by Adam Corby
‘Now you have such a goal, and I wish you luck sincerely. Feel all of that hatred inside you, savor its acrid sweetness – and then you will know what it is to be fully alive. There will be sleeps when you cannot rest for the hatred of me – when your dreams will be full of the sight of your father dying, of the sound of your sister being raped. Listen to those screams, boy. Perhaps, even now, your sister cries out. When my men – and I have many, many men – have finished with her, if she retains any of her prettiness, she may live as one of their concubines. Then they will cast bones to see which one will claim her. If she is no longer pretty – and few are very pretty after such an ordeal as that – they may keep her as a cook-slave. Or perhaps they will have pity upon her and only cut her throat. Perhaps she is already dead, one more blackened corpse among so many corpses, with dark bloody bruises staining her once-soft thighs.’
The boy moaned, shutting his eyes fast, but Ara-Karn gripped his arm with fingers of iron, so that he must open his eyes. And he gazed into those eyes with that gaze so like a Madpriest’s that the boy’s outcry was stifled for very fear.
‘Now you begin to feel it,’ breathed the Warlord, releasing his grip. ‘Good! Savor the hatred and the fear, boy. Court them elegantly as some nobly born whore, and take them for your own. Live for them, breathe through them, dine with one, sleep upon the other. Let them be the shadow of your companion, and aways follow whither they may lead. Do you hear, boy? – always. Now go. We shall meet again.’
The boy, as if in a dream, lifted the reins. Then he hesitated. His eyes ringed his foes questioningly.
‘Go on,’ growled Ara-Karn irritably. ‘Do you think that if I’d meant to kill you I’d have wasted so many words? Be off with you!’ He swatted the flank of the boy’s horse with his jade dagger, hard, and the pony started off.
One more glance back the boy gave them, a glance of terror and despair. Then he set his heels to the pony, urging it to a furious gallop. Soon his figure was lost in the smoke and the glare of the fires. Shortly thereafter even the ring of his hooves on the broken stone streets was gone.
‘Lord, I can have two riders after him in a word, both excellent bowmen,’ Gundoen said. ‘They can be ordered to slay him before he reaches the outskirts of the city.’
‘No,’ replied the Warlord in a voice grown suddenly very old and very tired. ‘No. He shall have free passage from the lands of his enemies this first time. It is the only thing any of us may hope for. Afterward, if you ever see him again, I give you leave to kill him at your leisure.’
* * *
The boy rode as fast as he could urge the steed onward. They flew so fast that the walls of smoke billowing around them seemed like only storm clouds driven by the winter winds. Shortly he passed beyond the shattered city walls and descended into the broad green plains south of the city. In the fields he could see the dark masses of the barbarians heaping great mounds of loot from the burning city, savage victory-chants rumbling from their throats.
The boy rode past them, his eyes half closed. He rode up the road to the rolling hills beyond. Everywhere he looked, he saw the streams of refugees, fleeing in terror to the South. He shuddered to see them: to him it now became real that there was no longer any city called Gerso.
He paused on the crest of the hill opposite to the rift in the mountain where the ruins of the city were nestled, and panted, exhausted for the ordeal he had passed through. He wiped at the sweat upon his brow. Streaks of grime smeared on the back of his hand. He gazed back upon the city of his childhood for a long time.
By now almost all the city was in flames. Great billows of black smoke rose between the mountain peaks that had once watched great Elna build the city. The smoke rose in a curling column drifting slowly to the South, a shadow as of a tremendous army below it. Through the pillar of smoke Goddess could be seen faintly lambent, as if fitfully asleep and dreaming a nightmare of destruction and personal torment.
The boy wept.
A voice brought him out of his revery. ‘It is not a pretty sight, is it? And I fear that there will be other such sights before too long.’
Two men on horseback were behind him. They led several other men and pack-ponies burdened with supplies and goods. The boy recognized the bearded one as the famous merchant, Zelatar Bonvis. The other was the merchant’s apprentice, Mergo Donato.
‘We were still preparing our train of goods to trade with the barbarians,’ said Zelatar, his lips evincing a sour humor. ‘Now it seems that the barbarians have come to us.’ He too looked sadly on the ruined city.
‘What was it you said, Zelatar?’ asked the apprentice hurtfully. ‘Did you not say that when we came back this spring not even the name of that man would be remembered?’
‘So I did,’ sighed the bearded merchant. ‘Now instead of dying, as he ought, he seems to have infected the entire North with his madness. Well, did I not also say beware if the tribes should mass?’ He turned his gaze upon the youth. ‘Young man, you seem to have been of a good house. I seem to recognize you from somewhere. You are one of the few we have seen who had the foresight and levelheadedness to prepare his bags before he flew. We are headed South. I know many houses where my father traded there. Perhaps we will even go eventually to Tarendahardil, the seat of the great Empire. Not even the barbarians will follow us so far. Will you travel with us, at least part of the way?’
Dumbly, the young man nodded.
The merchant brought his horse about. ‘Forget about that city of Gerso,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘It may once have been home, but it is no longer. There are many cities scattered about the round world, my boy.’
Slowly they wended their way down the far side of the green hill to find the road again. They saw the ruins rise and fall back forever behind the hill; only the smoke remained. They traveled Southward, underneath the shadow of that pillar of black smoke, which still obscured the dreaming Goddess.
XIX
Aftermath
THE WAVES BROKE steeply against the rocky headlands, but within the bay the waters were calm. Goddess gazed down calmly and beautifully upon the tranquil scene, resting Her cheek occasionally upon the soft pillow of a high, fluffy cloud. Along the sandy, pebbly shore, above the high-water marks, the many fishing boats lay side by side in a long mute line. In the bounding stream among the rocks of the southern arm of land, a few women washed clothes and stretched them on the rocks to dry. Nearby some little children, rejoicing in their nakedness, ran and played. Some carrion birds walked the shore of the bay, hungrily inspecting the masses of wrack and driftage there.
In the sandy square below the chief’s hut other women met, and other children hung upon their skirts. A few old, old men, purblind and large-jointed, sat upon stones, dozing in the sun. They were the only men who could be seen in the entire village. It was very calm and restful there. And lonely, too; there seemed to be more huts than was necessary just for the women and the children and the old, old men.
On the broad veranda of the chief’s hut, the important women of the tribe were gathered. They mended tunics and repaired implements. Some held babes to their breasts.
‘Ah, how quiet it is here now,’ sighed one of them.
‘When, when do you think they will return?’ asked another. She was young, and very pretty, and, by her dress, unmarried.
‘Not soon,’ answered Hertha-Toll.
‘This I will miss,’ said another, ‘preparing for the great Hunt. There was good food then, and dancing. My man would always look so brave! Unless, Hertha, you think they will perhaps be back in time?’
Hertha-Toll shook her head. ‘No, there will be no Hunt this year,’ she said. ‘Nor the next, nor the one after. Perhaps there will never be another. Our men hunt other things than bandar pelts now. All, all is changed.’
‘Changed to the better, I think,’ said Turin Tim, setting Bart-Karan again upon her lap. ‘My Garin will not die. Great will be our fortune, when all our men return.’
‘I miss them,�
�� wailed Alli. Her hair was not so finely looked-to as it used to be, and her hips were rounder, softer.
‘A dream I had, when the God rose,’ Hertha-Toll announced. ‘It seemed to me the sea ran back, and all the earth beneath our village rose up, so that we lived as if on a great mountain and looked down on the peak of Kaari-Moldole. Then a beautiful woman dressed in rags came to me and gave me a golden ring, and said it was the gift of her husband, and that he wished that I should have its keeping for a time. Then I heard a dim voice on the wind, and it wailed, The Gates! The Gates! The Gates are open! And that was a merchant’s voice.’
‘What does it mean?’ asked the other women eagerly.
Hertha-Toll sighed, and shook her head. ‘It was true, but I knew not a tenth part of its meaning. Still, this much I gathered: that our men have fought in Gerso and gained a victory upon the cityfolk.’
Great were the relief and rejoicing of the other women at this, and they clamored for more knowledge of Hertha-Toll, bidding her tell them whether this man or that had survived the fighting, and who had won the greatest honor? But Hertha-Toll would not answer, saying that such details were not a part of her dream.
‘Yet what of the riches they will send us?’ asked Turin Tim. ‘Surely you could see what wealth will be ours out of this?’
Hertha-Toll looked deep into the eyes of Turin Tim, so that after a moment the younger woman looked down, much ashamed. Hertha-Toll looked very weary then, and older than her years.
After a time, one of the women remarked that the weather had been mild this year. Then Hertha-Toll brightened and said, ‘Yes, and I think we will get no more storms this season. Winter for this year has passed. It was not a bad Winter this year, I think. Not too many of our children died.’
‘Then must we clear the fields again and plant the grains and vegetables again, as if nothing had happened and our men had not conquered Gerso?’ Turin Tim asked sullenly.
‘Of course,’ answered Hertha-Toll, standing and entering her husband’s hall, the hall of Tont-Ornoth. ‘We still must eat.’
* * *
In a hollow on the sunward side of the valley below the burning city a dozen of the comeliest enslaved women and a score of the hardiest men were slain amidst grateful prayers to dark God. A man from every tribe was there, and each wielded a knife. They cut the limbs piecemeal and strewed the bits among the stones. The hearts and livers and stomachs and genitals they bore down to the valley’s end in a great brazen cauldron. There the green fields of the lowlands had their start, and there the entrails were spilled forth. So might God, scenting the savor and hungering for more, lead His avid followers to where the reek should lead. And the winds blew the smoke asunder, and the curved face of God shone forth directly overhead, sharp as a new-cleaned knife. And that was held the finest of omens. The sacrificers held their gleaming knives aloft and rode their ponies back. The smoke was driven together again, and the lurid flames of the conquered city lighted up the savage, drunken warriors as if they stood again on Urnostardil.
Below the burning city the many thousands of tents, ponies, warriors, and captives ran in a great ragged ring between the jutting mountains’ arms. Wild laughter and roars of triumph sang out from that ring, and half-choked screams. In the center of the ring was a hill, and it was all of the looted treasures of the city. Gen-Karn the chief of Orn climbed upon that hill, swearing and singing by turns. By him were some of his men, wiping wine-lees from the blood-clotted tangles of their beards.
Gen-Karn spread out his arms and took in the whole of the soft-curving green land. ‘Now behold, and tremble,’ Gen-Karn roared upon that land. ‘We are returned! The Gates of Gerso are no more! Will you hide? Where will you hide that we shall not find you? The Tribes ride, and the Spine is shattered!’
Below him, the warriors danced with the enslaved city-women, laughed, and drank more wine, their fists filled with slabs of roasted hams and gherwons and neats. The beat of the great drums took away even their roars of triumph here, even the screams of the captives. Chained, degraded merchants were slain here and there for sport, or for annoyance, or for the example of their fellows; and the fallen bodies were kicked about among the dancers until the other captives caught them up and laid them piteously upon the hill of plunder. Over battered armor costly silks were draped, rent and stained; plumed caps were stretched over the ragged curls of great-maned men. Surely not ever in the cold far North had there been a feast the equal of this!
But when hands were laid upon the treasures, then quarrels broke out among the feasters. Foul oaths arose, and fighting. In but moments the drums were ceased and the dancing women scattered. And the flame-lit warriors – not sated yet on blood and recalling, perhaps, old feuds and jealousies – threw to the earth their meat and wine and drew swords, threatening to fall on one another. The fire glared evilly from their reddened, wine-wrought eyes. Gen-Karn, astride the hill, laughed, and goaded on his Orns.
Old Nam-Rog, pale-faced beside the tents, went then with haste to the tent-square of Gundoen’s tribe. ‘Gundoen!’ he called out. ‘Gundoen, the feuds are broken out anew, and where is the Warlord?’
Gundoen burst forth of his tent knotting up his breeches. Through the open flap beyond Nam-Rog saw three naked citywomen decked in jewels, languid and wearied, lying among the furs and cushions, ‘What is about?’ Gundoen asked angrily.
Nam-Rog led him to the ring’s center. Already a dozen men lay bleeding and maimed on the ground. Gundoen strode through the crowds and hurled men from his path by the strength of his great arms. He wore no weapons; yet, even so, no man dared raise a blade against the father of Ara-Karn yet.
Gundoen climbed to the top of the treasure. He confronted Gen-Karn. ‘Chieftain, you sit like some unmuscled old man, taking in your water at one end while you let it out the other. Why? Bring the men to peace!’
Gen-Karn glared and shrugged. ‘Let them fight,’ said he. ‘By God’s jade sword, it is good to fight!’
‘You are drunk, old fool,’ growled Gundoen. He took hold of the Orn’s necklet, lifted up, and threw him sprawling down the hill. He faced the feuding men below, and for a space puzzlement filled his face, and his great empty hands knotted and let go. He opened his mouth and called down on the heads of men.
‘Elna,’ he called. ‘Elna, Elna, Elna…’
The clamor lessened, and some men looked up as if wakened from some ill sleep. But the rest brawled on. Gundoen frowned. At his feet were the bow and bird pouch of Gen-Karn. He seized them, slung the bow, and aimed an arrow down at the throng.
‘By God’s Eye, the next to strike a blow dies by my hand,’ he shouted. He was true to his word: in moments three men lay writhing on the ground amidst the blood and wine, struck through by the long arrows.
Now the fighting slacked. The wine- and death-crazed warriors looked up and saw Gundoen dark against the flames above them. The surged up around the treasure-hill, red blades in hand, glaring at the chief and muttering. But men of Gundoen’s tribe leaped upon the lower slopes of the mound, ready to defend their chieftain.
‘Put down your weapons,’ Gundoen commanded them. He stood to his full height, like a massive boulder carved and shaped by lightning blasts, ugly and forbidding against the flame-lit smoky sky. A vile oath he swore, then brought up the bow and broke it into splinters across his knee.
‘Warriors,’ he roared hoarsely, ‘will you forget all your Oaths? Will you slay your comrades and do the Southrons’ work for them? Be sure they cannot do this thing alone! Look you there to the South! See how lovely that land lies! Tarendahardil is there, and the descendants of Elna! Is all this treasure not enough for you, that you must bicker over it? Are five women not enough for each of you? – yet what would your wives say to that? And then, if these will not content you, rest yourselves, and clean your spears and swords, and put new points on your arrows – and we will go and get you more!’
There was laughter at his words. The beastlike fury faded from the eyes of men. They looke
d upon the pile before them, turned, and looked through the tents to the South. Gen-Karn, looking evilly at Gundoen’s back, staggered down and went with his men to their tents and women. Some men grew sleepy-drunk with the great amounts of wine sloshing in their bellies; others grew saddened, and wept at the memory of Urnostardil, the Last Stand. They settled themselves to count their gains, orderly now. And at that somewhat of an uneasy peacefulness drifted down upon the great ringed camp.
Gundoen sat down heavily on the hill and scratched some crusted blood from his eyelid. Roughly he shook his head, the way a wet dog will, rousing pain to wake himself. Aways overhead the banks of smoke flowed down from the burning city, down the valley, between the mountains and beyond. Gundoen leaned back his head dizzily, and for a moment it was to him as if the world stood head-over-hands and the smoke were a choked barren river drawing them down between the mountains; only Gundoen, lying on the treasure, was somehow held against it. He thought idly of the citywomen in his tent. They beckoned him and filled him with desire, but he despised them. They were artful and skillful in their ways; they had known wealth and ease and all that that brought. Yet what had they to say to him, or he to them?
The green, lush lands beyond the mountains called him. Rich they were, and fabulous in his mind. He saw towers of gold and alabaster, weapons beautiful as jewels, carpets, tunics woven so fine they hung upon the limbs gently as dale-dew, fields of grapes and herb, warm beaches, great sea-craft, palaces great as villages. The many cities formed a line, like sandbars in the river of ash. So many of them there were, so many … so many tens of thousands of foes to overcome… He thought of the sinuous women in his tent and his wearied loins began to ache. Almost he could have wished he might be back again in his own village, where he was a chief, and where he might upon each waking feast his eyes upon the bones of all the champions his strength had overborne.