It was a voice that was very familiar to Jason.
It was Kerk.
Temuchin went striding forward in cold anger, his men grouped around him, while Kerk dismounted and was joined by Rhes and the other Pyrrans. A really beautiful battle was in the making.
“Wait!” Jason shouted, and ran to get between the two groups, who were on obvious collision course. “These are the Pyrrans!” he shouted. “My tribe. Warriors who have come to join the forces of Temuchin.” Out of the corner of his mouth he hissed at Kerk. “Relax! Bend the knee a bit before we all get massacred.”
Kerk did nothing of the sort. He stopped, looking just as irritated as Temuchin, and fingered his sword hilt in the same threatening manner. Temuchin came on like an avalanche and Jason had to step back or he would have been crushed between the two men. When Temuchin stopped his toes were touching Kerk’s and they glared at each other with almost eyeball-to-eyeball contact.
They were very much alike. The warlord was taller, but the solid breadth of the Pyrran could never be mistaken for fat. Their apparel was just as impressive, as Kerk had followed Jason’s radioed instructions. His breastplate sported a multicolored and severely twodimensional design of an eagle, while the eagle’s skull itself crowned his helm.
“I am Kerk, leader of the Pyrrans,” he said, slipping his sword up and down with an irritating, grating sound.
“I am Temuchin, warlord of the tribes. You will bow to me.”
“Pyrrans bow to no man.”
Temuchin rumbled deep in his throat like an infuriated carnivore and began to draw his sword. Jason resisted an impulse to cover his eyes and flee. This would be bloody murder.
Kerk knew what he was doing. He had not come here to depose Temuchin, at least not right now, so he did not reach for his own sword. Instead, his hand moved with the cracking speed that only Pyrrans have developed, and he seized the wrist of Temuchin’s sword arm.
“I do not come to fight you,” he said calmly. “I come as an equal to side with you in your cause. We will talk.”
His voice did not waver, nor did Temuchin’s sword come one centimeter more out of the loops. The warlord had a massive strength and resiliency, but Kerk was an unmoving boulder. He neither moved nor showed any sign of strain, but the veins stood out on Temuchin’s forehead. The silent struggle continued for ten, fifteen seconds, until Temuchin suffused red under the darkness of his skin, every muscle of his body rock hard with the effort of his exertions.
When it appeared that human muscle and sinew could stand no more, Kerk smiled. Just the barest turning up of the corners of his mouth, visible only to Temuchin and Jason, who stood close by. Then, slowly and steadily, the warlord’s arm was forced down until his sword was secure in its loops and could go no farther.
“I did not come here to fight you,” Kerk said in a barely audible voice. “The young men may wrestle with each other. We are leaders who talk.”
He released his grip so suddenly that Temuchin swayed with the reaction, as his tensed muscles no longer had anything to battle against. The decision was his once again, and the intelligent man was warring in his body against the brute reactions of the born barbarian.
For long seconds this silent impasse continued, then Temuchin began to chuckle, the laughter rising quickly to a full-throated roar. He threw his head back and laughed defiance of the universe, then swung his arm and clapped Kerk on the shoulder with a blow that would have stunned a morope or killed a lesser man. Kerk just swayed slightly and returned the smile.
“You are a man I might like!” Temuchin shouted. “If I do not kill you first. Come into my camach.” He turned away and Kerk went with him. They passed Jason without deigning to notice him. Jason rolled his eyes upward, happy to see that the skies had not fallen nor the sun gone nova, then turned and followed them.
“Stay here,” Temuchin ordered when they reached the cainach, spearing Jason with a look of cold fury as though he alone were responsible for the ill events. Temuchin waved the guards to position, then
followed Kerk inside. Jason did not complain. He preferred waiting here in the wind, chill as it was, to witnessing the confrontation in the tent. If Temuchin were killed, how would they escape? Fatigue and pain were beginning to creep bac’k, and he swayed in the wind and wondered if he could risk a quick stab with his medikit. The answer was obviously no, so he swayed and waited.
Angry voices sounded loudly inside and Jason cringed and waited for the end. Nothing happened. He swayed again and decided that it would be easier to sit down, so he dropped. The ground was chill against his bottom. The voices rose once more inside, then were followed by an ominous silence. Jason noticed that even the guards were exchanging concerned glances.
There was a sharp ripping sound and they jumped and turned, mising their lances. Kerk had opened the entrance flap by pulling on it — hard. But he had neglected to unlace it first. The thick leather thongs were snapped, or torn loose from their heavy supports, and the supporting iron rod was bent at a sharp angle. Kerk apparently noticed none of this. He stalked by the guards, nodded at Jason, and kept on walking. Jason had a quick look at Temuchin’s face, swollen with anger, in the opening. This glimpse was enough. He turned and hurried after Kerk.
“What happened in there?” he asked.
“Nothing. We just talked and felt each other out and neither of us would give way. He would not answer my questions so I did not bother to answer his. It is a draw, for the moment.”
Jason was worried. “You should have waited until I returned. Why did you come like this?” He knew the answer even as he asked, and Kerk confirmed it.
“Why shouldn’t we? Pyrrans do not enjoy sitting on a mountain and acting as jailers. We came to see for ourselves. There was some fighting on the way here and the morale has improved.”
“I’m sure of that,” Jason said fervently, and wished he were lying down back in his cainach.
12
Though the wind hissed around the camach and occasionally blew a scattering of fine snowflakes in through the smokehole, the interior was warm and comfortable. The atomic heater generated enough BTU’s to defeat all the drafts and leaks, while the strong drink Kerk had brought sat in Jason’s stomach far better than the vile achadh. Rhes had supplied a case of meal packs and Meta was opening them. The rest of the Pyrrans were setting up their camachs nearby or were unobtrusively on guard near the entrance. For a rare instance, in the heart of the barbarian camp, they were free from observation and safe from sudden violence.
“Pig,” Meta said when Jason reached for a steaming and nosecaptivating meal pack, “you’ve already had one.”
“First one was for me. This one’s for my shattered tissues and drained blood.” While he chewed a warming and succulent mouthful, he pointed at Kerk’s helm. “I see that you joined the eagle clan all right, but where did you get so many skulls? They sure impressed the locals. I didn’t know there were that many eagles on the entire planet.”
“There probably aren’t,” Kerk said, running his finger over the hookbeaked and eyeless skull. ‘We managed to shoot this one and make a mould. All of the others are plastic castings. Now tell us what these plans are that you have formulated, because, as enjoyable as this childish masquerade is, we want an end to it. And a beginning to the mining operation.”