“Do you wish to fight me to the death?” I asked him.
“No! No, Master!” he said.
I then crossed and tied his hands together before his body, and ran a tether
from his hands to the pommel of my saddle.
I could bear the drums of war.
“For whom do you ride?” challenged the man.
“I ride with the Kavars,” I told him. I moved the kaiila to the crest of the
hill.
It was a splendid sight.
In the field below, or the plain, there might have been some ten thousand
riders. They were stretched out for pasangs, several deep. I could hear the
drums. I saw the pennons, the standards. They were separated by some four
hundred yards. Lances bristled in the ranks. Behind each of the arrangements of
lines were hundreds of tents, striped in different colors.
My kaiila shifted on the crest of the hill. The blood of the warrior in me
raced.
“Are you Kavar, come late to the formations?” asked the man.
“No,” I said.
“Of what vassal tribe are you?” asked the man.
“Of no vassal tribe,” I said. “But it is with the Kavars that I choose to ride.”
“Welcome,” said the man, delightedly, lifting his lance. The others, too, behind
him, lifted their lances. “It should be a magnificent battle,” said the man.
I stood in the stirrups. I could see the Kavar center, white. On the left flank
were the pennons of the Ta`Kara and the purple of the Bakahs. On the right flank
were the golden Char and the diverse reds and bright yellows of the Kashani.
“By what name are you known?” asked the man.
“Hakim of Tor,” I said.
“Will you ride to battle leading pack kaiila?” asked the man.
“I think not,” I said. “I give them to you.”
The man gestured and one of those with him led away the kaiila, making a great
circuit that would lead him behind the Kavar lines, to the tents. There were
hundreds of pack kaiila in evidence among the tents.
“Who is this?” asked the man, pointing to the wretch tethered at my pommel.
I addressed myself to the wretch. “Do you wish to fight me to the death?” I
asked.
He put down his head. “No, Master,” he said.
“He is a slave,” I said to the man. “I have no further use for him. I give him
to you.”
“We can use him,” said the man. “Such are useful in hoeing vegetables at remote
oases.”
I threw the wretch’s tether to one of the riders, one indicated by the man with
whom I spoke.
“Come, Slave,” said the rider, he who now held the tether.
“Yes, Master!” said the man. Only too pleased was he that his tether no longer
was looped about my pommel. The rider moved his kaiila away. He did not spare
the wretch, who struggled to keep his pace. Behind the Kavar lines, among the
tents, with the kaiila and other goods, the man would be chained, to await his
disposition among masters.
To my right were the lines of the Aretai. The Aretai themselves, of course, with
black kaffiyeh and white agal cording, held their center. Their right flank was
held by the Luraz and the Tashid. Their left flank was held by the Raviri, and
four minor tribes, the Ti, the Zevar, the Arani and the Tajuks. The Tajuks are
not actually a vassal tribe of the Aretai, though they ride with them. More than
two hundred years ago a wandering Tajuk had been rescued in the desert by Aretai
riders, who had treated him well, and had given him water and a kaiila. The man
had found his way back to his own tents. Since that time the Tajuks had,
whenever they heard the Aretai were gathering, and summoning tribes, come to
ride with them. They had never been summoned by the Aretai, who had no right to
do this, but they had never failed to come. Usually an Aretai merchant, selling
small goods, would visit the tents of the Khan of the Tajuks, the black kaffiyeh
and white agal cording guaranteeing him safe passage, and, at the campfire of
the Khan, after his trading, while drinking tea, would say, “I have heard that
the Aretai gathering for war.”
“At what place,” would inquire the Tajuk Khan, as had his father, and his father
before him.
The Khan would then be told the place.
“We will be there,” the Khan would then say.
I could see that there was trouble on the left flank of the Aretai. The Tajuk
riders were forcing their way to the front of the lines, between the Zevar and
the Arani. Tajuks were accustomed to this position. They had held the front
lines of the Aretai left flank for two hundred years. The left flank,
incidentally, is the critical flank in this form of warfare. The reason for this
is interesting and simple. The primary engagement weapons are lance and
scimitar, and the primary defense is a small round buckler. There is a tendency,
after the lines are engaged for each force to drift to its right. In a Gorean
engagement on foot, incidentally, assuming uniform lines, this drift is almost
inevitable, because each man, in fighting, tends to shelter himself partially,
as he can, behind the shield of the man on his right. This causes the infantry
lines to drift. A result of this is that it is common for each left flank to be
outflanked by the opponent’s right flank. There are various ways to counter
this. One might deepen ranks in the left flank, if one has the men to do this.
One might use tharlarion on the left flank. One might, if one has the men, use
clouds of archers and slingers to hold back the enemy. One might choose his
terrain in such a way as to impede the advancement of the enemy’s right flank.
One might abandon uniform lines, etc. This drift is much less pronounced, but
still exists, in cavalry engagements. It probably has to do with the tendency of
the fighters to move the buckler to the right, in shielding themselves. These
considerations, of course, presuppose that some semblance of lines is
maintained. This is much more difficult to do in a cavalry engagement than in a
foot engagement. Tahari battles, at some time or another, almost always, the
forces deeply interpenetrating one another, turn into a melee of individual
combats. The left flank of the Aretai, in two hundred years, it was said, had
not been tamed. It had been held by the fierce Tajuks, a culturally united but
mixed-race people, many of whom were characterized by the epicanthic fold. Now,
I gathered, the Zevar and Arani had prevailed upon the Aretai command to defend
the front lines of the left flank, or perhaps the Tajuks had merely come late,
to discover their position occupied by others. There was not good feeling
between the Tajuks and the Zevar and Arani. “They are not even vassal to the
Aretai,” it had been charged. “Yet they are given prominence in the left flank!”
I could see a small group of riders hurrying from the Aretai center to their
left flank.
It would scarcely do for the Tajuks and the Zevar and Arani to begin fighting
among themselves. I realized, however, as must have the hurrying riders, that
this was not at all impossible. The Tajuks had come for a war; at a word from
their Khan they would, without a second thought, with good chee
r, initiate this
enterprise against the Zevar and Arani tribesmen. The Tajuks were a touchy
people, arrogant, proud, generous, capricious. If offended, and not deeming it
honorable to attack the allies of the Aretai, they might simply withdraw their
forces and return to their own land, more than a thousand pasangs away. It was
not impossible, in order to demonstrate their displeasure, that they would
choose to go over to the Kavar side, assuming that they would be given
prominence in the Kavar left flank. I respected the Tajuks, but I, like most
others, did not profess to understand them.
One of the riders going to the left flank from the Aretai center was tied in his
saddle. His body was stiff from pain. I recognized him. I was pleased. I saw
that Suleiman, Pasha of Nine Wells, master of a thousand lances, lived. Rising
from his couch, his wound, inflicted by Hamid, the would-be assassin not yet
healed, he had taken saddle. Beside him, held in the hand of Shakar, captain of
the Aretai, was a tall lance, surmounted by the pennon of command.
Before the Kavar center I saw another figure, robed in white, bearded. Near him
a rider held the Kavar pennon of command. Another held the pennon of the,
vizier, That man, I knew, must be Baram, a not uncommon name in the Tahari,
Sheik of Bezhad, vizier to Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars. Nowhere did I see
the pennon of the high pasha himself. I did not know even if there were such a
man.
About my neck, on a leather string, I wore the ring of the Kur, it containing
the light-diversion device. I fingered the ring, looking down on the lines.
There was still much disturbance on the left flank of the Aretai, hundreds of
riders angrily Milling about, Tajuks with Zevar and Arani mixed in. Suleiman,
with his immediate retinue, was with them, doubtless expostulating.
I saw motion among the ranks of the Kavars and their vassal tribes. I heard the
drums change their beat; I saw the lines of riders ordering themselves; I saw
pennons, the pennons of preparation, lifted; I assumed that when they lowered
the pennons of the charge would be lifted on their lances, and then that the
lances would drop, and with them the lance of every rider in the Kavar host and
that, drums rolling, the lines would then, in sweeping, almost regular
parallels, charge.
It seemed a not inopportune time for Baram to commit his forces.
Thanks to the Tajuks, Suleiman was not in the center, and thanks, too, to them,
the Aretai left flank, instead of being ready for action, swarmed and broiled
like the Crowds in a bazaar.
I saw Baram, vizier to Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars, extend his arm before
his body, and then lift it. I saw the pennons of the charge, with his arm,
raised.
Suleiman, in the midst of the Tajuks, and Zevar and Arani, turned, stricken.
But the arm of Baram, the vizier, did not strike forward, the lances with it.
Instead, suddenly, he turned in the saddle, lifting both arms, signaling to the
lines “Stop!” The lances of readiness and of the charge slipped to the stirrup
boots.
Slowly, not hurrying, between the lines, came a single rider, in swirling Kavar
white. In his right hand he held a high lance, from which fluttered a broad and
mighty pennon, scarlet and white, that of Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars.
Behind him and to the side staggered four stripped wretches, their wrists
crossed and bound, each on his own tether to the pommel of the saddle.
Baram, swiftly, with his guard, rode to meet the rider. The lines, on each side,
shifted, but did not move. Suleiman hurried to the Aretai center.
I saw the lance with its mighty pennon of the rider in white, veiled, dip and
circle, and then dip and circle again. Riders, from both sides, moved their
kaiila slowly toward the figure, their guards hanging behind them. There came to
that parley in the center of the field the pashas of the Ta’Kara and Bakahs, and
of the Char and Kashani; and, too, riding deliberately, strapped in the saddle,
there came Suleiman, high Pasha of the Aretai, with him, Shakar, captain of the
Aretai, and their guard, and, with them as well, the pashas of the Luraz, Tashid
and Raviri, with their guards. Then, I saw the pasha of the Ti, with his guard,
join them. Lastly, riding abreast, swiftly across the field, I saw the pashas of
the Zevar and the Arani, and the young khan of the Tajuks, join the group,
Behind the pashas of the Zevar and Arani, strung out behind each, in single
lines, came their guard. No one rode behind the young khan of the Tajuks. He
came alone. He disdained a guard.
I had no one to represent me but myself, and I was curious. I urged my kaiila
down the slope. I would mix in with the parleying group. I had little doubt that
each there would assume I had business there, and was legitimate party to some
group not their own.
In a few moments, crowding my kaiila in, moving with courtesy but resolution
through the guards, I found myself near the center of the parleying group, in
the line behind the pashas and the khan.
“Mighty Haroun,” said Baram, Sheik of Bezhad, “the command is yours! The Kavars
await!”
“The Bakahs, too!” cried the pasha of the Bakahs. “The Ta’Kara!” “The Char!”
“The Kashani!” Each of the pashas lifted their lances.
The veiled figure, robed in white, with the lance and pennon, nodded his head,
accepting the command of these thousands of fierce warriors.
Haroun then turned in his robes. “Greetings, Suleiman,” said he.
“Greetings, Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars,” said Suleiman.
“I heard your wound was grievous,” said Haroun to Suleiman. “Why have you taken
to the saddle?”
“Why of course to do war with you,” said Suleiman.
“On grounds, or for sport?” asked Haroun.
“On grounds,” said Suleiman, angrily. “Kavar raids on Aretai communities, the
breaking of wells!”
“Remember Red Rock!” cried a Tashid guard.
“Remember Two Scimitars!” cried a man in the retinue of the pasha of the Bakahs.
“No mercy is shown to he who destroys water!” cried a man, one of the Luraz.
Scimitars were loosened. I shifted my wind veil about my face. There were Aretai
present. They paid the little attention. I saw Shakar look once at me, and then
look troubled, then look away.
“Look!” said Haroun. He pointed to the nude, tethered wretches, bound to his
pommel. “Lift your arms, Sleen,” he said to them.
The men lifted their arms, their wrists crossed, bound, over their heads.
“See?” asked Haroun.
“Kavars!” cried one of the Raviri.
“No!” cried Suleiman. “The scimitar on the forearm! The point does not face out
from the body!” He looked at Haroun. “These men are not Kavars,” he said.
“No,” said Haroun.
“Aretai raided Kavar oases,” cried a man, a guard among the Ta`Kara. “They broke
wells!”
Suleiman’s hand clenched on the hilt of his scimitar. “No!” he cried. “That is
not true!”
There was angry shouting among the Kavars and their cohorts.
Haroun held up his hand. “Sulei
man speaks the truth,” said he. “No Aretai raided
in this season, and had they done so, they would not destroy wells. They are of
the Tahari.”
It was the highest compliment one tribesman could pay to another.
“The Kavars, too,” said Suleiman, slowly, clearly, “are of the Tahari.”
The men subsided.
“We have a common enemy, who would put us at one another’s throats,” said
Haroun.
“Who?” asked Suleiman.
Haroun turned to the tethered wretches. They lowered their arms and fell to
their knees in the gravel and sand of the field. They put down their heads.
“For whom do you ride?” demanded Haroun.
One of the men, miserable, lifted his head. “For Tarna,” he said.
“And whose minion is she?” asked Haroun.
“The minion of Abdul, the Salt Ubar,” said the man. Then he put down his head.
“I understand little of this,” said the young khan of the Tajuks. He carried a
leather, black, lacquered buckler on his left arm, a slim, black, tem-wood lance
in his right hand. At his side hung a scimitar, He wore a turban, and a
burnoose, with the hood thrown back over his shoulders. His eyes, sharp and
black, bore the epicanthic fold. At his saddle hung a conical steel helmet,
oddly fashioned with a rim of fur encircling it, bespeaking a tradition in
armory whose origin did not seem likely to be the Tahari. The young khan looked
about, from face to face. He was angry. “I have come for a war,” he said. “Is
there to be no war?”
Haroun regarded him. “You shall have your war,” he said. Haroun looked at
Suleiman. “I speak in good faith,” he said. “The Kavars, and all their vassal
tribes, are yours to command.”
“I am weak,” said Suleiman. “I am not yet recovered from my wound. Command the
Aretai, and those who ride with them.”
Haroun looked at the young Tajuk khan. “And you?” he asked.
“Do you lead me to war?” asked the Tajuk.
“Yes,” said Haroun.
“Then I will follow you,” he said. The young khan spun his kaiila about. Then he
turned again, and looked over his shoulder. “Who holds your left flank?” he
asked.
“The Tajuks.” said Haroun.
“Aiiii!” cried the young khan, rising in his stirrups, lifting big lance. Then
he sped upon his kaiila to his men.
Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt Page 41
