Outcast of Gor Chapter Seven

 

Their names were Svetlana, Mishka, Kulai and Danata, and, like Livinnia Assante, they were all from Turia.  

 

I want to start by emphasising again that women from the cities of central Gor do not fight. Leaving aside the Panther girls in the Northern Forests, you will not find female warriors forming up against shield walls of men, not even as skirmishers. There are many reasons for this. First and foremost is the fact that women are severely disadvantaged on account of their fractional strength and size compared with Gorean men. It is said that a typical Free Woman of the cities has the strength of a twelve year old boy. Warfare on Gor is antiquated due to the weapon laws of the Priest Kings, and is based around shield walls, and for a shield wall to stand it needs to be bulked out by enormous, powerful men. Imagine a rugby scrum where one side is a typical Welsh team, built like oxen, while the other was a side comprised of young teenage girls. Which do you think would collapse first? And once a shield wall collapses, the result of the battle is generally a foregone conclusion.

 

I might add that I have some Welsh ancestry, and so I will make the obvious comment that Rugby is the greatest sport in the world, and Welsh men are its greatest sportsmen. This is not some frivolous opinion, it is frankly fact, and any slave in my collar will agree with me, if she ever wants to see a candy treat again in her lifetime. 

 

The second reason why women do not fight in war is because they are a precious and finite commodity. They are prizes to be seized and bartered. The women of a city will provide that city with much needed children. Without a constant stream of new children, a city will wither and die. Nature being what it is, you only need a few men to impregnate many women. In other words, your city can survive with fewer men, but not with fewer women. Simply put, women are too precious to be wasted on the battlefield, where their tactical value would be negligible, anyway. 

 

The third reason is more to do with cultural interpretations. Gor is essentially a man’s world, and Gorean men have a great deal of masculine pride. Were a woman to dress herself as a warrior, it would be an embarrassment to actual warriors. It would demean their standing in society. Such a woman would be laughed at and mocked for her presumption at dressing in a warrior’s garb, and perhaps holding a shield and spear. She would be unlikely to hold the shield for long of course, as it is very heavy. Gorean men do not desire to be humiliated by the silly pretensions of their women. Accordingly, their women are under no illusion that they should stay within the centuries old parameters of behaviour, dress and conduct that is expected of them. Women are women, and men are men, on Gor.  

 

Women play an essential role in Gorean society as child bearers and mothers. Men play an important role defending them from other men. 

 

You may not think that is how things should be, but it is in fact how things are. 

 

End of lecture.

 

I followed Mishka and Kulai to a paddock where their tharlarions were being tended to by camp followers. A cavalry troop requires a significant number of professional men to tend for the tharlarion mounts, not only the ones ridden in to battle, but the spares. Generally speaking, a cavalry troop brings with it around 60% more mounts than riders. Tharlarion need to be fed, rubbed down, tended to, and corralled. It takes years of experience to handle a tharlarion, let alone ride one, and every stable hand here was capable of both to a high level of competence. 

 

“How is Sethgarr?” asked Mishka as she approached her tharlarion. 

 

“He has fed well,” remarked the stable hand. “I suggest a few hours of rest to allow him to digest his meat.”

 

“Sethgarr,” said Mishka with a smile as she stroked her tharlarion. The reptile seemed to hiss in a way I would have considered worrying, but apparently this was the affectionate sound a tharlarion might offer to its known rider. “Make sure his claws are cleaned,” said Mishka. “And check his teeth.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Any job that entailed getting close to a Tharlarion’s teeth and claws was not the job for me, I thought to myself. But the stable hands seemed to have a way with these beasts. 

 

“You were an impressive sight, riding in the meadow,” I said, as I leaned against the paddock. “And your shooting was even more impressive.”

 

Mishka and Kulai turned around. They looked so lovely in their brief tunics, dark hose and spurred boots. Their short capes hung to the small of their backs, and their hunting caps sat neatly on their dark hair. Each cap had its own feather.  

 

“It is what we do,” said Mishka. Her eyes considered me for a moment, as I leaned there. Kulai measured me up, alongside her huntress sister. 

 

“Am I supposed to refer to you both as ladies?” I asked. I swung round the paddock and began walking towards them.

 

“No,” said Mishka, shaking her long hair that was gathered back with a white ribbon. “Such a title is demeaning. We are not the soft, pampered, Free Women of the cities. You may refer to me as Huntress.”

 

“And I, too,” said Kulai, proudly.

 

“We hunt men,” said Mishka, “from the saddle of the great tharlarion.”

 

“Our ka-la-na wood bows rain death upon the men of Corcyrus,” said Kulai.

 

They both looked lovely in those brief riding tunics with the nipped in waists. But like Rolfe, I was having difficulty taking them seriously as hunters of men, even though I‘d witnessed them shooting dead a couple of stragglers, earlier this day.

 

“Beautiful Huntress,” I said with a small bow, to Mishka, for neither woman wore a veil.

 

“Simply, huntress, will suffice,” she said. But she looked at me again, this time perhaps with hidden interest. 

 

“Huntress, it is, then.” Mishka was perhaps five feet five inches tall. Kulai an inch or so shorter than her. Accordingly, I towered over them both. While they might well have been excellent archers, they would not have been able to take on a male warrior in single combat with a blade. I noticed in fact, that neither woman wore a sword belt, or any weapon larger than a knife. I thought, perhaps, that the men in the camp might have considered it to be an insult if a woman swaggered around with a long blade. The sword, on Gor, is commonly thought of as a male weapon. Small daggers, poisoned hair pins, and so forth, are the preferred weapons of Free Women. In the forests of the North, Panther girls routinely carry spears and bows, but they are an exception to the rule. But even they do not carry swords. The spear, like the bow, permits a woman to maintain a crucial distance between herself and a man. Such is not the case with a short sword. A woman would not wish to fight within the reach of a short sword blade. 

 

“It is unusual to find women riding to war,” I said. 

 

“Perhaps,” said Mishka. 

 

“It would not be so rare if more women on Gor were like us,” said Kulai. 

 

“You are different from the other Free Women of Gor?” I suggested.

 

“Of course,” said Mishka, dismissively. “We are fierce, wild, independent of men.”

 

I smiled.  I recalled the two large men that had ridden with them. It was obvious to me why those men rode with the women. In the unlikely event that they were attacked by enemy riders, the men would no doubt lay down their lives to buy the women enough time to flee. Whoever those men were, they would be Stannis Assante’s most trusted, most skilled, warriors. They formed a Blood Guard for the women who thought themselves huntresses of men. 

 

Livinnia Assante, and her lovely riding companions, played at war. That much was obvious. They rode out in carefully designated patrols, engaging the enemy on the periphery of their entrenchments, striking quickly with short bows and then riding away again. I doubted very much that Stannis permitted these women to fight on the battlefield in any conventional manner, when shield walls advanced against each other; their men shouting cries of defiance against the enemy, as they clashed spear against shield in counter time to their march. 

 

“I think I recognise you,” said Mishka as she took a step forwards. “You are one of the warriors that we saved, earlier today?”

 

Saved? Did she think she had saved us, because she, and the other girls, had shot a few fleeing Corcyrian stragglers across a meadowland that was half a pasang from the road? 

 

Rolfe had told me the Corcyrians were probably levies – not even professional warriors. Just men given basic training to defend their Home Stone in times of war.

 

“I owe you a debt of gratitude, then, huntress,” I said. “Those men might have taken us unawares, in an ambush.”

 

She smiled. She seemed pleased I had said that. Kulai, too, seemed happy. “We are fierce riders of Turia.” 

 

Fierce? Lovely, rather. Exquisite, even, in those brief tunics, their legs smooth and shapely in the riding hose. The white silk ribbons tying their long dark hair back was a lovely touch. 

 

“I can think of no one I might rather have guarding my flanks,” I said.

 

They seemed very pleased. “Our bows would guard you well.”

 

“I would furnish you each with a cup of ka-la-na wine in gratitude, but alas I have yet to be paid.”

 

“As comrades in arms, who have been paid, we shall buy you some wine,” said Kulai. 

 

Twenty ehn later, we sat at a table, three cups before us. I had walked straight past a table where an astonished Rolfe, Rollo and Hergessvar stared up at me as I pretended not to notice them, preferring instead a table to the side where I might sit alone with these two proud, beautiful huntresses. 

 

“Wine!” cried Mishka, smiting the table with her small fist.

 

“Wine!” cried Kulai, too. She reached back to adjust the white silk ribbon in her lovely hair, as it had slipped a bit. I don’t think she quite realised how lifting her arms like that accentuated the swell of her breasts in the riding tunic. 

 

“Wine,” I said, as a camp slave girl brought a pitcher of ka-la-na. I can’t say it was the best wine I had ever tasted, or even an average wine, but it was wine, and it was served before me and two beautiful huntresses in such lovely riding tunics. Wine improves, I think, in relation to the company you are enjoying, whilst drinking it.

 

“Corcyrus is doomed, of course,” said Kulai, as we sipped from our cups. 

 

“Of course,” I said. Her lips were lovely, poised so delicately on the rim of the goblet. 

 

“They are regrouping after their last defeat. Slowly, pasang by pasang, we are forcing them back towards their city walls.”

 

“Excellent,” I said.  

 

“Where did you last fight?” asked Kulai. She gazed at me with an interest that might not simply be confined to military matters.

 

“Beyond the walls of Rovere,” I said. “My brothers and I fought closely, shoulder to shoulder, between shields, as the men of Rovere fell back against the might of our spears.”

 

“Rovere is far from here,” said Mishka.

 

“The winding road to the city is a thousand pasangs,” I said. I knew this because Rolfe had mentioned it. He hadn’t however mentioned whether he’d fought for or against Rovere, but frankly I had a fifty/fifty chance of getting it right. I’ve seen worse odds in my life.   

 

I was trying not to look in the direction of Rolfe’s table, as if I did he would gesture to me frantically. 

 

“Tell me of your riding mistress,” I said. “And, thus, of yourselves.” 

 

“Livinnia? She is the companion of Stannis, of course. We knew her as children, growing up in Turia. We would often ride together on kaiila, relishing the wind in our hair on the open steppes. When they became companioned, Kulai, Danata, Svetlana, and I, were her maids of honour. We wore ceremonial white and carried garlands of flowers. We witnessed as they drank the wine of companionship and embraced under the moons of Gor. And as is the way of our people, we stood guard over the maiden Livinnia as she refused Stannis’s embrace.”

 

“Refused his embrace?”

 

“It is a companionship custom in certain parts of Turia,” explained Kulai. “After the betrothal ceremony, the man informs his woman that he will take her now to the couch of companionship. The woman of course has to react startled, and cry out loudly that she is a maiden of honour, and that no such thing will occur! She will offer instead a lifetime of chaste, sweet kisses. The man of course tells her that is not why he has taken her as a companion, at which point the maiden leaves, declaring to the laughing guests that no man, not even her companion, shall have her in such a manner. That evening, as the guests wait, eating and drinking their fill, the maids of honour – that is I, Kulai, Danata, and Svetlana, guard Livinnia with stern dispositions and supple slave switches, with which to drive away any man, including her companion, who might wish to use her in such a manner. It’s all a game, of course, and part of the ceremony. Guests know they are now invited to rise up and approach Livinnia, only to be driven away by furious switching by her maids. There is always much laughter as a man pretends to be driven away by us. Stannis then presents himself and demands his companion, at which moment we set about him with our switches, too, intent on driving him off, while Livinnia swoons at the thought of what he has in mind for her.”

 

I smiled.

 

“Stannis then easily overpowers us of course. He seizes each of us in turn, takes away our switches, and ties us, one at a time, by our wrists to the saddle rings of his kaiila. While he is doing this, his virtuous companion continues to swoon and declare that Stannis shall never, never, have her in that manner. Finally, when all four of the maids have been disarmed of their supple switches, and when we have all been secured by our wrists to the four saddle rings on his kaiila – two to either side – the rings jingling against the harness as we pretend to struggle - Stannis presents himself to his companion who, in time honoured tradition, beats at his chest with her balled fists. Stannis then declares his right, as she is his companion, to take and use her in that fashion. He binds her wrists and ankles, slings her over his shoulder and then ties her over his saddle. With the four maids still bound by their wrists to the saddle rings - and of course we were all laughing delightfully while this was going on - Stannis rides with his captives to the bedding tent where he takes the struggling Livinnia inside. The bedding of the companionship then takes place in private.”

 

“And what of the lovely maids, in the ceremonial white, so tightly secured to the kaiila saddle rings, throughout all of this?”

 

“Oh, we are left standing there for an ahn or two. I remember my wrists feeling sore. Stannis had used very tight knots! Our role is then to shout words of encouragement to our mistress - obscured from sight, inside the tent - urging her to resist, urging her to remain strong, to deny Stannis her charms and loveliness. Of course, she doesn’t. They are companions now. They will in fact enjoy one another. It is their night together. We are released only when the tent flap is parted and Stannis throws out, as evidence, the droplet stained sheets on which his, once white silk, companion lay, during the bedding. There are then cheers from all the guests, and finally the maids are released, conducted to a table of honour and given, at long last, much needed cups of wine of their own. The guests all rise and salute us.”

 

“Charming.” And I meant it. I could picture the ceremony, surrounded by torches, with scented incense burning softly on braziers, the moons rising as the sun has set, as the time honoured traditions of courtship and companionship were observed. Gor has many such customs, and they vary across the continent. Many of them are truly lovely. 

  

“When it came time for Stannis to leave Turia, and with him, Livinnia, too, we travelled with her. It was exciting, for so few women of Turia ever leave their land, save perhaps as embonded slaves, in a few unfortunate cases. We travelled together to central Gor and have stayed with her since.”  

 

“And now you ride with her, such lovely huntresses.”

 

“Fierce huntresses,” said Kulai, correcting me.

 

“Fierce, lovely, huntresses.”

 

“Bold, fierce, huntresses,” suggested Mishka.

 

“Lovely, bold, fierce, huntresses,” I further elaborated. 

 

Mishka laughed, finally giving in. Kulai adjusted her white silk ribbon again, as if it wasn’t quite hanging correctly. Again, the motion seemed to subtly draw emphasis to her breasts in that brief riding tunic she wore. 

 

I raised the cup of wine to my lips again and marvelled at what treasures women were. 

 

“I am not sure we should allow you to call us lovely,” declared Mishka as she sipped her own wine. I watched with interest, how those luscious lips touched the rim of the cup. Goreans are fascinated by the soft lips of a woman, and I began to understand why. 

 

“Oh?”

 

“You should think of us in other ways.”

 

“Oh, I do,” I said with a smile, imagining them now tied by their bound wrists, either side of the rings on a kaiila saddle, possibly naked, or at least scantily clad, hurrying along on bare, dusty, feet, whimpering softly, each girl tethered perfectly, while a rider, possibly myself, led them away to his camp. 

 

“You think of us as huntresses?”

 

“I think of you… in the Turian fashion,” I said with a smile.

“I am pleased,” said Kulai, misunderstanding what my thoughts might be.

 

“As am I,” added Mishka.

 

“One day I would like to learn to ride a tharlarion,” I said, as if speaking my thoughts out loud, “though being just a clumsy man, I would probably fall off and embarrass myself in front of seasoned, experienced, huntresses.”

 

Both girls laughed gently at this. “I suppose a huntress could teach you?” suggested Mishka, as if it were just a passing thought.

 

“A huntress?” I said, surprised by the offer.

 

“A bold, fierce, huntress,” said Kulai. 

 

“A bold, fierce, lovely, Huntress? I imagine she would be an excellent tutor,” I said. 

 

Mishka tossed her head with pride. “You are calling us lovely again.” She wagged an admonishing finger at me. 

 

“Are you not lovely?”

 

“Think of us as bold,” she said.

 

“Think of us as fierce,” added Kulai.

 

“Think of us as unconquered, and defiant,” said Mishka.

 

“And lovely?” I suggested.

 

An ahn and a half later, as the sun had set over the horizon,  I had re-joined Rolfe, Rollo and Hergessvar at their table. They were drinking paga, of course, but I ordered some more wine. 

 

“We need to know,” said Rolfe as he tried to focus on his cup of paga. I didn’t dare guess how many cups he’d had by now.

 

“I think I lust for those women,” said Rollo, as he too regarded his paga cup.

 

“The tunics they wear,” sighed Hergessvar. “So brazen, and yet…”

 

“It is typical attire for a Gorean huntress, I understand?” I said.

 

“Who knows?” said Rolfe as he downed another cup. “I keep thinking of those shapely legs in their tight, dark, hose…”

 

“We should go to Turia, if there are women like that,” said Hergessvar. “Is it far?”

 

“I believe so,” I said. “It’s a long way to travel.”

 

“Ah, but what adventures we would have along the way,” remarked Rollo. “The women we would enjoy on the road! The paga we would drink!”

 

“A very long way. Look, they are Free Women, and under the protection of Livinnia of the Assante. Forget you ever saw them.”

 

“Easy for you to say, Roland. You have Kelsee. She will squirm under you tonight, while I will have to sleep beside Rollo. He snores like a wounded tarsk. Did you see the one called Svetlana?” said Rolfe.

 

Rollo groaned and adjusted the way he sat, to be more comfortable, as he thought of Svetlana. 

 

“I, myself, would easily pay a silver tarsk for the one called Kulai,” said Hergessvar. “Even though she is untrained and probably clumsy when taken by a man.”

 

“You have a silver tarsk?” said Rolfe, in surprise.

 

“No, as it happens, I do not, but I would ask you to lend me one.”

 

Rolfe blinked. “I don’t have a silver tarsk to lend you.”

 

“No?” Hergessvar sighed. “We should consider becoming outlaws. They never lack for money.”

 

“We have codes,” said Rolfe, reminding them both of certain incontrovertible facts.

 

Rollo nodded. “We have the codes, but we do not have those lovely girls, in their brief riding attire. How is that fair?”

 

The men seemed morose, tonight, and it is never a good idea to drink heavily when you are morose. 

 

“When we reach the next city there will be paga taverns,” I said, trying to cheer them up.

 

“I care nothing for paga taverns,” said Rolfe. “I can’t stop thinking of the lovely Svetlana.”

 

“She’s a Free Woman,” I reminded him. “She will be frigid and unversed in the art of sex.”

 

“True,” said Rolfe. “But then, aren’t all slaves, when they are first collared?”

 

It was an argument I couldn’t easily refute.