Swordsmen of Gor

“Curiosity,” I said.

“He intends to protect us,” said Pertinax.

“No,” I said. “I am seeking someone.”

“One who wears our gray?” said Tajima.

“Yes,” I said.

“The mercenary, Licinius Lysias of Turmus,” said Tajima.

“Yes,” I said.

It was he, it had been determined, who had fired upon he whom he thought was Lord Nishida during the exercises of the preceding morning, and had then fled, to soon return, guiding the horde with which we had done contest, in the sky, on the ground. It had been easy to determine this, first from startled witnesses to his perfidy, and a later call of the roll, to confirm the matter, lest the witnesses were confused, mistaking one uniform for another in the haste, the commotion, and turmoil of the moment. Too, indisputably, later in the afternoon, he had been noted amongst enemies in the camp, leading a party, firing structures, and such. He had worn a yellow armband to insure his safety from his own cohorts, an armband later removed, in an attempt to blend in with our men, an attempt unsuccessful as he had been well noted in the fighting. He had then, it seemed, with several others, taken refuge in the stable, doubtless first urging others to loose tharlarion and attempt to escape in the confusion, an attempt in which he had apparently declined to participate, preferring to remain concealed, planning to make away in the darkness. His name had been brought to me the preceding evening. It was not certain, however, that he was within the stable. If he was, I wished to meet him. Lord Nishida had assured me that there were spies in the camp. Licinius Lysias of Turmus had obviously been one of them. Others doubtless remained.

“I do not urge this,” said Tajima, “but would it not be wise to enter the stable in force?”

“It would be better to first reconnoiter,” I said.

“Surely you are not concerned with a slave?” said Tajima, puzzled.

“She has some value,” I said, “an unusual coloring, and such. Too, recall that Lord Nishida intends her for a shogun.”

Tajima nodded. If a general melee was in store, involving close fighting with several men, taking and giving ground, even a frightened, bounding kaiila might suffer, terrified in the rush of men, the shouts, the movement of blades, the fending of strokes, the thrust of spears, the slashing of glaives, the flight of arrows.

“No,” said Pertinax, smiling. “You do not wish to risk losing your man.”

“Ah!” said Tajima.

I think he was reassured then that Saru was, appropriately, not of importance, or at least of no particular importance. She was, after all, only a slave. She was not of the Pani, nor a contract woman. She was, when all was said and done, only another collar girl. Too, she could always be replaced with a slave of similar appearance, perhaps one even more beautiful. I did not think he would have viewed the matter in the same light had the girl been, say, Sumomo. To be sure, Sumomo was of the Pani, and had the status of a contract woman. She was not a collar-girl.

“Are you ready to kill?” I asked Pertinax.

“I think so,” he said.

“It would be better to be sure of it,” I said.

“- I am ready,” he said.

“Let us enter,” I said.

There was a musty odor in the stable, and the strong smell of tharlarion dung. The light was acceptable.

“Bucklers,” I cautioned Tajima and Pertinax.

We crouched down, bucklers forward, to cover as much of our bodies as was practical, and surely the chest and throat. Helmeted, we looked over the edge of the bucklers.

I had positioned myself on the right. There was no particular need for this in the situation, but it was a natural thing to do, almost without thinking. In the Gorean phalanx the field commander leads the right wing, which tends to drift to the right, this resulting from the natural tendency of each man to take advantage of the protection of the shield of the man on his right, as well as his own shield. Accordingly, the right wing of the phalanx tends to outflank the left wing of its foe, while the foe’s right wing tends to outflank his left. In this way the phalanxes tend to turn in the field, rather like a wheel of war. Some commanders, well aware of this dynamic, increase the depth of their left wings, a tactic which often leads to victory. The typical Gorean commander, perhaps unwisely, does not “lead” from a position of safety, from interior lines, so to speak, but leads from the front. He himself will be where steel meets steel. In this sense, I suppose he is less a general, and more a warrior. Wisely or not, this seems to be the typical Gorean way. Men, of course, are then ready to die for him, for he is with them, and one of them.

There was a sudden flash, almost invisible, and a shriek of gouged metal and a brightness of sparks and Pertinax, who was in the center, was spun half about, and almost lost the buckler, but then again had it in place.

“Ai!” he said.

“A quarrel,” I said.

Taken frontally the quarrel strikes like an iron fist. It might have gone more than half way through the layering of a leather shield. It could not penetrate the buckler, which was of metal.

Pertinax, clearly, had not anticipated the force of the missile.

“There!” he cried. “I see him! He will have to reload. I can have him before he can set the quarrel.”

“No,” I said. “Stop!”

He looked at me, wildly. The opportunity seemed golden to him. It was not.

“There will be others, to the side,” I said.

Had Pertinax rushed forward he would have been exposed to side fire, and, if he entered far enough into the stable, might have been hit in the back.

Trained crossbowmen, in such a situation, do not volley their fire. They will keep one or more bows ready, waiting.

We heard a woman scream.

“Margaret!” cried Pertinax.

There was then the sound of a blow, and we heard her whimpering.

“Tarsk!” screamed Pertinax.

“Draw back,” I said. I had ascertained what I had intended. There were five foes in the stable, two to each side, a bit back, and one at the center and rear. Three had bows, one on each side, and the one toward the back. I supposed them short of quarrels but could make no determination on this point.

The fellow toward the back of the stable, who had fired the quarrel, was Licinius Lysias, he of Turmus.

This pleased me.

“She is alive!” said Pertinax.

“You put her at great risk,” I said to Pertinax. “You showed concern. Thus they will see her as important. Thus they will see her as a possible hostage, a tool with which to bargain.”

“What does it matter,” said Tajima. “She is only a slave.”

“It matters to Pertinax,” I said.

“He is a weakling, and fool,” said Tajima, angrily.

“Suppose it had been Sumomo,” I said.

“I would have evinced no sign of concern,” said Tajima, “and thus she would have been safer than otherwise.”

“Pertinax,” I said, “does not yet have your resourcefulness, and cunning.”

“Perhaps one day,” said Tajima.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Yes,” said Pertinax. “I am a fool.”

“No,” I said. “One who makes mistakes is not a fool. Only one who fails to learn from his mistakes.”

“But the beast struck her,” he said.

“Do not concern yourself,” I said. “She is only a slave.”

“Perhaps — in a sense,” he said.

“In every sense,” I said, “categorically, and absolutely.” I gathered that Pertinax had no sense of what it was