He would be held perfectly. It was a Gorean slave trap.
I pulled at the chain, a heavy chain, concealed under leaves.
It led to a ring on a post, sunk deeply into the ground. I could not budge the post.
I heard the pursuit, almost at hand, breaking through branches.
Arn looked at me, agonized.
I put out my hand to him. Then I turned and, stumbling sick, began to run. I fell against a tree, and again struggled to my feet. An arrow struck near me. I plunged into the underbrush, hearing the sounds of pursuit.
I began to grow dizzy. It was hard to see. I fell again, and again stumbled to my feet and, unsteadily, attempted to run.
I do not know how far I ran. I do not think it was far. I fell in the brush. I must get up. I screamed to myself, I must get up!
But I could not get up.
“Here he is,” I heard.
I opened my eyes and saw about me the ankles of several panther girls. My hands were dragged behind me. I felt slave steel locked on my wrists, I fell unconscious.
9 There is a Meeting of Hunters
I awakened with a start.
I could not move.
I lay in the center of a clearing. I could see lofty Tur trees surrounding the clearing. We were deep in the forest, somewhere within one of the stands of the mighty Tur trees. I could see them, on all sides, at the edges of the clearing, rising beautifully a hundred, two hundred feet toward the blackness of the Gorean night, the brightness of the stars, and then, almost at the top, exploding into a broad canopying of interlaced branches. I could see the stars overhead. But through the leafed branches of the trees I could catch only glimpses of them. There was grass in the clearing. I could feel it beneath my back. I saw, to one side of the clearing, a short, stout slave post, with two rings. No slave was bound to it.
“He is awake,” said a girl’s voice.
I saw a woman, in the brief skins of the panther women, turn and approach me. She wore ornaments of gold, an armlet, and anklet, a long string of tiny, pierced, golden cylinders looped four times about her neck.
At her belt was a sleen knife.
She stood over me. She looked down upon me. Her legs were shapely. She was marvelously figured.
I pulled at the thongs on my wrists and ankles. My feet and arms had been tied separately, widely apart. I was stretched between four stakes. Several bands of binding fiber fastened each limb to its heavy stake. The stakes were notched to prevent the fiber from slipping. I could scarcely feel my hands and feet. I was well secured. I had been stripped.
She looked down upon me.
She carried a light spear.
I turned my head to one side.
With the blade of her spear she turned my head so that I must again face her. “Greetings, Slave,” she said.
I did not speak to her.
She looked down upon me, and laughed.
I, her captive, hated her.
Yet she did not permit me to take my eyes from her. The blade of her spear made me face her.
“Am I so difficult to look upon?” she asked.
She was one of the most exciting beautiful women I had ever seen.
I resented the brief, tight skins which concealed her from me.
Her blond hair, unbound, swirled below the small of her back. Her blue eyes, regarded me, contemptuously.
“No,” I said, “it is not difficult to look upon you.”
She was magnificent. She might have been bred from pleasure slaves and she-panthers. She was sinuous and arrogant, desirable, dangerous, feline. I had little doubt that she was swift of mind. She was surely proud and haughty. She was lithe. She was perhaps two inched taller than the average Gorean woman, and yet, due to the perfections of her proportions, as vigorous and stunning as a girl bred deliberately in the slave pens for such qualities.
She looked down upon me.
“I am a free man,” I said. “I demand the rights of prisoners.”
Idly she moved the blade of her spear along the side of my body.
I closed my eyes.
“You were fools to drink the wine,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
I looked up at her.
“More than once,” she said,we have used out camp as a slave trap.” In rage I pulled at the thongs.
“You got further than any other in the forest,” she said. “You are strong.” I again felt the blade of the spear at the side of my waist.
She looked down upon me.
I looked up into her eyes.
“Yes,” she said, “you are strong.”
In rage I again fought the thongs. I pulled at them with my feet and wrists. But I was perfectly secured. I had been bound by panther women.
I was theirs.
I looked up again into her eyes.
I had little doubt but what this was Verna who now examined me.
None but the acknowledged leader of the band, whose authority was undisputed, could have so looked upon a prisoner, dispassionately, objectively, serene in her power over his life and body.
It was up to her, what was to be done with me.
It was she, more than the others, to whom I belonged.
I, and my men, were hers.
Another girl came and stood behind her. I recognized that girl. It was Mira, who had spoken to me in my camp. She looked up at the sky. ”The moons,” she said, “ will soon be risen.” Then she looked at me, and laughed.
Verna sat down beside me, cross-legged. ”The moons are not yet risen,” she said. “Let us converse.” She drew the sleen knife from her belt sheath. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Where are my men?” I asked.
“You will answer my questions,” she said.
I felt the blade of the sleen knife at my throat.
“I am Bosk,” I said, “of the exchange island of Tabor.”
“You were warned,” said she, playing with the knife, “not to return to the forest.” I was silent.
Then I turned to face her. “Where are my men?” I asked.
“Chained,” she said.
“What are you going to do with us?” I asked.
“What is the woman Talena to you?” she asked.
“Do you hold her?” I asked.
I again felt the edge of the sleen knife on my throat.
“Once,” said I, “long ago, we were companions.”
“And you wished to rescue her, as a hero, and repledge the companionship?” she asked.
“It would have been my hope,” I said, “ to have repledged the companionship.” “She would be an excellent match, would she not?” asked Verna.
“Yes,” I said. “That is true.”
Verna laughed. “She is only a slave girl,” she said.
“She is the daughter of a Ubar!” I cried.
“We have taught her slavery,” said Verna. “I have see to that.”
I struggled against the thongs.
“You would find her, I think,” said Verna, “rather changed from when you knew her.” “What have you done to her?” I cried.
“Human beings change,” said Verna. “Little is constant. Doubtless you have an image of her. You are a fool it is a myth.” “What have you done to her?” I begged.
“It is my recommendation,” said Verna, “that you forget about her.” She smiled. She played with the knife, putting her fingertip to its point. “You may accept my word for it,” she said. “She is no longer worthy of your efforts.” I fought the thongs, growling like an animal, fighting to free myself. I could not do so.
“How fierce the slave is,” exclaimed Verna, in mock fear.
I lay back, bound.
Verna, idly, began to play at the side of my throat with the sleen knife. I could feel its point.
“Talena,” she said, “by my permission, by one of my women, sent a missive in her own handwriting to Marlenus, her father, the great Ubar.” I was silent.