Vault of the Ages

by Poul Anderson

  Carl grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “You’re wrong!” he shouted. “It can’t be!”

  “I tell you, I saw them,” gasped Nicky. “And—hear?”

  They heard it then, the rising and nearing thunder of trotting hoofs, the banging of metal and the harsh clamor of voices. Man looked at man, and friend shook hands with friend. For they were twenty and the Lann were a thousand, and they did not expect to see another sunrise.

  Chapter 18

  BATTLE OF THE VAULT

  A line of horsemen rode into view, their painted corselets agleam, their faces fierce under the helmets, lances aloft and hoofs ringing. Behind them were others, and yet others, stretching out of sight, and the noise of them was a rolling thunder.

  Lenard rode in the van, haughtily erect on a great roan stallion, heavy saber in his right hand. It flashed up as he drew rein, and his cry went back over the pressing ranks: “Company halt!”

  As one, the Lann stopped, horses stamping and snorting. Lenard sheathed his saber and lifted one hand. “Will you parley in there?” he called.

  “If you wish.” Carl stepped forth, standing between the thick walls of the barricade. “What do you want?”

  “The vault and the City, of course.” The Lann prince’s hard face grew earnest. “Give up now, without a fight, and all your lives will be spared.”

  “Beware!” said Carl. His throat was dry, but he tried to be solemn and confident of manner. “The devils of the Doom are here.”

  Lenard threw back his head and laughed. “You won’t frighten us that way, my friend,” he cried.

  “Those who believe in such things have been given charms against all magic—and as for me, I’ve no more faith in those devils than you. Now, quickly, come out with your hands up, all of you. If you make any trouble, there’ll be no mercy.”

  “You can’t use this vault,” said Carl wildly. “You’ll never understand—”

  “I don’t intend to use it. We’re here to destroy the thing.”

  “Destroy! No!” A thin shriek of agony ripped from Ronwy’s heart.

  “Yes! Now don’t hold us up any longer. Come out from those stupid walls and let’s be done with this foolishness.”

  Carl shook his head, slowly and stubbornly. “I’m staying,” he said.

  “And I—and I—we’ll all stay with you—” The rumble of voices went from man to man of his followers.

  “You’re mad!” exclaimed Lenard. “It’s death, I tell you—and all for nothing.”

  “While we live, we’ll fight you.”

  “Very well, then!” His face contorted with rage, Lenard wheeled back to his men.

  Carl drew a long, shuddering breath. A tree growing in his little courtyard threw a dappled pattern of moving shadow on the sunlit walls. Tall clouds walked through a high, bright heaven. Oh, it was a fair world, a good life! But he couldn’t give up. Not while the faintest gasp of hope remained could he surrender.

  Three men could barely stand abreast in the entrance to the barricade. Carl, Tom, and Owl placed themselves there, shield locked with shield and swords out. Behind them were Ezzef, Nicky, and Sam, with pikes thrusting between the boys in the front rank. The other twelve disposed themselves about the courtyard, ready with weapons to repel any attempt at climbing the walls elsewhere; four, with bows, sprang to the flat roof of the time vault to shoot at the foe. Old Ronwy stood for an instant, bowed as if with overwhelming grief, then hurried into the vault and came back with an armload of bombs.

  The Lann were handicapped by their very numbers, thought Carl, his last indecision and sorrow drowned in the high, taut thrum of battle. They couldn’t mass horsemen in the street for one of their thundering attacks, nor could even one man gather full speed as he plunged across the width of the avenue against the defenders. But even so—even so—

  Lenard and another rider trotted into sight, both carrying lances. They went to the opposite wall, turned about, laid their shafts low, and spurred their animals with a sudden, shivering yell. Hoofs rattled as the charge came. Carl braced himself, waiting for the shock.

  As the nearest lance head gleamed toward the Dale shields, the three pikemen lowered their twenty-foot weapons and planted the butts firm. The horses could have spitted themselves on that bristling wall. Lenard cursed, reining in, his hose rearing. He poised his lance and threw it the short distance. It struck the wooden frame of Carl’s shield with a dull blow, hung clumsily, and dropped out. Lenard drew his saber and hacked at the slanting pikeshafts. As he chopped at one and his companion at another, the third rammed suddenly forth. The other Lann warrior howled, his thigh pierced —his horse skittered away and a second rider leaped to take his place.

  Lenard thrust suddenly between the pikeshafts. His horse loomed immensely over the defenders, and he struck downward with his saber. Carl met the blow with his own lifted blade, a wild roar of iron, sparks showering and the metal rebounding with shock. Grimly, Carl hewed, not at the man but at the horse. The animal screamed and stumbled. Lenard howled and smote again, his blow clanging off Tom’s helmet. Ezzef drew his pike back a little and then brought the head murderously against the other foeman, pressing behind his Chief’s plunging horse. It sank into the hairy throat and the man toppled from his seat. “First blood!” cried Ezzef.

  Lenard’s horse fell moaning to its knees. The Lann prince sprang from the saddle and hewed at Carl. Sword banged on sword. A fresh horseman was trying awkwardly to push his way in and fight. Lenard broke off the engagement, withdrew into the street, and bellowed at his man to come back with him. An arrow hummed past him, another one felled the retreating cavalryman, and Lenard turned and ran from sight.

  “We drove them off!” panted Owl. His eyes blazed. “We beat them!”

  “They’ll be back,” grunted Nicky. “They should’ve known better than to try horses against a defense like this, though.”

  Carl stooped over Lenard’s wounded mount and looked into the tortured eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry, old fellow.” His knife gleamed, and the threshing animal lay still. Its body would form an extra obstacle.

  “It’ll be a foot assault next time,” said Ezzef. He laid his unwieldy pike down and selected a spear instead. Nicky did likewise, but Sam chose a long-shafted halberd.

  The noise of the Lann drifted to them, angry voices and clashing metal, but Carl could not hear what orders Lenard was giving. They’d be easy to deduce, though, he thought bleakly—attack, attack, attack, until sheer numbers overwhelmed a weary defense.

  But there might be a chance. “Ronwy, are you there?”

  “Yes.” The old man was kindling a stick of punk. “I’m ready.”

  The Lann came into view. They were on foot now, with shields and cutting steel in their hands, and it was such a swarming, boiling mass of men that Carl could only see it as a confused storm. The clamor of voices rose to a terrible, high barking, yelping, the shrill war whoops of the Lann.

  Arrows began to fly from the time vault, a gray sleet that struck through steel and leather and flesh to send men reeling and dying. With a howl, the Lann charged.

  Here they come!

  Three of them abreast rushed in against the defenders in the passageway. Ezzef’s spear thrust out, catching one in the throat. Nicky’s stab was turned by the shield of another man, but Sam’s halberd reached out to bell on his helmet and hammer down his defense. The third struck against Carl, shield to shield, sword aloft and screaming down.

  Carl took the blow on his armored left shoulder. He cut low, seeking the enemy’s legs under the shield. The Lann roared. Tom thrust from the side and brought him down. Another came leaping over his body, and another and another.

  A big man wielding an ax plunged against Carl. The boy’s weapon sang, catching the wooden handle in mid-air, bitting deep into it. The warrior snarled, wrenched his weapon free and whirled it aloft again. It crashed against Carl’s shield. The frame on that side buckled, but the ax haft broke acro
ss. Carl’s blade struck snakelike against the man’s arm. He fell, screaming, and Carl stooped to grab his better shield. A barbarian roared, trampling over his dying comrade witii a huge two-handed sword raised. Carl thrust upward with the point of his own weapon, catching the man in the armpit. The warrior staggered back, hindering those behind, and Carl got the Lann shield free and onto his own left arm. Turning, he struck from the side at the man engaging Owl and laid him low.

  Another and another, a tide of faces and hammering blades. Carl hewed wildly as the enemy rose before him, not feeling the blows that rang and crashed off his own defenses, not feeling the cuts in his arms and legs. A northerner reached with a spear over the shoulder of one whom Carl fought, probing for the boy’s head. The Chief’s son struck at that shaft, beating it down, while he rammed his shield forward to hold back the swordsman. He hammered the spearhead down to earth, thrust out his foot, and snapped the shaft across.

  Sam’s halberd clanged, dropping the barbarian swordsman. Carl chopped at the spearman before he could draw blade, sending him lurching back. A dying northerner stabbed upward with a knife. Carl saw the movement from the corner of an eye and stamped the man’s hand down.

  Looking backward, Carl saw that the enemy was trying to enter elsewhere. The cruelly jagged barricade could not be scaled, but the Lann were boosting each other over the ancient brick walls. The defenders in the courtyard fought desperately, hewing and thrusting and shooting as each new body loomed into sight and dropped to earth. Knots of battle raged back and forth, and the vault was splashed red.

  “Ronwy!” gasped Carl. “Ronwy!”

  A bright metal shape arched over his head, to fall among the enemy milling in the passage. A moment later came the shattering crash of explosion. Two more hurled bombs blew up. A ragged howl lifted from the Lann. They drew away, panting and glaring. Ronwy tossed another canister. It fell before the first men in that disordered crowd, and these suddenly turned and tried to break through those behind and escape. A flash, a boom, a swirl of smoke and brimstone—the Lann eddied in confusion, wild-eyed.

  “Give me one of those!” exclaimed Ezzef. He took a bomb from Ronwy and threw it high above the wall, out of sight. A moment later came the scream of frightened horses as it went off among them. Men shouted, fighting their suddenly plunging mounts.

  Carl drew a shivering breath. By all high gods, it had worked!

  The dead and wounded lay thick before him. The battle in the courtyard died away as the last attackers were cut down. But four of the Dalesmen had fallen, and two others were out of action with wounds.

  Tom stumbled suddenly, clutching at Owl for support.

  His face was white, and blood streamed from a slash in his leg. “Get him inside!” choked Carl. “Ronwy! Bandage that cut—”

  “I will—I will.” The old man eased Tom to the ground and ripped a piece off his cloak for a tourniquet.

  “I can fight,” whispered Tom. “I can still fight.”

  “Later,” said Owl, inspecting the injury. “It’ll heal up all right. But you’re out of this fracas, my friend.” He went back to his place, and Nicky took Tom’s position.

  Lenard raged among his men, yelling at them, ordering them forward again. The bombs had done little if any actual harm, Carl realized. It was the noise which frightened warriors and horses. And the Lann weren’t so easily scared.

  “I’ll go myself!” Lenard ran toward the barricade. Two others followed, and then the rest shouted up their own courage and streamed in their wake.

  Carl spread his legs widely, braced for the next shock. It came in a blurring roar of steel, whistling and crashing against his own hard-held defense, a weaving, flickering net of snakelike metal, and Lenard’s taut grin bobbing behind a lifted shield. Carl struck back, hewing and stabbing and parrying. The Lann yelled and pressed forward. Sam groaned and sank slowly to earth, a spear wound in his side.

  Crash! Crash! Crash!

  The men attacking stopped in their onward surge. Someone wailed aloud. Lenard, raging, sprang against Carl anew, slipped in a pool of blood, and fell at the boy’s feet. Lithe as a cat, he rolled free, leaped up, and was trapped in the backward rush of his men.

  Crash! Crash!

  A horse ran wild, pawing at the close-packed warriors and trampling them to the ground before it was killed. Carl wiped the sweat from his face and gulped air into raw lungs.

  “One of them didn’t go off,” said Ronwy. His voice trembled. “We have four left.”

  Through the muttering army, Lenard strode, beating men with angry fists, urging them back again. Carl saw with wonder that they were close to blind panic. A fire leaped in him. It might work! Twenty men might drive off a thousand today!

  “Forward, forward!” Lenard ran in the front. Slowly, a number of his warriors followed.

  Ronwy hurled a bomb at them. As it clattered to earth, Lenard picked it up and tossed it back. It fell on the heaped bodies of the fallen and burst, metal fragments wailing and ricocheting.

  The Dalesmen stood firm, but the Lann flinched.

  “Once more!” raged Lenard. “It didn’t hurt you, did it? Once more and we’ll have them!”

  He plunged forward, saber gleaming. The Lann came after, a walking forest of swords and axes and spears. Carl staggered a little with weariness, thinking that this might indeed be the last assault.

  The Lann prince charged him afresh. After Lenard came his men, swinging their weapons, but fear had blunted the attack and few tried to scale the walls to left and right. Carl’s sword hummed, bouncing off Lenard’s helmet. He felt the return blow bite deeply into his shield. Savagely, he cut low, and Lenard intercepted the sweep with his own blade just in time to save his legs. Swords locked together. They strained, grunting, glaring, and Lenard’s greater strength slowly forced Carl’s arm back.

  Crash! Crash!

  The barbarians howled, a single shuddering wail of stark terror, and fell away. Nicky and Owl laughed, closing in on the suddenly deserted Lenard. The northern prince cursed and retreated.

  Crash!

  The last bomb exploded amidst the enemy, scattering its terrible jagged fragments, and the host became a mob, screaming, fighting itself, clawing and trampling as it fled.

  Carl gasped for breath. His head reeled and rang, and he began to tremble uncontrollably. He sat down where he was and stared into the courtyard.

  His men had suffered cruelly. Not one but bled from a dozen wounds, and five lay dead and six could not stand. The arrows were exhausted, the swords nicked and blunted, the armor bashed and the shields splintered. But the fallen Lann were thick, and the Dalesmen managed a weary cheer.

  “If they come at us again,” said Ezzef grimly, “we’re done for. This time they can’t help carrying the day.”

  “We’ll just have to hope they don’t,” answered Carl dully.

  He sat listening to the howl of the mob. It seemed very far away. He must have dozed off, for he woke with a start as Owl touched his arm.

  “Lenard’s coming,” said the fanner’s son.

  Carl got to his feet. The Lann prince was a gory and terrible sight where he stood in the avenue. His face was turned to his men, who were out of sight behind the looming walls but who had quieted down, and his voice lifted angrily.

  “All right, I’ll prove it! He’s no more a witch than we are. I’ll show you his magic won’t help him. Then maybe you’ll have heart enough to kill the rest of those pig-headed southlanders.”

  He turned to Carl and flashed a wolf’s grin. “Truce!” he called. “I want a truce of battle while you and I fight it out alone!”

  The boy stood stock-still. It was the custom among many tribes, he knew—single combat among the leaders before the real battle was resumed. He could not refuse this fight. Quite apart from custom, it would prove that he had no real magical powers to give him confidence; the Lann would take heart again and overrun the little defending force. But if he, Carl, failed in the duel, that too would inspire the
Lann to a fresh and final attack.

  “I’ll go for you,” whispered Ezzef.

  “No, you can’t,” answered Carl. “I’m the one who’s been challenged. Also, I’m the one they think is the witch—Ronwy and I, and Ronwy surely can’t go. If I failed to meet this, it’d be the end for all of us.”

  “Come out, Carl, come out!” jeered Lenard. “Or are you afraid?”

  “I’m coming,” said the boy. He cast his battered shield to earth and took a better one from Ezzef. His sword was dulled with use, but so was everyone else’s; it might still be sharp enough.

  He felt no dread, he was past that now. But the weight of destiny was heavy on him as he walked out into the street.

  Chapter 19

  THE LAST BATTLE

  The sun was sliding down the last quarter of its journey toward darkness, and the mellowed, ivy-covered walls glowed with a golden light. Trees rustled here and there in the faint breeze. Through the hot reek of blood and sweat, Carl smelled a cool, damp breath of green earth and summer blowing from the great forest. He flexed his aching muscles, taking glory in their very throb and weariness. His heart beat steadily and strongly, air filled his breast and tingled in his veins. Every ridge on the sword haft under his fingers sent a message to him, telling of a real world, one to be grasped in the hands and known by the living body—a world of life and mystery, a world of splendor and striving and wistful beauty. Yes, it was good to live, and even if he was now to join the sun in an endless night, he was glad of what he had been given.

  Lenard smiled at him and lifted his blade in salute. There was a strange warmth in his greeting: “I could almost wish you luck, Carl. You’ve been a gallant foe, and I would we had been friends.”

  The Lann stood waiting on either side of the cleared space, row on row of tensed and breathless men, still shaken by the thunder of the bombs. The defenders went outside their own barricade to watch.