John Norman - Guardsman of Gor

Using the oar and thole port I drew myself upward. In a moment I was over the rail and on the deck of Spined Tharlarion . The stem castle was empty. The few men on the decks did not attack me. I saw the attacking vessel moving backward, trying to maneuver. She would try to come in with her ram, and, doubtless, later board. The stem castle was empty. There was a figure on the stern castle. His back was to me. I saw him ripping away the insignia of the captain from his robes. Two pirates leapt overboard, on the port side. I hastened down the deck and raced up the stairs to the stern castle. He spun to face me, the golden cordage of the captain in his right hand. “Greetings, Ragnar Voskjard,” I said to him, “I have come to fetch you.”

He reached for his sword, but the point of my sword was in his belly. He removed his hand from the hilt of his blade.

“That is better,” I said. “Now, on the deck, on your belly, to be stripped and bound.”

He looked at me, in fury. I grinned, and, loosing the wrist sling of the sword, flung it into the deck beside me.

He looked at the sword, upright in the deck beside me.

“Now,” I told him.

His eyes glinted.

Swiftly he attempted to draw his blade. Instantly I was before him and caught him with a balled fist, driven upward into his gut. He looked at me, sick, bent over. I then measured him, and, at my leisure, from the balls of my feet, with the full force of my shoulders and arm, struck him, spinning, from his feet. I walked over to where he had fallen. I dragged him back by his ankles to the center of the small, high deck of the stern castle, where I put him on his belly.

“You would be troublesome,” I told him. I knelt across his body. “I was once a fighting slave,” I told him. With strips of cloth cut from his garments I tied his hands behind his back. “Perhaps you even, at one time or another, have bet upon fellows such as I was.” He moaned. “It is amusing, is it not,” I asked, “that the great Ragnar Voskjard is now naught but the prisoner of an ex-fighting-slave?”

“Free me,” he begged. I tightened the knots that confined him. “I will pay you much,” he said. “What pay could compare with the pleasure of taking the Voskjard prisoner?” I asked. “Mercy,” he said. “No,” I said. “You need not have tied me so tightly,” he said. “It amused me,” I told him. I smiled to myself. It was a Gorean answer.

Suddenly the ship shook with a great impact. “We have been rammed!” cried the Voskjard. “It is the ship which sheared your starboard oars,” I told him. “She flies, as I now see, the colors of Turmus.”

“We shall sink!” cried the Voskjard. “Not immediately,” I told him. I stood up, the bound Voskjard between my feet. “They are preparing to board, as I see,” I said. “Surrender me to the men of Turmus,” he begged. I, with the sword, then cut his garments from him. He was then naked between my feet. “You are my prisoner,” I told him. From the straps of his sword belt I improvised a short leash for him. “Do not permit me to fall into the hands of those of Victoria!” he begged.

“You would have sacked their town. You have seen them fight,” I said. “Keep me from the men of Victoria,” he begged. “They are boarding now, many of them, the fellows of Turmus,” I observed. “Give me to them,” he begged.

“On your feet, Sleen,” I told him. I dragged him to his feet by the leash. “Give me to the men of Turmus!” he begged. “And let them cheat me of my prisoner?” I asked. “Who are you?” he asked, frightened. “Jason,” I told him, “Jason-of Victoria.”

“No!” he cried. I then threw him from the lofty stern castle of Spined Tharlarion , bound, into the water. I then thrust my hand through the wrist sling of the sword and, seizing it, withdrew it from the wood. I waved to the fellows of Turmus, swarming onto the already listing deck of Spined Tharlarion . I then, feet first, leaped downward into the water, landing near the floundering Ragnar Voskjard. In a moment I had my hand on the short leash I had devised for his throat and, he on his back, helpless, my prisoner, was towing him toward the flagship of Policrates.

The battle, I gathered, was muchly over.

The Voskjard grunted, and half choked, as I hauled him, partly by the neck leash, partly by his arm, over the rail of the flagship of Policrates. I threw him on his belly, on the listing, awash deck, at my feet. The flagship of Policrates seemed deserted. She had been rammed. I did not think she would stay long afloat.

The waters off the Victoria wharves seemed crowded, but many of the ships were aflame.

The alarm bar was ringing in Victoria, but now in token of victory. There were crowds upon the concourse. Garlanded, white-clad maidens could be seen. At the front edge of the concourse, near the wharves, pirates, in rows, stripped and bound, lay on their bellies. Maidens cast flowers upon them, and some of these maidens, from their own heads, placed garlands upon the brows of the victors.

Ragnar Voskjard tried to rise, but my foot, thrust between his shoulder blades, pressed him rudely back to the deck. “Free me,” he begged. “Be silent,” I said. I then stood with my left foot on his back, holding him in place. I had thought that I had heard a noise. I then dragged him, half strangling him, up the sloping deck to the starboard rail, where, with a swift knot, I tied him to one of the uprights supporting the rail. He turned on his side, to regard me. “If the ship sinks,” he said, hoarsely, “I am helpless.”

“Yes,” I said.

I turned about.

Forty feet away, down the deck, amidships, sword in hand, half crouching, blade ready, slowly approaching, I saw Kliomenes.

“You must have hidden,” I told him, “perhaps in the lower hold. Then, when the ship was rammed, when the hold began to fill with water, you were forced upward, as an urt.”

He continued to approach. I observed the point of the blade. The eyes of a man can lie. The point of the blade cannot.

“Where are Policrates and Callisthenes?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said.

“Free me. Free me!” cried Ragnar Voskjard.

“It is every man for himself,” said Kliomenes. He then rushed fiercely upon me. I defended myself in four exchanges. Then he stepped back.

“Do not permit your arm to grow weary,” I told him. “Perhaps you would give me your tunic,” I said. “I do not wish to become chilled. The air on the river is cooler now.”

With a cry of rage he again rushed upon me and, again, I merely defended myself.

Sometimes we were ankle-deep in the water on the deck and, sometimes, near the port rail, we fought in water to our knees. Twice he slipped, but I did not strike him.

Then he stood, knee deep in the water, soaked, gasping. “Remove your tunic,” I told him.

With two hands holding the sword he stumbled toward me, exhausted, striking downward. I slipped to the side and my blade’s point was then entered into his right side. He shuddered, bent over, his head over the water. “Discard your blade,” I told him. He released the weapon. I stepped back, my blade ready. “Go to the starboard rail,” I told him.

He waded to the starboard rail, and I followed him. A single stroke could have severed his spine.

“Kneel down,” I told him, “facing me.”

He did so.

“Remove your tunic,” I told him.

He did so.

“You are my prisoner,” I said.

“Don’t strike me,” he suddenly said.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” I said. “Turn about,” I ordered him.

Frightened, he did so.

“Will I strike you?” I asked him.

“I do not know,” he said.

“On your belly,” I told him, “and place your hands, crossed, behind you.”