Mariners of Gor

by Norman, John;

  I was pleased to see him in the high tarn hold, though I would have been better pleased to see him amongst the mutineers. I had feared he might by now have departed the ship, in tarnflight, the slave, Alcinoë, bound belly up across his saddle, in some desperate attempt to reach Ar. But such an effort would be irrational, and would presumably conclude not with a sack of gold, but with the death of both on the ice. Too, he would have had to break into the Kasra area, no simple task, and even were he successful in accomplishing this, she, as the other slaves, would still be on her chain. No, this was not the time to think of bringing a slave to Ar. Not the time for either of us. And why should it be he, and not I, who would place the fugitive before Marlenus? The bounty on the high-born, beautiful, officious slut, now collared, was high. Why should the gold be his and not mine? She was a traitress, a conspirator, a criminal, a profiteer, a betrayer of her Home Stone, once even the confidante of the arch traitress herself, Talena, of Ar. Surely she should be returned to the justice of Ar. I wondered if she might make a good slave. She was attractive. It might be pleasant to have her at one’s feet, her lips pressed fervently, hopefully, to them. If she were not pleasing, or if one tired of her, one could always return her to Ar. She was highly intelligent. Such things would be easy for her to understand. It might be pleasant to have her under one’s whip, if only for a time. Why could I not forget her? Had I not, even from Ar, dreamed of her small wrists fastened behind her, in my bracelets? The bounty might win me a dozen slaves, even more beautiful than she, perhaps even a galley, but would these, together, the gold washed with blood, be of greater value to me than a single slave whom one might master with severity, but for whom one would die?

  “Beware!” cried Cabot, angrily. I fended the blow. I thrust. The fellow stumbled back, bleeding.

  Beside Seremides, near the ramp, was Tyrtaios, who was of the retinue of Lord Nishida.

  The tarn in the cage behind me screamed, and for a moment I could not hear.

  I saw more Pani entering the area, from side doors. Lower portions of the ship, I supposed, had been secured. Many men, I conjectured, had been sealed in their quarters, or warned to remain within.

  It seemed clear to me that the tide of war on this strange field, a lower deck on a great ship, was not favoring the mutineers. I conjectured their numbers might have been as few as two to three hundred. Certainly they had not hoped to stand against united Pani, loyal to their lords, and better than a thousand men who might have been armed and brought into the fray from below. No, they would have hoped to strike swiftly, seize the mounts, and then, before resistance could be mustered, make good their escape. But the ship was locked in Thassa’s ice. Escape even under ideal conditions, given our presumed location, would have been unlikely. And, in any event, there were fewer tarns than mutineers, even from the beginning, and certainly after the killings, the slaughter, the injuring of birds, and the escape of several. Mutineers, I later learned, had been killing one another to attain the saddle of a tarn, many presumably having hoped to buy that place with steel, when, unfortunately for them, the ship’s loyalist forces, Pani and others, rallied and came to the first tarn hold.

  “In, in, in!” cried a tarnkeeper, swinging open one of the large, wood-barred gates of a cage. Another, before one of the monsters, was shouting and raising his arms. Tarns, like larls and sleen, tend to find noise and violent motions disconcerting. Larls have been known to withdraw before a shouting child beating on a pan with a metal spoon. One of the monsters backed into the cage, beak snapping with menace, and the tarnkeeper at the gate swung it shut, hooking the latch in place. I saw another tarn down the aisle being similarly housed.

  A fellow ran past. I did not know if he were a mutineer or not.

  I did not strike at him.

  “Throw down your arms!” cried Cabot to mutineers. “Throw down your arms!”

  Some did, and were hastily bound by Pani, neck to neck, hands behind their backs.

  A number of mutineers, however, desperately, fighting, were backing up the ramp toward the open deck. That deck, at least amidships and forward, I gathered, had been largely, most of the time, in the hands of the mutineers. The hatch windlass on the open deck, it seems, had been that used in rolling back the hatch. Many mutineers had come down the ramp from the open deck.

  Some of the mutineers on the ramp, those a little behind the points of engagement, turned about, and fled up the ramp. Many of these were felled on the ramp by Pani bows, now with clear targets. Several arrows were lodged in the ramp itself.

  Behind me I heard a man weeping, a tarnkeeper. He held the gigantic, limp head of one of the monsters to his breast.

  We heard a grating noise. Several mutineers were on the open deck. They were trying to close the hatch.

  “Ropes!” I heard, from above. “Food!”

  “Do not close the hatch!” screamed mutineers still on the ramp.

  It rumbled shut.

  “Sleen, sleen!” cried abandoned mutineers.

  Our men drew back. The Pani archers, in lines, set arrows to the strings of their bows.

  “Throw down your weapons!” cried Cabot to the men on the ramp.

  They cast them away, clattering, rolling and sliding, down the ramp.

  “No!” cried Cabot.

  The lines of Pani archers loosed their arrows.

  I think there were none on the ramp, who were not transfixed with two or three arrows.

  “Stop!” cried Cabot, to Pani ascending the ramp, cutting throats. “Stop!”

  Seremides, at the foot of the ramp, lifted his sword in salute to Lord Okimoto.

  He had come now to the first tarn hold.

  His hands were folded within the wide sleeves of his garment. “Those who are disloyal must die,” he said.

  Cabot ran to the ramp, climbed it two thirds of the way, and interposed himself between stricken mutineers and two of the Pani, who bore red knives. They stepped back, and two others rushed forward, their curved blades lifted, grasped in two hands. The eyes of Seremides, at the side of the ramp, blazed with delight. But the man Tajima who had followed Cabot on the ramp had placed himself between Cabot, who, crouched down, was on guard, and the two Pani. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop, in the name of Lord Nishida!” The two Pani stepped away, each to a side, their blades respectfully lowered. This cleared an opening to the bottom of the ramp, where stood the placid Lord Okimoto.

  “Is the honorable Tajima, swordsman,” asked Lord Okimoto, politely, “authorized to speak for Lord Nishida?”

  “I speak as he would speak,” said Tajima.

  “Does the honorable Tajima, swordsman,” asked Lord Okimoto, “hold a blade, unhoused, in my presence?”

  “No, my lord!” said Tajima. He bowed, and swiftly replaced the blade in his sash.

  At that point the large hatch above began to move once more, slowly, rumbling, this time opening, revealing the sky.

  We heard no sounds of fighting on the deck. I took it the deck was cleared.

  Cabot remained on guard.

  Several Pani, behind Lord Okimoto, put arrows to the strings of their bows.

  “Is the honorable Tajima, swordsman,” asked Lord Okimoto, once more, politely, “authorized to speak for Lord Nishida?”

  “I am authorized to speak for Lord Nishida,” said a voice from the deck, at the top of the ramp.

  I looked up. The figure was in battle gear, and it removed from its head a large, winged helmet.

  “Ah,” said Lord Okimoto, politely, “Lord Nishida.”

  “What is going on?” inquired Lord Nishida.

  “I am first, am I not?” inquired Lord Okimoto.

  “Of course,” said Lord Nishida, bowing his head briefly, acknowledging the priority of his colleague. It was my understanding that each lord had something like two hundred and fifty Pani in his command, that those of Lord Nishida had been housed at a place called Tarn Camp, north of the Alexandra, some pasangs from its headwaters, and that those of Lord Okimoto had been
housed differently, but in the vicinity, somewhere south of the Alexandra. The two complements had joined forces before the great ship began its journey downriver. I did not doubt, however, that they had been in close communication during the building of the great ship. Most, but not all, of those who were not Pani had been with Lord Nishida at Tarn Camp. Many had been recruited in Brundisium, and, over months, in larger and smaller numbers, in larger and smaller ships, had coasted north, thence at one rendezvous or another, to move overland, east to Tarn Camp. They were a motley lot, mostly mercenaries, several from the free companies, many once of the occupation forces in Ar. But amongst them as well were landless men, younger sons, men without Home Stones, bandits, pirates, adventurers, soldiers of fortune, thieves, fugitives, wanted men, cutthroats, fugitives from Ar, such as Seremides, and others. The Pani had apparently much gold to invest in recruitment, and had not been sparing or particular in its distribution. I sensed that it had been only after the great ship had been at sea for a time that the risks involved in assembling such men were better understood. The Pani, I suspected, perhaps because of their cultural background, in which certain values might be presupposed and never questioned, might have underestimated the dangers involved. Perhaps, too, given the exigencies of their task, whatever it might be, and its urgency and prospects, whatever they might be, they had been concerned to move as swiftly as would prove practical. Perhaps they felt they had had little time in which to be particular. Their final intention, in any case, I suspected, was to put together a formidable force as quickly as possible, a force of skilled and dangerous men, men free of certain indigenous and traditional loyalties, which, disciplined, and closely managed, might in unfamiliar, remote venues be well applied to the business of war.

  “Disloyalty,” said Lord Okimoto, “is to be punished by death. It is our way. Those beneath you, on the slanted surface, were disloyal, and several behind me, now suitably subdued and tethered, were disloyal, as well.”

  The mutineers who had, at Cabot’s word, discarded their weapons, and were now kneeling, bound and neck-roped, Pani about with drawn blades, looked at one another in apprehension, and surely to Cabot, as well.

  “I see Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Nishida. “I would hear him speak.”

  “His blade is unhoused,” said Lord Okimoto.

  Cabot sheathed the gladius.

  “Lords Okimoto and Nishida,” said Cabot, evenly. “Mutiny is done. Weapons were surrendered freely. Men have placed their lives and trust in your hands. Otherwise they would have died with weapons in hand. Men do not surrender to be slaughtered. That is not our way.”

  “One wonders, Lord Nishida,” said Lord Okimoto, “if Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, is loyal.”

  “He and others fought with us!” exclaimed Tajima.

  Lord Okimoto looked at Tajima, with surprise.

  “Forgive me, lord,” said Tajima, lowering his head. He had not been invited to speak.

  “Where is Nodachi?” asked Lord Okimoto.

  “He is on the deck, he meditates, he slew seven,” said Lord Nishida.

  I did not know of whom they spoke, but I gathered his opinion might have been valued.

  “Lords Okimoto and Nishida,” said Tarl Cabot. “Men did not wish to die. They fear the ice. They are hungry. They sought escape. They were desperate, crazed, not thinking.”

  “The attack was well planned, well organized, well coordinated,” said Seremides. “That is not the way of crazed, unthinking men.”

  “My esteemed colleague, the noble Rutilius of Ar,” said Cabot, “is well aware that a handful of uncrazed, thinking conspirators, men of malice and cunning, may organize, coordinate, and direct, the actions of others, men on the brink of despair and panic. It is my suspicion that this act was an attempt to conserve rations, to prolong the life of some by ending that of others, perhaps an attempt, even, to thin your forces, so as, eventually, to seize the ship.”

  “Absurd!” cried Seremides.

  “It is not clear, of course,” said Tarl Cabot, “who it might be who organized and arranged this mutiny.”

  “It seems they are slain by now,” said Seremides.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Tarl Cabot.

  “I was unaware,” said Lord Okimoto, “that Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, had requested permission to speak.”

  “I speak as I will,” said Cabot. “It is the way of my caste.”

  “He is of the scarlet caste,” explained Lord Nishida.

  “Ah,” said Lord Okimoto.

  “Lords,” said Cabot, “I do not know our destination, nor your purpose, but the destination seems remote, and the purpose important. I think then that practicality, if not mercy, if not honor, should urge lenience in this matter.”

  “May I speak?” asked Tajima.

  Lord Nishida, with a slight motion of his head, granted this permission.

  “Many months ago,” said Tajima, “we had been sorely defeated, and driven to the edge of the sea. Surely there are those of us here who remember that well. It was the fall of night that saved the few of us, no more than seven hundred, not even that, from the thousands with which we had begun. Never had there been such a battle. We were weary, and far outnumbered. Many were wounded, sick, and hungry. We waited for the morning, on the beach, to die. Then, by the will of whatever gods there be, by whatever names be theirs, we found ourselves, and gold, on a far shore. Now we would return. Those arrayed against us are many and formidable. I do not think we can spare one tarnsman, one spearman, one swordsman, one archer. I, too, speak for lenience.”

  “There has been disloyalty,” said Lord Okimoto.

  “I speak for lenience,” said Lord Nishida.

  Suddenly many eyes turned toward the top of the ramp, to the open deck, where, now beside Lord Nishida, there stood a silent figure, clearly of the Pani. He wore a short robe, with wide sleeves. He was of medium height, but square in the shoulders. His ankles and wrists were thick. His hair was bound back. He carried a sword, which seemed almost a part of his hand. He was one of those who would not sleep lest such a blade lay at his side. His face was broad, his eyes bright. I could read no expression on his face, no more than upon a rock.

  “Have you heard?” inquired Lord Okimoto of the figure.

  It nodded, quickly, abruptly, and then, again, it was still, as still as if it might have been formed of rock, or carved of wood.

  “It is Nodachi,” said one of the Pani.

  I gathered from his observation, that it was not usual for this individual to be about, amongst them.

  “What shall it be, honorable one?” asked Lord Okimoto.

  The figure thrust his sword beneath his sash, and turned away.

  “It is lenience,” said Lord Nishida.

  “What does it matter,” cried Seremides. “We shall die on the ice anyway!”

  The mutineers who had been on the ramp did not survive. There was not one who had not been struck by at least two arrows. It is not well to be the target of a Pani marksman. Cabot’s interposition, at the risk of his own life, had won at best a few moments more of life for those he had sought to protect. The tethered mutineers, some sixty or so, were taken below, in the custody of Pani, and put in chains.

  “Those of the cavalry,” called Cabot, “return to your quarters.”

  There were probably some twenty or thirty fellows there who were in his command.

  Other officers, too, dismissed men.

  Pani, too, began to file from the tarn hold. Lord Okimoto and Seremides had already departed.

  I had understood little or nothing of that of which Tajima, the rider, had spoken, that about night, a battle, the waiting at the beach, and such. I did understand, and well, his concern to conserve men. In battle each man on one’s side is precious. Who, when the enemy appears at the horizon, would be willing to spare even a single slinger, in rags, with his sack of absurdly engraved lead pellets, let alone a spearman, or swordsman?

  Cabot climbed up the ramp, to the open deck.r />
  The fellow, Nodachi, was gone.

  Hundreds of fellows were still below, either sealed in their quarters, or remaining there, given the instructions of Pani corridor guards. Many of these fellows would probably not even know, until later, what had been going on.

  I trusted that Philoctetes had sought the care of a physician.

  “Lord Nishida,” said Cabot, respectfully.

  “I would have regretted losing the commander of the tarn cavalry,” said Lord Nishida.

  Cabot smiled. “I, too,” he said.

  “There was war here, on the deck,” said Lord Nishida.

  “Clearly,” said Cabot, looking about.

  The battle on the open deck had surged back and forth, for more than an Ahn, but then, obviously, in the end, the ship’s forces had triumphed.

  “There were mutineers who fled to the deck, late in the war below,” said Cabot.

  “Many had seized food, and there were ropes,” said Lord Nishida. “They went over the side, to the ice. Some fell to the water. There were sea sleen at the ice. Many succumbed. But most made it to the ice.”

  “They hope to reach land, over the ice,” said Cabot.

  “They will die on the ice,” said Lord Nishida.

  “I fear few knew of the Stream of Torvald,” said Cabot.

  “The Stream of Torvald?” asked Lord Nishida, curious.