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.
‘Death Hath But Left Him Little to Destroy’
AT THE FAR END of the lands where men dwell, the reek of the foundries of Ul Raambar the Unassailable mounted into the blue-black sky like a feather. Ul Raambar was a small city and of little wealth, not at all the equal of great Tarendahardil; yet she sat nestled in the mountains alone and unafraid upon the very knife-edged border, and guarded the high passes against the Madpriests. Ul Raambar faced distant Goddess where She sat, less than a fist above the bright horizon; but at the back of Ul Raambar, the mountains’ slopes fell away into the Darklands, where the light of Goddess never shone. There in the midst of sunless black seas jade God made His home, returning to it at the end of each pass after another futile attempt to beguile Goddess into following Him upon His road.
In all the years of her existence, Ul Raambar had produced neither art nor song: but her warriors and proud ladies were her art, and their blue-edged weaponry her songs. Four centuries and more of ceaseless warfare with the Madpriests had made of these Raambas the most skillful and disciplined fighters in the world, whose swords were legendary. Each waking, companies of their lancers might be seen issuing from the green-worked gates of Ul Raambar, to patrol upon their hardy mountain-bred war-ponies the paths of the mountains of the knife-edged border, ever-wary of the marauding Madpriests.
Then a man came riding to Ul Raambar from the north, leading behind his weary horse a sturdy pack-pony burdened with two large and curious barrels, of the sort seamen use for valued cargoes. His face was masked by the dark green hooded hunting-cloak from Gerso that he wore, fastened with a blood-red opal brooch-pin cut in the likeness of a serpent’s egg.
Fording the shallow stream that farther northward became the river Kabdary and spilled into Elna’s Sea, the rider led his two beasts up the turning path to the gates of the fastness. There he was challenged by the legendary guardians of the gates, whose mountain-trained eyes could see vast distances across the Marches spread below. It was no easy feat for a spy or enemy to gain entrance to the halls of Ul Raambar. But this man looked upon the guards with their long beards combed and bristling and their limbs encased in iron out of lined eyes, respectfully but without fear, and answered them,
‘Ennius Kandi of Gerso, sent hither by the Divine Queen.’
‘It is our custom to demand proofs of strangers who would enter here,’ they told him.
Smiling bitterly, the man showed them his token, which they recognized well, often having received the envoys of the Empress of Tarendahardil. So the green-worked gates of copper and brass were opened before him, and Ara-Karn entered Ul Raambar.
He had been long in getting there from Tarendahardil, for he had passed through Rukor first, and delivered his other messages before coming to Ul Raambar last of all. Even then, as he passed through the green-worked gates, his armies were departing fallen Bollakarvil and marching on Ilkas. But of this the guardians of the gates knew nothing.
In the royal palace, set high on the unyielding rocks, the palace warriors conducted him through long halls, past armories and training-halls where the light of Goddess, stained a faint crimson, slanted obliquely through the broad stone windows. Some stories up they showed him into a small set of chambers facing the distant, moveless sun. The rooms were of clean-swept stone, low and unadorned.
‘Our lord asks that you pardon these rooms,’ the guardsmen said. ‘He knows they are scarcely suitable for one who has known the luxuries of Tarendahardil. Yet these are the finest we can offer. Even the High Charan of Rukor, our lord’s great friend, receives no better when he guests here. Do you refresh yourself after your arduous journey, my lord. If you wish a thing, ask it of the man posted without your door. Our lord asks that you attend him at the greatfeast.’
The Imperial envoy nodded absently. The guardsmen carefully set down the curious barrels in the chamber’s storage niche, saluted and withdrew.
In a basin the stranger washed the dust of the road from his lean brown limbs. Naked, his dripping body glittering in the dull stone cell, he came to behold his image in the polished silver of the mirror. The black and green-flecked eyes stared enigmatically back. Through the windows the mountain air, cool here even in the hottest season, billowed into the chamber like a cloud, at once intoxicating and wearisome. After a long time, the Queen’s envoy turned abruptly and entered the small, curtained dimchamber.
§
THERE WERE NO high-sounding titles among the people of Ul Raambar. Even Ankhan, their king, disdained them, preferring the address of a simple charan. He was a tall man, whose high brow and broad straight nose bespoke both his intelligence and courage. His dark blue eyes flashed like lightnings in the dark sky beyond the mountains of his brows, with merriment or rage according to his mood. His glossy, chestnut hair he braided down his back in war and hunt, but here in his own hall his lady combed it free, so that it burst from his skull like a mountain thorsa’s mane. His chin he shaved clean, but a tremendous reddish mustache sprouted from his lip. He would twist it vigorously whenever he would make a point or seek to restrain his anger.
He was known, and loved, as Ankhan of the Strong Heart. Not yet a man, he had led companies on raids into the Darklands; not yet bearded, he had slain his first man, a Madpriest chieftain named the Black Fist, or Verin Falx. When he was but eighteen winters, the age most Raamba youths were just allowed to go on their first raid, Ankhan had seen his father slain in a fierce assault on one of the hunting fastnesses farther down the mountains. Ankhan had not stayed even to see the body of Garkhan set into a death-barge on a river in the lowlands, but had organized a force of ten companies and led them deeper into the darkness than any other had ever dared go before: they went so far they were in danger of losing their way, as the mocking Madpriests led them on. But Ankhan had moved suddenly and trapped the trappers, destroying several villages and personally killing Urgo Hirx, the chief who had led the raid that had slain Garkhan.
Such had been his first act as king of Ul Raambar; and it had sealed him the love of all the warriors as well as gaining him the heart of many-wooed Lisalya, whose stone-fisted father Dilyardin had captained one of the companies following Ankhan into the darkness.
Now that same Lisalya sat at the side of her lord as queen of Ul Raambar, a superb woman, the equal of many a warrior. Three sons she had borne Ankhan, who promised to be all the warrior-lords their father was. Ankhan held her hand lovingly in his, from time to time leaning to her to whisper a jest or caress her mane of curling hair the color of red gold.
Below them upon the long, unadorned benches, their warriors and ladies raised their cups to the rafters of the Charan Ankhan’s feast hall, loud in their merriment and tales. Then a silence fell athwart the hall, as the palace warriors ushered in the stranger.
Chara Lisalya was the first to rise to greet him, filling the guest-cup with foaming wine and presenting it to him with her own hands.
‘We welcome you, Charan Kandi,’ she announced, ‘because of your lineage and because of the losses you have suffered at the barbarian’s hand, and not least because you come serving the Empress Allissál, our own dear friend and ally.’
He bowed solemnly to her, and drank of the wine. The wine of Ul Raambar was dark, with a deep flavor not found in the pallid delicacies of Tarendahardil: a red wine to go coursing down the throat like hot blood.
‘Good wine,’ said the Gerso. ‘Yet not half so fine as the beauty of its server, which is outshone by that of only one other, and that only because she is divine.’
‘In truth, a courtier!’ Ankhan laughed. ‘We have few enough of those in Ul Raambar, Charan Kandi: welcome, and be your news good!’
So Ara-Karn, the stranger, was seated in the chair of honor opposite the warrior-king and his lady, as he had sat across from the Empress of the South in the famed Imperial banquet hall, and across from Gen-Karn in the ruined halls of Tezmon, and across from Kuln-Holn in a wretched little hut over the shore of a deepwater bay in a corner of the wild far North. Yet here he seemed to belong as he had never done in any of those other places, like a wanderer come at last to a homeland he can but dimly remember.
‘As to your business here,’ said the king, ‘unless it be of surpassing urgency, we would put it off some passes, to entertain you as our guest. We get few indeed of your quality, Charan Kandi. Do you enjoy the hunt?’
‘If it please you, my lord, call me by the familiar, Ennius,’ the Gerso replied smoothly. ‘As for hunting, it was the chief occupation and love of my youth.’
‘So be it – Ennius, these hills about our mountains are filled even at this season with beasts as fierce and proud as the fightingmen of Ul Raambar herself! What say you, Ennius of Gerso? Shall we hunt? and seek out noble game to bring us down?’
The envoy of the Queen courteously inclined his head. ‘My lord, I aim at nothing less.’
§
SO WITH THE NEXT WAKING they rode out of the fastness through paths cut deep along the pine-mantled lower hills. Ankhan rode foremost, with stone-fisted Dilyardin beside him; behind them their guest rode alongside the Lady Lisalya. A company of lancers in full armor rode behind them, their eyes alert to the shadows. As they rode low branches of green stretched and caught at their caps and helms.
The Gerso raised his voice, asking the king about the lancers. ‘Is the game so dangerous, lord? These men seem of too high a quality to serve as beaters of the bush.’
Ankhan laughed, the long braids of his hair dancing. ‘And you witnessed the fall of your Gerso, and must ask me this? These men are in case of an attack by Madpriests.’
‘I have heard many stories about them, and have read the book of Skhel. Yet what are those Madpriests really like, my lord?’
‘Ah – trust not in all the book of Skhel, Ennius. Inozelstus was a prophet and a scholar, but he never lost sight of Goddess in all his life. Mostly, the book is what others told him; and tales are seldom accurate concerning the Madpriests.’
‘Yet how is it any man can live his life in total darkness? What can they eat in those wastes but each other?’
‘It is not so dark there as most suppose, Ennius. God rides the heavens like a great jade eye, much brighter than He ever appears here. And there are other things, small winking points of light that some say never alter their patterns, and by whose light the Madpriests are said to be able to journey about without ever losing their way. But of that, I am not convinced.
‘For food, many other things live in or get trapped by the darkness, beasts and strange fish in black pools. And there are wood and iron there as well. The men are terrible warriors; the women treacherous and vile. They would as soon die as live, and their greatest joy is to die in the mindless fury of battle. There is not a one of them but would gladly give his life, if by that act he might slay two or three of his enemies. They roam in bands along the bordering mountains, hunting game and robbing men.’
‘I thought the Pass was the only way over the mountains.’
‘So it is, of any size or ease. Yet there are other ways, secret, narrow and dangerous, and known only to the Madpriests. Perhaps we shall encounter some – then, Ennius, you may see for yourself.’
‘Perhaps we might even capture one?’ the Gerso suggested.
Dilyardin laughed. ‘As soon bring down a Darkbeast single-handed as capture a Madpriest alive, Charan!’
‘Enough!’ cried Lisalya. ‘Can we find nothing better to speak of than those doomed wretched spirits?’ She was dressed in a hunting tunic not unlike that Allissál had worn that past winter. It suited her wild beauty well. ‘Charan Ennius, lighten our mood instead, and speak of life in the great court. It is several winters now since we resided there in the company of the Empress, and bathed in the sacred Baths. And tell us also, how is the Charan of Rukor?’
‘Ha!’ shouted Ankhan, playfully swatting at the rump of his lady’s mare. ‘Now we have come to it! My Chara in truth is rather overly fond of the Charan of Rukor, Ennius. As a youth he spent several years among us: and it broke my poor Lisalya’s heart to bid him farewell.’
‘Nay, now,’ said the lady, her cheeks coloring a little. ‘Ampeánor is your friend and companion too, my lord. And I asked not only after him, but the rest of the court as well.’
‘Well, then,’ said the king, sighing and shrugging his shoulders grandiloquently, ‘my Chara will not let you rest until you have satisfied her curiosity, Ennius. It were best to spill it now, and give it up for lost.’
‘The High Charan of Rukor is well,’ said the Gerso, quietly, ‘if somewhat changed over the past months. The tale is that he is the Empress’s secret lover.’
‘Old tales,’ dismissed Ankhan. ‘The two were made for each other, and that’s plain enough to all. My chara requires fresh grist.’
‘Well, then, my lady, here is a new thing. It was to be a part of my message to you both, and if you will forbear to hear business: they are to be wed before the end of summer.’
‘Married?’ cried Lisalya, and Ankhan laughed.
‘My bed is secure at last,’ he joked. The chara turned her head, and stared sullenly at the stony ground. ‘Come, my love, it was but a jest,’ he said soothingly; but she refused to be reconciled. So they rode in silence for a while, hearing only the clank of the lances behind them.
The Gerso broke the silence. ‘I hope this was not too sudden, but she charged me tell it you, and invite you to the ceremonies. And it is a truth that Ampeánor will make a good Emperor. Many have said that the Empress needs a strong man to curb her excesses.’
‘Say no words against the Empress, or you’ll risk our displeasure.’ Ankhan frowned. ‘As for Ampeánor, my spirit soars for him. He will be the best Emperor for many a generation. If any can turn back this barbarian, it will be the High Charan of Rukor.’
‘Does my lord favor the League then?’ asked the stranger sadly.
‘Favor it! Why, it was partly of my own imaginings. You may be certain of one thing if of nothing else, Ennius: Raamba lancers will ride to hold the center against the barbarians.’
‘Yet you cannot spare many, surely,’ insisted the Gerso, ‘not with these Madpriests threatening you at your own back door?’
‘We’ll be gone and back before they see the light of it. For Allissál, I will give nothing less than all that is mine – my life, even, and that of my chara, if it comes to that.’
‘Gladly,’ seconded Lisalya.
‘Yet,’ persisted Ennius, ‘will you come yourself, to play the lackey to Ampeánor Emperor? Surely a man of such high honor as yourself would have too great a pride for that.’
‘Pride is for moralists and playwrights,’ said Ankhan. ‘The Charan of Rukor was my friend the first year I bore arms, when we were both beardless youths; and he remains my friend yet. Like leaf and branch are we: for one without the other would not survive. Yet even if it came to an argument over the battle, I would cede to his authority like a peasant to his charan: for he is the better man, and I acknowledge it freely to all. If the Empress sent you to feel out our loyalty, you may tell her, Ennius, that it remains as unshaken as Goddess in the sky. We’ll not forsake her as those several others have done, promising to aid the League and then suddenly withdrawing out of fear or greed or envy. No more of this. Let us hunt, and put our minds to the game.’
‘If such is your unshakable will, my lord, then I am glad to hear of it,’ said the Gerso dully. He was silent and thoughtful thereafter as he rode among them, and his eyes bore a pensive, distant look.
The game was indeed plentiful that time of year; and that the king and his lady devoted much of their spare time to the pleasures of the hunt was shown both by their woodsmanship and the clean strokes with which they brought down their beasts. Nor did Lisalya draw back when the game was forced forth, but rushed in bravely with the others. With her own lance she slew two large beasts, evincing a skill as great as her courage.
They made camp in clearings they surrounded with stout walls of bramble and branch. Charan Dilyardin posted the lancers to guard against any attacks by the Madpriests, while Ankhan, Lisalya and their guest roasted the flesh of their kills over roaring fires. Ankhan and his lady reclined together against the mossy root of a high towering tree. Their faces were flushed in the firelight, and the dappled light of Goddess fell across their extended limbs. Somewhat across the clearing from them, the stranger regarded them silently from where he sat. And now there was no trace of the flashing green flecks in his darkened eyes. The lancers nudged one another: already, it was clear, the stranger had fallen under their lord and lady’s spell.
‘Do they not make a wonderful pair?’ asked Dilyardin, sitting at the Gerso’s side. ‘Why, the great Empress herself, lying in the arms of her lover, could not match them for happiness, or love, or the sheer matching of spirit to kindred soul. Though I am her sire, I must say it: Lisalya was born a fit match for even the greatest of earthly monarchs.’
The Gerso was silent, offering none of the courtly compliments the old warfarer had desired. The royal couple bade them all good-resting, and retired to the privacy of their tent. Then others of the lancers joined them at the fire, completing a circle, and began to tell tales before they slept. For a while the Gerso said nothing, but only looked upon the royal tent, idly uprooting stalks of grass with his fingers.
‘I have a tale for you,’ he said at length. ‘It happened far from here, and long ago, that beyond the shores of the endless Desert a city was built round a spring. Long before, a group of homeless exiles had wandered in the Desert blindly, until at last they found this oasis, a thing no man had seen before. They built their city round it, naming her Khoraunlwin, which meant Water’s Haven in their speech. It was the way of them never to deny entrance to their city to any wayfarer who asked it of them. Goddess and the Spirit of the spring had granted them haven, they believed, and so considered it their duty to offer like shelter to all others. It became the main pillar of their fame, and along the shores of the Desert it was a saying of any generous man, that he was like a Khoraunlwany.
‘One pass there appeared at the gates of the city a solitary man wrapped brow to toe in dark brown linen. Not even his eyes in the shadow of his headdress could the watchers on the gates see. His name, he said, was Reaver, and he asked them for shelter. Nor would he blame them much if they refused to open the gates to him, he said, for there was a curse laid upon him, and no city yet had taken him in, but it had been sore afflicted.
‘The gatesmen had not even considered denying him entrance. They had built walls about their city to keep the sands of the Desert out, not men. So they opened and let Reaver into Khoraunlwin. Straightway he went to the well of the spring, did off his wrappings, and bathed himself. As soon as he put off his garb a noisome stench mounted from him, and those near the well said that the sight of his unclad body was a loathsome thing.
‘Thereafter it fell out that a sickness spread among the folk of Khoraunlwin, and people died young and old, and the beasts of the city lay dead upon the streets. At length only an old man, Ishbar, and his young wife Alanin survived. With cloaks held tightly over their mouths, they went to the stranger to demand of him why he had done this thing to their city. But when Ishbar touched it, Reaver’s body fell open, and maggots and horrid flies sprang out of it with an odor of corruption that was unbearable.
‘Therewith Ishbar and Alanin burdened the last surviving pony with figs and skins of wine and departed Khoraunlwin, leaving the gates open behind them so that the Desert blew in freely, and took possession of the silent city. But when at last Ishbar and Alanin, nearly perishing of thirst, reached the nearest city and told their tale, they were reviled, and none would succor them. Weeping piteously, Ishbar and Alanin returned into the Desert, lay down in each other’s arms, and died. Carrion ate their flesh, and the sands wore away their bones.’
The lancemen frowned and shook their heads. They had not liked the Gerso’s story much. Putting back the meat he had not eaten, one of them muttered, ‘They should have refused that man entrance and rather slain him in the Desert than let him enter to spread poison in their well.’
But Dilyardin, though he also frowned, disagreed. ‘That was not their way,’ he said. ‘Should they have ceased being what they were? Then they must have lived in fear and suspicion of all strangers, and been no happier. Besides, it is said Fate is a hall with a hundred doors. It was the doom of Goddess that this man die in their city.’
‘Yet others tell the tale differently,’ the Gerso said. ‘They say that this Reaver carried the illness, but could not himself die of it – and that Ishbar and Alanin were but a fable. They say Reaver departed Khoraunlwin when he had finished the last of the dead people’s food, and went to the city on the Desert’s shore. And when those people heard what Reaver had to say, then they stoned him from their walls and burned his body downwind of the city. And they live there still and prosper; but Khoraunlwin is nought but a rumor of fear, never after visited.’
‘I know not what I should make of this tale of yours now,’ Dilyardin muttered, pulling at his beard.
‘Make nothing of it, if that please you,’ the Gerso said, rising. ‘Say it was only the campside pleasantry of a poor wanderer who has himself seen the deaths of many cities.’
He squatted by the coals and thrust at them with his dagger. The embers fell apart hissing and the fire sent forth its last convulsive waves of heat into the stranger’s flushed red face. But the lancers felt a shudder of cold enter their hearts, though they were all the bravest of men.
§
ON THE SECOND WAKING afterward the royal hunting party pursued the spoor of a large elbuck, and were strung out along the narrow path. Ankhan and Lisalya were in the fore, surging on in their lover’s rivalry; the Gerso rode some ways behind them. They flew through the dappled dim light of these woods on the hills at the edge of the world. Far behind them and lost from sight, Dilyardin tried to keep up the pace with the weighted lancers.
Suddenly a cry sounded from the surrounding brush – black shapes swarmed over the bright figure of the king – others leaped upon the queen. There were the rasp of steel upon steel and the cry of the Chara Lisalya: ‘Father, to our aid!’
The Gerso spurred his mount forward, sword swinging over both sides of the saddle. The blade bit deep through flesh and bone; then it caught upon a length of bone or metal it could not sever and stuck fast. Hard fingers grappled with him and he was torn from the saddle. Still he did not lose his grip upon the sword, but kicked out against the body that held it and tore it free. He swung out to make room, rolled upon the soft moss and fought his way to his feet. His attackers fell back for a moment, surprised by the ferocity of his blows. With a hollow laugh, he took the sword two-fisted and whirled it over his head, forcing them back.
Several paces from him, Lisalya was struggling with four opponents, her eyes flashing angrily. She fought to gain the room to wield her sword, which she clutched in her gloved hand despite all her enemies’ efforts to wrest it from her. Paces beyond her, on the far side of a large bush, Ankhan was on his feet hacking at six foes, desperately trying to reach the side of his lady. All of this flashed before the Gerso’s eyes; then his own foes closed darkly about him.
He fought them with the sword in one hand and a hunting-knife in the other. He disemboweled one with an upward thrust of the sword, ducked the blow of another turning and swept the blade about in a wet wide arc, parrying with the knife. The unprotected throat below a pallid, fierce face opened to form a nether mouth, wide and redly slobbering; the Gerso twisted about, bringing his shoulder up, and with a stab of the hunting-knife planted a red flower in the breast of the last of his attackers. He leaped to Lisalya’s aid.
Before they were even aware of his presence, two Madpriests lay dying on the moss at the Gerso’s feet. But as the second one fell, he caught the Gerso’s blade between his ribs, and the strained steel snapped; so that Kandi faced the other two with only the hunting-knife.
They swept in, unbelievably agile fighters, dodging his blows this way and that, closing to deliver the deathstroke with curved and curious short, black blades. And so swift were they that they would have surely spilled the Gerso’s blood onto the soft earth then and there, had not Lisalya risen to his aid.
They had made no attempt to slay her outright, either because of the contempt with which all their race held women, or because they had desired to debase and abuse her in the face of her lord so as to make his strong heart quail before they slew him. Now she had the room to wield her sword and the skill to revenge herself for their affronts. One she slew with such a tremendous stroke that the bright Raamba blade sheared crunchingly through all the bones of his back. The other she struck a murderous blow on the back of the neck just as the Gerso stabbed him in the belly; so that he fell dead at both their hands.
‘So may all such receive their due reward,’ she panted, throwing the red-gold hair from her eyes. ‘But what of my charan?’
They turned. Ankhan was exchanging blows with a Madpriest at the side of the Shansith brush. The king was bleeding from a dozen wounds; but now that he saw his chara safe, he was laughing as he fought; and not all the blood splashed upon his tunic was his own. The five other Madpriests who had faced him lay beyond his dancing feet now, stone dead.
A thunder of hooves sounded from behind them: Dilyardin and the lancers burst upon the scene. The Madpriest the king was fighting gave a glance at those grim armored men, and forcing the king back with a sudden rush, dove into the underbrush and disappeared.
‘My king, are you hurt?’ cried Dilyardin.
‘Father-in-law, you grow slow in your old age,’ the king panted huskily. ‘You had almost made a widow of your daughter. Shall we need to fashion bronze wings for your horses henceforth?’
The old man fell to his knees at Ankhan’s feet. ‘Sire, I am ashamed.’ He held forth his sword hilt first. ‘Take back this unworthy life.’
Ankhan of the Strong Heart laughed, and took his lady into his bloodied arms. ‘Old friend and comrade, do not take it so to heart. It was all great sport – love, did they harm you?’
‘Nay,’ she said. ‘Yet you are hurt, and should be bandaged with haste. Yet it might have gone the worse for me, had it not been for the aid of our guest. My lord, we owe him thanks.’
‘More than mere words, lady,’ responded the king. ‘He has spared both our lives, for know you, if you had been slain I would not have been long in following, wherever you had gone. No gift shall be deemed too great for the savior of Ul Raambar. Ennius friend, stand you forth!’
But when the lancers parted, looking around the scene, the Gerso was not to be found. He too had disappeared.
He was beyond them in the depths of the forest, straining his legs in a desperate race. His lungs heaved, his long hair streamed from behind his head, and his arms darted forward to brush the many low branches from his path, as he chased the last Madpriest.
Ahead of him, that one also strained. He did not stop to look behind him: he only heard the pounding of racing feet, and believed that all the lancers were on his trail. So he ran like the wind, with the sure feet of a man who has passed his life in darkness. Rapidly he pulled away from the Gerso.
They broke into a long glade, green below the crimsoned tops of the towering trees. A thirsla saw them and dashed into the green. The long grass whipped at their feet. The Gerso pulled from his belt the long leather cord used to tie the feet of game together; opening the loop, he flung it forward. The loop caught about the ankle of the Madpriest; the Gerso gripped the cord and drew it back.
The Madpriest fell heavily on the soft ground, rolling to take the force of the blow away; but before he could rise the Gerso had fallen on him and struck him a savage blow on the side of his head. A grunt escaped the lips of the Madpriest as he lost all sight of the green glen.
The victor trussed the fallen man securely. Panting, he raked back the ragged hair about his brow, and smiled. Heaving the burden to his shoulders, he started wearily back to the scene of the ambush.
They were overjoyed to see him; yet even greater than their joy was their amazement when they saw what he was carrying. He shrugged, and let the burden fall to the ground like an offering at the feet of the royal couple.
‘Truly I had underestimated your great worth,’ exclaimed the king. ‘You are a man of many talents, indeed, and a worthy agent for the Divine Queen! Ennius, if ever you should wish for other employment, be sure you would find it here! To save my chara and capture a living Madpriest in a moment’s work! Take my hand, Ennius, and with it all my heart. You have the love and gratitude of Ankhan, who does not bestow such things lightly.’
Reluctantly, the Gerso took the proffered hand. Then Chara Lisalya stepped forward.
‘Some say that the female heart is made of inconstancy,’ she declared. ‘If that be true, then know you, Ennius, that I was formed unique: a woman with a man’s heart. No matter how many lives are mine, I shall not forget what you have done for us this pass. Come to me whenever you will in the future and ask me whatever you will, and it shall be yours.’ So saying she embraced him and kissed him lovingly upon either cheek and brow.
Below them the Madpriest stirred, groaning as he rolled on the blood-stained grass.
‘Great game, indeed, and Ennius Kandi of Gerso the hunter!’ exclaimed Ankhan. ‘Loose him, Dilyardin, and let us see what he will do.’
The stout old warrior cut the bonds to the Madpriest’s ankles, leaving his wrists still tightly bound. Then he signaled the lancers to stand closely about the prisoner with ready weapons. He had made one error, and not for Dilyardin a second.
The captive struggled to his feet. From the pallid face beneath the ragged shock of black hair, his deep-set eyes glared at them, red with madness and hate. He was clad in skins and cloth scraps poorly sewn together, and a few ornaments of fine workmanship doubtless stolen from hapless victims long since dead. His face and arms were covered with a dark black filth, probably, as the king remarked, to conceal himself in darkness.
‘He must be thirsty,’ said Lisalya. ‘We have refreshed ourselves, my lords, but he has had nothing. Fellow, do you wish to drink?’
The Madpriest spat upon her tunic. ‘There’s all the water you want,’ he growled. ‘Do I wish drink? Give me your heart’s blood, then, and I’ll be content.’
Dilyardin clubbed the savage to the ground with the butt of his lance. ‘Mind your tongue, dog. Do you not know it is the Chara Lisalya to whom you speak?’
‘I know you Raambas are so cowardly you must let your women do your fighting for you.’
‘And that you savages are so weak,’ rejoined Ankhan, ‘that two of your numbers were slain by this mere woman. Come, friend Ennius,’ he said, turning his back, ‘enough of this. Did you understand the dog’s tongue?’
‘Yes, lord,’ responded the Gerso absently. ‘It is much like that of the barbarians of the far North.’
‘Then you have heard. There is nothing to be gained here. I have dealt with enough of them to know that nothing will get them to betray their chiefs. It is not for nothing they are called mad. Let us kill him and have done.’
‘You think you’ve won!’ screamed the Madpriest as if he had understood the king’s words. ‘You with all your fine bodyguards and your whore. You’ve invaded our sacred lands and you’ll die for it, Ankhan the Damned! You’ll die slowly and horrible so that you’ll think you’ve died a score of times – he’ll see to that! Not all your men or all your walls will protect you from him!’
‘From whom?’ asked Dilyardin fiercely.
The savage curled his lips contemptuously. His reddened eyes came alive in hateful glee as he answered, ‘Him! Him! Estar Kane!’
‘And who is Estar Kane?’ asked the Gerso.
The Madpriest shook his head and laughed. ‘You’ll not see his face, small-eyes, until you come face to face with your own dark death!’
‘He is a great war-chief of the Darklands,’ explained Ankhan. ‘They always speak of him thus, as if he were some god to them. It is said he has vowed to lead them into the Goddess-lit lands to pillage and slay to their hearts’ content. Yet never have any of my patrols come across him. Doubtless he is but another of their myths. The name means “the Death’s Lord.” ’
‘So torture me like the pigs you are,’ cried the captive. ‘He will avenge me! He will see you all dead and dying some pass soon! And you, too, outlander!’ he spat at Ennius Kandi.
‘Pay him no heed,’ said Lisalya. ‘We do no torture here. That is more the work of a Madpriest or foul barbarian than of any who would claim to be civilized folk. We shall kill him cleanly and simply.’
But the Gerso stayed her hand. ‘Your majesty, perhaps we may yet learn something from this man. Or, if not, then I could take him to Tarendahardil as a gift for the Divine Queen. She has expressed desires to know more of these folk and their strange ways of life. Chara, you have but recently offered me my choice of favors. Deliver this man into my hands, and I shall be well paid.’
‘It will be more your boon to us than ours to you if you take this burden from our shoulders, friend Ennius,’ said Ankhan. ‘Have him then as you please. Yet we must warn you that it will do you no good. These savages are beyond redemption, from living out their lives in darkness. He will tell you no more than nonsense.’
‘Perhaps,’ mused the Gerso, ‘he will tell me more of Estar Kane.’
§
THE ROYAL HUNTING-PARTY returned to Ul Raambar with more game than they had thought to bring. In the chambers of the palace the Gerso delivered himself of the business the Empress had charged him with, and spoke at length of the progress of the League. And when this was done he bowed, and said he must not tarry but must return immediately.
The lord and lady of Ul Raambar would not hear of his departure, however, until they had held a grand feast to see their dear friend and savior off. Throughout the city, a festival was declared, and the captive Madpriest put on display in a cage before the palace.
The Gerso was granted land about Ul Raambar, and declared thenceforth to be Ennius, Charan of Danel, and one of the king’s cup-companions. ‘Let these lands we give you now compensate for that which was robbed of you by your enemy Ara-Karn,’ Ankhan said, ‘and may that which was robbed be returned to you under the leadership of the High Charan of Rukor. Goddess, be it so.’
‘Be it so soon,’ echoed the Chara Lisalya. ‘And dear Ennius, consider this land we give you to be a true home to visit often. Remember in your travels, whenever your thoughts turn to friendship or rest, you have but to set your feet to the dark horizon, and seek out Ul Raambar, the Unassailable.’
The Charan of Danel bowed before them both, and the assembled warriors and their proud ladies raised a cheer.
Then the Queen raised her hand, upon whose lovely fingers sparkled several rings of rare size and beauty, for she was dressed in state. ‘Nay, you need not speak, Ennius: well can we understand your noble feelings and how they might whelm the tongue. If your throat be still, yet can your eyes speak eloquently of the love you bear us. And for that love, and the services you have rendered us these brief passes, in both sweet companionship and danger, we thank you, Charan of Danel. This ring upon my finger was placed there years ago by Ankhan, my beloved, and never since has it been removed. Behold! it has come off now. And I give it you as the most precious of all my possessions.’
She handed him the ring, a golden band set with a single large ruby of the likeness of a human heart. Ankhan also stood, and took from his neck a golden chain. ‘Take this too, my friend,’ he said. Upon the end of the chain was suspended a delicate miniature that had been fashioned after the likeness of Lisalya during their stay at Tarendahardil. And all the warriors knew that this was the only likeness of his lady Ankhan had ever had.
‘And more,’ he exclaimed to the astounded crowd, ‘since dear Ennius lost his sword in the service of our lives, I will replace it with my own, of the finest workmanship of the master smiths of Ul Raambar.’ The lamplight shone from off the dark blue blade, and the silver and steel hilt worked with gold and fire-opal in the device of the kings of Ul Raambar. With his own hands, the king bound the blade about the waist of the stranger.
Then the crowds cheered indeed, so that the very palace shook from it. The Gerso bowed, rather too stiffly and coldly in the minds of many, waiting for the tumult to fall. When it had done so, he bowed once more, and addressed these words to the noble couple:
‘My lord and gracious lady, believe me when I say that the time I have spent among you has brought back such memories to me as I had thought long buried and forgotten in the dim, dead past. It makes my heart sick to think of all that I have lost; and even more ill to think of what might have been mine but never was, and dark God knows never will be now. My youth is gone forever; nor will the youth I was ever return. My home, my heart and my love were stolen by my enemies, upon whom I have sworn unending vengeance, though it consume me utterly. And now I have no future such as you might have to look forward to; yet, if I ever dared allow myself to dream of some future happiness, I could dream of no finer or more blissful a one than that here, which you two possess now: not great riches nor mighty domains, nor pomp nor power nor even a place carven in history, but a small kingdom of noble souls, and my heart’s desire seated again beside me.
‘These gifts you offer me are dearer to me than you could dream. And yet I must decline them: for they would so gnaw at me with their tempting promises that I might put aside my oaths, and thereby be undone. Yet the sword that your majesty has offered me I will gladly keep.’ So he handed them back the ruby ring and the delicate miniature, which they took back with grateful faces; but his was sad, like that of a man who has offered up his last hope of happiness.
‘Think then not of my own unhappiness,’ he went on, ‘for such is unworthy of your nobility: but think upon all that is yours, and treasure it well. Enjoy it to the fullest, two-handed and with desperation, as if it might vanish with the next rising of the Jade Orb. For you have such enemies about you that, were I able to speak from my heart alone, I would counsel you to strike them utterly to death lest they survive to treacherously raise your doom. But no man of purpose is free to follow his heart. So let the wave of Fate lead us where she will!’
They marveled at his words, for since the capturing of the Madpriest he had spoken so little they had taken him for a taciturn, moody man, and had forgotten that courtier’s glibness with which he had first greeted them. Now he spoke with such terrible sincerity and intensity, as from the shadows of his hidden heart, that they knew it was no mere courtesy, but a part of the man’s very soul that none before them had even glimpsed. And there was not a warrior or lady about that vast hall but heard the words with a sudden thought of their homes or loved ones, and treasured all that they had as if it had been a new-won and endangered gift. And they thought of what the barbarians had done to this man’s home and kin in far-off ruined Gerso; and they rejoiced that the barbarians were many borders away from their own Ul Raambar.
His words remained with them still, as they rode in joyous procession down the windswept streets of their city: only now not with that secret dread, but only sweet contentment. Ten full companies of lancers in dress armor and banners flying on high followed the noble couple and their guest, with the Madpriest bound sullenly on a steed behind them. Such was the departure out of Ul Raambar of Ara-Karn, now Charan of Danel, whom the city had taken to her breast. Nor would they content themselves merely with seeing him off at the gates of the city. They escorted him down the paths into the foothills and even beyond, to the crossroads in the Marches below the city. There they reached the border-posts marking the extent of Ankhan’s rule; and only there would they halt.
The king and queen embraced their friend one final time, with dear tears flowing in their eyes. They gave him gifts for their friends in Tarendahardil, and with broken words bade him farewell and all happiness. The only brightness the chara could find in the parting was that they all would meet again at the wedding. But the Gerso had no reply to that.
He took the leads of the Madpriest’s steed and the pack-pony burdened with the two heavy barrels that the Raambas had guarded in his absence most jealously, not knowing that they contained thirty strong bows and three hundred deadly arrows, salvaged and hidden from the wreckage of Captain Elpharaka’s ship. Therewith he left them, a lone figure on the flat, green wilderness of the Marches. They had offered him the company of a troop of lancers to help in the burdensome task of guarding his captive, but he had declined this signal honor. So Ankhan of the Strong Heart turned back, taking the warmth of his lady’s hand in his. They led their companies of lancemen up again to home, to Ul Raambar. Together they then re-entered the city gates, dreaming dearly of each other.
§
FAR, FAR BELOW THEM, out of sight now of even the sharp mountain-bred eyes of the watchers of the gates, the Gerso and his captive came to another crossing of the roads. Once more he wore his dark green hooded hunting-cloak from Gerso, fastened with a blood-red opal brooch-pin cut in the likeness of a serpent’s egg.
Behind them the road led back up to Ul Raambar, shining faintly like a red jewel against the dull backdrop of the mountainsides. Before them the road branched, one entering onto the broad stones of the Imperial Highway, leading to Tarendahardil and her beautiful queen; and the other turning into a tortuous dirt track meandering toward the dark horizon.
The hooded man did not pause at the crossroads. He turned off to his right, and silently rode upon the path leading up to the dark hills. He rode swayingly, with bent head, like a man intoxicated or asleep.
Those eyes alive with hate darted to the back of the Gerso, then to the road, and the sweet dark hills ahead. A secret gloating entered the eyes of the Madpriest, as if he could not believe his fortune; and he tensed his muscles, preparing to break away from this dreaming outlander. But then the fist that gripped the lead reins, as if sensing the determination in the breast of the captive follower, clenched more tightly, forcing the horse’s head down with an iron grip.
‘Fool! This way leads to my lands, where my chief rules – Estar Kane!’
‘Be silent, eater-of-dung. Think you I do not know the difference between darkness and light?’
§
WHEN THE PROCESSION passed out of windswept Ul Raambar, all the populace laughed and shouted their fierce joy. But there was one among them, a stranger, who did not cheer. He was a young man with a hunted look about his sleepless eyes. The cloak about his shoulders was worn and tattered as if by many months of travel. His restless manner was that of the exiled. By his looks, he seemed once to have been a native of the city of Gerso.
He saw Ankhan of the Strong Heart pass, and the Chara Lisalya, and he seemed cheered; but when the Gerso came by, his face was turned to ash. The Charan of Danel, acknowledging faintly the exclamations of the crowds, found for a moment the young man’s eye, but he rode on by without any sign of recognition.
The procession passed from Ul Raambar, and the youth went straight to his inn. There, giving no replies to the landlord’s questions, he paid his bill, gathered his few belongings, and saddled his horse. He rode down out of Ul Raambar, avoiding the procession, and took the path to the deeper South – always, always, farther South. He kept his eyes to the road beneath him, never looking up, never looking back. The light of Goddess, stained a faint crimson, fell upon his right side; and behind him the smoky plume of the foundries of Ul Raambar fell unnoticed behind the grim gray mountainsides.
It had been in Gerso, in the fiery ruins of his beloved city, that he had first known Ara-Karn, and tried to kill him. But Ara-Karn had survived the attack and granted him freedom – freedom! It was a dreadful word. In a dozen cities in the North he had sought peace; but Ara-Karn was ever close behind. Then he had gone on to Tarendahardil. Surely, he had thought, there would be a respite there. But he had found Ara-Karn even there, smiling at the Empress’s side. Even here to Ul Raambar the demon followed him. Would he never escape? He looked back over his shoulder; but the road was empty, as far as he could see.
He rode on a little faster nevertheless, and a little faster still: but still could not escape those words tolling in his brain like warning bells over palaces of red stone in Gerso where first he had heard them, those words that never left him now:
‘Ara-Karn! Ara-Karn! Ara-Karn!’
