“I don’t know,” admitted the old man. “I don’t know at all.”
Chapter 17
RETURN OF THE LANN
Night had fallen, and fires blazed in the northern camp. A week of rest, lying at ease before Dales-town, jeering at the gaunt watchers on its towers, with nothing to do but sleep and play games and live well off the rich surrounding country, had given the Lann warriors restless new strength. They frolicked more wildly each day in the valley, wrestling, racing horses, shooting at targets, ranging afar to come back with a load of plunder from some undefended farmhouse, and each night, silence and slumber came later. On this evening, their foragers had brought in an especially fat herd of cattle and three wagonloads of southern wine, and the camp made merry.
Lenard stalked through the bivouac toward his father’s tent. A frown darkened his face, and he nodded curtly to those who hailed him. He was in battle dress: his own spiked helmet and well-tried sword, a steel cuirass taken from a Dalesman’s body, a great spear in one hand. But his looted clothes were the finest: a flowing purple cloak with golden brooch, a red tunic of fur-trimmed linen, fringed buckskin breeches, silver-studded boots with ringing spurs, and a heavy gold necklace about his corded throat.
On either side, the fires burned high, and the smell of roast meat still hung richly in the air.
Ruddy light glowed off the rising smoke and splashed the faces of men sprawled near by. Although the Lann had weapons at hand, they were relaxed, flushed with the great bumpers of wine that went around the circle, and their hard, hairy bodies dripped gold and furs and embroidered cloth. The hubbub of voices, talking, laughing, shouting, roaring out songs to the thump of drums and the twang of banjos, beat like a stormy surf against Lenard’s ears. It must be a terrible jeering music for the people in Dalestown, he thought briefly.
Behind him trotted a strange little man. His hair was not worn long as in the Dales or braided as among the Lann, but cropped close, and instead of trousers he had a ragged kilt flapping about his skinny legs. His tunic was of good material, but sadly tattered and muddy, half hidden by the bushy gray beard that swept down his chest. He had been disarmed and shrank timidly from the stares and raucous laughter of the barbarians who saw him.
The tent of Raymon loomed ahead, a square blackness against the night. Two guardsmen leaned on their pikes in front of it, looking wistfully at the revel. The Lann ruler himself sat cross-legged in the entrance before a tiny fire, smoking his pipe and tracing idle patterns in the ground with a knife blade. He was not a tall man, but broad of shoulder and long of arm, with keen, scarred features and hooded black eyes; his dark hair and beard showed only the faintest streaks of gray. He wore a furry robe against the evening chill, but under it one could see a painted leather corselet.
“Greeting, Father,” said Lenard.
The older man looked up and nodded. He had never shown much warmth toward anyone, even his family. “What do you want?” he asked. “I’m thinking.”
Raymon’s thinking usually meant bad luck for his enemies. Lenard grinned for an instant, then sobered and lowered himself to the ground. His follower remained shyly standing.
“What do you plan?” asked Lenard.
“I’m wondering how long the town can hold out,” said Raymon. “They’re a stiff-necked bunch in there. They may eat rats and leather before they give in. I’d like to have this war finished within a month, so that we can move our people down here and get them well settled before winter. But is it worth-while storming the fortress—or can we starve it out in time? I haven’t decided yet.”
Lenard leaned forward, staring intently at the face dim-lit by the red coals. “I have news which may help you decide,” he said.
“Well, so? Speak up, then. And who is this with you?”
“If it please you, honored sir, I am called Gervish, and I speak for the City—” began the stranger.
“Be quiet,” said Lenard. To his father: “Yesterday one of our foraging parties to the north found a whole caravan of these folk, headed toward Dalestown. They said they came in peace to see us. This Gervish rode ahead with one of our men to carry the word. He was brought to me just now, and I saw this was something you should know about.”
“Ah, so.” Raymon’s slitted gaze pierced the nervously hovering little man. “You’re from a city? What city? Where? And why do you come to us, whom all others run away from?”
“Almighty lord, it is the City, the City of the ancients—”
“Be quiet, or we’ll never get the story told.” In brief, hard words Lenard related to his father the events which had caused the witch-folk to flee their homes. When he was through, he sat waiting for a response, but Raymon merely blew a cloud of smoke, and it was long before he answered.
“Hm-m-m,” he said at last. “So those crazy boys are trying it again, eh? What’s that to us?”
“It can be plenty,” snapped Lenard. “You know the story of what went on before—how Carl scared off our men the first time with that magic light, and how there was thunder in the vault the second time. We may not get a third chance—not if Carl returns with the powers of the Doom.”
“The City’s been tabooed,” said Raymon.
Lenard snorted in scorn and anger. “Yes, because that chicken-hearted Kuthay was frightened out of what wits he had. Oh, I admit I was scared too for a while. But I’m alive. Carl is no more a witch than I, but he’s still alive too—and what’s more, he’s not afraid to go back there, even against his own tribe’s will. I tell you, there are things in that vault which can be used against us—or by us—in a way nobody can yet imagine. If we don’t get them, the Dalesmen will. And then woe for the Lann!”
Raymon turned to one of his guardsmen. “Fetch Kuthay,” he ordered. “Also Junti, our highest-ranking Doctor. Quick!”
“Yes, sir.” The warrior loped off and was lost in shadows.
“I’ll go alone if I must,” cried Lenard. “But—”
“Be quiet,” said Raymon. “I have to think about this.”
He sat impassively smoking while Lenard fumed and Gervish cowered. It seemed an age before the red robes of Kuthay and stout, bald Junti came out of the night.
“Sit down,” said Raymon. He did not apologize for disturbing their revel or sleep, whichever it had been. Among the Lann, the Chief held supreme power over even the Doctors. “We’ve something to talk over.”
Kuthay started at sight of Gervish’s gnomish features.
“It’s a witch!” he cried shrilly.
“That shivering dwarf?” Raymon sneered. “Sit down, I say, and listen to me.” He gave them a crisp account of the story.
“We’ve nothing to fear, sir,” said Kuthay a little shakily, when the tale was done. “The devils will take care of those Dalesmen.”
“I wish they’d take care of you!” snorted Lenard. “You and your mumbo-jumbo magic and old wives’ superstitions. This business may cost us the war unless we strike fast.”
“What would you have us do?” asked Junti softly.
“Lift that blasted taboo, man! You have the power. Lift the taboo and then I’ll take some men to the City and clean out the enemy there for good. After that it’s ours!”
“The City—” wavered Gervish. “Sir, the City is our home—”
“The Lann will do what they please with your precious City. And with you too.”
“I dare not,” said Kuthay. His teeth were chattering. “I dare not let you go to that lair of devils. And bring them back here? All the gods forbid!”