Free Vault of the Ages by Poul Anderson

across its packed width. The Hall loomed on the farther side, a great building of dark oak with painted gables and the heads of animals carved along the eaves and ridgepole. Here was the place of meeting for the tribe. On its right was the smaller house of the Chief, squarely and solidly built of wood and stone, the banner of the Dales—a green fir tree on a background of gold—floating above it. Toward this Carl directed his horse.
    An old servant stood on the porch, looking unhappily over the restless throng. When he saw Carl, he shouted. “Master Carl! Oh, Master Carl, you’re back! Thank the gods, you’re back!”
    “You never doubted it, did you, Rob?” smiled Carl, touched at the welcome. He swung stiffly to the ground, and the old man patted his shoulder with a thin, blue-veined hand.
    “Oh, but it’s been so long, Master Carl—”
    “Only a few days. Is my father inside?”
    “Yes, he’s talking with the High Doctor. Go right in, Master Carl, go in and make him glad. I’ll take your horse.”
    “And my friends’ horses too, please.” Carl frowned. He wasn’t overly happy at having to confront Donn before he had talked with his father. The High Doctor meant well, and was kindly enough when no one crossed him, but he was overbearing and tightly bound by the ancient laws.
    Well, it would have to be faced sometime. “Come on, boys,” said Carl, mounting the steps.
    “Maybe we should wait,” hedged Tom.
    “Nonsense. You’re the guests of the house, as your folks’ll be when they arrive. Follow me.”
    Carl entered a hallway paneled in wood and carpeted with skins. Light from the windows was getting dim, and candles burned in their brackets on the wall. It was a large, well-furnished house, but there were grander places in town. The Chief’s power did not lie in trade goods.
    A small thunderbolt came shouting down the stairs and threw itself into Carl’s arms, squealing and shouting. “Hello, brat,” saidthe boy gruffly. “Get down—the Lann don’t do as much damage as you.”
    It was his young sister Betty, five years old, who clung to him and stared with wide eyes. There were only these two left—Ralph’s other children, and then his wife, had died, of some disease which the ancients could have cured but which was too strong for the drums and prayers and herbs of the Doctors, and the Chief had not married again. The three were a happy family, but there were dark memories among them.
    “What’s ’at?” Betty pointed to the flashlight, wrapped in a piece from his tattered cloak, that Carl bore in one hand.
    “Magic, brat, magic. Now where’s Daddy?”
    “In ’a living room. Can I come?”
    “Well—” Carl hesitated. It might not be wise for a child to know of this and prattle the news all over town. If the Lann were as smart as he thought, they had a few spies mingled with the refugees. “Not just now. This is man-talk. Later, huh?”
    Betty made fewer objections than he had thought—she was growing up enough to learn that men ruled the tribes, under the law if not always in fact—and he sent her trotting back up the stairs. Then he led Tom and Owl down the hall to the living-room door. He opened it softly and looked in.
    The room was long and low, furnished with a dark richness of carved wood and thick skins and the trophies of war and hunt. Light from many candles and the broad stone fireplace filled the farther end with radiance and shadows, glimmering off shields and swords hung above the mantel, off wrought brass candlesticks and silver plates. Windows between heavy draperies showed the last gleam of day.
    Ralph stood before the hearth. He was a tall and powerful man of thirty-seven, his eyes blue in a grave bronzed face, his hair and close-cropped beard the color of gold. His dress was, as usual, simple: plain shirt and breeches of linen, a green wool cloak swinging from broad shoulders, a dagger at his tooled leather belt. His big hands were calloused with labor, for he