Verna’s Journey (1) The Fortress

 
Verna’s Journey

Pauline Anne Armitage

With acknowledgement, and thanks to John Norman for the creation of his world of “Gor”, in which this story is set.

Chapter One: The Fortress.

It is early evening.  There is still plenty of light.  I stroll confidently towards the gates of the fortress.  I note the two guards at the gate and the indolent slouching of the men on the walls.  Clearly duty at such a fort on the edge of empire is sufficiently boring as to engender such sloth.  The gate guards watch me.  One speaks.
“Halt, woman!”
I continue to approach.  The guards become more alert.
“Halt, Slave, I say!”
“I am no slave!”
“You wear the brand of a slave.  You have pierced-ears^[1]!  How can you not be a slave?  That you carry weapons is a crime.  Put them down now and give yourself up for punishment.  Do so and your punishment will be lighter!”
“I repeat.  I am not a slave!  And no, I will not give up my weapons.”
The two guards tense and grasp their swords.  One is closer than the other.  Those on the walls wake from their boredom, sensing a potential for trouble.  Whilst I have weapons and can use them instantly, I do not drop to a posture of readiness to use such.  The closer guard removes his sword from it’s scabbard.  He steps towards me.  He’s overconfident.  That’s to my advantage.  After all, I am just a weak and feeble woman, and a slave at that, aren’t I?  He swings with the sword, blade flat so as to knock me down, to disarm me at his leisure.  I am fast!  To survive in the Northern Forests one has to be.  I am inside his guard, my spear to his throat, forcing his head up.  I turn him so that his body will act as a shield should any of the soldiers on the walls try to fire an arrow or a bolt at me.
“Drop your sword!  Drop it now, or die now!”
The guardsman drops his sword and I encourage him away from it.  To the other guard, who’s now more wary, I call.
“This is a fortress of the Empire of Ar?”
“Yes, whoever you are.  You’d better let him go now or your death will not be easy.”
“No death is.  Fetch the commander of this garrison.”
I gently prick the neck of the guard I’m holding.  A small rivulet of blood runs down to the collar of his jerkin.
“Do it, Busepius!  Fetch the Commander!”
The second guard disappears inside the fortress.  I whisper in the ear of the first guardsman.
“Don’t try anything, tarsk^[2].  I am faster than you.  You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve killed.”

 
A large capable looking man approaches.  He is accompanied by six other warriors.  Fighting them all isn’t an option, though it is not my intention to fight them.  I must take the initiative.
“You are the commander?  Tell me.  Does Marlenus still rule in Ar?  He is still Ubar?”
There is grumbling among the men.  That a slave has dared to sully the name of a free man, let alone the Emperor, with her lips!  Clearly they still see me as a slave.  I tear the signet that I wear on a cord from around my throat and hold it up.
“Do you recognise this Commander?”
I see the look of recognition and shock in his eyes.
“It is the signet of the Ubara of Ar!  It was given me by Marlenus himself.  He told me that with this, I could command Tarn^[3] cavalries, armies.  Did he lie?”
“Put down your weapons!  It is she, Verna the Chieftainess of the Panther Girls of the forest. I recognise her now!”
“Welcome Ubara!  You are safe here.  No one will harm you.  Any that try, I will personally impale.  Please let my man go.”
I do so.
“Guardsman, get that cut seen to.  Ten days extra sword practice for you!”
“Ubara, would you deign to enter our humble fortress.  We shall offer what poor fair we are able.”
 
The Commander enters a room within the keep of the fortress.  Several female slaves rush to bow their heads to the ground before him.
“Slaves!  Clear everything from my chambers into another.  Prepare my chambers for our guest.  Tima, Nela, a bath for the Ubara!  Vika, Hot-Lips, Linda, Attend on the Ubara’s needs.  Now!”
The slaves with the exception of Vika, Hot-lips and Linda scurry away to obey.  They dare not do otherwise.  The penalties for them are too great.  At best a severe whipping, at worst a lingering and horrible death.  They are after all, only slaves.  The lowest of the low.  Whilst I keep myself as clean as is possible in the forest, the streams and lakes are often cold.  The luxury of a warm bath is appealing.
“Majesty, a full meal will be ready in an hour.  It may be a poor one for one of your status, but it will be the best we can provide.  Would you honour us by joining us?  The slaves will show you to the banqueting chamber.”
“I’d be delighted, Commander.  The last food I had was a rather old and tough wild verr^[4] together with some berries.  I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.  I’m sorry Commander, I don’t know your name.”
“Grippus, Ubara.  Grippus Tanginus.”
“Thank you, Grippus.  I may call you that?”
“I’d be honoured, Ubara.  If I may, may I be dismissed so as to ensure that all is as it should be?”
“Indeed, Grippus.”
“Vika, while the Ubara bathes, brush down the skins she is presently wearing.  Linda, see if you can find robes befitting a free woman, at the very least.”
“Robes of concealment, Grippus?  No thank you!  When I first ran away from an unwanted free-companionship^[5], I swore that I would never again wear such things!”
“As you will Ubara.  Do a good job, Vika!  Until later, Ubara...”
 
I lie indolently in the bath.  The warmth of the water is wonderful.  But for all that I am alert.  My weapons are beside the bath ready for me to grasp them should it be necessary.  When one lives in the forest one never knows when a sleen^[6], a panther or even a hunter may pounce.  One sleeps with figuratively one eye open.
“Mistress?”
“Yes, Vika?”
“Punish me for my impertinence if it offends, Mistress.  You have a brand and pierced ears, but Master calls you Ubara?  The implication is that you are even Ubara of mighty Ar itself.  Are you truly the Ubara?”
I laugh.  She’s a brave slave, this Vika!  Yes, I do wear, burned into the flesh of my thigh a slave brand.  The common Kajira^[7] mark, the same as each of the girls attending me.
“I suppose nominally that I am, as I hold the signet of the Ubara, but in the northern forests, such means nothing.  I’m also Chieftainess of the Twelve Sisters band of the Panther Girls.  Such means little also, in the forest.”
I don’t tell Vika that currently I am now the only member of the Twelve Sisters band.
“Some two years ago, Marlenus...”
Aahh Marlenus!  Perhaps the the most arrogant man on this whole world!  Ubar, or Emperor of the mighty Empire of Ar.  The city of Ar, being its capital.  Such arrogance would be braggadocio if Marlenus was not such a mighty man in so many ways.  He is a big man.  He exudes power like a Larl.  None question his authority.  Such is his arrogance that when he has taken a woman, even a free one, he orders them to put a Talendar^[8] in her hair!  Orders it!  He’s a brute, but a subtle and intelligent one!  He could not rule an empire like Ar if he were not.
“...came into the forest with a large retinue.  He captured my band and I.  He had me branded, whipped, my ears pierced, put in slave-silk…
I shudder, or is it a shiver.
“...and chained in his furs.  He used me well.  At the end of his hunting trip for whatever reason he freed me, giving me the signet of the Ubara before I slipped back into the forest.”
My band, having been enslaved also and given to his men, had been freed too.  I had waited at the forest edge or them to join me.  I waited a long time.  Not one returned to the forest.  Each chose to remain with the men, even as slaves.  I can’t blame them.  It can be awfully lonely in the forest for a woman.  Even dancing to the moon at the dancing-circle is only a temporary panacea.
“And are there no men in the forest, Ubara?  Is it not lonely?”
She doesn’t know just how lonely.  The last two years alone without even my Sisters, has been very hard.  I put on a brave face.
“Oh, we have slaves, Vika.  Hunters, woodsmen, explorers who are less than cautious.  When we capture them, we shave a strip of their head from front to back to mark them as slaves.  We use them for our pleasure, then we sell them at the coast to passing ships needing oar slaves.  Their shaved heads being a mark of shame.  For a good strong slave we can get twenty metal arrow points and a bag of candies.  Candies are rare in the forest!”
The three slaves look at me agog.  Women enslaving men!  It’s unbelievable to them.  The conversation dies as they assimilate what I have just said.
“Linda?  That’s a barbarian name isn’t it?”
“Yes, Ubara.  A previous Master considered that all barbarian names are only fit as slave-names.  He liked the sound of ‘Linda’.  My present Master was not inclined to change my name.”
I have come across barbarian slaves before, but never a male barbarian.  To all intents and purposes the only barbarians that the Gorean meets are women, and they are universally slaves.  It’s hardly surprising then that the term barbarian equates to slave.
“But you are not a barbarian?”
“No, Ubara, but Hot-Lips is.”
“Hot-lips?”
“Yes, Ubara, though the word ‘barbarian’ is not one we would apply to ourselves.  It implies in the lands of Earth to uncivilised, violent and inferior persons.  We like to think of ourselves as civilised.”
I note that though her accent is different to that of most Gorean speakers, it is also subtly different to that I have heard in other barbarian slaves.  I ask Hot-Lips about this.
“There are many nations, many city-states, on Earth, Ubara.  Each speaks a different language, not like here where there seems to be just one language.  I lived in a city called Paris.  The others you may have spoken with may have been British, German, Spanish, or any other nationality.”
“This ‘Earth’, do you know where it is?”
“I think so, Ubara.  Though if I were to say, you would likely think me mad, or that I was taking you for a fool.”
“Tell me anyway.  No-one seems to know where the barbarian slaves on the market have come from, only that there seems to have been an increase in numbers in recent years.  I’ll reserve judgement as to whether you are making a joke at my expense.”
Hot-Lips shivers.  Doubtless fearing the whip if I should think her a liar, or poking fun at me.
“Are you aware, Ubara that this place,  ‘Gor’, I believe it is called is a ball, a large sphere?”
I nod.  The family in which I grew up were of one of the high-castes.  They knew of the second-knowledge, which includes such a concept.  The lower castes having only the first-knowledge, tend to think of Gor as being flat.
“Earth too is a sphere.  It has been extensively mapped.  There is nowhere on the planet, as such a sphere is called, where Gor could exist.  On those rare occasions where I have been allowed to see the night sky, I see the same star-patterns that I knew when on Earth.  Gor is not known of on Earth, except in books that are seen as mere stories for entertainment, not true stories.  Given that, the only place where a world could be, where it would not be seen from Earth is the opposite side of the Sun.  Earth, I conclude therefore is at the far side of the sun...”
Hot-lips takes a breath.
“There are possible indications that this is true.  One of the names that is used here for the Sun, is ‘The Central Fire’.  Central to what?  If another planet exists beyond the Sun, then the Sun would be ‘central’.  Another indicator, is that the ‘story’ writer on Earth is clearly writing about this place.  I have seen too much that matches with what I have read, for it to be otherwise.  Where is he getting his tales from?  There must be a link between the two worlds!  In his works also, he describes Gor as the ‘Counter-Earth’.  Counter as in opposite.”
“And how would it be possible to travel from this other planet to here to bring slaves such as you to Gor?”
Hot-Lips shows fear in her eyes.  My question can be construed as doubting.  If I doubt then she fears punishment for lying.
“I know not, Ubara.  I was a wealthy and well-respected young woman on Earth...”
“Free?”
“Yes, Ubara.  Slavery doesn’t exist on Earth, at least not officially.  However since I came here I have come to see that the slaveries of Earth are subtle.  Most people there do not even realise they are slaves.  The are slaves to a ‘system’.  Slavery here is more honest.  At least here I know unequivocally who my Master is.”
“Continue with your tale.”
“One night, a night not significantly different from any other, I went into my bedroom, sleeping chamber such is called here, to sleep.  When I awoke, I was chained up in a kennel. There were a large number of other barbarian women in similar kennels.  I was trained to a certain level and sold from a ‘block’.  My present Master is my third.  The ‘story writer’ on Earth describes two different and competing civilisations that are capable of bringing slaves to Gor.  The “Priest-Kings”, based in the Sardar Mountains...”
I ‘prick up my ears’ at this.  It has long been known that there are beings of immense power in the Sardar Mountains.  The caste of Initiates, priests if you like, have built a whole religion round such.  It is expected that at least once, each young person must attend the giant fairs at the foot of the Sardar Mountains, to pay their respects to these ‘gods’.  The journey can be perilous.  Many young men die en route, killed by slavers, bandits and thieves.  Many young women only get to see the Sardar Mountains wearing the chains of slaves.  Perhaps this Hot-Lips, or at least the ‘story writer’ she speaks of is ‘on to something’.
...and the Kurii, a group of highly intelligent though beast-like in appearance, aliens from outside the system of planets surrounding the Sun.  They are said to live in ‘Iron worlds’, beyond the planet Jupiter, or Herseus as it is called, here.  The ‘story writer’ more than once talks of disk-like ships that can travel through the perpetual night-sky, or ‘Outer-space’ as it is called on Earth.”
“Intriguing!  Whether such is true is debatable, but you tell a good story, Hot-Lips!”
I laugh.  Hot-Lips looks relieved!  I rise from the bath.  Linda and Hot-Lips wrap warmed towels round me and dry me.  Such personal service I find quite enchanting, it not being something that I can recall ever having had done to me before.  I take from Vika my garments of animal skins and don them.  They have not only been brushed, but combed s well.  There are no snags in the fibres.
“You’ve done a good job with these, Vika!”
“Thank you, Ubara…  But Ubara...”
“Yes, Vika?”
“The pelts are very stiff and dry.  If you wish, while you sleep tonight, I can work on them to try and soften them...”
“How Vika?”
“I was from the caste of Leather-workers.  There are oils that when rubbed into animal hides softens them.  I’d need the guards to give me suitable oils.  I’d need brushes and cloths and I’d need light so as to work.  I’d need you to authorise the guards for me not to be put in my kennel.”
“Firstly, are you allowed out of your kennel at night?”
“At the 11^th Ahn^[9] all slaves must be in their kennels, or if serving the Masters, secured by a chain.  I can be fastened to the ring on your couch, or another suitable one if the light is too bright for you.”
“Secondly, these oils that you would use, they will not leave the garments feeling sticky?”
“No, Ubara.  If rubbed in and polished thoroughly, there will be no stickiness.”
“I will issue the relevant orders.”
“Thank you, Ubara.”
“Just do a good job!”
“Yes, Ubara!”
I know that she will, that she’ll put her ‘heart and soul’ into the job.  The work of a slave must be perfect at al times, otherwise she can expect to be punished.  Such punishments are not pleasant.  I had received such a punishment, a light one by way of instruction, once.  I would not want to receive another!  It is however acceptable to occasionally remind a slave of the necessity to do a good job.  I pick up my weapons and attach them to my skins.
“Linda, show me where this banqueting hall is.”
 
“Welcome Ubara!”
“Greetings Grippus.”
“Please take the seat of honour at the table.”
I sit on a fine cushion at the head of the low table.  Goreans generally are not fond of chairs except as a symbol of status.  Grippus takes the next position down.  Clearly everyone must have moved down the table a place from their usual spots.  No sooner have I sat than a slave is at my shoulder with a small ewer.
“Wine, Ubara?  It is a fine Ka-La-Na^[10] from the Commander’s own stock.”
I debate asking for Paga^[11], which is clearly what’s in the tankards of most of the men at the table.  I choose to go with the wine.  The slave pours the deep-red liquid into a fine glass chalice.  I take a sip.
“Grippus, I thank you for the wine.  You have a good appreciation of the qualities of wine.”
“Thank you, Ubara.  Even here on the rim of empire we do try to make life as comfortably as possible.  Now, please, eat.”
A large wooden platter appears before me.  The hot bosk^[12] meat and suls^[13] looks appetising.  I am hungry, I set to with gusto.
“I do beg to apologise to you.  That I did not immediately recognise you at the gate.  I should have.  I do remember when you disappeared back into the forest, when Marlenus freed you.”
“Not necessary, Grippus.  One Panther Girl looks much like another.”
“I was surprised that previous time, was it two years ago?, that none of your band chose to follow you back into the forest.  That they chose slavery instead.  I did expected a few to follow you.”
“I can understand them.  It can be awfully lonely in the forest at times.  Whilst we often have slaves to slake our physical needs, most of my band had not had the touch of a man to add that emotional need to the physical for a long time.  They needed to be taken, rather than doing the taking.  Marlenus’ men gave them something they’d been missing more than they realised.  If the price of that was slavery, they were prepared to pay it.  I hope that they didn’t find the price too high.”
Grippus decides to leave this conversation as it is, rather than pursuing it.
As we eat Grippus and his higher echelon officers engage me in conversation about the forest.  I quiz them about life at the fortress, about what has been happening in the empire during the last couple of years, of news filtering in from other parts of Gor.  I have been largely out of touch for that period.  News flows slowly in the forest.  There are few people to carry such.  The platter of food is followed by a delicate sherbet concoction.  It rounds the meal off delightfully.  All the time, my chalice has been kept full by the slaves.  I’m feeling quite replete.  I have not however allowed myself to become drunk or incapacitated.
“Ubara?  Might I ask why you have visited us?  You are most welcome of course, but how may we be of assistance to you?”
Time for business!
“You might recall, Marlenus invited me to visit him in Ar.  I have decided that now is the time.  I would go to Ar.”
“And so you shall!”
Grippus, ruminates on the practicalities.
“Ar is some thirty-days march from here.  The distance can be traversed in two long days or three easy ones, by Tarn.  Have you ever travelled by Tarn, Ubara?”
“No, but there’s a first time for everything.”
Grippus calls down the table.
“Callius and Arminias, you leave for Ar tomorrow morning.  Draw stores, weapons and coin from the Quartermaster.  Return as soon as you have seen the Ubara to the city.  Check for dispatches before you return.  Rig a palanquin to one of the Tarns, for the Ubara.”
“Hold!”
Palanquin?  No way!  The whole table is listening now.
“I will not ride in a palanquin!  Such are for the effete, soft southern women.  Teach me instead to fly a Tarn as your men do!”
The laughter is loud.  I doubt that there is a man there except Grippus who does not guffaw at my outburst.
“Ubara!  No woman has ever mastered and flown a Tarn!  Those that have tried have all been killed by the Tarn!”
“Then I will be the first, or I shall die.  I am not afraid of death.”
I see several of Grippus’ men thump their chest with their right hand, in salute or applause.  They appreciate my bravado, even if they do expect me to die tomorrow.
“Grippus, If the Tarn kills me, return the signet of the Ubara to Marlenus.”
“It shall be done.”
Grippus is firmly convinced that this is what he will have to do.
“I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”
“You cannot.  How can I command respect in front of your men if I back down now?”
“Very good, Ubara.  Arminias, tomorrow morning teach the Ubara how to fly a Tarn.  If she should succeed, then you and Callius set off with her as soon as you feel she’s competent enough.”
“Ubara,  If any woman can master a Tarn, then I feel it will be you.  These two men will go with you, more as guides, so you can find Ar, than as guards.  It’s clear that you can look after yourself.  However extra eyes, extra swords and spears are wise.  A single Tarnsman can be vulnerable.  A trio would need a larger formation to take you down.”
“I thank you for the compliment, Grippus.  If it be that I am to die tomorrow, then give me more of that fine Ka-La-Na!”
Grippus laughs and calls the serving slave over.
“May I make an observation, Ubara?”
I nod my head in acceptance.
“Whilst in the forest, your earrings and brand are unimportant, in Ar, and the cities generally, they could cause you problems.  Whilst you can clearly look after yourself, many will take you for a slave, as did my guard, and take offence at your bearing and carrying of weapons.  If you wish, our Metal-worker can remove the earrings, and I can have the slaves sew you a garment that will cover your brand...”
Grippus holds up his hand to forestall an objection.
“...No, I don’t mean ‘Robes of concealment’.”
“I thank you for your concern, Grippus.  However such is not necessary.  In the forest, I did not have tools to remove the earrings.  I did not wish to tear or cut my ears to remove them.  I have become used to them, even fond of them.  They may be seen as a mark of humiliation, of degradation to slaves.  I however am not a slave.  I do not choose to see such as an insult, hence it cannot harm me.  I carry no shame over my earrings.  Similarly, my brand is only a reminder of an incident in my past.  I will not let it ‘mark’ me in a figurative sense, and I will not acknowledge its validity in marking me as property, as a slave.  Let any who wish to dispute this with me, look to their own life and well-being.”
“Well spoken, Ubara!  I accept your reasoning in this matter.  There can be few women anywhere with your spirit. I applaud you!  Now, more wine, Ubara!”
I’m a little woozy when I get back to my sleeping chamber.  Vika is there waiting, ankle chained to my couch.  I drop off my skins to her, removing my weapons from them.  Vika gets busy.  I climb onto the stone dais, that is my couch.  Sleeping furs have been laid out.  I snuggle into them.  I can’t fall asleep.  I realise that it is the couch that I am not used to.  I always sleep on the ground.  I pull the sleeping furs to the floor beyond the dais.  The dais reducing the amount of light falling on my eyes.  I remember no more.

---

[1]     Piercing of the ears is the ultimate degradation for a slave girl.  Once done, she knows that she will be a slave for the rest of her life.  Even if freed, the shame would be unbearable and she would likely fall to slavers again.
[2]     A kind of wild pig or boar.
[3]     A very large and dangerous hawk-like bird capable of being saddled and ridden by those that dare.
[4]     A kind of wild sheep or goat.
[5]     Akin to a marriage, but more so.
[6]     Fierce six legged mammal famed for its tenacity in hunting.  Often captured and trained for such such a trait.
[7]     Term for a female slave.
[8]     A pretty flower.  Symbolically a slave puts such in her hair when she wishes to acknowledge that her owner has truly mastered her.  When she truly loves him.
[9]     Hour
[10]   A full bodied red wine made from the fruit of the Ka-La-Na tree.  Can be served cold, warm or even hot.  It also symbolises romantic love.
[11]   Alcohol drink fermented from sa-tarna grains.  It is usually served warm and can sometimes be quite fiery.
[12]   A large ruminant similar to a buffalo or bison.
[13]   Starchy vegetable, perhaps related to the potato.