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 Battle of the Lower Quarters
‘BUT I DO NOT WISH to go there,’ Kuln-Holn complained.
Berrin laughed at his friend’s reluctance and dragged him on. ‘Do you still fear to encounter your master, in the midst of all this?’ he asked. ‘Be assured, however much you may have erred, he will have larger things on his mind than giving you a beating.’ So Kuln-Holn went with the other slaves to the Palace rooftops, there to behold the hordes of Ara-Karn as they issued from their camp.
Thick and swarming like iron and bronze beetles upon warm sand, they entered the city by the Archways of Vapio and the Eglands. Thousands and thousands of them there were, barbarians, mercenaries, renegades, troops ordered from the conquered cities. They were, perhaps, less than half the numbers of the great armies of the League of Elna; yet even so, it had not been Fronaril of Peshtria that had returned from England Downs. Like a tidal surge they rode the empty, narrow streets of the forsaken lower quarters.
Down to meet them went the defenders, bands of picked men. The Captain of the Guard led a company of guardsmen; Elnavis led his followers; groups of professional robbers and killers from the Thieves’ Quarter flitted shadow-like among the open, dark doorways. Most went riding, but some were on foot, garbed in light robes and tunics for speed.
The leaders of the defenders cut among the approaching barbarians, cutting their horses from between their knees – then turned swiftly back among the twisting alleyways, out of sight of the bows. Some of the Emperor’s men were posted on rooftops along the major ways, and rained down arrows on the barbarians from above – little they liked this taste of death they had so often doled out themselves. The men of the Thieves’ Quarter darted out from doorways and behind statues, to duck and rip gaping wounds in the bellies of the barbarians’ horses before slipping back out of sight. The ways quickly became choked with the carcasses, so that the barbarians in their impatience spread out in ever-lessening companies, seeking to reach High Town now by all the devious, twisty ways of the side streets. Women from the Thieves’ Quarter emerged from doorways there to greet them, in seductive poses and casting saucy glances at the barbarians. They would cry, ‘Spare me, and I will serve you well!’ When an incautious barbarian would seek to hoist one to his side for a kiss, he would find that her hand held steel eager to caress his throat. Then she would laugh mockingly and be gone. Others of them cast bundles of nettles on the horses’ rumps, so that they kicked and bucked and cast their riders clattering to the ground. The many engagements spread like a rising wave in the labyrinth of the lower city.
Surely, the barbarians knew the burden of that long pass toiling approach! A band of them, wrathfully pursuing a handful of mounted guardsmen, would turn a corner, only to find the way blocked by a fallen building – another building would topple behind them, trapping them close in a narrow way – blocks of masonry would rain upon them from balconies and rooftops above, hurled by unseen hands – howling like tormented beasts, the barbarians would fall and die. Spears and stones were hurled at the passing columns from off forsaken rooftops. There was little room in those side-ways for so great a force of men. The barbarians were ill-used to such warfare, who had ever before been confronted by city walls or armies large upon open plains. Gundoen was not there to command them; Ara-Karn was not there to cut this knot. Nam-Rog only led the main force – they had entered the Archway of the Eglands, and by now had won through to the Way of Kings, which even littered with rubble and filth and broken shards of pottery ran like a riverbed before them. But the rest of the forces, commanded by other chieftains, were scattered and confounded among the hovels and workhouses of the sprawling lower city: and even so had come so far that they would have long since reached the far gates of a lesser city. It was the size of her, and her very lack of walls, that were proving Tarendahardil’s greatest strength.
The Emperor Elnavis was everywhere, rallying the guardsmen, leading his brutal followers into blood. It had proven not for nothing that he had spent the years of his youth racing courses in these streets with his highborn friends, clean against all laws and the rebukes of Dornan Ural. Now he knew these streets as another man would have known the furnishings of his own room. He laughed, and killed men. The barbarians knew him and his men, and feared at first even to shoot at them with their bows.
At last the tribesmen led by Nam-Rog reached the base of the slopes leading up unto High Town. They found the Way of Kings uprooted before them, with blocks and stones like a landfall to impede the legs of horse and man. Far above, at the crowning rim, they saw the barricades, behind which the many, many thousands of the city, soldiers, laborers, women and slaves, were waiting.
The barbarians paused, resting their horses. So far they had won, as though that alone had been a victory: and here lay the main battle before them. They looked about them, eying with suspicion and loathing the forest of gaping dwellings that had charged them so dearly for their passage.
From side-ways other barbarians emerged, silent, haggard, and much-harried. The air about them was sluggish and heavy, and Goddess made ovens of the heavy armor. The Emperor and his men, along with the other defenders, had given back silently and suddenly, seeking by secret ways the plateau of High Town, when they had seen the signals that the barbarians had come below the barricades. Now, warily, the barbarians gathered along the Way of Kings. They drank heavily from water-skins, and let the sweet chill of the liquid gush down their beards and seep beneath the hot iron about their chests. A few muttered oaths vile even for such battle-hardened men as these. The rest were silent.
They eyed the barricades above and (though it was a marvel to the defenders) seemed to hesitate. It was as if for that moment they had forgotten why they had come. Then Nam-Rog rode before them. He would have been an old man ill-suited to the work of arms in the South; but he was a tribesman of the far North, where a strengthless man is left in the winter snow unless his grandsons will defend him.
Nam-Rog pointed up before them. ‘So far have we come from the fires on Urnostardil,’ he called out to them, his voice thick and cracking. ‘Gundoen lies prisoned somewhere there – and the descendants of Elna sip their wines in the halls of that dark fastness. Too, the bazaars are there. Tell me now, is there not a man of you who will ride up and ask concerning the price of bandar-skins?’ He had learned his lessons well of Gundoen, who had studied at the elbow of Ara-Karn himself.
They smiled ghastly now to hear his words. Thereat the weariness and weight seemed to fall from their backs and arms. So many battles they had fought and won: what was this but one more? They lifted their bows and lances in their dirty hands; and they rode up, straining to keep the saddle amid the debris: they rode up and found the barricades, and hated Elna’s folk waiting.
§
KULN-HOLN turned away from the parapet. He could watch no longer. In Carftain he had watched, and in Eliorite and Ancha. In all, the outcome had been the same. Gundoen, his chieftain, had led the warriors to victory. And perhaps now Ara-Karn himself rode by his side, as he had to Gerso.
Kuln-Holn went below into the Palace. His master’s chambers were nearby. He had not entered them since he had last seen his master – when Ara-Karn had sworn the utter destruction and defilement of this City and her Queen. Now, as if helpless to evade it, Kuln-Holn set his hand to the door’s opening.
It was quiet within, shadowed and cool. Through the balcony, Kuln-Holn could see the darkward quarters of the city. There had been no battles in those quarters: those had no ways up into High Town. From so high, it might not even be perceived that they had been abandoned.
The few belongings of his master were piled in the storage niche in the same way he remembered. The familiar smells of the chamber and his master’s garments assailed Kuln-Holn’s nostrils like a hostile spirit seeking entry to his body. He stepped to the hangings before the dimchamber and peered within. There before him lay his master’s couch, covered with a dark cloth adorned with pale embroidery. Over the couch a transparent web had been hung, to hold away biting flies from the sleeper’s easeful rest. Beside the couch a painted bowl had been set, filled with water strewn with crushed dried blossoms of the most fragrant flower of the Imperial Gardens. By now the water had all dried away, leaving only colored dust clinging to the bowl’s sides. Kuln-Holn was reminded he had not slept since the shortsleep after the Queen had seen her son return. Kuln-Holn had not seen her since; no one had, but the highest of her maidens.
He was weary, weary with that heavy, irresistible weariness of great confusion and little toil. What have I done, he wondered bitterly, that I should be so often wearied in my life? He drew off his garments and laid himself down upon his master’s couch. Even before his head touched the carven ivory headrest, he was asleep.
Again, Kuln-Holn found himself in Gerso, whither so many of his ill-dreams had conveyed him. Again, flame and yellow fury, thunder and destruction. To one side Ara-Karn bestrode his dark steed, and to the other the captured priestess swung from her bonds, her curses and prayers lost in the groan of devastation. And the others had refused, and the eyes of the Warlord fixed themselves upon Kuln-Holn again, where he sat trembling on his pony.
And softly he spoke, but that voice was even greater than the flames: ‘Kuln-Holn,’ he said, ‘Kuln-Holn my child, cut me down that wrinkled hag.’
But Kuln-Holn looked away. And Ara-Karn did not grow angry; not even scornfully did he regard his prophet, as he had his general. He seemed merely amused; yet beneath that amusement was a coldness no kinder than a winter on the barren plateaus beyond the Forest of Bandars.
‘Do it, Kuln-Holn,’ he said with a smile. ‘You would not disobey me, and take up blasphemy at this late stage in your life?’
‘Lord … I…’
‘Do it, or I shall have you take her place.’
For a moment that seemed a better fate to Kuln-Holn; but then his son-in-law Garin rode between them, brown-haired Garin, the finest tracker in the far North.
‘I will do it,’ he said. Kuln-Holn could not see his face, but heard his voice quavering, as if barely held in the grip of some fierce emotions. He leaned over and snatched the Warlord’s own blade, that unbloodied shone wickedly in the flamelight. And he it was, swung down from his horse and stepped up to the priestess… When he returned the sword did not shine; with outstretched hand he presented it to Ara-Karn. But Ara-Karn only smiled distantly, and would not take the blade.
Then Garin was looking into the face of his father-in-law; but Kuln-Holn could only look back with the starkest of horrors frozen on his face. Garin stared at him accusingly. ‘Is this the thanks I get,’ he muttered, and threw the blade to the ground.
From behind came again that low sardonic voice. ‘Pick up my sword, Kuln-Holn.’
Dully he obeyed. Ara-Karn accepted it of him and wiped it clean upon the priestess’s rags. Tears burned into Kuln-Holn’s cheeks. This had not been the way it had truly happened: it was Ara-Karn who had killed the priestess, and Garin had not even been nearby.
Ara-Karn laughed and entered the tent of Gundoen. The high flames of the cook-fires burned Kuln-Holn, and he led the horses a few paces away. Around them the vast camp seethed with activity; beyond the empty dark tent of his master, Kuln-Holn saw the open gate of the city of Carftain. That city Kuln-Holn and his master had entered alone and betrayed, even as they had Ancha and Eliorite. In Ancha, Ara-Karn had set fire to an oil-seller’s shop near the city’s outer wall; in Eliorite, he had set the mayor against the captain of the guard in a blood-feud. And now Ara-Karn would go yet farther afield. From the tent Gundoen’s voice rose in protest of this latest madness of Ara-Karn; but the master’s voice was cold.
‘You will lead them well enough, my friend – better than you think. Enough. I have made up my mind on this. I grow weary of this role. There were rumors in Carftain, that the Empire thinks of entering the wars, and I have a certain hankering to behold this great and beauteous Queen of whom they speak so much.’
Kuln-Holn tended the horses shipboard, and gazed into the waters of Elna’s Sea, intent upon the strange fishes he saw there. He fell overboard without a splash, drowned and dreamed still. He had an old fisherman’s confidence in the sea. Down he fell in the blue-green purplish waters, until Goddess above winked out, and Kuln-Holn was come to a land of darkness, vile and cold and unforgiving, and he knew he was in the Darklands beyond the dark horizon.
Golden hair lay in thick foaming sheafs before him – it was the Queen’s; but where was she? All about him he felt the presence of a great and hostile dead, and bodies left for wolves and worms. A terrible battle had been fought here.
In the wind he heard a name moaned, ‘Estar Kane!’ He took a step, and the mud oozed round his legs, obscenely cold and gaping to devour him, and he woke.
He rose trembling in his master’s dimchamber. He knew not how much time had passed. He wiped at the sweat on his brow, drew on his tunic and went below.
In the courtyards, men ran to and fro. A wounded guardsman sat on his horse and drank dark wine from a long-necked jug. The wine streamed over his smooth chin, darkening his wounds. So great of neck and body was this man that he reminded Kuln-Holn of Gundoen in his prime.
He was speaking, and a crowd of servants and courtiers around him hung on his every word.
‘Not even the wars against the Pirates, of which the oldsters like to speak overmuch, could have seen its like. Some even threw potsherds in their faces when their swords were shattered. My old father had been proud to see the waste-clay used so well.’
‘And the Emperor?’ one maiden asked.
The guardsman laughed. ‘Oh, where wasn’t he? What didn’t he do?’
‘What do you think of it all?’ a voice asked in Kuln-Holn’s ear. He looked about, and saw the smiling face of Berrin.
‘What does it mean?’ he asked. ‘What has happened?’
‘Do you not know? Why, where have you been? Will you tell me you have slept these three whole passes away? Twice now the barbarians of Ara-Karn have attacked – and twice we have driven them off. Not once have they won even a foothold on High Town, for all their accursed bows!’
Kuln-Holn could scarcely believe it. The Rukorian Captain of the Guards appeared then, and was hailed by his lieutenant, the guardsman on horseback. ‘What had her majesty to say of our bravery, Captain? What estates and honors has she promised?’
The captain shook his head. ‘Only this, Berowne: she has forbidden us to leave the Citadel. We are all to wait and make ready for a siege here. Already she has commanded the engineers to begin the destruction of the bridge-way to the double gates.’
‘But what folly is this?’ the lieutenant cried. ‘Twice now we have beaten them off – the third will be the very breaking of their strength!’
But the captain only sighed, and shook his head. Save for slight scratches, he was unwounded; yet long sleeplessness had marked his face like a tragedian’s.
Leaving Berrin behind, Kuln-Holn went up into the White Tower. At first the maidens would not take his messages to the Queen. He pleaded with them, however, and at length they relented, knowing a little how their mistress regarded him. They led him out upon the rooftop of the Palace. The windswept roof was empty now, save for one small figure huddled at the edge. Respectfully, Kuln-Holn approached. Goddess was strong in the heavens, and despite the winds, the roof-stones were burning beneath his sandals.
She was all in black – there was even a black mantle draped over her head. She was kneeling before the parapet, her head and shoulders bent low. The folds of the mantle concealed all her face, so that all he could see of her was her hands. Gently within the cup of her palms, sheltered from the winds, she held a withered flower.
‘I loved him once, Kuln-Holn,’ she said softly. ‘All my life and dreams were to have been his. He was the final hope of our faded House.’ Idly, she rent the petals from the flower. The winds took them instantly, and one by one they were no more. ‘Now the Bordakasha, the House of Elna, the World Rulers, is no more than this gray stalk. Yet once, Kuln-Holn, I held a garden party down there of an autumn, and ruled that all the court should wear spring vestments. And they all obeyed my whim. Then I was proud, and believed I could turn back seasons and ages at my will. I cannot blame Elnavis. I raised him as I wished: now the fault is mine, not his. Can you read dreams, Kuln-Holn?’
Lowly he answered, ‘Once I thought I could, majesty.’
‘I had dreams once. They were true dreams, and came to me often. Yes, I was warned; and had I heeded, all might be altered now. But for the better or the worse? This has been a hard road, but there were pleasures in it for me, and the memory of them does not shame me now. Kuln-Holn, when your master takes this city, will you return to him?’
‘Your majesty, I have forsworn him. And when he accepted my service, he told me it would mean my death if I ever forsook him. And yet, I think, if he came to me again – I would serve him.’
‘They say women are weak, and ruled by our hearts and livers; yet I am cursed with strength. Were he to come to me as a penitent or as full of love as a shepherd boy, I would spurn him. Kuln-Holn, I wonder which of us is the less fortunate, you for your weakness, or I for my strength?’
Kuln-Holn saw tears falling like springtime raindrops onto her hands. ‘Your majesty, I think he is the most unfortunate of us all.’
‘Do you?’ Her concealed head rose as she looked out over the city. ‘I think that he among us who lives longest will suffer most, Kuln-Holn. Kuln-Holn, remember to die swiftly.’
‘Majesty, I crave a boon.’
‘Well, what would you have, Kuln-Holn?’
‘Majesty, just a sword, but not one so long or heavy I could not use it.’
‘It is no more than I expected. So, Kuln-Holn would join them on the barricades?’
‘Majesty, I must.’
‘But what skills of war do you know?’
‘Majesty, I cannot stay here. When the war-parties of my tribe went to burn the Korlas, I stayed behind and slept – and when Ara-Karn wrestled Gundoen in the sand of our village, and when he fought Gen-Karn before the fires on Urnostardil. Ever I have stood by and watched and done nothing. Yet it was I who prophesied, I who drew ashore the death-barge. It is because of me they fight below.’
‘Very well, Kuln-Holn.’ She bade him bring her parchment and ink, and in a few beautiful, graceful strokes wrote out an order for him to give to the guardsmen’s armorer.
Before she let him go, she kissed him lightly on his mouth. The sweet scent of her lips entering his nostrils, Kuln-Holn felt dizzy as if he had drunk unmixed spice-wine. ‘Farewell, my little champion,’ she murmured.
In the barracks of the guardsmen, Kuln-Holn showed his order to the armorer. Amid the friendly jests and laughter of the resting soldiers, Kuln-Holn was fitted with a breastplate after the guardsmen’s own fashion, a helmet to match, and a short blade of blue steel. He went out into the broad stone courtyard set between the twin sets of gates of the Citadel. Without, the Imperial engineers had already set their slaves to the task of tearing down the stoneway that bridged the gap between the gates of the Citadel and the square below, from which Elna’s Pillar of Victory leapt aloft into the sky.
Beyond the toiling men, the walls and spires of High Town shone in Goddess’s light, as if to greet Kuln-Holn again, one last time.
