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 Warriors’ Departure
WHEN GUNDOEN AWOKE from the thanksgiving feast, he forgot all about his wife’s ill-omened words and sought out Estar, Foron, and Garin, the best trackers and most skilled woodsmen of the tribe.
‘It is time,’ said Gundoen the chief. ‘After this storm we will need a good Hunt. Are you readied?’
‘Since the feast, chief,’ laughed Garin, who was a handsome young brave with curling hair the color of the bark of the coslin tree. ‘We will cast a weird upon all the bandar we see, that none but us may bring them down!’
Then Gundoen laughed, and the trackers slung their packs over swift ponies and took the path past Outpost Rock into the territories of the Korlas. As they passed the brown fields, they laughed, and waved to the men and women toiling, then plunged into the forest’s shadowed depths. Gundoen went back to the village, smiling; but when he saw his wife standing bleakly on the porch of his great hall, his smile washed from his face, and he passed without a word. In the village below he helped repair the ruined huts, lifting great logs unaided and laughing as his muscles bulged and cracked like iron fired red hot.
Later the women prepared hardbreads that would not soon go stale, dried smoked meats that would be eaten from horseback, and skins of ale and mare’s milk. And the men sharpened their swords and skinning knives, and polished their heavy hunting spears. They worked their wooden shields with new leather, embossed with red symbols of protection. They tended to their ponies, fattening them more than many people of the tribe. There would be little food for the ponies on the long trail to the Forest of the Bandar.
In the great chief’s hall the warriors gathered. They were the pride of the village, mighty spearmen, agile trackers. Warmed by the smoke of the blue cook-fires, they tested their weapons, argued strategies, and swore great curses on the Korlas’ heads.
In all the world, bandar roamed only in these wild lands north of Gerso, only in certain deep woods, the Forest of the Bandar. High up were these cold forests, and far from the sea – many passes’ ride from the village of Gundoen’s folk. And only once in all the year were the skins of the bandars the shining green so prized in the faraway South. And that time was now, for the springtime mating season was upon them, bull and cow. Yet this too was the time of their greatest ferocity and unpredictability. The bulls were savage in their rut, the cows most dangerous protecting their newborn. Every year they chose different mating grounds in the hidden depths of the cold, high forest; and this was why the work of the scouts would be so vital.
Too, other tribes would hunt the beasts. Korlas would be there, and Buzrahs, and stout Durbars, and hunters from Gen-Karn’s Orn tribe. Most of the tribes sent expeditions, because selling bandar skins was the only way many of the tribes could obtain the valued things from the civilized lands of the faraway South: costly cloths and silks, spices, fine weapons with a lasting sharpness on their edges.
Some years, especially after a long, harsh winter, the bandar would be few and the hunters many. And recently there had been hunts on which no bandar pelts were taken at all. Instead the hunters had warred upon one another, starting harsh blood-feuds. So Gundoen thought to hunt earlier this year than was customary and steal the finest pelts before the other tribes’ hunters even reached the hunting grounds.
In all this time of waiting, Gundoen never saw the barge-robber; but the guards who watched him reported all that he did. They told him the man’s beard grew longer and that he wore the tunic of the tribe – also that he learned the tongue of the North, though his words were few. At the first, Gundoen showed great interest in the stranger’s doings, and he laughed when he heard of the randy woman left standing; and he shrugged when he heard of the finding of the head of Ob-Kal-Ti. But when they spoke of how the folk had begun to pay a greater heed to Kuln-Holn’s hourly preachings, Gundoen quickly lost his interest. He had been quick to ask for anything that might give him an excuse to kill the stranger; when it became clear this would not come to pass, he grew bored and no longer asked the watchers of the man’s doings. In time and amid the flurry of preparations for the great Hunt, the guards themselves lost interest, and the watch upon the stranger ceased.
Gundoen saw the Pious One only once, and then he saw that the little prophet had cut his beard neater and mended his tunics so that they were not quite so ragged as before. Also Kuln-Holn seemed to walk with a more upright bearing, as if he were a hunter with kills to his credit. The chief frowned, but did not ask what these changes might portend. He did notice that the Pious One was looking noticeably thinner, as if he were not eating enough; this made Gundoen laugh. The barge-robber was eating the man out of his hut, he thought. It was good to see him paying the price of his foolishness.
When the weeks of ten passes of jade God overhead had lapsed, and they began to look from Outpost Rock for the return of the scouts, the foreign merchants came to see the chief. They were as usual all smiles, bows, and flowery gestures, now that they knew that the tribe was about to embark upon the Hunt. Gundoen only looked at them with ill-concealed disgust.
‘Greetings, O Chief,’ bowed the older merchant Zelatar Bonvis. ‘We trust that all goes well with the preparations? Is there anything we can do to aid your people?’
Gundoen shrugged. ‘Well enough. We need no help.’
‘Your hunters look forward to the Hunt with great eagerness, and that is well. Each man hopes to be celebrated as the Hero of the Hunt.’
‘The Hero of the Hunt?’ asked the younger merchant, whose chin was smooth as some woman’s.
‘Yes,’ responded Zelatar smoothly. ‘In every great Hunt there is one hunter who is most responsible for its success. This man is named the Hero of the Hunt and is awarded the greater share of the gold – more even than what the chief receives. Of course, those years when the chief’s share and the Hero’s share go to different men are rare indeed. For usually it is Gundoen who is the Hero of the Hunt. What hunter is greater than Gundoen?’
Gundoen shrugged and turned back to the tending of his ponies. They were sleek, plump creatures – especially the brown mare, a wild and amorous creature who had foaled several of the finest ponies in the tribe and was one of the chief’s most prized possessions. ‘That is one of the reasons I am chief,’ he muttered.
Behind the chief’s back the two merchants exchanged knowing smiles.
‘Not the only reason, I am sure,’ resumed Zelatar. ‘There are many reasons why Gundoen is chief – each better than the others. He is a great fighter, a wise leader, and the most skilled battle commander in all the North. Yet most important of all is the chief’s skill at wrestling.’
‘Yes.’ The younger merchant nodded. ‘Even I had heard of that before I ever came to the North. They speak of his skills at the gates of Gerso. They say he has never yet lost a wrestling match, and that the bones of all his many adversaries, crushed by the main strength of his arms, decorate the walls of his great hall.’
‘All foreigners are liars,’ growled the chief. ‘I have only a few of the bones, and those of men from other lands. Otherwise the spirits of my tribesmen would haunt me. But it is true when they say I have not yet been vanquished. Do they really speak my name before the gates of Gerso?’
‘Often, great chief. And now that I have met you, I find no cause for wonder in it.’
Gundoen looked down at his massive torso, his great long arms and short legs like tree trunks upside down, growing thicker and more knotted as they rose.
‘Tall men make poor wrestlers,’ he said simply. ‘Also, it is more important that a man need to win in his heart than that his arms have power.’
‘This will be the greatest Hunt of your career, O Chief,’ said the bearded merchant. ‘What else were the storm and the eclipse if not omens for the good? They foretell great deeds done by strong men. You will gather more pelts this year than you have ever done, more than three ordinary hunts. I prophesy it.’
‘Mighty is Gundoen,’ chimed the merchant newly come. ‘So, therefore, mighty is the tribe of Gundoen.’
‘While we, on the dark side, are but poor, impoverished merchants. The nations of the South grow surfeited with bandar skins, and will pay us no more than a third of the prices that once we got. Every year that passes leaves us less and less money. Yet even so we will not pass our miseries on to Gundoen. We have known him long, and dare call him friend. However, great chief, so that we are not driven penniless in our efforts to bring you the finest of Southern goods, we must ask that this year the price of pelts be halved.’
The chief frowned. ‘Only half?’ he cried.
‘For our own protection only, O Chief!’ uttered Zelatar. ‘Truly, we would not do this unless we were forced to it. And perhaps next year things will be better. And think – this will be the greatest Hunt in all the history of the tribe. Even at the lower price you will gather more gold than you did last year.’
‘You think to cheat me,’ growled Gundoen, pulling out his great bright sword. ‘You would only give us half of your gold for that for which we risk our lives! What do you say to half a head to do your business with?’
‘Mercy, great chief, mercy!’ The merchants fell to their knees before him, groveling shamelessly. ‘If you slay poor merchants, how will others come to trade with you? And perhaps next year will be better!’ The wily Zelatar knew that this was the moment of greatest risk, upon which all his gamble depended. The chief would either slay them out of hand or concede to their price.
For a terrifying moment the chief looked down at them, and it seemed that his anger would get the better of his need. But then he spat with disgust. ‘You are not worth dirtying my blade. You foreigners are no more than robbers even at your best. Get you gone, bandits! You know well enough I have no choice but to accept your price.’ Zelatar and Mergo bowed fearfully and slunk out of the chief’s sight. They walked through the village streets with heads and shoulders bowed, as if the chief had utterly abashed them. But when they returned to the guest hall, they caught each other’s eyes and laughed aloud.
§
AT LAST, Estar, Foron, and Garin returned, bursting with news. On a crude map etched on hide, they showed the areas where the signs of bandar had been most plentiful and where the Korla lookouts had been. The Korlas, knowing the spears of Gundoen’s men, watched the paths whenever they were clear. The hunters met again, in earnest now, and determined which paths were best to follow and at which points the Korlas would most likely set their spies.
The women packed up the last of the foodstuffs, and the hunters put a final rubbing of animal fat upon their blades. The ponies were packed with supplies and brushed down. And when all was finally made ready, the feast was set forth.
This was the good-fortune feast, and to it all members of the tribe, even outcasts like Kuln-Holn, were invited. A large clearing in the middle of the village, just before the chief’s hall, was swept clean, and pits were dug in the ground and filled with branches and logs for open cook-fires. Fresh straw was strewn about over the hard sandy ground. The largest tables from the halls were brought forth and placed in a great hollow square. Then the chief poured out the ceremonial cup, the God’s cup: brown ale spilled into the fire, whose steam, they prayed, would find pleasure in the nostrils of dark God and stave from them His envy and His evil. This Gundoen did in the custom of their grandfathers before them; then they all cheered and cried for feasting. Out came the finest foods and baked goods; out came kegs of ale; and out came goats and mares and pigs, butchered and thrown to roast over the blazing red cook-fires. The stores of the village were being exhausted in this feast, but that did not matter.
‘If we have a good Hunt, we’ll have all the food we want,’ the chief said. ‘If the Hunt is bad, why feed dead men?’
The people were glad enough to put aside the troubles of the past and rejoice in the promise of future luck. The young men and women danced together in the square to the beat of the wooden drums, and there was much singing. Hertha-Toll invoked the blessing of the Goddess, and Alli passed out the first round of brimming dark ale. The feast began.
After the feast came the entertainments. Especially popular was Alli, favorite of the chief’s concubines. She danced an enticing roundabout, then brought out her young son, a strapping big fellow for his four years. Everyone cheered at this, loudest of all the chief; and it was as if the Storm had never washed away the crops.
Then Hertha-Toll, the Wise and the Sorrowful, came to the center of the tables. It was her custom to speak on what she had seen or dreamed concerning the Hunt. Everyone quieted at seeing the look that was on her face.
‘I have had a dream,’ announced Hertha-Toll. ‘I have seen swift feet and red spears, the flow of much black blood. The spears of our people were drenched in it, yet in hunting our men had little success. Even so, the pile of pelts I saw was large – larger than I have even seen before. This is to be a great Hunt, the most successful in the generations of our tribe – this I prophesy!’
Boisterous cheers roared at her words. The two foreign merchants from the civilized lands nudged one another and smiled. They too had reason to be glad at this news, for Zelatar had had enough experience of the woman’s wisdom to know that many things forecast by Hertha-Toll came to pass.
‘And the Hero, wife!’ called Gundoen, holding out his ale-bowl so that Alli might refill it. ‘Who is to be the Hero of the Hunt?’
Hertha-Toll’s glad face vanished, and she was silent. She looked about the square of long tables and gazed at each man. Last of all she looked at the stranger, the barge-robber, sitting next to Kuln-Holn.
She turned back to the chief. ‘His face was in the shadow,’ she said at last. ‘I could not recognize it. It was a strange face.’
Gundoen frowned darkly. The people’s murmurings fell lower. Hertha-Toll walked back to her place at the chief’s side in silence.
Gundoen rose suddenly.
‘The final offering for Him who is without name,’ he said, growling. He poured the dregs of his bowl of ale into the coal-lit fires. A cloud of hissing steam arose from the spot. ‘I call upon the Dark Lord to grant us luck and witness our Hunt!’
‘O Chief, a boon!’
Broad-chested Gundoen turned. Standing forth was the gray-bearded little prophet, Kuln-Holn. His voice sounded thin after Gundoen’s bellowing and the strange power of Hertha-Toll’s voice. Uncertainly, the Pious One stepped forward.
‘What is it?’ growled Gundoen. By custom, at this moment he could not refuse a boon formally asked. To do so would have been to cast ill-luck upon the Hunt.
‘Chief, I do not ask it for myself, but for Ara-Karn. You have placed him in my charge, so I thought it my duty to speak.’
‘Well?’
‘Chief Gundoen, Ara-Karn wishes to join the Hunt.’
There was a brief silence. Then the chief threw back his great broad head and began to laugh. It was a hearty laugh, rather like the one he had given vent to on the beach, when the stranger had first come among them. The people looked to one another and then, uncertainly, joined in the laughter. Soon everyone was laughing, laughing drunken peals of great laughter, and they did not notice it when the chief suddenly ceased and looked sternly across at Kuln-Holn.
The laughter gradually faded.
The chief gave Kuln-Holn a grim wolf’s-smile.
‘O Pious One, never before have you been on a hunt for bandar. Never have you used any other weapon than a pronged fish-spear; and never have you fought a man to death. Will a fisherman’s net hold a bandar, do you think? What kind of bait will you use to draw out Korla spies?’
Kuln-Holn reddened at the barbs and the laughter they drew forth. But he did not draw back as he had done in the chief’s hall when he had asked about Oron; nor did he look at all abashed. He said bravely, ‘I did not ask this for myself, chief, but for my guest. He wishes to go on the Hunt, not I. I dislike bloodletting. I will stay here in the village as always.’
‘What foolishness is this?’ snapped Gundoen. ‘They tell me you have been teaching the barge-robber our tongue, Kuln-Holn. Can he speak it yet?’
Kuln-Holn looked to the table where the stranger sat. The man nodded, rose, and came into the middle of the square.
His hair and beard were longer, combed and cut square. His rags were gone, replaced by a simple tunic of soft leather, such as most of the fishermen of the tribe wore. There were no jewels on his fingers, no golden band around his brow, yet he still wore the ornate ceremonial dagger of jade. Save for that, he looked like many another tribesman of the far north, until one looked at his face. There the features were too refined, almost cruel – and the depths of those dark eyes were not the wide light blue-green of a Northman’s. And he held himself as if it were he who ruled the tribe, or ought to. Hertha-Toll, standing beside the chief, looked closely at the stranger; yet when he looked at her, she cast down her eyes.
The last of the laughter died down when the stranger looked around.
‘I speak.’
His voice was deep, compelling. It was not so deep or booming as Gundoen’s; but the words were pronounced with a strange accent that commanded attention. Hearing that accent recalled the time when he had first spoken those alien words on the beach.
Gundoen frowned. ‘And you understand me? You wish to join our hunt even though you will be killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
The stranger smiled. The chief lifted his ale-bowl to his lips, frowning.
‘You will die, barge-robber.’ Gundoen wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Do not think you can escape on the journey. Where would you go? There are only bandar and Korlas in these parts, and they have not the generosity or the hospitality of our tribe. Do you wish to be found dead a second time?’
The stranger did not answer.
‘Let him come,’ said Hertha-Toll. She had been staring at the stranger as if this were the first time she had seen him; as if he were an enemy. Almost against her will she counseled the chief. ‘Let him come. He will bring the Hunt luck.’
Gundoen looked at his wife fiercely. ‘Woman of ill fortune,’ he murmured savagely to her, ‘this is the second time you have interceded on this man’s behalf. Do you love him so much then? Do you wish to belittle me before all the tribe?’
‘Not so much, no.’ She shook her head, trying not to gaze in the stranger’s direction. ‘I have never interfered with the rule of the tribe, husband, except to do you good. This you know well. I have no reason to love the stranger. Just the opposite. Yet what I have seen I say. This man will bring luck to the Hunt.’ It was almost as if she regretted her own words. And Gundoen heard the truth in those words.
He shrugged, spat. ‘Well. So be it. I cannot refuse this boon, if Kuln-Holn is so foolhardy as to ask it still. Stranger, do you wish to be buried with the carcasses of the bandar or shall we send you off again in your own barge?’
Later in the feast there were the wrestling matches. The chief went against Kul-Dro, Garin’s father, a great strong man and the second best spearman in the entire tribe, a man who would be needed in the Hunt. Gundoen threw him twice, his eyes like fire reflected off dark red ale. He crushed Kul-Dro’s ribs and almost tore his right arm from the shoulder, so savagely that Kul-Dro lay abed for three weeks and completely missed the Hunt.
When he rose from Kul-Dro’s broken body, the chief looked about, turning like a wild beast rising from the kill. The hair stood out from his head and a bit of blood oozed from his broken lower lip. When he saw the stranger, he raised his lips, curling them away from his strong white teeth in a horrible grin.
The stranger returned the smile and politely inclined his head.
§
THE HUNTERS departed down the path by Outpost Rock. Many wives and children bade them touching farewell – they knew that not all who set out would return. Kuln-Holn looked to say farewell to Ara-Karn, but the stranger had already gone on and was well down the path with the leading hunters. The Pious One turned back, saddened. For all his faith, he did not know if he would ever again see the man who was to him more than man.
Hertha-Toll looked on the hunters, giving them each the sign of Her blessing with a face like chipped stone. She had taken leave of the chief during the longsleep after the feast; yet what words of secret advice or warning she had offered him, none could say. Some, however, hinted that there had been loud and angry words exchanged.
Soon the lines of riding hunters were wholly swallowed up in the leafy darkness leading into the territory of the Korlas. The wives and children began to disperse and return to their customary pursuits. The fields must be resown with what grain they had been able to barter; the damages of the Storm were still not fully repaired. Only two of all the people lingered by the rock: Kuln-Holn and Hertha-Toll.
At last they too turned and trudged back up the hill through the broad brown fields toward the village. Neither one would look at or speak to the other, which was strange, for they had been friends of old. Yet now the stranger’s shadow lay between them.
§
THE HUNTERS rode through the paths of the forest, trembling dust marking their trail. The light of Goddess fell dappled through the branches; the high canopy of young spring leaves cast a light green glow upon the muffled floor of the deep forest. In the distance could be heard young birds’ mating calls and the snap-and-tassel of the sharp-eared wornors.
Ahead and to the sides of the main columns rode the scouts. They rode lazily now, as there was little chance of encountering any Korlas this side of Darkbole Forest. Yet Gundoen took no chances. At the tactics of intertribal warfare, at warfare subtlety and combat surprises there were few to equal Gundoen in all the far North. That was why the other independent tribes looked to him for leadership against the crafty Gen-Karn.
They rode for two meals’ time. The first meal was eaten in the saddle. For the second they stopped to water the ponies at a low-banked brown stream. Sometime later they came to the outskirts of Darkbole Forest. A few great giants of the woods, their trunks a shining black mottled by the spread of green lichen, marked the border.
‘Here we go with greater caution,’ announced Gundoen. ‘Be alert, you scouts: death comes swiftly here.’
He signaled for them to proceed; properly subdued, they did so. The chief watched as the first few ranks rode in, then he rode on ahead.
In all this time the chief gave not a glance or word to the stranger. He was Gundoen, chief of his tribe, leading his hunters upon the most important hunt of his career. It was as if the stranger no longer existed to him. Yet the stranger rode, whenever he could, close by to the chief, watching him, paying close attention to all he did. It seemed almost to those who noticed as if the stranger was studying the chief for some future purpose.
The columns went slowly through Darkbole Forest. There had been no need for the chief’s admonition to silence. Naturally and of its own accord, the jubilation of the men faded. They spoke only when they must, and then in hushed tones. This was not done out of fear of any Korla spies: the Forest commanded its own respect.
The barbarians feared the Forest. It was primeval, dark, oppressive. A man on horseback could have concealed himself, horse and all, behind some of those massive boles. High, high above, the light of Goddess flickered in dim jewel-like flashes through the leaves. Below, all was shadow.
The darkness and closeness were why Gundoen had chosen this forest for their route. The Korlas would have to stumble within twenty paces of the column to have been aware of its existence. And the superstitious dread felt by the men of Gundoen’s tribe would affect Korlas no less.
Gundoen rode now not at the head of the column, but up and down its entire length, giving low words of encouragement to those he passed. He was one of only two men who seemed to feel no fear in the Forest’s silent darkness. His presence lent support to men who needed it badly; they even smiled wanly when he passed and spoke of the victories they would gain when they finally reached the hunting ground. Gundoen smiled and rode on.
The other man who seemed to feel no fear was the stranger, Ara-Karn. He rode at ease and in complete serenity. Not even the chief could match him for apparent indifference. And there was also this difference: the chief felt his fear but conquered it. Ara-Karn seemed actually to enjoy the thick darkness, the oppressive, stultifying air wet with dripping leaf and fear, the prospect of imminent, sudden, savage death. Once, in fact, he seemed to forget himself and rode out in front of the column, being lost from sight for several moments.
The men who saw him fell in awe of the stranger. They sensed his eagerness and knew there was something foreign and luckless in it. They began almost to fear him. For the last two marches through Darkbole Forest, Ara-Karn rode alone, a barrier of emptiness between him and the nearest tribesmen.
At last they emerged from Darkbole Forest. They came again into the sun, and sighed their great relief. Many were the thanks breathed to Goddess as the men rode up into the hills beyond.
Five more passes they traveled, still seeing no sign of the Korlas, though they knew their sneaking spies must be about. They passed up into the hills along an ancient dried riverbed, making excellent progress now. They crossed over the lip of the low mountains along the southern edge of the Forest of Bandar, which now lay spread below them. Here they made one last camp in the concealing rocks to rest their ponies and sent the scouts on ahead.
Foron was the first of the scouts to return. Many were the signs and tracks of bandar, and of those beasts he had glimpsed he was sure their skins were brightly green indeed. Some short time later Estar rode back, reporting much the same news. The hunters grinned and took out their skinning knives, testing the sharpness with their horned thumbs.
Garin, last of the scouts, returned, riding swiftly up the slope of the hill.
‘Korlas!’ he gasped, out of breath. ‘More than a score of them heading this way.’
‘Conceal yourselves,’ Gundoen warned. The green tents were pulled down and strewn with grass and dirt. The ponies were tethered in a thick brake of bushes over the crest of the hill. The hunters scattered themselves over the dark side of the hill. They lay behind rocks and the scroungy bushes that tenaciously clung to life even here where the sun never shone.
‘If it is only a patrol and they do not see us, they will ride on, reporting nothing,’ said the chief. ‘If not, perhaps we can conceal our true strength and get them to attack.’
The hillside quieted. At first only the faint chirruping from the forest below could be heard in the hunters’ ears. Then the sound of approaching ponies sounded slightly, borne upon the spring breezes. The sound grew louder. Rising dust could be seen on the left, along the base of the hills that skirted the forest’s edge. A man on a pony appeared, followed by another. Soon a full score-and-five could be seen, riding toward the hidden hunters. They looked from side to side routinely, obviously bored with their duty. They rode below and passed the hidden hunters, who breathed soft sighs of relief – though several tightened their fingers on the bone handles of their knives, their faces contorted with hatred.
Suddenly one of the Korlas at the rear reined in his pony and looked at the ground. He called out to the leader, and the column halted, wheeled about, and surrounded him. They dismounted and walked about the earth, examining it carefully. They gestured rapidly with their hands. The sound of their excited voices floated up to the ears of the hunters, but too faintly to make out what they were saying.
Gundoen swore under his breath. It was clear the Korlas had discovered something – probably the tracks of the scouts leading into the forest. It was also clear that they had no idea they were presently being watched by Gundoen’s hunters. If they had guessed that, they would have already taken horse back for their village. Korlas were cowards at heart.
Gundoen made his decision.
He raised his fist with the thumb at right angles, the sign of attack. The hunters who could see him nodded, and in turn repeated the sign to those whose positions were concealed from Gundoen’s eyes.
The hunters wormed forward, carefully, silently. Below, the Korlas were still arguing over the meaning of what they had seen.
When they could creep forward no closer, the hunters rose silently and ran headlong down the darkened slope.
‘Let none escape to tell the tale!’ roared the chief. He grabbed a stone and flung it down at the Korlas’ ponies. Other hunters followed his example, until a rain of stones pelted men and horses, making the men lift up their shields and cower in fear and the ponies bolt for cover.
One man was knocked unconscious by a stone. He fell with a cry, blood spouting from his head. Then the hunters fell upon them, swords redly threshing.
The Korlas, now that they saw who their foes were, fought back. Their desperation lent their efforts a savage ferocity that at first was able to repulse the attackers. They formed themselves into a crude square, shields locked together and swords flashing out from all sides.
They began to back into the forest.
Among the trees and heavy foliage, the greater numbers of the attackers would not be so effective. And as soon as they reached the forest the Korlas would dash apart in all directions. In the dense forest at least one of them would reach the Korla village to give the alarm. When Gundoen’s men, tired from the hunt and loaded with pelts, tried to return to their home, they would be met by large parties of Korla warriors in ambush.
The chief rushed the shield-wall. His great strength shattered the Korlas; he fell into the middle of the square, Korlas to all sides of him. He killed two of them right off; then the others closed about him.
There were only a few Korlas left now. The chief’s rush had shattered their formation, allowing the other hunters to slay Korlas right and left. In a few moments it would all be done, but that would not save Gundoen. Not even the broad-chested chief could strike out on all sides at once.
Two Korlas were behind him, swords already reaching back to give the death-stroke. A shout of warning alerted the chief; he turned and thrust his sword in the naked throat of one of his attackers. The man fell, crying out not sounds but blood.
Yet the other was already sending his blade at the bowels of the chief. Nor could Gundoen do aught about it. There was no time to wrench his sword loose to fend off the blow, and his shield was behind him protecting his back. The other hunters were out of sword’s reach. Gundoen could only watch as the Korla sword drank deep his blood.
He saw the triumph in the Korla’s eyes, saw the thirsty blade flashing. Then the triumph turned to agony in the eyes, and the sword quavered and fell harmless to the ground. A gasp came from the Korla’s mouth.
He fell dead without another sound.
Gundoen grunted. He wrenched his sword free from the bloody throat, and hacked off the sword arm of a Korla whose back was to him. It was not the chief’s nature to question gifts of the gods.
There was not much to the fighting after that. Not a single Korla escaped; every one fell dead to the ground. Only two of the hunters had been injured: Es-Tarn had got a cut high on his sword arm, and Turn-Ton was gashed on his upper thigh. The wounds would impair their hunting abilities somewhat, but would heal cleanly. Not a single one of Gundoen’s hunters had been slain.
The other hunters were amazed when they saw Gundoen, unhurt save for a few cuts, stepping from the pile of hacked red bodies. Casually the chief wiped his bloody blade clean on the back of one of the dead, then sheathed it.
‘Gundoen!’ cried Arnoth in joy. ‘We thought you dead for sure!’
‘It was close enough.’ The chief shrugged. ‘But no Korla has yet been born who bears my death on his blade.’
‘I was sure you had died,’ said Garin, puzzled. ‘I saw two Korlas at your back readying your death-stroke. How is it you escaped?’
‘I do not know. I slew one of them but had no time for the second. I saw death in his hand, but then he fell. I never saw what struck him down.’
‘Let us examine the body,’ Garin suggested. So they hunted through the butchered bodies until they came upon the one they sought. Gundoen recognized him immediately. But when they turned the body over, they found not the mark of a single sword or rock, nor wound nor bruise – only a thin feathered stick protruding from the man’s back.
Round where the shaft had entered there was a great stain of drying blood.
