from their collars to some inches below their navels, and, too, that the turns of their calves and ankles might be similarly displayed; I would have thought that they might have groaned with humiliation and attempted to hide themselves among us, but, instead, even Pudding and Thyri, they walked as proud, shameless bond-maid; the exposure of the females navel, on Gor, is known as the “slave belly”; only female slaves expose their navels; from a vendor, the Forkbeard bought his girls honey cake; with their fingers they ate it eagerly, crumbs at the side of their mouths.
“Look!” cried Pudding. “A silk girl!” The expression “silk girl” is used, often, among bond-maids of the north, to refer to their counterparts in the south. The expression reflects their belief that such girls are spoiled, excessively pampered, indulged and coddled, sleek pets, who have little to do but adorn themselves with cosmetics and await their masters, cuddled cutely, on plush, scarlet coverlets, fringed with gold. There is some envy in this charge, I think. More literally, the expression tends to be based on the fact that the brief slave tunic of the south, the single garment permitted the female slave, is often silk. Southern girls, incidentally, in my opinion, though scarcely as worked as their northern sisters in bondage, a function of the economic distinction between the farm and the city, are often worked, and worked hard, particularly if they have not pleased their masters. Yet, I think their labors less than those often performed by the wife of Earth. This is a consequence of Gor’s simpler culture, in which there is literally less to do, less to clean, less to care for, and so on, and also ofthe fact that the Gorean master, if pleased with the wench, takes care that she is fresh and ready for the couch. An overworked, weary woman, despondent and tired, is less responsive to her master’s touch; she does not squirm as well. The Gorean master, treating her as the animal she is, works and handles her in such a way that the responses of his passionate, exciting, hot-eyed, slim-legged pet are kept honed to perfection. Some men are better at this, of course, than others. There are scrolls, books, on Gor, which may be purchased inexpensively, on the feeding, care, and training of female slaves. There are others who claim, as would be expected, that the handling of a slave girl, in order to get the most out of her, is an inborn gift. Incidentally, for what it is worth, though the southern girl is, I expect, worked less hard then the northern girl, who is commonly kept isolated on the farm, she is more often than her northern sister put to the switch or whip; I think she lives under a harsher discipline; southern masters are harder with their girls, expecting more from them and seeing that they get it; northern girls, for example, are seldom trained in the detailed, intricate sensuous arts of the female slave; the southern girl, to her misery, must often learn these to perfection; moreover, upon command, she must perform, joyfully and skillfully.
The silk girl was heeling her master, a captain of Torvaldsland. She wore, indeed, a brief tunic of the south, of golden silk. She wore a collar of gold, and, hanging in her ears, were loops of gold.
“High-farm girls!” she whispered, as she passed the bond-maids of Ivar Forkbeard. In the south the southern slave girl commonly regards her northern counterparts as bumpkins, dolts from the high farms on the slopes of the mountains of Torvaldsland; she thinks of them as doing little but swilling tarsk and dunging fields; she regards them as, essentially, nothing more thana form of bosk cow, used to work, to give simple pleasure to rude men, and to breed thralls.
“Cold fish!” cried out Pudding. “Stick!” cried out Pouting Lips.
The silk girl, passing them, did not appear to hear them. “Pierced-ear girl!” screamed Pouting lips.
The silk girl turned, stricken. She put her hands to her ears. There were sudden tears in her eyes. Then weeping, she turned away, her head in her hands, and fled after her master.
The bond-maids of Ivar Forkbeard laughed delightedly. The Forkbeard reached out and seized Pudding by the back of the neck. He looked at her. He also looked at Pouting Lips, who shrank back. He turned Pudding’s head. “You wenches,” he said, “might look well with pierced ears.” “Oh, no, my Jarl.” Wept Pudding. “No!” “No,” wept Pouting Lips. “Please, no, my Jarl!”
“Perhaps,” mused the Forkbeard, “I shall have it done to the batch of you upon my return. Gautrek can perform this small task, I expect.”
“No,” whimpered the girls, huddled together. The Forkbeard turned then, and we contimued on our way. The Forkbeard whistled. He was in an excellent mood. In moments the girls, too, were again laughing and sporting, and pointing out sights to one another. There was only one of the Forkbeard’s wenches who did not sport and laugh. Her name was Dagmar. There was a strap of binding fibre knotted about her collar. She was led by Thyri. Her hands were tied together, behind her back. She had been brought to the thing to be sold off.
“Let us watch duels,” said the Forkbeard. The duel is a device by which many disputes, legal and personal, are settled in Torvaldsland. There are two general sorts, the formal duel and the free duel. The free duel permits all weapons; there are there are no restrictions on tactics or field. At the thing, of course, adjoining squares are lined out for these duels. If the combatants wished, however, they might choose another field. Such duels, commonly, are held on wave-struck skerries in Thassa. Two men are left alone; later, at nightfall, a skiff returns, to pick up the survivor. The formal duel is quite complex, and I shall not describe it in detail. Two men meet, but each is permitted a shield bearer; the combatants strike at one another, and the blows, hopefully, are fended by each’s shield bearer; three shields are permitted to each combatant; when these are hacked to pieces or otherwise rendered useless, his shield bearer retires, and he must defend himself with his own weapon alone; swords not over a given length, too, are prescribed. The duel takes place, substantially, on a large, square cloak, ten feet on each side, which is pegged down on the turf; outside this cloak there are two squares, each a foot from the cloak, drawn in the turf. The outer corners of the second of the two drawn squares are marked with hazel wands; there is this a twelve-foot-square fighting area; no ropes are stretched between the hazel wands. When the first blood touches the cloak the match may, at the agreement of the combatants, or in the discretion of one of the two referees, be terminated; a price of three silver tarn disks is then paid to the victor by the loser; the winner commonly then performs a sacrifice; if the winner is rich, and the match of great importance, he may slay a bosk; if he is poor, or the match is not considered a great victory, his sacrifice may be less. These duels, particularly of the formal variety, are sometimes used disreputably for gain by unscrupulous swordsmen. A man, incredibly enough, may be challenged risks his life among the hazel wands; he may be slain; then, too, of course, the stake, the farm, the companion, the daughter, is surrendered by law to the challenger. The motivation of this custom, I gather, is to enable strong, powerful men to obtain land and attractive women; and to encourage those who possess such to keep themselves in fighting condition. All in all I did not much approve of the custom. Commonly, of course, the formal duel is used for more reputable purposes, such as settling grievances over boundaries, or permitting an opportunity where, in a case of insult, satisfaction might be obtained.
One case interested us in particular. A young man, not more than sixteen, was preparing to defend himself against a large burly fellow, bearded and richly helmeted.
“He is a famous champion,” said Ivar, whispering to me, nodding to the large burly fellow. “He is Bjarni of Thorstein Camp.” Thorstein Camp, well to the south, but yet north of Einar’s Skerry, was a camp of fighting men, which controlled the countryside about it, for some fifty pasangs, taking tribute from the farms. Thorstein of Thorstein’s Camp was their Jarl. The camp was od wood, surrounded by a palisade, built on an island in an inlet, called the inlet of Thorestein Camp, formally known as the inlet of Parsit, because of the rich fishing there.
The stake in this challenge was the young man’s sister, a comely, blond lass of fourteen, with braided hair. She was dressed in the full regalia of a free woman of the north. Theclothes were not rich, but they were clean, and her best. She wore two brooches; and black shoes. The knife had been removed from the sheath at her belt; she stood straight, but her head was down, her eyes closed; about her neck, knotted, was a rope, it fastened to a stake in the ground near the dueling square. She was not otherwise secured.
“Forfeit the girl,” said Bjarni of Thorstein Camp, addressing the boy, “and I will not kill you.”
“I do not care much for the making women of Torvaldsland bond,” said Ivar. “It seems improper,” he whispered to me. “They are of Torvaldsland!”
“Where is the boy’s father?” I asked one who stood next to me.
“He was slain in an avalanche,” said the man.
I gathered then that the boy was then owner of the farm. He had become, then, the head of his household. It was, accordingly, up to him to defend as best he could, against such a challenge.
“Why do you challenge a baby?” asked Ivar Forkbeard.
Bjarni looked upon him, not pleasantly. “I want the girl for Thorstein Camp,” he said. “I have no quarrel with children.”
“Will she be branded there, and collared?” asked Ivar.
“Thorstein Camp has no need for free women.”
“She is of Torvaldsland,” said Ivar.
“She can be taught to squirm and carry mead as well as any other wench,” said bjarni.
I had no doubt this was true. Yet the girl was young. I doubted that a girl should be put in collar before she was fifteen.
Ivar looked at me. “Would you like to carry my shield?” he asked.
I smiled. I went to the young man, who was preparing to step into the area of hazel wands. He was quite a brave lad.
Another youngster, about his own age, probably from an adjoining farm, would carry his shield for him.
“What’s your name, Lad?” I asked the young man preparing to enter the square marked off with the hazel wands.
“Hrolf,” said he, “of the Inlet of Green Cliffs.”
I then took both of the boys, by the scruff, and threw them, stumbling, more than twenty feet away to the grass.
I stepped on the leather of the cloak. “I’m the champion,” said I, “of Hrolf of Inlet of Green Cliffs.” I unsheathed the sword I wore at my belt.
“He is mad,” said Bjarni.
“Who is your shield bearer?” asked one of the two white-robed referees.
“I am!” called the Forkbeard, striding into the area of hazel wands.
“I appreciate the mad bravery,” said I, “of the good fellow Thorgeir of Ax Glacier, but, as we all know, the men of Ax Glacier, being of a hospitable and peaceful sort, are unskilled in weapons.” I looked at the Forkbeard. “We are not hunting whales now,” I told him, “Thorgeir.”
The Forkbeard spluttered.
I turned to the referee. “I cannot accept his aid,” I told him. “It would too much handicap me,” I explained, “being forced, doubtless, to constantly look out for, and protect, one of his presumed ineptness.”
“Ineptness!” thundered the Forkbeard.
“You are of Ax Glacier, are you not?” I asked him, innocently. I smiled to myself. I had, I thought, hoisted the Forkbeard by his own petard.
He laughed, and turned about, taking his place on the side.
“Who will bear your shield?” asked one of the referees.
“My weapon is my shield,” I told him, lifting the sword. “He will not strike me.”
“What do you expect to do with that paring knife?” asked Bjarni of Thorstein Camp, looking at me puzzled. He thought me mad.
“Your long sword,” I told him, “is doubtless quite useful in thrusting over the balwarks of ships, fastened together by grappling irons, as mine would not be, but we are not now, my dear Bjarni, engaging in combat over the bulwarks of ships.”
“I have reach on you!” he cried.
