Vault of the Ages

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.

“Go get him, Carl!” shouted Owl.

Carl crossed blades with Lenard. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the northerner. “Let’s go!”

His saber slithered free and lifted for a downward sweep. Carl struck first, holding his shield up as he battered against Lenard’s. The prince’s blade rasped across that shield and slewed about toward Carl’s thigh. The boy smote downward, beating the enemy weapon aside, and skipped back. Lenard rushed at him, blade howling. It crashed mightily against Carl’s shield. The boy planted himself firm, and his lighter, straight weapon clashed against the saber.

Then they were at it, ducking and dodging, weaving around, and steel banging on steel. Carl’s flickering blade sprang past Lenard’s guard to slash the man’s cheek. Lenard’s saber answered, ringing on the Dalesman’s helmet, bouncing from his shield. It struck the rim of that bullhide defense with a fury that dragged Carl’s arm down. The Lann warrior grunted, thrusting forward, but his curved edge slid off the armored shoulder beyond. Carl hacked at the calf of his enemy’s leg and felt his weapon bite through leather and flesh. The Dalesmen whooped.

Lenard growled and bored in, a sudden whirring, clamoring blur of attack. The blows hailed and thundered, shivering in Carl’s muscles and bones. He tried to parry, and his sword was hammered aside. Lenard drove forward relentlessly. Carl stepped back, panting.

Whooo—bang! Carl’s head reeled with the shock. Stars danced before his eyes. Lenard hewed at his ankles, drawing blood. Carl slashed at the barbarian’s arm. The cut was deep, but the blunted edge would not bite well. Lenard grinned in fury and his snake’s-tongue saber blazed against the boy’s defense. A ragged hole opened in the Dale shield, carved away by shrieking steel. Carl met the saber in mid-sweep, sparks and rattling. He ran backward as Lenard parried. The saber howled by his ear and raked down his sword arm.

He was fighting desperately now, against an older, heavier, more experienced warrior. The shock and thunder of blows was loud in his ears. He crossed blades and his own was hurled aside—almost wrenched from his hand. The frame of his shield gave away, a splinter stabbing his left arm. He threw the thing off, hurling it under Lenard’s feet. The northerner tripped over it and crashed to the ground. Carl hacked at him, but the enemy shield turned his blow and Lenard scrambled up again.

“Well done!” he cried.

His saber whistled against Carl’s now unshielded left. The boy retreated, weaving a barrier of flying metal to guard himself. The Lann army tightened and cheered, seeing him outclassed. He couldn’t go any farther. The wall of a building opposite the vault was suddenly against his back. Carl planted his legs firm and struck two-handed at Lenard, letting the northerner’s blade smash at his own armored side. The straight sword whined against Lenard’s incautiously exposed head. Blood ran free and Lenard’s helmet rolled off. Carl had cut its chin strap but done little other harm. Lenard shook his head, bull-like, briefly dazed, and gave Carl a chance to slip back into the open.

Yelling, Lenard rushed him. Carl twisted his body sideways, holding his left arm out of danger. He thrust against the attacking barbarian, reaching for the eyes. Lenard nearly spitted himself, but he danced aside in time. Carl drilled in, pulling his dagger out with his left hand. Sword caught on sword, and Carl stabbed with the knife.

His thrust, awkwardly made, did little harm. Lenard broke free and crashed his shield-rim down on Carl’s wrist. Numbed, the boy dropped the dagger. Lenard thrust close, sword spitting from behind his shield. Carl clinched again. Lenard thrust a sudden foot behind Carl’s ankles and shoved. The boy went over on his back. Lenard sprang at him. Carl kicked with both feet. The kick thudded against Lenard’s shield, driving him back. Carl rolled free and regained his stance, panting.

Lenard’s blade sang against Carl’s helmet. The Dalesman staggered, and the watching Lann cheered afresh. Carl lurched back, Lenard hammering his defense.

“Carl, Carl,” groaned Owl.

Wildly, the boy held firm and battled. His breath was sobbing now. A wave of dizziness went through him and his knees shook. He was not afraid. There wasn’t time for fear. But his body wouldn’t obey; it was too tired.

He sent a mighty blow against Lenard’s bare head. The shield came up to catch it, and the saber chopped for his neck. Carl ducked, letting the sweep ring on his helmet. He yanked his sword free and stabbed two-handed against Lenard’s shield. The bullhide gave—but only a little, and Carl had to leap away before he was cut down.

His back was once more to the wall. He leaned against the old bricks and met the furious assault as it came. Steel whistled and belled, a flying blur.

Carl’s sword met the thick edge of Lenard’s saber, slid along it, and caught in a notch there. Lenard roared triumphantly and twisted with a skilled strength. The sword spun from Carl’s sweat-slippery hand and went clanging to the street.

“Now you’re done!” shouted Lenard. His saber lifted for the death stroke. The Lann howled their glee.

Carl sprang. He leaped against his enemy, one hand closing on the sword arm, one reaching for the throat. Lenard writhed, stepping back. Carl’s right hand doubled into a fist and jolted a blow to Lenard’s jaw. The northerner snarled and tried to jerk his weapon free. Carl tripped him, and they crashed to earth.

The boy clawed for the saber. Lenard’s shield was pinned under the barbarian, holding his left arm useless. Carl’s hands tugged at the saber haft. Lenard slipped his shield arm free and closed it about Carl’s neck. The boy grunted, hammering a fist down on the fingers closed about the weapon. It suddenly clattered free as the two fighters rolled to one side.

Carl’s fist smashed into the dark face that was now above him. Blood came. Lenard gouged for his eyes. Carl flung up an arm to protect himself, and Lenard twisted away, clutching after the saber. Carl got a scissor-lock about his waist and dragged him back.

The air was alive with the howling of the Lann. The Dalesmen strained forward, white and drawn of face. The combatants rolled in the street, fists and arms locked, battering, raging.

The flat of Lenard’s hand struck Carl in the throat. Gasping with pain, the boy released his gripping arms. Lenard writhed half-free of the scissors-hold, reaching for the saber.

Carl surged up, clawing his way onto Lenard’s back. He closed fingers in the barbarian’s hair and smashed his enemy’s forehead against the old pavement.

Lenard roared. Carl beat his head down again, and again, and again. Suddenly the warrior lay still.

“Carl, Carl, Carl!” whooped the Dalesmen.

The boy shook his head, now ringing and swimming with darkness. Thunder beat in his ears and blood dripped from his face to the street. Shuddering, he crawled free on hands and knees, looking up at the enemy host through ragged veils of darkness.

They surged uneasily, muttering, rolling wild eyes. Had the boy’s victory proved that he was a powerful witch, or did it mean nothing? But Lenard lay beaten, Lenard the bold who had egged them on in the teeth of angry gods. Their courage waned. There were so few Dalesmen to stand them off—but who knew what powers those few had ready to loosen?

Carl sat up, holding his aching head in both hands. The darkness was fading now, swirling from his eyes, but the thuttering and booming still went on. There were faint shouts and—

And they weren’t within himself!

Carl staggered erect, not daring to believe. Above the Lann host, suddenly shrieking in alarm, there was the blowing of horns, the drumming of hoofs, the deep-voiced shouts of men. Far down the street, Carl saw a green and yellow banner advancing, floating against heaven. The noise of battle lifted as the newcomers fell on the Lann from the rear.

Dalesmen!

Carl reeled away from the sudden, trampling horde of spectators. Almost without thinking, he grasped Lenard by the hair and pulled the unconscious prince away from those frantic feet. Owl and Ezzef sprang out to help him back.

“Our people!” gibbered Owl. “Our people! I can’t believe it!”

“Let me see—” New strength flowed back into Carl. Aided by his friends, he climbed up on the top of a wall from which he could see what was happening.

He recognized his father, mounted in the van of a Dale force that must have numbered some four hundred men. They were dusty, weary, their armor and bodies scarred with recent combat, their horses staggering in exhaustion, but they were hurling themselves against the enemy with a fierceness that rang between the ancient buildings.

The Lann at that end of the avenue had kept to their horses and were meeting the attack with the vigor of freshness. Behind them, their fellows rallied, pressing forward against this new menace and raising their own war shouts. Carl’s new-found gladness turned to dismay.

The Dalesmen had come, yes—but they were tired, outnumbered two to one, moving against the most terrible foe of their history. Could they win? Would this prove only a trap?