Mariners of Gor

Chapter Sixteen

I let the glass of the Builders, in its sling, drop to my hip. “Ho!” I called down to the deck. “Ship! Ship, to the bow, starboard!”

Those on deck rushed to the starboard rail. I saw men moving about, too, on both the stem and stern castles. Officers were emerging from below decks, men, too. The bar, under its hammer, rang alert.

We had seen little that seemed dangerous in the last several days, despite the fears of Lord Nishida. Oddly, however, once or twice, we had noted a dark cloud in the sky, from which a dust of ash had coated sails and fallen to the deck. At the same time, the wind, fitfully, had seemed acrid, and breathing had been unpleasant.

Now, however, the sky was blue, the clouds white, the air clear. Thassa was serene, the wind gentle.

Orders had been issued from the stern castle, for the great ship heaved to. Shortly thereafter one of the nested galleys was being lowered to the water. An Ahn later I reported the galley had hoisted the green pennon.

The ship that I had seen was much like those lost amongst the serpentine entanglements of the Vine Sea.

It held no steady course, and was, as far as we could tell, until investigated, adrift.

The hoisting of the green pennon had been premature, a mistake that would not be repeated.

We would lose, in consequence, one of our four remaining galleys.

By the time the great ship drew near the drifting vessel, my watch was done, but I remained on deck. The galley was drawn up alongside the apparent derelict. From the starboard rail, given the height of the ship of Tersites, we could look down on both our galley and, higher, the deck of the seemingly unmanned ship.

“I do not like it,” said Tarl Cabot to Pertinax, the two of them some few feet from me.

“It is ugly,” said Pertinax.

The encountered ship had two masts, but it bore no sails. From each of the two yards there hung several bound bodies, suspended by the feet, whose throats, it seemed, from the condition of the deck below, had been cut, perhaps a moment before they were emplaced, dying. Similarly, several others were nailed, by hands and feet, to the masts, the deck, and bulwarks.

“Yes,” said Cabot to Pertinax, “ugly, indeed, but that is done. What I do not like, now, is what is not done.”

“I do not understand,” said Pertinax.

“I am not sure,” said Cabot. “It may be nothing.” He looked about, and saw me. “Callias,” he said, “summon Lord Nishida.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Lord Okimoto, who was nearby, Tyrtaios at his side.

“Lord?” said Cabot.

“Speak to the commander,” said Lord Okimoto to Tyrtaios.

“I am informed, commander, by Lord Okimoto,” said Tyrtaios, “that the ship, as seems obvious, is a warning ship, and that it is perhaps one of several. Further, you may have noted the scrolls which were hung amongst the bodies, and from the yards. They are identical. Some have been brought aboard. I cannot read the writing as it is in a strange script, but the message is in Gorean, and has been conveyed to me by his Excellency, Lord Okimoto. The scrolls allege that the bodies on the ship are those of criminals, men who were enemies of the shogun, men who conspired against him, who dared oppose his will, whose loyalty was suspect, who failed to pay their taxes, who tried to hide food, who failed to speak of him with sufficient reverence, such things.”

“I see,” said Cabot. “And who is this shogun?”

“The great lord, Yamada, our enemy,” said Lord Okimoto.

“I am uneasy,” said Cabot.

“You may speak to Tyrtaios,” said Lord Okimoto.

“I would consult with Lord Nishida,” said Cabot to Tyrtaios.

Tyrtaios looked to Lord Okimoto. “Of course,” said Lord Okimoto. He then turned about, and left, and, in a moment, was followed by Tyrtaios, who, I suspected, did not care to follow any man.

“There is danger here,” said Cabot to me.

I recalled the beacon.

Cabot looked over the rail, at the presumed derelict. “Was the ship examined?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Men went below decks. Else the green pennon would not have been flown.”

“Were any of the Pani?” asked Cabot.

“No,” I said. The launched galley had been manned by mariners, oared by armsmen.

“Summon Lord Nishida,” said Cabot to me.

“Lord Okimoto will not be pleased,” I said.

“Summon him,” said Cabot.

I turned about and hurried aft, below decks, where I found Lord Nishida, in his cabin, in meditation.

“Lord,” I said, softly, for he seemed utterly still, sitting on a woven mat, with his legs crossed.

Two contract women, as they are called, Sumomo and Hana, knelt nearby.

Though he had been absolutely still, at this tiny sound, my voice, he lifted his head, instantly alert.

“The commander of the tarn cavalry would speak with you,” I said. “We have come upon a ship, a strange ship, adrift, filled with bodies and scrolls.”

“Why was I not informed?” he asked.

I looked to the two women in the background, kneeling. The woman, Hana, looked at Sumomo, frightened. “Lord Nishida,” said Sumomo, “was in meditation.”

“Men have been about,” I said, “there has been noise, shouting, the bar was hammered, to signal an alert.”

“Lord Nishida was in meditation,” said Sumomo.

“I feared this,” said Lord Nishida, winding his sash about his widely sleeved robe, and thrusting two swords, both curved, a longer and a shorter, within the sash.

In an Ehn he was on the open deck, hurrying to the starboard rail, where he stood beside Cabot, his hands on the rail, looking over, past the galley, to the deck of the seeming derelict.

“The demon, Yamada,” he hissed.

“It is a warning ship, it seems,” said Cabot.

“I fear it is more than that,” said Lord Nishida. “Who has boarded that ship?”

“Mariners, armsmen,” said Cabot.

“None of my men, none of the men of Lord Okimoto?” said Lord Nishida.

“I do not think so,” said Cabot.

“Have you heard or seen anything unusual,” asked Lord Nishida, “a whistle, a flash of fire?”

“No,” said Cabot.

“There may be time,” said Lord Nishida. “Do not strike the bar. Call softly. Recall the galley, the men, instantly.”

“I do not understand,” said Pertinax.

“They are waiting for the others,” said Lord Nishida.

At that moment there was a long whistle, and I picked out a shaft, an ascending arrow, fired from somewhere on the ship below. It reached the zenith of its flight, turned in the air, scarcely visible, and then, with a different whistling pitch, descended. Almost at the same time, another arrow, trailing a spume of smoke, ascended from the ship, paused at the height of its trajectory and then, trailing its tail of smoke, descended, falling into the water.

While this was going on Lord Nishida cried to the deck watch, “The bar, the bar, strike it, strike it.”

Below, as though from nowhere, large numbers of men, of the Pani sort, emerged wildly from hatches, screaming, wielding weapons, swarming over the deck.

The bar began to sound, hammered again and again.

Weapons would be issued.

The boarding party below had been armed, of course, but on the great ship itself, on deck, few were armed, only the officers, some guards, and the deck watch. Our first defense, of course, was the ship itself, its height.

To my dismay I saw the boarding party, surprised and outnumbered by dozens to one, swept aside in bloody rout. A hundred Pani must have leapt into the galley, which rocked and almost capsized.

The enemy, I gathered, had not expected a vessel the size of the ship of Tersites, and many stood confused below, crying out, and shaking their weapons. This was no ascent of a few feet, to the deck of a common round ship, or that of the batten-sailed ships of the sort with which we had familiarized ourselves in the Vine Sea.

Some grapnels, on knotted rope, were slung upward from the galley, but fell short.

I heard weapons being spilled on the deck, brought from below, and men seized up blades, spears, axes, and pikes. And armed men, in their dozens, were pouring onto the deck, having armed themselves below in the weapon rooms.

I saw fires lit on the ship which had seemed deserted, save for the dead, when we had come upon it.

Fire, if it can but obtain its hold, may climb to the clouds.

The Pani below had set fire to our galley and were trying to thrust it against our hull. Those who had boarded it but moments ago leapt into the water or perished in the flames.

“Bring water from port!” screamed Aetius from the stern-castle deck. “Protect my ship! Save my ship!” screamed Tersites, from beside him.

Buckets, on ropes, were thrown to port, to draw water, to fight flames.

Our galley burned beside our hull, on the starboard side.

The Pani who had surprised our boarding crew had apparently been concealed below, under the compartments. Our Pani might have suspected this, but the boarding crew, being less familiar with the draft and construction of such ships, had not.

“To port, to port!” cried Aetius to the helm deck.

The great ship, sails unfurled to the wind, rudder turned, moved to port, away from the derelict, and our burning galley.

Many men were now armed.

But there seemed little need, now, of the sword, the spear.

“Take in all weapons!” called Aetius from the stern castle, to the deck watch. “Turn in all weapons.” Aetius, since the mutiny, was zealous to keep the crew unarmed.

“No!” called Tyrtaios. “No, by order of his Excellency, Lord Okimoto!”

Weapons had been issued, as noted, in the general alarm. I was not sure it would be easy to retrieve them from men such as manned the great ship.

Why, I wondered, would Lord Okimoto wish to have the men retain arms. It now seemed clear, as it had not before, that there was little danger of being boarded, that the enemy had not the engines by means of which that might be effected.

Then I shuddered, suspecting the purpose of the Pani lord. The ship, the danger of fire now muchly averted, was to return to the derelict, and men were to descend to the derelict, and eliminate any who might live to tell of the great ship, its nature, its men, its course. I shuddered, remembering the fate of the Metioche. Too, I suspected that the Pani on board would not be likely to accommodate themselves to the housing of Pani prisoners, who might be as uncompromising, resolute, and irreconcilable as they themselves, as fanatically dedicated to their leaders as ours were to theirs, Lords Nishida and Okimoto.

In retrospect, it seems likely to me that the enemy anticipated a dalliance on the part of the great ship, a lingering to avenge a boarding party, a lingering to exterminate survivors.

In any event, hardly had Tyrtaios conveyed the order of Lord Okimoto, than we heard the high watch, from the platform and ring, high above, cry out, “Beware! There are a hundred ships! We are surrounded!”

I had no doubt the ship we had encountered was a warning ship, and an ambush ship, but, too, it seems, it had served another purpose, that of a trap, a distraction, a bait, of sorts.

The alarm bar continued to sound.

There were no hundred ships, but there were a great many. They were small, and oared.

They reminded me of a swarm of insects, as in the Vine Sea. They were low ships, green, partly covered, some two hundred yards away.

“The glass, a glass!” cried Tarl Cabot, and a glass of the Builders was thrust into his hand.

Buckets of sea water were still being spilled over the starboard side of the great ship, where small, scattered red plants of fire sought to grow.

In a moment Tarl Cabot lowered the glass of the Builders.

He sought out Lord Nishida. “There will be fire, there will be boarders!” he said.

“How can it be?” inquired Lord Nishida.

The small ships were approaching rapidly. Such an oar count can be maintained only for a short time.

“Marshall two hundred armsmen,” said Lord Okimoto to Lord Nishida.

“To what end?” asked Lord Nishida.

“We have lost a galley,” said Lord Okimoto. “The demon Yamada has violated the truce of the warning ship, which should be but a warning.”

“Small ships approach,” said Lord Nishida.

“We will launch the galleys, and deal with them later,” said Lord Okimoto.

“We have little room for prisoners, lord,” said Tyrtaios.

“There will be no prisoners,” said Lord Okimoto.

“Excellent,” said Tyrtaios.

A cloud of the small ships clung now about the hull of the great ship.

“To starboard,” called Lord Okimoto. “Come against the warning ship!”

We were some fifty yards from the warning ship.

“Beware the small ships, lord!” exclaimed Cabot. “They are all about!”

“Does the larl fear urts?” inquired Lord Okimoto.

“A thousand urts may easily kill the larl,” said Cabot.

“I find the apprehension of a warrior surprising,” said Lord Okimoto. “The small ships may be dealt with at our convenience. They are harmless. They cannot reach us.”

“They are not harmless,” said Cabot.

“They cannot reach us,” said Lord Okimoto, quietly, patiently. He then turned to Tyrtaios. “To starboard,” he said. “We shall come against the ship of deceit. We shall administer a rebuke to the demon, Lord Yamada.”

“Yes, lord,” said Tyrtaios.

“Have boarding nets prepared,” said Lord Okimoto. “Form boarding parties. The nets will be cast at my word.”

By means of such nets dozens of men might simultaneously descend the side of the ship.

“Prepare, rather, to repel boarders!” said Cabot.

“You are mad,” said Lord Okimoto.

At that point a grapnel, attached to a length of chain, and that to a course of knotted rope, looped over the rail, struck the deck, scraped back across the deck, and was caught against the rail.

I wondered at the arm which might have flung such a device so high, so far.

I saw the grapnel jerk against the rail, and twist in stress, and knew one or more men were climbing the rope.

“There will be others!” cried Cabot.

“Do not let them anchor!” cried Cabot. “Throw them over the side. Cut the ropes, behind the chain!”

He had hardly spoken when two, and then ten or more, such devices dropped to the deck.

Men hurled some back over the side, before they could catch. The knife, the sword, slashed at the ropes of others. Many, however, given the swiftness with which they were drawn back, caught against the rail. Once this was done, they were difficult to dislodge, for the stress on the device, and the chain.

I saw one of the enemy Pani put an arm over the rail and he dropped back, headless, and fell into the sea. Nodachi drew back, readying himself for another stroke.

I retrieved a sword from the deck, and went to the side.

I also heard a striking at the sides of the great ship, like a rain of wood, and smelled burning pitch.

Each of the small boats, as far as I could tell, was similarly equipped. Each grapnel, with its rope and chain, was launched from a small engine, a tiny catapult, mounted between the benches. And behind the catapult was a vat, filled, from the odor, with burning pitch. Archers were dipping arrows, whose shaft, behind the point, was wrapped in cloth, which cloth was then saturated with flaming pitch, which arrows, one after another, were then being fired into the hull.

This, doubtless, was what had been determined earlier by Cabot, with the glass of the Builders.

One could not well cut the chain behind the grapnels, but axes cut at the rails, and several of the grapnels, given the stress of climbers, broke loose.

We heard men plunge back, into the sea, or onto the small boats at our hull.

I heard more striking of arrows into the hull.

I saw more than one man, trying to free the hold of a grapnel, felled by a long arrow, fired from one of the small boats.

Some enemy Pani did attain the deck, mostly forward, on the port side. They were met by our Pani and armsmen.

I saw no mercy shown, on either side.

Meanwhile, in accord with the instructions of Lord Okimoto, the great ship had come about, toward the warning ship, and there was a rending crash, as the great ship crushed the smoldering remains of our galley, almost at water level, and eight or ten of the small boats, caught between the grinding hull of the great ship and the drifting warning ship, with its dozens of armed Pani on its deck, and its grisly cargo of death. Indeed, the warning ship itself was partly afire, on its starboard side, where the flaming mast of the galley, with its lateen sail, had collapsed against its aft bulwarks.

“Draw away!” urged Lord Nishida.

Lord Okimoto issued orders to Tyrtaios.

Tyrtaios called out, to the lines of men about him, “Boarding nets!” he cried.

These nets were cast.

The Pani below, not uneagerly, readied themselves.

“Prepare to board!” called Tyrtaios.

I doubted that Tyrtaios, under the circumstances, thought it well advised, given fire and our own troubles, to board the warning ship, but he failed to demur. I did not think he was ignorant, or a sycophant; I thought it rather that he was concerned to ascend in the favor of Lord Okimoto, steadily, relentlessly, for his own purposes. Lord Okimoto, on the other hand, was well aware of the sizable complement of fighting men on board, a small army, who would, in any likely contest, as on an open field, far outnumber the enemy Pani in the small boats and on the warning ship, perhaps by as many as four or five to one; and was, accordingly, prepared to expend his men liberally, using his superior numbers to sweep aside opposition. I wondered, too, if his apparent hatred for this Lord Yamada, and his indignation, certainly not misplaced, at the misuse of a warning ship, might not have colored, if not obscured, his judgment.

The greatest danger, of course, was fire.

If the enemy had any idea of the men on the great ship they would not expect to take the ship by arms. On the other hand, and the thought alarmed me, the boarding might well serve to distract from, and delay attention to, what might be the latent but paramount intention of the attack, the destruction of the great ship by fire. Is not the name of war deception?

The nets had been cast.

Armsmen swarmed over the side.

To be sure, nets, like roads, may be traveled in more than one direction.

“Recall the men!” said Lord Nishida to Lord Okimoto.

“Enemies yet live,” said Lord Okimoto, peering toward the deck of the warning ship, where men fought, under swaying bodies suspended from the yards, amongst bodies nailed in place.

I looked, too, and our fellows, I was pleased to see, accredited themselves well. Those whom the Pani had recruited were on the whole large, strong, agile, skilled men, many from the free companies, many from the occupation forces fugitive from Ar, and many, I fear, from amongst brigands and renegades. They had recruited less for honor and loyalty, I feared, than for the capacity to endure hardship, march, and kill. And the Pani who served Lords Nishida and Okimoto, I gathered, though perhaps on the whole of a nobler breed, were likely to be extremely dangerous men, winnowed by years of conflict, men largely the survivors of lengthy, bloody wars.

“The warning ship is afire!” said Lord Nishida. “It is done! Recall the men!”

“No,” said Lord Okimoto.

“This shall be called to the attention of Lord Temmu,” said Lord Nishida.

I had no idea, at the time, who this Lord Temmu might be. I would learn later it was the name of the high lord, or shogun, to whom Lords Nishida and Okimoto were pledged.

“You dare not!” said Lord Okimoto. It was the first time I had seen the equanimity of this Pani nobleman jarred.

Lord Nishida did not speak.

“I am senior, I am first,” said Lord Okimoto.

“Though it means the knife,” said Lord Nishida.

I understood little of this conversation.

I looked about, sword in hand.

Tarl Cabot was forward, on the port side, with his friend, Pertinax, and the Pani tarnsman, Tajima, fighting with our Pani against boarders, who were heaviest in that quarter. I thought to join them, and moved a bit toward them, but then hesitated, curious.

I saw two Pani whom I did not recognize from the ship, though both wore yellow, the color of the livery of Lord Okimoto’s men. I did not know them, but they must be ours, I thought. Our Pani kept much to themselves. What struck me as odd was not that they had not joined in the fighting for us, but, rather, slipped through the engaged men, looking about, across the largely open deck. At almost the same instant, it seemed they had descried their objective, for each, with both hands on a long handled sword, uttering no sound, ran toward us. I was some seven or eight feet behind Lords Nishida and Okimoto, for I had already moved toward the fighting at the forward port quarter.

As the first fellow passed me, I cut to my left, and hit the side of his neck, and his body, the head half gone, spun to the side, momentarily interfering with the progress of his fellow, a pace or two behind him. Tyrtaios, alerted by the sounds, turned and blocked a blow that would have cleft the head of Lord Okimoto. At the same time I, behind the fellow, seized the opportunity, and cut apart the spinal column at the base of his skull. This had all happened very quickly, and I think that Tyrtaios was as startled as I. Both of us had reacted instinctively.

The two Pani, in yellow livery, were on the deck then, the planks run with blood, at our feet.

“Assassins,” said Lord Nishida.

We heard a cry, from the port side. The last boarder there had been thrust back, over the rail.

The Pani who had been engaged there, with the exception of some two or three left guard at the rail, now rushed elsewhere.

I gave little for the chances of any remaining boarders.

Most perished, but several, who had time to turn their back, threw themselves over the rail, back to the water, presumably to be picked up by the small boats still about.

I was startled to see Seremides, hobbling on his crutch, near the forward port rail, where fighting had taken place. He held a sword, doubtless taken from the weaponry earlier spilled upon the deck. The sword was bloodied. As few could not, by simple movement, a subtle alteration of position, a simple variance of attack, quickly dispatch a foe so handicapped, I thought Seremides must be a fellow of great courage, to have dragged himself to the deck, and worked his way, painfully, awkwardly, his body suspended on his crutch, step by step, toward the fighting. I had thought he would have cowered below decks, perhaps in a kitchen, or in the darkness of a storeroom. But he had not. He had come to the open deck, and found a weapon. He was, it seemed, of the ship. He might no longer wear the yellow livery of Lord Okimoto’s retinue, but now, it seemed, he had made it clear, and to all, that he was such as had worn it well.

I could smell smoke.

“Recall the men, lord,” said Lord Nishida. “We must attend to the ship.”

“We must not leave a living enemy behind us,” said Lord Okimoto.

Tarl Cabot, wiping an arm across his eyes, his sword bloody, approached us. He looked about. “The deck is clear,” he said.

“I fear the loss of the ship,” said Lord Nishida.

“No enemies are to be left behind us,” said Lord Okimoto.

“The main timbers of the ship,” said Tarl Cabot, “are Tur wood. It burns longer than softer wood, such as that of needle trees, but it is harder to ignite.”

“Surely there is danger,” said Lord Nishida.

“Certainly,” said Cabot.

“We have time to exterminate the vermin about,” said Lord Okimoto.

“No,” said Cabot.

“I do not understand,” said Lord Okimoto, politely.

“We do not have the time,” said Cabot.

“It is true,” said Lord Okimoto, “the small boats will scatter, and the matter will be difficult.”

“I fear,” said Lord Nishida, “the difficulty the commander has in mind is quite different.”

“You may speak,” said Lord Okimoto.

“I take it,” said Cabot, “that we are not, as far as you know, near to land.”

“No,” said Lord Nishida, “we are only days from the Vine Sea.”

“The small boats are not seagoing vessels, certainly not in their numbers, no more than our ship’s boats.”

“Ah!” said Lord Okimoto.

At this moment there was a cry from the platform and ring, high above us. “Sails, ho! Ships! Ships!”

“How many?” called Cabot.

Aeacus, who was above, scanned the horizon with the Builder’s glass.

“Ten, twelve!” he called down to the deck.

“It is the fleet of Lord Yamada,” said Lord Okimoto.

“I feared so,” said Lord Nishida.

“They will be warships,” said Lord Okimoto. “We cannot match them, ship to ship.”

“No,” said Lord Nishida.

Lord Okimoto turned to Tyrtaios, regretfully. “Inform the deck watch,” he said. “Sound the recall.”

“No!” said Cabot.

“No?” said Lord Nishida.

“Not yet!” he said. “Tajima!” he called.

“Captain san,” said Tajima.

Cabot then spoke hurriedly to Tajima, the tarnsman, in a language I did not recognize. It was not Gorean. And Tajima, to my astonishment, responded in what I took to be the same language.

Within a handful of Ehn forty riders of the tarn cavalry were at the rail, each armed with the small Tuchuk bow, used by the tarn cavalry, a weapon of considerable power, which may be swept easily from one side of a saddle to the other.

“Now,” said Cabot, “sound the recall.”

The ship’s bar rang the recall.

Our men backed to the moving hull of the great ship, turning, grasping the rope rungs of the boarding nets. The enemy rushed forward, but only some yards, before turning back, stumbling over falling bodies, riddled by arrows.

The retreat of our armsmen had been satisfactorily covered.

“Hard to port! All canvas!” called Aetius from the stern castle.

Some of the enemy managed to reach the nets, as well, and began to climb, but, after a few yards, they dropped back in the water and swam to the wreckage of the galley, and that of some small boats, from which they were drawn to the deck of the warning ship, now falling back.

“It is regrettable,” said Lord Okimoto, “that we have left living enemies behind us.”

“It is the fortunes of war,” said Lord Nishida.

“Our presence is now known,” said Lord Okimoto.

“It was known before,” said Lord Nishida.

“But,” said Lord Okimoto, “perhaps not its nature, the ship, our numbers.”

“No,” said Lord Nishida.

“The enemy now knows much,” said Lord Okimoto.

“But our greatest secret may not be known,” said Lord Nishida.

“At least,” said Lord Okimoto, “its size, its appearance, its stamina, its range of flight, its terribleness.”

“They will think we have enlisted dragons,” said Lord Nishida.

I took them to be speaking of tarns.

The deck watch set men to the ropes and buckets, and, as the great ship, its sails filled, took its way west, streaming water ran with the wind across her sides. Most of what might have been hundreds of small fires had died out of their own accord against the Tur wood. The greatest marking, if not damage, had been done forward on the starboard side, where the flaming galley had been moved against the hull. Over the next four days, men, with small files and vessels of caulking, were fastened in the boarding nets, which were moved from port to starboard, and along the hull, and these fellows cleaned and repaired the timbers, removing hundreds of blackened arrow shafts, and sealing fissures and clefts in the wood. The arrow points, worked free, were saved, in small bags, worn at the belt.

The pursuing fleet of Lord Yamada had soon fallen behind. The ship of Tersites was no warship, no agile, many-oared knife in the water. But she had good lines, six masts, and an enormous spread of canvas. I thought there was little at sea that could overtake her with a fair wind. Tersites, with his small, crooked body, may have been half-blind and more than half-mad, but he had built a ship which, I think, will be remembered in a hundred songs.

Our losses had not been considerable.

Amongst those who were lost were two oarsmen, Thoas and Andros. They had been struck from behind.

I will report one part of a conversation heard the evening of the day of the altercation in the vicinity of the warning ship, which altercation took place on the second day of the second week past the fourth passage hand, as it has some bearing on what occurred later.

“What course has been given to Aetius,” inquired Lord Nishida.

“We are continuing on, directly,” replied Lord Okimoto.

“You know our location,” said Lord Nishida. “Surely it is time to veer north. You know what lies ahead.”

“We shall move north later,” said Lord Okimoto.

“You know the season,” said Lord Nishida, “and what lies ahead.”

“Yes,” said Lord Okimoto.

“Why then do you continue on?” inquired Lord Nishida.

“Because,” said he, “I think the fleet of Lord Yamada will fear to follow.”