“I see you like a left-thigh-branded girl,” said Hassan.
The girl can writhe in the rack or squirm, or scream, but the held thigh will not move. It is held for the kiss of the iron.
With a heavy glove, Hassan pulled an iron from the brazier. “What do you think of this brand?” he asked.
It was the Taharic slave mark.
“It is beautiful,” I said. “But let us assure ourselves that this will be a common slave, one fit to sell north.”
“A good idea,” said Hassan. He returned the one iron to the brazier and reached for another. It glowed red. It was a fine iron, clean and precise. At its tip, bright red, was the common Kajira slave mark of Gor. Tarna looked upon it with horror.
“It is not yet hot enough, my pretty,” said Hassan. He returned it to the brazier.
We heard shouting, as though from far away. Hassan looked at me. “I shall investigate,” I said. I left the room and ascended to the third level. The noise was coming from the level above, the second. A soldier was stumbling by. “What is going on?” I asked. “On the level above?”
“They are searching for Tarna,” he laughed. He then stumbled away.
I saw two slave girls led past me, on wrist chains, in the grip of another soldier.
I returned to the fourth level. I returned to the room where Hassan waited.
“They are searching for Tarna,” I said.
“On what level are they?” asked Hassan.
“The second,” I said.
“Ah,” said Hassan, “then we have plenty of time.” In a few Ehn he removed the iron from the coals, and examined it. He then again replaced it. Shortly thereafter, however, for it must have been almost ready, he drew it-forth again.
It glowed white.
“You may scream and cry out, my pretty,” said Hassan, not unkindly.
She struggled in the bracelets, she watched the iron. Then she screamed. For five long Ihn Hassan held the iron, pressing it in. I saw it sink in her thigh, smoking and hissing. Then he, cleanly, withdrew it. Tarna was marked.
She sobbed, wildly. We did not rebuke her. I freed her thigh of the rack. She fell on her knees at the posts, sobbing. I freed her wrists of the snap bracelets. I lifted her, sobbing, in my arms.
I, Hassan, leading, carried Tarna to an empty cell on the fourth level. Hassan pushed back the door, tying it open. There was dim light in the cell from the hall outside. I put Tarna, still sobbing, on the dank straw at the back wall of the cell.
“I’m a slave girl,” she whispered. “I am a slave girl.”
We found the chain and collar, and I fastened it about the girl’s neck, locking it.
We looked at her.
She was chained to the wall.
“I am a slave girl,” she whispered to us, disbelievingly, through her tears.
We heard sounds, from the level above.
“They are searching the third level, that above us,” said Hassan. “They will soon be here.”
“I am a slave girl,” she said.
“If it is discovered that you were Tarna,” said Hassan, “it will not go easy with you.”
She looked at him, numbly, comprehending his import Tarna had been spoken of in the past tense. No longer was she Tarna.
Tarna was gone. Tarna no longer existed. In her place now, there was only a girl slave, nameless as a kaiila or verr.
“If it is discovered that you were Tarna,” said Hassan, sternly, “it will not go easy with you. No longer would you be entitled to certain forms of torture, suitable for free persons, culminating in your honorable impalement. Your death would surely be one of the deaths of a slave girl, who has not been pleasing.”
“What can I do?” she wept. “What can I do?”
“You are a slave,” said Hassan, cruelly. “Please us.”
And in that foul cell, on the stinking straw, in the feeble light of the lamp outside, the once proud Tarna, now only a nameless slave girl, chained by masters, struggled to please us. We were not easy with her. We were harsh, and hard, and cruel. Often she wept and despaired of her ability to please us, but she was cuffed and kicked and set again about her duties.
At last Hassan and I rose to our feet.
“The slave hopes that she has pleased her masters,” whispered the girl.
Hassan looked at me. “She has much to learn,” he said, “but I think, in time, she may be satisfactory.”
I nodded, concurring in his judgment. We then stepped outside. We were encountered in the hall by a soldier, with a lifted lamp. “I search for Tarna,” he said.
“Tarna is not here,” I said. “In the cell there is only a female slave.”
The soldier looked into the cell, and lifted the lamp. The girl lay on the straw, curled up, the collar and chain leading to her throat. She shielded her eyes from the lamp. It was not bright, but, in the dimness of the cell, it hurt her eyes.
She was beautifully curled on the straw. She lifted her head, shielding her eyes.
“Master?” she asked.
“What is your name, Girl?” asked the soldier.
“Whatever master wishes,” she said.
He held the lamp up, examining her beauty. With a sinuous movement, with a rustle of chain, she sat upright, her back straight. She extended her right leg, looking at him over her right shoulder; her toes were pointed; her leg was flexed, revealing to its best, delicious advantage, the curve of her calf.
I felt like raping her.
“What is the name of your master?” asked the soldier.
“I do not know,” she said. “I belonged to Tarna. Now I hear from soldiers that Tarna has fallen, I do not know who will be my master.”
She looked at him. “You seem strong,” she said.
She, sitting, as she was, thrust forward her breasts, accentuating the line of her beauty.
“Slut,” he laughed.
She put her head down, chastened.
He laughed. “Be as you were before,” he said. She obeyed. “More so,” said he.
She obeyed.
“I search for Tarna,” he said.
“Do not search for her,” begged the girl. “Stay with me.”
“You are dirty,” he said. “And you stink.”
“Bring slave perfume,” she said to him. “Rub it on my body.”
He turned from the door. She fled to the length of her chain, kneeling, her hands outstretched to him. “The fourth level is deep,” she said. “I am in a cell to myself. Many men do not even know I am here. The kasbah has fallen and only two soldiers have entered my cell. Stay with me!”
“I must search for Tarna,” said the man.
“When you have finished your search,” said the girl, arms outstretched, “return to me.”
“I will,” said the soldier. He laughed brutally.
“Thank you,” she cried, “beloved Master!”
He turned to go.
“Beloved Master,” she whispered. She knelt. She put her head down. “If I were a bold free woman,” she said, “and not a bond girl, I would ask that you bring with you on your return a bottle of wine for your pleasure, that you would enjoy me more.”
“Little she-sleen!” he laughed. He entered the cell and, putting down his lamp, kicked and cuffed the girl, until she rolled in the straw, tangled in the chain, covering her head, her body half covered with straw, at the wall. He then again took up the lamp, and went to the door. “I shall return,” he said, “ and when I do, I shall bring wine.”