John Norman - Beasts of Gor

“I shall have her,” he said.

“Oh?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “she was originally brought to Gor whh the eventual object of being at my feet. I picked her out from several future slaves.”

“I see,” I said.

“Perhaps you should join forces with us,” said Drusus. “The Kurii are generous with women.”

“I am of the Warriors,” I said. “I will take by the sword what women please me.”

“Of course,” he said. He continued to look at Arlene, who put her head down, trembling.

“Too,” I said, “it is my intention to keep by the sword what women should please me.” I gestured to Arlene. “This one,” I said, “at the moment pleases me.”

She looked at me, frightened.

“We shall see,” said Drusus.

I watched him, from behind the bars.

“Join us,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Your friend, Imnak, has joined us,” he said.

“I do not believe you,” I said.

Drusus shrugged.

“The Kurii are generous with women,” he said, “—and gold.”

He turned to leave.

“I would see Zarendargar,” I said. “Half-Ear.”

“None sees him,” said Drusus. Then he turned away again. The heavy metal door closed.

I grasped the bars, angrily.

Then I turned to face the girls. I strode to Arlene. “You called out to Drusus,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“You called a free man by his name,” I said, “and you spoke, too, without petitioning permission.”

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

I struck her down to the furs and steel.

“Master,” said Constance, “there is food.” She served me the hot bosk meat, the yellow bread, warm and fresh, and the wine. Later, when she had served me she mixed the water and gruel which, too, had been brought by the brunet slave. With their mouths and fingers then, kneeling, in my sight, the two girls fed upon their gruel. Arlene looked at me over the rim of her bowl. There were tears in her eyes. There was blood at her lip. When she had finished, she came near to me, to where I sat, crossed-legged, feeding. She lay on the steel, her face near my knee.

“You struck me,” she said.

I looked at her. I did not speak to her. I continued feeding.

“I am sorry I displeased you, Master,” she said. She then knelt beside me. She took her hair in her right hand and, gently, wiped the grease from my mouth. “I am sorry, Master,” she said. Our lips were quite close. With the tip of my tongue I touched her lips. Some slave cosmetics are flavored. “Does Master enjoy my taste?” she asked. “The lipstick is flavored,” I said. “I know,” she said. “It reminds me of the cherries of Tyros,” I said. “I do not know what the flavor is,” she said, “but it is lovely, is it not?” “Yes,” I said. “Taste your slave again,” she begged. I kissed her. My hands were hard on her arms. “Kiss it from my mouth, ruthlessly, owning me, Master!” she begged. “Oh,” she cried, my hands so hard on her arms. But then I put her from me.

“Master?” she asked.

“I must save my strength,” I said. “I must think.”

She crept away from me. I sat in the middle of the cell, cross-legged, in the position of the warrior.

The men on either side of the cage cart carried some sort of projectile weapon. It fired, I conjectured, judging from the breech, a long, conical, gas-impelled dart. The principles of the weapon, I assumed, were similar to those of a rifle, except that the missile would not be a slug of metal but something more in the nature of a tiny quarrel, some six inches in length. The weapons had carved wooden stocks, reminiscent of a time in which rifles were the work of craftsmen. Eccentric designs surmounted these stocks. The actual firing of the weapon was apparently by means of a button in the forepart of the stock. Although this button could be depressed quickly it could not be jerked, as a trigger might be, either on a rifle or crossbow, an action which sometimes, in moving the weapon, ruins or impairs the aim. Each man carried a bag at his left hip. It contained, I supposed, among other accouterments, the missiles, or darts, for the weapon.

I grasped the bars of the cage cart.

It was wheeled through the halls by two men, leaning on handles from behind. Bringing up the rear, also with a dart weapon, was Drusus.

A comely slave girl, naked, carrying a roped bag of wine flasks over her shoulder, knelt to one side as we passed. Her head was down. Besides her collar there was a neck chain fastened on her throat. This dangled downward from one of two overhead tracks in the ceiling. The guard on my left lifted the chain over his head and held it to the side, that the cart might pass. He then let it fall behind us. I saw the girl, when we had passed, rise to her feet and hurry, barefoot, along the steel all. She did not look back. If she had been caught looking back, I supposed she might have been beaten. From what I could gather the girls were kept under close discipline in the complex. That is, of course, as it should be, in a master’s house. I was puzzled, though, at the overhead track system. That seemed a security unwarranted by the minimal damage or mischief which, presumably, might be wrought by a lightly clad or naked slave. What harm might one woman or man wreak in such a formidable complex?

“Hold!” said Karjuk. The cart stopped.

“Greetings, someone from the south,” he said.

“Greetings,” I said to him.

Karjuk had emerged from a door at the side of the hall. He wore fur trousers and boots, and some necklaces. He was stripped to the waist. There was a headband about his brow. “It seems we have you in a cage,” he said. “That is where wild animals belong.”

I grasped the bars. The cart was on eight wheels, some four inches in diameter, rimmed with rubber. It was some four feet by four feet, by some seven feet in height. It was barred on four sides, and closed at the top and bottom by steel.

“You were easily tricked,” said Karjuk.

“Perhaps not so easily,” I said.

In the doorway, to one side that through which Karjuk had emerged, there loomed a white-pelted Kur, a large one. In its ears were golden rings. Its lips drew back from its fangs, a Kur’s sign of amusement or pleasure.

“Behold the Kur, my ally,” said Karjuk. “It was he who attacked Ram, your friend, but was prevented from finishing him by the interference of yourself and the men of the village. You thought I slew him.”

“No,” I said, “I did not.”

“No?” said Karjuk.

“No,” I said. “I examined the head which you brought to the camp. The rings of gold in the ears of that ice beast were smaller and lighter, I think, than those in the ears of this beast. Further, they had been newly set in the ears, as might have been determined by the condition of the ear. Beyond this the head of the ice beast was such that it had not been recently killed, but had been dead for some two or three southern days, at least. Too, the ice beast which had attacked Ram had eaten of the sleen which drew his sled. There was no trace of blood on the tongue, or in the mouth or jaws, or on the lips or fur of the head you brought to camp. Lastly, it was simply not the same animal.”

Karjuk looked at me.

“Do you think I cannot tell one Kur from another?” I asked. Warriors are trained in acute observation and retention. The recognition and comprehension of a detail, sometimes subtle, can sometimes make a difference between life and death.

“You are right,” said Karjuk. “It was the head of an ice beast, earlier slain, in whose ears we had placed the golden rings.”

“From what I have heard of your skills in the ice,” I said, “too, it did not seem likely that a beast would have slipped past you, or, if it did, that you, trailing it, would have taken so long to apprehend it.”