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.
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 looked 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.
‘O Hertha,’ he muttered, ‘Hertha, you too were lovely once. Why did you change? – and why was your belly cursed?’
§
THE CITY burned on between the mountains. Behind the bulky figure of the chief, Kuln-Holn the Pious One clambered uncertainly up the pile. Darker than shadows were the two of them, soot-stained against the flaring city.
‘Gundoen,’ Kuln-Holn called plaintively. ‘Gundoen, where is Ara-Karn?’
The chief did not move at first, so Kuln-Holn must repeat his question. Then the chief’s head rose and he looked around. Their eyes met, and for the first time in the lives of these men, so different in their ways, a look of fellowship, sympathy – of understanding, even – passed between them. Gundoen’s eyes were worried also. He shook his head and reared one massive, sweat- and blood-streaked arm. He pointed behind Kuln-Holn into the center of the flames.
‘He is – there.’
Anxiously Kuln-Holn mounted the ashy slope, fast as his weary legs might bear him. Before him the city blazed. The narrowing rocky cliffs roofed over with smoke reminded him of a dream he once had had, an ill dream of captivity and fruitless sufferings. Great fragile flakes of ash fell over him, burnt bitter raindrops. He came to the limits of the city, where the flames rose; for a moment the very spirit within Kuln-Holn quailed, and he desired greatly to turn back among the tents. But thither had his master gone, and there too must Kuln-Holn be. Kuln-Holn wrapped his cloak over his body to above his mouth and struggled up.
Through his shoes he felt the heat of the stone-paved thoroughfare. He cast his eyes about. There was no movement save for the flames: they rose up all about him, great blinding veils. Hot winds swirled about, clawing him. Dizzily he went forward, choking on the fumes. He ran alongside streams of boiling water. His eyes were burning, baked too dry now to weep. How was it that anything might abide alive in this?
‘Master!’ he cried, his voice lost in the cloak. ‘Master!’
Only the flames answered him. Half blinded, he thought he saw a thing ahead of him, dark and tall and steadfast. He made out a rider on horseback. ‘Master!’ Kuln-Holn wailed, but the rider was only an ancient statue of Elna in a square, headless and scarred.
Darkness found the eyes of Kuln-Holn. His woolen cloak was smoldering in his nose. He went on fiercely. So many streets – had he lost his way? Behind him a roof fell crashing into the tempest of flame where once a happy family had dwelt. Kuln-Holn ran at the sound. Now he knew he could not turn back but must win the far side of the city. That or perish here.
‘Goddess, dear Lady,’ he groaned, ‘aid me, please help me!’
The Governor-General’s palace reared blazing before him. Kuln-Holn staggered by. The fire opened before him, and Kuln-Holn crawled through, his hands blistering on the stones’ heat. He fell and, gasping, terror-borne, rose.
Far away overhead it seemed to him he saw a figure – a little upright thing upon the high framing of the Gates, there where it spanned like a bridgeway the gap between the mountains.
In the barracks room it was dark, and Kuln-Holn could at first see little. Wearily he mounted the time-hollowed stone steps, coming at last to a narrow wooden doorway a little open. Kuln-Holn pulled aside the door and ventured forth.
Through the Pass the cool winds streamed soothingly, flowing like the potions of Hertha-Toll upon the tortured body of the Pious One. Swiftly the airs ran, so high above the earth, yet for all that sweet. Upon either hand the deep Pass gaped for him. Dizzily he ventured forth across the narrow stone walkway and neared the upright figure.
‘Lord,’ he said, ‘all the warriors feast below in the honor you have brought them. They fought, but now make merry. You should behold the treasure they have got! Now surely all the tribes may be wealthy and at peace. We may be content now. Lord, is it not so?’
There was no answer from the other. Slowly and strangely the head came round.
The gusting winds tore at the long hair, concealing and unmasking the face of Ara-Karn. That was black with soot. Sparks glowed still in his cloak and tunic; even his beard was singed and smoking. In his hand he lightly held his dagger, and Kuln-Holn thought of the sacrifice they had made below. On the stones beside his master’s feet lay the sword, dark still with the priestess’ life. He stood with his legs wide-planted, the toes of his boots just over the edge of the stone, his arms held somewhat out. Below him the huge Gates were outflung to embrace the burning city; the fire leapt high in maddened dance. As a man returned from a long fruitless hunt in the snowy gloom of Winter, whose eyebrows and beard are thick with rime, will stand over the hearth-fire gratefully and happily and warm his chill hands a little: so stood Ara-Karn, and held his arms out somewhat. The lurid gleams lighted up his frontward half like red gold in a smith’s brick-pit: all but his eyes.
He looked toward his prophet, but Kuln-Holn knew not if he saw him. His eyes, open as a statue’s, were flat and pale, like little cups of greenish milk. There was no joy or anger, hatred or longing in those eyes: only curiosity, and a monstrous wonder, as it were to say, So.
‘Lord,’ said Kuln-Holn haltingly, ‘now the merchants who have robbed us are punished, and the city of the wicked laid to naught. The tribes are one. Wealth beyond my telling is ours. Is this not all you were bidden to? What is yet to do?’
The face of Ara-Karn returned to the burning city. The flames leapt and danced and roared as though to pay him, their liberator, tribute. He said, so faintly Kuln-Holn could scarcely hear him, ‘And how does it please you, Kuln-Holn, to see what you have wrought?’
‘Lord, I will not take Her work away from Her. I was no better than a knot in the handle of Her hammer. Yet surely it cannot be denied Her wrath is no little thing.’
The Warlord had no words to that. Then it was, an overbearing weariness came upon Kuln-Holn, and he curled up on the stones away from the edge and slept.
§
WHEN HE WOKE, there was a stiffness in his back. There was a foulness in his mouth as well, a taste like burning he thought he had forgotten. He looked up the twisting Pass.
Just a little of the pine trees could he see from here. The sky looked good to bring out the fish from their catch-holes. He wondered how Turin Tim did, and how much little Bart-Karan had grown. He turned back his head gently. He saw his master standing at the lip of the stone, his legs wide-planted, even as before.
Kuln-Holn rose. The ruins of the city below were dark now, and consumed. Only a few embers yet glowed in those rocky ash-fields that had once been Gerso, city of merchants, the northernmost fastness of the old Empire of Elna. Through the pale haze of smoke Kuln-Holn could see the treasure-mound much diminished, and the many tents, and the green valley beyond. A road cut the fields, and Kuln-Holn bethought himself of all those who had fled.
‘Lord,’ he said unthinkingly, ‘that thing that you did to the boy – was it right?’
Ara-Karn looked back, stooped, and picked up and sheathed his sword. So Kuln-Holn saw his face and was comforted, for it was again the face of a mortal man.
‘It is what I have done.’
So saying, the Warlord of the far North went across the warm stones toward the dark doorway, down to the army awaiting him.
