Mariners of Gor

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Slaughter!” I heard cry. “Slaughter!”

The alarm bar was ringing, frenziedly.

It was shortly after the first Ahn, and, when I raced up the companionways to the open deck, it was still dark, though there were dozens of torches on the beach. Some small boats were returning to the great ship. Some men were clambering up ropes, drawing themselves over the rail. I heard small boats, below, scraping against the timbers of the ship. Ropes and rope ladders were being cast over the side. Aeacus handed me a glass of the Builders. It was difficult to focus, and there was much movement. I twisted the glass into focus. There seemed madness on the beach, men crowded together toward the shore, trying to board small boats. I saw two founder. Some men were wading into the sea, trying to cling to small boats.

“What is going on?” I said, to anyone, for there were several about, trying to see the beach, perhaps as unclear as I was, as to the confusion, the motion of the torches.

Aeacus took back the glass, and then, in a moment, handed it to another.

“Tarnsmen,” I heard, “to saddle!”

It was the voice of Tarl Cabot.

“No!” said Lord Okimoto, at the rail, barefoot, his robe awry.

I did not know the whereabouts of Lord Nishida.

I saw Tyrtaios, with others, on the ratlines, peering toward the shore.

I heard the poking noise of the crutch of Seremides.

“Roll back the great hatch!” called Tarl Cabot.

“Do not do so!” exclaimed Lord Okimoto. Men drew back.

“Lord!” protested Tarl Cabot.

“No,” said Lord Okimoto.

The secret of the tarns, I gathered, was to be kept.

Some two thirds of the armsmen and mariners, following some fifty Pani, from the men of Lords Nishida and Okimoto, over several Ahn, beginning yesterday evening, had gone ashore.

“Launch the galleys!” cried Aetius, from amidships.

I gathered then that the first galley had been returned to the ship, following the landing.

“No!” said Lord Okimoto.

I gathered that he was unwilling to lose another galley.

Tarl Cabot seized a fellow who was clambering aboard, from one of the small boats. “Go back!” he cried. “Go back!”

“No,” said the man, wildly, shaking his head. “No!”

Cabot struck him to the deck.

“Go back,” he cried to others, returning to the ship.

“The galleys must be launched,” said Tarl Cabot.

“No,” said Lord Okimoto.

Tarl Cabot turned on his heel, angrily, and rushed toward a flung-open hatch. He paused at the opening, looking about, in frustration. It was there I caught up with him. “You will need oarsmen,” I said.

He clasped my hand. “Good Callias,” he said. “Let us be fools together!”

“There will be several below decks,” I said. “They are unclear, as I, as to what has occurred.”

“Summon them!” said Cabot. “Send others about, as well, to summon others.”

“To the galleys?”

“Any who can draw an oar,” said Cabot.

“In whose name?” I asked.

“In the name of Lord Okimoto,” said Cabot.

In a quarter of an Ahn three galleys had been lowered and, half manned, were about the ship, and moving amongst small boats, toward the shore.

I and the others were armed, as we had obtained weapons, in the issuance, hoping to go ashore in our turn.

I glanced back, to see Lord Okimoto, high above, at the rail of the great ship.

Cabot was at the helm of the galley on which I drew an oar. Across from me, alone on his bench, as I was, was Philoctetes. To starboard, back a bit, was another galley, also with a handful of oarsmen, it commanded by Pertinax, and to port, further back, was the galley of Turgus, more amply manned, as men, later gathered, had come to the last galley nest.

More than once the galley turned, and slowed, rocking, men from the water clinging to the oars. The other two galleys were similarly impeded. “Bring them aboard!” called Cabot. “Put them at an oar.”

“Flee, Commander!” wept a man, drawn aboard. “To the ship!”

“We are going in,” said Cabot.

“There are too many!” said the man. “It is hopeless! All will die.”

“We are going in,” said Cabot.

There was a cheer from small boats about us.

“Get to the ship, and then go back!” said Cabot.

There was another cheer.

Men clinging to oars came aboard, and took their places on the benches.

The galley’s bow swung toward the beach, and Cabot, from the helm, called the stroke, and, water running from the lifted and dipping oar blades, the galley crested the night waters, and sped, like a gull, toward the torches and confusion on the beach. “Stroke!” called Cabot, “stroke!”

The fellow who had haplessly wept was now beside me at the oar, steady, and strong.

As we made our way through the small boats, most moving toward the ship, we began to hear the cries on the beach, the clash of metal.

It was now clear that quarterless war, red with blood, reigned upon the beach. Some hundreds of our men, in lines, were being forced back, away from the high beach, and the defile, toward the water. Glaives prodded them and struck at them. Swords flashed in the torches. Many, we had later learned, had perished in the defile, from concealed arrow fire, but arrows, now, save at short range, a yard or two, given the proximity of the combatants and the confusion, could scarcely find congenial targets. The arrow, ignorant of its purpose, might with equanimity bestow indiscriminate death.

Several yards from the torchlit, screaming, raucous shore, the clash of metal, the cries of enraged men, of frightened men, of dying men, Cabot turned the galley. “Back oars!” he commanded, and the stern of the galley, backing, pushed its way through small boats and wading men, and, a moment later, he cried “Hold!” and we lifted the oars, and we felt the keel of the galley grate on sloping, submerged sand, at the foot of the shore. We were some dozen or so feet from the beach. Dozens of terrified men rushed about us, wading in the water, seizing oars, trying to climb aboard. Shortly thereafter the galleys of Pertinax and Turgus, turned as well, lay to, at the shore, and were similarly subjected to clambering men. I saw several of the small boats returning to the shore from the ship. They had come back for their fellows. My heart was gladdened.

“Callias!” called Cabot to me, and I rose at the bench, amongst the swarming men.

“Commander?” I called.

“Prepare to command,” he said. “I am going ashore.”

“With commander’s permission,” I said, “I, too, am going ashore.”

“Stay aboard,” he said.

“I am coming with you,” I said.

“You understand the danger?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“I do not expect to return to the ship,” he said.

“Neither then, commander,” I said, “will I.”

“You are indeed a fool,” he said. He then called to Philoctetes. “Take the galley back to the ship. Return. Save whom you can!”

“Yes, commander,” said Philoctetes.

“Let tarnsmen, armed, who dare, return with you,” said Cabot.

“Yes, commander,” called Philoctetes. There were now three or four men at a bench, which should hold two, and the galley was crowded amidships, and fore and aft. Then Cabot, I following him, leaped into the water amongst men trying to board the galley, and, water to our waist, we waded to shore. Once on the beach he paused only to issue similar instructions to Pertinax and Turgus.

“I am coming with you!” cried Pertinax.

“No, you are not,” warned Cabot, with an unexpected ferocity that brooked no demur.

“Oars,” called Pertinax, taken aback, his voice cracking with misery, “Stroke!”

The galley now captained by Philoctetes had already moved from shore, outside the light of the torches. I watched the galley of Pertinax, now crowded, low in the water, pulling away, toward the ship, dark in the distance. Small boats were about it, some coming, some going. In some of the small boats there were lanterns. A number of men were about, some back of us, in the water.

“Your friend wished to accompany you,” I said. “Might his sword not have been of value?”

“He is a high officer,” said Cabot. “He is not to be risked.”

“Surely you are higher than he,” I said.

“But I command,” said Cabot.

“You would not risk him,” I said. “You fear you will not return to the ship.”

“Much depends on the tarn cavalry,” he said.

“It may not be flighted,” I said.

“It will not be,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“I have a plan,” he said.

“Seek safety,” I said.

“I will not abandon the men ashore,” he said.

“Nor will I,” I said.

He looked about himself, in the din, fatigued, frightened men, many wounded, moving past us, toward the water, the hope of a boat. He shook his head.

“It is worse than I feared,” he said.

There were many torches high in the defile, above the beach. I sensed many men were there. He put his hands on my shoulders. “Good Callias,” he said, “hurry to the galley of Turgus. There is time, a little. Board the galley, or a small boat, return to the ship.”

“No,” I said, “I am with you.”

“I did not know the men of Cos had such courage,” he said.

“Nor I those of Port Kar,” I said.

“You are fearsome enemies,” he grinned.

“And loyal friends,” I said.

A man, bleeding, ran past us, toward the water, toward a small boat. Much was confusion. We were jostled in the press. Torches threw strange lights and shadows on the sand. Shouts, and the clash of weapons, seemed closer. I gathered our men were being forced toward the water. I turned about, and saw the galley of Turgus, oars striking the water, drawing away. I heard a weird cry behind us, in the water. In the light of a lantern, held by a fellow on a small boat, I saw a fellow’s arm disappear beneath the water. I saw the lantern’s light flash on a twisting fin, and then another. The tumult, the confusion, the striking of oars, the splashing of men in the water, had doubtless attracted the attention of marine predators, presumably sharks. The attack I had witnessed had taken place in less than three feet of water. The great ship lay some half pasang from shore, in the darkness. Some, of those who could swim, may have reached her. When I had been on the ship, I had, however, noted none who had reached her ropes and ladders from the water. In the distance up the beach, toward the defile, I heard a drum. It was not ours. Given the irregularity of the beat, I took it that its role was tactical, signaling orders. If this were so, the enemy, I thought, must be professional, disciplined, trained. One was not dealing with the disorderly frontal rushings of barbarians or savages, counting on the simple avalanche of numbers. Cabot, his blade now drawn, moved toward the front, while men continued to stream past him, toward the water. I saw his blade move quickly, and a fellow, mixed in with others, clad in black, the uniform of the night, staggered back, was buffeted, fell, and was trampled. Some fifty Pani from the great ship had preceded our hundreds of mariners and armsmen ashore. There were, facing the enemy, some seven or eight lines of our men, strung across an arc of the beach, some seventy yards in width, defending frontally and on the flanks. Behind this wall of steel, its interwoven columns seething forward and backward, giving way, and pressing back, the men at the beach were seeking flight. Had these lines of skilled, hardened men, selected with care by the Pani, veterans, mercenaries, killers, bandits, brigands, and pirates, from enlisted crews, rural gangs, disbanded cohorts, and scattered free companies, not checked the enemy, few if any of our forces would have escaped death. To be sure, these particular men were not so different from the others. That these particular men were where they were was, I supposed, as much an accident of battle as anything else. It doubtless depended on where the enemy had first struck. They knew that if they turned their backs, they would die. They constituted the fragile, dangerous wall behind which swirled panic-stricken rout, the wall without which our forces would be slaughtered, like penned verr, against the sea. I feared the defensive lines might break. A moment of panic, an unpredictable loss of nerve, can, in a moment, turn rows of desperate, brave men into disorganized, fugitive, vulnerable prey. One man in flight, followed by another, and another, can break a line. To be sure, it is reputed infamy to die with a wound in one’s back. Indeed, in some cities, men returning with such wounds are put to death. I was at Cabot’s side, to protect his left. And, as a man fell, he was at the left of a Pani warrior, with a large, horned, face-concealing helmet. The Pani warrior clutched a long, curved sword with two hands. A glaive struck at him, and one of the hands that bore it flew to the side, blood spurting from the severed wrist. Two foes lay at his feet, impeding the approach of others toward him. I thrust aside a glaive and tried to reach the fellow who wielded it, but it was drawn back. Another was striking downward and I managed to bend forward and catch it behind the blade, though I was forced down to one knee. I lunged upward and caught this darkly clad figure in the throat, below the black helmet. Blood ran upon the overlapping plates of leather mail. It was only later that I realized this was the attack of the doubled glaive, in which the first thrusts horizontally, and the second, on the chance that the defender’s attention is distracted, strikes downward. I had a moment’s respite. Such things oddly, intermittently, occur, inexplicable eddies in the crashing surf of war. I sensed the line a few feet to my right was, like an ebbing wave, washing back.

“Hold! Hold!” called a familiar voice and the wave held, and washed a bit forward, and I knew he in the great, horned helmet was Lord Nishida. Some Pani were about him, to his immediate right. I now have little doubt that it was his firmness, and leadership, and those of his fellows, Pani and others, which had organized and stiffened that resolute defense behind which the frenzied withdrawal of our primary forces, apparently ambushed, charged, and outnumbered, was in desperate progress. As the line had begun to constrict and hold, bodies, ours and theirs, had begun to encumber the immediate field. Four bodies, sprawled and dark, now lay between Cabot and Lord Nishida. I sensed that some of the dark figures before us were now reluctant to approach those two. Far off in the defile, above the beach, I could see, as before, a large number of torches. These, as it turned out, and as I feared, were lifted amongst ample reserves, not yet committed. A hundred yards or so, toward the defile, I heard the command drums of the enemy. Slowly, before us, facing us, the lines of the present enemy began to back away.

“Hold!” called Lord Nishida. I gathered he knew war, and would not permit his line to move forward, against a methodically retreating, ready foe. This withdrawal tactic is designed to encourage a line to break forward, in pursuit, after which its irregularity may be exploited by an even, frontal counter and pursuit. A similar danger is to pursue a broken foe, or an apparently broken foe, while the foe’s marshaled reserves, ready at hand, or even hidden at hand, as in trenches, or amongst trees, are ready to strike from the flank. At this point, I might have ordered a careful, patient withdrawal, by means of which to tighten our line and more closely approach the sea, where lay our avenue of escape, if there were to be any such. But Lord Nishida did not order such a withdrawal. I shortly understood why. Availing myself of this lull, I looked back, toward the sea. I was pleased to see that the three galleys had now returned. They were being boarded by dozens of men. The apparent retreat of the enemy halted some twenty yards before us, toward the defile. If we had turned and fled, as I was tempted to do, we could have been caught against the sea and cut down before we could embark. I heard the drum again, now pounding with an intensity that literally suggested vexation, the drummer perhaps having caught the anger, disappointment, or frustration of whoever might be in charge of dictating the signals. For a few Ehn the two forces faced one another, in the strange light of the torch bearers. Shortly thereafter I understood why Lord Nishida had not ordered the seemingly judicious retreat I would have expected. The original ambush in the defile had begun with a rain of arrow fire, which had taken a heavy toll on our fellows, Pani and otherwise. Archery, later, as the forces had come together, had been substantially discontinued, save for occasional desultory fire, largely undirected, over the heads of the combatants, at generally unseen targets, often out of range, toward the beach. Now, however, to a new drum signal, hurrying between suddenly opening, evenly spaced gaps in the enemy forces, we saw what must have been one hundred to one hundred and fifty archers, with the large Pani bows. These men were not even in position when Lord Nishida signaled to his left flank and right flank, the left commanded by Tajima, of his retinue, whom I knew primarily as a Pani tarnsman, liaison to, or lieutenant to, Cabot, in the tarn cavalry, and the strange warrior, Nodachi, commanding the right flank. I now realized the reason for holding the line as it was, for the bodies with which the field in our vicinity, before us and behind us, was strewn were lifted up, held up, even piled on one another. A given body, held erect, constituted a post, barrier, or hurdle, behind which a column of crouching men might shelter themselves. A number of such bodies, aligned, constituted a set of palings between which it was difficult to find targets. The Pani archers took up their position some fifteen to seventeen yards before our line, some five to three before the infantry of the enemy. This would allow them to withdraw conveniently to the protection of their own forces before we could reach them, if charging. Four bodies were placed before Cabot and Lord Nishida, held by four men, and I, as they, took advantage of this shelter. The Pani bow is powerful but, like the common peasant bow, it, given the lightness of its missile, and that it is drawn by the strength of a human arm, can rarely tear its way through a human body, and its force, even if passing through an arm or throat, is largely spent in its passage. It is unlike an engine-driven shaft, as on a ballista, which might shatter a wall. The thrust spear, of course, impelled by the force of a strong man, may penetrate a four-layered shield or a human body, but then the spear is lost until its retraction. So deep a thrust, like the deep thrust of a blade, is foolish, unless intended to, say, encumber a shield, rendering it useless, preparatory to a blade attack. I heard, for the first time at this range, the sudden, unmistakable sound, so solid, so quick and frightening, of an arrow striking a body, and then its repetition, again, and again. Some of the arrows passed over us, the fletching streaking in the wind, like a darting bird, a whisper of light, almost invisible. Then, again and again, I heard the striking of arrows, one following on another, into the inert barriers, once alive, interposed between us and the Pani bowmen. Certain arrows skinned others, with a shaving, splintering sound. Few arrows found their desiderated marks; arrows bristled from the tragic barriers before us. I thought no single marksman, given the liberty of his judgment, would have continued to fire arrows with such little effect, but, I gathered, this action, with its largely futile waste of missiles, was in accord with the command of the drum, the captain of which, most likely, was well behind the lines, and ignorant, at least now, of the situation in the field. Training and discipline, and obedience to command, is usually, undeniably, of enormous military value. At other times, in altered situations, it is wasteful, unproductive, even stupid. Men who will lose their heads if they do not obey are likely to obey, even if the command is awry, uninformed, foolish, even dangerous.

Again I heard the drum.

Some sense of the situation at the front must have now been relayed to the rear echelons. A channel of communication, after all, is of little value unless it, like a road or river, can be symmetrically traversed.

Although I could not read the signal, its import was clear.

An archer charge is hazardous, of course, unless directed upon an inert enemy. The whole rationale of the war bow is to strike from the safety of distance.

The archers, many of their quivers almost emptied, now began to edge forward.

It would be difficult to elude the shafts at close range. Few had brought shields ashore.

There was a sudden cry from Lord Nishida and our fellows cast aside the bodies, bristling with arrows, and leaped upon the startled, disconcerted archers, only feet away, few of whom could train or loose more than a single arrow before dying. I saw more than one quiver empty, a last arrow spilled beside a fallen bow in the moist, scarlet dust. Some archers fled back, but the ranks had now been closed against them. Some were slain with thrusts of glaives, others with swords. Several knelt docilely before their own men, shamed, and a headsman went from figure to figure, I gathered, restoring their honor.

By now it seemed, with the return and departure of the galleys, many of our men might have been returned to the ship.

I saw Tarl Cabot leave his position beside Lord Nishida, and move to the rear, where I sensed some stirring, doubtless amongst some of our men.

I did not understand the point of his departure.

I was more concerned with the Pani forces before us, presumably awaiting the issuance of its orders.

Cabot was shortly back, and I was aware of a message, or some form of communication, being passed throughout our lines, even to the left and right flanks.

“Be prepared to obey,” said a fellow to me, and then repeated this message to others.

If that were the message, it seemed pointless to me. What soldier is not prepared to obey?

I stood up, and looked back. Some new fellows were behind us, almost as shadows, and, down at the beach, some others, I sensed, might have been approaching. I could see some lanterns, on small boats, and one on the stern of a galley. From torches I could sense, as well, a number of men at the water’s edge. Our own position was precarious, but I was sure the defensive lines which Cabot and I had joined, commanded by Lord Nishida, had won the time needed for the withdrawal of most of our surviving forces.

They, at least, would return to the ship.

We waited in place, as did our foes, for the signal of the drum.

When it began to sound, we witnessed, as expected, the movement down the defile, marked by a hundred or more torches, of the mass of Pani reserves.

It did not seem likely we would return to the ship.

A fellow two or three men to my left, suddenly turned and fled toward the beach.

I felt much like following him, and a wash of panic and terror seemed to seize my whole body. Boats were at the shore. I could surely reach one in time. What was I doing here? This was not my war! It was no choice of mine! It was an accident that I was here, at all. It was not of my will that I was here. I was Cosian, not Pani. This was not my business. Too, I was only one man. What did it matter if one ran? The others would stay, and protect my back, my flight. I felt that I must move, run, flee, if only to do something. But I remained in place.

“Steady,” I heard a fellow say, to someone, somewhere to my right, on the other side of Lord Nishida, who stood like a rock, unmoving, in the center of our line.

“They are coming,” said a fellow beside me.

“Yes,” I said.

I did not know why we were whispering. Too, was it not obvious that the enemy was massing, and approaching?

I heard a stirring to my left.

The fellow who had fled had returned.

He must have reached the water’s edge, and then turned back, to take his place in the line. No one paid him any attention. He had never left.

The beat of the drum increased.

I supposed Lord Nishida, and the Pani, or some of them, might have read the drum. On the other hand, it was easy to read the movements before us, to see the torchlight on helmets and weapons, to hear, drawing closer, the rustle of steel, leather, and accouterments.

“Be prepared to obey!” called Cabot.

I thought the enemy before us, on the whole, had been directed rationally, its forces distributed intelligently, and applied judiciously, in such a way as not to crowd its attacks, or impede its own movements. In this way, one applies one’s resources in a measured manner, conserving them as much as possible and maximizing their effectiveness. Similarly, timing the engagements of elements is important. On the other hand, I had the sense that the commander of the opposing forces had now come to the end of his patience, such as it might have been, and, contemptuous of care and delay, finished with military sobriety, and conscious of his numbers, intended to conclude matters with one crude, costly, irresistible, massive blow.

Men began to run toward us, some falling, stumbling, pushed from behind, jostled, some weapons down, some not lowered. In the torchlight I could see the almost random thicket of glaives, like bunched tem wood in the wind. In the darkness and torches it was almost like a flood of darkness on darkness, a storm of bodies. Some, from the sound, and cries, were trampled by others. The drum struck, again and again, wildly. I think many fell, thrust from behind, and many may have been the wounds inflicted by exposed weapons, edges run against, points buffeted, blades fallen upon. This mad, rushing wall of darkness, squandering men, swept forward.

“Tragic,” said Lord Nishida.

“All tall,” exclaimed Cabot. “Brace yourself for the impact!”

How could one brace oneself for such an impact? More easily might the talender resist the stamping boot. More easily might the stand of delicate Sa-Tarna turn back the scythe.

But is not deception the key to war?

Our standing masked what lay behind us, and our charging foes prepared to meet us, as we stood, tumultuous crowd to man.

The great flood of darkness, confused, proximate, rushing, pounding, imminent, was some five yards from our steel when Cabot cried out, “Down!”

We all crouched down, instantly, and, from behind us, over our heads, into the confused, rushing mass of men before us there poured a rain of arrows sped from the small, saddle-clearing Tuchuk bow. The leading, confused ranks of our foes probably did not understand what killed them, but they fell, and succeeding rows, four or five, stumbled over them, fell, rose, climbed over them, and met death. A mound of darkness began to form, hills of men. And as succeeding ranks surmounted their fellows, they, too, encountered the rapid fire of the small, powerful, swift bows, developed over generations of warfare amongst the Wagon Peoples of the Southern Plains. It was perhaps only the sixth or seventh ranks of the enemies, impelled by their fellows, who, in the light of the torches, some flung amongst us, realized they were facing archers, and of a sort with which they were unfamiliar. Some cried out, some turned, some stood, as they were, and died. They had no return fire. They had no cover. They could not reach the enemy with their glaives, or swords. Some, escaping arrows, rushed upon us, to fall amongst our blades. Many stood, confused, suddenly realizing they were defenseless, and doomed. The strike of the Tuchuk bow, short, of curved horn, requiring much strength to draw, is heavy, and, at close range, terrible, capable, like the thrust spear, of penetrating the typical four-layered shield. So hapless might be a shieldless swordsman viewing the crossbow, the ready quarrel leveled, set in its guide.

The flood stopped, and, like startled, turned verr, the enemy began to mill, and fearful words were carried to farther ranks, and men who could not even see us received reports so magnified that they must exceed the horror of reality. “Demons!” “Dragons!” we heard.

Had we had stakes and trenches before us, the trenches would have been filled, the stakes heavy with the impaled meat of death.

The enemy turned, and began to flee.

Some enemy officers struck about themselves with swords, trying to stop the rout, but these, too, were as often struck by terrified men who, in the darkness, were unclear as to their foe, his power, or even his nature.

Some of our bowmen climbed over bodies, and from the grisly height of such hills, formed of inert or bleeding men, plied their craft, playing, as it is said, tunes on the lyre of death.

I thought there would be much feasting here for Thassa’s gulls.

Tor-tu-Gor, Light-upon-the-Home-Stone, began to rise in the east.

I looked back toward the water. There were now three galleys at the beach, and several small boats. Men stood about them, waiting.

“Honorable friends,” said Lord Nishida, “let us return to the ship.”