by John Norman
“From distances the mind must strive to grasp,” he said. “Even from east of far Cos and Tyros, from a shore so dreadful and far that even Thassa herself will go no further.”
“A shore so appalling?” I asked.
“Yes,” said he, “where lies a citadel of ruthless cunning, of envy, violence, wrath, murder, and greed, of arrant ambition, a lawless, bestial port, feared from Torvaldsland to Schendi, a port the scourge of turbulent Thassa, a den of thieves and cutthroats, a lair of pirates, near whose walls fish dare not swim, over which birds refuse to fly.”
“You have been there?” I said.
“These things are well known,” he said.
“What place is this, so far and terrible?” I asked.
“It is called Port Kar,” he said.
“I have heard of it,” I said.
“It is from there the raiders ultimately derive,” he said, “they and their pitiless, monstrous captain, with hair so wild and red, like blood and fire, he whose name even strong men may hesitate to speak.”
“What is his name?” I asked.
“Bosk,” said he, “Bosk of Port Kar.”
“He it is,” I asked, “who is responsible for such unconscionable horror and terror?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I am Bosk of Port Kar,” I said.
Chapter Two
What Occurred that Night, on a Remote Beach on Chios
“Thurnock,” I said, “this is Aktis, of the village of Nicosia.”
“A Cosian,” said Thurnock, not rising.
“No,” I said, “of the village of Nicosia, here on Chios.”
Others had risen to their feet.
“A Cosian,” repeated Thurnock.
“This is not Cos,” I said, “though the weight of the spears of Cos are felt here.”
“Tal,” said Aktis.
“As we feared,” I said, “the pomerium of Nicosia was recently, illicitly, crossed.”
“Those we seek, the intruders, have struck,” said Thurnock.
“With blades, fire, and chains,” I said.
“How is it then,” asked Thurnock, “that this scrawny verr, clad in filthy rags, perhaps ill fed, is still here, not slain, not chained like a girl, not carried off for the benches or quarries?”
“I fled, large one,” said Aktis.
“Why, small one?” asked Thurnock.
“At the time it seemed the thing to do,” said Aktis.
Aktis was not a small man, but Thurnock was unusually large, a boulder of a man, with arms like oars.
“Aktis,” I said, “those on their feet here, greeting you, honoring you, standing about the fires, are my men, my friends.” I then introduced Aktis to several of the men about, including Clitus, master of the trident, and handsome Tab, gifted with the sword. Several others stood aside, in the darkness. In the presence of a stranger, in a lonely place, many Goreans will not step into the firelight.
“Aktis,” I said, “as is Thurnock, is of the peasants, the most fundamental of all castes, the ox on which the Home Stone rests.”
“He is too small to be of the great caste,” said Thurnock. “His voice may have changed, but I doubt he can yet grow a true beard.”
“At least,” said Aktis, “I do not have a large tooth, misshapen, which hangs over my lip, like a fang.”
“It is a sign of force and power,” said Thurnock. “Many a larl might envy it.”
“Doubtless it appeals to women,” said Aktis.
“They learn to kiss and lick it quickly enough,” said Thurnock.
“I trust you will be friends,” I said.
“I am not the stranger here,” said Aktis.
“I beached the Dorna and Tesephone upwind,” said Thurnock, with a look at Aktis, suggesting this decision might have been judiciously motivated.
“That was wise,” I said. “The smell of smoke lingers long in the memory of ashes, as does as that of devastation and harm in the memory of men.”
“He is a spy,” said Thurnock.
“If so,” I said, “congratulate him on his courage, for he, in our midst, is now in mortal danger.”
“I am not a spy,” said Aktis.
“Perhaps you are merely too clever to admit it,” said Thurnock.
“It is clear you will become great friends,” I said.
“How many intruders did you personally slay?” asked Thurnock.
“None,” said Aktis. “How many did you slay?”
“And how many,” asked Thurnock, “did the braver folks, the true men, of your village dispatch to the Cities of Dust?”
“None that I know of,” said Aktis.
“There were no bows in the village,” I said. “They were forbidden by Cos, lest they be misused, lest the population be endangered.”
“And the village was sacked and burned, the inhabitants slain or carried off,” said Thurnock.
“They came unexpectedly, swiftly, with violence, chains, and fire, and swept all before them,” said Aktis.
“Perhaps,” I said to Thurnock, “you could teach the bow to Aktis.”
“He could not even draw the bow,” said Thurnock.
“I am strong,” said Aktis.
“The intruders knew the village lacked the bow?” asked Clitus.
“One supposes so,” I said.
“We would not have known that,” said Clitus.
“No,” I said.
“But some of Cos would know,” said Tab.
“That point,” I said, “has not escaped me.”
“What state would be so mad as to deny the means of self-defense to its citizenry?” asked Clitus.
“Any state which fears an informed, armed citizenry,” I said, “any state which wishes to own, manipulate, and exploit its citizenry with impunity.”
“Public reasons often conceal private plans,” said Tab.
“I cannot believe such things,” said Clitus.
“I know a place,” I said, “where it has taken place, again and again. The citizens suspect nothing, and later, when they do, it is too late.”
“As I understand this,” said Aktis, “you are Bosk of Port Kar, and your fellows are of Port Kar, as well.”
“Yes,” I said.
“And you have come to find, and deal with, impostors who burn, loot, slay, and seize in your name?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Why should they do so?” asked Aktis.
“I do not know,” I said.
“To conceal their own identity, to mask themselves beneath a plausible, fearful reputation, to precipitate an escalation in the war between Port Kar and the island ubarates, Cos and Tyros?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“If you are truly the dreaded Bosk of Port Kar,” said Aktis, “why do you object to intrusions and raids which cause you no harm and can do little but enhance your own reputation as a pillager and menace?”
“Perhaps because I am pleased to do so,” I said. “Perhaps because I disapprove of deceit. Perhaps because I will not have others choose how my name will be heard.”
“You are in danger here,” said Aktis.
“Possibly,” I said.
“Yet you have come.”
“Yes.”
“And these men, your fellows?” asked Aktis.
“Each a volunteer, a friend, not sought, not pressed.”
“You are in unfriendly waters,” said Aktis.
“If I contact your intruders,” I said, “it is they who will find themselves in unfriendly waters.”
“I do not think you are truly Bosk of Port Kar,” said Aktis.
“How so?” I asked.
“Your hair,” he said. “Bosk of Port Kar has red hair, like flame and blood. I saw him at Nicosia.”<
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“Perhaps you should introduce me to him,” I said. “I would much like to meet myself. Few people, I am told, meet themselves. It is hard to meet oneself. One is often, it seems, a stranger to oneself.”
“Do not mock me,” he said.
“The impostor dyed his hair, or wore a wig,” I said. “Most likely a wig.”
Thus, I supposed, he could most easily don, and remove, a disguise, an identity.
“Your hair is dark,” he said, “brown or black. It is hard to tell in the light.”
“It is a dark brown, surely bordering on black,” I said. “I have often dyed it so, when it seemed judicious. In this way one minimizes the likelihood of recognition or discovery. Too, to be frank, so simple an artifice also tends to reduce unpleasant observations, insults, jokes, altercations, and such, sometimes seeming to require attention, with or without the sword.”
Indeed, even from my boyhood in far Bristol, I had occasionally felt it incumbent upon me to make clear, with split lips, bloody noses, and such, my disapproval of such disparagement.
In any event, I was not to be held accountable for my hair. I had not chosen it in some vestibule on the brink of existence. Such things are managed, for well or ill, by the hereditary coils. It came with my skin, teeth, bones, blood, and brain. If I could stand it, others might do the same, or, upon occasion, accept the consequences.
“As I understand this,” said Tab to Aktis, “you survived the attack on Nicosia.”
“Yes,” said Aktis.
“You assessed the enemy?” said Tab.
“I was there,” said Aktis.
“State his strength, his resources,” said Tab.
“Six ships, four larger and two smaller,” said Aktis. “And many men, men far beyond oarsmen and mariners, perhaps six hundred.”
“And there may be more,” said Clitus.
“True,” said Aktis.
“Raids have taken place,” said Tab.
“Several,” I said.
“And may again,” said Tab.
“I fear so,” I said.
“Cos patrols the shark roads,” said Tab.
More than once we had lowered our masts and sails, and our low ships, painted green, the pirate color, difficult to detect in the waves of Thassa, had lain almost flat in the water.
“How can such forces indefinitely, at least six burdened ships, coming and going, venturing out and returning, time and time again, elude patrol ships, sightings?” asked Tab.
“One may speculate,” I said.
“Ships require berthing, maintenance,” said Tab. “Men require stores, water, supplies, tenting, housing.”
“How then, with what ease,” I asked, “can ships and men vanish?”
“Precisely,” said Tab.
“Perhaps the Priest-Kings, with their mysterious and mighty powers, have some hand in this,” said Clitus.
“That seems unlikely,” I said.
“Thank the Priest-Kings,” said Aktis, “that you have not encountered the intruders. Indeed, hire Initiates to petition the Priest-Kings that you do not do so.”
“But we have come from afar,” I said, “precisely to do so.”
“You are outweighed, outnumbered,” said Aktis, “in both ships and men.”
“We are not vulnerable, unarmed villagers,” said Clitus.
“You are far overmatched,” said Aktis. “Do not seek the intruders. Do not meet them. You would be destroyed.”
“Perhaps we need only locate them,” I said, “and then let the justice and vengeance of Cos, armed with fleets, inimical to piracy, sweep them from the sea.”
“Cos is at war with Port Kar,” said Aktis.
“But not with Kenneth Statercounter, Merchant of neutral Brundisium, concerned for the safety of trade routes,” I said.
“You would enlist Cos?” he asked.
“Why not, if practical?” I asked. “What robust polity tolerates piracy?”
“Cos, perhaps,” said seated Thurnock.
“The weight of the enemy, his formidable nature, was not made clear to us in Port Kar,” said Tab.
“We may have been misinformed, deliberately,” said Clitus.
“Let us not carry suspicion to the point of madness,” I said.
“It is possible,” said Clitus.
“Many things are possible,” I said.
News on Gor was often delayed, incomplete, haphazard, distorted, or spurious, even altogether unavailable. How might one separate idle rumor from sober truth; how might one tell fact from fable, fear, and fancy? This had much to do with the technology laws of the Priest-Kings, who, it seemed, recognized the danger, both to themselves and other forms of life, of sharing a planet with human beings, belligerent and short-tempered, curious, greedy, selfish, skilled in waste, exploitation, thoughtlessness, pollution, and war. Did the Priest-Kings not regard us as an interesting, but simple, primitive, short-sighted species? Who knows what might come of putting matches, bombs, and dynamite in nurseries, and madhouses?
“Go home, while you can,” said Aktis.
“Shall we go home, lads?” I asked.
“We have scarcely arrived,” said Tab.
“Clitus,” I said, “if you will, see to the feeding and clothing of our guest, Aktis, he of the village of Nicosia.”
“I want nothing from those of Port Kar,” said Aktis. “I will have nothing from those of Port Kar. I will have nothing to do with those of Port Kar.”
“Then you are not with us?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Tell me, Aktis,” I said. “Do you not want Nicosia avenged?”
“I would give my life for that,” he said.
“Then,” I said, “you are with us.”
He regarded us, evenly, his eyes moving from face to face, in the darkness, on the beach, about the fires, two vessels nearby, in the background, only shapes in the night, a larger and a smaller, drawn up on the sand.
“I am with you,” he said.
“I will teach you the bow,” said Thurnock, rising, and clasping his hand.
Chapter Three
We Set Course for Thera; I Speak with Aktis; We Encounter a Surprise at Sea
I stood on the stern castle of the Dorna, Builder’s Glass in hand, above the twin rudders, the small, swift Tesephone, shallow-drafted, capable of negotiating rivers, abeam.
I took us now to be far enough from shore that a change in course could not be detected.
I returned the Builder’s Glass to its sheath at my belt.
“Course,” I called to Thurnock.
The large peasant ascended the steps of the stern castle.
“Whither,” he inquired.
“Thera,” I said. “To the Cove of Harpalos.”
This instruction was called down to the helmsmen.
From the Cove of Harpalos on Thera, I might take the Tesephone to the harbor of Sybaris. The Dorna, even disguised, even temporarily divested of its ram and shearing blades, still appeared too much a ship of war, which, indeed, it was, a knife ship. Few would take her as a “round ship,” a cargo vessel, with its somewhat broader beam, higher gunwales, and capacity for freight. Too, I feared the Dorna, even disguised, might be recognized. It was not unknown on Thassa, particularly in the contested waters between Port Kar and the major marine ubarates, Cos and Tyros. It was my pretense that the Dorna, now referred to as the Korinna on the Cove of Harpalos papers, was a knife ship converted to freight duty, a pretense now accepted by the Cove authorities, due I suspect, first, to a judicious distribution of gold amongst them and, two, due to the fact that Therans, as well as those of Chios and Daphna, commonly failed to hold the insolent, exploitative, hegemonic tyranny of Cos in warm regard. To be sure, the influence of Cos was far more pervasive and powerful in the larger towns and port
s, such as Sybaris on Thera, Mytilene on Chios, and Pylos and Naxos on Daphna. Indeed, in such towns, high administrative, military, and naval offices were largely staffed by Cosians. The theory seemed to be that cities command the country and, thus, those who command the cities command the country. The Tesephone was small, light, and clean-lined. It was like a whisper on the water. It was inconspicuous, helm-responsive, and swift. Few vessels on Thassa, I thought, could match its speed, or close with it at close quarters. Indeed, in its capacity to outrun and elude patrol ships, it was the sort of vessel which is often favored by clandestine traders, or, say, to speak more frankly, smugglers.
“After the Cove of Harpalos?” asked Thurnock.
“To Sybaris,” I said.
“By means of the Tesephone?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought so,” said Thurnock.
It was there, in Sybaris, that I, in the guise of Kenneth Statercounter, Merchant of Brundisium, in the tavern oddly named The Living Island, had heard the statement that Nicosia had been destroyed, several days before its actual destruction. This anomalous claim was the only clue, if it were a clue, I had so far managed to find as to the nature and whereabouts of the mysterious raiders perpetrating slaughter and rapine in my name. Who could allege, or know of, or confidently state, the destruction of a village or town prior to the event, unless one were somehow privy to the intentions of raiders contemplating such an attack?
“How is Aktis doing?” I asked Thurnock.
“He draws a good oar,” said Thurnock.
“Relieve him, and send him to me,” I said.
Thurnock then descended the stairs to the helm deck.
Once we were another Ahn from the coast of Chios, in the open sea, I would have the mast raised, with its long yard, and let the fore-and-aft rigged sail, the swelling, triangular sail, a lateen sail, now the fair-weather sail, take the wind. I thought this a politic delay, as shipping tends to be heavier in the vicinity of a coast, and a high-masted sail, swollen with wind, is easily detected from a stem castle, even by eye, at more than five pasangs.
“Captain?” asked Aktis.
“How go your studies with the bow?” I asked.
Thurnock had arranged a target on deck, of layered leather, backed with wood.