“Ugh—uh—whoof! Whazzamatter?”
“Not so loud. Hold yourself ready. I’m going to try something.”
Carl waited until the sentry’s back was turned. Then he threw off his upper blanket, rose to his knees, and began digging in the ground.
The Lann guard swung about and strode over to him. His spearhead gleamed near the boy’s ribs. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
“There’s a rock under my back. I’m getting rid of it. See?” Carl pointed to the shadowy form of the stone, where he had pulled aside the lower blanket.
“All right, all right. Don’t wake the camp. I’ll dig it out for you.” The Lann probed in the earth with his spearhead. Carl got to his feet, looking at the stooped back and the helmeted head, thinking with a vague regret, under the thudding of his heart, that the warrior wasn’t a bad sort.
There was a chink and the stone rolled free. “There you are,” said the man.
“Thanks.” Carl stooped over, picking the rock up in one hand. It jutted from his fist, hard and cold and damp with the clinging earth.
Lightning swift, the boy’s arms straightened, and his hand crashed the stone against the warrior’s temple. The blow shocked back into his muscles, and he heard the dull crack as if it were a thunderclap.
The man toppled, blood spurting from his face. Tom was already erect, catching the unconscious body as it fell and easing it to the ground. Owl seized the spear before it could fall clattering. Carl glared wildly at the dim black shapes of the Lann. Someone stirred, mumbling in his sleep.
Bending over, he jerked out the warrior’s knife and slashed his bonds across. He handed Tom the weapon to release himself and Owl, while his own fingers groped over the fallen enemy.
Blood was hot and sticky as he fumbled with the helmet’s chin strap. He got it loose, pulled off the man’s dark cloak, and handed both to Tom.
“You’re about his height,” he hissed. “Wear these and take his spear. Pace up and down, in case someone sees…”
They were barely in time. As Tom moved slowly from the boys, a drowsy voice called out:
“Whuzzat?”
“It’s all well. Go back to sleep,” said Tom hoarsely, praying that his tones were not too different from the guard’s. He began his slow walk, up and down, up and down. The spear shook in his sweat-slippery hands, and he bit his teeth together to keep them from chattering.
Catlike, snakelike, Carl and Owl were writhing a way through tall grass to the horses. They had the sentry’s knife and sword to cut the tether. But if a horse whinnied, or if the unconscious man woke up— Up and down, up and down, pace, pace, pace.
A faint, starlit flash of metal flitted among the animals. Carl and Owl were cutting all the tethers. A horse neighed once, and Tom froze. Then he began pacing again, a guardian figure in cloak and helmet, spear tall against the stars. An enemy, waking briefly, might well suppose that the sentry was still there and that the animal’s noise was of no meaning. He might!
The low trilling of a thrush came from the forest’s edge. But thrushes rarely sing at night. It was a signal. Tom stared at the camp for a moment. Nothing stirred. He heard a snore and someone talking in his sleep. Turning, he went with long, quiet steps over to the horses.
His friends were holding three by swiftly looped hackamore bridles. The others stirred and snorted, uneasy at this strange doing. Tom laid down his spear and leaped onto the back of one. Carl and Owl followed suit.
A sudden voice thundered from the camp: “Joey’ Joey, where are you? What’s going on?”
“All right, boys!” Carl’s voice lifted high and clear. “Let’s go!” He plunged into the thick of the herd, screeching and howling. “Eeeeyah! Hi, hi, hi! Giddap!”
“They’re getting away—”
The horses stampeded. Neighing, plunging, they scattered in terror and a wild drumming of hoofs.
“Come on!” barked Carl. “Let’s ride to Dalestown!”
An arrow whizzed by his cheek, and another and another. The Lann were awake now, shouting, running about after their mounts, firing at the three who galloped into the forest. Carl leaned low over the neck of his steed. There hadn’t been time to steal spare animals. The risk had been enormous as it was—and so these would flag in a long chase. And a long chase it would be, clear to Dalestown, with the Lann in hot and angry pursuit as soon as they had recovered their own horses.
Owl’s laughter pealed forth. “We seem to do nothing but steal livestock these days!” he cried.
“Ride, you ninny!” shouted Carl. “Ride to Dalestown!”
Chapter 13
HERO’S REWARD
The horse stumbled. Its breath came short and gasping, and foam streaked its dusty flanks. Relentlessly, Carl spurred it with a sharp-pointed twig. The dust cloud behind was growing terribly near. Weariness blurred the boy’s eyes. His head felt empty from lack of rest. There had been no chance to drink all this day, and his mouth was dry. The sun danced cruelly bright above him.
A night and a day, another night and now this day, fleeing, fleeing… only the shortest snatches of sleep, more to save the horses than themselves… no food, until hunger was a numb ache within them… dodging, weaving, splashing along streams, using every trick they knew to hide their trail from the hunters. Now they were on the last stretch, plunging along the well-remembered road to Dalestown, and the riders of Lann were just behind them.
Carl cast a glance to the rear. He could see the forms of men and horses, the up and down of lances and helmets, wavering in heat-shimmer and swirling dust. Since getting on the track of the boys and spotting them about dawn, Lenard and his men had steadily closed the gap between. Their recovered horses, being more in number than the masters and thus able to rest from bearing weight, were fresher. Carl wondered bleakly if his own mount might not fall dead under him.
It might have been wiser to go on foot. A man could run down a horse on any really long stretch. But no, the horse had greater speed for the shorter jogs—such as this last wild lap to Dalestown. No time to think. Too late to think. Ride, ride, ride!
Beside him, Tom and Owl held to the hoof-thudding road, sagging a little with their own exhaustion. Their clothes were ragged, torn by branches in the woods. Their skins were scratched. They were muddy with grime and sweat, weaponless save for one stolen knife, hunted, but they plunged ahead, over the hard-baked dirt of the road, over the hills that rolled to Dalestown.
“Hi-yi!” The savage, wolfish baying of the Lann rang faintly in Carl’s ears. An arrow dropped almost beside him, its force spent. But soon the enemy would be well within bowshot-range, and that would be the end.
The land lay broad and green about him, houses growing thicker as he neared the town, grain waving in fields and flowers blooming in gardens. But nothing lived there, nothing stirred, emptiness lay on the world. The people had retreated behind the walls of Dalestown.
The long, easy rhythm of gallop under Carl was breaking as the horse staggered. The Lann howled and spurred their own mounts, closer, closer, a drumbeat roll of hoofs under the brazen heavens.
“Carl— Carl—” Tom’s voice was a moan. “We can’t make it—so near, but we can’t—”
“We can!” shouted the Chief’s son, half deliriously. His head rang and buzzed and whirled. He dug fingers into the horse’s mane and leaned over the neck. “We’re almost there. Hang on, hang on!”
They were speeding up a long slope. As they neared the heights, Carl saw that thunderheads were piling up above it. There would be rain before nightfall and the earth would rejoice. But he—would he be there to feel its coolness?
“Yah, yah, yah!” The Lann yelped and plunged ahead as their prey disappeared over the hilltop.