be expected, as with the number of catapults, and such, but rumors suggested a current count of something like one hundred and seventy healthy tarns on board. We knew of three weapon rooms, but suspected there were others. One aspect, at least, of the naval power of the ship of Tersites was clear. She nested six galleys. The tarnsman, Tarl Cabot, was apparently the commander of the tarn cavalry. Several times, in better weather, he had had it aloft, in training exercises. It is impressive to see such mighty beasts in flight, the stroke of the wings to the beating of the tarn drum, the wheelings and maneuvers, in unison, to the signals of banners and trumpets.
“Follow me,” said Philoctetes, who was first in our small company. We followed him up the companionway to the next deck, and then to the next. Unarmed, I was uneasy. We could hear the ringing of steel here and there. Who greets a larl without a spear in one’s grasp? Of the three weapon rooms we knew about, two were forward, and one amidships. Ours was amidships. It was on the deck now above us. The tarn areas were also amidships, consuming most of three decks. As noted, the highest area was on the first deck below the open deck, the lower two areas having access to it by ramps. As noted, only the highest area would open to the sky, once the great hatch was rolled back. We were now, on the companionway, moving past the highest of the two lower tarn areas. Most of the cries, the noise, the screaming of tarns, came from above, the first tarn area, that which might be opened to the sky.
I heard the snap of a bowstring above, and a fellow, on the flooring above, dark, briefly outlined in the light of a tharlarion-oil lamp, turned about, slowly, and then tumbled part way down the companionway, toward us, some five stairs. Philoctetes pulled him aside, and looked up. He then thrust the body down, past us. The arrow had been broken in the fellow’s fall, against the stairs.
“It is a Pani arrow,” said a fellow.
The Pani arrow is long, rather like that of the peasant bow, but the Pani bow is unlike the peasant bow, as it is longer, and lighter. Both bows are different from the short, stout Tuchuk bow, or saddle bow, which, I had learned, had been introduced by the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot, into the weaponry of the tarn cavalry. In the corridor above, the Pani bow must have been used diagonally, given the low ceiling of the corridor. The ideal weapon in closed spaces would be the crossbow, not only because of its size and maneuverability, but, even more, because the bolt or quarrel may wait patiently in the guide, the cable back, ready to spring forth instantly, at the press of a finger on the trigger. It takes a moment, of course, to draw a bow, and it requires strength to keep the bow drawn. The Pani bow, the peasant bow, and the saddle bow, of course, and such bows, have a rapidity of fire which far exceeds that of even the stirruped crossbow.
At the foot of the companionway two men, in the dim light, turned the body.
“I do not know him,” said a fellow.
“He has a blade,” said a man, gratefully.
One of our men, finger by finger, pried loose the blade from the clenched hand.
“Now we have one sword,” said a man.
“Leave it,” said Philoctetes. “Armed, you may be mistaken for a mutineer.”
“You would have us defenseless?” asked a man.
“Wait,” said Philoctetes, “until all are armed.”
“Not I,” said a man, Aristodemus of Tyros.
“Give it to him,” said a fellow. The blade was surrendered to him. We took him to be first sword amongst us.
“Conceal it,” advised Philoctetes.
Aristodemus placed the blade within his furs.
Standing on the stairs, Philoctetes called out, “Friend! Friend!”
“Beware!” I called to him.
He then, cautiously, ascended two or three more steps. “Friend!” he called, again, not showing himself. “Friend!”
He then, from the stairs, peered into the corridor. Then he turned back to us. “I see no one,” he said.
“There are doors,” I said, “corners, where the passageways intersect.”
The arrow had been sped from somewhere.
“Stay back,” said Philoctetes, and he ascended to the corridor, his hands held over his head.
I would have given much for even a buckler.
Philoctetes lowered his hands, and turned to his left.
The archer, it seemed, had gone.
In a moment we had followed him, and crowded behind him. We saw that the weapon room had been broken into. Most of the weaponry, spears, swords, crossbows, longbows, javelins, glaves, maces, axes, Anango darts, gauntlet hatchets, edged battle weights, bladed chains, and such, was gone. Some of the bows and spears, ax hafts, and such, had been broken, or splintered. I suspected that much of what had not been seized, might have been carried to the open deck, and cast overboard, that it not be available to others. At that time we did not know the numbers of the mutineers. Their attacks, however, seemed to have been organized, and coordinated. I wondered if Tyrtaios or Seremides was involved. It seemed unlikely, for both men were astute. There would be little point in seizing the ship, given her present straits, and, if their hope was an escape, however improbable of success such an effort might be, they would presumably be content to seize one or two tarns and flee, following in the wake of earlier deserters. Three men were dead in the corridor; one was of the Pani, probably the room guard, posted outside the door, and two others, who may have fallen to his swift, small sword, each, apparently, by a single stroke. He of the Pani, in any event, whether offered terms or not, had obviously refused to surrender the weapons in his charge, preferring rather to die in their defense. I would later learn that this standing at one’s post, this adherence to duty, was typical of the Pani.
“We are unarmed,” said a fellow. “There is nothing we can do, one way or the other. Let us return to our quarters and abide the outcome.”
“We might side with the winning party,” said a fellow.
“There is no winning party,” said another. “This is not about the ship. This is about flight.”
“There is no escape from the ice, unless it be by tarn,” said a man.
“Perhaps we can secure a tarn!” cried a fellow. “There is fighting, confusion!”
“To the high cot!” cried a man.
“The first tarn hold!” cried another.
“Yes!” cried another.
“Hold!” said Philoctetes. “It is madness!”
“We are unarmed, we pose no threat, none will fire upon us, none will cut us down,” said a man.
“If you interfere, you will be deemed a threat,” said Philoctetes. “You would deal with desperate men, of either side, who will strike without hesitation or compunction.”
“To the cots! To the tarn holds!” insisted a man.
“To the high cot!” said another. “The first tarn hold! Only it opens to the sky!”
“That is where the fighting will be!” said a man.
“Traps will be sealed on the others!” said a man.
“Do not let others seize our only chance to live!” cried a man.
“Are we cowards?” shouted a fellow.
“To the tarn hold!” screamed a man.
“The first, the first!” screamed a man.
“I have a sword,” said Aristodemus, he of Tyros.
“Follow Aristodemus!” said a fellow.
“Follow me!” cried Aristodemus, brandishing the sword, now removed from the concealment of his furs.
“To the high cots!” cried a man.
“To the first tarn hold!” shouted a second.
“Wait!” begged Philoctetes, but he was pushed aside, fell, and men rushed past him.
I crouched beside Philoctetes. He held his arm, which was, as it turned out, broken. We were then alone in the corridor. He looked after the departing men. “Fools,” he hissed, “fools!”
There were footsteps in the corridor and some seven or eight Pani, with their odd, long-handled, curved blades removed from their sashes, hurried past us.
“Go with them,” said Philoctetes. “The tarns, the ship, must be saved.”
