Swordsmen of Gor

to be a Gorean slave, the absoluteness and wholeness of it, which the former Miss Wentworth now was, and had no inkling of the transformations which had taken place in her, the unfoldings, the revelations, the self-discoveries, the new understandings, the admissions, the confessions in the light of which she could no longer be what she had been. I supposed he would choose to project upon her an image of what he thought she should be, and, indeed, perhaps she, too, would struggle to deny her newly discovered deepest self, and conceal it behind a facade prescribed by an ugly and unnatural culture. Perhaps she would think it in her best interests to do so. Perhaps she would pretend to be what she thought he wanted her to be, to please him, to the grief of both. Perhaps, even more foolishly, she would attempt to conceal from him what she was, and use his sympathy or compassion to manipulate him, to bend him to her will. That is an extremely dangerous thing for a slave girl to do. Perhaps, in order to more successfully exploit him, she would attempt to enlist the social engineering to which he had been subjected on Earth, attempting to instill guilt in him, attempting to make him feel ashamed of the pleasure with which he, as a man, might now regard her, as a slave. Surely such might seem an attractive female stratagem to a naive, conniving slave, particularly to one of Earth origin, to whom such a device might seem plausible. But what if he should only look upon her with perception, and scorn, and laugh? What if he would feel no guilt, no shame, but would see her in triumph as she should be, a female at his feet, in her place in nature, in a collar?

Cultures seldom conform to the needs and desires of human beings, but will have the needs and desires of human beings conform to them. They are, in a sense, as the bed of Procrustes, to which the human being is to be fitted, at whatever cost to his life or limbs, to his health or happiness.

“You must learn to strike her yourself,” I said.

“How could I do that?” asked Pertinax.

“It is easy,” I assured him. “Treat her as what she is, and only is, a slave.”

“Shall we now enter in force?” asked Tajima.

“No,” I said. “Be to the side.”

I then went to the side of the threshold, taking cover near the threshold. “Licinius,” I called, “Licinius Lysias, spy and traitor, he of Turmus!”

“I am no traitor,” I heard. “I am loyal to my fee!”

“I would have with you a conversation of steel,” I called.

“I know you,” he called. “I am not mad!”

“Come forth, disarmed,” I called, “and I will let you depart in peace.”

“A clever ruse,” smiled Tajima, “worthy of Lord Nishida himself.”

“You think me mad!” laughed Licinius, from within. The voice had a ring, from the walls of the stable.

“Warriors within,” I called, “other than Licinius Lysias, he of Turmus. Seize him, he of Turmus, and bring him forth, bound, and you may depart in peace.”

“He is lying! It is a trick!” screamed Licinius.

“Do not move,” I said to Tajima and Pertinax. Both had their blades drawn, were ready to spring within.

“Back! Back!” cried Licinius.

As I had hoped, his cohorts, mercenaries, as well, would be more willing to act on my offer than Licinius himself. What had they to lose, in their situation, and they might have much to gain.

There was a sudden vibration of a bow cable within and I heard a man scream with pain.

“Back, away, away, sleen!” screamed Licinius. There was then the clash of blades, briefly, fiercely, and I entered the stable, rushing within, followed closely by Tajima and Pertinax.

It took only a moment to see that Licinius Lysias was well worth his fee, which had doubtless been considerable.

I wondered from what purse it had been drawn.

I, and Pertinax and Tajima, halted our advance, abruptly.

A body lay to our left, a quarrel’s fins protruding from its chest, and, toward the back of the stable, three other bodies lay, one still squirming. Licinius Lysias, like a wild beast, was half crouched down, regarding us, balefully. His sword was in his right hand and his left hand was tight on the right arm of a blond slave, now yanked to her knees. Hitherto she had been lying on her belly in the straw, her head turned to the side, in bara, her wrists crossed behind her, with her ankles crossed, as well. It is a common holding, and helplessness, position for a slave. In it, of course, she is positioned perfectly for a swift and secure binding.

Licinius drew the girl rudely before him, and his blade was at her throat.

Pertinax cried out in protest.

Licinius smiled. “Approach no more closely,” he said.

I looked at the four fellows about, one struck by the quarrel, and three in the straw, the one now no longer moving.

“You are skilled,” I said. “I do not see that you needed have feared a discourse with steel.”

“Another step forward,” said Licinius, “and she dies.”

The girl whimpered, piteously, held well, helplessly, in place.

“She is only a slave,” I pointed out.

“Apparently she is a punished high slave,” said Licinius. “In any market she might bring two silver tarsks.”

“She is not trained,” I said.

“She has value,” said Licinius.

“Certainly,” I said, “perhaps as much as a silver tarsk.”

“I think more,” said Licinius.

It was true, of course, that she had some value to Lord Nishida, so much that he was even considering her as a possible gift for a shogun. Beyond this, of course, I knew that she was of some interest to Pertinax, at least as an attractive collar slut. Too, to any man, she would have some value as a property, as would any beautiful slave.

“Release her,” I said, “and I will let you depart in peace.”

“I do not believe you,” he said.

“If you draw your blade across her throat,” I pointed out, “you are a dead man.”

“Put down your blades,” said he, “or she is a dead slave.”

“Very well,” I said. I thrust my blade down, into the floor. Pertinax did so, as well, angrily. Tajima then did so, as well. In this fashion the hilts were within grasping distance.

“Step back,” said Licinius.

We did so.

“She is pretty, is she not?” asked Licinius.

“Some might find her of interest,” I said.

“I will need a tarn,” he said, “a swift tarn, and none are to follow. And I will need binding fiber for the slave.”

“You will take her with you?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he said. “If I am followed, or intercepted, she dies.”

“What will you then do with her?” I asked.

“What does one do with a slave?” he laughed.

Pertinax cried out, in anger.

“Of course,” I said.

“Then I may sell her to the first merchant I meet,” he said.

“You will not keep her?” I asked.

“Her coloring, and hair,” he said, “suggests that she is cold.”

This differs, of course, from woman to woman. Whereas there is a general conjecture that brunettes are the hottest and most helpless of gasping, moaning, begging slaves in a master’s arms, I suspect this is because most slaves, simply, like most women, are brunettes. Blondes, on the other hand, suitably collared and properly mastered, I had discovered were as helpless, and as pathetically, defenselessly needful, and as whimperingly, uncontrollably, supplicatingly passionate, as their darker-haired sisters.

Women, their natures discovered, their natures revealed, are the properties of men.

Licinius pressed the razor’s edge of his blade against the girl’s throat. “Are you cold, my dear?” he