Killer Plants Of Binaark rb-33

by Джеффри Лорд

  Even the wagons in the rear were moving now, judging from the cloud of dust. Tressana saw the royal banner over Manro’s wagon swaying ominously, and sent a rider back to have the pole strengthened. If it fell someone would be sure to call it an evil omen. They’d already said as much about the disaster to the first scouting party.

  If she’d only been able to leave Manro behind completely-but neither law nor custom nor common sense would allow it. The King of Jaghd must go to war with his army, even if his mind was useless and his body nearly so. There were also advantages. Far from the palace with its sharp eyes and wagging tongues, some way might be found to complete the work begun so many years ago. If that could be done, and Manro’s death blamed on the war… Yes, that was worth thinking about.

  The queen’s smile broadened as she took her place between her two guard-captains.

  King Manro knew that the men standing on the back of the wagon wouldn’t let him put his head out and see what was going on. He wanted to do it. It would be like a turtle putting his head out of his shell. He’d seen a turtle do that once, and liked it.

  Even if the men weren’t going to let him, he knew what was going on. The gods had told the Jaghdi that they must leave their homeland. They were all going, and Tressana was leading them. This was not right. The gods were punishing the Jaghdi by forcing them to find a new home because of all the bad things Pretty Tressana had done. She should not be leading them. This would make the gods even angrier. The Jaghdi would be punished again, even in their new home.

  Once he had thought that Pretty Tressana would protect him from everything, even the gods. Now he understood that he himself had to be protected from Tressana. He thought the dark woman who rode with Tressana might do it. What was her name? Jollya? Yes, Jollya-Dark Jollya.

  Dark Jollya would protect him in the new land where the Jaghdi had to go.

  This time Blade was awake as he stood at the foot of the cliffs in the Kettle of the Winds. The towering cliffs were even more impressive than he’d imagined in his dream. From where Blade was standing, the cliffs were at least a quarter of a mile straight up. Or straight down, depending on your viewpoint. If the flatlands at the foot of the cliffs hadn’t been so wide, no enemy could have set up a camp there. As it was, the flatlands were wide enough so that the Jaghdi cavalry would be protected by the cliffs but still be far enough away so that boulders pushed off the top would not reach them. The wide, shallow river protected them from the other three sides. Tressana did have a good eye for land.

  Blade turned away from the cliffs and began to walk back toward the camp by the river. It was a good three miles against a brisk headwind. By the time he was getting close to the river he’d considered almost every way of attacking an enemy camped in the middle of the flats. He finally concluded that it couldn’t be done unless the Elstani could grow wings.

  Thinking of wings made him look up. Birds were soaring over the river and sweeping across the flatlands toward the cliffs, climbing as they went without a flicker of wing. They must be soaring on some fairly powerful updrafts.

  Soaring on updrafts. Suddenly Blade was in a hurry. He scrambled across a patch of rocks as fast as he could go without breaking an ankle. When he reached smoother ground he broke into a run and came pounding up to the tent like an Olympic sprinter.

  Haima watched Blade testing the direction of the wind with a wet thumb. Then he examined their tent, still without saying a word. Finally she lost patience. «Blade, have you got the itch or something?»

  «No. I-Haima, how common are these reeds?» He pointed at the tent. Its poles were made of lengths of reed glued together.

  «In some places they grow like grass. There’s a marsh a day upriver.» She pointed.

  «Good. And the wind-does it always blow? And toward the cliffs?»

  «Blade, why do you think this place is called the Kettle of the Winds? Yes. What’s biting you?»

  Instead of answering, Blade took both her hands and danced her around in a circle until she started laughing in spite of herself. Finally she collapsed, still laughing.

  «It’s good news, isn’t it?»

  «Yes. There’s no way of attacking a camp on the flatlands here unless the Elstani can fly. But with the help of the wind I think they can.»

  Haima stared at him. Blade knelt down, wishing the Elstani had paper. The gravel by the river was very fine, though. With the point of his sword he was able to sketch his idea well enough to make Haima understand.

  Chapter 18

  «All right, people. Grab a wingtip and lift-gently, gently! This thing isn’t made of iron!»

  «If it isn’t strong, Blade, Elstan is in trouble,» said Kima, the young woman to Blade’s left.

  «Blade is in even more trouble,» said her brother on Blade’s right. «It’s a long way down. Ah-how far do we need to go?» He looked down the steadily steepening slope and out into the empty air of the Kettle of the Winds.

  «Scared, Borokku?» said Kima.

  «Yes,» the man replied bluntly. «I haven’t done anything to deserve the Stone Death.»

  «It’s better than you’ll get if the Elstani win,» his sister replied sharply.

  «Stop arguing, both of you,» said Blade, torn between irritation and amusement. «All I need is for you to hold on while I make the final inspection. Otherwise it’s likely to take off on its own.»

  «Yes, Blade,» they said. Then there was no more talking as Blade made his final inspection of the hang glider. He’d used the wing before, testing it on gentler hillsides, but he was very careful now to check for defects. If anything went wrong up here, there was a quarter-mile of empty air between him and the stony ground.

  Blade’s hang glider was the simplest kind-a triangular Rogallo wing of waxed cloth, with three spars and a pilot’s frame made of glued reed. The materials were strong enough but made the glider much heavier than it would have been in Home Dimension. Blade compensated by making the glider considerably larger, to get a satisfactory glide angle with his two hundred and ten pounds aboard. The wing was twenty-three feet from tip to tip, and Blade expected it to carry him off the cliff, clear across the flatlands, and across the river to the far bank. If it did this it should be able to do the same with a one hundred fifty-pound Elstani and enough Living Fire to scare the wits out of any rolgha ever foaled!

  Blade hoped everything would go well. If it didn’t, he would be splattered like a ripe peach on the rocks far below. Elstan’s best hope of victory would also be dashed, and much work by many Elstani over the past few days would go to waste.

  Haima and Daimarz worked late, helping him pick materials and suggesting design changes. Weavers worked all night waxing what seemed like acres of cloth. Woodcutters did the same, gluing reeds into the twenty-foot poles needed for the glider. There were ten times as many volunteers for the ground crew as Blade could use. Some of them had already tried short flights on easy slopes with the three new gliders.

  The other Guilds had still not agreed to join forces with Blade, but at least the weavers and woodcutters had a great deal of faith in him. Their craftsmen could produce more or less anything their materials would let them, if you showed them how, and they did everything Blade asked. These two things made a formidable combination. Blade hoped it would be too formidable for Queen Tressana.

  He took several deep breaths, then nodded to the people on the wingtips. They let go and stepped back as Blade began to run. He ran as if he were trying to break a track record, boots thudding on the rock. Already he could feel the air flowing under the wing and the beginning of lift. Then suddenly his boots came down on empty air as the glider rose.

  It took off so quickly that the first hundred yards were more dangerous than Blade had expected. The rocky slope was only a few feet below him. A slight miscalculation would bring him back down, probably where the angle of the slope was too great to let him make a safe landing. He’d certainly lose the glider and might go over the edge himself.

  He took the r
isk of dropping the nose slightly, to increase the glide angle and the airspeed. The rock unreeled below him a little faster; then it was gone and there was only empty space below. The voices behind him quickly faded away, and he was alone in the silent sky.

  Blade wasn’t an expert hang glider, but he’d made more than thirty flights with a Rogallo wing, once staying up more than half an hour. He knew how to fly a glider, how to make one, and how to teach others at least the basics. That was all the Elstani would need for their war with the Jaghdi. If they wanted to continue hang gliding as a sport afterward, they could teach themselves.

  He also knew how much pleasure it is to fly without the noise and fumes of a motor, to be one with the sky, a partner of the winds. Exhilaration took control of Blade so thoroughly that he was half a mile from the cliff before he realized it. Then he forced himself to pay attention to his work. Today he was a test pilot.

  It was hard to judge heights on a first flight in new territory, but he estimated that he’d dropped no more than three hundred feet in the half mile. That was a good start. He was trying for a ten-to-one glide ratio-ten feet of forward motion for every foot of descent. That was about twice what you’d normally get with a Rogallo wing. However, nothing less would get him safely across the distance that had to be covered.

  He was well out of any updraft at the face of the cliff. That sort of thing was always unpredictable anyway. There was no sign of thermals from the sun heating the rocks below either, but he might be a little high for those. They’d have to get the glide angle they wanted without thermals in any case. They’d be flying into battle at dawn, with the rocks below still mostly in shadow.

  For a minute the glider seemed to be flying nearly level. Blade decided he could spare the height to try a turn. Slowly he leaned to the left, and the glider tipped that way. When the nose had swung through a sixty-degree arc, Blade straightened up. Good. The glider was stable in a turn. Even though they’d be attacking a target so large that flying in a straight line would be enough to get hits, they still might need the ability to turn to avoid mid-air collisions or to land safely.

  Blade flew on the new course for another minute, until he’d passed the halfway point of his flight. Then he made another sixty-degree turn back on to his original course. He wanted to strike the river at the sharpest possible angle, to get across it as quickly as he could. The river was mostly shallow but it was swift and bone-chillingly cold. It would also ruin his glider.

  Now he could see Haima and Daimarz and the others waiting for him on the far bank. The glider seemed to be sinking faster and Blade raised the nose slightly to decrease his speed. He didn’t want to come down too fast onto one of the patches of rocks scattered across the flats.

  The riverbank was still coming at him too fast, though it looked as if he might get across. That wasn’t important today, but it would be vital on the day of battle. Anyone who landed on the Jaghdi side of the river then would have several thousand enraged enemies on him in minutes.

  The people on the far side were waving, and Blade thought he could hear Haima shouting. He’d seen her win several arguments by sheer lung power.

  The riverbank passed below, and Blade wasn’t sure if he had the altitude to get across or not. He put the nose down to increase his speed again. If he hit he’d hit fast, but he could afford to hit the water faster than the rocks.

  He crossed the river with no more than six feet of altitude to spare. His boots swept over Haima’s head so low that she had to duck. Then he pulled up the nose, the glider stalled, and Blade came down to a standing-up landing just beyond the tent.

  Haima barely let Blade get untangled from the glider before she threw her arms around him. Daimarz pounded him on the back while the weaver kissed him.

  Tressana popped to the surface and pushed wet hair out of her eyes in time to see Jollya dive off the bank. Jollya was not as good a swimmer as she was a rider, but she still made a fine sight, her bare tanned body arching through a shaft of sunlight.

  Jollya swam across the pond toward the queen, then treaded water while she glanced over the women guarding the banks of the pond. They looked as alert as anyone could be after two weeks of forcing a path through the forest of Binaark. The amulets held back the killer plants; but they did nothing to fight insects and snakes, level the hills and valleys, bridge the streams, or reduce the damp heat and the foul smells of decay.

  Fortunately the end was in sight. The scouts five days ahead reported that they’d seen the last of the plants and the first of the Elstani. That meant ten days traveling, perhaps twelve, for the cavalry. Could this be reduced? Every day saved would be a small victory on its own. The faster the cavalry reached Elstan, the less time the Elstani would have to prepare. With speed added to luck, half of Elstan might fall without a battle.

  They could move even faster if they left the wagons behind, but that would mean leaving King Manro as well. There would be grumbling and talk of bad omens. Tressana realized they would have to split up, the women staying with the wagons and most of the cavalry rushing ahead to reach the site of the camp. Tressana turned to Jollya. «Jollya, if I send the men ahead, would the women be able to guide and guard King Manro?»

  «Oh, yes. He seems to be stronger than I’ve ever seen him. He recognizes me whenever I pass by, and calls me ‘Dark Jollya.’ He seems to be trying to say more, but I can’t understand it.»

  The queen hid her irritation. Jollya sounded as if she might be getting fond of the wretched man. And if Jollya couldn’t be trusted, could anything be done about her that wouldn’t cripple the Women’s Guard right in the middle of the war? Also, what if Manro was actually regaining his wits? There was no telling what he might say or do. It was now more important than ever that he not be allowed to live much longer.

  Suddenly Tressana was no longer in the mood for swimming. She scrambled up on the bank and started toweling herself dry with quick, jerky movements. She was angry with Manro for living, with Sikkurad for his disloyalty, with Jollya for attracting Manro’s attention, and with Richard Blade of England for being dead.

  Blade hurried across the beach, ducking as an Elstani swept overhead in a hang glider. Blade recognized Borokku, who’d been in his ground crew on the first flight into the Kettle of the Winds. The young man came down to a smooth but somewhat hard landing, and sat down abruptly. He was up again in a moment, muttering curses but apparently unhurt. Blade helped him get out of his glider, then watched him trot back up the hill, picking gravel out of the seat of his pants as he went.

  There were five hundred glider pilots training here in the hills two days’ march from the Kettle of the Winds. There could have been three thousand, if there’d been any need for that many or any chance of building that many gliders in time. The five hundred were not all showing great skill, but all were enthusiastic. Those who’d been woodcutters were almost frighteningly casual about the risks they ran.

  As he learned more about Elstan, Blade stopped being surprised at Elstani bravery. Daily life in Elstan toughened both the mind and the body. The woodcutters in particular faced an enemy that allowed even fewer mistakes than flying a hang glider. Now everyone was facing the choice of either victory over Jaghd, death, or life in slavery. Those who volunteered for hang gliding had the chance of being the heroes of the victory, or at least finding an honorable death.

  Blade walked through the cluster of tents that made up the training camp. At a safe distance on the other side Haima and Daimarz were standing next to what looked like a small clay water pot. Then Blade noticed that it had a complicated brass lid with a length of cord sticking out.

  «We were waiting for you, Blade,» said Haima. «We thought you ought to see this.»

  «The new fire pot?»

  «Yes.» Daimarz bent over, struck sparks with a flint and steel lighter, and went on striking them until one landed on the cord. It flared up in a cloud of sparks and smoke. Daimarz hastily signaled a retreat, which Blade joined. There were buckets of sand a
nd urine on hand for putting out the Living Fire, but the stuff had an unpredictable habit of spraying. If any of it fell on a person…

  Wssssshhhhhhhh! The pot erupted in a great gout of angry blue flame that shot twenty feet into the air. Gobs of burning liquid came down over a wide circle, some of them only a few yards from Blade and his companions. It was at least ten minutes before the flames died down. Meanwhile the breeze carried smoke to the watchers until they had to step back even farther to be able to talk.

  «You’re thinking of two for each glider?» said Blade.

  «Yes. Some women may be able to carry a third, if their glider is as large as a man’s. But most will have two.»

  Each of the clay fire pots held twenty pounds of the Living Fire. Five hundred gliders each dropping forty pounds of the Living Fire meant ten tons of it on the Jaghdi camp. That might be enough to cremate the rolghas, not just drive them into a panic.

  Blade examined an empty pot. He noticed that the fuse was coiled inside the lid, with a few inches sticking out. «How are you going to light it in midair?»

  «We aren’t. The ones we use in battle will have longer fuses. We’ll light them before the gliders go off.»

  Blade looked hard at Daimarz and Haima. «What happens if a fuse burns too fast?»

  Daimarz shrugged. That shrug would have annoyed Blade if he hadn’t known Daimarz would be among the glider pilots on the day of battle. He wasn’t being casual about dangers other men would be facing.

  «Believe me, Blade,» said Haima earnestly. «We asked some of the glider pilots themselves. They want to be sure the Living Fire burns what it hits.»

  Blade would never have asked the pilots to accept this, but if they were willing, that was another matter. Besides, was there really an alternative? Trying to drop the pots into the Jaghdi campfires or blacksmiths’ forges would need better flying and better bombing than the Elstani glider force could be expected to give. Or at least better than the glider force could give without much practice in the Kettle of the Winds itself. And, of course, that would be risking the whole victory. The Jaghdi were bound to learn from their scouts reports of war preparations by the Elstani right where the Jaghdi were planning to camp. The enemy might not understand what kind of trap was being prepared for them, but they certainly wouldn’t ride blindly into it.