Samples from books that we have published under the Eartherean Press imprint.
This is another in a series from the first book in the 4-book series The Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn: The Former King.
© 1981 by A. Adam Corby
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License. The license is included as an appendix to this work.
The Dusky Border
THE GOLDEN CLIFFS of the Table shone brightly in their eyes as the warriors of Gundoen’s tribe trudged up the narrow winding trails to the summit. So many generations of the tribes had ascended here, along these very trails, that the stone was worn hollow and smooth. There was not room enough for two men to ride abreast, so the warriors ascended singly. And so many were they that the last warriors had only just worked their way into the light when Gundoen and the leading men had gained the summit. There they paused, waiting for all the warriors to form together before they ascended the last short slopes to where the Assembly was held.
Far, far off in the distance shone the throne of Golden Fire – pale now and a little darker than saffron. From this distance a man might even behold Her a moment unblinking. Her rays were wan and weak, but still they held comfort after the clammy darkness of His world.
They gathered together and led their ponies up the short slope. Before them stretched the campgrounds of the Assembly – a great field shaped like a slightly hollowed plate, the far side in light but the near side mostly shadow. A man standing on the entrance side might behold his own shadow falling vaguely across the field almost to the far lip of the mountaintop.
Scattered over the plate were all the camps of the tribes, the short tents pitched in the plains with cook-fires before and ponies behind them. Here and there were piles of snow, cleared away from the rock before the many tents. Many men went to and fro, setting up their tents, selling beer or linens or weapons in their stalls. The tribes who dwelt near the dusky border always made good trade off the things they could bring to Assembly. Here a crowd gathered about an old man telling tales of the shadowed past, here a group followed a chieftain about as he went to the tents of other chiefs seeking support for his tribe’s suits.
In the center of the great field was a broad shallow pond formed by the frequent rains. Into the pond, through the cracks in the thin skin of ice, several men were dipping their wooden buckets. And beyond the pond, on the far side of the wide plain, stood a tremendous pile of brushwood. There were sticks, branches, and logs there from every forest in the far North.
Gundoen led his men around the edge of the Table to this pile of wood. As he went he could see the men from the other tribes pointing at him in surprise, as if they had not expected to see him here this year. Many dashed off to the tents of their chiefs to tell them the news; a rare few waved and smiled greetings.
When Gundoen’s people reached the pile, they unburdened two ponies whose backs were loaded with cut wood from the forests around their home village. These fagots they threw upon the pile. Every tribe brought their own loads of wood from home. By the size of the pile, Gundoen could see that his was the last tribe to arrive. The pile symbolized the unity and common brotherhood of all the tribes. It would be kept burning throughout the Assembly, to make up in light and warmth what Goddess lacked. It was also a symbol of the resolve of those who had made the Last Stand, the founders of the tribes led by Tont-Ornoth and Born-Karn. And again, it was a sacrifice to God for His favor, for He was said to love destruction of all sort and particularly delighted in burning. After the Speaker of the Law had called the roll of the tribes, then it would be the duty and honor of the current Warlord to light the branches and so begin the Assembly.
Afterward would come the time for any challenges to Gen-Karn’s authority. Yet Gundoen knew that there would be no challenges this year. No champions had yet arisen who could hope to best Gen-Karn, who was still in his prime. Once again he wondered whether it might not be best for him to challenge the Warlord. But he shook his head. Were it only himself, he would take even so slight a chance to slay his enemy. But he had also his people to consider.
Gundoen swept Urnostardil with his sharp eye, searching for the best place to pitch his tents. These things were neither done at random nor in a traditional pattern. Instead tribes who were friendly camped next to each other, to guard each other’s tender rumps, as the saying went, so that each year the camping-patterns changed as tribes fell in and out of friendship with one another.
Now this year on one side of the pond there were many, many tents pitched, many tribes crowded against one another. And in the center of those masses was a single great tent, above which hung the orange banner of Gen-Karn. Banners were rare in the North: Gen-Karn had taken this standard after the fashion of the civilized races of the faraway South, which he had visited in his youth.
On the other side of the pool there were a few lonely tents pitched, with much space between them. These were the tents of the last few independent tribes who yet withstood Gen-Karn’s absolute rule. And between the two groups were some other tents, belonging to the tribes who did not side with Gen-Karn or against him. Some of these were of the lower tribes, whose men were poor warriors at best; others were waiting to see which way the last winds would blow before making their choice.
Gundoen looked about. Hanging about the pile of wood were several men from opposite tribes, waiting to hear what he would choose.
‘Well, now,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘There seems to be little room on the northern side of the Table this year. I can tell it with my eyes closed, whenever the wind blows from the north. Let us camp on the southern side, where we may have the room to stretch out without kicking each other in the groin.’
The men of his tribe chuckled at his words. The others scurried off toward the tent under the orange banner, doubtless to tell Gen-Karn the news and thereby worm themselves into his favor. Rump lickers all, thought Gundoen contemptuously.
So they pitched their tents among the independent tribes, who were glad enough to see them. Gundoen had been the greatest of the independent chiefs ever since Gen-Karn had brutally mutilated Elrikal years before. That had been late in the Warlord’s rise to power, and few of all the tribes had forgotten it. It was not indeed for love of him or for wealth that the small tribes had flocked to Gen-Karn, but simply out of fear. If only something would happen to make them believe Gen-Karn’s power and luck were done, Gundoen thought, they would desert him like flies from a kicked dog-turd.
The other chiefs came to him as soon as he had set up his tents. Gundoen greeted them as they sat cross-legged in their pelt breeks on the soft cured skins he had strewn on the floor of his tent. He had one of his men serve them beer in plain wooden bowls, and he looked them over man by man.
There were Bur-Knap of the River’s-Bend tribe, a stout fellow who loved food and ale too much but had a sturdy heart for all that; Ring-Sol of the Archeros, a hot-blooded youth who hated Gen-Karn because the Warlord had taken his prettiest concubine in a raid over a year before; Ven-Vin-Van of the Borsos, whose good green eyes twinkled in the dimness. Also had come Nam-Rog, the chief second in importance here only to Gundoen, and Gundoen’s firmest friend among the other chiefs. Behind them sat Kepa-Trim of the Karghil tribe, who did not object very much to Gen-Karn or his rule, but opposed him because the Buzrahs had been among the first to support Gen-Karn. Between Buzrah and Karghil there had been bitter hatred since the beginning of time. And beside Kepa-Trim sat Ren-Tionan, who led the remnants of Elrikal’s once-mighty tribe and who would have cut out his own liver with a rusty knife, if he could only have bought Gen-Karn’s death thereby.
According to custom, they did not at first speak of what had brought them all together. First they sipped at their ale and discussed the health of the women left at home, and how harsh they guessed the winter would be this year, and how many babes would die of the cold. And finally they complimented Gundoen on his victory over the wretched Korlas, Ring-Sol voicing the wish that a similar fate might shortly overtake Gen-Karn.
Then they came at last to the politics of the Assembly.
The more important of the cases were discussed, with guesses at the probable voting. Each tribe would receive one vote, and then additional votes depending on how many warriors the tribe boasted.
And upon every case where the verdict was not clear-cut one way or the other, the voting seemed to stand one party against the other: Gen-Karn and his tribes voting one way, Gundoen and the independents voting the other. Among these cases was the suit by the surviving Korlas. And in every case, as things stood now, Gen-Karn’s men would gain the victory.
‘Things are foul indeed,’ said Nam-Rog, shaking his bristling gray beard. ‘If only you had come sooner, Gundoen, some of the smaller tribes would not have sided with Gen-Karn. As it was, there was talk you might never arrive. It is an open secret that Gen-Karn set ambushing war-parties along the major paths to your village.’
‘I thought as much,’ grunted Gundoen. ‘That’s why I went down along the Spine, avoiding the most-used trails. The journey took me longer than I had thought. Still, I am here on time, am I not?’
‘Too late, too late,’ moaned Ven-Vin-Van, closing his green eyes. ‘The small tribes have already chosen. They have despaired; now our cause is lost.’
‘It is not so bad as that, my friend,’ chuckled Nam-Rog. ‘There are still several neutral tribes who could come over to us. And I have been in contact with several chiefs who are now camped on the northern side. Now that you have come, Gundoen, they may still join us. All they await is a sign.’
‘Yes, a sign!’ exclaimed Ring-Sol. ‘We looked for him among your party, but saw only familiar faces. But among so many, who can pick out a one? You have brought enough warriors for a war, chief Gundoen – and well will we need them. Yet most of all we need the one. Where is he?’
‘Yes, where?’ demanded Ren-Tionan.
‘Yes, Gundoen,’ added Nam-Rog. ‘Old friend, I expected you to display him by your side, as crafty as you can be. Where is Ara-Karn?’
‘Ara-Karn!’ demanded all the others. ‘Where is he? His fame has spread before him. Show us this man they speak of as if he were half a god!’
Gundoen bowed his massive head for a moment.
‘His fame was spread by me,’ he said softly. ‘I had hoped his legend would give Gen-Karn pause. Yet now he is gone. Before we came to Urnostardil, he left us and traveled back toward Gerso.’
‘Foolish man!’ cried Ren-Tionan in anguish. ‘We needed him!’
‘Tionan, hold your tongue,’ Gundoen ordered, looking at him sternly. ‘Could I stop him from going, him who was as dear to me as my own son might have been? He would go; I could not but let him.’
He looked around at their crestfallen faces and saw that the only hope that had held them together was now departed. They are defeated already, he thought. Gen-Karn will have his victory.
‘Still he has left us something,’ he said with cheer in his voice. ‘Something of which not one of you has heard. The fame of this thing I would not spread. It will be the key to the door of our success, as the Southrons say. He gave it to us and showed us many of its uses – though still I do not know all of its uses in warfare. Yet this thing, and only this thing, gave my tribe our great victory over the Korlas.’
He set down his bowl and reached behind him. From his opened pack he drew it forth.
‘Behold before you, fellow-chiefs, the weapon called the bow.’
Carefully he laid it before them. Black it was and doubly curved – the great bow none but Gundoen’s strong arms could bend. They touched it gingerly, questioningly. They handed it between themselves. They turned it this way and that, frowning, chattering among themselves.
‘Is it magic?’ they asked. And: ‘It looks like something for music. Yet it has but one string.’ And: ‘Surely you are jesting, Gundoen. Where is the rest of it?’
Gundoen smiled. ‘The melody this plays brings death. Try to draw back the string.’
They tried – hesitantly at first, then with determination. None could draw it back more than a finger’s length.
‘It was made too powerful for your arms,’ he explained. ‘Yet they can be fashioned in any strength by him who knows their secrets. Only a fist of men in my tribe know those secrets yet: he himself taught them. With only one of these, and one death-bird’ – and he showed them a long black arrow – ‘a man can bring a fully grown bull bandar to the earth.’
They looked their disbelief.
He laughed. ‘Very well, then – follow and behold the proof.’
They went out of the tent to the rear, out of sight of the orange banner. There Gundoen had a heavy sack of meal placed on end upon a rock, covered with a leathern breastplate. A hundred paces away he stood and drew the shaft swiftly to his ear. A hum sounded; down the field the sack fell into the snow with a crunch.
Meal was pouring from it like blood from a dying man.
Gundoen grinned at their amazement. They flocked down to the sack, examining the protruding arrow. Gundoen brandished the bow before them. ‘For every man of mine there is a bow; for every bow two score arrows. And every arrow has the death of one of our foes upon its sharp tongue. You said I brought many men, Ring-Sol. But you did not know how many men.’ He laughed at their consternation, a confidence he did not truly feel in the center of his laughter. ‘For every hundred of my men, two score hundred of my enemies will surely die. Now let the tale of that circulate about the camps, Nam-Rog, and see how many of the tribes remain with Gen-Karn!’
And it was even as Gundoen had foretold. Like rainwater on slick rock, the tale of this magic spread over the Table. The tents of the tribes buzzed with it; with every telling the weapon became more deadly and fantastic. Other chiefs came to Gundoen – neutral chiefs as well as chiefs who had pitched on the northern side. And to all of them he showed the bow, though he did not again demonstrate it.
‘Gundoen does not lie,’ he said simply. ‘As for proofs, I do not wish to waste another sack of hard-packed grain. One of you stand forth, then, and I will show the others how this works upon a man.’ They wondered and shook their heads doubtfully. But not a one of them would volunteer.
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 pelts 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?
