There was plenty of discussion, but only about the details. No one could fault Jason’s plan; in fact, they rather approved of it. It sounded simple and workable, and assigned parts to all of them that they enjoyed playing. All except Meta, that is. She had had enough of dung fires and menial manual labor to last for the rest of her life. But she was too good a Pyrran to complain about her assignment, so she remained silent.

It was very late before the meeting broke up; the boy, Grif, had been asleep for hours. The atomic heater had been turned off and locked away, but the aura of its warmth remained. Jason collapsed into the fur sleeping bag and let out an exhausted sigh. Meta rolled over and put her chin against his chest.

“What is going to happen after we win?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” Jason said tiredly, letting his hand run through her short-cropped hair. “Haven’t thought about it. Get the job done first.”

“I’ve thought about it. It should mean the end of the fighting for us, forever I mean. If we stay here and build a new city. What will you do then?”

“Hadn’t thought,” he said blurredly, holding her close and enjoying the sensation.

“I think I would like to stop fighting. I think there must be other things to do with a person’s life. Did you notice that all the women here take care of their own children, instead of putting them into the nursery and never seeing them again as on Pyrrus? I think that might be a nice thing.”

Jason jerked his hand away from her hair as from molten metal and his eyes sprang wide open. Dimly, in the far distance, he could hear the harsh ringing of wedding bells, a sound he had fled from more than once in his life, a sound that brought out an instant running reflex.

“Well,” he said with what he hoped was due deliberation, “that sort of thing might be nice for barbarian women, but it certainly isn’t the sort of fate to be wished on an intelligent, civilized girl.” He waited tensely for an answer, until he realized from the evenness of her breathing that she had fallen asleep. That took care of that, at least for the time being.

Then he held the solid warmth of her body in his arms and he wondered what exactly it was he was running from and, while he wondered, the drugs and exhaustion hit and he fell asleep.

In the morning the new campaign began. Temuchin had issued his orders and the march got under way at dawn, with a freezing, bonechilling wind sweeping down from the mountains in the north. The carnachs, the escungs, even carrier inoropes were left behind. Every warrior brought his own weapons and rations, and was expected to take care of himself and his mount. At first the movement was very unimpressive, a scattering of soldiers working their way through the camachs, among the shouting women and the ragged children running in the dust. Then two men joined together, and a third, until an entire squad rode together, the riders bobbing up and down in response to the undulating motion of their mounts.

Jason rode next to Kerk, with the 94 Pyrran warriors following in a double column. He turned in his saddle to look at them. The women could not ride with them, and eight men had gone to the lowlands with Rhes, while the remainder were on guard duty at the ship. That left 96 men in all to accomplish the mission, to gain control of the barbarian army and this occupied portion of the planet. On the surface it looked impossible, but the bearing of the tiny Pyrran force did not reflect that. They were solemn and ready to take on anything that came their way. It gave Jason an immense feeling of security to have them riding behind him.

Once clear of the campsite, they could see other columns of men paralleling their course across the rolling sweep of the steppe. Messengers had gone out to all the tribes camped along the river to tell them that they were to ride today. The horde was gathering. From all sides they came, drifting toward the line of march, until there were riding men visible on all sides, clear to the horizon. There was a marked sense of organization now, with different clans falling in behind their captains and forming into squadrons. In the distance Jason saw the black banners of Temuchin’s household guards and pointed them out to Kerk.

“Temuchin has two moropes loaded with our gunpowder bombs, and he wants me to ride with him to supervise the operation. He pointedly did not mention the rest of the Pyrrans, but we’re all going to stay with him whether he likes it or not. He needs me for the gunpowder, and I ride with my tribe. It’s a winning argument that I’m sure he can’t beat.”

“Then we shall put it to the teit,” Kerk said, spurring his beast into a gallop. The Pyrran column sliced through the galloping horde toward their leader.

They swung in from the right flank until they were riding level with Temuchin’s men, then slacked back to the same pace. Jason started forward, ready with his foolproof arguments, but found them unnecessary. Temuchin took one slow, cold look at the Pyrrans, then turned his eyes forward again. He was like a chess master who sees a mate ra moves ahead and resigns without playing the game out. Jason’s arguments were obvious to him and he did not bother to listen to them.

“Examine the lashings on the gunpowder bombs,” he ordered. “They are your responsibility.”

From his vantage point near the warlord, Jason witnessed the smooth organization of the barbarian army and began to realize that Temuchin must be a military genius, illiterate and untutored, with no authorities to rely on, he had reinvented all of the basic principles of army maneuvers and large-scale warfare. His captains were more than just leaders of independent commands. They acted as a staff, taking messages and relaying orders on their own initiative. A simple system of horn signals and arm motions controlled the troops, so that the thousands of men formed a flexible and dangerous weapon.

Also an intensely rugged one. When all the troops had joined up, Temuchin formed them into a kilometer-wide line and advanced on the entire front at once. Without stopping. The advance, which had begun before dawn, continued into the early afternoon without a halt for any reason. The rested and well-fed inoropes did not like the continuous ride, but they were capable of it when goaded on by the spurs. They shrieked protest, but the advance went on. The endless jogging did not seem to bother the nomads, who had been in the saddle almost since birth, but Jason, in spite of his recent riding experience, was soon battered and sore. If the ride was affecting the Pyrrans in any way, it was not noticeable.

Squadrons of riders scouted out ahead of the main company of troops, and by late afternoon the invading army came across their handiwork. Slaughtered nomads, first a single rider, his blood mixed with that of his butchered inorope, then a family unit that had been unlucky enough to cross the path of the army. The escungs and folded camachs were still smoldering, surrounded by a ghastly array of dead bodies. Men, women and children, even the moropes and flocks, had been brutally slain. Temuchin fought total war and where he had passed nothing remained alive. He was brutally pragmatic in his thinking. War is fought to be won. Anything that assures victory is sensible. It is sensible to make a three-day ride in a single day if it means the enemy can be surprised. It is sensible to kill everyone you meet so that no alarm can be given, just as it is sensible to destroy all their goods so your warriors will not be burdened by booty.

The truth of Tetnuchin’s tactics was proved when, just before dark, the racing anny swooped down upon a large-sized village of the weasel clan in the foothills of the mountains.

As the great line of riders topped the last ridge, the alarm was given in the camp, but it was too late for escape. The ends of the line swung in and met behind the camp, though it looked as though some hardridden moropes had slipped through before the forces joined. Sloppy, Jason thought, surprised that Temuchin had not done a better job.