Rebels of Gor Read Free

streams, at least until there was a reason to believe otherwise, perhaps in virtue of a fruitless raid, loosed upon unoccupied tents, pitched on an empty field. As one cannot trust spies, perhaps it might behoove spies not to trust others, as well.
    “It is quiet,” said Lord Nishida, peering over the parapet.
    “We can see little,” said Lord Okimoto.
    Surely there had been no signal arrows from the lower posts, no torches, no cries of warning.
    “The fog will soon lift,” said Lord Nishida.
    Several times, at night, enemies from below, dark-clad, agile night fighters, had forced pitons into the cliff, but these had been broken free during the day, by Ashigaru, lowered from the walls above. The situation of the holding of Lord Temmu, surmounting cliffs landward, almost in the clouds as seen from below, rendered siege towers impractical. Trails leading to the valley below were narrow and easily defended. On the seaward side, a single, narrow, walled trail ascended tortuously from the wharves below to the courtyard of the holding. This trail, too, now barricaded, would be easily defended. The site of the holding, atop the cliffs, over the centuries, had apparently been variously fortified and commanded. Doubtless its lines, appointments, battlements, keeps, and structures, in number and nature, over the years, had changed, had come and gone, but the mountain, with its proud, summoning escarpment, had endured. As the remote, precipitous, unapproachable crag might commend itself to the wild tarn so too would this place commend itself to tarns amongst men. Was this not a possible place of wealth, and power? From such a place might not one command, govern, and rule? Might one not find here a suitable aerie for tyranny? From such an ensconcement might one not descend with fire and sword, and to such a place might one not withdraw, with immunity, laden with treasure? In the quiet, on the parapet, in the damp, chill air, standing there in the fog, I wondered on myself. Who knows oneself? Is one not always a stranger to oneself?
    “The men are hungry,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “The edge of hunger can be keener than the blade of a sword,” said Lord Nishida.
    “It is then a matter of time,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “Possibly,” said Lord Nishida.
    I looked down.
    The fog was now torn into patches and, below, I could see the ditches, the breastworks, the hurdles, the stakes, and, a half pasang behind, the tents, many tents, near the ashes of what had been one of the environing villages.
    It would be difficult for a sortie to reach those tents before alarms could be sounded and resistance mustered. And the distance, too, would serve well to separate the personnel of such an excursion from the shelter of their own walls, enabling their pursuit, interception, or encirclement. The bolt of lightning strikes and vanishes. It is skilled in the lore of the raid. Penned verr may be slaughtered at the discretion of the butcher. They are less skilled.
    Men see land differently, the merchant in terms of profitability, the sage in terms of quietude, the poet in terms of mood, the painter in terms of beauty, the peasant in terms of home, in terms of soil, fertility, tillability, and yield. But I feared I saw it differently. I was of the scarlet caste. The military eye does not see land as others see it. It sees it in terms of what might be done, and not done, and how easily, sees it in terms of movement, columns, the marshaling of men, the arrangement of troops, the order of battle, in terms of passage, heights, time, concealment, attack, marches, and tactics. High grass, a wood, may conceal foes. If there is a marsh to the right, would the attack not be likely from the left? Has a frightened animal darted past? What has frightened it? Keep high ground on the shield side.
    I looked about myself.
    As song to the poet and gold to the merchant would not this place, so lofty and beautiful, with its aspects and promises, call to the ruler, the