by John Norman
“It is going to rain,” said Haruki.
“No,” I said, “the night is clear.”
“The night will be overcast, and the darkness will deepen,” said Haruki. “That is good for our work. Too, the guards will seek shelter, and it will be difficult to kindle their torches.”
“The night is clear,” I said.
“What is not good,” said Haruki, “is that tracks may linger in rain-softened soil.”
I was silent.
He had his head lifted, and seemed keenly alert. “Good,” he said, “the rain will be heavy and, in time, tracks will be obliterated.”
“The night is clear,” I said, and then felt a drop of rain.
“We must dislodge palings swiftly,” said Haruki. “It must be near the Twentieth Ahn.”
I joined several others, stout fellows, working about the palings. These were strong men. Smaller fellows addressed themselves to the earth about the palings, about this high, smooth fence, the points of which were fastened together with lashings several feet above our heads, some with rice bowls and others with stones, and their bare hands.
A gentle rain began to fall. The yellow moon was partly obscured. The white moon was not in the sky, nor that smaller orb, called in Continental Gor, the Prison Moon.
“It is moving,” I whispered to the fellows with me. I licked the blood from my hand. It was raw from the wood, and slick now with rain, as was the wood.
I heard thunder, far off, and saw a flash of lightning beyond the camp.
“Here, too,” said one of the fellows nearby.
The rain had purchased time, as the rounds of the guards, which were desultory at best in this lax camp, had now ceased.
Men worked at various points.
I suspected the pen guards had not considered the possibility of concerted action, not amongst peasants. They would not anticipate any general challenge to the integrity of the facility they supervised, not amongst peasants. They would rely upon, and take much for granted, the docility and obedience commonly to be found in the peasantry. Peasants are expected to abide unquestioningly the will and words of the gentry.
I wondered how Haruki had managed to recruit his small legions.
I wished, of course, to free as many men as possible, both for my own sake, to confuse matters, and make pursuit more difficult, and for theirs, as well, that at least some might make their way back to their villages.
“A little more,” said the man beside me.
The palings were lifted up a foot, carrying with them the lashings near their points, and then bent outward. Almost at my feet the sharpened foot of a paling, bent forward, thrust up dirt. I bent down, and could feel the point.
“More, a bit more!” said the fellow beside me.
It was now raining heavily.
There was a flash of lightning and the camp, through the palings, suddenly appeared, in a cold blast of light, and then, as suddenly, vanished in an alarming crash of thunder.
We thrust forward against the palings.
“Not enough,” said a man.
“Noble one,” said Haruki. “Look back. Look to the gate. It is too late. A party approaches.”
I wiped rain from my eyes, and looked back, to the gate.
There was a party there, of some ten or twelve men. They wore hoods and shawls, to protect them from the rain. None wore the straw jacket of the peasantry. None carried glaives, the common weapon of the Ashigaru. I gathered they were officers and warriors, all. Some did carry sheltered lanterns which threw forth a dim light. They were being met by the officer of the guard.
“We are to be removed from the pen in darkness,” said Haruki. “Few will note our departure. None will know what has become of us. None will care what has become of us. We will have vanished. The rain and darkness will cover their work.”
“The gate opens,” said a man.
“We cannot break through the palings,” said a fellow.
“We will,” I said, “we, and the others. Together, now!”
At various points, to my left and right, for others, too, had made progress such as we, I heard the soft cries and utterances, sudden and forceful, of desperate and straining men.
“They approach,” said Haruki.
“Lift,” I said, “extend the palings, force them apart!” I got my back against one paling and, with my feet, both feet, bracing myself against it, thrust against the other. “There is your door,” I said. “Crawl, slip through, take your leave, go!”
Yards to the side I heard the movements of other men. Others may have been more successful than we.
I heard a creak of timber. From somewhere I heard the splash of a paling into the mud. The high lashings must have torn loose.
“What is going on there?” I heard, from somewhere within the pen.
I heard another sound, from the other side, and saw a paling thrust aside, swinging on its overhead lashing.
“On your hands and knees,” I said. “Through the opening, quick. Harta! Harta!”
One man after another squeezed through that narrow aperture.
“Unsheathe your blades!” cried a voice. “What you come upon, kill! Lanterns forward! Lanterns forward!”
Only Haruki remained behind.
“I shall block the opening, noble one,” he said.
“No, you will not,” I said, unpleasantly.
“What is life without its garden?” said Haruki.
“I do not know,” I said. “Hurry!”
“Must I?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“As you will, noble one,” he said.
“Find Tarl Cabot!” cried a voice, from somewhere in the midst of the approaching lanterns.
I thought my back might break, but Haruki crawled through the opening, and I threw myself free of the heavy paling which then fell back, as it could, into place. That particular opening had doubtless not been one of the best, but it had sufficed. Palings, in their strength, in the depth of their planting, in their securings and lashings, and such, would differ amongst themselves. I hoped the pursuers would attempt to make use of the same opening, as it would presumably present them with the same difficulty it had us. In the darkness and rain easier openings might not be scouted, or noticed. As soon as I was beyond the palings, I cried out, “Bowmen of Temmu, fire on the first tarsk who emerges from the pen!”
I moved back in the darkness with Haruki. The lanterns had stopped, and I sensed some indecision and milling about. Less pleasantly, I sensed cries, and movements, in the darkness about me. The camp, this portion of the camp, was apparently becoming aroused.
“Fools, there are no bowmen of Temmu in the camp. Break through, here, where the tarsks fled!”
I heard men grunting.
That massive vertical bar would not be easy to move.
“Where is Tarl Cabot?” cried an angry voice from within, a voice redolent with authority.
“Here!” I called out, from the darkness.
That, I thought, would keep them at this point in the fence. Perhaps, I thought, they could use a few stout fellows, such as I had had at my disposal, to move the palings. But then I doubted they had any peasants in their party.
“You did well, friend Haruki,” I said, “in your recruiting. How did you manage it, peasants, and peasants from different villages, suspicious, grasping fellows, wary of men of quality, working together, joining in such a common effort?”
“I told them, noble one,” said Haruki, “that they were the ox on which the Home Stone rests.”
“Did they understand?” I asked.
“I do not think so, noble one,” said Haruki, “but they were pleased.”
We then, in the pourings of rain, in the flashings of lightning and the crashings of thunder, with startled, confused men rushing about, slipping a bit in the mud, scrambled away, to lose ourselves, as we might, amongst the corridors of tents.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Pertinax;
There is Work to
be Done
I stepped back behind a tent and a squad of Ashigaru hurried past, bearing glaives.
I did not think the laxity characterizing the perimeter of the camp was to be long in place.
In the distance, I could hear the ringing of an alarm bar.
Rain still fell, but the brunt of the storm had passed.
The yellow moon was now visible, only partly obscured.
I surmised that the fugitives, including Haruki and myself, would be expected to depart the camp as quickly as possible. I hoped that many, under the cover of the storm and darkness, might do so, reaching the open country. Haruki and I, however, would not be amongst them, at least not now. There was a different business to which we wished to attend.
I sought Tajima. I had dispatched Haruki to locate Nezumi. To be sure, I was less than sanguine about the success of either mission. We were to rendezvous where I supposed we would be the least suspected, within sight of the high banner surmounting the command tent of the shogun himself, at the hub of the great wheel which constituted the camp.
I turned the corner of the tent, and found the point of a sword at my throat.
Then the sword was lowered.
“Tarl!” said the fellow.
“Pertinax!” I said.
“What are you doing here?” whispered Pertinax. “Surely you are behind, not here, but much away, faraway, held in the palace of Yamada.”
“I escaped,” I said. “Lord Temmu must be warned.”
“He is well aware of the march of Yamada,” said Pertinax.
“There is more,” I said.
“With you in command,” said Pertinax, “if you care to invest the cavalry, Yamada, as before, can be forced to withdraw.”
“Yamada is no fool,” I said. “The beast who puts his nose in fire is not likely to do so again. He would not advance north unless he felt justified in dismissing the threat of the cavalry.”
“How can it be dismissed?” asked Pertinax.
“I do not know,” I said, “but he is marching north. I am much pleased to encounter you.”
“I and Ichiro,” he said, “have been in this camp for several days.”
“You seek Tajima,” I said.
“He could not be dissuaded from madness,” said Pertinax. “He set forth on some desperate adventure, one involving the worthless Sumomo. His tarn returned to its cot, the saddle empty. Neither it nor the bird bore signs of war. It was then, we conjectured, freed deliberately; there would seem no reason for doing this unless it was in imminent danger of being overtaken; Tajima, then, must be afoot, and at risk of capture. If he were captured, it is likely he would be brought to the shogun, and the shogun, as you know, is here.”
“And you and Ichiro came to scout the camp,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Sumomo,” I said, “was to be fed to death eels.”
“We heard so,” said Pertinax. “It was to intervene that Tajima left the encampment of tarns.”
“His intervention was successful,” I said. “He carried away the shogun’s daughter.”
“But surely she is not in chains now, at the encampment of tarns.”
“No,” I said.
“What became of her?”
“Tajima put her in his collar.”
“The shogun’s daughter?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Excellent,” said Pertinax.
“And she is now here, in this camp.”
“I did not know that,” said Pertinax.
“And so, too, is Tajima,” I said.
“I know that,” said Pertinax.
“You know that?” I said.
“Ichiro and I slipped into this camp to find him. We searched long and unavailingly. We were unsuccessful for days. We were planning to withdraw, in despair, until yesterday.”
“You know where he is?”
“In the compound of Lord Akio,” said Pertinax. “I observed him, under guard, conducted to that place.”
“We must free him,” I said.
“That is our hope,” he said.
“You and Ichiro risked much to enter this camp, to seek him,” I said. “You will risk a great deal more, should you attempt to free him.”
Pertinax shrugged, and sheathed his sword.
“I thought,” I said, “there was much uneasiness between you and Tajima, that there was much rivalry between you, much envy, and jealousy, and competition for priority of station.”
“On the part of Tajima perhaps,” said Pertinax. “Not on mine.”
“Tajima resented that Nodachi, the teacher and swordsman, would accept you as a pupil.”
“I am unworthy to be his pupil,” said Pertinax.
“That is not for you to say, but Nodachi,” I said.
“I am not Pani,” said Pertinax.
“That is apparently not the criterion in terms of which Nodachi selects his students,” I said.
“I am not Pani,” said Pertinax.
“Neither are the moons or tides,” I said, “nor the sword.”
“Ichiro,” he said, “watches near the compound of Lord Akio, camp lord here, lest Tajima be moved.”
“But you are here,” I said.
“I return from scouting the perimeter,” he said, “and have planned an escape route.”
“You will have to revise your plans,” I said. “Several have escaped from the prison pen.”
“I hear the alarm bar,” he said.
“Security is certain to be increased at the perimeter,” I said.
“We cannot remain here,” he said. “The camp will be searched, every tent, every hort.”
“Doubtless,” I said.
“We will sell our lives fearlessly,” he said.
“That is all right for heroes,” I said, “but it is not the way of men who win wars.”
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Wars are won not only by the sword,” I said. “Dying for a cause seldom does a cause much good.”
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Dying nobly is all well and good,” I said, “but it is, at best, a last resort. It does not stand high amongst the priorities for success.”
“Oh?” he said.
“Those who are eager to die,” I said, “are likely to be obliged by the foe.”
“What of honor?” he said.
“Death and honor seldom have much to do with one another,” I said. “It is easy to die honorably. To live honorably is much more difficult.”
“What of Tajima?” he said.
“We must renew our acquaintance with the young tarnsman,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
“But there is a problem,” I said.
“What is that?” asked Pertinax.
“Tajima,” I said, “is not likely to leave the camp without Nezumi.”
“Who is Nezumi?” he said.
“She who was once Sumomo,” I said, “now no more than a rather pretty, marked, collared slave.”
“I do not know where she is,” said Pertinax.
“I have a friend about,” I said, “a Pani gardener, named Haruki, you do not know him, but were it not for him, a colleague and guide, it is unlikely I would be here. I have put him about searching for Nezumi. We think she is being held by Lord Akio, incommunicado, probably in some far, nondescript tent near the perimeter, far from the shogun’s command tent and the compound of the camp lord, Lord Akio, most likely concealed amongst other slaves.”
“What are we to do now?” asked Pertinax.
“The rain has stopped,” I said. “It will soon be light. We must move quickly. I hope to meet Haruki near the center of the camp. I trust he will have come upon some useful intelligence.”
“Tajima is being held near the center of the camp,” said Pertinax, “in the compound of Lord Akio.”
“Let us hope things work out nicely,” I said.
“They seldom do,” said Pertinax.
“One may alway
s hope,” I said.
Chapter Forty
A Diversion is Planned;
I Visit the Camp Lord;
Tajima is Missing;
Tajima is Found
“You are certain Tajima was taken into that tent?” I said.
“Yes,” said Pertinax.
“And, Commander san,” said Ichiro, “he has not been taken elsewhere.”
“There are but two guards, at the entrance,” said Pertinax.
“I am sure there are several, elsewhere,” I said.
“We see none, Commander san,” said Ichiro, bannerman of the cavalry.
“They are there,” I said.
“It is a trap?” said Pertinax.
“Tajima is the bait,” I said. “It was doubtless laid as soon as word from the prison pen reached Lord Akio.”
“I had thought we might cut the canvas, at the rear of the tent,” said Pertinax.
“It might still be done,” I said.
“But if there is surveillance, and guards at hand?” said Pertinax.
“Think,” I said, “as might Lord Yamada.”
“I am not sure I care to do so,” said Pertinax.
“What,” I asked, “is more valuable than the bait?”
“I do not know,” said Pertinax.
“He who laid the trap,” I said. “Yamada would willingly sacrifice a lesser value for a greater.”
“So?” said Pertinax.
“In our position,” I said, “he would think nothing of sacrificing Tajima in order to strike at Lord Akio.”
“We are not Yamada,” said Pertinax.
“Surely we would not sacrifice Tajima san,” said Ichiro.
“Lord Akio might think so,” I said.
“You plan a diversion?” said Pertinax.
“Yes,” I said. “I will need a blade.”
“Take my sword,” said Pertinax. “In your hands it is an efficient tool of death.”
“And in yours,” I said. “Give me, rather, your knife.”
Pertinax handed me the knife, hilt first.