Deathworld: The Complete Saga

by Harry Harrison

  If the men in the watchtower were looking at him, they gave no sign. Jason plodded closer, the gun clutched across his chest, looking up under the edge of the helmet. Now he was close enough to see the crumbled mortar between the roughly cut stones, and the heavy bolts that studded the wood of the door ahead. He was close to the wall when one of the soldiers leaned out of the tower and called down to him, incomprehensible words. Jason waved and trudged on.

  When the man called again Jason waved and shouted open in what he hoped was the correct accent. He made his voice as harsh as possible to disguise any inaccuracies. Then he was against the wall and out of sight of the men in the tower who were still calling out to him. The door, solid and unmoving was just before him. Nothing happened, and the tension tightened another notch. There was a scratching sound and he saw a gun barrel coming out of a narrow window to the right of the door.

  “Open—quickly!” he shouted and hammered on the door. “Open!” He pressed flat against the door so the gun could not bear on him and hammered again with the butt of the musket.

  There were sounds inside the fortified building, voices and moving about, but the pulse of Jason’s blood sounded even louder in his ears. Thudding like a hidden drum, with a measureless time between each beat. Could he get away? Both sides would shoot him if he tried. But he could not stay here, powerless and trapped. As he raised his musket to hammer on the door again he heard the rattle of heavy chains inside and a grating sound remarkably like that made by the sliding of an iron bolt. He cocked the flintlock through the protecting cover and released one side so that the leather could be pulled quickly away. The instant the door started to open he crashed his shoulder against it with all of his weight and pushed through, slamming it wide as hard as he could.

  He kept moving, through the short archway and into the open square that the building was built around. Out of the corner of his eye he was barely aware of the man who had opened the door, now crushed by it, slumping to the ground. That was all he had time to notice because he saw that he was about to be killed.

  Strike hard and fast and do not stop, that was what the nomads did and they were right. One soldier with a sword in his hand stood to the side, while directly in front of Jason were a number of others with guns leveled and ready to fire. Before the surprised men could shoot, Jason shouted and dived into their midst. Just before he hit them he pulled the trigger and was pleasantly surprised when the musket went off with a hollow boom and one of the men clutched his chest and fell. That was the last fact that Jason remembered clearly. He left the ground in a blocking dive, swinging the gun barrel and butt as he did, and crashed into them.

  It was very confusing. After the first impact he threw the gun at a soldier, kicked another one while he pulled out the heavy knife and swung it wildly. One man fell on him, dead or wounded, and Jason clutched his body for protection and lunged out with the knife again and again.

  There was a sharp pain in his leg, then in his side and arm, and a loud ringing sounded in his head. He swung the knife in an arc and realized that he was falling. The ground felt good and so did the weight of the man lying, unmoving, on top of him. Above him the officer appeared, wild eyed and raging, stabbing down with his sword. Jason parried it almost contemptuously with the knife then stabbed upwards to sink his blade in just above the man’s groin. Blood spurted and the officer screamed and fell, and Jason had to push the body aside to see. By the time he did this the quick battle had been decided.

  The first of Temuchin’s soldiers arrived, plunging headlong through the gate. He must have rode at full speed towards the opening and dived from his saddle as the beast turned away. It was Temuchin himself, Jason realized, as the redmaned barbarian roared and swung his sword to cut down two attacking soldiers. After that it was all over but the mopping up.

  Once the immediate dangers had been cleared from around him, Jason stumbled over and dropped with his back against the wall. The ringing in his head ebbed away to a dull buzzing, and when he took his helmet off he found an immense dent in its side. But at least there seemed to be no matching dent in his head. He touched his fingers to the sore spot on his skull then examined them carefully. No blood. But there was enough on his side and dripping down his leg to make up for it. A shallow cut in his hip, just under the half armor, had produced a sopping amount of blood, though the wound itself was superficial, as was the slice in his arm. The wound in his leg had bled only slightly, although it was the more serious of the two, a deep stab wound into his thigh muscles. It hurt, yet he could walk on it, since he had no intention of being exterminated as found wanting like the soldier at the farm. There were some strips of sterilized suede in his saddlebags, for bandaging, and the blood would just have to drip until he got to them.

  From the moment when Temuchin dived through the doorway there had been no slightest doubt as to the outcome of the battle. The garrison soldiers had never before faced an enemy to match the barbarous fiends who now fell upon them. The muskets were more of a hindrance than a help, because the bows fired far faster and more accurately than the clumsy, sightless muzzle-loaders. Some soldiers fled and some stood and fought, but the outcome was the same in either case. They were slaughtered. The screams grew fainter and more distant as the survivors tried to escape into the building.

  Blood mixed with rain in the sodden courtyard and there were bodies heaped on every side. A single nomad lay slumped in the doorway where a bullet had stopped him, and he appeared to be the only casualty suffered by the raiders. A motion caught Jason’s eye and he saw a soldier raise his head above the top of the watchtower where he had been hiding. Something twanged sharply and an arrow sank into the man’s eyesocket; he dropped back out of sight more permanently this time.

  There were no more groans or appeals for mercy: the fort had been taken. The nomads moved silently among the corpses bending to their grisly ritual amputation. Temuchin came from one of the doorways, his sword red and dripping, and waved one of his men to the huddled collection of bodies near the gate that they had forced.

  “Three of these belong to the jongleur,” he said. “The rest of the thumbs are mine.” The soldier bowed and took out his dagger. Temuchin turned to Jason. “There are rooms in here with many things. Find the gunpowder.”

  Jason stood up, a lot faster than he really wanted to, and realized that he still held the bloody knife. He wiped it on the clothing of the nearest corpse and held it out to Temuchin who took it without a word, then turned and went back into the building. Jason followed, trying vainly to walk without hobbling.

  Ahankk and another officer were guarding the door of a low-ceilinged storeroom. The nomads were looting the bodies and the rest of the fortress, but were not permitted here. Jason pushed by and stopped just inside the doorway. There were baskets of lead bullets, fist-sized cannon balls, extra muskets and swords. And a number of squat barrels sealed with wooden plugs.

  “Those have the right look,” Jason said, pointing, then put up his arm to stop Temuchin when he started forward. “Don’t walk in here. See those gray grains on the floor near the open keg? That looks very much like spilled gunpowder and it can catch fire when you walk on it. Let me sweep it up before anyone else comes in here.”

  Bending over sent a dagger of pain through his side and leg which Jason did his best to ignore. Using a bunched-up piece of cloth he made a clean path across the room. The open barrel did contain gunpowder. He let the rough granules slide back through the hole, then pushed home the bung. Picking the barrel up as gently as he could, he carried it over and gave it to Ahankk. “Don’t drop this, bang it, set fire to it or let it get wet. And send down”—he counted quickly—“nine men for the rest of the gunpowder. Tell them what I just told you.”

  Ahankk turned away and there was a crashing explosion outside followed by a distant boom. Jason jumped to the window and saw that a big bite had been taken out of the watchtower. Fragments of stone dropped into the mud and a cloud of dust was soaked up by the rain. The wa
lls vibrated with the impact and the distant explosion sounded again. A nomad ran in through the gate, shouting in his own tongue.

  “What is he saying?” Jason asked.

  Temuchin clenched his fists. “Many soldiers coming. They are firing a large gun that makes that noise. Many hands of soldiers, more than he can count.”

  XI

  There was no panic, and scarcely any excitement. War was war, and the strange environment, the rain, the novel weapons—none of this could affect either the barbarians’ calm or their fighting ability. Men who attack spaceships have only contempt for muzzle-loading cannon.

  Ahankk took charge of the detail to carry the gunpowder, while Temuchin himself went to the battered watchtower to see what kind of force was attacking. Another cannon ball hit the wall and bullets hummed by like lethal bees while he stood there, unmoving, until he had seen enough. He leaned over and shouted orders down to his men.

  Jason trailed after the men who were carrying the gunpowder, and when he emerged he discovered that the warlord was the only other living person left inside the fort.

  “Through that door,” Temuchin ordered, pointing to the gate that opened onto the river bank. “The ones who come cannot see that side yet, and all the moropes are there and behind this building. All of you with the gunpowder mount up and when I signal the charge you will go at once to the trees. The rest of us will delay the soldiers and then join you.”

  “How many men do you think are attacking?” Jason asked, as the gunpowder bearers hurried out.

  “Many. Two hands times the count of a man, perhaps more. Go with the gunpowder, the attack is close.” It was too, bullets splattered against the wall and spanged in through the firing slits. The roar of attacking voices sounded just outside.

  The count of a man, Jason thought, hopping and hobbling to his morope that was being held outside. All of a man’s fingers and toes, twenty. And a hand times that would be a hundred, two hands two hundred. And their party numbered twenty-three in the most, if no more of the men had been killed during the last attack. Ten men, each to carry a barrel of gunpowder, with Jason along as technical adviser, left thirteen lancers for the attack. Thirteen against a couple of hundred. Good barbarian odds.

  Events moved fast after that. Jason barely had time to haul himself into the saddle before the gunpowder party wheeled away, and he made a tardy rear guard. They reached the back of the building just as the first attackers appeared. The remaining thirteen riders charged out and the victorious roar of the foot soldiers turned instantly into mingled cries of shock and pain. Jason stole one glance over his shoulder and saw the cannon upended, men fleeing in all directions, while the moropes and their bloodthirsty riders cut a swathe of death through the ranks. Then the trees were before him and he had to avoid the whipping branches.

  They waited, just inside the screen of the woods, and within a minute there was the thud-thud of galloping moropes and seven of them plunged through the sodden brush. One of the beasts was carrying two riders. Their numbers were decreasing with every encounter.

  “Go on,” Temuchin ordered. “Follow the trail back the way we came. We will stay here and slow down any who try to follow.”

  As Jason and the powder team left, the survivors were dismounting and taking cover at the edge of the open field. It would take a determined attack to press home against the deadly arrows that would emerge from the obscuring forest.

  Jason did not enjoy the ride. He had not dared to bring his medikit, though he wished now that he had taken this risk. Neither had he ever before tried to bandage two slippery wounds on himself, with cardboard-stiff chamois, while charging along a twisting trail on a humpbacked morope. It was his fond hope that he would never have to do it again. Before they reached the sacked farmhouse the other riders caught up with them and the entire party galloped on in exhausted silence. Jason was hopelessly lost on the foggy, tree-shrouded paths that all looked alike to him. But the nomads had far better eyes for the terrain and rode steadily towards their objective. The moropes were faltering and could only be kept moving by constant application of the prick-spurs. Blood streamed down their sides and soaked into their damp fur.

  When they reached the river Temuchin signaled a stop.

  “Dismount,” he ordered, “and take only what you must have from your saddlebags. We leave the beasts here. One at a time now, over that rise to the river.” He moved off first, leading his own mount.

  Jason was too foggy from exhaustion and pain to realize what was happening. When he finally pulled his mount forward he was surprised to see a knot of men on the river bank with not a single morope in sight.

  “Do you have everything you want?” Temuchin asked, taking Jason’s bridle and pulling the morope close to the bank. As Jason nodded he whipped the bowie knife across in a wicked, back-hand slash that cut the creature’s throat and almost severed its head from its body. He moved quickly to avoid the pulsing gout of blood, then put his foot against the swaying animal and pushed it sideways into the river. The swift current carried it quickly from sight.

  “The machine cannot lift a morope up the cliff,” Temuchin said. “And we do not want their bodies near the landing spot or the place will be known and soldiers will wait there. We walk.” He looked at Jason’s wounded leg. “You can walk, can’t you?”

  “Great,” Jason said. “Never felt better. A little hike after a couple of nights without sleep and a thousand kilometer ride is just what I need. Here we go.” He walked off as swiftly as he could, trying not to limp. “We’ll get this gunpowder back and I’ll show you just how to use it,” he reminded, just in case the warlord had forgotten.

  It was not a very nice walk. They did not stop, but instead passed the barrels from one to another without halting. At least Jason and the other three walking wounded missed this assignment. Trudging uphill on the slippery grass was not easy. Jason’s leg was a pillar of pain that bled a steady trickle of blood down into his boot top. He kept falling behind, and the march was endless. All of the others had passed him and, at one point, they were out of sight over a ridge ahead. He wiped the rain and sweat from his eyes and limped on, trying to follow their vague path in the tall grass that was already straightening up and blurring the signs. Temuchin appeared on the hilltop above and looked back at him, fingering his sword hilt, and Jason put on a lung-destroying burst of speed. If he faltered, he would join the moropes.

  An indeterminate period of time later it came as a complete shock when he stumbled into the small group of men sitting on the grass, their backs to a familiar tower of rock.

  “Temuchin has gone,” Ahankk said. “You will go next. Each of the first ten men on the rope will carry up a barrel of this gunpowder.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Jason said collapsing inertly’ onto the soggy grass.

  It was an unconscionably long time before he could even struggle to a sitting position, to do what he could to fix his crude bandages. One of the men carried over a barrel of gunpowder that had been secured in a harness of leather straps, with a loop to go around Jason’s neck. The rope came down soon after this and he allowed himself to be strapped into it. This time the possibility of falling did not trouble him in the slightest. He rested his head on the gunpowder and fell asleep as soon as the lift began, nor did-he awake until they pulled him to the clifftop and his forehead banged against the rock.

  Fresh moropes were waiting and he was permitted to return alone to the camp, without the gunpowder. He allowed the animal to go at its slowest pace so that the ride was not unbearable, but when he reached his own camach he found that he did not possess the strength to dismount.

  “Meta,” he croaked. “He’p a wounded veteran of the wars.” He swayed when she poked her head out of the flap, then let go. She caught him before he hit the ground and carried him in her arms into the tent. It was a pleasant experience.

  “You should eat something,” Meta said sternly. “You have had enough to drink.”

  “Nonsense,”
he said, sipping from the iron cup and smacking his lips. “I don’t have tired blood—I just have no blood. The medikit said that I was partially exsanguinated and gave me a stiff iron injection to make up for it. Besides, I’m too tired to eat.”

  “The readings also said that you needed a transfusion.”

  “A little hard to do that here. I’ll drink plenty of water and have goat’s liver for dinner every night if . . .”

  “Open!” someone shouted, pulling at the laced and knotted entrance flap of the caniqch. “I speak with the voice of Temuchin.”

  Meta put the medikit under a fur and went to the entrance. Grif, who had been fanning the fire, picked up a lance and balanced it in his hand. A soldier poked his head in.

  “You will come to Temuchin now.”

  “I come at once, tell him that.” The soldier started to argue but Meta twisted his nose and pushed him back through the opening. She laced it shut again.

  “You cannot go,” she said.

  “I have no choice. We’ve sutured the wounds by hand with gut, that’s acceptable, and the antibiotics are not detectable. The iron is already seeping into my bone marrow . . .”

  “That is not what I meant,” Meta said, angrily.

  “I know what you meant, but there is very little we can do about it.” He pulled out the medikit and twisted the control dial. “Pain killer in the leg so I can walk on it, and a nice big shot of stimulant. I’m taking years off my life with this drug addiction, and I hope someone appreciates it.”

  When he stood up Meta grabbed him by the arms. “No, you cannot,” she said.

  He used a gentler warfare, taking her face in his hands and kissing her. Grif snorted with contempt and turned back to his fire. Her hands relaxed.

  “Jason,” she said, haltingly, “I don’t like this. There is nothing I can do to help.”

  “There’s plenty, but not at this moment. Just hold the fort for a while longer. I’m going to show Temuchin how to make his big bang, and then we’re going to get out of here, back to the ship. I’ll tell him I am going to bring the Pyrran tribe in, which is just what I intend to do. Along with some other things. The wheels are turning and plans are being made, and there is a new day coming soon to Felicity.”