John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“You will soon see what your braggadocio will gain you,” said my guard, whose sword I clutched.

There was laughter about us.

I then heard the sounds of chains, moving in a slow cadence. My fellows, now in close chains and ankle coffle, from the room of the windlass, were being brought out to observe what was to be done to me.

I put my head down, as though shamed, to be exposed as a liar before them. This way, too, my smile, that they were no longer in the room of the windlass, and were heavily chained, could be concealed. It would be several Ehn, surely, before they could be returned to the room of the windlass and manage to raise the sea gate.

“Back away. Give us room,” said Kliomenes, approaching. I shuddered, and stepped back. He handed his sword to a fellow and pulled his tunic down to the waist. He then took his sword back, and, with a slash or two in the air, tried its balance. I saw that his blade would move with great swiftness. I was also reassured that mine could move even more swiftly.

“Clear more space,” said Kliomenes.

The men moved back, around us, clearing a broad circle. Two of the men with Kliomenes, I noticed, had their own blades drawn. If, perchance, he found himself in difficulties, I did not doubt but what they would soon interpose themselves on his behalf. It would do me no good, of course, even if I could manage it, to wound or slay Kliomenes within the confines of the present situation. My objective was not to deal with him, so to speak, but to extricate myself from the holding. My only chance in this rapid, dark matter, as I saw it, was to enlist his vanity and, hopefully, a recklessness attendant upon it, in my own cause.

“Are you ready, my stalwart simpleton, my handsome braggart, to now make good your showy boasts?” inquired Kliomenes.

I looked to the fellows from the windlass. They stood there, locked in their chains, grim and sullen. A miserable looking crew, I thought. Their despondency pleased me. In spite of my vainglorious carryings-on in the room of the windlass, which doubtless they must have found tiresome, it did not seem, even so, that they were looking forward eagerly to seeing me butchered before their very eyes. This pleased me. It also encouraged me to believe that they would find it difficult to make their way rapidly back to the room of the windlass. Hurried, they might even be expected to fall, or to become entangled in their chains. Such things can happen.

The blade, suddenly, darted toward me.

I stumbled backward, off balance.

“Lucky parry,” said one of the pirates.

“There is no Callimachus to rescue you now, Dolt,” said Kliomenes, measuring me, the point of his blade moving subtly, a yard or so from my chest.

Then, again, the blade struck, swift as an ost toward me.

“The dock worker is fortunate,” said one of the pirates.

But then I was afraid, for I realized that Kliomenes had intended, that time, to truly strike me. He had now backed away, and was regarding me, warily. One such parry might be fortunate, but that two such parries should follow one another, apparently so clumsy, and yet, both, similarly effective, would surely appear to defy the probabilities involved in such matters.

“He is skilled,” said Kliomenes.

“He is clumsy!” laughed one of the men. There was more laughter. “Are you afraid, Kliomenes?” asked another.

Kliomenes glanced to the two men nearest him, those with their swords drawn. At a word from him, of course, both would rush upon me, and then, perhaps, others.

I dropped my sword.

Kliomenes tensed, but did not rush forward. “You could have killed him then,” said a man.

I, clumsily, picked up the sword, breathing heavily. I looked at Kliomenes, as though frightened.

Kliomenes was regarding me, undecided. He knew that I could have retrieved the sword before he could have reached me. He did not know, however, for certain, that I also knew that.

“Have mercy, Captain,” I said to him.

“He’s afraid,” said one of the pirates.

I then realized that I must play a most dangerous game. It was not the others I must convince of my ineptitude with the blade, but Kliomenes himself. The others did not matter.

“Forgive me, Captain,” I begged. I then knelt and put the sword on the walkway before me. Then I slid it, hilt first, toward him.

There were snorts of scorn from the pirates about.

“Please, Captain,” I begged, “let me be returned to the windlass.”

Kliomenes smiled. “Coward,” said more than one of the pirates to me.

I knelt at the mercy of Kliomenes, defenseless. He could then have rushed upon me and slaughtered me like a tethered verr.

“Please, Captain,” I seemed to beg, “let me be returned to the windlass.”

Kliomenes looked about himself, and smiled. Then he kicked the blade back to me. “Take up your sword,” he said.

I reached for the blade and, as I did so, he rushed upon me, and I met the blade, striking downwards, with a dash of steel and a shower of sparks. He was off balance and I reared upward, close to him, within his guard, seizing him and half turning him in the crook of my right arm, the blade in that hand. “Back away!” I cried to the pressing others. Kliomenes cried out with misery. My left hand was now in his hair, pulling his head back, and the blade of my sword lay across his throat.

“Back away!” whispered Kliomenes, tensely, held. I turned, holding him, seeing that the others kept their distance.

“Do not come closer,” I warned the pirates, “or his throat is cut.”

“I slipped,” said Kliomenes. “I slipped.”

“Drop your sword,” I told Kliomenes. He did so.

“Release him,” said one of the pirates. “You cannot escape.”

“Put down your swords,” I told them. “Put them on the walk.”

They hesitated and Kliomenes felt the edge of the steel, set to slide on his throat.

“Put down your swords, Fools!” said Kliomenes.

I saw the steel, blade by blade, sheathed and unsheathed, put to the stones of the walk.

My steel was then to the back of Kliomenes. “Precede me to the parapets,” I told him. “Do not follow,” I warned the pirates.

“Surrender your sword,” said Kliomenes.

“Hurry,” I told him.

“You have nothing with which to bargain,” he said.

“I have your life,” I told him. He tensed. “Before you could run two steps,” I told him, “I could have you half on my sword or cut your head from your body.”

“Perhaps not,” said Kliomenes, uneasily.

“It is a risk I am content to take,” I informed him. “Are you?”

He looked at me.

I opened my left hand, at my hip. “If necessary,” I said, “I am prepared to conduct you to the parapets, bent over, as a female slave.”

“That will not be necessary,” he said. He turned, then, and preceded me about the walkway bordering the lake-like courtyard. I looked back and saw the group of pirates. They did not follow. They stood near the iron door, the entry into the inner holding. Their steel lay still about their feet.

“Put aside your bow,” I ordered one of the men on the walls, climbing toward the parapets.

“Put away your bow,” ordered Kliomenes, angrily, preceding me.

In a few moments, walking along the parapets, we had come to the edge of the west gate tower, that which houses, in its lowest level, the chamber of the windlass.

Two or three of the men, their bows in hand, edged near us.

“Put aside your bows,” I told them.

“Do as he says,” said Kliomenes, angrily.

The bows were put to their feet. They were short, ship bows, stout and maneuverable, easy to use in crowded quarters, easy to fire across the bulwarks of galleys locked in combat. I had seen only such bows in the holding of Policrates. Their rate of fire, of course, is much superior to that of the crossbow, either of the draw or windlass variety. All things considered, the ship bow is an ideal missile weapon for close range naval combat. It is superior in this respect even to the peasant bow, or long bow, which excels it in impact, range and accuracy.