Vault of the Ages

Chapter 16 DEFIANCE OF THE GODS

Four days later, in the middle of morning, Carl looked again on the City. It had been a hard trek on foot which he and his little band had made. They went across country, avoiding the roads which were still used by occasional marauding northerners, but even so they had often had to conceal themselves as a troop of Lann rode by. The countryside had been green and quiet for the most part; houses still stood and the burned, gutted shells Carl had expected were actually few. After all, the barbarians would not ruin too many of the homes they expected to occupy themselves. But Chief Raymon had his men out scouring the Dales to find livestock and stored grain to feed the besieging army.

Now and then Carl’s force encountered people of their own tribe. Some had even stayed in their houses, hoping for a miracle before the terrible plunderers should come to them. Most wandered gypsy-like, gleaning what food they could, hiding by day and traveling by night. Many, Carl learned, had retreated into the great forests, taking up a hunter’s existence. They were not panicky, but there was a look of misery about them, the look of the defeated and uprooted, which wrenched the boy’s heart.

His men had of necessity turned thieves themselves, stealing whatever grain or animals they had been able to find. But otherwise it would have gone to the Lann, and Carl promised himself to repay such of the owners as he could identify later. If he lived!

Now he stood with his men crowding behind him, looking past the wilderness of the outer City to the distantly gleaming towers.

Ezzef’s awed whisper came to his ears: “It’s—big, isn’t it?”

“And so still.” Sam the Strong had never quailed before danger he could see and fight, but now he clutched a rabbit’s foot tightly. “But it seems to be watching. Are you sure it’s safe, Carl?”

“It hasn’t killed me yet,” snapped the boy.

“What do we do now?” asked Nicky. It was a strange feeling, having these warriors, most of them some years older than the Chief’s son, turning to him for guidance—a strange and lonely feeling. Carl was glad that to Tom and Owl he was still only a friend.

“We’ll go straight to the witch-folk,” he decided. “Might as well have it out with them now. Come on— and be careful.”

They went down the streets in a tight square. The early sun blinked off their drawn weapons.

Walls closed in on either hand, high and silent. Some of the Dalesmen looked nervously about, feeling that a trap was closing on them.

“It’s nothing to fear,” said Carl. His voice came oddly flat in that immense quiet. “Just brick and stone and metal and broken glass. Even the machines in the vault are dead until a man uses them.”

On and on. The most ruinous sections fell behind. The buildings grew taller, lifting magnificently toward a smiling heaven. Now and then a faint noise would make men start, but it was only a rat or a gopher or a wheeling bird. Until—

The arrow whizzed from above and thunked quivering into Tom’s buUhide shield. Carl yelled an order, and the Dalesmen sprang into a tight-bunched knot of warriors, holding their shields in front of them, peering over the tops. Four witch-men leaned out of a gaping third-story window and shot. Somewhere else a horn screamed, and a drum began to thutter.

“Get away—on the double!” shouted Carl.

Arrows sleeted after them as the invaders trotted down the street. The rearward men ran backward, shields aloft to protect the band. Shafts thudded home, caught in the toughened leather, rattling off helmets, now and then grazing a leg or an arm. But these were not from the hundred-pound longbows of the Dales, whose missiles could drive through an iron corselet— the witches pulled a feeble bow, and before long Carl’s party was out of range.

Then they faced forward and swung down the resounding way, hot with anger. The old skyscrapers loomed near, and the frantic drums rolled loud. A woman ran screeching from the warriors’ path. A dog yelped on their heels.

They burst into the main section and were confronted by the men of the City. The witches had grabbed weapons and gathered in a harried force. Even now, others were racing from shops and homes and gardens to join their fellows. The Dalesmen reformed their square and looked boldly at the spears slanting toward them. They were outnumbered five or six to one, but they had armor and they were trained and the purpose within them was insuperable.

“Where is Ronwy?” said Carl, speaking to an old man in a splendid cloak who seemed to be the leader. “I want to speak to your Chief.”

“Ronwy is not our Chief,” answered the witch sullenly.

His followers stirred behind him, lips tightened by fear and hate.

It was like a knife stabbing Carl’s heart. “Ronwy is—dead?” he gasped.

“He has angered the gods. His witchcraft brought fire and thunder and the devils of Atmik to earth. He cannot be our Chief. We came back after the Lann were gone and imprisoned him.”

“Ronwy lives!” Relief left Carl feeling weak.

“I know you,” said the witch-leader. “You are the ill-omened one who first came here and brought all this woe on us. I forbid you the City. Go, before we kill all of you.”

Carl shook his head. “No,” he said. “We have come to free Ronwy and open the time vault. Stop us if you dare.”

“We are more than you,” blustered the witch-man. “Many, many more. You can kill some of us, perhaps, but in the end we’ll cut you down.”

“Go ahead, then!” Carl stepped slowly forward, sword raised, glaring from behind his shield. “Who’ll be the first to die?”

His followers pressed behind him, locking their shields together, a walking wall which bristled with sharp-edged metal. The disorderly ranks of the witch-men stirred, muttering and backing up before that grim advance.

“This is our home!” The old witch-chief’s voice was almost a sob. “You’ve no right—”

“We don’t mean to violate your homes,” said Carl. “We won’t enter anyone’s shop or dwelling. But the time vault is not yours. It belongs to all the world, and we claim it for the world.”

“Kill them!” screamed the leader.

Weapons clashed and rattled, but no one stepped from the milling crowd, Carl grinned savagely and went on walking toward his opponents.

“We’ll go to the Lann!” babbled the witch-chief. “We’ll get them to help us drive you out!”

“All right, boys,” said Carl. “Scatter them.”

The Dalesmen let out a spine-shivering yell and broke into a crashing, jingling trot. Swords and axes were aloft, pikes slanted forward, arrows fitted to tensed bowstrings. They were only twenty, but at sight of that band, the witches broke. They stumbled away, some running, some slinking and snarling, but none dared to stand and fight.

Carl’s hard-held breath whistled out in a great sigh of relief. He had not been too afraid of the City men— perhaps they could have slain all his band, perhaps not—but the thought of killing men who fought for their own homes had been painful. Praise all gods, the witches had been bluffed!

He led the way to the well-remembered prison. The dwellers streamed away on either side, yelling and chattering. By the time Carl reached the jail, there was no sign of them. Ronwy was straining against the bars. He reached through to take Carl’s hands, and tears ran down his faded cheeks. “Praise all powers,” he choked. “You’ve come, my son, you’ve come. Oh, praises be!”

“You haven’t been hurt, sir?” asked Carl anxiously.

“No, no. They treated me well enough—afraid of my magic, I suppose. What brings you here again, Carl? What has happened? Fugitives passing by said the Lann were at Dalestown, and my heart grew sick within me.”

Carl told the story as Sam and Ezzef broke open the door. When Ronwy emerged, he was trembling and leaned heavily on Tom’s arm. “Outlawed?” he moaned. “Outcast from all tribes? Oh, this is bad, this is cruel!”

“It doesn’t matter,” lied Carl wearily. He was shocked to see how Ronwy had aged in these few days. But then, the old man had seen all he had striven for in his long life apparently brought to ruin. New hope should mean new life for him. “Now, my teacher, we are free to do as we have dreamed.”

“I wonder. I wonder.” Ronwy stroked his beard with thin, shaking fingers. “This is a great and terrible thing you have taken on yourself, and I am not one of the old scientists. I am only one who has read, and imagined too much—become half a ghost myself in this ghostly place. We can try, yes, try our best—but time is short if we are to save the Dales, and I know so little…”

“We’ll do it!” Carl’s defiance rang out with a hopefulness he did not feel. “But come, let us rest you first, sir. They went to Ronwy’s home, closed and dusty since his imprisonment. The old man found wine and food, and Owl, who claimed to be a master cook, prepared a meal. That was cheering and strengthening to all, and they re-entered the street with higher hearts. A strange procession met them, loaded wagons rumbling down the streets, armed men walking, women and children wailing their fright and sorrow. “What is this?” cried Ronwy.

“What are you doing?”

His rival chief stopped and looked at him with hatred. “Your madness will bring the wrath of the gods down on the City,” he answered. “We are leaving while there is still time.”

“Leaving—but where will you go?”

“We will go to the Lann at Dalestown. If the gods do not smite you first, the Lann will avenge us.”

“There will be no harm done,” protested Ronwy.

“You were warned the last time. Thunder and lightning spoke, devils howled in the vault, and still your pride has not bent.” The other old witch-man shook his head. “Perhaps the gods will not strike you even now. Perhaps they are so angered they do not care what ruin you bring on the world. But the Lann will care. They will help us.”

“Hah!” muttered Owl. “The Lann are more scared of this place than you are.”

“I don’t know,” said Tom worriedly. “Lenard, at least, fears nothing, and he may be able to break taboo with some of his men.”

“Well, we can’t stop the witches from going,” answered Carl. “They are desperate enough to fight us and overwhelm us, or at least cut a way through to safety, if we try. We’ll just have to hope they don’t succeed with the Lann.”

He and his men stood by Ronwy’s door and watched the dwellers go past. Many cursed the invaders as they went by, and Ronwy bowed his head in grief.

“What have I done?” he whispered. “These are my people. What have I done to them?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Carl as reassuringly as he could. “It’s only their own ignorance driving them to this. And they’ll come to no harm. Even the Lann have no reason to injure them, especially when they come as allies.”

“But they curse me! They—hate me!”

“I’ve made myself an outcast from my own kind,” answered Carl with pain. “The way of the pioneer is lonely. But they’ll all bless us if we succeed. And if we don’t—why, then nothing matters, I suppose.”

“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.”