Tom looked grimly out through the bars. “Helpless!” he said between his clenched teeth.
“Like animals in a cage—helpless!”
Day dragged into night. Once the door was opened, and a silent woman gave them some bowls of food. The life of the City went by in the street, folk on their various errands; many spat in the direction of the jail. With darkness there came silence, and presently the captives slept.
They woke with dawn and sat staring at each other. Finally Carl spoke, awkwardly, “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“It’s all right,” said Tom. “We didn’t have to come along.”
“What will we do?” asked Owl.
“Nothing,” said Tom.
The morning waxed. They were given breakfast and then left alone. The guard was changed, another man sat yawning outside the prison. A terrible bitterness grew in Carl, and he vowed that never again, if he lived, would he keep an animal behind bars.
Late in the morning the boys heard shouts far away. They crowded to the door and strained against it, staring out at blank walls across the street. The guard rose, hefting his spear and peering warily about him.
“Rescue?” cried Owl hopefully.
“I doubt it,” said Tom. “I don’t think the gods are done with punishing us.”
A scream rang out somewhere, and the sound of trampling hoofs, and a man’s laugh like wild dogs baying. Carl stiffened in a sudden terror. He knew that laughter.
Hoo-oo-oo!
A horn was blowing, and now the rattle of iron swept near. Three women ran down the street, clutching children to them, screaming. The guard outside the jail ran from sight toward the noise of battle.
“Someone’s fighting their way into the City!” yelled Tom.
Carl gripped himself, biting back fear. His knuckles were white where he clutched the bars of the jail. He tried to shake them—useless, useless. He was locked in here and there was nothing he could do.
“Hold fast! Drive them back!”
It was the voice of the patrol leader who had wanted to kill him, and Carl had to admit the man was brave. Swords were banging, a horse neighed, a man screamed.
Backing down the street came a thin line of witch-men. They bore weapons in shaking hands, and many were bleeding from wounds. Even as Carl watched, a bow thrummed and a City dweller toppled with an arrow in him, coughing and clawing.
“All right, men—ride ’em down!”
Lenard!
The horsemen of Lann came like a whirlwind, lances at rest, swords flashing free, plumes and mantles streaming in their thunderous passage. They struck the witch-line with a roar, and it broke before them.
Hewing, hewing, the Lann rode through that boiling tide of men. The City folk turned to run.
A mounted warrior galloped after them, laughing aloud. The battle swept on out of sight.
“Lenard,” groaned Carl.
The noise of fighting grew more distant. There could be only one end to that struggle, even if the Lann were outnumbered. The unwarlike City men could not stand before the determined, ruthless onslaught of trained warriors.
“But this is taboo for them,” gasped Tom.
“Not any longer, it seems.” Owl skinned his teeth in a mirthless grin. “They’ll simply chase the witches into the forest. And then what do we do, Carl?”
“I don’t know,” said the Chief’s son dully. “I just don’t know.”
They paced the cell, waiting. Shadows crawled over the street. A crow settled on one of the sprawled bodies, but flapped heavily skyward when a wounded man groaned and stirred.
It seemed ages before hoofs were again ringing in the stillness. The Lann troops rode into sight and drew rein. There were only a score or so, but it had been enough.
Lenard edged his horse over to the prison. “So here you are,” he said. “Hello, Carl.”
He was in full battle dress, corselet and boots and spiked helmet, and a red cloak swinging from his shoulders and a tunic of rich blue Dale weave covering his lean, muscular body. The dark face split in a wolf-grin. “Bulak, Janzy, get that door open,” he ordered.
Two men dismounted and attacked the lock with their battle-axes. It shivered apart and the door creaked wide. “Come on out,” said Lenard.
The boys stumbled forth, blinking in the sunlight.
Lance heads came down to point ominously at their breasts. Looking around, Carl saw that one elderly man in a red robe was with the troop, and that Ronwy stood by Lenard’s bridle.
“Ronwy!” choked Carl.
“I couldn’t leave,” said the old Chief. “They drove my people into the woods, but I couldn’t leave our City.”
“I wouldn’t ’ve let you, anyway,” interrupted Len-ard. “According to Carl’s story, you’re the one who knows how to make those things in the time vault work.”
“The time vault!” Carl looked with horror at the Lann prince.
The long, lean head nodded. “Certainly. If the powers of the Doom would work for you, I don’t see why they shouldn’t work for us.” With a savage gleam of eyes: “We’ll be lords of the world if that’s right!”
“This place is taboo,” bluffed Ronwy desperately. “The gods will be angry with you.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Lenard, “the Lann—at least, that tribe of the confederation to which I belong —have no taboos on ancient works. Many are frightened of them, but they aren’t actually forbidden. I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “that it’s because in our home territory we have nothing to forbid. There are none of the old Cities left, only great cratered ruins. So I gathered these bold men here, who’d follow me to storm Sky-Home itself, and with my father’s agreement we came to ransack that vault. I took along a Doctor, Kuthay there—” he gestured at the man in the red robe—”to take off any evil spells we might find.”
His contemptuous smile showed that it had only been to quiet any fears his men might have, and that he himself had no belief in ancient curses. The grin flashed on his new captives. “But I didn’t expect to find you here too. Welcome, boys, welcome!”
“I don’t know anything really,” quavered Ronwy. “I can’t make any of those machines work.”
“You’d better learn in a hurry, then,” said Lenard grimly. “Because if you don’t show me some results, all four of you will be killed. Now—off to the time vault—march!”
Chapter 11
THE GODS ARE ANGRY
The mounted men reined in before the horse’s skull and sat staring between the walls at the high gray cube within. An uneasy mutter went from mouth to bearded mouth, eyes flickered in hard, sun-darkened faces, and hands touched lucky charms. The horses seemed to know the uncertain fear stirring in their masters and stamped restless feet. Plainly the Lann were afraid of the old magic, in spite of Lenard’s proud words.
“We’re going in,” said the northern prince. His voice was oddly flat in the brooding, flimmering silence. “These places are cursed,” mumbled a warrior. “We’ve the power of our own gods with us,” snapped Lenard.
“Our gods are far away in the north,” answered the man. “Say not so.” The old Lann Doctor, Kuthay, took a small iron box from his robe, and the men bent their heads to it. “I have with me the House of Jenzik, and the god himself is in it.”
He lifted his hands and broke into a chant. Its high-pitched singsong shivered dully back from the ancient ruins. Carl listened closely, but could make out only a few words; it must be in the old language itself, which had changed greatly since the Doom. When he was through, Kuthay put the box carefully back inside his red garments and said matter-of-factly, “Now we’re guarded against whatever spells may be here. Come.”