Outcast of Gor Chapter Nine

 

I was holding on for dear life – a task not made any easier by the constant laughter coming from Mishka and Kulai.

 

“Don’t let Rashakk dominate you,” cried Mishka between peals of laughter. “He is only a small tharlarion – a suitable size for young boys to ride for the first time.”

 

“And you are a man,” cried out Kaulai, “not some youth who cannot even shave yet.”

 

“The fucking thing has a mind of its own!” I swore as I failed completely to stop the beast from stomping around the paddock, apparently head butting all the posts for no obvious reason. It suddenly reared up on its hindlegs and emitted a terrifyingly loud screech. I clung to the reins, trying not to be thrown to the ground.

 

“What does that mean?” I cried as the tharlarion now began to jump across the paddock in leaps and bounds like a demented kangaroo.

 

“It means he likes and respects you,” laughed Kulai as she trotted her own, obedient, I might add, tharlarion beside mine. She was poised to seize the reins if Rashakk grew too boisterous.

 

“You make it look easy,” I said.

 

“That is because we are fierce, bold huntresses,” said Kulai. I think she liked me. She had insisted she come with Mishka, when Mishka had casually offered to teach me riding, this morning. I noticed, also, that Kulai wore a particularly pretty ribbon in her hair this morning. Rolfe had told me that it was a custom in certain parts of Turia for Free Women to wear a certain kind of ribbon when she found a man of interest.

 

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“Is it that kind of ribbon?” I had asked Rolfe, before I had mounted Rashakk.

 

“Possibly,” Rolfe had said. He had been distracted, gazing at the lovely Svetlana who was practising with her bow, firing arrows swiftly at a stationary target, while she was shouting ambiguous phrases like, “die, filthy Corycrian sleen!”

 

“I have never considered a Free Companion until now,” he remarked.

 

“Svetlana?” I said, surprised. 

 

“Why not? A man needs to settle down and raise children at some point. I think she would bear me strong sons, and manage my household well. I would permit her to polish my shield in the evenings.”

 

Svetlana was running as she fired, to make shooting more difficult. Nevertheless, every arrow struck its central target.

 

“I thought you wanted her as your slave,” I said.

 

“Who knows. I am a very indecisive man. Slave, Free Companion, slave; the possibilities are endless.”

 

“I do not think she would choose to submit to you. In fact, and please don’t take this the wrong way, Rolfe, because I count you now as a friend, so…”

 

“You do?” Rolfe’s eyes sparkled. “That is good. Men need the comradeship of good friends.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “I have only known you a short time, Roland of Newark, but consider this – I would draw steel for you.”

 

“And I likewise, Rolfe, for you, your brother, and your cousin.”

 

He grasped my hand in his strong grip and drew me close, raising our hands together in the manner of sword brothers. “Let us swear then today, that we shall never draw steel against one another. Let us swear it.”

 

“I’m happy to swear that, “I said. 

 

“Swear on what you hold dear.”

 

“I swear on…” I thought for a moment, “I swear on the life of the Lady Felicity of New York.”

 

“Ah? There is a special Lady for you in Newark?”

 

“There is,” I smiled, “but she no longer lives in New York. I suppose I have strong feelings for her.”

 

“We shall companion together, my friend. You with your Lady Felicity, me with my Svetlana. What was it you were afraid to say to me about her?”

 

“Well, and again, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think she’s even noticed you so far…”

 

Rolfe looked pained and hurt by my words. “Why would you say such a harsh thing to me? Can you not see how wounding those words might be? Surely she is merely overcome with how handsome and strong I am, and affects a modest demeanour, by shyly turning away from me, while her heart in truth beats boldly, consumed by love.”

 

“I’m pretty sure she really hasn’t looked at you more than once or twice, and then only because you keep stumbling in her presence.”

 

“For some reason I feel clumsy and inept when I try to speak to her.”

 

“You have been complimenting her on the pretty ribbon she wears in her hair.”

 

“It is a pretty ribbon.”

 

“I don’t think she takes you very seriously, my friend. Every time you mention her ribbon she rolls her eyes and turns away to shoot some more targets.”

 

“I have little experience in courting Free Women. Should I bring flowers? I would compose words, but I do not know any. I would like her to wear the same sort of ribbon that Kulai so obviously wears when she stands before you. I am sure now that it is the courtship ribbon of the Turian Free Woman. See how it flutters in the breeze!

 

“Meaning, what?”

 

“By their customs, it serves to attract the attention of their favoured man, and the unspoken meaning is that the man is being invited to unbind her hair in private.”

 

“Unbind her hair in private?” For such a barbarically erotic world, that Gor is, Gor can also be extremely shy and well-mannered when it comes to courtship rituals between free men and women. 

 

“To unbind a woman’s hair in Turia is to lay claim to her, in a sense. It is a powerful moment when a free man unbinds a free woman’s hair. Often they are both overcome with emotion.”

 

“Really,” I said, drily. If I live to be three hundred, I will never truly understand the way Gorean men relate to their free women.

 

“And yet the lovely Svetlana does not wear such a ribbon, the way the fair Kulai does. She on the other hand begs you to unbind her hair in private.”

 

“I have a slave,” I said. “I don’t need a Free Companion. I don’t want a Free Companion.”

 

“I have seen the way you look at Mishka,” said Rolfe with a smile.

 

“Oh?”

 

“You like her.”

 

I grinned. “Perhaps.”

 

“Mishka is a Free Woman, too. They are not without interest. Slaves were Free Women, once.”

 

“That makes sense. And yes, I do happen to like Mishka. Does she wear a courtship ribbon before me?”

 

“No, I do not think so. Hers is the Turian ribbon of defiance that warns all men not to touch her, for fear of meeting her skinning knife. But she may be deliberately teasing you in such a fashion, prolonging your desperation to see her differently be-ribboned. Who knows? Perhaps if you brought her flowers and boxes of sweet candy?”

 

“I don’t really think that way. In fact, if you hadn’t even spoken to me, I wouldn’t know I was supposed to long for the sight of her wearing a courtship ribbon.”

 

“But now you do know, my friend, and now you will begin to long to see such a ribbon in her hair. Or…” he cast his eyes upon Kulai. “There is the lovely Kulai. How long must she stand before you, so be-ribboned, before you begin to notice her?”

 

“I love you all as brothers,” I said, clasping Rolfe’s hand again, “but I think you’re all fucking nuts. In the nicest possible way, of course.”

 

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“Thank you, I said, as Kulai steadied me, as my tharlarion lurched suddenly to the side, intent on headbutting another post.

 

“You nearly fell.” She gazed at me, a courtship ribbon bound in her hair. Allegedly. I wasn’t sure Rolfe actually was an expert on the dozen or so different Turian Free Woman ribbons, but he obviously knew more than I did. I pretended not to understand what it signified. I was not Turian, after all. Her hand lingered for a moment on my arm, before Kulai pulled back.

 

“How do I control this thing? It seems to want to keep headbutting wooden posts.”

 

“Tharlarion do that as an act of submission to its rider. It is learning to accept you. It is young, headstrong, and this is how it expresses its resistance. Pull here and here.” She rode up close again and took my hands, settling them in the correct position on the reins, guiding my grasp with her own touch, and, I think, deliberately prolonging that touch. As soon as I did that, the beast stopped veering to the side. Kulai was able to guide her own tharlarion with just pressure from her knees and spurs. Where I was clinging for dear life with both hands, Kulai was quite capable of riding without touching her reins.

 

“Sit up straight,” Kulai advised. “you are riding a tharlarion now. You must sit with pride. You are not an infantryman.”

 

“I prefer to keep a low centre of gravity,” I suggested. “Less chance of falling.”

 

“That tharlarion, Rashakk, will not respect you while you crouch hunched over the saddle.” The ribbon blew in the breeze, fluttering around her hair. “And nor will I,” she said softly, for my ears only. “Do you not want Kulai of Turia to respect and admire you, brave Roland of Newark?”

 

I sat up straight in the saddle. How could I not do so when gently chastised like that by a pretty girl who wore a courtship ribbon for me?

 

She laughed softly and nodded her head in respect. “See, I can train a man of Newark to ride properly.”

 

“You are a splendid huntress,” I said.

 

“Only splendid?” she asked. “You call Mishka, lovely.” Her voice was low and quiet now as we rode together.

 

“You are a lovely huntress,” I said, feeling a little awkward. “Have I not told you that, before?”

 

“You have told me now.” She smiled and held her head proudly as she rode around the paddock, beside me.

 

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Livinnia of the Assante was torturing a man as I approached her private enclosure, later that day. She was dressed in a long skirt of some hard wearing fabric that hung to her mid-calves, brown leather boots, and a baggy white blouse that would be described as a woman’s  ‘peasant blouse’ on Earth. She wore an insulated glove on her right hand, and with it she was holding a hot iron, fresh from a coal brazier. 

 

The man was naked and spread across an x-shaped wooden frame, where his ankles and wrists were lashed. I could already see many severe burns on his body from where Livinnia had applied one or more hot irons. There were three other handles protruding from the hot coals to ensure a steady supply of red hot tips. 

 

The man screamed horribly as Livinnia casually drew the red hot tip of her iron across his flat stomach. I saw how his muscles strained as he tried to free himself.

 

“What do you want?” she asked, without turning around to acknowledge me. 

 

I needed to ensure that Kelsee would be safe in this camp. Yes, I had saved her last night, but I couldn’t watch out for her indefinitely, and I feared what might happen again tonight when the eighteenth bell sounded. The kennel master would be expecting me this time, and he might not permit me to escort my slave to safety quite so readily again. I was prepared to fight if I had to, but I was concerned that Stannis might punish me for striking one of his men. It might be considered a breach of trust on the part of a guest, though surely the attempted use of my slave was a far more serious breach of hospitality. 

 

I had been directed to the enclosure where Livinnia could be found, when I made enquiries about her companion, Stannis. It seems no one got to speak to Stannis without first approaching his woman. I suppose that made her his principal secretary. 

 

“Lady, I respectfully request a brief audience with your Free Companion.”

 

“What is your name?” She turned to regard me. The screams from the bound helpless man didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest, but they bothered me. He was horribly scarred and in great pain. He seemed to be begging her to let him talk.

 

“Roland of New York, kind Lady.”

 

“I told you when we met that I am no Lady. Neither am I kind.”

 

I bowed slightly, formally. “Forgive me, I do not know how to address you.”

 

“Call me huntress,” she said.

 

“Kind Huntress,” I began.

 

“And I told you I am not kind. Do not seek to flatter me. It is a waste of your breath.” She placed the red hot iron back in the brazier for a moment before she turned to face me. “You seem disturbed by this.” She gestured to the x-frame and the prisoner bound to it.

 

“It is truthfully not to my taste, huntress,” I said. “And where I come from, torture is generally regarded as an inefficient method of interrogation.”

 

“Oh?” She drew the insulated glove from her right hand and placed it on a table.

 

“A prisoner will say anything, anything at all, whatever he thinks you want to hear, just to stop the torture.”

 

“Good. That is the point of it.”

 

“I mean, whether it’s true or not.”

 

“Women of Turia know how to discern the truth from lies,” she remarked. “I begin by asking things I already know. I let the man speak for a time, and when he says things which are lies, which invariably he will, I say nothing, but I observe his method of speech, the small tells that his body gives away. And after a time I stop the interrogation, and I tell him which things he said were lies. And then I inflict a great deal of pain and suffering. And then we begin again, but now I include perhaps one or two things I do not know as time goes on. But he does not know the extent of my knowledge, and I now have some intuition as to how and when he lies. It takes time, but I am a patient woman. I learn many things from my prisoner.”

 

“Is this an honourable way to treat another warrior? I thought there were codes.”

 

“He is not a warrior.”

 

“No?” He had the muscled build I would associate with a warrior. “Why do you say that?”

 

“Because he surrendered.” She regarded me with a cold, emotionless, expression. 

 

“Many men, and many women, too, will surrender when they face death, even though they might think so otherwise.” I gave her a knowing look.

 

“You think perhaps I would surrender? Is that what you imply?” She reached under the neckline of her blouse and showed me a small vial that hung from a cord around her neck. “This is my surrender in the event of defeat. This here. I will yield to only one person: Shakktai, Death’s Maiden, who stalks the Turian steppes in long funeral veils, with a circlet of dry bones on the crown of her head, gathering up the fallen and taking them to the shadow steppe lands where the dark kaiila ride.”

 

“Is that poison?”

 

She nodded. “The last thing I would do, were I defeated, is to break this seal and swiftly drink the contents before anyone might touch me. Death would follow within an ehn. That is how a warrior yields, only to the arms of the bone-crowned Death Maiden, herself.”

 

“You are a warrior then? You consider yourself to be a warrior?” I knew how sensitive men might be to such a claim.

 

“Obviously not. I am merely a woman.” 

 

“And women can’t be warriors.”

 

“No, they cannot.”

 

“Life is too precious to be thrown away like that.”

 

“Then you do not understand the concept of a Free Woman’s honour.” She returned the vial beneath her embroidered blouse. “I ask you again, what do you want? You can see I am busy.”

 

“I wish to speak to your companion..”

 

“You will speak to me.”

 

I sighed and grit my teeth. “It is about my slave.”

 

“What of your slave? Why should she concern Stannis?”

 

“Last night she was taken from the enclosure and she was about to be given to your men.”

 

“So?”

 

“I refused permission.”

 

“And?”

 

“There was a confrontation. Between me and the kennel master.”

 

“And?”

 

This was beginning to irritate me. “And I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding between me and the House of Assante. I mean no disrespect, to either you or your companion, but Kelsee is my slave and I will not have her given to men without my permission.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, I thought I’d speak to your companion to make it clear I do not mean to insult him by this. I wanted to explain myself, before any of your men spoke to him about me, instead.”

 

“No one has spoken to him about your slave, or yourself. You think they should?”

 

“No, but they might." She was the most frustrating woman I had ever spoken to. 

 

“Stannis won’t care. I don’t care. This is a waste of my time. Just tell the kennel master he is not to touch your property.”

 

“I got the impression there might be a confrontation coming between him and me, sometime soon.”

 

“So?”

 

Fuck’s sake. “So, I don’t want there to be a fight and for me to end up hurting your kennel master, and then pay a heavy price for it. I don’t want Stannis seeking retribution because I hurt one of his men.” I pointed at the prisoner, secured to the cross frame. “And I don’t want to end up there with you sticking a red hot iron against my penis because I disrespected you.”

 

Livinnia laughed. “I told you, Stannis won’t care. And I certainly won’t care. Are you a man?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

“If a man attacks you, you defend yourself, and your property. Either you win or you lose. If you lose, it doesn’t matter what Stannis thinks, does it? If you win, rest assured, the kennel master knows better than to run to Stannis crying about it. Be a man. Don’t clutch at my skirts and whine like a child. I never tolerated that from my children, and I will not tolerate it from you.”

 

I see.

 

Playground rules. You don’t go and tell teacher. No one respects the man who runs, crying, to tell teacher. 

 

“Is your slave pretty?” she asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I see. You are in love with her. You are that kind of man.” She looked condescending as she walked to another table and picked up a couple of items from it. “Here. A gift.” She handed me a stout looking padlock and a key. The padlock had the Assante crest on it. “Lock your slave to her kennel post with this, and the kennel master will not be able to send her into the camp tonight. No man will attempt to break a padlock that bears my crest. No man.” Her words were like ice. 

 

“Thank you, huntress,” I began to say.

 

“Wait. Understand something, Roland of Newark.” Her eyes narrowed. “You have accepted a gift from a Turian woman. Do you understand what this means?”

 

“Well, I am grateful…”

 

“It means you are in my debt, no matter how small. I may one day call on that debt. Now go. This prisoner has a song he wishes to sing to me, once I encourage him with the right melody.” And then she drew the insulated glove back onto her right hand and turned back to her grim work.