Rebels of Gor (5 page)

The tarn sped on through the night. I felt a bit of snow.

I would scout the old camp.

There would not be much to see now, burned wood, ashes, perhaps rusted weaponry, perhaps bones, scoured by jards and urts.

I would not stay long.

I assumed that the patrols and kill squads of Lord Yamada would be in the vicinity. Lord Okimoto, as I recall, had said they would be about, in the mountains, hunting for survivors, those who might have escaped on foot. And surely some might linger in the vicinity of the camp. Might not some survivors, lost, miserable, desperate, cold, and starving, return, searching for food, perhaps hoping to be rescued?

I should have been there.

Occasionally the clouds parted, and I could see rocks, and mountains, below. Narrow valleys, here and there, were like black wounds.

I would not stay long in the old camp.

I conjectured it was no more than ten or twelve Ehn away.

I looked down, suddenly.

It was tiny and far below, little more than a flicker amongst rocks.

I took it to be the campfire of a Yamada patrol.

It would be visible only from the air.

A light snow continued to fall. In the morning, it would be dangerous for fugitives to move. May a track in the snow not be a long, lingering arrow, one pointing to its unseen target?

I must now be near the first encampment, that decimated weeks ago by the forces of Lord Yamada.

I should have been there at the time of the attack.

I had been at the holding, idle, waiting, doing nothing!

I cried out with rage, startling the bird, which swerved to the left, and lost a beat of the great wings.

“Steady, be steady, friend,” I called to him, chagrined, soothingly.

Again the mighty appendages found their beat, and the bird again sped, with no altered signal from the straps, on the course I had set.

Why should I return to the first camp, I asked myself. To reconnoiter, to open wounds I had not borne, or to die?

I had not been at the camp when it had fallen.

Cry out to the hills, fool, I thought, when you are alone. Howl your misery and weep your tears of rage when none are about to hear, when none are about to see. The stone is hard and does not weep; the sword is silent, and speaks only to flesh, and then briefly, swiftly.

How unworthy I was of the scarlet!

The night continued to be muchly dark, but now and again, as occasionally before, the wind tore away patches of cloud, suddenly, and the mountainous terrain below would spring into view.

Only one moon was now in the sky, the largest of Gor’s three moons, her yellow moon.

The guide straps were cold in my hands. They are usually supple, like binding fiber, but now they were stiff and pulled like wire. The strap ring with its smaller rings was cold, as well. I lifted my hands, the straps wound about them, to my mouth and blew on them. With the leather of the straps I wiped snow from my eyes. Beneath the jacket I wore a shirt, woven from the wool of the bounding hurt, and beneath the helmet a drawn cap of the same material. I wore tarnboots and leggings of leather. The small buckler was on the saddle to the left. A lance of temwood was in its open boot, to the right. The saddle bow was in its case behind me, and the two quivers, one on each side of the saddle, were closed against precipitation. Saddle knives were in place, and, behind the saddle, one on each side of the small pack, was an Anango dart. Although the saddle knives are balanced for throwing, most of my men preferred the darts. The points of the darts were clear of poison. One leaves poison to the ost, and the striking pins and daggers of free women. That is one reason many warriors require a captured free woman to strip herself, lest they run afoul of concealed devices, a scratch from which might prove fatal. Sometimes the captor inquires politely if the woman’s garments contain such devices. If she replies affirmatively she is asked to remove the devices and place them before the captor before stripping herself. If she should fail to surrender any such device she is slain instantly. If she responds negatively, and is found to have lied, such a device being found, she is also slain instantly. Once stripped and weaponless she is assessed, to see if she might be of interest, as such women may be of interest to men, as they should be, as a slave. If she is found of interest, the matter is routinely and summarily accomplished; she is enslaved. If she is not found of interest, she is commonly driven away, naked, and shamed, or, sometimes, held for ransom, naked on a chain. In most cities it is a capital offense for a slave to touch a weapon.

Ho, I thought. What is this? Yes! The beat changes. Now we soar! The bird descends, without instruction. He knows the place. He remembers it, and better than I, in the cold, and darkness. It is so much more familiar to him than his new quarters. He expects to find his cot, warm, dry straw, and raw tabuk on its hook. No, poor fellow, I thought. Such things are gone. Neither of us were here when the Ashigaru of Yamada, with glaives and torches, streamed forth from the mountains. How many, I wondered, might you, in your indignation, have clasped in your talons and torn with your beak, before burned, and struck, you would have foundered, and screamed, and looked one last time at the sky? And I was not here either, dear fellow. I was away, far away, my blade sleeping in its sheath. I was unworthy of my command, for I had survived it.

My heels hit the stirrups as the bird alit.

I looked about, from the saddle.

The ground was covered with a soft snow, which was still, gently, falling.

I had survived my command.

Lord Nishida and Lord Okimoto might have considered ritual knives. On continental Gor routed generals, fugitives about, enemy standards advancing, might cast themselves on their sword.

I descended from the saddle.

I was reasonably confident that I would find, somewhere about the camp, somewhere in the snow and darkness, probably at its periphery, a contingent of the men of great Yamada, Shogun of the Islands. They would be posted here to guard the desolate encampment, to report lest it be reoccupied, to intercept and deal with possible survivors from the attack, perhaps to provide a shelter and retreat, a headquarters, for the patrols and kill squads before they set again about their work. Then, again, I might be alone. I saw no sign; I heard no sound.

The snow continued to fall.

Here, I thought, in a belated moment of honor, I might prolong the battle, and allow the enemy a fit completion of his endeavor. If I had not fought here, at the proper time, I might fall here, at a time of my choosing.

It would be poor atonement, but might it not do?

I lifted my head and stood in the falling snow.

It seemed, for a moment, I heard the cries of rushing men, the clash of blades, the screams of tarns.

“Ho!” I cried. “Tal, Noble Foes! I greet you! I am Tarl Cabot, commander of the cavalry of Lord Temmu. Did you seek me? Have you forgotten me? Behold! I am here! I greet you! I await you!”

There was only silence.

A wind thrust clouds to the west, and the landscape lay a pale yellow about me.

I could sense the tarn behind me, some feet to my right.

The snow no longer fell, but its feel remained in the air.

The sheds and tents had been before me, and there, to the left, the cots, beyond them.

It seemed I could see the fires, the smoke rising.

It was quiet now, and the ashes, the charred planks and blackened poles, would lie beneath the coating of snow.

I did not understand the business of the ritual knife. I did not understand the casting of oneself upon one’s sword.

Perhaps that was because I was unworthy.

Once, long ago, in the delta of the Vosk, I had betrayed my codes.

I did understand facing a foe, a weapon drawn. I suppose there are various honors, as there are various men. Yet that each has an honor seemed to me significant. Those without an honor I found it difficult to comprehend. Yet perhaps they were the wisest, or most clever. The urt often survives where the larl perishes. And yet I did not think the urt the better for this. It remains an urt.

Death need not be a defeat; to die well is the final victory.

“Ho!” I cried to the night. “I am here! Greet me!”

It would be doubtless unpleasant to return to one’s city, routed and defeated, clad in ashes and rags, to face its councils, to be denied bread, fire, and salt, but better, I thought, that than flight, or falling upon one’s sword, for then one might return to war. Life, I thought, sometimes requires a greater courage than death. Different men, different honors. Let each choose his own, or be chosen by his own.

I remembered the parapet.

When things are done, I thought, how might one better sell one’s life than splendidly, gallantly, amidst ringing steel?

It is not the worst of deaths to perish in sweat and blood, a sword in one’s hand.

But different men, different honors.

“Tal!” I cried. “I am alone. I serve Lord Temmu. Are you not here?”

I was not needed. I had formed and trained the cavalry, and commanded it in the northern forests. Others might command it, Torgus, Lysander, even young Tajima.

“I am here!” I called. “Greet me!”

Where, I asked myself, are they? Surely there would be several here, the Ashigaru and officers, warriors of the two swords, to guard the place, to watch for others, to dispatch the patrols and kill squads.

But there was silence.

The tarn stirred behind me, closer now, still to my right.

No, I thought, they are not here; they are hunting.

“It seems I must come again!” I called to the night.

What would they be hunting? Men, of course. Might any be left, weeks after the attack? Could any have survived, in the mountains, and cold?

Fool, I thought, fool!

I recalled the tiny flicker of light I had seen in my flight. It could have been the camp of a patrol or kill squad, but it seemed a tiny fire, not that serving several men, contented, sure of themselves, with rice boiling in the helmet. It had been positioned such that it could be seen only from the air.

I had failed to think clearly. Sick with grief, and pain, and misery, disturbed and distracted, I had hoped for little more than the self-indulgent gratification of a meaningless sacrifice. I was unworthy of the scarlet, I had betrayed my responsibilities and the remnants of my command. Was this not a treason compared to which my lapse in the marshes was meaningless? I was still the commander of the tarn cavalry, however torn and depleted it might be. There lay my duty, which, for the sake of a childish vanity, I had been on the point of forswearing. One of my men, perhaps more, had need of me. He, or they, had lit their tiny signal, and I, in the madness of my rage and shame, had failed to understand, and respond.

I suddenly became aware of dark shapes about me.

The tarn scratched at the snowy earth with talons.

“Up!” I cried, leaping to the mounting ladder, which swung beside the saddle, and the tarn screamed, and its mighty wings smote the air, and it ascended, I clinging to the mounting ladder. In a few moments I had attained the saddle, and buckled the safety strap. In the moonlight below I could see several figures, peering upward.

I could not concern myself with them.

I was once again Tarl Cabot, an officer, the commander of the tarn cavalry of Lord Temmu.

I could not concern myself with them.

I was otherwise engaged.

Chapter Three

In the Vicinity of a Small Fire

It was merely Ehn later when the tarn, responding to the straps, wings beating, hovering, descending, struck into the snow yards from the tiny fire, concealed amongst the rocks.

I did not descend from the saddle.

The small fire could have been lit by Yamada Ashigaru, to lure in rescuers.

No one was near the fire.

This bespoke wisdom, whether of an enemy or friend. Let others be illuminated in that tiny light, if they were so unwary. Darkness is the friend of assassins, of arrows springing from the night, and it may form the shield and shelter of the fugitive who might, upon the arrival of unwelcome intruders, slip away unseen.

Any, however, of those contingents of Lord Yamada likely to be in the mountains, his patrols and kill squads, would know of tarns, from the raid on the first encampment or reports of the raid, and they, marking the descent of a tarn and its rider, would know that an enemy was in their midst.

“Swords of Temmu,” I called, softly, from the saddle. That had been the sign at the time of the raid on the first encampment. It had obviously been available to the raiders.

I awaited the countersign.

But there was but silence, and darkness.

My hand went to the one-strap.

As the fire had been tended, someone was about.