Vault of the Ages (11 page)

Carl knew that the night had saved them. In this thick gloom, with trees and bushes everywhere to hinder movement, the Dalesmen could have stood off whatever came against them and somehow cut a way to safety. The Lann Chief must have realized this and drawn back. They were free.

Free and alive! Carl drew a shuddering breath of the damp night air and a slow feeling of wonder grew in him. He could still move. Blood still ran in his veins. A pattern of shadows and vague light still covered his eyes. He lived, he lived, and it was a heady thing to know.

Weariness and despair came back in a rush. The Dalesmen had escaped with the bulk of their army, yes. But it was a beaten force, streaming home before a victorious enemy, tired and hurt and hopeless. They could not take a stand again. And now the unconquerable Lann would be spilling all over the Dales, with nothing to stop them.

Ralph’s voice drifted above the rustle of brush and dragging of feet and hoarse gasping breath of men. A roll of names. He was calling the roll of his guardsmen.

“Ezzeff”—“Here.”—“Toom”—“Here.”—“Rodge”—“Still alive, Chief.”—“Jonathan”—Silence. “Jonathan!”—Silence.

“Where are Torsen and Piggy?”

“Both killed. I saw Piggy go down myself.”

Alarm shivered in Ralph’s call. The forest muffled his voice. It sounded strangely dead. “But they were guarding Lenard!”

“The Lann must’ve got him back then.”

“Lenard—free again!”

M
ORNING
came, chill and gray and hopeless. Men looked wearily about with eyes from which the nightmare of stumbling through dark forest and hills was only slowly lifting.

The army straggled across the rough Scarpian landscape, men walking in small disordered groups. Thickets and ravines hid many from Carl’s eyes, but he was sure that the bulk of Ralph’s warriors had escaped.

Only a few were very badly wounded, for the retreating Dalesmen had found no chance to rescue comrades in such plight. But all of them were slashed and battered, stiff with dried blood, clothes hanging ragged and dew-wet on exhausted bodies. Not many horses had been saved, and the most hurt rode these. Even Ralph was afoot now, carrying his own torn flag.

Carl’s body was one vast, numb ache. His head felt hollow with tiredness, and he staggered a little as he walked. Only now was he becoming really aware of his wounds, a gash across one thigh which Tom had crudely bandaged, a throbbing lump on his head, bruises turning blue and yellow along his arms and breast. Swords and forest thorns had ripped his clothes, the blade at his waist was nicked and blunted with use, the bow was gone and the corselet was heavy on his shoulders.

Owl grinned painfully at his side. One eye was black and
swollen, and he seemed to be short a tooth. “So this,” he said, “is the excitement and glory of war! I’ll never believe a ballad singer again.”

“At least,” said Tom slowly, “we’re all alive—You and Father and Carl here. Give thanks for small blessings.”

Carl thought of those who were dead. He hadn’t had time yet to search for all his friends, but he knew that many were gone. Dick, the wild and gay, fat, stanch Bucko, soft-voiced Ansy—he’d never see them again in this world. They were sprawled on the red riverbank where the enemy went hallooing past their sightless eyes, and the sun shone and the wind whispered in long grasses and their kinfolk waited weeping, but they didn’t know it.

Dead—dead and defeated.

Ralph was striding toward the brow of a tall hill. He walked stiffly, limping and leaning on his flagstaff, his face a mask of dried blood under the battered helmet, but the wide shoulders were unbowed and morning light struck gold from his hair. When he reached the top, he planted the banner and blew his horn.

Though the cry was feeble, lost in the ringing, echoing reach of hills, the Dalesmen hearkened, and slowly, slowly, they gathered beneath him until their stooped forms hid the dew-glimmering earth. When they were all there, they sat and waited. Ralph’s chief s, such as lived, joined him, and Carl slipped up to stand by his father. But weariness was too heavy on him, and he sat instead, drawing his knees up under his chin and looking forth over the tired, beaten faces of the tribesmen.

Ralph spoke, filling his lungs so that most of the army could hear and pass the word along: “We haven’t been pursued yet, and I think the Lann would have caught up to us by now if they cared to. So most likely they’re letting us go, not thinking us worth the trouble of another fight.”

“We aren’t,” said a man, grinning without humor.

“They’ll learn otherwise!” Ralph folded his arms and looked defiantly around. “We’ve lost a battle, yes, but we haven’t lost the war. Not if we stick together and fight on.”

“We’re done for, Chief, and you know it.” Another man stood up near the crest of the hill, a gray-haired farmer with a sullen anger in his eyes. “Best we scatter, go to our homes, and flee south while we can.”

A low mumble went through the close-packed warriors, heads nodded and hands dropped slackly to the grass.

Ralph lifted his voice to a shout: “That’s coward’s advice, Bilken, and I’d not have looked for that from you.”

“I lost one son at that battle,” answered the farmer. “Why should I lose the rest—for nothing?”

“But it’s not for nothing!” cried Ralph. “It’s for our homes and wives and children, for freedom, for our very lives. Where can we go as the trickling remnants of a broken people? Who will receive us? What will we do when the Lann swallow the next tribe, and the next, and the one after that? Become their slaves? Cut their wood and draw their water and clean their barns? Kneel in the mud when a horseman goes by? Was it for this that our fathers cleared the woods and plowed the land and fought the savages? Has their blood turned to water in our veins?”

“We can’t fight,” croaked Bilken. “We’ve nothing to fight with.”

“Yes, we have. We have other weapons. We have other horses. One night’s rest will give us new strength. We have Dalestown, whose walls have never been stormed. We have our bare hands, if need be!” Ralph shook the banner, and its golden field uncurled in the dawn breeze. “Are we still the Dalesmen or are we field mice running before a scythe? By all the gods, I’ll fight alone if I must!”

“They’ll coop us up inside the walls while they bum our homes,” cried a voice.

“Nonsense! They won’t bum that which they themselves want to take over. And even if they do, what of it? Your homes are lost anyway if you flee. But if we win, there is always more wood and stone for building. There’s always the land.”

Ralph waved an arm at the hills and trees that stretched to a far blue horizon. “There’s always me land,” he repeated. “Without it, we are nothing—woods-runners, beggars, homeless and hopeless tramps. These are the Dales, and while we hold them we are strong and rich and happy. While we fight for our earth, it will give us of its strength. Dalesmen, free men, will you give away your birthright?”

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 out
casts, 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.