by J. T. Edson
There was a body by the rear end of the cart, but the number of scavengers working on it and the distance separating them prevented the blond giant from obtaining the information that he required, yet was afraid he would receive. Nor were the other corpses more informative, for the same reason. One lay alongside the dead embers of a fire. Three more were sprawling on the edge of the bushes that fringed the stream upon the bank of which the party had made their camp.
While Bunduki’s mount was carrying him towards the foot of the slope and the answer he almost feared to learn, he studied and drew conclusions from what he could see. He was extremely perturbed, but Lord Greystoke had always insisted that he should analyze any situation no matter how desperate. The lesson had become too firmly entrenched to be overridden by his anxiety. From what he had learned as he was tracking Dawn’s captors, he knew they were six in number and, apparently, all men. .Five had been riding gatahs and the sixth was the driver of the cart.
Which meant that there was one member of the escort still to be accounted for.
And Dawn!
Unless, hateful as the thought might be, the girl he loved was one of the corpses!
~*~
Author’s note:
The narrative continues the story a few weeks before Bunduki’s quest commenced.
Chapter One – This Is What Dryaka Wants!
To be fair to Zongaffa the Herbalist, when he had first mixed sulphur with saltpeter—both of which he had obtained from the grounds of the large country estate belonging to the High Priest of the Mun-Gatah nation—he had hoped to produce something of medicinal value. By an accident, while he had been engaged elsewhere, a quantity of powdered charcoal had been spilled into and mixed with the compound. Learning of the incident after the resultant mixture had dried, he had ordered that it be thrown on a fire in the garden to dispose of it. When this had been done, there was a sudden roaring ‘whoosh!’ sound. An enormous mass of flames, topped by volumes of pungent white smoke, had engulfed the Telonga slave who had been assigned to carry out the destruction.
In the light of subsequent events, the Herbalist wished that the incident had never taken place. Not because of the unfortunate slave’s death, on which he had devoted hardly any regret and who, anyway, had been easily replaced from the next collection brought by the People-Taker.
The trouble was that the conflagration had been witnessed by the High Priest! Dryaka had cared as little, or even less than Zongaffa, about the death of the slave. However, he was a shrewd and ambitious man who was always alert for anything that would strengthen his status or help to forward the grandiose and far-reaching plans which he was making for the future. He had seen possibilities in a substance which could produce such an impressive effect. In fact, he had become obsessed with the idea. So Zongaffa had been ordered to produce more and to learn how it might be utilized to its best advantage.
From then on, the aged Herbalist had barely known a moment’s peace of mind. He had been all too aware of what his fate would be if he refused to carry out his patron’s command. Nor would his life expectancy be any greater if he failed to produce the desired results. He had soon realized that achieving them was going to be even more difficult than he had anticipated and, from the start, he had been at best pessimistic.
Under normal circumstances, Zongaffa would have consulted with other members of his profession. But wanting to prevent the news of what might be a very effective weapon being passed to his rivals and enemies, the High Priest had vetoed the suggestion. So the Herbalist had been compelled to tackle the problem without the assistance of his colleagues. He had made a number of interesting, disturbing, frustrating and, in the face of repeated failures, alarming discoveries.
In the first place, the three elements of the compound had to be mixed in the correct quantities to produce the effect. After considerable experimentation, Zongaffa had decided that the proportions of seventy-five percent saltpeter, fifteen percent charcoal and ten percent sulphur gave him the best results. There had been a somewhat better mixture, but the portions had to be measured with such extreme care that the slightly improved combustion had made the extra work it required pointlessly time-consuming and, in the face of Dryaka’s ever-growing impatience, time was the one thing Zongaffa did not want to waste.
Solving the main problem was proving very difficult. As long as the powder was kept dry (if it got damp it was ruined as the Herbalist had learned) bringing it into contact with a naked flame continued to produce fire and clouds of smoke. In that respect, it would have made a useful adjunct to attempts at arson. It had, in fact, already proved its value for such a purpose; although not in a way which had met with Dryaka’s approval. He still insisted that it could be turned into something with an even greater potential.
Life had been unpleasant enough before the High Priest went on the annual hunting expedition with members of the Council of Elders and Charole, the Protectress of the Quagga God. The discovery that a nation of whom he had previously been unaware owned weapons capable of piercing the hitherto impregnable, specially hardened rhinoceros hide breastplates worn by Mun-Gatah warriors was disturbing enough from the point of view of his plans. To make matters worse, another problem had arisen to threaten them. Because of the escape of a member of the mysterious race called the ‘Apes’ who had fallen into his hands and the devastation created when the night herded gatahs were stampeded through the camp, xi his status had been weakened. So he had become increasingly determined to learn the secret of the ‘Thunder Powder’s full potential. In fact, he had offered a suggestion which—having had the necessary components manufactured—the Herbalist was about to try out.
Completely bald, with a sharp featured, wrinkled and unpleasant face, Zongaffa was small, thin and old. His shoulders were stooped from long hours of crouching over a bench as he mixed his potions. There was something reptilian about him, but his movements were those of a quick-moving if loathsome form of lizard rather than that of an impressively languorous big constricting snake. His white toga’s only adornments were stains of several colors and his restlessly flickering talons of hands were mottled in a similar fashion.
Screwing the wooden top on to the two-foot long, hollowed-out branch which he had just filled with the ‘Thunder Powder’, Zongaffa studied the finished result. Because of the care taken by the carpenter who had produced it, there was hardly any sign of the joint. The branch would be unlikely to arouse suspicion unless it was examined carefully. In fact it was almost certain to go unnoticed if lying among others just like it; but they had not been tampered with in the same fashion.
Giving a contented sigh, the Herbalist decided that the next tiling to do was put the finished product to the test.
At which point, Zongaffa’s inborn caution took control.
Carrying the prepared branch out of the laboratory that had been established for him in the villa of the High Priest’s country estate, the Herbalist looked around the large back garden. There was a fire, lit to burn the household’s rubbish, at the far end and close to the high stone wall that surrounded the property. It was being attended to by a Telonga slave.
Remembering Dryaka’s insistence upon maintaining secrecy, Zongaffa darted quick glances about him to make sure that the experiment would not be seen. Apart from the Telonga, the only other person in sight was a Brelef sentry ambling along the parapet of the wall. In the Herbalist’s opinion, neither of them posed any threat. The former could be frightened into keeping silent and the latter would not have sufficient intelligence to understand what was going on.
Like most members of his sub-human race, the Brelef xii was about five foot six inches in height. His thickset, heavily muscled body was coated with short, curly rust-red hair. Taken with a mop of shaggy head hair, heavy brow ridges and a receding, bearded chin, his somewhat stooped shoulders, long arms, but proportionately short, bowed legs gave him a brutish look. Around his neck was a brass ‘collar of ownership’. It was wider than the one worn by the Telonga
, showing that he was employed as a house-guard and, as such, permitted to carry weapons; a heavy wooden club in his case. His only garment was a white loincloth, emblazoned across its front with a fully colored illustration of a quagga stallion.
‘Hey you, Telonga,’ Zongaffa called, ignoring the Brelef who paid not the slightest attention to him and continued to gaze, as duty demanded, over the wall. ‘Come and throw this on the fire!’
Typical of his jungle-dwelling peaceful-natured race, the Telonga slave was tall and well built. He had shoulder long black hair, but his brown, Polynesian features had lost all traces of the happiness which had been there prior to his selection when the Mun-Gatahs’ People-Taker had visited his village.
Clad in a loincloth made out of the remnants of his formerly gaily colored and patterned sarong, the narrow ‘collar of ownership’ marked with the High Priest’s quagga-and-crossed-swords insignia identified him as a house servant of low grade.
Although the Telonga had misgivings, caused by remembering what had happened to others like him who had carried out similar apparently innocuous tasks for the Herbalist, he hurried across the garden. Since coming into the High Priest’s possession, he had learned the value of instant obedience when a Mun-Gatah gave an order. Taking the branch, he looked at it and turned away. Watching him, the Herbalist found nothing to suggest that the slave thought the branch anything other than what it appeared to be. Returning, the slave tossed it on to the fire. Deciding that his fears had, on this occasion, been groundless, he carried on with the undemanding task of destroying the rubbish. Gathering up an armful, he heaped it on the blaze.
Nothing happened for almost thirty seconds.
‘Huh!’ Zongaffa sniffed, perturbation warring with his satisfaction at the thought that Dryaka’s suggestion had proved to be as fruitless as his own experiments. ‘I knew it wouldn’t wo—’
At that moment, there was a tremendous roar. It was different and much more violent than the usual sound made by igniting the ‘Thunder Powder’. In fact, it was far closer to the noise made when the compound’s namesake rumbled directly overhead.
A blinding red flash dazzled the Herbalist and, even across the width of the garden, he felt himself struck by what seemed like a sudden gush of wind. Even as he stumbled backwards, terrified rather than horrified by what had happened, the Telonga slave was torn into bloody fragments before his eyes. Nor did the effect end there.
Giving voice to a bawling roar of pain and shock, the Brelef guard was flung across the parapet to fall over the twenty-foot high wall.
Struck by the blast of air, the Venetian blinds—as they would have been called on Earth—at the rear windows of the villa were shaken violently and, in some cases ripped from their fittings. From inside the building rose feminine shrieks and masculine shouts of alarm.
Beyond the walls, the grazing gatahs showed their dislike for the unexpected noise by bolting. Only the exceptional riding skill of the no less startled boys assigned to herding duty enabled them to stay astride their mounts and set off in pursuit of their charges.
Snorts, squeals and the thudding of hooves against the wooden walls or doors of the stalls testified that the High Priest’s quaggas and the banar-gatahs belonging to such of his adherents whose social standing entitled them to use the stables were no less disturbed. xiii
‘This is what Dryaka wants!’ Zongaffa gasped, as he sprawled supine and with much of the breath knocked from him. ‘I’ve done it!’
However, before the aged Herbalist could replenish his lungs and sit up, people were streaming out of the villa to investigate the cause of the commotion. In the lead was the High Priest himself.
Even when clad in his ceremonial robes and carrying out the various duties of his high office (which was only slightly lower in importance than that of the ruling six-man Council of Elders) Dryaka conveyed little that was suggestive of religious meekness and piety. It was even less in evidence at this moment. He had been engaged in the daily program of exercises which he went through to ensure that he remained very fit and expert in the use of all the Mun-Gatahs’ weapons. So he wore no more than his brown leather kilt, with matching, elaborately carved greaves, extending along his legs to knee level, and sandals. Around his waist was a belt made from gold discs, to which was attached the ornate scabbard of the ivory handled sword—resembling the gladius of the Ancient Roman legionaries—that he gripped in his right hand.
Almost six foot tall and in his early forties, with a well muscled if not bulky physique, the High Priest had close-cropped black hair that was turning gray at the temples. A moustache drooped its long ends over tight and normally unsmiling lips, doing nothing to soften the hard and cruel lines of his swarthy face. There were scars on his bare torso, offering mute testimony to how he had risen from being a grar-gatah riding warrior to his present exalted station in life. xiv
All in all, Dryaka looked like a fighting man second to none in a nation which set great store by such qualities. In addition to being a rider of superlative quality, he was exceptionally skilled with the sword, throwing spear, war-axe and lance. Combined with his ruthless nature, his well deserved reputation as a warrior had gained him the support of numerous adherents. Sufficient, in fact, to make him a major factor in Mun-Gatah affairs.
Being an intelligent man, the High Priest was aware that few of those who had preceded him in the office had lived long enough to retire and become members of the Council of Elders. He intended to do even better than that. It was his desire to attain such power that he could dispense with the Council and establish himself as the sole ruler of not only his people, but every other nation with whom they had come into contact.
With that goal in mind, and knowing that its realization depended upon physical as well as mental prowess, he always endeavored to stay in the peak of condition. He had been in the midst of a training session, working out with his sword, when the result of the aged Herbalist’s experiment had made itself felt all through the villa.
Skidding to a halt, Dryaka glared around. He had guessed at the cause of the disturbance, although he had never heard anything like it before, but he had hardly dared to hope that he was correct. Nor had he anticipated the full extent of the result. From what he could see he had not underestimated the potential of the Thunder Powder’. The fire was scattered over the garden, as were pieces of what he suspected must be the Telonga slave who had been attending to it.
From the startled, even frightened exclamations behind him, the High Priest could tell that his followers were equally impressed by the sight. Not one of them was offering to pass him and make a closer examination. Looking back, he saw perturbation and awe on the faces of his Mun-Gatah adherents. The few slaves who had come out, Telongas for the most part, were clearly terrified. Even the sub-human Brelef house guards, selected for their normally phlegmatic disregard for danger, were cowering back like frightened dogs. However, the one who should have been on the parapet, was nowhere in sight.
A sense of satisfaction and gratification surged through Dryaka. After so long he felt sure that the way to the fulfillment of his ambitions had been opened. With the power of the ‘Thunder Powder’ behind him, he would have the means to overthrow the Council of Elders and subjugate his rivals. After which, he could set into being his plans for the conquest of the other nations.
‘Lord Dryaka!’ Zongaffa gasped, thrusting himself erect in his eagerness to pass on the good news. ‘You were right about the-!’
‘Quiet! the High Priest bellowed, swinging his gaze around and showing such anger that it brought the Herbalist’s words to a halt.
Being all too aware of his nation’s capacity for intrigue, Dryaka had no intention of allowing any of his retinue to learn more than was absolutely necessary about the ‘Thunder Powder’. Having prevented Zongaffa from completing the incautious statement, he returned his attention to the crowd. He regarded what he saw as a further source of contentment.
Believing that the High Priest’s angry
word had been addressed to them, silence descended over his adherents, Telonga slaves and Brelef house guards. There was more to it than a mere tribute to the force of his personality. It proved that he was regaining his authority after the weakening it had suffered at the hunting camp. Clearly the fact that he and the Protectress had survived an assassination attempt a few days earlier was strengthening his standing.
With his adherents being brought back under control, Dryaka knew that he was still faced with the task of convincing his rivals—particularly the, as yet, undiscovered organizer of the abortive assassination, and also the Council of Elders who on two occasions since his return had refused to grant him an audience on the grounds that they were too busy to see him -that he was fully recovered from the loss of status he had suffered and was as puissant as ever. From what he could see around him, the ‘Thunder Powder’ in its new guise might supply the means to do so.
‘Put out those fires!’ Dryaka ordered, wondering how he could explain what had caused them without giving away too much information. ‘Then have the garden cleaned up!’
Noticing the consternation shown by the High Priest’s audience, Zongaffa knew what was causing it. In addition, he realized why his explanation had been cut off so abruptly and he was able to think up an excuse for the explosion.
‘It’s all right,’ the Herbalist announced, with such sincerity that he might have been speaking the truth. ‘I told one of the slaves to throw a gourd of sour wine away. Like a fool, he threw it on the fire and it blew up.’
Whether Zongaffa’s audience were reassured by his story, or whether they considered it would be less dangerous to take their chance with whatever ‘magic’ might have caused the explosion than to arouse Dryaka’s wrath by disobeying the order, the men and women began to move forward.
‘Well,’ the High Priest growled quietly, stepping to the Herbalist’s side after the crowd had started to work. ‘Is that what happened?’
