Verna's Journey (6)

 

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 Six: The Games.

“Welcome, Verna!  Had a good look at my city?”
“Yes, Ubar.”
“And what do you make of it?”
“It’s big, noisy, bustling and brash.  There are so many people!  I wonder how one keeps track of them all.  Your city is magnificent!  But it’s also tawdry.  Cheap and tacky behind the main streets.”
Marlenus laughs.
“Yes, it’s all of those things.  I think you sum it up perfectly.  It’s big and bold, and it can drive one crazy trying to control it.  Keeping it supplied with food, water, and a myriad other things takes the resources of a whole empire.  Sometimes I think that the ‘sleen is dragging the handler’!  Come, take wine with me.  You are just in time for the gladiators to enter the arena”
There is a blaring of horns.  Onto the sands of the Arena, march some forty men.  Most are big and brawny though some are smaller and more lithe, perhaps faster, since they must have survived fights in provincial arena’s to be here at the Great Arena of Ar.  The fighters line up before the box of the Ubar.  The traditional chant is given by them.
“We who fight to the death, offer salute to you!”
Marlenus turns to me.
“Are you up for a wager, Verna?”
Oh yes?  I think that I want to know more before committing to such.  Just what does he have in mind?
“Choose a champion, Verna.  Choose the best that you can, of these men.  Come let us look closer at them.”
Having heard the Ubar, a retainer hurriedly leaves.  An announcer calls.
“Gladiators!  Stand fast.  The Ubar and his guest would inspect you.”
There is a cheer from the crowd.  For most of the gladiators, this is an honour.  Whilst some have a measure of fame, he life of a gladiator is often short and brutish.
“Very well, Ubar.  However, I want to hear the terms of the wager before accepting!”
“Of course, Verna.”
Marlenus and I wander up and down the lines of muscular, yes, pulchritude.  Yes, I am a woman. This parade of brawny masculinity cannot but affect me.  I try to be dispassionate.  Among the fighters, there is one that looks mean.  He’s not the largest by any means, but he’s stocky and I suspect quick.  He’s low to the ground and hence is less of a target.  He should be able to get under the guard of a larger man.  I look into his eyes.  He looks straight back.  There is no subservience here.  This man knows his own worth.  Apart from a man’s natural desire for a woman, I think that I see in his eyes a look of respect for my forthright appearance.
“The Ubar would wager with me, warrior.  I would choose you as champion!  Will you fight for me, Gladiator?”
“I will, Lady?”
“Verna.  Chieftainess of the Twelve Sisters band of Panther Girls of the Northern forest.  And your name, gladiator?”
“In the arena, I am known as ‘The Hith^[1]’.”
“Fight well, Hith!  I rely on you!”
The retainer notes my choice.  Marlenus chooses a mountain of a man who is named Pantherius.  While he doubtless can pulverise the Hith, he has to find him.  And as the saying goes, ‘The higher the tower, the weaker its foundations’.  Again the retainer trots off.
“Pantherius will fight The Hith, in the last bout of the day.  Pantherius will fight for the Ubar and The Hith, for Verna.  Chieftainess of the Twelve Sisters band of Panther Girls of the Northern forest.”
There is a scurry as members of the crowd head for the bookmakers to get the potentially better odds of an early bet.
 
Marlenus and I chit-chat throughout the afternoon as we snack on delicacies and wine from a back table.  I watch the parade of battles, noting the different tactics of the fighters.  Some of the fighters, even I could best, but others, no.  I would not survive.  I do learn some new techniques for the spear and dagger.  They might be useful for me when I return to the forest.  A little niggle worms through my mind.  I can’t quite put my disquiet into words.  There are two more fights before the final one of the afternoon.  The fight between Pantherius and The Hith.
Marlenus has been tardy in coming to the terms of his proposed wager and I’ve not wanted to press him.
“Verna, I have been thinking about what you said about Ar’s foray into the forest.  You may very well be right about the potential for permanent damage.  However the plans are sufficiently advanced, that to stop the process now will cause serious economic hardship in the city of Ar and throughout the Empire.  I do not rule as an Autocrat, though I could if I chose.  The thing about doing so, is that historically the citizens soon rise up and slay such dictators.  I will not rule in this manner.  I do have opposition in the city.  To recall the project at this stage will be seen by that opposition as weakness.  It is unlikely that I can remain as Ubar if I do so.  I might even be exiled or slain.  Twice before I have wrested back the Ubarship from usurpers.  I’m not sure that I can do so a third time.  The annexation  of the forest is now, for me, an ‘all or nothing’ proposition.”
I’m rather stunned at this revelation.  I always thought Marlenus absolutely secure in his position.  Such information should diminish him in my eyes, but strangely it doesn’t.  As a man though he’s just as powerful, just as strong as ever.  His presence still does strange things to my heartbeat.  I digest what he’s saying to me. I realise now that I cannot stop Marlenus from his projected course of action.  Even killing him now, if I can, without weapons, won’t stop the juggernaut that has been put in motion.
“You, Verna, I give a once-only chance to halt the annexation of the forest.  I did not become Ubar without being prepared to gamble.  Since for me, this matter is an ‘all or nothing’ proposition it must be for you too!”
I’ve no real wish to see Marlenus lose the Ubarship.  He’s a mighty man.  Such a Larl among men, needs to be the Ubar.  I cannot see him as less, exiled perhaps killed.  Nor however can I let him ravage the forests indiscriminately!
“The wager then, is this.  If your champion should defeat mine, then I will call back my troops unconditionally and accept whatever happens to me afterwards.  Should my champion defeat yours, then you again fall slave to me.  As I told you before.  Once enslaved again, you will never again be free.  Though it may take time, I will Master you totally.  You will know the joys and the desperation of a slave who has had the slave-fire in her belly ignited.  You will need to and will crawl to my feet begging my touch, as Tuka did.  Do we have a wager?”
What a choice!  All or nothing, indeed!  Such would mean a complete and utter surrender of myself, my personality, my very sense of who I am, should I lose the wager.  Should I win, then Marlenus will suffer something just as drastic.  I could decline the wager, but to do so risks destruction and devastation of the forest, my home.  But if I were to lose the wager, it would not be my home anymore!  What to do for the best!?
“Marlenus, should I win the wager, will you write into the annals of the Empire of Ar, that the empire repudiates any claim to the forest, including the river-towns, in perpetuity.  That such will bind any and all future Ubars, Administrators or Governments, including yourself, from taking or claiming such forever?”
“I will!”
“Should I lose the wager, then before you collar me again, you will grant me one wish?”
“Name it.”
“The big red female tarn that I arrived on, Sister of the Wind, you will free her to return to the wild?  She will not take kindly to a male rider.  Such would be slavery for her too.”
“I will free the tarn, I promise.”
Is it dishonest of me to, in my heart doubt that should I lose, Marlenus will be able to ignite the slave-fires in me no matter how much of my soul I surrender to him?  I had thought that I could experience no more pleasure than I did, last time he took me.  Yet he had implied that such taking had been little more than a routine coupling, a warming-up.  Am I capable of more?
“Then Ubar, we have a wager!”
Marlenus signals to the retainer, who hands the Ubar an object.  Marlenus places the object, a slave collar on the table between us.
“By the Priest-Kings, Marlenus, you are the most arrogant and presumptuous man alive!”
Marlenus grins.  Why can’t I really be annoyed with him?  Curse his audacity!
 
Into the Arena comes Pantherius and The Hith.  They both offer a shallow bow to the box of the Ubar.  The fight begins.  Both gladiators circle one another, weighing each other up, trying to see if there is a weak point, an opportunity to exploit.  Both fight with the Gladius, a short stabbing sword, and buckler, a small round shield that won’t hinder movement of the backhand.  Both of the fighters are right-handed.  Pantherius feints to the right, appearing to make his centre vulnerable.  The Hith is too old a hand to fall for such a feint.  He slides the attacking blade away nonchalantly.  The Hith sidesteps to Pantherius’ centre, holding away Pantherius’ blade with his sword.  He uses his own buckler to fend off a blow from Pantherius’ buckler, but miscalculates the angles.  Pantherius’ buckler strikes The Hith sharply in his side.  The Hith grunts and steps back.  So much for that attempt to get inside the guard of Pantherius!  Pantherius takes the opportunity to launch a fierce hail of blows against The Hith, driving him back.  I begin to worry slightly.  Pantherius overconfidently bashes over-arm at The Hith’s buckler, relying on his greater strength to keep The Hith at arm’s length; Pantherius having longer arms than The Hith.  The Hith strikes with a rapid twist under the guard of Pantherius, jabbing his left elbow into the belly of Pantherius while quickly stabbing over his left shoulder into Pantherius’ left shoulder.  The wound isn’t serious, not a killing blow.  Pantherius cries out and the two part to again to circle one another.  First blood to The Hith!  Pantherius is no longer overconfident.  He uses his greater reach to drive The Hith back towards the wall of the Arena, reducing The Hith’s room to manoeuvre.  The Hith appears to be losing.  I go cold with dread.  Unless The Hith can somehow get inside Pantherius’ reach and stab at short range, he will lose.  Pantherius is taking care in forcing The Hith back, to prevent another twist inside his guard.  The Hith seems unable to find a way past the swinging blade of Pantherius.  The Hith makes a mistake.  He’s overextended as he repels an attack to his left-hand side.  Pantherius risking this vulnerability being a feint, throws his sword upwards, catching it in his left hand and swings at The Hith’s right flank.  The blade digs in, cutting deep.  The Hith screeches.  I look on in horror.  There’s a roar from the crowd.  The Hith cannot stand straight.  He’s favouring his right-hand side.  It’s only a matter of time now.  I know it,  The Hith knows it.  The crowd knows it.  There are moans from those who’ve bet on The Hith.  Within five minutes The Hith lays dead upon the sand.
I feel a great hollow in my stomach.  I know what I have to do but can’t make my muscles do it.  After five full ihn ^[2] my body does what it needs to as if I’ve not told it to.  I fall to my knees before the Ubar, my head bowed in defeat.  I’ve not fallen into the kneeling posture of a slave, but that of a free-woman.  I offer up my wrists crossed, symbolically for binding.  My words a croak that I’m barely conscious of making.
“I submit myself to you Master as slave.  Do with me as you will.”
A considerable number of people have been watching the Ubar’s box.  A cheer begins.  This prompts others to look, the cheer swells.  Marlenus takes the slave collar and approaches me.  He places it around my throat.  I can barely hear the finality of the click as the collar locks due to the cheering of the crowd.  I fall to Marlenus’ feet, tears in my eyes and kiss his sandals.  I kneel back up, and realising my posture error, widen my knees.  There’d been two slave-girls kneeling at the back of the box throughout the afternoon.  I’d not given them a moments thought.  They are behind me now.  I feel shears cutting away my beloved animal pelt clothing.  The other slave drops a camisk of slave-silk over my head and feeds my arms through the arm holes.  I shiver anew, being reminded again of the sensuality of such cloth against my skin.  It seems to sensitise such, enormously.  Two guards take my arms and lead me unresisting, away.  Opposite the stairs down from the Ubar’s box, I see laughing with glee, Lady Arlinga.  I cannot look into her eyes, and should not; such can be construed as an insult.
“ I just knew you were a slave inside, pierced-ear girl!”
Why do I burst into tears at her jibe?  Why when free, having pierced-ears did not shame me, do they now.  A pierced-ear girl is the lowest most debased of slaves!
 
I crawl on my belly across the tiles towards my Master’s sandals.
“Master!  Please I beg of you!  Take pity on poor Verna!  Give me your touch Master!  I burn with need!”
I had not thought it possible that Master could awaken in me such feelings as I cannot describe.  I had not thought that a body, a woman’s body was capable of such feelings.  Cruelly having lit in me what he once described as slave-fires, he spurned me to menial tasks.  I cannot hate him.  After all he has so many female-slaves.  How can I see myself as being more than they?  I see all around me every few days, women biting the bars of their kennels.  I hear them moaning in need, as I do.  They like me burn with the need of a Master’s touch, for that matter any man’s touch.  However crawling to another man other than Master, without his permission is punishable.  Master likes to keep us all in an abject burning inferno of need.
“How long is it since you’ve had the touch of a man, Verna?”
“Fifteen days and ten ahn, Master.  My need is desperate, Master.”
“Go to the guards barracks, find the ugliest man there.  Beg him for ten lashes, and then make sure you serve him well.”
Under normal circumstances the fear of the lash would be enough to deter me from wrongdoing.  Now in my need, I’m ecstatic.  The agony of the lash is a small price to pay.  I shall have the touch of a man.  He will cure the burning dampness in my belly, for a few days at least.  I understand Tuka perfectly, now!  As I search out the ugliest man at the barracks, I think back over everything that’s happened since I started this journey.  When I looked in the eyes of The Hith, did I fleetingly see the wisp of tiredness, of the man knowing that he’s fought too many times in the Arena?  Did I then court my slavery sensing that such would be my forfeit in the wager, by choosing him?  Why did I not go to the Street of Leather-workers to have flying-leathers made?  Did I on some level know that I would not be returning to the forest?  My journey truly is at an end!

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[1]              A large Gorean python.

[2]              1 ihn is equivalent to 1.35 earth seconds