Captive of Gor (44 page)

hanging meat, or trophies, from. Near that pole, near the iron ring set in the

stone, which was buried in the ground, Ute told Techne and I to kneel.

(pg. 308) To one side there was a brazier filled with white-hot coals. From the

brazier there protruded the handles of four irons. The fire was quite hot, and

it had apparently been heating for some two or three Ahn, perhaps even from the

time we had went forth to pick berries.

I was apprehensive.

Two or three guards stood about, and some of my fellow female work slaves.

One of the guards who stood nearby was the one who had taken Techne and I beyond

the palisade to gather berries.

Some other men, and girls, from the camp, strolled over to the poles.

Ute stood sternly before us.

Techne looked about, frightened. I was not pleased myself, but I appeared calm.

“Techne,” said Ute.

“Yes,” said Techne, frightened.

“Did you steal berries from El-in-or?” demanded Ute.

“No, no!” she cried.

“El-in-or,” said Ute, “did you, or did you not, steal berries from Techne?”

“I did not,” I said.

Ute turned to the guard.

“The first one,” he said, “tells the truth. The second on is lying.”

“No!” I cried out. “No!”

Ute looked at me. “It is not hard to tell, El-in-or,” she said. “Sometimes the

guard sees you, sometimes he sees the shadow, or he hears what you are doing, or

he sees the different amounts in the buckets. Sometimes he watches in the

reflection of a shield hoop.”

“No,” I whimpered, “No.”

“You frequently stole from me,” said Ute, “but I asked the guard, who also knew,

not to inform on you.”

I put my head down, miserable.

“I will not steal berries again, Ute,” I said.

“No,” she said, “I do not think you will.”

I looked up at her.

(pg. 309) “But this time,” she said, “you stole from Techne, who is one of my

girls, I cannot permit that.”

“I didn’t steal from her!” I wept.

Ute looked at the guard.

He shrugged. “She is lying,” he said.

“I will not steal from her anymore,” I cried.

“No,” said Ute, “I do not think you will.”

Ute then went to Techne. “Did you eat any of the berries?” she asked.

“No,” said Techne, frightened.

Then Ute stood before me.

“Did you, El-in-or, eat any of the berries?” she asked.

“No, Ute,” I said. “No!”

Then Ute stood again before Techne. “Open your mouth and thrust out your

tongue,” she said.

I moaned.

Ute inspected Techne’s mouth and tongue. “Good,” she said.

Then Ute stood before me.

“Please, Ute!” I begged. “Please!”

“Open your mouth and thrust out your tongue,” said Ute.

“Please, Ute!” I whimpered.

“Open your mouth and thrust out your tongue,” said Ute.

I did so.

There was much laughter from the group.

“You may go, Techne,” said Ute.

The young slave leaped to her feet and fled away.

I started to rise to my feet. “Not you, El-in-or,” said Ute.

I knelt before her, trembling.

“Remove your garment,” she said.

Terrified, I did so, and then again, as before, knelt before her, wearing only

my collar.

“Now,” said Ute, “ask a guard to brand and beat you.”

“No!” I screamed. “No, no, no, no!”

“I will mark her,” said a voice.

I turned to see Rask of Treve.

“Master!” I wept, throwing myself to his feet.

(pg. 310)”Hold her,” he said to four of his men.

“Please!” I cried. “No, Master, no!”

Four men held me, naked, near the brazier. I could feel the heat blazing from

the cannister. The sky was very blue, the clouds were white.

“Please, no!’ I wept.

I saw Rask, with a heavy glove, draw forth one of the irons from the fire. It

terminated in a tiny letter, not more than a quarter of an inch high. The letter

was white hot. “This is the penalty brand,” he said. “It marks you as a liar.”

“Please, Master!” I wept.

“I no longer have patience with you,” he said. “Be marked as what you are.”

I screamed uncontrollably as he pressed in the iron, holding it firmly into my

leg. Then, after some two to four Ihn, he removed it. I could not stop screaming

with pain. I smelled the odor of burned flesh, my own. I began to whimper. I

could not breathe. I gasped for breath. Still the men held me.

“This penalty brand,” said Rask of Treve, lifting another iron from the brazier,

again with a tiny letter at its glowing termination, “marks you also as what you

are, as a thief.”

“Please, no, Master!” I wept.

I could not move a muscle of my left leg. It might as well have been locked in a

vise. It must wait for the iron.

I screamed again, uncontrollably. I had been branded as a thief.

“This third iron,” said Rask of Treve, “is, too, a penalty iron. I mark you with

it not for myself, but for Ute.”

Through raging tears I saw, white hot, the tiny letter.

“It marks you as a traitress,” said Rask of Treve. He looked at me, with fury.

“Be marked as a traitress,” he said. Then he pressed the third iron into my

flesh. As it entered my flesh, biting and searing, I saw Ute watching, her face

betraying no emotion. I screamed, and wept, and screamed.

Still the men did not release me.

Rask of Treve lifted the last iron from the fire. It was much larger, the letter

at its termination some one and a half (pg. 311) inches high. It, too, was white

hot. I knew the brand. I had seen it, on Ena’s thigh. It was the mark of Treve.

Rask of Treve had decided that my flesh should bear that mark.

“No, Master, please!” I begged him.

“Yes, Worthless Slave,” said he, “you will wear in your flesh the mark of the

city of Treve.”

“Please,” I begged.

“When men ask you,” said he, “who it was that marked you as liar and thief, and

traitress, point to this brand, and say, I was marked by one of Treve, who was

displeased with me.”

“Do not punish me with the iron!” I cried.

I could not move my thigh. It must wait, helpless, for the blazing kiss of the

iron.

“No,” I cried. “No!”

He approached me. I could feel the terrible heat of the iron, even inches from

my body.

“Please, no!” I begged.

The iron was poised.

I saw his eyes and realized that I would receive no mercy. He was a tarnsman of

Treve.

“With the mark of Treve,” he said, “I brand you slave.”

Then the iron, crackling and hissing, was pressed, deeply and firmly, into my

flesh, for some five seconds.

I screamed and sobbed, and began to cough and vomit.

My wrists were tied before my body, by a long strip of binding fiber, which was

then thrown over the top of the horizontal pole. The free end of the strap was

secured to one side. The men stepped back.

I was sobbing.

“Bring the whip,” said Rask of Treve.

I hung perhaps a foot from the ground. I felt my ankles lashed together, and

then a strap tied them to the ring below, that set in the stone, which was

buried in the ground. That way I would not swing much under the blows.

Once, long ago, I had been beaten by Lana, with a handful of straps. I had never

forgotten it. I was delicate. I could not stand pain. I was not a common girl. I

had always feared, but never felt, the five-strap Gorean slave whip, wielded

with the full, terrible strength of a man.

“Please, Master!” I cried. “Do not beat me! I cannot stand pain! You do not

understand! I am not a common girl! It hurts me! I am too delicate to be

beaten!”

I heard the men and girls about laughing. I hung by the wrists, miserable. My

thigh felt as though it were burning. Tears, streamed from my eyes. I coughed,

and could not breathe. I heard the voice of Rask of Treve. “To begin,” he was

saying, “you will receive one stroke for each letter of the word, “Lair,” then

one stroke for each letter of the word ‘Thief’, and then a stroke for each

letter of the word ‘Traitress’. You will count the strokes.”

I sobbed.

“Count,” commanded Rask of Treve.

“I am illiterate,” I wept. “I do not know how many to count!”

“There are four characters in the first expression,” said Inge.

I looked at her with horror. I had not seen her until now. I did not want her to

see me being beaten. I saw, too, now, for the first time, that Rena, too, stood

nearby. I did not want them to see me being beaten.

“You made a great fuss when you were branded,” said Inge.

“That is certainly true,” agreed Rena.

“Count,” commanded Rask of Treve.

“One!” I cried out in misery.

Suddenly my back exploded. I screamed but there was no sound. There seemed no

breath in my body. And then there was only pain, and I almost lost

consciousness. I hung by the wrists. There had been the terrible sound of the

leather, and then the pain.

I could not stand it.

“Count!” I heard.

“No, no!’ I cried.

“Count,” urged Inge, “or it will go hard with you.”

(pg. 313) “Count,” pressed Rena. “Count!” The lash will not lower your value,”

she said. “The straps are too broad. They only punish.”

“Two,” I wept.

Again the leather fell and I gasped and twisted, hanging, burning from the pole.

“Count!” said Rask of Treve.

“I cannot!” I wept. “I cannot.”

“Three,” said Ute. “I will count for her.”

The lash fell again.

“Four,” said Ute.

Twice, in my beating I lost consciousness, and twice I was revived, chilled

water thrown on me.

At last the strokes had been counted. I hung my head down, helpless.

“Now,” said Rask of Treve, “I shall beat you until it pleases me to stop.”

Ten more strokes he gave to the helpless slave girl, who twice more lost

consciousness, and twice more was awakened to the drenching of cold water. And

then, as she scarcely understood, hanging half conscious in the fires of her

pain, she heard him say, “Cut her down,”

The binding fiber was removed from her wrists but her hands, that she might not

tear at her brands, were snapped behind her back in slave bracelets. Then, by

the hair, she stumbling, scarcely able to stand, he dragged her to the small,

square iron box which sat near the whipping pole, and thrust her within.

Crouching inside the box, I saw the door shut, and heard the two heavy, flat

bolts sliding into place. I then heard the click of two padlocks, securing them

in place.

I was locked inside. I could see a tiny slit of the outside through the aperture

in the iron door, about a half an inch in height and seven inches in width.

There was a somewhat larger opening at the foot of the door, about two inches in

height and a foot wide. The box itself was square, with dimensions of perhaps

one yard square. It was hot, and dark.

I remembered that a slave girl, on my first day in the (pg. 314) camp of Rask of

Treve, had warned me, that if I lied or stole, I would be beaten and put in the

slave box.

I moaned and fell to my side, my knees drawn up under my chin, my hands

braceleted behind me. My thigh burned terribly, from the branding, and my back

and the back of my legs still screamed from the cruel flames of the leather

lash. Elinor Brinton, of Park Avenue, had been branded as a liar, a thief and a

traitress, and a bold tarnsman, from a distant world, her master, had put into

her flesh, insolently, the mark of his own city. The girl in the slave box was

under no delusion as to who it was who owned her. He had collared her, and, with

a hot iron, had placed in her flesh his brand.

In the slave box, she fell unconscious. But that night, cold, she awakened,

still in pain. Outside, she heard the sounds of pleasure and feasting, that

celebration called in honor of the capturing of two young girls, who had fled

from undesired companionships, which had been arranged by their parents.

* * *

I remained in the slave box. The door was opened, when I was braceleted, only to

feed and water me. I was not allowed to stretch my body. On the fifth day the

bracelets were removed, but I was kept in the box. My brands had now healed. But

the box itself, its heat, its darkness, its tiny dimensions, worked their

tortures in me.

In the first days, braceleted, I screamed and kicked, and begged to be released.

After my bracelets were removed, and the food then, and water, would only be

thrust through the hole under the tiny iron door, I pounded, and screamed, and

scratched at the inside of the box. I thrust my fingers through the tiny

aperture and cried out for mercy. I feared I would go insane. Ute would feed me,

and fill my water pan, but she would not speak to me. Once, however, she did say

to me, “You will be freed when your master wishes it, not before.” Once Inge

came by, to taunt me. “Rask of Treve has forgotten you,” she said. Rena, too,

accompanied Inge. “Yes,” she laughed, “he has forgotten you. He had forgotten

you!”

(pg. 315) On the tenth day, instead of the pan of bread, with the water, Ute

thrust a different pan under the door. I screamed. Tiny things, with tiny

sounds, moved, crawling over and about one another in it. I screamed again, and

thrust it back out. It had been filled with far, loathsome green insects which,

in the Ka-la-na thicket, Ute had told me were edible. Indeed, she had eaten