Authors: Poul Anderson
“That’s the last,” said the old man. “There is no more sulfur.”
Carl nodded wearily. “Perhaps a dozen bombs,” he said. “No—fifteen, to be exact. I should know! Is that all we can do?”
“It’s all the gunpowder we can make,” shrugged Ronwy. He put a fuse in the canister, forcing it through a hole in the lid he had placed on the top, and tamped down clay to hold it. Carl took a pair of tongs and squeezed the container until it bent slightly, holding the lid in place.
It was fortunate, he thought, that the witch-folk had known sulfur. They bought it from traders and used it to smoke rats and mice from their storerooms. The bluff which had frightened away the Lann had used all the real gunpowder left in the vault, but an old book had described a way of making it. Saltpeter was another ingredient that had been in a small barrel here in the vault, and charcoal, which the Dalesmen themselves had prepared, was the third. The powders were weighed out on a scale, mixed wet, dried, and put into containers hammered from sheet metal dug out of the ruins.
Fifteen bombs—crude and weak, not even tested—all that the past six days of work had yielded. But there had been so desperately much to do: the formula had to be located in a stack of books Ronwy had once read but not remembered very well, a painful groping through many pages where half the words meant nothing; the powder had to be made, the metal found and beaten into shape. Carl’s high-flying dreams had faded as he realized how heartbreakingly slow and difficult it would be to recreate the vanished past.
“Maybe that will be for the best,” Ronwy had remarked. “We can’t gain everything back overnight. We aren’t ready for it. We should go slowly, take many generations on the task, so that we can learn the proper use of each new power before getting the next.”
But—fifteen bombs!
“And now what can we do?” asked Carl. “It would take rare luck for this little bit of weaponry to decide a battle.”
“I don’t know.” Ronwy sighed. “Make a balloon, perhaps. We would need a great deal of oiled cloth or fine leather, carefully
sewed into a bag, and a large basket to hang from it, and some means of filling the sack with hot air—”
“We can’t take a year for this!” cried Carl. Tears stung his eyes. “The Lann aren’t going to wait that long.”
“No. No. But—”
“Carl—Carl—” Tom came rushing down the stairs, wild and white. “Carl, the patrol horn just blew! Someone’s approaching!”
Carl rushed up into the noonday light and blinked at the hot brilliance outside. His ears caught the warning blast now, from a man perched as lookout high in one of the skyscrapers. Plunging across the street, he burst into the room which his followers used for living quarters. The men were already pulling on their armor, and Carl dove for his.
“What is it?” barked Ezzef. “Who’s coming?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy grimly, “but I’ll bet it’s an enemy.”
As he came out again, he looked to the defenses of the vault. His men had wrought well. The open space between the two walls was cleared of rubbish, which had been piled high to the rear to form an almost unbreakable third wall; a jumbled wilderness of ruin beyond, where the Dalesmen had thoughtfully strewn broken glass and sharp-edged metal, made it impossible to approach from that side. On the front, where the old walls faced onto the street, a six-foot barricade had been erected, stone and brick and timbers laid solidly together, with only a narrow passageway between in to the vault.
Nicky, who had been the lookout, came running as the last of his comrades entered the little courtyard between vault and barricade. “It’s the Lann!” he panted. “A whole army of horsemen—hundreds of them—riding into the City!”
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.
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 horse 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, biting 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 across. 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 with 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.