Dunes of Gor Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen: The Kef

With each slow, remorseless, plodding step of the pack kaiila, Serafina Shahzad was being taken deeper and deeper into the desert, far from the concentric walls and towers of Tor and her former home. She was being transported inside a kurdah – a small semi-circular cushion covered platform inside a tem wood frame, about a yard in width at its widest point. From this base the frame rose about four feet at its highest point, enclosing a half globe shape, layered with opaque white rep cloth in the manner of a tent. The front of the kurdah was the exception, as it had instead a centre parting curtain, also of white rep cloth. Inside the kurdah, Serafina, now known as Tupa, was naked, except for an anklet of slave bells locked about her left ankle; a steel collar locked about her throat, and a small light silk veil across the bridge of her nose, concealing her lower face hardly at all. The veil was diaphanous silk and was a mockery of the opaque veils that Serafina had worn when she was free.

  

The pack kaiila that Serafina rode on was part of a long convoy of similar animals that was treading the rough stony ground of the hamada region of the northern desert – an area of largely barren, hard rocky plateaus, where most of the sand had been removed by deflation. They had not yet reached the area where the stones gave way to the classic sand dunes of the erg, and where travel would be far slower still. From time to time Serafina parted the rep cloth curtain at the front of her kurdah and she peered out anxiously at the line of men ahead of her. They were armed with lances and they wore white robes with purple sashes, and the distinctive keffiyeh of the desert people – that head scarf, a squarish piece of cloth folded into a triangle, worn over the forehead and held in place by a circlet of rope called an agal, to drape around the back and shoulders and offer protection against the burning sun. 

She knew that to the rear of her pack kaiila was a line of other pack kaiilas, carrying supplies and baggage, possibly even more slaves, and then to the rear of that, the other half of the military escort, mounted on their fast kaiilas that were trained for battle in the desert landscape. All the warriors of the desert fought mounted on kaiilas, for infantry had no place in such a harsh, inhospitable region. There was a saying in the desert that a man on foot was a dead man. 

A steel ring was set into the base of the kurdah, and from this a very light chain of tiny decorative links trailed along the cushioned base and hung then from a steel ring set in Tupa’s pierced nose, underneath the silk veil. The gilded chain hung sweetly between her breasts as she knelt on the swaying platform. Her ears had also been pierced and now two hoop earrings swung from those earlobes each time she moved her head. 

But worst of all was the kef brand that had been burned into her left thigh three nights ago. The brand still ached abominably and Serafina knew beyond doubt it would mark her permanently as a slave girl for the rest of her life. A collar could be removed, but a brand would never leave her flesh. 

Much had changed for Tupa in the last few days. That night after the auction she had been collected by the man who had won her at auction. To her horror, that man was not Ghadir. 

“Your name is Tupa,” had said the man. He was tall, dark haired, handsome enough, with a deeply tanned face and deep blue eyes that suggested he originated from far north of Tor, and a military bearing that indicated he was a warrior. There were deep laughter lines at the corners of his eyes. “I bought you for fifty-five copper tarsks. I am your Master now.”

Serafina had screamed as she had been led away, promising the man that she was a personal friend of the Shahzad family, and that the younger Shahzad sister would pay twice, three times, four times her auction price, if only he would contact them.

“They seemed reluctant to bid for you an ahn ago,” remarked the man as he clipped a leash to Serafina’s steel collar. “Perhaps you’re not in as much demand as you suppose you are?”

“They will pay you a bag of silver! No, gold! They will pay you gold! Ten gold! Twenty! Any price you ask! Just send word to Jaleesa Shahzad! I know her! She will want to buy me! She will pay any price!”

The man laughed at that. Perhaps if Serafina had suggested a realistic reward, somewhere in the region of what he had paid, but perhaps ten or twenty coppers more, then maybe he might have believed her, even considered it, but as Serafina babbled about sacks of silver and a fortune in gold, he realised this was all nonsense. 

“You were enslaved for flirting with men in the market place, it seems,” said the man as he studied her paperwork. “Fussing with the hem of your haik in public and adjusting your virgin bell to attract suitors. Tch. Shameful. No wonder a magistrate decided to enslave you. I’m sure if this Jaleesa Shahzad had any concern for your well-being, she would have bid for you tonight. Though I suspect the truth is far simpler. Any friendship you may think you had would be no more once she understood the enormity of your shame. The House of Shahzad has a fine reputation. I doubt very much whether any Shahzad woman would wish to even acknowledge you after you shamed yourself in public in that way.”

“No, no! You have to believe me! Jaleesa Shahzad will pay a lot of money for my freedom! She will pay you more gold than you can count!” Serafina had understood that if she had not been bought by Ghadir, then her sister almost certainly had been, in which case she would now be free and desperate to find Serafina. Short of identifying herself to this man (which would be the ruin of her family) her best bet would be to suggest she was a friend of the Shahzads and would be bought by the younger daughter. 

The man laughed again. “I can count very high, girl, even beyond the price of a Ubara. Now come.” He pulled at her neck leash. “You belong to me now.”

Serafina continued to cry and protest as the man led her along the darkened streets. “Where are you taking me?”

“Anywhere I choose, Tupa. You are my property now.” 

She was led, with wrists tied behind her back, along some side roads from where the sound of metal being hammered could be heard. On the two days of the week when the Mazad took place, many business remained open late into the evening, benefiting from the footfall of customers going to the night time auction. Food and drink was always in demand, but so too was the services of a metal worker, to men who had just purchased new slaves.

“That is a metal worker!” screamed Serafina in fright. “Why are you taking me to a metal worker!” She struggled in her bondage, tugging back at the leash, not that it made any difference at all.

It was a medium size alcove business, just three ehn’s walk from Brand Street. A heavy set man, tanned, and stripped to his waist, but for an apron, with baggy trousers of rough cloth, gathered in at the ankles, was busy forging a new slave collar in the heat of his furnace. He looked up as the man arrived with his slave on a collar leash.

“New purchase?” asked the metal worker.

“Yes. I’m going to need a brand. Kef design.”

Serafina screamed. She screamed louder than she had ever screamed before. There was slack on the leash and in panic she tried to run away, but stumbled in the dust as the man who owned her simply pulled the leash sharply back, sending her sprawling and choking onto the dusty ground. 

“I don’t think she wants to be branded,” chuckled the metal worker as he rose from his furnace, stretched his muscles, and picked out a long poled kef brand that was clean.

“Possibly not,” said the stranger. “Few girls do. Nevertheless, a brand she will have.” He tossed the metal worker a coin, which he caught in the air and pocketed in his apron. 

“You can’t brand me!” screamed Serafina as any sense of clear thought was replaced by sheer blind panic. “Jaleesa Shahzad will pay you my weight in silver! My weight in silver!”

Serafina heard the men laughing now as her new master simply took hold of her by the shoulders, lifted her up from the ground, slung her over his shoulder and carried her kicking and screaming into the hot metalwork shop.

“Please listen to me! My weight in silver! You can’t brand me! You can’t! I’m a free woman! I’m high caste!”

“You were high caste. Now you have no caste, or family or friends,” said the man as he dropped her onto a branding rack. 

Serafina struggled furiously as her wrists were freed and then tied to iron rings at either side of the rack. “Just speak to Jaleesa Shahzad! Jaleesa Shahzad! She will buy me!” 

“Quiet, Tupa. Enough of this. My patience with you is wearing thin. Do you wish to be whipped so soon after you are branded?”

It was no good. He would not listen, and so Serafina realised she would have to play the only card she had left. It would mean the ruin of her family’s reputation, the shame of her father and mother, but it would surely save her from the brand. If she could only save herself from slavery by revealing her true identity, with all the consequences that might have for her great House, then she would do so as a very last resort.

“You don’t understand who I am!” she cried. “My name is…”

Serafina was unable to say any more as the metal worker had grown tired of these outbursts and had stuffed a thickly wadded rag into her mouth. He forced it deep inside with his fingers and thumb and then secured it in place with a length of binding fibre, tied tightly behind the back of her head. Serafina carried on mumbling as loudly as she could, struggling with her wrists as her feet were now drawn forward on the rack. Her left thigh was placed in a heavy clamp which was then turned tightly until that thigh became immobile. She was also choking in panic through the gag as her right foot was then secured in an ankle restraint. 

And then she felt what all slaves feel at this point – an overwhelming wave of total helplessness as she found herself unable to move or save herself. Her words were coming thick and fast but each one was choked by the gag. Her eyes were wild with fright as she saw the men talking at the side of the shop, while the kef brand was thrust into an iron brazier to raise its temperature to a white heat. They were going to brand her! 

She tried desperately to think of something, anything, that might save her. 

“This is your first slave,” said the metal worker as he watched the iron heat in his brazier. 

“You can tell?”

“I can always tell,” said the metal worker with a knowing smile. “It’s the look in your eyes. You’ve finally been able to purchase a girl after, what, years of wishing and wanting? What changed?”

“Ha! You’re very good,” said the blue eyed man who now owned Serafina. “Yes, I’ve wanted a girl for many years. But now the circumstances are right. I have some money at last and… well, I’m going away into the desert. There will be few women out there. Not ones freely available anyway.”

“Where are you going then? I see you wear the purple sash. You are Sardaukar?”

“Yes. A Sardaukar captain. My name is Javad Mohsen, and I will command fifty men at Al-Quada-a-Dhum. It is a remote posting out amongst the warring desert tribes. A girl to comfort me in the evenings will be a fine luxury.”

“And you have picked a ripe fruit from the auction. How much?” asked the metal worker.

“More than I intended to pay. Fifty-five copper tarsks.”

The metal worker whistled and shook his head. “She’s probably only worth thirty-five, my friend. You paid over the odds.”

Javad Mohsen gazed at Serafina as she stared piteously at them both, still struggling in her tight bonds. “We shall see. She was clumsy to begin with on the platform, like some startled verr, but once the auctioneer warmed her up…” Javad scratched at the back of his head. “You always know when you see the right girl.”

“Perhaps. But she’s only worth thirty-five copper tarsks,” said the metal worker. “There will be other girls like her at the Mazad next week. She isn’t unique. You should have waited, bided your time for a good price.”

“I wanted her,” said Javad. “We shall see. Look at her breasts…”

The metal worker nodded. “The breasts are spectacular, I will give you that. Forty copper tarsks then, maybe. You were still robbed tonight.”

“It is the Emir’s money,” laughed Javad. “He throws it to me and I throw it away in turn. But I will not think of the money when I have her each night at Al-Quada-a-Dhum. The desert nights can be long ones.”

“So it is said.” The metal worker donned a pair of thick insulted gloves and nodded. “The tip of the iron is hot now. We shall begin.”

Serafina could think of nothing, nothing that might save her. She tried over and over again to speak, to tell the men who she was, and how her father would peel the skin from their bodies and drag them, wrists and ankles bound, over a salt pit, but nothing could be heard through the gag. Her breath was coming out through her nose in short rapid gasps as she saw the white hot tip of the kef brand approach her thigh. She tried to move her left leg but the thigh was locked in position and couldn’t even twitch. 

Please, no, please no, please no, please no, please no….

Closer and closer, until the white hot tip passed her line of sight and hovered close to her bare thigh, that part of it that was exposed within the grasp of the iron vice. If only they would let her speak! 

This couldn’t be happening! She was Serafina Adamaris Shahzad! She wasn’t a slave girl! She couldn’t be a slave girl! This morning she had woken up in her soft bed and had been waited on hand and foot by the House slaves. This couldn’t be happening to her!

She screamed loud enough to be heard through the gag as the white hot brand touched her thigh.