Jason let go of the hammer and took out a piton. It was tempered steel, well weighted and needle sharp. And he had had one try already so he knew the range. Taking the pointed end in his fingertips he drew well back beyond his head, then threw it with all the strength of his arm.
The point caught the bowman in the side of the neck and sank deep. He let go of his bow, scratched for the weapon with his fingers, shuddered and died. His body vanished from sight as the others pulled him up.
Someone had quieted the men below and he heard Kerk’s voice cutting through the sudden silence.
“Hold on and brace yourself!” he shouted.
Jason looked down slowly and saw that the Pyrran had moved back from the base of the cliff and was holding one of their bombs, bent over and lighting it. Frantically, Jason kicked his toes in farther and, making fists of both hands, he jammed them deep into a vertical crack in the stone face.
Below him, the soldiers retreated from the base of the cliff. The foreshortened figure of Kerk reached back and back, until his knuckles appeared to be touching the ground. Then, in a single, spasmodic contraction of all his muscles, he hurled the bomb almost straight up into the air.
For a heart-stopping instant Jason thought it was coming right at him, then he realized it was going off to one side. It seemed to siow as it reached the summit of its arc, before it disappeared behind the curve of rock. Jason pushed hard against the cold stone.
The boom of the explosion was transmitted to him through the stone, a shuddering vibration. Fragments of rock and bodies blew out into space behind him and he knew his flank was safe. Kerk would be ready if the same trick were tried again. Yet there was still a feeling of unease.
“Kerk!” Jason shouted. “The piton!” He spoke in Pyrran. “What happened to the piton I dropped? If Temuchin should see it.
One glimpse would be enough to reveal that they were off-wonders. The nomads were familiar enough with the appearance of alien artifacts.
One, two thudding heartbeats of time Jason waited before Kerk called back to him.
“All… right…. I saw it drop… picked it up while they were all looking at you. Are you hurt?”
“Fine,” Jason whispered, then drew a deep breath. “Fine!” he shouted. “I’m going on now.”
After this it was just work. Twice Jason had to sling a loop of rope through the carabiner of a piton and sit in it to nest. His strength was giving out and he had used the most potent stimulants in the medikit by the time he reached the foot of a chimney that went right to the top of the tower. It looked to be about ten meters high and the two faces appeared to be parallel all the way up.
“One last try,” he said, spitting on his hands and instantly regretting it as the saliva chilled and froze. He brushed the ice from his palms and took off the pack The less weight, the better; even the hammer had to be left behind now. He piled the discarded items at the foot of the chimney and slung the coil of rope around his neck so that it nested on his chest.
Wedging his back against one wall he walked up the other until his body was parallel to the ground, held up by the friction of his shoulders and his feet. He pushed higher with his arms, then walked upward with his feet. Centimeter by centimeter he worked his way up the chimney.
Before he reached the top he knew he would not make it.
Yet, at the same time, he knew he had to make it. Going back down would be just as hard as keeping on upward. And if he fell, he would break at least an arm or a leg at the foot of the chimney. Where he would simply lie and die of thirst. There was no chance of anyone else’s getting up here to help him. It would be better to keep on.
With infinite slowness the sky appeared above, closer and closer, and slower and slower as the strength ebbed from his limbs.
When he finally reached the spot where his toes were actually at the lip of the rock, he had no strength left to pull himself over the edge. For a few seconds he rested, took a deep breath and straightened his legs. He twisted as he did so and clutched at the crumbling edge of rock. For a moment of time he hung there, neither falling nor able to pull himself out of the chimney. Then, ever so slowly, he pulled and scraped with bloody fingertips until he dragged himself out and lay exhausted on the tilted summit of the pinnacle.
The top was amazingly small; he saw that as he lay gasping for air. No bigger than a large-sized bed. When he was able to, he crawled to the edge and waved at the waiting men below. They saw him and a ragged and spontaneous cheer went up.
Was there anything to cheer about? He went to the fan side and looked, moving back as the waiting bowmen on the difftop below fined at him. Only two arrows rose high enough to hit him, but these were badly aimed. He looked again and sa* the enemy position spread out like a model below him. Everything was visible and within easy range, both the men on the rim of The Slash and the rows of bowmen protecting the top of the rockslide.
He had done it.
“Good man, Jason,” he said aloud. “You’re a credit to any world.”
Sitting cross-legged, he made a large loop in the end of the line and passed it around the summit of the rock itself, making an immovable anchor. Then he let the leather-tipped end over the edge and paid it out slowly, until a signaling tug told him that it had reached the ground. He shortened the rope with a quickly knotted sheepshank and gave the agreed upon signal, three tugs on the line, to show that it was secured. Then he sat down to wait.
Only when the rope began to jerk violently and stand out from the cliff did he get up. Kerk was right below, looking unwinded and fresh, with an immense load of bombs slung on his back. He had taken the rope in both hands and walked straight up the face of the cliff.
“Can you reach down to help me over the edge of the cliff?” Kerk asked.
“Absolutely. Just don’t squeeze or break anything.”
Jason lay face down, with the rock rim in his armpit, and reached oven. Kerk let go with one hand and they seized each other’s wrists in an acrobat’s hold. Jason did not try to pull, he probably could not have lifted Kerk’s weight if he had tried, but instead he spread-eagled and anchored himself as well as he could against the stone. Kerk pulled himself up, threw an ann oven the edge, then heaved his body oven.
“Very good,” he said, looking down at the enemy below. “They do not stand a chance. I have extra microgrenades that we can use. Shall we begin?”
“You’re letting me throw out the first bomb of the season? How nice.” As the explosions roared and rumbled into a continuous thunder, Temuchin’s army shouted a victorious echo and started up the rocky slope. The battle was decided and would soon be won, and after it, the war would be won as well.
Jason sat down and watched Kerk happily bombing the natives below. This part of the plan was complete. If the next step worked as well, the Pyrrans would have their mines and their planet. Their last battle would be won.
Jason sincerely hoped so. He was getting very tired.
15
Strike like lightning, magic thunder
Slew the weasels, cleansed the mountains.
Piled high, the thumbs of conquest
Reached above a tall man’s head.
Then the word of strangers coming
To his land reached Lord Temuchin.
With sword and bow and fearless army
Rode he out to slay invaders.
from THE SONG OF TEMUCHIN
Jason dinAlt reined his morope to a stop at the top of the broad slope and searched for a path down through the tumbled boulders. The wind, damp and cold, funneled up through this single gap in the high cliffs, struck him full in the face. Fan below, the ocean was gray steel, flecked with the spray-blown tops of waves. The sky was dark, cloud-covered from horizon to horizon, and somewhere out to sea thunder rumbled heavily.
A faintly marked path was visible, threading down the rock-covered slope; Jason spurred his mount forward. Once he had started down he saw that the path was well-worn and old. The nomads must come here regularly, fo
r salt perhaps. An aerial survey from the spaceship had shown that this was the only spot for thousands of kilometers where there was a break in the palisade of cliffs. As he descended, the air became a little warmer, but the dampness after the dust-dry plateau cut into him. A final turn brought him out in a circular bay, with great cliffs rising on both sides and a beach of black sand below. Two small boats were drawn up on the shone with yellow cloth tents set up beside them. Farther out in the bay a squat two, master, with a smoke-stained funnel aft, lay with furled sails, swinging at anchor. Jason’s approach was seen and, from the knot of men around the boats, a tall figure emerged and strode purposefully across the sand. Jason halted the morope and slid down to meet him.
“That’s a great outfit you’re wearing, Rhes,” he said as he shook the other man’s hand.
“No more exotic than yours,” the Pyrran said, smiling and running his fingers through the purple ruffles that covered his chest. He wore crotch, high boots of yellow suede and a polished helmet with a golden spike. It was most impressive. “This is what the well-dressed Master Merchant of Ammh wears,” he added.
“From the reports I hear that you made out very well in the lowlands.”
“I’ve never enjoyed myself more. Ammh is basically an agrarian society that is working very hard to enter a primitive machine age. The classes are completely separate, with the merchant and the military at the top, along with a small priest class to keep the peasants quiet. I had the capital to enter the merchant class and I made the most of it. The operation is going so well that it is self-financing now. I have a warehouse in Camar, the seaport closest to the barrier mountains, and I have just been waiting fon the word to sail north. Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“And some food. Trot out your best for me.”
They had reached the open-sided tent which contained a trestle table loaded with bottles and cuts of smoked meat. Rhes picked up a longnecked green bottle and handed it to Jason. ‘Try this,” he said. “A sixyear-old vintage, very good. I’ll get a knife to cut the seal.”
“Don’t bother,” Jason said, cracking the neck off the bottle with a sharp blow against the edge of the table. He drank’ deeply from the golden wine that bubbled out, then wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “I’m a barbarian, remember? This will convince your guards of my roughshod character.” He nodded toward the soldiers who stood about, frowning and fingering their weapons.
“You’ve developed some vile habits,” Rhes said, wiping the broken neck of the bottle with a cloth before he poured a glassful for himself. ‘What’s the plan?”
Jason chewed hungrily at a fatty chop. “Temuchin is on the way here with an army. Not a big one, most of the tribes went home after the weasels were wiped out. But all of them first swore fealty to him and agreed to join him whenever he ordered. When he heard about your landing here, he called in the nearest tribes and started his march. He’s about a day away now, but Kenk and the Pyrrans are camped right across his trail. We should join up tonight. I rode on here alone just to check the setup before contact is made.”
“Does everything meet your approval?”
“Just about. I would keep your armed thugs close by, but don’t make it look so obvious. Let a couple of them lounge around and stuff the rest into a tent. Do you have the trade goods we talked about?”
“Everything. Knives, steel arrowheads, wooden shafts for arrows, iron pots, plus a lot more. Sugar, salt, some spices. They should find something they like out of this lot.”
“That’s our hope.” Jason looked unhappily at the empty bottle, then tossed it away.
“Would you like another one?” Rhes asked.
“Yes, but I’m not going to take it. No contact with the enemy, not yet. I’ll get back to the camp so I can be there when we have the meet with Temuchin. This is the one that counts. We have to get the tribes on our side, start peaceful trade and squeeze the warlord out into the cold. Keep a bottle on ice until I get back.”
By the time Jason’s mount had climbed up to the high plains again the sky was lower and darken, and the wind threw a fine shrapnel of sleet against the back of his neck He crouched low and used his spurs to move the morope at its best speed. By late afternoon he came up to the Pyrran camp just as they were starting to move out.
“You’re just in time,” Kerk said, riding over to join him. “I have the ship’s launch up high in a satellite orbit, tracking Temuchin’s force. Earlier this afternoon he turned off the direct route to the beach and headed for Hell’s Doorway. He’ll probably stop there for the night.”
“I never thought of him as being much of a religious man.”
“I am sure that he isn’t,” Kerk said. “But he is a good enough leader to keep his men happy. This pit, or whatever it is, appears to be one of the few holy places they have. Supposed to be a backdoon leading directly to hell. Temuchin will make a sacrifice there.”
“It’s as good a place as any to meet him. Let’s ride.”
The dark afternoon blended imperceptibly into evening as the sky pressed down and the wind hurled granular blizzard snow at them. It collected in the folds of their clothing and on the moropes’ fur until they were all streaked and coated with it. It was almost fully dark before they came to the camaclis of Temuchin’s followers. There were welcome shouts of greetings from all sides as they rode toward the large camach where the chieftains were meeting. Kerk and Jason dismounted and pushed by the guards at the entrance flap. The circle of men turned to look as they came in. Temuchin glared pure hatred at them.
“Who is this that dares come uninvited to Temuchin’s meeting of his captains?”
Kerk drew himself up and gave as well as he had received. “Who is this Temuchin who would bar Kerk of the Pyrrans, conqueror of The Slash, from a meeting of the chiefs of the plains?”
The battle was joined and everyone there knew it. The absolute silence was broken only by the rustle of wind-driven snow against the outside of the camcich.
Temuchin was the first warlord to have brought all of the tribes together under one banner. Yet he ruled nothing without the agreement of his tribal chieftains. Some of them were already displeased with the severity of his orders and would hate preferred a new warlord, or no warlord at all. They followed the contest with close attention.
“You fought well at The Slash,” Temuchin said. “As did all here. We greet you and you may now leave. What we do here today does not concern that battle nor does it concern you.”
“Why?” Kenk asked with icy calmness, seating himsel& at the same time. “What are you trying to conceal from me?”
“You accuse me…” Tèmuchin was white with anger, his hand on his sword.
“I accuse no one.” Kerk yawned broadly. “You seem to accuse yourself. You meet in secret, you refuse a chieftain entrance, you attempt insult rather than speaking the truth. I ask you again what you conceal?”
“It is a matter of small importance. Some lowlanders have arrived on our shores, to invade, to build cities. We will destroy them.”
“Why? They are harmless traders,” Kerk said.
“Why?” Temuchin was burning with anger now and could not stand still; he paced back and forth. “Have you never heard of ‘The Song of the Freemen’?”
“As well as you have, or better. The song says to destroy the buildings of those who will trap us. Are there buildings to be destroyed?”
“No, but they will come next. Already the lowlanders have put up tents—”
One of the chieftains broke in, singing a line from “The Song of the
Freemen”:
“Knowing no home, other than our tents.”
Temuchin controlled his rage and ignored the interruption. The words of the song were against him, but he knew where the truth lay.
“These traders are like the point of the sword that makes but a scratch. They are in tents and they trade today, but soon they will be ashore with bigger tents, then buildings in order to trade better. First the tip
of the swond, then the entire blade to run us through and destroy us. They must be wiped out now.”
What Temuchin said was absolutely true. It was very important that the other chieftains should not realize that. Kerk was silent for an instant and Jason stepped into the gap.
“The Song of Freemen’ must be our guide in this matter. This is the song that tells us—”
“Why are you here, jongleur?” Temuchin said in a voice of stern command. “I see no other jongleuns or common soldiers. You may leave.” Jason opened his mouth, but could think of nothing to say. Ternuchin was unarguably right. Jason, he thought, you should have kept your big mouth shut. He bowed to the warlord, and as he did he whispered to Kerk:
“I’ll be dose by and I’ll listen in on the dentiphone. If I can think of anything that will help, I will tell you.”
Kerk did not turn around, but he murmured agreement and his voice was transmitd clearly to the tiny radio in Jason’s mouth. After this, there was nothing Jason could do except leave.
Bad luck. He had hoped to be in on the showdown. As he pushed through the flap, one of the guards stationed there bent to lace it behind him. The other one dropped his lance.
Jason looked at it surprised, even as the man reached out with both hands and grabbed him by the wrists. What was this?! Jason twisted upward with his forearms against the other’s thumbs, to break the simple hold, while at the same time aiming a knee at the man’s groin as a note of disapproval. But before he could free himself or connect, the guard behind him slipped a leather strap oven his head and jerked it tight about his throat.
Jason could neither fight nor cry out. He writhed and struggled ineffectively as he quickly slipped into black unconsciousness.
16
Someone was grinding snow into Jason’s face, forcing it into his nostrils and mouth, effectively dragging him back to consciousness. He coughed and spluttered, pushing himself away from the offending hands. When he had wiped the snow from his eyes, he looked around, blinking, trying to place himself.
The Horse Barbarians tds-3 Page 17
