Avengers of Gor

by John Norman

  “This time there will be no reckless, mad charge,” I said, “no attempt to intimidate a frightened foe. They will assure themselves of footing. They will form rows for the advance, which would then proceed, step by step. We shall wait until they have four such rows.”

  “Then the lamp,” said Thurnock, igniting the wick.

  “On my signal,” I said.

  The helmsmen of the corsair ship were skilled. In a moment the length of the corsair ship, oars swiftly brought inboard, the vessel then obedient to inertia, would slide parallel to the starboard side of the Tesephone.

  “No!” I heard, a long scream from the water, presumably from one of the mercenaries forced from our deck, or one of those who had earlier preferred the risk of Thassa to that of our crew.

  I heard two more screams, both of which were suddenly stifled or cut short, as the corsair ship slid along our hull, scoring planking.

  Given the movement of the decks, and our changes to the starboard side of the Tesephone, minimizing or eliminating points of purchase, the passage between ships was precarious. Too, I did not think the corsair could hold its current position for more than a few Ihn at a time. Accordingly, the passage between ships would be dangerous, brief, and intermittent. The two ships, the corsair ship and the Tesephone, were literally against one another only briefly, but the gap between them, ranging from a few inches to a yard, held for almost an Ehn; then it widened to four to five feet, and then, once more, was such that it could be easily bridged. After some two or three Ehn, the fourth row was in place, each row consisting of some ten men. We had not yet, muchly concealed behind the screens, attacked the boarders, nor had they, as yet, shields lifted, weapons poised, charged us.

  “Surely we are now rich enough in foes,” said Clitus.

  “Others, behind them,” said Sakim, “are preparing to board.”

  “There will be too many,” said Clitus.

  I brought my arm down, swiftly, and Thurnock dashed the flaming lamp onto the oiled deck before the screens. Instantly spreading fire, like a striking, scarlet snake, raged about the ankles and legs of the mercenaries.

  “Now!” I cried, and I, and my men, some thrusting screens before them, rushed forward. We knew, as the mercenaries presumably would not, that on a flat deck coated with a layer of oil, that the flames, after their initial flaring, would provide little impedance to the business of war. One might fight amongst them, as they subsided, even with them about one’s ankles. The primary effect of the flames would be psychological, disconcerting and alarming. Despite this, several of my men had soaked their footgear with water and wrapped their lower legs with water-soaked rags. I did not object to this. It allayed fear in some of my men and the sight of them being presumably so protected against fire would most likely further alarm mercenaries, realizing they lacked such putative protection. What I had not anticipated was the alarm amongst the officers and seamen of the corsair ship. They did not realize the nature of the fire, its extent or violence. Some thought that our ship was genuinely afire, either by accident or that we had deliberately fired the ship, certain that all was lost, to immolate our vessel and the corsair ship in a common conflagration.

  Few unfamiliar with maritime matters realize the seaman’s terror of fire at sea. One of a mariner’s worst nightmares is to awaken at night to the cry of “Fire!” Fire at sea is quite different from fire on land, say, in a house or village. There is nowhere to run. Flames burn and water drowns. If one is fortunate, one might people a longboat, a small vulnerable craft, with limited water and food, on a wide, lonely sea.

  “Oars out, thrust away!” I heard from the corsair vessel.

  Oars from the corsair ship thrust out, striking our hull, trying to move their ship from our proximity.

  “Back, back,” cried a mercenary officer on our deck, looking behind him, and men began, sustaining our determined, fierce attack, to back away. Some lost their balance and fell backwards into the sea. Others threw away their shields and weapons and leapt from the Tesephone to the water now separating us from the corsair ship.

  Ropes were cast down from the corsair ship, which were grasped by struggling men. One man, screaming, was pulled away from a rope by a shark. This was surprising as sharks are not normally found in deep, open water, far from the shallower water housing the banks of flora fed upon by smaller fish. The shark in question was presumably one the few who will follow a ship in open water, sometimes for days, feeding off garbage cast overboard.

  “Shall we fire on the survivors?” asked Thurnock.

  “No,” I said, “they are sword brothers.”

  “I do not understand the scarlet caste,” said Thurnock.

  “Nor I the caste upon which the Home Stone rests,” I said.

  “The foe spared,” said Thurnock, “may one day kill you.”

  “It is a matter of codes,” I said.

  “The flames subside,” said Clitus.

  “They might rise again,” I said.

  “Oil is left,” said Thurnock.

  “The enemy draws away,” said Sakim.

  “He fears fire,” said Thurnock.

  “Perhaps he has had enough,” said Clitus.

  “That is my hope,” I said.

  At that point there was a cheer from behind us, across the decks, from the Dorna.

  “I take it that the Dorna has repelled boarders,” I said.

  “It seems so,” said Thurnock.

  I detected, briefly, a wisp of burnt oil.

  We were then joined not only by those men we had sent to assist the Dorna, but by several from the Dorna herself.

  “Those on the corsair ship will not be pleased,” said Clitus.

  “Not only are we no longer undermanned,” said Sakim, “but now we are reinforced.”

  We watched the corsair ship take aboard her mercenaries, one by one. Not long afterward, she drew farther away, and was joined by the ship which had attacked the Dorna. Both then lay to.

  “We are victorious,” said a man. “There is paga on the Dorna. Let us celebrate.”

  “We are now in our greatest danger,” I said. “Boarding was intended to secure our vessels, to garner the Dorna and Tesephone, valuable, fine ships, as prizes. Boarding was unsuccessful.”

  Thurnock, Clitus, and Sakim exchanged glances.

  “Unlash the Dorna and Tesephone,” I said. “We will not be taken and slaughtered like penned verr.”

  “We are short even on oars,” said Sakim.

  “Two of their ships have not even been engaged,” said Clitus.

  “The Tesephone is light,” said Sakim. “The Dorna can scarcely limp at sea.”

  “We will do what we can,” I said.

  “It is now that the ram speaks,” said Thurnock.

  “Their rams,” said Sakim.

  “I fear so,” I said.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The Arithmetic of Battle

  “Take in the sail, lower the yard and mast,” said Sakim. “You must maneuver as you can. You must be able to turn short, in an Ihn to shift course, to backoar at a blow on the drum. How can you fight when the wind has its hand on your tunic? You cannot fight the wind. It may be your foe. It impedes helming!”

  Sakim’s advice was sound.

  It is for just such reasons that knife ships lower the mast, yard, and sails before entering combat.

  “At least, Captain,” said Clitus, “would it not be desirable to take down the mast, that we be less easily seen at sea.”

  “See the sail,” said Sakim. “It is swollen with wind. It can be seen for pasangs.”

  “Our position is known to the enemy,” I said.

  “Let our mast stay high, let our sail remain full,” said Thurnock. “Thus we show our scorn of the enemy.”

  “It will be difficult to fight with the sail so,” s
aid Sakim.

  “It is no fight we can win,” I said.

  “We repelled boarders,” said Sakim. “We then freed the Dorna and cast her a towing line. We have tried to outdistance the enemy. We have failed. Now, Captain, lower the mast, turn about, and meet the enemy.”

  “There are worse ways to die,” said Clitus.

  “Cut the towing line,” I said.

  “Captain Tab,” said Sakim, “has urged you to abandon the Dorna.”

  “I do not choose to do so,” I said.

  “You can take Captain Tab and his crew aboard,” said Thurnock.

  “That we would all die together, crowded on one ship?” I asked.

  “The towing line is cut,” said a seaman.

  “Good,” I said. “The Dorna will be safer, free.”

  “We will guard her flank,” said Thurnock.

  “And who, mighty peasant, will guard ours?” asked Sakim.

  “In battle,” I said, “there are many turns and twists.”

  “I am curious, Captain,” said Sakim, “why you have persisted in holding our course for Sybaris and not the Cove of Harpalos, which is closer.”

  “Do not concern yourself, friend,” I said. “We could not have reached either before being overtaken.”

  “But you had a reason?” said Sakim.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Sakim, Thurnock, Clitus, and myself were on the stem deck of the Tesephone. I surveyed the horizon with a glass of the Builders.

  “Captain Tab,” said a seaman, from below us on the steps of the stem deck, “as he deems battle is imminent, has signaled for permission to lower his mast and sail.”

  “Convey my regards to the captain,” I said. “Permission is not granted.”

  “Thus we scorn the foe,” said Thurnock, grimly.

  “Dear friends,” I said, “the enemy has recently shown, by preferring boarding to ramming, that he would like to obtain our ships, the Dorna and the Tesephone, as prizes, and doubtless most the Dorna. What then would you think of the following proposal? I mention it for your consideration. We trade our lives for our ships. The enemy obtains our ships and we retain our lives.”

  I lowered the glass of the Builders.

  I was not pleased with what the glass had revealed.

  “I think the enemy would be most happy with that proposal,” said Sakim.

  “Perhaps we could add a demand for some coin in the bargain and be guaranteed a free passage to a safe port,” I said.

  “They would grasp at such a bargain,” said Clitus.

  “As would a hungry urt or a cunning ost,” said Thurnock.

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “We would depend, of course, on their honor,” said Sakim.

  “Of course,” I said. “Who doubts the honor of liars, villains, murderers, and hypocrites?”

  “Should we not just present our throats to their knives?” asked Thurnock.

  “I gather,” I said, “that my proposal does not meet with your approval.”

  “That is correct, Captain,” said Sakim.

  “I thought it might not,” I said.

  “The battle clearly lost,” said Clitus, “we might fire our ships, and charge the enemy. Flames might thusly spread to one or another of our foes.”

  “The Dorna could be easily avoided,” I said.

  “We could turn the Tesephone into a torch,” said Thurnock. “For an Ahn I would match her against anything on the sea, regardless of the enemy’s frequent shifts of oarsmen.”

  “She will not be so swift if stove in, her decks buckled, her hold heavy with water,” I said.

  “We could fire her before action begins,” said Thurnock.

  “Defeat,” I said, “is not to be purchased prematurely.”

  “You have hope, Captain?” asked Sakim.

  “Why not?” I said. “It is free.”

  “You think somehow to outdistance the enemy?” asked Sakim.

  I handed the glass of the Builders to Sakim.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Look ahead, then to the sides, and then astern.”

  A bit later, Sakim returned the glass of the Builders.

  “We are surrounded,” he said.

  “And have been, for some time,” I said.

  “How is it possible?” asked Thurnock.

  “We were towing the Dorna,” I said.

  “She is free now,” said Clitus.

  I called down to the main deck. “Oars, rest,” I said. “Heave to.”

  “You will make your stand here?” said Sakim.

  “Yes,” I said.

  It is wise to assume that one’s opponents are shrewd and competent. Underestimating the foe is a mistake few swordsmen, or commanders, will make.

  Similarly, when possible, one declines engagement when one is at a disadvantage. Unfortunately, this is not always possible.

  The most common form of disadvantage, assuming a parity of weaponry and skills, is to be outnumbered at a given time and place.

  This is most simply illustrated in swordplay in which two blades are set against one. A swordsman can engage but one opponent at a time, and this renders him vulnerable to the other, however brief the engagement. If, instead, he defends himself against one, with a particular parry, however swift, he is exposed to the thrust of the other.

  Something very similar to this occurs in Gorean naval warfare, where, commonly, the ship is the weapon. Let us suppose, for example, two ships are matched against one ship. In attacking a given ship, the attacker is commonly vulnerable to the attack of the other.

  “The Tesephone is swift, Captain,” said Thurnock. “Would that we could pretend flight, separate pursuers, and then turn about and engage them, one at a time.”

  “Would indeed that it were practical,” I said. “But even if we were willing to abandon the Dorna, we are short of open water. We could be cut off. The enemy is about us.”

  “Too,” said Sakim, “the Tesephone is light. She would need a long, clear course to accumulate enough speed to break through the timbers of a fifty-oared vessel.”

  “Which course,” I said, “is not likely to be permitted her.”

  “Foe to starboard!” called Clitus.

  “Her ram is set for the Dorna!” cried Thurnock.

  “The parry, the parry!” I called to the helmsmen.

  At the same time the mallet of the keleustes pounded on the metal drum.

  This maneuver borrows its name from swordplay. My anticipation of its utility had motivated my current position vis-à-vis the Dorna. The point of the parry is not to directly block a blow but to move it from its course, to cause it to deviate. If we were to interpose the hull of Tesephone directly between her and the attacker we would save the Dorna but only at the expense of the Tesephone. It was my hope that we could, with harrowing but acceptable damage, bring the forward starboard side of the Tesephone against the side of the attacking ship in such a way as, given the attacker’s speed, to force his thrust wide of the Dorna.

  There was a screech of metal at our forward starboard side where our bow and ram had struck against the port shearing blade of the enemy.

  This impact caused the enemy to veer to starboard.

  “She is wide of the Dorna!” cried Thurnock, jubilantly.

  “Another against the Dorna, abeam of her!” called Sakim.

  “We cannot protect her!” I said.

  “Enemy astern!” called Clitus.

  I spun about to see a great ship looming behind us.

  “Away, to port! To port!” I called to the helmsmen.

  The mallet of the keleustes rang on the metal drum.

  There was a brutal shock and a sudden, ear-shattering tearing of wood behind us and Clitus, Sakim, Thurnock, and myself fell to the remaining boards
of the stem deck. We saw, rearing above us, slipping past to starboard, the stem castle of the enemy.

  We struggled to our feet, the ship rocking to port.

  “The starboard rudder, gone!” called a helmsman.

  “There are two now, aligned against the Dorna,” said Sakim.

  That would be the attack ship and her guard ship.

  Meanwhile, the ship which had torn away our starboard rudder was slowly coming about, for another attack.

  “We are lost,” said Sakim. “Prepare to fire the ships.”

  “Ready oil and flame,” I said.

  “So signal the Dorna,” said Sakim.

  “No, my friend,” I said. “Tab stands as captain of the Dorna. At such a moment that command is his alone to give or withhold.”

  There are commonly two justifications for so desperate a measure as to fire one’s own ship. The first is to guarantee that the ship does not fall to the enemy; the second is to attempt to take the enemy down with one. Given the proximities inevitably involved in ramming and shearing it can be highly dangerous to approach a flaming ship. From the point of view of the incendiaries, the torching of the ship must be arranged in such a manner as to put the enemy at the highest risk possible. This means either that one takes the flaming ship to the enemy, or fires the ship unexpectedly when the enemy finds himself in a position from which it is difficult to withdraw.

  At this point I was reasonably sure, despite the loss of one of our rudders, that we could bring the Tesephone, aflame, against one of the enemy ships. Over a short distance I would have matched her in speed against anything on Thassa. The Dorna, on the other hand, was crippled, and slow in the water.

  Which of the enemy ships, I wondered, now served as the enemy fleet’s flagship?

  The position of the four enemy ships was now as follows. Two were aligning themselves against the Dorna, which had now come about to face them. Another, she who had broken away our starboard rudder, was now poised to renew her attack. We had come about to face her. The fourth enemy ship, which lay a quarter of a pasang ahead, off our bow, was now approaching.

  “Captain Tab,” said Clitus, pointing to port, “is preparing oil.”

  “If it be his order,” I said, “be it so.”