Swordsmen of Gor

given period of time as the crossbowman. Further, given the quantity of arrows housed in the two broad quivers, whereas the ammunition of the crossbowman would be exhausted in ten Ehn, the ammunition of the other fellow, he with the short bow, even at the increased rate of fire, would last twenty-five Ehn. Thus the bowman could fire four times to the crossbowman’s once, and continue to fire for two and a half times as long. These figures are approximations, assuming averages, and typical marksmen. On the other hand, the differentials in fire power, with respect to rate of fire, and duration of fire, clearly and considerably favor the fellow with the short bow, at least until an enemy would adopt similar measures. In calculating these ratios I have supposed the crossbowman to be equipped with the stirrup bow, which may be reloaded and fired much more rapidly than the crank-and-ratchet bow. The range and striking power of the stirrup bow somewhat exceeds that of the short bow, and the range of the crank-and-ratchet variety exceeds that of the stirrup bow. On the other hand, given the usual proximity to targets in both cases, the rate and duration of fire of the short bow supplies it, in this sort of warfare, as it would in Tuchuk warfare, with a clear advantage. This is not to disparage certain advantages of the crossbow. For example, as with a rifle, it requires less skill to use it effectively than does the long, or short, bow. This is important if one is working with large groups of recruits from various backgrounds who may have been lured into service with inducement fees, or, not that infrequently, impressed into service. Similarly, the crossbow can remain ready to fire, for Ahn at a time. It is thus useful in door-to-door fighting, in stalking, in ambush, and so on. It is the weapon par excellence of the caste of Assassins.

The second sweep had now been concluded.

Rank after rank of the third sweep struck.

The rapidity with which these attacks may be mounted and concluded is impressive.

My attention was much focused on the flights, and the prides. The third sweep was now well in progress.

Below, targets bristled with arrows.

“Well done, fellows,” I thought. “Continue!”

But I must remind them, I thought, that posts and targets do not shoot back.

The final ranks had now entered into their long, sloping dive. More complex formations and attacks would have to be planned, I thought. Aerial maneuvers, too, I thought, perhaps with tipped, blunted arrows, might be useful. Too, they must be taught to fight and strike in pairs, or more, never to engage, if possible, on equal terms. One should avoid the application of force, if possible, except against lesser force, and, ideally, much lesser force. An enemy consistently divided and attacked piecemeal is an enemy doomed to defeat. General engagements are sometimes unavoidable, and too often unavoidable, but their outcome is too often, as Goreans might say, a matter not of kaissa, but of the casting of dice. A change of wind, a rising of dust, a prolonged battle, in which the angle of the sun changes, the loss of a commander, the loss of a standard, an unexpected, unpredictable wave of alarm in the ranks, an unfounded rumor of entrapment, the failure of a wing to hold, the hesitation or confusion of reserves, the tardiness of reinforcements, almost anything, may lead to disorder, and thence to the breaking of ranks, and thence to rout, and thence to massacre. Too, despite who holds the field, who decorates the trophy tree at the day’s end, a general engagement is often lost, in effect, by both sides. Two such victories may destroy an army, and ruin a state. Wars are often lost in wholes, and won in bits and pieces. Victory is often less the fruit of valor than of information, patience, calculation, and cunning.

The third wave had now discharged its missiles and was wheeling about, when cries came from below, which drifted up to me. I had wheeled the tarn about, to alight at the end of the training plaza, to which, by prearrangement, the cavalry had returned, when I wheeled him about again, puzzled at the confusion below. On the observation platform there was much milling about, shouting, cries. At the same time I saw one of my fellows, from the final flight of the third wave, I thought, still in flight, and moving south. A figure, in white, below, on the platform, was being supported by two of the infantrymen, or Ashigaru, as the Pani spoke of them. Instantly I realized what must have happened. I cried out in rage that I was not a lone tarnsman, that I might immediately set out in pursuit of the fugitive. As captain I could not do so. I must remain with the cavalry. My men were in formation below, not having been dismissed. They, too, were in a state of apprehension, if not of consternation, as something, clearly, was amiss in the vicinity of the observation platform. None broke ranks. Some twenty percent were Pani, and their discipline was as iron and they steadied the mercenaries about them. In a moment I dispatched Tajima and Pertinax, whom I had had train with Tajima, to pursue the fugitive, whom they had not even seen. I doubted they could overtake him. His name I would learn later. I also put Ichiro, my signalman, whose ritual suicide I had forbidden weeks ago, into the air, fearing that more might be on the wing than a single fugitive. I then placed Torgus in command of the cavalry, with orders to remain on alert, and designated Lysander, a mercenary, once of Market of Semris, to second him. Torgus commanded the first century, and Lysander the second. I had first encountered Lysander on the beach with Torgus, and his other men. It was he whom I had thought bore himself as one once of the Warriors. This proved correct, and he was, as well, a tarnsman, who had turned mercenary. I did not think it meet to inquire into his past. In such cases there is not unoften a killing, and sometimes a woman, most often a slave, sometimes a seductive, manipulative, conniving slave who would, for her perceived advantage, or sense of power, set masters against one another. There is a saying that a man conquers with the sword, the slave with a kiss. As Lysander had been subordinate to Torgus in his mercenary troop, I thought it best to keep him second here. As the leader of a century, of course, he was equivalent. In dealing with men an able commander must be sensitive, as well as he can, to the possible consequences of his decisions and appointments, consequences which may affect the efficiency of his force, and to what might be thought of as the realities of the heart, such things as perceptions of propriety, possibly surmised slights, perceived unwarranted preferments, questions of honor, and the almost inevitable conflicts amongst vanities. These things do not dictate command, but they influence it. The paramount question is always the maximum efficiency, either in the long run or short run, depending on the situation, of the unit’s military effectiveness. Decisions which are made on any other basis not only favor the ends of enemies, but constitute treason.

Ichiro was now high overhead.

I dismounted, and ran across the plaza of training, toward the observation platform.

In a moment I was at the foot of the platform.

The figure who had been in white, a white of dignity, and a color that stood out amongst the others on the platform, was lying on the platform, his head in the arms of one of the Ashigaru. An arrow was lodged in his shoulder, and the white kimono was spotted there with blood. The missile, of course, as it closes its own wound, does not produce blood in the same way that a wound opened by a knife, or blade or some sort, would. The blood flows when the missile is withdrawn. One of the Pani, a wound dresser, crouched over the fallen figure.

What an admirable target would have been the white kimono on the observation platform!

To be sure, it would have been a difficult target from tarnback, with the short bow, for one of my men, given the distance. It would have been a much more likely target for a stationary archer, armed with the peasant bow. But even then it would not have been a sure kill, across much of the plaza of training.

I heard a cry of misery from the platform, and the wound dresser stood up, the bloodied arrow in his grasp, held with two hands.

There would now be a great deal of blood, which must be stanched.

It was even now on the platform.

I could not well see the features of the fallen figure, for the men crowding about.

They would allow the wound to bleed, briefly, to wash it out.

In a few moments one of the fellows about was pressing the kimono down to the wound.

“He will live,” said the wound dresser. “Bring a panel. Place him upon it. Take him to the barracks.”

“I do not understand,” I said to a fellow beside me. “Should Lord Nishida not be taken to his pavilion?”

“Lord Nishida, of course,” said the fellow, “would be taken to his pavilion.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“It is not Lord Nishida,” said the man.

I looked about. To one side I saw Lord Nishida. He was dressed much as others, who had been on the platform.

“Tal, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Nishida.

“Lord Nishida!” I said.