Gor #14 - Fighting Slave of Gor by John Norman

Author:John Norman [Norman, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Adventure, Science Fiction, Erotica, Fiction, General, Science Fiction; American, Outer Space, Gor (Imaginary Place), Slaves - Social Conditions
ISBN: 9780759211735
Google: HbJP4jrg6L4C
Amazon: 0759211736
Publisher: e-reads.com
Published: 2007-06-29T22:00:00+00:00

"Run," said the servant, the fellow with the whip, who stood near to me. "Run."

I saw that none blocked my alley of retreat. "No," I said.

"It is a fight!" called someone, excitedly.

Again the fellow in the palanquin indicated me, bemused, with the glass on the pearled wand.

Again the large draft slave lunged toward me. Twice more, brutally, he struck me, as I stumbled backward, and then I had seized him, holding him, trying to clear my head, trying not to let him gain again the leverage to strike such telling blows. I heard him grunt. My arms were tightening on him. I began to bend him backwards. There was blood on his body then, mine, and on my tunic. "No," he grunted. Suddenly I saw he was frightened. Further I pressed him backward. Then, suddenly, terrified, I realized what I might do to him.

"Stop!" called the man with the whip.

I let the draft slave fall. His back had not been broken. I knew nothing of fighting, but I had discovered, it frightening me, that there was in me, somehow, strength which I had not understood. I recalled lifting the bench in the cell in the House of Andronicus. The exercises and the physical trainings to which I had been subjected there I had, not really thinking about it, kept up.

"Are you a fighting slave?" asked someone.

"No," I said

The man with the whip looked to the man in the palanquin. "Interesting," said the man in the palanquin.

"Is it enough?" asked the man with the whip.

"Yes," said the man in the palanquin. I suddenly realized that he did not wish to risk a slave.

The man in the palanquin lifted the glass on the pearled wand and, again, the draft slaves took their places. The man with the whip joined other servants beside the palanquin. In a moment the two palanquins, with their respective retinues, were taking their respective departures. I stood, bloody, unsteadily, in the street.

The crowd dissipated.

Suddenly, angrily, I ran after the departing palanquin, that behind which the exquisite, dark-haired girl, she to whom I had been earlier speaking, was one of the chained, displayed beauties. I slipped, unnoticed by the man in the palanquin and his servants, behind the blond-haired girl, she who had told me she had once been free, who was the last in the right-hand coffle, that lovely string of chained women.

My hand closed on the back of the blond girl's neck.

She gasped, startled.

"Who is your master?" I asked.

"We are not permitted to speak in coffle," she said. "Oh!" she said. My hand had tightened on her neck.

"Who is your master?" I asked, walking behind her.

"Oneander of Ar," she said, "of the merchants. He does business in Vonda."

I did not release her neck.

"You are not a silk slave," she said, in pain, held.

"Oneander of Ar?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Yes, what?" I asked. My grip tightened.

"Yes-Master!" she said. I released her, and she stumbled ahead, following in her place. She looked back, frightened. Then she again set her eyes ahead.

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