The Horse Barbarians tds-3

by Harry Harrison

  Temuchin swung his sword back to cut Jason out of the way, while Kerk clutched his arm to pull him aside, his fingers steel clamps penetrating to the bone. Jason controlled the impulse to howl with pain and said, “Order the rest of the Pyrrans here and have them, and other soldiers, throw rocks at the defended points. They won’t do much harm but the bowmen will not be able to pick out the real bomb throwers.” The sword hesitated, the grinding fingers relaxed the slightest amount and Jason hurried on.

  “It is sure death for one man to stand up to the concentrated fire.

  But if we can divide the fire, we can march up this valley just as fast as we can walk and clean them out. We’ll be past the defenses by dark.”

  For one instant Temuchin’s attention wavered back to his army and the darkening sky, and the tension was broken. Winning this battle was the only important thing, and personal intrigues would have to wait. He began to issue orders, unaware of the sword still grasped in his hand. Kerk’s taloned grip finally relaxed and Jason stretched his bruised muscles.

  The advance could not be stopped now. Stone, throwing figures bobbed up on all sides, and the baffled enemy had no way of telling which one was the lightning hurler. While the nomads just lobbed their stones and darted back to safety, the Pyrrans, with years of grenade, throwing experience, took careful aim and planted their small boulders behind the barricaded walls, breaking more than one skull in the process. They marched forward relentlessly and, one by one, the resisting strong points were demolished.

  “We’re coming to the end!” Jason shouted, pounding Kerk on the shoulder to get his attention and pointing ahead.

  At this place The Slash was less than a hundred meters wide, pinched in by two tall spires of solid rock that rose straight up from the valley floor. Through this narrow gap could be seen the red of the sunset sky, and the plain beyond. The almost vertical walls ended at the spires. Once the horde passed them, it could not be stopped.

  As Jason and Kerk pushed forward with a fresh supply of bombs, they realized that most of the soldiers were running back toward them. From up ahead came the shrill rise and fall of the iron horns.

  “What is happening?” Kerk asked, grabbing one of the running men. “What do the horns mean?”

  “Retreat!” the man said, pointing upward. “Look at that.” He pulled free and was gone.

  A large boulder bounced down among the fleeing soldiers, squashing one of them like an insect. Jason and Kerk looked up and saw men clambering on the valley’s rim high above. They were clearly outlined against the sky, heaving and pulling at a rounded pile.

  “On the other side, too!” Jason called out. “They’ve got boulders heaped up on both sides, ready to be rolled down on our heads. Pull back!” Reluctantly they retreated as more of the stones rumbled down.

  Only the fact that this last, resort weapon had never been used before saved the attacking forces. The rocks and boulders had been piled higher generation after generation, until the supporting props were wedged firmly against the cliff edge. Warriors with long rods pushed at them, but they would not budge. Finally, one brave, or foolhardy, tribesman swung down on a rope and hammered the supports where they sank into the stone. He must have succeeded because in an eyeblink he was gone, swept away by the falling boulders that, for a fleeting instant, appeared to hang suspelided in the air before they fell. A short while after this the supports on the opposite cliff gave way as well.

  Jason and Kerk ran with the others.

  The loss of life was not great, for most of the men had been warned in time. In addition, the narrowness of The Slash at this point acted as a choke, piling up the falling stone behind the gateway higher and higher.

  When the last boulder had rattled into silence, The Slash was walled shut, completely plugged by the barrier of rock.

  The campaign was obviously lost.

  14

  “I do not like it,” Kerk said. “I do not think that it can be done.”

  “Kindly keep your doubts to yourself,” Jason whispered as they came up to Temuchin. “I’ll have enough of a job selling him this in any case. If you can’t help, at least stand there and nod your head once in a while as if you agreed with me.”

  “Madness,” Kerk grumbled.

  “Greetings, oh warlord,” Jason intoned. “I have come bringing aid that will turn this moment of disaster into victory.”

  If Temuchin heard, he gave no sign. He sat on a boulder with his hands over the pommel of his sword, which stood upright on the ground before him, looking straight ahead at the sealed pass that had stopped his dream of conquest. The last rays of the setting sun lit up the sheer, vertical faces of the towers of rock that formed the gate.

  “The pass is now a trap,” Jason said. “If we try to climb the rubble blocking it, or clear it away, we will be shot down by the men concealed behind it. Long before we can have forced passage, the reinforcements will have arrived. However, there is one thing that can be done. If we were to stand on the top of the higher spire of rock, on the left there, we could drop the gunpowder bombs down on the enemy, keeping them at bay until your soldiers had climbed the rockf all.”

  Temuchin’s eyes went slowly up the smooth fall of rock to the summit high above. “That stone can not be climbed,” he said without turning his head.

  Kerk nodded and opened his mouth to agree, then made an oofing sound instead as Jason planted an elbow in the pit of his stomach.

  “You are right. Most men cannot climb that rock. But we Pyrrans are mountain men and can climb that tower with ease. Do we have your permission?”

  The warlord turned deliberately and examined Jason as though he were more than a little mad. “Begin then. I will watch.”

  “It must be done during daylight. We will need to see in order to throw the bombs. Then there is special equipment in our saddlebags that we must make ready. Therefore the climb will begin at dawn and by afternoon The Slash will be yours.”

  They could feel Temuchin’s eyes burning into their backs as they returned to the others. Kerk was baffled.

  “What equipment are you talking about? None of this makes sense.”

  “Only because you have never been exposed to accepted rock-climbing techniques. The piece of equipment I will need first is your radio, because I have to call the ship and have the other equipment made. If they work hard, it can be done and delivered before dawn. See that our men set up camp as far from the others as possible. We want to be able to slip away without being noticed.”

  While the others unrolled the fur sleeping bags and dug the fire pits, Jason used the radio. The inoropes were arranged in a rough circle while he crouched in the center behind the concealing bulk of their bodies. The duty officer aboard the Pugnacious sent a messenger to awaken and call in all the men, then copied down Jason’s instructions. There were no complaints or excuses as a war emergency is a normal part of Pyrran life, and delivery of the equipment was promised for well before dawn. Jason listened to a repeat of his instructions, then signed off. He ate some of the hot stew and left orders to be awakened when the completion call came through. It had been a long day, he was on the verge of exhaustion, and tomorrow promised to be even worse. Settling down in his sleeping bag, boots and all, he pulled a flap of fur over his face to keep the ice from forming in his nostrils and fell instantly to sleep.

  “Co away,” he muttered, and tried to pull away from the clutching hand that was crushing his already well crushed arm.

  “Get up,” Kerk said. “The call came through ten minutes ago. The launch is leaving now with the cargo and we must ride to meet it. The moropes are already saddled.” Jason groaned at the thought and sat up. All of the heat was instantly sucked from his body and he began to shiver.

  “M-medikit-t,” he rattled. “Give me a good jolt of stimulants and painkillers because I have a feeling that it is going to be a very long day.”

  “Wait here,” Kerk said. “I will meet the launch myself.”

  “I would like to,
but I can’t. I have to check the items before the launch returns to the ship. Everything must be perfect.”

  They carried him to his morope and put him into the saddle. Kerk took his reins and led the beast while Jason dozed, clutching the pommel so he would not fall. They trotted through the predawn darkness and, by the time they had reached the appointed spot, the medication had taken hold and Jason felt remotely human.

  “The launch is touching down,” Kerk said, holding the radio to his ear. There was the faintest rumble on the eastern horizon, a sound that would never be heard back at the camp.

  “Do you have the flashlight?” Jason asked.

  “Of course, wasn’t that part of the instructions?” Jason could imagine the big man scowling into the darkness. It was inconceivable for a Pyrran to forget instructions. “It has a photon store of x 8,ooo lumen-hours, and at full output can put out 1000 LF.”

  “Throttle it down, we don’t need a tenth of that. The verticapsule is phototropic and has been set to home on any light source twice as radiant as the brightest star—”

  “Capsule launched, on this radio bearing, distance approximately ten kilometers.”

  “Right. It does about 120 an hour wide open so you can turn the light on now on the same bearing. Give it something to look for.”

  “Wait, the pilot’s saying something. Take the light.”

  Jason took the finger-sized tube and switched it on, turning the intensity ring until a narrow beam of light spiked away into the darkness.He pointed it in the direction of the grounded launch.

  “The pilot reports that they had some trouble making a stain take on the nylon rope. It’s on now, but they can’t guarantee that it will be waterproof, and it is very blotchy.”

  “The blotchier the better. Just as long as it resembles leather from a distance. And I’m not expecting any rain. Did you hear that?”

  A rising hum sounded from the sky and they could make out a faint red light dropping down toward them. A moment later the beam glinted from the silvery hull of the verticapsule and Jason turned down the light’s intensity. There was a faint whistle of jets as the meter-long shape came into sight, dropping straight down, slowing as its radar altimeter sensed the ground. When it was low enough, Kerk reached up and threw the landing switch, and it settled with a dying hum to the ground. Jason flipped open the cargo hatch and drew out the coil of brown rope.

  “Perfect,” he said, handing it to Kerk. He burrowed deeper and produced a steel hammer that had been hand-forged from a single lump of metal. It balanced nicely in his palm: the leather wrappings on the handle gave it a good grip. It had been acid-etched and rubbed with dirt to simulate age.

  “What is this?” Kerk asked, pulling a metal spike out of the compartment and turning it over in the light.

  “A piton, a solid one. Half of them should be like that, and half with clips-like this one.” He held up a similar spike that had a hole drilled in its broad end through which a ringlike clip had been passed.

  “These things mean nothing to me,” Kerk said.

  “They don’t have to.” Jason emptied the cargo compartment while he spoke. “I’m climbing the spire and I know how to use them. I only wish that I could take along some of the more modern climbing equipment, but that would give me away at once. If we had any in the ship, which we don’t. There are explosive piton setters that will drive a spike into the hardest rock, and instant-adhesive pitons that set in less than a second and the join is tougher than the rock around it. But I’m not using any of them. But I have had this rope wrapped around one of those monofilaments of grown ceramic fiber, the ones we use instead of barbed wire. With a breaking strength of more than z,ooo kilos. But what I have here will get me up the spire. I’ll just climb until I run out of handholds, then I’ll stop and drive in a piton and climb on it. For overhangs, or any other place where I need a rope, I use the ones with the rings. And these are for use close to the ground.” He held up a crude-looking piton marred by hand-forged hammer blows and pitted with age. “All of these are made from bar-steel stock, which is a little rare in this part of the world. So the ones Temuchin and his men will see have been made into artificial antiques. Everything’s here. You can tell the launch to take the verticapsule back.”

  The jets blew sand in their faces as the capsule rose and vanished. Jason held the light while Kerk tied the plaited leather rope to the end of the stained nylon line, then stowed this in the backpack, along with the rest of the equipment that Jason would use during the climb. Behind them, as they rode back to the encampment, the first light of dawn touched the horizon.

  When the Pyrrans marched up The Slash, they saw that a desperate battle had been fought during the night. The dam of rubble and rock still sealed the neck of the valley, but now it was sprfnkled darkly with corpses. Soldiers slept on the ground, out of bowshot of the enemy above, many of them wounded. A bloodstained nomad, with the totem of the lizard clan on his helm, sat impassively while a fellow clansman cut at the bone shaft of the arrow that had penetrated his arm.

  “What happened here?” Jason asked him.

  “We attacked at night,” the wounded soldier said. “We could not be quiet because the rocks slipped and rolled away while we climbed, and many were hurt in this way. When we were close to the top, the weasels threw bundles of burning grass on our heads and they were above us on the clifftop in the darkness. We could not fight back and only those who were not high on the rocks lived to come down again. It was very bad.”

  “But very good for us,” Kerk said as they moved on. “Temuchin will have lost prestige with this defeat, and we will gain it when we climb the rock. If we can—”

  “Don’t start the doubting act again,” Jason said. “Just stand by at the base here and pretend that you know exactly what is going on.”

  Jason took off his heavy outer clothing and shivered. Well, he would warm up quickly enough as soon as he started his ascent. From below the tower looked as unclimbable as the side of a spaceship. He was tying the piton hammer’s thong around his wrist when Ahankk walked up, his face working as he tried both to sneer and to look dubious at the same time.

  “I have been told, jongleur, that you are so stupid you think you can climb straight up rock.”

  “That is not all you have been told,” Jason said, slipping his arms through the pack straps and settling the pack on his back. “Lord Temuchin told you to come here to see what happens. So get comfortable and rest your legs for the moment when you must run to your master with the glad news of my success.”

  Kerk looked up dubiously at the vertical face of rock, then down at Jason. “Let me climb,” he said. “I am stronger than you and in far better condition.”

  “That you are,” Jason agreed. “And as soon as I get to the top, I’ll throw down the rope and you can climb up with all the bombs. But you can’t go first. Rock climbing is a skilled sport, and you are not going to learn it in a few minutes. Thanks for the offer, but I’m the only one who can do this job. So here we go. I would appreciate a lift so I can get a grip on that small ledge right over your head.”

  There was no nonsense about climbing up onto the Pyrran’s shoulders. Kerk just bent and seized Jason by the ankles and lifted him straight up into the air. Jason walked his hands up the stone face as he rose and grabbed onto the narrow ledge while Kerk steadied his feet. Then his toes scrabbled and caught on a protruding hump and the climb had begun.

  Jason was at least ten meters above the ground before he had to drive his first piton. A good bit of ledge, wide enough to lie down on, was well beyond the reach of his outstretched fingertips. The rock surface here was interlaced with cracks, so he picked a transverse one at the right height before him. The first piton was one of the disguised ones; he jammed it into the crack. Four sharp blows with the hammer wedged it in solidly. Slowly and carefully — it had been a good ten years since he had done any real climbing, he stepped out and eased his weight onto the piton. It held. He straightened his leg, sliding
up the rough surface of the rock until he could reach the ledge. Then he pulled himself up to a sitting position and, breathing heavily, looked down at the upturned faces below. All of the soldiers were looking at him now, and even Temuchin had appeared to watch the climb. The enemy was surely taking an interest in what was happening, but the swell of the rock face cut them off from sight and arrow-shot. They could come to the edge of the canyon’s wall, but they could not reach him unless they climbed the tower as well.

  The rock was cold and he had better keep moving.

  There was no way to estimate the height accurately, but he thought he must now be at least as high as the rim of the canyon. He had his toes jammed into a wide crack and was trying to drive a piton at an awkward angle off to one side when he heard the shouting below.

  He bent as much as he could and called down, “What? I can’t hear what you are saying.” As he did this an arrow cracked into the rock at the place where his head had been and spun away and fell.

  Jason almost fell after it, keeping his grip only by a convulsive clutch at the ribbed surface of the rock. When he turned his head, he saw a weasel tribesman hanging from a leather strap that was tied tightly about his body. He had a second arrow notched and ready to fire. The men holding the other end of the strap were out of sight on the rim of The Slash, but by lowering the bowman below the bulging outcropping they had put him within bowshot of Jason.

  The warrior carefully drew the arrow back to the point of his jaw and took aim. The hammer was tied by its thong to Jason’s wrist so he would not lose it, but he still clutched the piton in his left hand. With a reflexive motion, he hurled it at the bowman. The blunt end caught him in the shoulder. It did not injure him, but it deflected his aim enough so that the second arrow missed as well. He pulled a third from his belt and notched it to the bowstring.

  Down below the soldiers were also shooting their bows, but the range was long and the overhead aim difficult. One arrow, almost spent, sank into the bowman’s thigh, but he ignored it.