Avengers of Gor

by John Norman

  “I heard something,” said one of the voices.

  I coughed, again.

  “It is our fellows,” said one of the men, “returned from Mytilene.”

  I stood back a bit in the tunnel, in the shadows.

  “How are things in Mytilene?” asked one of the men.

  “Splendid,” I said.

  “Excellent,” he said.

  “What have you heard?” I asked.

  “Reports differ,” he said. “One hears, on the one hand, from one fellow lost from his unit, that the city is taken and the townsfolk are being put to the sword, man, woman, and child, and, from another, similarly somehow separated from his fellows, that something is amiss, possibly muchly so.”

  “I am ready to come forth,” I said. “I am ready to be challenged.”

  “What are you talking about?” one of three men asked, for there were three.

  “Surely I am expected to give the watchword for the night,” I said.

  “There is no watchword,” said a second man.

  “Does it not seem as if there should be?” I said.

  “What is a watchword?” asked the first man.

  “A password,” I said, “a sign, a countersign, that sort of thing.”

  “None is needed,” said a man. “We know our fellows.”

  “You know us?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said the first man.

  “How do you know we are not of Mytilene itself?” I asked.

  “You are in the tunnel, you left through the tunnel, you return through the tunnel,” said the third man.

  I handed my dark lantern to Thurnock, who was behind me, slightly to my left.

  “If things are splendid in Mytilene,” I asked, “why should we return through the tunnel?”

  “I do not know,” said one of the men. “Why?”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Keeping independent looters from the tunnel, who might hope to sneak into Mytilene and seize wealth prior to the general gathering and division of the spoils.”

  “And have you done so?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said the first man.

  “Well done,” I said.

  “Were you given a watchword?” asked the first man.

  “I give you one now,” I said.

  “What is that?” asked the second man.

  “Trust no one,” I said, easing my sword silently from its sheath, emerging from the tunnel, and thrusting the blade to his heart. The first man I caught by the ankle as he tried to climb from the ditch, pulled him back down, and cut him across the back of the neck, swiftly and cleanly, no deeper than necessary, a warrior’s stroke. At the same time I was peripherally aware that the third man had drawn his sword and was rushing toward me. I had expected him to run, which would have been his best option, in which case I would pursue him for a pace or two and launch my sword with an overhand hilt cast, hoping, if all went well, to penetrate his back below the left shoulder blade, after which one would hope to draw out the sword, turn the body, and plunge it in again. As it was, my blade, so lightly engaged in my earlier stroke, leapt up and easily parried the savage downward stroke of the mercenary’s blade, a fierce, heavy, frenzied stroke which might have cut away the head of a saddle tharlarion. He then backed away, eyes wide. I suspected he knew what was soon to ensue.

  “You had your stroke,” I said. “You should have run.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Bosk,” I told him. “Bosk, of Port Kar.”

  He drew back his arm to strike again, a blow he did not live to deliver.

  Thurnock, Clitus and the others emerged, one by one, from the shadows, through the tunnel’s narrow opening.

  Thurnock and Clitus then stood close to me, partly illuminated in the light of the small tharlarion-oil lamp which rested to the right of the tunnel as one might exit the tunnel.

  “You know what you are to do,” I said.

  “It is clear,” said Thurnock and Clitus.

  “My lamp,” I said. “See that you have yours.”

  “They are with our men,” said Thurnock.

  I took the dark lamp from Thurnock.

  “The clouds part,” said Clitus. “The Yellow Moon has risen.”

  “We must act swiftly,” I said.

  “We shall do so,” said Thurnock.

  “I wish you well,” I said.

  “We wish you well,” they said.

  I climbed from the inner ditch, followed by my ten selected men, four swordsmen, four archers, and two men bearing vessels of tharlarion oil and axes, not war axes, but woodsmen’s axes. To my right, Thurnock, with his men, was climbing from the ditch, and, to his right, I trusted, so, too, was Clitus, followed by his men.

  The three catapults, mighty war engines, were aligned several yards behind the inner ditch, between the ditch and the camp of the mercenaries, a hundred or so yards beyond.

  “Ho! Stop!” called a guard.

  I had not before realized the size of the catapults, which, with their mounting on heavy wheeled carts, were something like three stories high.

  “We come from Mytilene,” I announced.

  “How goes it at Mytilene?” inquired the guard.

  “Well,” I said.

  “Good,” said the guard.

  “First slaughter, then gold,” said another guard.

  “I wish that I were there,” said another guard.

  “But you are not,” I said.

  He made no sound when he fell.

  Simultaneously my swordsmen attacked the other guards, only two of which managed to clear their weapons from the sheath.

  Yet the flashing ring of struck steel was bright under the moon and surely that sound would carry well beyond the catapults, even were it not noticed amongst the distant tents. I heard steel sound, too, to my right, and then farther to my right.

  I then began to count, aloud, to eighty Ihn.

  My four archers drew, and ignited, from the flaming wicks of unshuttered dark lanterns, one by one, five arrows, each tufted with oil-soaked, shredded cloth, which fiery missiles they launched toward the distant tents. Meanwhile my last two fellows drenched the catapult and its cordage with tharlarion oil, following which they wound back the casting basket and, once it was secured, cut it to pieces.

  “Seventy-eight Ihn,” I counted, “seventy-nine Ihn, eighty Ihn.” Then I said, “Set fire to the catapult.” I could already see, far to my right, that the third catapult was afire. “Hurry,” I thought to myself, “hurry, Thurnock, get it done.” Then I said to my men, “Back to the ditch, back to the tunnel, back to Mytilene!”

  I moved away from the catapult at hand, as it seemed, foot by foot, to be painted with fire.

  The area about was illuminated. I could hear men crying out near the mercenary camp. Four tents there were already, visibly, afire.

  “Go!” I ordered my men, for it seemed they were reluctant to leave without me.

  I was about to turn, and make my way to the second catapult, that which had been assigned to Thurnock, when I saw it spring, almost in an instant, into flame.

  “Well done, mighty fellow,” I thought. Clitus, I supposed, must be at the ditch by now.

  “Go!” I ordered my men again, angrily.

  They then hurried away.

  Three catapults were burning.

  I looked up.

  The Yellow Moon was now well in the sky.

  In the distance, now, several tents were afire. Silhouetted against the light I could make out numbers of small figures rushing about, striking tents, carrying water.

  Mercenaries, it seemed, as I had expected, were more interested in preserving their goods than in rushing off, possibly at the risk of their lives, to investigate what might be amiss with
ponderous siege equipment.

  I stood, for a time, looking back across the field, at the many burning tents.

  I hoped my stratagem would prove fruitful, that of bringing about a scaling attack on Mytilene, which presumably would be unsuccessful and inflict heavy losses on the enemy, losses which mercenaries would be unlikely to accept with equanimity. Their leadership’s recourse to siege engines, that walls might be demolished, and mining, that the town might be taken from within, both suggested that scaling, which in many cases, at least where larger numbers were involved, would have been a commander’s first choice, was here an undesired alternative, something more in the nature of a last resort. Yet, assuming the unwillingness of the enemy’s leadership to maintain a lengthy siege, it seemed he would have little choice now but to order a scaling attack, despite the risks involved. Certainly he would not wish to lose time and expend resources indefinitely at Mytilene when his efforts might be more lucratively applied elsewhere. It had doubtless been his hope to take the town by surprise and sack it within two or three days at most, which hope, one notes, had been disappointed.

  I then turned about and made my way back to the ditch and tunnel, to return to Mytilene.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Attacks Diminish; Unrest in the Enemy Camp; The Most Dangerous Enemy

  I, with two others, with the long, stout forked stick, caught an upright of the ladder and thrust it back, several feet, where it wavered, and then tipped backward, and men, crying out, leapt free or fell backward.

  When an attacker climbs a ladder, he is, in a sense, not only precariously vulnerable, with narrow footing, clinging to the ladder, and managing a weapon, or shield, but alone. If the wall were high, there might be fifteen or twenty men behind him on the ladder, but he would still be alone, at the top of the ladder. The first man on the ladder is always alone. The walls of Mytilene, a town on Chios, were far from the high, thick walls of an Ar or Turia, but the dangers and principles of this form of warfare were quite similar. The defenders not only have height and can strike both downward and horizontally, and are protected by the wall, but they can fight side by side. The climber may be frustrated by one defender alone, but, commonly, will encounter two or three. In this way, a single defender, or two or three, is a match for as many as the besiegers can place on a single ladder. It is similar to defending a bridge or narrow pass, in which a single man, or a handful of men, may slow or stop the advance of far greater numbers, save that the defender of the wall has the additional advantage of, so to speak, a higher ground. Walls reduce the advantage of numbers. Let us suppose the besiegers outnumber the defenders ten to one. Let us suppose the besiegers have ten men on each of ten ladders. At the top of the ladder, one attacker, at a considerable disadvantage, given his position, might encounter, say, one defender. In this way, one attacker, at one time, would meet one defender, with the attacker, given his position, at a serious disadvantage. Thus, the advantages of what might prove to be overwhelming numbers in the field are likely to be nullified at the wall. Indeed, if one had two defenders to one attacker hoping to scale the wall, at one time, the defenders would at that point, the point of military interest, outnumber the attackers two to one. These simple facts were lost on no one, particularly mercenaries. It is no wonder that towns and cities are seldom overcome, save by treachery, subornation, or subterfuge.

  The trident of Clitus darted forth, one prong entering a throat. His target, arterial blood bursting forth, tried to hold to the ladder, but, a moment later, lost its grip, and fell, forcing two others, looking up, then half blinded with blood, from the ladder.

  Arrows, too, might be fired, largely with impunity, given the crenellations of the parapet, picking targets as they might present themselves, often mercenaries trying to advance ladders to the walls. In this way many ladders never reached the walls, sometimes because enough of their bearers were killed or wounded, or, more often, because many men, after a time, declined to bear the ladders forward. Twice, from the wall, we saw a mercenary slain by an officer, presumably in connection with some such reluctance or noncompliance, and twice we saw the officer die; in one case, men gathered about him, closer and closer, despite his protests, and, later, when the men dispersed, the officer’s bloodied body lay behind, crumpled and inert; in the other case, the officer was simply cut down from behind by one man, while others looked on.

  Far to the right I heard a wild, eerie scream where a large bucket of flaming pitch, by means of its socketed rods, was tipped over the parapet.

  Near me, Thurnock fitted another arrow to his string.

  “The wall holds,” I said.

  “It is like shooting penned verr,” he said.

  “Yet,” I said, “I would have more skilled archers, such as you and your caste brother and friend, Aktis.”

  “He is not here,” said Thurnock.

  “Do not think ill of him,” I said. “His Home Stone is not that of Mytilene.”

  “Nor is yours or mine,” said Thurnock.

  I was silent.

  “He fled,” said Thurnock.

  “‘Withdrew’,” I suggested.

  A citizen passed us on the narrow parapet, carrying a basket filled with chips of wood, minor kindling, fuel for braziers set intermittently along the parapet, from which protruded the handles of irons. These irons, red-hot, were used in repulsing attackers. These irons, more commonly used for driving animals and criminals onto the sands of arenas in large cities, such as Ar, were formidable defensive weapons, thrust into the faces, eyes, and bodies of men trying to climb over the wall onto the parapet. These devices, together with war torches, torches mounted in the sockets of thrusting poles, proved their worth in battle. War torches, for example, last night, not only engaged climbers but illuminated targets. Too, the sight of war torches and irons, particularly at night, the torches blazing and the irons bristling with heat, glowing in the darkness, have little difficulty in convincing an enemy of possible dangers likely to attend his proposed assault, the memories of which will persist later, indefinitely, even in daylight. Fear of a weapon, as it is said, sharpens its edge.

  “Attention subsides,” said Thurnock.

  “For a time,” I said. “Waves come and waves go.”

  “I think the tide is going out,” said Thurnock.

  “It may return,” I said.

  “Were it water, yes,” said Thurnock, “as blood, I think not.”

  “I expect one last attack,” I said.

  “I do not think it will be whole-hearted,” said Thurnock. “Men will kill for gold, but few will die for it.”

  “Recall the meeting before the tents,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Thurnock.

  I suspect that the ruses of ‘pretended traitors’ and ‘seeming weaknesses’ had done much to dishearten the mercenaries. Doubtless an account of such episodes had reached even to the command tents of the enemy, and even to the command cabins of the corsair fleet. As most mercenaries fight for loot and pay, their allegiance is likely to be less to the cause of their lord than to his purse. Similarly, they prefer to enter a town or city, whenever possible, by means of a surreptitiously opened gate or a deliberately abandoned parapet than by a storming of stoutly defended walls and a fighting of their way across ditches filled with their fallen fellows. Such things being the case, and their conviction, at least initially, that they were dealing with foes which need not be taken seriously, not formidable foes, but only with unprepared and naive townsfolk, led them to make mistakes which they would be unlikely to have committed at the walls and gates of cities. A supposed defender casts messages down from the wall at night, offering treason for sale, willing to arrange the opening of a gate, if a dangling basket will be filled with gold. The gold is provided and the gate, as anticipated, is opened but, as was not made clear in the arrangement, is swiftly closed, as well, trapping intruders within. Those who buy treason may no
t understand the treason they have purchased, treason to the defenders or treason to the attackers. Similarly, it is not always wise to avail oneself of ladders of rope surreptitiously lowered from walls. Such conveniences may not be the gift of traitors. A parapet flooring at that point may be contrived to collapse, dropping visitors to the rubble below where townsfolk are waiting with their clubs and axes. Too, the enemy soon became wary of ‘seeming weaknesses’ as too often, in such locations, defenders proved to be the most numerous and best prepared. As a consequence of such lethal hoaxes the enemy’s audacity was soon diminished, with the result that he sometimes failed to exploit opportunities that might have been much to his advantage. One must number, as is well known, deceit and misinformation amongst the tools of war.

  “Behold,” said Thurnock, “Thrasymedes approaches.”

  “Tal,” said Thrasymedes, in a work tunic, his double-bladed ax slung across his back.

  “Tal,” we responded.

  “Do not stand quietly before the crenellation,” said Thurnock. “Quarrels carry easily from the first ditch.”

  Thrasymedes stepped back from the opening.

  At the edge of the opening was a short, diagonal gouge in the stone, bright and stark against the otherwise well-weathered surface.

  “How stands Mytilene?” I asked.

  “We must ration supplies more closely,” said Thrasymedes. “How holds the wall?”

  “Attacks grow infrequent,” said Thurnock. “I fear the enemy grows weary of dying.”

  “I expect one last attack,” I said.

  “Why just one last attack?” asked Thrasymedes.

  “This morning, in the Builder’s Glass,” I said, “we saw a large number of mercenaries congregated about the high tents in the distance. The large number suggests unrest.”

  “It is a delegation, of sorts?” asked Thrasymedes.

  “If so,” I said, “in no normal sense. It does not appear organized; it seems no small, appointed group conveying an entreaty or petition to leaders, at least to those on shore, but something more spontaneous and popular in nature.”

  “Mutiny?” asked Thrasymedes.