The Dome in the Forest

by Paul O. Williams

  “I hope you won’t be disappointed. We know little of the eastern cities, and what we do know is not encouraging.”

  “Pelbarigan is not encouraging, either.”

  Butto entered. As Tor had anticipated, he would go because Eolyn was. By this time, he and Stel were good friends, perpetually bantering, and Ahroe could see he deeply regretted leaving.

  “All fall, and I have never seen a snake. I wanted to. The tapes had a marvelous snake.”

  “They are all denned up now. Wait until spring. Stel will show you knots and ropes of snakes.”

  “There will be snakes in the east,” said Eolyn.

  “For your sakes, I hope there are snakes,” said Ahroe.

  “And plenty of aches, I undertake, from betaking our way through quaking brakes, forsaking Pelbar cake to take a hike.”

  “Whew. I’m glad Stel isn’t here. That would have rendered him unconscious in the strain to match it. You can beat him at his own game. His fame will never be the same since you came.” Ahroe hugged the heavy man and left.

  “What is the matter with her?”

  “We are friends,” said Butto. “I have bounced her boy on my knee, big as he is, you see.”

  “Don’t start that with me,” said Eolyn, shaking her head when Butto laughed.

  Two mornings later they left on the Tantal ship used to patrol. The Protector arranged a special farewell, with music and presents. Eolyn thought it was a gesture of surrender, but in actuality the Protector was establishing a feeling of warm hospitality in the hope that the dome people would feel no reluctance to return. As Tor had surmised, of the principals only Butto wanted to accompany Eolyn, but after much hesitation Royal decided to go, too, for solidarity. All the comps but 16 went along. Bill, of course, remained. Tor was not at the bank. Eolyn found herself looking for him. Dailith, who was nearly as tall as the axeman, stood gloomily on the bank staring at her.

  As the ship moved underway, the Protector’s elbow was nudged. Turning, she saw the Northcounsel, who said, “It has turned out badly, Protector. We will await your promise to resign.”

  “You will have it, Rickor, but let us first see how this turns out. There will be time. You will not have long to wait.” As she turned to go, she leaned on the Northcounsel, breathing heavily.

  Tor had gone to Northwall, taking Tristal, who ran easily behind his uncle now. He was nearly as tall, and filling out rapidly. Tor found the northern city prepared for more than was likely to come. Tag had designed a communications system that would warn the whole community of attack at any point.

  The two men had a long conversation about Eolyn’s departure. “I have been reading too much Pelbar scripture,” said Tor. “Before, I might have taken the whole bunch and destroyed those weapons.”

  “Maybe you should have. How many do they have?”

  “Two helmets and one hand-held unit. Without them they are nearly helpless.”

  “With them?”

  “It is hard to tell. They might withstand an army—if the army was walking across a field. These Peshtak have been drifting westward all season now, and the only people who have seen them have been killed by them. They are like smoke.”

  “Perhaps we should overtake them even now.”

  “I don’t think Eolyn would tolerate it. I don’t understand her. She is without pity.”

  The two fell into silence. Tia and Tag came in bringing Stantu to see Tor. The axeman was surprised to see how much Stantu had failed. As they embraced, he saw death in Stantu’s eyes. He also saw resolution.

  “No matter what they do to us, they never touch the spirit, Stantu,” Tor said. He found himself wishing he fully believed it. He knew that Stantu fully understood that side of the question.

  “The core of the spirit, anyhow,” Stantu returned. “I am resolved. I only regret leaving Tag alone.” Looking, Tor saw resolution in her eyes as well. “It is strange being killed in a war fought a thousand years ago or more,” Stantu added.

  The friends all talked awhile, then saw Stantu and Tag home. There the failing Shumai gave Tristal a folding knife, worn but sharp. “It was given me by Sima Pall, the former Protector here,” he said. “It has been to Emeri country twice. It has drained the heart’s blood of bulls and carved the lintels of my home here. It is full of use and hope, as you are.” He smiled faintly as he said this. Tristal was embarrassed, but took it and embraced first Stantu then Tag.

  Soon everyone could see that Tor was restless. Finally, he said, “I think I’d better go back to Pelbarigan.”

  “Now? It is almost high night.”

  “Yes. But now I’ve seen your map, with the four previous Peshtak raids. It makes a pattern. The attacks are near rivers. Then they vanish. Given the patterns of search, they must have moved west from the Gray Ash River, and now north from the Oh. That would put them, now, perhaps, close to Eolyn’s path, unless they have turned south and west again. I can almost taste trouble. Can you lend us an arrowboat?”

  “Of course. Just take one. I will come to the bank with you. How will you paddle?”

  “I have a strap Stel made for me.”

  Later Jestak was frowning in bewilderment watching Tor and Tristal drive out into the current, with the dim shape of Raran between them in the dark.

  “Something is going to happen,” said Tia.

  “You, too? Look at them. He paddles well for a one-handed man.”

  It was nightfall the following day when Tristal and Tor arrived at Pelbarigan. Tristal was completely worn out, but Tor seemed untouched by fatigue. He mounted the hill to Stel and Ahroe’s, entering with only a couple of knocks. The couple looked up, startled.

  “Do you still have that pointer of Celeste’s?”

  “Tor. Back so soon? Yes. What is wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Something. Let me have it. I want to find out how to make it work.”

  A moment later, Ahroe watched him trot down the path with it. She was puzzled. She decided to follow. Tor trotted up the main front stairhall in the city, ran to the dome people’s quarters, and knocked.

  Ruthan opened the door. “Tor. What is it?”

  “Ruthy. Do you have that radio? Can we contact Eolyn?”

  “It is extremely far. We can try.” She turned and went for her wrist transceiver. They clustered around the center table in the commons as Ruthan tried repeatedly to reach the travelers.

  Finally, Eolyn’s voice, dim and crackling, came back. “Eolyn awake here. Ruthan? What is wrong?”

  “Listen. Tor wants to talk to you.”

  “Tor? That great heap of surmises? What does he want?”

  “Listen, Eolyn,” Tor began. “I have been to Northwall. I have seen a pattern in the Peshtak raids. They have all occurred near rivers. Then they have vanished without a trace, only to reappear. Given the patterns of search, and the latest raid, I am worried. If you are traveling eastward toward the Oh, you may be in their area.”

  “Is that all? We must be far north of them. I have seen the maps, such as they are. They have been moving westward. I suppose you want me to come back and be a Pelbar servant. Miss me, eh?”

  “What sort of a place are you in? What kind of guards have you?”

  “We are in a valley, a stream valley, with high protecting walls cut in the limestone. It is long, mainly east and west. A lot of rock has fallen—big rocks—from the cliffs.” Her voice faded away, then came back: “. . . are safe enough.”

  Tor groaned. “Safe? I hardly think it. I am coming. I will bring Dailith.”

  “No need. We won’t wait, either. What is it, 11?”

  They heard some muttering about the sensors, then the signal faded out and they could not recover it.

  Tor sat down with a sigh. “Celeste, how do you work this thing? I am going to take it along.”

  “My pointer? Then you found it. You should have given it back.”

  “Yes. It seems like such a weapon for a girl. Stel blew a hole in his wall with it.”

 
Celeste laughed. “He should be careful.” With systematic precision, the girl explained the operation of the ultrasonic pointer. They then tried it out, carefully, on someone by the river bank, activating it just enough to make him scratch his leg. Celeste was amused by this, but she pointed out that unlike the pulsers, it did not work well at a distance. “Some forms of energy can be pulsed straight out, but this is really nothing but sound, and it can be shaped and directed only in a limited way.” She handed the pointer back to Tor.

  “Do you really think they’re in trouble?” Ruthan asked.

  “They well may be. If those weapons fall into the hands of the Peshtak, and so far west as this, then we are all in trouble. If they find out how to use them. And if they keep any of your people alive, believe me, they will find out. They could dominate the whole Heart River.”

  There was a silence. Finally, Tor stood. “I have missed a night’s rest. I can’t start until morning. Ahroe, try to get us some horses—three of them.”

  “What can you do? There will be a lot of them,” said Ahroe.

  Tor’s look sent chills through Ruthan. “There will be something,” he said.

  At daybreak, Celeste saw three riders trot away down the river path, Raran following. “Who is the third?” she asked.

  “Tristal,” Ruthan replied. “He has more experience with horses than either man. He is going for the sake of the horses.”

  “It can’t be Tristal. He is too big.”

  “It is, though.”

  Celeste continued to squint in disbelief.

  That day they made forty-three ayas before sundown. At dusk the horses moved with complete weariness. When the small party finally dismounted, Tor said, “You two bring the horses after. I will leave a marker where to turn off the trail. It will not be for some time. I am going to run.”

  “No, Tor. You—” Dailith began, but Tor already was moving down the dim river trail. “What’s the use of that?” he continued.

  “Plenty,” said Tristal. “By sunup he will be at least another thirty ayas, and he will keep going.”

  “No one can do that.”

  “Tor can.”

  “Well, let’s get these horses unpacked.”

  “I will do that. You cook.” Tristal set about unsaddling and caring for the horses with a sense of total authority. Dailith was surprised, but said nothing.

  That night neither could sleep until late. Both were thinking of Tor, running in the dark, and were excited and tired. Raran alone curled up in comfort.

  It was nearly noon the next day when Blu’s men came out on the river trail. They had swept an arc but found no trace of the Peshtak this far north. “Tracks,” said Vult. “A single man, running. Look, he is Shumai.”

  Blu looked. “It is Tor,” he said. “Look. Short steps. He must be running in his sleep. See if we can find when.”

  “Look here,” said Ubi. “A worm cast. Last night.”

  “I think we should follow,” said Dard. “He must know where he is going.”

  Blu began trotting down the trail, the others falling in behind. “Move, Dusk,” he said, nudging his big dog out of the way with a knee. “So soon after eating. Tor, you’d better know where you are going.”

  “And I hope it’s no social visit,” said Vult.

  A morning quadrant later, they hit Tor’s marker and turned off the trail, running southeastward, straight as sunlight when the land permitted. At sundown, as the Shumai strung out wearily, he was still going, leaving a clear trail.

  “We’ll have to stop,” said Dard. “Blu, you’re the axeman. What do you say?”

  “I’m not sure. I think he is heading down into the hill forests, though. He seems to know where he’s going. I think we should mark stars and continue. He means to be followed. If we have lost him in the morning, we can run arcs and pick him up again.”

  Far behind, Tristal and Dailith had also left the bank trail. Tristal knew several of the pairs of tracks, and knew Blu was following Tor. He was restless.

  “How can you be sure of the tracks?” Dailith asked.

  “Do you know your family’s faces? I know their tracks. You know all your friends’ voices without looking. Dailith, I am going on. You will have to manage the horses alone tonight.” Tristal ran on in the dusk, Raran, head lolling low, following. Dailith stood watching, holding the halter ropes, frustrated, thinking about the undependability of the Shumai.

  It was early the next morning that Tor struck the trail of the dome people. He knew the place. Ahead was a valley like that Eolyn described. Yes. Here were other tracks, Peshtak, surely. Tor smelled fire. He left the trail and worked up the north side, low and silent.

  He was a full quarter of the morning in moving close through the freshly fallen leaves, sometimes, it seemed to him, as slowly as the shadows moved on them, but at least as silently. He encountered one Peshtak sentinel and killed him silently. The man crumpled like a rag in Tor’s hands. His body had open sores. Revulsed, Tor rubbed his hands in the dirt.

  Coming in behind rocks, he saw the open space where Eolyn’s party must have camped. A cluster of people stood below near a fire. Tor heard someone shrieking. They were torturing a comp. Tor could see Butto there, surrounded by Peshtak, but neither Royal nor Eolyn. Farther east, near an outcrop, he saw a rough shelter of heaped and woven brush, heavily guarded. That is where they would be. He worked in closer. What would he do? One of the Peshtak stood holding a helmet weapon near Butto, watching the torture. Tor gave Celeste’s pointer a little power and drew a circle on Butto’s back. The heavy man started and looked around. Tor waved one hand slightly, hoping Butto wouldn’t give him away. Butto seemed gloomy, depressed, but when he saw Tor he started slightly, recovering himself by rubbing his head. Then his head sunk back on his chest. Tor could see they had been beating him.

  Suddenly, Butto announced in an oracular voice, “He was right, the ancient poet, Jeffers, when he said,

  Happy people die whole, they are all dissolved in a moment, they have had what they wanted,

  No hard gifts; the unhappy

  Linger a space, but pain is a thing that is glad to be forgotten; but one who has given

  His heart to a cause or a country,

  His ghost may spaniel it a while, disconsolate to watch it. I was wondering how long the spirit

  That sheds this verse will remain

  When the nostrils are nipped, when the brain rots in its vault or bubbles in the violence of fire

  To be ash in metal. I was thinking—”

  Butto’s Peshtak guard, who had been watching him with increasing bewilderment and anger, turned and knocked him down, hissing, “Quiet, pig.”

  Butto stumbled up. Tor drew a slight line down his leg with the pointer. Butto nodded twice, looked around, then turned, as if absently, toward the man with the helmet, jerking his thumb slightly toward him. Tor aimed the pointer and hit the Peshtak with full power. He screamed and grabbed his ears. In a flash, Butto had reached over and touched several buttons, then yelled, “Pray like Stel,” clapping the heels of his hands to his eyes. Tor understood, rolling behind the rock and burying his eyes in his left forearm. He felt a rush of heat and saw red light through his arm and eyelids as the helmet bloomed up and out in a sudden, huge ball of roaring white fire that set the whole center of the valley ablaze, instantly roasting the whole crowd of comps, all the assembled Peshtak, and Butto himself.

  Tor looked up, stunned. Turning, he saw the guards by the shelter had been blinded by the flash. They were standing in burning grass, holding their faces. The whole front of the shelter was smoking and flaring. Tor raced through burning leaves and grass and felled the seven guards with quick, whirling strokes of his new axe. He could hear Eolyn inside screaming. He dashed around the back, encountering three Peshtak, killing all three in a whirling flurry.

  He ripped off mats and bark on the rear of the shelter, hacking at saplings and bindings. Diving in, he felt a knife slash into his right arm. He whipped his axe ar
ound again in the smoky dark, felt it bite and slice deep, and resheathed it. In the smoke he saw Eolyn lying bound. He slipped his truncated arm under her shoulders and ran out the hole in the back of the shelter.

  Eolyn looked up, dazed. “Royal, Royal,” she said. Tor turned back and found the old man in the blazing structure, then dragged him out. Then he sliced their bonds with his axe edge and brought them back away from the shelter. Turning, he saw the fire creeping out, southward, but slowing in the dampness. He shuddered and shrugged away his gaze.

  “Eo,” he said. “Where are the other weapons?”

  “Both helmets were together. Probably they both exploded. I don’t know where the hand pulser is. My God, how did you get here?”

  “Dailith and I rode horses the first day. Then I ran.”

  “That is impossible.”

  “Tiring. Let that be. Where are the others?”

  “Others? These were all.”

  “Never. Ah, here comes one.”

  “That’s the handsome one, Kubra. He is the leader of these horrors.”

  A man of middle height came walking slowly from the rocks, clearing his eyes. Tor advanced on him, kicked his legs from under him, tossed aside his knife, and stood him up.

  “Over here,” Tor said, leading him toward Eolyn and Royal. “Stand there.”

  The man was slightly swarthy, with an extraordinarily handsome face, apparently beardless. Tor looked at him closely. He still appeared to be clearing his eyes.

  “Where are the others?” Tor asked.

  “Tor, your arm. Let me bind it,” said Eolyn. Tor knelt on one knee while Eolyn ripped strips from the lining of her coat and bound the knife wounds, which ran down to the stump end of his right arm.

  “I am sorry for you,” said the Peshtak. “That knife was poisoned, of course. You have not long to live.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “There are no others. I alone remain. You have defeated us totally. Unfortunately, you will soon weaken, and won’t enjoy it.” The man shifted his feet slightly, squinting in the sun, adjusting his coat with its large silvery badge.