Vault of the Ages (12 page)

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. Snakelike, 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.

T
HE
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 Dorm’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 line’ll 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 desperate 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.

Late in the morning the boys heard shouts far away. They crowded to the door and strained against it, staring out at blank walls across the street. The guard rose, hefting his spear and peering warily about him.

“Rescue?” cried Owl hopefully.

“I doubt it,” said Tom. “I don’t think the gods are done with punishing us.”

A scream rang out somewhere, and the sound of trampling hoofs, and a man’s laugh like wild dogs baying. Carl stiffened in a sudden terror. He knew that laughter.

Hoo-oo-oo!

A horn was blowing, and now the rattle of iron swept near. Three women ran down the street, clutching children to them, screaming. The guard outside the jail ran from sight toward the noise of battle.

“Someone’s fighting their way into the City!” yelled Tom.

Carl gripped himself, biting back fear. His knuckles were white where he clutched the bars of the jail. He tried to shake them—useless, useless. He was locked in here and there was nothing he could do.

“Hold fast! Drive them back!”

It was the voice of the patrol leader who had wanted to kill him, and Carl had to admit the man was brave. Swords were banging, a horse neighed, a man screamed.

Backing down the street came a thin line of witch-men. They bore weapons in shaking hands, and many were bleeding from wounds. Even as Carl watched, a bow thrummed and a City dweller toppled with an arrow in him, coughing and clawing.

“All right, men—ride ’em down!”

Lenard!

The horsemen of Lann came like a whirlwind, lances at rest, swords flashing free, plumes and mantles streaming in their thunderous passage. They struck the witch-line with a roar, and it broke before them.

Hewing, hewing, the Lann rode through that boiling tide of men. The City folk turned to run. A mounted warrior galloped after them, laughing aloud. The battle swept on out of sight.

“Lenard,” groaned Carl.

The noise of fighting grew more distant. There could be only one end to that struggle, even if the Lann were outnumbered. The unwarlike City men could not stand before the determined, ruthless onslaught of trained warriors.

“But this is taboo for them,” gasped Tom.

“Not any longer, it seems.” Owl skinned his teeth in a mirthless grin. “They’ll simply chase the witches into the forest. And then what do we do, Carl?”

“I don’t know,” said the Chief’s son dully. “I just don’t know.”

They paced the cell, waiting. Shadows crawled over the street. A crow settled on one of the sprawled bodies, but flapped heavily skyward when a wounded man groaned and stirred.

It seemed ages before hoofs were again ringing in the stillness. The Lann troops rode into sight and drew rein. There were only a score or so, but it had been enough.

Lenard edged his horse over to the prison. “So here you are,” he said. “Hello, Carl.”

He was in full battle dress, corselet and boots and spiked helmet, and a red cloak swinging from his shoulders and a tunic of rich blue Dale weave covering his lean, muscular body. The dark face split in a wolf grin. “Bulak, Janzy, get that door open,” he ordered.

Two men dismounted and attacked the lock with their battle-axes. It shivered apart and the door creaked wide. “Come on out,” said Lenard.

The boys stumbled forth, blinking in the sunlight. Lance heads came down to point ominously at their breasts. Looking around, Carl saw that one elderly man in a red robe was with the troop, and that Ronwy stood by Lenard’s bridle.

“Ronwy!” choked Carl.

“I couldn’t leave,” said the old Chief. “They drove my people into the woods, but I couldn’t leave our City.”

“I wouldn’t’ve let you, anyway,” interrupted Lenard. “According to Carl’s story, you’re the one who knows how to make those things in the time vault work.”

“The time vault!” Carl looked with horror at the Lann prince.