Quarry of gor, p.13
Quarry of Gor, page 13
“And to think,” said Euphrosyne, laughing, “I put myself into the sea, and might have been eaten by sharks! What a fool I was! I did not know! Who could have known! How glorious, how fortunate, that I managed to return to the ship! There is now nothing to fear!”
I myself was not sure of that.
“Builder’s glass,” called the captain, and an officer handed him that object. The captain stood at the stern rail, and trained the glass on the approaching ship. “A corsair,” he said, “flying the colors of Cos.”
The keeper had recently returned from the vicinity of the helmsmen, and was standing near me. As soon as I realized this, I knelt, now almost at his thigh.
“If you wish to stand,” he said, “you may do so.”
I rose to my feet. He was kind. He must have sensed that I would wish to have a better view of what was to ensue. I placed myself on his left and a bit behind him. I was a female slave and he was a free man. That is a common heeling position. I did not wish to be beaten.
“Oars ready!” called the captain.
Oars were grasped.
“Oars out!” called the captain.
I heard these mighty levers, with a rattle of wood, thrust through the thole ports. There were two oarsmen to each oar.
“May I speak?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“The other ship approaches,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“The captain,” I said, “spoke of a corsair.”
“It is a corsair,” said the keeper, “undoubtedly.”
“It is following us,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“We do not have warriors aboard,” I said, “neither bowmen nor spearmen.”
“No,” he said.
“Surely we must then attempt to outrun the other ship,” I said. “We have oarsmen, and a sail. The other ship, if it has a mast and sail, it has not yet raised them. We can thus gain time. I do not understand why the captain has not yet committed the oarsmen. Too, I do not understand why there is so little fear on board. Surely pirates, corsairs, are dangerous.”
“Other things may be more dangerous than they,” he said.
“Lacking defenses,” I said, “we must flee.”
“It seems so,” he said.
“Surely, with oars and sail, we can outdistance the stranger,” I said. I noted, with apprehension, that the other ship was closer now, indeed, perhaps no more than a half pasang away. Our oars were not yet in the water, but only poised.
“We could never outdistance the corsair,” he said. “We do not have the lines. It is a long ship. A crippled vulo could more easily escape a striking tarn.”
“Then we must put into shore, while we can,” I said, “and attempt to escape inland.”
“Surely you note that the corsair has positioned itself between us and the shore,” said the keeper. “And, even if we were willing to risk villages of rapacious peasants, armed with the great bow, we could not reach the shore.”
“And,” I said, “if we turn out to sea, the corsair could overtake us?”
“Within the Ahn,” he said.
“Why then is there so little concern on board?” I asked.
“Do not fear,” he said. He then looked about, and then, shading his eyes with his hand, looked back, at the corsair. “I think it is time,” he said. “We shall now exhibit fear, consternation, and desperation.”
“Master?” I asked.
At a gesture from the captain, the hortator struck his drum with a resounding blow from one of his two mallets. The oars then entered the water. At a second stroke on the drum, with the other mallet, the oars moved.
Almost at the same time we heard, from across the water, a similar sound from the approaching ship. They had not used the drum until now, perhaps hoping that their presence had not yet been discovered. Sometimes the stroke, by the hortator or an officer, is called from amidships, even softly.
“We will now,” said the keeper, “seem to flee.”
“The stranger gains upon us,” I said.
The ship moved beneath my feet, oddly.
“Note,” said the keeper, “the helmsmen have turned us toward the shore, but briefly. Now the ship turns again, this time toward the open sea. We have realized we could not beat the corsair to the shore, so we have no choice but to risk all on flight.”
“An effort doomed to futility?” I asked.
“Precisely,” he said.
“I am afraid,” I said.
“But note,” said the keeper, “as we turn to the open sea, we draw the corsair behind us.”
“Yes?” I said.
“And he, too, then, is farther from the shore.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
At this point, perhaps in response to signals conveyed by the captain, or one of his officers, the hortator’s strokes changed, some too closely together to be matched by the heavy oars, others widely spaced, and then occurring almost unexpectedly. The oars lifted and fell, and drew, not in unison, but sporadically, disjointedly, out of rhythm. I was reminded of an injured fish thrashing in the water. Does not such distress call itself to the attention of various marine predators, such as sharks? How avidly such then would hasten to inquire!
“Now,” said the keeper, “at last, you see the signs of confusion, and terror.”
I did not understand what was occurring.
“Now,” he said, “we will recover, and begin our flight in desperate earnest.”
“One impossible of success?” I asked.
“Our fellows must row well,” he said. “It would not be well to be overtaken within the Ahn.”
“The Ahn is important?” I asked.
“That, or a little more,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, puzzled.
“Pull, lads,” called an officer. “Hear the drum! Sweat! Be strong! Be patient! If they will have us, they must work for it!”
The long, inclined yard, creaking, swung about.
“The wind shifts!” cried a mariner.
“To our advantage!” cried another.
“We shall escape!” I said.
Ropes were secured. The sail billowed anew.
Euphrosyne wept with misery.
“Be silent!” I warned her. “The stranger falls back!” I said to the keeper, pleased. The same word in Gorean is used for “stranger” and “enemy.”
“For now,” he said grimly. “Listen.”
The sound of the far drum carried well across the water.
“The beat increases,” I said.
“Of course,” said the keeper.
“The wind is with us,” I said.
“Not enough,” said the keeper.
Euphrosyne moaned.
An officer walked between the benches. “Be strong, lads,” he said. “The rhythm, the rhythm. Stay with the drum.”
I think that half an Ahn must have passed.
Twice in that time our beat had been increased.
I did not think our fellows could long maintain that pace. The round ship, larger and heavier, wider of beam, deeper in the water, higher bulwarked, laden with cargo, depends far more than a long ship on its sail.
“The stranger gains,” I said.
Then two thirds of an Ahn, surely, had passed.
An officer, departing the side of the captain, who held his position aft, came between the benches, and looked up, to the fellow at the height of the mast, the lookout, he on his wooden platform, standing within the waist-high metal ring, who had first seen the stranger, who had first sounded the alarm. The officer then returned to the side of the captain.
The stranger then was no more than a hundred yards astern, like a snake in the water.
The captain put aside his Builder’s glass and spoke to his officer.
The officer turned about. He cupped his hands. To the helmsmen he called, “Come about!” To the mariners he called, “In sail, down yard.” To the benches he called, “Oars in!” The hortator put down his mallets. The oars were drawn inboard with their rattle of wood.
“Master?” I said to the keeper.
We were then, it seemed, turned about, adrift, loose in the water. Our port side, as it was now swung about, was exposed to the bow of the stranger. His drum stopped, and his oars, lifted, dripping water, were poised. The stranger then rocked, quietly, surveying us. He was no more than forty or fifty yards from us.
“As we are now overtaken, helpless, and unable to run,” said the keeper, “it is now time, I conjecture, to show our desperation.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Is it not time to repel boarders?” asked the keeper.
“I fear we would meet with little success,” I said. Surely the foe was a well-manned ship, a ship of war, so to speak, doubtless staffed and armed, prepared for such a contingency.
“Let us intimidate them,” said the keeper, “displaying the formidable odds they would face, should they dare such a venture, a reckless boarding. Have we not secret forces aboard, representatives of the scarlet caste itself, warriors in fee?”
“No,” I said.
“Behold,” he said.
To my amazement my two sister slaves were freed of their chains in the hold and brought to the deck. Too, Euphrosyne’s chain was adjusted, so that she might stand. Scarlet cloths were brought and cast about us. I clutched the cloth about me. I was pleased to be covered, even so strangely. Slaves, we need not be clothed. How grateful we are to be permitted clothing! How we prize even the tiny bits of cloth permitted us, the tunic, the camisk, the ta-teera! And we, in our vanity, are pleased, too, I admit, once we understand our collar, with how well such garments reveal us, and set us off! What woman does not wish to be revealed as excitingly desirable, so much so that men will be eager to buy and own her? Such garments, so shameful and degrading, so scanty and revealing, excite us, and the masters, as well. It is not surprising. They are designed to do so. How can we help our feelings, not that we desire to do so. Staves were placed in our hands.
“There,” said the keeper. “See how easy it is to recruit defenders, and of the scarlet caste itself.”
“This is a doomed ruse,” I said. “Surely they have glasses of the Builders, and might detect this business easily, and at a goodly distance. And now, they are close enough to do so with the naked eye.”
“So here, now,” he said, “we have four stalwart warriors, formidably armed.”
“Master jests cruelly,” I said.
“Let them take heed,” he said.
“Even were they deceived,” I said, “we would be only four.”
“The Gorean warrior,” he said, “is trained to kill, swiftly, and efficiently. Would you clamber over bulwarks to meet a blade whose motion you might not even detect?”
“We are not warriors,” I said. “We are only slaves, females, weak and collared.”
“Understanding that,” he said, “they will surely be heartened.”
“More likely amused,” I said.
“Even now,” he said, “they are conjecturing your lineaments, now muchly concealed, and speculating as to how you might appear, chained naked at their feet.”
“We are slaves,” I said. “We belong to the free. But do you not fear for your lives?”
“Not now,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said. “Your ruse is pathetic. It is doomed. It fools no one. No one, at this distance, will mistake slaves bedecked in scarlet, clutching staves, for those of the scarlet caste. You do no more than suggest futility and desperation.”
“So it seems,” said he.
I noted that Euphrosyne had pulled the red cloth tight about herself, accentuating her figure, and, as though by some careless inadvertence, had arranged matters so that a bare shoulder might be glimpsed, and the narrow, flat circlet of metal enclosing her fair throat. Doubtless the men would beat her for that, if it should later prove convenient to do so. But, fortunately for Euphrosyne, this inadvertence, or betrayal, was not noticed by the men. Their attention was on the corsair, now paused, oars at rest, a few yards away. It seemed harmless at the moment, like a carnivore, now at ease, resting, waiting, content that the chase was now done, eyeing spent prey.
“Will they strike our ship?” I asked.
“You know of rams?” he said.
“Very little,” I said.
I had understood something of this sort from Euphrosyne. Surely, if, at the sturdy, narrow bow of the corsair, invisible, just below the surface of the water, fixed in place, there was a beak or snout of metal, it would have some purpose. It seemed clear that such an object, moving with its ship, sped swiftly against the planking of another vessel, might inflict damage, perhaps considerable damage.
“No,” he said, “they will want our ship, and its cargo.”
I realized that I was a portion of the cargo.
I looked back to Euphrosyne. She had now covered herself up, discreetly, modestly. She looked content, demure, in the red cloth now held about her. She smiled at me. She, at least, was not alarmed. “Different chains,” I thought. What was it, I wondered, that had so frightened her before? How could it be that she could bear our current peril with such equanimity?
I turned back to look at the corsair, gentle in the water.
“We have been caught,” I said.
“It seems so,” he said.
“I fear for masters,” I said.
I understood that in Gorean warfare the free were commonly slain, whereas animals, amongst them slaves, would commonly be spared, as loot.
“Do not do so,” he said.
“Are you not afraid?” I asked.
“Not now,” he said.
“The hunter has been successful,” I said.
“The hunter,” he said, “pretty Zia, does not understand that it is he who is hunted.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“The fools,” he said, “they are distracted, they gloat, they suspect nothing. I see no lookouts. I see none with the glass of the Builders. None survey the sea about them. They do not realize this is the moment of their greatest danger.”
“Master?” I asked.
“We have drawn them far from shore,” he said.
“Master?” I asked, again.
The keeper then left my side.
“Soon,” whispered Euphrosyne, “we will be in better chains!”
“I do not understand the keeper,” I said to her.
“When we are boarded,” she said, “go to bara.”
There are several Gorean slave positions, of which bara was one. I had, of course, been trained in these positions, which must be assumed instantly and unquestioningly upon the command of any free person. They are designed with various purposes in mind; instantly placing oneself in positions in which one is helpless and vulnerable; positions of abject submission in which one’s bondage is made clear to all; positions of display; positions facilitating appraisal, and such. In bara, one goes to one’s belly, one’s head facing to the left, one’s wrists crossed behind one, and one’s ankles crossed, as well. In such a position a slave may be quickly and conveniently bound, helplessly bound, hand and foot. All of these positions, both symbolic and practical, have certain things in common; for example, in all of them, the slave is presented as, and is understood as, both by herself and by others, a slave, and only a slave.
“The corsair,” I said, “is putting down a long boat.”
I saw it being lowered, in a rope harness, into the water.
I then heard a cry from the lookout platform, high on the mast. “She is closing,” he called down. “The Dorna! The Dorna!”
I ran to the rail.
“What is it?” cried Euphrosyne. “What is it?”
“I do not know,” I said. “I see nothing!”
Suddenly I did see that the long boat which was being lowered into the water, tilted wildly, and splashed down.
I heard shouts from the corsair, cries of alarm. A horn blared out, frantically, again and again. Men rushed to and fro. Consternation reigned on its deck. Some oars struck into the water. I heard its drum sound twice, only twice.
“There!” cried one of our men, pointing outward, past the corsair. “I see her!”
“Yes!” cried another.
Standing at the rail, holding it, my hands on it, near my shoulders, I saw nothing.
The corsair began to turn toward the shore. The longboat at its side was now righted. Some men, frantic, lowering themselves with ropes, clambered into it. Others were crowded at the rail of the corsair. Two men leaped from its deck into the water, swimming to the longboat.
Then I saw that of which the men must have spoken.
It was low in the water, painted a mottled green, scarcely visible at first, almost lost in the swells, moving swiftly, so swiftly that, propelled by the mighty levers of its oars, rising and falling, in unison, shedding water, it was like a living spear.
“The Dorna!” cried our men.
Almost at the same moment, amidst cries of terror and distress from across the water, there was a sudden, vast sound of buckling, broken, ruptured, splintering, shattering planking.
Our men cheered and flung their mariner’s caps into the air.
“The Dorna, the Dorna!” they cried.
I gathered that the ship was well known.
The bow and stern of the corsair seemed to fold toward one another. The assailant back oared, dragging pieces of planking with it which then fell into the water. There must have been a gaping hole in the side of the corsair. I could hear water rushing into the vessel. In moments, its deck was awash.
The assailant ship, the Dorna, then turned slowly away.
“It is leaving,” said a man, waving his cap in farewell.
There were cries of misery from men in the water, hands lifted.
