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“We don’t follow the highway out, do we?” whispered Tom.

“No, you woodenhead—that’d be a giveway,” answered Owl as quietly. “We strike out across country, eh, Carl?”

“Yes,” nodded the Chief’s son. “I think we can ride now, slowly, following the open land but keeping in the shadow of trees.” He hooked one foot in the stirrup and swung into his saddle.

“Let’s go.”

His tautened ears heard the night murmurous around him. The long grass whispered under hoofs, leaves brushed his cheek as he hugged the line of forest, a stone clinked and his muscles knotted with alarm. Slowly—softly—the City was lost behind him, trees closed in, he was back in the wilderness.

The Lann weren’t stupid, he thought. They’d have known their prey would try slipping past them. So unless they had ringed in the whole City—which was hardly possible—they would guard it with a few small bands of men scattered well apart and ranging the territory on a patrol which might or might not happen close enough for a hunter’s keen ears to hear the faint noise of passage. It lay with the gods.

The meadow ended in a wall of forest. Carl urged his pony forward through a line of hedge that snapped and rustled and brought the sweat out cold on his forehead. Beyond, there was gloom in which the high trunks were like pillars holding up a roof of night. The horses stumbled on rough ground, and Carl hoped he could find his directions. It would be a terrible joke if they spent all night circling back to the City.

“Listen!”

Tom’s hissing word brought Carl erect in the saddle, reining in his mount and staring wildly through darkness. Yes—yes—the sound of hoofs, the rattle of iron…. He held back a groan. The Lann!

“Wait a bit,” Carl breathed. “They may pass by.”

The noise grew louder, nearer, and he realized that the patrol would likely pass close enough to hear the horses’ stamping and heavy breathing. Now there was nothing for it but to run.

Leaning over, the pony’s mane rough against his bare arm, he eased off the gagging rope. The animal would need its mouth for gulping air, he thought grimly, and almost smiled when it whickered its relief. “This way,” he said. “Back—out to the meadows—”

“Hey-ah! Who goes there?”

The deep-throated shout rang between the trees. Carl urged his pony to a trot, though branches were whipping his face, and heard the voices of the Lann rise in excitement behind him. Now the hunt began!

Breaking out into the open again, he struck heels against his pony’s ribs and felt the rhythm of gallop under him. Tom and Owl edged their bigger horses alongside his, and for a brief while only the thudding of hoofs broke the night.

Behind, a blot of darkness came out of the woods and became half a dozen riders. Starlight gleamed on helmets and lances, and a horn blew its call as the Lann saw the boys ahead of them. Carl bent low in the saddle and went flying up a long slope of hillside.

Up and over! The swale below was thick with night. Rocks clattered and rang under frantic hoofs, and trees leaped out of nowhere to claw at eyes. The Lann topped the ridge and loomed against the sky, yelling.

Owl’s horse stumbled on a root and went rolling. Catlike, the rider was out of the stirrups and falling clear. “Go on!” he yelled, rising to his knees. “Go on— get away!”

“No!” Tom reined in, brought his horse dancing back, and starlight was dim on his drawn sword. “No— we’ll fight!”

Carl reined his own steed to a plunging halt and turned around. Now it was too late. The Lann were racing down the slope, howling their glee, no chance to escape them.

Unless—

Bending over, Carl groped in his saddlebag. The metal of the thing he sought was cold in his hand as he lifted it free.

The Larin slowed and approached at a walk. Carl saw the flash of eyes and teeth in bearded faces, spiked iron helmets and polished leather breastplates shimmered faintly, lances were

brought to rest. The leader raised his voice: “Do you surrender?”

“No!” yelled Carl. The echoes went ringing and bouncing between the stony heights, no, no, no.

“We come from the City,” Carl shouted as loudly and wrathfully as his lungs could endure. “We come with the black magic of the Doom that wastes the world, the glowing death, nine thousand devils chained and raging to be free. Depart, men of Lann, for we are witches!”

The horsemen waited. Carl heard a breath sucked between teeth in the quiet of night, saw a shield lifted and a charm fingered. But they did not run.

“I hold the glowing death!” screamed Carl. “Your flesh will rot from your bones, your eyes will fall from the sockets, you are dead men already! See, men of Lann, see!”

He aimed the flashlight and whirled the crank. A white beam stabbed forth, picking a savage face out of a night which suddenly seemed blacker, swinging around to another and another. A horse neighed, and a man shouted.

Carl let go the handle, and it whined eerily to silence as the light died. Then he cranked again, holding the beam like a pointed spear, and urged his horse forward. As he advanced, he threw back his head and howled like a wild dog.

A single noise of terror broke from the warriors, splitting the patrol into a crazed scramble of hoofs and bodies scattered in all directions. In moments, the men were lost to sight and sound.

Carl sat for a minute, not daring to believe, and then he began to laugh.

* * *

By dawn, the boys had come most of the way. Carl’s flashlight trick would hardly work in the daytime, so as the first dull gray of morning stole into the sky, they dismounted, rubbed down their weary horses, and rolled up in blankets to sleep for a while. But the sun was not far over the horizon before they were on the trail again.

“We’ll be back just about in time for the chores,” grumbled Owl, but the eyes twinkled in his round face.

Tom ran a hand through his fiery hair. “It seems as if we left an age ago,” he said, with a puzzled note in his voice. “We’ve seen and done and learned so much—I hardly know what to believe any longer.” He glanced at Carl. “Tell me, is everything false that they taught us? Are there really no devils or magic or Doom?”

“I don’t know,” said Carl soberly. “I suppose the old stories are true enough as far as they go—only they don’t go far enough, and it’s up to us to find the whole truth. The Doctors, who claim to have kept as much of the old wisdom as is good for men to know, don’t want us to do that; but I think that between the need of the Dalesmen for help against the Lann and this proof in my saddlebag, we can convince the people otherwise.” He yawned and stretched his stiffened muscles. “It’ll be good to reach your father’s place. I could use a hot breakfast!”

They followed the woodland trail through the cool rustling green, and John’s sons spied the landmarks with eager eyes. It was Tom who first sniffed the air and turned back a worried face. “Do you smell smoke?” he asked.

In a short while Carl and Owl sensed it too, the thin bitter reek and a light bluish haze in the air. They clucked to their horses and broke into a weary trot, straining homeward.

Out of the woods, over a rise of ground, and then the dear, broad fields of home—

The farm was burnt.

They sat for a long time, stunned, only slowly grasping the ruin which was here. The outbuildings were smoking heaps from which charred rafters stuck up like fingers pointing at an empty heaven. The house was still burning here and there. Little flames wavered over fallen beams and blowing ash. Smoke stained the cloudless sky, black and ugly, and there was a terrible silence everywhere.