Vagabonds of Gor

15 We Continue Westward

Again I struggled westward in the marsh, gagged, my hands manacled before me, tied at my waist, my body pulling against the harness. Too, I was now hooded. It had been a supposition of my keeper that I might, somehow, be able to communicate, perhaps by glances or such, with rencers. Perhaps, too, they now desired to conceal from me the wretchedness of their state. So I struggled ahead, closed in the hood, manacled, harnessed, drawing the weighty raft through the marsh, through the rence, through the mud, now with several men upon it, some wounded and sick, little more, if anything, than a beast of burden, a despised beast subject to the frequent blows, the lashings, of an impatient, hostile master.

It was now four days after the incident of the drive of the tharlarion.

We had continued to move west.

Rencers had now chosen to pick their targets with care. Sometimes Ahn would pass, and men would think themselves secure. Then an arrow would dart forth from the rence, the bowman unseen, his presence perhaps not even suspected, and another man, perhaps silently, would sink into the marsh. The officer no longer cared to assign men to point positions. Too often these scouts and flankers, and rear guards, failed to return. Now the men of Ar, I gathered, trod together, for many seemed close about. I think many from other columns, even, with their own tales of woe and terror, may have joined ours, or caught up with us. Perhaps they had been gradually moved toward us, by the rencers, in effect, their herdsmen. I wondered if many wished, somehow, if only half consciously, to use his fellows for cover. "Lines!" I had heard, often enough. "Lines!" I had supposed then that they must have again formed lines, now doubtless, given their exhaustion, staggering, straggling lines, yet lines that would provide at least an isolation, a separation, of targets. I could imagine weary, terrorized men looking fearfully to the left and right. Everywhere the rence would seem the same. As for myself I could concern myself with little but the weight of the raft, my footing, and the blows which drove me.

"Glory to Ar!" cried out a man, somewhere behind me and to my left.

"Glory to Ar!" wept others.

Bit by bit, from the reports of men from other units, sometimes coming across us, sometimes found wandering in the marsh, sometimes half mad, we had been able to build up a picture of what was occurring in the delta. It was not difficult to overhear these things, at night, and during the march. The rear column, interestingly, had been the first to break, but its retreat had been stopped by rencers, apparently in great numbers. The arrows of tern wood, it seemed, had chosen to close the return to the east. The rear column, then, had fled deeper into the delta.

"They want to keep you in the delta," I had told the officer two nights ago, when unhooded, ungagged, to be fed. "They want you here, all the more at their mercy, where they may deal with you at their leisure, and as they please!"

Labienus had looked at me, not speaking.

"You must try to break out of the delta!" I had said.

He had not responded.

"But what shall we do, Captain?" asked a man.

"We continue west," had said Labienus.

Other reports soon began to trickle in. Two columns had been decimated in rencer attacks. Hundreds of men had perished in quicksand. Many of these had apparently been lured into the mire by rencers who had permitted themselves to be seen, and pursued, rencers who doubtless knew their way through the area, perhaps even drawing up safe-passage markers behind them. Others had fallen to the attacks of tharlarion and the marsh shark, which becomes particularly aggressive early in the morning and toward dusk, its common feeding times. Sickness and infections, too, were rampant. Hunger, exposure, sunstroke, and dysentery were common. There were many desertions. Perhaps some of the deserters might find their way from the delta. One did not know. And always it seemed the rencers were about, like sleen prowling the flanks of a herd.

"Cursed rencers!" I heard a man scream. "Cursed rencers!"

"Stay down!" someone called to him. "Do not stand so!"

"You will unsettle the craft," said another.

"Cursed rencers!" he screamed again. Then I heard a cry of pain.

"It came from there!" cried a man.

"I saw nothing!" cried a man.

I heard a body fall into the water.

"From there!" cried the fellow, again.

"Hurry!" cried a man.

I heard metal unsheathed. I heard men wading to the right.

"Fulvius! Fulvius!" cried a fellow.

"He is dead," said a voice.

I heard a cry of anguish.

I had stopped, and the column, too, I think, as a whole, had stopped. I did not, at least, hear men moving in the water.

There was not much noise, only the cry of a marsh gant.

We waited.

In few moments I heard some men approaching. "We found nothing," one said.

"Lines!" I heard. "Lines!"

"I will avenge you, Fulvius!" I heard a man cry. I heard, too, metal drawn.

"Come back!" I heard. "Come back!"

"Lines!" I heard. "Lines!"

"Let him go," said a man, wearily.

"Shields right!" I heard. Normally the shield, of course, is carried on the left arm, most warriors being right handed. The shields were now to be shifted to the right arm, for that was the direction from which had come the arrow. There might be rencers, too, of course, on the left. But they knew that they were on the right.

I heard the whip snap again behind me. I then, and I gather, too, the rest of the column, began again to move forward.

"Keep the lines!" I heard. "Keep the lines!"

We did hear, an Ehn or so later, a long, single wailing cry from the marsh. It came from behind us, from the right.