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You may judge and scorn theGoreans if you wish. Know as well,however, that they judge and scornyou.They fulfill themselves as you donot.Hate them for their pride andpower. They will pity you for yourshame and weakness.Half-Ear stood somewhere uponGor.I did not know where.Perhaps there was never a timefor courtesy and gentleness with anowned woman.The girl beside me, Vella, wasan owned woman.

I laughed. I wondered if I hadbeen tempted to weakness. Shetrembled then. Still she kissed me,but now frightened, trying to placateme.How small and weak she was.And how beautiful. How I relishedthe owning of every bit of her!I wondered if I had been temptedtoweakness.Courtesy andgentleness for a slave? Never!“Please me,” I said. My voicewas hard.“Yes, Master,” she whispered.She began to lick and kiss at mybody.In time I ordered her to desist

and put her again to her back. Ilifted aside the chain which ran toher collar.“Oh,” she said, softly, as Iclaimed her.I felt her fingernails in my arms.She looked up at me, her eyesfilled with tears. How helpless shewas in my arms.Then she began to cry out, softly.“Please, please,” she begged, “letme speak your name.”“No,” I told her.“Please,” she begged.“What am I to you?” I said.“Mymaster,”shesaid,frightened.

“Only that,” I said.“Yes, Master,” she said.I did not let her speak furtherthen, but forced the slave, as mywhim had it, to endure the lengthytumult of a bond girl’s degradation,lying chained in the arms of amaster who does not choose toshow her mercy.I had her as what she was, aslave.In a quarter of an Ahn her beautysquirmed helplessly; my arms bledfrom her fingernails; her eyes werewild and piteous. “You may speak,”I informed her. She threw back herhead and screamed, jolting with

spasms, “I yield me your slave! Iyield me your slave!” she cried.How beautiful a woman is in such amoment! I waited until she drewtremblingly quiescent, looking atme. Then I cried out with thepleasure of owning her, andclaimed her. She clutched me,kissing me. “I love you, Master,”she wept. “I love you.”I held her to me closely, thoughshe was a slave. She looked up atme. Her eyes were moist. “I loveyou, Master,” she said. I brushedback hair from her forehead. Isupposed one could be fond of aslave.

Then I recalled that she, had oncebetrayed Priest-Kings, and hadpointed me out to my enemies. Shehad served the Kurii in the Tahari.She had smiled at me when in acourt at Nine Wells she hadtestified falsely against me. Once,from a window of the kasbah of theSalt Ubar she had blown me a kissand tossed me a token to rememberher by, a scarf, perfumed and ofslave silk, to taunt me, when I wasto be marched chained to the pits ofKlima. I had returned from Klimaand had made her my slave. I hadbrought her back with me from theTahari to the house of Bosk,

captain, and merchant, of Port Kar.I kept her in the house, slave.Much work was she given.Sometimes, as this night, I let hersleep chained at my feet.“I love you, Master,” she said.I looked angrily to the slave whipupon the wall.She trembled. Would I use thelash on her? She had felt it morethan once.Suddenly I lifted my head a bit. Ismell1ed the odor of sleen.The door to my chamber which,in my house, I did not keep locked,moved slightly.Instantly I moved from the couch,

startling the chained girl. I stood,bent, tensed, beside the couch. I didnot move.The snout of the beast thrust firstsoftly through the opening, movingthe door back.I heard the girl gasp.“Make no sound,” I said. I didnot move.I crouched down. The animal hadbeen released. Its bead was nowfully through the door. Its head waswide and triangular. Suddenly theeyes took the light of the lamp andblazed. And then, the head moving,its eyes no longer reflected Thelight. It no longer faced the light.

Rather it was watching me.The animal was some twenty feetin length, some eleven hundredpounds in weight, a forest sleen,domesticated. It was double fangedand six-legged. It crouched downand inched forward. Its belly furmust have touched the tiles. It worea leather sleen collar but there wasno leash on the leash loop.I had thought it was trained tohunt tabuk with archers, but itclearly was not tabuk it hunted now.I knew the look of a huntingsleen. It was a hunter of men.It swiftly inched forward, thenstopped.

When in the afternoon I had seenit in its cage, with its trainer,Bertram of Lydius, it had notreacted to me other than as to theother observers. It had not then, Iknew, been put upon my scent.It crept forward another foot.I did not think it had been loosefrom its cage long, for it would takesuch a beast, a sleen. Gor’s finesttracker, only moments to make itsway silently through the halls to thischamber.The beast did not take its eyesfrom me.I saw its four hind legs begin togather under it.

Its breathing was becoming morerapid. That I did not move puzzledit.It then inched forward anotherfoot. It was now within its criticalattacking distance.I did nothing to excite it.It lashed its tail back and forth.Had it been longer on my scent Ithink I might have had less time forits hunting frenzy would have beenmore upon it, a function in part ofthe secretions of certain glands.Veryslowly,almostimperceptibly, I reached toward thecouch and seized one of the greatfurs in my right hand.

The beast watched me closely.For the first time it snarled,menacingly.Then the tail stopped lashing, andbecame almost rigid. Then the earslay back against its head.It charged, scratching andscrambling, slipping suddenly, onthe tiles. The girl screamed. Thecast fur, capelike, shielding me,enveloped the leaping animal. Ileaped to the couch, and rolled overit, and bounded to my feet. I heardthe beast snarling and squealing,casting aside the fur with an angryshaking of its body and head. Thenit stood, enraged, the fur torn

beneath its paws, snarling andhissing. It looked up at me. I stoodnow upon the couch, the ax ofTorvaldsland in my hand.I laughed, the laugh of a warrior.“Come my frien1d,” I called to it.“let us engage.”It was a truly brave and noblebeast. Those who scorn the sleen Ithink do not know him. Kuriirespect the sleen, and that saysmuch for the sleen, for its courage,its ferocity and its indomitabletenacity.The girl screamed with terror.The ax caught the beasttransversely and the side of its head

struck me sliding from the greatblade.I cut at it again on the floor, halfsevering the neck.“It is a beautiful animal,” I said. Iwas covered with its blood. I heardmen outside in the hall. Thurnock,and Clitus, and Publius, and Tab,and others, weapons in hand, stoodat the door.“What has happened?” criedThurnock.“Secure Bertram of Lydius,” Isaid.Men rushed from the door.I went to fetch a knife from myweapons. They lay beside and

behind the couch.I shared bits of the heart of thesleen with my men, and, together,cupping our hands, we drank itsblood in a ritual of sleen hunters.“Bertram of Lydius has fled,”cried Publius, the kitchen master.I had thought this would be true.I had looked into the blood,cupped in my hands. It is said that ifone sees oneself black and wastedin the blood, one will perish ofdisease; if one sees oneself torn andbloody, one will perish in battle; ifone sees oneself old and gray onewill die in peace and leavechildren.

But the sleen did not speak to me.I had looked into the blood,cupped in my hands, but had seennothing, only the blood of a beast. Itdid not choose to speak to me, orcould not.I rose to my feet.I did not think I would again lookinto the blood of a sleen. I wouldlook rather into the eyes of men.I wiped the blood from my handson my thighs.I turned and looked at the nakedgirl on the furs, half tangled in herchain, it running about her ankle andleg, looped, and lifting to the ringon the heavy collar. She shrank

back, her hand before her mouth.“Bertram of Lydius approached aguardsman,” said Publius, “whosuspected nothing, Bertram ofLydius being guest in the house. Hestruck him unconscious. With a ropeand hook he descended the deltawall.”“The tharlarion will have him,”said a man.“No,” I said. “There would be aboat waiting.”“Ho cannot have gotten far,” saidThurnock.“There will be a tarn in the city,”I said. “Do not pursue him.”I regarded the circle of men

about. “Return to your rest,” I said.They moved from the room.“The beast?” asked Clitus.“Leave it,” I said. “And leave menow.”Then I and the slave were alone.I closed the door. I slid shut thebolts, and turned to face her.She looked very small andfrightened, chained on my couch.“So, my dear,” I said, “you laborstill in the service of Kurii.”“No, Master,” she cried, “no!”“Who tended my chamber aforethis morning?’ I asked.“It was I, Master,” she said. It iscommon to let the girl who is to

spend the night at your feet tendyour chamber the preceding day.She scrubs and cleans it, and tidiesit. It is not a full day’s work and shehas hours in it in which she haslittle to do but wait for the master.She readies herself. She plans. Sheanticipates. When the masterarrives, and she kneels before him,she is eager and anxious, vulnerableand stimulated, well ready bothphysically and psychologically forthe mastery to which she will haveno choice but to be joyfullysubjected. Even the performance ofsmall servile tasks, such as thepolishing of his tarn boats, which

she must perform, plays its role inher preparation for the night. Theperformance of such small tasksteaches her, incontrovertibly, in thedepths of her beauty, that she trulybelongs to him, and that he is trulyher master. She is then well readywhen he gestures her to the furs toperform for him exquisitely themost delicious and intimate of herassigned tasks, her most importanttasks, those of the helpless loveslave.“Kneel on the tiles,” I told her.She slipped from the couch andknelt on the tiles before me. Sheknelt in the blood of the sleen.

“Position,” I said.Swiftly she assumed the positionof the pleasure slave. She kneltback on her heels, her knees wide,her hands on her thighs, her backstraight, her head up. She wasterrified. I looked down at her.I crouched before her, and tookher by the arms. I was covered withthe blood of the sleen. “Master?”she asked. I put her to her back onthe tiles in the sleen’s blood. I heldher so she could not move, andentered her. “Master?” she asked,frightened. I began to caress herfrom within, deeply, with mymanhood. The warm closeness of

her body, so beautiful, so helpless,that of an owned slave, clasped me.She began to respond to me,frightened.“You labor still for Kurii,” Isaid.“No, Master,” she wept, “no!”I felt her spasmodically squirmbeneath me. “Nor she wept. Herhaunches shuddered.“Yes,” I said.“No,” she said, “no, Master!”“The beast must have been putupon my scent,” I said.“I am innocent!” she said. Thenshe writhed beneath me. “Please donot make me yield to you this way,

Master,” she wept. “Oh,” she cried.“Oh!”“Speak,” I told her.She closed her eyes. “Havemercy!” she begged.“Speak.” I told her.“I was taking the tunics to thetubs,” she said. “I would have putthem in with the others!” She halfreared up beneath me, struggling,her eyes open and wild. She wasstrong for a girl, but girls are weak.I thrust her back down, shouldersand hair into the blood. Her headwas back. She writhed, impaledand held. How weak she was. Howfutile were her struggles.

“There is no escape,” I told her.“You are mine.“I know,” she said. “I1 know.”“Speak further,” I said.“Oh,” she cried. “Oh!” Then shewept, “Please, Master, do not makeme yield this way!”“Speak further,” I said.“I was tricked,” she cried.“Bertram of Lydius, in the halls,followed me. I thought little of it. Ithought only he wanted to see mybody move in the livery of thehouse, that he only followed me asa man will upon occasion follow aslave girl, idly, for the pleasure inseeing her.”

“And this flattered you, did it not,you slut?” I asked.“Yes, Master,” she said. “I am aslave girl.”“Go on,” I said.“Please, Master,” she wept,clutching me. “Oh, oh!” she cried.“Go on,” I said.“Yes,” she cried, angrily. “I waspleased! He was handsome, andstrong, and Gorean, and I was afemale slave. I thought he might askfor my use, and that it would begranted him by you in Goreancourtesy!”It was true. Had a guestexpressed interest in Vella,

Elizabeth, a former secretary fromEarth, one of my slaves, I wouldsurely have given her to him for hisnight’s pleasure. And if he were notfully pleased, I would have had herwhipped in the morning.“He spoke to me,” she said. “so Iturned and knelt before him, thetunics clutched in my arms. ‘Youare pretty,’ he said to me. Thispleased me.” Slave girls relishcompliments. Indeed, there is aGorean saying to the effect that anywoman who relishes a complimentis in her heart a slave girl. Shewants to please. Most Gorean menwould not think twice about

collaring a girl who responds,smiling, to compliments. It isregarded as right to enslave anatural slave. Most masters,incidentally, make a girl they ownearn her compliments. She muststruggle to be worthy ofcomplimenting. She so struggles.Gorean compliments are generallymeaningful, for they tend to begiven only when deserved, andsometimes not then. A girl desiresto please her master. When she iscomplimented she knows she haspleased him. This makes her happy,not simply because then she knowsshe is less likely to be punished, but

because she, in her heart, being awoman, truly desires to please onewho is her complete master. “’Doyou know me?’ he asked,” she said.“’Yes, Master,’ I said, ‘you areBertram of Lydius. guest in thehouse of my Master.’ ‘Your masterhas been kind to me,’ said he. ‘Iwould make him a gift to show myappreciation. It would be unfit-ringfor me to accept his hospitalitywithout in some small wayexpressing the esteem in which Ihold him and my gratitude for hisgenerosity.’ ‘How may I aid you,Master?’ I asked. ‘In Lydius,’ saidhe, ‘we encounter often the furs of

snow sleen, fresh and handsomeand warm. Too, we have therecunning tailors who can designgarments with golden threads andsecret pockets. I would make a giftof such a garment, a short coat orjacket, suitable for use in the tarnsaddle, for your master.’”“Few,” I said, “in Port Kar thinkof me as a tarnsman. I did not sospeak myself to Bertram of Lydiusin our conversations.”“I did not think, Master,” shesaid.“Did you not think such a giftstrange for a merchant andmariner?”

“Forgive a girl, Master,” shesaid. “But surely there are those inPort Kar who know you a tarnsman,and the gift seems appropriate forone1 to proffer who is of Lydius inthe north.”“The true Bertram of Lydiuswould not be likely to know me atarnsman,” I said.“He was not then what heseemed,” she whispered.“I do not think so,” I said. “Ithink he was an agent of Kurii.”I thrust into her, savagely. Shecried out, looking at me. She washot with sweat. The collar was onher throat.

“I think we have here, too,” Isaid, holding her, “another agent ofKurii.”“No,” she said, “no!” Then Ibegan to make her respond to me.“Oh,” she wept. “Oh. Oh!”“He wanted my tunic,” I told her,“to take its measurements, that thejacket of the fur of the snow sleenmight be well made.”“Yes,” she wept. “Yes! But onlyfor moments! Only for moments!”“Fool,” I said to her.“I was tricked,” she wept.“You were tricked, or you are aKur agent,” I said.“I am not a Kur agent,” she wept.

She tried to rise up, but I held herdown, her small shoulders down tothe tiles in the blood. She could notbegin to be a match for my strength.“Even if you are a Kur agent,” Isaid, softly, “’know, small beauty,that you are first my slave girl.”I looked down into her eyes.“Yes, Master,” she said. Shetwisted miserably, her head to oneside. “He had the garment for onlymoments,” she said.“Was it always in your sight,” Iasked.“No,” she said. “He ordered meto remain in the hall, to wait forhim.”

I laughed.“He had it for only moments itseemed,” she said.“Enough time,” I said, “to pressit between the bars of the sleen cageand whisper to the beast the signalfor the hunt.”“Yes!” she wept.Then I thrust again and again intoher, in the strong, increasinglyintense rhythms of a savage masteruntil the collared she of her, oncethat of a civilized girl, screamedand shuddered, and then lay mine,without dignity or pride, shattered,only a yielded, barbarian slave, inmy arms.

I stood up, and she lay at my feetcollared, in the sleen’s blood.I reached to the great ax ofTorvaldsland. I stood over her,looking down at her, the ax graspedin my hands.She looked up at me. One kneewas lifted. She shook her head. Shetook the collar in her hands andpulled it out from her neck a bit,lifting it toward me.“Do not strike me, Master,” shesaid. “I am yours.”I looked at the collar and chain.She looked up at me, frightened.She was well secured.My grip tightened on the ax.

She put her hands to the side,helplessly, and, frightened, liftedher body, supplicatingly, to me.“Please do not strike me,Master,” she said. “I am yoursl1ave.”I lowered the ax, holding itacross my body with both hands. Ilooked down at her, angrily.She lowered her body, and layquietly in the blood, frightened. Sheplaced the backs of her hands on thetiles, so that the palms were up,facing me, at her sides. The palmsof a woman’s hands are soft andvulnerable. She exposed them tome.

I did not lift the ax.“I know little of sleen,” she said.“I had thought It a sleen trained tohunt tabuk, in the company ofarchers, little more than an animaltrained to turn and drive tabuk, andretrieve them.”“It is thus that the animal waspresented to us,” I said. That wastrue. Yet surely, in the light of sucha request, one for a garment, a sleenin the house, her suspicions shouldhave been aroused.“He wanted a garment,” I said.“I did not think,” she said.“Nor did you speak to me of thisthing,” I said.

“He warned me not to speak toyou,” she said, “for the gift was tocome as a surprise.”I laughed, looking at the sleen.She put her head to one side, inshame. She turned then again tolook at me. “He had it for only afew moments,” she said.‘The cage could be opened later,and was,” I said. “The hunt thenbegan, through the halls of thehouse, in the silence and darkness.”She closed her eyes in misery,and th

Second, there are the Gorean warriors, men whose fighting ferocity is incomparable. Third, there are the slave girls, who are both beasts of burden and objects of desire. All three kinds of beasts come into action in this thrilling novel as the Kurii establish their first beachhead on Gor's polar cap. Here is a John Norman epic that takes