Daughter of Gor
By Olga Turlovna
40 - I do not witness a defeat.
I have read many fictional scrolls
about Gor, which usually feature brave warriors; beautiful slave
girls; and epic battles. If the life of Aurore unrolled before me
like one of these scrolls, after this hiatus in the jungle the story
would now benefit from an exciting chapter where I described the fall
of the compound of Kurtz to the forces of the Kurii.
Alas, I must report to you that Gorean
reality is not always like a scroll.
It would be a foolish warrior who took
his weak and unarmed female slave to witness an epic battle. And
female warriors – Taluna, are not suited to engage in open combat
with trained men, and would not carry their captives to observe
events. Women of any kind are better absent for such occasions.
Giani and the grey man are no fools. So
although men probably fought bravely on both sides of the conflict
between Kurtz’ forces and the Others, and heroes and cowards might
both have given accounts worthy of bards and storytellers, I cannot
relate anything of these matters in my own narrative.
It is the aftermath of war that our
small canoe approaches. I grow more and more emotional as we get
closer to the fortifications, halfhope and half-dread at what I may
discover within.
The grey man leads in our boat,
propelling us through the waters of the lake with strong strokes of
his broad shoulders.
Udumi is behind me, also paddling,
still in the revealing garb of a forest panther, and I sit in the
middle, useless in my shackles.
I must grudgingly respect Udumi’s
bravery throughout the execution of her plan. In order to return to
Urth, she must risk presenting herself to the agents of the Others
and hope they fulfil their part of the bargain.
I am not optimistic for her chances in
this gamble. The male agents of the Kurii are well known for
exploiting the skills of women, only to reward them for loyalty by
making them slaves.
Udumi has rolled her dice in this game,
just as I have rolled mine.
When I approach the compound for the
second time I study it just as carefully as I did when I first saw
it, from my place tied nude to the ship’s prow.
I don’t know what to expect - perhaps
to see the compound reduced to ash, but the structure looks entirely
unscathed save for a troubling plume of black smoke rising from
within.
As we paddle even closer through the
tranquil lake, other than noting that the brightly-coloured
crossbowmen of Kurtz guarding the log walls have been replaced with
black-garbed warriors of the Kurii, the only other change is that the
decaying heads of two of those bear-like creatures that were staring
out across the lake have been removed.
When we finally pass through the gate I
see the maggot-infested things are half-buried in the compound’s
rubbish heap, and are surrounded by a cloud of flies. I pity whoever
was given the unpleasant task of removing those trophies.
It is the human devastation that
betrays the ferocity of the battle that must have occurred here.
Bodies are strewn everywhere in the colours of both sides, still too
far away to recognise individuals.
I barely notice that the structure of
the compound looks entirely undamaged, saved for one building that
contained some warriors’ sleeping places. The communal hall is
there; the building where slaves were penned; and the storage
buildings.
Even the two tall thin punishment cages
where I witnessed two of the Taluna left to stand naked for ahn after
ahn are still there, swinging slightly in the hot breeze.
My heart jumps as I see my master’s
humble hut, standing undisturbed with the curtain still in place, as
if he’s merely sleeping inside.
The grey man accelerates, guiding the
canoe rapidly across to one of the wharves, and looking round in
tense silence we climb quickly out, Udumi and I both urgently needing
to check the dead for those we care about.
Frantically I flit from corpse to
corpse, scanning these forms, seeing person after person that I
recognise. A smashed lute is a marker for the place where one of the
musicians fell.
Petrucus, who was once master to my
friend Nessa, is face down in a puddle of blood, his features
mercifully hidden from view. He looks to have been killed be a clean
arrow shot to his back.
Not so lucky Chiron, who has been
sliced so deeply across the back of his neck as to be almost
decapitated. His head, lolling unnaturally forwards, stares with
unseeing eyes out at Gor.
When I first arrived at the compound I
had lived in fear of the man lying there, Chiron, but I shall never
tremble again at his approach. Rather than the satisfaction I might
have expected at seeing the corpse of one who whipped me so often, my
feelings are of sadness. He was a great warrior of Gor, for all his
faults. Udumi, also has a mixed expression at the demise of her
former master.
And it is not just men that have been
killed. Slaves are dead as well, either caught in the crossfire
between combatants or because they stood by warriors with whom there
was a particular attachment. Carrie the dancer will never display her
extraordinary skill again, and seeing her lifeless figure pierces my
heart.
Rehema who was claimed as slave to
Petrucus after Nessa’s departure lies dead with her body draped
protectively across his, as if she were the warrior rather than him.
Her rump that looked so pleasing lashed to the prow of a longship is
thrust into the air, undignified in death.
But I do not see Him. Where is Kurtz?
Anxiously I look around, but there is
still no sign of him. And there is no evidence of surviving male
prisoners – the Kurii have slaughtered every male they could find,
so he is not likely being held captive.
We do not have long to examine the dead
when the living demand our attention. Striding about the jetties of
the compound it is easy to identify the leader of the Other’s human
forces. Here stands a true alpha ruler.
“I have heard of this man. He is
known as the Kur’s Claw,” the grey man whispers in my ear, as if
reading the direction of my attention, “For they say he acts in
union with the will of the beasts.”
Kur’s Claw looks like a beast
himself, being a shaggy bearded fellow looking like a half-breed
between Kurii and man.
He crosses to us bearing an immense
blood-stained sword in one hand that Aurore would struggle to lift in
two of hers.
“Tal, you must be the grey one,” he
greets in a neutral tone. And with a rather overdone formality he
continues, “The agent of the Northeastern Control Group is welcome
to the territory of the Southern Control Group,”
The grey man is replying with similarly
ornate phrases, but his voice tails off when he realises he has
entirely lost Kur’s Claw’s attention.
During my lifetime as a male I came
across nothing as likely to bring men to violence as rivalry over
women. Best friends can turn to bitter enemies when they lose their
minds over the same girl.
For example, I remember back in my army
days, Corporals Fletcher and Cooper, two buddies who were like a
double act. Fletcher had pretty much saved Cooper’s life when an
IED totalled their lightly armoured Land Rover, and Dodds carried the
injured Cooper back to base under fire.
They were like brothers until the day
back on leave when Fletcher met Jennifer. Jennifer was a dark-haired
beauty, blessed with dynamite legs. Both men had been with their
share of lookers, but with Jennifer her personality was as beguiling
as her looks. She was more like the kind of woman Goreans like,
prized for intelligence as well as beauty.
Jennifer got on like a house on fire
with both guys, and they liked her. But she could only date one of
them, and she chose Fletcher. That decision just ate up Cooper from
the inside. When we were all out together I’d see Cooper looking at
Jennifer like he was sinking into madness. He stared like he’d be
willing to kill Fletcher to get to that woman, and it didn’t take
long for Fletcher to realise what was going on.
The ugly ending of all this is not
important. I’m recounting the experience because Claw is looking at
me the way Cooper looked at that woman, and I know we’re in big
trouble. Kur’s Claw wants me like a junkie craves their fix.
“This is her?” he asks, shaking his
head as if to clear a daze. “The agent of the Priest Kings? I’d
never have believed it.”
Kur’s Claw must know I was once a man
then, but he clearly doesn’t care. No, he looks at my body in the
flimsy camisk like he doesn’t care at all. I’ve been blissfully
unselfconscious about my luscious femininity in the panther camp, but
back amongst the men of Gor I suddenly have to re-learn that I’m a
woman, and I feel like I’m wearing nowhere near enough.
“You will send this enemy to serve me
food and drink tonight,” he says, eyes locked on me like he’s in
a trance. “It will give me pleasure to see the agent of the Sardar
on her knees before me.”
Claw finally recovers his senses and
next he turns to give an order to one of his men, but his eyes still
flicker back to me as if he’s unsettled.
“As you wish, dread Ubar,” the grey
man says in response to the request, and I am disappointed he makes
no effort to protect me. “Your attack looks to have been a
success,” he goes on to observe, even admitting defeat by trying to
change the subject.
“The weight of numbers was much in
our favour, so our losses were light,” agrees Claw while watching
my breasts, “although Kurtz still evades us.”
This is the first encouraging news I’ve
heard for days, and I try to keep the joy from my face.
“Are you sure he’s here?” the
grey one asks.
“The slave girls tell me he was seen
just before the attack,” Claw answers, “so we know he is in
hiding somewhere close by, perhaps in the reeds or even within the
fortifications.”
“Victory is not assured until Kurtz
is captured,” the grey man states.
“Indeed,” Claw says. “And I do
not intend to underestimate my opponent. But there is a weakness in
the Ubar that if necessary, we can exploit.”
“Oh really, what is that?” asks the
grey one.
“We have his woman,” says the Kur’s
Claw, in a tone that fills me with dread.
41 - A free woman is in the compound
I had grown to accept the constant eyes
of men on my female figure, but I realise this was because I lived
under the protective umbrella of Kurtz. With the change of
administration in the fortified compound, I feel a new sense of
vulnerability as I go about my tasks.
It is not to my advantage that by
arriving with the grey one, I am seen as the property of an outsider.
The grey one is not uniformed, like the other warriors in service of
the Kurii, and the simple difference of clothing colour creates a
psychological divide between us and them.
The speculation in men’s eyes betrays
their thoughts. Perhaps, they speculate, this stranger, the grey one,
will leave or be removed, and then his pretty slave will be given to
a new master. They look at me and wonder what it would be like to
take such a girl as her to their furs.
On the first evening after our return
my master absents himself from the meal, held in the same fire-lit
communal room where Kurtz received the panthers.
Thus I serve the Kur’s Claw alone,
further emphasising the perception I might soon be sexually available
to those other than the grey man. They must be wondering if the Claw
might claim this girl from the deformed old man, and give her to
reward a favoured warrior.
My outfit does nothing to protect me
from masculine interest. Unfortunately for the women left in camp,
the new regime favour the southern rather than the northern mode of
slave dress.
On an oppressively humid tropical
night, each one of us slave girls are garbed only in a strip of
rep-cloth, tied about the waist with a bow at the left hip.
Mine is barely long enough to cover my
pudenda and has a tendency to ride up with my movements, so the
occasions when I am required to kneel with my thighs open, in the
manner of a slave marked for sexual service, nothing is left to the
imagination.
The single waistband of rep-cloth is
all we are permitted, so I deliver my evening’s service naked from
my hips upwards. Aurore’s glorious breasts are on display to all,
the sensation of their free swinging weight making me feel all the
more self-conscious.
I have been given such accessories as
make me yet more pleasing to men’s eyes.
A jewelled necklace is draped around my
throat, this adornment terminating in a heavy pendant that lies in
the valley between those pale globes of flesh.
I am not an expert in the Gorean
jewellery markets but I would guess this item to be worth a fortune
judging by the size of the stones and the weight of the metal resting
on my upper torso.
It is very common for the wealthy on
Gor to adorn slave girls in expensive jewels. They can advertise the
girl’s beauty, drawing the eye to the most pleasing areas of the
body and making others more jealous of her owner.
Furthermore jewellery can serve as an
additional identifier of ownership to the collar, being a badge that
the girl has been dressed according to the wishes of one particular
master.
Finally, for those kajirae forced to
serve nude or partially clad before other men, jewellery shows that
the girl has not been left unclothed because her master is poor, but
he has chosen to display her because it pleases him to do so.
My origins as agent of Priest Kings
appears to be well known about the compound, judging by the abusive
and ribald comments I receive through the evening.
It gives satisfaction to the Claw’s
men to see the agent of the enemy humbled, kneeling bare-breasted as
she serves the needs of her opponents. No doubt my appearing in so
demeaning a way is a boost to their confidence and morale.
The only consolation to me in the
evening is the relief I of seeing that some familiar faces have
survived the attack.
Ailsa passes me with a huge bowl of
vulo eggs propped on her shoulder, clad in a tie of red rep cloth
matching my own.
We did not part on the best of terms,
as Ailsa had discovered my presence as a slave in the compound was
voluntary, and thus the events that led to her own collaring might
have been avoided. All the same I sense warmth in the greeting when
her eyes briefly meet mine.
Tonight Ailsa has been selected to
dance after the meal, so there is a jingle of slave bells as she
passes by me.
I am sure it will be a good
performance.
Jaya is here as well, and I learn from
Jaya that Colleen also survived the attack and is working in the
kitchen. Of the four free women captured in the raid on the barge,
only Nessa is absent, sold literally down the river before the
compound fell.
Snatching a brief conversation with
Jaya in the kitchens, I learn that all the female slaves have been
moved out the pens and each is assigned to the quarters of a warrior,
a reward for his loyalty and courage. The remaining men, mostly the
lower ranks, must do without. It is they that look at us with the
most hunger.
With so many warriors lacking partners
the slave women have a new incentive to please their assigned
warriors. A discarded slave might be given over to the use of the
frustrated men, and women are outnumbered so completely that gang
rape by the lesser males would be a danger to life.
Jaya tells me an additional piece of
gossip - the women have not only been moved out of the pens, the
building is now entirely forbidden to the slave women, and is being
put to some secret purpose. I sincerely hope a live example of the
Kurii species is not being hidden there. If there is a beast here
that considers human women the best food source, there may be
punishments far worse than rape.
Near naked girls hurry anxiously about,
but there is one exception to the new female dress code and the
women’s general nervousness.
Kneeling on a cushion on the dais next
to claw is a woman clad head to foot in the robes of concealment.
There is a free woman tolerated in the compound of Kurtz for the
first time.
I shouldn’t feel like a tradition has
been broken, for her presence can only be a positive result for
women’s rights in the Schendi Jungles. And yet the loss of the old
regime pains me. This wouldn’t have happened in Kurtz’ day.
“Meat, Mistress,” I say, kneeling
to offer this female the plate I am carrying.
The presence of a free woman makes me
feel more conscious of my own near nakedness. The heat is making
sweat bead on my skin, and when I extend my arms drips form and run
down into the valley between my breasts.
Before her only I kneel with my thighs
together, the custom on Gor being that women do not want to view the
open legs of slave girls.
The free woman takes a piece of tarsk
meat and has it almost to her lips when she remembers the veil, as if
she is not used to wearing the robes. Raising the lower hem of the
covering to insert the meat under the veil, I catch a glimpse of
beautiful ebony skin underneath and understand.
It would appear that the Others have
actually been true to their words to Udumi. For the time being her
gamble is paying off.
She is now free, while my social status
continues on its inexorable downwards progress.
When I first arrived on Gor I was the
male, sitting as a free warrior while a slave girl knelt to serve me.
Then I was humbled in the eyes of Goreans to the body of a free
woman, weak and unable to exist without the protection of men. I wore
the robes of concealment, just as Udumi is doing now.
Finally I was denied even the status of
free woman, being made slave and less than human in the eyes of
Goreans. Now I am even lower than I was as slave of Kurtz, with
humiliations to be heaped on me as a ridiculed enemy.
I am kajira, an animal, an object, a
possession.
It comes as a great relief to Aurore
the slave girl when my public degradation is over for the night and
the Kur’s Claw dismisses me. I hand back the valuable necklace to
him and hurry back to hide in the room of the grey man.
The hour is late but outside the
compound is still alive with warriors, moving like ants in another
organised search for Kurtz. With the night being pitch black they
have to hunt by torchlight. I cannot help but feel some pride at his
ingenuity in avoiding detection.
I fold my arms across my chest to hide
my nakedness as I move around the wharves and jetties, erect nipples
rubbing against my forearms, but the warriors are engrossed and only
a few stop to watch me hurry by.
Only one stops to stare, a young man
with blonde curls like a cherub who must be on one of his first
missions away from home.
Silently I move past him, padding on
the balls of my small bare feet to draw as little attention as
possible, and in this fashion I scurry with relief through the
curtain and into the privacy of the grey man’s quarters.
It turns out he is washing - I have a
back view of him as he stands naked in a crude tin bathtub. Unusually
wide hips for a man don’t reduce the manliness of buttocks so
muscular and toned that a competitive bodybuilder would be proud of
them.
Then, sensing my presence only then he
spins instinctively, without thinking what he’s doing, and I have a
full frontal view of my master naked for the first time.
At first I don’t understand what I’m
seeing. Between the grey man’s legs is not the protruding genitals
of a man. I’m looking at a woman’s organs, but they appear
somehow incomplete. It’s like someone has made a few sketch strokes
with a pencil as a prelude to rendering the image of a pudenda, and
left those lines on an undoubtedly feminine pelvic shape before the
artist moved to another work.
His nipples are also larger and typical
on a male, and there is signs of development on his bare chest that
is flesh other than pectoral muscle. Surely these are vestigial
mammary glands.
When he recognises me he cries out a
curse, snatching his robe before him, but I have already seen what I
have seen. But what have I seen?
“I don’t understand,” I state,
forgetting myself in my confusion. “You have the sex organs of a
woman, but on the body of a man. What are you?”
For a moment the grey man is
incandescent with rage.
“Curse you, damned kajira,” he
swears, face red with anger, and in his fury he lifts a crude pottery
water jug and throws it right at me.
I duck just in time and it smashes off
the wall behind my head, showering me in water drops and sharp
ceramic fragments.
“Damn slave girl,” he shouts again,
but his anger is gradually deflating and no more missiles are thrown.
Then he sighs, as if defeated, raising a meaty hand to his straggly
hair.
“What will this mean, that she
knows?” he groans to himself.
I continue to stare in frozen
incomprehension as he steps from the tub and wraps that grey robe
about his body, hiding his nudity.
“What are you?” I repeat, and then
remember my status.
“Forgive my curiosity Master,” I
add, but even that seems wrong. “Mistress?” I stammer.
“I suppose it does not matter, that
you know, Aurius of London,” the grey one says, tying the robe at
his waist. “But if you cannot now deduce the truth I shall be
disappointed with you. All the information is before you, like the
pieces on the playing board of the great game, and you just have to
make the connections.”
The facts make no sense to me, but all
the same my mind races through what I know. I consider the amount of
information he has about both myself and Kurtz, his awareness of my
transition, his familiarity with everything about me, and his own
distorted form, as if he were a failed attempt at the same process.
Then I look into his rheumy eyes, and I
see some strange familiarity.
“Telisio?” I ask.
“Perhaps you would make a player
after all, Aurore,” he says, acknowledging the correctness of my
answer.
At first I don’t think to ask why he
betrayed us to the enemy.
“How did you come to be like this?”
I blurt, still forgetting that it is not the place of a slave to
question. But then – this is Telisio. I know this man, both as a
free male and a free woman.
“It is a long story,” the grey one
says wearily, pouring red wine into a pewter tankard and sitting down
to take a long drink before starting to speak.
“You will no doubt vividly remember
your arrival in the compound of Kurtz, bound naked to the second prow
of his longships,” he begins. “It must have been a shattering
experience. That moment was the fulfilment of his plan to test the
essence of the slave in females. Did you know he considered every
detail of your arrival? Kurtz had even ruled you were not to be first
prow – he did not wish you to be overly confident in your own
beauty.”
“I always assumed it was because of
the wealth and status of Lady Nessa,” I reply.
“I had not seen you nude since the
tube at the Nest, so I remember marvelling at your beauty as you
struggled in your ropes,” the grey one reminisces. “But I am
digressing from my subject. Back then, as Telisio, my greatest
loyalty was to Kurtz. When he sank into melancholy, long before your
creation, I was desperate to be the instrument of restoring him to
greatness.”
“Even so, I would never have accepted
the task of planting the idea in the Sardar if it betrayed the
interests of Priest Kings. But when Kurtz conceived the plan, the
will of The Sardar, the Ubar, and myself coincided. A man must be
transformed to a woman, and sent to learn her slavery, and she would
be the instrument of delivering Kurtz back to loyal service. You
would prove woman’s place as the property of man, and vindicate the
Priest Kings.”
“But when you arrived here at our
fortifications your rebellion made Kurtz lose his temper and he had
you placed in the water cage, the first departure from his careful
plan.”
“It was intended that you should
glimpse me in the crowd, speeding the breaking of your spirits, but
you were moved to the cage too quickly to become aware of my
presence, or witness my departure, tasked by the Ubar to travel
immediately to Port Schendi and report to the local agent on your
successful arrival.”
“It was at the end of my journey when
things went even more wrong,” Telisio says. “I was intercepted by
a patrol of tarnsmen loyal to the Kurii, not a pasang from my
destination in Port Schendi.”
“Normally they would have simply
killed a stranger travelling alone, but unfortunately for me I was
recognised as one of Kurtz’ highest deputies by a tarnsman turned
traitor. They chained me, and after I was stripped and hooded I was
removed to a place I know not where. In that Kurii stronghold there
was no need for the Others to torture me. I was simply forced to
drink a drug that made me disclose all of the truths I knew, so the
Kurii learnt of the full plan.”
“It did not take the enemy long to
appreciate the potential of the transformation process for their own
use. It could be applied both as a means of restoring injured Kurii,
and also of exploiting human victims.”
“At the Nest, I had learned much of
the technology,” the grey man says, “my inquisitive nature
meaning I asked questions throughout your changing.”
“All this was related to the Others
in detail, sufficiently so that they were able to speculate on the
composition of the chemicals used on you and a Kurii scientist could
begin to develop their own prototype.”
“I would have made greater efforts to
kill myself before surrendering the information if I had realised
they would test the procedure on an expendable human subject before
risking it on one of their own. And what could have been more ironic
than testing it on the human who betrayed all this information?”
“The results, you see before you.
Something went terribly wrong with their attempt to turn me into a
female, and I woke not young and beautiful, but as you see me now.”
“My sole consolation had been a
belief that the sight of my deformities would cool their interest in
using the Priest Kings’ technology, but the Kurii did not accept
defeat. They are a tenacious species.”
“The Kur believe there will be
fingerprints of the chemicals used in the transformation residing in
your body tissues, Aurore. By analysing these traces they can
identify the difference between the process used by the Priest Kings,
and their own attempts.”
“Body tissues?” I say nervously.
“They formed a new plan,” the grey
one says, ignoring my concern, “to seize you, and recover their
lost outpost at the same time. I was the ideal instrument to support
both these tasks, being familiar with the geography of the
fortifications, and able to recognise you.”
“But why are you helping them?” I
then ask. “To complete your transformation? Surely you don’t want
be a woman on Gor. At least in your current shape you can masquerade
as a male. Why help them, only to be rewarded with transformation
into something more contemptible?”
“I help them because I no longer have
the mental strength to end my own life, and fear of death has taken
command of me,” Telisio answers with sad candour. “This body is
not stable - it looks powerful but I grow weaker with every day. My
organs are steadily breaking down. It is unlikely that I could even
overpower you as I did in the tent a few days ago. I have perhaps a
month to live, unless I can save myself by enduring the process a
second time.”
“I know, Aurore, that it is
contemptible to serve the enemy for a chance of life, but my mind has
lost its will along with my body. And I betray no-one but myself and
you. My failure to report to the Nest meant that one of two dooms
would inevitably overcome Kurtz.”
“What difference would your
non-return make to Bila-Haruma?” I ask, referring to the other
threat on the shores of the lake.
“As another Ubar loyal to Sardar, the
Priest Kings stayed his hand while there was hope Kurtz could have
been saved,” is the answer. “Telisio’s absence from the Nest
will have been interpreted as a sign of both our deaths at Kurtz’
hands. They will unleash military force to restore order in the
region.”
“But you could return to the Sardar,
now,” I protest, “we could escape together. Priest Kings could
repair your body, or even turn you back to a male.”
Telisio shakes her head sadly.
“That too is impossible for me. The
Kurii did make one unfortunately successful modification to the
process - by implanting some kind of biological restraint to control
their victim’s behaviour. I have to ingest a liquid that only they
can provide constantly, or I die within hours. They make sure that my
supply is insufficient to flee.”
She pauses and says, “I am almost as
much of a slave to them as you are, Aurore. If I’d set you free it
would have meant the end of my life.”
We are silent for a moment, as she
gives me time to absorb this information. Poor Telisio. This war
between alien species has ruined his world far more than mine.
“At least your discovery of my gender
brings the benefit that you will accept I do not represent a threat
to you,” the grey man, correction, the grey woman, says. “You can
help preserve the secret.”
“The panthers knew, didn’t they?”
I ask, mind racing. “That’s why you were permitted in the camp.”
“I needed to reveal myself to win
their trust,” Telisio confirms. “The physician here is also aware
– he supplies the potion that sustains my life. But that is all.”
“Kur’s Claw doesn’t know?” I
say. It makes me feel nervous that this great secret is out there for
him to discover, as if something horrific is closing that I can’t
yet discern, but still I sense it.
“He only knows that we are subjects
of the process,” the grey one confirms, “not that I was
transformed, or damaged so severely. He thinks I was changed into an
ageing man. Kurii society is highly factionalised, you know, and so
are their agents. The physician and I are under what the Kurii call
the North-eastern Control Group. Kur’s Claw and his men are under
the Southern Control Group. They are greatly suspicious of us, but
courtesies must be observed.”
“This lack of unity is a good thing
for humanity – if the Kurii acted as one they would be a far more
terrible threat. But here on the ground it means the physician and I
are at best tolerated in this place. We must not provoke them into
open hostility.”
My fears begin to take solid form.
“You saw the way Kur’s Claw looked
at me,” I say, my voice quavering. “If he discovers you’re not
strong enough to defend me, he may claim me for his own.”
“I am no longer vigorous enough to
protect you in combat, Aurore,” Telisio says, shaking his head. “If
he decides to take you for himself, I can do little to prevent it.
Between us we must make sure that does not happen. So you will have
to submit to his every request to avoid a confrontation, even if that
means going to his furs. I’m sorry, but that is how it must be.”
My heart feels like lead, so intense is
the sudden loathing horror. The only shield protecting me was the
grey man, but that is no shield at all.
“I don’t want to be his pleasure
slave,” I plead in a breaking voice. My mind is filled with images
of his hands on me, possessing me the way Kurtz did.
“I’m sorry Aurore,” the grey one
says again. “This is not the fate you hoped for when you left the
Sardar. But as pleasure slave to a human agent you at least escape
the fate of those females that are chosen to provide live meat to the
beasts.”
Perhaps at that image she draws her
cloak tighter, as if she were cold despite the jungle heat, and I
study the fit of her garment properly for the first time. I realise
it is not a cloak. The grey woman wears the robes of concealment.
“I will be no better than live meat
if I have to lie with him,” I moan, and not for the first time I
regret the day I agreed to be made a female.
42 - The Kur’s Claw takes measures to
find his enemy.
Next morning my prospects do not
improve.
The grey woman and I are summoned into
the hall, before the throne of the Ubar. There we discover Kur’s
Claw is vexed, and he is drumming his powerful fingers on the arm of
his chair.
“The enemy, Kurtz still evades me,”
he grumbles to the grey one.
“He is a resourceful man,” Telisio
observes with a tone of amusement. “But are you sure he is still
here?”
“One of the slaves informs me the
food stores have been disturbed during the night,” Claw says
irritably. “So either one of my men has a nocturnal eating habit,
or we have an uninvited guest.”
“I’m not sure how we can help,”
Telisio says, unconcerned.
“An incentive must be to draw him out
of hiding. The only thing he cares for is his female. Kurtz will not
stand by and see his favourite shamed.”
From my place on my knees I look up in
anguish at the grey one, clutching his robe in my hand as my pulse
rate suddenly leaps with adrenaline.
“Aurore must remain undamaged,” the
grey one insists, also starting to show concern now she needs to
plead my cause. “You know the physician’s caste needs her for
their work.”
Claw looks hungrily at me in a way that
makes my skin crawl.
“I do not intend any permanent harm
to her,” he sneers, with contempt for me and the grey one. “That
would be a waste. But the physicians can obtain the information they
require as long as the girl still breathes, and the security of this
place is much more important than the wellbeing of a slave.”
“Master, please don’t,” I beg
Kur’s Claw. Many weeks of slave training have made me used to
humbling myself, and I place my cheek to his heavy boot without
regret to plead for his goodwill.
But it is too late. Two warriors are
already moving up behind us, their hands on the hilts of their
swords. We aren’t going to win this debate.
“You will think me unnecessarily
cruel for this action, no doubt,” he says firmly, addressing not me
but the grey one standing above me. “But I am convinced the girl’s
suffering will draw Kurtz out more quickly.”
“You must do as is necessary,” the
grey woman accedes, reading our chances as I do. “But please - no
permanent damage.”
“If she is harmed in a way that
reduces her value, I will see you are compensated,” he says with
chilling coldness.
I lift my head from his boots and
straighten up, in time to see from his stony expression that the
decision has been made.
Thus only 5 ehn, the Gorean minutes
later, I stand on one of the wharves of the compound inside a tall,
narrow punishment cage that I last witnessed used on a captive
panther girl. It has been temporarily lowered to the ground to
facilitate my entry through the hinged gate, but I know they will
soon winch me up like I’m in a birdcage.
I am actually feeling a little calmer
at my prospects. This will be an ordeal, but it is one I consider
merciful compared to my expectations. Kur’s Claw said I would be
“shamed”, and that word usually implies rape to the Gorean mind.
When the gate is padlocked behind me I almost feel relieved at the
relatively safe environment of the cage.
“Pass your hands through the bars in
front of you,” I am commanded, and conditioned from long months
under the whip, I obey as a reflex, delivering my hands out
immediately at the height of Aurore’s stomach.
In this fashion shackles are attached
to my wrists, so I cannot withdraw them back through the bars to my
body.
I reflect that I should have offered
out my hands above my head, which might at least have offered the
opportunity to rest, relaxing my thighs and dangling from my wrists,
but it is now too late.
Before I can consider my failures any
further, there is more devilry.
I am commanded to spread my feet so
they can also chain my ankles closely to the outer circumference of
the cage, low down where I stand on its base. This opens my legs into
an inverted “V”, but to little wider than the width of my
shoulders. My feet, trapped apart, search for the most comfortable
place on the gridded floor.
The additional restraints seem an
unnecessary measure and it was not a punishment applied to the
troublesome panther girls, although after several hours unable to
shuffle my feet far it may turn out to be a means of torture.
Next the brief skirt of rep-cloth about
my waist is torn from me, leaving me naked for this fresh camp of
warriors to admire. I don’t enjoy being publicly nude, but again
things could be worse. No-one can rape me through these narrow bars.
The grey one stands silently watching
the whole time, his hood drawn over his head. Telisio has not raised
any objections to their treatment of me, but I detect disapproval in
the shape of the shoulders.
Claw, who has also come outside to
supervise the proceedings squints into the sky, raising a hand to
shield his face. It is going to be an oppressively hot day. This will
not be fun.
“We do not wish Kurtz’ girl to be
harmed by the sun,” Claw says loudly. This statement is not
intended for our ears, but for the benefit of the crowd gathering to
witness the spectacle. “Wet her body.”
Two slaves approach me, carrying a
heavy looking wooden bucket between them. I see the one on the left
is Ailsa, her face anguished, and tears prick my eyes. Chained in
place I can do nothing but shut my eyes and mouth as this is pitched
towards my face, drenching my front.
Only a second later a second deluge
hits me from behind, launched by a second team of slaves.
On my lips I taste iron. Blinking, I
look down at my dripping body.
I had been expecting drips of pure
water from the lake, but the fluid that coats me is as scarlet as
strawberry juice. It’s a runny mix - some dilute solution of blood
rather than the pure fluid which would be more viscous. All the same
I must look like Carrie from the Stephen King movie.
Why have they coated me in this mess?
Is this part of the shaming that the Claw mentioned, or something
just to keep me cool?
For a second I panic, thinking that
I’ve been prepared for feeding to one of the Kurii, the scent of
blood enough to drive the beast into a frenzy.
But it is broad daylight, the Kur’s
Claw said I would sustain no permanent harm, and there has been no
sign of the alien species being physically present here in the
jungle. There must be some other form of ordeal.
“Winch her up,” Claw orders, and
one of the warriors cranks a rusty handle to lift the cage.
Suddenly I am off the ground, swinging
slightly in the warm breeze. Then the cage begins to rotate as the
supporting chain straightens itself, and my view of the fortified
compound changes rapidly as it pans round.
Something is definitely different
today, apart from this changed viewpoint, but I’m not sure what.
The bloody, smelly fluid is starting to
dry already, caking my skin. It will not protect me from the heat for
long so I hope they intend to recoat me regularly.
“Kurtz, I know you can hear me,”
the Kur’s Claw suddenly roars, so loudly that I jump.
His voice is a little below me now, the
floor of my cage being left several feet above the wharf.
“We have your woman,” Claw booms.
“Unless you surrender yourself, she will remain therein suffering
until the time pleases me to bring her down. When that happens, she
will be cleansed and chained, and I will see that she is used by
every warrior in the camp, one after another.”
“No!” I cry in desperation, my
protest ringing out across the compound in Aurore’s high voice. The
grey one is also moving in with hands raised to object, but one of
Claw’s deputies blocks his path.
“Or you can remain in hiding, Kurtz,
so each man here, as he takes his pleasure from your own girl, will
know your cowardice.”
“No!” I cry again, my voice
breaking.
Kur’s Claw returns to his usual
volume.
“Come friends, we have business to
do,” he says, clapping one of the warriors across the shoulders and
leading him back towards the communal building.
Another man in service to the Kurii
pushes my cage so it moves in a slow pendulum swing. Then he turns
his back to me and follows his leader away.
I am distracted from watching their
departure by an abrupt piercing pain in my thigh, as if a needle is
being injected. I look down and see one of the gigantic jungle
mosquitos has settled on my filthy leg, and with its sharp proboscis
it is sucking my blood.
Instinct makes me want to swat it away
and I reflexively attempt to do so, but the chains prevent me with a
loud clang.
Then I understand the purpose of
dousing me in blood. I also understand what is unusual in my view of
the compound today.
The smoking braziers that keep away the
insects have not been lit.
43 - The Second Ordeal of the Cage
Many years ago, when I was still a man
living on Earth, I read in a Scottish history book that a medieval
punishment was to stake criminals out naked, in a fashion where they
were unable to protect their bodies.
Then the midges, a type of bloodsucking
parasitic insect that plague the country, would gather to feast on
the defenceless victim without interruption.
Although midge bites can certainly be
irritating, at the time it seemed an innocuous form of punishment
compared to some of the brutal measures used in the middle ages.
In the cage I realise the error of this
assumption.
Under the baking jungle sun the insects
torment me relentlessly and without mercy. The itching bites drive me
crazy.
Every inch of Aurore’s lustrous skin
seems vulnerable to attack, but they seem to take a perverse delight
in targeting my erogenous zones. By shaking my head vigorously I can
protect my face, my blood-matted hair lashing like a whip, but with
my limbs chained there is little I can do to defend the rest of my
body.
The sinister purpose of chaining my
ankles apart becomes clear when a mosquito bites the sensitive fleshy
lips at the apex of my thighs.
Priest Kings, no, I think, I can’t
close my legs.
If I could squat down I might be able
bring in my knees enough to conceal my most intimate entrance, but
the narrow cage prevents me from doing any more than bend my legs.
And the bugs are not my only torture.
Under the backing sun I feel my
temperature begin to climb, until I descent into a fevered delirium
where each minute seems like an eternity.
I start to see things that may or may
not be real. One example is when the gate leading out to the ground
behind the compound is opened, and through this gate enters a silent
precession of the black clothed warriors.
A large and apparently heavy object is
carried into the camp, the size of a wardrobe. It is wrapped in cloth
to disguise its exact nature, and in my delirium the men bear it on
their shoulders look like pallbearers carrying a coffin.
This object is taken not to one of the
storage warehouses, but to the forbidden building that was once the
slave pens. A man in the robes of the physicians answers the heavy
door of the pens, and the coffin is carefully manoeuvred inside.
Please don’t let it be holding a Kur,
I beg.
Periodically I am given water, by means
of a soaked sponge affixed to a pole and lifted up through my bars,
and each time it is offered I drink with desperate gratitude.
At the times I am rehydrated the world
grows a little more real, and I see the compound with more certainty.
I notice that Ailsa is the slave given the task of watering me.
“I’m sorry, Aurore,” she whispers
through the bars on one visit. “I didn’t want to throw the blood
over you, but I would have shared your punishment if I do not follow
orders.”
It comforts me to receive kindness from
Ailsa, but the former Ubar’s slave has few allies among the jealous
kajirae. Others spin my cage as they pass, so the panorama of the
compound races crazily past in my view – building, building, wall,
ship, building, rubbish pile, wharves, gate, lake, walls.
The warriors too have their sport with
me, jabbing the soles of my feet through the cage floor with weapons
to make me dance, and taunting me with the prospects that await me
when I’m given to their use.
The young warrior with the angelic
blonde curls stands and watches me for some time and seems about to
speak, but then he frowns to himself and walks away.
All in all it is not the best day I
spend as Aurore of the Sardar.
In the afternoon the inevitable rain
forest clouds form overhead. I watch them gather through the bars
above my head. There is little change in the temperature and the
humidity seems to climb even further, but it is a merciful relief
being out of the direct sun.
The downside of this change is that I
am less occupied by the delirium, and I have more time to contemplate
my situation.
The perfect skin that was so carefully
created for Aurore of the Sardar is covered with red insect bites.
They itch terribly, but there are only a few areas I can scratch by
rubbing myself against the bars of the cage.
The only consolation I can take from
being disfigured like a victim of dar kosis is that in this state I
might deter the passions of some of the men, if the Kur’s Claw does
indeed give me to the whole camp.
I am sick with dread at the second
humiliation that will happen if Kurtz does not appear to surrender
himself.
It would be better to die in this cage
before enduring the ordeal of being used by every single man, and I
do actually look around me to see if there is some way I can strangle
myself with my own chains, but my arms are still trapped by my wrists
shackled outside the bars.
It is when night is falling that my
cage pauses its spinning to leave me looking down at the robed figure
of Udumi. Her big dark eyes, the only part of her body I can see
through the rectangular opening of her robes, wear an expression of
pity.
“It is time to say farewell, Aurore
of the Sardar,” she says with grave formality. “I do not think we
will meet again. My destiny is to return to my home, whereas yours is
to be a slave girl of Gor, giving pleasure to men.”
She turns from me, and in the company
of two warriors waits at the back gate of the compound. As if her
departure is about trigger some coming apocalypse, there is a
theatrical rumble of thunder from overhead.
Only ten ehn, the Gorean minutes later,
the sky has grown completely black. Men and slaves rush round
lighting lamps around the wharves, and the back gate opens. I watch
as Udumi passes outside with her escort, probably to leave my life
forever. She will be going to a ship, at the landing site by old
Kurii feeding place. If the Kurii are true to their word she will
board that ship and they will return her to Urth.
I conjecture that fearing intervention
by the Priest Kings, the Others will have waited for the cover of
complete darkness to make their landing. In this case they have timed
their visit particularly well, for the impending storm could disguise
anything.
A spectacular flash of lighting
illuminates the rolling clouds for a moment. There must be a risk of
my cage being struck by a bolt, but I do not fear it. It would be a
fast and merciful death compared with what awaits when the cage is
lowered to the ground.
Five ehn later there is more lightning
with a thunder crack like a whip, and then a gradual increase in the
volume of noises that I realise are truly the sounds of whips.
Through the still-open rear gate passes
a coffle of nude women, each one beautiful. The slave chain links
them from throat to throat, but the girls’ wrists and ankles are
also in shackles. Are these real or a fevered delusion of my
imagination?
These unlucky captives hurry to evade
brutal lashings from their slave drivers. They pass close by to my
cage and one of them looks up at me in horror, before screaming and
babbling in a language that sounds like Japanese.
I must look quite a fright if the sight
of me can reduce women to screaming.
I recognise another language used as
German, before its speaker is lashed into silence. The girl looks as
if she wants to protest further, but I hope for her sake she does
not. She is a slave now, and must learn only to speak when her owners
wish her to do so.
The line of naked women are not
directed to the forbidden slave pens, but are driven straight onto
one of the wooden sailing ships. Perhaps they are to be taken to a
more suitable training facility before being sold, or perhaps they go
immediately to one of the markets of Gor.
I feel every sympathy with these
unlucky females, and then remember despondently that their fate will
be no worse than mine. A couple of them I would have judged as
rivalling Aurore in beauty, and with my chance of return to the
Sardar gone I too am no better than one of the many Earth women lost
forever into slavery on an alien world.
My spirits sink, and when the clouds
break and it starts to downpour my body seems to surrender to the
rigours of my ordeal.
I grow cold and begin to shiver, even
though I know it is a hot night, the tropical rain is warm and I
should feel fine. My legs and buttocks are starting to tremble, tired
from a day standing in the same position. I flex my knees, attempting
to find a position where I can wedge myself against the sides of the
cage to rest, but there’s no position that’s not desperately
uncomfortable.
I want to cry now, but how bad will I
feel if I stand for days?
Aurore’s long hair is soaked through
by the pouring rain, darkening it almost to maroon, and it clings
heavily to my skin, reaching down almost to the base of my spine.
Everyone that is at liberty has gone inside to escape the weather.
The outdoors of the fortified compound is almost deserted, save for a
token couple of warriors standing hunched as they guard the walls.
Even the sounds of jungle animals have
ceased, but the ceaseless drumming of the night time rain makes up
for the loss.
A gust of wind makes my cage rotate
lazily on its axis, until I face the heap of rotten vegetation and
those Kurii heads. I can barely see them in the dark, with only the
outlines visible against an even deeper blackness.
Then I scream with insane terror as one
of the heads rears up out of the fetid heap. It’s impossible, the
beasts are dead. Kurii are mortal – they do not regenerate, but
there the monster stands.
When it starts to move towards me,
uncomprehending I scream again, thinking that somehow the plans to
feed on me. Kur’s Claw does not intend me for his men. I am to be
devoured alive.
The head falls to the side as if
someone has decapitated it for a second time, but the remaining body
still comes for me like a ravenous zombie. When it breaks into a
stripe of light from the light I see the horror’s two glinting eyes
and only then does it takes on a more human shape.
Kurtz, it is Kurtz. He’s covered in
filth and is camouflaged on diagonal black stripes that make him like
a human zebra, but it is Kurtz. He is carrying a blowpipe, one of the
weapons used by native hunters in the local villages.
My surge of hysterical relief abruptly
returns to greater terror, when he lifts his weapon and points it
straight at me.
“What are you doing?” I scream in
incomprehension and fear. This afternoon I was wishing I could take
my own life, but instinct still makes me cry out for
self-preservation.
Kurtz’ cheeks distort only for a
fraction of a second and there is a sharp wasp sting in my thigh, no
worse than the piercing insect bites, just above the mark that will
forever show I was once his slave.
A dart is embedded in the once perfect
flesh of my leg. It’s an inconsequentially small thing, really, but
the pain from the injection has not faded quickly as it should. It’s
not fading at all – it feels like there’s a white hot needle in
me.
My eyes look up from the dart to meet
those of my lover, and I understand.
Kurtz thinks like a true Ubar. Rather
than be made vulnerable by his concern for me; rather than have me
suffer because of my association with him; rather than have any other
man touch the property that is his, he will take the initiative and
kill me himself.
“Seize him,” commands the voice of
Kur’s Claw from close by, and suddenly from the apparently empty
rain soaked wharves of the compound, warriors are all around us. This
must have been a trap. They have been watching all night for him to
make his move.
“Run!” I scream to my Master,
concerned for him even though he’s my thigh blazes with pain and
he’s just killed me.
But the Ubar stands limply as the black
clad warriors fall upon him, and I scream again as I see him in their
hands.
When I know all is lost, a sense of
lassitude fills me.
Although I know for sure I will not
live to see his fate, I feel strangely calm as I face death. I regret
only the terrible pain that will mark my final moments.
My whole leg is on fire, as if I’m
being branded a second time, and it spreads through my body like
blaze has been lit under my cage to burn me as a witch.
Soon the pain is too bad to hold back
from crying out to the world.
“Get her out, get her out,” a male
voice is commanding and when I look at the speaker I am surprised to
hear such anxiety in the voice of Kur’s Claw. “Summon the
physician.”
Agony such as this has to be mortal,
however. When I’m screaming like I’ve been plunged into the sun,
the fade-to-black oblivion comes as the sweetest relief.
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