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 Great Hunt
THEY CAMPED deep in the Forest of the Bandar near where the scouts had seen the most recent signs of bandar. Here they fed their ponies and themselves, and examined their weapons a final time. They clustered together in small groups here and there, gossiping at ease, excited now that the great Hunt was about to begin in earnest. They spoke a good deal of the mystery of the dead Korla, but since no one could explain it, the matter was dropped at last. They had concealed the remains of the Korlas in a pit dug in the dark earth, where their spirits would never reach the Happy Shores; and they had gathered the Korla ponies for their own use. Their tracks they had carefully obscured, so that no other patrols might see where they had entered the forest.
There was almost no danger of encountering Korlas in the forest. There were laws against fighting within the hunting grounds, and those laws were broken only under the greatest provocation. The Korlas might wonder what had happened to the patrol, but by the time they got around to investigating, Gundoen hoped to be long gone. They had come early this year for that very purpose.
When all the ponies were fed and the hunters rested, they gathered around the chief. Now came the time for the hunters to separate into smaller bands of three or four hunters each in order to get the most kills. Every hunter’s band would have one tracker, and the other members would be spearmen. Some bands, formed of close friends or kin who had been together for years, joined together first and stood somewhat apart from the others.
The remaining bands would be chosen by lots. Every man put his mark upon a leaf or piece of bark and put it in a bag – one bag for the spearmen, another for the trackers. The chief would draw forth first a mark from the bag of trackers, then two or three from the bag of spearmen. If any two men who had strong feelings against each other were chosen for the same band, their lots were put back in the bags and drawn again in different order.
First, however, came the time for Gundoen, as chief and as the Hero of the last year’s Hunt, to pick out his band personally. There was always clamor at this, for members of the band with the most pelts were all given prizes in addition to the award for the Hero of the Hunt. And Gundoen was such a mighty hunter that it was almost certain that his band would gain the most kills. So all the hunters wished to hunt with Gundoen and follow his spear home, as the saying went.
The great-chested chief went up and down the lines, eying every hunter. Merely to be chosen was an honor. Men looked at him hopefully or confidently, according to their beliefs in their own abilities.
‘For my tracker,’ said the chief – and the clamor hushed – ‘I choose Garin.’
Garin stepped forward. The others clapped him on the back and gave him words of encouragement. Garin was the best tracker in the tribe and a very popular young man. There had been no surprise in this choice.
‘And for my fellow spearman,’ Gundoen announced, ‘I pick – Ara-Karn.’
A silence fell upon the hunters. The stranger stepped forward as calmly as if he had expected to be chosen all along. One man grumbled, ‘What has the barge-robber done to deserve this?’
Gundoen stared at the stranger’s face with the harsh grin of a man who has his enemy under the point of his spear, as if to say to him, Now I will show you how great is Gundoen.
But Ara-Karn only looked calmly back, a slight smile about his lips, as if to reply, We shall see.
The bands were drawn from the lots in the bags and grouped about the green glen. They separated, each following the lead of the band’s tracker along the paths of the forest. They would not see one another, save for the occasional chance greetings at the crossings of trails, for twenty passes of God overhead – two weeks’ time. Then they would gather on the dark side of the mountain they had last camped on, according to custom and the chief’s command.
Garin led Gundoen and the stranger along a well-worn game trail. They led their ponies behind them: the forest was too close for riding, and the horses would make too much noise. The wet leaves brushed against the hunters’ thighs. The damp dark earth of the trail smelled of decaying vegetation and the droppings of many animals. Gundoen breathed the scent in noisily, sighing for pleasure. The Hunt begun at last!
They came to a small stream where the trails crossed. Signs of bandar were plentiful all about; Garin pointed them out to the stranger in hushed tones. He stooped, examining the leaves of a bush overhanging the stream. He straightened.
‘A large bull has passed this way recently,’ he whispered. ‘He leaves the shedding of his last brown furs on the branches here. Follow.’ He plunged into the thicket with no more sound than a slight breeze would leave, and Gundoen followed him. Ara-Karn hesitated for a moment, then plunged after the others.
Garin followed the trail for some time in silence. Suddenly he halted, head held high in the air. Silently Gundoen and Ara-Karn came and squatted beside him.
‘He is near,’ Garin whispered. He parted the leaves surrounding them. Through the gap could be seen a small clearing. ‘Is this acceptable?’ he asked.
Gundoen nodded. ‘How will you bring him around?’
‘Through the far side.’
The chief nodded again, and Garin slipped away noiselessly, leaving his pony behind with the spearmen. Gundoen and Ara-Karn were now alone.
The chief nudged the stranger. ‘We must tether the ponies down the trail. Tie the cords well: ponies are frightened at the smell of bandar blood.’ He grinned mirthlessly. ‘Don’t you be like the ponies.’
When they returned to the clearing, they squatted down in the bushes just beyond the opening. The scent of opening blossoms was heavy in the still air. A bee buzzed by their ears.
‘Do you know what he will do?’ Gundoen asked. The foreigner nodded, but Gundoen looked his doubts. ‘This is only your first kill,’ he warned. ‘Leave it to me, but be ready to assist in case there is trouble. I don’t think you’ll be needed. Gundoen alone is usually as good as any two other spearmen.’ He looked the stranger over suddenly. ‘Why have you no spear?’ he asked sharply.
Ara-Karn smiled.
‘Well, take one of mine. This is a fine spear; treat it with respect. Maybe later we can make one for you. If you still live.’
Ara-Karn took the spear and hefted it. It was of the usual spear length, coming to the nipple of a standing man. The wooden shaft was thick, polished, heavy; it had seemed smaller in Gundoen’s mighty fist. Along one face were etched many runes of good fortune.
‘He comes,’ Gundoen commented, rising to his feet and stepping into the clearing. ‘Stand a dozen paces to my right, but stay concealed until I call.’
The stranger nodded and crept away.
The faint noise grew louder. There was a dull thudding of great hooves, an angry snorting, the rush of a massive body through the underbrush.
Suddenly Garin burst into the clearing.
He saw Gundoen in a glance and dove off to one side into leafy secrecy. Then the bandar was upon them.
It burst into the clearing, hoof and claw, tusk and snout. It was a prime bull, tall as a man, tail lashing, deep-set eyes blazing redly. Its coat was the resplendent vivid green of a bull in heat.
It paused for a moment after entering the clearing. It moved its great head wickedly from side to side. Then it saw Gundoen with its darting small eyes. Bellowing a harsh shriek, it charged forward. The massive body of the chief was like a weakling babe’s before that tremendous bulk.
Gundoen laughed, urging the beast on.
At the last moment, when it had seemed the curling yellow tusks had ripped his flesh, the chief dodged to the right slightly. Immediately the bull shifted its broad head after him, tusks straining to gore this puny man-thing that dared challenge its supremacy.
But Gundoen, moving with a quickness that belied his massive frame, twisted back to the left and drove his spear deep into the right shoulder of the bull. The beast’s forward motion wrenched the spear, but Gundoen held fast, his great muscles bulging and cracking at the effort. The long spear edge ripped at the point of leverage, working its way deeper into the green neck. Great torrents of blue-black blood burst forth into Gundoen’s face.
Gundoen laughed again and wrenched the spear free.
He circled to the bandar’s hindquarters. The beast, confused by pain and weakened by the loss of blood, tried to wheel about, but stumbled and lost the footing of its front hooves.
This was the moment the chief had been waiting for. With a great leap he landed squarely on the beast’s back, locking knees about the huge barrel chest just behind the forelegs.
At this new outrage the beast bellowed, its head waving in the air. Vainly it attempted to rise and shake off this thing astride its back. It rose up a little of the way, straining to come to its feet.
Ara-Karn and Garin stood to one side. The chief’s spear was in the hands of the stranger, who stood fascinated by this violent, barbaric spectacle.
The scene lasted only a moment. Just as the bandar seemed on the point of gaining its feet, Gundoen lifted his spear in both bloody fists and brought the point shatteringly down on the back of the massive head. The point entered the skull just behind the pointed ears. With a soft crunch it pierced through the small brains into the roof of the mouth.
With a final shriek of rage, the beast sank back to its knees. Its belly fell upon the earth and the great head, still transfixed by the waving spear, sank down to touch the sward.
The silence that followed was shattering.
Gundoen shook his head as if to clear it. Slowly he climbed down off the massive, quivering back. He stood on the ground, swaying slightly back and forth. He planted one foot on the snout and gripped the wooden haft of the spear. He gave a grunting wrench and pulled the blood-smeared spear free.
‘A wonderful kill,’ cried Garin, rushing forward to slap the chief’s shoulder. ‘What a victory, and over such a bull!’
Gundoen grunted, looking down at the vanquished bulk. He seemed almost sad that the thing was done.
The tracker turned to Ara-Karn. ‘Stranger, what a triumph you have seen! Did you mark how he held fast to the haft when the bull rushed forward, so that it ripped the veins of its own neck? That is called Gundoen’s Rend, for only he has the strength to accomplish it. It weakens the beast in one stroke and does not damage the pelt.
‘Oh, this is a fine pelt,’ he went on, examining it. ‘Do you see how few brown marks are on it? In the winter the bandar are all brown: they lose that fur and become green only now that they rut. This pelt will bring much from the traders! I only hope your first kill will be half as fine.’
Gundoen grunted. ‘We shall see soon enough. The next bandar we spot, I will assist you, barge-robber. Then we’ll see of what stuff is Ara-Karn made.’
§
FOR THE NEXT several hours they camped by the body of the slain bandar. Gundoen and Garin stripped off the pelt in one great piece and set about scraping the guts and blood off the inner side. The stranger made a small fire and cooked several steaks. Bandar meat had a bitter taste, but Gundoen wolfed down his steaks almost raw, the bloody juice running down his beard and chest.
‘No meat finer than the first kill of the season,’ he growled contentedly, gulping mouthfuls of stream water.
Ara-Karn cooked his steak longer than the others, and ate but sparingly. The chief saw this and laughed rather scornfully.
‘Not delicate enough for a former king, eh? Never mind. Wait until your first kill, if you can manage it. You’ll gobble that meat greedily enough.’
With that he stretched out, drawing his tent-dim-place over his head to take his short sleep. Garin too, after he had packed several pieces of well-cooked meat for eating on the trail, settled down for sleep. Soon the regular movements of their chests indicated that both men were sleeping soundly.
Ara-Karn rose and stripped off his tunic and loin-rags. Thus naked, he seated himself before the fire.
Gundoen snorted and half-rolled over, but did not awaken.
The stranger took up his dagger with the handle of jade. In the firelight the orbed gemstone at the end of the handle glowed, and within the gem seven cut facets mirrored the shape of dark God above. He thrust the dagger into the earth before the flames.
Ara-Karn took out his pouch of slender straight sticks, which he had saved from his own death-barge. He laid them out with their iron beaks in the fire.
He closed his eyes.
Sweat broke from his flesh and streamed down the lean, hard flesh. His muscles worked. The veins and tendons stood out in the flickering firelight.
The shadow cast by the dagger danced and grew. It crawled up the stranger’s body until it masked his heart.
Then with a sudden lunge, though his eyes remained shut fast, the stranger plucked the dagger steaming from the hot earth, and pricked the flesh over his heart, drawing blood. Oddly, when the man took the dagger, the shadow it had cast remained upon his body.
His eyes opened. The whites shone about the black-green pupils.
In any other man, that look would have told of agonies.
The blood that oozed from the cut upon his heart was sluggish, thick, dark almost to blackness.
A pungent odor issued from the stuff; Garin coughed, but did not wake.
Ara-Karn took up the slender sticks, and one by one he dipped the iron tip of each stick into the syrup of his own blood. He took the greatest care lest any of the syrup drip upon the ground. The iron tips, glowing from the fire, hissed and sizzled as they kissed the open wound.
And Ara-Karn smiled, and with tenderness, even loving care, replaced the sticks in their hide pouch.
§
WHEN THEY had broken camp, the hunters sought the watering pools once again. Bandar, as Garin explained to the foreigner, are huge beasts, eaters of flesh, leaf, and worm, endlessly thirsting. They go to lakes, pools, and streams both to quench their own thirst and in search of prey.
Garin had no trouble finding the trail of another bandar and tracking it to the beast’s lair. They halted outside a huge brake of thorny bush.
‘A bandar nest,’ Garin muttered. ‘They build these themselves during the mating season. They root out bushes with their great tusks and drag the thorny brambles together to shelter their newborn young. Within that barrier there are dozens of them – bulls and cows and calves – a fortune in pelts.’
‘When do we begin?’
‘Fool, we do not enter there,’ sneered Gundoen. ‘Nowhere are they more dangerous than in their nests. Not even all the hunters of the tribe could hope to kill all the beasts of one lair.’
Gundoen squatted down behind the bole of a large tree. ‘No, stranger, we must wait,’ he said. ‘When one comes out, we will follow it a way from the lair, and then attack.
‘Then it will be your turn, barge-robber. Do not feel too nervous or fearful: Gundoen will be beside you.’ The stranger only smiled, and the chief grew angry, but could think of nothing further to say.
‘A bull is leaving,’ said Garin.
They looked down at the thorny wall. A great bull, almost as huge as the one Gundoen had slain, was pushing its way out of an opening in the brake that seemed half its size.
The chief grunted. ‘Not big enough by half. For a former king, only a kingly bull will do.’
They waited longer. Breezes came and went, and birds flew and perched overhead. Several bandar left the lair, but they were small, or dark, or had too many patches of brown left. Suddenly Gundoen said, ‘Here is one that will do well.’
The others looked. A huge hull, much larger than the one the chief had slain, was emerging from the barrier. It was a patriarch of bandar, big as a small hut, its pelt bright, bright green. Its yellowed curling tusks were longer than a tall man’s thigh.
Garin protested the choice, but Gundoen only laughed. ‘If my friend here wishes to choose a smaller animal, that is up to him. But if he does choose this one, he need not fear: Gundoen will be close by to save his life.’
Ara-Karn smiled. ‘This one will do very well,’ he said softly.
Garin looked at him sharply, then shrugged. ‘If you wish to end your life, it is your own business,’ he said. ‘Come then.’
They followed him along the dark path. Overhead the faint green orb of God could be seen through the canopy of trees. Gundoen went last now, leading the ponies behind. About a thousand paces down the trail, the bandar paused by a large pool, slurping water noisily. Garin found them a good clearing as before. Only now it was Ara-Karn who stood out in the open, while the chief concealed himself a few paces off to one side.
Calmly, the stranger knelt and unslung his pack. He drew forth the curved instrument of polished wood and a handful of the thin straight sticks. To the pointed tips of the instrument he stretched a taut gut string. He flexed the string a few times, listening to its soft thrumming sound.
‘What are you doing, fool?’ hissed Gundoen. ‘Will you play the bandar a tune to kill it? Can you not hear that the beast is coming? Throw away those prayer-things and take your spear like a man!’
‘It is your spear, not mine,’ said Ara-Karn. ‘Here, take it back.’
He tossed the heavy spear over in the dirt by the chief’s feet.
‘Die then,’ swore the chief with an oath. ‘We will be well rid of you, barge-robber!’
Not answering, Ara-Karn rose. The rumble of the approaching bandar was deafening. Garin broke into the clearing, scrambling for cover, the beast hot upon his heels.
Not a moment did the bandar pause, but charged straight forward. He was a bull late in his prime, a magnificent beast much experienced in these games the men-things played. Many were the hunters, and numerous their tribes, who had been gored by his monstrous curling tusks or trampled to a wet mush beneath his cruelly honed hooves. He knew that the twisting, scrambling one would elude him, but he cared not. There would be another one standing across the clearing who would not elude him. He was in a rage and would kill – any death would do.
He charged Ara-Karn with all the strength of his house-like body, watchful for the playful feints hunters in the past had employed in vain.
But Ara-Karn did not attempt to dodge. He nocked an arrow in his bow and drew it back. He released it with a humming sound. The slender shaft shot like lightning, burying itself in the breast of the bandar.
It was a mere pinprick to the beast, only serving to augment its rage. Quick as heartbeats came two more arrows, but now the man-thing was almost within reach of the eager tusks. And suddenly a wave of weakness struck the heart of the patriarch of bandar – with pain such as it had never known. The poison flushed outward like the heat of a good rut and blocked out vision from its eyes.
Gundoen did not flinch when he saw the bull rushing down upon the defenseless stranger. If the man was foolish enough to seek death, then Gundoen would let him gain his journey’s end. The barge-robber had crossed him long enough. When Ara-Karn was dead, and the beast triumphing over the broken red remains, then Gundoen would step in and see what he could accomplish.
He was just on the point of leaping forward, spear clutched tightly in his ball-like fists, when he saw – suddenly, miraculously, like something out of the legends of dark God – the bull pause, waver drunkenly, and crash deafeningly to the earth, just at the feet of Ara-Karn.
