Vault of the Ages

by Poul Anderson

  Looking into the wrathful eyes of Donn, Carl dared not argue further. He knew that this old man, who, in other times, had held him on his knee, given him , toys and gifts, taught him the arts a Chief should know, would not hesitate to order him killed if he thought it was demanded by the gods. Tom and Owl shrank into the half-darkness beyond the firelight, afraid even to whisper. Ralph himself dropped his gaze and muttered surrender.

  Donn’s power was great in a very practical sense: he was the absolute ruler of the order of Doctors, which owned great lands and wealth; and his hold on the people was such that he could stir them up against anyone who dared oppose his stiff will. But more than that, he was the one who spoke for the gods. He was the agent of those great shadowy powers of sky and earth, fire and water, growth and death and destiny, before which men quailed. Even Carl felt a shiver in his flesh at thought of what might be stooping over the world and listening to this man’s words. For the moment, bitter disappointment was lost in a tide of fear, the inbred fear of many generations, and Carl bowed his head in submission.

  It was Lenard who laughed, a hard, ringing bark which jerked their attention back to him.

  “Dalesmen!” he jeered.

  Ralph’s thick, fair brows drew into a scowl. “What do you mean?” he rumbled.

  “I mean that living in this fat land has made women of you,” said Lenard. “No sooner is one of your people bold enough to seize the only chance you might have— and it was a good thought you had there, boy—than you throw it away in panic fear of gods you’ve never seen.

  It’ll be no wonder when the Lann kick you out of your homes.”

  “You’ll find how cowardly we are when it comes to battle!” flared Tom.

  “Nor are your own folk exactly brave where it comes to the City,” murmured Owl. “We, at least, dared to enter the place.”

  Lenard frowned. “That may be true. But it isn’t the City that will decide this—nor are all my warriors afraid of taboos.”

  Carl leaned forward, seeking that gaunt, brown face out of flickering shadow as if to read a meaning in its lines and scars. “Why are you attacking us?” he asked. “We never harmed you.”

  “The Lann go where they please,” said Lenard haughtily.

  “But why?”

  “It is simple.” The prisoner shrugged. “As long as our Doctors remember, we of the north have wrung a scanty living from a harsh and barren land. We have been hunters, herdsmen, small farmers ever at the mercy of cold and rain and blight. We have battled each other to death over what little there was, brother falling on brother like wild dogs. Yet every year more are born, there are more to feed. Meanwhile, it has grown yet colder and stormier; the harvests have been more thin each year. It was too much for men to stand! So we have gathered ourselves and turned the warlike skill we gained from fighting each other against those who hold better lands. That is all. And it is enough!”

  “But there is room here,” protested Carl. “There are forest tracts which need only be logged off and plowed—”

  “So we should come as beggars?” Lenard tossed his head like an angered stallion. “None of that for a warrior people. Nor do I think there is enough room for two such large tribes here, even when you count in the forests. No, there is space for only one tribe to live decently, and we mean to be that tribe.”

  “And what is your intention, then?”

  “Why, we will scatter your armies before us and divide your lands among our men, who will then send for their families. Most of the Dalesmen will have to go, of course; where, I don’t know or care. Perhaps you can, in your turn, overrun someone else. Some of your people may be allowed to stay as servants of the Lann. That depends on the will of our Chief, my father.” There was scorn in Lenard’s voice. “And among the Lann, the Chief is Chief—none of this cumbersome nonsense about voting.”

  “You speak boldly for a prisoner,” said Ralph with dangerous gentleness.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Lenard grinned. “I know you won’t hurt me. Even if I thought you would, I’m not afraid to die. We’re a fighting people, we Lann, and you’ll soon find it out.”

  * * *

  The army of the Dalesmen was ready to march.

  In the two days since Carl’s return, scouts had brought word that the Lann host was assembling in full strength well to the north, on the edge of the rugged Scarpian district. It seemed clear that they would move against Dalestown, hoping to seize it. Once they held that fortress, it would be easy for them to reduce whatever outposts were left and bring the whole country to heel. Ralph meant to forestall them, catch them on the border, and defeat them in open combat and drive them north again.

  “And what will we do if we win, Father?” asked Carl.

  The Chief’s golden-bearded face was sober. “I don’t know,” he said. “They could just go home and wait for another chance. I imagine the best thing for us to do would be to follow up our victory—next summer, or even this winter, but in any case we’ll have to wait till after harvest. We can’t be really safe till we’ve brought them into subjection. Yet the thought of being a conqueror leaves a bad taste in my mouth, nor are we a soldier-folk who would be well fitted for such a task.” He shrugged. “But let’s win the first battle first.”

  There had been no answer, or only an evasive one, from the small neighbor tribes to whom Ralph had appealed for help. They were afraid to anger the Lann if those should win; and they knew that if the Dalesmen won, they would not be punished for their refusal.

  Ralph’s plea that the northerners would soon gobble them up if the Dales fell had not impressed anyone. It was all too true what Lenard had remarked one day: these loose assemblies of quiet farmers and craftsmen had no idea of war or politics.

  Now the Chief stood on the porch of his home in a gray misty dawn, looking at the troop of mounted guards who waited for him in the market square. These sat their horses like statues, lances raised, metal polished, plumes and banners agleam with dew. The Chief was dressed like his guardsmen: a wool tunic under his breastplate of hammered steel, leather cloak and breeches, spurred boots, sword and dagger and signal horn belted at his waist. Carl, Tom, and Owl were more lightly armored, in reinforced bull’s-hide cuirasses and flat helmets; they had quivers and longbows hung from their shoulders, for they, with the other warriors not fully grown, would be archers. Beyond the silently waiting men, a dense and unspeaking throng of women and children and old folk milled about, looking and looking.

  Lenard, armored in leather, but without weapons, smiled in thin scorn. This would not have been the farewell given an army by his fierce people. The Lann had been cheered out, and the town had been gay with flags and trophies.

  Ralph was taking him along under guard, still hoping to use him as a hostage; but he had given no promise not to try escaping, and none had been asked of him.

  Old Rob carried Betty out in his arms. The child’s face was still cloudy with dreams, and she smiled sleepily at her father as he lifted her. “Come back soon, Daddy?” she whispered.

  “Yes—oh, yes!” He held her very close for a moment. Then he gave her back to Rob, who was weeping silently, and spun on his heel. The plumed helmet, in the crook of his arm, he lifted and set on his head. The nose guard gave his face a sudden, strange, inhuman look. He drew on his gloves and walked rapidly to his horse. Carl squeezed Betty’s small, curled-up hand and ran after his father, a stinging in his eyes.

  They rode down High Street to the main gate. Folk streamed after them, clutching at the men who went past, waving and crying farewell. “Good-by, good-by, good-by—the gods be with you—come back!”

  The main army waited beyond the walls. Here there was no such order as the trained guardsmen showed. The men who had come on horses sat together, waiting, and each was equipped with whatever he had brought along, lance and sword and ax slung at rest, armor over plain work-clothes, battered helmets set on shaggy heads. The footmen, who were the bulk of the Dale army, sat or stood as it pleased them, leanin
g on their pikes and axes, talking among themselves even when the Chief rode up. There was also a train of mule-drawn supply wagons, for Ralph could not plunder the country for food as the Lann did; and three young Doctors were attached to them to guard against sickness and enemy magic. That was all. But that number of men, perhaps five thousand, sprawled far over the valley, hiding the muddy ground and filling the gray air with a murmur of life.

  Ralph winded his horn, and certain middle-aged men on horses began to thread through the army, blowing their own signals. These were the shrewd, experienced ones Ralph had chosen to lead the several divisions of his host. Standard-bearers lifted their flags, and slowly, with a vast grumble of movement, the soldiers grouped themselves around their banners.

  Ralph and his guardsmen were already under way, trotting down the road to the north, and the great snake of his army uncoiled itself and wound after him. It spilled off the narrow track and into the fields, trampling grain and breaking fences—and no doubt, many a farmstead along the way would be missing a few chickens or a fat pig. But that couldn’t be helped. The main thing was that they were moving!

  Carl, riding beside his father, looked back as the fog lifted and the day grew warm. The army was a black mass behind, men walking along at an easy pace, riders plodding at their side, wagons rumbling dustily in the rear. Pikes and lances and banners rose and fell with the slow steady movement, the tramp of many feet quivered faintly in the earth, voices and a snatch of song drifted up. It was not a very military sight, but Carl’s heart lifted with pride. These were free men!

  He stopped his pony, letting it graze while the army went by him. As he looked at the mass of them, he saw that the myriad of faces were the faces of men he knew. John, the farmer, riding beside his sons, caught sight of Carl and hailed him. Willy Rattlehead, grinning at a private joke, juggled three balls in the air as he walked. Sam the Trader, richly clad and burned dark by strange suns, steadied his well-muscled bay mare, which was shying at Willy’s juggling balls. Little Jimmy-the-Old, off in worn-out shoes to defend his tiny farm, jumped from the path of the skittish mare. Jack the smith, a hammer carried on one mighty shoulder as his weapon of war, offered to defend little Jimmy-the-Old if he should need it.

  Fat Bucko groaned and complained every step of the way, but he kept up with the best. Sly, red-haired Gorda, whom no one called anything but Fox, and bis inseparable friend, the big hairy simpleton Joe, gave a loud cheer when they saw Carl. Martun the Hunter, lean and quiet and buckskin-clad, marched with long springlike steps, gaining a yard for every stride. Black Dan from the south, who had settled here years ago and brought six tall sons with him to the wars, walked beside Martun; neither of them talking and both of them in perfect understanding.

  Rich and reckless young Dick, on a half-tamed stallion, pretended to thrust with his sword at Carl. But Rogga the farmer, who wanted only to be left in peace and would fight for the privilege, called him back into line; and slow-spoken gentle old Ansy, the carpenter, who liked Carl and who was equally peaceful, nodded his approval to Rogga.

  Carl knew them all, them and many others. They were his blood and bone, a part of this wide, green land, and it was as if the Dales themselves, the very earth, were rising in anger to cast out the strangers. Yes, it was a good sight to see—a better sight than a troop of half-savage Lann, for all their skill and courage.

  Carl felt, suddenly, immensely heartened.

  What if the magic of the City had failed him? These men were enough. What if the dead hand of taboo had closed heavily down on that vision of wonder he had seen? There would be others days, other ways. Carl broke into song as he rode back toward his father.

  Lenard, mounted between four guards, grinned at him. “You seem pretty confident, my friend,” he said.

  “I am!” Carl waved his hand at the ranks behind him. “Look there, you. Do you really think these folk, with their hearth-fires at their backs, will yield to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Lenard shook his head. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Carl. Strength and courage aren’t everything. The Lann have that too, and besides that they have the knowledge of war. You might be as strong as, say, a smith, but even so you couldn’t do his work because you haven’t his training.”

  “The Dales have beaten off other foes,” said Carl hotly.

  Lenard smiled and made no reply.

  The army held a short rest at noon while the cooks prepared food; then they pushed on. Weariness set in. No more talk and song were heard. The grim, dusty slogging over hills and across streams continued endlessly, and when Ralph, at evening, blew the signal to pitch camp, there was one great sigh of relief.

  Fires winked and glowed through an enwrapping night. Sentries paced, yawning, watching the slow wheel of the stars for their time of relief. Ralph studied a map by the dim red light of a dying blaze, and held low-voiced conference with his chiefs. Carl tried to stay awake and listen, but his eyes grew too blurred, and he stretched himself in a blanket and slept.

  All the next day the rain poured, and the army grumbled to itself as it splashed in wet misery through the mud of fields and roads. That night, the drums of the Doctors throbbed to drive off fever-devils.

  On the third day, Ralph’s host entered Scarpia, the wild northern province of his tribe. Here few people dwelt. Only rarely did a lonely cottage rise against a sky of wind-driven clouds, and trees grew thick and gloomy on the rugged backs of steep-sided hills. Crows hovered darkly overhead. Now and again a solitary eagle rode majestic wings above the men, and deer and wild ponies fled as they spied the moving army. Men scrambled up high banks of raw, red earth, forded brawling rivers, crashed their way through tangled underbrush in a roadless land, and many shivered and mumbled spells as they saw the gaunt gray shapes of stones raised long ago by savage woods-runners. But they went on—

  Carl was riding with the Chief in midaf ternoon when a horseman galloped up, mud-splashed and panting, to gasp out his word, “The Lann are ahead!”

  “How far?” snapped Ralph. Carl’s heart leaped wildly and then settled to a high, steady pounding.

  “Two, three miles,” answered the scout. “They’re camped near a big river—thousands of them. They darken the ground!”

  “Well—” Ralph looked grim, then turned to his guards with a smile. “Let’s just keep going, then. Pass the word along.”

  Carl could see and almost feel the sudden tension in the men as the report went down their ranks. Eyes looked into eyes, wondering how many more suns they would see, hands tightened on the shafts of weapons, horses sensed the uneasiness in their masters and snorted.

  Company commanders blew their horns, and the ragged lines drew together. Outriders spread on either side, ranging the woods which gloomed about the army. Feet broke the dull rhythm of travel and quickened, pressing forward.

  Carl glimpsed Lenard, sitting between his guards and watching the Dalesmen prepare. He appeared to be amused.

  “They’ll know we’re coming, Father,” said the boy.

  “Can’t be helped,” said Ralph. “We’ll just have to reach favorable ground before they attack.”

  For an instant, the hardness of the leader was gone, and he touched Carl’s hand with a sudden tenderness. “Be careful, son. Be brave, but be careful.”

  They thrust ahead, plowing through brush, panting up a long slope of forested hill. The woods ended on its crest and Ralph drew rein. A sunbeam speared through hurrying clouds to touch his armor with fire as he pointed. “The Lann!”

  Carl’s eyes swept the ground. The ridge went down on a gentler grade here, a long grassy incline broken by clumps of young trees, ending in a broad, level field where the Lann were camped. Beyond that lay the river, a wide watery stretch gleaming like gray iron in the dull, shifting light, trees rising thick on its farther side. On either hand, a mile or less away, the forest marched down to the river on the near side, hemming in the open ground.

  The Dalesmen looked first on the Lann warriors. Their
tents were pitched on this bank—only a few, for most of those hardy warriors disdained such cover. They swarmed down by the river. It was indeed dark with men and horses, a whirling storm of movement as their horns shrilled command. Banners flying, lance heads hungrily aloft, hideously painted shields and breastplates glistening, bearded faces contorted with battle fury; they were a splendid and terrible sight, and Carl’s heart stumbled within him.

  Ralph was looking keenly down on them. “Not so many as we,” he murmured. “Three or four thousand, I guess—but better trained and equipped, of course. And their Chief can’t be so very smart. He let us get this close without trying to stop us, and now we have the advantage of higher ground.”

  “Why should Raymon fear you?” sneered Lenard. “The Lann can get ready as fast as you can.”

  Ralph galloped his horse across the front of his army, shouting orders. He had rehearsed his men at Dales-town, and they fell into formation more quickly than Carl had thought they would. But his own eyes were on the man who rode down toward the northerners with a white flag in his hand. Ralph was going to try one last parley….

  The rider threw up his arms and tumbled under his suddenly plunging horse. A moment later, Carl heard the faint clang of the bow and the cruel barking laughter of men. The Lann didn’t parley—and now they themselves were ready and moving up against the Dalesmen!

  Chapter 8

  STORM FROM THE NORTH

  Ralph’s army was drawn up in the formation his people had always used, a double line in the shape of a blunt wedge, with himself and most of his guards at the point. Those in the first rank had axes and swords; behind them, the men slanted long pikes out between the leaders, with their own infighting weapons handy if they should have to step into the place of a fallen comrade. The banners of company commanders were planted at intervals along the lines, whipping and straining in the stiff, damp breeze. Horsemen waited on the flanks, lances lowered and swords loose in the scabbards. On higher ground, spread along the wedge in their own line, were the boys and the oldest warriors, armed with bows and slings. The arrangement was good, tight enough to withstand an attack without crumpling and then move forward against the enemy. The Lann, Carl saw, were approaching in a compact square of foot soldiers, about half the number of the Dalesmen. Their cavalry, much larger than that of their opponents, waited in a line of restless, tightly held horses near the river. Briefly, Carl thought that his own side had an enormous advantage. A frontal assault of lancers would have shattered itself against pikes and hamstringing swords; in any case, he could not think that cavalry would be of much use on this crowded field. Since almost half the Lann were mounted, it seemed that Ralph had already put that many out of useful action. That was a cheering thought.