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.

“I am Kerk, leader of the Pyrrans,” he said, slipping his sword up and down with an irritating, grating sound.

“I am Temuchin, warlord of the tribes. You will bow to me.”

“Pyrrans bow to no man.”

Temuchin rumbled deep in his throat like an infuriated carnivore and began to draw his sword. Jason resisted an impulse to cover his eyes and flee. This would be bloody murder.

Kerk knew what he was doing. He had not come here to depose Temuchin, at least not right now, so he did not reach for his own sword. Instead, his hand moved with the cracking speed that only Pyrrans have developed, and he seized the wrist of Temuchin’s sword arm.

“I do not come to fight you,” he said calmly. “I come as an equal to side with you in your cause. We will talk.”

His voice did not waver, nor did Temuchin’s sword come one centimeter more out of the loops. The warlord had a massive strength and resiliency, but Kerk was an unmoving boulder. He neither moved nor showed any sign of strain, but the veins stood out on Temuchin’s forehead. The silent struggle continued for ten, fifteen seconds, until Temuchin suffused red under the darkness of his skin, every muscle of his body rock hard with the effort of his exertions.

When it appeared that human muscle and sinew could stand no more, Kerk smiled. Just the barest turning up of the corners of his mouth, visible only to Temuchin and Jason, who stood close by. Then, slowly and steadily, the warlord’s arm was forced down until his sword was secure in its loops and could go no farther.

“I did not come here to fight you,” Kerk said in a barely audible voice. “The young men may wrestle with each other. We are leaders who talk.”

He released his grip so suddenly that Temuchin swayed with the reaction, as his tensed muscles no longer had anything to battle against. The decision was his once again, and the intelligent man was warring in his body against the brute reactions of the born barbarian.

For long seconds this silent impasse continued, then Temuchin began to chuckle, the laughter rising quickly to a full-throated roar. He threw his head back and laughed defiance of the universe, then swung his arm and clapped Kerk on the shoulder with a blow that would have stunned a morope or killed a lesser man. Kerk just swayed slightly and returned the smile.

“You are a man I might like!” Temuchin shouted. “If I do not kill you first. Come into my camach.” He turned away and Kerk went with him. They passed Jason without deigning to notice him. Jason rolled his eyes upward, happy to see that the skies had not fallen nor the sun gone nova, then turned and followed them.

“Stay here,” Temuchin ordered when they reached the cainach, spearing Jason with a look of cold fury as though he alone were responsible for the ill events. Temuchin waved the guards to position, then

followed Kerk inside. Jason did not complain. He preferred waiting here in the wind, chill as it was, to witnessing the confrontation in the tent. If Temuchin were killed, how would they escape? Fatigue and pain were beginning to creep bac’k, and he swayed in the wind and wondered if he could risk a quick stab with his medikit. The answer was obviously no, so he swayed and waited.

Angry voices sounded loudly inside and Jason cringed and waited for the end. Nothing happened. He swayed again and decided that it would be easier to sit down, so he dropped. The ground was chill against his bottom. The voices rose once more inside, then were followed by an ominous silence. Jason noticed that even the guards were exchanging concerned glances.

There was a sharp ripping sound and they jumped and turned, mising their lances. Kerk had opened the entrance flap by pulling on it — hard. But he had neglected to unlace it first. The thick leather thongs were snapped, or torn loose from their heavy supports, and the supporting iron rod was bent at a sharp angle. Kerk apparently noticed none of this. He stalked by the guards, nodded at Jason, and kept on walking. Jason had a quick look at Temuchin’s face, swollen with anger, in the opening. This glimpse was enough. He turned and hurried after Kerk.