Samples from books that we have published under the Eartherean Press imprint.
This is another in a series from the second book in the 4-book series The Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn: The Divine Queen.
© 1982 by A. Adam Corby
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License.
‘The Lone Chieftain, Who Majestic Stalks’
WHEN THAT HARSH CRY, uttered in the guttural tongue of the far North, pierced the stillness of the great tent, Ampeánor leapt instantly to his feet; but there he hesitated. That surprise that had formerly been upon his side was now turned against him. The barbarian, sensing the movement in the gloom, had also risen. Surely, Ampeánor thought, he had seen the outlines of this man before. There could not be two men of such massive girth. The man standing before him, who had entered so proprietarily this tent of Ara-Karn, was none other than the barbarian general Gundoen.
His thoughts took on wings in those fleeting moments. All his former assurances fell away. Could Ara-Karn be a myth; or might he have fallen long before, as some rumored, and the chiefs concealed the falling to hold secure their own positions? Had Gen-Karn perhaps meant Gundoen when he had spoken of the ‘barge-robber?’ Was this man all that stood between him and victory?
The massy-thewed general did not seem in the least alarmed at the presence of an unknown intruder in the tent. Rather, he stood poised wavering, as though uncertain in his own mind what he should do – as if he might have expected some arrival at any time. Again he repeated his question, moving warily to a lamp.
Ampeánor did not move. He knew escape was impossible; and that he would stand no chance of overcoming that enormous frame of wood-knotted muscle. Convulsively, cursing with all bitterness, he unwound the cord biting into the flesh of his bunched fists.
Using an ember from one of the covered braziers, the barbarian lighted the lamp. In its flaring light, he surveyed intently the man he had caught. No trace of alarm touched the broad, war-scarred features. He was either supremely confident or indifferent.
‘Who are you?’ he asked roughly. ‘I had hoped – What do you do in the tent of Ara-Karn? Step closer to the light that I may see you better. Ah – a Southron. I should have expected it. Not a one of you has any honor. Come to see what you could steal?’
Anger flared in Ampeánor. Never before had any man spoken thus to the High Charan of Rukor. But he remembered this man held his life; and that Allissál his beloved was in deadly danger from the treachery of the Gerso. He shrugged.
‘I wanted to see the tent,’ he said evenly. ‘A lot has been said of your king, and I was curious.’
‘He’s your king, too, Southron. When you leave here you will be searched. In the coffers of this tent is more wealth than you’ve probably ever seen in your life. I suppose that did not tempt you?’
‘Not much. How could I have borne it past the guards?’
‘How did you get in?’
‘I cut a slit in the tent wall at back. My weapons are still there.’
‘If any of the guards are involved I’ll have their heads. Their patrols must be changed to see this cannot occur again. Well, Southron, have you seen enough? A better dwelling than you’ve ever been in in your dog’s life, eh?’
‘Fit for better than any barbarian,’ he replied angrily.
Unexpectedly, the general chuckled. ‘You’re honest at least. That’s more than I can say for most of your lot.’
‘Is this your tent?’
The barbarian’s eyes narrowed. ‘This is the tent of Ara-Karn.’
‘Who is Ara-Karn?’
Gundoen laughed. ‘Oh, no, you would not want to know, Southron! Perhaps if the gods dislike you, they will introduce him to you.’
‘I trust in no gods, barbarian. Only myself.’
The barbarian regarded him awhile in silence. Then, casually, ‘You civilized men are a blasphemous lot. That is why you are conquered. Ara-Karn is the scourge of God; Goddess sent him to punish your disbelief. So our prophets say.’
‘I do not believe it. What does Gundoen say?’
‘You know who I am?’
‘Who does not?’
He frowned. ‘Who are you?’
‘Torval. A Rukorian fightingman. I joined only recently.’
‘You sound an educated man. You have heard philosophers?’
‘Some.’
‘And what do they teach you of religion?’
‘Not much. There are many rituals, which we leave to the priestesses whose business it is. Certainly we do not exalt a man because he is the most brutal of us, and call him god.’
‘What are your emperors, then?’
‘That is superstition. Also good politics. But for me every emperor must prove his worth before I give him my loyalty. Bad emperors are as much demons as good ones are gods.’
‘And what,’ the barbarian asked slowly, ‘say they concerning prophecy?’
Ampeánor considered. The question seemed to refer directly to the carven words of the Prophetess, deep in the crypts of the Palace. Only agents chosen personally by the Empress had ever seen those words. The hand of the Gerso again.
‘I have heard of some women, mostly peasants and mountain-maids, who are said to have that gift,’ he said guardedly. ‘But I have seen only one. And if it is true, why do they not gain great wealth or power? But it is said the Prophetess of Elna had the power.’
The barbarian did not seem to recognize the name. ‘Were her prophecies true?’
‘Some were. Some have yet to come to pass.’
The huge man sat in the throne again. ‘It does not help me,’ he muttered. ‘Is there no way to tell a true prophecy from a false?’
‘Who finds such a way will be the most powerful man in the world. Perhaps,’ he added, ‘your Ara-Karn has found it.’
‘I wish he were here,’ the barbarian murmured. ‘He should not spend so much time away. And what does he accomplish there?’
‘And when will he return?’ asked Torval softly.
‘Who can say? He comes and goes according to his own purposes. Perhaps the next sleep; perhaps not until we stand outside the limits of Tarendahardil.’
Why Tarendahardil? ‘Where is he now?’
The barbarian came to himself with a start. ‘For a thief your tongue is busy, Southron. Get you gone. Guards!’ he bawled, and they appeared, evincing astonishment at the sight of Ampeánor. ‘Search this man well. If he has one thing he should not, cut off his hand. If he has two things he should not, cut off his head. And beat him soundly for a spy, and mark his features well. Summon the chiefs also. With the next rising of dark God, we will attack this mountain fastness. I grow bored.’
Strong hands were clapped upon Ampeánor and he was dragged into the light. The guards, shamed in their failure before the general, took out all their anger upon their prisoner. Never before had Ampeánor’s person been subjected to such gross affronts. Anger flamed up in him such as he had never known; and yet for all that, he held himself to hand, and never answered their calumnies and brutalities but humbly. So it is said that there, alone and unknown, the High Charan of Rukor had his sternest testing at the hands of two wrathful barbarian warriors and the painted camp-followers who had gathered at the edges of the clearing to watch the show.
When they discovered the Darkbeast-tooth, the two men showed surprise, and were assured he must have stolen it: ‘For only our bravest warriors have won the right to wear such things; and how then might a thieving Southron hound acquire it?’
But he put them off with a fable of having won it off a barbarian gaming; and they, as fools, accepted the tale. Or perhaps it was only that they wished not to be shown ignorant before Gundoen should the tale prove true. So he lost not his hand; but they beat him all the more fiercely for it. In a bloody mist, Ampeánor took the blows, and kept his spirit busy with the memory of all those barbarians he had slain in Tezmon upon the temple steps. In the end the blows drove the spirit from his body; he woke uneasily and in great pain in Jakgron’s tent, ministered with care by the tongueless old woman.
§
GENERALED BY GUNDOEN, the massed armies of Ara-Karn, warriors of the tribes of the far North and mercenaries and brigands of the civilized races, moved slowly up the slopes toward the mountain fastness of Bollakarvil, birthplace of Elna. Smoothly the interlocked long lines moved forward. The light did not reflect much off their dingy, battered armor, well-worn leather tunics and the plain cord grips of their well-sharpened blades. The gaudy finery, brilliant banners, and golden armor were left behind in the camps below. Such things were pretty: they marked a man’s status: but this was business.
They approached the iron gates of Bollakarvil, dust rising sluggishly from beneath their many-thousanded feet. The renegades stood to the fore, with the barbarian bowmen just behind them. No excitement showed on their bearded, metal-shadowed faces. There were no chants or savage cries. They came to a halt in accord to the shouts of their leaders.
Vague yells sounded from the battlements of the steep city. Faces appeared above the walls and as quickly vanished. Rocks and boulders began to rain down from the heights. The veteran barbarians expertly dodged, reforming lines after the missiles passed. The lines edged closer to the walls. Bows were raised, arrows loosed. Men died on the walls, crushed beneath the weight of the very stones they had been about to hurl. A few harsh laughs rose from the masses below the walls.
The renegades brought up two ramming-machines, great frameworks of wood and iron drawn by many oxen. Beneath leather awnings the rams swung to and fro, ponderously, iron-shod, suspended on heavy chains. The renegades under barbarian taskmasters strained against the rams. Above them men appeared with cauldrons of flaming oil, but the death-birds were loosed and the fire spilled upon the inner courtyard. Black smoke flowered over the gates with the screams of the dying. The rams played their music on the iron of the gates like thunder: throom-ah, throom-ah, throom-ah, dhroomb! The metal groaned, shrieked, gave. The bars snapped with a screech and the gates sprang inward, orange flames and black billows welcoming the armies of Ara-Karn.
They swarmed in, choking rude chants. ‘Ara-Karn!’ they rumbled, ‘Ka-Ara-Karn!’ The name roused the fury of the barbarians behind. The renegades were shoved forward, trampling and slaying the few remaining Imperial guardsmen. Swords rose and fell, spraying red. The corpses were kicked aside. The invaders burst coughing past the smoke, rapidly filling the courtyard.
Ampeánor hung back as much as he could manage, sick at the stench and blood and ease with which the city fell. Between them, and the savage soreness of his battered, blackened body, it seemed to him almost as though he had been sped to some other, horrible life; as though he had been consumed by the soul of some Madpriest, in an assault on Ul Raambar. As much as he was able, he kept barbarians or renegades between himself and the defenders. It was all he could do not to join them, to defend this holy place. The currents of battle swept him forward, up the cobbled streets of ancient Bollakarvil.
Before him the renegades ran, to sack and rape before Gundoen and the veterans should restore order. They ran laughing and shouting. A young soldier came against him, a Rukorian by accent, bright-eyed and smooth-cheeked.
‘Try some combat with me, renegade!’ the boy shouted. Ampeánor took the cut on his shield and shoved the boy back.
‘Listen,’ he said lowly, ‘I do not want to fight you. Go back, flee to the mountains! There are no leaders to snatch victory out of this. No charan or chara will save Bollakarvil – they are gone! Go to Haspeth, save your life and flee to Tarendahardil!’
The boy laughed gloriously. ‘Are you a coward, then? So you would save me? But who will save you?’ He lunged viciously, and Torval had much to parry it. In earnest he began to defend himself against the boy, who was no mean swordsman. Yet the inevitable opening came, and he took it. There was no other choice – yet he tried, as he killed the boy, to give him as little pain as possible. The black blood sprayed from the falling body, spattering a shrine of Elna by the side of the street.
Ampeánor withdrew the black smoking blade, feeling the steaming blood run over his hard knuckles. His head ached with the excitement. He wiped the blade on the hair of the nameless dead man, feeling almost that he had rather been the fallen one himself. Then he went into an alleyway by the side of the street, and did no more fighting that pass. Jakgron discovered him when the din of victory had fallen, and aided him down the steep rocky slope to the quiet shelter of the tent again.
Bollakarvil had been conquered as utterly as if it had been the commandment of dark God. All who resisted were put to the sword, but those who surrendered were allowed to purchase their lives. The weapons of the defenders were collected and the bodies of the slain given proper rites. Gundoen occupied the palace of the Porekan and set a garrison force to hold the city, consisting mainly of older or wounded barbarians and some mercenaries. The city treasury was spilled on the stones of the central square, before the ransacked Temple where the Emperors of Tarendahardil had once been anointed. The chieftains divided the spoils according to the rank and deeds of their tribes. All the many statues of godlike Elna were torn down and defaced, to the accompaniment of wine-slurred laughter and the squeals of yielding women.
Most of the looting was done by the mercenaries, supposedly the more civilized of the invaders. The barbarians had held themselves in check, having been disciplined by Gundoen and content with their rightful shares of conquest. They took no delight in rapine, having had their fill of it in the many cities already fallen.
Not two passes after the conquest, all the houses and palaces were still standing, and the inhabitants of the city walked the streets with little fear. Some of the shops in the marketplace were even open for business.
