The Plainspeople were quiet until along the ranks of the men a murmur arose and it spread to where their women were gathered. And the voices of the women grew louder and stronger. From their midst arose one who must have ruled a chieftain’s tent since there was gold binding her hair:
“Let there be no war between us! Let there be no more wailing of the death song among our tents! Say it loudly, oh, my sisters!” And her appeal was taken up by all the women, to be echoed until it became a chant as stirring as the war song.
“No more war! No more war between us!”
So did the cup of blood and brotherhood pass from chief to chief on the field and the ranks of the Dark Ones and the Plainsmen were made one by the ritual so that never again might man of one raise lance against man of the other.
Fors sank down upon a flat-topped rock. The strength which had upheld him drained away. He was very tired and the excitement beyond no longer had anything to do with him. He had no eyes for the melting of the stiff tribal lines and the mingling of clan and people.
“This is but a beginning!” He identified the quick eager voice of Marphy and looked around slowly, almost sullenly.
The Plainsman was talking to Jarl, gesturing, his eyes bright. But the Star Captain was his usual calm contained self.
“A beginning, yes, Marphy. But we still have much to master. If I may see those northern records of yours. We of the Star House have not penetrated that far—”
“Of course. And—” Marphy seemed hesitant before he plunged into his counter request—”that cage of rats. I have had it brought into my tent. There are three still alive and from them we may learn—”
Fors shivered. He had no desire to see those captives.
“You claim them as your spoil of war?”
Marphy laughed. “That I shall do. And other spoil beside the vermin shall we ask for—a greater gift from you. This fellow rover of yours—”
He touched gentle fingers to Fors’ stooped shoulder. It seemed to the mountaineer that Jarl displayed a flash of surprise.
“This one has the gift of tongues and the mind which sees. He shall be a guide for us.” Marphy’s words spilled out as if now that he had a kindred spirit in which to confide he could no longer bottle his thoughts. “And in return we shall show him strange lands and far places. For it is in him to be a rover—even as we are—”
Jarl’s fingers plucked at his lower lip: “Yes, rover was he born, and in him flows Plains blood. If he—”
“You forget.” Fors did not force a smile this time. “I am mutant.”
Before either man could answer someone else came up—Arskane. His face still bore the marks of the fight and he favored his shoulder as he moved. But when he spoke it was with an assumption of authority which he plainly did not expect to have disregarded.
“We break camp to march—I have come for my brother!”
Marphy bristled. “He rides with us!”
Fors’ laugh had no humor in it. “Since I cannot travel on my feet I shall be a drag in any company—”
“We shall rig a pony litter,” was Arskane’s quick reply.
“There are also horse litters,” began Marphy jealously.
Jarl moved. “It seems that you now have a choice to make,” he observed dispassionately to Fors. For a moment it seemed to the younger mountain man that only the two of them were there. And neither Arskane nor Marphy pressed his claim farther.
Fors held his free hand to his swimming head. He had Plains blood from his mother—that was true. And the wild free life of the roving horsemen appealed to him. If he went with Marphy no secrets of the ruined country would be hidden from him now—he could learn much. He could make such maps as even the Star Men had never dreamed of possessing, see forgotten cities and loot them for his pleasure, always going on to new country beyond.
If he took the hand Arskane had half offered in support a few minutes ago he would be accepting brotherhood and the close-knit ties of a family clan such as he had never had. He would know all warmth of affection, and go to build a town, maybe in time a city, which would mark the first step back along the road the sins of the Old Ones had lost for their sons. It would be a hard life but, in its way, a rewarding one, as adventurous—though he would never rove far—as Marphy’s.
But—there was the third road. And it ran from a choice he knew only too well. When he thought he was dying—back there during the battle—his feet had taken it without his will. It led to the rare coldness of the mountain heights, into the austere chill of punishment and hurt and eternal discouragement.
So when he raised his head he dared not look at Arskane or Marphy, but he found and held Jarl’s uncompromising eyes as he asked:
“It is true that I am outlawed?”
“You have been called three times at the council fire.”
He recognized flat truth and accepted it. But he had another question:
“Since I was not there to answer in my own voice I have the right of appeal for the period of six moons?”
“You have.”
Fors picked at the sling which bound his left arm across his chest. There was an even chance that it would heal straight and strong again. The healer had promised him that after probing the wound.
“I have then,” he found that he had to stop and work out his words, to regain discipline over his voice, “I shall go and claim that right. Six moons are not yet gone—”
The Star Captain nodded. “If you can travel in three days’ time you will make it.”
“Fors!” At that protest from Arskane, the mountaineer winced. But when he turned his head his voice still held firm.
“It was you yourself, brother, who spoke of duty once—”
Arskane’s hand dropped. “Remember—we be brothers, you and I. Where lies my hearth—there is your place waiting.” He went and he did not look back, he was swallowed up in the throng of his tribesmen.
Marphy came to life. He shrugged. Already he was intent on other plans, other enthusiasms. But he lingered long enough to say:
“From this hour on for you there runs a mount in my herd and the promise of meat, and shelter in my tent. Look for the Standard of the Red Fox when you have need of aid, my young friend.” His hand sketched a half salute as he strode away.
Fors spoke to the Star Captain: “I shall go—”
“With me. I have also a report to make to the tribe—we journey together.”
Was that news good or otherwise? Under other circumstances Fors could have longed for no greater pleasure than to travel in the company of the Star Captain. But now he went in a manner as Jarl’s prisoner. He sat glumly looking over the battlefield—only a small scrimmage—one which the Old Ones, with their fleets in the air and their armed columns on land, would not even have mentioned. Yet here a full-sized war had been fought and out of it had come an idea—perhaps one which would prove the starting point for men. It would be a long weary trail for them to travel—the road back to such a world as the Old Ones had known. And maybe not even the sons’ sons’ sons of those who had fought here would live to see more than the glimmerings of its beginning growth. Or maybe the world which would come would be a better world.
The Plainsmen and the Dark Ones were still suspicious, still wary of one another. Soon the tribes would separate for a space. But, perhaps in six months’ time, a party of Plainsmen would venture again to the south, to visit the bend in the river and see with wondering eyes the cabins which stood there. And one rider would trade a well-tanned hide for a clay dish or a string of colored beads to take home to astonish his women. Afterward would come others, many others, and there would in time be marriages between tent and cabin. And in fifty years—one nation.
“There will be one nation.” Fors hunched on the riding pad of the steady old horse Marphy had forced upon him. Two days had sped but the tramped earth would show scars for a long time.
Jarl shot a measuring glance over the field they crossed.
“And how many years pass before such a miracle?” he inquired with his old irony.
“Fifty—fifty years—perhaps—”
“If nothing intervenes to stop them—yes—you may be right.”