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 Darkbeast Head
THE FLAPS of his tent drawn up so that he could look out at all of them, Gundoen addressed his men. These were the warriors and the fellow-chiefs who were all dependent upon him; these were the men whose lives were in his hands. And these were the men he had condemned by his own decision to die.
Yet he would not doom them unknowingly. To them all he gave the choice, telling them what Gen-Karn had told him, though in words of his own choosing. And when he spoke to them of the flight before Elna and the Last Stand, he could see that their eyes shone as brightly as his own must have done. Their teeth flashed at the thought of vengeance upon those who had done their ancestors wrong. They yearned for the masses of gold, lusted for the soft loins of Southron women, and longed to be free of their hard, rocky lives in the frozen North. And finally they burned with resentment, thinking of the only Southrons most of them had ever known, the thief-merchants from Gerso – soft, pampered men with the smell of women.
When he had finished, Gundoen gave them their choice. ‘Nor will I tell you of my own mind until you have given me yours,’ he told them. ‘Yet this only would I add: that though Gen-Karn has offered to lead jointly with us, that is but a word that has flown from his tongue. And words once uttered are free as the birds, as they say. Gen-Karn will not be content to let any other man gainsay him. He alone will rule this thing, and we will be no more than any of the other tribes below him. And if at any time we went to him to claim an equal share of any of the loot, he would put us off with soft sweet words, and then – well, you all know how cunning is our Warlord.’
‘Treacherously cunning,’ swore Ren-Tionan.
‘So what would you have me do?’ asked Gundoen. ‘Shall we stand up to this man or shall we go and kiss his curling toes?’
Bur-Knap of the River’s-Bend tribe rose to speak. He stroked his bristling beard for a moment, then began. ‘For the war against the Southrons, well. It is time indeed we paid back those dung-sniffers and avenged those whose blood still stains these rocks.’ A rippling murmur of assent rose to echo his sentiments.
‘But as for Gen-Karn,’ he added, ‘there can be but a single answer. To join in peace with that man is to invite the Darkbeast to share your tent. I will go on no war-parties where he might be standing at my back.’
‘Never,’ swore Ren-Tionan.
And ‘Never so long as I taste the air,’ added Ring-Sol of the Archeros. And ‘No, never,’ said all the rest of them, down to the last man.
Gundoen nodded. ‘It is well,’ he said. ‘That was my own mind also. Then leave to me how we shall answer Gen-Karn. And keep your blades sharpened; they will be drawn for blood soon enough.’
‘Have we not the bow?’ cried Ven-Vin-Van suddenly. ‘And how shall they stand against it?’
‘The bow, the bow,’ they chanted; and the chant became a cheer. And they laughed, as Gundoen smiled sadly on them, to think of Gen-Karn with an arrow protruding from his mouth. They laughed and cheered so hard that the men in Gen-Karn’s camp heard only the joy in their throats and none of the desperate doom. And Gen-Karn nodded in his luxuriant tents, smiling at the happy sounds of assent and dreaming of the golden women of the South.
The horns blared, the great wooden drums beat. It was the signal for the opening of the Assembly of all the tribes of the far North. The warriors of the tribes came out of their tents, forming a large ring around the dark pond in the center of Urnostardil. They grouped according to their tribes, each chieftain bearing the color or totem of his tribe. Foremost in honor were those who represented the original eighteen tribes who had survived Elna’s assaults on the Table. After them were the more numerous lesser tribes, whose ancestors had split off from the original tribes when the numbers of a tribe had grown too great for the area it claimed. Some of these later tribes were now larger and more powerful than the tribes they had once been part of.
In the center of it all, near the dark pond, stood Bar-East, his oaken staff in hand. So long had he leaned upon that staff, over the hills of so many lands, that by now it seemed a part of him. Where he was used to hold it was worn slick and white. To have seen Bar-East standing without his staff would have been almost to behold him in his nakedness.
Bar-East rapped the staff loudly upon the rock, and the horns and wooden drums fell silent. The murmurings of gossip and politics that were upon the lips of many men were stilled. A silence swept across the gently curving summit of Urnostardil the Table.
Bar-East spoke.
‘Are all the tribes of the North assembled?’ he called out. ‘If there are any tribes not yet present or who are not yet ready to meet here in peace, let their names be called out.’ He waited, but there was no response.
‘Let us be gathered then in peace. Begin the roll, chieftains, and call out your tribes in order with the numbers.’
Nam-Rog then stepped forward, for this year his tribe was gathered in the first position.
‘I am Nam-Rog, chief of the Durbars. And we are seven score times a score and more warriors strong. Our tribe is ready.’ As Nam-Rog stepped back, the warriors who had accompanied him yelled, stamped, and rattled their swords on their shields.
The next to step toward the pond was Kepa-Trim. ‘I be Kepa-Trim of the Karghils!’ he shouted fiercely, scowling across the Table to where the Buzrah tribe was massed. ‘We number five score times a score and more warriors and we are ready! So let the dung-sniffing Buzrahs beware!’
The Karghil men shouted and cheered, but they were almost shouted down by the curses and jeers volleyed at them by the Buzrahs.
‘Silence!’ shouted Bar-East, pounding his staff upon the rock. ‘Let all tribes wait their turn!’
So it went from tribe to tribe, each chieftain identifying himself, his tribe, and his strength. The full rounds would take some time, for every tribe would cheer upon hearing its name, and each tribe tried to shout louder and longer than the tribe that had gone before. And there were many tribes to go through.
In the midst of the proceedings, after he had identified his own tribe, Gundoen felt a man plucking at his wrist. He turned around. It was a man of the Orn tribe called Ful-Dar-Drin.
‘I have been sent by the Warlord, great Gen-Karn,’ the man shouted over the din. ‘He wishes to know why you have not yet come to him with your answer. Also he wishes to know your answer now. And he bids me to remind you that if your answer is no, he still has the power to take what he wishes.’
Gundoen looked across the pond and saw before the massed warriors of the Orn tribe Gen-Karn, resplendent in his shining stolen armor of the Southlands. The Warlord was looking intently back at him. Gundoen smiled, and nodded his head, like one friend to another. Gen-Karn’s grim face brightened, and he nodded back pleased, as if all were agreed upon.
The din of noise quieted somewhat. A minor chief on the other side of the pond was identifying himself. ‘You may tell your master these words from me,’ Gundoen said over his shoulder, still keeping his eyes upon Gen-Karn. ‘That the reason I have not gone to him is that Gundoen does not go to babes or women or weaklings, but they must come to me. Also you may say that I was reluctant to sit with him again, because after he has had too much beer Gen-Karn belches, and the stink of it is enough to offend any man not born in filth as all Orns are. As to his proposal, tell him that I agree we should war upon the Southrons and that I will be glad to lead Gen-Karn in battle, provided he first come to me and kiss each of my curling toes in all humility and swear to serve me well. Can you remember all of that, Ful-Dar-Drin?’
The Orn spluttered. ‘I cannot say that to Gen-Karn!’
‘Why not?’ Gundoen shrugged cheerfully. ‘Are you not a free man? Those are the words I give you. Now give them back to Gen-Karn.’
Cursing beneath his breath, the Orn left to make the wide circle back to the Orn position. Gundoen smiled broadly across the pond and nodded again. Gen-Karn nodded eagerly back and held up ten fingers, as if to say, ‘In less than ten years’ time.’
The messenger worked his way among the massed Orns. He reached Gen-Karn. Gundoen could see him speaking softly into the ear of the Warlord. Gundoen caught the eyes of Nam-Rog and Ren-Tionan and pointed across to Gen-Karn as if to say, ‘Watch, and you shall see a thing.’
Gen-Karn’s face turned first white, then red, and finally a deep blossoming purple. His curling beard parted to show his animal teeth. With one metal-clad arm he lifted Ful-Dar-Drin up and threw him to the earth.
Gundoen broke into laughter. Behind him he could hear his warriors also laughing. ‘By the Goddess, what a sight!’ he exclaimed to them. ‘Now even if we die to the last man, it will all have been worth it, thrice over!’
The cheering of the Buzrah tribe came to an end. It was time for the Orn chieftain to stand forward.
Gen-Karn came forth in silence, his gigantic frame quivering with rage. Scarcely could he speak – twice he opened his mouth before the words came forth. The warriors of the tribes of the far North looked upon him with dismay. It had suddenly struck them as a real thing, that this year the Assembly would end in civil war.
Gen-Karn cried out, in a voice as cold as the eye of God, these words: ‘I am Gen-Karn of the Orn tribe and Warlord of you all! We number fifteen score times a score and more warriors, and it is we who are the greatest fighters of the North! And if Gundoen will have war, then let every man of you decide in his heart whether he desires to stand with me or die with him!’
The tumult that followed must have carried all the way to the lands where men dwell. Not a single tribe refrained – it had come to that last choice, when every tribe must be judged either for Gen-Karn or against him. The followers of Gen-Karn beat their shields, their drums, their booted feet against the rocks and snow. And their opponents jeered and hooted and stamped their own feet. The hollowed surface of Urnostardil became like some primitive drum of the immortal gods, its deafening heartbeat echoing off the massy clouds of the dark heavens. Had any wanderer come so far into the Darklands beyond the dusky border, he would have seen the golden cliffs of fire and heard those savage, demonic cries, and he would have fled the scene in terror for his very sanity.
Gundoen cheered and jeered with all the others. One of his followers shouted, with all the might of his lungs, into the chief’s ear: ‘Worry not, Chief – have we not the bow? We’ll slay these doglets yet!’
Then Gundoen gave off his cheering and looked away. Several of the tribes that had joined him after the word of the bow went round now seemed to have taken affright at the Warlord’s terrible visage and changed sides again. No more than a quarter of all the warriors on Urnostardil would dare to oppose Gen-Kara with blood. The bows had been of great help against the wretched Korlas, penned in their little village, but here, on an open field against Orn warriors, Gundoen had sad doubts.
The shouting went on for longer than a man would have cared to count. Passions grew strained in it, and, except for the fear of being the first to break the peace of the Assembly, many of the tribes might have leapt upon each other there and then. Yet their chieftains quietened the braves, and gradually the tumult subsided. Many men were hoarse from it; they fell down to the dark icy waters of the central pond and sucked up drink like so many wild beasts. And the last few tribes identified themselves in a strange silence. There were no more cries: the warriors heaved their broad, gleaming chests in convulsive pants, their hair wild and streaming, staring at one another with wide and awful eyes. Through the scene crackled a mixture of lust and fear – a lust for combat and mad blood, a fear of what might be the result.
Finally it was done. The roll of the tribes was now complete. The circle had come around again. Every man seemed to draw back a pace within himself and take firm hold of his soul. Several swords were sheathed, followed by many more.
Bar-East, the ancient wanderer of the far North, stepped out into the center once again.
‘It is done,’ he said wearily. He rapped the staff upon the rock again. Its sound was like a brittle tapping after the roar that had before resounded in the darkness. Bar-East faced Gen-Karn. The chieftain of the Orns, of all warriors, was the only one still raging. He had not taken his eye off Gundoen since Ful-Dar-Drin had spoken the message in his ear. Still his shoulders worked back and forth, still his chest plate rose and fell, still his fist-bones shone as they tightened upon the handle of his great heavy sword.
Bar-East faced him and spoke. ‘Now it is time, chieftain. Now let him who is our Warlord step forward and take the torch.’
Something of the quality of a man came back to Gen-Karn. He sighed, and took his gaze off Gundoen. He seemed to realize now where he was and what there was for him to do.
Bar-East stood at the edge of the dark pond. In his hand he held a bundle of long dry twigs bound by two gut strings. Below, at his feet in the melted snow, a small cook-fire was faintly crackling. Gen-Karn came and took the twigs from Bar-East.
In one hand he held the twigs and in the other his still-naked sword. He stooped suddenly and thrust the bundle of twigs into the cook-fire. He twirled it about a bit, a spume of smoke arose, then the twigs lighted in a burst.
A subdued cheer sounded. This was the beginning of the solemn rites of Assembly.
Gen-Karn swung the flaming brand triumphantly about his head, the flames running in circles in the air. He gave a single, horrible glance at Gundoen; then he stepped toward the huge pile of twigs and logs, assembled from all the forests of the far North and representing the unity of all the tribes and the memory of their ancient call of vengeance. As soon as Gen-Karn should ignite the pile, Bar-East would recite the litany of the Law, from beginning to end; and then the suits would begin. Now that the time of the suits had come, the warriors broke into buzzing groups, trying to gain in the final moments whatever support they had failed so far to gain, or else make sure of those promises they had already acquired. The buzzing slowly grew in intensity. For his own part Gundoen stayed apart from them, letting Nam-Rog argue for their interests. A strange sadness had suddenly come over the chief – ever since he had laughed at Gen-Karn’s purpled face. He knew it would be red war and was resolved to it, but he hated to admit that Hertha-Toll’s prophecy would prove its power over him.
A sudden cry sounded from the Table’s far side.
Gen-Karn never got to light the pile of wood.
He stood but a pace away, ready to thrust the brand into the dried wood – ready to initiate the Assembly which would finally deliver all the tribes into his hands, which would at last begin the work that would see him revenged upon the civilized lords and their laughing ladies, no matter what the cost. He took that last step and lifted the torch above his head. Then the cry of startled alarm sounded.
And an arc of living flame shot through the darkened air. It moved like God, yet shone like Goddess, through the darkened, frozen air. It passed like a bird of prey arching for the kill; and it lighted in the midst of the great pile of wood. The flame lighted softly beneath its thin coat of snow, yet it spread with speed through the dried, dead wood, bringing it alive in the process of consuming it. Branch, twig, and log ignited. In moments it was all ablaze, a great fire roaring upon the golden crown of Urnostardil like the jewel of Overlordship in the darkness beyond Her, where only Darkbeasts and Madpriests might live. So intense were those sudden flames that Gen-Karn could not stand them even in his fine Southron armor. He tossed his little brand to the ground, turned his back, and stepped away.
With astonied rage he looked about to see who had done this thing, robbing him of his right. At the other end of the Table, over where the wandering Goat’s-Track finally reached the summit, he saw through the masses of warriors a single man step forward, clad only lightly despite the cold in a simple skin hunting-tunic.
He seemed a tall man, though, of course, not so tall as Gen-Karn; a strong man, though, again, not so strong as Gen-Karn; and his square black beard was not so dark as Gen-Karn’s. And in his hand he held a strange instrument of curved wood, such as Gen-Karn had briefly seen a few of Gundoen’s warriors wearing. And he was a stranger – not of any of the tribes of the far North. And even across so great a distance, Gen-Karn could see his dark eyes greenly glittering.
Behind the stranger another man appeared: Kuln-Holn, the cracked-pate of Gundoen’s tribe. He, with the help of two others who had been standing nearby, was dragging a large, heavy burden from a weary pony. When they had got it down, they cut away the ropes binding it and tore off the concealing pelts, and a cry of wonderment rose from the crowds. For beneath the pelts was an enormous head still stained with flowing black blood.
It was the severed head of an enormous Darkbeast.
‘Alone he hunted it!’ cried Kuln-Holn above the hubbub. ‘And alone slew it! Only I watched, and I did no more than help him bear it up the cliffs. With fire he blinded it, with fire slew it! Three score strokes it took to sever it from the body!
‘Men of the far North, behold the man who has done it, the man sent us from the gods – behold Ara-Karn!’
In the awed silence that followed, the stranger spoke. And his low tones somehow were heard even above the roar of the flames.
He said, ‘Wherever he is, let Gen-Karn step forward. I challenge him the right to lead the tribes.’
