Avengers of Gor

by John Norman

  “To join nearby,” I said.

  “For all we know,” said Thurnock, “the mercenaries are already at the rendezvous point.”

  “If I were a corsair,” I said, “that is the way I would arrange it. If I were concerned to ship quarry stone as inconspicuously as possible, I would certainly be even more concerned over the public embarking of large numbers of mercenary troops.”

  “We do not know the schedule of the corsairs,” said Thurnock. “Let us leave as soon as possible, join Tab and the Dorna at the Cove of Harpalos, and make our way to Mytilene. We can clear the great harbor by noon.”

  “He who travels swiftest does not always travel surest,” I said.

  “Even the swiftest kaiila,” said Thurnock, “cannot outpace the soaring tarn.”

  “We must dally a day, possibly two days, in Sybaris,” I said, “and at least a day at the Cove of Harpalos.”

  “He who wastes moves in kaissa,” said Thurnock, “asks for the loss of his Home Stone.”

  “And he who moves without care might as well leave the pieces in the box,” I said.

  “The Dorna, at the Cove of Harpalos,” said Thurnock, “can cast her moorings within an Ahn of the Tesephone’s arrival.”

  “But would not be well advised to do so,” I said.

  “How so?” asked Thurnock.

  “Consider the Tesephone,” I said, “disguised now as a merchant’s vessel, painted in white and gold. How she would stand out. What a liability she would be to the Dorna. Why not blow trumpets in your stealth, or carry torches to offend a needed blanket of darkness?”

  “All right,” said Thurnock, “we will paint her green, the green of Thassa, green as night is to the sleen, green as high, tawny grass is to the larl.”

  The Dorna, of course, was already painted green, a color often favored by pirates, as it is difficult to detect at a distance.

  “Let her not be seen,” I said, “or not seen until too late.”

  “Still,” said Thurnock, “time is lost.”

  “The corsair fleet,” I said, “if it remains united, can move no faster than its slowest ship.”

  “You are not thinking of engaging the corsair fleet at sea, are you?” said Thurnock.

  “No,” I said, “that would be madness. But I would hope to reach Mytilene undetected.”

  “That Mytilene be warned,” said Thurnock.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “That the town might be evacuated?” asked Thurnock.

  “Presumably,” I said. “I do not see how it could be long defended.”

  “What if they refuse to leave?” asked Thurnock.

  “They must leave,” I said. “The alternative is unthinkable. Recall when the corsairs had a free hand with villages.”

  “In the fields, outside their walls,” said Thurnock, “the townsfolk might perish, starving and thirsting, dying of exposure and beasts, driven away from palisades, forced into the wilderness, by hostile peasants, jealous of their lands and resources, their crops, animals, and stores. Those of my caste look not benignly on crowds of dangerous, hungry refugees.”

  “We can do no more than we can,” I said. “But let us do at least that.”

  “It will be terrible,” said Thurnock.

  “I fear so,” I said.

  “But why, Captain,” asked Thurnock, “given the threat of each day, each Ahn, do we remain today, and perhaps tomorrow, in Sybaris?”

  “And perhaps another day, as well,” I said.

  “But why, Captain?” asked Thurnock.

  “I would still like to get a message through to Nicomachos,” I said.

  “That ‘plank at sea’,” said Thurnock.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “He is in league with Archelaos, Glaukos, and the corsairs,” said Thurnock.

  “I fear you are right,” I said.

  “And he is absent from the city,” said Thurnock, “presumably at sea, presumably for days.”

  “I think that is true,” I said.

  “Archelaos controls Sybaris,” said Thurnock. “It seems he even controls access to the naval harbor. How can you possibly get a message through to the Admiral, even if he were here to receive it?”

  “There is a possibility,” I said.

  “What is that?” asked Thurnock.

  “Finding the right messenger,” I said.

  Chapter Forty

  Mytilene

  “Why should I believe you?” asked Thrasymedes, portly administrator of Mytilene. “What evidence do you have?”

  “What we have seen and heard,” I said.

  “We do not know you and have no reason to believe you,” said Thrasymedes. “It is absurd. You must think me a fool. Corsairs do not have the numbers or strength to challenge towns or cities. They raid villages. So I should evacuate Mytilene, gather supplies and water, and turn out our good citizens, having them escape into the fields, so that you might loot our town with impunity?”

  “Better that than slaughter,” I said. “If the town is abandoned it may not be burned. Who knows what gold might be hidden in walls or under floors? Corsairs, with time, unhurried, can look for such things. Why should they risk the loss of possible wealth? Take what you can of value with you, away from the town. I do not think the corsairs will follow you far inland, away from their ships. Also, I think they may now fear the Peasantry.”

  “Why should they fear doltish Peasants?” asked Thrasymedes. “It is rare that one can find one who can read. Many have never seen a coin larger than a copper tarsk.”

  “Give heed to our warnings,” I said.

  “I think,” said Thrasymedes, “you may be of the corsairs yourselves, or of their ilk. You would trick us from our walls to have an open, vulnerable town at your disposal. If you are truly of the Merchants, where is your ship?”

  “Our ships are elsewhere,” I said. “I did not wish to risk having them trapped in the harbor.”

  “Rather,” said a council member. “that it not be noted that they are painted green, the color of piracy.”

  “They are painted green,” I said.

  “Pirates!” exclaimed a council member.

  “No,” I said. “We are not pirates, but we may meet them at sea, and would prefer to do so with similar advantages.”

  “You are not in the habiliments of Cos,” said Thrasymedes. “I do not think your crews are of the Fleet of the Farther Islands.”

  “They are not,” I said. “We are independent.”

  “Merchant warriors?” asked a man, scornfully.

  “I think time is short,” I said. “I bid you act, and expeditiously.”

  “You are of the corsairs,” sneered a man.

  “If I were of the corsairs,” I said, “I would not be here, trying to convince you of your danger.”

  “Then you are of the breed of corsairs,” said a man, “wanting us to flee from a shadow, an invented foe, a larl that does not exist, so that you might despoil Mytilene at your leisure.”

  “We are not such that we might be so easily fooled,” said another member of the council. “We are not ignorant Peasants. Foist no lies upon us. Struggle to market your shoddy goods to gullible beasts, behind the poles of some flimsy palisade.”

  “If what you say is true,” said Thrasymedes, Administrator of Mytilene, “why are you here? You would put yourself in peril.”

  “My reasons are my own,” I said.

  “Arrest him,” said a council member.

  “And what of more than two hundred of his men, waiting outside our gates?” asked Thrasymedes. “Will you ask them to disarm themselves and submit to chains?”

  “Impale their leader and they will flee in terror,” said a man.

  “And if they do not?” asked Thrasymedes. “Will you pit our ten guardsmen against
two hundred brigands? Vengeful thieves and murderers might lurk about our walls for days. With steel and fire they might close the harbor for months.”

  “Heed me,” I said, “and save yourselves.”

  “You are a lying knave,” said a man.

  My hand went to the hilt of my sword, and then, angered, I withdrew it.

  This swift, inadvertent act had not been unnoted by Thrasymedes.

  “I do not know your game or purpose,” said Thrasymedes, “but I must ask you, unless you have honest business here, to withdraw, with your men, from Mytilene.”

  “My business here is honest,” I said, “but, it seems, without profit.”

  “Even if what you say is true,” said Thrasymedes, “it would be absurd to abandon the town and risk the fields. We would be better advised to stay where we are. Mytilene has walls of stone. Our walls and stout gates will keep us safe. No rabble of corsairs or brigands could do more than scratch at our defenses.”

  “If you are determined to remain in the city,” I said, “prepare its defenses. Gather stones which may be hurled downward from the walls. Bring vessels of oil to the walls which may be ignited and poured on the enemy. With stone, timber, and sand, be ready to reinforce your gates. Within the walls guard your wells. Gather stores of supplies and food from which the townsmen, supervised, may draw. Consider monitored rationing. Impose martial law. There will be theft and hoarding. Be vigilant. There may be defection and betrayal. Gold has opened more gates than the stroke of the battering ram.”

  “He is mad,” laughed a council member.

  “We hosted the fair this year,” said another.

  “And in all the fair,” said another, “there was no rumor of such an attack, no rumor of hostility or even envy.”

  “None would seek to harm Mytilene,” said another. “We are loved.”

  “And rich from the fair,” I said. “Beware.”

  “We have walls,” said Thrasymedes. “We fear no handful of brigands.”

  “These are not the corsairs of villages,” I said. “This is a formidable force of perhaps two thousand men, mercenaries, supported by seven ships. This force has siege equipment and plenitudes of ammunition. It will be capable of investing a town like Mytilene and breaking through its walls.”

  “Preposterous,” said a council member.

  “Your ruse of luring us from our homes, so that you can rob them as you wish, without fear, has failed,” said another man.

  “Get out,” said another.

  “I fear I must ask you to leave,” said Thrasymedes.

  “What can I say that might convince you of your danger?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” said Thrasymedes.

  “The matter is final?” I asked.

  “Final,” said Thrasymedes.

  “I wish you well,” I said.

  “I wish you well,” said Thrasymedes.

  At that point an alarm bar somewhere in the town began to ring, repeatedly, frenziedly.

  Thrasymedes rushed to the exit of the council chamber. “What is going on?” he demanded.

  “I do not know,” said someone.

  Steps, running steps, sounded in the hall outside. Then, shortly thereafter, a fellow in the garb of a guardsman, gasping for breath, stood outside the chamber, clinging to one side of the portal.

  “What is going on?” asked Thrasymedes.

  “Seven ships, unidentified, flying no flags,” said the guardsman, “approach the harbor.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Besieged

  It shattered sharp loud startling sudden debris leaping blossoming out and down then the gray waterfall of stone the narrow cascade of loosened rocks the width and weight of it the avalanche the tumbling and rolling of rock and then dust like dry rain choking hard to breathe hard to see get the grit out of your eyes wipe face cough out dirt.

  “Where are your robes of white and gold?” had asked a man, eyes widening.

  Sometimes, if one is on the wall, and it is still light, one sees it coming, like a large slow bird rising, and then descending, approaching, growing larger and larger.

  “Stone!” one cries, and points to the likely point of impact, to which spearmen rush, that the breach not be exploited.

  Yet, of late, there was little danger of that. Several times in the early days of the siege, the enemy had attempted to apply a tactic brilliant in the manuals but hazardous in the field. The tactic is for contingents of the invasive force, in the “box formation,” shield walls to the sides and a shield roof or ceiling overhead, to protect against arrow fire and cast stones, to approach under artillery fire so as to be able to enter a new breach almost instantly, before defenders can reach the point in sufficient numbers to repel would-be entrants and repair the breach. This tactic, plausible and attractive in theory, had proved costly in practice. The quarried stone from Pylos, serving as ammunitions for the three catapults of the enemy, each block being of approximately the same size and weight, was theoretically ideal for the use of this tactic. Indeed, it seemed likely to me that the blocks, which were larger and heavier than the blocks commonly used in constructing walls, to the annoyance of Thurnock, Clitus, and myself in Sybaris, had been designed with three characteristics in mind. First, as they could easily pass as wall blocks, attention was diverted from their true purpose. Second, they were of an ideal size and weight, if not shape, for use with heavy siege engines. Thirdly, their conformities standardized them for ammunition, which makes it easier for the catapult engineers to calculate and adjust parameters of angle and force. Wherein then did theory encounter fact to its disappointment? The tactic in question works best with well-constructed, well-tested equipment, utilized by experienced, muchly practiced engineers, or “gunners,” in conjunction with skilled, well-trained, well-disciplined troops. None of these prerequisites seemed satisfied in the present case. The machinery had most likely been put together somewhere on the Farther Islands. Cos and Tyros are essentially naval powers, and, traditionally, rely on continental mercenaries when faced with warfare in the field. Thus, I suspect that the machinery put together by the corsairs was muscular but unsubtle. It was certainly capable of lofting great weights but perhaps it was less capable, less precise, when it came to meeting certain challenges of adjustment, those pertaining, for example, to distance and targeting. Secondly, catapult engineers, “gunners,” and such, are rare and highly paid. If one is looking for the best representatives of that profession, one would not be well advised to go to Thera, Daphna, or Chios, but to Ar or Turia. Lastly, the enemy were hastily recruited mercenaries, not intensively trained troops, not disciplined troops, perhaps having the same Home Stone, troops familiar to one another, troops having confidence in themselves and their officers. In short, after several mishaps or mistakes, such as great stones falling short, falling amidst advancing mercenaries, or mercenaries arriving too early at the wall and being afflicted with their own fire, or mercenary contingents lagging or holding back to avoid such fates, thus subverting the whole point of the supposedly coordinated attack, the enemy generalship apparently decided to leave the tactic in question in the manuals, where its peril was considerably minimized.

  “You are no Merchant,” had said a man, startled.

  “I think he be not Kenneth Statercounter,” had said a council member, then in a begrimed tunic, bearing a basket of rocks to be carried to the parapet.

  We had had, in the fifteenth and sixteenth day of the siege, heavy rain. This was beneficial to Mytilene. Catapult cordage, heavy with water, rendered their engines, of which, as noted, there were three, inoperative. One gathers that the “artillery men,” so little versed in the technology they were attempting to exploit, had not anticipated the effect of rain and moisture on the efficiency of their machines. In such a situation, experienced catapult engineers would have removed exposed cordage and placed it in waterproof bags. C
ommonly, too, extra cordage, in containers sealed against moisture, would be on hand, to be emplaced when the time was opportune. Similarly, had they been more practiced in the craft to which they were addressing themselves, they might have availed themselves of more costly cordage, woven from, say, women’s hair, which is stronger, more resilient, and more weather resistant than common cordage. In the sieges of tower cities on continental Gor, it is not unknown for free women to shear their hair, offering it for use in the defense of their city. In passing, it might also be mentioned that the heavy blocks used as ammunition, striking at the walls, or falling within the walls, particularly given their size and shape, were useful, in filling and repairing breaches. Carts were used to move them, and inclined planes and levers, to fit and place them. As of now, the twentieth day of the siege, no major assault, with a massed infantry, had been made on the walls. It seemed to be the enemy’s belief that their artillery would so reduce the effectiveness of the walls at so many points that it would be pointless to risk the hazards of a scaling attack, in which the advantages would be so clearly on the side of the defenders. One also supposes that the enemy, which largely consisted of mercenaries, knew enough of the facts of warfare to be disinclined to participate in so perilous an endeavor. Such men prefer situations in which there is minimum risk and the prospect of maximum gain. The generalship of such troops must always, in their decisions, weigh the possibility not only of noncompliance but of mutiny.

  On the eleventh day of the siege, on a gouged street, near the rubble of houses, Thrasymedes, seeing the startled faces of others, had spun about. “What garb is that?” he had asked.

  “You know it,” I said.

  “I deem it not the rich cloth of the Merchants,” he had said.

  “It is the plainer cloth of a different caste,” I said.

  “The color!” said a man.

  “Scarlet,” said another.

  “The scarlet of the Warriors,” whispered another.

  That color was seldom seen on the Farther Islands.

  “I am assuming command,” I said.

  “By what authority?” said a man.