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 license is included as an appendix to this work.
Trembling Heralds of the Wars
UPON THE OTHER SHORES of the Sea of Elna, the darkward Vesquial coastline swept suddenly inward upon itself, forming a beautiful deep-water harbor, extended on either side by great arms of bleached white stone set into the blue and purple waters. In the sunlit depths of those waters green fans of sea weeds could be dimly perceived, languidly waving and beckoning from beneath the foam. Untold years and countless lives these gleaming breakwaters had taken to erect; and beneath the waterline, befitting their maturity, centuries of sea-growth formed their dress. Not even when Elna’s engineers first started to throw them up, could they have seemed more solid and perdurable.
Beyond them lay ships by the score and the stone walls of wharves and tidal barriers, anciently stained with a hundred minor mishaps of a thousand transactions: and yet beyond the walls rose the gift of the great girdling arms of the harbor, in bands of parkland and vertical spires, yellow stone warehouses, blue streets and purple mansions – the port-city of Tezmon, famous for the purple dyes of her master weavers.
Ampeánor sighed, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Leaning in the shadow of the battlements, the High Charan of Rukor looked again over the walls with a critical eye.
Those walls had been designed by Elna’s engineers long centuries before, when the Emperor had ordered this fastness built; it seemed unlikely there had been any work done on them since. This part of the North had been at peace, and Tezmon’s merchants, wealthy and fat from the trade of their linens, had seen fit to spend their Elnics on purchasing Vapio dancing-troupes rather than on their own city’s defenses. The walls had been in shameful disrepair when Ampeánor had arrived here. He had doubts, even after all his labors, whether he could strengthen them enough before Ara-Karn came hither.
Yet he knew he must. It had been his plan as well as Allissál’s: to secretly ship over all the arms they had found in the Imperial armory in the depths below the Black Citadel, to arm and fortify Tezmon against all the strength of the barbarian. Then, provisioned from the sea by Rukorian warships, Tezmon should prove their wedge into the North, when Elnavis took up the Ivory Scepter and they were freed of the meddling constraints of Dornan Ural. By then, Ampeánor and Allissál had thought, perhaps all the rest of the North should have fallen the prey of Ara-Karn – all but this city built by Elna long ago, a sore wound in the underbelly of the barbarian.
Ampeánor went out from the shadow, shouting orders to the workers on the walls. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose brown hair on his head and upper lip was his own, and naturally curled. His strong arms were bronzed by Goddess and the winds, and his body seemed made for the fightingman’s simple tunic it was his habit to wear. Briefly he thought of Allissál as he pursued his labors – it was hard to ignore the ache of missing her; yet he had no regret at all at being absent from the trivial, lascivious pursuits of the pleasure-adoring court.
In the midst of his labors he was interrupted by a messenger from Armand, urgently summoning him to attend the mayor of the city in his hall. Regretfully, Ampeánor assented, and went up the street to the hill overlooking the harbor clustering with the many ships.
The prettily painted slave-girls bowed timidly at his approach, and opened the ornately carven doors. Luxurious and spacious was the hall, filled with works of a sumptuous, sensuous art. Around the walls at regular intervals stood the waiting girls, their breasts showing like young blossoms through the gauzy fabric of their gowns. At the end of the hall, seven more maidens attended to the pleasure of their master the mayor. Armand was a man of middle height and middle age, portly, immaculate, and gaudily dressed with strongly scented oils in his hair and beard. Slumped dejectedly in the carven chair of highly polished stone, he held a silver wine cup closely to his nursing lips. His eyes remained fastened to the mosaic in the floor as Ampeánor approached.
The Charan of Rukor set one booted foot upon the dais and inclined his head slightly. ‘You wished to see me? I understood this was an urgent matter – yet if you only wish to complain of how I tear down your monuments to repair the breeches in your outer walls, I have not the time.’
The portly mayor shook his head dumbly, his eyes still upon the floor where, at the last dining-party, his prized troupe of Vapio dancing girls had performed a new tableau. ‘Tell him,’ he said gloomily.
Across the dais stood a Tezmonian guardsman, his leather tunic stained with sweat and dust. He turned to Ampeánor, eyes big with fear. ‘They are coming,’ he said with a swallow.
‘Who is coming?’
‘The barbarians. We have seen them. They are coming this way!’
‘How is that? All the previous reports—’
‘—Were false! We reported what we saw, but the barbarians deceived us! Twelve turnings toward Mersaline they took; but at the thirteenth many of them broke off, and took the road to Tezmon!’
Ampeánor frowned. ‘Which is the larger body?’ he asked sternly.
The scout swallowed, some of the fear leaving his eyes. ‘By far the larger body still travels for Mersaline. Undoubtedly they have already besieged that city. The other is roughly a quarter their size.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Lanthor, my lord.’
‘Then tell me, Lanthor, how soon you guess they will be here.’
‘In some three or four passes, maybe, they will be here.’
‘Very well.’ Ampeánor nodded. ‘Go and refresh yourself, Lanthor. And take heart: there is no need for alarm. The city will stand. This is good news, not bad. If Ara-Karn has divided his forces, it will be the first tactical error the barbarian has made. Alone against all the barbarians, we could not stand for long: yet against this weaker force we should do well. Your fellow-citizens and soldiers will learn to fight; and soon enough I should be able to provide you with the aid of Rukorian lancers.’
‘My lord,’ Armand queried timidly, ‘might my city truly withstand them?’
Ampeánor turned back. The silver winecup was still at the mayor’s lips, his women still regarded him with tender concern, and his eyes were still affixed to the floor. ‘Why,’ answered Ampeánor, ‘how could she not, with such courageous leaders to defend her?’
‘But these—’ the mayor gestured vaguely ‘—these barbarians, this – this Ara-Karn. They are said to be so terrible… My cousin was Governor-General of Gerso; some of his slaves escaped to find me here, and when they told me of the manner of his death—’ The fat mayor swallowed, and could speak no more.
‘And did his fate not teach you to expect them?’
‘Yes, but – well – not so soon as this!’ The mayor’s voice had risen markedly. Ampeánor, not replying, turned to go. As he passed again through the ornate doors he could hear the mayor’s voice calling out in thin, angry tones to his slave-girls, ‘Zajibel! Zajibel, Fallen Sparrow: where is my favorite?’
§
FOR THE NEXT four passes Ampeánor slept whenever he could, which was not often: in the corners of the guardrooms, in the shadow of a column over the martialing-grounds, on the bare stones of the city walls. He went everywhere, calming the wealthy merchants, roaming the walls with his engineers for a final buttressing of the weakest points, overseeing the training of the recruits picked from the general populace and armed with the weapons he had brought from Tarendahardil. They complained of the work, but Ampeánor stared them to a sullen silence. ‘Would you let your city be destroyed?’ he remonstrated. ‘Well, then, learn to defend her.’ When that was not enough he used force. He made them train beside the desperate exiles from fallen Carftain, that they might learn their shame.
Most of the merchant elite, who had ruled in place of the Imperial charanti ever since Tezmon had broken from the Empire a century before, were secretly gathering their properties and preparing to flee the city. Ampeánor was not sorry to see them go. The majority of the people would stay and fight, because they must. Those remaining would be of a greater courage. Yet more than once he found himself wishing for nothing but a troop of his own lancers, and his chief captain Ferrakador to lead them.
With an utter weariness gathering in the hollows of his shoulders and his knees, he rode at last back to the North Gate, where he had stationed the pick of the guard and the Carftainians. This, facing the only major road to the North, would bear the brunt of the attack. The guardsmen smiled to see him dismounting and ascending the hollowed steps in his dusty, darkened armor; but the Carftainians and the other refugees only gripped their lances and stared out over the brown-burned fields. He did not blame them, having heard the horrors of their defeat at the barbarians’ hands.
He sat upon the parapet and looked with them. A guardsman offered him some bread and wine; he ate reflectively, thinking of the battle ahead. It was long years since his campaigns against the pirates, the first and last real warfare in which he had engaged. He recalled how, at his frequent offers to instruct the mayor, Armand had only smiled foolishly and spoken of Ampeánor’s youthful triumphs over the pirates, as if expecting him to provide an equally miraculous outcome here. Only then he had had Rukorians at his back, not weavers.
He looked out to the north. A solitary rider was coming up the dusty, graveled road.
‘It is Lanthor,’ said one of the guards, shouting to those below working the mechanism of the gates. Lanthor was the last of the scouts to return. He rode between the gates with an iron clatter, swaying wearily in his saddle. The others shouted at him irritably, asking the news; but Lanthor only rolled in the saddle and fell drunkenly onto the cobbled courtyard. Some went to see to him, but when they turned him over, he was dead.
From out of the small of his back a thin shaft protruded through the blood-soaked cloth, bearing at its end three black feathers.
Ampeánor had them bring him the bloody arrow. He had never seen one before. It seemed slight and fragile in his gloved hand. Could such a little thing truly be the secret of the strength of Ara-Karn? he wondered.
‘They are near, now,’ said one of the Carftainians, grunting.
Ampeánor held the shaft up and broke it in two between his fingers. ‘They will pay for him dearly,’ he promised.
§
WHEN ELNAVIS departed Tarendahardil, then the City gleamed beneath Goddess. The stone streets were scrubbed clean, shrines and monuments were draped with garlands, statues were painted and hung with celebratory wreaths, and the open doors of the temples breathed airs of sweet incense. Tarendahardil seemed fair, and lovely, and very young at that hour.
The markets and work-halls all were closed. In their brightest festival robes, the people of the City crowded the length of the Way of Kings; vendors passed among them, hawking refreshments. Already the prince had led the nobly born youths of his Companions on foot through the streets to the Brown Temple, to make sacrifice and be ritually cleansed. Already the holy virgin priestesses had taken auguries and omens. The word ran like a river down the Way of Kings: the omens had all been extremely favorable.
The people laughed to hear. Dearly they loved the sight of their prince riding boldly, racing through the streets, his golden curls waving. They took pride in his strength, his comeliness and his youth as if they were their own – as indeed, they were. They were his people, and he was their prince, soon to be their Emperor – and such an Emperor, as had not ruled in Tarendahardil for six generations. They knew that when he took up the Ivory Scepter, he would not be so slave-thrifty as the High Regent. It was a saying among them, when grumbling at the disrepair of the city, the filth flowing in the streets, or the corruption of the officials, ‘Ah, when Elnavis takes up the Ivory Scepter, now—!’ Wistfully they dreamed on the lost grandeur of their Empire, which only Elnavis would restore.
Of a sudden, the throngs in the square below the Citadel were stilled. The great black twin gates opened, and the Parade emerged from the Citadel of Elna.
In suchlike order did they make appearance and descend in stateliness the Way of Kings. The magistrates of the First and Second Ranks came first; then flute-players; milk-white, gold-horned oxen for the later sacrifices; the holy virgin priestesses, going barefooted before the venerable High Priestess; slaves strewing blossoms; and the nobility: all the great charai and charanti borne in ivory litters. A body of trumpeters preceded the High Council – Farnese of the horse-driving Eglands, Arstomenes of ancient Vapio, Lornof of Fulmine, and Dornan Ural. Only the Charan of Rukor, Ampeánor, was absent, the most popular of all the highborn for his talents and the Queen’s passion for him. The prince’s personal guard came after, bearing aloft the multicolored standards, with the royal hue of orange foremost; and the crowds were hushed for a moment that ended with a roar redoubled: for the prince, golden Elnavis, had appeared.
Of purest gold was his armor, inlaid with silver and gem-stones. The light of Goddess adorned him with such a coruscation that, astride his black stallion Warcloud, he seemed a very god come to walk the earth. He laughed, and waved to the screaming throngs.
Behind him a single slave walked with a golden crown held above his head in accordance with the custom of Elna, to distract the evil of God from the figure of the prince. Eight white pure-bred mares followed, drawing a silver chariot wherein the Divine Queen stood with the Chara Ilal.
Then the Companions made appearance, two hundred youths of the most antique houses of the Empire, riding steeds in full war-gear. They laughed to their sweethearts on the balconies in the palaces above. This was to be the grandest event in their young lives. The long training was over at last, and the real fighting to come: the sweep of horse-driven wings, the brutal clash against the ranks of the foe, the killing, the victories, and all glory earned beneath the last descendant of great Elna.
Their warhorses strained and fretted against the riders’ firm control. They were not bred for such slow ploddings, but for glorious charges across windswept plains ringing with war’s anvils. The roars of the populace excited them, and made them furiously eager for the odor of blood arising from their massive, steel-clad hooves. Even so, it was not long before the great Parade reached the docksides, where the ships awaited. There the crowd was thickest, bodies against bodies, elbows into chests, the narrow airs thick with cheers to rend the ears.
The stallions wheeled, the silver chariot rolled to a majestic halt. The Companions waved farewell, and rode singly up to shipboard, where slaves and seamen awaited to help remove the trappings and lead horse and rider below. The holy priestesses formed a half-circle on the age-old yellow stones, facing the jade-azure of the sea. There the Empress, glorious in her silver robes of state, met her son and made the Sign of Goddess above his brow; and he knelt and made the Sign of God in return.
She kissed him upon the front of his helm and raised him, bidding him in a voice loud enough only for him to hear, all luck. ‘And may your return be even more glorious than this, your departure.’
He grinned in the gold and silver shadow. ‘Worry not, Mother. I’ll bring the head of Ara-Karn to you upon my lance – then you can have it cured and hung at the foot of your bed, and every sleep have it to kiss good-waking!’ And they both laughed; and the people, seeing this, were like to go mad with joy.
Pelted with flowers, gracefully as a lover to his mistress he bowed before them. Then in a single glorious bound he gained the saddle. Warcloud reared high, as if smelling already the barbarian in his flaring nostrils. And they went dancing over the side of the ship, so that the people marveled at such consummate horsemanship.
So soon as his highness was aboard the last ship, they cast off, pilots sculling to draw her out of the crowded harbor after the other ships. Beyond the moles the pilot-boats left them, and the great ships loosed their saffron sails bellying full with wind. Gently now, but with gathering vigor, they swept on the wings of tide and breeze, farther and farther toward the distant rim of the sea.
When they reached the port of Torjulla, they descended into the city and bought provisions; the prince attended eagerly to all the latest news, of the dividing of Ara-Karn’s armies. Impatiently he purchased the last of their supplies, and hastened with the Companions upland, toward the beleaguered city of Mersaline.
