Lloyd Biggle Jr. - The World Menders

He asked Jorrul, “What’s happening in Scorv?”

“Nothing much. Lots of refugees have been checking in with relatives there, every rase in this country has at least one family of relatives in Scorv. But there’s no alarm, or shortage of supplies, or anything like that.”

“How much food does the city keep on hand?”

“No idea.”

“I was wondering how long it could hold out under a siege.”

“I don’t know,” Jorrul said. “Most of its food reserves are in depots a long way from the city or on the hoof being driven there. On the other hand, the length of time a city holds out under siege depends as much on the character and determination of the people as on their supplies. The rascz make fine soldiers, but as far as I know the people have never been tested. You’re thinking of laying siege to Scorv?”

Farrari smiled wistfully. His olz had never been tested, either. “Any new word on the rasc army?”

Jorrul shook his head. “As of right now, we haven’t a single agent between here and Scory who’s in position to observe. Our agents have to behave normally, and when the rascz headed for Scory they went with them. Base has platforms out every night, but they literally aren’t catching a glimmer—which means that the army is moving at night or doing without fires. All we know for certain is that it hasn’t returned to Scorv, so it’s either advancing or waiting for you. Don’t you think you ought to start getting ready for it?”

It was the moment when Farrari should have sent the olz home. A trained army was sweeping toward them, they were utterly defenseless, and this time their blood would be on his hands. But he had come so far, he had accomplished half of a genuine miracle, and he could not bring himself to turn back—not when he could accomplish the whole miracle as soon as he found a spark.

And the kru’s army did not come. Each morning Jorrul checked with base, each morning base had nothing to report, and day after day Farrari and Jorrul recruited more olz and moved ever closer to Scorv, until one morning Farrari scouted far ahead of the olz and found himself standing at the edge of the wasteland. No intoxicant had ever exhilarated him as did the bleak view he drank in that bright morning from a low hill south of Scorv: The city lay just beyond the horizon, and there was no sign of a rasc army to bar the way.

He hurried back to tell Jorrul what he had seen. Jorrul said slowly, “I suppose it’s possible that the army took one look at the olz and ran. That doesn’t make sense to me, especially since the army doesn’t seem to have run anywhere, but it also doesn’t make sense to me that the durrlz would take one look at the olz and run. How much about this revolution does make sense?”

“We’ll be starting across the wasteland day after tomorrow,” Farrari said. “The olz will have to take all the food they can carry. And quarm.”

“You’re still farther from Scory than you realize,” Jorrul said. “The wasteland is wider here than in the north. Fortunately there’s a food storage depot halfway across it, and the depot is an IPR base with a communications room. Two of our agents are still there. I’ll ask them what they have on hand.”

They had huge stores of grain, ample quarm, and very few tubers, so Farrari and Jorrul separated to search out durri headquarters with large stocks of tubers. It was nearly dusk when Farrari returned to the highway. A short distance to the south he saw the endless mass of olz moving toward him, and he decided to dismiss them for the night when they reached him. He dismounted and led his gril to the side of the road to wait. The olz plodded forward as they had on every other day, stolid, indifferent to the loom of history just beyond their grasp, sparkless.

Farrari needed a spark.

Suddenly color flashed as a pair of cavalrymen burst from a lane—and another pair, and another, a full troop mounted on spirited grilz, spears poised for throwing. They bore down on the column of olz, and the olz halted, pressed to one side to make room for them, and stood with eyes lowered.

Farrari leaped to his feet and watched helplessly. The cavalrymen thundered alongside the olz, turned abruptly, and disappeared into another lane. The olz calmly resumed their march. A moment later another troop crossed the highway at top speed, brushing olz aside and sending them sprawling.

Farrari mounted his gril, urged it forward a few steps, and then halted uncertainly. He could no more protect his olz from the kru’s army than he could keep the sun from setting. They were doomed, and having led them to their death, the least he could do was to die with them.

As he started forward again, a shout rang out behind him. A third column of cavalry was crossing the highway, and one of the riders had seen Farrari. The troop swerved and raced toward him. Farrari hesitated; he was only an assistant durrl fleeing from the rapacious olz, and there was no reason for his fellow rascz to molest him.

A spear thrown at long range clunked onto the paving just behind him, and a second spear whistled past him as he snapped the halter and sent his gril sprinting into a lane. He jerked it aside at the first cross-lane, slipped to the ground, and rolled toward the zrilm, leaving the gril to scamper on without him. He barely had time to conceal himself before the troopers sped past. As soon as they disappeared he stripped off his rasc clothing and stepped forth clad only in an ol loincloth. He would die with the olz, but as an ol. He hurried back to the highway.

The column of olz still plodded toward him, stolid, indifferent, unaware of the threat of death that had flashed briefly and then turned aside. “They want to die,” Farrari’ muttered. It was a piece of the puzzle that he had somehow mislaid. It seemed that he could not take up a new idea without losing track of an old one. What was this most recent thing he had been looking for? A spark?

He watched the olz disbelievingly until they reached him, and then he stepped forward, waved an arm in the manner of an ol sent as messenger, and sounded the dismissal word.

The olz scattered; they would faithfully return to the highway at dawn.

Farrari walked back along the dispersing column, suddenly very worried about Jorrul. The warm summer darkness of Branoff IV came upon him quickly; the rascz seemed to have disappeared, so at the first ol village he collected olz with torches and began a search. Halfway through the night and an eternity later they found Jorrul’s dead gril. Jorrul lay pinned under it, a spear through his side, a leg and an arm broken, delirious, unable to move, but alive.

Farrari administered rudimentary first aid and then dismissed the olz so he could use Jorrul’s com equipment. A short time later a platform arrived from field team headquarters at Enis Holt’s mill, and Jorrul was gently lifted aboard.

Just as the platform was taking off he opened his eyes and asked weakly, “How are the olz?”

“All right,” Farrari said.

“You mean—they won?”

“A tremendous victory,” Farrari said gravely.

“That’s wonderful! How many casualties?”

“One,” Farrari said. “You.”

The platform drifted into the night. Farrari wrapped the corn equipment in rags and carried it with him. He rested for an hour, and then he visited ol villages as a messenger to send his army to loot the tuber stocks of nearby durrl’s headquarters. At dawn, when the olz again as sembled on the highway, Farrari stood like a coward watching them march off toward Scorv.