Swordsmen of Gor

Chapter Thirty I SPEAK WITH AËTIUS

I felt small, standing on the shore, beside that towering, mighty body, that massive structure, held in its building frame, sloping down to the water.

“There is much to be done,” said Aëtius, once of the arsenal at Port Kar, apprentice to the mad, half-blind shipwright, Tersites, once of the same city, now an embittered expatriate. “The rudder has not been hung at the sternpost.”

“A single rudder?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

The common Gorean galley has two side-rudders, each with its helmsman.

“The masts have yet to be added,” said Aëtius. “There will be six, two aft, two amidships, and two forward. They will be square-rigged, with four spars to the aft and amidship’s masts, and three to the forward masts.”

The usual Gorean ship has a single mast, which is lateen-rigged. In a fighting ship this mast is lowered before battle. Usually the Gorean ship carries three or more sails, to be fastened, as needed, to the long, sloping yard, depending on wind conditions. The smallest sail is the “storm sail.”

“The masts are fixed, permanent?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

The lateen-rigged galley can sail closer to the wind, but, for a given length of yard, it exposes less surface to the wind. The square sails, reefed according to conditions, are all-weather sails, permanent sails. The masts need not be lowered to accommodate changings of sails. Square-rigged vessels are not unknown on Gor. The dragons of Torvaldsland, for example, are square-rigged. Too, they have a single rudder, the “steering board,” which is located on the right side of the vessel, as one faces forward. On Earth vessels of centuries ago the “steering board” on the right side, as one faces forward, apparently gave rise to the expression “starboard.” The “port side,” or left side of the vessel, facing forward, at least on Gor, and perhaps on Earth, may have received its name from keeping harbor buoys to one’s left as the port is entered. This custom regulates harbor traffic, before a berth is reached. Leaving the port, of course, as one is reversing direction, the same line of buoys is once again on the left. This may be a mariner’s tradition brought from Earth. I do not know. Road traffic on Gor, naturally, keeps to the left. In this fashion, one’s weapon hand, if one is right-handed, faces the passing stranger. In Gorean, as in many languages, the same word serves for an enemy and a stranger. To be sure, not all strangers are enemies, and not all enemies, perhaps unfortunately, are strangers. I noted that the ship was carvel-built, with fitted planking, as opposed to being clinker-built, or with overlapping planking. The dragons of Torvaldsland are clinker-built. In this respect they ship more water, but they are more elastic in rough seas, and thus less likely to break apart.

“As you will note, in the frame,” said Aëtius, “the keel is unusually deep.”

“The ship is large,” I said.

“Even so,” he said.

This information made me somewhat apprehensive, for it suggested that the designer of the ship was planning it not for swiftness and maneuverability, common features of a Gorean galley, even the so-called “round ships,” but for stability in serious weather. Most Gorean ships put into port, or beach, frequently, even daily, being light enough to be drawn onto the beach. Many Gorean pilots are reluctant to venture beyond the sight of land, and open-sea voyages of more than a few days are rare, except in Torvaldsland. A ship of this stability and size, of course, might remain at sea indefinitely. I had the sense that this vessel had been designed with an unusual voyage in mind.

“Such a vessel,” I said, “might sail even beyond Cos and Tyros.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Beyond even the Farther Islands,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said, looking away.

“There are no shearing blades, at least as yet,” I said. Such blades are designed to shear away a galley’s oars, thus crippling her, and preparing her for a ramming, usually amidships, which is a blow of considerable force, easily sufficient to rupture and flood the prey vessel, and occasionally sufficient to snap her in two. One of the dangers of ramming is the possibility of fixing one’s ram in the victim and inadvertently sharing her fate. The structure of the ram is designed, naturally, to minimize this eventuality, and to facilitate its withdrawal by back-oaring. Indeed, some rams are fitted with a flaring collar that determines the quantity of penetration into the target. Still the pressures are such that the ram, even so, is occasionally, dangerously, anchored in the victim. Some captains reduce the ramming speed at the last moment to minimize this form of engagement. It is not necessary for the ram to shatter the opposing vessel to guarantee its destruction. If the enemy ship takes in more water than she can expel the ram has done its work. Shearing blades, incidentally, had been an invention of Tersites, many years ago. They had soon become common on all long ships, even those of Cos and Tyros.

“The ship is too massive for them to be effective,” he said.

I did not doubt that. The usual galley could easily avoid such devices.

“There is no ram, as yet,” I observed.

“One is not needed,” he said.

“I suppose not,” I said. I supposed that any vessel so slow or unwary as to come beneath the bow of this leviathan would be shattered like kindling, crushed like a cache of vulo eggs beneath the tread of a tharlarion. Tersites, incidentally, had recommended that the rams of galleys make their strike above the waterline rather than below it. Some shipwrights had acted on this recommendation and others not. The advantage of having the ram above the waterline is that it increases the speed of the ship, particularly if the ram has a flared collar. If the strike is made at or near the waterline the ram’s effectiveness is little compromised, given the rise and fall of the sea.

“How can the ship defend itself?” I asked.

“Variously,” said Aëtius. “To begin with, it is difficult to attack, given its size. The height of the bulwarks, as in round ships, discourages boarding. Here we have an extreme instance of that. Consider the difficulty of scaling the walls of a city, particularly if the city were at sea. And the timbers, particularly at the bow, and in the vicinity of the waterline, are layered horizontally, and interlaid with sheets of metal, to a depth of five feet. Similarly the ship, when fitted, will be equipped with the usual implements of offense, catapults and such. Too, it will have a crew of a thousand or more.”

“So many?” I said.

“We will have here,” said Aëtius, “a fortress, a floating city, with hundreds of defenders, swordsmen, spearmen, archers, and such, who will have the advantage of height.”

“It will move only under sail, I take it,” I said.

“That is its design,” he said. “It is not a galley.”

“The size, the weight,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

I saw no thole ports, near the waterline, even for the great oars, with grips, those used on some round ships, five men to an oar.

“And you yourself, as I understand you to be Bosk, of Port Kar,” he said, “have armed the ship most devastatingly.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Was it not you, on the 25th of Se’Kara,” he asked, “who first used tarns at sea?”

“It was a gamble,” I said.

“The stones were cast well,” said Aëtius.

“As it turned out,” I said.

The tarn is a land bird and will not fly beyond the sight of land. What I had done was to house tarns below decks until we were far from land. Then, in battle, I had released them with riders, primarily to cast vessels of fire upon the ships of Cos and Tyros. Fortunately for us the tarns responded to their straps as though over land. They may have taken the ships below as land, as islands, so to speak, or, perhaps, it was a mere matter that we had not triggered or engaged the bird’s reluctance to forsake the sight of land. I supposed this disposition had been selected for in the course of the beast’s evolution. Tarns which were disposed to leave the sight of land might have perished in the sea, and thus failed to replicate their genes. Tarns which, for whatever reason, or random gift of genes, were reluctant to leave the sight of land might nest, and reproduce.

“The size of the vessel,” said my informant, “is such as to house tarns, their tarnsmen, their tarnsters, their gear, their provender, and such. They may be exercised regularly at sea, and then return to their vessels. Ports for their entry and exit are built into the hull.”

“It is very different from what I am familiar with,” I said.

“There are here, as well,” said Aëtius, “six common galleys. They might prove of use, and are such as may be housed in the great ship.”

“Within the great ship?” I said.

“Precisely,” said Aëtius.

“Are you sure about the single rudder?” I asked. That there was to be a single rudder was clear not only from the claim of Aëtius, but from the massive socketing, at the stern.

“One is enough,” said Aëtius. “The design is effective.”

“I see,” I said. It did seem to me that in a vessel of this size a double rudder might be impractical, and difficult to mount. Too, in a vessel of this size one would not, in any case, look for a delicate responsiveness to the helm, or helms. This was not a long ship, or a dragon of Torvaldsland.

“In a calm sea,” said Aëtius, “there need be only a single helmsman.”

“I see,” I said. One helmsman, of course, can observe, and communicate with, a second helmsman, some yards across the helmdeck. On the other hand, even a single helmsman would not be likely to be alone. There would presumably be a watch in place.

“Where is Tersites?” I asked.

I remembered having seen him long ago, from the Council of Captains, which, at that time, was subordinate to the Five Ubars, competitive captains in the port. Later the council itself had become sovereign. He had tried to bring several of his proposals, dreams, and ideas, before the council, but they had been deemed too radical, even absurd, and had provoked much derision. This lonely genius, or madman, had become a laughing stock. Certainly he had been badly treated. He had tried later to carry his ideas even to the enemies of Port Kar, Cos and Tyros, but had met with no better success in these island ubarates. He had returned destitute to Port Kar, and had fed off garbage in the canals, and, on a pittance provided for him by the shipwrights, despised and derided, had begun to frequent the taverns of the city. He had then disappeared from Port Kar, and his fate had become unknown, at least to most. It was rumored he was somewhere in the vicinity of the northern forests. I had now begun to suspect that someone, or something, sometime, somewhere, had paused to listen, and carefully, thoughtfully, to the ravings of the demented shipwright, and that that someone, or something, had had plenteous resources at its disposal. Repudiated in Port Kar, mocked in Cos and Tyros, humiliated, outraged, and hating, mad, half-blind Tersites, here on the banks of the Alexandra, was selling the fruits of his genius to a buyer whose identity I doubted he knew. Who cares from what purse the gold to realize dreams may be drawn?

“Where is Tersites?” I asked, again.

“I do not know,” said Aëtius, “perhaps on board.”

“I did not see him coming to greet Lord Nishida,” I said.

“We have had nasty weather here,” said Aëtius. “You must have encountered it in the forest.”

“We did,” I said.

“Given a few days,” said Aëtius, “the ship will be ready. The galleys are seaworthy now.”

I supposed the galleys had come from the south, and had been brought upstream, under oars, or towed, perhaps by tharlarion on shore, where the current might be difficult.

“Have you see Tersites of late?” I inquired.

“No,” he said.

“I would like to see him,” I said.

“I am sure you will,” said Aëtius.

“When?” I asked.

“The weather has now changed,” said Aëtius. “This is better for the carpentry.”

“Doubtless,” I said.

“The tarns can be exercised now,” he said.

“I am glad to hear it,” I said.

“What do you think of her?” asked Aëtius, gesturing to the incredible structure looming over us.

“It is not a ship,” I said. “It is an insula, a fortress, a city of wood.”

“Do not look for the lines of a long ship,” said Aëtius. “She is not intended to be such.”

“It is a country, an island of wood,” I said.

“No,” said Aëtius. “She is a ship.”

“She is not made for the shelter of coasts,” I said.

“No,” agreed Aëtius.

I considered the mighty structure. How different it was from the common ships of Gor. It was not built for speed, and its low bulwarks and lowered masts, for concealment. It was not made for approaching, difficult to detect, low on the horizon, for the raid and swift departure. It was not made to come and go, severally, frequently, to beach at night, and embark at dawn. This vessel might venture far, might spend months at sea, with no sight of land. This, I feared, was no common vessel, and intended no common voyage.

“When you get to know her,” said Aëtius, “you will see her might, her power, the beauty of her lines.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“And soon,” he said, “she will be ready, and will depart.”

“Soon ready, perhaps,” I said. “But not to soon depart.”

“Yes,” he said, “to soon depart.”

“Not soon, surely,” I said.

“No, soon,” said he.

“It will soon be winter,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

I was apprehensive.

“How many men were brought from Tarncamp?” asked Aëtius.

“I do not know,” I said, “perhaps eighteen hundred, perhaps nineteen hundred.”

“That is more than we will need,” he said.

“Then release them, with pay,” I said.

“Do not be foolish,” he said.

“You will not pay them?” I asked.

“They will have to be killed,” he said.

“I think not,” I said.

“Do not fear,” he said, “tarnsmen, tarnsters, and such are precious. They are safe. And Lord Nishida will not consent to the decimation of his men. Therefore it is mercenaries, preferably those less skilled, who will have to be thinned.”

“No,” I said.

“Most are renegades, outlaws, sword hirelings, killers,” he said.

“No matter,” I said.

“Berths are limited,” he said.

“I have fought with these men,” I said. “They are sword brothers.”

“Do not fear,” he said. “All this will be done of their own free will. Gold will set them upon one another. They are such. Too, in this way the most skilled will survive.”

“Who is first in this camp?” I asked.

“The daimyo, Lord Okimoto,” said Aëtius.

“I would see him,” I said.

“You shall, you shall,” I was assured.

At that moment we heard the roar of caged larls, as, down from the forest, came the cage wagons housing Lord Nishida’s pets, of which there were some ten, as I had counted, two from the pavilion, and some eight, who had prowled the wands. The larl, as noted, is not native to the northern forests.

“There are several decks on the ship,” Aëtius was explaining to me, outlining, in general, their housings, functions, stores, and such, but I was not listening.

“What is wrong?” he inquired.

“I would see the daimyo, Lord Okimoto,” I said.

“You shall,” said Aëtius.

“Now,” I said.

Aëtius turned then away from the great frame, in which rested the ship of Tersites, like a mountain of fitted wood, a shaped, swelling geometry of tiered planking, and summoned three or four fellows to him, large, burly fellows, artisans I supposed, perhaps dock workers. He indicated me. “Seize and bind him,” he said.