Daybreak—2250 A.D.

by Andre Norton

  It was the woman who replied first.

  “I saw and heard many things. In the seeing there was nothing to doubt. I hope with all my heart that your conjectures are mistaken. There lay among the Beast dead one who was different. And if the fates are against us, then this one will be born again among them—again and again. And, its knowledge being greater, so will it prove a worse menace to us and all human beings. Thus, because this may be true, I say that those who are humankind must stand together and put a united sword wall against these things bred out of the ancient evil of the cities which was sown by the Old Ones—”

  “It is true that mutants may come of mutant stock.” The white robe spoke after her almost against his will. “And these Beast Things were led and ordered as never has their race been before. When their strange chief fell they were broken, as if their knowledge was all blotted out in that single death. If they breed more such as he, then they shall prove a force we must reckon with. We know but little of these creatures and what their powers may be. How can we guess now what we shall be called to go up against a year, ten years, a generation from now? This land is wide and there may be much hiding within its vastness which is a menace to our breed—”

  “The land is wide,” Fors repeated. “What do you and your tribe seek for here, Lanard?”

  “A homeland. We search out a place to build our houses and sow our fields anew, to pasture our sheep and dwell in peace. After the burning mountains and quaking land drove us forth from the valley of our fathers— the sacred place where their machines landed from the sky at the end of the Old Ones’ war—we have wandered many circles of the seasons. Now in these wide fields, along the river, we have found what we have sought for so long. And no man or beast shall drive us from it!” As he ended, his hand was on his sword hilt and he stared straight along the ranks of the Plainsmen.

  Fors turned now to Marphy: “And what do your people seek. Marphy of the plains?”

  The Recorder raised his eyes from the ground where a pattern of crushed grass blades had apparently held his attention.

  “Since the days of the Old Ones we of the Plains have been a roving people. First we were so because of the evil death which abode in the air of many quarters of the land, so that a man must be on the move to shun those places where plagues and the blue fires waited to slay him. We are now hunters and rovers and herdsmen, warriors who care not to be tied to any camp. It is in us to travel far, to seek new places and new hills standing high against the sky—”

  “So.” Fors let that one word fall into the silence of those war-torn ranks.

  It was a long minute before he spoke again. “You,” he pointed to Lanard, “wish to settle and build. That is your nature and way of life. You”—it was Marphy he turned to now—“would move, grazing your herds and hunting. These,” he bent a stiff arm painfully to gesture up the hill to that uneven pile of earth and stone under which lay the bodies of the Beast Things, ’live to destroy both of you if they can. And the land is wide…”

  Lanard cleared his throat—the sound was sharp and loud. “We would live in peace with all who raise not the sword against us. In peace there is trade, and in trade there is good for all. When the winter closes and the harvest has been poor, then may trade save the life of a tribe.”

  “You are warriors and men,” the woman chief of the Dark People broke in, her head high, her eyes straight as she measured the line of strangers facing her. “War is meat and drink at the table of men—yes—but it was that which brought the Old Ones down! War again, men, and you will destroy us utterly and we shall be eaten up and forgotten so that it shall be as if man had never lived to walk these fields—leaving our world to the holding of those!” She pointed to the Beast Things’ mound. “If now we draw sword against one another then in our folly we shall have chosen the evil part for the last time, and it is better that we die quickly and this earth be clean of us!”

  The Plainspeople were quiet until along the ranks of the men a murmur arose and it spread to where their women were gathered. And the voices of the women grew louder and stronger. From their midst arose one who must have ruled a chieftain’s tent since there was gold binding her hair:

  “Let there be no war between us! Let there be no more wailing of the death song among our tents! Say it loudly, oh, my sisters!” And her appeal was taken up by all the women, to be echoed until it became a chant as stirring as the war song.

  “No more war! No more war between us!”

  So did the cup of blood and brotherhood pass from chief to chief on the field and the ranks of the Dark Ones and the Plainsmen were made one by the ritual so that never again might man of one raise lance against man of the other.

  Fors sank down upon a flat-topped rock. The strength which had upheld him drained away. He was very tired and the excitement beyond no longer had anything to do with him. He had no eyes for the melting of the stiff tribal lines and the mingling of clan and people.

  “This is but a beginning!” He identified the quick eager voice of Marphy and looked around slowly, almost sullenly.

  The Plainsman was talking to Jarl, gesturing, his eyes bright. But the Star Captain was his usual calm contained self.

  “A beginning, yes, Marphy. But we still have much to master. If I may see those northern records of yours. We of the Star House have not penetrated that far—”

  “Of course. And—” Marphy seemed hesitant before he plunged into his counter request—“that cage of rats. I have had it brought into my tent. There are three still alive and from them we may learn—”

  Fors shivered. He had no desire to see those captives.

  “You claim them as your spoil of war?”

  Marphy laughed. “That I shall do. And other spoil beside the vermin shall we ask for—a greater gift from you. This fellow rover of yours—”

  He touched gentle fingers to Fors’ stooped shoulder. It seemed to the mountaineer that Jarl displayed a flash of surprise.

  “This one has the gift of tongues and the mind which sees. He shall be a guide for us.” Marphy’s words spilled out as if now that he had a kindred spirit in which to confide he could no longer bottle his thoughts. “And in return we shall show him strange lands and far places. For it is in him to be a rover—even as are we—”

  Jarl’s fingers plucked at his lower lip: “Yes, rover was he born, and in him flows Plains blood. If he—”

  “You forget.” Fors did not force a smile this time. “I am mutant.”

  Before either man could answer someone else came up—Arskane. His face still bore the marks of the fight and he favored his shoulder as he moved. But when he spoke it was with an assumption of authority which he plainly did not expect to have disregarded.

  “We break camp to march—I have come for my brother!”

  Marphy bristled. “He rides with us!”

  Fors’ laugh had no humor in it. “Since I cannot travel on my feet I shall be a drag in any company—”

  “We shall rig a pony litter,” was Arskane’s quick reply.

  “There are also horse litters,” began Marphy jealously.

  Jarl moved. “It seems that you now have a choice to make,” he observed dispassionately to Fors. For a moment it seemed to the younger mountain man that only the two of them were there. And neither Arskane nor Marphy pressed his claim farther.

  Fors held his free hand to his swimming head. He had Plains blood from his mother—that was true. And the wild free life of the roving horsemen appealed to him. If he went with Marphy no secrets of the ruined country would be hidden from him now—he could learn much. He could make such maps as even the Star Men had never dreamed of possessing, see forgotten cities and loot them for his pleasure, always going on to new country beyond.

  If he took the hand Arskane had half offered in support a few minutes ago he would be accepting brotherhood and the close-knit ties of a family clan such as he had never had. He would know all warmth of affection, and go to build a town, maybe in time a city, whic
h would mark the first step back along the road the sins of the Old Ones had lost for their sons. It would be a hard life but, in its way, a rewarding one, as adventurous— though he would never rove far—as Marphy’s.

  But—there was the third road. And it ran from a choice he knew only too well. When he thought he was dying-back there during the battle—his feet had taken it without his will. It led to the rare coldness of the mountain heights, into the austere chill of punishment and hurt and eternal discouragement.

  So when he raised his head he dared not look at Arskane or Murphy, but he found and held Jarl’s uncompromising eyes as he asked:

  “It is true that I am outlawed?”

  “You have been called three times at the council fire.”

  He recognized flat truth and accepted it. But he had another question:

  “Since I was not there to answer in my own voice I have the right of repeal for the period of six moons?”

  “You have.” ’

  Fors picked at the sling which bound his left arm across his chest. There was an even chance that it would heal straight and strong again. The healer had promised him that after probing the wound.

  “I think then,” he found that he had to stop and work out his words, to regain discipline over his voice, “I shall go and claim that right. Six moons are not yet gone—”

  The Star Captain nodded. “If you can travel in three days’ time you will make it.”

  “Fors!” At that protest from Arskane, the mountaineer winced. But when he turned his head his voice still held firm.

  “It was you yourself, brother, who spoke of duty once—”

  Arskane’s hand dropped. “Remember—we be brothers, you and I. Where lies my hearth—there is your place waiting.” He went and he did not look back, he was swallowed up in the throng of his tribesmen.

  Marphy came to life. He shrugged. Already he was intent on other plans, other enthusiasms. But he lingered long enough to say:

  “From this hour on for you there runs a mount in my herd and the promise of meat, and shelter in my tent. Look for the Standard of the Red Fox when you have need of aid, my young friend.” His hand sketched a half salute as he strode away.

  Fors spoke to the Star Captain: “I shall go—”

  “With me. I have also a report to make to the tribe— we journey together.

  Was that news good or otherwise? Under other circumstances Fors could have longed for no greater pleasure than to travel in the company of the Star Captain. But now he went in a manner as Jarl’s prisoner. He sat glumly looking over the battlefield—only a small scrimmage—one which the Old Ones, with their fleets in the air and their armed columns on land, would not even have mentioned. Yet here a full-sized war had been fought and out of it had come an idea—perhaps one which would prove the starting point for men. It would be a long weary trail for them to travel—the road back to such a world as the Old Ones had known. And maybe not even the sons’ sons’ sons of those who had fought here would live to see more than the glimmerings of its beginning growth. Or maybe the world which would come would be a better world.

  The Plainsmen and the Dark Ones were still suspicious, still wary of one another. Soon the tribes would separate for a space. But, perhaps in six months’ time, a party of Plainsmen would venture again to the south, to visit the bend in the river and see with wondering eyes the cabins which stood there. And one rider would trade a well-tanned hide for a clay dish or a string of colored beads to take home to astonish his women. Afterward would come others, many others, and there would in time be marriages between tent and cabin. And in fifty years—one nation.

  “There will be one nation.” Fors hunched on the riding pad of the steady old horse Marphy had forced upon him. Two days had sped but the tramped earth would show scars for a long time.

  Jarl shot a measuring glance over the field they crossed. “And how many years pass before such a miracle?” he inquired with his old irony. “Fifty—fifty years—perhaps—”

  “If nothing intervenes to stop them—yes—you may be right.”

  “You are thinking of the Beast Thing mutant?” Jarl shrugged. “I think that he is a warning—there may be other factors to set barriers in the way.”

  “I am mutant.” For the second time Fors made that bitter statement and he spoke it again before the one person he wished had never known of his difference.

  Jarl did not rise to the bait. “I have been thinking that we may all be mutants. Who is to say now that we are of the same breed as the Old Ones? And I am of the belief that it is time we all face that fact squarely. But this other—this Beast Thing—” And he proceeded to drown Fors in a barrage of questions which drew out of him all that he had observed while a prisoner of the enemy.

  Two days later the mountains stood sharply outlined against the sky. Fors knew that by nightfall, if they kept the pace they had held through the journey, they would be past the outposts of the Eyrie. He fumbled awkwardly with his one hand at his belt and pulled his sword from the sheath. As Jarl caught up to him he held it out, hilt first.

  “Now I am your prisoner.” He did not have to steady his voice, it was naturally so. It was as if he no longer

  cared what happened to him during the next few days. This was a piece of unfinished living which must be completed before he left it behind him. But he was impatient now to have it over, to be read out of the tribe as an outlaw, to go into the wilderness again—he was ready and unafraid.

  Jarl took his sword without a word and Fors glanced beyond the Star Captain to the waiting Lura. She was tugging in his mind, suddenly weary of the leash of loyalty which had held her to him through all these days of danger. She wanted the mountains, too, in a different way—the mountains and her freedom. He gave it to her with a single shaft of thought and she was gone that same instant. And because he had released her so willingly he knew that she would return as willingly when she had followed her own desire to its end.

  After that Fors rode in a kind of dream. He paid little or no attention to the men of the Eyrie who came out of their scout posts to greet the Star Captain. They did not speak to him and he had no wish for them to do so. His impatience to come to the judging only burned the stronger in him.

  He was alone at last in the inner chamber of the Star House, that same chamber which he had violated. The empty hook where Langdon’s star pouch had once hung was a mute reminder of that offense. Too bad his venture had failed so completely. He would never be able now to prove the truth of his father’s dream. But even that thought did not prick him overmuch. He could go out again—and not by any favor of the council men.

  There was the reflection of the council fire on the naked rock of the mountain wall out there. The elders were gathering to judge him. But it would be the Star Men who would have the final voice against him. It was the Star House he had looted, the Star tradition and mysteries he had flouted.

  At an almost soundless footfall in the outer room Fors turned his head. One of the Star Novices had come for him—Stephen of the Hawk Clan. Fors followed him out into the circle of firelight, walled in by rows of white blurs which were faces without expression.

  The elders were together, all of them, Healer, Recorder, Master of the Fields, Commanders of the Hunters and Defenders. And behind them were the tillers, the hunters, the scouts and guards. On the other side was the solid block of Star Men, Jarl at their head.

  Fors came out on the smooth shelf of rock alone, his silver head high, his back and shoulders straight.

  “Fors of the Puma Clan—” That was Horsford, the Eyrie Guardian.

  Fors made courteous salute.

  “You stand here because you have defied the traditions of the Eyrie. But against the wearers of the Star was your greater offense. So now it is the decision of the Council that the Star Men shall be given the right to pronounce against you and they shall deal with you as they see fit.”

  Short and to the point. And fair enough, he had expected little else. So now wha
t did the Star Men wish for him? It was up to Jarl. Fors turned to the tall Captain.

  But Jarl was staring beyond him at the leaping flames. And so did they wait in silence for a long, long moment. When the Star Captain spoke it was not to pass sentence but to catch the atention of all who gathered there.

  “We come, men of the Eyrie, to a place where two roads separate before us. And upon our choice of them depends the future of not only the clans gathered here, but also that of all true men in this land, perhaps on this earth. Therefore tonight I am breaking a solemn vow, the oaths taken in my green youth—that secret which has made of my kind men apart. Listen, all of you, to the inner story of our Stars.

  “Now we who wear them are hunters of dim trails,, seekers of lost knowledge. But once this,” his hand went to the star, bright and hot in the firelight, at his throat, “had another meaning. Our forefathers were brought to this mountain hiding place because they were designed to be truly men of the Stars. Here were they being trained to a life which would be theirs on other worlds. Our records tell us that man was on the eve of conquering space when his madness fell upon him and he reached again for slaying weapons.

  “We who were meant to roam the stars go now on foot upon a ravaged earth. But above us those other worlds still hang, and still they beckon. And so is the promise still given. If we make not the mistakes of the Old Ones then shall we know in time more than the winds of this earth and the trails of this earth. This is the secret we now publish abroad so that all men may know what was lost to us with the dread folly of the Old Ones and to what we may aspire if we make not the same error in our turn.”

  Fors’ fingers clenched until nails bit into his palms. So this was what man had thrown away! The same longing which had torn him on the field of the dead bombing plains came to him again. They had been so great in their dreams—the Old Ones! Well, men must dream again.