Secrets of Gor Chapter Twenty two

 

ATIYA:

 

“Every time we return, the palisade encampment grows larger and larger.” Say-rah, our First Spear, our sesata, but more than that, my beloved setara, knelt on the grassy bank, resting her weight against her spear shaft, as Gia, Selma, Phedre, and I crouched down to observe the bustling trading post that was built on the edge of the forest, close to the river bank. I glanced at Gia to see that she still held the length of steel chain to our small coffle of slaves, and I smiled as I saw the concern etched on their faces. Three men, all captured in the forests, now subject to our mercy. They were naked, of course, with degradation stripes shaved down the centre of their hair to show to the world that these males fell prey to women. 

 

In the forests of the north, it is women who are the natural hunters. It is we who are the superior sex. We are Koyo.

 

I had earlier put two of the men to use in the soft moss and leaves that carpets the forest, our home, on the way here, and had found their service acceptable. The third did not interest me so much, and by the time the first two males were spent, I was crudely satisfied. The third male was shorter than the other two, almost my height, and that presented little challenge. I like tall males, taller than me. I like tall males to beg and call me mistress as I take them, with a blade at their throat.

 

I straightened up and stretched my limbs, golden, from the constant exposure to the sun. “There are more men, too,” I said, “More ‘Inners’ from the cities, and they are here to stay. Look.” I pointed with my spear at an array of new log cabins built out further from the edge of the original encampment. Plumes of smoke rose from chimneys that led to hearth fires, where their pathetic women, clad in blankets and sheets, breathing through veils, or their slave girls, would be cooking. 

 

“Too many men,” said Say-rah with a frown. “And more each passing month. Their influence extends deep into the Green.”

 

The Green. The Green is our mother and our home – a home where men venture at their own risk. The Green is the place where women can be free. Free of chains. Free to love and hunt. But now the steady tread of male feet threatened our natural habitat. They marched deeper and deeper into the Green and claimed what was ours by right. 

 

“The Pantha bands should have come together in the beginning,” said Say-rah as she straightened up. “We could have put arrows into them as they tried to build their little houses. We could have driven them back to the coast. It’s too late now.”

 

“At least they pay well for our slaves,” said Gia as she gave her coffle chain a sharp tug. 

 

“They would laugh if they heard you say that,” remarked Say-rah, in that rough barbarian accent of hers. “Arrow heads, candy, cheap tools, some cast off medicine, close to its expiry date. They pay a cheap price for our soft furs and slaves.”

 

Gia shrugged. “I like candy.”

 

“As do I,” said Selma.

 

“And what use would we have for their money,” said Phedre, as she spat on the grass. “Their shiny pieces of copper. We are Pantha. We are Koyo!” She struck her left breast with a clenched fist. “Pantha-Loda!” 

 

“Pantha-Loda,” I said, in return. 

 

“The day will come when they won’t need us anymore,” said Say-rah. “The day will come when we will no longer be welcome at their trading post. Except in chains and a collar.”

 

“Let a man try to collar me,” said Gia with a snarl. “Let him try to clasp my wrists in steel. We know the Green. They do not. There will be blood, but it shall not be mine.”

 

Say-rah nodded. “That day is still far away. Come, my sesatas, it’s time to trade for your candy.” She winked at me, knowing it was my one weakness.

 

We walked slowly, proudly, down the grassy slope, raising our spears and calling out our pack name for other panthas to hear. “Blood Moon!” we cried. “Blood Moon Daughters!” Our slaves stumbled when we reached a patch of slick mud, and one fell as he twisted round, his hands tightly tied behind the small of his back.

 

“No wonder they fall to our capture nets,” said Gia. “Clumsy males.” 

 

The trading post sits at the border of the forest that is claimed by the men of Port Kar. Their logging camps stretch east and west and vast supplies of timber are cut down and dragged by slave chain gangs to the lumber mills built at the edge of the fast flowing river that we Pantha call Sasa Ke. The Sasa Ke is one of the living arteries of the Green and we revere it, as do all Koyo Setara, young and old. 

 

Here you will find men of the Inners trading with us Koyo, and more than that, often employing us to further their own ends, for these city bred Inners wage war with themselves. The banners of Port Kar snarl at the war banners of Cos, but both banners are far from home and unwelcome by us. 

 

We passed some small groups of Pantha koyo who sat together cross-legged, eating and drinking in small groups on the outskirts of the settlement. Some, like us, had slaves to sell, or perhaps some furs. Some were simply here to spend time and perhaps hire themselves out as scouts and skirmishers. Too many of our sesatas were prepared to fight the wars of the city-bred Inners. We, the Blood Moons, did not. Let the Inners kill one another as they wish. We will not lose our sesatas to do their work for them.

 

“Pantha-Loda!” cried a koyo who wore the furs and claws of the great forest cat, that we all revere. She sat with her back against a tree, idly playing with the erect penis of a slave whose neck chain dangled from her left hand. She had two of her sesatas with her, and they were bathing in the sun of the late day, having cast aside their furs. The koyo raised a goblet of heavy brass, and from it paga slopped onto the grass beside her leg. 

 

Men, stripped to their waists, working on long trunks hauled here from many miles north, looked up with interest as we passed. We dress in the pelts of the wild forest cats, caring little for city born modesty. I snarled at a man who paused from shaving the bark from a long trunk to stare at my body. 

 

There is always much activity at the river. The Inners have built long jetties that reach deep into Sasa Ke, and they lodge their boats here. Many of them are long flatbed barges, designed to take stocks of wood out to the coast where ships await to transport the timber to Port Kar. 

 

Port Kar’s strength lies in its ships, but it has no natural timber of its own. And so the men of Port Kar come to the Green to steal our timber, our home.

 

“Paga?” cried a merchant who saw us passing. “Paga?”

 

“Not now,” said Say-rah, as she caught my eye. “Business first.”

 

“Of course.” I ran towards Say-rah and rubbed my nose against hers. As men watched, we embraced and whispered things to one another that made us laugh. And then we continued, dragging our slaves with us, towards the outer palisade. 

 

The outer palisade allows access to anyone who comes to the trading post with honest intentions. It is a place where outlaws as well as pantha are tolerated, for this is a frontier, and on a frontier, the rule of law only extends as far as your spear or bow can reach. The civilization of the Inners is a fragile thing on the edge of the forest, on the edge of the Green. This is a lawless land, or rather, it is a land of many conflicting laws, none of which we obey. We do as we wish and dare men to tell us otherwise. A place of neutrality is important to the Inners of Port Kar, for without it there would be no trade or co-operation with the Koyo, or with the outlaws. We Pantha profit from our association with the Inners, but we do not need them. We could walk away and never return, and be poorer for it in candy, but we would thrive regardless. The Inners though fear the Green, and with good reason, and their ambitions here would be very difficult if they broke faith with the bands of Pantha. Strike one Pantha, and you strike at us all. A thousand spears would be raised against you if we believed this place was not safe. And so we are tolerated. Our manners are tolerated, though I suspect the Inners would love to see me in chains. 

 

We swaggered in through the permanently open gate of the stockade, cheering and whooping to attract attention. I saw some grim faced outlaws gaze at the coffle of slaves that Gia dragged into the outer compound. She whipped one of them when he hesitated. 

 

There is a block, some one hundred and fifty feet from the palisade entrance, where slavers sit and wait for Pantha bands to arrive. There is no shortage in demand for strong slaves to add to chain gangs out in the Green. There are many trees to be cut. There are many logs to be dragged. 

 

The outlaws stared at my legs, at my breasts, where the tight furs left much to view. “Pashangwala!” I jeered at them, raising my fist. It is an insult, but the outlaws did not understand. They are stupid. “Sabakawala!” I shouted. That is an even harsher insult. It suggests they like to be fucked up their ass. Some men do. 

 

“Gentle ladies,” said the slaver, as we approached. I frowned at him and moved my face close to his in warning. 

 

“What would you look like without a nose?”

 

“Ugly,” he replied with a smile.

 

“No change then!” I said, laughing. “Tal, Oye!” I struck his shoulder and picked up a goblet of paga that rested on his table. 

 

“You have slaves for me, Atiya?”

 

“We do. Hard work slaves. Strong. Good in the moss, too,” I said, wiggling and thrusting with my hips to simulate the way a koyo takes a man. 

 

“I’m interested in the strong,” remarked the slaver. I knew him. He gave us good terms. His name was Catrabann. “Not so much in the writhing in the moss.”

 

“Atiya has tired them out, Catrabann” said Say-rah, my beloved setara. “They may need an afternoon nap before they can begin hauling timber.” She leaned on the table with her fists held, knuckle down. The slaver noticed, as he always did, her crude, barbarian accent and strange manner of speech. 

 

“I am sure the whip will rouse them.” He left his side of the table and, motioning to one of his men to assist, came round to examine our three slaves. “This one has a deep head wound. There is a large gash on his skull?”

 

“He ran into the butt of my spear,” I explained. “It was just a friendly tap.”

 

“Quite.” The slaver checked their teeth and then felt the muscles of their arms and thighs. “What is your Home Stone?”

 

“Port Kar!” said the first. 

 

“Port Kar,” said the second. 

 

“Port Kar,” said the third.

 

“This is a problem,” remarked Catrabann. “I obviously can’t buy men of Port Kar. Not in a Port Kar encampment.”

 

“A shame,” I said, “We dragged them all the way here.” I leaned against the table and drank some of his paga. 

 

“Indeed. Such a shame. Well, I suppose you’re all free to go, then,” he remarked pleasantly to the men.

 

The three men grinned to one another.

 

“Just… just one thing, though.” Catrabann said casually. “If you could just spare a moment to describe in detail the shape and size of the Port Kar Home Stone, and its location?”

 

The men no longer smiled at one another. 

 

“Ah…” said Catrabann. “Perhaps we will do business after all.” 

 

We took away some steel arrow heads, lots of candy, and the medicine that Say-rah had insisted upon. I leaned into her and tried to force a piece of candy between her teeth.

 

“Just take a bite, my setara. Just one. Puh-lease!”

 

“Later.” She ruffled my hair and rubbed her nose against mine. Selma and Phedre ran ahead of us, heading towards a stall that sold paga. In addition to the arrow heads, and the candy, and the medicine, we had been given metal tokens, pressed in a strong vice with a Port Kar design. These were not coins, for they could only be spent within the outer compound of the palisade. They could be spent to buy paga and food from the men who plied their trade here. They would welcome these die-stamped tokens, for they in turn could exchange them for coins that Inners love to possess.

 

“Tonight we shall drink paga, my setara!” I said to Say-rah. 

 

“I suppose we shall. And after three cups you’ll fall asleep, Atiya.”

 

“It is what it is.”

 

A movement at the gates of the palisade caught my attention and I turned round to watch as a newcomer entered the trading post. It was a man, riding a war tharlarion, with three spears at its right side, a heavy shield on his left, and a crested helm clattering beside it. Seated before him was a soft Pleasure Slave – her eyes curious and observant – and, tethered by a collar leash to a steel ring stitched into the war saddle, there walked another slave, just as beautiful as the first, but she, I could see, had no Pleasure Slave training. I watched them for a moment, before returning my attention back to the lure of the paga bar. 

 

“Come, Say-rah. Before Selma and Phedre drink away all our tokens.”