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 Woman in the Wood
THE LATE SUMMER VEGETABLES were coming along nicely, Dornan Ural thought. He rested for a moment in the shade and wiped his gleaming bald head with a towel. He took pleasure in the ordered rows of green in his little garden. It was the last pleasure he had left in his life.
Upon that waking, he had presided over the examinations of ten new officials and elevated another seven from the Fourth to the Third rank. It was such a duty that had ever delighted him before; yet now in this as in all his other dealings with men, he saw but mockery in the eyes of those below him and heard but impudence in their voices. The terrible insult of the Queen hung over every interview. From poorborn to the charanti, they had taken her mockery for their example, knowing the term of Dornan Ural’s regency was fast approaching. He had perhaps never been a popular administrator, but he had been respected and obeyed. Now he was a laughingstock.
Clapping the dirt from his broad workman’s palms, Dornan Ural entered the cool halls of his office and mounted the stairway to the rooftop. So situated was the place, upon the northernmost edge of High Town, that from its roof he could see almost the whole of the lower city spread in timeless splendor below him. Pensively, he stood in the hot sun, a vertical mass set against the horizon of rooftops, dark about his feet where a shadow fell, but gleaming from the top of his skull.
More than ever he wished for one to whom he might confide his deepest troubles – but there was none. The Chara Khilivirn, his wife, was lovely and elegant; but she remained a noble, and he the son of one of the old Emperor’s freedmen, and not all their years together had served to alter that. As for his sons, he had given them everything he himself had lacked as a boy; now that they were men, they were totally unlike him. They looked, smelled, gamed, couched and spent like nobles. His latest news of them was that they had gone to the pleasure-gardens of Vapio to share the revels of the Charan Arstomenes's endless entertainments. As usual, the messenger who had conveyed the greetings of his sons to him had carried bills of debt as well. No, Dornan Ural had no family; and Tarendahardil had been his only mistress. Now he was old and he was weary beneath this hot sun, and he might not rest.
Centuries before, Elna alone had ruled here, and dispensed powers and distant dominions to his captains. It was the descendants of those scarred, blood-stained men who had become the charanti, sharing power with the Emperors. Wealthy and lovely the highborn had grown: also idle, vain, and careless. Their scribes and slaves were made to undertake the burdensome responsibilities of the realm, that the lovely charai and charanti might themselves more earnestly toil in the pastimes and pursuits of pleasure. Years passed, and from those lowly clerks and slaves, the Seven Ranks of officialdom had evolved: so was it proved a truth, that the comrade of responsibility is power.
It was we, the descendants of slaves, who had run the Empire for the last two hundred years: we who had overseen the building of roads, the distributions to the populace, the erection of public buildings, the maintenance of the waterways, taxes, licenses, public order and public good. It was we who interpreted, studied and revised the countless laws and regulations that had grown up like a maze around them, as dense and twisting as the Thieves’ Quarter, a city unto itself.
Into this city-within-a-city Dornan Ural had been born. His father had been a master of it; the son had outdone the sire. All his life and the greater portion of his love he had lavished upon it, and from its center presided over it. Now it was passing. He could feel it dying all around him. It moaned to him, piteous in its death-throes. Tarendahardil sighed – Tarendahardil cried – Tarendahardil sang for him.
Goddess smote down through the still air upon the head of Dornan Ural, and of a sudden he could not breathe. Darkness opened like blossoms before his eyes. All the sky had died away. A dreadful noise rose distantly in his ears – there were crowds in the streets – the earth shuddered – the lower city was in flames. Huge horsemen rode the Way of Kings, clad in dusty armor, curious, deadly weapons raised on high. Death and panic ran before them. Desperately, Dornan Ural tried to signal the crowds below and rally them; but the strength left his knees and his fingers clutched at the parapet in vain, and he fell.
As swiftly as it came, the vision ended. Sky returned, and the dire echoes faded. Miserably, the old man lifted himself to his knees and looked out over the parapet. All was as normal in the great city. Dornan Ural shuddered, and drew his hands across his face. When at length, after much effort, he managed to stand, his breathing was labored. His arms shook as he leaned upon the tiles of the parapet, and his face beneath the marks of dirt was the leaden hue of the unpainted dead. In those indeterminate moments, long years seemed to have piled up on the High Regent of Tarendahardil.
He had done nothing when the barbarians marched on Bollakarvil. In part, that was by advice he had had from captains who said Bollakarvil was too far away to be defended, and the Imperial forces were too few and scattered just then to risk an open conflict with the barbarians.
But also he had let that city fall, because its loss would hurt the Queen’s pride more than it would hurt Dornan Ural. So, too, to wound her he had refused to confirm Ampeánor in the office of her General Extraordinary; yet at the same time he had feared for his own power and prestige: for Ampeánor, had he been General Extraordinary, would have had the power to suspend all laws and rule the realm as if he had been an Emperor until the terms of his charter were complete. And now, for Dornan Ural’s own personal pride and malice, Tarendahardil herself was gravely threatened. How could he have let the barbarians draw so near?
The image of the city overrun by the barbarians would not leave him. And what might he do about it? He was no general; even if he were, no men now would obey him. They laughed at him now. The very bonds of law and social order were loosening, in the growing dread of the barbarian’s approach. Gladly now he would have handed all power to Ampeánor; yet the High Charan of Rukor was mysteriously vanished, and no one but the Queen seemed to know whither he had gone. Dornan Ural could not – he could not – go to beg at her hand now.
Who else? There were the other members of the High Council: Farnese of the Eglands, Lornof of Fulmine, and Arstomenes of Vapio. At last report, they had each been in their several provinces. Arstomenes’s wealth was legendary; Lornof’s father had left him arms enough to equip the three full armies; Farnese had, in his younger days, been acclaimed as the greatest general of the age. Surely, where Dornan Ural might fail alone, they all together must succeed. And they were the legal body charged with the Empire’s rule. Burning with this inspiration, Dornan Ural staggered into the cool shadows below, and ordered his clerks to his side.
Later that pass, following the fourth meal, the High Regent of Tarendahardil departed his city in a covered chariot, attended by a half score of mounted Imperial lancers, through the Archway of the Eglands.
Ironically, this time – this of all times – he had not even considered resigning.
§
WITHIN TEN PASSES of her conquest, Bollakarvil had returned almost to normal. The goatherds were allowed to take their herds down to feed again on the brown plains. The shops were all reopened, dealing now with pilgrims and barbarians alike. Commerce was resumed with those other cities in Ara-Karn’s grip. All was as it had ever been: save that now instead of a Porekan in the name of the Bordakasha, the city was ruled by a garrison of barbarians in the name of Ara-Karn.
In the plain below, the army prepared to move on. It was a hard trek to Ilkas, the city next in line to the vast Southern Ocean, and Gundoen seemed to hope to traverse it in no more than a score of marches. Fighting-men, slaves and camp-followers packed tents, kettles, chests and loot onto the many wagons, and started down the mountain road. The vast army crawled like a broad, meandering river over the face of the world, disturbing billowing clouds of dust into the winds. The weather was fine and clear, and Goddess upon Her throne of Golden Fire a blaze in the heavens. The riding barbarians did not look back upon this conquered city as they passed. To them it had been but one more city, not the first, not the best, not the last.
Yet there was one among them who rode with the renegades, who looked back upon the city. And in the distance, Bollakarvil shone back lovely in the changeless light, as if all things were one.
Some leagues down the road they came to the shrine where Elna had slain the barbarian lord Gorjils when he was but a boy. The barbarians rode past it in ignorance, not knowing that it had been upon that spot Elna had first vowed himself to the destruction of all the marauders.
Ampeánor knelt by the shrine as the innumerable wagons creaked past behind him. His lips moved in a silent prayer. The shrine was undamaged; but the eyes of Ampeánor saw black blood spattered across the small marble altar. His face hardened as he prayed, becoming like that of a rude wooden statue. He rose, kissing his knuckles to the shrine. He said, ‘For your final descendant let it be done. Surely, you would not fail her.’
Then he took on his great sword and shield, drew heavy gloves over calloused hands, and set helm upon head. Without a backward glance, he mounted horse and rode through the dusty, acrid clouds of the road. The columns wended their way through the narrow, mountainous defiles, to Ilkas. And Ampeánor rode close to the head of them, and ever kept his gaze woodenly fixed upon the barbarian general and father of Ara-Karn.
Upon the third and twelfth marches, the armies were attacked by wild men with bows, who came over a rise of a sudden and stormed a length of the strung-out and straggling lines. Shouts were raised and the barbarian outriders hastened back to beat off this harrying, but the raiders had vanished as swiftly as they appeared each time. Upon the first instance, they killed twenty-five barbarians and twelve of the slaves among the camp-followers; the second attack twelve barbarians and fifteen renegades were slain or badly wounded. No warriors were sent after the raiders in pursuit. A fearful rumoring ran up the columns after these instances: the barbarians, their usually fearless faces betraying unease, glancing nervously into the hills and muttering, ‘The demons! The demons!’ The dread and confusion among the barbarians seemed even greater than that of the renegades or folk of the supply-trains.
Ampeánor questioned Jakgron, who shrugged, perhaps to hide his ignorance. Such harryings were common, he said, while the armies were on the march; none of them knew who the raiders might be. They had wreaked great damage, especially among the supply trains; yet not one of them had been slain or captured. They used bows well, and were dressed even more vilely than the renegades; none knew more of them than that. Save, he added, that they were held in an almost superstitious fear by the barbarians; some of whom were fearful that these might prove to be the restless spirits of the dead Gundoen had left unvoyaged behind, in the bitter, deadly journey across the Taril.
§
THERE WAS NO BATTLE when the hordes of Ara-Karn came to Ilkas. That city, cowed by the news of Bollakarvil’s ruin, sent ambassadors to the army bearing yellow flags and the earth and water of the city in token of submission. They sued for peace, and peace Gundoen gave them. He was content with the arms of the city, a detachment of veterans to swell his ranks, and half the contents of the city treasury. The renegades cursed this unfortunate turn of events, for now there would be no chance for loot; and the only women they could enjoy would have to be well paid. And Ampeánor by Jakgron’s side cursed also; for Ilkas had once been a part of the Empire, and he had visited here on his Pilgrimage long ago. He had expected better of her. Still, he was relieved that he should not be put through the agonies of another assault. There was still no token of when Ara-Karn might rejoin his followers; yet of that Ampeánor scarcely thought. He had devised an alternate strategy.
The army took camp outside the city walls while Gundoen and the barbarian chieftains established a garrison and commandeered the city supplies. Of the rest, only small numbers were allowed to enter the city at any one time, lest riots break out. Gundoen flatly forbade all looting and insisted all the warriors pay for all their goods.
When it came time for his visit to the city, Ampeánor did not bother with the brothels, gaming-dens or wineshops his fellows eagerly crowded. Instead, he went to the acropolis of the city and requested an audience with Gundoen.
The barbarian was busy with choosing who should form the garrison, and kept Ampeánor waiting some hours. When he finally did admit him, he could not refrain from referring to Ampeánor as ‘his thief from Rukor.’
The barbarians with him laughed. Ampeánor cast his eyes over them. The old one beside Gundoen was Nam-Rog, chief of the Durbar tribe, second in power, and Gundoen’s closest friend. That broad-chested man was Kul-Dro, who had been a wrestling-mate with Gundoen; he was also the father of Garin, the son-in-law of Ara-Karn’s chief prophet. There were others there, chieftains high in repute among the barbarians.
‘Warlord,’ he replied, ‘I did not come here to serve as the butt of your jokes, but to offer you service. When last you saw me, in the tent of Ara-Karn, you questioned me regarding prophecies. There is a woman who lives in the hills hereabouts famous for her visions: I could take you to her.’
The barbarian turned to where the officials of the city were clustered awaiting his pleasure. Through his translators, renegades who had proven themselves, Gundoen asked the officials if what Ampeánor said was true.
‘Yes, lord,’ they answered. ‘Melkarth, for such is the name she chooses to be called, has great fame among the common people. She accepts no payment and speaks only to a few of the many who seek her. Most, in fact, are sent away without a glimpse of her; yet a few are kept with her for several passes, until all her vision is clear.’
‘Would she see me?’ asked the barbarian.
‘Who knows, lord?’ Ampeánor asked. ‘But be assured that if she sees you, it will be by her whim and none other’s. Not all your men could force her talents. Others have tried: they were ever found later, evil having befallen them.’
‘Could she tell me the truth of prophecies already revealed to me?’
‘What she sees, she will tell,’ answered the renegade. ‘In my youth, I went to see her and she saw me; but I could not make sense of her words. Others have risked fortunes upon a hint from her, and profited greatly. Yet to gain her truth you must go to her: she never stirs from her ancient haunts. I will guide you, if you wish. Yet you must bring no other men. We two must be alone. The sight of a large band would alarm her, and she would go to earth like a hunted wild thing, and we would see not even her tracks.’
‘That is a different matter,’ the barbarian said sourly. ‘How could I trust such a dog as you, who have sold your country and your race for gold?’
‘If you wish to consult this woman there is no other way,’ Ampeánor stated flatly. ‘Ask these men if what I say is not truth.’ And he turned to them, shameless old charanti who had commanded the city when he had visited here as a youth. But not a one of them recognized the High Charan of Rukor in the dirty fightingman before them.
‘What this fellow says is true,’ they told the translator. ‘There are many strange legends told of the Melkarth.’
‘You see, lord,’ said Ampeánor.
The barbarian gave him a cold, hard stare, then relaxed with contempt upon his bearded lips. ‘And how much will you take for your services, Southron?’
Ampeánor smiled with a faint irony. ‘Everything you will give to me, my lord.’
§
THEY RODE FORTH from the city, their brightly burning war-gear concealed beneath voluminous traveling cloaks. Slowly and easily, the two riders ascended the road up into the foothills of the mountains. Almost from the start thick woods, and later the rises and many turns of the road, cut off their view of the city. The road narrowed, and the orchards, woods and summer sheep pastures gave way soon to a stony wilderness; and still they mounted higher.
They came at length to the bald top of a high hill; there Gundoen reined in his pony and looked about him.
‘We have come far,’ he muttered. ‘Where is the woman’s hut?’
Ampeánor pointed ahead. ‘Your pardon, General, but it is a ways farther yet.’
‘You go on too slowly, Southron.’
‘Your pardon, lord, but it is many a year since I have visited the seeress. Too, it is not easy to ride swiftly with a beaten back.’
So they plunged down the hill, following along the steep-falling slope. The hills were higher here, a fit abode for wolves and thorsas. The two men ate the second meal in silence, mounted and went on.
They reached a part of the trail that ran like a skirt-pleat up and round a cliffside. They were leaving the hills then, and nearly among the mountains. Gundoen again reined in his steed and looked about warily, as a beast will that has ventured too far from the familiar grounds of its lair.
‘We have come far,’ he growled, ‘farther than I would like. You did not tell me it was so distant, my thief. Point out to me this woman’s hut.’
But Ampeánor pointed yet ahead. ‘Your pardon, General, but it is a ways farther yet.’
‘I grow saddle-angry.’ The barbarian leaned and spat. ‘But lead you on, renegade. It had better be near.’
They rode up the skirt-pleat. Not even wolves might love this terrain. Great birds wheeled in the cold winds over their heads, eying them and floating on. The trail came up round the cliffside and led them over a vast tableland, soil-less and dead.
The air was thin and brittle, for they were very high. All about them the heads of the mountains rose above the edges of the table; and beyond and between the peaks the distant lowlands spread away, pallid and blanched through the misty clouds. The winds whipped their traveling-cloaks ahead of them, round their ponies’ heads. They passed a few heaps of stones blackened with the soot of cook-fires – they might have burned a waking, or three lifetimes before. The third meal they ate in the saddle, and the thirsty wind drank the spilling drops of their waterskins. They did not pause for the shortsleep. They reached the end of the table, and Ampeánor led the way down the shadowside. Before and below them the trail led precipitously down into a hilly, well-wooded terrain, beyond which a limitless, ageless Wood stretched far and green away. It looked so great, even from so high above it, that it might easily have been imagined that Wood had never known the touch of an axe. There were trees in those shaded depths so great they might have been ancient before Elna’s first breath.
Again, Gundoen reined in, so sharply now his pony all but stumbled and cast him to his doom; but Ampeánor’s hand steadied the affrighted beast.
‘What sort of game do you play, renegade? Will you lead me to the dark horizon now? If you know not where this witch-woman lives, tell me so and begone. I warn you, O my thief, that I carry no gold or jewels, or anything bright save the blade of my sword – and that you may have at your pleasure.’
For answer Ampeánor merely gestured below them. There where the snakelike road wound back upon itself, a little stone hut sat nestled in a crag of the cliffside. ‘Your pardon, General, but yonder sits her hut.’
The barbarian growled something, but followed as Ampeánor rode swaying down the trail. The trail dipped down, so that it came upon the hut with an upward slope. There were short trees and thick grasses hereabouts, but in that ceaseless shadow no great relief from the chill of the heights. The riders stopped their ponies, and gazed upon the silent ruinous hut. It looked as though no human hand had touched it in an age.
‘Melkarth does not live as we do, nor does she encourage visitors,’ Ampeánor said. ‘But there she lives: I swear it to you upon all my honor.’
‘Your honor,’ sneered the barbarian. ‘Go on, and summon her forth.’
‘Pardon, General, but it should be better if you, the petitioner, did that.’
Gundoen’s swordpoint pressed against Ampeánor’s back through the heavy woolen cloak. ‘Did you hear what I said, my thief? Do it.’
Ampeánor dismounted with a seeming reluctance and stepped to the hut’s wooden door. Pounding upon it with the heel of his hand, he spoke some loud words of Bordo; a low voice answered something from within. Ampeánor, relieved, glanced back. ‘She is at home, and will hear you. Do you speak her tongue? Then will I be your translator. Only sheathe your sword, or else she will little like the look of you. An armed man will offend her; she will refuse your questions, and lay a weird upon you.’
‘You were not such a believer before,’ Gundoen muttered, thrusting his sword into its scabbard.
‘These places strip away what a man would wear,’ Ampeánor replied, pushing the door open and standing to one side.
Gundoen, his body bulking large against the little opening, peered blinking within. In that gloomy interior might be faintly perceived a dust-ridden, low chamber, broken hearth, and a short, squat figure covered with a hooded cloak sitting with her back to the door.
Gundoen took another step. ‘Pardon, old woman,’ he muttered awkwardly; ‘but of late I have been troubled by dreams. And I have come to you concerning certain foresayings of my wife, that have greatly troubled me all this year. She saw—’
Ampeánor cast the heavy Delba cord about the barbarian’s shoulders, drawing it fast so that the man could neither fight nor draw sword. Like a knife-stabbed thorsa, the barbarian bellowed out his rage, turning on his betrayer. Inside the hut the squat figure rose and cast off her shawls, and it was Jakgron with a stout staff in his fists. He stepped out and swung the staff down hard against Gundoen’s skull, whereat the barbarian roared again.
Jakgron drew back the staff; Ampeánor looped the rope around a crag of rock and drew Gundoen fast against it. The barbarian’s muscles swelled beneath the armor and cloak; Jakgron struck again, bursting open the skull. Blood ran into the barbarian’s eyes, but only served to enrage him more: he heaved, and the rope burst against the rock. Again Jakgron swung; and thereat, at last, the barbarian bent and fell.
‘Well done,’ commended Ampeánor, after a moment. ‘Have you left the fresh horses in the glade below?’
‘Aye, lord, where you bade me, by the spring. But what a man this was! It took more blows just to bring him down, than would have slain an ox! Look you how the very staff was broken on his head!’
‘I see. Give me a hand, then, and we’ll bind him on one of the horses. Was there no sign of the witch-woman when you arrived?’
‘None, lord. Not even the wolves might choose this place to hide.’
Below the hut a gladsome spring flowed from the ground. There they hung the barbarian’s heavy body across one of the horses as if he had been some beast they had brought down with nets and lances. An angry shout sounded in the midst of their work, startling them: they looked up through the branches and saw a band of barbarians riding hastily down the trail.
Ampeánor swore a vile oath in the barbarian tongue. ‘He must have bidden them follow us; or else they did it on their own. Hurry, and finish with these cords.’
The riders above came round the turn in the path and rode whooping down across the grasses, blades and lances brandished fiercely. An arrow struck the ground near Jakgron's feet. Ampeánor leapt upon the saddle of his horse; Jakgron was somewhat slow behind him. They rode down into the wood, ducking low beneath the raking branches.
Thickly closed the trees about them, and the pungent odor of the leaves. They were forced from the trail they had meant to follow; massive tree-trunks and thick hedges came between them. Ampeánor rode leading the horse on which the barbarian was bound. Instinctively he, who had hunted so often and so well in the forests of Rukor, knew the proper turnings in these wild ways.
The ululations of the barbarians sounded ever more faintly in his ears, and at length were gone.
Not then did he slow but, finding a shallow stream leading in the way he wished to go, he entered on it, and rode splashing into the thick, oppressive depths of the Wood, where the light of Goddess reached but faintly.
Jakgron too urged his steed on; but he was not the equal of his lord in such craft. A great elbowed branch came unheeded into his way, knocking him from horseback to the mossy ground.
There he lay, rolling breathlessly, while the barbarian warriors surrounded him.
They prodded him mercilessly with their honed lances, raining oaths and questions on him. Old Nam-Rog was their leader, chieftain of the Durbar tribe; with him were two other Durbars and a fist of men from Gundoen’s own tribe.
At a distance, they had followed Gundoen over the mountains, but even so had come too late. Roiling and terrible was their anger at this defeat, and there were shouts raised calling from the death of Jakgron then and there. Nam-Rog, however, seeing the pallor of the renegade’s face, put questions to him – and such was Jakgron’s great terror at the prospect of the torments they might put him to, that it was not long before the entire tale was known to the barbarians, of just who had entered their camp and dwelled among them, and whither he now would take his captive.
‘Ampeánor, High Charan of Rukor, took him!’ he screamed. ‘He took him to the City Over the World – to Tarendahardil!’ And his eyes rolled back in his head, and he moaned and slumped senseless back upon the moss.
Nam-Rog nodded. ‘Did I not warn Gundoen many times that these lonesome wanderings would in time turn out ill? Well: Foriger and Tar-Drin, see you this one is bound securely, and we will take him back unto the camp. You others, you trackers of Gundoen’s tribe: will you now follow after this great lord and free your chieftain?’
‘Aye, that we will,’ they cried. ‘Hunt him, hound and harry him. Look for us in no more than two weeks’ time, to return to the camp with Gundoen free and this Southron tied like a taken bird. Garin, you are the finest tracker of us – the finest in all the tribes of the far North. Will you not be our leader?’
The one addressed was a young man mounted on a fine milk-white steed. Disdainfully he looked on them, and shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘My heart does not turn on such things now.’ Some thought him overproud, that he had wived the only daughter of Kuln-Holn the Pious One, who was the chief prophet of Ara-Karn.
The trackers stripped off their gear, and in the light summer tunics of their tribe took up the trail of Ampeánor and his prisoner. The others, led by Nam-Rog, rode back over the mountains and came to Ilkas and the camp below. Old Nam-Rog did not wait, but called for a council of the chiefs immediately, in the open clearing before the wide, dark, empty tents of Ara-Karn.
For a full waking, they argued and questioned the captive spy; then, while the renegades in the camp and the folk of the city sought sleepily their dim places, Nam-Rog called an assembly of all the tribes in the field beside the river. There Nam-Rog addressed them.
Behind him sat Garin and Kul-Dro and the chieftains in a half-circle. A heavy wooden post had been driven into the green earth behind the chiefs; upon it Jakgron was bound, wide-eyed with terror.
Nam-Rog spoke long. Some said they had not known the old man had such fires left unburnt within him. And when he had done with them, then Nam-Rog asked them his question. As with one voice those ten thousand throats and savage hearts gave him answer, even as Garin gave the signal to those warriors behind him, whereat they drove their barbed lances deep into the soft guts of Jakgron the spy. Loudly thunderous was the shout of the ten thousand, so that it rebounded from off the hills and entered the walls of the defeated city and woke with dread the timorous Ilkars.
‘What city now shall be our goal?’ Nam-Rog asked them.
And in that shout they answered him, ‘Tarendahardil!’
