Free Vault of the Ages by Poul Anderson Page A

worked his own farm outside the walls, but his look was calm and strong, and Carl’s heart quickened at the sight of him.
    Old Donn sat in a chair by the hearth, blue robe drawn tight around his gaunt frame. Like the other Doctors, he was clean-shaven, and only a thin, white halo of hair fringed his high skull.With his hooked nose and sunken cheeks and smoldering, steady eyes, he resembled an aged eagle. One bony hand rested on the serpent-wreathed wand of his authority where it was laid across his knees; he rested his chin in his other, as he looked across at the third man.
    This was a stranger, a lean young warrior of about twenty, weaponless and clad in garments obviously borrowed from Ralph. His hair was raven black, and a dark mustache crossed his sharp face. He was seated at ease, legs crossed, a hard and hostile smile on his mouth.
    “It makes no difference,” he was saying. “Whether you hold me or not, Raymon will come. He has other sons—”
    “Carl!” Ralph saw the boy and took a long stride forward across the tiger-skin, his arms opening and sudden gladness lighting in his face. “Carl—you’re back!”
    They shook hands, father and son, and Ralph checked himself, putting on the mask of coolness expected from a man. Perhaps only Carl saw the candlelight glisten off a tear. It must have been cruel to hear that the enemy had been in the very region where he had sent his only son, the only hope of his race.
    “Yes—Father.” The boy cleared his throat, trying to get the thickness out of his voice. “Yes—I’m back, well and sound. And these are my friends, Tom and Owl—Jim, sons of John in the north—”
    “Be welcome, friends of Carl and friends of mine,” said Ralph gravely. He lifted his voice in a yell for a servant. “Margo, Margo, you human turtle, bring food and drink! Carl is back!”
    Donn looked keenly at the boys. “And how did the trip to the City go?” he murmured.
    “Both well and ill, sir,” answered Carl uneasily. “But, Father—who is this?”
    Ralph smiled with pride. “Carl, meet Lenard—eldest son of Raymon, Chief of the Lann!”
    “What?” Tom’s hand dropped unthinking to his knife.
    “Aye, aye. There have been skirmishes in the north between our scouting parties and vanguard Lann troops.” Ralph paced back to the hearth. “The other day our men brought back some prisoners taken in one of those fights, and among them was Lenard here. A valuable captive!”
    Lenard grinned. “I was just explaining that my hostage value issmall,” he said in the harsh accents of the north. “We believe that the souls of dead warriors are reunited in Sky-Home, so—as long as my father has other brave sons—he will not betray our people to get me back.” He waved a sinewy hand. “But I must say my host Ralph has treated me well.”
    “He gave oaths not to try to escape before battle is joined, and my guards wouldn’t let him get out of the house in any event,” said Ralph. “I still think we can use him…or at least learn from him.” His eyes held a brief, desperate appeal. “And if we treat our captives well, the Lann should do likewise—if they have honor.”
    “We have honor,” said Lenard stiffly, “though it may not always be the same as yours.”
    Carl folded his legs under him and sat down on the rug. He could not help a certain uneasiness at having Lenard so close. Lenard, the heir to the mastery over that savage horde which had chased him down the ways of night and laid the northern marches in ruin.
    “But what of your journey, Carl?” persisted Donn. “What did the witch-folk say?”
    Carl glanced at Lenard. The prisoner sat quietly leaning back, half in shadow, not even seeming to listen. And neither Ralph nor Donn seemed to care what he might learn.
    Slowly, Carl told the story of his trip. There was stillness as he talked, under the thin dry crackle of flames. Once Donn stiffened and leaned forward, once Ralph whispered an oath and clenched his