Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 1 The Former King

by Adam Corby

  Soon many tents were pulled down on the northern side and repitched on the southern. And when the tallies were told again, though Gen-Karn still had the edge, it was by not nearly so large a margin.

  And Gundoen sat alone in the dimness of his tent. Wherever he may be, he thought, Ara-Karn must have known it would be thus. And he was right again. He listened for a while to the sounds of tent pegs being pounded into the rock without and smiled sadly.

  A warrior stuck his head into the tent.

  ‘Chief Gundoen,’ he said excitedly, ‘there is a man come to see you from the Orn tribe claiming to be a messenger from Gen-Karn. He says to tell you that the Warlord would meet with you in the privacy of some neutral place to talk about the suits.’

  * * *

  The ancient and most respected Bar-East had been born of the Vorisal tribe. But that had been many years ago, and since then Bar-East had spent most of his winters among other tribes. He was by nature a wandering man, and it was said that he had traveled to lands so far North that the ground was covered with snow and ice even during the summer’s heat. Not even the burden of his many years could give a pause to his restless feet; he traveled and traveled regardless. All tribes knew him; all men respected him for his wisdom. These were the reasons he had been chosen the Speaker of the Law, many years ago. Bar-East had no prejudices and would prefer no one tribe to another. So was it unsurprising that it was the tent of Bar-East that was finally chosen to be the meeting place of Gundoen and Gen-Karn.

  The tent of Bar-East stood in the center of the Table, between the pond and the pile of wood. There were no other tents nearby. It was a simple tent, aged and much weathered but still of good use, like the man who lived within. It was a tent made for traveling. This tent had seen more sights of the far North, from the Sea of Goddess to the Darklands, from the Spine of Civilization to the lonely desolated lands, than most of the men who lived in those lands.

  And now the tent looked down upon two groups of warriors, clad in leather, mail, and plate, helmets gleaming, fists never far from their weapons. These men eyed each other sharply, suspiciously. The men of Gundoen’s tribe stood upon the darkling side, and the Orns upon the light.

  Within, Bar-East served beer to the two chieftains in plain wooden bowls without designs.

  Bar-East kneeled above them, the crags of his ancient, weather-beaten face looking darkly down. He spoke few words and took no part in the negotiations. Yet his eyes were bright with wisdom.

  Below him sat the chiefs, legs crossed on luxuriant bandar-skins, drinking their beer slowly, each trying to gain in words a good hold upon the other.

  Gen-Karn was a giant of a man. Standing by Gundoen he would have towered above; yet since most of his height was in his legs, sitting he was only a little taller. His face was dark and darkly handsome; black ringlets of glossy hair hung about the long rectangular face. The great black beard was spread over the chest plate like a kerchief. The eyes of Gen-Karn were dark, like raisins dried in the sun; the nose of Gen-Karn was a great hook, with full and flaring nostrils. The lips of him were thick and sensual, curling around the rim of his bowl with relish. Many were the women who had succumbed to the charms of that dark beauty – to their later regret, if any of the tales Gundoen had heard were true.

  Gen-Karn was dressed in full, beautifully made armor from the metalworkers of the Southlands. He had gained this armor – or so the story went – when he had slain a great noble of one of the civilized lands in single combat. That had been during Gen-Karn’s wanderings as a youth through the South. There, many had been his adventures; and he had learned the tongue of the Southrons, and how to set words down as symbols upon hides – his proudest feat and one he had taught to his highest men.

  ‘Ah, there is such wealth there,’ Gen-Karn said, holding the large ale bowl in one bronzed and calloused hand, ‘as you could never dream. More of gold and silver and rubies and other gems than could ever be held within your imaginings, or mine, or of all the men in the tribes put together. And their greatest treasure, Gundoen, is land. Their land is not rocky and hard, giving over its fruits only with reluctance, as is the land of our North. No, their land is soft and yielding like a woman’s full breast; and the milk of that breast spurts forth almost before you put your teeth to it. There are lands there where the people do not even need to plow the earth – they merely cast their seeds about and return in a month’s time to see the land blossoming and pluck its fruit. The winters there are so tame and mild that the snow rarely mounts up – not even in the shadows of great hills. And those winters are so short that they have as many as three separate planting-seasons in a single year! I tell you, life in those lowlands would be a garden evergreen compared with what we poor fools are forced to accept here.’

  Gundoen grunted. Would the man never get down to business? He had heard other tales of the softness of life beyond the barrier of the Spine, and these new ones did not impress him much. ‘If life is so nice there, why did you return?’ he asked rather sourly.

  Gen-Karn slammed his bowl down savagely. In the background Bar-East calmly refilled it with the syrupy brown ale.

  ‘Because I did not belong there,’ growled the black-haired man. ‘Because I was an outcast, looked down upon and despised. Because I was nothing but a barbarian worth less than even a good slave to them. My beard was not so neatly combed, nor set with ribands, as those of the delicate lords. And my hair was not perfumed, and I did not go arunning to the baths every time my flesh became sweatful. Their women laughed at me behind their flimsy veils and put their painted fans before their eyes whenever I would look upon them with the hot lust they inspired in me – as they would, and did, inspire it in every man, being no better than harlots in their hearts. Even the highest of them are naught but whores. And yet, for all that, such is the beauty of their forms, and such the sweet passion in their loins for the man who knows how to pluck it forth, that they make our Northern women look like beasts of the earth, fit only for burden and toiling in the fields.’

  ‘I have heard of Southron women too,’ Gundoen growled.

  ‘But you have not seen them,’ insisted Gen-Karn. So absorbed was he in these private imaginings that he grew not angry at anything Gundoen said. Gundoen sighed.

  ‘Nor have you felt the unthinkable softness of their thighs,’ Gen-Karn went on. ‘Even their lowliest whores are a loveliness upon the earth. Think, then, what it would be like to possess a queen of them!’ He sighed, drinking down ale thirstily. ‘Yet such is not for us, because we are only barbarians. They think of us as less than human, because of what their Elna did to our ancestors. And we deserve to be treated as such, so long as we take it without fighting.

  ‘And Gundoen, as much as their women are softer than ours, so are their men softer than we. Why, save for a few sea dogs and brigands who would not fight anyway, if a Southron were put in a bed in your dim place, and you cuddled up to him, he’d feel like any woman to you. They do not work, they do not hunt, they do not fight. They are all soft and fleshy as the fatted lamb. They are not even ashamed of this, but if a man takes to manly things they ridicule him! Slaves do all their tasks – and slaves do not know how to fight. And these are the greatnesses who dare to look down their pale long noses at us!’

  With great gulpings, Gen-Karn finished the beer in his bowl and poured the dregs upon the ground. He set it forth for Bar-East to refill again and drank once more. With a harsh belch of satisfaction, he wiped his mouth and began again:

  ‘Gundoen, we have had our quarrels here, our bickering and troubles. Strong men and great will have such. But do not these fall away to shadow compared with the hatred we should bear toward those of the South? Listen, Gundoen, and hear of what I learned during my wanderings. Much of it you know, but some is only shadow to those of us in the North. And yet, there they even dare to boast of it!

  ‘Long, long ago there were no tribes or men in the far North. This land of ours was empty and wild, a place where none but spirits and gods
might dwell. And those ancestors of ours did not shiver in snow and ice here. Instead they rode as conquerors throughout all the lands of the South. They went wherever they wished; whatever they desired they took. They lived off the fat of the land and drank sweet heady wine, which is far better than this brown ale we swill. And they each of them had as many women as the tree does leaves in early summertime. The land quavered at the tread of their ponies and grew dark beneath their long shadows.

  ‘And then they grew careless, or soft, or luckless – why they lost their hardness no man can tell. But the civilized lands they ravaged banded together, under the leadership of a single man – one warrior with a vision even as mine.’

  ‘Great Elna,’ said Gundoen.

  ‘Yes! Elna! And he broke our ancestors in a battle whose blood was like the water of a sea, and he scattered them before him. He chased the last few survivors, a pitiful ragged band of a few score men and women not worth bothering over. But he bothered, because Elna had sworn terrible oaths to dark God, oaths that could never be broken or gone back on, to destroy our ancestors utterly or forever lose the war, no matter how long it took for its eventual end.

  ‘He chased them over leagues of the earth, ever northward, until at last the backs of our ancestors came up against the mountains of the Spine. They went through the Pass at Gerso, which up until that time no man had ever dared cross save only a few madmen, and those had never returned. For it was said that the Spirit ate their brains until they went berserk with lust for blood and slew all, including themselves. Yet even there Elna followed.

  ‘Our ancestors were mighty men, giants of the earth, but they were broken, wearied, and few against many. They could not win. Had they been less, they would have surrendered themselves, as many of the others had, to be sold as slaves for Elna’s people. Yet our ancestors – Born-Karn, Tont-Ornoth, Allik-Ran-Fay, and all the others – did not give up. They retreated, battling every step of the way, until they came to the dusky border. Then they broke once again, and fled into the depths of the Darklands. And even there did Elna follow them. He chased them here, to the Table, and here the Last Stand took place.’

  ‘The Last Stand,’ breathed old Bar-East reverently. ‘Tell us of the Last Stand.’

  Gen-Karn swallowed a big mouthful of ale.

  ‘They ascended here onto the crown of Urnostardil and put their backs against the darkness. Elna’s great horde had to camp below in darkness, ever guarding against the serpentine Darkbeasts. Yet there they camped, besieging the Table. Long was that siege – months it lasted, and yet more months. Ever would the Southrons come up the trail, which was the sole means of gaining the summit; and ever would our ancestors beat them back.

  ‘Oh, but those must have been glorious battles! These hills have not seen their like since. Our women battled like strong warriors, our men like madmen. And the Southrons never took Urnostardil. Our ancestors drank the rainwater of that pond without; they trapped the birds that land here; and they ate their ponies, one by one. And even so our waists grew leaner and our children wailed for more food. The Southrons, for all that they must camp in darkness, still could send men to cut wood for fires and to hunt the many beasts for food. Almost as many of our people died of hunger as were slain by the foe.

  ‘And still, still, we stayed and fought. And in the end of all ends, Elna was forced to break camp and travel out of the North, giving over his strong heart’s desire to slay the last of us, though he broke his terrible oaths thereby. Even in the shadow of their defeat, our ancestors had triumphed over Elna – cursed Elna!

  ‘They sent out their scouts, one by one, and each report was the same. The Southrons were gone. Elna was behind Gerso. They came down off Urnostardil and built new homes in the wilderness. But they did not soon forget the glory that had once been theirs. Nor did they lose the lust for vengeance, to return some pass to the South and overthrow Elna’s empire and give Elna’s body to the dogs.

  ‘Yet they were too few. So they waited, holding patience firmly between their hands. They knew that sometime all would be theirs again. And that they might never forget, and that they would not fall out amongst themselves and slay each other rather than the enemy, they agreed to the Assembly. Once every year when the harvests were done, they agreed to meet here and settle all their disputes peacefully until the time came when they might be strong enough to break out of this prison and ride in red glory through the green lands of the South.

  ‘O Gundoen, that time has come. We are great enough, many and strong enough – and the Southrons are like women! When they laughed at me and held their painted fans before their eyes and soft breasts – when the nobles cursed me and had me whipped like a slave’s dog – then I swore I would return and king it over them. That is why I came back here. That is why I became chieftain at Orn. That is why I have become Warlord. And that is why I have reorganized the tribes below me. We can fight; we can win. Under my rule, we will win. O Gundoen, is this not more important than our petty differences? What are the Korlas to you, or to me either? It is the South we should burn with lust for! Yet she can never be ours while we bicker among ourselves.

  ‘Gundoen, you are a powerful leader. I am a powerful king. I had resolved to crush you – this I admit freely. Yet such may not be without a war that, though I would surely win it, would only destroy the very warriors I shall need. Apart, we stand like the Darklands and the Desert, holding no life in either of us. Together we would hold all the realms of men between us. I offer you not service under me, but an equal footing. I am sick of waiting. My gray hairs sprout, and the women of the South beckon. Have you ever heard of the Empress Allissál, whose golden hair is spoken of with rapture by all the Southrons? – And she is the direct descendant of Elna himself! Let us agree, then, to join. Come springtime we could be knocking on Gerso’s door – and in ten years’ time, who knows – we could be kings of all the world! What say you, Gundoen? – shall you choose wisdom and wealth or foolishness and death?’

  Gundoen did not answer for several moments.

  He had listened to the words, enraptured by their power. Gen-Karn could be persuasive – there was no denying that. The visions of the flight before Elna and the glories that had preceded it swam dizzyingly before his eyes. The thought that they might conquer some rich land of the South was as tantalizing as the horizon of the Goddess – and as blinding.

  ‘What you have said,’ he murmured at last, ‘is a new thing to me. In truth, I had not dreamed of it before. Equal standing, did you say? It is worth considering, truly. Yet, Gen-Karn, I am not the absolute ruler you are. My warriors and friend-chiefs must be consulted in this. Were it up to me, I would give you a firm answer now. Yet first, before I speak, I must discuss these things with them.’

  ‘Why, that is all I ask,’ said Gen-Karn, rising to his feet and gathering his cloak about him. His black curls swept against the roof of Bar-East’s humble tent. ‘Speak to them by all means. I have no fear or doubt of what they will desire. And do not forget to mention the cold gold and the warm breasts of Southron women.’

  Gundoen nodded, and rose also. He thanked Bar-East for the hospitality of his tent. After Gen-Karn had gone, he asked the old wanderer what he thought of the plan.

  Bar-East shook his craglike head. ‘There is no doubt of the charm of our Warlord’s words,’ he said. ‘Vengeance on those who wronged us, lovely women and wealth besides? Such would tempt even a holy man. I too have wandered in the South, though not so far as Gen-Karn. Those men are soft indeed, and their wealth is as great as he says. Yet I will not take sides and counsel you to join him. He is a strong man, our Warlord, who little likes to be denied in anything. And this is a dream he has long cherished.

  ‘Only this will I say to you, Gundoen of the broad chest – that he who spills enough blood will one pass surely choke upon it.’

  Gundoen bowed and left the tent. His men formed about him, asking him questions, but he returned to his tents in silence. And there in silence he sat upon the pel
ts in the dimness, pondering, allowing none to enter or speak with him. And he thought long and deeply on those things that Gen-Karn had said. He thought so much, he wrinkled his brow on it.

  One thought only returned to him, and that was of Ara-Karn. Where was he now? Had he come to the trails that lead to Gerso yet? Gundoen wished that the stranger might sit now before him and counsel him. Already he missed the man’s wisdom. If he were here now, what might he say?

  The chief envisioned the stranger’s face, and in that image his decision came to him. He sent word to summon his warriors and the other chiefs allied with him.

  While he waited he poured out some warm ale into his bowl, and in the darkness he drank a bowl to the spirit of Ara-Karn. Through the opening in the tent-wall he could see the snow falling, fragile and lovely as the curling fingers of a newborn babe.

  And he thought, He was right to leave us. He is not of our blood, and these quarrels are not his. Why then should he wish to die with us?

  XIV

  The Darkbeast Head

  THE FLAPS of his tent drawn up so that he could look out at all of them, Gundoen addressed his men. These were the warriors and the fellow-chiefs who were all dependent upon him; these were the men whose lives were in his hands. And these were the men he had condemned by his own decision to die.

  Yet he would not doom them unknowingly. To them all he gave the choice, telling them what Gen-Karn had told him, though in words of his own choosing. And when he spoke to them of the flight before Elna and the Last Stand, he could see that their eyes shone as brightly as his own must have done. Their teeth flashed at the thought of vengeance upon those who had done their ancestors wrong. They yearned for the masses of gold, lusted for the soft loins of Southron women, and longed to be free of their hard, rocky lives in the frozen North. And finally they burned with resentment, thinking of the only Southrons most of them had ever known, the thief-merchants from Gerso – soft, pampered men with the smell of women.