“How?” Rhes asked.
“By being better at the job than he is. By covering ourselves with glory and doing better than he does in the mountain campaign. And arranging it so that he makes a couple of mistakes. If we work it right, we should come back from the campaign with Kerk either in the highest councils or an equal of Temuchin. This is a rough society and nobody cares how great you were last year, but what have you done for them lately? A real barnyard-pecking order is in operation, and we are going to arrange it so that Kerk is top pecker. All of us except Rhes, that is.”
“Why not me?” Rhes asked.
“You are going to organize the second part of the plan. We never paid much attention to the lowlands, below the cliffs, because there are no heavy metal deposits. However there appears to be a fairly advanced agrarian culture at work down there. Temuchin found a way of sending down a raiding party, an expedition I do not wish to try again, to get some gunpowder. I’m sure he wants to use it against the hills tribes, an ace in the hole to assure victory. Those mountain passes must be hard to attack. I helped Temuchin bring the gunpowder back—and kept my eyes open at the same time. Aside from the gunpowder, I saw flintlocks, cannon, military uniforms and bags of flour. That’s strong evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Kerk was irritated. He preferred to work with simpler, more familiar chains of logic.
“Isn’t it obvious? Proof that a fairly advanced culture is in operation here. Chemistry, single crop culture, central government, taxes, forging, large casting, weaving, dyeing . . .”
“How do you know all that?” Meta asked, astonished.
“I’ll tell you tonight, dear, when we’re alone. It would just appear like bragging now. But I know that my conclusions are correct. There is a rising middle class down there in the lowland?, and I’ll wager that the bankers and the merchants are rising the fastest. Rhes is going to buy his way in. As an agrarian himself he has the right background for the job. Look at this, the key to his success.”
He took a small metal disk from his pouch and tossed it into the air, then handed it to Rhes. “What is it?” Rhes asked.
“Money. Coin of the lower realm. I took it from one of the dead soldiers. This is the axle on which the commercial world rotates, or is the lubrication on the axle, or whatever other metaphor you prefer. We can analyze this and forge up a batch that will not only be as good—but will be richer and better than the original. You’ll take them to buy yourself in, set up shop as a merchant and get ready for the next move.”
Rhes looked at the coin distastefully. “And now I’m supposed to play this wide-mouthed question game like everyone else here and ask you what is the next move?”
“Correct. You catch on quick. When Jason talks everyone listens.”
“You talk too much,” Meta said primly.
“Agreed, but it’s my only vice. The next move will be to unite the tribes here, with Kerk in control or close to it, to welcome Rhes when he sails north with his trade goods. This continent may be bisected by a cliff that normally prevents contact between the nomads and the lowlanders, but you can’t convince me that I won’t find a place somewhere here in the north where it might be possible to land a ship or small boats. One little bit of beach is all we need. I’m sure that seagoing contact has been ruled out in the past because it takes an advanced technology to make floating ships out of iron. Hide and bone framed coracles are a possibility, but I doubt if the nomads have ever even considered the possibility of traveling on water. The lowlanders must surely have ships, but there is nothing up here to tempt them into exploration. Quite the opposite, if anything. But we’re going to change all that.
“Under Kerk’s leadership the tribes will give a peaceful welcome to traders from the south. Trade will enter the picture and a new era will begin. For a few tired furs the tribesmen will be able to gather the products of civilization and will be seduced. Maybe we can hook them on tobacco, booze or glass beads. There must be something they like that the lowlands can supply. And this will be the thin end of the wedge. First a landing on the beach with trade goods, then a few tents to keep the snow off. Then a permanent settlement. Then a trading center and market—right over the spot where our mine is going to be. The next step should be obvious.”
There was plenty of discussion, but only about the details. No one could fault Jason’s plan, in fact they rather approved of it. It sounded simple and workable, and assigned parts to all of them that they enjoyed playing. All except Meta, that is, she had had enough of dung fires and menial manual labor to last for the rest of her life. But she was too good a Pyrran to complain about her assignment, so she remained silent.
It was very late before the meeting broke up; the boy, Grif, had been asleep for hours. The atomic heater had been turned off and locked away, but the aura of its warmth remained. Jason collapsed into the fur sleeping bag and let out an exhausted sigh. Meta rolled over and put her chin against his chest.
“What is going to happen after we win?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” Jason said, tiredly, letting his hand run through her short-cropped hair. “Haven’t thought about it. Get the job done first.”
“I’ve thought about it. It should mean the end of the fighting for us, forever I mean. If we stay here and build a new city. What will you do then?”
“Hadn’t thought,” he said, blurredly, holding her close.
“I think I would like to stop fighting. I think there must be other things to do with a person’s life. Did you notice that all the women here take care of their own children, instead of putting them into the nursery and never seeing them again like on Pyrrus? I think that might be a nice thing.”
Jason jerked his hand away from her hair as from molten metal and his eyes sprang wide open. Dimly, in the far distance, he could hear the harsh ringing of wedding bells, a sound he had fled for more than once in his life, that brought out an instant, running reflex.
“Well,” he said, with what he hoped was due deliberation, “that sort of thing might be nice for barbarian women, but it certainly isn’t the sort of fate to be wished on an intelligent, civilized girl.” He waited, tensely, for an answer, until he realized from the evenness of her breathing that she had fallen asleep. That took care of that, at least for the time being.
Then he held the solid warmth of her body in his arm and he wondered what exactly it was he was running from and, while he wondered, the drugs and exhaustion hit and he fell asleep.
In the morning the new campaign began. Temuchin had issued his orders and the march got under way at dawn, with a freezing, bone-chilling wind sweeping down from the mountains in the north. The camachs, the escungs, even carrier moropes were left behind. Every warrior brought his own weapons and rations and was expected to take care of himself and his mount. At first the movement was very unimpressive, a scattering of soldiers working their way through the camachs, between the shouting women and the ragged children running in the dust. Then two men joined together, and a third, until an entire squad rode together, the riders bobbing up and down in response to the undulating motion of their mounts.
Jason rode next to Kerk, with two-hundred and twenty-five Pyrran warriors following in a double column. He turned in his saddle to look at them. The women could, of course, not ride with them, while twenty men had gone to the lowlands with Rhes. Their ranks had been cut even more by the fourteen vital technicians who had to remain on duty, and the fifteen guards for the prisoners. So out of a total of four-hundred and eighty-five Pyrrans less than half were on this mission. Not what might be called the right size force to gain control of the barbarian army and this occupied portion of the planet. On the surface it looked impossible, but the bearing of the tiny Pyrran force did not reflect that. They were solemn and ready to take on anything that came their way. It gave Jason an immense feeling of security to have them riding behind him.
Once clear of the campsite they could see other columns of men paralleling their course across the rollin
g sweep of the steppe. Messengers had gone out to all the tribes camped along the river that they were to ride today. The horde was gathering. From all sides they came, drifting in towards the line of march, until there were riding men visible on all sides, clear to the horizon. There was a marked sense of organization now, with different clans falling in behind their captains and forming into squadrons. In the distance Jason saw the black banners of Temuchin’s household guards and pointed them out to Kerk.
“Temuchin has two moropes loaded with our gunpowder bombs, and he wants me to ride with him to supervise the operation. He pointedly did not mention the rest of the Pyrrans, but we’re all going to stay with him whether he likes it or not. He needs me for the gunpowder—and I ride with my tribe.
It’s a winning argument that I’m sure he can’t beat.”
“Then we shall put it to the test,” Kerk said, spurring his beast into a gallop. The Pyrran column sliced through the galloping horde towards their leader.
They swung in from the right flank until they were riding level with Temuchin’s men, then slacked back to the same pace. Jason started forward, ready with his foolproof arguments, but found them unnecessary. Temuchin took one slow, cold look at the Pyrrans, then turned his eyes forward again. He was like a chess master who sees a mate twelve moves ahead and resigns without playing the game out. Jason’s arguments were obvious to him and he did not bother to listen to them.
“Examine the lashings on the gunpowder bombs,” he ordered. “They are your responsibility.”
From his vantage point near the warlord Jason witnessed the smooth organization of the barbarian army, and began to realize that Temuchin must be a military genius. Illiterate and untutored, with no authorities to rely on, he had reinvented all of the basic principles of army maneuvers and large-scale warfare. His captains were more than just leaders of independent commands. They acted as a staff, taking messages and relaying orders on their own initiative. A simple system of horn signals and arm motions controlled the troops, so that the thousands of men formed a flexible and dangerous weapon.
Also an intensely rugged one. When all the troops had joined up Temuchin formed them into a kilometer-wide line and advanced on the entire front at once—without stopping. The advance which had begun before dawn continued into the early afternoon without a halt for any reason. The rested and well-fed moropes did not like the continuous ride, but they were capable of it when goaded on by the spurs. They shrieked protest, but the attack went on. The endless jogging did not seem to bother the nomads who had been in the saddle almost since birth, but Jason, in spite of his recent riding experience, was soon battered and sore. If the ride was affecting the Pyrrans in any way, it was not noticeable.
Squadrons of riders scouted out ahead of the main company of troops, and by late afternoon the attacking army came across their handiwork. Slaughtered nomads, first a single rider, his blood mixed with that of his butchered morope, then a family unit that had been unlucky enough to cross the path of the army. The escungs and folded camachs were still smoldering, surrounded by a ghastly array of dead bodies. Men, women and children, even the moropes and flocks, had been brutally slain. Temuchin fought total war and where he had passed nothing remained alive. He was brutally pragmatic in his thinking. War is fought to be won. Anything that assures victory is sensible. It is sensible to make a three-day ride in a single day if it means the enemy can be surprised. It is sensible to kill everyone you meet so that no alarm can be given, just as it is sensible to destroy all their goods so your warriors will not be burdened by booty.
The truth of Temuchin’s tactics was proven when, just before dark, the racing army swooped down upon a large sized village of the weasel clan in the foothills of the mountains.
As the great line of riders topped the last ridge the alarm was given in the camp, but it was too late for escape. The ends of the line swung in and met behind the camp, though it looked as though some hard-ridden moropes had slipped through before the forces joined. Sloppy, Jason thought, surprised that Temuchin had not done a better job.
After this it was just slaughter. First by overwhelming flights of arrows that drove back and decimated the defenders, then by a lance charge at full gallop. Jason hung back, not out of cowardice, but from simple hatred of the bloodshed. The Pyrrans attacked with the rest. Through constant practice they were all now proficient with the short bow, though they still could not fire as fast as the nomads, but it was in shock tactics that they proved what they could do. If they had any qualms about killing the nomad tribe, they did not show it. They struck like lightning and tore through the defenders and overrode them. With their speed and weight they did not parry or attempt to defend themselves. Instead they hit like battering rams, slashed, killed and kept on without slowing. Jason could not join them in this. Instead he remained with the two disgruntled men who had been detailed to guard the gunpowder bombs, picking out chords on his lute as he composed a new song to describe this great occasion. It was dark before the pillage was over and Jason rode slowly into the ravished encampment. He met a rider who was searching for him.
“Temuchin would see you. Come now,” the man ordered. Jason was too tired and sickened to think of any sharp comebacks.
They made their way through the conquered encampment, with their moropes stepping carefully over the sprawled and piled corpses. Jason kept his eyes straight ahead, but could not close his nose to the slaughterhouse stench. Surprisingly, very few of the camachs had been damaged or burned, and Temuchin was holding an officers’ council in the largest of them. It had undoubtedly belonged to the former leader of the clan, in fact the chieftain himself lay gutted, dead and unnoticed against the far side of the tent. All of the officers were assembled—though Kerk was not present—when Jason entered.
“We begin,” Temuchin said, and squatted cross-legged on a fur robe. The others waited until he sat, then did the same. “Here is the plan. What we did today was nothing, but it is the beginning. To the east of this place is a very large encampment of the weasel tribes, and tomorrow we march to attack this place. I want your men to think we go to this camp, and I want those who watch from the hills to think the same. Some were permitted to escape to observe our movements.”
That for my theory about sloppy soldiering, Jason thought. I should have known better. Temuchin must have this campaign planned down to the last arrowhead.
“Today your men have ridden hard and fought well. Tonight the soldiers not on guard will drink the achadh they find here and eat the food, and will be very late arising in the morning. We will take the undamaged camachs and destroy the rest. It will be a short day and we will camp early. The camachs will be set up, many cooking fires lit and kept burning, while patrols will sweep as far as the foothills so that the watchers will not get too close.”
“And it is all a trick,” Ahankk said, grinning behind his hand. “We will not attack to the east after all!”
“You are correct.” The warlord had their complete attention, the officers leaning forward unconsciously so as to not miss a word. “As soon as it is dark the horde will ride west, a day and a night’s ride should bring us to The Slash, the valley that leads to the weasel’s heartland. We will attack the defenders, with the gunpowder bombs against their forts, and seize control before reinforcements can arrive.”
“Bad fighting there,” one of the officers grumbled, fingering an old wound. “Nothing there to fight for.”
“No. nothing there, you brainless fool,” Temuchin said in such a cold and angry tone that the man recoiled, “nothing at all. But it is the gateway to their homeland. A few hundred can stop an army in The Slash, but once we are through they are lost. We will destroy their tribes one by one until the weasel clan will be only a memory for the jongleurs to sing about. Now issue your orders and sleep. Tomorrow night the long ride and the attack begins.”
As the others filed out, Temuchin took Jason by the arm.
“The gunpowder bombs,” he said. “They will blo
w up each time they are used?”
“Of course,” Jason answered, with far more enthusiasm than he felt. “You have my word on that.”
It wasn’t the bombs that were worrying him, he had already taken precautions to assure satisfactory explosions, but the prospect of another non-stop ride even longer than the first. The nomads would do it, there was no doubt about that, and the Pyrrans could make it as well. But could he?
The night air was bitterly cold when he emerged from the heat of the camach. His breath made a sudden, silver fog against the stars before it vanished. The plains were still, cut through by the occasional snort of a tired morope or the drunken shouts of the soldiers.
Yes, he would make the ride all right. He might have to be tied to the saddle and hopped up with drugs, but he was going to make it. What really concerned him was the shape he would arrive in at the other end of the ride. This did not bear thinking about.
XIII
“Hold on for just a short while longer, The Slash is in sight ahead,” Kerk shouted.
Jason nodded, then realized that his head was bobbing continuously with the morope’s canter and his nodding was indistinguishable from this motion. He tried to answer, but started coughing at the cracked dryness of his throat, filled and caked with the dust stirred up by the running animals. In the end he released his cramped grip on the saddle pommel long enough to wave, then clutched at it again. The army rode on.
It was a nightmare journey. It had started soon after dark on the previous night, when company after company of riders had slipped away to the west. After the first few hours fatigue and pain had blended together for Jason into a misty unreality that, with the darkness and the countless rows of running shapes, had soon resembled a dream more than reality—a particularly loathsome dream. They had galloped, without stopping, until dawn, when Temuchin had permitted a short halt to feed and water the moropes for the balance of the journey. This stop may have helped their mounts, but it had almost finished Jason.
Deathworld: The Complete Saga Page 45