Daughter of Gor by Olga Turlovna (Part Three)

Daughter of Gor

By Olga Turlovna

10 - What occurs in Torcadino

As I walk under armed guard through the city of Torcadino, I consider that this has been my most pleasurable experience since awakening inside Aurore. Despite being a woman I finally have a little freedom to move around, exploring the city almost like an Urth tourist would back home.

Granted I have an escort – either Telisio, Rorius, or both, stand close by me, exuding their combination of menace and protectiveness. But the two men are as interested in exploring this new city as I am, so it is not difficult persuading them to leave our discrete rooms in the safety of the midday.

Women clad in the robes of concealment are everywhere, so although it is hot under the heavy garments, mine do grant me a pleasing anonymity.

I am not unhappy with my situation.

We had travelled by tarn for several days since leaving the Sardar, pushing the giant birds to the point of exhaustion. By the time the city of Torcadino loomed on the horizon, it was clear to the men that we would need a more protracted rest for the tarns.

Torcadino was an ideal location for this time-out. The city lies on a plain, approximately half the distance between the Sardar Mountains and our destination in Schendi. Sitting across a number of important trade routes, Torcadino is famed for its markets and is, by Gorean standards, relatively tolerant to outsiders.

It is through this market area we currently browse, the men responding jovially to the calls of the merchants who try and tout their wares to us in the same way that would be recognised on Urth.

I am looking over the goods of a merchant selling women’s garments, not from a wish to conform to gender stereotypes but from a genuine ignorance about female clothing.

I avoid looking up at the slave clothing displayed at the back of the merchant’s stall.

We test some sweet pastries, and Rorius purchases a batch to provision us for the onward journey. I am given a small sample of this food, managing to insert it under my veil without showing any of my face.

Since my transformation I have become more practiced at conducting myself in public as a free woman. With that improvement I have become less constantly conscious of being female.

But then, in the crowded city market, we are passed by an example of the most famous product sold in Torcadino. A line of naked women, linked together by short chains running from throat to throat, are being driven towards the auction block.

Most of these hapless females proceed in total defeat, their heads down and almost oblivious to everything going on around them, but one girl looks around at the people in desperation, her face red with fear, hands trying to cover her body.

“I’m of the merchants,” she calls out, “I’m not a slave. Somebody buy me, and I’ll be able to reward you.”

She tries to pull out of the line, the chain going taut and almost pulling her neighbour off her feet, until the slave masters move in. There is a sharp retort from a whip cracking, and the girl jumps forward with a cry, moving quickly in unison with the others. She would have been reasonably attractive, were her face not so tear streaked.

The girl behind – she who was nearly dragged off balance – shoves the other one testily in the back. Thus are settled the petty squabbles of slaves.

To me, these sights are barbaric. Anyone who believes that the Gorean system frees women from their repressed nature would only need look at this merchant girl to learn the real truth. She called out for someone to buy her, and that is likely to be her fate. Only she will not reward them out of choice. Soon she will be desperate to do so.

I would rather browse the stalls than witness a fate that will soon be mine, but the two men want to watch the auction. So I have to acquiesce and we follow the group along busy streets to emerge onto a main square, packed with people.

The sights of Gor never fail to surprise me: that such a world can exist when simultaneously somewhere else a modern, technological, civilised society is functioning.

The market square in Torcadino is more reminiscent of Ancient Rome, or perhaps the 19th Century slave trading era. In its centre, Human beings are sold as property here, from a large wooden platform like a theatre stage.

Meanwhile in New York, or London, or Tokyo, city commuters will be on their way to work, unaware of the misery elsewhere in the universe.

Three men, heavily shackled, stand facing the crowd as bidders vie to possess them. All three are naked.

Their vendor is squeezing one of the men’s upper biceps, to demonstrate his physical prowess.

The genitals of two of the men are limp and small, perhaps reduced with fear, but the third man is much more blessed. As our group moves closer to the platform we hear that he is being taunted for this endowment, and there is much ribald joking about his ability to satisfy a female owner.

Furious at the humiliation, the man tenses in his chains and I think for a moment he’s going to break the iron by force of will. We can see he is in excellent physical shape and the sounds of the crowd are calls of appreciation.

The pace of the bidding increases – he has only managed to raise his sale price.

While the sale progresses the group of naked women we’ve been following stumble up onto the stage, encouraged by swats from the whips. The male slaves react immediately, breaking their line and trying to move protectively towards the females.

I realise from the behaviour of the two groups to each other that they must be connected. These must be the hapless victims of a raid on the same town or village. The captive girls are so fresh that none of them are branded – further evidence they must be recent captures.

“They can sell unbranded females here,” Telisio comments to Rorius, also noting their unmarked skin. “It is illegal in many cities of Gor.”

It takes some ferocious usage of the lash to drive the two slave groups apart. The handlers do not use gentle swats – these are brutal lashes with a whip. Even so the males seem insensitive to harm to their own bodies, and are only controlled when the slavers threaten the women.

The whole incident is heart-breaking to watch, and I feel tears of sympathy bead in my eyes.

The men fetch a high price after their display of strength and spirit.

Male slaves are much more valuable than female, owing not just to the relative abundance of women on the market, but to the men’s ability to take on more physical work. Female slaves are only useful for domestic toil, or for providing the pleasures of the furs.

“I’ll find you,” one of the men calls devotedly to one of the women, as he is driven down the steps from the stage to his new owner. I hope he is re-united with his love, but it is unlikely.

Even if he does earn his freedom, he may think differently about liberating a slave girl. He has already been led away by the time the women are sold.

The whole batch of female captives are traded, much to their chagrin, to a paga tavern. They sell for a considerably lower price than the male group.

Paga tavern girls are worked hard. The woman who cried out to the crowd will undoubtedly have to reward her new owner.

The next girl propelled on the block by a shove is a beauty, but she looks lifeless and numb with shock. Goreans prefer a girl with spirit, so her attitude will not assist her price.

“Help me, someone,” she pleads to the crowd in English, and that explains it. She’s one of the many Urth women, brought here to be sold as slaves.

“There’s been a mistake,” she calls.

As she’s forced to kneel on the platform she moves awkwardly, lacking the grace of a Gorean female, as if she’s not completely comfortable in her own body. Her natural beauty means she has potential, but it will demand patience and training to bring this out. For this reason she only sells for a few copper tarsks, to a man of the metalworkers’ caste.

No doubt he will teach her that there has not been a mistake.

The crowd’s attention is caught by the next girl, who moves like a catwalk model, as proudly as an Ubara, onto the wooden platform. Like the others were, she is, of course, already naked. There is a Gorean saying that only a fool buys a woman clothed.

Moving as smoothly as a ballerina, the slave faces the crowd and falls to her knees. Her thighs are apart, and she holds her breath, lifting her chest to display her breasts to their best advantage.

This may seem a surprise to a reader unfamiliar with the ways of Gor. Why would a girl court her own sale, rather than fleeing from it?

The answer is logical. It is very much in the girl’s best interests to fetch a high price, as that is likely to indicate a wealthy master, rather than a poor one.

The lifestyle and tasks assigned to a slave in a rich household are likely to be more pleasant than those of a slave that works the fields or cleans the latrines.

The lowest value slaves can even end up as live human bait for the hunters of urts or sleen – at the bottom of the food chain in every respect.

This woman here will certainly hope to be the girl of a wealthy owner, when it can mean the difference between a relatively comfortable existence and a painful death to her.

Furthermore, the girl will know that as a female slave, her most important attribute is physical desirability.

A woman purchased to provide sexual pleasure will likely have an easier life than a female slave bought purely for domestic tasks.

Except for the pleasure women owned by the paga taverns, who will be worked hard and used repeatedly, the life of “silk girls” can be almost indolent.

A Gorean would therefore not be surprised that this girl is trying her best to fetch a good price. But even a Gorean would be impressed by the way she holds herself.

This one is quite exquisite. I realise I am holding my breath.

She has already been marked – we are looking at a trained kajira, but my heart leaps when I notice the brand.

“That girl!” I whisper urgently to Telisio.

“She wears the brandius flower – Kurtz’s symbol.”

I am choked with emotion. Kneeling on the platform is my destiny – something close to the Aurore that will exist in my future. The sight of her overwhelms me, and I have to lift a gloved hand to my delicate face as if to hide my veiled expression.

Tala, the slave I knew back in the mountains of The Sardar, was an attractive kajira, but I’ve never seen a woman like this. She holds herself with such an instinctive grace that each tiny movement appears like a part of a dance that she performs involuntarily.

The creature before me is an entire universe of paradoxes – she sits proudly although in the most humble of positions; something about her manner is a challenge to every man watching, and yet she is submissive. She is an exquisite living creature, and yet no more than an object.

“One silver tarsk,” a man is already calling out a bid.

Can this really be my future? I have been told my mission necessitates my sale back to the agents of the Priest Kings, but those are just words.

It still seems as unreal as my being Aurore. I try to imagine myself kneeling in her place, exposed and naked, a slave brand burned in my flesh. Would I be trying to win the best price, and praying for fate to deliver me to the right Master?

“Two silver tarsks,” someone shouts from just behind me.

“Three silver tarsks,” a female voice says this time.

“Five silver tarsks,” another man is already outbidding the woman.

Competition for the girl is fierce.

She is exceptionally beautiful, but as I watch the sale I can’t forget that the female body created for me has the potential to be even more attractive. Will there be as many bidders when it’s my turn?

“One gold!” someone calls out. There is cheering. Slave sales are an everyday occurrence, but this auction has become a spectacle. For a girl to fetch such a high price is unusual.

“One gold, and four silver,” someone else has called.

When the woman finally sells, for two coins of gold, there is cheering from the crowd and the sound of fists hammering on shoulders – the Gorean method of applause. Even the girl herself has a slight expression of pride, as she humbly tries to glimpse her new owner.

I search the crowd and see a man in the colours of a warrior moving towards the vendor.

Now a naked man is being let in shackles to the platform, but he is a poor specimen and much of the crowd is dispersing.

Telisio puts his hand on my shoulder gently, and turns me away.

I feel like I want to cry. The barbarity; the humiliation; and the certainty of my destiny prick my eyes with tears. Visions of my future overlay the fresh images of the sale in my memory, and it horrifies me.

How could I kneel there to be sold, hoping I’ve been identified by an agent of the Priest Kings?

Rorius is a few paces ahead, so I have a brief moment to speak to Telisio. I’ve warmed a little to Rorius since the ambush in the forest, but Telisio is still more approachable.

“What happens if something goes wrong, and an agent of the Priest Kings is not there to buy me?” I blurt out.

He smiles at my apprehension.

“Then you’d better please your new Master,” he says.

“It’s not funny,” I insist. “I don’t want to be like her. I’m doing this in service of the Priest Kings.”

“Perhaps if you move like her, I’ll seek you out and buy you myself,” he says.

I punch him in the arm, but it doesn’t help. His biceps are like iron, large and strong compared to Aurore’s weak upper body, and they remind me of everything I’ve sacrificed.

“You wouldn’t want someone who used to be a man.”

He laughs again, but there is a tension in the air.

“I saw you when you emerged from the tube, Lady Aurore. Remember you’re certainly a woman now. You would make an excellent slave.”

“I do not have a female mind.”

Telisio looks meaningfully at me. Our conversation has become serious. Again I wonder if he could desire me. It makes me strangely uncomfortable.

“That remains to be seen,” he says, “but our mission depends on you being correct in that statement. A kajira is allowed to hold nothing back, however. Your only means to survive may be to sacrifice the person you are now.”

“I will not end up with the mind of a slave,” I repeat. “I will not end up like those women up there.”

But I am not sure.

11 - A free woman in Schendi

The heat in this place makes me feel faint. It’s like a humid choking blanket, which makes me drip sweat even if I make the smallest movement.

Equally overwhelming is the smell. I am inside, far from the city perimeters, and yet I can smell the damp from the jungle permeating everything. Mixed into the presence of the jungle is the salt smell of Thassa, the sea, and the more stagnant water of the muddy Nyoka River.

There is the rich smell of spices – particularly the Gorean equivalent of cinnamon, and the odours of humanity – sweat and blood and excrement and sex.

“Lady Aurore?” a female voice says, and I realise my attention has drifted. I’ve not been listening.

My face grows hot.

“Forgive me, Lady Nessa,” I stammer in my high voice. “The heat and the humidity – they are difficult for me.”

Generously, Lady Nessa excuses me.

“Like me, you are a woman of the North,” she says, and I can hear the understanding in her voice. “This climate does not suit you. When we reach the higher lands up river, you will be more comfortable. Drink some fruit juice – it will help you.”

Nessa pauses her conversation and turns to instruct the slave girl serving drinks. She thanks the girl and directs her across to me.

I am impressed. Such politeness in a free person addressing a slave is unusual. Free women on Gor are expected to treat kajirae with contempt and distain, but Nessa, it appears, does not.

The slave girl, clothed in the short white camisk that indicates her status as a domestic, rather than a pleasure slave, kneels before me and pours me a glass of the same liquid.

Looking across at her takes me back to the last time I was served by a kajira – when Tala knelt before me in the Priest Kings’ sanctuary of The Nest. Tala was also clad in a camisk.

Then I received service the way that a female slave serves a man of Gor. This time I am served as woman serves woman.

The noticeable difference is that the slave kneels next to me with her thighs together. In front of Aurore there is no need for her to flaunt her body to a fellow female. Rather - the opposite is preferred. Free women do not like reminders of their sexuality from lowly slaves.

No one present knows that Aurore of the Sardar was once a man.

We are also at the same height, me and this domestic kajira, both of us being on our knees. Her eyes are level with my own.

Looking across at the kneeling slave, I notice the sweet shape of her breasts and her hips. I notice the beautiful dark skin of her thighs – a typical colour for the people of the Schendi region, and think how pleasant it might be to lie between those limbs.

I have not yet learned to look upon women without the desire of male eyes.

I consider it a waste that she is only allocated domestic duties when she could provide other pleasures, but this is sometimes the fate of beautiful captives.

Free women sometimes purchase attractive slaves, to show their ability to deny men pleasure. By controlling the slave’s sexual destiny, they feel more in control of their own.

I snap out of the reverie. I must not think of sex. Women do not spend their day thinking about sex. I am a woman, and it is too hot under these robes.

“... great that you are also travelling to a free companionship,” Lady Nessa is saying, and she giggles naughtily. “We can anticipate the pleasures to come, together.”

“You look forward to the moment of your union?” I ask uncertainly. “Most women of high caste are united with companions of financial or political benefit to their families, rather than joined with the ones they love.”

“I am lucky. My betrothed is a strong and handsome warrior, well able to protect me, but he is also a man of intelligence and humour. I have met him several times. As soon as we are ready to leave Schendi, I will hasten to be with him.”

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. I shake my head. Nessa will never reach her intended. She is a Trojan horse, bearing me to the camp of Kurtz. A rivulet of sweat drips down my chest to settle between my breasts.

“What happens if something happens on the way?” I stammer. “We could be attacked. Have you heard of this man Kurtz, who seizes control of the jungle territory?”

“We are women – we live our lives under threat,” she replies tolerantly. “We have experienced and skilled warriors to protect us. All will be well, Aurore.”

I shake my head. All will not be well. Either Nessa’s caravan will be attacked and she will fall captive like me, or we will reach our destination, and my mission will be unsuccessful. Both outcomes are undesirable.

And I’m so hot in these robes.

I have stopped shaking my head, but the world is still spinning. Nessa’s voice is getting further away. And next moment, I am being held upright in my kneeling position by the supporting hands of the kajira.

“Let me show you the way to cool down, Lady Aurore,” Nessa says in a voice filled with concern, once she’s assured I’m not going to pass out a second time.

“When you’re well enough to walk we can go to the bath house. It’s the best way to handle the humidity – I visit every day.”

“What about my escort?” I protest. “Telisio and Rorius?”

The men have gone into the city and left me in Lady Nessa’s custody.

I have not been told the purpose of their trip, and it is perhaps best I do not know. It might be the last time in their lives for them to enjoy any pleasure.

However, without them, I feel vulnerable, and my fears are puzzling Lady Nessa.

“What’s the matter with you? You’re nervous as a young girl on her first robing,” she says. “My men will accompany us to the doors of the bath house. All will be well.”

She used the same phrase – all will be well. My destiny looms, the collar closing around my neck, but I must behave as if I’m on my way to a free companionship ceremony. I must behave as if I’ve always been female, and trust in my male protectors.

So I let myself be persuaded, and after a short interval we are moving through the exotic streets of the jungle port, Schendi.

A beggar reaches up cupped hands, calling “Lady, Lady,” and I hide in the circle of men.

Surrounding us is a retinue of Nessa’s guards. A giant of a man walks next to me. He keeps being obliged to support me, as fresh waves of dizziness overwhelm me. This man encloses my forearm easily in his giant hand. I’m glad he’s on our side – he could break me as easily as snapping a twig.

I learn from hearing lady Nessa address him that his name is Barolios.

Our destination is one of the more reputable bath houses. It looks crude from the exterior, but once inside I discover the rooms are light and airy, decorated with black and white ceramic tiles that remind me of the interior of a roman villa.

Plants like miniature palm trees grow from ornate pottery.

In the rigidly segregated and private area reserved for the use of women, I prepare to undress for the first time in front of someone who doesn’t know my secret.

Already, I am fighting down a blush. Aurore seems to blush much more easily than Aurius did. It is not a positive aspect of the transition.

As the lady Nessa slips out of her robes, uninhibited in her nakedness before me, I can’t help stare. She has a lovely slim figure, with long limbs and wide hips that make her backside look more feminine. Her breasts are small, but pleasing. I can see her slender ribcage.

When I glance back to her face, I realise she’s noticed my gaze.

“Forgive me – I was admiring your beauty,” is the only thing I can think of to say.

I hope that it is a normal thing for women to do in each other’s company, and I appear to get away with it.

She accepts the comment as a compliment, rather than anything sexually suggestive. Nessa slips into the water of the pool, which I discover comes up to her thighs.

She might be comfortable with group nudity, but I am blushing even more profoundly when I slip my own robes over my head to discover that Nessa is reciprocating the stare.

Her expression is weird – almost a kind of jealous awe.

“Poetry has been written to praise me,” she says in a reverent tone, “but I appear quite plain compared to you. The Priest Kings have truly blessed you with your figure.”

“You’re too kind,” I stammer, but lady Nessa has not finished.

“I must admit I’m surprised to see you have such a perfect shape, because you walk awkwardly – a little like a man does. Perhaps you’re shy about your beauty, or you haven’t come to terms with being a woman.”

“You’re more right than you know,” I admit.

Nessa moves right up next to me then, so she’s almost touching, and casually runs her fingers through Aurore’s long, silken hair.

“And I would give my left arm to have this,” Nessa says longingly. “It’s an amazing colour.”

I can’t get that blush to fade, and she notices.

“You are very shy though,” Nessa teases, “so I’ll leave you alone, and not pay your any more compliments,” and with that she lies back in the pool, pushing away, closing her eyes and letting the water suspend her body. Her breasts are lifted beautifully, and I allow myself a delicious flare of desire.

I crouch down in the pool so the surface laps around my shoulders.

There is a thrill of the forbidden about being here, in the women only part of the baths, enjoying the sight of a nude Lady Nessa. And her two ladies in waiting have been despatched on a shopping mission, otherwise there would be four of us here now.

A slave girl enters the room, clad in a simple camisk. She is here to help us bathe, and carries a large jug made of rough earthenware for this purpose.

It is typical on Gor that females serve in both sexes’ areas of a bath house. Free women are strictly forbidden from exposing themselves to male eyes, whether that male be free or slave. And free men enjoy the company of slave girls in their recreation time.

With female slaves outnumbering the male across Gor, this is one serendipitous occasion where supply is suited to demand.

This particular girl kneels at the edge of the pool, her head lowered. She places her jug down on the tiled floor with a clinking noise.

“Permission to assist you, Mistresses,” she says in a soft voice.

“You may,” Nessa answers without opening her eyes.

The girl gracefully slips her camisk off over her head, and eases herself into the pool. On her thigh is the common brand, like a letter “k”.

She crosses to me first, and begins to delicately wash me.

Nessa abruptly sits up and moves towards me, a mischievous expression on her face. A wave washes before her, momentarily distorting my view of her nude body. Her face is only inches from mine now.

“Your betrothed companion places great trust in you and the men that guard you, lady Aurore,” she smiles impishly. “They are handsome warriors, and you are a desirable woman.”

I have never considered my companions as attractive, and this must show on my face.

“What? You have never thought about what it would be like to be furred by either of them?” she gasps, with wide eyes. “Truly you are the cold one. Surely in the dark of the night you must image yourself in the arms of a strong man, and feel the heat burn in your body?”

The blush comes back again. It seems to be an emotional barometer I can’t control.

I fear for a moment that I have betrayed my male past by showing my lack of heterosexual interest, but Nessa simply interprets it as a sign of my exceptional innocence.

“What about Barolios?” she asks, and then gives her wicked giggle again. “He’s reputed to be a big warrior in every way. Don’t you want to be chained to his bed?”

My reaction must show, because it provokes a warm, rich laugh from her. Even the bath slave has forgotten herself and is smiling at me with amusement.

“Oh, Aurore, do not fear, you’ll experience such delight when your companion awakens your body,” Nessa says affectionately, and then her arms are around my bare shoulders and she kisses my forehead.

I regret being unable to tell her that her one kiss has ‘awakened’ me, far more than an evening with Barolios ever would.

“Do not fear,” she repeats, releasing me from her arms. “Everything will be fine for you.”

Everything will not be fine.

The slave remembers herself, and pours water over Nessa’s hair, soaking into dark spaghetti strings.

I watch this gentle domestic scene, silenced by my inner turmoil.

It’s no good. I must speak.

“I’d expected you to be proud, and haughty, like so many Gorean women,” I admit. “I’m surprised that I like you so much.”

Nessa laughs merrily.

“Perhaps your exceptional beauty has meant that your male family never let you out of their sight,” she says, “and you’ve lacked female friends. While there is a correct formal way for a woman to behave publically in our society, but we all have a secret life behind closed doors. We are all women here, and it is safe to relax when we are alone.”

Nessa stands then, pushing the soaking wet hair away from her face with both hands, so her breasts are presented delightfully to me. Water streams down her body. She looks like a pose from a swimsuit calendar.

Of course, she is correct.

The experience with Lady Elveen may have been overly negative. I must try to adjust to Nessa’s new social perspective. We are all women here. It is not unnatural to appear nude before one another, and relax in each other’s company.

Even though one of us has a collar locked round their throat; and one of us has only been female for less than a month, we are all women here. And I must come to terms with the truth that we always will be women.

12 - Apocalypse Now

The water of the river looks as if it might be cool compared to the constant humidity in the rain forest. I am not to be fooled, though. Down there lies death.

Early into our journey the river seemed to boil as river thalarion went into a feeding frenzy over some unfortunate prey they intercepted below the surface.

Thalarion are lizard-like animals, so the frightening spectacle was like seeing a wildlife documentary of giant crocodiles attacking. The sight of their tails thrashing was enough to deter my interest in swimming.

The deck of our barge is also high above the river, in order to accommodate the benches of rowers below, so the eight foot drop from the deck to the water is a further disincentive. It would not be easy to climb back up.

Nature is cruel, and yet it is beautiful. Looking across to the riverbanks moving slowly by, I see rain-forest birds of heart-breaking iridescent beauty. Small mammals that are unknown to me leap between the trees.

The jungle is an incredible shade of green, more alive than any plant life I’ve seen before. The river is brown with dissolved sediment.

A giant raptor of a species unknown to me flaps languidly over my head, with the eviscerated form of one of these mammals dangling limply from its claws.

“If Kurtz intends to attack us, the best location would be here,” a male voice says nearby, reminding me that Gor can be a harsh place for human as well as beast.

It is Barolios speaking - that being the name for the giant man who accompanied us to the bath house back in Schendi. He is studying a map with Rorius, and several other men from Nessa’s escort.

His bulk led me to assume Barolios would be mentally slow, lumbering like a bosk, but I was incorrect. He is clever and tactically shrewd, qualities which have combined with his combat skill to earn his place as Nessa’s head bodyguard.

“Here the river is narrow, but not fast,” Barolio continues. “The banks are steep but not cliffs, so Kurtz has an easier task launching canoes into the water during an ambush. The lookouts will have less time to react and give warning. The barge may also be in range of bowshot from the banks.”

“To you and I, this is indeed the logical place to attack,” Rorius agrees. “But it will not be there. Kurtz is a genius. He will have discovered a way to attack us, where we do not expect it. The attack will come here, where the river is wide and deep.”

“Kurtz is not superhuman,” Barolios disagrees.

“You have not met him.”

“Any human can be killed. If he attacks us from a strategically weaker location, we will be victorious,” Barolios counters.

“What concerns me, is understanding how Kurtz will turn the weaker location into the stronger one,” Rorius says, and with that he walks across to stare across into the jungle.

The tribute barge carrying the Lady Nessa towards her free companionship is three days from the port of Schendi, progressing upstream on the sweltering humid Nyoka River.

Below me the oars dip into the water and pull back, as they’ve already done for thousands of times during our journey.

Nessa herself should be sufficient incentive to lure most men into companionship, but according to Gorean customs the barge is laden with further blessings of goods, coins, and a few slaves.

Accompanying Nessa are the two other free women that act as her chaperones, and myself – travelling upstream to a fictitious companionship in the settlement of Cartius.

Each pull of the oars brings us closer to Him.

Rorius and Telisio are nearing the end of their mission, and I approach the beginning of mine.

I say Rorius and Telisio, but the second of our companions is not on the barge, and has been invisible to me since Schendi.

After a counsel of war in Schendi it was decided that Telisio’s role would be to follow us in secret and confirm that my capture takes place according to plan.

I can only assume he is somewhere close by, although how he might move through the dense rain forest is a mystery to me.

“There is a village here,” Barolios say, indicating a clearing on the riverbank populated by a dwellings of mud and straw. “We can ask for the situation upriver, and ask for word of Kurtz.”

Then with a bass shout to the helmsman, he orders, “bring us in.”

I can imagine the gratitude of the rowers each time we pause.

The river is broad and the current slow, but the dense high surrounding trees of the rain forest mean that there is no breeze for sails in this hot and humid hell. Slaves chained below decks are made to pull heavy oars.

When I feel so unwell on deck, I can’t imagine how much worse this must be for those unlucky enough to be chained below and engaged in backbreaking toil.

I look towards the village.

Tribesmen armed with spears have seen the approaching boat and are prepared to meet us, and there is a nervous couple of moments as both parties confirm the other does not represent a threat. Then we tie up at the gently tapered river bank.

“This village may be allied to Kurtz,” Rorius cautions to Barolios before the other man disembarks. “It is within the range of his predations.”

My guardian’s behaviour during this voyage has taught me much about the essence of the Gorean male. It is not in Rorius interests to give strategic advice to Barolios, when a successful outcome for our mission is for the barge to fall to Kurtz. And yet he pays attention to our defences, and more.

I have watched Rorius tell everything of Kurtz he can to Barolios, short of explaining our mission.

Honour is more important than anything else, to the Gorean warrior. And so Rorius will not betray the trust of our hosts, the party of Lady Nessa. The brotherly bond of fellow warriors makes such an action unthinkable.

His advice has been so thorough, and the barge is so heavily defended, that I begin to doubt Kurtz could capture this prize.

“I would not cross this Barolios,” I said to Rorius on the first evening of our voyage, while I watched the huge man practice with his sword.

“Do you really think Kurtz will capture the barge?”

“Yes,” Rorius said.

And that was the end of the matter.

Once the tribe have decided we’re not raiders, the whole village turns out to see us. All are dark-skinned, as is typical in this region of Gor, so a rare pale-skinned group from the north we are an interesting spectacle.

Their warriors are muscular and intimidating, wearing nothing but loincloths so their prowess is flaunted. The free women wear grass skirts, but are bare breasted – a dress code that would scandalise in most cities of this world. Slaves are shamelessly naked, except for collars made of twine to mark their status.

I almost envy these women their dress. Nessa has provided me with some lighter robes to cover me decently, but I am sweating so profusely that these are soon soaked. I frequently have to retreat to the privacy of a tented area provided for the free women, because the clinging wet robes indecently reveal my body shape.

There in the tent I can temporarily strip and hang my robes up to dry out, but the humidity means the effect is limited.

To the villagers’ untrained gaze, Nessa; the ladies of her retinue; and myself must look freakish. Indeed – the village women permitted onto the deck finger my robes with unabashed curiosity.

I find myself drawing into a close circle with the other females from our group.

I decide I do not like this place. I would prefer we were moving upriver.

“How long must they talk?” I whisper to Lady Nessa in a whining voice.

But the men seem in no rush to depart.

Barolios and his adjutant talk to the village headsman – his status marked by an ornate headdress of feathers from the forest birds. The latter is nodding vigorously, gesticulating towards the jungle in the upstream direction.

Slaves swarm across the barge, carrying on fresh water and various goods that are traded by the free. They merge with the local slaves that form part of Nessa’s tribute, and I am concerned that tribute slaves might escape to join the village women.

“Managwa,” a pendulously breasted village woman says to me in an alien dialect. She lifts my veil part aside to see my face. I permit it, after being certain that I’m not visible to any of the men, but even this small amount of exposure is enough to make me feel shame.

“Beh-cheely managwa,” she says in a tone of satisfaction, releasing the veil to cover me once more.

With this continued unwanted attention from the village females, I am grateful when the men conclude their business and we can pull back into the river current.

A drum sounds somewhere below, and once more the oars begin their rhythmic dips into the water, pulling us slowly upstream. The villagers wave us off. Two small girls are laughing at us, nudging each other with their elbows and pointing at the strange free women in their heavy robes.

They form a circle with their fingers around their throats – a symbol I interpret as representing a slave collar. Then they point at me again.

What do they mean?

It is too late. The barge pulls round a sharp curve in the river and we lose sight of the village.

I have to sit down, or more accurately kneel on a cushion in the manner of women. I am still not acclimatised to the humidity, and it takes only a little tension to make me feel faint.

At a crawl, our barge makes its progress up the lazy coils of the river.

The sun sets rapidly in this region and nightfall brings some respite, as there is a little drop in the temperature.

That night a meal is cooked on an ingenious open metal bowl like a barbecue, designed to protect the flammable barge.

In the privacy of the tent the women dress in fresh robes for the night, as our daywear is damp and uncomfortable. A slave helps me robe myself – an ebony beauty so exceptionally graceful I’m surprised I’ve not noticed her before. She is nude except for the steel collar typical in Lady Nessa’s retinue, and yet apart from keeping her eyes down she holds herself like an Ubara.

“Thank you,” I say to her.

The woman passes a comment in a local dialect, her tone humble. She doesn’t seem to understand high Gorean.

“A night with you would be special,” I can safely comment.

Satisfied with my dress the girl bows and departs to another part of the barge. I then join the free women and the men around the firebowl, ready to eat.

These robes are looser about my lower body than the heavier robes of the north. I can take longer steps without being restricted by the fabric. I am in a good mood.

We have chosen the spot indicated by Barolios to spend the night. The river is wide enough to almost be a lake here. There are watchers on guard at the front and rear of the barge, and the moons are bright, making it easier to see.

The river banks, far enough away to be out of range, are like cliffs. It would take some time for attackers to reach us, even in the fastest canoe. Thalarion in the ink-black water protect us from any threat by swimmers.

I feel like I can relax in such a well-protected location, but Rorius is as tense as a mousetrap.

“He’s coming,” he says, irritated, pacing the boards of the deck. “I just can’t see how.”

In the flickering black shadows of the firelight it is easier to lift the veil and eat and drink.

Everyone except Rorius seems calm - Another naked slave woman pours me a cup of liquid, and I cough at the fiery taste of alcohol. People mingle freely.

At one point Lady Nessa hugs me, her small arm tight around my neck. I can smell the same alcohol on her breath.

“A few more days and we can be with our men,” she says into my ear.

The drifting groups bring me back to Rorius again.

“You are one of the few men not drinking, or taking a slave to the furs,” I comment. “The moons of Gor are playing games with all the others.”

“He comes,” Rorius says determinedly, “I must keep my head.”

A question has been in my mind for a while, and this seems a good opportunity to ask.

“You say you have met Kurtz?” I ask, and he nods.

“What does he look like? I don’t know how to recognise him.”

Rorius seems to think this is good information to disclose.

“Kurtz is very distinctive. He is completely hairless – some say he has exotic breeding somewhere in his ancestry. He is a big man, very strong. He stands like an Ubar.”

Absorbing this, I watch the movement of the exquisite dark slave girl as she disappear below the decks, carrying a large amphora of liquid and a flickering lamp to illuminate her path. She must be treating the men below to some of the liquor.

“That new one there is quite exceptional,” I comment, trying to lighten his mood as I point a gloved hand towards her slender back. My tongue is loosened by the hot drink so I add, “She makes me wish I was still a man.”

He looks up briefly at the girl, and then across to me.

“You must accept your fate, Aurore,” Rorius says intently, grasping my forearms.

“Listen to me, because once the attack begins we might not get chance to speak again. You must serve Kurtz in whatever way is required to stay alive and complete your task. Do not try to resist until death like a warrior. Honour for you is not found in resistance, but survival. Yield to him as a slave, and serve him in every way.”

I am about to reply, but Rorius’ expression has changed to one of horror. He stares into the distance, as if his mind is working at lightning speed.

“Of course, a slave,” he says, and he is on his feet, running towards the hatch to the lower decks with his sword already half drawn.

I look after him in confusion. Others are also staring, aware that something is wrong but not comprehending the nature of the threat.

Only a moment later the explanation comes, revealed by a strange flicker from below and the smell of smoke. It is not the smoke from the coals or from roasting meat.

It is wood smoke.

From one of the slaves chained at the rowing benches, there comes a male scream.

The barge is on fire.

13 - Flames on the Water

Everything is ablaze, burning from below. The speed the fire spreads is supernatural. Someone must have spread something flammable to help the fire take hold so quickly, and I understand Kurtz method of attack - arson.

The dark slave girl emerges from the hatch, minus the amphora. Her eyes widen with fear as she sees Rorius bearing down on her, and she darts away into the panicked people milling around on the deck.

Rorius does not follow her though – instead he continues down the hatch.

There is another scream from below, and then another. These are desperate animal cries of pain, which break the heart and curdle the blood.

I understand Rorius’ purpose.

The slaves are chained to their benches, and will either burn alive trapped in their places, or drown when the barge sinks. He is attempting to free them, or perhaps end their misery.

The brutality of Kurtz plan astounds me.

Only a madman could conceive this idea – surely not a servant of the Priest Kings? He will let all these chained rowers die an agonising death just to achieve his goal. And yet, it is as Rorius said – genius.

All the strategic advantages of our location have been turned against us. With our mooring surrounded by cliffs, it will be more difficult for us to escape to shore, and there is insufficient time to manoeuvre the barge without its human power source. Our carefully contrived defences are meaningless. Warriors cannot make war against fire.

The smoke is getting dense enough to make me cough.

I move to the side of the barge where the air is cleaner, and catch my first glimpse of the enemy.

War canoes are visible crossing towards us, illuminated by the flicker of flames. They have high prows and sterns, almost like Viking longships, and they’re pulled by oars rather than paddles.

I count four ships.

No-one shoots at them, and their progress is sedate, leisurely even.

Rorius backs up from the hatch, and turns to me. He is weeping and coughing. His bare forearms are a strange colour, burnt to the shade of cooked lobster. A cinder singes his hair.

“I couldn’t save them,” is all he can manage, and he leans forward, choking.

People mill about on the deck without purpose. There is nowhere to run. At one point I bump into the lady Nessa. Even with the veil on, I can tell she is crying.

“I can’t swim,” she sobs.

A warrior charges between us, and we are separated. I stumble, almost knocked over.

Someone grabs my forearm then, a strong, male grip, and I am pulled upright. It is Rorius.

“To the prow,” he says, leading me towards the front of the barge.

It is a sensible location.

The fire has been started in the centre of the barge, so there is less smoke near the prow. The rail is also higher here, so we will have greater protection from the approaching canoes.

Rorius turns me to face him. His hands are on my shoulders.

“Are you ready?” he asks me, and his voice is urgent but gentle. “They are coming.”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Then I wish you safe paths, Aurore of the Sardar.” He says with grave formality, and taking me quite by surprise he touches his lips to my forehead like a benediction.

My gaze is caught by movement behind him. The nude ebony slave is at the rail, stretching towards the canoes as elegantly as a cat.

“Masters!” she calls to the canoe in perfect Gorean.

“Udumi,” a male voice replies from close by.

I risk a glance over the side of the barge.

The canoes are packed with armed men. I can see them clearly.

They have weapons already drawn – a combination of swords and bows, but no-one is firing on either side of this conflict.

I do not see a man who answers the description of Kurtz.

Rorius looks to the ebony slave girl and his face darkens.

“This one final injustice I can correct,” he growls.

I don’t need an explanation. I can still hear the screams of those trapped below, and there is a smell like burnt pork.

Rorius draws his sword and moves towards the woman. Her attention is taken with the approaching canoes, and by the time she turns to notice him, he is almost on her.

But Rorius never reaches his target.

Even above the screaming and shouting of human beings and the roar of the fire, I hear the noise.

I will never forget it.

It is a soft swish, a mere bird’s wing in the jungle.

My guardian sinks to the deck, twisting as he goes so he lands almost flat on his back.

An arrow has passed right through Rorius’ neck, lodging horizontally with the tip pointing towards me. Blood is already starting to run down onto his shoulders in a steady rivulet.

We haven’t been the greatest of friends since our first meeting in the towers of the Nest, high in the Sardar Mountains, but I feel horror and sympathy as I see the oncoming death in his eyes.

I hurriedly kneel next to him, and lift his head into my lap, looking helplessly into his eyes.

Rorius coughs, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

Then reaches up to my face, almost tenderly, touching the veil at my cheek. His lips mouth something that looks like “Aurore”.

“It’s okay,” I reply in a trembling voice. I want to convey my forgiveness for any animosity there’s been between us, before he dies.

He mouths a second word. It looks like “Telisio”.

I am proud for him. Rorius is in his final moments, but he’s still concerned about the safety of his friend.

“He’s not with us,” I say rapidly. “Don’t worry – I think he’s safe, somewhere back there in the forest.”

Rorius is already shaking his head, as if there’s something more important he needs to tell me. But that small movement shifts the arrow, still lodged through his neck. He coughs another gout of blood over his face, and then his body goes limp and his head lolls to the side.

Gently resting the inert skull back on the deck I stand up, blinking back tears.

For the first time as a Gorean woman, I am unprotected.

There is no time to mourn. His last instruction to me was to survive, and as a soldier I am trained to do so. From somewhere near the back of the barge, there comes a female scream.

A bump tells me the canoes have arrived. Warriors are climbing carefully onto the deck.

“Surrender, or die,” calls a tall bearded man with his sword drawn to the defenders.

This is not Kurtz either. Is Kurtz too important to even attend this mission?

I hate him.

Some of our warriors do choose death before dishonour, and step up with tremendous bravery to meet the opposing force. But most are already laying down their swords.

One who does not give in is Barolios, the giant who leads Nessa’s guard.

He swings his sword in a wide dangerous arc as he’s gradually surrounded by a circle of his enemies. I’m hoping for some heroic last stand, but life on Gor is not like a novel.

From behind, someone cracks him on the skull with a stave of wood, and Barolios sprawls face first to the floor, unconscious.

“There’s another woman,” a nearby male voice calls, and I look round. Two warriors have noticed me.

I dart away, back down towards the rear of the boat. There are fewer people milling round on the deck now – some have already been loaded as captives across to the canoes.

It is only an ehn since the canoes arrived, but the raid has already reached the clean-up stage.

Two men drag a heavy chest towards one of the ships. It contains the wealth that is Nessa’s dowry, and her hopes for the future.

My heart pounds as I flee the two men. They almost catch up to me but I am saved by a roar of steam from below which separates us like a curtain of heat. The river has broken through below – imminently we will sink.

I move towards the rear of the boat, but only to meet another enemy warrior.

“Tal, woman,” he greets me in the Gorean manner.

“Help, please,” a female voice from down near the deck distracts me. At the man’s feet lies a woman. She is dressed in the robes of the free, and yet she is bound hand and foot. It is one of Nessa’s ladies in waiting. I am not in a position to aid her.

The man smiles lasciviously at me. Already his hands reach for coils of thin leather at his belt.

I am familiar with these coils from the incident at our overnight camp – they are called binding fibres. Their purpose is to secure prisoners.

It is my mission to be captured, and yet I cannot let myself be taken without resisting.

I try to jab at his face with Aurore’s fist, but he laughs, dodging and grabbing my forearm, then twisting the limb so I am forced to present my back to him rather than let it be broken.

“Who are you?” I demand, trying to mask my terror and instead sound strong, insolent, as a free woman of Gor might.

I feel a circle of the binding fibre slip over my wrist, and he reaches for my free arm.

The deck of the ship lurches and tilts, pressing my back against him and pushing us both into the side of the barge. I am in his arms almost intimately.

“We are the men of Kurtz, lady,” he says affably to me. “You are being taken captive by the men of Kurtz.”

This is how I learn than I have been successful in the first phase of my mission, and yet as he grabs my other wrist and easily crosses my arms behind me, I do not feel pleased.

Interlude - A nightmare in silk

Soldiers are trained to endure pain.

One technique is to construct what we call a “cave” in our minds, a place filled with questions, thoughts, songs and memories that can distract us from the agony in our physical bodies. Each second our minds are occupied with a topic in the cave is a second we’ve survived.

Subjects to occupy us are considered in advance. Anything that is intense is good. What exactly did your first kiss feel like? Try and remember all the lyrics to the most important song in your life. What movie scenes make you cry?

My own cave, I prepared with a memory of when I was a child, and here it is. I was perhaps seven or eight years old and I was sick, burning with fever. The glands in my groin were swollen as they battled a virus, and they made my thigh muscles aching and uncomfortable.

On that night I had awoken from a nightmare, screaming out my terrors. At that age I didn’t used to like my bedroom being pitch dark, so a comforter light was left on by my kindly parents to cast a warm glow. But sometimes, that lamp only made the shadows more sinister.

On top of my dresser a Millennium Falcon loomed over me, along with plastic action figures of commandos and a model tyrannosaurus.

Delirium made it appear the figures were moving, creeping closer to me, so I screamed again.

Then there was the sound of footfalls hurrying from my parents’ bedroom, and my mother came to me. I cried with relief when she entered. She could save me from these unknown threats.

She was dressed strangely – for once not wearing the night dress she usually wore to sleep. On her upper body was a top, like the bikini she only used on the beach, but it couldn’t have been - there could be no reason for her wearing such a garment at night. Below the waist a long vertically hanging strip of fabric hid her privates, running from her tummy down to her shins. It was tied at her hips.

The brief outfit was made of a fabric that was soft and shiny. It moved with her.

Around her ankle wrapped a steel bracelet. I could not see how it fastened, almost as if it was locked there.

“You’re dressed as a princess,” I stated, too young to question why she might wear such garments to bed.

Her laugh was warm and soothing.

“It’s not quite clothing for a princess, my dear boy,” she said to me, and her hand ruffled my hair.

Fingertips brushed my forehead then, and she tutted sympathetically, saying, “Oh dear, that’s quite a temperature,” and picked up a medicine bottle from standby on a nearby shelf.

I opened my mouth obediently as she spooned in a sweet tasting syrupy medicine.

Her presence was chasing the fear away, and I felt more lucid.

“One day I want to be a princess and wear a dress like that,” I stated firmly. It seemed like a reasonable plan at the time.

She laughed again, but there was a tinge of melancholy.

“You can’t dress like this Arran. You’re a boy, and this is clothing for girls.”

In response to this verdict I was petulant as only a child can be.

“Why can’t I be a girl and dress as a princess? Boys have to fight and work hard. Uncle Richard says that girls can get whatever they want as long as they look beautiful.”

She stroked my hair again.

“Uncle Richard tells you too much, but I promise you don’t really want to be a woman,” she said, and she reached up to touch the Millennium Falcon model and the Slave Leia figurine next to it.

“When you’re older, you’ll realise that in most of the universe, life is so much better if you’re a man. Girls live forever in the shadows, my love. Your future is to shine in the sun.”

I was by then placated enough by her presence to settle back to sleep, but I still grumbled a little about wanting to be a princess, even after she left me alone.

Next morning I wasn’t sure if the whole thing had been a dream generated by my fever. Certainly I’d never had any ideas of wanted to be a girl before then, and I never desired that state since, so the request didn’t come from any deep seated craving in my rational mind.

Why would I want that? Girls were interested in boring things – clothes, and dolls, and make-up. I wanted to be a soldier, not a princess.

By next morning the fever had broken, so I dismissed the night’s unreal events and went straight back to making war, playing trench battles by firing dart guns at my best friend across the no man’s land of my bed.

Yes, I convinced myself, it must have been a dream, because I never saw the princess costume again, even when I searched my parent’s cupboards that December looking for hidden Christmas gifts.

But I never forgot the vision either, mainly for the clarity of the images I still have in my mind of my mother in that costume. It resides in my pain room, to distract myself with debating whether it was real or not, whenever I am suffering.

I can distract myself when I’m burning with the feverish heat, and when my thighs ache.