“I never thought of him as being much of a religious man.”
“I am sure that he isn’t,” Kerk said. “But he is a good enough leader to keep his men happy. This pit, or whatever it is, appears to be one of the few holy places they have. Supposed to be a backdoon leading directly to hell. Temuchin will make a sacrifice there.”
“It’s as good a place as any to meet him. Let’s ride.”
The dark afternoon blended imperceptibly into evening as the sky pressed down and the wind hurled granular blizzard snow at them. It collected in the folds of their clothing and on the moropes’ fur until they were all streaked and coated with it. It was almost fully dark before they came to the camaclis of Temuchin’s followers. There were welcome shouts of greetings from all sides as they rode toward the large camach where the chieftains were meeting. Kerk and Jason dismounted and pushed by the guards at the entrance flap. The circle of men turned to look as they came in. Temuchin glared pure hatred at them.
“Who is this that dares come uninvited to Temuchin’s meeting of his captains?”
Kerk drew himself up and gave as well as he had received. “Who is this Temuchin who would bar Kerk of the Pyrrans, conqueror of The Slash, from a meeting of the chiefs of the plains?”
The battle was joined and everyone there knew it. The absolute silence was broken only by the rustle of wind-driven snow against the outside of the camcich.
Temuchin was the first warlord to have brought all of the tribes together under one banner. Yet he ruled nothing without the agreement of his tribal chieftains. Some of them were already displeased with the severity of his orders and would hate preferred a new warlord, or no warlord at all. They followed the contest with close attention.
“You fought well at The Slash,” Temuchin said. “As did all here. We greet you and you may now leave. What we do here today does not concern that battle nor does it concern you.”
“Why?” Kenk asked with icy calmness, seating himsel& at the same time. “What are you trying to conceal from me?”
“You accuse me…” Tèmuchin was white with anger, his hand on his sword.
“I accuse no one.” Kerk yawned broadly. “You seem to accuse yourself. You meet in secret, you refuse a chieftain entrance, you attempt insult rather than speaking the truth. I ask you again what you conceal?”
“It is a matter of small importance. Some lowlanders have arrived on our shores, to invade, to build cities. We will destroy them.”
“Why? They are harmless traders,” Kerk said.
“Why?” Temuchin was burning with anger now and could not stand still; he paced back and forth. “Have you never heard of ‘The Song of the Freemen’?”
“As well as you have, or better. The song says to destroy the buildings of those who will trap us. Are there buildings to be destroyed?”
“No, but they will come next. Already the lowlanders have put up tents—”
One of the chieftains broke in, singing a line from “The Song of the
Freemen”:
“Knowing no home, other than our tents.”
Temuchin controlled his rage and ignored the interruption. The words of the song were against him, but he knew where the truth lay.
“These traders are like the point of the sword that makes but a scratch. They are in tents and they trade today, but soon they will be ashore with bigger tents, then buildings in order to trade better. First the tip of the swond, then the entire blade to run us through and destroy us. They must be wiped out now.”
What Temuchin said was absolutely true. It was very important that the other chieftains should not realize that. Kerk was silent for an instant and Jason stepped into the gap.
“The Song of Freemen’ must be our guide in this matter. This is the song that tells us—”
“Why are you here, jongleur?” Temuchin said in a voice of stern command. “I see no other jongleuns or common soldiers. You may leave.” Jason opened his mouth, but could think of nothing to say. Ternuchin was unarguably right. Jason, he thought, you should have kept your big mouth shut. He bowed to the warlord, and as he did he whispered to Kerk:
“I’ll be dose by and I’ll listen in on the dentiphone. If I can think of anything that will help, I will tell you.”
Kerk did not turn around, but he murmured agreement and his voice was transmitd clearly to the tiny radio in Jason’s mouth. After this, there was nothing Jason could do except leave.
Bad luck. He had hoped to be in on the showdown. As he pushed through the flap, one of the guards stationed there bent to lace it behind him. The other one dropped his lance.
Jason looked at it surprised, even as the man reached out with both hands and grabbed him by the wrists. What was this?! Jason twisted upward with his forearms against the other’s thumbs, to break the simple hold, while at the same time aiming a knee at the man’s groin as a note of disapproval. But before he could free himself or connect, the guard behind him slipped a leather strap oven his head and jerked it tight about his throat.
Jason could neither fight nor cry out. He writhed and struggled ineffectively as he quickly slipped into black unconsciousness.
16
Someone was grinding snow into Jason’s face, forcing it into his nostrils and mouth, effectively dragging him back to consciousness. He coughed and spluttered, pushing himself away from the offending hands. When he had wiped the snow from his eyes, he looked around, blinking, trying to place himself.
He was kneeling between two of Temuchin’s men. Their swords were drawn and ready, and one of them held a guttering torch. It illuminated a small patch of drifted snow and the black lip of a chasm. Red-lit snowflakes rushed by him and vanished into this pit of darkness.
“Do you know this man?” a voice asked, and Jason recognized it as Temuchin’s. Two men appeared out of the night and stood before him.
“I do, great Lord Temuchin,” the second man said. “It is the other-world man from the great flying thing, the one who was captured and escaped.”
Jason looked closer at the muffled face and, as the, torch flared up, he recognized the sharp nose and sadistic smile of Oraiel, the jongleur.
“I never saw this person before. He is a liar,” Jason said, ignoring the hoarseness of his voice and the pain in his throat when he spoke.
“I remember him when he was captured, great lord, and later he attacked and beat me. You saw him yourself there.”
“Yes, I did.” Temuchin stepped forward and looked down at Jason’s upturned face, his own cold and impassive. “Of course. He is the one. That is why he looked familiar.”
“What are these lies…” Jason said, struggling to his feet.
Temuchin seized him by the forearms in an implacable grip, pushing him backward until his heels were on the crumbling edge of the abyss.
“Tell the truth now, whoever you are. You stand at the edge of Hell’s Doorway and in one moment you shall be hurled down it. You cannot escape. But I might let you go if you tell me the truth.”
As he talked, Temuchin bent Jason’s body back, farther and farther over the blackness, until only the grip on his wrists prevented him from falling. Jason could not see the warlord’s face: it was a black outline against the torches. Yet he knew there was no hope of mercy there. This was the end. The best he could do now was to protect the Pyrrans.
“Release me and I shall tell you the truth. I am from another world. I came here alone to help you. I found the jongleur Jason, and he was dying, so I took his name. He had been gone from his people many years and they no longer remembered him. And I have helped you. Release me and I will help you more.”
A weak voice, filled with static, buzzed in his head. “Jason, is that you? Kerk here. Where are you?” The dentiphone was still operating — he had a chance.
“Why are you here?” Temuchin asked. “Are you helping the lowlanders to bring their cities to our lands?”