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Authors: Poul Anderson
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and I have news for my father which can scarcely wait.”
“Aye, go then—and thank you, Carl,” said John.
“Father, how about letting me go along?” asked Owl. “It’s just driving from here on, no work—and it’s awful slow!”
A tired, lopsided smile crossed the man’s bearded face. “All right, Jim,” he agreed. “And I daresay Tom would like to follow. I’ll meet you in town, boys.”
The red-haired lad flashed a grin. “Thanks,” he said. “I just want to see people’s faces when Carl shows them that magic light.”
The three friends saddled their horses and trotted swiftly down the road. Before long, the wagons were lost to sight and they rode alone.
The country was fair with hills, and valleys green with ripening crops, tall, windy groves of trees, the metal blink of streams and lakes, and shadows sweeping over the sunlit breadth of land. The farms were many, and wooden fences held the sleek livestock grazing in pastures. Most of the homes were the usual log cabins, larger or smaller depending on the wealth of the man and the size of his family, but some of the richer estates had two-story houses of stone and square-cut timbers. Now and again the travelers passed through a hamlet of four or five buildings—a smithy, a trading post, a water-powered mill, a Doctor’s house—but otherwise the Dales lay open. Smoke rose blue and wing-ragged from chimneys, and farmers hailed the boys as they went past.
Carl noticed that workers in the yards and the fields were almost entirely women, children, and old men. Those of fighting age were marshaled at Dalestown. And even these peaceful stay-at-homes carried spears and axes wherever they went. The shadow of war lay dark over the people.
On rested horses, the ride to town took only a day. In the late afternoon, Carl topped a high ridge and saw his goal in the valley below him.
Not much more than a village as the ancients had reckoned such things, it was still the only real town that the tribe had. Here the folk came to barter and make merry; here the Chief and the High Doctor lived, and the tribesmen met to vote on laws and action; here the four great seasonal feasts were held each year; and here the warriors assembled in time of danger. That was the first thing Carl noticed as his eyes swept the scene: tents and wooden booths clustered about the town to house the men, wagons drawn up and horses grazing in the fields, smoke of cooking fires staining the sky. As he rode down the hill, he caught the harsh reflection of sunlight on naked iron.
A twenty-foot stockade rising out of high banks enclosed Dalestown in four walls. At each corner stood a wooden watchtower, withcatapults and stone-throwing engines mounted just under the roof. In each wall, gates of heavy timber, reinforced with metal, protected the entrances. The town had fought off enemy attacks before. Carl hoped it would not have to do so again.
He and his friends picked a threading way between the camps of the warriors. It was a brawling, lusty sight, with beardless youths and scarred old veterans swarming over the trampled grass. Sitting before their tents, they sharpened weapons and polished armor. Some were gathered about a fire and sang to the strum of a banjo while the evening meal bubbled in a great kettle. Others wrestled, laughed and bragged of what they would do, but Carl saw many who sat quiet and moody, thinking of the defeat in the north and wondering how strong the wild horsemen of Lann were.
The main gate, on the south side, stood open, and a restless traffic swirled back and forth between the armed guards. One of them hailed the Chief’s son: “Hi, there, Carl! So you’re back? I thought the devils in the City would have eaten you.”
“Not yet, Ezzef.” Carl smiled at the young pikeman, gay in red cloak and polished iron cuirass. Ezzef was one of the Chief’s regular guardsmen, who ordinarily existed to keep order in the town. Carl and he had long been
“Aye, go then—and thank you, Carl,” said John.
“Father, how about letting me go along?” asked Owl. “It’s just driving from here on, no work—and it’s awful slow!”
A tired, lopsided smile crossed the man’s bearded face. “All right, Jim,” he agreed. “And I daresay Tom would like to follow. I’ll meet you in town, boys.”
The red-haired lad flashed a grin. “Thanks,” he said. “I just want to see people’s faces when Carl shows them that magic light.”
The three friends saddled their horses and trotted swiftly down the road. Before long, the wagons were lost to sight and they rode alone.
The country was fair with hills, and valleys green with ripening crops, tall, windy groves of trees, the metal blink of streams and lakes, and shadows sweeping over the sunlit breadth of land. The farms were many, and wooden fences held the sleek livestock grazing in pastures. Most of the homes were the usual log cabins, larger or smaller depending on the wealth of the man and the size of his family, but some of the richer estates had two-story houses of stone and square-cut timbers. Now and again the travelers passed through a hamlet of four or five buildings—a smithy, a trading post, a water-powered mill, a Doctor’s house—but otherwise the Dales lay open. Smoke rose blue and wing-ragged from chimneys, and farmers hailed the boys as they went past.
Carl noticed that workers in the yards and the fields were almost entirely women, children, and old men. Those of fighting age were marshaled at Dalestown. And even these peaceful stay-at-homes carried spears and axes wherever they went. The shadow of war lay dark over the people.
On rested horses, the ride to town took only a day. In the late afternoon, Carl topped a high ridge and saw his goal in the valley below him.
Not much more than a village as the ancients had reckoned such things, it was still the only real town that the tribe had. Here the folk came to barter and make merry; here the Chief and the High Doctor lived, and the tribesmen met to vote on laws and action; here the four great seasonal feasts were held each year; and here the warriors assembled in time of danger. That was the first thing Carl noticed as his eyes swept the scene: tents and wooden booths clustered about the town to house the men, wagons drawn up and horses grazing in the fields, smoke of cooking fires staining the sky. As he rode down the hill, he caught the harsh reflection of sunlight on naked iron.
A twenty-foot stockade rising out of high banks enclosed Dalestown in four walls. At each corner stood a wooden watchtower, withcatapults and stone-throwing engines mounted just under the roof. In each wall, gates of heavy timber, reinforced with metal, protected the entrances. The town had fought off enemy attacks before. Carl hoped it would not have to do so again.
He and his friends picked a threading way between the camps of the warriors. It was a brawling, lusty sight, with beardless youths and scarred old veterans swarming over the trampled grass. Sitting before their tents, they sharpened weapons and polished armor. Some were gathered about a fire and sang to the strum of a banjo while the evening meal bubbled in a great kettle. Others wrestled, laughed and bragged of what they would do, but Carl saw many who sat quiet and moody, thinking of the defeat in the north and wondering how strong the wild horsemen of Lann were.
The main gate, on the south side, stood open, and a restless traffic swirled back and forth between the armed guards. One of them hailed the Chief’s son: “Hi, there, Carl! So you’re back? I thought the devils in the City would have eaten you.”
“Not yet, Ezzef.” Carl smiled at the young pikeman, gay in red cloak and polished iron cuirass. Ezzef was one of the Chief’s regular guardsmen, who ordinarily existed to keep order in the town. Carl and he had long been
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