Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 4 Darkbridge

by Adam Corby

  The Conqueror nodded curtly, and signed to the civilized men.

  Uncertainly they rose, the knees of each man aching. They made their way up the tumulus and halted. Thirty steps away seemed close enough to this man. The men conferred among themselves. Helplessly they looked to the chieftains and their herb-eyed ladies.

  ‘Does no man of you speak the language of the South? How else may we give your great King our messages?’

  The women looked upon them blankly. The old chieftain shook his head. In a Bordo savoring thickly of the tongue of the far North he told them, ‘No man speak for him now. Speak him. He speak.’

  Doubtfully, the legates looked again to the brooding figure. He had not moved or given any sign of understanding. There was a monstrous intensity about his brows, as though he were capable of doing murder at any instant; yet his every action bespoke an all but inhuman patience. Again the legates consulted; at length one stood forth.

  ‘O Great King,’ he said slowly and loudly, ‘from several cities and nations have we come to pay you homage. We here are representative of all those lands not yet under your domain. I am called Engkor, of the house of Gonyaga of Zaproll on the Sea. Many gifts have we brought you to hail your majesty’s great triumphs.’

  He gestured at the chests and bales. The Conqueror held his calm and terrible gaze upon the Zaproli.

  ‘Your majesty,’ Engkor said, ‘we have come to submit to your majesty the overlordships of all our lands, and to proclaim you the first Emperor of South and North, supreme King of all the lands where men dwell. In your presence we abase ourselves.’ So saying Engkor fell to his knees and leaned forward on his hands. The other legates followed his example, so that in short order each man held his face close to the earth and saw only the dirt. It was better than enduring those eyes.

  Ara-Karn addressed the chieftains in the tongue of the far North, ignoring the legates.

  ‘All that is yours,’ he said, indicating the heaped gifts. ‘Take it as you please.’

  But the chieftains did not move. The Warlord let a ripple of displeasure darken his brow. ‘Well? Why do you stop? Jump, jump: it is all yours.’

  Gloomily the old chieftain replied, ‘Lord, we will not fall to this as dogs to corpses in the field, nor will we act like savages before these Southrons, bur rather follow your own example. Many such trifles have we already. Let the slaves apportion these to our tents later.’

  ‘What are you, that you would act as I?’ shot back the King. ‘If you will not accept my gifts when I offer them, perhaps they will be gone when you return. Yet Nam-Rog, I can recall the time when you would not have called such treasures trifles.’

  ‘Many times has God ridden past our Lady since then,’ the old warrior responded. ‘Few things on earth are the same now as they were then.’

  The Warlord nodded. ‘You remind me of more than you know, old man.’ Abruptly speaking in Bordo for the first time he addressed the legates: ‘You have said all the unconquered cities are present here. What then of Ul Raambar?’

  The Zaproli looked up, stung by the swift words so clearly spoken.

  ‘There is no Ul Raambar,’ he groaned.

  A trace of pleasure – it might have been pain – crossed the dark face. ‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten. What then of Belknule? Is Yorkjax represented here?’

  ‘Lord, Great One, I am a Belknulean,’ said one. ‘Yorkjax is gone. Hearing of your majesty’s victory over this the ancient city of your enemies, the tyrant gathered his followers and sought to flee. Then at last the nobles and people would suffer no more, but fell upon Yorkjax and his men and put them to death, even to the last woman and child of theirs. Belknule is at last free: free to offer herself humbly at the feet of your most feared majesty.’

  ‘With such suppliants I will fear no lack,’ the Conqueror said. ‘As to your gifts, I will take them. Yet gifts are not sufficient. What is given bespeaks equality and independence. Therefore each of you will accompany one of my captains to your homeland and surrender all forms and fashions of power into his hands. In addition will I levy this tribute of you all: three golden Elnics for every man now in my armies. All your soldiers will give their weapons to my men, who are to be treated by you with all the honor I trust you would do me. More: those of you who have skilled shipwrights will send them North. Let them gather at Arpane on the Sea, and there await my orders.

  ‘Yet, that you may not consider your new master too harsh, this honor will I perform unto you. I will accept of you twenty children from each land or city. Let them be of your noblest and most wealthy houses, for they shall stay with me as my attendants. Let none of them be more than twelve summers in age, and let there be as many sons as daughters: for no doubt my future Queen will wish to partake equally of this pleasure.’ This last phrase was spoken with such strange intensity, the legates were at a loss to know quite what to make of it.

  Silently and miserably they nodded acquiescence to his terms. Such subtle severity they had not expected of a rude general of red-handed barbarians. But well they knew their helplessness.

  ‘It is enough,’ said Ara-Karn, dismissing them. He turned to the chieftains. ‘Nam-Rog, you understood?’

  Grimly the chieftain of the Durbars nodded. ‘Lord, it was our mind to return to the far North after this city fell. We have not seen our homes or wives since before we broke the Spine.’

  ‘When I have mine again, then perhaps I will allow you yours,’ the Warlord said. ‘Until then do as I command.’ He made a move as if he would go – then stopped. ‘Yet what is this?’ he mused.

  The civilized men and their servants had risen and receded into the throngs. One however still knelt upon the earth, his aged head held close over the ground.

  ‘Lord, this was not one of these,’ Nam-Rog said. ‘Him we found in the Palace of the Citadel, on a high-seat in the great, empty hall. Dead men lay about him, but when he saw us he welcomed us. It was he who told us where to find the corpse of Elna-Ana. He called himself your ally, and carried on so that we thought him wrong-headed. We put him among these other Southrons rather than the captives. It seemed the best place for him.’

  The Conqueror of the World gazed down upon the kneeling man. He sat in one of the high-seats.

  ‘Dornan Ural,’ he called softly. ‘Dornan Ural, did you seek me?’

  The old man looked up. The former Regent was all but unrecognizable now. His hands were the color of dead earth. Strands of greasy hair fell about his face and ears. The unshaven bloated face was streaked with mud and tears, the eyes bleary, huge and hollowed. Yet, though his torn tunic was unspeakably filthy and vile, upon it hung a thing worth more than all the gifts of the legates: the pectoral of the High Regent of Tarendahardil.

  What he had done, and what thoughts had passed through his skull since he had locked Ampeánor in the cell beneath the Palace, not even Dornan Ural himself might have said. Doubtless he did not remember welcoming the barbarians. But he could not forget his passage through the city’s ruins. Foremost in the long lines of captives, Dornan Ural felt his eyes grow ever larger as he beheld the dreadful wastes for the first time.

  They had passed the burned, broken stones of Dornan Ural’s own hall on the edge of High Town; they passed marketplaces, theaters, and the offices of his officials. In the lower city where the poorer classes and merchants had lived and worked, the destruction had been complete. The buildings had been close-set and of wood, and the fire had raged among them without mercy. Only then did the knowledge take full hold in him. She was no more, and there was no other place quite like her. In years to come, no men would know her beauty or her splendors. Tarendahardil, his city, was dead.

  ‘Dornan Ural,’ reproved Ara-Karn gently and terribly, ‘what posture and condition is this for the High Regent of Tarendahardil, the Chief Administrator of all the Seven Ranks of the officials?’

  The frog’s-eyes blinked. ‘Lord, majesty – you know me?’

  ‘Certainly I know you, my old fool. Do you not know me?’


  ‘You are the Conqueror, the King, the Returned One, his august majesty Ara-Karn, the Fist of God, the—’

  ‘Enough. And no more? You do not remember me?’

  ‘Great Majesty, never before in my life have I beheld you.’

  ‘Then why have you been so bold, Dornan Ural, as to venture your life here among these brigands and robbers who are your enemies?’

  ‘Great One, it was not enemies I came to find but rather friends, and a man more than man, to whom I hoped to render some small service.’

  ‘You flatter as well as ever. Your wits, it seems, have not yet completely failed. What service could you offer me?’

  Dornan Ural tried to think. What had it been that had made him welcome the barbarians?

  ‘Divine One,’ he said slowly, choosing his words with care, ‘mighty are your armies, and many your conquests. But to conquer and to rule, these are different matters. I have gained many skills in almost a score of years of overseeing the Empire nal Bordakasha. Divine One, I would ask no more than the honor of serving you.’

  ‘Even as you served your former mistress?’

  ‘Even so, Divine One. In minor tasks I could relieve your majesty of much toil, and perhaps offer some instruction.’

  ‘How to ensure the loyalty of my servants, perhaps.’

  ‘That and many other matters, O King of South and North. For example, there exists a hidden passageway into and out of the Citadel. Its secret is known to me.’

  The dark face of the King was expressionless. ‘So she did not throw herself from the walls. Dornan Ural, your former mistress still lives. Were you aware of it?’

  Confusion crossed the ugly face. ‘Lord, if you say it is so, then I acknowledge it.’

  ‘Dornan Ural, her fate rests in my hands. Her golden body is in my grasp. Do you know what I will do to her? Imagine if you can. I am considering your offer, Dornan Ural. My answer depends on what you now say. You were her servant and her tutor, Dornan Ural. Was she a good monarch? Praise her if you can, and I will spare and honor her; otherwise— Well? Have you nothing to say?’

  ‘Great King, what can I say? She was your enemy. Her followers are still numerous. I would be a poor counselor indeed, if I advised your majesty to give power to one who would later use it against you.’

  The King rose and signed for two of the lesser warriors to approach, ‘Your words are wise, Dornan Ural. I will be bound by them. Now follow me. There is something I would show you.’

  The old man stood awkwardly. The four men walked round the dark tent to the brightward side. There the King halted. He indicated a side tent out of which the light of a hundred lamps seemed to stream.

  ‘Go you there and behold,’ said Ara-Karn to Dornan Ural.

  Wonderingly the old man approached the tent. The flood of light caught hold of his dirtied leggings up to his trunk, transmuting his stocky legs into things of speckled gold. Dornan Ural stood dumbfounded. His legs wavered and he sank suddenly upon his knees, and the tide of light engulfed him, making him blink and weep. So perhaps old Kar Belthus would seem, confronted with his old charge horribly returned from his long voyagings.

  The walls and floor of the little tent were covered with dark-dyed velvet, blue and green and black. Set upon spear-shafts near the back wall was a thing taller than a man, circular in shape, ornately carved and cast. A hundred spikes radiated outwards from its beaten rim, each set with a cluster of diamonds as large as a woman’s knuckle. The shield-like circle of it was of the finest electrum, gold and silver intermingled so that each should exalt the other’s glory. It caught the light of Goddess and hurled it back three-fold, so that before its glare Dornan Ural had to put his hands over his eyes.

  Over and behind him the Warlord stood, implacable.

  ‘But, but—’ Dornan Ural stammered, ‘what is this?’

  ‘It is the Disk of Goddess,’ answered Ara-Karn.

  Dornan Ural looked uncomprehendingly into the face of the barbarians’ king through a veil of sparks and orange blossoms.

  ‘Do you not understand even now, old fool?’ Ara-Karn said pitilessly, ‘This is the Disk of Goddess, symbol as well of your former mistress. Can you outshine it, Dornan Ural? Should I then keep you and destroy this? You betray your true worth with ever word and gesture. You have nothing to offer me save one thing – and that thing I will take indeed, though I think it will rather pain you to give it up.’

  He spoke a word to the warriors. Grimly they nodded and neared the kneeling Dornan Ural, drawing their swords.

  ‘Please, please,’ the old man moaned, crawling to catch the King’s knees. ‘I have already done your majesty a service! It was no one else but I who captured the Charan of Rukor, who for years ordered the defense of the Citadel!’

  ‘You took him from my vengeance,’ Ara-Karn said, stepping to evade him. ‘You robbed me of him, and left only yourself in his place.’

  ‘Mercy, mercy, I beg of you—’

  ‘You beg?’ There was no passion in the voice of Ara-Karn, only a cold irony. ‘And what of her? What of those times she begged you, as far as her own proud nature would allow her to implore anyone? She trusted you, Dornan Ural – you betrayed her. Did you not once take oath to serve her? She was your mistress. You should have been her ally, her helpmeet, her man. And what did you ever do but disobey her wishes, subvert her every plan and hope, and in the end betray her?’ The voice went on, inhumanly cold, desperately calm. ‘You were willing even to sell her to these savage hordes. And would you have let her suffer that for only some gold and your own worthless life? By the gods who do not exist, you sicken me. But you shall sicken me no longer.’

  He turned and began to walk back through the tent. The warriors reached for Dornan Ural. But terror made him quick – slipping between their arms, he crawled after Ara-Karn. The few steps around the tent seemed farther than between Zaproll and Arpane; ever behind him he heard the footfall of his executioners. The last corner fell back: he beheld bobbing before him the slope of dead earth, the twin thrones, clustered chieftains, and the thousand tents of the barbarians.

  The legs of the King were before Dornan Ural. He gripped them fiercely, sobbing, ‘Mercy, mercy, I implore you! Show you are as great as men call you, by sparing me. If I displease you, I will go away to some island – only grant me life! Else how may you yourself ask mercy some pass from the gods above? Show kindness, and it will be shown to you! Please, please, your majesty…’

  The two warriors stood behind the writhing man. Their faces were heavy with disgust. This was clearly not a task they relished; yet it might also be said that a thing so wretched as this before them were better slain. And, too, they were warriors of the far North, and knew not pity. Unwaveringly they looked into their Warlord’s eyes.

  He nodded. ‘It will not grieve me overmuch if this garb is soiled.’ The words could scarcely be heard above the wailing of the old man.

  Expertly they brought their swords into position. They must aim carefully, to avoid their Warlord’s legs.

  Beyond, the herb-eyed ladies looked on blankly, perhaps with even a faint sparkle of cruel pleasure. But there was revulsion and anger in the eyes of the chieftains. So many times had they killed men in passion and battle, they could not have numbered them all. But they had never killed like this.

  The warriors were on the down-stroke when Ara-Karn said suddenly, ‘Stay!’

  Inexperienced men would have been helpless to obey him, but these were veterans of the wars for two score cities. The heavy blades flashed past the neck and shoulders of the prostrate man, slicing through the folds of his robes before they bit ringing into the stony earth.

  Even as the blades whistled by the ears of Dornan Ural he, sure the very moment of his death had come, loosed a brittle squeal, so loud and piercing it seemed to hang over the outspread tents long after the two warriors had cleaned and sheathed their swords.

  There was a quiet upon the scene as that shriek ceded to the low groan of the wind in th
e tents.

  The chieftains looked with outrage upon the pile of soiled linen and flesh that once had ruled half the Southlands in the name of the Empress and her son. The two warriors seemed relieved that they had not befouled their blades upon such a man and such a death. Of them all, only Ara-Karn remained unmoved. With a gentle turn of his knees he freed his legs front the shaking arms.

  ‘Gather the warriors in the penalty-square,’ he said calmly, ‘and let them form the Tunnel of Spears. Drive this man through it. It is my will he have some life left to him when he emerges from the Tunnel. Then cut his body in pieces and scatter them over the fields, even as these Southrons would have done to Gundoen had they had the chance. Well? Why will you stop and look at me so?’

  ‘Lord,’ Nam-Rog said, ‘that this man was your enemy and has done you harm, I would not deny. Yet what else can you do to him? There is nothing left. How many times will you make as if to kill him? It was in my mind to call that a good act of yours, that you spared him now. Yet if you saved his life only to give him this crueler fate, then I know not what to say, except that I will have no hand in it.’

  ‘Did you not see Gundoen’s body?’

  ‘I will not equal these men’s vileness, whatever this one may have done against us.’

  Ara-Karn frowned. ‘And do you think I make a trial of you now? – or is it rather you who would test my resolve? You grow dangerous, Nam-Rog. And you others, whose side will you take in this, his or mine?’

  None dared speak, but their reply was evident in their eyes.

  ‘Well, I shall force you to do nothing distasteful, now that I have made you greater than kings and given you riches beyond your former imaginings. It strikes me that there are others in the camp who will perform this more as I would wish. Give him to the poorest harlots among the camp-followers, then. They shall work upon him as they please and as their cleverness bids, and be crueler by far than any of the warriors, one of whose spears might slip early and end the entertainment. Let the women know that she whose work is judged most novel in the way I would have it, shall be given his golden pectoral as her reward.’