Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 2 The Divine Queen

by Adam Corby

  The Gerso turned his gaze back upon her, and for a moment perhaps, she regretted her question. But she did not look away, and this time it was the stranger who let fall his eyes.

  ‘Aye,’ he said softly. ‘Your majesty, I have seen the face of Ara-Karn many times, as he led his roaring men to the assault upon the walls of my cities. I know his face even better than my own.’

  They leaned forward at this, curious, even to Dornan Ural, about the appearance of the man who had thrown his shadow across the round world.

  ‘Tell us,’ asked Elnavis, ‘are any of the tales of the refugees true? Her majesty has interviewed many claiming to have seen the man. Is he really twice the height of an ordinary man, with a great black beard as bristling as briar? And does he really breakfast upon the babes of his foes?’

  The stranger laughed. ‘As for his diet, Your Highness, I could not say. No doubt he feeds upon things horrible enough. For the description you have given, it is not far from the mark. Oh, he is monstrous to behold, no one could argue it. He revels in blood and destruction, and even claims to be the incarnation of dark God upon the earth. Though this is manifestly impossible, of course, since it is well known that God is the husband of her August Majesty; and surely maid should know her husband? Yet his special joy,’ he added, with an insolent glance at the Queen, ‘is to ride the burning streets of those cities he has conquered and publicly rape the daughters of all of the leading citizens. None are spared his insatiable appetites, not maidens nor matrons, charai or even great Queens. Pray you do not let him conquer Tarendahardil, lest he get a chance to validate his claims to Godhood.’

  ‘Heavens,’ expostulated Arstomenes with a lazy laugh. ‘If that’s so, he’d fit into the highborn society hereabouts very nicely! Shall we invite him to our next garden-party, your majesty?’ At this sally all laughed, even, grudgingly, Farnese; except the stranger only smiled, and Allissál did not do even that.

  ‘Charanti,’ she broke in dryly, ‘have we not wandered? This man here mocks us. No doubt he has never set eyes upon the barbarian in his life. It is difficult to run while looking backward, is it not? And you seem to have done a great deal of running, my good man.’

  ‘Far better to run than bleed, your majesty.’ He smiled. ‘Or to weep lonely tears in darkness.’

  ‘So all cowards claim. Now, shall we return to business? You have voted to allow our son to voyage with his companions to the North to fight the barbarians. Is there any reason to revoke that vote? Rather, the fall of Carftain should show you the necessity of swift aid all the more, to succor the city that may be next attacked. My good man, give us your opinion concerning the city most likely to be next assaulted.’

  The Gerso looked dismayed, which pleased her. ‘Surely, your majesty does not intend that the prince should undertake such a hazardous mission?’

  ‘Nay, I’ll go!’ protested Elnavis. ‘Show me him who’d stop me!’

  The Gerso bowed. ‘Perhaps Ara-Karn will stop you.’

  ‘I would welcome such a meeting,’ answered the prince proudly. ‘He would not stop me.’

  ‘And has your highness no doubts at all of that?’

  ‘I, at least, am no coward. We shall meet the barbarians openly upon the field of combat, and cut them down beneath our hooves. Judge not Imperial cavalry by your own pitiful troops.’

  ‘I would not dream of doing so, your highness. Yet the barbarians do have a strange new weapon, the like of which has not been seen in this world before. Perhaps your highness has heard of this thing they call the bow?’

  ‘I have heard of it.’ The prince shrugged. ‘It is a weapon for cowards and knaves. We would never stoop to the use of such a thing. Our troops will make short shrift of it, never fear.’

  ‘Of that, I have no fears at all, Your Highness.’

  ‘Yet still we need to know which city will be the next attacked.’

  ‘Below Carftain,’ said the High Charan of the Eglands, ‘there are two cities lying along the path the barbarian has been following. I have visited the North often enough to know them both. One city is large and powerful: Mersaline, under the leadership of Zarendal, a prince of rare strength in these soft times. The other is well situated but of no strength of men – Tezmon, where Armand the Fat is mayor.’

  ‘Why should he not rather travel toward the bright horizon?’ asked Lornof. ‘There are many rich cities there.’

  ‘He cannot leave Mersaline and Tezmon unconquered at his flank,’ answered the prince. ‘I have learned enough of tactics from Ampeánor to be sure of that. Zarendal would harry his supply lines and force him to battle two foes at once, before and behind. If he does that, the barbarian will but doom himself.’

  ‘Your highness shows rare wisdom,’ Farnese said, nodding. ‘And for a similar reason he will attack Mersaline before Tezmon. Tezmon would have the aid of Zarendal’s troops at the barbarian’s rear; but if Ara-Karn strikes Mersaline first, the Tezmonians would probably send no aid at all, even though they would be next attacked. It is only a city of merchants, after all.’

  ‘So soon as it may be arranged, then,’ Elnavis said confidently, ‘I’ll sail for Torjulla, and travel thence upland to Mersaline.’

  ‘None can doubt your highness’s courage,’ the Gerso said, bowing. ‘And now may I wish your highness all the good fortune upon this expedition that you deserve?’

  Dornan Ural sighed wearily. ‘Now can we not at last pass on to other matters? There are many items yet to be discussed.’

  Faintly behind her hand, Allissál groaned.

  * * *

  Gathering in the courtyard outside to await the ending of the Council were soldiers gleaming in golden armor, and noblemen borne up from the gates of the Citadel upon litters of ivory and ebony. Silver-tongued ladies in gowns of translucent silk languidly passed by, conversing with word and laughter in strange and beautiful tongues. They walked beneath statues of consummate artistry, and leaned in one another’s embraces, gossiping, singing, and giving the gathering men lowered love-looks and secret signs of denial and assent. Their lovely voices arose melodiously in the soft air, like distant bells sounding through water, as they ascended the paths from the Gardens below. So those ladies and their suitors gracefully took their ease awaiting their sovereign, like the shades of voyaged kings and fair queens walking gently in the muted golden sunlight of the lands of the dead upon the far side of the world, godlike in stateliness serene and unending.

  On the wide stone steps, the Gerso rejoined his servant. ‘Now, Kuln-Holn, do you still regret that you chose to follow me, or that I brought you hither?’

  ‘No, lord,’ he answered solemnly. ‘Oh, but this outgoes all my visions. How could we have thought of such a place in the North? It is no wonder She has claimed it for Her own.’

  ‘Look upon it longer, if it pleases you. We shall wait here with these others until the meeting of the Council ends. I want another glimpse of the Empress.’

  ‘Lord, have you truly seen her? And is she all they say of her?’

  ‘More. But wait and judge her with your own eyes.’

  They waited, the servant standing beneath the towering statue of Elna while the master paced the steps. After a time a clear and perfect note sounded above them. With great ceremony the High Council of Tarendahardil issued forth. Around them swarmed a crowd of attendants and petitioners.

  Then, like Goddess-sun glimpsed between the dull mountains of the dusky border, a woman appeared before Kuln-Holn’s eyes; and the awful loveliness of her struck through Kuln-Holn like a spear-cast. Now the legends about her seemed easily believable, of how she had been ritually wed to dark God, who had taken her for His own in the upper reaches of the high White Tower, and so begat upon her Elnavis, Heir to the World.

  A rough hand gripped the servant’s shoulder. His master turned him around, looking him in the face; then laughed suddenly, unpleasantly. There were pain and fury and a cruel delight in the Gerso’s face, none of them directed at Kuln-Holn. Kuln-Holn reme
mbered the horror of Gerso’s fall then: the many slaughtered dead, the fire, the tribal warriors roaming the bloody streets, and the rocky ash-pit that was now the city’s only remnant. He beheld these things now again, reflected in the deep eyes of his master; and he was afraid.

  But then the laughter ceased, and a calm gray death gave his master’s face some peace. ‘Come along, Kuln-Holn.’

  With a fleeting glance toward the fragrant groves whither the Queen and her courtiers had gone, the Gerso turned and signed to the Imperial guardsman to conduct them hence. They proceeded between the rows of perfect statues, through the mighty gates and down into the City.

  * * *

  After the fifth meal the time for the longsleep came. In the silken, tented bed in her high, hollow dimchamber at the top of the White Tower, Allissál lay, as ever, alone. At first sleep would not approach her, for her heart was filled with burning hope for her son’s success. Slowly then her eyes fluttered together and she slept. Then the dream returned to her, like some daggered thief. Her upflung arms caught the folds of the transparent canopy and rent it, so that the jeweled web fell across her face and mouth and streaming snaky coils of hair. She woke with a little cry.

  At the side of the bed she lighted the lamp of gold and pearl and huddled over its flame. She stood and went round the bed. Up the steep stone steps set into the wall she went with a measured, painful undulation, her small, naked feet making no sound. The thin couch-shift draped from her shoulders damply clung to her long, slender body. At the high narrow window she seated herself, and threw her long hair back defiantly.

  Without, the air was fine and clear. Beyond the distant edges of the city shimmered the deep azure line that was the Sea of Elna. In Goddess’s brilliant light the birds wheeled, and the ships swung into harbor, and the bazaars hummed. Even in the time of the longsleep, Tarendahardil woke.

  Yet even from that cheerful scene the Queen could draw no comfort. Her pale gray eyes were blurred, as if she saw only inner visions. Never before had the dream seemed so real or menacing. The man with the odd burning eyes and the bejeweled, dead noblewoman loomed before her, until the breath caught behind her teeth.

  ‘And are you the child Dornan Ural believes, that bogies in the dimchamber can affright you?’ she muttered, very angry with herself.

  She thought of Ampeánor, whom she missed dearly. He was the only one in whom she had been able to confide all her dreams and hopes; though they were not lovers, as all her court assumed. She murmured a little prayer to Goddess for his swift return. Thereafter, calmed somewhat, she fell into a dreamless doze, alone near the pale painted ceiling; and her long hair fell disheveled over the chill stones.

  IV

  Trembling Heralds of the Wars

  UPON THE OTHER SHORES of the Sea of Elna, the darkward Vesquial coastline swept suddenly inward upon itself, forming a beautiful deep-water harbor, extended on either side by great arms of bleached white stone set into the blue and purple waters. In the sunlit depths of those waters green fans of sea weeds could be dimly perceived, languidly waving and beckoning from beneath the foam. Untold years and countless lives these gleaming breakwaters had taken to erect; and beneath the waterline, befitting their maturity, centuries of sea-growth formed their dress. Not even when Elna’s engineers first started to throw them up, could they have seemed more solid and perdurable.

  Beyond them lay ships by the score and the stone walls of wharves and tidal barriers, anciently stained with a hundred minor mishaps of a thousand transactions: and yet beyond the walls rose the gift of the great girdling arms of the harbor, in bands of parkland and vertical spires, yellow stone warehouses, blue streets and purple mansions – the port-city of Tezmon, famous for the purple dyes of her master weavers.

  Ampeánor sighed, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Leaning in the shadow of the battlements, the High Charan of Rukor looked again over the walls with a critical eye.

  Those walls had been designed by Elna’s engineers long centuries before, when the Emperor had ordered this fastness built; it seemed unlikely there had been any work done on them since. This part of the North had been at peace, and Tezmon’s merchants, wealthy and fat from the trade of their linens, had seen fit to spend their Elnics on purchasing Vapio dancing-troupes rather than on their own city’s defenses. The walls had been in shameful disrepair when Ampeánor had arrived here. He had doubts, even after all his labors, whether he could strengthen them enough before Ara-Karn came hither.

  Yet he knew he must. It had been his plan as well as Allissál’s: to secretly ship over all the arms they had found in the Imperial armory in the depths below the Black Citadel, to arm and fortify Tezmon against all the strength of the barbarian. Then, provisioned from the sea by Rukorian warships, Tezmon should prove their wedge into the North, when Elnavis took up the Ivory Scepter and they were freed of the meddling constraints of Dornan Ural. By then, Ampeánor and Allissál had thought, perhaps all the rest of the North should have fallen the prey of Ara-Karn – all but this city built by Elna long ago, a sore wound in the underbelly of the barbarian.

  Ampeánor went out from the shadow, shouting orders to the workers on the walls. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose brown hair on his head and upper lip was his own, and naturally curled. His strong arms were bronzed by Goddess and the winds, and his body seemed made for the fightingman’s simple tunic it was his habit to wear. Briefly he thought of Allissál as he pursued his labors – it was hard to ignore the ache of missing her; yet he had no regret at all at being absent from the trivial, lascivious pursuits of the pleasure-adoring court.

  In the midst of his labors he was interrupted by a messenger from Armand, urgently summoning him to attend the mayor of the city in his hall. Regretfully, Ampeánor assented, and went up the street to the hill overlooking the harbor clustering with the many ships.

  The prettily painted slave-girls bowed timidly at his approach, and opened the ornately carven doors. Luxurious and spacious was the hall, filled with works of a sumptuous, sensuous art. Around the walls at regular intervals stood the waiting girls, their breasts showing like young blossoms through the gauzy fabric of their gowns. At the end of the hall, seven more maidens attended to the pleasure of their master the mayor. Armand was a man of middle height and middle age, portly, immaculate, and gaudily dressed with strongly scented oils in his hair and beard. Slumped dejectedly in the carven chair of highly polished stone, he held a silver wine cup closely to his nursing lips. His eyes remained fastened to the mosaic in the floor as Ampeánor approached.

  The Charan of Rukor set one booted foot upon the dais and inclined his head slightly. ‘You wished to see me? I understood this was an urgent matter – yet if you only wish to complain of how I tear down your monuments to repair the breeches in your outer walls, I have not the time.’

  The portly mayor shook his head dumbly, his eyes still upon the floor where, at the last dining-party, his prized troupe of Vapio dancing girls had performed a new tableau. ‘Tell him,’ he said gloomily.

  Across the dais stood a Tezmonian guardsman, his leather tunic stained with sweat and dust. He turned to Ampeánor, eyes big with fear. ‘They are coming,’ he said with a swallow.

  ‘Who is coming?’

  ‘The barbarians. We have seen them. They are coming this way!’

  ‘How is that? All the previous reports—’

  ‘—Were false! We reported what we saw, but the barbarians deceived us! Twelve turnings toward Mersaline they took; but at the thirteenth many of them broke off, and took the road to Tezmon!’

  Ampeánor frowned. ‘Which is the larger body?’ he asked sternly.

  The scout swallowed, some of the fear leaving his eyes. ‘By far the larger body still travels for Mersaline. Undoubtedly they have already besieged that city. The other is roughly a quarter their size.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Lanthor, my lord.’

  ‘Then tell me, Lanthor, how soon you guess they will be here.�
��

  ‘In some three or four passes, maybe, they will be here.’

  ‘Very well.’ Ampeánor nodded. ‘Go and refresh yourself, Lanthor. And take heart: there is no need for alarm. The city will stand. This is good news, not bad. If Ara-Karn has divided his forces, it will be the first tactical error the barbarian has made. Alone against all the barbarians, we could not stand for long: yet against this weaker force we should do well. Your fellow-citizens and soldiers will learn to fight; and soon enough I should be able to provide you with the aid of Rukorian lancers.’

  ‘My lord,’ Armand queried timidly, ‘might my city truly withstand them?’

  Ampeánor turned back. The silver winecup was still at the mayor’s lips, his women still regarded him with tender concern, and his eyes were still affixed to the floor. ‘Why,’ answered Ampeánor, ‘how could she not, with such courageous leaders to defend her?’

  ‘But these—’ the mayor gestured vaguely ‘—these barbarians, this – this Ara-Karn. They are said to be so terrible… My cousin was Governor-General of Gerso; some of his slaves escaped to find me here, and when they told me of the manner of his death—’ The fat mayor swallowed, and could speak no more.

  ‘And did his fate not teach you to expect them?’

  ‘Yes, but – well – not so soon as this!’ The mayor’s voice had risen markedly. Ampeánor, not replying, turned to go. As he passed again through the ornate doors he could hear the mayor’s voice calling out in thin, angry tones to his slave-girls, ‘Zajibel! Zajibel, Fallen Sparrow: where is my favorite?’

  * * *

  For the next four passes Ampeánor slept whenever he could, which was not often: in the corners of the guardrooms, in the shadow of a column over the martialing-grounds, on the bare stones of the city walls. He went everywhere, calming the wealthy merchants, roaming the walls with his engineers for a final buttressing of the weakest points, overseeing the training of the recruits picked from the general populace and armed with the weapons he had brought from Tarendahardil. They complained of the work, but Ampeánor stared them to a sullen silence. ‘Would you let your city be destroyed?’ he remonstrated. ‘Well, then, learn to defend her.’ When that was not enough he used force. He made them train beside the desperate exiles from fallen Carftain, that they might learn their shame.