John Norman - Savages of Gor

"That is the best sort of slave to be," she said, "one without a master."

"Is it?" I asked. Lonely and unfulfilled is the slave without a master.

"When I was taken prisoner," she said, "I feared I would be made a slave, a trueslave. I feared a tether would be-put on my neck and I would be ran to the campof a master, sweating at the lathered flank of his kaiila, that there I would behis, to be dressed, and worked and used as he pleased. I feared that hard laborsand degradation would be mine. I feared that a beaded collar would be tied on myneck. I feared that I would be subject to ropes and whips, unsparingly appliedif I were in the least bit unpleasing. Mostly I feared being alone with him inhis lodge, where I must, at his smallest indication, serve him intimately, andabjectly and lengthily, as his least whim might dictate, with the fullattentiveness and services of the female slave. You can imagine my terrors atthe mere thought of finding myself so helplessly belonging to a man, sohelplessly in his power, so helplessly subject to his mastery and domination."

"Of course," I said.

"And so it is," she said, "that I rejoice that I am to be spared all that. I amastonished at my good fortune. How foolish were the red savages to be so lenientwith me! ' "They am not fools," I said. I "They took other girls, ' she said, "I heard, to their camps."

"Yes," I said.

"That was not done with me," she said.

"No," I said.

"They spared me," she said.

"Did they?" I asked.

"I do not understand," she said.

"You were found with the soldiers," I said. I then turned from her and mountedthe kaiila.

"Yes?" she asked.

"The other girls were simply made slaves," I said. "They will now have the honorof serving worthy masters."

"And I? she asked.

"You, being found with the soldiers," I said, "and obviously a personage of someimportance, were singled out for punishment."

"Punishment?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. Indeed, I thought to myself, how much the red savages must hatethe soldiers, and those with them, and how subtle and insidious they had been.

"But I am to be respected and accorded dignity," she said, kneeling below me inthe grass, in her yoke. "I am to be sent to live with Waniyanpi!"

"That is your punishment," I said. I then turned the kaiila about, and left herbehind me, in the grass, in her yoke.

"This is the lad of whom the Waniyanpi spoke," said Grunt. I joined my party onthe crest of a small rise, at the eastern edge of the field of battle. He wassome twenty years of age, naked, and staked out in the grass. Near him, on alance thrust butt down in the turf, there was wound a white cloth. This markedthe place in the grass where he had been secured. I did not understand, at thattime, the significance of this form of marker, nor of. the cloth.

"Is this the fellow you thought it might be?" asked Grunt.

"Yes," I said, looking down at the young man. "He is the one who was with thecolumn." He was not now chained. His chains had been removed. He was now securedin a fashion more familiar to the Barrens.

"He is Dust Leg," said Grunt.

"I do not think so," I said. "Do you speak Gorean?" I asked him.

The young man opened his eyes, and then closed them.

"I have spoken Dust Leg to him, and Kaiila, and some Fleer," said Grunt. "Hedoes not respond."

"Why?" I asked.

"We are white," said Grunt.

"He is not in good condition," I said.

"I do not think he will last much longer," said Grunt. "The Waniyanpi, doubtlessby instruction, have given him little in the way of water or sustenance."

I nodded. They were to keep him alive until they left the field, as I recalled.

Then he was to be left to die. I glanced from the rise back down into theshallow declivity between the low, grassy hills. I could see the Waniyanpithere, gathering and piling debris. I could see the remains of some wagons, too,and that behind which I had left the girl in the yoke.

"Do not consider interfering," said Grunt.

I went to my pack kaiila and fetched a verrskin water bag. It was half full.

"He is in the care of the Waniyanpi," said Grunt.

I bent down beside the lad, and put one hand gently behind his head. He openedhis eyes, looking at me. I think it took him some moments to focus.

"He is in the care of the Waniyanpi," said Grunt.

"He does not seem to me well cared for," I said.

"Do not interfere," said Grunt.

"His body shows signs of dehydration," I said. I had seen this sort of thing inthe Tahari. I had, from my own experience, some inkling of the suffering whichcould accompany this sort of deprivation.

"Do not," said Grunt.

Gently, cradling it partly in my arm, I lifted the water bag. The liquid movedinside the leather.

The lad took some of the water into his mouth and I withdrew the bag. He lookedat me. Then, suddenly, with hatred, he turned his head to the side and spat outthe water into the grass. He then lay back again, as he had before, his eyesclosed. I stood up.

"Leave him," said Grunt.

"He is proud," I said, "proud, like a warrior."

"It would have done nothing anyway," said Grunt, "but prolong his agony."

"What is the significance of this lance," I asked, "with the cloth wound aboutit?"

"It is a warrior's lance," said Grunt. "Do you not see what the cloth is?"

"It is part of the loot from the wagon train, it seems," I said. The cloth waswhite. It did not seem to be trade cloth.

"You are probably right," said Grunt. "But do you not see what it is?"

I looked more closely. "It is a woman's dress," I said.

"Yes," said Grunt.

I returned to the pack kaiila, and restored the water bag to its place.

"We must be on our way," said Grunt, nervously. "There have been Waniyanpiabout, from various compounds," he said.

I recalled that we had obtained this information earlier from the Waniyanpi withwhom we had conversed. Then, too, this had seemed to disturb Grunt. Itssignificance, as I now recognize, was clear. Interestingly, at the time, I didnot fully appreciate its import.

"What are you doing!" said Grant.

"We cannot leave him here like this," I said. I crouched beside the lad, myknife drawn.

"Do not kill him," said Grunt. "That is the business of the prairie, of thirst,of hunger, or roving sleen."

"Stop!" said Grunt.

My knife was at the leather thongs binding the lad's left ankle to its stake.

"You understand nothing of the Barrens," said Grunt. "Leave him alone. Do notinterfere! ' "We cannot leave him here like this," I said.

"The Waniyanpi would have done so' " said Grunt.

"I am not of the Waniyanpi," I said.

"See the lance, the dress," said Grunt.

"What are their significance?" I asked.

"He did not support his comrades in arms," said Grunt. "He did not join them onthe warpath."

"I see," I said. He who refuses to fight, of course, permits others to do hisfighting for him. He lets others take the risks, sometimes grievous andperilous, which it is his duty to accept and share. Why are others less specialand precious than he? The moral stature of such an individual I leave to theconjecture of others. The heinous exploitation of others implicit in such abehavior, incidentally, seems seldom to have been noticed. All thingsconsidered, it does not really take much courage to be a coward. Such abehavior, generalized, of course, means the destruction of the community. Thus,paradoxically, only in a community of the brave can the coward thrive. His veryprosperity he owes to the community he betrays.

"But the lance is not broken," I said.

"No," said Grunt.

"Of what tribe is the lance?" I asked.

"Kaiila," he said. "This may be told by the binding, and by the lateral redmarks near the head of the shaft."