Someone raised a cheer—it came from the outer edges where the youths stood. And that cheer gathered voices and grew. Men were on their feet now, their voices eager, their eyes alight. Never had this reserved and serious people seemed so like their cousins of the Plains. The tribe was coming to a new life.
“So be it,” Jarl’s voice broke through the din. At his gesture of command some of it died away. “From this hour we shall walk new ways. And in remembrance of that choice do we now set upon Fors a star which is like unto no other worn here. And in his turn, when the time comes, he shall raise up those who will wear it after him. Thus there will be always those among us who shall speak with other peoples as a friend, think with neutral minds, and hold the peace of nations in their hands!”
Jarl came to Fors holding out a chain from which hung a star, not of five points but of many, so that it was a compass sign pointing in all directions at once. And this fell cool and smooth below the mutant’s throat.
Then the tribe shouted the cry which was the welcome to a Star Man newly raised up. But in this too there was a difference. For now was born a new star and from it would follow what no man standing there that night might rightly foresee—not even he who wore it as a trust.
No Night Without Stars
1
The thick plume of the greasy-looking black smoke rising from beyond the ridge was warning enough. Sander slipped off Rhin, crept up-slope, his mount padding behind him with the same caution. They had seen no campsite for days, and the provision bag, still knotted to the pad strapped about Rhin, was empty. Hunger was a discomfort within Sander. This land had been singularly empty of game for the past twenty-four hours. And a handful or two of barely ripe grain, pulled out of a straggle of stalks, was far from filling.
Five days ago Sander had passed the boundaries of the territory known to Jak’s Mob. When he had ridden out of the ring of tents, blackly bitter at his treatment, he had swung due east, heading for the legendary sea. Then it had seemed possible that he could achieve his purpose—to find the ancient secrets whereby he could better forge the metal brought by Traders, so that, upon his return, he could confront Ibbets and the others and force from them an acknowledgment that he was not an apprentice of little worth, but a smith of the Old Learning. This long trek through a wilderness he did not know had taught him caution, though it had not yet dampened the inner core of his rebellion against Ibbets’s belittling decision.
Now he wedged his shoulders between two rocks, pulling his hood well down over his face so that its gray color would blend well with the stones around him. Though he was no hunter by training, each member of the Mob was lessoned from childhood in the elements of hiding-out when confronted by the unusual. He would not move until he could make very sure there was no danger ahead.
Below lay a wide valley down which a river angled. And where that opened into a much larger bowl of water (of which he could see only one shoreline, the one into which the river cut), there stood a collection of buildings, a small village. Those log-walled shelters appeared to be permanent, unlike the hide tents of the Mob that were easily moved from one place to another. However, small sullen tongues of fire now showed here and there, threatening to destroy the buildings.
Even from this distance Sander sighted what could only be a huddle of bodies lying along the river bank. There had been a raid, he deduced. Maybe the dreaded Sea Sharks of the south had struck. He doubted there was any life left in that collection of huts.
The fire burned slowly, mainly along the river bank and the shoreline of the large body of water beyond. There were a few buildings seemingly still untouched. They would have been looted, of course. Still, there was a chance that not all of the provisions collected by those settled here had been carried away. And this was harvest season. His own people (or those whom he had believed to be his close kin—he grimaced at that thought) had been engaged in late season hunts and the drying of meat when he had ridden out.
Though the nomadic Mob roamed the wide inner lands, Sander had heard enough tales from the Traders to know that elsewhere men lived differently. In some places clans had settled permanently upon the land, planting and tending food which they grew. Here, in this near-destroyed settlement, they must also have fished. His stomach growled and he shifted a little, surveying the scene of the raid carefully to make sure that if he did go down he was not running into trouble.
Rhin whined deep in his throat, nudged Sander with his muzzle. His yellow-brown coat was already thickening with new winter growth. Now his jaws opened a little, his pointed tongue showed. His ears pricked as he watched the burning buildings with the same intense stare as Sander. But he betrayed no more than the common caution with which he approached all new situations.
His green eyes did not blink, nor did his brush of tail move. Instead he sat on his haunches as if it did not matter that his head rose well above the skyline, visible from the town. Sander accepted Rhin’s verdict of no imminent danger—for the sly intelligence of his kind supplied information that no man, with his blunter senses, could hope to gain.
Though he got to his feet, Sander did not remount. Instead he slipped down the ridge, using every bit of cover. Rhin followed like a red-yellow ghost a step or two behind. Sander carried his dart thrower, a missile notched ready against its taut string and loosened his long knife in its leather scabbard.
As they drew closer to the looted town, Sander’s nose wrinkled at the stench of burning and of other smells far worse. Rhin growled, sniffing. He liked that scent no better than Sander. But at least he seemed to have picked up no hint of enemies.
Sander circled away from the river bank where lay those blood-stained bundles, heading toward the seemingly unharmed buildings farther inland from the shore. He could hear the pounding of waves and smell a new odor, swept toward him by a rising wind—a strange, fresh scent. Was this indeed the sea, not just some larger lake?
As he approached the nearest building, he hesitated, something in him resisted making this intrusion. Only the need for food forced him into an alleyway so narrow that Rhin crowded him with a furry shoulder as they padded on together.
The walls of logs Sander saw were thick. The only openings were set very high, nearly masked by the overhanging eaves of the sharply-pitched roofs. He reached the end of the alley and turned right before he found the entrance door.
It had been fashioned of heavy planking. Now it hung crazily from a single hinge, scarred by forced entry. Rhin snarled, his tongue sweeping out over his lips. There was a body just within that broken door; between the shoulders was a splotch of clotted blood. The villager lay face downward and Sander had no desire to turn him over.
The stranger was not wearing the leather and furs of a Mobsman, rather a coarsely woven overtunic dyed a nut brown. His legs were encased in baggy trousers of the same material, with laced hide boots on his feet. For a long moment Sander hesitated before he stepped gingerly around the dead man into an interior that showed both search and wanton destruction.
There was another huddle of twisted body and stained clothing in the corner. After a single glance, Sander kept his eyes resolutely from it. Smashed and nearly destroyed as the contents of this room were, he could still see that the town dwellers had possessed more worldly goods than any Mobsman. That was only sensible in their way of life. One could not cart chairs, tables, and chests about the land when one was ever traveling to follow the herds. He stopped to pick up a broken bowl, intrigued by the design across its side. Its few dark lines against the clear brown of the pottery made him envision birds in flight.
He made his way quickly to the food bins, wanting no more of this chamber of the dead. Rhin whined from without. Sander caught the uneasiness of his companion, the need to be gone. But he forced himself to examine what was left.
There was a measure of grain flour mixed with chopped and powdered nut meats. Using the broken bowl for a scoop he packed it into his provision bag. He found two dried fish wedged in another over-turned bin. But the rest had been deliberately wasted or wantonly befouled. Sickened by the signs of relentless hatred, he hurried out to join Rhin.