“Seize him!” Temuchin shouted, from above. “I want him brought to me.”
Jason pelted toward the nearest entrance, veering off as it filled suddenly with guards. There were armed men everywhere, at every exit. He ran toward the wall. It was high and topped with gilded spearheads, but he had to get over it. Footsteps sounded loudly behind him as he sprang upward, his fingers closing over the edge of the wall. Good! He heaved himself up, to throw his legs oven, climb between the spearheads and drop to the other side to vanish into the city.
The hands locked about his ankle, the weight holding him back. He kicked and felt his boot crush a face, but he could not free himself. Then other hands caught his flailing leg and still more, pulling him back down into the courtyard.
“Bring him to me,” Temuchin’s voice sounded over the crowd of men. “Bring him to me. He is mine.”
22
Pihes was waiting, a tiny figure beside the launch as the Pugnacious dropped down from the sky. It was a full-jet, 20 G landing. Mete was not wasting any time. Rhes picked his way through the fused and smoking sand as the pont opened to receive him.
“Tell us everything quickly,” Meta said.
“There’s little enough to tell. Temuchin won his war, as we knew he would, taking every city with one blow after another. The people here, even the armies, could not stand against him. I fled after the last battle, with all the others, for I did not wish to see my thumbs hanging from some barbarian banner. That was when I got your message. You must tell me what happened on Pyrnus.”
“The end,” Kerk said. “The city, everyone there, is gone.”
Rhes knew that there were no words that he could say. He was silent a moment; then Mete caught his eye and he continued.
“Jason has or had a radio, and soon after I reached the launch, I picked up a message from him. I could not answer him and his message was never completed. I did not have the recorder on, but I can remember it cleanly enough. He said that the mines could be opened soon, that we had won. The Pyrrans have won, that is exactly what he said. He started to add something else, but the broadcast was suddenly broken off. That must have been when they came for him. I have heard more about it since that time.”
“What do you mean?” Meta asked quickly.
“Temuchin has made his capital in Eolasair, the largest city in Ammh. He has Jason there in… in a cage, hung in front of the palace. He was first tortured; now he is being starved to death.”
“Why? For what reason?”
“It is a nomad belief that a demon in human form cannot be killed. He is immune to normal weapons. But if he is starved long enough, the human disguise will wither and the demon’s original form will be revealed. I don’t know if Temuchin believes this nonsense or not, but this is just what he is doing. Jason has been hanging in that cage for over fifteen days now.”
“We must go to him,” Meta said, leaping to her feet. “We must free him.”
“We will do that,” Kerk told her. “But we must do it the right way. Rhes, can you get us clothes and inoropes?”
“Of course. How many will you need?”
“We cannot force our way in, not against the ruler of an entire planet. Just two of us will go. You will come to show the way. I will go to see what can be done.”
“And I will come, too,” Meta said, and Kerk nodded agreement.
“The three of us then. At once. We don’t know how long he can live under these conditions.”
“They give him a cup of water every day,” Rhes said, avoiding Meta’s eyes. “Take the ship up. I’ll show you which way to go. It does not matter any more if the people in the city here know we are from off-planet.”
This was before noon. By drugging the moropes and loading them into the cargo bay, a good deal of riding time was saved. The city of Eolasair was built on a river among rolling hills, with a forest nearby. They landed the ship as close as they could without being seen and had the inoropes on the way as soon as they were revived. By later afternoon they entered the city, and Pdies threw a boy a small coin to show them the way to the palace. He wore his merchant’s clothes, and Kerk had put on his full armor and weapons. Meta, veiled as was the local custom, clutched her hands tightly on the saddle as they forced their way through the crowded streets.
Only before the palace was there empty space. The courtyard was floored with gold-veined marble, polished and shining. A squad of troops guarded it, their bearded nomad faces incopgruous above the looted armor. But their weapons were in order and they were as deadly as they had been on the high plains. Worse, perhaps, their tempers were not improved by the warm climate.
A chain had been passed between the tops of two of the tall columns that flanked the courtyard and from it, hanging a good two meters above the ground, was suspended a cage of thick bars. It had no door and had been built around the prisoner.
“Jason!” Mete said, looking up at the slumped figure. He did not move and there was no way of telling if he was alive or dead.
“I will take cane of this,” Kerk said, and jumped from his morope. “Wait!” Rhes called after him. ‘What are you going to do? Getting yourself killed won’t help Jason.”
Kerk was not listening. He had lost too much and felt too much pain recently to be in a reasoning mood. Now all of his hatred was turned against one man, and he could not be stopped.
“Temuchin!” he roared. “Come out of your gilt hiding place. Come out, you coward, and face me, Kerk of Pyrrus! Show yourself, coward!”
Ahankk, who was the guard officer, came running with his sword drawn, but Kerk backhanded him offhandedly, his attention still fixed on the palace. Ahankk dropped and rolled over and over and remained there, unconscious or dead. Surely dead, with his head at an angle like that.
“Temuchin, coward, come out!” Kerk shouted again. When the stunned soldiers touched their weapons, he turned on them, snarling.
“Dogs, would you attack me? A high chief, Kerk of Pyrrus, victor of The Slash?” They fell back before his burning anger, and he turned to the palace as the front entrance was thrown wide. Temuchin strode out.
“You dare too much,” he said, his cold anger matching that of Kerk’s. “You dare,” Kerk told him. “You break tribal law. You take a man of my tribe and torture him for no reason. You are a coward, Temuchin, and I name you that before your men.”
Temuchin’s sword flashed in the sunlight as he drew it, a finetempered length of razor-sharp steel.
“You have said enough, Pyrran. I could have you killed on the spot, but I want that pleasure for myself. I wanted to kill you the moment I first saw you, and I should have. Because of you and this creature which calls itself Jason, I have lost everything.”
“You have lost nothing, yet,” Kerk answered and his sword pointed
straight at the warlord’s throat. “But now you lose your life, for I shall kill you.”
Temuchin brought his sword down in a blow that would have cut a man in two, but it rang off Kerk’s blade. They battled then, furiously, with no science and no art-barbarian sword fight, just slash and parry, with eventual victory going to the strongest.
The clang of their steel rang in the silence of the courtyard, the only other sound being the rasping of their breath as they fought. Neither would give way, and they were well matched. Kerk was the older man, but he was the stronger. Temuchin had a lifetime of sword fighting and battles behind him and was absolutely without fear.