Gunnhild thrust out her left ankle; the Forkbeard fettered her; a moment later Pudding, too, had thrust, forth her ankle, and her ankle, too, was locked in a fetter of the north. The Forkbeard threw off his jacket. There was a rustle of chain as the two bond-maids turned, Puddingon her left side, Gunnhild on her right, waiting for the Forkbeard to lie between rhem.

I heard men, down the table laughing. One of the new girls, from Kassau, had been thrown on her back, on the table. She lay in meat, and spilled mead. She was kickingand laughing, trying to push back from her body the pressing jackets of fur of the men of Torvaldsland. Another girl, I saw, was seized and thrown to the darkness of the sleeping platform. I saw her white body, briefly, trying to crawl away, but he who had thrown her upon the furs, seized her ankle and drew her to him. She was thrown mercilesslyunderhim, her shoulders pressed back, her beauty his prize. I saw her head lift, thrusting her lips to his, but it was then thrust back, and she whimpered, her body squirming, held helpless, loot, his to be done with as he pleased. When he lifted his mouth from hers, she put her arrns about his neck, and thrust up her head again, lips parted. “My Jarl!” she wept. “My Jarl!” Then he again thrust her back to the furs, with such force that she cried out, and then he, with rudeness and incredible force, used her for his pleasure. I saw her body struck again and again, she clinging to him, helplessly. He gave her no quarter. Bond-maids are treated without mercy. “I love you, my Jarl!” she screamed. Men at the tables, mead spilling, chewing on meat, laughed at her. She wept, and cried out with pleasure.

When the oarsman had finished with her and would return to the table, she tried to hold him. He struck her back on the furs. Weeping she held out her arms to him. He returned to his mead.

I saw another oarsman then crawl to her and, by the hair, pull her into his arms. In a moment I saw her collared body, desperately pressing and rubbing against hirn, he in her small, white arms, her belly thrust against the great buckle of the master belt. Then he, too, threw her to her back. “I love you, my Jarls,” she wept. “I love you, my Jarls!”

There was much laughter. I looked to one side; there, at a bench, lethargic, somnolent, like a great stone, or a sleeping larl, sat Rollo, he of such great stature, with grayish skin. He was bare-chested. About his neck, looped, was a cord of woven, golden wire, with a golden pendant, in the shape of an ax. He was shaggy haired. He seemed not to be aware of the wildness of thefeast, he seemed not to hear the laughter, the screams of the yielding bond-maids; he sat with his hands on his knees; hls eyes were closed. A bondmaid, passing him, carrying mead, brushed him. Frightened, she hurried past him. His eyes did not open. Rollo rested.

“Oh, no!” I heard Pudding say.

I turned to look to the Forkbeard’s couch. From about his neck he had taken the silver chain which had been the symbol of office of Gurt, Administrator of Kassau. He had forcibly drawn Pudding’s hands behind her, and, cunninglytwisting the chain, had fastened her wrists behind her with it. She sat on the furs, her left ankle clasped in the iron fetter which chained her to the log at the foot of the Forkbeard’s couch, her wrists fastened behind her with her father’s chain of office.

She looked at the Forkbeard with fear. He then threw her to her back. “Do not forget Gunnhild,” whined Gunnhild pressing her lips to the Forkbeard’s shoulder. I heard the movement of her own chain on the log.

Male thralls are chained for the night in the bosk sheds. Bondmaids are kept in the hall, for the pleasure of the free men. They are often handed from one to the other. It is the responsibility of he who last sports with them to secure them.

I heard screams of pleasure.

I looked down at Thyri, kneeling beside my bench. She looked up at me, frightened. She was a beautiful girl,with a beautifill face. She was delicate, sensitive. Her eyes were highly intelligent, beautiful and deep. A collar of black iron was riveted on her throat.

“Run to the furs, Bondmaid,” I said, harshly.

Thyri leaped to her feet and fled to my furs, weeping. I finished a horn of mead, rose to my feet, and went to my sleeping area.

She lay there, her legs drawn up.

“Ankle,” I said to her.

I looked upon her. Her eyes were onmine, frightened.Her body, small, white, curved, luscious, contrasted with the shadowed redness and blackness o~ the soft, deep furs on which she lay. She trembled.

“Ankle,” I told her.

She extended her shapely limb.

I took her ankle and, about it, closed the fetter of black iron. I then joined her upon the furs.

Chapter 7 The Kur

The next five days were pleasant ones for me.

In the mornings, under the eye of Ottar, keeper of Forkbeard’s farm, I learned the ax.

The blade bit deep into the post.

“More back,” laughed Ottar. “Put more back into it!”

The men cried out with pleasure as the blade then, with a single stroke, split through the post.

Thyri, and other bond-maids, leaped and clapped their hands.

How alive and vital they seemed! Their hair was loose, in the fashion of bond-maids. Their eyes shone; their cheeks were flushed; each inch of them, eachmarvelous imbonded inch of them, was incredibly alive and beautiful. How incredibly feminine they were, so living and uninhlbited and delightful, so utterly fresh, so free, so spontaneous, so open in their emotions and the movements of their bodies; they now moved and laughed and walked, and stood, as women, pride was not permitted them; joy was. Only a kirtle of thin, white wool, split to the belly, stood between their beauty and the leather of their masters.

“Again! Again! Please, my Jarl!” cried Thyri.

Once more the great ax struck the post. It jerked in the earth, and another foot of it, splintering, flew from the ax.

“Well done!” said Ottar.

Then suddenly he struck at me with his own ax. I caught the blow on its handle, with the handle of my ax, and, lifting my left fist, not releasing my ax, hurled him from his feet to his left. He sprawled on the turf and I leaped over him, my ax raised.

“Splendid!” he cried.

The bond-maids cried out with pleasure, Gunnhild, Pouting Lips, Olga, Thyri and others.

Ottar leaped up, laughing, and raised his ax against the delighted girls.

They fled back from him, squealing and laughing.

“Olga,” he said, “there is butter to be churning in the churning shed.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” said she, holding her skirt up, running from the place of our exercises.

“Gunnhild, Pouting Lips,” said he, “to the looms.”

“Yes, Jarl,” said they, turning, and hurrying toward the hall. Their looms lay against its west wall.

“You, little wench,” said Ottar to Thyri.

She stepped back. “Yes, Jarl,” she said.

“You,” he said, “gather verr dung in your kirtle and carry * to the sul patch!”

“Yes,Jarl,” she laughed, and turned away. I watched her, as she ran, barefoot, to do his bidding. She was exquisite.

“You other lazy girls,” cried Ottar, addressing the remaining bond-maids, “is it your wish to be cut into strips and fed to parsit fish?”

“No, my Jarl!” they cried.

“To your labors!” cried he.

Shrieking they turned about and fled away.

“Now, twice more,” said Ottar to me, his hand on his broad black belt inlaid with gold. “Then we will find another post!”

There are many tricks in the use of the ax;feints are often used, and short strokes; and the handle, jabbing and punching; a full swing, of course, should it miss, exposes the warrior; certain elementary stratagems might be mentioned; the following are typical: it is pretended to have taken a full swing, even to the cry of the kill, but the swing is held short and not followed through; the antagonist then, if unwary, may rush forward, and be taken, the ax turned, offguard, by the back cut, from the left to right; sometimes it is possible, too, lf the opponent carries his shield too high, to step to the left, and, with a looping stroke, cut off the shield arm; a low stroke, too, can be dangerous, for the human foot, as swift as a sapling, may be struck away; defensively, of course, if one can lure the full stroke and yet escape it, one has an instant to press the advantage; this is sometimes done by seeming to expose more of the body than one wary to the ax might, that to tempt the antagonist, he thinking he is dealing with an unskilled foe, to prematurely commit the weight of his body to a full blow. The ax of Torvaldsland is one of the most fearful of the weapons on Gor. If one can get behind the ax, of course, one can meet it; but it is not easy to get behind the ax of one who knows its use, he need only strike one blow; he is not likely to launch it until it is assured of its target.