“This—” Fors drew a deep breath—”this is greater treasure than the Star House holds. Could Jarl and the rest but look upon these!”
The law man ran his fingers along the smooth frame of the map he held.
“In all the tribe perhaps ten of our youth look upon these with any stir in their hearts or minds. The rest—they care nothing for the records, for making a map of the way our feet have gone that day. To eat and to war, to ride and hunt, to raise a son after them to do likewise—that it the desire of the tribe. But always—always there are a few who still strive to go back along the old roads, to try to find again what was lost in the days of disaster. Bits and pieces we discover, a thread here and a tattered scrap there, and we try to weave it whole.”
“If Marphy spoke now the full truth,” the harsher voice of the healer broke in, “he would say that it was because he was born a seeker of knowledge that all this”—he waved at the array—”came to be. He it was who started making these and he trains those of like mind to see and set down what they have seen. All this has been done since he became keeper of the records.”
The law man looked confused and then he smiled almost shyly. “Have I not said that it is in our blood to be ever hunting what lies beyond? In me it has taken this turn. In you, Fanyer, it also works so that you make your messes out of leaves and grass, and if you dared you would cut us open just to see what lies beneath our skins.”
“Perhaps, perhaps. Dearly would I like to know what lies beneath the skins of these two that they have crossed the Blow-Up land and yet show no signs of the burning sickness—”
“I thought,” retorted Arskane quickly, “that was the story you did not believe.”
Fanyer considered him through narrowed eyes, almost, Fors thought, as if he did have the southerner opened for examination.
“So—maybe I do not believe it. But if it is true, then this is the greatest wonder I have yet heard of. Tell me, how did this thing happen?”
Arskane laughed. “Very well, we shall tell our tale. And we swear that it is a true one. But half of the tale belongs to each of us and so we tell it together.”
And as the oil lamp sputtered overhead, guards and prisoners sat on the round cushions and talked and listened. When Fors spoke the last word Marphy stretched and shook himself as if he had been swimming in deep water.
“That is the truth, I think,” he commented quietly. “And it is a brave story, fit to make a song for the singing about night fires.”
“Tell me,” Fanyer rounded abruptly upon Fors, “you who were lessoned for knowledge seeking, what was the thing which amazed you most in this journey of yours?”
Fors did not even have to consider his answer. “That the Beast Things are venturing forth from their dens into the open country. For, by all our observations, they have not done so before in the memory of men. And this may mean danger to come—”
Marphy looked to Fanyer and their eyes locked. Then the man of medical knowledge got to his feet and went purposefully out into the night. It was Arskane who broke the short silence with a question of his own.
“Recorder of the past, why did your young men hunt us down? Why do you march to war against my people? What has passed between our tribes that this is so?”
Marphy cleared his throat, almost as if he wished for time.
“Why? Why? Even the Old Ones never answered that. As you can see in the tumbled stones of their cities. Your people march north seeking a home, mine march east and south for the same reason. We are different in custom, in speech, in bearing. And man seems to fear this difference. Young blood is hot, there is a quarrel, a killing, from the spilled blood springs war. But chiefly the reason is this, I think. My people are rovers and they do not understand those who would build and root in one place within the borders of a land they call their own. Now we hear that a town is rising in the river bend one day’s journey to the south. And that town is being settled by men of your blood. So now the tribe is uneasy and a little afraid of what they do not know. There are many among them who say that we must stamp out what may be a threat to us in time to come—”
Arskane wiped the palms of his hands across the tattered remnant of his garment, as if he had found those palms suddenly and betrayingly damp.
“In no way is my tribe any threat against the future of yours. We ask only for land in which to plant our seed and to provide grazing for our sheep. Perhaps we may be lucky to find a bank of clay to give us the material we need for our potters’ craft. We are indifferent hunters—coming from a land where there is but little game. We have arts in our hands which might well serve others beside ourselves.”
“True, true.” Marphy nodded. “This desire for war with the stranger is our curse—perhaps the same one which was laid upon the Old Ones for their sins. But it will take greater than either of us to make a peace now—the war drums have sounded, the lances are ready—”
“And there, for once, you speak the full truth, oh, weaver of legends!”
It was the High Chief who came to the table. Laid aside were his feather helmet and cloak of office. In the guise of a simple warrior he could walk the camp unnoted.
“You forget this—a tribe which breeds not warriors to hold its lances will be swallowed up. The lion preys upon the bull—if it can escape the horns. The wolves run in packs to the kill. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten—that is the law upheld better than all other laws.”
Something hot rose in Fors’ throat and he snapped out an answer to that which was born of this new emotion.
“The paws of the Beast Things are against all of us—in just that manner, oh Captain of the Tents. And they are no lightly considered enemy. Lead your lances against them—if war you must!”
Surprise came first into Cantrul’s eyes and then the flush of anger stained his brown cheekbones. His hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his short sword. Fors’ hands remained on his knees. The scabbard at his belt was empty and he could not accept any challenge the Plainsman might offer.
“Our lances move when they will and where they will, stranger. If they wish to clean out a nest of mud-hut-dwelling vermin—”
Arskane made no move, but his one unswollen eye calmly measured the High Chief with a control Fors admired. Cantrul wanted an answer—preferably a hot one. When it did not come he turned to Fors with a harsh question.
“You say that the Beast Things march?”
“No,” Fors corrected him. “I say that for the first time in our knowledge they are coming fearlessly out of their burrows in the cities to roam the open lands. And they are cunning fighters with powers we have not yet fully gauged. They are not men as we are—whether or not their sires’ sires’ sires were of our breed. So they may be greater than we—or lesser. How can we yet know? But this is true—as we of the Eyrie, who have warred against them during generations of city looting, can say—they are enemies to mankind. My father died under their fangs. I, myself, have lain in their bonds. They are no common enemy to be dismissed without fear, Plainsman.”
“There is this, remember.” Marphy broke the short silence. “When these two fled across the Blow-Up land a pack of the creatures sniffed their trail. If we march south without taking care we may find ourselves with an enemy behind as well as before—to be caught between two fires—”
Cantrul’s fingers drummed out a battle rhythm on his belt, a sharp furrow cut between his thin brows. “We have scouts out.”
“True. You are a leader old in war knowledge. What is needful has been ordered. Forgive me—I grow old, and conning records sometimes gives one a weary view of life. Man makes so many mistakes—sometimes it appears that never shall he learn—”
“In war he learns or dies! It is plain that the Old Ones did not or could not learn—well, they are gone, are they not? And we live—the tribe is strong. I think that you worry too much, both of you—Fanyer, too. We ride prepared and there is nothing that—”