"Harl is old, very old," replied the girl. "He is so old that he must
be a doddering gaffer now."
"But his brain would be young," Tyr argued. "And it is the brain that
is trained in war from which I seek aid."
The girl sat on a rock and undid a sandal and shook sand from it. She
shrugged petulantly and fastened her sandal. "Must we go now? It is
almost night."
Tyr looked at the sun low on the horizon. Tyr did not like to travel by
night. He preferred the hot day, when the sunrays beat with insistent
heat about his tanned chest and shoulders. But there was need for
hurry. The Old Ones did not stop for darkness, and neither would he.
"Come," he said shortly.
The way was easy, at first. In the red light of the dying sun, they
saw the sand before them, each rise and dip moulded into graceful
curves by the winds that whipped the barrens night and day. They went
lightly, swiftly.
Slowly the stars loomed in the darkening sky above them. And, as is the
way with travellers the worlds over, they grew silent and more intimate
in unspoken thought. Once or twice Fay's hand brushed Tyr's, and he
helped her across the higher dunes.
On a hard swirl of sand, they stood close. Fay whispered, "All those
stars, Tyr. You would think the Old Ones would be satisfied with so
many. They might leave Lyallar alone!"
Tyr felt surprise at the emotion within him. It was almost a sympathy
with the nomad oppressors.
"They have curiosity. I have it myself. I have lived on every desert
that Lyallar can boast, yet I am ever searching for a bigger and a
hotter one. Maybe the Old Ones are like that."
He looked down at the girl, smiling wistfully at the pale loveliness of
her hair, at the warm brown of her eyes. He shivered, watching her. He
wanted so much to take Fay and go out into the desert with her, away
from everything that smacked of godhood. They could go to the Tower,
and live there safely. The _ardth_ would not find him there. There
would be none to say him yea or nay. If--he was a god!
Tyr sighed and turned from Fay's red mouth and looked out across the
unending dunes. An inner voice whispered, _The Trylla need you, Tyr.
You are their god, and a god does not run away. When is a god needed
more than in time of trouble? You cannot leave them, for they are as
children. You must fight._ He nodded in the darkness, grimly.
Side by side they went on through the night. And now they went apart
from each other, as though the decision were a final parting. Words
were unnecessary. The Trylla needed Tyr.
It was dawn when they saw the others trudging wearily across a far bank
of sand. Tyr shouted and waved, summoning them. Dragging deadened limbs
they came, in torn clothes and with smears and streaks of dirt on gaunt
faces. They stood before him, and in their eyes was the dull glaze of
despair and in their voices the sullen acceptance of their fate.
"We fled after seeing the _ardth_ ships come."
"They will find us, though. We want just a few more days of freedom."
"All of Yawarta is captive to them. They have made Otho governor, and
thrown Zarman, whom you appointed ruler, into the cells."
"And they have sent out commands that you be returned to them at once.
They have offered rewards."
Tyr grinned mirthlessly, shaking his tawny head. A return meant
torture, possibly death. If the Old Ones thought enough of him, they
might feed him to the Glow.
He said, "Fay and I are bound for the Barrow. We will find Harl and
call him to lead new armies against the _ardth_. Join with us. We shall
win."
"We cannot win ... alone."
They looked at him out of dull eyes in which tiny flames of hope sprang
alive and flickered, and then died. They shuffled their feet. They
looked tired enough to fall, and the bare soles of several bled red
drops into the sands.
"Sleep," said Tyr gently. "You need rest. Dawn is coming up, and I can
go on in the sunlight to survey the path before us."
He drew Fay with him, over the crest of a dune. His fingers rose to
touch the circlet of dull gold that gleamed from the chain about his
neck. Slowly he unfastened it as Fay watched, staring. The ring was a
part of him, for he had worn it ever since he could remember. Now he
wanted Fay to wear it. It bruised his ribs when he ran, or bounced on
his back and against his jaw. But more than that, every Tryllan knew
that ring. It would be a symbol of power in Fay's hands.
"Use it well," he said, closing her white fingers about it.
Her brown eyes were wide, looking up at him. Tyr put out his hands and
caught her arms above her elbows. He held her like that, just looking
at her beauty, for a long moment.
And then he turned and ran swiftly, lest the muffled thunder of his
blood should smash the resolutions his brain had welded so firmly.