Carl rubbed his eyes, yawning. “I know how he feels.”
They went out in a cool gray mist and helped with the morning’s work. When they came back to the house, leading saddled horses, breakfast was waiting, and Carl ate as hungrily as his new friends.
John’s wife, Mary, hovered over the boys. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Be careful, Tom, Jim, and—oh, come back to us!”
“Yes,” rumbled John in his beard. “I shouldn’t let you go, but—the gods go with you.” His rough hand brushed their shoulders and he turned away, blinking.
The three were too eager to be off to pay much attention.
It seemed a long time to Carl before he was riding into the woods, but the mist was still not quite off the ground and dew was shining in the grass.
“I know the way,” said Tom, “even if I’ve never been there myself. We follow this trail till we get to a brook, then it’s due north across country to one of the old roads, and that’ll take us straight in.”
“If it’s that easy,” said Carl, “I don’t need a guide.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” said Owl. “At least, I need the trip.”
They rode single file down a narrow path. Before long, the forest had closed in on them, brush and fern and high, sun-dappled trees, a red squirrel streaking up a mossy trunk, chatter of birds and murmur of running water—but they were alone, there were no others anywhere, and the great stillness lay like a cloak over all the lesser noises. Carl relaxed in the saddle, listening with half an ear to the excited talk of Tom and Owl, aware of the plod of hoofs and the squeak of leather and the jingle of metal, his nostrils sensing a thousand smells of green growing life. It was a good land here, a broad, fair land of green fields and tall forests and strong people—and by all the gods, the Dalesmen meant to keep it!
“I know why Father let us go with you,” said Tom. “He is upset about our neighborhood no sending men to Dalestown. He thinks it’s still the wisest thing we’re doing, but he doesn’t really like it.”
“Nobody likes war,” said Carl shortly.
“I think the Lann must,” said Owl. “Otherwise, why are they making it against us? We never John’s sons had taken along, and then mounted again and rode farther.”
The attack came near midafternoon. Carl was riding in the lead, pushing a way through a dense part of the forest, lost in his own thoughts. Their own passage was so noisy that the boys did not hear anything else, and the sudden yell came like a thunderbolt.
Carl whipped out his sword and dug heels into his pony’s ribs in one unthinking motion. The arrow hummed past his cheek and stuck into a tree. He saw the man who rose out of ambush before him and hewed wildly even as the stranger’s ax chopped at his leg.
Metal clanged on metal, flaming in a single long sunbeam. The man yelled again, and others came out of the brush and dropped from the limbs of trees. Carl reined in his horse, it reared back and its hoofs slashed at the first attacker. He stumbled backward to escape, and Carl bent low in the saddle and burst into a gallop.
“This way!” he yelled. “This way, after me! We’ve got to get clear! It’s the Lann!”
Chapter 2
THE LOST CITY
Branches whipped across his face, and Carl flung up an arm to shield his eyes. Forward—a wild scrambling as the Lann warriors broke before his charge —out and away! He burst from the woods into the long grass of a sunlit meadow. Two arrows whistled after him; one grazed his neck, humming like an angry bee. Turning in the saddle, he saw Tom and Owl riding close behind him and the enemy running into the open.
A horseman topped the crest of the hill to his right, light flashing off his iron helmet. If they had cavalry to pursue—Carl set his teeth and clucked to his pony. Fast, fast—the way back was cut off, they had to go forward.
Up a long slope, down into a gulch below, with the horses supping and stumbling on loose earth, around a thicket and through a brier-patch that clawed at living flesh. Carl risked another glance behind and saw half a dozen armed men on the small shaggy horses of the north, galloping in an easy chase. Their mounts were fresh, thought the boy; they need only run down their wearied prey and after that, the end—or capture, which could be worse than death.
The long-legged steeds of John’s sons drew up on either side of Carl. Tom was bent low, his face white and set; Owl was riding easily, his lips even now curled in a half-smile. Leaning over, the younger boy shouted to Carl, “Looks like we’ll get there sooner than we thought!”
“The City?” cried his brother.
“Where else?” panted Carl. “Maybe the witches will help us.”
It was a forlorn hope. The smith-folk knew they existed only on sufferance and on the tribesmen’s unwillingness to enter the Cities, so they would never risk the anger of anyone by mixing into the quarrels of others. But—what else was there for the hunted to do?
Ride, ride, ride! The wind roared in Carl’s ears, whipping his hair and cloak behind him, the land seemed to blur past, the fury of speed stung his eyes with tears. Already his horse was breathing heavily, sweating and foaming. How much longer could it go on?
The Lann were out of sight behind the rolling hills, but they would follow. Even as he guided his mount over the rough ground and wondered how long he would still be alive, Carl was thinking back over what he had seen. Except for one or two prisoners taken in border skirmishes, he had never met a Lann warrior before, and the image of his pursuers was sharp in his mind.
The northerners were of the same race as the Dalesmen and the other Allegheny tribes, though a life of hardships had made them a little shorter and stockier; and their language was almost the same, easily understood. Even their clothing was much like that of the Dales, with more fur and leather used. But the fighting men all seemed to have breastplates of toughened hide painted in harsh colors, their swords were often curved instead of straight, and they used a shorter, heavier bow. It was said that they fought in a tighter and better arranged formation than the Dalesmen, who were peaceful folk and had no real art of war. Faintly to Carl’s ears, above the rush of wind and murmur of grass and thudding of hoofs, there came the sound of a blown horn, wailing and hooting between the empty hills. A signal. Were the Lann calling to others? Would there be a whole army chasing three hapless boys? A gulp of despair rose in Carl’s throat. He choked it down and urged his pony to another effort.
Up a slanting, crumbling bluff. From its heights, Carl saw the enemy, more of them now, perhaps twenty. They had been joined by others, and where in all the reaching world was there shelter from them?
As he plunged down the hill beyond, Carl saw a dull, white gleam through a screen of trees. A river—no, it was no stream, no trail—nothing! Straight as a hurled spear it ran northward, and Tom let out a yell as he saw it.
“The road!” he shouted. “The road to the City!”
Of course, thought Carl. He had seen the broken remnants of ancient highways, split by the ages, most of the blocks taken away by men for building material.
This one had not been disturbed, and it ran toward their goal.
They came out on the road and its hard surface rang hollowly under the hoofs. “Ride on it!” said Owl. “It’s a fast and easy way—”
“Also for the Lann,” said Tom bleakly. “But come.”
The frost and creeping roots of centuries had been cruel to the highway, Carl saw. Its great stony sections lay riven and cracked, tilted at crazy angles and often overgrown with brush. But still it was there, and it was straight and almost level. Ride, ride, ride!
As they sped on their way, he noticed low grassy mounds on either side of the road. Under those, he knew, were buried the decayed ruins of ancient houses. Bold men sometimes defied taboo and dug about in such hills, finding the broken pieces of things incomprehensible to them. Even now, racing for his life, Carl could not help a shudder, and from the corner of an eye he saw Tom fingering a lucky charm about his neck.