he rolled to the side, and Flavion's struck at him sidewise and a great shower of dirt leapt from the ground, scattering even to the post where the slave was fastened. She turned her head aside, against the dust, and then, tears streaming down her face, turned again, to look with terror and horror upon the battle.

Again Flavion, lurching about, was stalking Cabot.

"I am Kur. You are human. I am Kur!” chanted Flavion.

Flavion's great blade again swung in a mighty arc and Cabot caught it on the double head of his own ax, and a blast of sparks burst into the air, and the head of Cabot's ax hung in its bindings, loose, against the haft of his ax. Cabot lifted the ax, again, the head dangling, and a second blow broke the haft of his ax, and tore it from his hands, and Cabot, defenseless, the head of the ax, and the parts of the ax, in the dirt, yards away, stood at bay.

Flavion then stood in the compound, grinning, and lifted his ax. “I am Kur!” he said. “You are human! I am Kur!"

At that moment there was a terrible sound, a crashing and splintering of wood, and then another such crashing and splintering, and then another, and Cabot backed away, and looked wildly behind him. The sound came from the back of the compound, opposite the gate. Then, to his amazement, he saw parts of palings thrust to the side, and there was a mighty roar, and a terrible figure stepped into the compound through the great, jagged, wrought aperture in the wall.

"I am Kur!” it cried, in a terrible voice.

"Lord Grendel!” cried Cabot.

Chapter, the Seventy-Eighth:

A CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE

BETWEEN TWO ANKLE-CHAINED SLAVES;

SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF LORD GRENDEL'S

MEETING WITH THE KUR, FLAVION

"I would please him so,” said the brunette slave to the Corinna of Peisistratus.

Both were chained by an ankle to the discipline post.

We have noted, briefly, the arrival of Lord Grendel at the forest camp. Four days later, Peisistratus, with several of his men, arrived, together with some of their slaves, for Gorean men are fond of slaves, and seldom wish to do without their services and pleasures. This is easily understood, as I understand it, by any human male who has, as the saying is, “partaken of collar meat.” Once a fellow has, as it is said, “tasted slave,” it seems he is content thereafter with nothing less. Perhaps this is one of the reasons that free women so hate slaves. It seems they should not really blame the slaves, however, for the slaves are in collars, are subject to the whip, and such. Yet, perhaps their feelings are comprehensible to some degree, as they cannot help but take note, doubtless with some irritation, of the seemingly unaccountable contentment, fulfillment, happiness, and joy of the slave, a contentment, fulfillment, happiness, and joy of the absence of which in their own lives they are too acutely aware.

"Teach me to be a slave,” begged the brunette, “dear Corinna. I am a slave, and I want to be a good slave. Teach me how to please my master! I want to serve him, and I want him to care for me!"

"Beware,” said Corinna, looking about. “Do not dare to speak so. Masters might hear."

"I do not understand,” said the brunette slave.

"I would not speak to the master of being cared for. You are a slave. Why should you be cared for?"

"But is that not what we want, dear Corinna, that our masters might care for us, if only a little?"

"Of course,” said Corinna. “It is what any slave desires, and dreams of, but do not speak to the master of such things. You might be quickly beaten and sold. What master would admit that he is fond of so low and worthless a thing as a slave? Suppose a free woman should hear of it?"

"We must fear free women?"

"Terribly,” whispered Corinna.

"I have known only one free woman,” said the brunette slave, “the Lady Bina."

"It is true she is free,” said Corinna, “but she does not even count. She is unfamiliar with Gor. She has no real conception of the haughtiness and power of the Gorean free woman, in her pride, in her regalia, her robes and veils. We are nothing before them, only lowly, half-naked, shapely, collared beasts, who must kneel, and grovel, in terror at their sandals."

"I want to be loved,” said the brunette slave.

"Oh, be silent, foolish slave,” cautioned Corinna. “What if a master should hear? Do you wish to be whipped? Do you wish to be marketed? Concern yourself rather with being an abject slave, wholly submitted. It is yours to serve, and be pleasing."

"Do you not want to be loved?"

"With my whole heart, but one dares not speak of such things to the master. One is only a slave."

"I love being a slave,” said the brunette.

"We all do,” said Corinna. “Your name is Lita, is it not?"

"It was,” said the brunette. “But the master has named me anew. I am now ‘Cecily'."

"That is an Earth-girl name, is it not?” said Corinna.

"Yes,” said the brunette.

"Do you like it?"

"I hate it!"

"Perhaps that is why you are now ‘Cecily',” said Corinna.

"Doubtless,” said the brunette, petulantly. “I do not like the name. It was one of my names, when I was free."

"It is not the same name,” said Corinna. “It is now only a slave name, put on you as one might name a sleen, or kaiila."

"Perhaps it is not so bad, then,” said the brunette, “if it is only a slave name."

"That is all it is,” said Corinna, “and I think it is a rather pretty name, an excellent name for an Earth-girl slave."

"'Corinna’ is an Earth-girl name,” said the brunette. “Your Gorean is beautiful. Could you be from Earth?"

"No,” laughed Corinna, “I am Gorean, and many of my Gorean collar sisters would look down on me for even speaking to an Earth-girl slave. The name ‘Corinna’ was put on me that I might see myself as no better than the lowliest of slaves. Too, I think my noble master, Peisistratus, finds the name sexually stimulating on a Gorean girl."

"I want to be sexually stimulating to my master,” said the brunette.

"Oh, you are,” said Corinna. “I have seen him. He must struggle to keep his hands off you!"

"He has not touched me in months,” said the brunette.

"I find that hard to believe,” said Corinna. “Is he readying you for a sale?"

"I trust not,” said the brunette. “Teach me to better please him!"

"What are your feelings?” asked Corinna.

"I flame,” wept the brunette. “I kneel appropriately, I place myself before him, as the mere slave I am, I beg! But he does not touch me! I want to scream with need."

"Have slave fires been set in your belly?” asked Corinna.

"Yes,” cried the brunette, softly, piteously, “and they torment me, and torment me. Fiercely they burn, and I am left untouched!"

"Poor slave!” said Corinna.

"Dare I ask, dear Corinna,” said the brunette, “if such fires have been set in your belly?"

"Of course,” said Corinna. “It is something men do to us. I now have a slave belly. In it my fires burn frequently and deeply, but my master, Peisistratus, contents me."

"He loves you!” said the brunette.

"Surely not!” said Corinna. “I am a mere slave, no more than an object he uses for his pleasure!"

"He does love you,” said the brunette.

"Surely your master has put you to his purposes,” said Corinna.

"Muchly, long ago,” said the brunette, “but not since I ran away."

"That was a very stupid and foolish thing to do, Cecily,” said Corinna.

The brunette touched her collar. “I know,” she said.

"And how were you punished?” asked Corinna.

"I was not punished,” said the brunette.

"Not punished?"

"Yes."

"That is very strange."

"Many times I writhe in need,” said the brunette.

"Perhaps that is your punishment,” said Corinna.

"Tell me of pleasure and the masters!” begged the brunette.

"The masters need not be concerned with our pleasures,” said Corinna, “for we are slaves. They may slake their lusts upon us, peremptorily, and as they choose, unilaterally, without the least consideration for us, no more than for a sandal in which they might press their foot, for we are slaves. To be sure, they sometimes, for their amusement, are patient with us, inducing in us feelings we may not, and cannot, resist, feelings which transform us into helpless, rejoicing, sobbing, grateful, begging toys."

"I would,” said the brunette, “be touched by my master, though he had no more interest in me or no more cared for me than a carpet beneath his feet. And if he would deign to be patient with me I would love to be his dominated, helpless, yielding, begging toy."

"Oh, yes,” breathed Corinna, softly.

"You, too?” said the brunette.

"Certainly,” said Corinna. “Do not reproach yourself. We cannot help ourselves, nor do we wish to."