"Ogati has found us out! His spies have armed with enough information to move against us at last. I told you he would not stand idly by while we stole the Golden Horde out from under him. We're finished, I tell you!"
"You mean the Ka-Khan is actually using force against us? Ogati sends his guards to cut us down? I did not think he would risk dividing the Horde by moving so openly against his own tar-khans."
Bork shook his head. "Worse than that. While his mind may not be as quick as Yang's, it is no duller. What faces us is thinly-disguised exile. He is singling out the leaders of our movement and sending them forth on missions to the far corners of the known world. Using the excuse of seeking new campgrounds he scatters our forces, dividing our unity in one fell swoop. To refuse a mission openly is to risk a charge of open treason. One at a time we are being beaten. Yaccus, Morbis, all the clan leaders we have won so hard to our cause. I myself just came from the Ka-Khan's yurt. It is my belief he will summon you on the morrow. He holds the totem of the serpent in high enough regard that he'll wait until as many of your supporters as possible have beeen stripped from you before risking a confrontation."
Basta of the Red Fist remained silent long after Bork had finished his report. His features were immobile and expressionless as he stared into the fire, but Bork knew this only masked the stormy inner turmoil which was this man's trademark. At length he spoke, not taking his eyes from the flame.
"All the clan leaders are scattered, then? We are alone?"
"Not yet. Though Ogati's move caught them by surprise, they react with reflexive caginess. Most are stalling for time, claiming difficult in preparations for their journey. Those that have left, have done so with a casual laziness that never marked their battle marches. It is my guess they will make first camp within a few hours' ride of the Horde proper. They accept their defeat reluctantly, seeking desperately some counter move to turn the tide."
Slowly now, Basta approached his friend. Standing before him, Bork saw the glitter in his eyes of the coiled Serpent. But coiled to what purpose? To pitilessly strike down a weak victim? Or to lash out angrily and defensively, spitefully killing the Enemy even while life was being crushed out of its frame?
"Summon the others, Bork. Whatever our fate, let us face it together. Ogati can do us no greater harm, and the decision of every man affects that of his Brother. Go at once, before what little time is left us for free choice is gone."
With a gentle push, he sped his friend along his way.
Pausing outside the yurt's door to readjust his sword belt, Bork's attention was arrested by the sound of voices emanating from within. Had he not just emerged from that dwelling, he would swear that there were two people within locked in heated argument. His scalp prickled as he realized that, for the first time, Yang of the Silver Tongue and Basta of the Red Fist were meeting. The problem of being threatened mentally without being threatened physically was creating a tug-of-war between the two persons housed in one body.
"Well, violent one, at last you're met with a situation you cannot conquer with a sword! I knew your brash boasting would tip our hand before we were ready."
"What do you mean, Yang? Never have I seen a situation which calls for bloodshed more. You think we will stand idle while the Ka-Khan scatters us like sheep? Ready or not, the time for fighting is upon us."
"Our half-formed forces against the might of Ogati's loyal guard? The outcome is both sure and disastrous. And even if he were overthrown, he need only call on his brothers to rally their own Hordes in the family name. The full might of the old Khan's Golden Horde descending on us from all points of the compass. Surely not even you would waste good fighting men on a lost cause like that."
"Perhaps not a full meeting of armies then. But Ogati is just a man. He can die like any other man. No one knows the Darkness like Basta. Tonight I'll creep through the shadows and put an end to his career, and with it his orders to ride. With this hand that dripped bloody at my birth I'll save our cause."
"You think his brothers will not know the engineer of so timely an assassination? Besides, Ogati, too, knows you favor the Night. The ground for a hundred paces around his yurt will be lit to day-brightness with torches, and for every torch five guardsmen. And for all his precautions he'll sleep lightly and armed, if he sleeps at all."
"Demons take your logic!! How can you remain cool? My blood burns for action!!"
Bork shuddered as he finally hastened on his way. If he knew the two minds at work in that yurt, there would be a solution proposed when the clan leaders gathered, no matter how painful. The only question was, what?
Ogati was in a foul mood as he awaited his guards' return. A restless night full of false alarms did little toward brightening his disposition. More than anything he wanted this confrontation to be over with. Perhaps that is why he had sent an armed guard to the yurt of the Coiled Serpent. To insure it would be Basta he faced, if not to spark an incident that would justify wiping out his rival once and for all.
A murmur ran through the assemblage which packed the yurt and Ogati knew the party had returned. Carrion Birds, he thought, Gathered to watch a battle without caring who wins.
Now a lone figure approached him and dropped to the ground in a groveling bow. Ogati frowned. Where was Basta?
"Well?" he rumbled at the trembling figure.
"Gone!" was the reply. "All gone. Only empty yurts and smoldering campfires mark the place where the conspirators dwelt."
"Impossible! I had spies watching their every move. I would have heard if they tried such a move."
"It would seem your spies are dead or have chosen to ride with the conspirators."
Ogati staggered back, his head reeling. This he had not anticipated. Instead of a few scattered exiles living a life of terror in enemy lands, a fully-mobilized strike force prowling the continents! A fanged, living animal hungry for conquest and revenge. He was suddenly aware of the silence hanging heavy over the assemblage. It would not do to have the Ka-Khan appear outmaneuvered in front of such an audience. Groping desperately for something, he fell back on old patterns.
"Yang, perhaps you have a few comments on the situation."
He turned to his ever-present spokesman, only to find himself addressing thin air. He had forgotten that he had also lost the Silver Tongue when Basta departed.
A titter broke the silence, followed by an avalanche of laughter, pelting the Ka-Khan in his embarrassment until his anger blazed and he silenced them with a roar.
"Laugh at your Ka-Khan, will you!?! You dare to laugh at the great Ogati!?!"
The crowd shrank back before his rage.
"Mark my words and mark them well. This desertion under the cloak of night may have caught me unawares. For now Basta of the Red Fist may be Warlord of Darkness and the Dark Horde! But the day will come when he or his descendants return to the Golden Horde. On that day there will be a reckoning such as the world has never witnessed. Then we shall see who laughts!"
Cold Cash War
Robert Lynn Asprin
Military strategies and tactics change constantly. But when the nature of the combatants changes, the nature of war itself is altered.
The sound of automatic weapons fire was clearly audible in the Brazilian night as Major Tidwell silently crawled the length of the shadow, taking pains to keep his elbows close to his body. He probed ahead with his left hand until he found the fist-sized rock with the three sharp corners which he had gauged as his landmark.
Once it was located, he sprang the straps on the Jump Pad he had been carrying over his shoulder and eased it into position. With the care of a professional he double-checked its alignment; front edge touching the rock and lying at a 45° angle to an imaginary line running from the rock to the large tree on his left, flat on the ground, no wrinkles or lumps.
Check.
This done, he allowed himself the luxury of taking a moment to try to see the Scanner Fence. Nothing. He shook his head with grudging admiration. If it hadn't been
scouted and confirmed in advance he would never have known there was a "fence" in front of him. The Set Posts were camouflaged to the point where he couldn't spot them even knowing what he was looking for, and there were no tell-tale light beams penetrating the dark of the night. Yet he knew that just in front of him was a maze of relay beams which, if interrupted, would trigger over a dozen automount weapons and direct their fire into a ten-meter square area centering on the point the beams were interrupted. An extremely effective trap as well as a foolproof security system, but it was only five meters high.
He smiled to himself. Those cost accountants will do it to you every time. Whey build a fence eight meters high if you can get by with one five meters high? The question was, could they get by with a five meter fence?
Well, now was a good a time as any to find out. He checked the straps of his small back pack to be sure there was no slack. Satisfied there was no play to throw him off balance, his hand moved to his throat mike.
"Lieutenant Decker!"
"Here, Sir!" The voice of his first lieutenant was soft in the earphone. It would be easy to forget that he was actually over 500 meters away leading the attack on the south side of the compound. Nice about fighting for the Itt-iots, your communications were second to none.
"I'm in position now. Start the diversion."
"Yes, sir!"
He rose slowly to a low crouch and backed away from the pad several steps in a duck walk. The tiny luminous dots on the corners of the Jump Pad marked its location for him exactly.
Suddenly, the distant firing doubled in intensity as the diversionary frontal attack began. He waited several heartbeats for any guard's attention to be drawn to the distant fight, then rose to his full height, took one long stride and jumped on the pad hard with both feet.
The pad recoiled from the impact of his weight kicking him silently upward. As he reached the apex of his flight, he tucked and somersaulted like a diver, extending his legs again to drop feet first, but it was still a long way down. His forward momentum was lost by the time he hit the ground and the impact forced him to his knees as he tried to absorb the shock. He fought for a moment to keep his balance, lost it and fell heavily on his back.
"Damn!" He quickly rolled over onto all fours and scuttled crabwise forward to crouch in the deep shadow next to the Auto-Gun turret. Silently he waited, not moving a muscle, eyes probing the darkness.
He had cleared the "fence." If he hadn't he would be dead by now. But if there were any guards left the sound of his fall would have alerted them. There hadn't been much noise, but it didn't take much. These Oil Slickers were good. Then again there were the explosives in his pack.
Tidwell grimaced as he scanned the shadows. He didn't like explosives no matter how much he worked with them. Even though he knew they were insensitive to impact and could only be detonated by the radio control unit carried by his lieutenant, he didn't relish the possibility of having to duplicate that fall if challenged.
Finally his diligence was rewarded . . . a small flicker of movement by the third hut. Moving slowly, the major loosened the strap on his pistol. His gamble of carrying the extra bulk of a silenced weapon was about to pay off. Drawing the weapon, he eased it forward and settled the luminous sights in the vicinity of the movement, waiting for a second tip-off to fix the guard's location.
Suddenly, he holstered the weapon and drew his knife instead. If there was one, there would be two, and the sound of his shot, however muffled, would tip the second guard to sound the alarm. He'd just have to do this the hard way.
He had the guard spotted now, moving silently from hut to hut. There was a pattern in his search, and that pattern would kill him. Squat and check shadows beside the hut, move, check window, move, check window, move, hesitate, step into alley between the huts with rifle at ready, hesitate three beats to check shadows in alley, move, squat and check shadows, move . . .
Apparently the guard thought the intruder, if he existed, would be moving deeper into the compound and was hoping to come to him silently from behind. The only trouble was the intruder was behind him.
Tidwell smiled. Come on, sonny! Just a few more steps. Silently he drew his legs under him and waited. The guard had reached the hut even with the turret he was crouched behind. Squat, move, check window, move, check window, move hesitate, step into alley . . .
He moved forward in a soft glide. For three heartbeats the guard was stationary, peering into the shadows in the alley between the huts. In those three heartbeats Tidwell closed the distance between them in for long strides, knife held low and poised. His left arm snaked forward and snapped his forearm across the guard's windpipe ending any possibility of an outcry as the knife darted home under the left shoulder blade.
The guard's reflexes were good. As the knife blade retracted into its handle, the man managed to flinch with surprise before his body went into the forced, suit-induced limpness ordered by his belt computer. Either the man had incredible reflexes or his suit was malfunctioning.
Tidwell eased the "dead" body to the ground, then swiftly removed the ID bracelet. As he rose to go, he glanced at the man's face and hesitated involuntarily. Even in the dark he knew him—Clancy! He should have recognized him from his style. Clancy smiled and winked to acknowledge mutual recognition. You couldn't do much else in a "dead" combat suit.
Tidwell paused long enough to smile and tap his fallen rival on the forehead with the point of his knife. Clancy rolled his eyes in silent acknowledgement. He was going to have a rough time continuing his argument that knives were inefficient after tonight.
Then the major was moving again. Friendship was fine, but he had a job to do and he was running behind schedule. A diversion can only last so long. Quickly he backtracked Clancy's route, resheathing his knife and drawing his pistol as he went. A figure materialized out of the shadows ahead.
"I told you there wouldn't be anything there!" came the whispered comment.
Tidwell shot him in the chest, his weapon making a muffled "pfut," and the figure crumpled. Almost disdainfully, the major relieved him of his ID bracelet. Obviously this man wouldn't last long. In one night he had made two major mistakes: ignoring a sound in the night, and talking on Silent Guard. It was men like this that gave mercenaries a bad name.
He paused to orient himself. Up two more huts and over three. Abandoning much of his earlier stealth, he moved swiftly onward in a low crouch, pausing only at intersections to check for hostile movement. He had a momentary advantage with the two Quadrant Guards out of action, but it would soon some to an abrupt halt when the Roaming Guards made their rounds.
Then he was at his target, a hut indistinguishable from any of the other barracks or duty huts in the compound. The difference was that Intelligence confirmed and cross-confirmed that this was the Command Post of the compound.
No light could be seen from within and there were no guards posted outside to tip its position to the Enemy, but inside this hut was the nerve center of the Defense, all Tactical Officers as well as the communication equipment necessary to coordinate the trop movements in the area.
Tidwell unslung his pack and eased it to the ground next to him. Opening the flap, he withdrew four charges, checking the clock on each to ensure synchronization. He had seen beautiful missions ruled invalid because time of explosion (TOE) could not be verified, and it wasn't going to happen to him. He double-checked the clocks. He didn't know about the Communications or Oil Companies, but Timex should be making a hefty profit out of this war.
Tucking two charges under his arm and grasping one in each hand he made a quick circuit of the building, pausing at each corner just long enough to plant a charge on the wall. The fourth charge he set left-handed, the silenced pistol back in his right hand, eyes probing the dark. It was taking too long! The Roaming Guards would be around any minute now.
Rising to his feet he darted away, running at high speed now, stealth being completely abandoned to speed. Two huts away he slid to a stop, dropping
prone and flattening against the wall of the hut. Without pausing to catch his breath, his left hand went to his throat mike.
"Decker! They're set! Blow it!"
Nothing happened.
"Decker! Can you read me? Blow it!" He tapped the mike with his fingernail.
Still nothing.
"Blow it, damn you . . ."
POW.
Tidwell rolled to his feet and darted around the corner. Even though it sounded loud in the stillness of night, that was no explosion. Someone was shooting, probably at him.
"Decker! Blow it!"
POW. POW.
No mistaking it now. He was drawing fire. Cursing, he snapped off a round in the general direction of the shots, but it was a lost cause and he knew it. Already he could hear shouts as more men took up the pursuit. If he could only lead them away from the charges. Ducking around a corner, he flattened against the wall and tried to catch his breath. Again he tried the mike.
"Decker!"
The door of the hut across the alley burst open, flooding the scene with light. As if in a nightmare he snapped off a shot at the figure silhouetted in the door as he scrambled backward around the corner.
POW.
He was dead . . . There was no impact of the "bullet," but his suit collapsed taking him with it as it crumpled to the ground. Even if he could move now, which he couldn't, it would do him no good. The same quartz light beam that scored the fatal hit on his suit deactivated his weapons. He could do nothing but lie there helplessly as his killer approached to relieve him of his ID bracelet. The man bending over him raised his eyebrows in silent surprise when he saw the rank of his victim, but he didn't comment on it. You didn't talk to a corpse.
As the man moved on, Tidwell sighed and settled back to wait. No one would reactivate his suit until thirty minutes after the last shot was fired. His only hope would be if Decker would detonate the charges, but he knew that wouldn't happen. It was another foul-up.
MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin Page 25