“It is said that in order to explode, the gunpowder must be completely contained. If there are any openings, the fire rushes out through them and the substance simply burns.”
“How does the fire reach it now?” Temuchin asked, frowning in concentration as he forced himself to follow the unaccustomed technical explanations. For an illiterate who couldn’t count very well and did not have a shard of technical knowledge, he was doing all right. Jason took up one of the heavy iron needles that were used for sewing the camach covers.
“You’ve asked the right question. The plug is dry enough now, so I can poke a hole through it with this, through the mud and the leather, right down to the powder. Then, using the other end of the needle, I’ll push this piece of cloth all the way down into the hole. I liberated the cloth from one of your men who liberated it from a lowlander’s back I have soaked the cloth in oil so that it will burn easily.” He hefted the pot, grenade in his hand. “So I think that we are ready to go.”
Temuchin stalked out and Jason, with the bomb in one hand and the ffickering oil lamp in the other, followed at a suitable distance. A large area had been cleared before the warlord’s camach and the soldiers held the curious at a suitable distance. The word had been quickly passed that something strange and dangerous was going to happen, so men had come flocking from all parts of the sprawling camp. They were packed solidly into the spaces between the surrounding camachs. Jason placed the bomb carefully in the ground and raised his voice.
“If this works there should be a loud noise, smoke and flame. Some of you here know what I mean. So, here goes.”
He bent and applied the lamp to the fuse, holding it there until the cloth smoldered and burst into flame. It was burning slowly enough so that he could stand for a few seconds to make sure that it was going well. It was. Only then did he turn and stroll back to the camach next to Temuchin.
Even Jason’s drug-induced confidence did not survive the anticlimax. The fuse burned, smoked, gave off some sparks and then apparently went out. Jason made himself wait a long time, in spite of the impatient murmurs and occasional angry shouts. He had no desire to bend over the bomb and have it blow up in his face. Only when Temuchin began to finger his knife in a suggestive manner did Jason walk out, hoping that he appeared to be more relaxed than he felt, to look down at the charred fuse opening. He nodded once sagely, then headed back to the camach.
“The fuse went out before it reached the gunpowder. We need a bigger hole or a better fuse, and I have just remembered another stanza of the ‘Song of the Bomb’ that speaks about that. I will do it now. Do not let anyone approach it until I return.” Before he could get any arguments, he went back into the camach.
The best fuses contained gunpowder, so they could burn even without a supply of air. He needed a gunpowder fuse to get down through that layer of mud. There was plenty of powder here, but what could he roll it in? Paper was best, but in short supply at the present moment. Or was it? He made sure that the entrance was well secured and that he was alone in the tent. Then he rooted in the bottom of his waist wallet and dug out his medikit. He had brought it despite the risk, because he had no idea how long this session would take and had not wanted to run any risk of passing out before it was over.
It took just a second to press, twist and pull open the recharging chamber. Folded above the ampules was the inspection and recharge sheet, just big enough for his needs. He slipped the medikit out of sight again.
Making the fuse was simple enough, though he practically had to twist each grain of powder into the paper separately to make sure they didn’t lump together and burn too fast. When the job was done, he rubbed oil and lampblack into the paper to disguise its pristine whiteness. “This should do it,” he said, taking the fuse and the needle and going back to the demonstration.
It almost did a lot more than he had bargained for. The nomads were jeering openly now and making rude noises, and Temuchin was white with rage. The bomb was still sitting innocently where he had left it. Pretending not to hear the unflattering remarks, Jason bent over the bomb and made a new hole in the clay seal. He was taking no chances of poking a smoldering fragment of rag down into the gunpowder. It was a chancy business, and the sweat on his forehead had nothing to do with the chilling temperature of the morning air as he pushed home the new fuse.
“This is the one that works,” he said as he applied the flame.
The paper smoked lustily and crackled as a shower of sparks flew into the air. Jason had one brief, horrified glimpse of the flame streaking down the oily gunpowder fuse, then he turned and dived for safety.
This time the results were very impressive. The bomb exploded with a highly satisfactory roar and pieces of jagged pottery whistled away in every direction, ripping holes in a score of camachs and inflicting minor wounds on some of the spectators. Jason was so close to the blast that it rolled him over and over on the ground.
Temuchin still stood unmoving at the opening of the camach, but he did look a slight bit more pleased now. The few shouts of pain from the audience were drowned out in the enthusiastic cries and happy back-slapping. Jason sat up shakily and felt himself all over, but could find nothing broken that had not been broken before.
“Can you make them bigger?” Temuchin asked, an anticipatory gleam of destruction in his eye.
“They come in all sizes. Though I could give you a more exact idea if you would let me know just what use you have in mind for them.”
A stir on the other side of the field distracted Temuchin before he could answer. A number of men on moropes were trying to force their way through the crowd and the bystanders did not like the idea. There were angry shouts and at least one broken-off scream.
“Who approaches without permission?” Temuchin said, and when he reached for his sword, his personal guard drew their weapons and formed up close to him. The first row of onlookers jumped aside rather than be trampled and a inorope and rider came through.
“What made that noise?” the rider asked, his voice just as used to automatic command as was Temuchin’s.
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.