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 as 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 to hand. He sank into the furs and worried a baked goat’s leg until his materials had been assembled, then 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 thigh bone. Temuchin stood behind him watching every step of the process closely. Jason explained.
“The granules should be close together for even burning, since 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 dug. 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 flickering 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 stood 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, since 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, while 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 still 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 fractured 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 o
f onlookers jumped aside rather than be trampled and a morope 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, since Kerk had followed Jason’s radioed instructions. His breastplate sported a multicolored and severely two-dimensional 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 while 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 have 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 camach, 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 back 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, raising their lances. Kerk had opened the entrance flap by pulling on it—hard. Only 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 camach.
XII
Back they came from the land of wetness,
Back they came, with thumbs in bunches.
Telling tales of the glorious killing,
In the lands below the clifftops.
Though the wind hissed around the camach, and occasionally blew a scattering of fine snowflakes in through the smokehole, the interior was warm and comfortable. The atomic heater generated enough BTU’s to defeat all the drafts and leaks, while the strong drink Kerk had brought sat in Jason’s stomach far better than the vile achadh. Rhes had supplied a case of meal packs and Meta was opening them. The rest of the Pyrrans were setting up their camachs nearby, or were unobtrusively on guard near the entrance. For a rare instance, in the heart of the barbarian camp, they were free from observation and safe from sudden violence.
“Pig,” Meta said when Jason reached for a steaming and nose-captivating meal pack, “you’ve already had one.”
“First one was for me. This one’s for my shattered tissues and drained blood.” While he chewed a warming and succulent mouthful he pointed at Kerk’s helm. “I see that you joined the eagle clan all right, but where did you get so many skulls? They sure impressed the locals. I didn’t know there were that many eagles on the entire planet.”
“There probably aren’t,” Kerk said, running his finger over the hook-beaked and eyeless skull. “We managed to shoot this one and make a mold. All of the others are plastic castings. Now tell us what these plans are that you have formulated, because, as enjoyable as this childish masquerade is, we want an end to it. And a beginning to the mining operation.”
“Patience,” Jason cozened. “This operation is going to have to take a little time, but I guarantee that there will be plenty of fighting so it will have its high spots. Let me fill in some of the things I have discovered since I talked to you last.
“Temuchin ha
s most of the plains tribes behind him, at least all of the ones that count. He is a damn intelligent man and a shrewd leader. He intuitively knows most of the military textbook axioms. Keep the troops occupied, that’s a basic one. As soon as they chased the first expedition away he talked around among the clans and found the one or two tribes that the majority were feuding with. They wiped these out and split up the loot. This has been the process ever since. You’re either with him or against him, and no one is neutral. All this in spite of the nomads’ natural tendency to align and realign and go their own way. The few leaders who have tried to get out from under the new regime have met such violent deaths that all the others are very impressed.”
Kerk shook his head. “If he has united all of these people then there is nothing we can do.”
“Kill him?” Meta suggested.
“See what a few weeks among the barbarians will do for a girl?” Jason said. “I can’t say that I’m not tempted. The alliance would fall apart—but we would be back to square one. If we tried to open the mines, some other leader would appear and the attacks would start again. No, we have to do better than that. If it is possible, I would like to take over his organization and turn it to our own ends. And, Kerk, you’re not quite right. He has not united all the tribes, just the strongest ones on the plains. There are a number of smaller ones around the edges that he is not bothering about; they pose no threat. But there are a lot of hairy-necked, mountain tribes in the north who pride themselves on their independence, most of them from the weasel clan. They fight each other, but they will work together against any threat from the outside. Temuchin is that threat—and that’s our chance to take over.”
Deathworld: The Complete Saga Page 44
