Vault of the Ages

Chapter 2 THE LOST CITY

Branches whipped across his face, and Carl flung up an arm to shield his eyes. Forward—a wild scrambling as the Lann warriors broke before his charge —out and away! He burst from the woods into the long grass of a sunlit meadow. Two arrows whistled after him; one grazed his neck, humming like an angry bee. Turning in the saddle, he saw Tom and Owl riding close behind him and the enemy running into the open.

A horseman topped the crest of the hill to his right, light flashing off his iron helmet. If they had cavalry to pursue—Carl set his teeth and clucked to his pony. Fast, fast—the way back was cut off, they had to go forward.

Up a long slope, down into a gulch below, with the horses supping and stumbling on loose earth, around a thicket and through a brier-patch that clawed at living flesh. Carl risked another glance behind and saw half a dozen armed men on the small shaggy horses of the north, galloping in an easy chase. Their mounts were fresh, thought the boy; they need only run down their wearied prey and after that, the end—or capture, which could be worse than death.

The long-legged steeds of John’s sons drew up on either side of Carl. Tom was bent low, his face white and set; Owl was riding easily, his lips even now curled in a half-smile. Leaning over, the younger boy shouted to Carl, “Looks like we’ll get there sooner than we thought!”

“The City?” cried his brother.

“Where else?” panted Carl. “Maybe the witches will help us.”

It was a forlorn hope. The smith-folk knew they existed only on sufferance and on the tribesmen’s unwillingness to enter the Cities, so they would never risk the anger of anyone by mixing into the quarrels of others. But—what else was there for the hunted to do?

Ride, ride, ride! The wind roared in Carl’s ears, whipping his hair and cloak behind him, the land seemed to blur past, the fury of speed stung his eyes with tears. Already his horse was breathing heavily, sweating and foaming. How much longer could it go on?

The Lann were out of sight behind the rolling hills, but they would follow. Even as he guided his mount over the rough ground and wondered how long he would still be alive, Carl was thinking back over what he had seen. Except for one or two prisoners taken in border skirmishes, he had never met a Lann warrior before, and the image of his pursuers was sharp in his mind.

The northerners were of the same race as the Dalesmen and the other Allegheny tribes, though a life of hardships had made them a little shorter and stockier; and their language was almost the same, easily understood. Even their clothing was much like that of the Dales, with more fur and leather used. But the fighting men all seemed to have breastplates of toughened hide painted in harsh colors, their swords were often curved instead of straight, and they used a shorter, heavier bow. It was said that they fought in a tighter and better arranged formation than the Dalesmen, who were peaceful folk and had no real art of war. Faintly to Carl’s ears, above the rush of wind and murmur of grass and thudding of hoofs, there came the sound of a blown horn, wailing and hooting between the empty hills. A signal. Were the Lann calling to others? Would there be a whole army chasing three hapless boys? A gulp of despair rose in Carl’s throat. He choked it down and urged his pony to another effort.

Up a slanting, crumbling bluff. From its heights, Carl saw the enemy, more of them now, perhaps twenty. They had been joined by others, and where in all the reaching world was there shelter from them?

As he plunged down the hill beyond, Carl saw a dull, white gleam through a screen of trees. A river—no, it was no stream, no trail—nothing! Straight as a hurled spear it ran northward, and Tom let out a yell as he saw it.

“The road!” he shouted. “The road to the City!”

Of course, thought Carl. He had seen the broken remnants of ancient highways, split by the ages, most of the blocks taken away by men for building material.

This one had not been disturbed, and it ran toward their goal.

They came out on the road and its hard surface rang hollowly under the hoofs. “Ride on it!” said Owl. “It’s a fast and easy way—”

“Also for the Lann,” said Tom bleakly. “But come.”

The frost and creeping roots of centuries had been cruel to the highway, Carl saw. Its great stony sections lay riven and cracked, tilted at crazy angles and often overgrown with brush. But still it was there, and it was straight and almost level. Ride, ride, ride!

As they sped on their way, he noticed low grassy mounds on either side of the road. Under those, he knew, were buried the decayed ruins of ancient houses. Bold men sometimes defied taboo and dug about in such hills, finding the broken pieces of things incomprehensible to them. Even now, racing for his life, Carl could not help a shudder, and from the corner of an eye he saw Tom fingering a lucky charm about his neck.

The mounds grew larger and closer together as the boys galloped north. Here and there a shattered fragment of worked stone, a few bricks, or a gleaming splinter of glass thrust out of the green overgrowth. The drumbeats of the hoofs rolled and echoed between those solemnly looming graves as if the dead woke up and cried in protest.

“The Lann—coming—”

Turning at Owl’s voice, Carl saw the tiny figures of the enemy horsemen far behind, galloping down the highway with the westering sun flashing off their spears and helmets. Then Tom’s cry jerked his head forward again.

“The City!”

They were riding between two high mounds which overshadowed the road and blocked off the

view ahead. As they burst out from between these, their goal lay open to them.

The City—the ancient City!

Even then, Carl felt the awe and the sadness which lay over that dead titan. It sprawled farther away on every side than he could see, and it was toppled to ruin and waste. The buildings on this edge were little more than heaps of brick covered with vines and bush and young trees, and here and there a wall still stood erect under the creepers. The forest had crept in, blanketing the great old works in green, slowly and patiently gnawing them down; and wind and rain and frost had over the centuries brought them toppling; and wild beasts laired in the wreck and prowled the hollow streets.

But far, far down, the towers, which had been the City’s pride, gleamed in the long, low sunrays. Even from this distance, Carl could see that they were gutted. Many of the walls had fallen, leaving a rusted steel skeleton; the windows were empty and the blowing air wandered between dusty rooms—yet they stood, tall and straight against the evening sky, straining heavenward like the great dead men who had wrought them, and Carl knew that he was entering the ruin of a dream.

“The Lann—Tom, Carl, look behind! The Lann!”

They had reined in their horses between the two sentinel mounds and were milling in confusion. Their shouts drifted faintly down the sunset breeze to the boys sitting on their horses under the somber walls of a roofless building.

“Taboo!” shouted Owl gleefully. “The old Cities are forbidden to them too. They don’t dare enter!”

Carl drew a long, shuddering breath, and it was as if life and hope flowed back into him with it. He laughed aloud, there in the stillness of the lost city.

“But—” Tom looked nervously around him. “We’re breaking the taboo ourselves.”

Purpose returned to Carl. He straightened his weary shoulders and looked boldly ahead.

“What have we to lose?” he asked. “Come on, let’s find the witches.”

The tired, sweating horses walked slowly down a street which was overgrown with grass and creepers. The echoes rang loud in that great stillness. A family of swallows dipped and wheeled overhead, swift and lovely against the golden sunset sky. This could not be such a terrible place, thought Carl.

It had long been his idea that the tribes and the Doctors were wrong in forbidding the ancient works. Perhaps they had, as was said, brought the Doom on mankind—but they had so much power for good in them that he felt they could start today’s unchanging life back upward toward the heights the ancestors had reached. Now, as he rode through the shadows and the tall, sad remnants, the belief was strengthened in him.

“Halt! Halt!”

The voice was shrill in Carl’s ears. He clapped one hand to his sword and reined in before the score of men who had come from around a wall and stood barring the road. The witch-folk!

They did not seem like the uncanny beings of whispered midnight stories. They were men even as those in the Dales—rather small and skinny men too, who handled their weapons awkwardly and seemed as shy as Tom and Owl had suddenly become. Most of them were very dark-skinned. They must have blood of the black tribes which lived in the southlands, as well as the white of the Alleghenys and the north. Unlike the other tribes, they wore tunics and kilts, and their hair was cut short.

One of them stepped out of the line and raised a thin hand. He was taller than his fellows, and old, with a white beard flowing from his wrinkled face, and a long fur-trimmed cloak wrapped his gaunt body. There was something in his deep-set blue eyes which made Carl like him even at first glance.

“You may not come in here,” said the old man. “It is forbidden.”

“By our own tribes, not by your laws,” said Carl. “And even our own laws let a man save his life. There are foemen from the north hunting us. If we go out now, they will kill us.”

“Go!” cried a witch-man. His voice trembled. “We dare not have anything to do with the wars of the tribes.”

Carl grinned. “If you send us out,” he said, “you are taking the northern part against the Dalesmen.” Turning to the old man: “Sir, we come as your guests.”

“Then you can stay,” decided the witch-man at once. “For a while, at least. We of the City know what a host must do as well as you in the Dales.”

“But—” His followers began to murmur, and he turned angrily on them.

“I say these lads stay!” he snapped, and one by one the threatening spears were lowered.

“Thank you, sir,” said Carl. Then he gave the names of himself and his companions, and told their errand.

“The son of Ralph, eh?” The old witch-man looked keenly at the boy. “I remember Ralph when he came here once. A strong man, and wiser than most. Welcome, Carl. I am Ronwy, Chief of the City folk.”

Carl dismounted, and they shook hands. “We will give you food and shelter,” said Ronwy.

“But as for making weapons for you—that I cannot promise. The Chief of a city, like the Chief of a tribe, cannot do whatever he wishes; he is bound by law and the vote of his people. I must take this up with the others in council.” His blue glance was shrewd. “And even if we made your engines for you, how would you get them past the Lann? We know they’re all around this neighborhood.”

Carl gulped back his sudden dismay and followed Ronwy, leading his weary horse down the streets. The witch-men grumbled among themselves and went their separate ways.

After a mile or so of walking in silence, the boys and their guide came to the outskirts of the section where the towers were. Here the buildings were taller and stronger than near the edge, and had stood the years of weathering better. Brush had been cleared away, rooms repaired and filled with household goods, new doors put on empty frames and the broken windows covered with thin-scraped parchment—this was the place where the witch-folk lived. They moved about on their daily errands, men and women and children walking between the enormous walls, firelight and the smell of cooking food coming from the houses, a banjo twanging somewhere in the dusk, the faint clang of a hammer from the open door of a smithy.

“They aren’t so terrible,” whispered Owl. “They’re people just like us—not very many of them, either. I don’t see any devils or ghosts.”

“Have the old stories lied?” wondered Tom.

“Maybe,” said Carl. He was too unsure of his own thoughts to go on.

Ronwy led them to his own dwelling, a long room with high ceilings on the first story of an ancient tower. There was a marble floor, Carl saw wonderingly, and some of the old dishes and glasses and metal ornaments stood on the crude wooden tables of this age. Had the world really sunk so far from greatness?

Ronwy lit candles, chasing the gloom back into the corners, and motioned them to chairs.

“Be seated,” he said. “My servants will take care of your horses and bring food shortly. I’m glad of your company. My wife is long dead and my sons are grown men and it’s lonesome here. You must tell me what is going on in the Dales.”

Tom shivered in the evening chill and Ronwy began to stoke the fireplace. It had been built in later days, with the chimney going up through a hole in the cracked ceiling. “In the ancient time,” said the Chief, “there was always warmth in here, without fire; and if you wanted light, it came from little glass balls which only had to be touched.”

Carl looked at the table beside his chair. A book lay on it, and he picked it up and leafed through the yellowed pages with awe in him.

“Do you know what that is?” asked Ronwy.

“It’s called a book,” said Carl. “The High Doctor in Dalestown has a few.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes, sir, and write too. I’m the Chief’s son, so I had to learn. We sometimes send letters—”

Carl puzzled over the words before him. “But this doesn’t make sense!”

“It’s a physics text,” answered Ronwy. “It explains —well—how the ancients did some of their magic.” He smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it doesn’t mean much to me either.”

A serving-woman brought dishes of food and the boys attacked it hungrily. Afterward they sat and talked of many things until Ronwy showed them to bed.

He liked the City, Carl decided as he lay waiting for sleep to come. It was hard to believe in this quiet place that war and death waited outside. But he remembered grimly that the Lann had hunted him to the very edge of the tabooed zone. The witch-folk wouldn’t let him stay long here, in spite of Ronwy—and the Lann swords would be waiting, sharp and hungry, for him to come out again.