Guardsman of Gor coc-16

by John Norman

  “One must fight for causes,” I said.

  “Causes exist,” said Callimachus, “that men may fight.”

  “I am troubled,” I said.

  “Extinguish the lanterns,” said Callimachus to a fellow. “The pirates may still be about.”

  “Let us put down the longboat,” I said to Callimachus. “With muffled oars we may patrol our sector of the chain.”

  “Why would you do this?” he asked.

  “Our vessel, even with the lanterns extinguished, cannot approach the chain as silently as a longboat. The pirate boats, at the chain, need only draw back.”

  “The longboat,” said Callimachus, “should be west of the chain, that it may approach the pirate boats less suspiciously.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Why will you do this?” he asked.

  “Why, to defend the chain,” I said.

  “True,” smiled Callimachus.

  “You have tasted blood,” said Callimachus. “You want more.”

  “Such thoughts are too terrible to think,” I said.

  “The sword must drink until its thirst is satisfied,” said Callimachus. It was a Gorean proverb.

  “I will not think such thoughts,” I said.

  “Consult your feelings,” said Callimachus. “Do you find yourself desperately committed to this bold venture, that you may imperil your life in order to protect the chain? Are your motivations those of discharging a dangerous and unwelcome duty, one which no man has placed upon you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “What then?” he asked.

  “I have met the enemy,” I said “I am eager to meet him again.”

  “I thought so,” said Callimachus. “I will put the longboat down. I shall call for volunteers.”

  ***

  “Who is there?” called a voice, in the darkness.

  We rested the oars in the oarlocks.

  “Ready,” I said to the men with me, softly. We approached the chain from the west. The longboat had been put down across the chain, the Tina abeam of it, a quarter of an Ahn ago. We had actually passed within a few yards of pirate vessels, anchored in the river.

  “Who is there?” called the voice.

  “Now!” I said. Five men, behind the gunnels, suddenly rose up, bows in hand. The arrows were discharged at almost point-blank range into the other boat, as we struck against it. I heard men scream, tools cast down. I, and five others, swords drawn, boarded the other craft, hacking and slashing about us. We did not speak. The cries, the screams, were those of the pirates. More than one saved himself by leaping into the water. I thrust the body of another over a thwart, and then rolled it, sprawling, over the gunnel into the water.

  “What is going on out there?” called a voice, from one of the pirate vessels, back from the chain.

  We struck down with an oar, driving back a man trying to reach into the boat.

  “What is going on out there?” called the voice again, as we slipped away.

  ***

  “Be off! Be off!” cried a voice, frightened, in the darkness.

  “Back oars,” I said. Then I said, “Steady.”

  The longboat rested on the waters, rocking in the darkness, silent.

  “We know you are out there!” cried a fellow in the darkness, near the chain. “We are armed! Approach at your own risk! Identify yourselves!”

  I smiled, discerning his fear. I gave no orders.

  “Identify yourselves!” called the voice.

  We were silent.

  I saw no point in attacking. The element of surprise was no longer with us. We had taken three longboats in the night. That there was danger at the chain was now well understood by the pirates. They had thought to work with impunity, and had found that we had not chosen to permit it.

  We were silent.

  “Return to the ship,” said the voice in the darkness. “Return to the ship!”

  We let the longboat move past us, some yards to starboard, judging by the sound of the oars.

  I then had the longboat move to the chain, where I felt the links. In one of the great links I could feel a concave roughness which then gave way, as the tool had bit in, to a sharp, geometrically precise crevice, too small to feel inside. I felt about the link, to the limits, on both sides of the link, of the crevice. It was diagonal, and, at its deepest point, toward the link’s center, about an inch in depth.

  “What is it?” asked one of the men with me, an oarsman, behind me and to the right.

  “They must have been working here about a quarter of an Ahn,” I said.

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “The chain has been weakened,” I said.

  “What shall we do?” he asked.

  “We shall continue to patrol the chain,” I said.

  ***

  “Did you hear it?” asked one of the men with me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “A fish?” asked one of the men.

  “Divers, I think,” I said.

  “What are you doing?” asked one of the men.

  “Return for me in five Ehn,” I said.

  I put aside my weapon, in its sheath, in the bottom of the longboat. I removed my sandals and tunic.

  “Give me a knife,” I said.

  “Here,” said one of my fellows. I put the blade between my teeth and, silently, lowered myself over the side of the longboat. I treaded water. The longboat, almost noiselessly, the oars muffled, the wood wrapped with thonged fur at the fulcrum points, the oarlocks similarly served, moved away.

  It was cold and dark in the waters of the Vosk.

  After a few Ehn the longboat returned, and I was hauled aboard.

  “Here is your knife,” I told the fellow who had loaned me the weapon.

  “Was it a fish?” asked a man.

  “No,” I said.

  “The knife is sticky,” said the man to whom I had returned it.

  I spit into the Vosk. “Rinse it,” I said.

  “How many were there?” asked a man.

  “Two,” I said. “They were not patient. They returned to work too soon.”

  “What shall we do?” asked one of the men.

  “Return to the Tina,” I said “We shall need our sleep. There will be war tomorrow.”

  “Was the chain damaged?” asked a man.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Seriously?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It could have been done in a hundred places,” said a man.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Then, tomorrow,” said a man, hesitantly, “the chain will not hold.”

  “I do not think so,” I said.

  “Perhaps we should flee while we can,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Let the crews and their commanders make decision on the matter,” I said.

  “The divers,” said a man, “did you kill them both?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then the Voskjard will not know that the chain is weak at that point,” said a man.

  “No,” I said, “he will not know that it was weakened at that point.”

  “But there will be other points,” said a man.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “It is impossible to protect the chain,” said a man.

  “Sooner or later, if not this night, it will be cut,” said another man.

  “The Voskjard has been delayed,” said one of the men. “It is said he is not a patient man.”

  “We are not naval personnel,” said another man. “In a free battle, on the river, we will stand little chance against the swift ships of the Voskjard.”

  “We have with us the ships of Port Cos,” said a man.

  “There are too few of them,” said another man. “Presumably, if the chain is cut, they will withdraw to protect Port Cos.”

  “If the Voskjard should join with Policrates,” said another man, “and the forces of Port Cos and Ar’s Station are divided, no town on the riv
er will be safe.”

  “Pirates will own the Vosk,” said another man.

  “We must flee,” said another man.

  “Decision on that matter can be made in the morning by the commanders and their crews,” I said.

  “But single men can flee,” said another.

  “I will kill the first man who deserts his post,” I said.

  “What manner of man are you?” asked a man.

  “I do not know,” I told him.

  “Command us,” said one.

  “Put about,” I said. “Return to the Tina. We shall think further on these matters in the morning.”

  “Do you think that the urts of the Voskjard will discontinue their nibblings at the chain because we choose to rest?” asked a man.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then we must remain at the chain,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  The longboat then put about and, slowly, made its way northward along the chain. The fate of the river, I had learned, did not lie in the fate of the chain.

  We were hailed by men in pirate vessels, as we passed near them, but we did not respond.

  “We have encountered no further evidence of work at the chain,” said a man, as we neared the location of the Tina, east of the chain, a single lantern swinging on one of her stem-castle lines.

  “Perhaps the Voskjard has given up,” said a man.

  “Perhaps no further work has been done,” said another man.

  “Perhaps,” said another, “the work has been completed by now, to his satisfaction.”

  “The chain must hold,” said one of our oarsmen. “It must!”

  “What do you think, Jason?” asked a man.

  “Let us hope, fervently,” I said to him, “that it holds.”

  “But do you think it will?” asked a man.

  “No,” I said.

  “We must flee,” said a man.

  “Would you surrender the river to men such as Policrates and Ragnar Voskjard?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Is that you, Jason?” called Callimachus.

  “It is,” I responded.

  The Tina then, in a few Ehn, came abeam of the chain. We threw lines up to her.

  Chapter 3 - THE CHAIN HAS BEEN BROKEN IN THE NORTH

  The long galley, some eighty feet Gorean, sped toward the chain. Its bow as lifted, unnaturally, from the water, did not even touch the water.

  “Superb!” cried Callimachus, commending the enemy.

  “What is it?” I called up to the stem castle.

  “They have redistributed the ballast,” called Callimachus. “Splendid!”

  The vessel continued to approach the chain. I could hear the stroke of the hortator’s hammer even on the Tina. Such a speed could be continued for only a few moments. I saw more of the hull, and its keel, dripping, lifting out of the water.

  “Are they mad?” I called.

  “It is their intention to ride over the chain,” said Callimachus.

  I clutched the rail, in wonder. Every bit of sand in the lower hold must have been thrust to the stern of the vessel. Gear, too, and catapult stones, had been slid to the stern deck. Even the crew, other than oarsmen, their weapons ready, had congregated there.

  Then the concave prow of the vessel had cleared the chain. There was a great scraping as the chain tore at the keel. Then the galley, half on the chain and half off, moved eccentrically, teetering, like a ship caught on a bar, stranded and buffeted, assailed by conflicting currents.

  “Out oars!” called Callimachus. “Ready!”

  We saw another galley from the west, too, its prow high, speeding toward the chain.

  The first galley, its oars stroking, slashing at the Vosk, its hull twisting, careened forward and to the side.

  “It will clear the chain!” I cried.

  “Two points to port!” cried Callimachus. “Stroke!” His officer, by hand signals, conveyed his message to the helmsmen and oar master at the stern.

  “It is clearing the chain!” I cried.

  Already the Tina was speeding toward the intruder. I flung myself to the deck. We took her in the starboard bow, as she slid, grinding and splintering, from the chain.

  “Back oars!” called Callimachus.

  The impact had slid me back on the deck for a dozen feet.

  “Back oars!” called Callimachus.

  The Tina, shuddering, backing, with a splintering of wood, freed her ram.

  I, crouching, peered over the side. The forward deck of the enemy was already awash.

  I saw men there, in water to their knees, clinging to rails. The catapult on the enemy’s stern castle had broken loose from its large, rotating mount. Its ropage hung down, dangling in the wind. The strands seemed narrow, from the distance from which I viewed them. The largest, however, would be some four inches in diameter. I saw a man leap from the stern castle into the water.

  “Look!” cried out a man, in misery. He was pointing to starboard. The second enemy galley had ridden over the chain.

  “The first of the Voskjard’s ships has crossed the chain!” cried another.

  We saw other galleys, too, approaching the chain.

  “Another has crossed!” cried a man, pointing to starboard. Beyond that ship we could see another galley, too, but this one was striking at the chain.

  The Mira was hastening to engage the galley which had ridden over the chain.

  The Mira made good her strike. There was a cheer from our vessel. The starboard rudder of the enemy galley had been torn away in crossing the chain. The galleys of the Voskjard, like most Gorean ships, were double ruddered.

  “Hard to starboard!” cried Callimachus.

  As we came about a pirate galley knifed towards us.

  “To starboard!” cried Callimachus. Then he cried, “Oars inboard!”

  Her ram missed us. Her port shearing blade tore at our strakes.

  “Oars outboard!” called Callimachus. “Come about!”

  The two ships had slid past one another. As the ships passed I had looked into the eyes of a pirate. He had not been more than five feet from me.

  “Two more ships are over the chain!” called the officer with Callimachus, pointing to port.

  “Ships of Port Cos are approaching!” cried another man. There was a cheer on our vessel. Ten such ships were at the chain. Twenty others lay to in the waters near the south guard station, which post was held by Callisthenes. These ships, those of Port Cos, were our hope. It was only these, we feared, who might be able to match the forces of the Voskjard in even combat. The ships of Ar’s Station could bring numbers to bear in our favor, but we did not regard them, ship for ship, as the match of either a galley of the Voskjard or of Port Cos. The naval tradition of Cos is an ancient one, and many of the officers of Port Cos were native Cosians, mercenaries or veterans of the Cosian navy, on detached duty to the colony, that the interests of the mother island might be defended on the Vosk.

  “There is a ship of Ar’s Station!” called out the officer on the stem castle.

  There was a cheer at this cry.

  We had now come about, but already the galley which had nearly torn us open was facing us.

  “She has quick lines,” said a man.

  “Why has she not attacked?” asked a man.

  “She is waiting for support,” said a man.

  “No,” said another. “If we move to the chain, she can ram us amidships.”

  “She is defending her sisters,” said a man.

  “We can no longer protect the chain,” said another.

  But then we saw the galley swinging to starboard. Another galley, one flying the pennons of Port Cos, was speeding towards her.

  There was another cheer from our men. “Back to the chain!” called Callimachus, elated.

  “Another has slipped over!” cried out a man, angrily, pointing over the bow.

  It was free of the chain. We could not catch her. She slipped behind us on the waters
of the broad, muddy Vosk.

  “How many have passed the chain?” asked a man, glumly.

  “Who knows?” asked another.

  Here and there, at the chain, again and again, pirate galleys were striking at the great links, and then backing away, and then again, patiently, renewing their attack.

  “Doubtless they are hammering at points where they know the chain was weakened in the night,” said a man near me. He had been with me in the longboat last night.

  “Yes,” I said: “Look there!”

  I pointed to one of the truncated pylons rising out of the river. It had been splashed with yellow paint.

  “Catapults!” called Callimachus.

  Two stones looped into the air and then, gracefully, began their descent toward one of the pirate ships.

  Huge spumes of water rose into the air as the great rocks plunged into the Vosk.

  “Bowmen!” called Callimachus.

  We neared the first of the galleys and flighted arrows toward her.

  She drew back.

  “There are others,” said a man.

  We moved along the chain. We came upon the wreckage of a pirate galley, broken in two, deserted. It had broken, attempting to ride over the chain.

  “There is a pirate galley behind us, a pasang back, lying to!” called out a man, aft on the stern castle.

  “We remain at the chain,” said Callimachus.

  “It seems to list,” called the man. “I think it is crippled.”

  “We remain at the chain,” said Callimachus.

  I smiled. He was a good commander. He would not be lured from his post. A ship can be made to seem to list by re-positioning the ballast in its lower hold. If the ship were truly a cripple I did not think it would be lying to. An oared fighting ship is seldom helpless. Too, if the ship were crippled, it posed no immediate threat. And, if it were not crippled, it needed only be kept under observation. Isolated ships can be dealt with on a piecemeal basis. Our duty lay at the chain. He who thoughtlessly abandons his defenses strikes a poor bargain with fortune.

  “Look there!” called the officer on the stem castle with Callimachus. He pointed ahead, half a point off the starboard bow.

  Callimachus took the glass of the Builders from the officer. “It is the Sita of Point Alfred,” said Callimachus, “and the Tais of Port Cos.”