Sailor of a Dry Sea by Tom Williams

Hetoz of Fizor yawned. Weakly illuminated by a horned moon, the Rofik citadel, upon which the yachter kept watch, was quiet and peaceful. Only the fires, visible at several points atop the high stone wall that sealed the settlement, proved that anyone human abided hereabouts. Presumably, the majority of the barbarous Rofik (they ate dogs!) slumbered at this time of night, but even they were not stupid enough to leave unguarded the most important features of any Pezifik community: the cattle corral; the zerifyte pastures; the yacht berth; and, of course, the water well.

Despite having done so several times already this night, Hetoz decided to make a check on his yacht. A problem anticipated or prevented would, he considered, make this obsession well worth his while; after all, a yachter without a yacht was like a singer without a tongue: a waste of precious water.

Leather armor creaking and sandals crunching upon the gritty, salt-encrusted dirt, Hetoz walked around the craft. Composed of a strange white substance—light yet impervious to the sharpest blade—and tapered at either end, the hull was ten feet long. He inspected the stone chocks wedged beneath the four disc-like wheels—one at each end of the hull and one upon each of the yard-wide "wings"—and was satisfied that they were steadfast. Taking off his leather gloves, he poked the strange pliant substance that coated the wheel rims; it felt the way it should upon all four wheels.

The tall triangular sail was lashed down by a strong yet simple yachter's knot. He marveled—as always—at the quality of the smooth silvery material as he ran his fingertips over it. No Fizori knew how to create the fabric, if fabric it was. Two years ago his cousin, Zetor, had ripped her yacht's sail in a high-speed collision with a rock outcropping; the patched leather sheet that replaced the original sail made her yacht much slower. Hetoz doubted that it was even half as swift as his was. If Fizor was to maintain its fleet of yachts, however, these rude modifications sometimes had to be made.

Still attached to the traces, Hetoz' dog, Keroy, lay within his cradle in the yacht's bow. Powerfully muscled and nearly as big as a man, a dog served many purposes for a Fizori yachter. It was at once a friend, a bodyguard and, occasionally—when winds were poor or blew from the wrong direction—a means of propulsion. Keroy wagged his tail, as his master absently patted the dog's bristly golden fur.

"We'll be able to go soon, boy," Hetoz told the dog. With pleasure, he visualized the smile Kezek, his wife, would bestow upon him as she looked up from the zerifyte patch she tended. He grinned at the thought of his eight-year-old son, Yofir, badgering him for yachting lessons. "Yes, Keroy, another few hours, and we'll be home."

Hetoz retrieved a leather bag from the yacht's small cockpit and drew from it a chunk of pemmican and a stalk of zerifyte. Keroy whined plaintively. The yachter laughed and gave the dog some of the pemmican.

Chewing slowly, the Fizori peered once more at the Rofik settlement. Nothing had changed. The Rofik were indolent, plainly unperturbed by the knowledge that Hetoz watched their citadel. It was not unusual for the Fizori to spy on their rival tribe. And with nowhere to hide it upon the salt pan, his yacht was quite overt during daylight hours.

Hetoz suppressed another yawn. Sometimes, he found it hard to stay alert, especially during the second night of a typically uneventful stint. Not that Hetoz thought these missions unimportant: he could hardly forget the carnage inflicted upon his tribe when some eleven years ago the Rofik fleet had sailed northward across the Pezifik to attack the Fizori stronghold. A dozen people had lost their lives—including Hetoz' father, Tefiz—and more than half of Fizor's cattle had been slaughtered during that devastating raid. Even more disastrous than the loss of the beasts—and, if Hetoz was truthful, the deaths of his father and kindred—had been the theft of two invaluable yachts. Cattle numbers could be built up again, and men and women always did what came naturally to them ... but the yachts were ancient relics, the techniques of their construction a lost art.

Suddenly, from the north, his ears picked up the faint sound of yacht wheels running across the salty earth. Slipping his gloves back on, he spat out a remnant of zerifyte pulp and grinned. His friend, Yitef, had arrived to take over the Rofik watch.

"Hey," Hetoz called softly to guide the other Fizori. "Over here."

Moving slowly, propelled only by the dog sporting leather booties—which protected paws from the salt—trotting ahead of it, Yitef's yacht came into view. Yitef steered towards his fellow yachter.

"Ho, Hetoz," he said. "How goes it?"

"Quietly, Yitef. The Rofik are idle, it would seem."

Yitef chuckled, bringing his craft to a halt. At the precise moment the yacht stopped rolling, the Rofik launched their attack. In horror, Hetoz watched as three black figures emerged from the surrounding darkness and leapt upon his friend. Yitef's dog gave a yelp that was cut off as another figure beset it. Hetoz was about to dash in to offer assistance when he saw three more silhouetted forms coming towards him.

Hetoz thought his loathing of the Rofik had died over the years since they had slain his father. Certainly, it no longer filled his every waking moment as it had done in the first few months following the raid. But that hatred suddenly flared anew. Pulling his axe from its belt sheath, he screamed wordlessly and sprang at his leather-clad attackers, catching one of them by surprise. The stone axe-head buried itself in the man's chest, jerking the weapon's bone haft from Hetoz' grip. Undeterred, the yachter ducked a wildly swung axe and slammed a knee into a vulnerable groin. The third man flinched and tried to turn away from the Fizori's ferocity, but Hetoz took up the injured Rofik's axe and hurled it at the would-be escapee; the head slammed into the man's back and he staggered a few steps farther, before toppling facedown in the dirt.

Panting and wild-eyed, Hetoz looked around. Yitef's attackers were hunched over a quiescent bundle. They swung their axes again and again, each blow making a hideous wet slap. Before Hetoz could make a move more attackers blocked his path. He stood in an agony of indecision for a moment. Should he go to Yitef's assistance or escape? The continued blows decided him: if Yitef was not dead, then surely he must die soon—in truth, he must be so dreadfully hewn now that he would be better off dead.

Pausing only to pick up a stray axe, Hetoz made a dash for his yacht. It felt terrible to abandon Yitef, and he cursed the Rofik for forcing him to do so. A grinning Rofik warrior loomed in the Fizori's path, but an enraged Hetoz did not even check his charge and cannoned into the fellow—flinging him aside before the man could raise an axe.

Keroy barked madly, jumping about in his cradle. Hetoz hoped the dog had not tangled the traces. The yachter kicked the chocks out from underneath the wheels and started to push the yacht.

"Keroy!" he yelled. "Onward! Onward, boy!"

Bounding from his cradle, the dog scrambled upon the salty earth, trying to pull the yacht. Hetoz heard the shouts and whistles of Rofik as they hurried to thwart his escape. The yachter shoved with all his might, willing his craft to move faster!

A sixth sense alerted him to the three men that rushed him out of the gloom. He was slow to let go of the yacht and draw out the Rofik axe he had gleaned. The first Rofik lunged with a stone knife, and Hetoz barely leapt aside in time. Swinging the axe in a chest-high arc, the Fizori forced his opponents back. The yacht had rolled several yards away, however, and the Rofik warriors were able to encircle him. Hetoz could not watch all three at the same time.

In a well co-ordinated attack, the Rofik came for him simultaneously. His axe caught one in the throat—spinning the man away—but Hetoz felt a tearing pain in his left forearm as a sharp knife opened a gash there. He had lost sight of the third man and he tensed in expectation of being struck a fatal blow.

A volley of snarls and gasps sounded behind him. Keroy had broken his traces and joined the fray, savaging the third Rofik warrior. Man and dog writhed upon the ground and Hetoz heard pain-filled howls from both.

Anxious to help Keroy, Hetoz turned upon the only Rofik that remained. The Fizori side-stepped a poorly directed knife thrust and swept the axe down onto his antagonist's shoulder, half-severing the Rofik's arm. The wound spouted a torrent of blood and the man screamed, then collapsed to the ground. Without hesitation, Hetoz dashed to where Keroy and the third warrior still fought.

Even as the yachter arrived to help the dog, the Rofik managed to free his bloody arm. He held a knife, which he plunged deep into Keroy's side. The dog squealed horribly and immediately went limp. Flinging his canine assailant aside, the Rofik warrior jumped to his feet—only to have an axe-head of his own tribe's making embedded in the base of his skull.

Hetoz dropped to his knees alongside Keroy, but the dog was already dead. The yachter laid a shaking hand upon an inert flank.

"Keroy," he whispered. "I am sorry, boy."

First his good friend and then his faithful dog had been slain. Hetoz was surprised—but not regretful—to find his eyes moist, which was an extravagant use of water. Laying a last pat upon Keroy, he straightened up and glanced southward. He could see little but thought he heard the sounds of many people searching. It would not take the Rofik long to find him; he was only about a hundred yards away from where the initial ambush had taken place. It was past time to leave.

His wounded forearm stung as Hetoz pushed upon the rear of the yacht and strove to get it moving again. It was much harder without the dog's help, and it took him quite some time to build up speed. He heard an exultant ululation, as a group of Rofik spotted the black silhouette of his yacht.

"Come on! Move!" he roared, as much at himself as the craft.

At last, when the Rofik warriors were nearly upon him, he judged the yacht to be rolling fast enough. He leapt into the cockpit and settled down in the cushioned seat. Instantly, he assessed the wind—a moderate southwesterly—then expertly unfurled and set the sail. Grasping the mainsheet with one hand and the steering wheel with the other, he guided the yacht upon a downwind course that allowed it to accelerate away from the Rofik. Curses followed him into the darkness, and he laughed harshly and without humor.

"You'll not catch Hetoz of the Fizori, you dog-eaters!" he cried.

His triumph, trivial as it was, was quickly tempered by shouts that he heard, calls aimed not at him but back at the Rofik settlement: "Send out the yachts!" and "Chase the dirty Fizori to the ends of the earth!" There was movement among the fires dotting the hillside; no doubt preparations were being made to allow Rofik yachts to speed from their berth.

Hetoz gybed, ducking the swinging boom, to take advantage of a subtle shift in the wind, then eased the mainsheet a little to take pressure off the mast. Scrabbling beneath him, he found a bag full of rocks and dumped them over the stern of the yacht. If he was lucky, they might cause one of his pursuers' yachts to skid and overturn.

He set sail for Fizor, fleeing the Rofik yachts that were on his tail. Not much was discernible in the darkness astern, but occasionally he caught a momentary flash, as if moonlight had shone upon the silver sail of a gybing yacht. The Rofik did not seem to be catching him, but neither did they appear to be falling behind.

He grimaced. Hetoz just wanted to get home safely to Kezek and Yofir.

Over and over again he adjusted his sail and gybed to find the best wind gusts to keep him ahead of the Rofik. He was thankful that the wind remained strong enough that using a dog to tow a yacht was unnecessary. He swallowed painfully at that; he had no dog to pull his craft, strong winds or not. Keroy's cradle was conspicuous by its emptiness.

As dawn approached, the eastern sky brightened, bathing the plain in lurid light. Hetoz glanced over his shoulder. The Rofik yachts were still behind him, perhaps half a mile away. At least three sails reflected orange fire; the Rofik must truly be bent on revenge or on capturing Hetoz' yacht.

"Why are the Rofik so different from us?" he had once asked Yozet, a Fizori elder.

Yozet had chuckled. "There are some—your mother for one—who would hold that the Rofik are nothing but savages. Certainly, there are differences between the Rofik and the Fizori, but some things are—and must be—the same. After all, cattle eat zerifyte; dogs eat cattle; and people eat both zerifyte and cattle. But all three—zerifyte, cattle, and people—are dependent upon water. Wherever you live upon the Pezifik, those facts hold true."

Hetoz was disturbed by the thought that Yozet might well have the truth of it. The Rofik with whom the yachter had fought had not seemed all that unlike—in appearance, at least—Fizori warriors. Their axes were of similar fabrication to those made in Fizor—stone heads bound to cattle cannon bones—as was their armor—boiled leather vests secured by rawhide cords. He even grudgingly admitted that his hated enemies were good sailors.

"Well," he growled, "they're much more aggressive than us. We don't kill them without provocation." He glanced astern. "And they certainly don't give up."

Suddenly uneasy, he inspected the sail and was satisfied with its set, with the luff edge just lifting a fraction. Nevertheless, he crouched farther into his seat to reduce wind resistance. He tried to keep himself calm. Surely, he considered, the Rofik would abandon the pursuit at daybreak.

Not long afterward, the sun rose from the earth. Hetoz squinted around him. North and west was an endless expanse of salt and sand. Eastward, sunlight scintillated from the surface of the plain—creating a blinding light that was almost as hard to look at as the sun itself—but concealed, he knew, the same monotonous white vista. Of course, the occasional patch of zerifyte studded this desert, and the odd rocky outcropping thrust from the ground, but apart from those aberrations, the Pezifik was barren and featureless.

As the ascending sun swiftly heated the plain, the air shimmered and mirages formed in the distance. Hetoz sweltered in his armor, but it was better that than sunburn. Reaching beneath him, he found his wide-brimmed leather hat and donned it. He licked his salt- and heat-cracked lips involuntarily; his water was rationed, and he was not due to have another mouthful before noon.

When Hetoz peered astern once more an hour after dawn, he received a terrible shock. The Rofik yachts had not abandoned their pursuit. Indeed, there were more of them than he had thought during his flight in the dark—considerably more.

With the benefit of full daylight, he was able to make out at least eight sails astern of him; the blur of distance and stirred-up dust suggested there might be still more that he could not quite see.

He took a deep breath. It had to be the entire Rofik fleet out there behind him. Could they be intending to attack Fizor? In view of Fizori spy missions, it seemed an unlikely prospect nowadays...

Hetoz' eyes widened in sudden comprehension. With Yitef dead, only Hetoz remained to alert Fizor of a surprise attack. No wonder the Rofik were so intent on pursuing him! He simply had to elude these pursuing yachts.

Subsequently, he devoted total attention to his sailing, concentrating on the task as he had not done since first he had sailed with his father, seeking every little advantage he could find in wind shift or set of sail.

And after a while the Rofik yachts—restricted, perhaps, by lesser sailors or, more likely, the wind spoiling that yachts in close formation inevitably created—dropped astern of him, shrinking first into tiny pinpoints in the distance, then disappearing from view.

Hetoz, however, was unstinting in the precision of his sailing. Driving him onward was the desire to protect the Fizori from the Rofik, especially his own family. The relentless strain upon his body caused the wound in his forearm to bleed steadily and darkened the makeshift bandage with which he had bound it. He ignored it, however: it was nothing compared to the bloodshed that could follow if he failed to escape the Rofik fleet.

Around noon he discerned a dark line on the horizon. It was the Northern Ridge, at the base of which was the Fizor settlement. Sailing towards the ridgeline, the yachter searched for a landmark. He quickly spotted The Pointer, a finger-like spire of rock that was about three miles east of Fizor.

Hetoz looked astern and yelled in relief. The Rofik yachts were well behind him and had no hope of catching him before he made it home. He reached beneath him to retrieve his water skin and indulged himself in a celebratory mouthful of warm water.

Steering the yacht on a northwesterly heading, the yachter sailed for homeport. Not long afterward, he sighted the high wall of Fizor. He shouted to the sentries atop the walls, and they waved back in acknowledgement of his words. One or two warriors at once disappeared from view as they hurried to raise the alarm.

As he headed into the yacht berth, Hetoz allowed himself to relax a little. The Fizori yachters, his cousin Zetor among them, were already readying their craft for battle. With the benefit of his advance warning, Fizor's eleven yachts would be in position, circling upon the plain before the citadel, when the Rofik fleet hove into view. It seemed likely that, with the advantage of surprise lost, the Rofik would turn tail and sail away. However, Hetoz knew that that was not necessarily so. As Yozet was inclined to say: "Nothing is certain upon the Pezifik."