Vault of the Ages

by Poul Anderson

  “Yes—yes. You’re right.” Ronwy stared after the caravan until it was lost to sight.

  “Come on,” said Ezzef impatiently. “Let’s see that vault.”

  The little band made its way down hollow streets, past emptily gazing walls and ruined splendors. Tom shook his head. “It’ll take hundreds of years to build all this again,” he said.

  “Yes,” answered Carl, “but we can make a beginning.”

  They came to the time vault and stood for a long while looking at it. “And that’s the home of magic,” breathed Nicky. “It’s all in there—in that little place?”

  “It will grow if we let it out,” said Carl. “Grow till it covers the world.”

  Ezzef peered about with a soldier’s eye. “We’ll have to live right next to this, boys,” he told the men. “I daresay we can clean out one of those rooms across the street for shelter, and bring in supplies of food and water in case we’re attacked.”

  “Do you expect the Lann to come, then?” asked Owl.

  “I don’t know,” said Ezzef practically, “but I’m not going to take chances. While you would-be magicians are snooping about inside the vault, the rest of us have work to do. We’ll pile up rubble between the walls for a barricade.” He looked keenly at Ronwy. “Just what do you expect to be looking for, anyway? What kind of weapon?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted the old man. “I don’t know at all.”

  Chapter 17

  RETURN OF THE LANN

  Night had fallen, and fires blazed in the northern camp. A week of rest, lying at ease before Dales-town, jeering at the gaunt watchers on its towers, with nothing to do but sleep and play games and live well off the rich surrounding country, had given the Lann warriors restless new strength. They frolicked more wildly each day in the valley, wrestling, racing horses, shooting at targets, ranging afar to come back with a load of plunder from some undefended farmhouse, and each night, silence and slumber came later. On this evening, their foragers had brought in an especially fat herd of cattle and three wagonloads of southern wine, and the camp made merry.

  Lenard stalked through the bivouac toward his father’s tent. A frown darkened his face, and he nodded curtly to those who hailed him. He was in battle dress: his own spiked helmet and well-tried sword, a steel cuirass taken from a Dalesman’s body, a great spear in one hand. But his looted clothes were the finest: a flowing purple cloak with golden brooch, a red tunic of fur-trimmed linen, fringed buckskin breeches, silver-studded boots with ringing spurs, and a heavy gold necklace about his corded throat.

  On either side, the fires burned high, and the smell of roast meat still hung richly in the air.

  Ruddy light glowed off the rising smoke and splashed the faces of men sprawled near by. Although the Lann had weapons at hand, they were relaxed, flushed with the great bumpers of wine that went around the circle, and their hard, hairy bodies dripped gold and furs and embroidered cloth. The hubbub of voices, talking, laughing, shouting, roaring out songs to the thump of drums and the twang of banjos, beat like a stormy surf against Lenard’s ears. It must be a terrible jeering music for the people in Dalestown, he thought briefly.

  Behind him trotted a strange little man. His hair was not worn long as in the Dales or braided as among the Lann, but cropped close, and instead of trousers he had a ragged kilt flapping about his skinny legs. His tunic was of good material, but sadly tattered and muddy, half hidden by the bushy gray beard that swept down his chest. He had been disarmed and shrank timidly from the stares and raucous laughter of the barbarians who saw him.

  The tent of Raymon loomed ahead, a square blackness against the night. Two guardsmen leaned on their pikes in front of it, looking wistfully at the revel. The Lann ruler himself sat cross-legged in the entrance before a tiny fire, smoking his pipe and tracing idle patterns in the ground with a knife blade. He was not a tall man, but broad of shoulder and long of arm, with keen, scarred features and hooded black eyes; his dark hair and beard showed only the faintest streaks of gray. He wore a furry robe against the evening chill, but under it one could see a painted leather corselet.

  “Greeting, Father,” said Lenard.

  The older man looked up and nodded. He had never shown much warmth toward anyone, even his family. “What do you want?” he asked. “I’m thinking.”

  Raymon’s thinking usually meant bad luck for his enemies. Lenard grinned for an instant, then sobered and lowered himself to the ground. His follower remained shyly standing.

  “What do you plan?” asked Lenard.

  “I’m wondering how long the town can hold out,” said Raymon. “They’re a stiff-necked bunch in there. They may eat rats and leather before they give in. I’d like to have this war finished within a month, so that we can move our people down here and get them well settled before winter. But is it worth-while storming the fortress—or can we starve it out in time? I haven’t decided yet.”

  Lenard leaned forward, staring intently at the face dim-lit by the red coals. “I have news which may help you decide,” he said.

  “Well, so? Speak up, then. And who is this with you?”

  “If it please you, honored sir, I am called Gervish, and I speak for the City—” began the stranger.

  “Be quiet,” said Lenard. To his father: “Yesterday one of our foraging parties to the north found a whole caravan of these folk, headed toward Dalestown. They said they came in peace to see us. This Gervish rode ahead with one of our men to carry the word. He was brought to me just now, and I saw this was something you should know about.”

  “Ah, so.” Raymon’s slitted gaze pierced the nervously hovering little man. “You’re from a city? What city? Where? And why do you come to us, whom all others run away from?”

  “Almighty lord, it is the City, the City of the ancients—”

  “Be quiet, or we’ll never get the story told.” In brief, hard words Lenard related to his father the events which had caused the witch-folk to flee their homes. When he was through, he sat waiting for a response, but Raymon merely blew a cloud of smoke, and it was long before he answered.

  “Hm-m-m,” he said at last. “So those crazy boys are trying it again, eh? What’s that to us?”

  “It can be plenty,” snapped Lenard. “You know the story of what went on before—how Carl scared off our men the first time with that magic light, and how there was thunder in the vault the second time. We may not get a third chance—not if Carl returns with the powers of the Doom.”

  “The City’s been tabooed,” said Raymon.

  Lenard snorted in scorn and anger. “Yes, because that chicken-hearted Kuthay was frightened out of what wits he had. Oh, I admit I was scared too for a while. But I’m alive. Carl is no more a witch than I, but he’s still alive too—and what’s more, he’s not afraid to go back there, even against his own tribe’s will. I tell you, there are things in that vault which can be used against us—or by us—in a way nobody can yet imagine. If we don’t get them, the Dalesmen will. And then woe for the Lann!”

  Raymon turned to one of his guardsmen. “Fetch Kuthay,” he ordered. “Also Junti, our highest-ranking Doctor. Quick!”

  “Yes, sir.” The warrior loped off and was lost in shadows.

  “I’ll go alone if I must,” cried Lenard. “But—”

  “Be quiet,” said Raymon. “I have to think about this.”

  He sat impassively smoking while Lenard fumed and Gervish cowered. It seemed an age before the red robes of Kuthay and stout, bald Junti came out of the night.

  “Sit down,” said Raymon. He did not apologize for disturbing their revel or sleep, whichever it had been. Among the Lann, the Chief held supreme power over even the Doctors. “We’ve something to talk over.”

  Kuthay started at sight of Gervish’s gnomish features.

  “It’s a witch!” he cried shrilly.

  “That shivering dwarf?” Raymon sneered. “Sit down, I say, and listen to me.” He gave them a crisp account of the story.

 
; “We’ve nothing to fear, sir,” said Kuthay a little shakily, when the tale was done. “The devils will take care of those Dalesmen.”

  “I wish they’d take care of you!” snorted Lenard. “You and your mumbo-jumbo magic and old wives’ superstitions. This business may cost us the war unless we strike fast.”

  “What would you have us do?” asked Junti softly.

  “Lift that blasted taboo, man! You have the power. Lift the taboo and then I’ll take some men to the City and clean out the enemy there for good. After that it’s ours!”

  “The City—” wavered Gervish. “Sir, the City is our home—”

  “The Lann will do what they please with your precious City. And with you too.”

  “I dare not,” said Kuthay. His teeth were chattering. “I dare not let you go to that lair of devils. And bring them back here? All the gods forbid!”

  “You’ll let him if I say so,” snapped Raymon. His voice grew shrewd. “But while we can change the law easily enough, can we change our men? Your followers from the last time have spread enough horrible stories about the City. Have we any warriors that would go there now?”

  “I think many would,” said Lenard thoughtfully. “First we should hold a great magical ceremony to arm us against all spells. Then we can take a large troop; there’s confidence in numbers. And if we dangle all the wealth of the City before their noses, they’ll follow me gladly enough. It must be stuffed with riches.”

  “No,” wailed Gervish. He threw himself prostrate. “No, great sirs! We never meant that! The City is our home, and we are poor people with no other place to go.”

  “Be still or I’ll have you run through!” snarled Raymon.

  Gervish’s howls died to a tearful whimper.

  “Hm-m-m.” Junti stroked his chin. “I’m not too frightened of having people go there. As you said, Lenard, it doesn’t seem to have hurt these Dale boys. But bringing things back—that’s another matter. There’s nothing understood about all this. You might be taking back the old plagues, or the glowing death, or—anything! No, no, I can’t agree to your using the powers of the vault yourself.”

  “But it’s a threat otherwise,” protested Lenard. “There’ll always be a chance of someone like Carl going there and prowling about and turning the magic against us.”

  “Not if you destroy the vault.”

  “What? How?”

  “Simple. Burn the books. Smash the machines. Fill the place with earth and stones.” Junti nodded. “It’d be a worthy deed too. You’d be scotching the last seed of the Doom.”

  “Well—” Lenard hesitated. “I hadn’t wanted to. I’d thought—”

  “Enough,” said Raymon. “It’s a good plan. We’re well enough off without risking new and unknown ways. Let it be thus, then. Tomorrow you Doctors hold a great devil-laying and spell-turning rite, and we’ll call for about a thousand bold volunteers to ride with you to the City, Lenard. That should be enough to handle a score of DalesmenI After you’ve taken care of them and wrecked that vault thoroughly, your boys can sack the place to their heart’s content. Drag back whatever you find that can be used for siege-engines and the like—I understand the witches used to manufacture such for the tribes. If it’s enough, we’ll storm the town and bum it around the Dalesmen’s ears and finish this war.”

  Kuthay shuddered but was silent. Gervish, weeping, opened his mouth to protest again, saw the spearhead against his ribs, and closed trembling lips. Lenard scowled briefly, then his face cleared and he laughed, a hard, short bark of triumph.

  * * *

  In the morning, folk in the beleaguered town were wakened by the roll of drums and crash of gongs. Men snatched weapons, cursing, deathly afraid that the long-awaited Lann assault was on them, and sped to their assigned posts. But Ralph, mounting one of the towers to peer over the valley, saw that it was not a summons to battle.

  “What’s going on, sir?” asked the guard beside him. “What are they doing out there?”

  “I don’t know.” The Dale Chief had grown curt and grim since his son’s flight. His eyes were haggard with sleeplessness as he stared at his foes.

  The whole great army was massed about Raymon’s tent, chanting and striking swords against shields in a clangor that drowned voices. A giant bonfire had been kindled and the red-robed Lann Doctors danced and drummed around it. As Ralph watched, he saw horses and cattle led up to the fire and saw a figure—he thought it was Raymon, but couldn’t be sure—slash the throat of each sacrifice. Blood gushed into a bowl, from which the leader sprinkled it hot and red on the pressing warriors. Meat was hacked from the carcasses and thrown on the blaze, whose smoke mounted black and greasy toward heaven.

  “It’s some kind of rite,” decided the Dale Chief. “They’re preparing to do something. Storm us? No, I think not. The Lann never needed special ceremonies for a battle. I wonder—”

  Afterward, Lenard harangued them from horseback. Slowly, a shout rose, swords waved in the air, spears were shaken fiercely and men roared. Some, Ralph saw, were edging away, silent, not liking whatever was being urged. But most howled approval.

  It was near noon before the ceremony was finished. Ralph pondered the wisdom of a quick sally against that disordered throng. But no—with a half-mile of open ground to cover, the Lann would have plenty of time to meet him. Best to see what was brewing.

  Lenard forced his steed through the mob, pointing to man after man, and each that he singled out, hurried away to get horses and war gear. Before long, a host of cavalry was assembled—nearly a thousand men, Ralph guessed dizzily. And their swift, sure readiness meant that they were of the best Lann troops, the trained warriors who had turned the tide against him at the last clash.

  The division shook lances in air and hailed Lenard with a shout as he rode to the front. The rumble of hoofs drifted back to Ralph as they wheeled about together and trotted northward.

  North!

  “Where are they going?” wondered the guardsman. “What’s their plan?”

  Ralph turned away. His shoulders were suddenly bent, and horror was in his eyes.

  “Carl,” he groaned. “Carl.”

  * * *

  The vault was dim, even with a dozen candles flickering about the Uttered workbench. The dank air, full of a harsh smell, made Carl’s head ache. He looked past the great mixing kettle to Ronwy, who was scooping up the last grains of powder and stuffing them into a crudely fashioned metal canister.

  “That’s the last,” said the old man. “There is no more sulfur.”

  Carl nodded wearily. “Perhaps a dozen bombs,” he said. “No—fifteen, to be exact. I should know! Is that all we can do?”

  “It’s all the gunpowder we can make,” shrugged Ronwy. He put a fuse in the canister, forcing it through a hole in the lid he had placed on the top, and tamped down clay to hold it. Carl took a pair of tongs and squeezed the container until it bent slightly, holding the lid in place.

  It was fortunate, he thought, that the witch-folk had known sulfur. They bought it from traders and used it to smoke rats and mice from their storerooms. The bluff which had frightened away the Lann had used all the real gunpowder left in the vault, but an old book had described a way of making it. Saltpeter was another ingredient that had been in a small barrel here in the vault, and charcoal, which the Dalesmen themselves had prepared, was the third. The powders were weighed out on a scale, mixed wet, dried, and put into containers hammered from sheet metal dug out of the ruins.

  Fifteen bombs—crude and weak, not even tested— all that the past six days of work had yielded. But there had been so desperately much to do: the formula had to be located in a stack of books Ronwy had once read but not remembered very well, a painful groping through many pages where half the words meant nothing; the powder had to be made, the metal found and beaten into shape. Carl’s high-flying dreams had faded as he realized how heartbreakingly slow and difficult it would be to recreate the vanished past.

  “Maybe that will be for
the best,” Ronwy had remarked. “We can’t gain everything back overnight. We aren’t ready for it. We should go slowly, take many generations on the task, so that we can learn the proper use of each new power before getting the next.”

  But—fifteen bombs!

  “And now what can we do?” asked Carl. “It would take rare luck for this little bit of weaponry to decide a battle.”

  “I don’t know.” Ronwy sighed. “Make a balloon, perhaps. We would need a great deal of oiled cloth or fine leather, carefully sewed into a bag, and a large basket to hang from it, and some means of filling the sack with hot air—”

  “We can’t take a year for this!” cried Carl. Tears stung his eyes. “The Lann aren’t going to wait that long.”

  “No. No. But—”

  “Carl—Carl—” Tom came rushing down the stairs, wild and white. “Carl, the patrol horn just blew! Someone’s approaching!”

  Carl rushed up into the noonday light and blinked at the hot brilliance outside. His ears caught the warning blast now, from a man perched as lookout high in one of the skyscrapers.

  Plunging across the street, he burst into the room which his followers used for living quarters. The men were already pulling on their armor, and Carl dove for his.

  “What is it?” barked Ezzef. “Who’s coming?”

  “I don’t know,” said the boy grimly, “but I’ll bet it’s an enemy.”

  As he came out again, he looked to the defenses of the vault. His men had wrought well. The open space between the two walls was cleared of rubbish, which had been piled high to the rear to form an almost unbreakable third wall; a jumbled wilderness of ruin beyond, where the Dalesmen had thoughtfully strewn broken glass and sharp-edged metal, made it impossible to approach from that side. On the front, where the old walls faced onto the street, a six-foot barricade had been erected, stone and brick and timbers laid solidly together, with only a narrow passageway between in to the vault.

  Nicky, who had been the lookout, came running as the last of his comrades entered the little courtyard between vault and barricade. “It’s the Lann!” he panted. “A whole army of horsemen—hundreds of them—riding into the City!”