“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 unnoriced, against the far side of the tent. All of the officers were assembled though Kerk was not present, when Jason entered.
“We begin,” Témuchin 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 cainachs 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 not to miss a word. “As soon as it is dark, the horde will ride west, a day’s 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 blow 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 nonstop 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.
13
“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 Inorope’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, 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 morope.s for the balance of the journey. This stop may have helped their mounts, but it had almost finished Jason.
Instead of dismounting, he had fallen from his morope, and when he tried to stand, his legs had failed him. Kerk had dragged him to his feet and walked him in a circle while another Pyrran cared for both their mounts. Feeling had finally returned to his numb legs and with it excruciating pain. His thighs were soaked with blood where the continual friction of the saddle had chafed away the skin. He had permitted himself a light injection of painkiller and some stiiulant, then the ride had begun again. One fact he knew and hated was that he had to be sparing with the drugs. When this ride was over, the real battle would begin, and that would be the time when he would need all of his wits and strength. So the strongest drugs would have to be saved until then.
In an inverse way he could be proud of himself. More than one rider and inorope had been lost during this insane ride, and he, the offworlder who had never seen one of the creatures until a few months ago, was still going on. Barely. Some of the mounts had stumbled and fallen. Other riders had apparently gone to sleep or passed out, had slipped from their saddles and been trampled. It was certain death to drop beneath those running claws.
If The Slash was up ahead, the time had finally come to utilize the drugs he had been hoarding. Squinting against the late, afternoon sun and the blinding clouds of dust, he saw a dark cut against the gray white of the mountains ahead. The Slash. The valley they hoped to capture that would lead them to certain victory. Right now the drugs were more important than any number of victories. He dialed the medikit with clumsy fingers and jammed it against the heel of his hand.
As the drugs cleared the haze of fatigue and drew numbing layers over the pain, Jason realized that Temuchin was insane.
“He’s calling for a charge!” Jason shouted across to Kerk as the signal horns sounded on all sides. “After all this riding…”
“Of course,” Kerk said. “It is the correct way.”
The correct way. It wins wars and kills men. An angry morope, squealing at the pain of ruthlessly applied spurs, reared up and threw its rider under the running feet of the others. This was not the only death. Still, the attack was pressed home.
Across the plains the army swept and into the mouth of the valley. Picked bowmen dismounted and clambered along the walls of The Slash to add their fire to the attack of the solid column streaming by below them. The leaders vanished into the valley and still others followed. A cloud of dust obscured the entrance. The Pyrrans pressed forward to the attack with the others while Jason turned off and headed for Temuchin’s standard as he had been ordered. The personal guardsmen opened to let him through.
Temuchin took a report from a rider, then turned to Jason. “Get your bombs,” he ordered.
“Why?” Jason asked, then ‘hurried on as the light of instant anger burst in the other man’s eyes. “What do you want me to do with them? Order, great Temuchin, and I shall obey. Only please give me some idea what you want me for.”
The anger vanished as quickly as it had come. “The battle has gone as did all the others,” the warlord said. ‘We have taken them by surprise and only the normal garrison is here. The lower redoubts
have been taken and we now press on the higher ones. These are rockwalled and set into the cliff. Arrows cannot reach the defenders. They must be attacked on foot, slowly, from behind shields, if we are not to lose half an army. They cannot be stormed. Each time before it has been this way. One by one we take the redoubts and work our way up The Slash. Before we reach the other end the reinforcements have arrived and further battle is useless. But this rime it will be different.”
“I can just guess. You think that a gunpowder bomb in each position would take the fight out of the defenders and speed the attack?”
“You speak correctly.”
“Then here I go, the First Felicitian Grenadiers to the attack. I will want some of my people to help me. They can throw farther and better than I can.”
“The order will be issued.”
By the time Jason had found the pack animals and unloaded the first of the bombs, the Pyrrans had arrived, Kerk and two others, sweaty and dusty from the fight, with that look of grim pleasure Pyrrans have only during battle.
“Ready to throw some bombs?” Jason asked Kerk.
“Of course. What is the mechanism?”
“Improved. I had a feeling that excuses are not much good with Ternuchin and I wanted grenades that would go off every rime.” He held up one of the pot-bombs and pointed to the cloth wick. “There’s gunpowder in these things all right, but mostly for the smoke and the stink. The wick is a dummy. You’ll have to light it. I’ve made punk pots from grass for this, but that is just for effect. Let the wick smolder a bit, then pull up on it sharply. There is a microgrenade embedded in each one of these things, with the cloth wick tied to the trip pin. After you pull, you have three seconds to toss and duck.”
Taking a flint and steel from his wallet, Jason bent over the pot of shredded punk and began to scratch away industriously. As the sparks smoldered and died, he looked out of the corners of his eyes to be sure he wasn’t observed, then quickly actuated the lighter he had palmed. The tongue of flame flicked out and fired the punk.
“Here you are,” he said, handing the smoldering pot to Kerk. “I suggest you carry this and throw the grenades, as you can undoubtedly toss them farther than I can.”
“Farther and much more accuratelj.”
“Yes, there is that, too. I and the others will carry the bombs for you and act as guards in case of a counterattack. Here we go.”
They left their mounts and proceeded on foot into The Slash. The attacking troops were still moving up, so they worked their way along the sloping wall of the valley to avoid being trampled. As they went farther in, they met the first debris of battle-wounded soldiers who had crawled to the side out of the path of the still attacking army. The ones who had not made it were just red smears in the dust below. There were occasional dead inoropes as well, their massive bodies standing up like bloodstained boulders. Now The Slash narrowed and the walls grew steeper. They found themselves following a goat path, their hands pressed against the stone for support. In this manner they reached the first redoubt. This was a crude but effective wall of piled rocks that fortified a narrow ledge. Jason clambered up the boulders to peer inside. He would need some idea of how these things were built up in order to blow them down. The defenders, stocky men in dusty furs, each with a weasel’s skull lashed above his forehead, lay where they had fallen. Their bodies bristled with arrows; their thumbs were missing. Hardcarapaced death beetles had appeared out of the ground and were already at work.
“If they’re all like this, we won’t have any trouble,” Jason said, sliding down to rejoin the others. “The boulders are just piled up, with no sign of any mortar. A grenade, if it doesn’t knock out all the soldiers, should blow a gap in the wall big enough to let Temuchin’s lads through.”
“You are optimistic,” Kerk said, taking the lead again. “These are merely outposts. The main defenses must lie ahead.”
“Well, that’s better than being pessimistic. I’m trying to talk myself into believing I’ll live through this barbarian war and actually be warm again some time.”
It was no longer possible to walk on the valley side and they had to drop down and push their way through the soldiers. As the rock walls became more vertical, The Slash narrowed, and Jason could appreciate the difficulties of capturing it when it was stoutly defended. All of the moropes had been sent back and the attackers were now on foot. An arrow cracked into the stone above Jason’s head and clattered down at their feet.
“We’re at the front lines,” Jason said. “Hold the advance here while I take a look.” He pulled himself up the sloping side of one of the mas
sive boulders that filled the gorge and, with his helm pulled low, slowly raised his head above the top. An arrow instantly clanged off of it and he quickly tilted his head forward until he was peering through the merest slit between the helm and the stone.
The advance had stopped ahead, where two redoubts, on opposite sides of The Slash, could sweep the entire floor of the valley with their accurate arrow fire. The defenders were firing from slits between the rocks and were. almost impregnable to any return fire. Temuchin’s forces were suffering losses in order to take the defended points the hard way. Protected slightly by their shields, moving in quick rushes from boulder to boulder, they crept forward. And died.
“The range is about 40 meters,” Jason said, sliding back to the ground. “Do you think you can toss one of these things that far?”
Kerk bounced the homemade bomb on the palm of his broad hand and estimated its weight. “Easily,” he said. “Let me look first so I will know what the distance is.” He moved up to the position Jason had vacated, took one look, then dropped back down.
“That defended position is bigger than the others. It will take at least two bombs. I will light this one, hand you the smudge pot, then step out and throw the bomb. In the meantime you will have lit a second one, do not arm it, which you will give to me as soon as I have thrown the first. Is that clear?”
“Crystalline. Here we go.”
Jason slipped off the sling of bombs and kept only one in his hand. The nearby soldiers (they had all heard about the gunpowder experiments) were watching closely. Kerk lit the false fuse, blew it into smoking life, then stepped out from the shelter of the rock. Jason hurriedly lit the bomb he carried and stood ready to pass it on.
With infuriating calm Kerk drew his arm back as one arrow zinged close by him and another shattered on his breastplate. Then he lowered the bomb, wet his finger and raised it to check the direction of the wind. Jason hopped from one foot to the other and clamped his teeth tightly together to stop from shouting at the Pyrran to throw.
More arrows arrived before Kerk was satisfied with the wind and drew his arm back again. Jason saw his thumb and index finger give the smoldering fuse a quick tug before, with a single contraction of all his muscles, he threw the bomb. It was a good, classic grenade throw, straight-armed and overhand, sending the bomb on a high arc toward the defended position. Jason reached out and slapped the second bomb into Kerk’s waiting hand. This one followed the first so closely that both were in the air at the same rime.
Kerk stood where he was and Jason, dismaying his own cowardly survival instincts, remained exposed as well, watching the two black spots soar high and down behind the wail.
There was an instant of waiting, then the entirestone-walled position leaped out into the air and crashed down in fragments below. Jason had a quick vision of bodies tossed high before he dodged behind the boulder to avoid the chunks of falling rock.
“Very satisfactory,” Kerk said, pressed against the stone face close to Jason while stone shards rattled down around them.
“I hope the others are all this easy.”
Of course, they weren’t. The watchful defenders saw quickly enough that one man, throwing something, was responsible for the disaster, and the next time Kerk emerged he had to withdraw swiftly as a solid flight of arrows smashed down on his position.
“This is going to take
some planning,” Kerk said, automatically snuffing out the sputtering fuse.
“Are you afraid? Why do you stop?” an angry voice asked, and Kerk wheeled around to face Témuchin, who had come up to the front under the protective shields of his personal guard.
“Caution wins battles, fear loses them. I shall win this battle for you.” Kerk’s voice was as coldly angry as the warlord’s.
“Is it caution or cowardice that keeps you behind this boulder after I have ordered you to destroy the redoubts?”
“Is it caution or cowardice that puts you here beside me instead of leading your men into battle?”
Temuchin made an animal-like noise deep in his throat and pulled out his sword. Kerk raised the gunpowder bomb, apparently eager to stuff it down the other’s throat. Jason drew in a deep breath and stepped between the two furious men.
“The death of either of you would aid the enemy,” he said, facing Temuchin for he was fairly sure that Kerk would not strike him from behind. “The sun is already behind the hills, and if the redoubts are not knocked out by dark, it may be too late. Their reinforcements could arrive during the night and that would be the end of this campaign.”
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