Samples from books that we have published under the Eartherean Press imprint.
This is another in a series from the first book in the 4-book series The Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn: The Former King.
© 1981 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.
The Road to Gerso
THE BROAD, DUSTY PATH RAN unturning through the age-old woods, beckoning the riders on. Great tree trunks, a horse’s length broad and more, reared like guardian towers on either hand and, with their fiery-green young leaves, scattered the road with a thousand eyes of Goddess, sparkling, swirling, and dancing as the overhead breezes swelled and sighed. So had the pathway the likeness of a great tunnel through the ancient forest – or else of some half-glimpsed, half-dreamt Hall of legend, arched upon the twenty-fathom pillars of the old brown trunks. For much of its length, too, a brightly rushing stream followed alongside, with its gladsome melodies, clear fresh water, and bounding fish providing wearied travelers with heart and sustenance enough to go on another thousand or two before they halted in their journeys. From time to time a light rain might fall, pattering upon the leaf-roof so far above before descending into the earth in plum-drops of the size and gentleness they called in the far North the Milk of Goddess. It was very pleasant here, thought Kuln-Holn happily – pleasant and peaceful and merciful, riding down the Road to Gerso.
He looked before him and behind at the long columns of warriors upon their shaggy ponies. The risen dust obscured the most distant of them from Kuln-Holn’s sight, so that it seemed to him that there was no end to them or beginning. The sight swelled his heart. All the tribes were represented, from the smallest to the greatest – all the warriors and hunters of the far North, side by side, sharing out of packs and kills. It was a wonderful sight. Ahead of Kuln-Holn rode the Karghil warriors, behind him Buzrahs, and not a foulness or a murder passed between. Yet Kuln-Holn could recall tales of the Stand at Urnostardil – of how a Buzrah chief had thrown a Karghil warrior off the cliff-side and, when the food was gone, the Karghil women had feasted on the corpses of two Buzrah men. And Kuln-Holn thought, it was but the will and the power of one man, riding far ahead at the front of the columns, which held them now in peace and brought them even to the point where they bore the semblance of comrades. And if this were done already, how much longer might it be before all the prophecies were fulfilled and the happy years of peace and no want were upon them?
Had it been magic, he wondered, or mere skilled wisdom that had enabled his master thus to tame them? While Gen-Karn lay yet abed, moaning near death in the madness of his wounds, the tribes had been roused to the coming war. Bows had been passed out among all the tribes, and Ara-Karn had instructed men of every tribe how to fashion them: how to pick the best wood, how to clean the guts to make the strongest strings, and what birds’ feathers were best on the long-shafted arrows.
‘Mostly I have known only hunting-bows,’ he had told them once. ‘But are men any better than beasts to be hunted down?’ None had spoken against him.
And to some, the best marksmen with the new things, he fashioned and gave out special bundles of the arrows, longer than any others, of dark wood Kuln-Holn did not know, with beaks of a metal more eager than iron.
‘These are the true death-birds,’ he told them. ‘Their greedy beaks have tasted tears of my blood and the icicles of my soul. Guard them well and do not lose them! They will not break or fail to fly true to their mark. They will carry as far as your eye can see, and slip untouched through the fiercest wind. Not wood or leather or metal plate will avail against them. And what they hit will die.’
The rest of the Assembly had been spent making plans. Long hours Ara-Karn spent making the rounds of the chiefs, learning what numbers of warriors they could lead into battle, what arms they had, and what they wanted. From the wealthy tribes he took gold and sent men to purchase weapons in the South with which to arm the poorer tribes.
For buyers he chose only trustworthy men who had been to the South before. And he counseled them before they left, to act as they were wont and give the Southrons no cause for suspicion. ‘Do not buy the weapons all at once or all from the same dealer. Send them north in small bundles, making sure you drop no hint of our plans. Surprise shall be our greatest weapon. Do not act but humbly before the arrogance of the civilized men. Let them be secure and smug, smoking costly herbs and sucking on the teats of expensive women. We shall sweep over them with the speed of the black arrow, and their throats will weep blood before their lungs can cry alarm.’ The messengers nodded, grinning at the thought, and all was done as Ara-Karn had commanded.
After the Assembly, when the warriors had returned to their villages, Kuln-Holn happened to be nearby Gundoen the chief when they rode into the streets up to the hall of Tont-Ornoth. The air was cold now that they stood on the threshold of Winter, but not so cold as it had been on Urnostardil. On the shadowsides of some hills there was now snow, and ice in the small streams.
Gundoen leaped from his pony and embraced his wife warmly. He laughed at her care-worn face. ‘Is this the hug of a ghost?’ he asked. ‘I am well, as you see – and what news I have for you!’
‘You are alive,’ responded Hertha-Toll mysteriously. ‘But my prophecy said nothing of time. Still I say, husband, beware.’
Kuln-Holn wondered what it was the wise woman had spoken of. He felt that he should leave and listen no more, but something held him close by.
‘A woman’s fears,’ scoffed Gundoen. ‘I never yet heard of a prophet who spoke aught but ill words. ALL will be well with me, now that I have a grown son.’ He told Hertha-Toll how he had named Ara-Karn his adoptive son before the Assembly. ‘And we must have the formal ceremonies before he goes to visit the other tribes, so that our relation will be lawful.’
Hertha-Toll bowed her head. ‘As you will, husband. I know you want only good words now, but I have none to give you. My fears are as strong as ever – but you frown. Perhaps it is only foolishness, as you have said. Still, this I know and must say: That man is even more dangerous than I feared. He breathes death like the steam from your pony’s nostrils.’
Gundoen the chief only laughed harshly at these words that put a chill in Kuln-Holn’s heart, and took his wife into the chief’s hall.
Kuln-Holn remained without, angry at the chief’s wife. Why should she so hate his master? It was only her witchcraft, and it was probably against her that Goddess had sent the curse on the chief’s children. Yet Kuln-Holn’s anger could not hide the fear in his heart, for Hertha-Toll was the wisest woman in all the far North.
Before the ceremonies of adoption, Gundoen came to Ara-Karn in the guest hall. ‘Truly, when I named you it was but a jest, and an ill one at that,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I repent of it now. It was a luckless thing and an ill-omened name. Now you are a former king no longer, but a true king in your own right, king of the North! Let me give you a new name in the ceremony.’
This seemed a good thought to Kuln-Holn, but Ara-Karn only shook his head.
‘What for?’ he asked, scratching at his beard. ‘Call you this a kingdom? Let the name stand. I will tell you when you may call me a king again.’
At these words his eyes focused as if on a far dim place, and he was lost to his dark thoughts. Gundoen tried to persuade him, and Kuln-Holn also tried; but it was as if he did not hear their words. Somewhat he woke, though, when the chief gave him his naming-gift, and that was a great sword. It had been forged onto the hilt of Tont-Ornoth and worked on in secret so that even Kuln-Holn had heard no word of it till now. Ara-Karn took it into his hands and felt of its heaviness and its bite, and he smiled. But still would he have no other name. So in the end Gundoen left sighing. And Ara-Karn was the Warlord’s name still, after the rites.
From tribe to tribe Ara-Karn traveled, even when the snow and ice lay like a shaggy cloak over the lands; and ever at his side rode Kuln-Holn, in the place that seemed ever would be his. Every tribe made them welcome – even the Orn tribe, whose chief was still Gen-Karn. While he was still sickly from his terrible wounds, Gen-Karn’s chief man Sol-Dat ruled the tribe in his chieftain’s name. Sol-Dat treated Ara-Karn with smiles and as many gifts as if their former enmity had never been; and even later, when Gen-Karn was well, the Orn tribe showed no signs of rebellion.
‘Still I trust him not,’ Gundoen later said. ‘I have known Gen-Karn of old. He is full of craft. For now you give him what he wants, so he will not challenge you. Yet if ever you falter or make a mistake, then make sure Gen-Karn is not at your backsides.’
‘I fear him not,’ Ara-Karn replied, and there the matter lay.
Each time they came to a new tribe, the welcome was grander than the last. At the Assembly Kuln-Holn had spoken of Ara-Karn as the son of God and Goddess, engendered at the eclipse that had swept the North at the beginning of the past spring. The word had spread quickly throughout the warriors at Urnostardil. And when they had come home from Assembly, the warriors also spread the legends of their strange new lord. They told of the great deed, when Ara-Karn alone had hunted Darkbeast; they told of the duel, when he had mutilated the powerful Gen-Karn; and they told of his speech, when he had vowed to lead them down into the fat lands of the South, where their ancestors had been before them. These new tales were added to the older ones about him and grew with each retelling. The people of the tribes scoffed at first. But then they saw the game brought in by the bow and the new weapons bought of the merchants of Gerso, and they came to believe. And when the stranger came personally amongst them, their belief was made into worship.
Chiefs bowed on the earth before him; women were awed at his presence; children fled his path. He was given glory and respect greater than had ever been accorded Gen-Karn. Those who had been reluctant to obey Gen-Karn, who was but a mortal man and only an Orn after all, were eager to worship Ara-Karn, who was of the gods. They came to him to bless their new weapons and breathe his spirit into the soft mouths of their babes. They could exalt him above all previous Warlords, because by doing so they did not exalt a man from another tribe over the men of their own. Kuln-Holn could see that his master took no pleasure in the baptisms and ceremonies the people begged him to attend, but Ara-Karn performed them all with seeming eagerness. This was a wonder to Kuln-Holn. But he knew better than to ask reasons of his master.
When they came among the Buzrahs the adulation was the greatest they had yet encountered. Cap-Tillarn, the chief of the Buzrahs, was most eager to please his guests – the more so because he was afraid that Kepa-Trim of the Karghils had poisoned the mind of the new Warlord when the Karghils had been allied with Gundoen against Gen-Karn. He was forever pestering Kuln-Holn about the tastes and desires of Ara-Karn, even though the Warlord had shown no sign of disfavor toward him.
At last he came to offer the Warlord such a gift as no other chief had dared: a woman. She was a sprightly, delicate girl not seventeen winters old. Her features were refined and of a rare beauty; and when she was not prettily smiling, her soft blue eyes reflected a serious intelligence that promised an exceptional ability to please. Her breasts were peaked beauties, mounted with nipples like fresh-sliced peaches strewn on the new-fallen snow. And her best feature was her hair, a soft golden color, very fine, braided about her oval face most becomingly.
‘Take her,’ said Cap-Tillarn, beaming. ‘She is the loveliest maiden in the far North, She is willing enough, if a bit shy – what maid would not be? Yet you shall see that she is skillful and pure as a fresh snowfall. Give her to child and you shall bless our tribe, O lord.’
Ara-Karn said nothing. Immediately, Kuln-Holn could see that something was wrong. His master stood for a long time, looking at the girl as if he could see something in her that no one else could. He went up to her and took her by her slight, ivory-tinted shoulders, and he stared into her eyes with a terrible gaze. The poor young girl grew terrified at this look; she turned away swiftly, coloring.
At this Ara-Karn started, and wrenched his head away. He spun her by her shoulders roughly, so that she fell suddenly upon the straw on the floor. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, angrily yet so softly that none but Kuln-Holn could hear his word; then Kuln-Holn thought he said something else, but either it was an unknown word or else he spoke too low for the Pious One to discern it.
The Warlord turned to the chief, who fell to the ground before the thunderclouds upon his brow. ‘You surely insult me here,’ he said, in calmness but with an edge of iron. ‘Do you think that I would lie with any slut in the North? Or do you think that you can get this girl’s child proclaimed as mine, though you’ve doubtless already filled her with your own seed? Take her for your own – clearly you’ve got a lust to – and bother me no more with such trifles.’
With that he left the hall. A wail of sorrow arose from all the gathered Buzrahs.
‘Fool!’ shouted Cap-Tillarn’s woman. ‘You have offended him! Do you wish us all to be cursed? O Kuln-Holn, servant of our great Warlord, tell us what we may do to placate the anger of him.’
‘Do nothing,’ said Kuln-Holn, who was hardly less upset than the Buzrahs. ‘Wait here. I will follow and speak to him on your behalf. I know you meant no offense.’
He went out into the street, where patches of mud showed among the snow. He saw the tracks of his master and followed them out into the woods. At a small glade there were many tracks leading about in circles, then some others leading back to the village by another trail. When he finally traced the path back to the village guest-hall, he saw that Ara-Karn had shut himself up in his dim place, a sure sign he did not want to be troubled.
Kuln-Holn approached the fastened skin coverings and called softly, ‘Lord, is there anything you will be wanting?’
There was silence for a space. Then the voice came angrily: ‘Leave me.’
Kuln-Holn went. He left the hall and the village, and went to the glade where all the tracks chased themselves. And he sat on a cold rock above the snow. Above him, three fists above the bright horizon, Goddess shone like a faint smear of saffron over the hills. Kuln-Holn sat and stared at the tracks, but could not riddle the thing through. What could he hope to do to serve his master when he did not even know what the source of the trouble was? For he was certain that when he had approached the fastened skin covering, his master Ara-Karn had been weeping.
§
AT THE VERY END of winter, before yet the spring had come, they returned to the village above the deep-water bay. Gundoen welcomed them as if Ara-Karn were the very seed of his loins, and the celebrations and feastings were tremendous. Kuln-Holn returned to find himself a grandfather: Turin Tim had given birth to a fat little boy during the winter. Garin was pleased as a stud bull over his firstborn and asked Kuln-Holn to be the babe’s name-giver.
‘It would never have come about if not for him,’ Kuln-Holn affirmed. ‘Therefore I call him Bart-Karan, or the Blessing of the King.’
Turin Tim smiled, holding the sucking babe to her swollen breast, and said the name was good. Kuln-Holn could see that less than a year of marriage had already made Turin Tim a new woman. Before, she had only had her work, and work was never enough; now she had her own little bundle of dreams, warm against her flesh. He fell in love with little Bart-Karan immediately, of course, and would have wished to spend more time with the infant. But a man came to them to summon him and Garin to the Grove of dark God for the prewar sacrifice.
The Grove was in the shadow of the trees and a tremendous outcropping of rough-hewn rock, on the dark side of one of the nearby hills. No light ever shone there except the faint light of His Eye. There the air was perpetually chill; there no animals ever went by choice. To the Grove no women were permitted. If any woman had had the temerity to spy upon the rites enacted there, she would have been seized and put to an immediate, horrible death, like to the fate of any man who dared to spy upon the women, when they prayed to Goddess in the Vale of Womanhood.
On all sides of the silent grove were pine trees – dense, tall, aloof. They laid a thick carpet of needles on the dry ground. The ash-smeared feet of the warriors rustled as they shuffled through the brown needles.
They were, to a man, naked, save for brief rags twisted about their loins. Their tunics they had discarded on the sunward side of the hill. Their limbs and torsos were blackened with ash and pigments. Their faces were concealed behind masks of bark carved with grotesque expressions. It was the first time ever Kuln-Holn had come here to sacrifice – he was no warrior, no killer of men. The bark mask was uncomfortable on his face: it itched and he could not see well.
In the center of the Grove was an idol, a tremendous tree trunk twice the height of a man carved into the semblance of a horrible man. The roots of the tree still gripped the earth. Sometimes in springtime the idol would sprout fresh green sprouts full of life and promise. It was the duty of the men who guarded the Grove to crop back those young shoots mercilessly, so that only the horrible figure remained.
His features were as grotesque as those on the masks of the naked worshipers. In His fists He held a sword and an axe, both stained a dull brown-red. His grinning lips were of the same dark stain as was the enormous phallus jutting forth.
The chief, recognizable for his enormous stocky frame, led the warriors forward. Beside him stood Ara-Karn, dressed as the others, only more horribly still. Behind them came the sacrifice: the chief’s brown mare – one of his most prized possessions. She was a brood mare and had foaled several of the finest ponies in the tribe. The brown mare loved Gundoen: she followed him daintily and docilely, her great liquid eyes brimming with trust and faith.
Kuln-Holn felt his heart go out to the poor horse. He almost felt as one with her in her adoration and her innocence. It tore his heart to watch what happened next.
Gundoen led her up before the idol, beneath the eyes of Ara-Karn. The smells that came from the stained wood alarmed the mare; she whinnied softly, and Gundoen stroked her muzzle unthinkingly.
Before her forelegs they laid the great wooden bowl. She sniffed at it as if expecting to find it full of grain. But the great great wooden bowl was empty as yet.
Ara-Karn handed the chief the ancient worn knife of chipped stone. Gundoen took it and thumbed the blade with his broad thumb.
He held the mare’s head gently with his left hand and in his right the knife. Behind the grotesque bark mask, the chief’s eyes were in shadow, but Ara-Karn’s glittered greenly.
With a swift stroke Gundoen severed the veins in her neck.
The hot steaming blood gushed forth in a fluid arc. It hissed as it passed through the gaping wound in the brown flesh. Kuln-Holn felt sickened; the mare whimpered painfully and tried to twist her head away. But Gundoen’s broad hands held her firmly. Slowly she sank to her knees. Her tail lashed fitfully, then idly; then it was still.
The broad head flopped onto the rough red earth. The large, liquid eyes were shut fast.
‘Thus ever to my enemies,’ swore Gundoen, his voice terrible through the bark mask. ‘Thus for the injuries of past lives.’
They anointed the idol with the mare’s hot blood: the jutting phallus, the edges of sword and axe, the thick grinning lips. Ara-Karn himself anointed the lips. When this was done, there was still a good deal of blood remaining in the great wooden bowl.
They mixed the blood with ale they had brought from the storage-holes of the huts of the village. The red blood was darkened by the thick brown ale. They lifted the bowl onto a pedestal of rock, and each man drank of the blood-mixed ale. Gundoen as chief drank first. After him drank Ara-Karn. When the stranger rose, his lips were stained and smeared with the blood. The carved grinning lips of the mask were stained also.
‘Death and fire, destruction and rapine,’ promised the chief and the Warlord to the freshly stained idol as the other warriors drank of the bloody mixture. ‘Blood and the screams of the dying. Men cut down, babes trampled underfoot, women raped screaming. Give us these things, great Lord, and we shall be wholly yours. The hands that hold the blades will be yours and so the head that commands. Our loins will be in your service. Love and pleasure we cast aside, with those whom we love, with those who give us pleasure. We will live only for death and vengeance, and will send all others in death to you. This we swear, dread Lord: and may you destroy us utterly if ever we go back upon these oaths.’
When it came Kuln-Holn’s turn to drink at the blood, he bent dutifully over the bowl. But the stench that rose to his nostrils assailed him and his gorge rose. Beneath the mask he gagged. The fellow behind him prodded; so, closing his eyes and his mind, he dipped suddenly, so that the blood came bubbling about his half-parted lips. Even with the ale it was horrible. It made him so sick afterward that he could eat nothing for several passes.
§
AND NOW, as he rode among the hordes of warriors up the path into the hills, Kuln-Holn thought on his master and wondered. And Kuln-Holn remembered and could not dispel the horror of that taste of mare’s blood from his mouth. And it made him almost fearful of his master, who had gone again to the great wooden bowl, for more.
An angry word tore him from his reveries. Ahead of Kuln-Holn all the riders were bunched together, halted. Kuln-Holn looked at the graveled slopes and the ragged pines rising sparsely like arrow shafts and he thought, How strange a place to camp. And they had rested only shortly before. Yet before he could question the men sitting about him, a word came flying from above that answered him.
The men ahead had it from those beyond, picked it up, and flung it back of them without another word, so that the voices rose around Kuln-Holn and surged past him like a swell upon the Ocean of Death.
‘The Gates!’ they muttered. ‘The Gates! The Gates!’
