Jango (21 page)

The Wildman stared, transfixed. All round him he heard the cry, "The warlord! The warlord!"

The Jahan was smaller than he had expected, and uglier, but his every move was charged with the authority of absolute power. The Wildman watched him accept the cheers of his warriors and saw the fear and admiration on the faces of all others, and he felt a surge of excitement. This was what it was to be a warlord.

There had been another warlord, long ago, who had built a great kingdom and been feared and obeyed by all. But he had gone further. He had used his power to force his way into the heart of the Nom, into the Garden itself. What had he found there? Whatever it was, it had changed him forever.

The Wildman watched Amroth Jahan as he rode round the circle by torchlight, and he thought of Noman. Had he too been born to live wild? Had he breathed free air, and never sworn obedience to any man, and gone his own proud way? And had he learned to hunger for this thing called peace?

The Wildman now knew he could never be a true Noble Warrior. But he could be a warlord. He could take his peace by force.

He laughed to himself as he framed this thought. Caressa, hearing him laugh, thought he laughed at the Great Jahan.

"You think he's funny?"

"No, not him."

"The girl, then?"

The Wildman looked at the girl sitting among the leaders on the gold chairs. She alone of all that crowd was paying no attention to the coming contest. There close before her, the three sons of the Jahan were stripping the clothes from their upper bodies and cracking their whips in the air. But she stared into the distance, making no attempt to conceal her indifference to all around her.

"I think she's funny," said Caressa. "That girl has a face like a fish."

She turned her gaze back to the Great Jahan. He too was now stripping off his coat and shirt to reveal a powerful, well-muscled body. In the glow of the torches, he presented an impressive sight. One of his servants bound back his springy black hair, exposing his high cheekbones. His prominent features now fell into place, and he looked magnificent.

Caressa was mesmerized.

"That man," she murmured, "must be the ugliest man in the world."

***

Amroth Jahan had not taken part in a jagga for ten years, but as he unfurled his old familiar whip, the thrill of the sport came back to him. He breathed the twilight air deep into his lungs and felt its cold touch on his bare skin and knew that soon he would be fiery hot. His best Caspian, Malook, waited restlessly for him to mount, shivering her ginger skin.

"You've missed it too, Malook? We'll show them something worth the seeing, won't we?"

Then he nodded to the handler, and with a single powerful spring, he was on Malook's back. He looked towards Echo Kittle and saw that she was gazing at nothing, her lovely face grave and unsmiling. There's a girl worth fighting for, he said to himself. Whichever of my boys brings me down will win himself a fine wife, and good luck to him.

His sons were stripped and mounted and waiting for him. He eased his position, leaned a little forward, and Malook moved off, smooth as cream. Picking his way with delicate hooves, Malook crossed the open space to the far side, where the boys were gathered.

"So who's it to be first?" the Jahan asked his sons.

"I'm to go first, Father," said Sabin, his youngest. "I don't claim any great skill at the jagga."

"You're an Orlan," said his father. "You're born to this."

He looked round the mass of watching faces, letting his gaze end once more on Echo.

"And we have a crowd to cheer us on!"

He raised his whip and rolled it through the air to end in a sharp crack. The nearest spectators jumped. The Jahan grinned. He was feeling strong.

"Come on then, boy! On my cry!"

He spun Malook round, trotted to the far side, and turned again. All this Malook did without being told. Sabin unfurled his own whip and angled his horse to face his father. The young man looked slight, almost fragile, in comparison with his father, and on his face there was a look of uncertainty.

"Ya, jagga!" cried the Jahan. His whip sliced the air, and Malook set off at a rapid trot. Sabin swung left and cantered round the perimeter, but Malook turned deftly to cut him off, and they were engaged. The Jahan's whip curled and caught, winding round Sabin's left arm. The boy held to his mount. With a turning countersweep, he flicked his whip round his father's shoulders. The pull from both sides dragged them together. Both releasing at the same time, they slackened the whips, and with a shake of their naked upper bodies, both were free.

"Good boy!" shouted the Jahan. "And again!"

He urged Malook round in a tight circle, his whip cracking in the air, and Sabin turned with him, watching the whip to avoid its clasp. Veteran Orlans shook their heads and smiled.

"The old man has him now."

The Jahan chose his moment at leisure. A murmur in Malook's ear, and the Caspian bolted past Sabin. In the same fraction of a second, the Jahan's whip curled out and wrapped itself round Sabin's waist. Before Sabin could
turn out of its grip the whip had tightened, and with a lurch he was jerked off the horse's back, to fall sprawling on the ground.

Applause broke out from the onlookers. Amroth Jahan raised his left fist in victory and flashed a look towards Echo. To his gratification he found she was watching him now. She had seen him win. He smiled for her, his broad chest heaving.

Sabin clambered to his feet and rubbed at the raw weal where the whip had torn at his skin.

"I told you I was no match for you, Father."

"You lost the lead," the Jahan replied. "Never wait for your opponent to strike. Lose the lead and you've lost the jagga."

Alva, his second son, now rode forward.

"Would you like to rest before the next bout, Father?"

"Rest? I'm only just warming up!"

"Then I'm ready when you are, sir."

The Jahan gazed approvingly at Alva's powerful torso. This was the one he expected to lose to. Alva was a fine jagga rider, with an excellent horse.

"To our positions!"

The Jahan rode back to the side where the guests of honor sat. He leaned down to speak to his host, Radiant Leader, but his words were meant for Echo to hear.

"What do you say to our sport?"

"Good sport," said Radiant Leader, "but soon over."

"You'll see a more equal match this time. The boy's a champion. I'll hold him as long as I can."

He looked straight at Echo then, and there she was,
gazing back at him with those beautiful gray eyes. A thrill of pride went through the Jahan. There was no telling what she was thinking, but now every time he turned to her, she was watching him. Not his boys. Him.

He took up his position facing Alva across the trampled grass. Alva was ready and eager.

"Ya, jagga!" he cried, and charged.

Malook stood stock-still until the last moment, and then skipped to one side. The Jahan calculated Alva's whip strike perfectly, and swung out and low. Alva missed. But at once he was circling round, whip snapping again. His father circled too, once, twice, then broke out of the circle and rode away. Alva gave chase and caught up, and his whip snared his father's whip arm, but because he was in forward motion, he could get no tension on it. Malook stopped dead. Alva swept past, the Jahan let his arm move with him, and the whip unraveled.

Now with Alva before him and his whip arm free, the Jahan shot out his own whip and struck Alva across his naked back. But he was not close enough for a catch.

The onlookers applauded. The combat was fast and relentless, evenly matched.

They broke apart, raced to the farthest edges of the combat ground, and turned in as if both were obeying the same signal to charge. No evasion now: just sheer strength. The horses passed so close that the riders' legs brushed against each other. Both whips slashed the air, both found purchase. Twisting round on their mounts, right arms straining, both men felt the sudden tearing tug jerk them
backwards. But their horses felt it too and leaned into the pull and turned back. So neither man was unseated.

Malook raced to circle the other horse, but Alva was not to be had as easily as his younger brother, and he spun round too and broke away. Suddenly he was behind his father, and his whip was curling round his father's neck, and every Orlan watching held his breath, knowing the older man must fall now or there would be a death. But the Jahan did not fall. He hurled his whip to the ground, reached behind him, and seized the cord that was throttling him. With one violent and powerful heave, he toppled Alva from his horse.

Up went a roar of admiration. The Jahan unwound the whip from his neck and punched the air. He turned fist high to Echo, and she was watching him still.

Alva rose to his feet, walked over to his father, and held up his hand.

"Still the best, Father," he said.

"You nearly had me, boy."

Sasha, his eldest son, now rode up to join them.

"Father," he said in a low voice, "there's only me left. I'm your eldest son. I must win this bout."

"You'll win if you're good enough, son."

"No, Father. Please think what you're doing. One of us three boys has to win, and there's only me left."

"Yes, son. Yes, you're right."

The Jahan drew a long sobering breath and saw reason. The prize for the winner was the girl. He could never have the girl. So Sasha must win.

With this thought clear in his mind, the Jahan took up his position for the third and final bout. His oldest son was not as strong as Alva, but he was smarter. That was as it should be.

He raised his whip hand.

"Ya, jagga!"

He cantered slowly towards his son. Since he had agreed he would lose, he was in no hurry. Sasha came out to meet him, then made a dash to pass him, at the same time sending out his first sweep. It fell short and lacked power. The Jahan didn't even try to deflect it. Instead, he let Sasha pass him, and then with the slightest lean of his body, urged Malook forward. The horse, superbly responsive, catapulted forward, leaving Sasha behind and out of reach. Then as Sasha followed to close the gap, the Jahan turned, whip snaking, and caught him in a perfect curl. Really it was too easy, he thought.

Sasha struggled to release himself, but could not.

"Father!" he muttered angrily.

The Jahan reversed the whip action and the cord fell away. The Orlans watching saw the older man give up his hold and they murmured among themselves.

"Come on, then, boy!" said the Jahan. "Here I am!"

Sasha moved away and then jabbed his horse into a flurry of motion. He swept round the perimeter of the ground, and then curled inwards on his opponent.

Malook never moved. The Jahan watched his son with contemptuous eyes. All this racing about was for show—it gave no advantage in the jagga. The boy doesn't deserve to win, he thought.

Sasha closed in, whooping a war cry, and his whip came hissing out towards his father's left flank. The Jahan did what any Orlan would do under the circumstances, faced with a well-signalled attack. He met whip stroke with whip stroke. His own whip, snapping before him, caught Sasha's whip in midair, and the two cords tangled. The Jahan then braced himself as Sasha cantered past, and when the pull came, he was rock solid in his seat. If anything, Sasha got the worst of it, dragged to one side and almost off, before his mount turned and gave him slack.

The whips spun free. Sasha glared at his father. The Jahan shrugged, as if to say, You'll have to do better than that. Sasha rode towards him at a trot. As he passed by he whispered, "You must fall!"

If I must, I must, thought the Jahan.

Sasha turned sharply once he was well past, then his father turned, and facing each other, they raised their whips. This was a well-known maneuver in the jagga, one that relied solely on strength. The two horses moved slowly towards each other until they were within striking reach. Then both men's right arms went up together, and both whips flew out. Each one wrapped itself tight round the body of the facing man. With a sharp simultaneous tug, both were pulled tight. Now it was a tug-of-war. Whichever man weakened first would be pulled to the ground.

Sasha kept his eyes fixed on his father as he strained. His father looked back with a half smile on his face. The watching crowd fell silent, captivated by the sudden stillness of the combatants. Both whip arms trembled with the strain. Soon now one would snap.

Father! Sasha didn't speak aloud, but his mouth formed the word.

The Jahan nodded very slightly, but he did not release his powerful right arm. He could feel it all down his arm and his back, right deep into Malook who was part of him, he could feel that he had the greater reserves of strength. He could win this. But he must not.

His eyes flicked away now and found Echo on the far side, still watching him. She was leaning a little forward, and her lips were parted. She too knows I can win, he thought.

So why am I about to lose?

I'm stronger than all of them. Why should I lose? I'm the Jahan! What has age to do with it? The best man wins. And she knows, she's known all along, that I'm the best man. Haven't her eyes been on me from the start? The jagga is to find the one who deserves to take my place. But no man deserves to take my place! Not while I'm still alive.

"Sorry, son!" he cried; and with a massive explosion of strength he pulled Sasha right off his mount, and sent him thudding to the ground.

The onlookers cheered. The Orlans grinned and clapped their hands above their heads. The Jahan threw down his whip and made a slow victory circuit of the ground, acknowledging the applause. Sasha clambered to his feet and joined his brothers. The three looked on in silence.

The Great Jahan's circuit brought him to a stop before the guest of honor.

"My congratulations," said Radiant Leader.

The Jahan ignored him. His eyes were on Echo Kittle.

He dismounted and stood before her. She no longer
looked at him. Her eyes were cast down. His bare chest glistened in the torchlight, and his ugly face shone with the glow of victory.