John Norman - Swordsmen of Gor

“What may we expect to encounter?” inquired lord Nishida.

We had been three days on the Alexandra, mainly carried downstream by the current. Small boats, oared, had occasionally preceded us, to confirm soundings. Oddly, I was not clear as to the identity of the ship’s master. It was alleged to be Aetius, who was often seen on the stern castle, but I was uneasy in this matter, as I knew him, rather, as of the shipwrights. To be sure, there was no reason why a shipwright might not possess the seacraft, the judgment and wisdom of a high mariner, but it would be an unusual combination. We did have aboard several mariners, who had had service in round ships. The six nested galleys had their oarsmen and captains, but these captains, presumably, though familiar with the sea, would not be familiar with the problems and requirements of a ship such as that of Tersites. There was no Gorean precedent for the mastery of such a ship. Lords Nishida and Okimoto, of course, were highest amongst us, but neither, surely, was fit to command a vessel of this size, might, and design. Perhaps Aetius was in command. It was not impossible.

“I think,” said Tajima, “they do not realize our nature. They have linked small boats across the mouth of the Alexandra, and prepared others, with ladders and grappling irons, suitable for dealing with round ships. On the banks they have set catapults.”

“Beware,” I said, “of great stones, and flaming pitch.”

“Do you feel, Tajima,” said Lord Nishida, “that the cavalry may deal with such weaponry?”

“Yes,” he said.

“At what strength do you put their forces?” asked Lord Nishida.

“They are like the sands of the shore,” said Tajima. “Their tents are spread for pasangs. I do not doubt but what they have ten thousand men.”

“Surely we have no intention of engaging them,” I said.

“Certainly not,” said Lord Nishida.

“Are there galleys off shore?” I inquired.

“Dozens,” said Tajima. “They dot the sea.”

“Do you think, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Nishida, “they will dispute our passage.”

“Not successfully,” I said.

“Good,” said Lord Nishida.

“I do not think, Lord Nishida,” I said, “that you realize your most dangerous and fearsome enemy, that which you should most fear.”

“And what is that?” he asked.

“Thassa,” said I.

“Ah, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said, “I think it is you who do not understand the most dangerous and fearsome enemy.”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“That which lies at the conclusion of our voyage,” he said.

There was much shrieking and splintering of wood far below, on both sides, as the ship of Tersites, undeterred, made her way to gleaming Thassa. A dozen small boats, unable to escape, many fastened together, were crushed in the passage of the mighty bow of the great ship, and she brushed others aside, dozens, brushed them aside as the limb of a stately, insouciant larl might sweep leaves from its path, scarcely noticing this consequence of its passage. Many of the small ships drew away, their crews awed, white-faced. Never had they seen so mighty a ship as that of Tersites. Other ships, with bolder governors, many with ladders and irons, clung to her flanks, clustered about her, like insects, but their ladders were unavailing, foolish against this behemoth’s sides, and what arm had the strength to cast an iron so high that it might engage the railings towering above? Many of the ships struck into one another, stove one another in, and others were swamped in the swells attending the passage of the great ship. The waters on both sides were filled with debris and struggling men. On both banks there were marshaled infantries, ranks upon ranks, prepared to do war. Many in the farther ranks broke ranks, to press forward, to witness so unaccountable a sight, as though a city might be afloat. Hundreds of men waded into the river, wondering, some pressed by those behind them. The passage of the great ship had not been arrested. There would be no boarding, no escaping of hundreds of men from a grounded, caught, foundering, sinking, burning ship, men to be cut down as they tried to elude the small boats and clamber to shore. And so the infantries stood to the side, on each bank, many men to their waist in the river, astonished, wondering, in the cold water. And I think none then expected to raise their shields, to put their blades and spears that day to battle. Hundreds of tents spread along the beach, perhaps for pasangs, on each side. Our tarnsmen, launched from the ship, attended not to them. We owned the sky. The infantry was not attacked, as the shield roof is easily raised. Massed infantry has little to fear from tarn attack unless, as suggested, it be combined with an attack on foot, with similar forces. Isolated infantrymen fare less well against tarn attack, as the tarnsmen can pick and choose their targets, with relative impunity. Too, it is difficult to defend oneself from low-flying tarns, attacking in concert, from two or three sides at once. The shield, whatever its attitude, can protect from but a single bearing. The attentions of our tarnsmen had been divided between the artillery, the ballistae , the mangonels, the catapults, the springals , on the shore, armed with their missiles and fire, and several galleys offshore. The enemy artillery, where it was not burning, had been deserted. It had been death to man those engines. Bodies, bristling with arrows, lay about them. Most such devices, given their height, or the angle of their fire, could not be well defended from above. Too, roofing, where practical, if not sheathed in metal or coated in wet hides, would succumb to the canisters of pitch and fire, lit and cast by our tarnsmen. Too, a pasang from the beach we could see two galleys aflame, and others had withdrawn from our path. And so it was that at the mouth of the Alexandra, mighty, its passage now uncontested, as tarns returned to the ship, one by one, canvas fell from the yards, took the wind, and the ship of Tersites, her wings spread, set her prow westward.

There was shouting from the shore, as we passed, of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men, and a drumming, rhythmic, that carried over the cold, green waters of gleaming Thassa.

I joined Lord Nishida, and Aetius, at the stern castle.

“We are free of the river,” I said.

“It is treacherous, a liquid snake,” said Aetius.

“It is a beautiful river,” I said, “and one of the few this far north navigable by a vessel this deeply keeled.” Most Gorean galleys could negotiate water as shallow as five to seven feet Gorean. The round ship would need only a few feet more.

“A snake,” said Aetius.

To him, concerned with reaching the sea, bringing his great charge to gleaming Thassa, it had been a menace, a liquid valley, which might contain unseen, submerged mountains of rock, which might tear the bottom from a passing ship. At best it was a twisting, dangerous road.

I looked at the sky. “Perhaps,” I said, “in a day or two you would wish yourself again on the river.”

Surely he could see the lowering sky, the movement of the water ahead. Might not any captain discern such signs, and be wary?

We looked back, at the shore, some two hundred yards astern.

The shouting and drumming continued, but was now little more than a rumble in the distance.

“What are they doing, those soldiers?” asked Lord Nishida, looking back.

There was shouting, and the clashing of blades, and the pounding of spear metal on metal-rimmed shields.

“Master,” said Cecily, who had approached.