Vault of the Ages

Chapter 12 “RIDE TO DALESTOWN!”

’The three boys, lent extra horses which the troop had taken along, rode untied, but they were carefully watched by their captors. It was a swift, trotting journey until they were well away from the City; then the pace slowed and the men began to breathe more easily.

Carl looked about him at the great sweep of hill and forest and high blue heaven. A sigh went out of him.

They had won—well, a small victory. The time vault had been saved from the barbarians. But they were still prisoners and the Lann were still unbeaten. His head lifted. So were the Dalesmen, he thought defiantly. And by all the gods, so was he himself! The thundercloud of anger that was half fear died in Lenard’s face. Presently he was smiling, and when Kuthay began to mutter about bad luck that would pursue them, he laughed aloud and slapped the old Doctor on the back.

“Why, if the powers in the vault were so mighty and wrathful as you say, the fact that we all escaped unhurt proves that we are the luckiest men alive,” he said, and fell to joking with his men until they too grinned and relaxed.

“After all,” said Lenard, “the magic would have been helpful, but it’s not as if we really needed it. The good swords of Lann are enough.”

He rode forward again until he was at Carl’s side. “You needn’t fear for your lives right away if you behave yourselves,” he told the boys. “We’re going to rejoin our main army—it’s sweeping around the western borders now, and will soon be at Dalestown if it isn’t there already. My father and I will keep you for hostages, as you tried to keep me. I daresay that will weaken your father’s will to fight, Carl, and so save many lives on both sides.”

“Not a very cheering thought for me,” answered Carl sourly.

Lenard grew sober. “I wish you wouldn’t think of us as devils,” he said. “We’re a rough crew, yes, and after a long, hard journey through hills and forests to get here, we’re entitled to some looting. But few of us are doing this for pleasure or even for power.”

“Why, then?” snapped Owl. “For your health, maybe?”

“In a way,” replied Lenard. “We’re driven to it. Our homeland can’t feed us any longer. We must have new lands, and soon.”

“I’ve heard that story before,” sneered Tom.

“But you haven’t seen it!” cried Lenard. “You haven’t watched your thin bitter harvest ruined by hail and rain. You haven’t heard babies crying with hunger, and seen your people hollow-eyed from it, and felt it tearing in your own belly. You haven’t huddled in a miserable, overcrowded shack while a blizzard howls around you and kills the last few animals you own. You haven’t battled the raids of savages from still farther north, driven by their own famine, coming with fire and death and pillage to steal the little remaining to you.” His fist raised. “And you haven’t seen the sleek, fur-clad trader from the southern tribes pass you by because you’ve nothing to barter for his meat and grain!”

“We have our own homes,” said Carl. “You’re just doing to us what has been done to you.”

“Of course,” answered Lenard. “Because we’re a strong folk, a breed of warriors, and aren’t meekly going to let our families die if we can take them to a better place. It’s nature, Carl. We are the wild dogs killing a stag—because they must if they are to live. But we aren’t monsters.”

“What would you have the Dalesmen do?” challenged Carl.

“That’s up to them,” said Lenard, “but if Ralph had any sense, he’d gather his army, which is still pretty good, and retreat with all his people to attack some other, weaker tribe and win new lands.”

“And so evil breeds evil, until every man is at his brother’s throat. No!”

“As you will.” Lenard shrugged. “It was only a thought—because I wish the Dalesmen no harm, and even admire them in a way. I think you especially, Carl, have the makings of a great Chief, and that you and I together could someday do mighty things, and that it is a shame you are to die in a hopeless fight. But you must make the choice yourself. Think it over.”

He rode off, and Carl sat in silence. The words of the Lann prince seemed to echo in his mind. He couldn’t shake free of them. Looking around at the faces of his captors, he saw that they were hardened by war and suffering—but they could smile as a rough joke passed among them. They had wives and children who waited with tears for their home-coming, and if they were wilder than the Dalesmen, it was because their stern land had made them so.

Evil breeds evil—yes, but the great root of today’s misery was that man as a whole could not provide himself with a decent living. He had once had the means, in that dim and glorious past which now shone only as a legend and a dream in winter nights—but the means were lost. No, they still existed. The key to that vanished greatness lay in the time vault—but it was taboo.

Suddenly Carl wondered if it had not been a mistake to frighten the Lann from the vault. If they had remained there, and eventually won the war—it would have been a cruel blow for the Dalesmen, but the vault would have been in the hands of a people who were not afraid to use it. In time they might have learned other things, the peaceful arts of the old civilization, and from them it would have spread to all mankind. Many centuries would have been needed, but it might have been the only way to save what was locked in that dark chamber.

What was right? A man should live justly—but too often it was hard to say which was the road of justice. At any rate, this war was not a struggle of evil against good, black against white; it was a fight between many human beings, none of whom was wholly bad or wholly good. If the Dalesmen should somehow win, it would mean slow hunger-death not only for the warriors of Lann but for their innocent women and children in the northlands. What could one do?

He thrust the whirl of confusion out of his mind. It was not, just now, a question of what should be done, but of what could be done. And the first problem was escape!

At evening the Lann pitched camp in a meadow on the top of a hill. Forest lay on every side, quiet in the gentle sunset light, and it was as if no man had been here since the beginning of the world. The men’s preparations were simple, a small fire built to cook the deer which a ranging hunter had brought back, the horses tethered a little way off to graze, blanket rolls spread on the ground for sleeping. Lenard assigned guard duty to three men who would watch in succession, timing themselves as usual by the stars. After supper, the Lann prince came over to the boys with some lengths of rawhide.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I’ll have to tie you up at night.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right,” said Owl sarcastically. “We just love being tied up.”

“It need only be loose, like hobbling a horse,” said Lenard. “And you can have some saddle blankets for sleeping.”

Carl submitted quietly to the binding. His wrists were lashed together in front of him and a two-foot cord was tied between his ankles, in a sort of harness passing over his shoulders and knotted at the back so that he couldn’t reach the knot with his bound hands. It was simple but effective. Tom and Owl were secured in like manner, and Lenard spread some blankets out for them. “Watch these fellows so they don’t go releasing each other,” he laughed to the guard. “They’re lively young scamps.”

Darkness stole over the world, stars blinked out and the fire burned to embers. The guard stayed on his feet, pacing up and down, now and then yawning or leaning on his spear. His comrades rolled themselves up and slept with an animal weariness. The horses dozed, or cropped in a night which began to sing with its many noises of cricket and owl and wildcat and startled, running feet.

Carl, Tom, and Owl lay with their heads together. From time to time the sentry glanced sharply over at them, but did not try to stop their whispering. The thin new moon rose slowly over the treetops.

“Anything we can do?” breathed Tom. “Any chance to get away?”

“Nah—let’s sleep.” Owl yawned enormously. “What a day!”

“I wonder—” Carl lay still for so long that his friends thought he had drowsed off himself.

But he was thinking.

A stone dug into his right shoulder blade. Lenard should have paid more attention where he spread the blankets. Small matter. Was there any chance of getting away? If there was, did he dare to take it? An attempt which failed would certainly annoy the Lann, perhaps enough so that they’d kill their prisoners.

But that was an unworthy thought, he told himself sharply. His own death was a little thing in this huge world, however much it meant to him. He was son of the Chief and had to live up to the fact.

But how to escape? The Lann slept not far off, the sentry stood armed and alert, and he was trussed up like a pig for slaughter…. Curse that stone! His shoulder would be black and blue in the morning.

The idea came all at once. A thin and desperate plan, but— Go ahead! Do it now, at once, before its hopelessness chilled the limbs with fear.

He turned his head. “Tom, are you awake?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Be ready for things to happen…. Owl. Owl, wake up.”

“Ugh—uh—whoof! Whazzamatter?”

“Not so loud. Hold yourself ready. I’m going to try something.”

Carl waited until the sentry’s back was turned. Then he threw off his upper blanket, rose to his knees, and began digging in the ground.

The Lann guard swung about and strode over to him. His spearhead gleamed near the boy’s ribs. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“There’s a rock under my back. I’m getting rid of it. See?” Carl pointed to the shadowy form of the stone, where he had pulled aside the lower blanket.

“All right, all right. Don’t wake the camp. I’ll dig it out for you.” The Lann probed in the earth with his spearhead. Carl got to his feet, looking at the stooped back and the helmeted head, thinking with a vague regret, under the thudding of his heart, that the warrior wasn’t a bad sort.

There was a chink and the stone rolled free. “There you are,” said the man.

“Thanks.” Carl stooped over, picking the rock up in one hand. It jutted from his fist, hard and cold and damp with the clinging earth.

Lightning swift, the boy’s arms straightened, and his hand crashed the stone against the warrior’s temple. The blow shocked back into his muscles, and he heard the dull crack as if it were a thunderclap.

The man toppled, blood spurting from his face. Tom was already erect, catching the unconscious body as it fell and easing it to the ground. Owl seized the spear before it could fall clattering. Carl glared wildly at the dim black shapes of the Lann. Someone stirred, mumbling in his sleep.

Bending over, he jerked out the warrior’s knife and slashed his bonds across. He handed Tom the weapon to release himself and Owl, while his own fingers groped over the fallen enemy.

Blood was hot and sticky as he fumbled with the helmet’s chin strap. He got it loose, pulled off the man’s dark cloak, and handed both to Tom.

“You’re about his height,” he hissed. “Wear these and take his spear. Pace up and down, in case someone sees…”

They were barely in time. As Tom moved slowly from the boys, a drowsy voice called out:

“Whuzzat?”

“It’s all well. Go back to sleep,” said Tom hoarsely, praying that his tones were not too different from the guard’s. He began his slow walk, up and down, up and down. The spear shook in his sweat-slippery hands, and he bit his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

Catlike, snakelike, Carl and Owl were writhing a way through tall grass to the horses. They had the sentry’s knife and sword to cut the tether. But if a horse whinnied, or if the unconscious man woke up— Up and down, up and down, pace, pace, pace.

A faint, starlit flash of metal flitted among the animals. Carl and Owl were cutting all the tethers. A horse neighed once, and Tom froze. Then he began pacing again, a guardian figure in cloak and helmet, spear tall against the stars. An enemy, waking briefly, might well suppose that the sentry was still there and that the animal’s noise was of no meaning. He might!

The low trilling of a thrush came from the forest’s edge. But thrushes rarely sing at night. It was a signal. Tom stared at the camp for a moment. Nothing stirred. He heard a snore and someone talking in his sleep. Turning, he went with long, quiet steps over to the horses.

His friends were holding three by swiftly looped hackamore bridles. The others stirred and snorted, uneasy at this strange doing. Tom laid down his spear and leaped onto the back of one. Carl and Owl followed suit.

A sudden voice thundered from the camp: “Joey’ Joey, where are you? What’s going on?”

“All right, boys!” Carl’s voice lifted high and clear. “Let’s go!” He plunged into the thick of the herd, screeching and howling. “Eeeeyah! Hi, hi, hi! Giddap!”

“They’re getting away—”

The horses stampeded. Neighing, plunging, they scattered in terror and a wild drumming of hoofs.

“Come on!” barked Carl. “Let’s ride to Dalestown!”

An arrow whizzed by his cheek, and another and another. The Lann were awake now, shouting, running about after their mounts, firing at the three who galloped into the forest. Carl leaned low over the neck of his steed. There hadn’t been time to steal spare animals. The risk had been enormous as it was—and so these would flag in a long chase. And a long chase it would be, clear to Dalestown, with the Lann in hot and angry pursuit as soon as they had recovered their own horses.

Owl’s laughter pealed forth. “We seem to do nothing but steal livestock these days!” he cried.

“Ride, you ninny!” shouted Carl. “Ride to Dalestown!”