Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 1 The Former King

by Adam Corby

  ‘We do need you!’ protested Gundoen.

  ‘You underestimate your own powers, O Chief,’ said the stranger, smiling, ‘and overestimate my own. My fate does not lie on yonder peak, but to the South. Farewell.’

  ‘You I had thought were better than most Southrons,’ the chief said hotly. His voice sounded in Kuln-Holn’s ears as it had in the boat, when the voyagings of those massacred by the Korlas were done. ‘I thought you were almost one of us. But of course a civilized man has little to do with filthy barbarians. He must seek his own kind, among the thieves at Gerso.’

  The chief took off his heavy gloves and threw them down to the earth. ‘But for all that, let us part as friends,’ he said impulsively. He gripped the stranger’s hands, embraced his chest, yet not so hard now as when they had wrestled. ‘You were the only man ever to best me, and I love you for it. I shall not soon forget you, Ara-Karn. I cannot blame you for not wishing to share our fate. Fare you well wherever you may go.’

  Ara-Karn swung himself up onto his pony. ‘Come, Kuln-Holn,’ he ordered.

  The Pious One looked back and forth between the two of them, his chief and his lord. He hardly realized what was happening. His look was dumbfounded.

  ‘Go, Kuln-Holn,’ Gundoen commanded. ‘You were never a warrior; we shall not miss you, at least. You need not come with us.’

  The chief turned his back and gathered his heavy gloves. He went back among the others. He threw himself down by a cook-fire and tore savagely into a bit of dried meat. He did not look back.

  Kuln-Holn turned to Ara-Karn, sitting his pony above him, looking down expectantly. Clearly he wished that Kuln-Holn would only hasten and mount.

  ‘Lord,’ began Kuln-Holn stumblingly. ‘Lord, why do you leave the tribe? These men worship you. Gundoen loves you as he has loved no other. How can you leave them all to die? We must stay – you must lead them to victory over Gen-Karn. Else what can be your mission?’

  Ara-Karn smiled.

  Still smiling, he lifted a green length of branch in his gloved hand and brought it down. It vanished in the darkness. A sudden pain fell cuttingly across Kuln-Holn’s face. The force of the blow knocked him to the ground.

  Above, the master was still smiling. ‘Now,’ he said softly. ‘Will you obey me?’

  Numbly, Kuln-Holn got to his feet. His face burned in the frozen darkness. He touched his cheek, felt the warm sticky liquid on his fingers. He did not wipe the wound clean. Rather he let it bleed freely.

  ‘You swore to be my man,’ said Ara-Karn, ‘to follow me no matter where I led. Am I not a god to you?’

  Kuln-Holn bowed in silence.

  He gathered the leads of the pack-ponies and climbed upon his own. Upon the pack-ponies were five choice bandar-pelts – enough to bring them wealth in the civilized cities. Kuln-Holn did not look at the face of his master. He felt no sadness, no anger, and no fear. He did not know what he felt.

  Ara-Karn touched the flank of his pony with the bloodied branch. He started down the hill, back toward the dusky border. He chose a path that led them around the men of the tribe, where he would not have to face Gundoen or the others whose lives depended upon nun. Kuln-Holn did not blame him in this; he knew that his own sleeps would for some time be haunted by the visions of how these men died in battle upon the golden crown of Urnostardil.

  He followed behind his master, looking down at the ground.

  Slowly, the rim of golden fire that was the peak of Urnostardil fell down into the swallowing darkness. Then the small twinkling torchfires also winked from sight. The two riders followed a slow path in the darkness. The slanting, cold light of the hostile Eye of God fell on their backs, shivering like a blade newly thrown. The hooves of the ponies crunched in the snow. Kuln-Holn shivered and looked back to his master, a darkly moving form ascending a new slope, blotting out the gray-blue sky of the bright horizon. This sight, too, gave Kuln-Holn no comfort.

  He wondered with some fear what lives they would lead in the Southlands and what new people his master would betray.

  XIII

  The Dusky Border

  THE GOLDEN CLIFFS of the Table shone brightly in their eyes as the warriors of Gundoen’s tribe trudged up the narrow winding trails to the summit. So many generations of the tribes had ascended here, along these very trails, that the stone was worn hollow and smooth. There was not room enough for two men to ride abreast, so the warriors ascended singly. And so many were they that the last warriors had only just worked their way into the light when Gundoen and the leading men had gained the summit. There they paused, waiting for all the warriors to form together before they ascended the last short slopes to where the Assembly was held.

  Far, far off in the distance shone the throne of Golden Fire – pale now and a little darker than saffron. From this distance a man might even behold Her a moment unblinking. Her rays were wan and weak, but still they held comfort after the clammy darkness of His world.

  They gathered together and led their ponies up the short slope. Before them stretched the campgrounds of the Assembly – a great field shaped like a slightly hollowed plate, the far side in light but the near side mostly shadow. A man standing on the entrance side might behold his own shadow falling vaguely across the field almost to the far lip of the mountaintop.

  Scattered over the plate were all the camps of the tribes, the short tents pitched in the plains with cook-fires before and ponies behind them. Here and there were piles of snow, cleared away from the rock before the many tents. Many men went to and fro, setting up their tents, selling beer or linens or weapons in their stalls. The tribes who dwelt near the dusky border always made good trade off the things they could bring to Assembly. Here a crowd gathered about an old man telling tales of the shadowed past, here a group followed a chieftain about as he went to the tents of other chiefs seeking support for his tribe’s suits.

  In the center of the great field was a broad shallow pond formed by the frequent rains. Into the pond, through the cracks in the thin skin of ice, several men were dipping their wooden buckets. And beyond the pond, on the far side of the wide plain, stood a tremendous pile of brushwood. There were sticks, branches, and logs there from every forest in the far North.

  Gundoen led his men around the edge of the Table to this pile of wood. As he went he could see the men from the other tribes pointing at him in surprise, as if they had not expected to see him here this year. Many dashed off to the tents of their chiefs to tell them the news; a rare few waved and smiled greetings.

  When Gundoen’s people reached the pile, they unburdened two ponies whose backs were loaded with cut wood from the forests around their home village. These fagots they threw upon the pile. Every tribe brought their own loads of wood from home. By the size of the pile, Gundoen could see that his was the last tribe to arrive. The pile symbolized the unity and common brotherhood of all the tribes. It would be kept burning throughout the Assembly, to make up in light and warmth what Goddess lacked. It was also a symbol of the resolve of those who had made the Last Stand, the founders of the tribes led by Tont-Ornoth and Born-Karn. And again, it was a sacrifice to God for His favor, for He was said to love destruction of all sort and particularly delighted in burning. After the Speaker of the Law had called the roll of the tribes, then it would be the duty and honor of the current Warlord to light the branches and so begin the Assembly.

  Afterward would come the time for any challenges to Gen-Karn’s authority. Yet Gundoen knew that there would be no challenges this year. No champions had yet arisen who could hope to best Gen-Karn, who was still in his prime. Once again he wondered whether it might not be best for him to challenge the Warlord. But he shook his head. Were it only himself, he would take even so slight a chance to slay his enemy. But he had also his people to consider.

  Gundoen swept Urnostardil with his sharp eye, searching for the best place to pitch his tents. These things were neither done at random nor in a traditional pattern. Instead tribes who were friendly camped
next to each other, to guard each other’s tender rumps, as the saying went, so that each year the camping-patterns changed as tribes fell in and out of friendship with one another.

  Now this year on one side of the pond there were many, many tents pitched, many tribes crowded against one another. And in the center of those masses was a single great tent, above which hung the orange banner of Gen-Karn. Banners were rare in the North: Gen-Karn had taken this standard after the fashion of the civilized races of the faraway South, which he had visited in his youth.

  On the other side of the pool there were a few lonely tents pitched, with much space between them. These were the tents of the last few independent tribes who yet withstood Gen-Karn’s absolute rule. And between the two groups were some other tents, belonging to the tribes who did not side with Gen-Karn or against him. Some of these were of the lower tribes, whose men were poor warriors at best; others were waiting to see which way the last winds would blow before making their choice.

  Gundoen looked about. Hanging about the pile of wood were several men from opposite tribes, waiting to hear what he would choose.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘There seems to be little room on the northern side of the Table this year. I can tell it with my eyes closed, whenever the wind blows from the north. Let us camp on the southern side, where we may have the room to stretch out without kicking each other in the groin.’

  The men of his tribe chuckled at his words. The others scurried off toward the tent under the orange banner, doubtless to tell Gen-Karn the news and thereby worm themselves into his favor. Rump lickers all, thought Gundoen contemptuously.

  So they pitched their tents among the independent tribes, who were glad enough to see them. Gundoen had been the greatest of the independent chiefs ever since Gen-Karn had brutally mutilated Elrikal years before. That had been late in the Warlord’s rise to power, and few of all the tribes had forgotten it. It was not indeed for love of him or for wealth that the small tribes had flocked to Gen-Karn, but simply out of fear. If only something would happen to make them believe Gen-Karn’s power and luck were done, Gundoen thought, they would desert him like flies from a kicked dog-turd.

  The other chiefs came to him as soon as he had set up his tents. Gundoen greeted them as they sat cross-legged in their pelt breeks on the soft cured skins he had strewn on the floor of his tent. He had one of his men serve them beer in plain wooden bowls, and he looked them over man by man.

  There were Bur-Knap of the River’s-Bend tribe, a stout fellow who loved food and ale too much but had a sturdy heart for all that; Ring-Sol of the Archeros, a hot-blooded youth who hated Gen-Karn because the Warlord had taken his prettiest concubine in a raid over a year before; Ven-Vin-Van of the Borsos, whose good green eyes twinkled in the dimness. Also had come Nam-Rog, the chief second in importance here only to Gundoen, and Gundoen’s firmest friend among the other chiefs. Behind them sat Kepa-Trim of the Karghil tribe, who did not object very much to Gen-Karn or his rule, but opposed him because the Buzrahs had been among the first to support Gen-Karn. Between Buzrah and Karghil there had been bitter hatred since the beginning of time. And beside Kepa-Trim sat Ren-Tionan, who led the remnants of Elrikal’s once-mighty tribe and who would have cut out his own liver with a rusty knife, if he could only have bought Gen-Karn’s death thereby.

  According to custom, they did not at first speak of what had brought them all together. First they sipped at their ale and discussed the health of the women left at home, and how harsh they guessed the winter would be this year, and how many babes would die of the cold. And finally they complimented Gundoen on his victory over the wretched Korlas, Ring-Sol voicing the wish that a similar fate might shortly overtake Gen-Karn.

  Then they came at last to the politics of the Assembly.

  The more important of the cases were discussed, with guesses at the probable voting. Each tribe would receive one vote, and then additional votes depending on how many warriors the tribe boasted.

  And upon every case where the verdict was not clear-cut one way or the other, the voting seemed to stand one party against the other: Gen-Karn and his tribes voting one way, Gundoen and the independents voting the other. Among these cases was the suit by the surviving Korlas. And in every case, as things stood now, Gen-Karn’s men would gain the victory.

  ‘Things are foul indeed,’ said Nam-Rog, shaking his bristling gray beard. ‘If only you had come sooner, Gundoen, some of the smaller tribes would not have sided with Gen-Karn. As it was, there was talk you might never arrive. It is an open secret that Gen-Karn set ambushing war-parties along the major paths to your village.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ grunted Gundoen. ‘That’s why I went down along the Spine, avoiding the most-used trails. The journey took me longer than I had thought. Still, I am here on time, am I not?’

  ‘Too late, too late,’ moaned Ven-Vin-Van, closing his green eyes. ‘The small tribes have already chosen. They have despaired; now our cause is lost.’

  ‘It is not so bad as that, my friend,’ chuckled Nam-Rog. ‘There are still several neutral tribes who could come over to us. And I have been in contact with several chiefs who are now camped on the northern side. Now that you have come, Gundoen, they may still join us. All they await is a sign.’

  ‘Yes, a sign!’ exclaimed Ring-Sol. ‘We looked for him among your party, but saw only familiar faces. But among so many, who can pick out a one? You have brought enough warriors for a war, chief Gundoen – and well will we need them. Yet most of all we need the one. Where is he?’

  ‘Yes, where?’ demanded Ren-Tionan.

  ‘Yes, Gundoen,’ added Nam-Rog. ‘Old friend, I expected you to display him by your side, as crafty as you can be. Where is Ara-Karn?’

  ‘Ara-Karn!’ demanded all the others. ‘Where is he? His fame has spread before him. Show us this man they speak of as if he were half a god!’

  Gundoen bowed his massive head for a moment.

  ‘His fame was spread by me,’ he said softly. ‘I had hoped his legend would give Gen-Karn pause. Yet now he is gone. Before we came to Urnostardil, he left us and traveled back toward Gerso.’

  ‘Foolish man!’ cried Ren-Tionan in anguish. ‘We needed him!’

  ‘Tionan, hold your tongue,’ Gundoen ordered, looking at him sternly. ‘Could I stop him from going, him who was as dear to me as my own son might have been? He would go; I could not but let him.’

  He looked around at their crestfallen faces and saw that the only hope that had held them together was now departed. They are defeated already, he thought. Gen-Karn will have his victory.

  ‘Still he has left us something,’ he said with cheer in his voice. ‘Something of which not one of you has heard. The fame of this thing I would not spread. It will be the key to the door of our success, as the Southrons say. He gave it to us and showed us many of its uses – though still I do not know all of its uses in warfare. Yet this thing, and only this thing, gave my tribe our great victory over the Korlas.’

  He set down his bowl and reached behind him. From his opened pack he drew it forth.

  ‘Behold before you, fellow-chiefs, the weapon called the bow.’

  Carefully he laid it before them. Black it was and doubly curved – the great bow none but Gundoen’s strong arms could bend. They touched it gingerly, questioningly. They handed it between themselves. They turned it this way and that, frowning, chattering among themselves.

  ‘Is it magic?’ they asked. And: ‘It looks like something for music. Yet it has but one string.’ And: ‘Surely you are jesting, Gundoen. Where is the rest of it?’

  Gundoen smiled. ‘The melody this plays brings death. Try to draw back the string.’

  They tried – hesitantly at first, then with determination. None could draw it back more than a finger’s length.

  ‘It was made too powerful for your arms,’ he explained. ‘Yet they can be fashioned in any strength by him who knows their secrets. Only a fist of men in my tribe know those secre
ts yet: he himself taught them. With only one of these, and one death-bird’ – and he showed them a long black arrow – ‘a man can bring a fully grown bull bandar to the earth.’

  They looked their disbelief.

  He laughed. ‘Very well, then – follow and behold the proof.’

  They went out of the tent to the rear, out of sight of the orange banner. There Gundoen had a heavy sack of meal placed on end upon a rock, covered with a leathern breastplate. A hundred paces away he stood and drew the shaft swiftly to his ear. A hum sounded; down the field the sack fell into the snow with a crunch.

  Meal was pouring from it like blood from a dying man.

  Gundoen grinned at their amazement. They flocked down to the sack, examining the protruding arrow. Gundoen brandished the bow before them. ‘For every man of mine there is a bow; for every bow two score arrows. And every arrow has the death of one of our foes upon its sharp tongue. You said I brought many men, Ring-Sol. But you did not know how many men.’ He laughed at their consternation, a confidence he did not truly feel in the center of his laughter. ‘For every hundred of my men, two score hundred of my enemies will surely die. Now let the tale of that circulate about the camps, Nam-Rog, and see how many of the tribes remain with Gen-Karn!’

  And it was even as Gundoen had foretold. Like rainwater on slick rock, the tale of this magic spread over the Table. The tents of the tribes buzzed with it; with every telling the weapon became more deadly and fantastic. Other chiefs came to Gundoen – neutral chiefs as well as chiefs who had pitched on the northern side. And to all of them he showed the bow, though he did not again demonstrate it.

  ‘Gundoen does not lie,’ he said simply. ‘As for proofs, I do not wish to waste another sack of hard-packed grain. One of you stand forth, then, and I will show the others how this works upon a man.’ They wondered and shook their heads doubtfully. But not a one of them would volunteer.