Piers Anthony - Steppe

A valid warning. Targ had good reason to eliminate his young rival! But the boyish temper would not heed. "So you're running out!"

"Temujin, I would be doing you a fatal disservice if I encouraged you to stand and fight. Targ can mass ten thousand horse, and the best you can do now is two or three hundred."

"Then get out!" Alp shouted. "I have no use for cowards!"

Munlik did not deign to answer this slur. He was no coward, and Alp knew it; he was a cautious, pragmatic player who had held his part for a long time and was now taking the sensible course. Young Temujin's position was virtually hopeless.

The screen faded. Immediately Alp called his Mongol mother. The lovely, freshly-careworn face appeared, and he wondered momentarily who played that part. She was well cast!

"Munlik's pulling out," Alp said.

She sighed. "Temujin, I tried. But now we are alone. Are you sure it wouldn't be better to—"

"No! We'll get along on our own. We'll forage here in our home territory until..." He trailed off, but she understood him. Until he was a man.

But the tiny family group was not granted much respite. In a few Minutes a hostile fleet appeared in the sky, and the markings were Tay. Targ was coming to ensure the demise of his rival claimant to the chiefship of the larger Mongol tribe. Some five hundred ships.

There was only one thing to do. Alp alerted his five brothers, packed his mother and sisters aboard three of their crafts, and took off. The six ships, representing all the remaining horses of the Kiyat clan, fled to the Kentei Mountains.

The mountains of Kentei were stellar red giants whose huge gravity wells made rapid travel difficult. They were not extensive by Galactic standards, but they were suitably obscured by surrounding debris to make the vicinity an excellent hiding place.

Targ's ships pursued for some distance. They could have caught some of the fugitives readily enough, but Targ preferred to tease his prey a little, a wolf tossing a live but crippled mouse in the air. Alp gritted his teeth with fury even though his double-loaded steeds desperately needed the respite Targ's sport provided.

"Qasar," Alp said to his younger brother. "You're the best shot with the bow. Try to distract them."

Qasar obediently decelerated and was lost to screen contact. The arrows fired by Targ's posse stopped passing so near, and that was a good sign. Qasar, only eleven, was already a master bowman. Even grown warriors did not make fun of his prowess... long. He had killer aim—and killer nerve.

Alp, satisfied that they had lost their pursuit, established an orbit close to a large dim star and formed the three double-loaded horses into a cluster. They were short of supplies and their mounts were fatigued; this merged orbit would conserve fuel and make the drifting vessels almost impossible to spot. Targ would be looking for them on some depot planet, not in space!

Alp left the younger boys with the women while he made a drive for one of those Game supply depots. Qasar was still out of touch somewhere in space, so Alp took his twelve-year-old half-brother Bekter to cover for him on that lightning raid. He had never gotten along well with this child of his father's concubine, but this was no time for quibbles.

They were successful. They landed, loaded, and took off before Targ's guards realized who they were. In minutes they were back in the Kentei region of space. "Now cruise in easy," Alp warned. "They may be watching us, and we don't want to give away our hideout."

"Cruise in yourself," Bekter said sharply. "This stuff'll last me long enough to make it to Naiman space!"

His own brother had turned traitor already! Now Alp could not afford to trust him, for Bekter knew where the orbit was and might use that information to buy his own freedom if he were captured by Targ.

"Qasar!" Alp snapped on the open channel. This would be audible to anyone else in nearby space, but this was an emergency.

"Here!" Qasar replied, the scant time lag showing that he was not far off, fortunately. Communications were limited to lightspeed, even when the ships were traveling at light multiples; Alp didn't understand this but wasn't concerned. It was good to be back in touch with his stout brother—and he needed him now!

"Bekter is stealing our supplies. You know what to do." Qasar didn't like Bekter either.

"Now just a minute!" Bekter cried, alarmed. "It's no big deal! You can get more—"

"And get cut down by Targ!" Qasar retorted angrily.

Then Alp fired from one angle, and Qasar from another. Alp's arrow missed, but Qasar's hit. In a few seconds Bekter's ship went dead, and he was out of the Game.

It was a brutal penalty—but betrayal of one's family was the ultimate nomad crime. Turk and Mongol agreed on that!

Alp had no question about the loyalty of his full brothers, Qasar, Qachiun and Temuge. But his other half-brother, Belgutai—how could he be certain of him, after this? Alp couldn't eliminate the child without cause, and certainly hoped it would not be necessary. But Belgutai would have to be watched most carefully. Any slip would finish them all!

Chapter 14

FRIENDS

In a few Hours they were low on supplies again, thanks to Bekter's defection. Single horses could not carry much, and Alp had not dared overload his own. Targ seemed to have given up active pursuit, however, probably assuming that Temujin had been washed out of the Game by now. Still, Alp was cautious. He went alone this time, and not to the same depot.

And dropped right into an ambush. As he stepped from his mount bowmen appeared all around him. Resistance would have meant instant stunning. He had after all been outsmarted.

Targ was a big coarse Mongol, gray-eyed like most of the true blood—sometimes called the league of gray-eyed men. He looked on Alp with affected contempt. Alp's eyes were gray enough, but his hair now had a reddish cast, suggesting Turk or even Indo-European ancestry. "So this is the mongrel stripling who pretends to be chief!" But his revenge for that impertinence could not be satisfied by mere elimination—and he, like many players, was hesitant to wipe out another part too directly outside of battle. If the Game Machine had not scheduled that part for termination, the attempt might be balked—costing the other party points. "Put him in the cangue!"

They bound his hands and put the heavy pseudowood collar that was the cangue over his head. Thus weighted and confined, he was put on display as an object of ridicule before all the Mongol players who came to the depot. Alp knew that Targ would arrange a terminal accident for him soon—as soon as it could be attempted privately, without record, so as to conceal possible failure. Meanwhile, ridicule.

This was the part he had hoped to convert into that of the presumed lord of the world: Jenghiz Qan! In less than a Day he had run into termination. Munlik had been right: he had been too ambitious and had only squandered his opportunity. A part that deviated too radically from the historical script was soon nullified.

Soon the guards drifted away, for attention spans were short in the swiftly-changing events of the Game. Only one remained to watch the prisoner. Alp dived for him, cracking the heavy cangue into his head and knocking the man out in an unusual fashion: by hand. How would the Machine evaluate that?

Alp staggered out onto the surface of the planet, seeking his horse. It was gone. In seconds Targ's men would be after him, and this time they would not hesitate to stun him.

There was a large reservoir of water beside the station, kept fresh by growing green plants and selected fish. He jumped into it and submerged all but his head. The Tay warriors charged along the shore, thinking he had run on by. He wanted to conceal himself entirely, but the solid collar was buoyant, and of course he had to breathe. If anyone looked directly at him, here in the reeds...