“Ezzef” — “Here.” — “Toom” — “Here.” — “Rodge” — “Still alive, Chief.” — “Jonathan” — Silence. “Jonathan!” — Silence.
“Where are Torsen and Piggy?”
“Both killed. I saw Piggy go down myself.”
Alarm shivered in Ralph’s call. The forest muffled his voice. It sounded strangely dead. “But they were guarding Lenard!”
“The Lann must’ve got him back then.”
“Lenard—free again!”
Chapter 9
THE BROKEN BAN
Morning came, chill and gray and hopeless. Men looked wearily about with eyes from which the nightmare of stumbling through dark forest and hills was only slowly lifting.
The army straggled across the rough Scarpian landscape, men walking in small disordered groups. Thickets and ravines hid many from Carl’s eyes, but he was sure that the bulk of Ralph’s warriors had escaped.
Only a few were very badly wounded, for the retreating Dalesmen had found no chance to rescue comrades in such plight. But all of them were slashed and battered, stiff with dried blood, clothes hanging ragged and dew-wet on exhausted bodies. Not many horses had been saved, and the most hurt rode these. Even Ralph was afoot now, carrying his own torn flag.
Carl’s body was one vast, numb ache. His head felt hollow with tiredness, and he staggered a little as he walked. Only now was he becoming really aware of his wounds, a gash across one thigh which Tom had crudely bandaged, a throbbing lump on his head, bruises turning blue and yellow along his arms and breast.
Swords and forest thorns had ripped his clothes, the blade at his waist was nicked and blunted with use, the bow was gone and the corselet was heavy on his shoulders.
Owl grinned painfully at his side. One eye was black and swollen, and he seemed to be short a tooth. “So this,” he said, “is the excitement and glory of war! I’ll never believe a ballad singer again.”
“At least,” said Tom slowly, “we’re all alive—You and Father and Carl here. Give thanks for small blessings.”
Carl thought of those who were dead. He hadn’t had time yet to search for all his friends, but he knew that many were gone. Dick, the wild and gay, fat, stanch Bucko, soft-voiced Ansy—he’d never see them again in this world. They were sprawled on the red riverbank where the enemy went hallooing past their sightless eyes, and the sun shone and the wind whispered in long grasses and their kinfolk waited weeping, but they didn’t know it.
Dead—dead and defeated.
Ralph was striding toward the brow of a tall hill. He walked stiffly, limping and leaning on his flagstaff, his face a mask of dried blood under the battered helmet, but the wide shoulders were unbowed and morning light struck gold from his hair. When he reached the top, he planted the banner and blew his horn.
Though the cry was feeble, lost in the ringing, echoing reach of hills, the Dalesmen hearkened, and slowly, slowly, they gathered beneath him until their stooped forms hid the dew-glimmering earth. When they were all there, they sat and waited. Ralph’s chiefs, such as lived, joined him, and Carl slipped up to stand by his father. But weariness was too heavy on him, and he sat instead, drawing his knees up under his chin and looking forth over the tired, beaten faces of the tribesmen.
Ralph spoke, filling his lungs so that most of the army could hear and pass the word along:
“We haven’t been pursued yet, and I think the Lann would have caught up to us by now if they cared to. So most likely they’re letting us go, not thinking us worth the trouble of another fight.”
“We aren’t,” said a man, grinning without humor.
“They’ll learn otherwise!” Ralph folded his arms and looked defiantly around. “We’ve lost a battle, yes, but we haven’t lost the war. Not if we stick together and fight on.”
“We’re done for, Chief, and you know it.” Another man stood up near the crest of the hill, a gray-haired farmer with a sullen anger in his eyes. “Best we scatter, go to our homes, and flee south while we can.”
A low mumble went through the close-packed warriors, heads nodded and hands dropped slackly to the grass.
Ralph lifted his voice to a shout: “That’s coward’s advice, Bilken, and I’d not have looked for that from you.”
“I lost one son at that battle,” answered the farmer. “Why should I lose the rest—for nothing?”
“But it’s not for nothing!” cried Ralph. “It’s for our homes and wives and children, for freedom, for our very lives. Where can we go as the trickling remnants of a broken people? Who will receive us? What will we do when the Lann swallow the next tribe, and the next, and the one after that? Become their slaves? Cut their wood and draw their water and clean their barns? Kneel in the mud when a horseman goes by? Was it for this that our fathers cleared the woods and plowed the land and fought the savages? Has their blood turned to water in our veins?”
“We can’t fight,” croaked Bilken. “We’ve nothing to fight with.”
“Yes, we have. We have other weapons. We have other horses. One night’s rest will give us new strength. We have Dalestown, whose walls have never been stormed. We have our bare hands, if need be!” Ralph shook the banner, and its golden field uncurled in the dawn breeze.
“Are we still the Dalesmen or are we field mice running before a scythe? By all the gods, I’ll fight alone if I must!”
“They’ll coop us up inside the walls while they burn our homes,” cried a voice.
“Nonsense! They won’t burn that which they themselves want to take over. And even if they do, what of it? Your homes are lost anyway if you flee. But if we win, there is always more wood and stone for building. There’s always the land.”
Ralph waved an arm at the hills and trees that stretched to a far blue horizon. “There’s always the land,” he repeated. “Without it, we are nothing— woods-runners, beggars, homeless and hopeless tramps. These are the Dales, and while we hold them we are strong and rich and happy. While we fight for our earth, it will give us of its strength. Dalesmen, free men, will you give away your birthright?”
It struck home. Carl saw a new light in dulled eyes, saw fingers close on the hafts of weapons and men rise to their feet. A ragged cheer lifted slowly, pulsing out like the golden flag that waved overhead. The farmer Bilken nodded grudgingly and sat down. When it came to a vote, there were few who said “No.”
Truly Ralph was a leader of men!
But Carl saw that this hope was hollow. What, indeed, could be done against a foe who had already smashed their finest power, a foe who must even now be spilling out across the wide land and bringing terror where he went? The Dalesmen could retreat inside their walls, perhaps, but then what could they do? Wait for starvation, or sally forth to die?
He shook his head, feeling weariness overwhelm him. But even then a resolution was gathering in his mind.
The army rested most of that day. Ralph commandeered horses from the nearest farm and sent men galloping out. One would bear word of ruin back to Dalestown, one or two would try to spy on the enemy movements, the rest would pass a message to the scattered homesteads of the tribe and let them carry it farther: retreat to town, we are beaten and must draw into our shell.
But many a lonely farm, thought Carl, would already have received that word from the fire and sword of the Lann.
He spoke to his father a little, as they sprawled in the grass waiting for a sleep which would not come: “What do you hope to do? Do you really believe we can fetch victory, even now?”
“I don’t know,” said Ralph dully. “It may be that we can, somehow, by some miracle. Or it may be that we will give the Lann so much trouble that they’ll be willing to bargain and take less than everything. That would at least give us a breathing space. Or it may well be that we will go down to utter defeat. But even then—” He looked sternly up. “Even then, Carl, we’ll have fought like Dalesmen!”