by John Norman
“That is true,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Consider the matter,” he said. “Those from Ar’s Station are essentially infantrymen of Ar, put at the oars of galleys. They are unfamiliar with naval warfare. And the independent ships, like the Tina, are not manned by warriors, but by volunteers, stalwart but untrained fellows, mostly of lower castes. Our defensive force, in effect, is the fleet of Port Cos.”
“It is then, you feel,” I said, apprehensively, “in effect some thirty ships, those of Port Cos, against the fleet of the Voskjard?”
“Substantially so,” agreed Callimachus.
“Why, then, are you here?” I asked.
“I am of the Warriors,” said Callimachus.
“I see,” I said.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“You are here,” he said, “because you, too, are of the Warriors.”
“I am not of the Warriors,” I said.
“Not everyone who is of the Warriors knows that he is of the Warriors,” said Callimachus.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“I have seen it,” said Callimachus, “in your eyes, that you are of the Warriors.”
“You are mad,” I said.
“Ten thousand years ago,” he said, “in the mixings of bloods, and in the rapings of conquered maids, the caste has chosen you.
“You are mad,” I told him.
“We shall see, shortly,” said he. He drew his sword.
“Why are you drawing your sword?” I asked.
“Surely you can hear?” he asked.
“What?” I said. “What?”
“I was wrong,” he said “I thought there might be no battle.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Yet,” said Callimachus, “if the Tamira were truly the scout ship of Ragnar Voskjard, and if she crossed the chain westward four days ago, and a rendezvous was made in the river, in the vicinity of the holding of Ragnar Voskjard, the times involved are not inappropriate.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Can you not hear it?” he asked.
“I hear nothing!” I cried. “You are mad!” I heard only the water at the strakes, the creaking of the chain, the sound of oars restless in the thole ports, the far-off cries of occasional Vosk gulls.
“There is nothing,” I whispered.
Suddenly the hair on the back of my neck lifted and froze.
“See?” asked Callimachus, lifting his sword, and pointing out, into the fog.
“No,” I said I could not see anything in the fog. But, now, clearly, I could hear it.
Then, suddenly, through a rift in the fog I saw, not more than a hundred yards away, across the chain, what seemed a countless number of ships.
“It is the fleet of Ragnar Voskjard,” he said. There was an elation which I found incomprehensible in his voice.
I stood, for the moment unable to move, on the deck, at the bow, below the stem castle of the galley.
“Your sword is in your hand,” smiled Callimachus.
I could not remember unsheathing it.
“Sound the battle horns!” called Callimachus to the men on the ship. “Sound the battle horns.”
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