She smiled up at him again, hopefully.
As will be obvious upon reading, this story does not involve Vika of Treve, who we met in Priest-Kings of Gor, but another girl bearing the same name.
This little vignette was inspired by some events in my long running GURPS campaign, in which this Vika has appeared. It was written in part for one of the other GURPS players, a woman whose character is Vika's identical twin but who has never read any John Norman novels; if any features of this story seem a bit off, this may be the cause.
(Vika's character sheet is available for the curious.)
© 1998 Scott Sanford
The gate clanged shut behind the link of chained slave girls, startling many of them. Already street noises were more distant as the coffle moved forward.
Hooded, the slaves followed the directions of their guard and the tug of the chain against their collars. The closely fitted flagstones were warm under bare feet and cleaner than those of the avenue outside. Another few paces on and they entered a cooler space with a feeling of enclosure. The line was halted and secured.
The standing girls could hear men moving around as they waited. They didn't have to stand long.
Only a few Ehn after they had arrived a man began collecting the sheets that had been pinned over them for cover. Free women might have objected to a line of naked slave girls being led through the city streets. Inside, there was no reason to preserve their modesty.
Working front to back, the man gathered the thin sheets one at a time, leaving the girls wearing only their chains, their collars, and the full head hoods that kept them in ignorance of their surroundings.
Others had gathered around to see the new arrivals, of course, and the chain joining the group clinked as girls straightened their bodies, knowing themselves observed.
With the sheets collected and put aside the man began again with the hoods.
Once again the onlookers made approving sounds as the girls were revealed, one beautiful woman after another blinking at the light and breathing deeply the fresh air.
Even the fellow removing the hoods took the opportunity to appreciate the girls; more than one slave received an appreciative look or brief touch.
He unbuckled the hood of a slender tanned beauty and pulled it free, spilling a mane of midnight black hair over her shoulders and revealing delicate Oriental features; he ran his hand down her body and patted her hip as he stepped past to the next hooded slave on the coffle. The girl smiled at him as he went. He was handsome.
The girl looked around while she had the chance, seeing that they were in a low stone walled tunnel that arched overhead. Ahead there was a sunlit courtyard with a smithy visible through some open doors. The gate by which they had come in was behind them. She smelled tharlarion, and people, and hot stone.
Surrounding the twenty or so females were men in the blue and yellow of the Slaver caste; no doubt they were here for the business as well as the admiration of unclad women, a sight that was common in their profession.
None of the chained women struggled or cried out. No recently captured free women were in this group, apparently, only slave girls – free women often objected to such normal things as stripping naked in front of men or being touched by them when chained. The girl thought free women were silly that way.
Ahead of her on the chain was a brown haired girl a few horts taller than she was; as the other slave was unhooded and looked about the girl noticed a tiny fine gold ring set in the septum of her nose. This was rare and only common in the women of the Wagon Peoples in the far south. She looked down. Upon the brunette's thigh had been placed the mark of the Tuchuk tribe; she had traveled far from the lands where she had been branded. The Tuchuks' twin bosk horns was rare in the north.
At the front of the line the slaver who had been collecting their sheets turned to see another man arrive and grinned. As he greeted the newcomer and the other men's attention left the line of slaves the girl sensed with an instinct born of long experience that this man was important and wielded power here.
He was a tall and slender man, with closely trimmed dark hair and a regal nose, dressed in a tailored robe of the Slaver caste's blue and yellow. His clean-shaven face, she thought, showed strength and intelligence...and, it was obvious, the habit of command.
After speaking briefly to the man who had collected the slaves' coverings and a Scribe carrying a tablet of papers he looked down the line and moved to examine to the first girl on the chain. The man who had collected the blankets and hoods called for the slave girls to kneel for inspection; the chains rattled against the sun warmed stones as they obeyed.
She waited patiently as he worked his way down the line, now pausing for a moment to talk briefly to one girl or another, then perhaps walking past two or even three before spying one that caught his fancy again.
Soon the girl heard the tall man speaking to the girl ahead of her about the Wagon Peoples; she listened but kept her eyes downcast.
When he was done he moved on; she saw his sandaled feet in front of her. The straps had designs worked into the leather and the buckles were of silver. She hoped he would find her of enough interest to pause.
"This is the one we bought from Clark of Thentis, the bred pleasure slave from the Cosian royal harem," the Scribe informed. "Her papers say she's trained and skillful, although her pedigree's unclear."
"Few men buy girls for their pedigree," shrugged off the Slaver. "Her origin should increase her price considerably, though."
"Do you know who I am?", he asked the girl.
"No, Master," she replied; she had not met him before. Nobody had told her who he was.
"I am Loralius Tormus of Venna, First Slaver of the House of Tormus," he told her. "I am your new owner."
She smiled up at him a bit timidly, a thrill running up her spine. Already she had met her new master, and he was handsome and powerful! He was a man she could enjoy serving; it was too bad that she would probably be sold off again soon. Perhaps, though, he would keep her for a time if she pleased him. She resisted the deep felt urge to open her knees still wider in supplication or belly to him and lick and kiss at his feet.
"Yes, Master," she acknowledged, her eyes shining. She assured him, "I will remember, Master."
She was a bred pleasure slave; how could she ever forget her owner?
"I know," Loralius Tormus said.
"You are beautiful," he told her, stroking her cheek. She felt her face flushing under his touch. "Would you like to be named?"
"Oh, yes, Master," she breathed. What girl wouldn't want to be given a name, to remind her that the master knew and cared about her, to differentiate her from other slaves, to hear it on the master's lips? She hadn't heard him name any of the other girls. She hoped she would be given a nice name.
He took her chin and moved her head from side to side, studying her face from different angles.
"Yes, very beautiful," he repeated, looking into her eyes. "I will call you Vika."
Vika! Oh, what a wonderful name! Why, even some free women were called Vika!
"I am Vika, Master."
"And you have pierced ears," he observed. "I must have you put in earrings."
"Thank you, Master; Vika is told she looks good in earrings."
"But you are not branded." He could easily see this on her naked body.
"No, Master," Vika answered, her heart briefly beating harder with apprehension as she remembered the nearby smithy. This was a Slaver's house; there would be irons there, already hot. She had never been sold at a public auction yet; the slave mark had never actually been necessary before... She elaborated, "My earlier owners thought me too young yet, Master."
"Oh? How old are you?"
"I think I am nineteen, Master."
"Old enough, but there's no hurry," he told her. She tried not to show her relief as some of the tension melted from her. Someday she would be marked, and that was only proper for girls like her – she looked forward to wearing a brand and hoped for a clean and elegant Kef on her thigh, but she dreaded the actual branding itself and the pain of a hot iron searing into her flesh. It would not last, of course, only the mark.
She smiled up at him again, hopefully.
"Are you obedient and eager to serve, Vika?"
"Oh, yes, Master!"
"Good girl," he said. It was a rhetorical question, wasn't it? He turned to the man who had taken the sheets and hoods. "See that she is properly processed and collared, Talacius. Then have her washed and groomed and sent up to my chambers tonight."
Vika heard no reply, if there was one, as excitement swept over her. The master of the house chose her on her very first day here! And he was a Slaver – he had chosen her when he could have had any slave in the House at his slightest whim. She smiled happily to herself.
Loralius Tormus would be a good master. Vika was going to enjoy
serving here.