by John Norman
Men see land differently, the merchant in terms of profitability, the sage in terms of quietude, the poet in terms of mood, the painter in terms of beauty, the peasant in terms of home, in terms of soil, fertility, tillability, and yield. But I feared I saw it differently. I was of the scarlet caste. The military eye does not see land as others see it. It sees it in terms of what might be done, and not done, and how easily, sees it in terms of movement, columns, the marshaling of men, the arrangement of troops, the order of battle, in terms of passage, heights, time, concealment, attack, marches, and tactics. High grass, a wood, may conceal foes. If there is a marsh to the right, would the attack not be likely from the left? Has a frightened animal darted past? What has frightened it? Keep high ground on the shield side.
I looked about myself.
As song to the poet and gold to the merchant would not this place, so lofty and beautiful, with its aspects and promises, call to the ruler, the leader, the soldier, the robber, the brigand, the warrior, the slayer, the commander, the Ubar?
I thought so.
Was this not ground from which to rule?
What do men seek?
Many traps are baited with silver.
Many seek a cell, if only its bars be of gold?
The wine of riches is a heady wine.
But one knows a stronger wine, one for which many are willing to stake life itself.
What delirium of kanda, I wondered, can compare with the rapture of that greater drug? But who, who listens carefully, can fail to hear the dark notes of terror in its bright song, to which the unwary hasten to succumb.
Its wine is the headiest.
I heard guardsmen call the watch, that all was well.
Is the throne not, I wondered, its own prison.
Is it worth the expenditure of blood and gold?
Surely many believe so, certainly if others may be brought to pay the price.
The wine of power is a heady wine.
Men will die to clutch at a scepter.
They will pay anything to rule forever, for a moment.
The cry of the guardsman was echoed, from post to post. So all was well.
But I, I knew, though of the scarlet caste, preferred the sky, the terrain below, mountains, the wind, the surging flight of the tarn, the exhilarating rush of air tearing at the jacket, and, of course, the recreation of the tarnsman, the loot one gathers, so pleasant, the collared, chained slave, at my feet, ready, soft, whimpering, hoping to be touched.
So all was well.
Yet this place could be taken, I knew. Numbers could be overwhelming, pressing incessantly at the trails. To some commanders blood is cheap when there is much of it to be expended. Within the holding itself, mutiny or revolution might occur. Gold might buy an opened gate. Reservoirs can go dry. Larders may be exhausted. Who knows in what corridors may be heard the songs of power?
Drums do not herald the approach of treachery.
It walks on light, soft feet.
I turned away from the parapet.
“Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Okimoto, “seems eager to return to his camp.”
“I should be with my command,” I said.
“You were not when the camp was struck,” said Lord Okimoto.
“No,” I said.
“Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, was fortunate in that respect,” said Lord Nishida.
“It is so,” said Lord Okimoto.
“He was summoned to the keep, by command of Lord Temmu,” said Lord Nishida.
“Most fortunate,” said Lord Okimoto.
“We shall supply, by tarn, what supplies we may secure,” I said. “The sky is open.”
“It seems,” said Lord Okimoto, “that supplies are scarce, and deliveries infrequent.”
“The commander,” said Lord Nishida, “will do what is possible. We may expect no more.”
“Of course,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Fields have been lost, burned, acquired by the enemy,” said Lord Nishida. “Lines are attenuated. There is occasionally the danger of arrow fire. And there are well over three thousand men in the holding.”
“We will do what we can,” I said.
“Our people,” said Lord Okimoto, “may unsheathe ritual blades.”
“Our mercenaries,” said Lord Nishida, “do not know our ways nor share them.”
“They may be gathered together with some pretext and fallen upon, and the matter is done within Ehn.”
“All is not lost,” I said.
“I fear,” said Lord Nishida, “we lie within the shadow of the iron dragon.”
“Let us trust not,” said Lord Okimoto.
“While strength remains,” I said, “we might rush forth, if only to fall beneath the blades of greater numbers.”
“That would be honorable,” said Lord Nishida.
“Might it not be a grander gesture to unsheathe the ritual knives, in their thousands?” asked Lord Okimoto. “That is a death for heroes, a noble death, scorning life, preferring honor. Would not rushing about, when all is hopeless, and known to be such, be undignified, even shameful, an act of desperation, contemptible, base, and disgraceful, like the bound tarsk squirming and squealing on the sacrificial altar? If our foes break into the holding and discover, to their dismay, only death and honor, we have cheated them of their victory; they will be awed and the victory will be ours. That would be a grand gesture, an act that would be retold about the fires for a thousand years.”
“I trust you will be the first to use the knife,” said Lord Nishida.
“Of course,” said Lord Okimoto.
“I do not think all men are heroes,” I said.
“Some are not,” said Lord Okimoto. “They may be attended to.”
“Not all agree on what is heroic,” I said.
“Those who do not may be attended to,” said Lord Okimoto.
“I fear our noble friend, Lord Okimoto,” said Lord Nishida, “is unduly pessimistic. Perhaps he has drafted a poem or painted a screen to that effect.”
“One takes comfort as one can,” said Lord Okimoto.
“All may not be lost,” said Lord Nishida. “I do not think the iron dragon has yet spread its wings.”
“The enemy is many, and, comparatively, we are few,” said Lord Okimoto. “We have lost in the field. The tarn cavalry, on which we were to rely for victory, has been discovered, surprised, and put to rout. It is little more than a third of its original strength, little more than a third of even what survived the voyage onto the homeland.”
“And even more would have been lost,” said Lord Nishida, “were it not for the precautions of our fellow, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, who maintained a complement in constant readiness.”
“So some might escape,” said Lord Okimoto.
“And would there had been more,” said Lord Nishida.
“It seems” I said, “the location of the camp was known, and we failed to detect the approach of the enemy.”
“I wonder how that could be,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Would you care to speak more clearly, noble lord,” I said.
“Nothing speaks more clearly than steel,” said Lord Okimoto.
“If you wish,” I said, “we may continue this conversation so.”
“It is often wise, noble friends,” said Lord Nishida, “to think carefully before one speaks, particularly if one would speak with steel.”
“It is so, of course,” said Lord Okimoto.
“If you wish,” I said, “I shall resign my command.”
“The men,” said Pertinax, angrily, “will follow no other!”
“Your friend, the noble Pertinax, is impetuous,” said Lord Okimoto.
“I suspect,” I said, “that the suspicions of Lord Okimoto, if misplaced, are well founded.”
“I fear so,” said Lord Nishida, “even from Tarncamp, even from Shipcamp, even from the Alexandra, even from the voyage itself.”
“The march of the exploratory probe was apparently well anticipated
,” said Pertinax.
“The splendid officer, fearful Tyrtaios, so wise in council, so adept with the sword,” said Lord Nishida, “has departed the holding, and placed his cunning and skills at the service of great Yamada.”
“He could not have known the secret location of the cavalry camp,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Others would know,” said Pertinax.
“Such as yourself,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Of course,” said Pertinax.
“And your commander, to whom you seem so loyal,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Yes,” I said, “and others.”
“The fog lessens,” said Lord Nishida.
“Ela,” said Lord Okimoto, “the commander should have sought safety earlier, his departure unnoticed in the fog. Who knows what dangers he might face, did he remain here.”
“The commander’s place is with the cavalry,” said Lord Nishida.
“True,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Yet obscurity persists,” said Lord Okimoto, “soft ribbons of fog, and drifting cloud, embracing the castle.”
“I shall await darkness,” I said.
“But an assault might be made before dusk,” said Lord Okimoto.
“I shall await darkness,” I said.
“There will then be less danger of arrow fire,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Following Lord Temmu,” I said, “the existence of tarns is to be concealed, insofar as possible, from the enemy, at least from large numbers of its common soldiers.”
“Still,” said Lord Okimoto. “It is safest to depart from the holding at night.”
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“There is little danger of arrow fire when one departs from the holding,” said Lord Nishida. “Consider the range.”
“Arrow fire,” said Lord Okimoto, “need not issue from without the holding.”
“True,” said Lord Nishida, thoughtfully.
“Too,” said Lord Okimoto, “there is the great bow.”
He referred to a Pani bow generally anchored in a stout frame, and strung with a thick, oiled cord. It had an unusual range but little else. It required two men to bend it and, out of the frame, it lacked accuracy. Its rate of fire was slow. It was essentially a siege weapon. Its most effective application was to deliver fire arrows. Lord Yamada had not used it, at least as yet, in that capacity, presumably because he was interested in taking the holding, not destroying it. In its frame it resembled a light ballista.
“Lord Temmu,” said Lord Nishida, “hopes to cloak the tarn with secrecy, that its appearance in battle may surprise and disconcert the enemy. Given the care with which we strive to conceal this mighty weapon, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, is well advised to await the cover of darkness.”
“If Lord Temmu wishes,” I said, “I will remain within the holding. It is not I alone who could command the tarn cavalry. Others may do so, present subcommanders, Torgus and Lysander, and others, as well, any officer who survived the raid on the mountain camp.”
“The men will follow only you,” said Pertinax.
“Then I have failed as a commander,” I said.
“What of Tajima, he of your former world?” asked Lord Nishida.
“My friend, and your spy?” I said.
“If you wish,” smiled Lord Nishida.
“To command the cavalry?” I said.
“I am curious as to such a possibility,” said Lord Nishida.
“Lord Temmu might appoint him to such a post,” I said.
“Of course,” said Lord Nishida, “but it is your assessment which is at issue.”
“He is young,” I said, “but a fine warrior.”
“I am sure there are many such,” said Lord Nishida.
“I do not think him ready for command,” I said. “His judgment is not yet formed.”
“I concur,” said Lord Nishida.
“Perhaps in time,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Lord Nishida.
“He of whom you speak,” said Lord Okimoto, “is not of my command, but his skills in the dojo, displayed in Tarncamp, were well remarked.”
“And in the field, and on tarnback, in the sky,” I said.
“He is, as I recall,” said Lord Okimoto, “a student of Nodachi, swordsman.”
“As are others,” I said.
“As our friend, the honorable Pertinax,” said Lord Nishida.
“One regrets the waste of such instruction on one not of the Pani,” said Lord Okimoto.
“It is true that I am unworthy,” said Pertinax.
“Nodachi, swordsman, chooses his students with care,” said Lord Nishida. “Who know what he sees, or senses?”
“It is my understanding,” said Lord Okimoto, “that this Tajima, liaison between your command and the cavalry, was lost in the attack on the camp.”
“We have had no word of him,” I said.
“Some of the command, surviving the attack, escaped on tarnback, these reporting later to the castle, and some others, it is conjectured, may have scattered into the mountains,” said Lord Nishida.
“It is not known that any so escaped,” said Lord Okimoto.
“No,” said Lord Nishida.
“The attack was doubtless executed by picked troops, intent on encirclement and extermination,” said Lord Okimoto.
“One supposes so,” I said.
“It is highly unlikely then that any on foot escaped,” he said.
“I do not know,” I said. I feared his assessment was well founded.
“How could there have been so little warning?” asked Lord Okimoto. “How could the camp have been so effectively surprised?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“Pickets, patrols, guards, outposts, must have been recalled,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Who would have such authority?” I asked.
“You, for one,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Yes,” I said, “I could have done so.”
“There are others,” said Lord Nishida. “The loyalty of Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, is not in question.”
“Is it not?” asked Lord Okimoto.
“Let everything be in question,” I said.
“Not everything,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Everything,” I said.
“It is regrettable,” said Lord Okimoto, “that the liaison, Tajima, of whom you speak so highly, is amongst those lost.”
“Amongst those as yet unaccounted for,” I said.
“His account of the attack might be informative,” said Lord Okimoto.
“I am sure it would be,” I said.
“I would like to hear it,” said Lord Okimoto.
“As would I,” I said.
“But I fear none survived, who did not make their escape by tarn,” said Lord Okimoto.
“Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.”
“It is thought some may have escaped,” said Lord Nishida.
“They will die in the mountains or be hunted down and killed,” said Lord Okimoto.
“I fear so,” I said.
The patrols and kill squads of Lord Yamada were said to be both efficient and zealous, as they wished to retain their heads.
“Lord Nishida,” I said.
“Yes, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman?” said Lord Nishida.
“The holding is well invested,” I said. “Lord Yamada must have the majority of his land forces, thousands, committed to the siege.”
“It is possible,” said Lord Nishida.
“Thus,” I said, “his holdings, his forts, his capital itself, must be little more than policed, held by token forces, sufficient to do little more than quell dissension or unrest.”
“Shogun Yamada has little to fear of such things, as he rules soilsmen, fishermen, craftsmen, buyers and sellers, wary subordinates, even daimyos, with the rod of terror,” said Lord Nishida.
“Holdings, forts, may burn,” I said.
“The cavalry is not to be committed without orders from Lord Temmu,” said Lord Okimoto.
“To what end?” inquired Lord Okimoto.
“Lord Temmu sought a major engagement whose outcome might turn on the appearance of tarns,” I said.
“It is true,” said Lord Nishida.
“But he now lacks the men for a major engagement.”
“Ela,” said Lord Nishida, “it is true.”
“Surely he understands this,” I said.
“Doubtless,” said Lord Nishida.
“Then other things must be done,” I said.
“True,” said Lord Nishida.
“For what is he waiting?”
“Perhaps he meditates,” said Lord Nishida. “Perhaps he hesitates, attempting to interpret the wisdoms of bones and shells.”
“There is little time to devote to such matters,” I said.
“The commander is impatient,” said Lord Okimoto.
“I would have an audience with the shogun,” I said.
“Given the matter of the camp of tarns,” said Lord Okimoto, “the unconscionable losses to the cavalry there, I do not think that would be wise.”
“I see,” I said.
“Lord Temmu was not pleased,” said Lord Nishida.
“Speak then for me, or for the holding, or for the war, or for yourselves,” I said.
“Lord Temmu sees no one now,” said Lord Nishida.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“One does not question the shogun,” said Lord Nishida.
“He is well?” I asked.
“It is thought so,” said Lord Nishida.
“He is sequestered?” I said.
“The gates of the castle are closed,” said Lord Nishida.
“We must act,” I said.
“Do not be impatient,” said Lord Okimoto. “The falling leaf descends, completing its journey at its own pace.”
“Something must be done,” I said.
“Water flows as it wishes, taking what course it wills,” said Lord Okimoto.
“It is so,” said Lord Nishida.
“Rations diminish,” I said. “Time grows short.”