by Adam Corby
Gen-Karn laughed scornfully. For the first time since he had seen Gundoen unexpectedly arriving upon the peak, he felt himself in control of the situation. His great dream of vengeance was at hand. The other chiefs were shaking their heads doubtfully at Gundoen’s words. They looked from Gen-Karn to Gundoen to Ara-Karn in silence and back again. But those around him looked only on the stranger, with wonder and awe in their glances. They exchanged questioning glances among themselves. Was this truly the man who had come naked from the sea, the one about whom there were already such extravagant legends? The way he held his head, proud as the highest of chiefs, the way his light hands casually gripped the strange weapon fascinated the tribesmen. Surely he alone could not have brought death to a monstrous Darkbeast! Yet there were the head before them and the flies still buzzing on the wet blood.
‘Know you all that before we left our village,’ Gundoen exclaimed, ‘we conducted the ceremony to bring this man into our tribe. I have adopted him as my own son.’
‘It makes no difference,’ said Gen-Karn. Now the heads turned back to him. ‘Still he has no right to challenge me. And still he has broken our law.’
Ara-Karn and Kuln-Holn had now come to where the men of Gundoen’s tribe were massed. Gundoen greeted him with joy on his broad face. ‘I thank the gods that you have come back to us. Yet still we will be lucky to emerge with whole skins from this.’ Ara-Karn nodded.
Among the warriors there were many murmurings. Many took Gundoen’s position, and as many sided with Gen-Karn. But by far the most of them only shook their heads. ‘It is not for us to decide,’ they said. ‘Let the Speaker of the Law determine it.’
Bar-East shook his head. ‘There are difficulties. Such a case has never come before me. It is a matter that should rightly only be decided by the entire Assembly.’
‘I ask you, where are the difficulties?’ asked Gundoen. ‘The man is of the tribes and he has done a great deed. What man of you could hunt a Darkbeast? He has challenged Gen-Karn. And if the chief of the Orn tribe fears this man, then he should be our Warlord no longer.’
Gen-Karn only sneered. ‘No, Gundoen, I am not so foolish as to fall for such a trick. Yet, to set any of your minds to rest, I will agree to fight this man, if Gundoen will agree to one condition.’
‘What condition?’
‘That if this man falls before me, as he will, you will swear allegiance to me and be utterly obedient to my will.’
‘Do not agree,’ urged Nam-Rog. ‘Look at Gen-Karn! His arms are longer and more powerful than your friend’s. This is a foolish thing, Gundoen.’
But Gundoen looked at the strange green fires in the eyes of Ara-Karn. He remembered when he had last seen them thus – in the square of his village when they had met to wrestle. Despite himself, he felt himself falling under the godlike power, the spell of inhuman calm of Ara-Karn.
‘It is agreed,’ he said, not looking at Gen-Karn.
‘You will swear your tribe’s fealty?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will obey me, no matter what I demand of you?’
Gundoen looked back at Gen-Karn. He saw the evil in those eyes that were as dark as dull black pebbles. He would never while he lived forget the insult Gundoen had given him. If Ara-Karn lost this battle, Gundoen would suffer things far worse than falling in combat.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I agree to it all. If you win.’
Gen-Karn laughed. ‘Do not worry, little chieftain, I will win!’
‘Then let the duel be fought,’ cried Bar-East.
The Speaker of the Law brought down his oaken staff with all the finality of death.
* * *
‘Beware his shield-arm, my son,’ warned Gundoen in low tones, as they prepared Ara-Karn for the combat. ‘I have seen Gen-Karn fight in past Assemblies. He plays tricks with his shield-arm to distract his opponents, and once I saw him throw his shield at a man’s legs in order to trip him up.’
Above him, Ara-Karn stood as if he did not hear. He was looking across the area that had been cleared of snow and ice to where Gen-Karn stood with his attendants, arming himself. The strange eyes of Ara-Karn were like the black pits in the wild firelights of the blazing pyre. His naked chest rose and fell with a rhythmic, hypnotic regularity. To Gundoen he seemed almost like a living statue, still yet alive with potential motion and menace.
Truly, I know not, thought the chief. He has bravery and shows no fear, but it is still madness – he has not half Gen-Karn’s size or weight. Does he have some device in mind, some special trickery to rely on? Or does he know in the depths of his unreadable heart that he is about to die?
‘Gundoen,’ Ara-Karn breathed, and the chief was startled at the metallic power in that flat whisper. ‘Gundoen, in the heat of battle, all eyes will be upon us who fight. Choose thirty of the best bowmen and position them while all else concentrate on the battle. You will know what to do then, and when to do it.’
He knows then, decided the chief. He knows he is about to die. Aloud he said, ‘Ara-Karn, my son … you know that this is unnecessary. You are not truly of the tribes. It will be no dishonor to you to withdraw even now.’
The living statue did not turn its head. Slowly, with a liquidly metallic motion, it stepped forward, advancing into the center of the broad clearing as if it had not heard the chief’s words. Gundoen followed behind, his broad shoulders low, resignation on his face.
Gen-Karn and Ara-Karn met together in the center of the clearing. They wore not sandals, tunics, mail or helms – just rags knotted about their loins and cord fillets to bind back their hair. This was an ancient ritual, not to be altered with the passing of years: as the tribal contenders had battled centuries before, so too would these two contest each other’s strengths. The firelight played over their naked bodies, the long heavy swords, the small round iron shields. Between them stood old Bar-East, the Speaker of the Law, his long smooth staff in hand. Behind Ara-Karn stood Gundoen and Nam-Rog as his seconds. Sol-Dat, Gen-Karn’s chief man of the Orn tribe, and Estar Aln, the last chief of the Korlas, were behind Gen-Karn.
Gundoen looked across to them and saw how Sol-Dat was puffed with boast-ready pride and how Estar Aln’s yellowed teeth gleamed in an ugly grin. If he should win, thought Gundoen – if Ara-Karn could only win – O how these swell-bellies would be deflated! O, what a sight that would be! He muttered a prayer in his heart to God that it should be so, though he knew in his head that his adoptive son stood no chance.
Bar-East raised his long bony hands, in one of which was held the oaken staff, and the murmuring crowd fell into a hushed, expectant silence. And Bar-East began to speak in a piercing, high-pitched voice, the ancient words of ritual:
‘Let all know that there will be a battle shortly to test the fitness of our chief and decide if perhaps another be more worthy to lead us. There will be no replacements of weapons, no rests, and no quarter. Who loses this combat will die; the other will be Warlord of all the tribes of the North!’
The crowd gave a raucous roar of approval. Gundoen looked about at the assembled warriors, men stark in black-and-red relief in the firelight. Beers were in abundance and bets were being bickered heatedly. They enjoy the excitement, thought Gundoen – even the tribes who have the most to lose when Ara-Karn is slain. He suddenly realized the lucklessness of his words and spat over his shoulder to appease it.
He returned with Nam-Rog to their places at the frosty edge of the arena. Heavily he squatted down on the thick mats and took a bowl of beer in his massive horned hand. He signaled to Esra, the best man with a bow outside of himself and Ara-Karn. He spoke to him in low tones, gesturing to various positions about the crowd. ‘Take thirty of the best,’ he told him. ‘More would attract suspicion… When I give you the signal, you will know what to do?’
The young man’s eyes glittered his answer. Curtly he nodded and moved off among the tribesmen.
From the arena came the high-pitched tones of the Speaker of the Law. ‘Lords, you know the rules,’
he called to the two armed men. He began to walk to the edge of the cleared area. ‘Now begin!’ he shouted suddenly.
The crowds quieted immediately. All heads were turned now to the two men in the center, who slowly began to circle each other, shields and longswords held in readiness. The great fire roared, and the melting snow around it hissed softly.
They feinted probingly at each other, testing guards and deceits, each learning how the other moved. Their swords touched each other, slipped, and licked at the small round shields flashing in the firelight. These were tentative blows of little consequence. The roar of the flames of the great pyre drowned them out completely. The two men fought as if under water, slowly, delicately, and silently. In the warmth of the great fire, and with the dark beer filling his belly, Gundoen felt suddenly drowsy and bemused. The battle seemed unreal. The others felt it also; all bets had ceased, all voices stilled. There was only the dance of the fire and the stalking of two silent men. The great bulk of Gen-Karn made Ara-Karn look like a child, an untried youth whose beard was still downy soft.
Gundoen shook his broad head angrily. This was no dream, he growled to himself. He looked around the Table, checking to see that all the bowmen were in position. He slipped his bow in closer to his thigh, ready to be strung in moments. With his other hand he felt for his arrows. If Ara-Karn should fall, Gen-Karn will be the first to die, he thought. And by my own hand.
Suddenly the Warlord rushed in, yelling horribly, waking all the crowd, swinging his great sword like a scythe. Ara-Karn stepped swiftly to one side and raised his shield. The metal shot sparks in a loud clang.
‘Gen-Karn! Gen-Karn!’ shouted the supporters of the orange standard of Orn.
Again the Warlord moved. Ara-Karn stooped, easily catching the blow on his shield again, darting a counter-stroke with unbelievable speed. The long blade shot forward, opening a long nasty gash over Gen-Karn’s ribs.
‘Ara-Karn!’ shouted Gundoen. ‘Ara-Karn!’ Beyond his own voice he could hear the cries of others also cheering the stroke.
‘A good blow, that, craftily delivered,’ commented Nam-Rog. ‘Yet it will take more than skill to best Gen-Karn.’
‘Do I not know this?’ growled the chief. ‘But whatever it takes, he will give it. Have you not heard that he is of the gods?’ He gulped down the dark beer, almost believing the words in his elation of the moment.
Across the circle Sol-Dat heard the words. ‘Yes,’ he cried out to the battlers, ‘show us your godhead, O Ara-Karn! Vanquish him with a thunderbolt from your terrible eyes!’
Gen-Karn rumbled with laughter at the jest. He spat upon the wet earth. ‘Enough of this playing,’ he growled. ‘Prepare to die, little one.’
There came a flurry of swordplay. The Warlord swung terrific blows, but Ara-Karn ducked them, parried them, caught them on his shield. He fell back easily, moving little, tiring not at all; but the big-bodied Gen-Karn was sweating and panting at the exertion of his blows. He growled, angered that he should not be able to land a good blow where he wished and end the battle with one stroke. His efforts began to grow wild.
He feinted, then drove straight in, a murderous blow impossible to dodge. Ara-Karn parried with his own sword and held. Their swords locked together, hilt to hilt, and shield and shield banged together. For a long moment they strove against each other, main strength against main strength. Their feet clawed for grip against the sand and slick stone of the ground, their thighs strained, their backs and shoulders bulged with effort, hard muscles cracking. For a long moment, Gundoen saw them straining, and it seemed to him that in this contest of sheer strength and bulk Gen-Karn must needs be the victor. He saw the Warlord prevailing; he was leaning over Ara-Karn, the weight and strength of his great body applied with grunting, ferocious power. Gundoen picked up the long black bow and gripped it with readiness in his hands.
The two combatants looked up.
Gen-Karn gazed into the eyes of Ara-Karn.
A rasping clash of steel and they were apart again, not circling now, but standing warily a few paces apart, panting with exhaustion, considering each other. The cheering from the crowds died down, the calls for Gen-Karn falling first. And it occurred to Gundoen that the shouts for Ara-Karn were hopeful and boisterous; but many of the shouts for Gen-Karn seemed forced and artificial, save for those coming from the group of Orn warriors. And Gundoen realized that, after all, Gen-Karn was not really a popular man, but gained his sway through fear and power alone. And even those who had followed him from the first had done so not out of any love or worship for the man, but only because they saw they had something to gain thereby – an enemy to be destroyed or gold to be raised – or because Gen-Karn had threatened them, and they had not wished to become like poor Elrikal of the Forun tribe. And Gundoen knew that, if by some miracle Ara-Karn should slay Gen-Karn, the tribes would acclaim him unanimously.
In the arena, the two naked men came at each other once again. And looking at Gen-Karn Gundoen could see something new in the Warlord’s expression. It was a look of hatred, of doubt, almost of fear. Gen-Karn moved slowly, as if unsure of himself and of what he should do next
‘Now is the moment,’ breathed Nam-Rog in Gundoen’s ear. ‘By the darkness of God, do you see the look on our Warlord’s face? He has seen something not to his liking, that is sure. If Ara-Karn strikes now, he will have the clear edge.’
‘Yes,’ said Gundoen, raising his voice. ‘Strike now, my son! Strike to kill!’
The two combatants turned and faced him for a moment. Gen-Karn could sense the truth in Gundoen’s words and made a visible effort to pull himself together before all should be lost. Ara-Karn looked into the eyes of Gundoen, and the chief saw again the statue and heard again those weird and alien words on the beach after the eclipse. The look in those shadowed eyes struck deeply into his soul, and though he loved him, he cringed suddenly. For the second time he was struck by the strangeness of the man who had washed upon his shores. And the first time had been when he had looked out of his stupor into that face the first and only time he had ever been beaten wrestling. Are the stories and dreams of Kuln-Holn really true then? he wondered.
Ara-Karn turned that merciless gaze back upon Gen-Karn, and everyone in the assembled multitude could see the Warlord start under it. Slowly, and with the greatest of contempt, Ara-Karn unbuckled the leather strap of his small iron shield and dropped it to the ground. He pushed it with his heel several paces from him. He took his sword in both his hands and swung it, easily, gracefully, powerfully.
‘The fool!’ hissed Nam-Rog in despair. ‘Does he not know that this is a combat to the death, without pause? Now he is defenseless!’
‘Be silent, can you not?’ Gundoen spat, a chill entering his lungs.
Gen-Karn saw the shield drop and seemed to take some comfort from it. He limbered his great shoulders and forced a barking laugh from out his throat. Perhaps it had been the contempt with which Ara-Karn had moved that now served to light the Warlord’s rage.
‘Why, you miserable piece of filth!’ he began. ‘You’ll not—’
Ara-Karn attacked. The chief of the Orns never had a chance to complete his words.
The longsword leaped everywhere, swinging right and left, back and forth, in and out, up and down in those capable hands. It performed strange feats – tricks and feints and movements unknown in all the North. Gen-Karn was sorely pressed to defend himself; even with all his efforts, a dozen wounds appeared suddenly on his limbs, his chest, his shoulders. There was never any question of a counterstroke – the man had difficulty even holding on to his blade.
Back Ara-Karn forced him, and back again. The combat weaved first to one side of the arena and then to the other. Suddenly they burst from one edge, flying into the opposite side of the crowd from Gundoen into the snow and spectators. They battled beneath the orange standard of Orn and over the rolling bodies of the crowds. Shouts and curses rose around them; Ara-Karn gave no heed, but held to that ferocious assault. Men scrambled
cursing out of their way, snow and ice flying in the scuffle, tents upset and pans sent clattering.
Gundoen and the others around him rose to their feet, straining their eyes to see the fighters.
‘Truly,’ murmured Nam-Rog in awe, ‘he fights like one possessed. His wrath is of something much less or more than mortal.’
Gundoen had known that fury, that mindlessly destructive rage, in Ara-Karn before, so he was silent. He had felt its power; some wakings his bones still ached from it.
The two battlers passed from sight in the shadows of the crowds around the tents. Gundoen could only hear the clangor of the blades ringing over the dull roar of the fire.
‘Come along,’ he ordered, setting out across the arena, forgetting in his eagerness the black bow. Others followed, murmuring to one another, leaping up at times to see over the heads of those before them. They forced themselves a way through the crowd, past the fallen tents to the very edge of the precipice; and there they paused.
Still the two were battling, the very edge of stone and ice crumbling beneath their heels. Once Ara-Karn in his wild eagerness stepped too far to one side; nothing met his foot and he almost fell. But he recovered somehow and went on as if nothing had happened, attacking Gen-Karn still.
‘What does he do?’ muttered Nam-Rog in the roar of the crowd. ‘He fights as if he is immortal! Does he truly wish to die?’
Gen-Karn’s shield was but a battered rag of metal now, his sword notched and blunted where it had met the bite of Ara-Karn’s edge. He was sweating profusely, his mouth open with fear, exhaling acrid steam, wavering with exertion. His body bled from a score of brutal wounds, and his right leg was deeply cut above the knee. He fought desperately, ferociously, as Gundoen had never seen him fight before. Yet his best was not enough; for all he could do, he was being driven into defeat. He was stronger than the stranger, his weapons just as good, and his reach longer. But there was this difference between them: Gen-Karn fought to hold on to his life, and Ara-Karn fought as if he did not care whether he lived or died. And that difference was a fatal one.