Dominion by Fred Saberhagen (spiritual books to read TXT) 📗

a hypnotic rhythm, almost without pause. The surface that flowed backward underneath Margie’s stride was for the most part of flat paving stones. Underneath them was another layer, that in the frequent unrepaired breaks showed as some kind of rough concrete. Beneath the scuffle of marching feet, these surfaces gave up dust. The dust tended to drift up in a fine cloud, and by midmorning all of the trudging Ladies were white with a layer of dust on top of the flaxen offwhiteness of their dress. The dust grayed the clothing of the other villagers who trudged with them, and added a touch of stage makeup to the faces of everyone.

   Artos had got this march, this flight, started well before dawn, just as the lad who’d brought the warning to the village had advised. When the House of Ladies was aroused (overhearing speech now with new understanding, Marge had soon learned that was their proper name) they had, like well-trained troops, mobilized themselves at once. There were about a dozen of the Ladies, mostly young, but led by a First Lady of strong middle age. Under her direction the evacuation of their House had gone like clockwork. A few belongings were packed on backs, some loaded on a donkey. The remainder were left behind without a second glance.

   The couple of dozen other people who inhabited the village had been just as brisk in getting ready to hit the road. If the road was narrow, the column of refugees was narrow too, and short. There were fewer than forty people in it altogether.

   At the first indications that people in the House of Ladies were waking up, Talisman had vanished back into the night, leaving in Marge’s ear the whispered hope that he’d be able to rejoin her later, probably at night. Meanwhile he was going to learn what he could about the enemies of Artos.

   By now, midmorning, Marge herself still hadn’t been able to find out much about the enemy—or very much about her companions, either, except for noting a small collection of unfamiliar names. Among the feared and detested leaders of the foe were people called Falerin, Comorr, Nimue, and someone whose name sounded like Medrow, the last especially despised as traitor.

   She puzzled continually and uselessly over where her newfound ability to understand these people’s language had come from. She had not yet revealed her new understanding, though she felt intuitively that she would be able to speak as well as understand, whenever she chose to try. And, without appearing to listen, she continued to absorb the talk of those around her, picking up what information she could. She learned less than she would have thought, for the people who spoke to each other were always assuming background knowledge that Marge simply didn’t have.

   And Marge was tired. A little lightheaded, not at all confident that she was thinking straight. She had retired early to her pallet last evening, but sleep had been uneasy and interrupted. And now she’d had to keep up for hours with what she considered a damned hard hike. It was a good thing that she’d been in shape when this whole crazy experience started.

   There were three or four donkeys, used as pack animals. The only horses were carrying half a dozen fighting men. These were all evidently leaders, and there was no chivalrous nonsense out of them about offering weaker folk a ride. This small cavalry squadron, wearing chain mail over regular clothes, was led by the short, forceful man, Artos—that had turned out to be his name and not the name of the village. Armed with short spears, knives, shields, and the only two swords that Marge had seen since her arrival, the cavalry since dawn had been maneuvering in and out of sight of the trudging foot column. Sometimes they went trotting ahead to scout the way. At other times they dropped back, or vanished along hedgerows to one side of the road or the other, Marge supposed to look out for ambush or pursuit. Among the people on foot, ten or a dozen men and boys were carrying spears and short blades, serving as immediate armed escort.

   Marge had heard frequent mention of something called the Strong Fort. It was the place they were trying to reach, and she gathered that they might possibly get there sometime tomorrow. She supposed that meant at least one night spent in the open, in what promised to be an uncomfortable camp. Marge wasn’t looking forward to the night.

   A distant whistle, intended as a signal, broke in on her thoughts. Everyone around her was galvanized by the sound.

   “They fight!” one of the Ladies near Marge gasped. The whole small column, men, women, and children, had already quickened its pace into a run. The whistle had sounded from somewhere in the rear, where a few minutes earlier the cavalry had dropped back out of sight.

   Marge, surrounded by grim, whitedusted, gasping faces, ran with the rest. The pace was not an all-out dash but a long-distance lope, and so far she was keeping up. Somewhere far in the rear, the men of the cavalry shouted, going about their warriors’ trade. Now already the older people in the column were beginning to lag helplessly. No one was going to wait for them. The younger adults pressed on, dragging the smaller children with them as best they could.

   Before Marge was totally winded, another whistled signal overtook the refugees. Stumbling with relief, the fleeing column straggled to a halt. Some sat down where they were. Heads turned back. Within a minute, Artos rode into sight at the head of his tiny squadron, all of whom had apparently survived the skirmish in good shape. Artos had his sword in hand, and when he waved it briefly, signaling the walking people to move right on, Marge could see that it was stained. The horses of the cavalry, skittish now, snorting, walking quickly, brought