They were also cold-blooded murderers and killers. It did not matter that they killed according to their own sets of values. This did not change the situation. Jason could still see the sword thrusting into the infant and he moved uncomfortably on the sodden leaves.
He had been among the trees and forgotten the forest. He had forgotten that these people had slaughtered the first mining expedition and would relish nothing better than doing the same to any other offwonders that they met. He was a spy in their midst and he was working for their complete downfall.
That was more like it. He could live with himself as long as it was constantly clear that he was just playing a role, not enjoying himself, and that all this masquerading had some purpose. He had to wreck the social structure of these nomads and see to it that the Pyrrans opened their mines in safety.
Alone in the wet night, chilled and depressed, it looked like a very dim possibility. The hell with that. He twisted and attempted to get comfortable and go to sleep but the images of the massacre kept interfering.
In your own way, Temuchin, you are a great man, he thought. But I am going to have to destroy you. The rain fell remorselessly.
At first light they moved out again, a silent column through the fogshrouded forest. The captive peasant chattered his teeth in fear until he recognized a clearing and a path. Smiling and happy now, he showed them the correct way. A wad of his clothing was stuffed into his mouth so that he could not give any alarm.
A crackling of broken twigs sounded ahead and there was the sound of voices.
The column stopped with instant silence and a sword was pressed against the prisoner’s neck. Nothing moved. The voices ahead grew louder and two men came around a turning of the trail. They walked two, three paces before they were aware of the motionless, silent forms so close to them in the fog. Before they could act, a half dozen arrows had snuffed out their lives.
“What are those stick things they carry?” Temuchin said to Jason.
Jason slid to the ground and turned the nearest corpse over with his boot. The man wore a lightweight steel breastplate and a steel helm; other than that, he was unarmored, dressed in coarse cloth and leather. He had a short sword in his belt and still clutched in his hand what could only have been a primitive musket.
“It is what is called a ‘gun,’“ Jason said, picking it up. “It uses gunpowder to throw a piece of metal that can kill. The gunpowder and metal are put down this tube here. When this little lever on the bottom is pulled, this stone throws a spark down into the gunpowder, which blows up and shoots the metal out.”
When Jason looked up, he saw that every man within hearing had his bow and arrow aimed at his throat. He put the weapon down carefully and pulled two leather bags from the dead soldier’s belt and looked inside of them. “Just what I thought. Bullets and cloth patches here, and this is gunpowder.” He handed the second bag up to Temuchin, who looked into and smelt it.
“There is not very much here,” he said.
“It doesn’t take very much, not for these guns. But there is sure to be a bigger supply in the place where these men came from.”
“That is what I thought,” Temuchin said, and he waved the raiding party on as soon as the arrows had been retrieved and the bodies relieved of their thumbs and rolled aside. He took both muskets himself.
Less than a ten-minute ride along the trail brought them to the edge of a clearing, a large meadow that flanked a smoothly flowing river. At the water’s edge stood a squat and solid stone building with a high tower in its center. Two figures were visible at the top of the tower.
“The prisoner says that this is the place of the soldiers,” said the officer who had been translating.
“Ask him if he knows how many entrances there are,” Temuchin ordered.
“He says that he does not know.”
“Kill him.”
A swift sword thrust eliminated the prisoner and his corpse was dumped into the brush.
“There is only that one small door on this side and the narrow holes through which bows and the gun things may be fired,” Temuchin said. “I do not like it. I want two men to look at the other sides of this building and tell me what they see. What is that round thing above the wall?” he asked Jason.
“I don’t know, but I can guess. It could be a gun, the same as these only much bigger, that would throw a large piece of metal.”
“I thought so, too,” Temuchin said, and narrowed his eyes in thought. He issued orders to two men, who turned and rode back along the trail.
The scouts dismounted and vanished silently into the underbrush. These men, who had learned to conceal themselves in the apparently barren plains, could disappear completely in the wooded cover. With a predator’s patience, the warriors, still mounted, waited silently for the scouts to come back.
“It is as I thought,” Temuchin said when they had returned and reported to him. “This place is well made and is built only for fighting. There is one more door, the same size, on the other side by the water. If we wait until nightfall, we can take the place easily, but I do not wish to wait. Can you fire this gun?” he asked Jason.
Jason nodded reluctantly, because he already had a very good idea what Temuchin had in mind, even before he saw the two men returning with one of the dead soldiers. Everyone fought in Temuchin’s horde, even lute- playing gunpowder experts. Jason tried to think of a way out of this fix, but he could not, so he volunteered before he was drafted. It made no difference at all to Temuchin. He wanted the gate open and Jason was the best man for the job.
By rearranging the soldier’s uniform, he managed to conceal the arrow holes and most of the blood, then he rubbed mud over the rest of the bloodstains to disguise them. A fine rain was beginning to fall and this would be a help. While he was putting on the uniform, Jason called for the officer who had been translating and had him repeat over and over again the simple phrase “Open, quickly!” in the local tongue, until Jason felt he had it right. Nothing complicated. If they insisted on conversation before they let him in, he was as good as dead.
“You understand what you are to do?” Temuchin asked.
“Simple enough. I come up to that gate from downriver, while the rest of you wait at the edge of the forest upriver. I tell them to open up. They open up. I go in and do my best to see that the gate stays open until you and the rest arrive.”
“We will be very quick.”
“I know that, but I’m going to be very alone.” Jason had one of the
soldiers hold his helmet over the pan of the musket while Jason blew out the possibly damp gunpowder. He did not want a misfire with his single shot. He shook fresh powder into the pan, then wrapped a piece of leather around to keep it dry. He pointed to the gun.
“This thing will fire only once for I’ll have no time to reload. And I don’t think much of this government-issue short sword. So, if you don’t mind too much, I would like to borrow back my Pyrran knife.”
Temuchin merely nodded and passed it over. Jason threw away the sword and slipped the knife into his belt in its place. The helmet smelled of rank sweat, but it rode low on his head, which was fine. He wanted his face concealed as much as possible.
“Go now,” Temuchin ordered, irritated at the delay the donning of the disguise had caused. Jason smiled coldly and turned and walked away into the woods.
Before he had gone 50 meters he was soaked to the waist by the dense, waterlogged underbrush. This was the least of his troubles. Pushing his way through the sodden forest, he wondered how he had become involved in this latest bit of madness. Gunpowder, that was the reason. He cursed loudly and fluently, then peered out at the fortified building, now barely visible through the falling rain. Another 20 meters should do it. He pushed on, then left the shelter of the trees and walked ahead until he reached the riverbank. The water swirled by, laden with mud, and the rain spattered onto its surface, making an endless series of conjoining rings. He wanted to check the powder in the pan, but knew it was wiser not to. Do it, that’s all, do it. Lowering his head he trudged toward the building, just visible through the rain.
If the men in the watchtower were looking at him, they gave no sign. Jason plodded closer, looking up under the edge of the helmet, the gun clutched across his chest. 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
