The Horse Barbarians

22

Pihes was waiting, a tiny figure beside the launch as the Pugnacious dropped down from the sky. It was a full-jet, 20 G landing. Mete was not wasting any time. Rhes picked his way through the fused and smoking sand as the pont opened to receive him.

“Tell us everything quickly,” Meta said.

“There’s little enough to tell. Temuchin won his war, as we knew he would, taking every city with one blow after another. The people here, even the armies, could not stand against him. I fled after the last battle, with all the others, for I did not wish to see my thumbs hanging from some barbarian banner. That was when I got your message. You must tell me what happened on Pyrnus.”

“The end,” Kerk said. “The city, everyone there, is gone.”

Rhes knew that there were no words that he could say. He was silent a moment; then Mete caught his eye and he continued.

“Jason has or had a radio, and soon after I reached the launch, I picked up a message from him. I could not answer him and his message was never completed. I did not have the recorder on, but I can remember it cleanly enough. He said that the mines could be opened soon, that we had won. The Pyrrans have won, that is exactly what he said. He started to add something else, but the broadcast was suddenly broken off. That must have been when they came for him. I have heard more about it since that time.”

“What do you mean?” Meta asked quickly.

“Temuchin has made his capital in Eolasair, the largest city in Ammh. He has Jason there in… in a cage, hung in front of the palace. He was first tortured; now he is being starved to death.”

“Why? For what reason?”

“It is a nomad belief that a demon in human form cannot be killed. He is immune to normal weapons. But if he is starved long enough, the human disguise will wither and the demon’s original form will be revealed. I don’t know if Temuchin believes this nonsense or not, but this is just what he is doing. Jason has been hanging in that cage for over fifteen days now.”

“We must go to him,” Meta said, leaping to her feet. “We must free him.”

“We will do that,” Kerk told her. “But we must do it the right way. Rhes, can you get us clothes and inoropes?”

“Of course. How many will you need?”

“We cannot force our way in, not against the ruler of an entire planet. Just two of us will go. You will come to show the way. I will go to see what can be done.”

“And I will come, too,” Meta said, and Kerk nodded agreement.

“The three of us then. At once. We don’t know how long he can live under these conditions.”

“They give him a cup of water every day,” Rhes said, avoiding Meta’s eyes. “Take the ship up. I’ll show you which way to go. It does not matter any more if the people in the city here know we are from off-planet.”

This was before noon. By drugging the moropes and loading them into the cargo bay, a good deal of riding time was saved. The city of Eolasair was built on a river among rolling hills, with a forest nearby. They landed the ship as close as they could without being seen and had the inoropes on the way as soon as they were revived. By later afternoon they entered the city, and Pdies threw a boy a small coin to show them the way to the palace. He wore his merchant’s clothes, and Kerk had put on his full armor and weapons. Meta, veiled as was the local custom, clutched her hands tightly on the saddle as they forced their way through the crowded streets.

Only before the palace was there empty space. The courtyard was floored with gold-veined marble, polished and shining. A squad of troops guarded it, their bearded nomad faces incopgruous above the looted armor. But their weapons were in order and they were as deadly as they had been on the high plains. Worse, perhaps, their tempers were not improved by the warm climate.

A chain had been passed between the tops of two of the tall columns that flanked the courtyard and from it, hanging a good two meters above the ground, was suspended a cage of thick bars. It had no door and had been built around the prisoner.

“Jason!” Mete said, looking up at the slumped figure. He did not move and there was no way of telling if he was alive or dead.

“I will take cane of this,” Kerk said, and jumped from his morope. “Wait!” Rhes called after him. ‘What are you going to do? Getting yourself killed won’t help Jason.”

Kerk was not listening. He had lost too much and felt too much pain recently to be in a reasoning mood. Now all of his hatred was turned against one man, and he could not be stopped.

“Temuchin!” he roared. “Come out of your gilt hiding place. Come out, you coward, and face me, Kerk of Pyrrus! Show yourself, coward!”

Ahankk, who was the guard officer, came running with his sword drawn, but Kerk backhanded him offhandedly, his attention still fixed on the palace. Ahankk dropped and rolled over and over and remained there, unconscious or dead. Surely dead, with his head at an angle like that.

“Temuchin, coward, come out!” Kerk shouted again. When the stunned soldiers touched their weapons, he turned on them, snarling.

“Dogs, would you attack me? A high chief, Kerk of Pyrrus, victor of The Slash?” They fell back before his burning anger, and he turned to the palace as the front entrance was thrown wide. Temuchin strode out.

“You dare too much,” he said, his cold anger matching that of Kerk’s. “You dare,” Kerk told him. “You break tribal law. You take a man of my tribe and torture him for no reason. You are a coward, Temuchin, and I name you that before your men.”

Temuchin’s sword flashed in the sunlight as he drew it, a finetempered length of razor-sharp steel.

“You have said enough, Pyrran. I could have you killed on the spot, but I want that pleasure for myself. I wanted to kill you the moment I first saw you, and I should have. Because of you and this creature which calls itself Jason, I have lost everything.”

“You have lost nothing, yet,” Kerk answered and his sword pointed

straight at the warlord’s throat. “But now you lose your life, for I shall kill you.”

Temuchin brought his sword down in a blow that would have cut a man in two, but it rang off Kerk’s blade. They battled then, furiously, with no science and no art-barbarian sword fight, just slash and parry, with eventual victory going to the strongest.

The clang of their steel rang in the silence of the courtyard, the only other sound being the rasping of their breath as they fought. Neither would give way, and they were well matched. Kerk was the older man, but he was the stronger. Temuchin had a lifetime of sword fighting and battles behind him and was absolutely without fear.

It went on like that, a rapid exchange that was broken suddenly by a sharp twang as Temuchin’s sword snapped in two. He threw himself backward, out of the way of Kerk’s slash, so that instead of gutting him it cut a red gash in his thigh, a minor wound. He sprawled at full length, blood slowly seeping into the golden silk he wore, as Kerk raised his sword in both hands for the last, unavoidable blow.

“Archers!” Temuchin shouted. He would not submit to death this easily.

Kerk laughed and hurled his sword away. “You do not escape that easily, ruling coward. I prefer to kill you with my bare hands.”

Temuchin shouted wordless hatred and sprang to his feet. They leaped at each other with the passion of animals and closed in struggling combat.

There were no blows exchanged. Instead, Kerk closed his great hands around the other’s neck and tightened. Temuchin clutched his opponent in the same way, but the muscles in Kerk’s neck were steel ropes: he could not affect them. Kerk tightened his grip.

For the first time Temuchin showed some emotion other than unthinking anger. His eyes widened and he writhed in the clutch of the closing fingers. He pulled at Kerk’s wrists, but to no avail. The Pyrran’s grip tightened like that of a machine, and just as implacably.

Temuchin twisted about, got his hand in the back of his belt and pulled out a dagger.

“Kerk! He has a knife!” Rhes shouted, as Temuchin whipped it around and plunged it full into Kerk’s side under the lower edge of his breastplate.

His hand came away and the hilt of the dagger remained there.

Kerk bellowed in anger, but he did not release his grip. Instead, he moved his thumbs up under Temuchin’s chin and pushed back For a long moment the warlord writhed, his boot tips almost free of the ground and his eyes starting from their sockets.

Then there was a sharp snap and his body went limp.

Kerk released his grip and the great Temuchin, First Lord of the high plateau and of the lowlands, fell in a dead huddle at his feet.

Mete rushed up to him, the red stain spreading on his side.

“Leave it,” Kerk ordered. “It plugs the hole. Mostly in the muscle, and if it has punctured some guts, we can sew it up later. Get Jason down.”

The guards made no motion to interfere when Rhes pulled away one of their halbends and, hooking it in the bottom of the cage, pulled it crashing to the ground. Jason rolled limply with the impact. His eyes were set in black hollows and his skin was drawn tautly over the bone of his face. Through his rags of clothing red burns and scars could be seen on his skin.

“Is he…?” Meta said, but could not go on. Rhes clutched two of the bars, tensed his muscles, and slowly bent apart the thick metal to make an opening.

Jason opened one bloodshot eye and looked up at them.

“Took your time about getting here,” he said, and let it drop shut again.