Vault of the Ages Page 9

  It struck home. Carl saw a new light in dulled eyes, saw fingers close on the hafts of weapons and men rise to their feet. A ragged cheer lifted slowly, pulsing out like the golden flag that waved overhead. The farmer Bilken nodded grudgingly and sat down. When it came to a vote, there were few who said “No.”

  Truly Ralph was a leader of men!

  But Carl saw that this hope was hollow. What, indeed, could be done against a foe who had already smashed their finest power, a foe who must even now be spilling out across the wide land and bringing terror where he went? The Dalesmen could retreat inside their walls, perhaps, but then what could they do? Wait for starvation, or sally forth to die?

  He shook his head, feeling weariness overwhelm him. But even then a resolution was gathering in his mind.

  * * *

  The army rested most of that day. Ralph commandeered horses from the nearest farm and sent men galloping out. One would bear word of ruin back to Dalestown, one or two would try to spy on the enemy movements, the rest would pass a message to the scattered homesteads of the tribe and let them carry it farther: retreat to town, we are beaten and must draw into our shell.

  But many a lonely farm, thought Carl, would already have received that word from the fire and sword of the Lann.

  He spoke to his father a little, as they sprawled in the grass waiting for a sleep which would not come: “What do you hope to do? Do you really believe we can fetch victory, even now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ralph dully. “It may be that we can, somehow, by some miracle. Or it may be that we will give the Lann so much trouble that they’ll be willing to bargain and take less than everything. That would at least give us a breathing space. Or it may well be that we will go down to utter defeat. But even then—” He looked sternly up. “Even then, Carl, we’ll have fought like Dalesmen!”

  The boy made no answer. Privately, he wondered if there was not something blind in this courage. To go down fighting—well, it left a brave memory, but if it gained nothing except the slaughter of many men, it seemed useless. The best leader was one who gained victory with as little bloodshed as could be. Yes, as little on both sides as possible.

  In the afternoon, Ralph summoned his men, and they started the weary trek homeward. There would be little food under way, for the supply wagons were lost and the farms on the route could not help so many. The Chief had foragers ranging widely, who would bring in as much as they could, but even so it would be a cold and hungry march. He drove his followers unmercifully, forcing stiff bodies to a cruelly fast pace and taking curses without reply.

  They had to get inside the walls as fast as could be managed, for, if the Lann fell on a host weakened with emptiness, it could be butchery.

  Carl walked beside Tom and Owl as before. He had become very close to these brothers since they followed him to the City. The days had been so full that it seemed they had known each other for many years. Tom’s quiet thoughtfulness, Owl’s unfailing good humor—he needed them, and they in turn looked to him as a leader. It was good to have friends.

  He spoke to them now, as the slow miles dragged by: “You know we haven’t much chance.

  We can’t say so out loud, for everyone’s too downhearted already, but it’s true.”

  “Well,” shrugged Owl, “it might be fun being a landless gypsy.”

  “That’s not so!” flared Tom. “It’s right what the Chief said. Without the land, we are nothing.”

  “Um-m-m—yes—can’t say I fancy sleeping in the open all my life, and working for someone else to earn bitter bread. But what can we do about this?”

  Carl said softly: “We can return to the City.”

  “What?” They stared at him, open-mouthed.

  “Not so loud!” Carl glanced nervously about him. The nearest group of men was several yards off, and they trudged unnoticing ahead, faces blank with weariness. But the Doctors—you never knew when a Doctor might be somewhere, listening.

  He went on, rapidly: “You know the powers of the ancients are locked in the time vault. You know Ronwy is our friend and will help us, and that he has some understanding of the old—science. If we can sneak away from this army tonight and make our way to the City, we can carry back the lightning to drive off our enemies!” Carl’s eyes burned with a feverish eagerness. “We can—learn.”

  “Taboo!” whispered Tom. “The gods—”

  “If the gods really cared about that taboo, they’d have knocked us over the first time we broke it. They’d never have let the witch-men live in the ruins.”

  “But the witch-men have magic powers—” stuttered Owl.

  “Bah!” Carl felt strength rising in him even as he spoke. “You saw those witches yourself.

  You know they’re just frightened outcasts, trading on our fears. I—” He tumbled the words out before he should have time to be afraid. “I wonder if there are any gods at all —if they aren’t just another story.”

  Tom and Owl shrank from him. But no lightning struck.

  “Someone must have made the world,” said Tom at last, his voice trembling.

  “Yes, yes. The great God that the time vault spoke of —that I could believe in. But the other gods—well, if they exist, they’re not very big or very smart. Why, in all the stories, they do things no child would care to do.” Carl dropped the subject. “That doesn’t matter now, though. It’s just that I’d rather listen to Ronwy, who’s spent his life among the ancient works, than to Donn, who’s never been inside the taboo circle. And Ronwy says there’s nothing to fear and much to gain.”

  “But it’s Donn who’ll have you put to death,” said Owl.

  Carl grinned. “When I come back with Atmik’s Power in my hand? I’d like to see him try!”

  Tom shook his red head. “It’s a big thing you want to do. And we’re young yet.”

  “This won’t wait till we grow up; meanwhile, there’s no one else to do the job. I tell you, boys, that vault has got to be opened, opened to the Dales—no, by Atmik, to all the world!” Carl’s voice dropped. “What have we to lose? Sure, it’s a slim chance, but you know that there’s no other chance at all. I’m going there. Do you want to come along?”

  “If I had any sense,” said Owl, “I’d report this to your father, and he’d tie you up till this madness is past.”

  Carl’s heart grew leaden.

  “But since I’m not very sensible,” smiled Owl, “why, I’ll just have to tag along after you.”

  “Good lad!” Carl slapped his back, and Owl winced.

  Tom shook his head. “You’re crazy, both of you,” he said. Then, with sudden firmness: “But just so nobody can say I hung back from a dangerous mission, count me in.”

  Yes—it was good to have friends!

  * * *

  The army marched on past sunset, through the long summer twilight and on under starlight and a thin sickle of moon. It was long after dark when Ralph called a halt.

  Even then there was much to do. The men had to be disposed on the sides of a hill where they could make a stand in case of attack. Sentries had to be posted and scouts assigned to ride around the area. Foragers trickled in with whatever they had been able to beg or steal, and a cooking fire blazed low under a shielding rock. Here they had good fortune: on a near-by farm, deserted by its owners, two cows were found and led to the camp for butchering. Each man had only a taste, though many were so tired that they went directly to sleep without waiting for their ration.

  Carl himself dozed off where he lay under a tree. When he awoke, it was near midnight and the Dalesmen slept around him. Wherever he looked, dark forms sprawled on the ground and a low muttering of sleep lifted to the glittering stars. The fire’s last coals were a dull-red eye against the massive darkness of the hill.

  He got up, stretching stiff sinews. He was cold and wet and hungry. His wounds ached and his skin was sticky with sweat and dirt. But the rising excitement thudded in veins and nerves, driving out such awareness even while it sharpened his
senses. Gently, he shook Tom and Owl awake where they lay beside him.

  “We’ll have to swipe horses,” he breathed. “They’re hobbled over there. Easy now, ’ware the sentries.”

  Slowly, patiently, the three crawled on their bellies toward the shadowy forms of animals.

  They had to cross a guardsman’s beat. Carl lay in tall wet grass, hearing the sigh of wind and the distant creaking song of crickets. Looking upward, he saw the man go past, a dim sheen of metal against the Milky Way. Snake-like, he writhed over the line.

  Metal chinked on stone. “Who goes there?” shouted the watcher.

  The boys lay stiff, hardly breathing, trying to still even the clamor of their hearts.

  After a moment, the warrior decided that it had been nothing and trudged on his way. Carl slid over to the nearest horse. He could hear it cropping grass, and it tried to move away as he approached.

  “Steady,” he whispered. “So, so, boy, easy.” He rose beside the animal and stroked its neck. If only it wouldn’t whinny!

  Gently he bridled it, using a length of rope to make a hackamore. This would have to be bareback too. But it wasn’t far to the City, perhaps a day and a half through woods. Once they got away, the boys would hardly be trailed; three missing horses at daybreak would be set down to thieves, and in the disordered mass of the army, it might well be evening before Carl himself and his followers were missed.

  The others joined him, leading their mounts from the sleeping camp. When they were well away, they sprang to the horses’ backs and rode westward.

  Chapter 10

  VENGEANCE OF THE GODS

  The City brooded under a hot, cloudless heaven, without sign of life. But the notion shuddered in Carl that it was a waiting stillness, and he fought to drive the superstition from his mind. “There she is,” said Owl. He sat his horse in the shade of a tree, whose leaves hung unstirring in the breathless quiet, and looked past the wrecked outer buildings to the desolated splendor of the towers.

  “And now what do we do?”

  Carl wiped the sweat from his face. “We go to the time vault,” he replied as steadily as possible.

  “The witch-men won’t be happy about that,” warned Tom.

  “Then they’ll have to be unhappy,” snapped Carl.

  “We’ve got their Chief on our side, at least.”

  Stones rattled as they rode down an empty street. Once a lithe form went bounding across their path, a weasel, and once there was a flock of crows which flew blackly overhead, otherwise nothing but the stillness of dead centuries. In spite of the summer heat, Carl felt a chill tingle. It was hard to keep calm reason when violating the home of the gods. He remembered a saying of Donn’s: “When the gods are angered, their revenge is not always swift death. They often choose the more cruel punishment of unending bad luck.”

  But that was wrong, Carl reminded himself. If the idols of the Dalesmen were no more than wood and stone, then only the great God of the ancients could really be alive—and he would be more just than the powers of earth and air and fire.

  “Down this street,” he pointed. “We needn’t enter the section where the witches live. The important thing is to hold the time vault.”

  Tom nodded. “That’s right. Three of us, between those two high walls leading to it, could stand off an army—for a while.”

  It was easy to get lost here, winding between endless heaps of brick and overgrown foundations. Several times Carl had to find a long avenue at whose end he could see the great towers. His woodsman’s eye had noted their relation to the vault when he was last there, and—

  “Up ahead!”

  Carl reined in at Owl’s shout, and his sword rasped from its sheath. A dozen witch-men stood with bows and spears in front of the horse-skull sign. They were small and scrawny and unarmored, but there was a terrible grimness on their faces.

  A noise behind made Carl look around, and he saw another party of the City dwellers coming from around a corner. The boys were in the middle of a street between the roofless, clifflike walls of two giant buildings—trapped! Trapped and taken!

  “Let’s get away,” muttered Owl. “If we charge those fellows on horseback—their linell break—”

  “Do not move!” The voice was shrill. Carl, who had heard that panicky note in other cries, knew that the speaker was made dangerous by fear. He would kill at the first sign of fight.

  And there were many drawn bows and poised spears—

  Slowly, with vast care, the boy clashed his sword back into the scabbard. “We come in peace,” he said. “Where is Ronwy?’

  “The Chief is on his way.” The man who spoke was sullen, his eyes smoldered on them behind the arrow he held leveled on Carl’s heart. “You will wait.”

  “Is this how you treat your guests?” asked Owl.

  “You are not guests. You are prisoners. Dismount!”

  The boys climbed to the ground and stood glaring at the witch-men. But there was nothing to do, nothing at all.

  Someone was pounding a drum, and the muffled thunder echoed from wall to staring wall.

  Presently an answer came, beating from far away. The dwellers were summoning others. Carl found a shady spot and sat down. Owl joined him, grinning maliciously. “It’ll get mighty tiring to stand holding a drawn bow,” he remarked.

  “Be quiet!” snapped the leader.

  Presently Ronwy came, with a troop of armed witch-men after him. The tall old Chief pushed through the lines of his people and hurried to take Carl’s hands in his own. “What have you done?” he cried. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing, yet,” said Carl. “We simply rode in, which is against Dale but not City law, and suddenly we were captured.”

  There were tears running along Ronwy’s furrowed cheeks. “The men were afraid you’d come prowling back,” he said. “They planted guards near the vault to ambush anyone that came. I couldn’t stop it.”

  “If you were a proper Chief,” said the patrol leader, “you wouldn’t have wanted to stop it.”

  “Be still!” shouted Ronwy. “I am Chief of the City even now. These boys go with me.”

  “They do not,” replied the leader coldly. “They’re our prisoners, and I say kill them before they work further mischief.”

  “And bring the wrath of the Dalesmen down on us?”

  The leader’s laugh was a harsh bark. “What would the Dalesmen have to say? These young snoops have broken tribal taboo, as you well know. In any case, it isn’t the Dalesmen who matter any longer, it’s the Lann, and they’ll be pleased to get the heads of these fellows.”

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Carl. “What have we done to hurt you?”

  “You came to enter the vault of devils,” snarled the leader. “Don’t deny that. You headed straight for it. You’d bring down the wrath of the gods on us by your meddling—to say nothing of the Lann. Only your deaths will lift the curse.”

  A mumble of agreement came from the ragged, sooty figures that hemmed in the captives.

  Ronwy stepped forth, tall and lean and angry. His old voice rolled out with a new power: “If you kill these lads, you’ll have worse than that to face!” he shouted. “I’m still the Chief of the City. I still have loyal followers. Furthermore, I’m the greatest witch in this tribe. The powers of the Doom are in me. I’ll curse you with plague and ruin and the glowing death.”

  That brought them shuddering back. But some shook their fists and cried that the gods would protect the pious and that Ronwy’s sorceries were taboo. For a moment it looked as if that milling throng would begin to fight itself—knives were coming out, spears were lowered.

  Carl’s hand stole to the haft of his sword. There might be a chance to cut a way out of such a riot and escape.

  Ronwy and his rival strode among the men, yelling orders and cuffing heads, and a slow calm grumbled back into the tribe. Argument went hotly on, while the boys listened in the dark knowledge that their own lives hung on the outcome. But even in that de
sperate moment, Carl had to admire Ronwy. The old Chief had little power under the law, and few who would back him up, but his tongue was swift and subtle. He fought with words like a skilled swordsman with flickering blade, and, in the end, he won a compromise. The prisoners would be held for a while, unharmed, until their fate could be decided; and in no case would they be executed until word had been received whether Ralph—or the Lann—cared to ransom them.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you,” whispered Ronwy. “But I’ll keep trying.”

  Carl managed to squeeze the old man’s trembling hand. “You did splendidly, sir,” he answered softly.

  Disarmed, the boys were marched to the area of towers. A small ground-floor room in one had been turned into the City jail: a few straw ticks on the floor, a jug of water, a basin, and a door of heavy wooden bars. They were shoved inside. A lock snapped shut as the door thudded closed, and a spearman sat down under a tree to watch them.

  “Well,” said Owl after a long silence, “we found a vault of sorts.”

  Tom looked grimly out through the bars. “Helpless!” he said between his clenched teeth.

  “Like animals in a cage—helpless!”

  * * *

  Day dragged into night. Once the door was opened, and a silent woman gave them some bowls of food. The life of the City went by in the street, folk on their various errands; many spat in the direction of the jail. With darkness there came silence, and presently the captives slept.

  They woke with dawn and sat staring at each other. Finally Carl spoke, awkwardly, “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  “It’s all right,” said Tom. “We didn’t have to come along.”

  “What will we do?” asked Owl.

  “Nothing,” said Tom.

  The morning waxed. They were given breakfast and then left alone. The guard was changed, another man sat yawning outside the prison. A terrible bitterness grew in Carl, and he vowed that never again, if he lived, would he keep an animal behind bars.