Read Online Vault of the Ages by Poul Anderson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Poul Anderson
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friends.
“No, you’re too ornery to make a decent meal.” More soberly, Ezzef came over to stand at Carl’s stirrup and look up into his dusty, sun-darkened face. “Did you make the bargain, Carl? Will the witch-men forge for us?”
“The Chief has to know first. It’s a long story,” said the boy, turning his eyes away. He didn’t want to start panic among the men by rumors of the City people’s refusal, or premature hopes by tales of magic powers.
Ezzef nodded gravely and went back to his post, and Carl began to realize the loneliness of a leader. He couldn’t share his journey with this old comrade—the tribe had to come before any one man—but it was hard. He clicked his tongue, and the pony moved forward again, shoving slowly through the crowds.
Within the stockade, Dalestown was a jumble of wooden houses through which muddy streets wound a narrow way. It had its own wells and cisterns, and Ralph had, several years before, caused others to be made so that fire fighters would always have water close at hand. One bit of ancient wisdom which the Doctors told the people was that filth meant plague, so there were public baths andthe Chief paid men to haul away wastes. But with all those who had crowded in since the first threat of war, that system was in danger of breakdown.
As Carl rode down High Street, between the tall, overhanging walls of buildings gaudily painted under splashes of mud, he saw the same confusion of people he had known and loved all his life. Here, a rich merchant passed by, dressed in furs and gold chains, borne in a litter by four half-naked servants. There, a group of children tumbled and rolled in the dust; a mongrel yapped at their play. Yonder came a housewife, her long skirts lifted above the littered street, a baby strapped into a carrying-cradle on her back. A wandering juggler, his lean body clad in fantastically colored rags, a banjo slung next to his ribs, brushed shoulders with a sober-faced young Doctor in the long blue robe of his order, carrying a bag of magical instruments. Circled by the perpetual bustle, a tall, black-skinned trader in clothes of foreign cut, come from the southern tribes to barter his cotton or fruit or tobacco for the furs and leather of the Dales, was talking to a white-bearded old farmer who stood unmoving in his wooden shoes, puffing a long-stemmed pipe. A bulky guard was warning two drunken warriors to behave themselves; a wagonload of fine timber moved slowly toward some carpenter’s shop; and a horse tamer edged his half-broken mount carefully through the swarm.
Open doors, and shingled booths, where the work of the town went on, lined the sides of the street. A smith, muscled and sooty, hammered out a plowshare in the ruddy glow of his fire. Across the way, a fat baker gave two round loaves of coarse black bread, new and warm and fragrant, to a boy. And a weaver had his cloths and rugs spread out for sale, next door to a tailor who sat cross-legged making complete garments. On the corner, a dark and smoky tavern rang with noisy life and beside the tavern, a trader’s store was massed with foreign goods and delicate jewelry for sale. Even now, Dalestown tried to live as it had always done.
But many newcomers filled the streets, leaning from the windows and jamming into the crowd. Refugees, thought Carl, men and women and children from outlying farms who had fled here for safety when news of the invaders came. Some could stay with friends and relatives, some could pay for a bed in one of the few inns—but most had to sleep outside, in tents or under their wagons, ready to flee inside the walls if danger threatened. Their eyes werefilled with fear and a deep, hopeless longing, their voices shrill or else hushed to an unnatural quiet. It was not a good thing to see, and Carl touched the saddlebag where he had the magic light as if groping for comfort.
The boys came out on the open market square in the center of town and forced a slow path
“No, you’re too ornery to make a decent meal.” More soberly, Ezzef came over to stand at Carl’s stirrup and look up into his dusty, sun-darkened face. “Did you make the bargain, Carl? Will the witch-men forge for us?”
“The Chief has to know first. It’s a long story,” said the boy, turning his eyes away. He didn’t want to start panic among the men by rumors of the City people’s refusal, or premature hopes by tales of magic powers.
Ezzef nodded gravely and went back to his post, and Carl began to realize the loneliness of a leader. He couldn’t share his journey with this old comrade—the tribe had to come before any one man—but it was hard. He clicked his tongue, and the pony moved forward again, shoving slowly through the crowds.
Within the stockade, Dalestown was a jumble of wooden houses through which muddy streets wound a narrow way. It had its own wells and cisterns, and Ralph had, several years before, caused others to be made so that fire fighters would always have water close at hand. One bit of ancient wisdom which the Doctors told the people was that filth meant plague, so there were public baths andthe Chief paid men to haul away wastes. But with all those who had crowded in since the first threat of war, that system was in danger of breakdown.
As Carl rode down High Street, between the tall, overhanging walls of buildings gaudily painted under splashes of mud, he saw the same confusion of people he had known and loved all his life. Here, a rich merchant passed by, dressed in furs and gold chains, borne in a litter by four half-naked servants. There, a group of children tumbled and rolled in the dust; a mongrel yapped at their play. Yonder came a housewife, her long skirts lifted above the littered street, a baby strapped into a carrying-cradle on her back. A wandering juggler, his lean body clad in fantastically colored rags, a banjo slung next to his ribs, brushed shoulders with a sober-faced young Doctor in the long blue robe of his order, carrying a bag of magical instruments. Circled by the perpetual bustle, a tall, black-skinned trader in clothes of foreign cut, come from the southern tribes to barter his cotton or fruit or tobacco for the furs and leather of the Dales, was talking to a white-bearded old farmer who stood unmoving in his wooden shoes, puffing a long-stemmed pipe. A bulky guard was warning two drunken warriors to behave themselves; a wagonload of fine timber moved slowly toward some carpenter’s shop; and a horse tamer edged his half-broken mount carefully through the swarm.
Open doors, and shingled booths, where the work of the town went on, lined the sides of the street. A smith, muscled and sooty, hammered out a plowshare in the ruddy glow of his fire. Across the way, a fat baker gave two round loaves of coarse black bread, new and warm and fragrant, to a boy. And a weaver had his cloths and rugs spread out for sale, next door to a tailor who sat cross-legged making complete garments. On the corner, a dark and smoky tavern rang with noisy life and beside the tavern, a trader’s store was massed with foreign goods and delicate jewelry for sale. Even now, Dalestown tried to live as it had always done.
But many newcomers filled the streets, leaning from the windows and jamming into the crowd. Refugees, thought Carl, men and women and children from outlying farms who had fled here for safety when news of the invaders came. Some could stay with friends and relatives, some could pay for a bed in one of the few inns—but most had to sleep outside, in tents or under their wagons, ready to flee inside the walls if danger threatened. Their eyes werefilled with fear and a deep, hopeless longing, their voices shrill or else hushed to an unnatural quiet. It was not a good thing to see, and Carl touched the saddlebag where he had the magic light as if groping for comfort.
The boys came out on the open market square in the center of town and forced a slow path
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