by Adam Corby
Gundoen led her up before the idol, beneath the eyes of Ara-Karn. The smells that came from the stained wood alarmed the mare; she whinnied softly, and Gundoen stroked her muzzle unthinkingly.
Before her forelegs they laid the great wooden bowl. She sniffed at it as if expecting to find it full of grain. But the great great wooden bowl was empty as yet.
Ara-Karn handed the chief the ancient worn knife of chipped stone. Gundoen took it and thumbed the blade with his broad thumb.
He held the mare’s head gently with his left hand and in his right the knife. Behind the grotesque bark mask, the chief’s eyes were in shadow, but Ara-Karn’s glittered greenly.
With a swift stroke Gundoen severed the veins in her neck.
The hot steaming blood gushed forth in a fluid arc. It hissed as it passed through the gaping wound in the brown flesh. Kuln-Holn felt sickened; the mare whimpered painfully and tried to twist her head away. But Gundoen’s broad hands held her firmly. Slowly she sank to her knees. Her tail lashed fitfully, then idly; then it was still.
The broad head flopped onto the rough red earth. The large, liquid eyes were shut fast.
‘Thus ever to my enemies,’ swore Gundoen, his voice terrible through the bark mask. ‘Thus for the injuries of past lives.’
They anointed the idol with the mare’s hot blood: the jutting phallus, the edges of sword and axe, the thick grinning lips. Ara-Karn himself anointed the lips. When this was done, there was still a good deal of blood remaining in the great wooden bowl.
They mixed the blood with ale they had brought from the storage-holes of the huts of the village. The red blood was darkened by the thick brown ale. They lifted the bowl onto a pedestal of rock, and each man drank of the blood-mixed ale. Gundoen as chief drank first. After him drank Ara-Karn. When the stranger rose, his lips were stained and smeared with the blood. The carved grinning lips of the mask were stained also.
‘Death and fire, destruction and rapine,’ promised the chief and the Warlord to the freshly stained idol as the other warriors drank of the bloody mixture. ‘Blood and the screams of the dying. Men cut down, babes trampled underfoot, women raped screaming. Give us these things, great Lord, and we shall be wholly yours. The hands that hold the blades will be yours and so the head that commands. Our loins will be in your service. Love and pleasure we cast aside, with those whom we love, with those who give us pleasure. We will live only for death and vengeance, and will send all others in death to you. This we swear, dread Lord: and may you destroy us utterly if ever we go back upon these oaths.’
When it came Kuln-Holn’s turn to drink at the blood, he bent dutifully over the bowl. But the stench that rose to his nostrils assailed him and his gorge rose. Beneath the mask he gagged. The fellow behind him prodded; so, closing his eyes and his mind, he dipped suddenly, so that the blood came bubbling about his half-parted lips. Even with the ale it was horrible. It made him so sick afterward that he could eat nothing for several passes.
* * *
And now, as he rode among the hordes of warriors up the path into the hills, Kuln-Holn thought on his master and wondered. And Kuln-Holn remembered and could not dispel the horror of that taste of mare’s blood from his mouth. And it made him almost fearful of his master, who had gone again to the great wooden bowl, for more.
An angry word tore him from his reveries. Ahead of Kuln-Holn all the riders were bunched together, halted. Kuln-Holn looked at the graveled slopes and the ragged pines rising sparsely like arrow shafts and he thought, How strange a place to camp. And they had rested only shortly before. Yet before he could question the men sitting about him, a word came flying from above that answered him.
The men ahead had it from those beyond, picked it up, and flung it back of them without another word, so that the voices rose around Kuln-Holn and surged past him like a swell upon the Ocean of Death.
‘The Gates!’ they muttered. ‘The Gates! The Gates!’
XVII
The Gates of Gerso
MASSIVE AND ANCIENT, the Gates of the Gerso flung themselves across the narrow Pass forbiddingly, like a part of the mountains themselves. Indeed, from the end of the Pass, the Gates could not be distinguished from the mountain walls.
Two score hundred paces down from the pine-mantled hills, the mountains abruptly lost all vegetation, sweeping steeply up against the sky: grim, gray, forbidding, vast. They narrowed as well, coming so close together that at their closest point a man might throw a stone from mountain to mountain. And here, thousands of feet below the ice-capped peaks, down in the womb of the vertical cleft of stone, the walls of Gerso had been built.
They had been built of gigantic gray blocks of stone, hewn as if by giants out of the unyielding bowels of these very mountains. Block upon enormous block had been fitted, so snugly that not even the thief’s-fingers of water could slip between them to crumble and to crack them. So that now, generation upon generation upon generation after the walls had been built, they stood as upright, sheer, and pristine as on the sunlight of their first Summer.
And of all the fortresses, keeps, and citadels of all the round world, none was deemed so impregnable as the Gerso, save perhaps only one, which sat in the very bosom of the distant Empire with no enemies near: the Black Citadel of Elna itself, on the rocky crags above Tarendahardil. Only that could have been deemed more secure than the Gerso. And it was because of the reputation of the hardness of these walls that those of the lush green lowlands beyond thought themselves safe from those they had condemned and imprisoned in the rocky wilderness of the far North so very long ago. And it was because of the reputation of the hardness of these walls that the civilized peoples felt so secure, and had put away their swords and put on fat instead, to slumber their lives away.
And Gerso, too, felt herself secure. And though she posted guards to walk those ancient, crackless walls, there were too few of them, and those not adequately trained. In all obedience to the traditions of their long-voyaged ancestors they walked the peaks of those walls. And their feet fell in the ancient, selfsame spots on the stone worn smooth by the passage of countless feet, all of them also upon the selfsame duty. They walked, changed guards, called out their time-honored calls; watched the traders come and go, saw ponies burdened with worked goods go forth and those laden with bandar pelts return; chatted among themselves, threw carved dice on bets when their commanders weren’t around to see. And when their watch was over, they hung up their armor on the ancient stone pegs in the armory, went down the winding, hollowed steps leading to the cityside, and led peaceful lives with their wives and happy fat children. And though all who passed below them commanded their momentary attention, their eyes were more often turned to the shining domes and red stone palaces of the city within than upon the sandy narrow plain without, which formed the floor of the Pass.
Below the guards, built into the body of the walls, were the Gates themselves. Of these there were two sets: the larger gates were of stone, which none living had ever seen open: these were for the passage of great armies into the wilds of the far North, to harass the barbarians and keep them forever few and fearing. Such had been Elna’s intention; but it was long centuries since any armies had passed those gates. They were too cumbersome, too difficult to close once opened, for the passage of individual merchants, when trade began between North and South. So the second, smaller gates had been fashioned, at great expense, by the side of the older stone ones. These new gates were of brass, and were just the size to allow a few men and their horses to pass through for the purposes of trade.
The guard had but recently been changed, so that most of the guardsmen were still within the barracks room or the armory, when the sound reached the gates.
The guards came out onto the worn ruts upon the summit of the walls and looked above them. It happened often enough that rocks rolled down the steep slopes above them, though that season had passed. Yet the guards saw no rocks falling. And the sound had come not from above but below.
It came from the pine-mantled bills beyond the Pass, and it came from the sand- and gravel-washed floor of the Pass. Then the guards smiled and nodded their heads; now that the sound grew louder, they knew it well. It was the sound of some merchants on their ponies with their bundled metal wares clanking along behind them. Then the guards frowned and looked one another in the eye. It was too early in the year for any merchants to be setting forth, and these sounds were from the northern side.
The guards leaned forward, casting forth their glances to the end of the Pass. The sounds of the riders, rising louder and more distinct, were echoed and re-echoed off the sheer hard walls of the cliffs; yet the men themselves could scarcely be made out as yet. The guards upon the walls cast some bets as to how many would be in the party and what their business was. Shortly thereafter the coins changed hands, and one of the men smiled broadly, having won both bets, for the band was of four men above a score, and they wore the garb of barbarians. The victorious gambler leaned over the parapet, unfurled his cloak, and waved it at the men below, as if to thank them for his luck. Something gleamed off the barbarians, but what it was could not be made out. The man with the cloak made a bet as to what it might be.
Now the riders had come into the shadow of the Gates. One of them, so small he seemed no more than a mouse to be trod upon, rode out ahead of the others, came up to the gates of brass, and lifted up his tiny sword. Holding it by the blade, he reached forward and pounded with the pommel upon the costly brass three times.
The sound of that pounding produced a distant, hollow tolling, which reached up to the ears of the guardsmen on the summit of the crackless walls. And such were the angles of those precipitous cliffs that the sound of the knocking echoed off the walls and the sides of the mountains and filled the entire vale of the Pass, sounding like the tolling of a tremendous, unceasing bell of mourning of the dead. The captain of the guard cursed jocularly and buckled on his head his official brass helmet, which he rarely wore because it had not been made quite large enough. And he went down the winding hollow stairs to the Pass side and opened one of the brass doors. He looked out over the armed barbarians with a squinting eye.
Now, barbarians came betimes through these gates, usually to buy their pleasure in the fleshpots of the city. Yet those were only wretched fellows dressed in ragged pelts and soiled worn tunics, and never in numbers greater than ten. The sight of that score of grim, avid warriors in their shining mail the captain liked not at all.
‘Let us through,’ said the barbarian who had pounded upon the gates with his sword.
‘Who are you?’ countered the captain. He was a big fellow with a large belly and a round face fit more for smiling. But he was not one to be cowed – not even by such an armed warrior on horseback leading other such.
‘I am Ara-Karn.’
Though the man had spoken calmly, the walls of the cliffs caught up his words, hurling them back and forth, until the winds brought them up to the summit of the walls and back down again, louder than before. ‘What do you want?’ asked the captain.
‘For you to open the larger gates of stone and let my men pass.’
The captain looked upon those chests of iron and leather and bronze with a dubious eye. ‘So you can go thieving in the alleyways of our city?’ he asked. ‘Not likely.’
‘Kill him,’ ordered Ara-Karn.
The captain suddenly took alarm at this and tried to slam the door shut in their faces. But Gundoen lifted his great bow and shot an arrow right through the soft bronze armor, and the captain fell dead.
‘Kill them all!’ cried Ara-Karn, raising his weirdly echoing voice against those crackless walls. ‘Death to all Southrons!’
He plunged through the open brass door, his pony trampling the captain’s corpse. Gundoen and the other picked men quickly followed him. And what remained of the captain, after those ponies had cantered past, was not a pleasant thing to see.
The guards atop the broad walls knew that something was amiss. They shouted down their questions. In return the warriors below who had remained outside the gate lifted high their bows. The guardsmen laughed to see the toylike men below, milling angrily about; they knew no such ragged bandits would ever pierce their Gates.
The darting arrows flew high. Some fell short, rattling harmlessly off the stone below; and others flew too high and soared over the walls altogether, falling down into the city streets beyond. But the rest swept over the walls, wounding several of the guardsmen. The rest of them fell back in consternation as two of the wounded men fell over the edge of the wall. Their bodies plummeted like thunder to the earth. The nearby ponies reared, neighing in terror, but from the savage throats rose a shout of triumph.
The guards were suddenly afraid as they had never been before; their fear was like that of the barbarians when the eclipse of Goddess had come. They fled their posts in terror and scrambled down the winding steps that led to the cityside. The more stouthearted of them went down the steps to the barracks rooms within the huge walls. They went down to defend the brass doors and the ancient mechanisms that controlled the gates of stone.
They found only death and destruction before them, and savages with smoking blades who shouted at the sight of them and leapt up the steps to the attack.
Before that onslaught the guards fell back. They had not been adequately trained, and their training had been long ago, and they none of them had ever killed a man, and their bronze armor was suited more to look pretty in the sun than stop iron blades. And against them went warriors with the hardness of wolves, bearing the scars of a score of deadly combats. And it was not long before the last of the stouthearted of the guardsmen lay weltering in gore upon the hollowed stone steps.
The other guards ran out of the brass doors of the city-side. They had to gain help, inform the Governor-General. The savages who had attacked the gates had been only two dozen in number, but the guards in their fear did not think of that. The undreamt of had come to pass. The old prophecies rose in their minds that the barbarians would rise again. Twenty-four became a hundred in their minds; the piny hills beyond the Pass seemed to have been crawling with innumerable savage foes. Some ran to the quarters of the city watch to rouse the men there; others ran for the towers, there to mount the winding stairs and swing hammers against the bells to alert the city; still others ran for the palace of the Governor-General.
The palace was not far from the Gates. The guards scrambled through the courtyard, looking like wild men. Angrily the house-guards demanded of them their business.
‘The Governor-General!’ croaked the guards. ‘The Porekan! Let us through!’
‘Imbeciles!’ shouted the major-domo, twirling his mustache. ‘Are you toddlers with wet linens? Away, you cannot see the Porekan now. Don’t you know he has a dinner party in progress?’
* * *
Even then, at the far side of the palace on the cool, pillared terrace overlooking the city, several gentlemen and ladies reclined on cushions around a low table made of the finest, purest marble.
‘More wine, good Telran?’
‘Most honored Porekan, as superb as your wine is, I fear I must refuse. I feel as though I have had just the right amount, and any more would spoil the effect, as it were.’
The Governor-General of Gerso waved the serving maid back to her place of readiness. Zaristin, the Porekan Del-bar’s wife, offered the observation that the dinner party had been a fine one.
‘Ah! most esteemed lady, I fear such a word could hardly hope to do it justice,’ said Burdelna Tovis, languidly waving his hand through the air in a gesture of supreme pleasure. ‘And for that, believe me, you have gained my most implacable animosity.’
‘You surprise me, Burdelna,’ said the Porekanin. ‘Explain yourself, please.’
‘Why, for this reason: that now I will be more wretched than ever in three weeks’ time, when I must sit in the dirt in a hovel that would make a pig abattoir smell like arintha by comparison.’
‘You men are ever comp
laining of your trips amongst the savages,’ said Usaris, who was Telran Welsar’s mistress. ‘Yet if you abhor them so much, why do you not send some of your assistants in your place?’
‘Don’t even speak of assistants,’ groaned Burdelna. ‘Those who know enough to do the job well will steal one deaf, dumb, and blind and use the proceeds to start their own houses; the rest will lose one’s goods on the way out, but bargain pelts not good enough to line a public latrine – your pardon, Porekanin – and end by professing only consternation when one chokes upon one’s words and threatens to give them the beating they deserve!’
At this apt description by the Tovis, several of the merchants present broke into sympathetic and appreciative laughter. Usaris, with all the delicate, calculated grace of a beautiful stylish woman who knows to exactness her every effect upon her male watchers, rose to her feet and glided over to the railing of the balcony. The Governor-General’s palace was set high up in the city, nearby the Gates; and from this balcony, which faced south, almost the whole of the city could be seen. The red roofs fell away and outward, filling the expanding plain of the Gerso. Far away, the undulating verdant pastures of the lowlands could be seen. Usaris sighed, thrilled to her marrow at the beauty of the sight. Telran Welsar had no such view as this.
She turned and regarded the Governor-General with a more professional eye. He, drawing another breath upon the water pipe, happened to catch that look. There was a silent moment, questions and messages exchanged, and a tentative agreement. Usaris turned again over the railing, displaying her best side to the Porekan’s apparently disinterested gaze.
The Governor-General, well satisfied with himself and the authoritative figure of manhood he must present, drew in another lungful of herb and held it in his lungs until just after the pleasure had begun to transform itself into an exquisite ache.