by J. T. Edson
‘My men and I would be doing the same,’ Dryaka finished.
‘So what good—’ He paused, frowning and engrossed in thought for several seconds, then went on, ‘It’s not such a bad idea. If the powder was put inside a log and the ends sealed so that it looked natural, then left where it would be put on a fire, the fumes would be released. I would have men nearby, but far enough away for them to avoid being affected. They could then come in and do whatever was necessary.’
‘You may have found the answer, my lord!’ the Herbalist conceded with as great a show of excitement as he could make. However, his experiences in the past had led him to be cautious. He wanted to have an avenue of escape open in the event of failure. ‘But, if it doesn’t work, the “Apes” might solve your problem.’
‘In what way?’ the High Priest demanded.
‘I’ve heard of the weapons they carry and examined the arrow you gave to me. Such wood as made the shaft I’ve never seen and the steel for the head is far superior to the best we own—’
‘I know all about that.’
‘Why don’t you pray for our “Suppliers” to give us arms of that quality?’
‘I’ve already done that,’ Dryaka growled. ‘But there won’t be another delivery until after the next rains. I need something a lot sooner than that.’
‘The “Apes” must have many such weapons,’ Zongaffa pointed out. ‘If your men made a raid and brought back all they could lay their hands on, they would be better armed—’
‘And where do they find the “Apes”?’ Dryaka interrupted. ‘I’ve never come across, or even heard of them until we met those two.’
‘Or me,’ the Herbalist conceded.
‘The “Thunder Powder” is the only answer,’ the High Priest insisted. ‘Go to my villa in the country and try making up the logs as I told you. Then come back and let me know what happens.’
‘Very good, my lord,’ Zongaffa assented. ‘But I’ll be needing more slaves. I’m using them to test whether the smoke from the powder is poisonous. On top of that, they don’t last long at gathering the necessary materials.’
‘Don’t let that worry you,’ Dryaka replied. ‘You can have plenty of them as soon as the People-Taker brings in his collection.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Zongaffa said and, seeing that the interview was over, turned to scuttle rapidly from the room.
After the Herbalist had departed, the High Priest paced restlessly up and down the luxuriously furnished sitting room. He was deeply perturbed by the way things were turning out and tried to decide upon a means to hold in check the pressures which were being exerted against him. There was no need for him to ponder upon the delicate balance of his power, he was all too aware of it. What he needed was something to tilt it back in his favor. Even if the use he had suggested for the ‘Thunder Powder’ proved successful, the preparations for its use would take time and that was one thing he could not spare. If he was to survive, or even avoid a further reduction in his power, he had to have something happen in his favor very soon.
In the course of his pacing, Dryaka reached the room’s open double windows. Stepping through to the balcony, he swung his gaze around as much of the city as he could see from the first floor of his home. He found no inspiration from the buildings which radiated in neat circles, with the Temple of the Quagga God in the centre. Nor did the high wall that surrounded Bon-Gatah offer any solution. Turning his head, he frowned. The Protectress’s living quarters were hidden from his view by the massive structure of the Temple, but he knew that she occupied a villa as sumptuous and well appointed as his own. Not that he gave any thought to her accommodation. He was considering how, in Charole’s hold over a large proportion of the population, he might find part of the solution to his problem.
Scowling into the darkness, the High Priest wondered if the time was ripe for the move that he was considering. If it were not, he would be placing his life in great peril.
Clad in nothing but a pair of brief black panties much like those of a bikini on Earth and with a flimsy robe draped across her shoulders, Charole was walking along the dimly lit first floor hall towards her bedroom. Although she had just finished a refreshing bathe and massage at the pool in the garden, she was in anything but a relaxed and satisfied frame of mind.
Like the High Priest, Charole had been conscious of the population’s change of feeling. There was always an undercurrent of dislike, resentment and hostility, which she had accepted as being one of the prices to be paid for holding the otherwise satisfying position of Protectress of the Quagga God. Since her return to Bon-Gatah, she had found the hostility more noticeable and she knew the cause. The various mishaps that had occurred during the ill-fated hunting expedition, particularly those involving herself and her adherents, had weakened her status. They had also, she did not doubt, given added encouragement to those who sought to depose her. While the most powerful single factor against her, Dryaka, had also suffered—if to a somewhat lesser extent—there were others who would not be slow to exploit the situation.
The rot appeared to have set in very close to home. Already Charole had noticed a slight deterioration in the behavior of her domestic staff. Their normally excellent service had fallen a little below the standards that had existed prior to the hunting trip. A few floggings and, if necessary, a summary execution or two would be the remedy as far as the servants were concerned, but there were people outside the walls of her town villa whose failing respect could be dangerous. What was more, unless it could be checked quickly, the discontent might spread to her active adherents. If she lost their support, her position would be extremely precarious.
Thinking about the last point and how she might avoid it, the Protectress opened her bedroom door. An annoyed exclamation burst from her as she looked inside. She considered the discovery that her maid was missing and that none of the lamps were lit as yet another sign of the domestic staff’s lack of deference. On the point of calling for the maid, Charole had second thoughts. To do so would only emphasize the lessening of the household’s discipline. It would be better, in her opinion, to let the incident pass and find some other reason to punish the culprit.
Entering the room in an ugly temper, Charole closed the door behind her. Even as she started to walk towards the bed, she sensed that something was wrong. The small amount of light that came through the open double windows from the half moon and stars did not supply much illumination. However, it was sufficient for her to be able to make out the furnishings.
There was something wrong, of that the Protectress felt certain.
Before Charole had taken her fourth step, she knew what it was. The gold lame mesh halter and skirt which she would be wearing in the morning lay on the chair at the far side of the large and very comfortable four-poster bed. As usual, her gold and silver disc belt was hanging on the back of the chair—but the sword, a spare which had not been in the pavilion at the camp, was neither in its sheath nor anywhere in sight.
Under normal conditions, the maid would not have touched the sword and nobody else had the right to enter the room without Charole’s permission.
However, as the Protectress knew, conditions were not normal.
Mentally debating as to whether she should return to the hall and call for the lamps to be lit so that she could examine the room, Charole stiffened. Her keen ears detected a slight rustling. It came from behind the closed curtains of the alcove to her right and it was the sort of sound that would be made by something brushing against the clothes which hung inside.
Or somebody!
Charole was on the horns of a dilemma. If it was the latter alternative, the person who had made the noise was almost certainly an intruder and up to no good.
There was a bell rope hanging by the head of the bed. It was connected to a downstairs room in which a fully armed bodyguard of her adherents were on duty. A pull on the rope would bring them up to investigate, but at least three minutes would be required for them to reach her. What was
more, she wanted to be sure that there was some danger before raising the alarm. To do so without reason would be inadvisable under the present conditions. Even if she pretended that she was merely testing their state of readiness, they might suspect the truth. Such evidence of nervousness would further weaken her status.
The curtains stirred. Not much, but sufficient for Charole to detect it.
There were no draughts in the room to cause such a movement!
It was, in fact, what would happen if somebody had moved them apart a little so as to look surreptitiously through.
Sucking in her breath, but continuing to walk without giving any sign of her suspicions, the Protectress shrugged the robe from her shoulders to ensure a greater freedom of movement. Although she had passed the curtains and was aware of the danger, she forced herself to look straight ahead. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet that covered the floor. Nor would the intruder be appreciably noisier even if wearing sandals. For all that, if she hoped to achieve her purpose, she knew she must act as if unaware of the other’s presence.
Having filled her lungs, Charole let the air out slowly. Her ears and nose strained to detect the slightest warning. Although the person who had left the alcove was advancing with extreme caution, the Protectress’s well-developed sense of smell detected an aroma of perfume. It was not the kind she used, which had been washed away in the course of her bathing, and her servants were not in possession of such luxuries.
Given that much of a clue, Charole sensed rather than heard or saw the figure that was stalking her. By that time, she was at the bed; but on the wrong side and too far away to reach the bell-rope. Halting, she stretched out her right hand as if meaning to draw back the covers and climb in. Instead, she gripped the silk rope handle fixed to the corner of the nearest pillow. Even as her fingers closed around it, a man stepped from where he must have been hiding on the balcony and came through the window. Although he was not wearing a helmet or breastplate, there was a naked sword in his hand.
From the reaction of the woman behind her Charole deduced that the man’s appearance was premature. However, the low hiss of annoyance served to let her establish the other intruder’s position. The woman was closer than the Protectress had anticipated.
Throwing a quick glance over her right shoulder, Charole saw the woman was advancing and raising a sword ready to deliver a downwards chop. Instead of trying to leap aside, the Protectress crouched and pivoted swiftly to her right. As she did so, she turned her wrist and swung the pillow so that it was moving vertically.
Taken by surprise at finding that she had obviously been detected, the woman hesitated instead of launching the blow with her sword. That proved to be a disastrous error. Before her weapon could descend, the pillow struck her in the chest. The result was far in excess of what might have been expected from such an attack. A shriek of agony burst from her. Letting go of the sword, she staggered back and, as Charole had released the silken handle, the pillow went with her as if connected in some way to her bosom.
It was!
Although the pillow was identical in outward appearance to the others on the bed, it was, in fact, an effective weapon. To make it, the Protectress had had two porcupines skinned. The hides, complete with quills, were stitched over a wicker frame to give them the required shape and weight, then covered by thin, silk-like cloth.
At the impact several of the quills burst out of the covering and, passed through the woman’s dress to stick into the ultrasensitive flesh of her breasts. Such was the pain inflicted by the unexpected attack that it numbed her brain. Clawing at the pillow, she instinctively tried to move away from her assailant. She did so—but not quite far enough.
Satisfied with the result of her blow, Charole did not let it end her attentions to the woman. Looking down, she located the sword that her victim had dropped. Grabbing it, the shape and feel of the hilt told her it was the weapon from her own sheath. Even as the realization came, she was acting. Straightening up and whipping the sword in a sweeping horizontal arc, she slashed open the woman’s belly with vicious and deadly precision.
Dashing forward to help his fellow conspirator, the man was startled and shocked by what he saw and heard. While he did not allow it to deter him, it affected his judgment. He elected to go across the bed instead of around it to reach the Protectress.
Bounding from the floor, the man felt his forward foot sinking into the centre of the wide and thick down-filled mattress instead of alighting on a firm surface that would support his weight. He lost his balance and stumbled, but his momentum carried him onwards. Desperately he grabbed for one of the corner posts and missed.
Against a woman of Charole’s skill, such a mishap was fatal!
Having rendered her female attacker hors de combat, the Protectress gave her attention to the second assailant. As she swung to face the man, she recognized the possibilities she was offered by his predicament. Taking a fast step to her left, she drove her sword forward as he plunged in her direction with no real control over his movements. Its point converged with and impaled him just below the breastbone. Letting go of the hilt and springing aside, she avoided being struck by his body.
Ignoring the man and woman as they rolled in mortal agony on the floor, she retrieved the sword that he had dropped and went around the bed. She gave three hard and angry tugs at the bell-rope, then sat on the bed to await the arrival of her bodyguard.
Despite having survived the attack, Charole was deeply perturbed. For the assailants to have dared to invade her well protected home implied that the fear which she had formerly inspired was rapidly fading away. She knew that she must find some way in which to regain it.
Chapter Eight – If You’re Wrong, You’ll Be Killed
‘What do you think the decision will be?’ Dawn Drummond-Clayton asked, as she walked with her adoptive cousin through a large grove of fruit trees which formed part of the food supply for the Jey-Mat Telonga village.
Despite the presence of several large crocodiles, the crossing of the Big River had been accomplished without difficulty. Aided by At-Vee and the girls, Bunduki had constructed a raft and they had used it to reach the Telongas’ shore in safety. After that, the remainder of the four-day journey went by without any incidents other than the need to obtain fresh food supplies. Nor, with the abundance of animal life, had that presented problems. Having returned to what amounted to his home territory, the hunter had been able to lead them by the best and most productive route.
Joar-Fane’s homecoming had met with mixed emotions. Always popular by virtue of her warm and friendly nature, her ability as a dancer and her knowledge of healing techniques, the majority of the village’s population was delighted to see her. However a small minority and the Elders in particular had not been able to conceal their alarm. It was the first time that a member of their community had escaped from the Mun-Gatahs’ People-Taker. As Guildo—the senior Elder—had warned, the repercussions were said to have been very severe on the rare occasions when anybody from the other villages had attempted to escape.
Refusing to be alarmed by Guildo’s foreboding and querulous warnings, one person in the community was wholehearted in his reaction. Jubilant over having his own daughter brought safely home, Tav-Han stated emphatically that he did not intend to give her up again. It was a sentiment that the hunters, who regarded him with considerable respect due to the fact that he had survived long enough to be able to retire, had supported whole-heartedly. On being introduced to Bunduki and hearing how he had dealt with the dreaded Mun-Gatahs, the hunters had listened to his comments on the matter of resisting further raids by the People-Taker. They seemed willing to consider his ideas.
However, the matter was not altogether settled. For all the hunters’ enthusiasm, they were not entirely able to throw off their inborn instincts of accepting the will of the Elders. So they had agreed that they would not commit themselves to defiance of the Mun-Gatahs until it could be debated and voted upon by the rest of
the community. At Guildo’s suggestion, the discussion and referendum had been postponed until the following morning. Dawn and Bunduki had been asked to stay away from the meeting so that their presence would not influence, or frighten, the villagers into doing as they wished.
Accepting the decision, Dawn and Bunduki had spent the night in Tav-Han’s home. A medium height, thickset, cheerful, white haired, elderly man, still powerfully built in spite of his retirement from active hunting, he had promised that he would do all in his power to ensure a satisfactory result at the meeting.
Shortly after daybreak, the blond giant and his adoptive cousin left the village. The meeting was not due to start until later, the villagers in general being disinclined towards early rising. So Dawn & Bunduki decided to take the opportunity of making an examination of what was likely to be their home for some time to come.
From what they had seen, Dawn and Bunduki concluded that the ‘Suppliers’ had given the Jey-Mat Telongas all the necessities for an idyllic life. The villagers’ houses were dome-shaped, built of a framework of wattle and thatched with grass. Each had a large sitting room which occupied the whole of the front half, backed by a kitchen, bedrooms and toilet facilities; the latter being a ‘one-hole’ establishment which was apparently connected with a simple, self-maintained, underground sewer system. Although the windows had no glass, they were fitted with bamboo Venetian-style blinds. A verandah about six feet wide and paved with hard-trodden powered limestone fronted the dwellings. They were built in circles around the hub of the community’s social activities, the Dancing Circle. A high and sturdy log palisade pierced by four large gates surrounded the village and the pens in which the larger of their livestock were held at night. It was a protection against marauding animals rather than a fence to keep out human enemies, as they had proved by the fact that there was nobody present to prevent Dawn and the blond giant from opening the north side gate and going out.