by Adam Corby
He turned a little in the path. Some hours passed. A creature that lives centuries does not die in a moment.
Before the beast’s gaping jaws, a little figure lay in the muck. The high Charan of Rukor was also nearer death than life.
* * *
From behind the Darkbeast’s gaping neck, Gundoen made his way across the huge head. He dropped to the ground between the jaws, and lay there a few moments. Then he rose, shook his head, and approached the body of the Southron. He took the war-knife and went back to the Darkbeast. With brutal strokes, the barbarian began doggedly to hack out its teeth. He gathered them in the arrow-pouch across his back. Then he clambered up the Darkbeast’s head, caught hold of some broken roots, and climbed onto the floor of the Sontil.
Near the path Gundoen made a fire, piling it with all the wood he could find. He stood over the fire, a bloody apparition. His dull eyes reflected the flames. There was no expression upon the war-scarred face. He stood crooked, one side of his body shorter than the other.
After a time he made his way back to the path. He carried the body of the Southron to the fire. Not even then was the Darkbeast fully dead.
All about them was strewn the devastation of the monster’s agonies. A length of the creature looped out of the pit, ran along the ground, wound about seven trunks and branches and returned to the arches that still mounted between the trees. Great ruts lay gouged out of the ground, shreds of moss were scattered high among the leaves. The air was thick with dust. Armies might have battled here.
Gundoen peeled the dried blood off his face and arms. He lay before the fire and slept.
When the fire became embers a sleepy quiet settled over the scene. Hours fled and nothing moved but flakes of ash. Sometime during that time, life departed from the immense carcass of the last Darkbeast.
Beyond the high ceiling of the leaves, the jade moon of God passed by perhaps two times.
At last the body of the barbarian stirred, and Gundoen awoke. He sat on his haunches, feeling the warmth of the scorched earth in his arms. His eyes were half shut, the lids swollen. Wearily he shook himself, the way a dog will.
He stood. A step or two away lay the body of the Southron even as he had left it. The chieftain stooped and draped the body across his shoulders. Slowly the barbarian staggered from the scene.
Gundoen wandered the forest, following the length of that black valley. He staggered unfeelingly. The next step or the next hundred, it made no difference.
After a while he saw that he had been following a narrow footpath. Before him stood the figure of a bent old woman wrapped in rags adorned with curling leaves of strange colors. She beckoned.
‘Come,’ she uttered, using his own tongue – the tongue of the far North.
‘Who are you?’ Gundoen asked.
‘Men call me Melkarth.’
VII
Warriors of Ara-Karn
ON THE SURFACE of the anvil-shaped rock the barbarians fell quiet, their throats hoarse from their acclamations.
In the center of the ring an old, thin man leaned upon a staff.
Bar-East, the Speaker of the Law, had in his life wandered the extent of the far North from the Ocean of the Dead to the frozen wastes of the far plateaus where the ice did not leave the iron soil for more than three weeks out of the year. But he had never come so far from the lakeside of his birth than this.
Again he rapped the stone with his staff. ‘So,’ he called, ‘will no one among you challenge Ara-Karn his right to lead the tribes? Who dares to battle the Warlord to the death and take from him first place among us?’
Again, only silence answered him.
‘Well,’ Bar-East said, ‘that is no more than I looked for. Who else could have won so much? Truly, when I walked the roads of the North and rode by ship across the sea, it was beyond me, a thing of amazement, that you have reached so far in so small a span of years. Did a week pass, I wonder, that saw no city fall before your swords?’ The old wayfarer shook his head. ‘Well then, what of the lawsuits? Who will bring charges against another tribe?’
But the chieftain of the Durbar tribe, Nam-Rog, stood and spoke. ‘There have been changes since you last walked among us, Speaker of the Law. Such disputes are now given to Ara-Karn to judge, or Gundoen, the Warlord’s general, or to the Circle of Chieftains.’
‘Is it so? Yet that was never our way. And there have been other changes, I see. Is it your will then that the Assembly be ended? For what else did we gather? I can recite the Law, but what good is that if there are no suits?’
‘It is the time for the Assembly,’ said one young man. Scornful laughter met the stupidity of his words.
‘There is one thing you could tell us, old one,’ called a warrior from the River’s-Bend tribe. ‘Long have we been in these hot lands now where so many buildings of stone scar the land, and the folk live like bugs in rotten stumps of wood. We have fought and killed for the pleasure of Ara-Karn who never joined us in the work. We have won the wealth of kings – and still we beat out our lives against the God-cursed Iron Gate. But our wives and youngsters pass the months far away from us. Tell us then how it is beyond the mountains of the Spine, beyond the Pass of Gerso. Tell us of the cool lands of the far North, Bar-East, and of home.’
At that word a murmuring sounded on the anvil like a groan, and the war-marked men looked to hear tell of their wives and children far away.
Bar-East frowned. ‘What could I tell you that you do not know? Bitter are the winds driven out of the North, and not all the logs of the huts can shield against them. It is too hot in High Summer, so that the dogs lie still, and it is cold there in dim Winter, so that the children and old ones fall sick and die. There is labor without end, hardship, sadness, and the life there is as unforgiving as the land.’
Those twenty thousand warriors heard the words of the old man, and lowered their heads into their bowls. He had told them all the worst, and all the things these men had once complained of loudest. Yet he had mistaken, for these were the very things whose loss was most deeply felt.
Then Urb-Sar of the Archeros stood. ‘What is it we do here in these dusty lands, knocking our heads against a rock and finding only death and sorrow? What is it we hope to win here? Women? Who among you has not had his fill of these sly, deceitful Southron women? Wealth? We are rich as Emperors, and who but a Southron merchant ever sought gold just for the sake of having more? Or do we want more land and horses, who have won all the North and half the South besides? Or do we kill ourselves here for the joy of it? But this fighting no longer has the sweetness it once did, now that we fight walls instead of men and use bows instead of swords. When I fought feuds in my youth, then it made a man proud to say, “I have killed a score of men, and this great man and that have I beaten.” Then it was only the better man who told the tale. But what woman or Southron child might not cut low the finest warrior of the far North with these bows?
‘I speak no word against the Warlord – I was never one of the party of Gen-Karn. But my heart calls to my village, to my wife and my serving-wenches, hard-working women who laughed when I told a joke, and were good cooks and hut-keepers. They are unlike these Southron bed-slaves of mine, who whisper among themselves and sneer and laugh at the manner of my speech. What do we do here, and when will it have been enough? Must we slay dark God Himself before we reach the end of this road?’
Urb-Sar sat down. But many voices cheered his words, swelling like a wave beneath a good wind. The call went up for a vote on it, whether they should go on fighting or turn back to their homeland. Nor would it have been beyond the wits of the most drunken of them to see what way such a vote would have run.
But Nam-Rog stood again into the center of the ring. While the Warlord and his general were both away, Nam-Rog held first place among the warriors. He scratched his gray beard and cast his sharp eyes about until the last shouts died away. Then Nam-Rog shook his head, and pulled upon his beard.
‘Well do I believe that you have liv
ed in these lands overlong now,’ he said, ‘for you weep like Southrons indeed. Little children may run about their village naked, and play as their hearts bid, and cease when they grow weary. But when a boy becomes a warrior, then he takes up a spear in the Grove before the idol of God, and drinks hot blood. And there is no going back for him after that, no matter how fondly his mother may speak of how sweet he was as a beardless boy.
‘Would a man weep like this if he stood on Urnostardil’s crown? There beyond the dusky border, our grandfathers defied Elna and his thousands. And there they vowed to meet each year, to settle disputes, renew brotherhood, and swear again their vengeance.
‘Now the last child of that Elna sits within that fastness and defies us even as our fathers defied Elna. And will you grumble that it is hot here, and go back home in defeat, with the work all but done? What then of your vows to Ara-Karn? What then of all your boasts? What then of Gundoen?
‘Or have you forgotten how Ampeánor of Rukor snuck into our camp disguised as a renegade? Have you forgotten how he led Gundoen out of Ilkas into the deep forest? I myself had a doubt and followed after, but even so reached them too late. By a trick the Southron lord took Gundoen captive and escaped. A fistful of the finest trackers set out upon the trail, but those men never returned. Gundoen Strong-in-Girth, the best in battle, is now held within that black rock, tormented by the followers of Elna. Should we forsake him?
‘Or will we rather break that iron wall and win Gundoen’s freedom, and humble this proud Empress before us? Think on they tell of her beauty, a byword among Southrons. And think too that in years to come, you may say to your sons’ children, “I saw the breaking of the rock of Elna, and the misery of the Empress Allissál, last of Elna’s kin.” ’
So Nam-Rog spoke, yet turned only a few men to his purpose. Most still grumbled in their bowls. One man, not looking at Nam-Rog, grumbled loudly enough to be heard.
‘It is all very fine to speak of freeing Gundoen, but there were many men who died in the crossing of the desert, and then it was this same Gundoen who forbade us going back for them, or bearing their bodies to where we might see them voyaged. I lost two brothers there, and their spirits still come into my dreams. Am I to wear out my life banging on that Iron Gate to rescue Gundoen? Let him free my brothers’ spirits first!’
Another man stood forward. He was tall and strong, with the look of a hard fighter, but behind him where his tribe should have sat there was only a space between the neighboring tribes.
‘You all know me,’ he said. He turned his face to each tribe in turn. Doomed pride was in his voice, and his eye gleamed with the fierce despair of a man who sleeps with death, but scorns to flee the fate hard upon him.
‘Gorn-Tal I was named by my father and his brothers, but you might as well call me Orn now, for I am all that is left of the tribe of Orn. Once we were a great tribe – stronger than any of yours! Gen-Karn was our chieftain, Gen-Karn Mighty King, the strongest Warlord any knew for as long as the lists are remembered – stronger even than Tont-Ornoth. It was he who came as a youth into these lands, and returned with tales of women and gold and easy conquest. It was he who first fired our hearts to this war. But he was a harsh man, liked by few. I hated him while he lived. He robbed me of my wife, and cast me from our tribe. And thereafter I worked against him, though for years I had to live in a hut alone in the woods, so great were all your fears of Gen-Karn’s anger.
‘Then Ara-Karn came and was Warlord, though he would not slay Gen-Karn according to our way. Well, Gen-Karn repaid that favor by taking Tezmon for his own. Then he sent his spies into our camps, and they too spoke of going home and ending the fighting. Many agreed with them even then, before the hard journey we had to cross the desert. Gen-Karn even sought an alliance with our enemies, with that same Ampeánor, with this same high Empress. This we now know.
‘So Gen-Karn boasted, and where is he now? Let those who were in Tezmon say if I lie. Ara-Karn visited Tezmon, going even into the lap of Gen-Karn’s strength – he showed his power, and forced Gen-Karn to acknowledge him even in bloody death! Thus Gen-Karn’s followers revolted and returned to the camp, and over the last Orn warriors Gundoen set me as chief. But my men, first of all tribesmen, Gundoen sent into battle – and my men fell heaviest in this city. So now as you see me, so I am: the last chief, and the last warrior, of Orn. I lead only myself here.
‘So you may well think that I long to return to my village more than any of you. I have not beheld it in ten winters – longer than any of you! But I say we cannot stop this fighting. Ara-Karn has put these wars on our backs, and it is not for us to say when the load should be put aside. It has been over a year now since he last walked among us – but does a man of you fail to feel his presence every time you walk before his great black tent, though it may stand empty in the ghost-ridden winds? Oh, he is out there in the world, upon a hill or behind a tree, and he knows all we do here, even as he knew what Gen-Karn did in Tezmon. When Ara-Karn says so, then and only then will it be enough. Until then you may all scamper back to your homes and be stricken with what plagues it pleases him to send you from afar; yet I will hold to my tent here, and I will go against the Iron Gate, until I die or Ara-Karn grants me victory.’
So Gorn-Tal ended his speech, and sat again in his lonely place.
Another man came forward into the silence, and he was Kul-Dro, a man late in his prime, and a spearman of Gundoen’s own tribe.
‘Others have spoken; now hear me. I knew Gundoen, and even wrestled with him – few alive can boast those words! I too would rather set my face Northward, and leave these Southrons with my curse. I am feeling my age; my sons have fought with us from the beginning, and you know their spears did not break often. And one I left in the sands of the desert unvoyaged, though it tore my heart to do it. Now I will tell you a thing no man before has known but me.
‘When Gundoen led us across those sands and rocks so near to Goddess, to go round the sea out of the way of the warships of the Southrons, many of our men fell shaking in the heat. We had to leave them behind, for we had not strength or ponies to carry them. But I could not endure this, and one sleep I went back to where I had left my son Jarfell.
‘Wonder of Goddess! I found him still living, and in secret I bore him to my tent. Gundoen learned of this. He came to me and said, “Kul-Dro, great fighter, we have wrestled and both lived, and that is a bond with me beyond all other bonds I have with men. But if I let you give water to your son, then I could not deny it to any man here. And then our strength will fail us, and we will leave all our skins to turn to leather here. You must leave him.” And though I wept painful tears, I knew it must be so. Gundoen was my chief, and we were on a war-party.
‘So I took Jarfell behind a rocky ledge, and slew him with my own hands. I put my hands to his throat and took the wind from him – from him, my own son! I killed him myself, that he should not suffer but die swiftly. And now in every sleep, despite the weariness of battle or of love-play, despite the darkness wine brings, I dream of Jarfell and feel again his throat between my thumbs. Is this a thing you all will shun me for? So be it.
‘There was another of my sons you have perhaps heard of: Garin, who wived Turin Tim, the only daughter of the prophet of Ara-Karn. He too wears the tunic of death. In the streets of this very city I found him, upon the steps of the Brown Temple. His guts were torn from his belly, and his face was a horror. Him at least I set out in a barge. Now you may spare me your tears, for you have also lost close kinsmen. Perhaps it is this that now urges you to gather your tents and spoils and return Northward. But then what will you do to pay back these Southrons for your kinsmen’s deaths? My two sons are gone – and I vow it now, that not a hundred of these Southrons’ lives will be enough to pay for them, but all Southrons must die! How otherwise are we to face the wives and children of the dead and not know our shame?’
Another man stood, slight of build, dressed in a fine tunic: Marn-Klarten of the Undain tribe, a man famous for
his cleverness. He waited until the voices fell away before he began:
‘I was never one who gloried in the deaths of my enemies, as my tribesmen will tell you. When I killed, it was only when it was thrust upon me and I could not turn aside from it and still be called a man. It seems to me now we will never be in accord here, and no doubt those Southrons, if they could overhear our words, would take delight in how we quarrel.
‘But I wonder at how many here have forgotten the ghosts and spirits that ride with us wherever we go. Myself, I have not forgotten how the Warlord raised them from the ground on Urnostardil. They ride with us, they fight with us – no doubt even now they stand among us, each alongside his own tribe’s sons, though we cannot see them or hear their voices, or know the gnashing of their teeth when they hear us speak the words of cowards and children.
‘He promised us they would come with us; he made us swear to them a binding oath. Did you forget it? I do not. We swore not to turn back until our vengeance was accomplished. But if we broke that vow, our own ancestors would turn against us, and rend us to bits.
‘I offer you now this way to satisfy all, even the harshest-hearted of you, even the ghosts of my own ancestors. Let us send a band among the folk of the fastness, and bid them to a parley. I have heard it said that there is great store of gold in the depths of the fastness, of which the piles Gen-Karn got were but the least part. You have all seen the Disk of Goddess where it shines from the peak of the White Tower. So we will say to the people of the fastness, “Give us Gundoen alive, and send down all your treasure, and then we will depart.”
