Fantastic Stories Presents: Science Fiction Super Pack #1. Рэй Брэдбери
felt her tug at the seam, then she leaned very close to his neck, but it was only to bite the thread with her white teeth. “So!” she said gaily. “Once mended, twice new.”
Before Hull could answer there came the clang of File Ormson’s sledge, and the measured bellow of his Forge Song. They listened as his resounding strokes beat time to the song.
“Then it’s ho—oh—ho—oh—ho!
While I’m singing to the ringing
Of each blow—blow—blow!
Till the metal’s soft as butter
Let my forge and bellows sputter
Like the revels of the devils down below—low—LOW!
Like the revels of the devils down below!”
“I must go,” said Hull, smiling reluctantly. “There’s work for me now.”
“What does File make?” asked Vail.
Instantly Hull’s smile faded. “He forges—a sword!”
Vail too was no longer the joyous one of a moment ago. Over both of them had come a shadow, the shadow of the Empire. Out in the blue hills of Ozarky Joaquin Smith was marching.
*
Evening. Hull watched the glint of a copper moon on Vail’s copper hair, and leaned back on the bench. Not the one near the pump this time; that had been already occupied by two laughing couples, and though they had been welcomed eagerly enough, Hull had preferred to be alone. It wasn’t mountain shyness any more, for his great, good-natured presence had found ready friendship in Ormiston village; it was merely the projection of that moodiness that had settled over both of them at parting, and so they sat now on the bench near Vail Ormiston’s gate at the edge of town. Behind them the stone house loomed dark, for her father was scurrying about in town on Confederation business, and the help had availed themselves of the evening of freedom to join the crowd in the village square. But the yellow daylight of the oil lamp showed across the road in the house of Hue Helm, the farmer who had brought Hull from Norse to Ormiston.
It was at this light that Hull stared thoughtfully. “I like fighting,” he repeated, “but somehow the joy has gone out of this. It’s as if one waited an approaching thunder cloud.”
“How,” asked Vail in a timid, small voice, “can one fight magic?”
“There is no magic,” said the youth, echoing Old Einar’s words. “There is no such thing —”
“Hull! How can you say such stupid words?”
“I say what was told me by one who knows.”
“No magic!” echoed Vail. “Then tell me what gives the wizards of the south their power. Why is it that Joaquin Smith has never lost a battle? What stole away the courage of the men of the Memphis League, who are good fighting men? And what—for this I have seen with my own eyes—pushes the horseless wagons of N’Orleans through the streets, and what lights that city by night? If not magic, then what?”
“Knowledge,” said Hull. “The knowledge of the Ancients.”
“The knowledge of the Ancients was magic,” said the girl. “Everyone knows that the Ancients were wizards, warlocks, and sorcerers. If Holland, Olin, and Martin Sair are not sorcerers, then what are they? If Black Margot is no witch, then my eyes never looked on one.”
“Have you seen them?” queried Hull.
“Of course, all but Holland, who is dead. Three years ago during the Peace of Memphis my father and I traveled into the Empire. I saw all of them about the city of N’Orleans.”
“And is she—what they say she is?”
“The Princess?” Vail’s eyes dropped. “Men say she is beautiful.”
“But you think not?”
“What if she is?” snapped the girl almost defiantly. “Her beauty is like her youth, like her very life—artificial, preserved after its allotted time, frozen. That’s it—frozen by sorcery. And as for the rest of her—” Vail’s voice lowered, hesitated, for not even the plain-spoken valley girls discussed such things with men. “They say she has outworn a dozen lovers,” she whispered.
Hull was startled, shocked. “Vail!” he muttered.
She swung the subject back to safer ground, but he saw her flush red. “Don’t tell me there’s no magic!” she said sharply.
“At least,” he returned, “there’s no magic will stop a bullet save flesh and bone. Yes, and the wizard who stops one with his skull lies just as dead as an honest man.”
“I hope you’re right,” she breathed timidly. “Hull, he must be stopped! He must!”
“But why feel so strongly, Vail? I like a fight—but men say that life in the Empire is much like life without, and who cares to whom he pays his taxes if only—” He broke off suddenly, remembering. “Your father!” he exclaimed. “The eldarch!”
“Yes, my father, Hull. If Joaquin Smith takes Ormison, my father is the one to suffer. His taxes will be gone, his lands parceled out, and he’s old, Hull—old. What will become of him then? I know many people feel the way you—the way you said, and so they fight halfheartedly, and the Master takes town after town without killing a single man. And then they think there is magic in the very name of Joaquin Smith, and he marches through armies that outnumber him ten to one.” She paused. “But not Ormiston!” she cried fiercely. “Not if the women have to bear arms!”
“Not Ormiston,” he agreed gently.
“You’ll fight, Hull, won’t you? Even though you’re not Ormiston born?”
“Of course. I have bow and sword, and a good pistol. I’ll fight.”
“But no rifle? Wait, Hull.” She rose and slipped away in the darkness.
In a moment she was back again. “Here. Here is rifle and horn and ball. Do you know its use?”
He smiled proudly. “What I can see I can hit,” he said, “like any mountain man.”
“Then,” she whispered with fire in her voice, “send me a bullet through the Master’s skull. And one besides between the eyes of Black Margot—for me!”
“I do not fight women,” he said.
“Not woman but witch!”
“None the less, Vail, it must be two bullets for the Master and only the captive’s chains for Princess Margaret, at least so far as Hull Tarvish is concerned. But wouldn’t it please you fully as well to watch her draw water from your pump, or shine pots in your kitchen?” He was jollying her, trying to paint fanciful pictures to lift her spirit from the somber depths.
But she read it otherwise. “Yes!” she blazed. “Oh, yes, Hull, that’s better. If I could ever hope to see that—” She rose suddenly, and he followed her to the gate. “You must go,” she murmured, “but before you leave, you can—if you wish it, Hull—kiss me.”
Of a sudden he was all shy mountainy again. He set the rifle against the fence with its horn swinging from the trigger guard. He faced her flushing a furious red, but only half from embarrassment, for the rest was happiness. He circled her with his great arms and very hastily, fire touched his lips to her soft ones.
“Now,” he said exultantly, “now I will fight if I have to charge the men of the Empire alone.”
THE BATTLE OF EAGLEFOOT FLOW
The men of the Confederation were pouring into Ormiston all night long, the little dark men of Ch’cago and Selui, the tall blond ones from the regions of Iowa, where Dutch blood still survived, mingled now with a Scandinavian infusion