The Horse Barbarians

11

There was no panic and scarcely any excitement. War was war, and the strange environment, the rain, the novel weapons, none of this could affect either the barbarians’ calm or their fighting ability. Men who attack spaceships have only contempt for muzzle-loading cannon.

Ahankk took charge of the detail to carry the gunpowder, while Temuchin himself went to the battered watchtower to see what kind of force was attacking. Another cannon ball hit the wall and bullets hummed by like lethal bees while he stood there, unmoving, until he had seen enough. He leaned over and shouted orders down to his men.

Jason trailed after the men who were carrying the gunpowder, and when he emerged, he discovered that the warlord was the only other living person left inside the fort.

“Through that door,” Temuchin ordered, pointing to the gate that opened onto the riverbank. ‘The ones who come cannot see that side yet, and all the moropes are there and behind this building. All of you with the gunpowder mount up and, when I signal the charge, you will go at once to the trees. The rest of us will delay the soldiers and then join you.”

“How many men do you think are attacking?” Jason asked, as the gunpowder bearers hurried out.

“Many. Two hands times the count of a man, perhaps more. Go with the gunpowder, the attack is close.” It was, too. Bullets splattered against the wall and spanged in through the firing slits. The roar of attacking voices sounded just outside.

The count of a man, Jason thought, hopping and hobbling to his morope, which was being held outside. All of a man’s fingers and toes, twenty. And a hand times that would be a hundred, two hands two hundred. And their party numbered 23 at the most, if no more of the men had been killed during the last attack. Ten men, each to carry a barrel of gunpowder, with Jason along as technical adviser, left 13 lancers for the attack. Thirteen against a couple of hundred. Good barbarian odds.

Events moved fast after that. Jason barely had time to haul himself into the saddle before the gunpowder party wheeled away, and he made a tardy rearguard. They reached the back of the building just as the

first attackers appeared. The remaining 13 riders charged out and the victorious roar of the foot soldiers turned instantly into mingled cries of shock and pain. Jason stole one glance over his shoulder and saw the cannon upended, men fleeing in all directions, while the moropes and their bloodthirsty riders cut a swathe of death through the ranks. Then the trees were before him and he had to avoid the whipping branches.

They waited just inside the screen of the woods. Within a minute there was the thud-thud of galloping moropes and seven of them plunged through the sodden brush. One of the beasts was carrying two riders. Their numbers were decreasing with every encounter.

“Go on,” Temuchin ordered. “Follow the trail back the way we came. We will stay here and slow down any who try to follow.”

As Jason and the powder team left, the survivors were dismounting and taking cover at the edge of the open field. It would take a determined attack to press home against the deadly arrows that would emerge from the obscuring forest.

Jason did not enjoy the ride. He had not dared to bring his medikit, though he wished now that he had taken this risk. Neither had he ever before tried to bandage two slippery wounds on himself, with cardboard-stiff chamois, while charging along a twisting trail on a hump-backed inorope. It was his fond hope that he would never have to do it again. Before they reached the sacked fariithouse, the other riders caught up with them and the entire party galloped on in exhausted silence. Jason was hopelessly lost on the foggy, tree-shrouded paths, which all looked alike to him. But the nomads had far better eyes for the terrain and rode steadily toward their objective. The inoropes were faltering and could be kept moving only by constant application of the prickspurs. Blood streamed down their sides and soaked into their damp fur.

When they reached the river, Temuchin signaled a stop.

“Dismount,” he ordered, “and take only what you must have from your saddlebags. We leave the beasts here. One at a time now, over that rise to the river.” He moved off first, leading his own mount.

Jason was too foggy from exhaustion and pain to realize what was happening. When he finally pulled his mount forward, he was surprised to see a knot of men on the riverbank with not a single inorope in sight.

“Do you have everything you want?” Temuchin asked, taking Jason’s bridle and pulling the morope close to the bank. As Jason nodded, he whipped the bowie knife across in a wicked, backhand slash that cut the creature’s throat and almost severed its head from its body. He moved quickly to avoid the pulsing gout of blood, then put his foot

against the swaying animal and pushed it sideways into the river. The swift current carried it quickly from sight.

“The machine cannot lift a tnorope up the cliff,” Temuchin said. “And we do not want their bodies near the landing spot or the place will be known and soldiers will wait there. We walk.” He looked at Jason’s wounded leg. “You can walk, can’t you?”

“Great,” Jason said. “Never felt better. A little hike after a couple of nights without sleep and a thousand-kilometer ride is just what I need. Here we go.” He walked off as swiftly as he could, trying not to limp. “We’ll get this gunpowder back and I’ll show you just how to use it,” he reminded, just in case the warlord had forgotten.

It was not a very nice walk. They did not stop, but instead, to relieve each other, passed the barrels from one to another without halting. At least Jason and the other three walking wounded missed this assignment. Trudging uphill on the slippery grass was not easy. Jason’s leg was a pillar of pain that bled a steady trickle of blood down into his boot top. He kept falling behind, and the march was endless. All of the others had passed him and, at one point, they were out of sight over a ridge ahead. He wiped the rain and sweat from his eyes and limped on, trying to follow their vague path in the tall grass, which was already straightening up and blurring the signs. Temuchin appeared on the hilltop above and looked back at him, fingering his sword hilt, and Jason put on a lung-destroying burst of speed. If he faltered, he would join the moropes.

An indeterminate period of time later, it came as a complete shock when he stumbled into the small group of men sitting on the grass, their backs to a familiar tower of rock.

“Temuchin has gone,” Ahankk said. “You will go next. Each of the first ten men on the rope will carry up a barrel of this gunpowder.”

“That’s a great idea,” Jason said collapsing inertly onto the soggy grass. It was an unconscionably long time before he could even struggle to a sitting position to do what he could to fix his crude bandages. One of the men carried over a barrel of gunpowder that had been secured in a harness of leather straps, with a loop to go around Jason’s neck. The rope came down soon after this and he allowed himself to be strapped into it. This time the possibility of falling did not trouble him in the slightest. He rested his head on the gunpowder and fell asleep as soon as the lift began, nor did he awake until they pulled him to the clifftop and his forehead banged against the rock. Fresh moropes were waiting and he was permitted to return alone to the camp, without the gunpowder. He allowed the animal to go at its slowest pace so

that the ride was not unbearable, but when he reached his own camach, he found that he did not possess the strength to dismount.

“Meta,” he croaked. “Help a wounded veteran of the wars.” He swayed when she poked her head out of the flap, then let go. She caught him before he hit the ground and carried him in her arms into the tent. It was a pleasant experience.

“You should eat something,” Meta said sternly. “You have had enough to drink.”

“Nonsense,” he said, sipping from the iron cup and smacking his lips. “I don’t have tired blood, I have no blood. The medikit said that I was partially exsanguinated and gave me a stiff iron injection to make up for it. Besides, I’m too tired to eat.”

“The readings also said that you needed a transfusion.”

“A little hard to do that here. I’ll drink plenty of water and have goat’s liver for dinner every night.”

“Open!” someone shouted, pulling at the laced and knotted entrance flap of the cainach. “I speak with the voice of Temuchin.”

Meta put the medikit under a fur and went to the entrance. Crif, who had been fanning the fire, picked up a lance and balanced it in his hand. A soldier poked his head in.

“You will come to Temuchin now.”

“I come at once, tell him that.”

The soldier started to argue, but Meta twisted his nose and pushed him back through the opening. She laced it shut again.

“You cannot go,” she said.

“I have no choice. We’ve sutured the wounds by hand with gut, that’s acceptable, and the antibiotics are not detectable. The iron is a!ready seeping into my bone marrow.”

“That is not what I meant,” Meta said angrily.

“I know what you meant, but there is very little we can do about it.” He pulled out the medikit and twisted the control dial. “Pain killer in the leg so I can walk on it, and a nice big shot of stimulant. I’m taking years off my life with this drug addiction, and I hope someone appreciates it.”

When he stood up, Meta grabbed him by the arms. “No, you cannot,” she said.

He used a gentler warfare, taking her face in his hands and kissing her. Grif snorted with contempt and turned back to his fire. Her hands relaxed.

“Jason,” she said haltingly. “I don’t like this. There is nothing I can do to help.”

“There’s plenty, but not at this moment. Just hold the fort for a while longer. I’m going to show Temuchin how to make his big bang, and then we’re going to get out of here, back to the ship. I’ll tell him I am going to bring the Pyrran tribe in, which is just what I intend to do. Along with some other things. The wheels are turning and plans are being made, and there is a new day coming soon to Felicity.” The drugs were making him light-headed and elated, and he believed every word he said. Meta, who had spent too long a time bent over a dung fire in this frozen campsite, was not quite so enthusiastic. But she let him go. Duty comes first, that is a lesson every Pyrran learns in the nursery.

Temuchin was waiting, showing no sign of the strain of the past days, pointing to the barrels of gunpowder on the floor of his camach.

“Make it explode,” he commanded.

“Not in here and not all at once, unless you are planning a mass suicide. What I need is some sort of container that I can seal, and not too big a one either.”

“Speak your needs. What you must have will be brought in here.”

The warlord obviously wanted his explosive experiments classified Top Secret, which was all right with Jason. The camach was warm and relatively comfortable, with food and drink close at hand. He sank into the furs and worried a baked goat’s leg until his materials had been assembled; then, after wiping his hands on his jacket, he set to work.

A number of clay pots had been assembled and Jason chose the smallest one, little more than a cup in size. Then he worked out the plug from one of the barrels and carefully shook some of the gunpowder out onto a sheet of leather. The grains were not very uniform, but he doubted if this would affect the speed of burning very much. This stuff had certainly worked well enough in the muskets. Using a scoop formed of stiff leather, he carefully loaded the pot until it was half full. A trimmed piece of chamois fitted on top of the granules and he tamped it down gently with the rounded end of a worn thighbone. Temuchin stood behind him watching every step of the process closely. Jason explained.

“The granules should be close together for even burning, for smooth burning makes the best banging. Or so I have been told by the men in the tribe who know about this sort of thing. This is all as new to me as it is to you. Then the leather goes in to hold the gunpowder in place and to act as a waterproof shield.” Jason had ready a mixture of water, dirt from the camach floor and crumbled dung. This made a damp, claylike substance that he now pushed into the pot to seal it. He patted it smooth and pointed.

“It is said that in order to explode, the gunpowder must be completely contained. If there are any openings, the fire rushes out through them and the substance simply burns.”

“How does the fire reach it now?” Temuchin asked, frowning in concentration as he forced himself to follow the unaccustomed technical explanations. For an illiterate who couldn’t count very well and did not have a shard of technical knowledge, he was doing all right. Jason took up one of the heavy iron needles that were used for sewing the camach covers.

“You’ve asked the right question. The plug is dry enough now, so I can poke a hole through it with this, through the mud and the leather, right down to the powder. Then, using the other end of the needle, I’ll push this piece of cloth all the way down into the hole. I liberated the cloth from one of your men who liberated it from a lowlander’s back I have soaked the cloth in oil so that it will burn easily.” He hefted the pot, grenade in his hand. “So I think that we are ready to go.”

Temuchin stalked out and Jason, with the bomb in one hand and the ffickering oil lamp in the other, followed at a suitable distance. A large area had been cleared before the warlord’s camach and the soldiers held the curious at a suitable distance. The word had been quickly passed that something strange and dangerous was going to happen, so men had come flocking from all parts of the sprawling camp. They were packed solidly into the spaces between the surrounding camachs. Jason placed the bomb carefully in the ground and raised his voice.

“If this works there should be a loud noise, smoke and flame. Some of you here know what I mean. So, here goes.”

He bent and applied the lamp to the fuse, holding it there until the cloth smoldered and burst into flame. It was burning slowly enough so that he could stand for a few seconds to make sure that it was going well. It was. Only then did he turn and stroll back to the camach next to Temuchin.

Even Jason’s drug-induced confidence did not survive the anticlimax. The fuse burned, smoked, gave off some sparks and then apparently went out. Jason made himself wait a long time, in spite of the impatient murmurs and occasional angry shouts. He had no desire to bend over the bomb and have it blow up in his face. Only when Temuchin began to finger his knife in a suggestive manner did Jason walk out, hoping that he appeared to be more relaxed than he felt, to look down at the charred fuse opening. He nodded once sagely, then headed back to the camach.

“The fuse went out before it reached the gunpowder. We need a bigger hole or a better fuse, and I have just remembered another stanza of the ‘Song of the Bomb’ that speaks about that. I will do it now. Do not let anyone approach it until I return.” Before he could get any arguments, he went back into the camach.

The best fuses contained gunpowder, so they could burn even without a supply of air. He needed a gunpowder fuse to get down through that layer of mud. There was plenty of powder here, but what could he roll it in? Paper was best, but in short supply at the present moment. Or was it? He made sure that the entrance was well secured and that he was alone in the tent. Then he rooted in the bottom of his waist wallet and dug out his medikit. He had brought it despite the risk, because he had no idea how long this session would take and had not wanted to run any risk of passing out before it was over.

It took just a second to press, twist and pull open the recharging chamber. Folded above the ampules was the inspection and recharge sheet, just big enough for his needs. He slipped the medikit out of sight again.

Making the fuse was simple enough, though he practically had to twist each grain of powder into the paper separately to make sure they didn’t lump together and burn too fast. When the job was done, he rubbed oil and lampblack into the paper to disguise its pristine whiteness. “This should do it,” he said, taking the fuse and the needle and going back to the demonstration.

It almost did a lot more than he had bargained for. The nomads were jeering openly now and making rude noises, and Temuchin was white with rage. The bomb was still sitting innocently where he had left it. Pretending not to hear the unflattering remarks, Jason bent over the bomb and made a new hole in the clay seal. He was taking no chances of poking a smoldering fragment of rag down into the gunpowder. It was a chancy business, and the sweat on his forehead had nothing to do with the chilling temperature of the morning air as he pushed home the new fuse.

“This is the one that works,” he said as he applied the flame.

The paper smoked lustily and crackled as a shower of sparks flew into the air. Jason had one brief, horrified glimpse of the flame streaking down the oily gunpowder fuse, then he turned and dived for safety.

This time the results were very impressive. The bomb exploded with a highly satisfactory roar and pieces of jagged pottery whistled away in every direction, ripping holes in a score of camachs and inflicting minor wounds on some of the spectators. Jason was so close to the blast that it rolled him over and over on the ground.

Temuchin still stood unmoving at the opening of the camach, but he did look a slight bit more pleased now. The few shouts of pain from the audience were drowned out in the enthusiastic cries and happy back-slapping. Jason sat up shakily and felt himself all over, but could find nothing broken that had not been broken before.

“Can you make them bigger?” Temuchin asked, an anticipatory gleam of destruction in his eye.

“They come in all sizes. Though I could give you a more exact idea if you would let me know just what use you have in mind for them.”

A stir on the other side of the field distracted Temuchin before he could answer. A number of men on moropes were trying to force their way through the crowd and the bystanders did not like the idea. There were angry shouts and at least one broken-off scream.

“Who approaches without permission?” Temuchin said, and when he reached for his sword, his personal guard drew their weapons and formed up close to him. The first row of onlookers jumped aside rather than be trampled and a inorope and rider came through.

“What made that noise?” the rider asked, his voice just as used to automatic command as was Temuchin’s.

It was a voice that was very familiar to Jason.

It was Kerk.

Temuchin went striding forward in cold anger, his men grouped around him, while Kerk dismounted and was joined by Rhes and the other Pyrrans. A really beautiful battle was in the making.

“Wait!” Jason shouted, and ran to get between the two groups, who were on obvious collision course. “These are the Pyrrans!” he shouted. “My tribe. Warriors who have come to join the forces of Temuchin.” Out of the corner of his mouth he hissed at Kerk. “Relax! Bend the knee a bit before we all get massacred.”

Kerk did nothing of the sort. He stopped, looking just as irritated as Temuchin, and fingered his sword hilt in the same threatening manner. Temuchin came on like an avalanche and Jason had to step back or he would have been crushed between the two men. When Temuchin stopped his toes were touching Kerk’s and they glared at each other with almost eyeball-to-eyeball contact.

They were very much alike. The warlord was taller, but the solid breadth of the Pyrran could never be mistaken for fat. Their apparel was just as impressive, as Kerk had followed Jason’s radioed instructions. His breastplate sported a multicolored and severely twodimensional design of an eagle, while the eagle’s skull itself crowned his helm.

“I am Kerk, leader of the Pyrrans,” he said, slipping his sword up and down with an irritating, grating sound.

“I am Temuchin, warlord of the tribes. You will bow to me.”

“Pyrrans bow to no man.”

Temuchin rumbled deep in his throat like an infuriated carnivore and began to draw his sword. Jason resisted an impulse to cover his eyes and flee. This would be bloody murder.

Kerk knew what he was doing. He had not come here to depose Temuchin, at least not right now, so he did not reach for his own sword. Instead, his hand moved with the cracking speed that only Pyrrans have developed, and he seized the wrist of Temuchin’s sword arm.

“I do not come to fight you,” he said calmly. “I come as an equal to side with you in your cause. We will talk.”

His voice did not waver, nor did Temuchin’s sword come one centimeter more out of the loops. The warlord had a massive strength and resiliency, but Kerk was an unmoving boulder. He neither moved nor showed any sign of strain, but the veins stood out on Temuchin’s forehead. The silent struggle continued for ten, fifteen seconds, until Temuchin suffused red under the darkness of his skin, every muscle of his body rock hard with the effort of his exertions.

When it appeared that human muscle and sinew could stand no more, Kerk smiled. Just the barest turning up of the corners of his mouth, visible only to Temuchin and Jason, who stood close by. Then, slowly and steadily, the warlord’s arm was forced down until his sword was secure in its loops and could go no farther.

“I did not come here to fight you,” Kerk said in a barely audible voice. “The young men may wrestle with each other. We are leaders who talk.”

He released his grip so suddenly that Temuchin swayed with the reaction, as his tensed muscles no longer had anything to battle against. The decision was his once again, and the intelligent man was warring in his body against the brute reactions of the born barbarian.

For long seconds this silent impasse continued, then Temuchin began to chuckle, the laughter rising quickly to a full-throated roar. He threw his head back and laughed defiance of the universe, then swung his arm and clapped Kerk on the shoulder with a blow that would have stunned a morope or killed a lesser man. Kerk just swayed slightly and returned the smile.

“You are a man I might like!” Temuchin shouted. “If I do not kill you first. Come into my camach.” He turned away and Kerk went with him. They passed Jason without deigning to notice him. Jason rolled his eyes upward, happy to see that the skies had not fallen nor the sun gone nova, then turned and followed them.

“Stay here,” Temuchin ordered when they reached the cainach, spearing Jason with a look of cold fury as though he alone were responsible for the ill events. Temuchin waved the guards to position, then

followed Kerk inside. Jason did not complain. He preferred waiting here in the wind, chill as it was, to witnessing the confrontation in the tent. If Temuchin were killed, how would they escape? Fatigue and pain were beginning to creep bac’k, and he swayed in the wind and wondered if he could risk a quick stab with his medikit. The answer was obviously no, so he swayed and waited.

Angry voices sounded loudly inside and Jason cringed and waited for the end. Nothing happened. He swayed again and decided that it would be easier to sit down, so he dropped. The ground was chill against his bottom. The voices rose once more inside, then were followed by an ominous silence. Jason noticed that even the guards were exchanging concerned glances.

There was a sharp ripping sound and they jumped and turned, mising their lances. Kerk had opened the entrance flap by pulling on it — hard. But he had neglected to unlace it first. The thick leather thongs were snapped, or torn loose from their heavy supports, and the supporting iron rod was bent at a sharp angle. Kerk apparently noticed none of this. He stalked by the guards, nodded at Jason, and kept on walking. Jason had a quick look at Temuchin’s face, swollen with anger, in the opening. This glimpse was enough. He turned and hurried after Kerk.

“What happened in there?” he asked.

“Nothing. We just talked and felt each other out and neither of us would give way. He would not answer my questions so I did not bother to answer his. It is a draw, for the moment.”

Jason was worried. “You should have waited until I returned. Why did you come like this?” He knew the answer even as he asked, and Kerk confirmed it.

“Why shouldn’t we? Pyrrans do not enjoy sitting on a mountain and acting as jailers. We came to see for ourselves. There was some fighting on the way here and the morale has improved.”

“I’m sure of that,” Jason said fervently, and wished he were lying down back in his cainach.