by John Norman
“The voyage will be uneventful,” said Thrasymedes.
“I shall hope so,” I said.
“The horizon is clear,” said Thrasymedes.
“What,” I wondered, “might be beyond the horizon.”
“Mytilene,” said Thrasymedes, “will be forever grateful to you, your men and the noble Peasantry which wreaked such slaughter amongst the cohorts of the hateful Bosk of Port Kar.”
“Thank, too,” I said, “yourself, the brave and august Thrasymedes, Administrator in Mytilene, and the noble citizens of Mytilene who withstood the terrors of a long and hard-pressed siege, even the harrows of incipient starvation.”
“It is done,” said Thrasymedes.
“I wish you well,” I said.
“I wish you well,” he said.
We grasped wrists, in the fashion of the sea.
Thrasymedes then took his leave, carrying the broken lyre, wrapped within his robe.
“Let us go to our men, gather them, and march to the ships,” said Thurnock. “The sooner we put to sea the better.”
“No,” I said. “We will not put to sea until dark.”
Thurnock was silent, and, I fear, troubled.
Commonly Gorean mariners stay within sight of land and beach their vessels at night. Few captains and crews care to be at sea in the darkness.
“Uneasy is the ship that dares the night,” said Thurnock.
“I trust that the enemy will be of that opinion,” I said.
“The corsairs have withdrawn,” said Thurnock.
“I shall hope so,” I said. “I do not know so.”
“Defeated, sustaining dreadful losses, driven from the field,” said he, “they flee to Sybaris, to lick their wounds, perhaps even to disband in humiliation and chagrin.”
“We shall hope so,” I said.
“We owe much to Xanthos and you,” said Thurnock, turning to Aktis.
“More than we can ever repay,” I said.
“It is nothing,” said Aktis.
“Xanthos is already returning to the Isle of Seleukos,” said Thurnock.
“He is losing little time,” said Clitus.
“He is anxious to rejoin his Companion,” said Thurnock.
“Cuy,” I said.
“I believe that is correct,” said Thurnock. “But how would you know?”
“Perhaps he mentioned the name,” I said.
“That must be it,” said Thurnock.
“What of you, Aktis?” asked Clitus. “I suppose that you are now going to return to Nicosia.”
“Not yet,” said Aktis. “I have business in Sybaris.”
“We all do,” said Thurnock.
“We will go now to our camp,” I said. “Then, after dark, we will join Tab and Sakim at the Dorna and Tesephone.”
“And thence,” said Thurnock, “to the Cove of Harpalos, and then to Sybaris.”
“None will see us leave,” said Clitus.
“We cannot be sure of that,” I said.
“True,” said Clitus. “A spy might have been left behind, in the guise of a Peasant.”
“No,” said Thurnock. “Each must have a village, and each must be recognized by his fellow villagers.”
“But there could be other spies,” I said, “landed pasangs north and south of the harbor at Mytilene, each with a caged vulo.”
“It is possible,” said Thurnock.
“The horizon is still clear,” said Clitus, shading his eyes, looking out to sea.
“The corsairs’ living island, the Brigand Island, may be about,” I said, “too low to see, with cots of vulos which will home to at least the flagship of the corsair fleet.”
“But we will leave at night,” said Clitus.
“And be visible by day,” I said.
“Surely the corsair fleet has fled,” said Clitus.
“Were I Admiral of that fleet,” I said, “shamed and disgruntled, eager for blood, aching for vengeance, with seven fine ships, not one of which has borne a scratch, I would not have done so.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
The Beach; A Rendezvous is Not Kept; Tab and Sakim Return; The Horizon is Clear
I closed the panel of the dark lantern.
“Hold,” I whispered.
“What is wrong?” asked Thurnock, softly.
“Perhaps nothing,” I said.
“You hesitate,” he said.
“Why have we not been challenged?” I asked.
We had moved about the side of the rise above the beach.
I had kept all but a handful of men back. The column behind, at a horizontal movement of the opened lamp, would break ranks, fanning out, forming an extended skirmish line. A forward circular movement betokened advance, a reverse circular movement withdrawal. The closing of the lamp’s panel signified halt. The panels of the dark lamp are adjustable in a variety of ways, by means of which the beam may be controlled, reduced or enlarged, shielded on one side or the other. Similarly, by means of the opening and shutting of a single panel, and the manner in which this is done, light being shown for a shorter or longer time, these changes corresponding to letters, messages may be transmitted, even over considerable distances.
“Perhaps,” said Thurnock, “there are none to do so.”
“I fear you are right,” I said.
“May I reconnoiter?” asked Aktis.
“Wait,” I said.
In a few moments the yellow moon emerged from the clouds and, briefly, illuminated the bare, broad half-circle of the beach.
“The beach is empty,” said Thurnock. “The Dorna and Tesephone are gone!”
I unshuttered the dark lamp, and waved it horizontally four times, and then rotated it forward, slowly, three times.
In a few Ehn we had descended to the beach.
“The beach is now secured?” I asked Aktis.
“And the local area,” said Aktis.
“What has occurred?” asked Thurnock.
“Examine the beach,” I said. “There is no sign of struggle, no evidence of war.”
“There are furrows in the sand where the Dorna and the Tesephone were launched,” said Clitus.
“Note,” I said. “There is no sign of an incursion or surprise, nor of enemy troops about.”
“None that I can see,” said Thurnock.
“They did not attack here,” I said.
“Apparently not,” said Clitus.
“Nor did they intend to,” I said.
“Possibly not,” said Clitus.
“We are their quarry,” I said, “their nemesis, their coveted foe, the core of the defense of Mytilene, more so than the Dorna and Tesephone. Had they attempted to attack us here, or nearby, here on land, they would have risked losing us. Presumably outnumbered we might have scattered, slipped from their grasp, even withdrawn to the safety of Mytilene.”
“But the Dorna and Tesephone are gone,” said Thurnock.
“We are abandoned,” said a man.
“No,” said another.
“If so,” said another, “to no stern fate. Mytilene is free, the siege lifted, the garrison relieved. Allies, armed peasants, hold the field.”
“I see no treachery here,” said another.
“Nor I,” I said.
“Captains Tab and Sakim would not desert us,” said Clitus.
“No,” I said, “but how is it that they are gone?”
“They were to await us here,” said Clitus. “They must have had reason to depart.”
“Undoubtedly,” I said. “Let the beach be examined for messages, papers pinned to a stake, a marked board, weighted in place by a stone, words drawn in the sand.”
Several torches were lit, and men, in lines, made their way about the beach.
“N
othing,” said a man later, reporting on the results of this disciplined perusal of the sand.
“Where then are Captains Tab and Sakim, where the Dorna and the Tesephone?” asked a man.
“I am puzzled,” said another.
“Night is filled with mystery,” said a man. “It is the way of night.”
“It can be the way of day, as well,” I said. “Night does not own mystery. The sleen is nocturnal, but it prowls at will. Mystery does not eschew the sun. Even in the light of day, much may be unseen, much may be invisible.”
“Conjecture, Commander,” said a man.
“To begin,” I said, “we accept that our brethren are both brave and loyal. We thus dismiss both cowardice and treachery as an explanation for their absence. Accordingly, we attribute their departure, their failure to keep our rendezvous, to the presence of the enemy. The enemy would have made their appearance either by land or sea. Given the victory of Mytilene and the control of the fields by our Peasant cohorts, we may rule out an attack by land. This leaves us with an attack by sea, but there is no evidence of such an attack, no bodies or equipment, no signs of disruption or bloodshed. But one might well have assumed, mistakenly, in the heat of the moment, given an appearance by the enemy, that the corsair fleet intended to attack the beach.”
“‘Mistakenly’?” asked Thurnock.
“As Tab and Sakim left no message of any sort to explain their departure, we may infer that the appearance of the corsair fleet was sudden and unexpected, perhaps emerging from darkness in the vicinity of dawn, a situation calling for instant action, getting the Dorna and Tesephone to sea before an enemy landing took place, presumably to be followed by the destruction of both vessels.”
“‘Mistakenly’?” urged Thurnock.
“I think so,” I said.
“Would you have done differently?” asked Thurnock.
“I do not think so,” I said. “The mistake was intelligent and natural. Who would willingly risk the ships?”
“But it was a mistake?” pressed Thurnock.
“Yes,” I said. “Consider the enemy’s intentions. He is zealous for our total destruction. Suppose he had made a landing. We might lose the ships, but he would lose us. We could easily withdraw to the safety of Mytilene and, if he dared to follow us, he would encounter our allies, much to his peril. His victory on the beach would have been slight and, for most practical purposes, empty. There are always other ships.”
“He would not have landed?” said Thurnock.
“Not if he were as intelligent as I fear,” I said.
“He would wait then, blockading the harbor,” said Thurnock.
“Briefly,” I said, “for show, then he would withdraw, apparently giving up the chase, apparently resigning himself to failure, apparently returning in dudgeon to Sybaris.”
“He wants us at sea,” said Thurnock.
“Subject to his presumed invincible force,” I said.
“It is clear,” said Clitus, “they want us held in place, confined to our ships at sea, with no hope of escape, want us trapped in vulnerable prisons of wood.”
“Yes,” I said. “They wish to have us at sea.”
“We could remain indefinitely here, on Chios,” said a man.
“Under surveillance by one means or another,” said a man.
“But what then of our project, our purpose and mission,” said Clitus, “stopping the depredations of corsairs burning, slaughtering, and looting in the name of Bosk of Port Kar?”
“I think that Tab and Sakim will return,” I said. “First, they will be puzzled that they have not been pursued and attacked. Second, they will return, sensing the plan of the enemy.”
“Let the enemy beware,” said Thurnock. “We are swift and dangerous.”
“So, too, is he,” I said.
“One who grasps the fur of a sea sleen or the tail of a shark is unwise,” said Thurnock.
“But sometimes less unwise than at other times,” I said.
“Listen,” said a man. “I hear muffled oars.”
I listened for moment. “The Tesephone,” I said.
The lighter ship would approach the shore first, stern forward, and discharge scouts to survey the beach. If all seemed safe, the larger vessel, the fifty-oared Dorna, would follow. Both vessels would, in this place and time, beach stern first, permitting a quicker return to the water. The lightness and shallow draft of most Gorean vessels makes beaching and half-beaching possible. Stakes and ropes are sometimes used as well to anchor ships in place, particularly ‘round ships’, which have somewhat broader beams than ‘knife ships’. This can be done, too, with knife ships, where the ebb and flow of the tides warrant such a precaution.
“The night is dark,” said Clitus.
“Listen,” I said.
“Yes,” said Clitus.
We sensed, rather than saw, the narrow shape off shore, a darkness within a darkness. There was then no more sound of oars, but, given the silence, they had not yet been drawn inboard. By now two or more men would have slipped over the side and would be wading to shore.
“Let us meet our fellows,” I said, and, followed by Thurnock, Clitus, Aktis, and some others, I descended the beach.
I heard a sword half freed of its sheath.
“Hold,” said a voice some yards before us. “Stand and be recognized.”
“I recommend you do so as well,” I said.
“Captain?” said a voice.
“Port Kar,” I said, “is the scourge of the sea.”
“She is the jewel of gleaming Thassa,” said the voice.
“Welcome,” I said.
“You hold the beach?” asked the voice.
“It is held,” I said.
Shortly thereafter, oars were drawn inboard, crews disembarked, and, with intermittent, soft, sliding sounds, the Tesephone and Dorna were thrust partly onto the beach.
Tab, who had captained the Dorna, and Sakim, who was captaining the Tesephone, soon joined us.
“We feared for you,” said Tab.
“And we for you,” I said.
“Mytilene?” asked Tab.
“Stressed and bloody,” I said, “but whole and free.”
“My caste,” said Thurnock, “the mighty ox on which the Home Stone rests, strung its bows and arrows spoke.”
“Mercenaries suffered grievous losses,” said Clitus, “and soon, as they could, under fire, those who could, sought to avail themselves of the hospitality of the corsair fleet.”
“Longboats were sent forth to ferry them aboard,” said Aktis, “but few such boats, given clouds of arrows, hazarded a second trip.”
“The shore ran with blood,” said Clitus.
“It is getting light,” said a man.
“Report,” I said to Tab and Sakim.
“Seven ships appeared, two days ago, early, emerging from the mists,” said Tab. “At first sight of them, lest landing parties should disembark and trap us ashore, we put to sea, intent on fighting our way to open water.”
“But,” said Sakim, “no effort was made to hinder our escape, nor to follow us. The enemy was inert, like mountains in the sea, between which we might pass, undeterred, unmolested.”
“Why, we wondered,” said Tab, “are they, in their numbers and might, letting us pass.”
“Surely we could easily have rowed on, saving ourselves,” said Sakim.
“They knew you would not do so,” I said.
“How could they have known that?” asked Sakim.
“They know well what they themselves lack,” I said. “They scorn honor themselves, but recognize it in others, and seek to exploit it to their advantage.”
“I was terrified, and seized with a desire to flee, even be it across the waters of the hith,” said Sakim.
“We crossed those water
s earlier,” I said. “We proved them not only passable, but safe.”
“You do not believe the hith exists,” said Sakim.
“I do not think it exists,” I said.
“I have seen it,” said Sakim.
“Many people,” I said, “think they have seen many things. In moments of alarm and stress, or given lights, shadows, and reflections on shifting water, one may imagine what they have not truly seen.”
“I lost a ship,” said Sakim.
“When ships are lost,” I said, “the cause is not always clearly understood.”
“In any event,” said Sakim, “when we passed unhindered through the gathered ships of the corsairs, and might make for Thera, I did not flee. I could not do so. I returned, despite my terror.”
“The enemy knew you would,” I said.
“I did not know myself,” he said.
“You see,” I said, “the enemy knew you better than you knew yourself.”
“It is well that you did not issue orders of escape,” said Thurnock, “for your oarsmen would have broken your back and cast you into the sea.”
“Such are the men of Bosk of Port Kar?” said Sakim.
“They are such,” said Clitus.
“To a man,” said Thurnock.
“We returned,” said Tab.
“Of course,” I said. “To the honorable, not all options are available.”
“Honor,” said Sakim, “would seem to be something of a tactical handicap.”
“One must choose how one will be,” I said, “what one will do, how one will live, for what one will fight.”
“Honor,” said Thurnock, “is what parts men from the urt and ost.”
“I think I know,” said Tab, “why we were not attacked at sea.”
“I am sure you do,” I said.
“They wish to have their vengeance complete,” said Tab. “They wish to take us all together.”
“And can accomplish that,” I said, “only at sea.”
“What are your orders?” asked Tab.
“Rest,” I said, “eat and sleep.”
“Respite will be welcome,” said Tab. “And then to sea.”
“Not immediately,” I said.
“You will dally some days,” asked Tab, “hoping the corsair fleet will grow impatient and depart?”
