John Norman - Nomads of Gor

“I love being a woman,” she said. “I am happy I am a woman, Tarl Cabot, I am happy.”

“Do not forget,” I said, “you are only a slave.”

She smiled and fingered her collar. “I am Tarl Cabot’s girl,” she said.

“My slave,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “your slave.”

I smiled.

“You will not beat me too often will you, Master?” she asked.

“We will see,” I said.

“I will strive to please you,” she said.

“I am pleased to hear it,” I said.

She lay on her back, her eyes open, looking at the top of, the wagon, at the hangings, the shadows thrown on the scarlet hides by the light of the fire bowl.

“I am free,” she said.

I looked at her.

She rolled over on her elbows. “It is strange,” she said. “I am a slave girl. But I am free. I am free.”

“I must sleep,” I said, rolling over.

She kissed me on the shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, “Tarl Cabot, for freeing me.”

I rolled over and seized her by the shoulders and pressed her back to the rug and she looked up laughing.

“Enough of this nonsense about freedom,” I said. “Do not forget that you are a slave.” I took her nose ring between my thumb and forefinger.

“Oh” she said.

I lifted her head from the rug by the ring and her eyes smarted.

“This is scarcely the way to show respect for a lady,” said the girl.

I tweaked the nose ring, and tears sprang into her eyes.

“But then,” she said, “I am only a slave girl.”

“And do not forget it,” I admonished her.

“No, no, Master,” she said, smiling.

“You do not sound to me sufficiently sincere,” I said.

“But I arm” she laughed.

“I think in the morning,” I said, “I will throw you to kaiila.”

“But where then will you find another slave as delectable as I?” she laughed.

“Insolent wench!” I cried.

“Oh” she cried, as I gave the ring a playful tug. “Please!”

With my left hand I jerked the collar against the back of her neck.

“Do not forget,” I said, “that on your throat you wear a collar of steel.”

“Your collar!” she said promptly.

I slapped her thigh. “And,” I said, “on your thigh you wear the brand of the four bosk horns”

“I’m yours,” she said, “like a bosk!”

“Oh,” she cried, as I dropped her back to the rug.

She looked up at me, her eyes mischievous. “I’m free,” she said.

“Apparently,” I said, “you have not learned the lesson of the collar.”

She laughed merrily. Then she lifted her arms and put them about my neck, and lifted her lips to mine, tenderly, delicately. “This slave girl,” she said, “has well learned the lesson of her collar.”

I laughed.

She kissed me again. “Vella of Gor,” said she, “loves master.”

“And what of Miss Elizabeth Cardwell?” I inquired.

“That pretty little slave” said Elizabeth, scornfully.

“Yes,” I said, “the secretary.”

“She is not a secretary,” said Elizabeth, “she is only a little Gorean slave.”

“Well,” said I, “what of her?”

“As you may have heard,” whispered the girl, “Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, the nasty little wench, was forced to yield herself as a slave girl to a master.”

“I had heard as much,” I said.

“What a cruel beast he was,” said the girl.

“What of her now?” I asked.

“The little slave girl,” said the girl scornfully, “is now madly in love with the beast.”

“What is his name?” I asked.

“The same who won the surrender of proud Vella of Gor,” said she.

“And his name?” I asked.

“Tarl Cabot,” she said.

“He is a fortunate fellow,” I remarked, “to have two such women.”

“They are jealous of one another,” confided the girl.

“Oh?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “each will try to please her master more than the other, that she will be his favourite.”

I kissed her.

“I wonder who will be his favourite?” she asked.

“Let them both try to please him,” I suggested, “each more than the other.”

She looked at me reproachfully. “He is a cruel, cruel master,” she said.

“Doubtless,” I admitted.

For a long time we kissed and touched. And from time to time, during the night, each of the girls, Vella of Gor and the little barbarian, Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, begged, and were permitted, to serve the pleasure of their master. Yet he, unprecipitate and weighing matters carefully, still could not decide between them.

It was well toward morning, and he was nearly asleep, when he felt them against him, their cheek pressed against his thigh. “Girls,” mumbled he, “do not forget you wear my steel.”

“We will not forget,” they said.

And he felt their kiss.

“We love you,” said they, “Master.”

He decided, falling asleep, that he would keep them both slave for a few days, if only to teach them a lesson. Also, he reminded himself, it is only a fool who frees a slave girl.

In the dampness and darkness long before dawn the forces of Kamchak, crowding the streets of Turia in the vicinity of Saphrar’s compound, waited silently, like dark shapes on the stones; here and there the glint of a weapon or accoutrement could be made out~the fading light of one of the flying moons; someone coughed; there was a rustle of leather; I heard to one side the honing of a quiva, the tiny sound of a short bow being strung.

Kamchak, Harold and I stood with several others on the roof of a building across from the compound.

Behind the walls we could hear, now and then, a sentry calling his post, answering another.

Kamchak stood in the half darkness, his palms on the wall running about the edge of the roof of the building on which we stood.

More than an hour ago I had left the commander’s wagon, being roused by one of the guards outside. As I had left Elizabeth Cardwell had awakened. We had said nothing, but I had gathered her into my arms and kissed her, then left the wagon.

On the way to the compound I had met Harold and together we had eaten some dried bosk meat — and drank water, from one of the commissary wagons attached to one of Hundreds in the city. As commanders we could eat where we chose.

The tarns that Harold and I had stolen from Saphrar’s keep several days ago had both been brought into the city and were nearby, for it was thought that such might be needed, if only to convey reports from one point to another.

There were also, in the city, of course, hundreds of kaiila, though the main body of such mounts was outside the city, where game could be driven to them with greater ease.

I heard someone chewing nearby and noted that Harold, who had thrust some strips of bosk meat from the commissary wagon in his belt, was busily engaged, quiva in hand, with cutting and eating the meat.

“It’s nearly morning,” he mumbled, the observation somewhat blurred by the meat packed in his mouth.

I nodded.

I saw Kamchak leaning forward, his palms on the wall about the roof, staring at the compound. He seemed humped in the half darkness, short of neck, broad of shoulder. He hadn’t moved in a quarter of an Ahn. He was waiting for the dawn.

When I had left the wagon Elizabeth Cardwell, though she had said nothing, had been frightened. I remembered her eyes, and her lips, as they had trembled on mine. I had taken her arms from about my neck and turned away. I wondered if I would see her again.

“My own recommendation,” Harold was saying, “would be first to fly my tarn cavalry over the walls, clearing them with thousands of arrows, and then, in a second wave, to fly dozens of ropes of warriors to the roofs of the main buildings, to seize them and burn the others.”