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 the 94 Pyrran warriors following in a double column. He turned in his saddle to look at them. The women could not ride with them, and eight men had gone to the lowlands with Rhes, while the remainder were on guard duty at the ship. That left 96 men in all to accomplish the mission, 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 rolling sweep of the steppe. Messengers had gone out to all the tribes camped along the river to tell them that they were to ride today. The horde was gathering. From all sides they came, drifting toward 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 teit,” Kerk said, spurring his beast into a gallop. The Pyrran column sliced through the galloping horde toward 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 ra 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 inoropes did not like the continuous ride, but they were capable of it when goaded on by the spurs. They shrieked protest, but the advance 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 invading army came across their handiwork. Slaughtered nomads, first a single rider, his blood mixed with that of his butchered inorope, 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 Tetnuchin’s tactics was proved when, just before dark, the racing anny 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 hardridden 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. 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 unnoriced, 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 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.”
