Hunters of Gor (20 page)

sweating. I tried to draw the bow. I could not draw it. The arrow fell from the

string.

I looked outside.

One of my men had fallen unconscious to the ground. Another, futilely, weakly,

was fighting slave snares, held like a trapped animal in the cruel taut cords.

Then he was pulled from his feet, and I saw a panther girl, a blond girl, her

hair wild, leap toward him, her spear lifted in two hands.

I saw another man lying on his belly. Two beautiful panther girls bent to him.

One jerked his wrists behind his body, binding them. The other had crossed his

ankles and was swiftly fastening them with binding fiber.

I saw two men, in slave manacles, chained to a post of the gate.

With a cry of rage I threw down the bow and kicked out the back of the hut.

Outside I looked about.

At one side of the hut, where I could not see, I heard the heavy snap of slave

manacles.

I stumbled to the sharpened saplings forming the wall behind the hut.

I reached down, seizing one with both hands, trying to pull it up.

We were locked within this fence. Arn, beside me, groggily, slipped to his

knees. I shook him, viscously.

Together we managed to loosen one of the saplings, and then, together, we

slipped through the wall.

“They are escaping!” I heard cry. “Two! They are escaping!”

Thrusting Arn along beside me, holding his arm, we found a trail among the

trees. I heard more cries behind us, of panther girls in fury. W heard the

sounds of pursuit. Panther girls are swift, fierce hunters.

Arn fell.

“Get up!” I cried. “Get up!” I slapped Arn fiercely, and dragged him to his

feet.

Groggily he ran beside me.

An arrow swept past us. I heard the cries of pursuit, the sounds of branches

being broken and rudely thrust aside.

There was suddenly a great, heavy steel snap at my feet. Arn cried out in pain

and fell forward.

Locked on his right ankle were the heavy, sharp steel teeth of a slave trap.

I fought the heavy, curved steel jaws, but they had locked shut. The Gorean

slave trap is not held by a simple, heavy spring as would be the trap for a

panther or sleen. Such a spring, by a strong man, with his hands, might be

thrust open. This trap had sprung shut and locked. The heavy steel curved snugly

about his ankle. The sharp teeth, biting deeply, fastened themselves in his

flesh. It could only be opened by key.

He would be held perfectly. It was a Gorean slave trap.

I pulled at the chain, a heavy chain, concealed under leaves.

It led to a ring on a post, sunk deeply into the ground. I could not budge the

post.

I heard the pursuit, almost at hand, breaking through branches.

Arn looked at me, agonized.

I put out my hand to him. Then I turned and, stumbling sick, began to run.

I fell against a tree, and again struggled to my feet. An arrow struck near me.

I plunged into the underbrush, hearing the sounds of pursuit.

I began to grow dizzy. It was hard to see. I fell again, and again stumbled to

my feet and, unsteadily, attempted to run.

I do not know how far I ran. I do not think it was far. I fell in the brush.

I must get up. I screamed to myself, I must get up!

But I could not get up.

“Here he is,” I heard.

I opened my eyes and saw about me the ankles of several panther girls.

My hands were dragged behind me. I felt slave steel locked on my wrists,

I fell unconscious.

9
     
There is a Meeting of Hunters

I awakened with a start.

I could not move.

I lay in the center of a clearing. I could see lofty Tur trees surrounding the

clearing. We were deep in the forest, somewhere within one of the stands of the

mighty Tur trees. I could see them, on all sides, at the edges of the clearing,

rising beautifully a hundred, two hundred feet toward the blackness of the

Gorean night, the brightness of the stars, and then, almost at the top,

exploding into a broad canopying of interlaced branches. I could see the stars

overhead. But through the leafed branches of the trees I could catch only

glimpses of them. There was grass in the clearing. I could feel it beneath my

back. I saw, to one side of the clearing, a short, stout slave post, with two

rings. No slave was bound to it.

“He is awake,” said a girl’s voice.

I saw a woman, in the brief skins of the panther women, turn and approach me.

She wore ornaments of gold, an armlet, and anklet, a long string of tiny,

pierced, golden cylinders looped four times about her neck.

At her belt was a sleen knife.

She stood over me. She looked down upon me. Her legs were shapely. She was

marvelously figured.

I pulled at the thongs on my wrists and ankles. My feet and arms had been tied

separately, widely apart. I was stretched between four stakes. Several bands of

binding fiber fastened each limb to its heavy stake. The stakes were notched to

prevent the fiber from slipping. I could scarcely feel my hands and feet. I was

well secured. I had been stripped.

She looked down upon me.

She carried a light spear.

I turned my head to one side.

With the blade of her spear she turned my head so that I must again face her.

“Greetings, Slave,” she said.

I did not speak to her.

She looked down upon me, and laughed.

I, her captive, hated her.

Yet she did not permit me to take my eyes from her. The blade of her spear made

me face her.

“Am I so difficult to look upon?” she asked.

She was one of the most exciting beautiful women I had ever seen.

I resented the brief, tight skins which concealed her from me.

Her blond hair, unbound, swirled below the small of her back. Her blue eyes,

regarded me, contemptuously.

“No,” I said, “it is not difficult to look upon you.”

She was magnificent. She might have been bred from pleasure slaves and

she-panthers. She was sinuous and arrogant, desirable, dangerous, feline. I had

little doubt that she was swift of mind. She was surely proud and haughty. She

was lithe. She was perhaps two inched taller than the average Gorean woman, and

yet, due to the perfections of her proportions, as vigorous and stunning as a

girl bred deliberately in the slave pens for such qualities.

She looked down upon me.

“I am a free man,” I said. “I demand the rights of prisoners.”

Idly she moved the blade of her spear along the side of my body.

I closed my eyes.

“You were fools to drink the wine,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

I looked up at her.

“More than once,” she said, :we have used out camp as a slave trap.”

In rage I pulled at the thongs.

“You got further than any other in the forest,” she said. “You are strong.”

I again felt the blade of the spear at the side of my waist.

She looked down upon me.

I looked up into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “you are strong.”

In rage I again fought the thongs. I pulled at them with my feet and wrists. But

I was perfectly secured. I had been bound by panther women.

I was theirs.

I looked up again into her eyes.

I had little doubt but what this was Verna who now examined me.

None but the acknowledged leader of the band, whose authority was undisputed,

could have so looked upon a prisoner, dispassionately, objectively, serene in

her power over his life and body.

It was up to her, what was to be done with me.

It was she, more than the others, to whom I belonged.

I, and my men, were hers.

Another girl came and stood behind her. I recognized that girl. It was Mira, who

had spoken to me in my camp. She looked up at the sky. ”The moons,” she said, “

will soon be risen.” Then she looked at me, and laughed.

Verna sat down beside me, cross-legged. ”The moons are not yet risen,” she said.

“Let us converse.” She drew the sleen knife from her belt sheath. “What is your

name?” she asked.

“Where are my men?” I asked.

“You will answer my questions,” she said.

I felt the blade of the sleen knife at my throat.

“I am Bosk,” I said, “of the exchange island of Tabor.”

“You were warned,” said she, playing with the knife, “not to return to the

forest.”

I was silent.

Then I turned to face her. “Where are my men?” I asked.

“Chained,” she said.

“What are you going to do with us?” I asked.

“What is the woman Talena to you?” she asked.

“Do you hold her?” I asked.

I again felt the edge of the sleen knife on my throat.

“Once,” said I, “long ago, we were companions.”

“And you wished to rescue her, as a hero, and repledge the companionship?” she

asked.

“It would have been my hope,” I said, “ to have repledged the companionship.”

“She would be an excellent match, would she not?” asked Verna.

“Yes,” I said. “That is true.”

Verna laughed. “She is only a slave girl,” she said.

“She is the daughter of a Ubar!” I cried.

“We have taught her slavery,” said Verna. “I have see to that.”

I struggled against the thongs.

“You would find her, I think,” said Verna, “rather changed from when you knew

her.”

“What have you done to her?” I cried.

“Human beings change,” said Verna. “Little is constant. Doubtless you have an

image of her. You are a fool it is a myth.”

“What have you done to her?” I begged.

“It is my recommendation,” said Verna, “that you forget about her.” She smiled.

She played with the knife, putting her fingertip to its point. “You may accept

my word for it,” she said. “She is no longer worthy of your efforts.”

I fought the thongs, growling like an animal, fighting to free myself. I could

not do so.

“How fierce the slave is,” exclaimed Verna, in mock fear.

I lay back, bound.

Verna, idly, began to play at the side of my throat with the sleen knife. I

could feel its point.

“Talena,” she said, “by my permission, by one of my women, sent a missive in her

own handwriting to Marlenus, her father, the great Ubar.”

I was silent.

“Are you not curious,” she asked, “to know the import of the message?”

I could feel the point of the knife.

“In it,” said Verna, “she begged that he purchase her freedom.”

I lay back, my eyes closed.

“Only slaves beg to be purchased,” said Verna.

It was true, what she said. I recalled that in the paga tavern the girl Tana had

begged to be purchased. In so doing she had acknowledged herself a slave.

“Marlenus,” she said, “in his great fist, crumbled this note, and discarded it,

throwing it in the fire.”

I looked at her.

“He then withdrew his men from the forests.

“Marlenus is gone?” I asked.

“He has returned to Ar,” she said.

“It is true,” said Mira, who stood to one side, and now turned toward us. “I

myself took the missive to Marlenus. I myself saw them break camp. I myself saw

them take flight to Ar.”

Mira, too, like several of the other panther girls, was beautiful, but her

beauty was hard, and there was a cruelty in it.

“I cannot believe Marlenus has withdrawn,” I said.

“Speak,” said Verna to Mira, “what else you saw, before their camp was broken

before their tarns took flight.”

“His hand on his hilt of his sword,” said Mira, “and his other hand on the

medallion of Ar, his daughter was disowned.”

I gasped, stunned.

“Yes,” laughed Verna, “according to the codes of the warriors and by the rites

of the city of Ar, no longer is Talena kin or daughter of Marlenus of Ar.”

I lay, stunned. According to irreversible ceremonies, both of the warriors and

of the city of Ar, Talena was no longer the daughter of Marlenus. In her shame

she had been put outside his house. She was cut off. In law, and in the eyes of

Goreans, Talena was now without family. No longer did she have kin. She was now,

in her shame, alone, completely. She was now only slave, that and nothing more.

From the most desirable woman on Gor she had suddenly become only another slave.

“Does Talena know?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Verna. “We informed her immediately.”

“That was kind of you,” said I, bitterly.

“We gagged her first,” said Verna, “that we might not be annoyed by her

outcries.”

“Did she not wish proof?” I asked.

“Anticipating such a desire,” laughed Verna, “we had written confirmation of the

enactment signed with the seal of Marlenus himself. Further, documents

proclaiming the disowning, officially notarized with the seals of Ar and

Marlenus, will soon be posted in all the major Gorean cities.”

“One, even now,” said Mira, “stands on the news board in Laura.”

She looked up at the moons. I could now see them beginning to emerge from behind

the leaves and high branches of the encircling Tur trees. Mira looked at me. Her

lips were parted. She was beginning to breathe heavily. She rubbed her hands on

her thighs.

“The moons are not yet risen,” said Verna, sharply.

Mira turned away.

In the shadows about, I could see other panther girls, ornaments of gold dully

glistening on their shapely limbs.

“What of Talena?” I asked Verna.

“The following day,” said Verna, “we ungagged her and set her about her duties.”