Halfway across the berry patch they came upon evidence of a struggle. Under a bush lay a tightly woven basket, spilling berries out into a mush of trampled earth and crushed fruit. From this a trail of beaten-down grass and broken bushes led to the other side of the field.
From the tight grasp of briers Arskane detached a strip of cloth dyed a dull orange. He pulled it slowly through his fingers.
“This is of my tribal making,” he said. “They were berrying here when—”
Fors felt the point of the spear he trailed. It was not much of a weapon. He longed fiercely for his bow—or even to hold the sword the Plainsmen had taken from him. There were sword tricks which could serve a man well at the right occasion.
With the scrap of cotton caught between his teeth Arskane crawled on, giving no heed to the thorns which ripped his arms and shoulders. Fors was conscious now of a thin wailing sound, which did not rise or fall but kept querulously to one ear-torturing note. It seemed to come with the smoke which the wind bore to them.
The berry field ended in a stand of trees and through these they looked out upon a lost battlefield. Small, two-wheeled carts had been pulled up in a circle, or into a segment of a circle, for there was a large gap in it now. And on these carts perched death birds, too stuffed to do more than hold on to the wood and stare down at a feast still spread to entice them. A mound of gray-white bodies lay at one side, their clothing clotted and stiffened with blood.
Arskane got to his feet—where the birds roosted unafraid the enemy was long gone. That monotonous crying still filled the ears and Fors began to search for the source. Arskane stooped suddenly and struck with a stone grabbed from the ground. The cry was stilled and Fors saw his companion straighten up from the still quivering body of a lamb.
There was another quest before them, a more ghastly one. They began it with tight mouths and sick eyes—dreading to find what must lie among the burning wagons and the mounds of dead animals. But it was Fors who found there the first trace of the enemy.
He half stumbled over a broken wagon wheel and beneath it was a lean body which lay with arms outstretched and sightless eyes staring up. From the hairless chest protruded the butt of an arrow which had gone true to its mark. And that arrow—! Fors touched the delicately set feathers at the end of the shaft. He knew the workmanship—he himself set feathers in much the same fashion. Though here was no personal mark of ownership—nothing but the tiny silver star set so deeply into that shaft that it could never be effaced.
“Beast Thing!” Arskane exclaimed at the sight of the corpse.
But Fors pointed to the arrow. “That came from the quiver of a Star Man.”
Arskane did not display much interest—there were his own discoveries.
“This is the encampment of a family clan only. Four wagons are burning, at least five escaped. They could not run with the sheep—so they killed the flock. I have found the bodies of four more of these vermin—” He touched the Beast Thing with the toe of his moccasin.
Fors stepped across the hind legs of a dead pony which still lay with the harness of a cart on it. A Beast Thing dart stood out between its ribs. From the presence of the Beast Thing corpses, Fors was inclined to believe that the attack had been beaten off and the besieged had been successful in the break for freedom.
A second search of the litter equipped them with darts, and Fors snapped off the shaft of the arrow which bore the star marking. Some wanderer from the Eyrie had made common cause with the southerners in this attack. Did that mean that he could expect to meet a friend—or an enemy—when he joined Arskane’s people?
The wheels of the escaping carts had cut deep ruts in the soft turf and there were footprints clear to read beside them. The death birds settled back to the feast as the two moved on. Arskane was breathing hard and the grimness which had cut his mouth into a cruel line over the grave of Noraton was back.
“Four of the Beast Things,” puzzled Fors, lengthening his stride to a lope to keep up. “And the Lizard folk killed five. How many are out roving—There has never been such an onslaught of the things before. Why—?”
“I found a burned-out torch in the paw of one of them back there. Maybe the fire of the Plains camp came from their setting. Just as they tried here to fire the carts and drive out the clan to slaughter.”
“But never before have they come out of the ruins. Why now?”
Arskane’s lips moved as if he would spit. “Perhaps they too seek land—or war—or merely the death of all those not of their breed. How can we look into the minds of such? Ha!”
The cart track they followed joined another—a deeper, wider track, such a road as must have been beaten down by the feet and wheels of a nation on the march. The tribe was ahead now.
In the next second, Fors checked so suddenly that he came near to tripping over his own feet. Out of nowhere had come an arrow, to dig deep into the earth and stand, quivering a little, an arrogant warning and a threat. He did not have to examine it closely. He knew before he put out his hand that he would find a star printed in its shaft.
15
Bait
Arskane did not break stride but threw himself to the left and crouched in the shadow of a bush, the darts he had picked up at the scene of the ambush in his hands, ready. Fors on the contrary stood where he was and held up empty palms.
“We travel in peace—”
The rolling words of his own mountain land seemed odd to mouth after all these weeks. But he was not surprised at the identity of the man who came out of the clump of trees to the right of the trail.
Jarl would be imposing even in the simple garb of one of the least of the Eyrie. In the insignia of the Star Captain he had more majesty, thought Fors proudly, than Cantrul, for all the Plainschief’s feather helmet and collar of ceremony. As he walked toward them the sun glinted meteor bright on the Star at his throat and on the well-polished metal of belt, sword hilt and knife guard.
Arskane pulled his feet under him. He was like Lura ready to spring for the kill. Fors made a furious gesture at him. Jarl, in turn, showed no astonishment at the sight of the two who waited for him.
“So, kinsman.” He fingered his bow as if it were a councilor’s staff of office. “This is the trail you have found to follow?”
Fors saluted him. And when Jarl did not acknowledge that courtesy he bit down hard on the soft inner part of his lip. True, Jarl had never shown him any favor in the past, but neither had the Star Captain ever by word or deed betrayed belief that Fors was any different from the rest of the young of the Eyrie. And for that he had long ago won a place apart in the boy’s feelings.
“I travel with Arskane of the Dark Ones, my brother.” He snapped his fingers to bring the southerner out of the bush. “His people are in danger now, so we join them—”
“You realize that you are now outlawed?”
Fors tasted the salty sweetness of the blood from his lip. He could, in all fairness, have hoped for little less than that sentence after his manner of leaving the Eyrie. Nevertheless the calm mention of it now made him cringe a little. He hoped that he did not show his discomfiture to Jarl. The Eyrie had not been a happy home for him—he had never been welcome there since Langdon’s death. In truth they had outlawed him long since. But it had been the only shelter he knew.
“By the fire of Arskane is his brother always welcome!”
Jarl’s eyes, those eyes which held one on the balance scale, went from Fors to his companion.
“Soon the Dark Ones will not have fire or shelter to offer. You are late in your returning, clansman. The drums of recall have been still these many hours.”
“We were detained against our will,” returned Arskane almost absently. He was studying Jarl in his turn and, seemingly, the result was not altogether to his liking.
“And not detained in gentleness it would appear.” Jarl must have marked every cut and bruise the two before him boasted. “Well, fighting men are always welcome before a battle.”