I laughed.
“We had them ready,” said the crossbowman.
Another man, one of the Steels, who had ridden to victory earlier in the day, ran to the foot of the perch. “There are tarnsmen,” said he, “Taurentians, but in plain garb, gathering outside the stadium.”
I had expected as much. Such men doubtless had been used in the attack on the caravan of the Hinrabians. “Bring me,” I said, “the small horn bow of the Tuchuks, the barbed war arrows of the Wagon Peoples.”
“These, too,” said the crossbowman, “are at hand.”
“How is it,” I asked, “that these things are ready?”
“Mip,” said the crossbowman, by way of explanation. “He well knew the race you would ride.”
An attendant, from beneath his cloak, threw to the saddle the tiny, swift bow of Tuchuks, the narrow, rectangular quiver, with its forty arrows.
Not hurrying I strung the bow. It is small, double-curved, about four feet in length, built up of layers of bosk horn, bound and reinforced with metal and leather; it is banded with metal at seven points, including the grip, metal obtained from Turia in half-inch rolled strips; the leather is applied diagonally, in two-inch strips, except that, horizontally, it covers the entire grip; the bow lacks the range of both the longbow and the crossbow, but, at close range, firing rapidly, it can be a devastating weapon; its small size, like the crossbow, permits it to clear the saddle, shifting from the left to the right, or to the rear, with equal ease, this providing an advantage lacked by the more powerful but larger longbow; but, like the longbow, and unlike the crossbow, which requires strength and time to reset, it is capable of a considerable volume of fire; a Tuchuk warrior can, in swirling combat, from the saddle of the running kaiila, accurately fire twenty arrows, drawn to the point, in half an Ehn.
The small bow, interestingly, has never been used among tarnsmen; perhaps this is because the kaiila is almost unknown above the equator, and the lesson of kaiilaback fighting has not been much available to them; perhaps it is because of tradition, which weighs heavily in Gorean life, and even in military affairs; for example, the phalanx was abandoned only after more than a century of attempts to preserve and improve it; or perhaps the reason is that range is commonly more important to tarnsmen in flight than maneuverability of the bow. I suspect, however, that the truest reason is that tarnsmen, never having learned respect for the small bow, tend to despise such a weapon, regarding it as unworthy a Warrior’s hand, as being too puny and ineffective to win the approval of a true Gorean fighting man. Some of the riders of the Steels, I recalled, seeing it among the belongings of Gladius of Cos, had jested with me about it, asking if it were a toy, or perhaps a training bow for a child; these men, of course, had never, on kaiilaback, and it is just as well for them, met Tuchuks. It seemed to me that combat on kaiilaback, and combat on tarnback, had much in common; I suspected that the small bow, though it had never been proven in battle on tarnback, might prove that it had worth in the Gorean skies as well as on the dusty, southern plains; I had further, in many nights of training with my tarn, taught it to respond to a variety of voice commands, thus freeing my hands for the use of weapons. Commonly, the tarn responds only to one voice command, that of “Tabuk,” which tends, roughly, to mean “Hunt and feed”; further, I would have liked to use the Tuchuk temwood thrusting lance from the saddle of a tarn. The tarnsman commonly carries, strapped to the saddle, a Gorean spear, a fearsome weapon, but primarily a missile weapon, and one more adapted to infantry. The tarnsmen, of course, centuries before, had been developed from land forces; it had always seemed to me that the tarn cavalries of Gor might be considerably improved by a judicious alteration of weapons and training practices; however, I had never had a command of tarnsmen of my own, and my ideas were of little interest, even to the tarnsmen of Ko-ro-ba, my city.
The Tuchuk horn bow was now strung, the quiver attached to the saddle, with the rope and bola. I wore my sword; I carried the killing knife I had taken from the back of Mip; lastly, thrust in my belt, was the double-edged quiva, the Tuchuk saddle knife.
There was a sudden clang of the judge’s bar and the rope stretched before the tarns was jerked away.
The tarns, with the exception of my own, hurled themselves screaming, wings snapping, from the perches and streaked for the first of the side rings.
“Hold!” I had cried, and the great beast I rode, though it trembled, eyes blazing, did not leave the perch.
There was a cry of dismay from those near my perch. There was a roar of surprise, and of consternation, from the stands.
I looked across to the box of Cernus, Ubar of Ar, and lifted my hand to him, in mock salute.
Clutching the arms of his throne, he was staring at me, dumbfounded.
“Ride!” cried the crossbowman.
“Ride!” cried the others of the Steels.
Already the other birds in the race, nine of them, were approaching the first turn.
I looked at the poles bearing the twenty wooden tarn heads, signaling the circuits of the track to be made. The Ubar’s Race is the longest, the most grueling of the tarn races. Its prize is the greatest, a thousand double-tarns of gold.
“Ride!” cried those of the tiers.
I laughed and then bent down to the neck of the black tarn.
“Let us fly,” said I, “Ubar of the Skies.”
With a sudden scream and a snap of the wide black wings the War Tarn of Ko-ro-ba was aloft. I bent over the neck of the bird, the wind tearing at the mask on my face, my clothes. The tiers, like startled horizontal lines, flashes of blurring color, fled behind me. I was exultant.
I wanted the tarns before me to space themselves, so that I might pass them singly if possible. I was certain their riders had had orders from the box of Cernus to see that I did not win; it would be difficult for a single tarn to block a ring, but two together might well manage; further, in not taking the lead immediately, which I believe I could have done, I hoped to postpone the entry into the matter of the race of enemy tarnsmen, who surely would not interfere unless it seemed the victory of Menicius might be threatened; lastly I wished to remain behind Menicius of Port Kar as long as possible; I did not wish him, with his tarn knife, behind me.
Shortly before the first circuit of the track had been made I swept past the last bird, a nonfaction bird, whose rider, caught unaware, threw a wild glance over his shoulder as I, a shadow upon a flying shadow, hurtled by over his head and to the left.
There was a roar from the crowd.
This warned the rider of the eighth bird, a Gold, and he, bent low in the saddle, looked behind him to see, piercing the rings, eyes blazing, wings snapping, the great black tarn.
To the crowd’s astonishment, but not to mine, he wheeled his tarn, a rare, gloriously plumaged jungle tarn from the tropical reaches of the Cartius, to block the first of the right center rings. The bird, beautiful, fierce, talons lifted, wings beating, hanging almost motionless before the ring, faced us.
My tarn struck him like a screaming saber of black lightning flashing through the ring.
I did not look back.
The crowd seemed stunned.
The seventh rider was a nonfaction rider, but a veteran rider, who, upon orders from the Ubar or not, did not intend to wheel his tarn to face me, thus surrendering his opportunity of victory.
Ring after ring he blocked us well.
I admired his skill and fought, in the circuits remaining, to seize upon his pattern, as he, doubtless, sought mine. My bird was the swifter. Both of us passed a startled rider for Silver, and then another nonfaction bird. He was now the fifth rider and I the sixth. Ahead of us there was Blue, Red, Green and, as Yellow, Menicius of Port Kar. I heard a scream of horror from behind us as one rider, pressing another, forced him against the side of the edged ring. The wind racing against me, I shuddered, for striking such a ring edge, at the speed of the racing tarn, might well cut a man or bird in two.
I glanced at the tarn he
ads remaining on the poles and saw, to my dismay, only eleven remained.
I could have forced my way past the nonfaction rider ahead of me but, with the edged rings, it would be at great risk to both of us, and to our tarns. He, no more than I, I am sure, cared to kill his bird or slay the opposing rider. It is one thing to force a bird or rider into the padded bars, and another against the great, swinging knives that were now the rings.
As I coursed behind him I realized that he, doubtless, like many others, had studied the races of Gladius of Cos, as Gladius of Cos had studied theirs. Yet, unfortunately, though the man ahead of me was a veteran rider he had ridden little at the Stadium of Tarns, being from distant Tor. I had never seen him race before, and Mip had told me nothing of him. If he had studied the races of Gladius of Cos, probably his blocking pattern was based on his supposition as to my inclinations in passing. Accordingly, though it ran against the grain of my instincts, though I found it actually painful to me, the next time I felt that my strike should be the upper right I took the tarn to the lower left. To my chagrin he met the move and again I passed through a ring following him. I doubt that he was consciously reasoning these matters, but his apprehension, almost instinctual, based on watching me race, and on his years of experience, had led him to suspect even my pattern alterations. I knew Mip had had something of this rare gift and did not suppose that others, skilled, veteran riders, would be completely without it. I began to regret that I had so willingly surrendered the lead at the beginning of the race. Menicius, on Quarrel, was moving farther ahead each circuit.
I then recalled a conversation with Mip about such matters, the memory rushing through my consciousness like the flash of a metal bolt.
“What if your opponent, through luck or skill, senses your pattern, your every variation?” I had asked, more for amusement than anything else.
At the tavern of the Greens, he had put down his goblet of paga, and had laughed, spreading out his hands, “Then,” had said he, “you must have no pattern.”
I had laughed at his jest.
But he had looked at me, seriously. “It is true,” he had said. And then he had smiled again.
There are four poles on the dividing wall at one end, and another four at the other end. These poles both keep the laps. At the beginning there had been, on each set of poles, twenty wooden tarn head, five to each pole. Now two poles of each set were empty. One of each set bore five tarn heads, and the other bore four. There were nine laps remaining. I decided at the next attempt in passing I would, regardless of what I felt like, pass at the position of the numeral nine on Gorean chronometers.
I heard a curse as I shot past the startled rider, who seemed suddenly confused, looking about. His tarn lost its rhythm. I heard another bird, one following it, strike it, screams of rage, those of tarns and men.
By the time there were seven tarn heads remaining on the poles I had caught up to the rider for the Blues, who held a poor fourth.
He was on a swifter bird than the rider from Tor but he was not the rider that was the other. I passed him on the lower left after a feint to the upper right. Trying to block in the wrong position he nearly hit the top of the edged ring and the startled bird was carried far out of the ring track and had to wheel to reenter the track.
The screams of the crowd were now deafening, though one could make out no words; the effect of the sound, as I flew through it, was, as I had often found it, a fascinating phenomenon, its pitch varying considerably, as one would expect, with my speed and position, particularly as I made the turns.
I heard a sudden hiss in the air and bent lower in the saddle. I had not seen it, but I knew the sound of the passage of a bolt from a crossbow. There were two more hisses. “On!” I cried. “On, Ubar of the Skies!”
The bird, oblivious of the missiles, smote his way forward.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw perhaps fifty tarnsmen on the wall over the high tier on my right, perched there, waiting.
“On!” I cried. “On!” The bird sped on. “On, Ubar of the Skies!” I shouted.
Then, to my horror, I saw that both the rider for the Reds and he for the Greens had wheeled their tarns and stood ready at the left center ring to block my passage.
The crowd was screaming in anger. It did not occur to me at the moment but the fact that one of these men was the rider for Green had made the allegiance of the Ubar clear to all. He, supposedly favoring the Greens, had apparently given orders to them as well that I should not win. Menicius on Quarrel streaked forward.
My tarn struck the other two and in a moment, tarn goads flashing, talons clutching, birds screaming and biting, we found ourselves as in a clenched, winged fist of fury, beating and turning before the left center ring. Then we were struck by another bird, the Blue I think, and then by the bird ridden by the Torian, and then one of the others.
The Green, rider cursing, tumbled back out of the fist, bleeding at the side of the throat, out of control, screaming. The Red rider broke free and returned to the race. He had also, like Menicius of Port Kar, and two of the other riders, raced in the eighth. He was a small bearded man, stripped to the waist; about his neck he wore a bone talisman for good luck.
The Silver bird flashed past.
My tarn was locked, talon to talon, with a nonfaction bird; each was tearing at the other; the tarn goad of the rider struck me, almost blinding me with pain; for an instant my consciousness seemed nothing but a blinding shower of yellow, fiery needles; his tarn struck for me and I beat its beak away with my own tarn goad, cursing wildly; we turned and, held in the saddles by safety straps, spinning, we struck at one another, tarn goads like swords, splashing light about; and then we were past the ring and broke apart; my bird would have stayed to kill; but I drew it away. “On, Ubar of the Skies!” I cried. “On!”
There were now three birds beyond us, the Red, the Silver, and the Yellow.
I saw the brightly plumaged bird, who had first contested a ring with us, in the net below, alive but trembling.
Somewhere behind I heard a scream and the judge’s bar signaling that a ring had been missed. I sped on.
Another bolt from a crossbow hissed past.
“On!” I cried. “On!”
Ubar of the Skies, like black fire, burned past one ring and another.
There were still five tarn heads on the poles when he overtook, between rings, and passed the Silver. In another turn he passed the Red. The man was beating his tarn unmercifully with the tarn goad, the bone talisman on its string flying behind his neck. As I drew near, and then abreast of him, I saw madness and fury in his eyes. He attempted, in moving through the rings, to force us to the left, into the heavy edge, but before he could do so, we had passed him.
I cried out exultantly. Ahead there was but one tarn, that of Menicius of Port Kar.
“Now,” said I, “let us fly, Ubar of the Skies.”
The bird gave a great scream and the wings began to strike the air with the fury of victory.
Low on the bird’s neck I saw, ahead, the bent figure of Menicius of Port Kar, astride Quarrel, growing larger and larger.
I saw four tarn heads left on the poles.
I laughed.
The great black tarn hurtled on. “Victory will be ours!” I cried to him.
Even faster did he fly.
Suddenly, to my dismay, I heard about us shouts and the thunder of wings and, closing in upon us, and following us, and rushing to meet us, were tarnsmen.
The crowd’s protest of fury must have torn its way to the very clouds in the calm, blue sky.
I whipped out the Tuchuk bow and, in the instant, found myself wheeling and fighting in the midst of more than a dozen tarnsmen, while many others, wheeling about, attempted to press in upon me. Ubar of the Skies suddenly uttered a scream that terrified even me, raising the hair on my neck and arms; it was not simply the challenge scream of his kind; it was a scream of pleasure, of horrifying eagerness, of the tarn’s lust for blood and war; steel-shod
talons grasping, screaming, beak tearing, Ubar of the Skies, his black eyes blazing with delight, hurled himself on odds that pleased him, odds which even he, that majestic carnivore, could accept as worthy.
Again and again the small bow, swift and vicious, fired, twenty barbed arrows in half an Ehn, tarnsmen struggling to reach me with their swords, thrusting with their heavy spears, and all the time Ubar of the Skies tearing and ripping, his beak and steel-shod talons engines of fierce carnage; I felt blood along the side of my neck as a bronze-headed spear seemed to flash in my face and then I saw, to my horror, the arm that had thrust the spear seized in the beak of my tarn and wrenched from the hideous body torn screaming from the saddle of its tarn, the safety strap parting like twine.
The tarnsmen, packed together, impeding one another’s movements, were fodder for the slaughter of the Tuchuk bow, and then, crying out with fear, they turned aside their mounts and broke before us.
“The race!” I cried. “The race!”
The tarn, to my amazement, turned from the fray in an instant and smote his way from the environing, reeling tarns and struck out again for the rings.
Menicius of Port Kar was now far in the advance but my tarn, silent, save for the crack of his great wings, eyes bright, blood on its beak and steel-shod talons, again took up the pursuit.
In the time we had fought four tarns had passed us, though the rest were still behind, either fallen from the race or unable to pass the rings where tarnsmen still wheeled in disarray. I heard the judge’s bar ring twice, indicating two had failed to clear one ring or another.
Swiftly we passed one tarn, a nonfaction bird.
The Silver, the Red and the Blue were still ahead of me, as well as the Yellow, that of my foe Menicius, he of Port Kar.
Two wooden tarn heads now surmounted the high poles.
Another crossbow bolt feathered its swift way, a line of blurred light, soft, past me.
When I came to the right center rings I again encountered tarnsmen, now regrouped. Again and again the Tuchuk bow fired and again and again unwilling tarnsmen felt the lightninglike kiss of the barbed steel. Then the arrows, of which there had been forty, were gone.
Assassin of Gor Page 40
