Dawn of Flame
Stanley G. Weinbaum (1936)
Country of origin: USA
Available texts by the same author here
Chapter 3: The Master Marches
Joaquin Smith was marching.Hull Tarvish leaned against the door of File Ormson's iron worker's shop in Ormiston, and stared across the fields and across the woodlands, and across to the blue mountains of Ozarky in the south. There is where he should have been, there with the mountainy men, but by the time the tired rider had brought the news to Selui, and by the time Hull had reached Ormiston, it was already too late, and Ozarky was but an outlying province of the expanding Empire, while the Master camped there above Norse, and sent representations to Selui.
Selui wasn't going to yield. Already the towns of the three months old Selui Confederation were sending in their men, from Bloom'ton, from Cairo, even from distant Ch'cago on the shores of the saltless sea Mitchin. The men of the Confederation hated the little, slender, dark Ch'cagoans, for they had not yet forgotten the disastrous battle at Starved Rock, but any allies were welcome against Joaquin Smith. The Ch'cagoans were good enough fighters, too, and heart and soul in the cause, for if the Master took Selui, his Empire would reach dangerously close to the saltless seas, spreading from the ocean on the east to the mountains on the west, and north as far as the great confluence of the M'sippi and M'souri.
Hull knew there was fighting ahead, and he relished it. It was too bad that he couldn't have fought in Ozarky for his own people, but Ormiston would do. That was his home for the present, since he'd found work here with File Ormson, the squat iron-worker, broad-shouldered as Hull himself and a head shorter. Pleasant work for his mighty muscles, though at the moment there was nothing to do.
He stared at the peaceful countryside. Joaquin Smith was marching, and beyond the village, the farmers were still working in their fields. Hull listened to the slow Sowing Song:
"This is what the ground needs: First the plow and then the seeds, Then the harrow and then the hoe, And rain to make the harvest grow.
"This is what the man needs: First the promises, then the deeds, Then the arrow and then the blade, And last the digger with his black spade.
"This is what his wife needs: First a garden free of weeds, Then the daughter, and their the son, And a fireplace warm when the work is done.
"This is what his son needs--"
Hull ceased to listen. They were singing, but Joaquin Smith was marching, marching with the men of a hundred cities, with his black banner and its golden serpent fluttering. That serpent, Old Einar had said, was the Midgard Serpent, which ancient legend related had encircled the earth. It was the symbol of the Master's dream, and for a moment Hull had a stirring of sympathy for that dream.
"No!" he growled to himself. "Freedom's better, and it's for us to blow the head from the Midgard Serpent."
A voice sounded at his side. "Hull! Big Hull Tarvish! Are you too proud to notice humble folk?"
It was Vail Ormiston, her violet eyes whimsical below her smooth copper hair. He flushed; he was not used to the ways of these valley girls, who flirted frankly and openly in a manner impossible to the shy girls of the mountains. Yet he--well, in a way, he liked it, and he liked Vail Ormiston, and he remembered pleasantly an evening two days ago when he had sat and talked a full three hours with her on the bench by the tree that shaded Ormiston well. And he remembered the walk through the fields when she had shown him the mouth of the great ancient storm sewer that had run under the dead city, and that still stretched crumbling for miles underground toward the hills, and he recalled her story of how, when a child, she had lost herself in it, so that her father had planted the tangle of blackberry bushes that still concealed the opening.
He grinned, "Is it the eldarch's daughter speaking of humble folk? Your father will be taxing me double if he hears of this."
She tossed her helmet of metallic hair. "He will if he sees you in that Selui finery of yours." Her eyes twinkled. "For whose eyes was it bought, Hull? For you'd be better saving your money."
"Save silver, lose luck," he retorted. After all, it wasn't so difficult a task to talk to her. "Anyway, better a smile from you than the glitter of money."
She laughed. "But how quickly you learn, mountainy! Still, what if I say I liked you better in tatters, with your powerful brown muscles quivering through the rips?"
"Do you say it, Vail?"
"Yes, then!"
He chuckled, raising his great hands to his shoulders. There was the rasp of tearing cloth, and a long rent gleamed in the back of his Selui shirt. "There, Vail!"
"Oh!" she gasped. "Hull, you wastrel! But it's only a seam." She fumbled in the bag at her belt. "Let me stitch it back for you."
She bent behind him, and he could feel her breath on his skin, warm as spring sunshine. He set his jaw, scowled, and then plunged determinedly into what he had to say. "I'd like to talk to you again this evening, Vail."
He sensed her smile at his back. "Would you?" she murmured demurely.
"Yes, if Enoch Ormiston hasn't spoken first for your time."
"But he has, Hull."
He knew she was teasing him deliberately. "I'm sorry," he said shortly.
"But--I told him I was busy," she finished.
"And are you?"
Her voice was a whisper behind him. "No. Not unless you tell me I am."
His great roar of a laugh sounded. "Then I tell you so, Vail."
He 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."