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THE MEN OF BORU
BY JACK A. NELSON
A swirl of dust licked at the grass sandals of the men standing on the hill. There were eight men, and they stood looking west over the burned, gutted land that lay barren before them--barren except for a series of huge mounds that lay in a depression far out from the hills on the rocky plains.
"Do you still think we can make it?" asked a stocky man with a livid scar that ran from his upper lip to his forehead. "I for one would rather live alone and meagerly than not live at all."
The speaker received a stern glance from a tall hawk-nosed man wearing a finely-worked leather belt, apparently a symbol of leadership.
"We have already agreed, remember, Franz? We have to succeed or disappear off the face of the Earth. You may turn back if you wish. We are going on."
Franz scowled, rubbed his scar and contemplated the mounds in the distance. "You forget I have lived there. You have not. Well, maybe to be a slave is not so bad after all. Or to die."
"If we die we will not go alone," said Sten, the leader. He turned to the others. "Let's go. It will be dark soon."
The men moved single-file down through the hills without speaking.
As it grew dark they could feel the heat radiate from the sand. They felt the heat press against them and silently praised Sten's wisdom in waiting for the cold time of year before making the attempt. They wore a tunic of coarse-woven cloth that hung loose from their shoulders, and even that single garment was too warm here. They moved in silence, Sten in the lead, followed by his brother, Johnathon, a smaller man with wide shoulders and a quick smile.
A gibbous moon was showing over the mountains when they stopped. Solemnly they gathered in a circle.
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