Jango

by William Nicholson

  Applause broke out from the onlookers. Amroth Jahan raised his left fist in victory and flashed a look towards Echo. To his gratification he found she was watching him now. She had seen him win. He smiled for her, his broad chest heaving.

  Sabin clambered to his feet and rubbed at the raw weal where the whip had torn at his skin.

  "I told you I was no match for you, Father."

  "You lost the lead," the Jahan replied. "Never wait for your opponent to strike. Lose the lead and you've lost the jagga."

  Alva, his second son, now rode forward.

  "Would you like to rest before the next bout, Father?"

  "Rest? I'm only just warming up!"

  "Then I'm ready when you are, sir."

  The Jahan gazed approvingly at Alva's powerful torso. This was the one he expected to lose to. Alva was a fine jagga rider, with an excellent horse.

  "To our positions!"

  The Jahan rode back to the side where the guests of honor sat. He leaned down to speak to his host, Radiant Leader, but his words were meant for Echo to hear.

  "What do you say to our sport?"

  "Good sport," said Radiant Leader, "but soon over."

  "You'll see a more equal match this time. The boy's a champion. I'll hold him as long as I can."

  He looked straight at Echo then, and there she was, gazing back at him with those beautiful gray eyes. A thrill of pride went through the Jahan. There was no telling what she was thinking, but now every time he turned to her, she was watching him. Not his boys. Him.

  He took up his position facing Alva across the trampled grass. Alva was ready and eager.

  "Ya, jagga!" he cried, and charged.

  Malook stood stock-still until the last moment, and then skipped to one side. The Jahan calculated Alva's whip strike perfectly, and swung out and low. Alva missed. But at once he was circling round, whip snapping again. His father circled too, once, twice, then broke out of the circle and rode away. Alva gave chase and caught up, and his whip snared his father's whip arm, but because he was in forward motion, he could get no tension on it. Malook stopped dead. Alva swept past, the Jahan let his arm move with him, and the whip unraveled.

  Now with Alva before him and his whip arm free, the Jahan shot out his own whip and struck Alva across his naked back. But he was not close enough for a catch.

  The onlookers applauded. The combat was fast and relentless, evenly matched.

  They broke apart, raced to the farthest edges of the combat ground, and turned in as if both were obeying the same signal to charge. No evasion now: just sheer strength. The horses passed so close that the riders' legs brushed against each other. Both whips slashed the air, both found purchase. Twisting round on their mounts, right arms straining, both men felt the sudden tearing tug jerk them backwards. But their horses felt it too and leaned into the pull and turned back. So neither man was unseated.

  Malook raced to circle the other horse, but Alva was not to be had as easily as his younger brother, and he spun round too and broke away. Suddenly he was behind his father, and his whip was curling round his father's neck, and every Orlan watching held his breath, knowing the older man must fall now or there would be a death. But the Jahan did not fall. He hurled his whip to the ground, reached behind him, and seized the cord that was throttling him. With one violent and powerful heave, he toppled Alva from his horse.

  Up went a roar of admiration. The Jahan unwound the whip from his neck and punched the air. He turned fist high to Echo, and she was watching him still.

  Alva rose to his feet, walked over to his father, and held up his hand.

  "Still the best, Father," he said.

  "You nearly had me, boy."

  Sasha, his eldest son, now rode up to join them.

  "Father," he said in a low voice, "there's only me left. I'm your eldest son. I must win this bout."

  "You'll win if you're good enough, son."

  "No, Father. Please think what you're doing. One of us three boys has to win, and there's only me left."

  "Yes, son. Yes, you're right."

  The Jahan drew a long sobering breath and saw reason. The prize for the winner was the girl. He could never have the girl. So Sasha must win.

  With this thought clear in his mind, the Jahan took up his position for the third and final bout. His oldest son was not as strong as Alva, but he was smarter. That was as it should be.

  He raised his whip hand.

  "Ya, jagga!"

  He cantered slowly towards his son. Since he had agreed he would lose, he was in no hurry. Sasha came out to meet him, then made a dash to pass him, at the same time sending out his first sweep. It fell short and lacked power. The Jahan didn't even try to deflect it. Instead, he let Sasha pass him, and then with the slightest lean of his body, urged Malook forward. The horse, superbly responsive, catapulted forward, leaving Sasha behind and out of reach. Then as Sasha followed to close the gap, the Jahan turned, whip snaking, and caught him in a perfect curl. Really it was too easy, he thought.

  Sasha struggled to release himself, but could not.

  "Father!" he muttered angrily.

  The Jahan reversed the whip action and the cord fell away. The Orlans watching saw the older man give up his hold and they murmured among themselves.

  "Come on, then, boy!" said the Jahan. "Here I am!"

  Sasha moved away and then jabbed his horse into a flurry of motion. He swept round the perimeter of the ground, and then curled inwards on his opponent.

  Malook never moved. The Jahan watched his son with contemptuous eyes. All this racing about was for show—it gave no advantage in the jagga. The boy doesn't deserve to win, he thought.

  Sasha closed in, whooping a war cry, and his whip came hissing out towards his father's left flank. The Jahan did what any Orlan would do under the circumstances, faced with a well-signalled attack. He met whip stroke with whip stroke. His own whip, snapping before him, caught Sasha's whip in midair, and the two cords tangled. The Jahan then braced himself as Sasha cantered past, and when the pull came, he was rock solid in his seat. If anything, Sasha got the worst of it, dragged to one side and almost off, before his mount turned and gave him slack.

  The whips spun free. Sasha glared at his father. The Jahan shrugged, as if to say, You'll have to do better than that. Sasha rode towards him at a trot. As he passed by he whispered, "You must fall!"

  If I must, I must, thought the Jahan.

  Sasha turned sharply once he was well past, then his father turned, and facing each other, they raised their whips. This was a well-known maneuver in the jagga, one that relied solely on strength. The two horses moved slowly towards each other until they were within striking reach. Then both men's right arms went up together, and both whips flew out. Each one wrapped itself tight round the body of the facing man. With a sharp simultaneous tug, both were pulled tight. Now it was a tug-of-war. Whichever man weakened first would be pulled to the ground.

  Sasha kept his eyes fixed on his father as he strained. His father looked back with a half smile on his face. The watching crowd fell silent, captivated by the sudden stillness of the combatants. Both whip arms trembled with the strain. Soon now one would snap.

  Father! Sasha didn't speak aloud, but his mouth formed the word.

  The Jahan nodded very slightly, but he did not release his powerful right arm. He could feel it all down his arm and his back, right deep into Malook who was part of him, he could feel that he had the greater reserves of strength. He could win this. But he must not.

  His eyes flicked away now and found Echo on the far side, still watching him. She was leaning a little forward, and her lips were parted. She too knows I can win, he thought.

  So why am I about to lose?

  I'm stronger than all of them. Why should I lose? I'm the Jahan! What has age to do with it? The best man wins. And she knows, she's known all along, that I'm the best man. Haven't her eyes been on me from the start? The jagga is to find the one who deserves to take my place. But
no man deserves to take my place! Not while I'm still alive.

  "Sorry, son!" he cried; and with a massive explosion of strength he pulled Sasha right off his mount, and sent him thudding to the ground.

  The onlookers cheered. The Orlans grinned and clapped their hands above their heads. The Jahan threw down his whip and made a slow victory circuit of the ground, acknowledging the applause. Sasha clambered to his feet and joined his brothers. The three looked on in silence.

  The Great Jahan's circuit brought him to a stop before the guest of honor.

  "My congratulations," said Radiant Leader.

  The Jahan ignored him. His eyes were on Echo Kittle.

  He dismounted and stood before her. She no longer looked at him. Her eyes were cast down. His bare chest glistened in the torchlight, and his ugly face shone with the glow of victory.

  "We have done as you asked," he said. "Now you must choose."

  Echo did not answer.

  "I have two wives," he said. "But they are far away. I ask you to be the third, and the best."

  She looked up then, and her gaze was unflinching.

  "You're too old," she said.

  There was no pity in her voice. Only then did he begin to guess at the depths of her anger.

  "You think you can have whatever you want," she said. "But you can't have me."

  She rose to her feet.

  "I warn you—!"

  "What?" Her eyes flashed at him. "You'll burn my home? Do it! Burn all the world, old man! Kill everyone! Then rule over a world of blood and ashes!"

  She turned and stalked away.

  The Jahan stood still as a statue, watching her go. No one else dared to move. Then, when she had disappeared into the darkness, he came back to life with a great laugh.

  "Where's this feast of yours?" he said to Radiant Leader. "I could eat a bullock!"

  Caressa had watched the entire jagga without saying a word. Now she turned to the Wildman, her eyes shining.

  "I knew he'd win," she said. "I knew the ugly one would win. The rest of them are nothing."

  The leaders and their entourage returned to the city, and one by one the torches were extinguished. The crowd dispersed, either to the feasting in the temple square or to their homes. Night had now fallen, and the great Orlan camp was bright with the glow of countless fires.

  The bandits slipped away down the riverbank, to the meadowland where the herds of Caspians were grazing. As they went, Caressa talked on about the Great Jahan.

  "Why do you think that great horde obeys him? He's not big. He's hideously ugly. Why don't they just laugh in his face?"

  "Would you laugh in his face?" said Shab.

  "I'd smack his face," said Caressa, "and then I'd laugh."

  "Sure you would," said Shab.

  Her hand shot out in a stinging slap. Shab squealed.

  "You want to run with me, you show respect."

  "Yes, Chief."

  The grazing horses looked up as the bandits approached, but seemed unafraid. Caressa went to one of them, a mare, and stroked her neck and examined her in the faint light of the distant campfires.

  "This shouldn't be too hard."

  She uncoiled the rope she carried, then slipped it round the Caspian's neck. The others, following her lead, each picked out a Caspian in the darkness and did the same—all but the Wildman, who kept himself apart and watched.

  Shab, still smarting from Caressa's rebuke, was the first to attempt to mount. He did exactly what he had seen the Orlans do. It had looked the simplest thing in the world. He stood by the horse's side and sprang upwards, while swinging his leg wide and round.

  The horse moved. Not far and not fast, but enough. Shab fell flat on his face on the wet grass.

  The others laughed.

  "Try holding on to your rope," said Caressa.

  She herself then grasped her rope tight and swung herself up onto her Caspian's back.

  "See!" she said. "Not too hard."

  "Heya, Chief!"

  The bandits were impressed. However, when Caressa urged her mount to move forward, nothing happened.

  "Come on, come on." She tried rocking herself forward and kicking with her heels, but the mare just stood there. "Someone make it move."

  Shab gave the mare a smart smack on the rump. This had a dramatic effect. The mare put down her head and kicked up her rear legs, and Caressa was thrown unceremoniously to the ground, taking the rope with her.

  "Idiot!" she said to Shab as she got up.

  "It's the rope," said the Wildman, who had been watching the Caspians carefully. "They don't like the rope."

  "See if you can do better, then."

  The Wildman went up to the mare, who was now watching the bandits with wary eyes, and stood before her. Hardly aware that he was doing so, he followed the training he had received in the Nom. He let himself go still, steadied his breathing, and felt the flow of lir within him. Then he brought the lir to a focused point and let it run down his right arm to his right hand. Then he raised his right hand and touched the Caspian lightly on the brow.

  The mare looked at him in mild surprise but did not move away. The Wildman kept his hand in place and felt his own potent stillness streaming into the horse. Then he removed his hand, went to the mare's side, and vaulted onto her back.

  "Now make her move," said Caressa.

  Shab drew his spike.

  "Let me help," he said.

  He stabbed the sharp spike into the mare's leg. The mare kicked and bucked, the Wildman clung on tight, and in the same moment, with a hammer of flying hooves, a horse and rider hurtled out of the darkness. The Wildman's Caspian broke into a gallop, and the Wildman found himself being carried away down the river path, into the night.

  "Wildman!" shouted Caressa after him. "Come back!"

  But the mare was following the other horse and was entirely beyond his control. It was all he could do to stay on her back. He was lying forward, with his arms round the mare's neck, more like a sack of corn than a rider.

  Ahead he could just make out the other horse and rider. Whoever it was seemed to have no intention of stopping soon. All down the river road they went, and with every hoofbeat, the Wildman was sure he would fall. But his arms were strong, and he gripped tight. Then at last, as the young moon rose in the night sky, the rider ahead slowed to a trot and so came to a stop. The Wildman's mare, still doing as she pleased without any reference to him, trotted up alongside, and the two Caspians touched noses.

  The rider was the beautiful girl who had defied the Great Jahan. She was staring at the Wildman with fear-filled eyes.

  "You're not an Orlan," she said. "Who are you?"

  "Nobody," said the Wildman, panting, his heart hammering from the wild ride. "Just a spiker."

  "Then how can you ride?"

  "I can't."

  "Why were you following me?"

  "I wasn't. The horse was."

  The girl now looked at his mare and saw how the two Caspians were nuzzling each other's faces.

  "They were trace horses together," she said. Then her suspicious eyes returned to the Wildman. "You weren't sent to bring me back?"

  "No."

  "So where are you going?"

  The Wildman nodded down the road.

  "Spikertown."

  "Is that on the road to the Glimmen?"

  "Part of the way."

  "I come from the Glimmen. The Great Jahan has sworn to burn the great forest to the ground."

  "Why?"

  "Because I won't be his wife."

  The Wildman was shocked but also impressed.

  "Can he do it?"

  "He has enough men. No one can stand up to him. Except the Noble Warriors."

  She gave the Wildman a searching look.

  "Do you know anything about the Noble Warriors?"

  The Wildman was silent for a moment, and then he looked away.

  "No," he said. "Nothing."

  They rode on side by side. The Wildman told his nam
e and learned hers.

  "Wouldn't it be better to be his wife than to have him burn the Glimmen?" said the Wildman.

  Echo gave a shake of her body, as if to rid herself of a covering of dirt.

  "I can bear almost anything," she said, "but not that."

  "He's ugly," said the Wildman, "but he's magnificent."

  He was thinking of the way Caressa's eyes had shone as she had watched him.

  "I don't want to be anyone's wife," said Echo. "I want to be me."

  In time they came to a roadside rest hut, built for the benefit of travellers, to offer protection from wind and rain.

  "We should sleep a little," said the Wildman.

  "The Orlans will follow me," said Echo.

  "You sleep. I'll watch."

  She dismounted.

  "We'll take it in turns," she said.

  The interior of the little low-roofed hut was windowless and blind dark. Echo lay down on the bare earth floor and was soon deeply asleep. The Wildman stayed outside and watched, and the Caspians grazed, and the moon travelled across the sky.

  He thought about the Jahan and the Orlans who followed him. He pictured them in their camp outside Radiance. He saw again the crowds that gathered to watch the jagga. There were many Orlans, but there were many more spikers. The difference was that the Orlans were united in a disciplined army, while the spikers were a disorganized rabble. The spikers all belonged to different tribes, and within the tribes, they were divided into bands, and the bands were forever squabbling among themselves. In Spikertown alone, three chiefs disputed control of the streets, and their followers fought one another for territory, in frequent bloody brawls. But if one were to rise above them all and win the allegiance of every spiker in the land, he could build an army to rival the Orlans. Such a chief could truly call himself a warlord.

  But how was it to be done?