Harry Harrison - The Horse Barbarians

She caught the knife before it touched the ground, straightened and brought it slanting up into the man’s back, below and inside his rib cage, sinking it to the hilt so the blade penetrated his lung and heart, killing him instantly. When she released him, he sank, unmoving, to the ground.

Jason sank back onto the lockbox and, as though by chance, his forefinger touched the keying plate and he felt the click as the bolt unlatched. A number of onlookers had watched the encounter and a hum of astonishment filled the air. One woman waddled over and picked up the man’s arm, which dropped limply when she released it. “Dead!” she said in an astonished voice and looked wonderingly at Meta.

“You two over here!” Jason called out, using their own “tribal” tongue that the crowd would not understand. “Keep your weapons handy and stand close. If this really gets rough, there are gas grenades and your guns in here. But once we use them, we’ll have to wipe out or capture the entire tribe. So let’s save that as a last resort.”

Shanin, with a score of his warriors behind him, pushed through the crowd and looked unbelievingly at the dead man. “Your woman kill this man with his own knife?”

“She did, and it was his own fault. He pushed her around, started trouble, then attacked her. It was just self-defense. Ask anyone here.” There was a mutter of agreement from the crowd.

The chief seemed more astonished than angry. He looked from the corpse to Meta, then swaggered over and took her by the chin, turning her head back and forth while he examined her. Jason could see her knuckles go white but she kept her control.

“What tribe she from?” Shanin asked.

“Prom far away, in the mountains, far north. Tribe called the… Pyrrans. Very tough fighters.”

Shanin grunted. “I never heard of them.” As though his encyclopedic knowledge ruled them out of existence, “What’s their totem?”

What indeed, Jason thought? It couldn’t be a rat or a weasel. What kind of animals had they seen in the mountains? “Eagle,” he announced, with more firmness than he felt. He had seen something that looked like an eagle once, circling the high peaks.

“Very strong totem,” Shanin said, obviously impressed. He looked down at the dead man and stirred him with his foot. “He has a morope, some furs. Woman can’t have them.” He looked up shrewdly at Jason, waiting for an answer.

The answer to that one was easy. Women, being property themselves, could not own property. And to the victor went the spoils. Don’t let anyone ever say that dinAlt was not generous with secondhand moropes and used furs.

“The property is yours, of course, Shanin. That is only right. I would never think of taking them, oh no! And I shall beat the woman tonight for doing this.”

It was the right answer and Shanin accepted the booty as his due. He started away, then called back over his shoulder. “He could not have been a good fighter if a woman killed him. But he has two brothers.”

That meant something all right, and Jason gave it some thought as the people in the crowd dispersed, taking the dead man with them. Meta and Grif finished erecting the cover on the camach and carried all of their goods inside. Jason dragged in the lockbox himself, then sent Grif together the goats closer in, near their moropes. The killing could lead to trouble.

It did, and faster than Jason had imagined. There were some thuds and a shrill scream outside and he raced for the entrance. Most of the action was over by the time he reached it.

A half dozen boys, relatives perhaps of the dead man, had decided to exact a little revenge by attacking Grif. Most of them were older or bigger than he, so they must have planned on a quick attack, a beating and a hasty retreat. It did not work out quite as planned.

Three boys had grabbed him, to hold him securely while the others administered the drubbing. Two of these now lay unconscious on the ground, for the Pyrran boy had cracked their skulls together, while the third rolled in agony after having been kneed in the groin. Grif was kneeling on the neck of the fourth boy while attempting to break the leg of the fifth by twisting it up behind his back. The sixth boy was trying to get away and Grif was reaching for his knife to stop him before he made his escape.

“Not the knife!” Jason shouted, and helped the survivor on his way with a good boot in the coccyx. “We’re in enough trouble without another killing.”

Scowling, deprived of his pleasure, Grif elicited both a shrill scream, with an extra ankle twist, and a choked groan, from under his grinding

knee. Then he stood and watched while the survivors limped and crawled from the area of combat. Except for a rapidly blackening eye and a torn sleeve, he himself was un,hurt. Jason, speliking calmly, managed to get him inside the camach, where Meta put a cold compress on his eye.

Jason laced up the entrance and looked at his two Pyrrans, their tempers still aroused, stalking around as though still looking for trouble.

“Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “no one can say that you don’t make a strong first impression.”

“I speak with the voice of Temuchin, for I am Ahankk, his captain,” the warrior said, throwing open the entrance to Shanin’s camach.

Jason broke off his “Ballad of the Flying Strangers” and turned slowly to see who had caused the welcome interruption. His throat was getting sore and he was tired of singing the same song over and over. His account of the spaceship’s defeat was the pop hit of the encampment.

The newcomer was a high-ranking officer, that was obvious. His breastplate and helm were shiny and undented, and even set with a few roughly cut jewels. He swaggered as he walked, planting his feet squarely as he stood before Shanin, his hand resting on his sword pommel.

“What does Temuchin want?” Shanin asked coldly, his hand on his own sword, not liking the newcomer’s manner.

“He will hear the jongleur who is called Jason. He is to come at once.” Shanin’s eyes narrowed to cold slits. “He sings for me now. When he is through, he will come to Temuchin. Finish the song,” he said turning to Jason.

To a nomad chief all chiefs are equal and it is hard to convince them differently. Temuchin and his officers had plenty of experience and knew all the persuasive arguments. Ahankk whistled shrilly and a squad of heavily armed soldiers with drawn bows pushed into the camach. Shanin was convinced.

“I am bored with this croaking,” he announced, yawning and turning away. “I will now drink achadh with one of my women. All leave.”

Jason went out with his honor guard and turned toward his camach. The officer stopped him with a broad hand against his chest. “Temuchin will hear you now. Turn that way.”

“Take your hand from me,” Jason said in a low voice that the nearby soldiers could not hear. “I go to put on my best jacket and to get a new string for this instrument because one of these is almost broken.”

“Come now,” Ahankk said loudly, leaving his hand where it was and giving Jason a shove.

“We will first visit my camach. It is just over there,” Jason answered just as loudly. At the same time he reached up and took hold of the man’s thumb. This is a good grip at any time, and his 2G-hardened muscles added the little extra something that made the thumb feel as if it were being torn from the hand. The officer writhed and resisted, pulling at his sword clumsily, crosswise, for it was his sword hand that Jason was slowly rending.