The Horse Barbarians tds-3 Read online

  “Not the knife!” Jason shouted, and helped the survivor on his way with a good boot in the coccyx. “We’re in enough trouble without another killing.”

  Scowling, deprived of his pleasure, Grif elicited both a shrill scream, with an extra ankle twist, and a choked groan, from under his grinding

  knee. Then he stood and watched while the survivors limped and crawled from the area of combat. Except for a rapidly blackening eye and a torn sleeve, he himself was un,hurt. Jason, speliking calmly, managed to get him inside the camach, where Meta put a cold compress on his eye.

  Jason laced up the entrance and looked at his two Pyrrans, their tempers still aroused, stalking around as though still looking for trouble.

  “Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “no one can say that you don’t make a strong first impression.”

  8

  Though they had the swords of lightning,

  Die they did in countless numbers.

  Arrows’ flight

  Did speak to strangers,

  Bidding them to leave our pastures.

  “I speak with the voice of Temuchin, for I am Ahankk, his captain,” the warrior said, throwing open the entrance to Shanin’s camach.

  Jason broke off his “Ballad of the Flying Strangers” and turned slowly to see who had caused the welcome interruption. His throat was getting sore and he was tired of singing the same song over and over. His account of the spaceship’s defeat was the pop hit of the encampment.

  The newcomer was a high-ranking officer, that was obvious. His breastplate and helm were shiny and undented, and even set with a few roughly cut jewels. He swaggered as he walked, planting his feet squarely as he stood before Shanin, his hand resting on his sword pommel.

  “What does Temuchin want?” Shanin asked coldly, his hand on his own sword, not liking the newcomer’s manner.

  “He will hear the jongleur who is called Jason. He is to come at once.” Shanin’s eyes narrowed to cold slits. “He sings for me now. When he is through, he will come to Temuchin. Finish the song,” he said turning to Jason.

  To a nomad chief all chiefs are equal and it is hard to convince them differently. Temuchin and his officers had plenty of experience and knew all the persuasive arguments. Ahankk whistled shrilly and a squad of heavily armed soldiers with drawn bows pushed into the camach. Shanin was convinced.

  “I am bored with this croaking,” he announced, yawning and turning away. “I will now drink achadh with one of my women. All leave.”

  Jason went out with his honor guard and turned toward his camach. The officer stopped him with a broad hand against his chest. “Temuchin will hear you now. Turn that way.”

  “Take your hand from me,” Jason said in a low voice that the nearby soldiers could not hear. “I go to put on my best jacket and to get a new string for this instrument because one of these is almost broken.”

  “Come now,” Ahankk said loudly, leaving his hand where it was and giving Jason a shove.

  “We will first visit my camach. It is just over there,” Jason answered just as loudly. At the same time he reached up and took hold of the man’s thumb. This is a good grip at any time, and his 2G-hardened muscles added the little extra something that made the thumb feel as if it were being torn from the hand. The officer writhed and resisted, pulling at his sword clumsily, crosswise, for it was his sword hand that Jason was slowly rending.

  “I’ll kill you with this knife that is pushed against your middle if you draw your sword,” Jason said, holding the lute under his arm and pressing the bone pick into Ahankk’s stomach. “Temuchin said to bring me, not kill me. He will be angry if we fight. Now, which do you choose?”

  The man struggled for another moment, lips drawn back in anger, then released his sword. ‘We shall go to your camach first so you can dress in something more fitting than those rags,” he ordered aloud.

  Jason let go of the thumb and started off, turned slightly sideways so he could watch the officer. The man walked beside him calmly enough, rubbing his injured thumb, but the look he directed at Jason was pure hatred. Jason shrugged and went on. He had made an enemy, that was certain, yet it was imperative that he go to the tent first.

  The trek with Shanin and his tribe had been exhausting but uneventful. There had been no more trouble from the relatives of the slain man. Jason had utilized the time well to practice his jongleur’s art and to observe the customs and culture of the nomads. They had reached Temuchin’s camp and settled in over a week ago.

  “Camp” was not an apt designation, because the nomads were spread Out for miles along the polluted, refuse-laden stream they called a river, the biggest river apparently in the entire land. Because the animals had to compete for the scant forage, a good deal of territory was needed for each tribe. There was a purely military camp in the center of all these settlements but Jason had not yet been near it. Nor was he in a hurry to. There was enough for him to observe and record on the outskirts before he would be sure enough of hImself to penetrate to the heart of the enemy. In addition, Temuchin had once seen him, face to face, and he appeared to be the kind of man who would have a good memory. Jason’s skin was darker now, and he had used a pilating agent to hurry the growth of a thick and sinister mustache that hung almost to his chin on both sides of his mouth. Teca had inserted plugs that changed the shape of his nose. He hoped it would be enough. Yet he wondered how the war chief had heard, and what he had heard, about him.

  “Rise, awake,” he shouted, throwing open the flap of his camach. “I shall go before the great Temuchin and I must dress accordingly.” Meta and Grif looked coldly at Jason and the officer who had followed him and made no attempt to move.

  “Get cracking,” Jason said in Pyrran. “Rush around and look like you’re impressed, offer this elegant slob a drink and stuff like that. Keep his attention off me.”

  Ahankk took a drink, but he still kept a wary eye on Jason.

  “Here,” Jason said, holding the lute out to Grif. “Put a new string on this thing, or make believe you are changing it if you can’t fl.nd one. And don’t lose your temper when I shove you. It’s just part of the act.”

  Grif scowled and growled, but otherwise reacted well enough when Jason bullied him off to work with the lute. Jason shed his jacket, rubbed fresh grease into his face and a little onto his hair for good measure, then opened the lockbox. He reached in and took out his better jacket, palming a small object at the same time.

  “Now hear this,” he called out in Pyrran. “I’m being rushed to see Temuchin and there is no way out of it. I’ve taken one of the dentiphones and I’ve left two more on top. Put them on as soon as I’ve gone. Stay in touch and stay alert. I don’t know how the interview is going to turn out, but if there is any trouble, I want us to be in contact at all times. We may have to move fast. Stick with it, gang, and don’t despair. We’ll lick them yet.”

  As he slipped into the jacket he screamed at them in in-between. “Give me the lute, and hurry! If anything is disturbed or there is any trouble while I am gone, I will beat you both.” He stalked out.

  They rode in a loose formation, and perhaps it was only accidental that there were soldiers on all sides of Jason. Perhaps. What had Temuchin heard and why did he want to see him? Speculation was useless and he tried to drop the train of thought and observe his surroundings, but it kept creeping back.

  The afternoon sun was low behind the cainachs when they approached the military camp. The herds were gone and the tents were arranged in neat rows. There were troops on all sides. A wide avenue opened up with a very large, black camach at the far end, guarded outside by a row of spearmen. Jason did not need any diagrams to know whose tent this was. He slid from his morope, tucked the lute under his arm, and followed his guiding officer with what he intended to be a proud but not haughty gait. Ahankk went in front of Jason to announce him, and as soon as his back was turned, Jason slipped the dentiphone into his mouth and pushed it into place with his tongue. It fitted neatly ov
er an upper back molar, and the power would be turned on automatically by contact with his saliva. “Testing, testing, can you hear me?” he whispered under his breath. The microminiaturized device had an automatic volume control and could broadcast anything from a whisper to a shout.

  “Loud and clear,” Meta’s voice rustled in his ear, inaudible to anyone but him. The output was fed as mechanical vibration into his tooth, thence to his skull and ear by bone conduction.

  “Step forward!” Ahankk shouted, rudely jerking Jason from his radiophonic communication by grabbing his arm. Jason ignored him, pulling away and walking alone toward the man in the high-backed chair. Temuchin had his head turned as he talked to two of his officers, which was for the best, for Jason could not control a look of astonishment as he realized what the throne was made of. It was a tractor seat, supported and backed by recoilless rifles bound together. These were slung with leathern strings of desiccated thumbs, some of them just bone with a few black particles of flesh adhering. Temuchin, slayer of the invaders and here was the proof.

  Temuchin turned as Jason came close, fixing him with a cold, expressionless gaze. Jason bowed, more to escape those eyes than from any obsequious desires. Would Temuchin recognize him? Suddenly the nose plugs and drooping mustache seemed to him the flimsiest excuse for a disguise. He should have done better. Temuchin had stood this close to him once before. Surely he would recognize him. Jason straightened up slowly and found the man’s chill eyes still fixed on him. Temuchin said nothing.

  Jason knew he should stay quiet and let the other talk first. Or was that right? That is what he would do as Jason, attempt to outface and outpoint the other man. Stare him down and get the upper hand. But surely that was not to be expected of an itinerant jongleur? He must certainly feel a little ill at ease, no matter how snow, driven his conscience.

  “You sent for me, great Temuchin. I am honored.” He bowed again.

  “You will want me to sing for you.”

  “No,” Temuchin said coldly. Jason allowed his eyebrows to rise in mild astonishment.

  “No songs? What, then, will the leader of men have from a poor wanderer?”

  Temuchin swept him with his frigid glance, Jason wondered how much was real, how much shrewd role-playing to impress the locals.

  “Information,” Temuchin said just as the dentiphone hummed to life inside Jason’s mouth and Meta’s voice spoke. “Jason, trouble. Armed men outside telling us to come out or they will kill us.”

  “That is a jongleur’s duty, to tell and teach. What would you know?” Under his breath he whispered, “No guns! Fight them. I’ll get help.”

  “What was that?” Temuchin asked, leaning forward threateningly. “What did you whisper.”

  “It was nothing, it was—” Damn, you couldn’t say “nervous habit” in in-between. “It is a jongleur’s… way. Speaking the words of a song quietly, so they will not be forgotten.”

  Temuchin leaned back, a frown cutting deep lines in his forehead. He apparently did not think much of Jason’s rehearsing during an audience. Neither did Jason. But how could he help Meta and Grif?

  “Men, breaking in!” her shouting voice whispered silently. “Tell me about this Pyrran tribe,” Temuchin said. Jason was beginning to sweat. Temuchin must have a spy in the tribe, or Shanin had volunteered information. And the dead man’s family seemed to be out for vengeance now, knowing he was away from the camp. “Pyrrans? They’re just another tribe. Why do you want to know?”

  “What?” Temuchin lunged to his feet pulling at his sword. “You dare to question me?”

  “Jason!”

  “Wait, no.” Jason felt the perspiration beginning to form droplets under the layer of grease on his face. “I spoke wrong. Damn this inbetween tongue. I meant to say, What do you want to know? I will tell you whatever I can.”

  “There are many of them. Swords and shields. They attack Grif, all together.”

  “I have never heard of this tribe. Where do they keep their flocks?”

  “The mountains… in the north, valleys, remote, you know…”

  “Grif is down, I cannot fight them all.”

  “What does that mean? What are you hiding? Perhaps you do not understand Temuchin’s law. Rewards to those who are with me. Death

  to those who oppose me. The slow death for those who attempt to betray me.”

  “The slow death?” Jason said, listening for the words that did not come.

  Temuchin was silent a moment. “You do not appear to know much, jongleur, and there is something about you that is not right. I will show you something that will encourage you to talk more freely.” He clapped his hands and one of the attentive officers stepped forward. “Bring in Daei.”

  Was that a muffled breathing? Jason could not be sure. He brought his attention back to the camach and looked, astonished, at the man on the litter that was set down before them. The man was tied down by a tight noose about his neck. He did not try to loosen the rope and escape because there were just raw stumps where his fingers should have been. His bare, toeless feet had received the same treatment.

  “The slow death,” Temuchin said, staring fixedly at Jason. “Daei left me to fight with the weasel clans. Each day one joint is cut off each limb. He has been here many days. Now, today’s justice.” He raised his hand.

  Soldiers held the man although he made no attempt to struggle. Thin strips of leather were sunk deep into the flesh of his wrists and ankles and knotted tight. His right arm was pressed against the ground and one soldier made a swift chop with an ax. The hand jumped ‘off, spurting blood. The men methodically went to the other arm, then the legs.

  “He has two more days to go, as you can see,” Temuchin said. “If he is strong enough to live that long, I may be merciful on the third day. I may not be. I have heard of one man who lived a year before reaching his last day.”

  “Very interesting,” Jason said. “I have heard of the custom but it slipped my mind.” He had to do something quickly. He could hear the hammer of moropes’ feet outside, and men’s shouts. “Did you hear that? A whistle?”

  “Have you gone mad?” Temuchin asked, annoyed. He waved angrily and the now unconscious man was carried out, the dismembered extremities kicked aside.

  “It was a whistle,” Jason said, starting toward the entrance. “I must step outside. I will return at once.”

  The officers in the tent, no less than Temuchin, were dumbfounded by this. Men did not leave his presence this way.

  “Just a moment will do it.”

  “Stop!” Temuchin bellowed, but Jason was already at the entrance.

  The guard there barred his way, pulling out his sword. Jason gave him the shoulder, sending him spinning, and stepped outside.

  The outer guards ignored him, unaware of what was happening inside. Walking casually but swiftly, Jason turned right and had reached the corner of the large camach before his pursuers burst out behind him. There was a roar and the chase was on. Jason turned the corner and raced full tilt along the side.

  Unlike the smaller, circular camachs, this one was rectangular, and Jason reached and dived around the next corner before the angry horde could see where he had gone. Shouts and hoarse cries echoed behind as he raced full tilt around the structure. Only when he reached the front again did he slow to a walk as he turned the last corner.

  The pursuit was all streaming off in the opposite direction, bellowing distantly like hounds. The two guards who had been at the entrance were gone and all the other nearby ones were looking in the opposite direction. Walking steadily Jason came to the entrance and went inside. Temuchin, who was pacing angrily, was aware that someone had come in.

  “Well!” he shouted. “Did you catch, you!” He stepped back and drew his sword with a lightning slash.

  “I am your loyal servant, Temuchin,” Jason said flatly, folding his arms and not retreating. “I have come to report rebellion among your tribes.”

  Temuchin did not strike, nor did he lower
his sword.

  “Speak quickly. Your death is at hand.”

  “I know you have forbidden private feuds among those who serve you. There are some who would slay my servant because she killed a man who attacked her. I have been near her ever since this happened until today. Therefore I asked a trusted man to watch and to report to me. I heard his whistle, because he dared not enter the camach of Ternuchin, I have just talked to him. Armed men have attacked my camach in my absence and taken my servants. Yet I have heard that there is one law for all who follow Temuchin. I ask you now to declare about this.”

  There was the thud of feet behind Jason as his pursuers caught up and stormed through the entrance. They slid to a stop, piling up behind each other as they saw the two men facing each other, Temuchin with his sword still raised.

  He glared at Jason, the sword quivering with the tension in his musdes. In the silence of the camach they could clearly hear his teeth grate together as he brought the sword down, point first into the dirt floor.

  “Ahankid” he shouted, and the officer ran forward, slapping his chest. “Take four hands of men and go to the tribe of Shanin of the rat dan—”

  “I can show you—” Jason interrupted.

  Temuchin wheeled on him, thrust his face so close that Jason could feel his breath on his cheek, and said, “Speak once again without my permission and you are dead.”

  Jason nodded, nothing more. He knew he had almost overplayed his hand. After a moment, Temuchin turned back to his officer.

  “Ride at once to this Shanin and command him to take you to those who have taken the Pyrran servants. Bring all you find there here, as many alive as possible.”

  Ahankk saluted as he ran out: obedience counted before courtesy in Temuchin’s horde.

  Temuchin paced back and forth in a vile temper, and the officers and men withdrew silently, from the camach or back against its walls. Only Jason stood firm, even when the angry man stopped and shook his large fist just under Jason’s nose.