there had always been tigers—they had no way of knowing that these were the descendants of animals escaped from zoos in the Doom. This one must have been lying in wait for the herds to come to drink, and was angered by Carl’s disturbance, angry enough, perhaps, to look on him as a meal.
Slowly, hardly daring to move, Carl leaned his spear against the tree at his back. It wouldn’t do much good if the beast charged. He drew out a fistful of arrows, slipped the bow off his shoulder, and strung it with one gasping motion. It was a better weapon.
The tiger snarled, flattening its belly to the ground. The smell of blood from the bag of game at Carl’s waist must have stirred its hunter’s heart. The boy fitted an arrow to the string and drew the bow taut. His pulse roared in his ears.
The tiger crept nearer.
The bow sang, and the tiger screamed and launched itself. Carl sprang aside almost as he shot. The tiger hit the ground where he had been and threshed about, biting at the arrow in its shoulder. Carl picked another arrow off the ground where he had thrown them, drew the bow and let loose. He couldn’t see in the murk if he had hit or not. The tiger staggered to its feet, growling. Before the tawnythunderbolt could strike again, Carl’s bow had hummed afresh.
The tiger screamed again and turned away. Yelling, Carl groped for another arrow. He fired and missed, but the beast was loping in a three-legged retreat. As Carl sank shaking to the ground, he felt blood hot and wet beneath him.
If the tiger lived, he thought without exultation—he was still too frightened himself for that—it would have a proper respect for mankind.
The thought continued as he resumed his way. It wasn’t the animals which man had to fear. Tiger, bear, snake, even the terrible dog packs could not face human fire and metal. Slowly, as men hewed down the wilderness, its snarling guardians were driven back. Their fight was hopeless.
And in the City, it had began to dawn on him that not even the supernatural, demons and ghosts and the very gods, threatened men. The powers of night and storm, flood and fire and drought and winter, were still a looming terror, but they had been conquered once by the ancients and they could be harnessed again.
No, man’s remorseless and deadly foe was only—himself.
But
that
enemy was old and strong and crafty. It had brought to agonized wreck the godlike civilization of the ancients. Today, in the form of taboo and invading barbarians, it was risen afresh, and seemed all too likely to win.
Overwhelming despair replaced Carl’s fear. Could the children of light ever win? he thought. Must the Dalesmen go down in flame and death before the trampling horses of Lann? Must the last gasp of ancient wisdom rust away in darkness? Could there ever be a victory?
CHAPTER 6
Taboo!
F OLLOWING the wild cattle trail, John’s party took only another day and a half to get through the western forest to the point where he had meant to strike east for Dalestown. The wagons lay in the cover of brush at the edge of cultivation, while Tom and Carl rode out to find if the settled lands were still free.
The boys returned jubilantly by sundown. “There’s been no fighting around here,” said Carl. “As far as the people we talked to know, the Lann haven’t gotten farther yet than the northern border.”
“That’s far enough,” said John bleakly. Strain and sorrow had made him gaunt in the last few days. His eyes were hollow and he seldom smiled. But he nodded his unkempt head now. They’d have a safe passage to Dalestown; that was something.
At dawn the caravan stirred, and wagons creaked through long, dew-wet grass until they emerged in open country and found one of the pitted dirt roads of the tribe. There Carl took his leave of them. “You don’t need me any longer,” he said. “There are no enemies here, and the farmers will give you food and shelter. But it will take you perhaps two days to reach the town,
Slowly, hardly daring to move, Carl leaned his spear against the tree at his back. It wouldn’t do much good if the beast charged. He drew out a fistful of arrows, slipped the bow off his shoulder, and strung it with one gasping motion. It was a better weapon.
The tiger snarled, flattening its belly to the ground. The smell of blood from the bag of game at Carl’s waist must have stirred its hunter’s heart. The boy fitted an arrow to the string and drew the bow taut. His pulse roared in his ears.
The tiger crept nearer.
The bow sang, and the tiger screamed and launched itself. Carl sprang aside almost as he shot. The tiger hit the ground where he had been and threshed about, biting at the arrow in its shoulder. Carl picked another arrow off the ground where he had thrown them, drew the bow and let loose. He couldn’t see in the murk if he had hit or not. The tiger staggered to its feet, growling. Before the tawnythunderbolt could strike again, Carl’s bow had hummed afresh.
The tiger screamed again and turned away. Yelling, Carl groped for another arrow. He fired and missed, but the beast was loping in a three-legged retreat. As Carl sank shaking to the ground, he felt blood hot and wet beneath him.
If the tiger lived, he thought without exultation—he was still too frightened himself for that—it would have a proper respect for mankind.
The thought continued as he resumed his way. It wasn’t the animals which man had to fear. Tiger, bear, snake, even the terrible dog packs could not face human fire and metal. Slowly, as men hewed down the wilderness, its snarling guardians were driven back. Their fight was hopeless.
And in the City, it had began to dawn on him that not even the supernatural, demons and ghosts and the very gods, threatened men. The powers of night and storm, flood and fire and drought and winter, were still a looming terror, but they had been conquered once by the ancients and they could be harnessed again.
No, man’s remorseless and deadly foe was only—himself.
But
that
enemy was old and strong and crafty. It had brought to agonized wreck the godlike civilization of the ancients. Today, in the form of taboo and invading barbarians, it was risen afresh, and seemed all too likely to win.
Overwhelming despair replaced Carl’s fear. Could the children of light ever win? he thought. Must the Dalesmen go down in flame and death before the trampling horses of Lann? Must the last gasp of ancient wisdom rust away in darkness? Could there ever be a victory?
CHAPTER 6
Taboo!
F OLLOWING the wild cattle trail, John’s party took only another day and a half to get through the western forest to the point where he had meant to strike east for Dalestown. The wagons lay in the cover of brush at the edge of cultivation, while Tom and Carl rode out to find if the settled lands were still free.
The boys returned jubilantly by sundown. “There’s been no fighting around here,” said Carl. “As far as the people we talked to know, the Lann haven’t gotten farther yet than the northern border.”
“That’s far enough,” said John bleakly. Strain and sorrow had made him gaunt in the last few days. His eyes were hollow and he seldom smiled. But he nodded his unkempt head now. They’d have a safe passage to Dalestown; that was something.
At dawn the caravan stirred, and wagons creaked through long, dew-wet grass until they emerged in open country and found one of the pitted dirt roads of the tribe. There Carl took his leave of them. “You don’t need me any longer,” he said. “There are no enemies here, and the farmers will give you food and shelter. But it will take you perhaps two days to reach the town,
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