by John Norman
“There is danger here,” he said.
“It is quiet,” I said.
“The enemy is near,” said Tajima. “I heard their cries. I tried to rise, to extinguish the fire, but I could not do so. I was weak. I lost consciousness. I do not know how long I was unconscious, perhaps a few Ehn, perhaps an Ahn. Then you were here.”
“You fear the enemy is about?” I said.
“They were approaching,” he said. “I do not know how long I was unconscious. They are near. I heard their shouts. They will examine each gorge and crevice. In moments they may be upon us.”
“We shall leave together,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Tajima is done.”
“No,” I said.
“Save yourself,” he said.
“I fear to move you,” I said, “but we cannot remain here.”
“Leave me,” he begged.
“No,” I said.
“It is snowing,” he said.
“It has begun again,” I said.
“It is beautiful,” he said.
“Your senses wander,” I said.
“Surely you see how beautiful it is,” he said.
“Beautiful, and fearful,” I said. On foot it would be dangerous to move, for the tracks.
I sensed he was in pain. I trusted no wound had opened. But the blood on the jacket remained dry, caked, and cold.
“How goes the war?” he asked.
“Do not concern yourself,” I said.
“But I would know, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said.
“Poorly,” I said. “The holding is invested, even the wharves are closed. There is little to eat. Lord Yamada is patient. He is like a sleen waiting for a larl to die. In the courtyard an urt brought a silver tarsk.”
“What of Lords Nishida and Okimoto?” he asked.
“Both live,” I said. “Lord Nishida ponders war, and Lord Okimoto, I fear, the ritual knife.”
“He is truly noble,” said Tajima.
“Doubtless,” I said. “He is fat, as well.”
“He is a daimyo,” said Tajima, reproachfully.
“A fat daimyo,” I said.
“Defeat is dishonor,” said Tajima.
“Not if one has fought well,” I said.
“Defeat is dishonor,” he said.
“Much depends on the defeat,” I said. “The leaf torn from the tree suffers no dishonor, nor the grass crushed beneath a passing boot.”
“The calligraphy of Lord Okimoto is exquisite,” said Tajima.
“Excellent,” I said. “He is still fat.”
“How fare others?” he asked.
“Well enough,” I said, “Torgus, Lysander, Pertinax live.”
“What of Nodachi, swordsman?” asked Tajima.
“His whereabouts are unknown,” I said. “He disappeared from the holding, days ago.”
Tajima leaned back against the rock. I sensed, again, he was in pain. I was alarmed. Then it seemed the pain had passed.
“Go,” he said. “Save yourself.”
“We leave together,” I said. But I did fear to move him. I feared he might die if I should lift him, or die in the pommel straps, if I could manage to get him to them. The fire of life within him did not seem to me that much different from the small, pathetic signal fire, that tiny beacon, now dying, which he had set in the darkness.
He looked up at me.
“You wish to speak,” I said, “but hesitate?”
“No,” he said.
“Speak,” I said.
“—How fares Sumomo?” he asked.
“Why should you care, what does it matter?” I asked.
“I would know, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said.
Sumomo was one of the two contract women whose contracts were held by Lord Nishida. The other was Hana. I knew that Tajima was much interested in buying the contract of Sumomo, but it was not within his means. Sumomo, like Hana, who was somewhat older, was quite beautiful. On the other hand, I personally found her unpleasant and arrogant. She treated Tajima with contempt, even failing to bow to him, despite the differences in their sexes. Amongst the Pani even an older sister will bow first to a younger brother. Tajima was an intelligent, strong, agile, fine young man. For his age he was an excellent swordsman, and was skilled, generally, in the martial arts of the Pani. He was loyal to the cavalry, to his shogun, Lord Temmu, and to his daimyo, Lord Nishida. That he should be taken with the haughty Sumomo, contract woman of a daimyo, who seemingly despised him, and surely treated him with contempt, seemed anomalous. I had never seen Sumomo other than in her decorous robes but I suspected that, properly exhibited, she would fetch a good price in a typical market on the continent, say, in Brundisium, Port Kar, Ko-ro-ba, Ar, or such. The Pani keep slaves, but the cultural status of the contract woman is superior to that of the slave, and considerably inferior, naturally, to that of the free woman. On continental Gor there is no status equivalent to that of the contract woman. All women on continental Gor, and, in the familiar islands, as well, are either slave or free. There is a considerable difference, of course, between being the slave of a peasant, peddler, or herdsman and that of a high merchant or Ubar, but both are identically slaves. In the collar all women are equal, and nothing, mere slaves, though the collars of some may be set with diamonds.
“I know little of her now,” I said, “or of the slaves. They are kept indoors. There is the occasional danger of engine-sprung stones, of descending arrows. I would suppose that she is as lovely and disagreeable as ever.”
“How beautiful she is,” he said.
Yes, I thought, like a silken urt, and perhaps half as trustworthy. I suspected she had ambitions which well exceeded the clauses of her contract. Her treatment of Tajima had never failed to rankle me. Did she not know she was a contract woman, as barterable in her way as a slave, and he a free man, and warrior? “We must to the tarn,” I said.
“The blade, the blade,” he said.
It was the shorter blade, the companion blade. The warriors of the Pani are seldom far from this tool. The field sword may be kept in its rack, in the hall, but the companion blade is commonly at hand. The Pani warrior often sleeps with it so.
I tied the tasseled hilt of the sword, which was unsheathed, about his right wrist. I did not doubt but what it had tasted blood in the engagement.
I reached behind his back, and placed my other hand behind his knees and lifted him.
I had taken but one step toward the tarn when it lowered its head, the feathers of the neck and crest spreading like a crackling war fan, this considerably enlarging an image which was formidable enough in its natural state, and glared into the dimness beyond the fire.
“Hold!” I heard.
I remained still, Tajima in my arms.
“Control the monster,” said the voice, “or a dozen arrows will slay the beast at my mere word.”
“Steady,” I said to the bird, restless, belligerent, at my side. “Steady, steady.”
“I see you are wise,” said the voice.
I saw but one foe, helmeted, with a field sword grasped in two hands, across the tiny fire. I supposed there must be others behind him, but I could not see them. He had spoken of a dozen arrows. Then I supposed there might be a dozen bowmen, and perhaps others, as well. But I could not see them.
“Hail Yamada, Shogun of the Islands,” said the voice.
I saw no reason to respond.
“Do you speak Gorean?” asked the voice, uncertainly.
“Yes,” I said.
“You are not Pani,” said the voice.
“No,” I said.
“You are a hired sword, a mercenary,” it said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Hired beasts,” he said, “sellers of swords to the highest bidder.”
“Steady,” I said to the bird, “steady.”
“We killed many such monsters,” it said, indicating the tarn with the point of the sword.
“It is hard to kill a tarn,” I said. “I suspect those k
illed sold their lives well. Too, it is my understanding that many escaped, and many returned to the wild.”
“We have followed the carrion in your arms for days,” said the voice. “Now we have caught him.”
“Step toward the fire,” I said.
He was a large man, with a wide-brimmed, metal-winged helmet. He wore gloves and a heavy jacket.
I thought the jacket might encumber his sport with the blade, but if he had ten men, or so, behind him, I supposed it would not make much difference. I had Tajima in my arms, who, as far as I knew, might have lapsed again into unconsciousness. The body was warm, however, and I could sense its breathing. Too, of course, my own blade, the gladius, was sheathed. The sheath was at my left hip, and the sheath strap ran across my body from my right shoulder to the left hip. That is common on tarnback, and when an engagement is not imminent.
“How many men do you have?” I asked.
“Twelve,” he said.
“Then you have little to fear,” I said.
“And you have much,” he said.
I could not see any men behind him. Still, there was much darkness.
“You are brave with twelve men behind you,” I said.
“If there were none, I am brave,” he said, angrily.
“Let us see,” I said. “Let me put my friend, who is ill and weak, and cannot stand, on the ground, and draw my sword. Then let us do contest here, in the falling snow. If I win, I and my friend are free to go. If I lose, you have our lives, and your honor, and have proved to your men your bravery. Do you accept my challenge?”
“I am not a fool,” he said.
“I lower my friend to the ground, gently,” I said.
“He is dead,” said the man, warily.
“I do not think so,” I said. “He may be unconscious.”
I lowered the limp body of Tajima to the snow. I think he was conscious, but unable to move.
“He is the last of the fugitives,” said the man. “His will be the last head we will gather. The others are all dead. It has taken time, but now we have the last of them.”
“Do you accept my challenge?” I asked.
“Do not unsheathe your sword,” he said, quickly.
“Why not?” I asked.
“You are a mercenary,” he said. “Things have become other than they were. Be wise. Change your banner.”
My hand went to the hilt of my blade.
“Think,” said the man. “Do not draw your sword! You can manage the winged monster! Lord Yamada can use men such as you. Gold, women, a command, will be yours!”
“I have placed the challenge,” I said. “Is it accepted?”
“Do not draw your sword!” he said.
Slowly, very slowly, I drew the blade.
“Is it accepted?” I asked.
“I have twelve men behind me,” he said.
“I see none,” I said.
“You are clever,” he said. “You would have me turn my head, and then you would rush upon me with that little sword.”
“It is a fast little thing,” I said, “rather like the companion sword.”
“Kill him!” he cried, suddenly. “Kill him, now, now!”
“I see no one behind you,” I said.
“What are you waiting for?” he cried, hysterically, half turning his head. “Kill him! Kill him!”
Then he spun about, cried out once, and then, in his heavy snow boots, plunged into the darkness, and, a moment later, I heard a cry, half of fear, half of misery, which was cut short.
A moment later a short, squat figure emerged from the darkness.
“Nodachi!” I said.
“Master!” said Tajima.
I turned about.
Somehow Tajima had staggered to his feet, that he might meet his teacher while standing, his blade in his hand. He then wavered. I caught him, as he collapsed.
“He is unconscious,” I said.
“Build up the fire,” said Nodachi. “I have rice. We will boil it in a helmet. When Tajima, tarnsman, has revived, and fed, you must convey him to safety.”
“It will be dangerous to build up the fire,” I said.
“Not now,” said Nodachi, gathering sticks.
“How did you find us?” I asked.
“I found others,” said Nodachi. “I then let them find you. I followed.”
“There were twelve men, and an officer,” I said.
“Paths were narrow, and the night was dark,” he said.
“One by one,” I said.
“Hunters,” he said, “did not know themselves hunted.”
“I take it you will gather heads,” I said. It is commonly done, that they may be presented to a daimyo, or shogun. Land, position, and authority may be attendant upon the presentation of such trophies.
“No,” he said.
“Not even that of the officer?” I asked.
“I found it unworthy,” he said.
“You have risked much coming here,” I said.
He did not respond.
“How is it that you came alone into the mountains?” I said.
“I sought Tajima, tarnsman,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
The snow continued to fall, softly.
“He is my student,” he said.
Chapter Five
Report of a Brief Conversation;
This Took Place in the New Encampment
I blocked the swift, lashing, whiplike blow of the supple bamboo.
Se’Var had passed, and it was now the second day of the tenth passage hand.
“That was quick,” I said to Tajima, “but you are still weak.”
Twice more I blocked the blows of the lashing, cord-wound bamboo. “Enough, enough!” I said. “You must rest.”
“I am recovered, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Tajima, anxiously.
“You are not,” I said.
“I am ready once more for the reins of the tarn,” he said.
“The tarn may not think so,” I said.
“I do not understand,” he said.
“It is nothing,” I said. Even the kaiila can sense trepidation, or hesitation, when it is approached, and may shy about, distressing, even resisting, a rider. The tarn, a dangerous beast, half domesticated at best, can be even more skittish or dangerous. It is one thing to train a tarn to accept an unfamiliar rider and another to reduce its predatory instincts, which are often elicited by an appearance of fear, uncertainty, or weakness. What if Tajima might be unsteady, or falter? What if his foot should slip at the stirrup? What if his hands were not sure on the reins?
“I am ready, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“Now, Commander,” he said.
“Be patient,” I said. “You may soon return to your post of spy for Lord Nishida, monitoring the whereabouts and behaviors of Tarl Cabot.”
“I have my office,” he said.
“I do not object,” I assured him. “Indeed, I may soon give you interesting things to report.”
“But if I may not ascend the tarn?” he said.
“True,” I said. “It would then be difficult to report.”
“I have learned,” he said, “here in the camp, from those in communication with the holding, Pertinax and others, that suspicions have fallen upon you, that you are suspected of treachery.”
“Or worse,” I acknowledged. “My own suspicions,” I said, “fall on Lord Okimoto.”
“But he has an exquisite hand,” said Tajima. “Have you not seen his calligraphy?”
“Even so,” I said.
“He is a daimyo,” said Tajima. “One might as well suspect Lord Nishida.”
“I do not think so,” I said.
“There could be treachery in many places,” said Tajima, “in the holding, in the fields, on the roads, here in the camp.”
“Next you will be thinking of the cooks and smiths, the readers of bones and shells,” I said.
“It is in high places,”
he said.
“It must be,” I said.
“You are in such a place, Tarl Cabot san,” he said.
“That is true, Tajima san,” I said.
“Many suspect you,” he said.
“And I suspect many,” I said.
“What am I to do?” he asked.
“Recover your strength,” I said.
Chapter Six
The Dais
“I bring you words of conciliation, of forgiveness, and joy from your lord, Lord Yamada, Shogun of the Islands,” said Tyrtaios.
It was now in the holding of Lord Temmu.
“Put aside your doomed rebellion, and attend to the words of your lord,” said Tyrtaios.
Several were about, sitting, cross-legged, on the deep, broad dais, of smooth, shining, lacquered wood. Tyrtaios stood on the dais, rather before us, as he addressed us. With him, behind him, and about, not on the dais, were some officers and several Ashigaru of Lord Yamada. In the center of the dais, rather toward the back, like a large, patient stone, sat Lord Temmu. I had not seen him since the meeting at which the site of the new encampment had been specified, a specification which I had ignored. I had little doubt that some on the dais, or about, other than those of my command, realized the camp was not at the assigned site. Perhaps they had sought to arrange an attack there, hoping to duplicate the attack, so fearsomely successful, on the first encampment. On the other hand, if they were to draw this to the attention of Lord Temmu, or Lords Nishida and Okimoto, that the new camp was situated other than in its prescribed location, it would be natural to inquire how they had obtained this information, as the specified location was supposedly secret. How had they come to know that the designated site was not occupied? What would have prompted their curiosity? What would have been their motivation in conducting such an inquiry?
It was my understanding that, better than two years ago, the forces of Lord Yamada had encroached upon, and intruded into, the regions commonly controlled by Lord Temmu. A defensive war had ensued in which the forces of Lord Temmu, considerably outnumbered and, I fear, poorly generaled, had fared badly. Eventually the primary remnants of the land forces of Lord Temmu, those separated from the holding, to which portions had retreated, cut off and undersupplied, had been driven to the very shore of Thassa. They had prepared themselves for what portended to be their last battle. The eve was dark. But when the soldiers of Lord Yamada, with the first light, with fixed banners and brandished glaives, crying out, swarmed to the shore, they found the beach empty. In this I detected the work of Priest-Kings, and a wager, perhaps for the stakes of a world’s surface, with Kurii. I knew little of what was occurring, but suspected there were battles behind battles. I suspected the surface of Gor lay at issue. It was a speculation that Priest-Kings and Kurii, weary of skirmishes, of indecision, of stalemates, of continual intrusions and probes, had proposed, if not agreed upon, a game of men, a drawing of cards or a casting of dice, on the outcome of which depended a coveted prize, the surface of a world. I feared the outcome of this dire contest was slated to take place far from known Gor, indeed, at the “World’s End,” between two Pani contingents. I suspected the armaments involved were to be primitive, neither technologically nor industrially advanced. One supposed both the sophisticated weaponry of Kurii and the engines of Priest-Kings were to be abjured. But then, might they not as well have wagered on a game of kaissa or tharlarion racing at Venna? What were the parameters of this game, if game it was? Could a number of Pani warriors, brought to continental Gor, somehow find their way back to the embattled homeland? Perhaps, if the unprecedented voyage could be accomplished. But for that one would need a ship, a large, unusual ship, perhaps a ship such as that of Tersites. Might they not, too, perhaps by the recruitment of mercenaries, assuming the requisite voyage could be made, manage to achieve a military balance with the numerically larger forces of Lord Yamada? Perhaps, particularly if a new arm were incorporated into their arsenal, an unprecedented arm, unprecedented for the World’s End, perhaps that of the trained war tarn. Much of this, of course, was speculative on my part, but there seemed an alarming plausibility in these untoward speculations. But, I thought, if there should be something to this, that a strange, invisible game was afoot, it seemed unlikely to me that it would be a game fairly played, a game innocently played. Too much was at stake. Well was I aware of the subtlety and deviousness of Priest-Kings, well was I aware of the determination and cunning of Kurii. I doubted that either might trust the other. Would the cards not be marked, the dice weighted? Might a hand not surreptitiously move a piece, or insert another? And who is to say on what tiny matters, a sedative pellet scarcely visible, a sliver of iron in the foot, might hang the performance of even the mighty tharlarion? Too, to my dismay, I knew not which pieces were backed by which players. Then I dismissed these arrant conjectures. How absurd to suspect that wars lurked behind wars. The tree, the rock, the sharpened blade are themselves. The motivations of Lord Yamada, greed and ambition, power and wealth, were clear enough, and familiar enough, as were the responses of Lord Temmu, who was, perhaps, not really so different from Lord Yamada himself. Content yourself with the visible. It can be felt; it can bleed. Put aside fruitless, paranoid aberrations.
