“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 Murphy, 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 repeal 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 think 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.”
“You are thinking of the Beast Thing mutant?” Jarl shrugged. “I think that he is a warning—there may be other factors to set barriers in the way.”
“I am mutant.” For the second time Fors made that bitter statement and he spoke it again before the one person he wished had never known of his difference.
Jarl did not rise to the bait. “I have been thinking that we may all be mutants. Who is to say now that we are of the same breed as the Old Ones? And I am of the belief that it is time we all face that fact squarely. But this other—this Beast Thing—” And he proceeded to drown Fors in a barrage of questions which drew out of him all that he had observed while a prisoner of the enemy.
Two days later the mountains stood sharply outlined against the sky. Fors knew that by nightfall, if they kept the pace they had held through the journey, they would be past the outposts of the Eyrie. He fumbled awkwardly with his one hand at his belt and pulled his sword from the sheath. As Jarl caught up to him he held it out, hilt first.
“Now I am your prisoner.” He did not have to steady his voice, it was naturally so. It was as if he no longer
cared what happened to him during the next few days. This was a piece of unfinished living which must be completed before he left it behind him. But he was impatient now to have it over, to be read out of the tribe as an outlaw, to go into the wilderness again—he was ready and unafraid.
Jarl took his sword without a word and Fors glanced beyond the Star Captain to the waiting Lura. She was tugging in his mind, suddenly weary of the leash of loyalty which had held her to him through all these days of danger. She wanted the mountains, too, in a different way—the mountains and her freedom. He gave it to her with a single shaft of thought and she was gone that same instant. And because he had released her so willingly he knew that she would return as willingly when she had followed her own desire to its end.
After that Fors rode in a kind of dream. He paid little or no attention to the men of the Eyrie who came out of their scout posts to greet the Star Captain. They did not speak to him and he had no wish for them to do so. His impatience to come to the judging only burned the stronger in him.
He was alone at last in the inner chamber of the Star House, that same chamber which he had violated. The empty hook where Langdon’s star pouch had once hung was a mute reminder of that offense. Too bad his venture had failed so completely. He would never be able now to prove the truth of his father’s dream. But even that thought did not prick him overmuch. He could go out again—and not by any favor of the council men.
There was the reflection of the council fire on the naked rock of the mountain wall out there. The elders were gathering to judge him. But it would be the Star Men who would have the final voice against him. It was the Star House he had looted, the Star tradition and mysteries he had flouted.