strategic intentions of the shogun. If doubt could be cast on my loyalty who might trust who? A suspicion of betrayal in high places, particularly amongst one’s commanders, can shake and divide units, destroy confidence, undermine morale, threaten discipline, and induce timidity and hesitation. With what will can one obey, and with what heart can one fight, when one fears the enemy is not before you, but behind you?
Abruptly, angrily, I turned the tarn toward the former camp. It was there the columns of raiders had emerged from the passes. I had not been there. I had learned of the raid only from survivors.
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
Abruptly, angrily, I turned the tarn toward the former camp. It was there the columns of raiders had emerged from the passes. I had not been there. I had learned of the raid only from survivors.
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
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