with nothing to stop them.
Ralph’s voice drifted above the rustle of brush and dragging of feet and hoarse gasping breath of men. A roll of names. He was calling the roll of his guardsmen.
“Ezzeff”—“Here.”—“Toom”—“Here.”—“Rodge”—“Still alive, Chief.”—“Jonathan”—Silence. “Jonathan!”—Silence.
“Where are Torsen and Piggy?”
“Both killed. I saw Piggy go down myself.”
Alarm shivered in Ralph’s call. The forest muffled his voice. It sounded strangely dead. “But they were guarding Lenard!”
“The Lann must’ve got him back then.”
“Lenard—free again!”
CHAPTER 9
The Broken Ban
M ORNING came, chill and gray and hopeless. Men looked wearily about with eyes from which the nightmare of stumbling through dark forest and hills was only slowly lifting.
The army straggled across the rough Scarpian landscape, men walking in small disordered groups. Thickets and ravines hid many from Carl’s eyes, but he was sure that the bulk of Ralph’s warriors had escaped.
Only a few were very badly wounded, for the retreating Dalesmen had found no chance to rescue comrades in such plight. But all of them were slashed and battered, stiff with dried blood, clothes hanging ragged and dew-wet on exhausted bodies. Not many horses had been saved, and the most hurt rode these. Even Ralph was afoot now, carrying his own torn flag.
Carl’s body was one vast, numb ache. His head felt hollow with tiredness, and he staggered a little as he walked. Only now was he becoming really aware of his wounds, a gash across one thigh which Tom had crudely bandaged, a throbbing lump on his head, bruises turning blue and yellow along his arms and breast. Swords and forest thorns had ripped his clothes, the blade at his waist was nicked and blunted with use, the bow was gone and the corselet was heavy on his shoulders.
Owl grinned painfully at his side. One eye was black andswollen, and he seemed to be short a tooth. “So this,” he said, “is the excitement and glory of war! I’ll never believe a ballad singer again.”
“At least,” said Tom slowly, “we’re all alive—You and Father and Carl here. Give thanks for small blessings.”
Carl thought of those who were dead. He hadn’t had time yet to search for all his friends, but he knew that many were gone. Dick, the wild and gay, fat, stanch Bucko, soft-voiced Ansy—he’d never see them again in this world. They were sprawled on the red riverbank where the enemy went hallooing past their sightless eyes, and the sun shone and the wind whispered in long grasses and their kinfolk waited weeping, but they didn’t know it.
Dead—dead and defeated.
Ralph was striding toward the brow of a tall hill. He walked stiffly, limping and leaning on his flagstaff, his face a mask of dried blood under the battered helmet, but the wide shoulders were unbowed and morning light struck gold from his hair. When he reached the top, he planted the banner and blew his horn.
Though the cry was feeble, lost in the ringing, echoing reach of hills, the Dalesmen hearkened, and slowly, slowly, they gathered beneath him until their stooped forms hid the dew-glimmering earth. When they were all there, they sat and waited. Ralph’s chief s, such as lived, joined him, and Carl slipped up to stand by his father. But weariness was too heavy on him, and he sat instead, drawing his knees up under his chin and looking forth over the tired, beaten faces of the tribesmen.
Ralph spoke, filling his lungs so that most of the army could hear and pass the word along: “We haven’t been pursued yet, and I think the Lann would have caught up to us by now if they cared to. So most likely they’re letting us go, not thinking us worth the trouble of another fight.”
“We aren’t,” said a man, grinning without humor.
“They’ll learn otherwise!” Ralph folded his arms and looked defiantly around. “We’ve lost a battle, yes, but we haven’t lost the war. Not
Ralph’s voice drifted above the rustle of brush and dragging of feet and hoarse gasping breath of men. A roll of names. He was calling the roll of his guardsmen.
“Ezzeff”—“Here.”—“Toom”—“Here.”—“Rodge”—“Still alive, Chief.”—“Jonathan”—Silence. “Jonathan!”—Silence.
“Where are Torsen and Piggy?”
“Both killed. I saw Piggy go down myself.”
Alarm shivered in Ralph’s call. The forest muffled his voice. It sounded strangely dead. “But they were guarding Lenard!”
“The Lann must’ve got him back then.”
“Lenard—free again!”
CHAPTER 9
The Broken Ban
M ORNING came, chill and gray and hopeless. Men looked wearily about with eyes from which the nightmare of stumbling through dark forest and hills was only slowly lifting.
The army straggled across the rough Scarpian landscape, men walking in small disordered groups. Thickets and ravines hid many from Carl’s eyes, but he was sure that the bulk of Ralph’s warriors had escaped.
Only a few were very badly wounded, for the retreating Dalesmen had found no chance to rescue comrades in such plight. But all of them were slashed and battered, stiff with dried blood, clothes hanging ragged and dew-wet on exhausted bodies. Not many horses had been saved, and the most hurt rode these. Even Ralph was afoot now, carrying his own torn flag.
Carl’s body was one vast, numb ache. His head felt hollow with tiredness, and he staggered a little as he walked. Only now was he becoming really aware of his wounds, a gash across one thigh which Tom had crudely bandaged, a throbbing lump on his head, bruises turning blue and yellow along his arms and breast. Swords and forest thorns had ripped his clothes, the blade at his waist was nicked and blunted with use, the bow was gone and the corselet was heavy on his shoulders.
Owl grinned painfully at his side. One eye was black andswollen, and he seemed to be short a tooth. “So this,” he said, “is the excitement and glory of war! I’ll never believe a ballad singer again.”
“At least,” said Tom slowly, “we’re all alive—You and Father and Carl here. Give thanks for small blessings.”
Carl thought of those who were dead. He hadn’t had time yet to search for all his friends, but he knew that many were gone. Dick, the wild and gay, fat, stanch Bucko, soft-voiced Ansy—he’d never see them again in this world. They were sprawled on the red riverbank where the enemy went hallooing past their sightless eyes, and the sun shone and the wind whispered in long grasses and their kinfolk waited weeping, but they didn’t know it.
Dead—dead and defeated.
Ralph was striding toward the brow of a tall hill. He walked stiffly, limping and leaning on his flagstaff, his face a mask of dried blood under the battered helmet, but the wide shoulders were unbowed and morning light struck gold from his hair. When he reached the top, he planted the banner and blew his horn.
Though the cry was feeble, lost in the ringing, echoing reach of hills, the Dalesmen hearkened, and slowly, slowly, they gathered beneath him until their stooped forms hid the dew-glimmering earth. When they were all there, they sat and waited. Ralph’s chief s, such as lived, joined him, and Carl slipped up to stand by his father. But weariness was too heavy on him, and he sat instead, drawing his knees up under his chin and looking forth over the tired, beaten faces of the tribesmen.
Ralph spoke, filling his lungs so that most of the army could hear and pass the word along: “We haven’t been pursued yet, and I think the Lann would have caught up to us by now if they cared to. So most likely they’re letting us go, not thinking us worth the trouble of another fight.”
“We aren’t,” said a man, grinning without humor.
“They’ll learn otherwise!” Ralph folded his arms and looked defiantly around. “We’ve lost a battle, yes, but we haven’t lost the war. Not
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