Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 2 The Divine Queen

by Adam Corby

  The first time Dornan Ural had beheld the Queen, he had stood upon the altar before the Hall of Kings. Before him had been the High Priestess of Tarendahardil, and around him had stood all the noble houses, and below him all the populace and the foreign dignitaries gathered in the square. The High Priestess held the holy symbols, and looked him sternly in the eyes. It was the finest moment of his life. He was to speak the Oath before Goddess, undertaking to uphold the good of Tarendahardil and the interests of the last member of the Imperial house, Goddess incarnate, the daughter of the man his father had loved and worshiped, who had granted his father his freedom. And thinking this, Dornan Ural had stolen a brief glance at his charge, the mysterious princess raised in seclusion, about whom there was such speculation. None else could see her then: she was to be revealed when the Oath had been uttered. She smiled at Dornan Ural, lovely beyond telling for one so young: then thrust out her tongue and made a face. It had so unnerved him he had thrice stammered the Oath before he could repeat it properly, a thing some took as an unpropitious omen, but most took as the occasion of many a jest and sarcastic reference. Never had Dornan Ural forgotten that moment, or the shame that had burned within him throughout all the subsequent ceremonies.

  He burned even now as he stepped closer to the dais. From without, sounds of revelry distantly entered the huge, barren hall, part of the welcoming festivities he had ordered for the Queen.

  Ever since that first meeting, Dornan Ural had thought of her as a mere child, wayward and spirited, but harmless in her play. He had not minded her jests and malice, for children would have their games, and must be smiled upon and guarded from their follies. Now, this very waking, he had learned she was a woman after all, and could wound with a woman’s strength. And now – Dornan Ural cast his eyes up and over the high ceiling of the hall; and at length his eyes came to rest again upon the little chair, as if it were a charm upon them.

  ‘And now,’ he murmured very softly and gently, as a single dark tear gathered in the corner of his eye, ‘and now, I must resign my office. Someone else must be High Regent of Tarendahardil.’

  There was a silence in that hall upon the speaking of those words. Was as if all the assembled multitudes of petitioners who stood behind the bowed back of Dornan Ural, but existed only in his memory, had been utterly taken aback.

  ‘It is clear enough they never wanted me to hold it,’ he continued. ‘I did not even desire it myself. The great lords all clamored for it, but not I. And the dying Emperor chose me, because he knew my worth and had loved my father; but also because he distrusted the ambitions and the loyalties of all those great ones. While there would never be any danger that Dornan Ural, the son of one of the Emperor’s lowly freedmen, would attempt to usurp Imperial power. Oh, no! And the gracious and noble charanti, after bickering with and checking one another, finally assented for the same cause: I, with the blood of slaves in my veins, would never pose any threat to their own interests. Ask them now, why don’t you, if Dornan Ural would not hesitate to oppose them in the name of justice! Ask her divine majesty, if there is not a head on the shoulders of Dornan Ural, or if he merely carries out the foolhardy schemes of her girlish fancies!

  ‘No,’ he said, his voice ringing loudly off the stones of the hall, ‘I shall not resign! And if she loses a bit of her precious Empire, then let it not be said that wanton monarchs may disport without cost. Will they have their pleasures and their jests? Then let her and her noble lover laugh at this jest of mine.’

  Dornan Ural turned, and faced the hall, and with the greatest dignity took the wooden arms firmly in his hands and seated himself in the chair. By now, that little chair had come to know well the shape of Dornan Ural. Upon the desk at his right hand were the bundle of furled parchments and the one lying open.

  Thereon it was granted the High Charan of Rukor the office of General Extraordinary in the Queen’s name, with all war-making powers to raise and arm troops, and order them in the field.

  The High Council had agreed to it, and all the forms were properly observed. Now that scrip of parchment required only the seal of Dornan Ural as High Regent and Administrator of the Seven Ranks, and the Empire nal Bordakasha should be at war with Ara-Karn.

  Dornan Ural took up the parchment in his coarse hands, and slowly tore it down the middle.

  XII

  Gen-Karn, Mighty King

  EMPTY AND DEAD was Tezmon’s great harbor now. Only a few masts, like branchless gaunt trees, emerged at drunken angles from the slick water. The storehouses beyond the docks were no more than charred ruins: a few pillars of stone and blackened walls of brick rising from heaps of wind-blown ash and rubble. All of wood had burned away; but not the fiercest fires could crack the huge stone blocks of the inner quays. Slowly and skillfully the Rukorian captain rode the heavy ship up to her berth. A few of the sailors, silent as they rarely were, leapt to the dock to loop the thick rope cables over the sooty brass rings. A solitary gull flapped against the sky, and perched atop a tall, broken pillar. From beyond it a sluggish wind breathed, full-odored with the corruption and ruin of the city.

  Ampeánor had his men form lines amidships. In addition to the crew, he had brought a troop of Rukorian lancers, thirty battle-hardened souls led by no less than Ferrakador, the finest captain in the Empire. The rattle of their lances and body-concealing oval shields echoed dismally off the broken walls. Their helm plumes waved slightly in the breeze as they gazed through the openings in their shields upon the stained docks. There was no sign the city was inhabited. Tezmon was silent as a necropolis, mound-city of tombs and unvoiced ghosts.

  Elpharaka behind him murmured something about the warships. Three Rukorian warships, the fastest of their class, had followed them at a distance from Tarendahardil, wary of the barbarians’ ships. But no other sails had been sighted. Softly Ampeánor bade Elpharaka tell the topmen signal the warships to wait at anchor outside the harbor, lest they find themselves penned in there. The captain nodded, and went to issue the necessary orders.

  A shadow crossed Ampeánor’s back, cold and dark. The Gerso charan was descending from the afterdeck, opulent in robes of the latest fashion, scarlet, gold and azure, with a yellow braided wig after the style of the Vapionil.

  ‘Greetings, my lord,’ he said amiably. ‘And does your luck still hold?’ His eyes roved the stiff backs of the guardsmen, and he chuckled. At that sound the lancemen shifted in their places uneasily, the way a line of tethered noble horses will move when the disquieting scent of a predator is borne unto their wide nostrils. To laugh before battle, it was held in Rukor, was to invite the hostility of dark God.

  Ampeánor eyed the Gerso sharply. ‘Surely you do not intend to go so attired before Gen-Karn?’

  The Gerso smiled lazily. ‘Such is the purpose for which I had my servant purchase it.’

  ‘I thought you knew these barbarians. They judge by clothes, not character. All they will see of you will be a set of fancy robes passing before them.’

  ‘Well, my lord, it grieves me so to displease you, but it would seem too late to change my fashion now.’

  A rustling had begun to issue from the ruins. Far up, at the ends of the broken streets, shapes were approaching the wharves. Gradually they gathered and crept forward, until it could be perceived that they wore the shape of men.

  Unkempt hair hung over knotted shoulders, white teeth glinted out of ragged beards. They gathered on the stone wharf, eying the ship sullenly. Their dirty limbs were clad in motley bits of looted armor and rags. Ugly weapons were in their fists. Coarse muttering rose from them toward the men aboard the ship, with now and then a shout. More of them came, and more, like rats in the cloaca collecting about the legs of the workman with his lantern, their sharp eyes red with delight. They swarmed the dock, leaping up and down, surging back and forth, their voices rising, shouting at and insulting the lancemen. The tumult grew oppressive in the still heavy air. Arrows were shot at the masts. One arrow struck into the railing, right between
a sailor’s fingers – he leapt back, cursing his surprise. At this a laughing cheer burst from those hundreds of bestial throats and the men swarmed nearer, chanting and gibbering, their voices rising in a frenzy Ampeánor knew would end in an assault on the ship. He glanced at the white sails of the warships, so far away.

  ‘Shall we force them back, lord?’ asked Ferrakador, bristling under the effort to hold in his wrath.

  ‘Something has happened,’ muttered Elpharaka. ‘Gen-Karn is not here. It might be wise to drop out to harbor somewhat, my lord, before any fighting breaks out.’ He spoke loudly, to be heard over the din.

  Ampeánor shook his head. ‘We can show no fear before such as these. If Gen-Karn does watch, he means this as a test. Yet they will attack soon.’ He gripped his lance tightly, unsure what to do.

  The din mounted. Suddenly the Gerso stepped forward above the beast-men, raising his hand. ‘We bring you greetings,’ he shouted in the barbarian tongue, ‘in the name of great Elna!’

  Whether it was something in his voice, or eye, or the name of Elna, his words gave them a pause. The din died down, and the crowds fell back uncertainly, muttering and growling.

  Just then a new sound echoed from the shadowed ruins, shrill as of horns. New barbarians appeared, taller, sleeker, men in fine armor. They beat back the motley beast-men, forcing a way down to the ship. The beast-men gave way grudgingly, fear and sullen hatred in their wild eyes.

  Again the horns: and down the street came a formation of marching men. Behind them rode a black-maned giant of a man astride a demon warhorse.

  Ampeánor relaxed. ‘Gen-Karn,’ he informed his companions.

  The formation neared the ship and a low chant arose to greet it: ‘Gen-Karn, Gen-Karn, Gen-Karn!’ The newcomers raised the chant, pride in their harsh voices; but the others on the docks were silent.

  Gen-Karn reached the ship, so tall upon his great stallion that his eyes were almost at a level with those aboard. His eyes swept the deck, lighting upon Ampeánor. ‘Greetings, my friend,’ he roared. ‘So you have returned! You have the gold?’

  ‘We have the gold, King Gen-Karn.’

  ‘Karn-Gen-Karn!’ The barbarian laughed. ‘It is good you deal with a man and not a madman, eh? With Karn and not Kaan – a king and not a god, eh, my friend? The barge-robber would have held treachery close; but Karn-Gen-Karn greets you with open arms!’

  ‘Her majesty, the Divine Queen in Tarendahardil, sends her warm regards,’ responded Ampeánor. ‘Together she is sure we shall gain a great victory.’

  ‘Ha! A true word! Have your men put back their lances, lord. The rabble will give you no trouble. My men can control the dogs.’

  ‘Are they not also your men, O king?’

  ‘Nay! They are but Buzrahs and Raznami and like filth. They followed snapping at my heels like dogs at a hunter’s feet; but like the dogs they have their uses. Order your men to begin unloading the gold; mine will bear it up to my palace. Later, when you have feasted and rested with me as honored guests, I will fill your holds with as many bows and death-birds as you can stomach!’

  The Gerso murmured in Ampeánor’s ear, ‘My lord, are you sure you can trust such a man? Demand some surety of him first, before we begin unloading the gold.’

  ‘I know him better, Charan Kandi. He fancies himself civilized; but if we show distrust, he might storm the ship and take the gold by force. No: trust him we must, so trust him we shall. There are no gains without gambles. We must trust to Goddess and our luck. Captain, detail your men to begin unshipping the gold.’

  The captain nodded dubiously, and gave the orders. The seamen swung down the planks, and Ampeánor, the Gerso, Ferrakador, and ten of the lancemen went down before Gen-Karn upon his steed. To the king Ampeánor introduced his companions. Ferrakador nodded shortly, raising his fist in military salute; the Gerso bowed low as a courtier, the curls of his wig falling toward the stone. Gen-Karn nodded to the lanceman, gave a short, contemptuous look at the still-bowing Gerso, and turned his back.

  ‘This is my sunward man,’ he said, indicating a tall, evil-looking barbarian. ‘Sol-Dat will see to the handling of the gold. Kings do not bother with such trifles, eh? Come!’ he cried, wheeling the great horse about. ‘Let us go to my palace and feast our alliance!’

  He led them up streets strewn with filth, through the deserted marketplace and past gutted buildings, out of whose charred walls stared the poor surviving Tezmonians. Gen-Karn roared at the Tezmonians, laughing to see them dart timidly back into their holes. ‘Mind you none of this,’ he shouted to Ampeánor. ‘My men are warriors, not sweepslaves. But return in a year, and this will shine forth like the Tarendahardil of the North!’

  Behind him, Ampeánor thanked the Gerso for his timely intervention at the dock. ‘How did you know how to stop the attack of those rabble?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ smiled the Gerso. ‘It was just a trick of luck.’

  ‘I wish you had had greater fortune with Gen-Karn. A civilized man must act aloof to these barbarians, else they will feel contempt for him. Now Gen-Karn will think you a pretty fop and scarcely notice you; and his contempt will also touch us.’

  ‘Then, my lord, I shall have to think of some way to regain his respect.’

  In the banquet hall of the mayor’s mansion they gathered anew, and filled the low benches before the long tables in the fashion of barbarians. Against the far wall the gold was piling, glimmering in sun and lamplight like the hair of the Queen herself. Ampeánor sat upon the right hand of Gen-Karn, with Ferrakador upon his right. The Gerso had been seated well down the side table among the barbarians in motley armor, those few who were not Orns who had been admitted: an insult he did not seem to take to heart. He sat among the ragged bestial men in all his opulent fineries, holding converse with them in their own tongue. Over the din, Ampeánor could not hear what words the Gerso used, but noticed they were received with some weight by the barbarians.

  As they ate they were entertained with sword-fights and a combat between a huge-chested, naked barbarian and a great yellow and black bear, the kind called by the barbarians a king bear. The barbarian slapped the enraged beast about, playfully; then slipped behind to gain a clever hold and flexed his great thews. There was a loud, ugly crack, and the beast slumped to the bloodied straw upon the floor.

  ‘Hail Ura-Dat!’ Gen-Karn bellowed, pounding the table with his winecup. ‘Not Gundoen in his prime might have bettered it!’

  Other cheers rose from the tables as the wrestler held aloft his heavy, sweat- and blood-streaked arms, drinking in the praise. Even Ampeánor found himself caught up in the excitement of the bloody spectacle. But he noticed that the Gerso, sitting among the sullenly silent lesser barbarians, acted bored and disdainful.

  Then Gen-Karn stood, and all the boisterous men were stilled. ‘Now, my lord,’ he addressed Ampeánor, ‘please to accept this of me.’ From his great hairy fist hung an object, the cruelly curving tooth of some monstrous beast, greater than a man’s outstretched hand. ‘A Darkbeast-tooth,’ Gen-Karn boasted. ‘Few enough have seen such a thing; rarer still he who has the right to wear one. Two-score warriors accompanied me beyond the Dusky Border where the light of Goddess never ventures: and we slew our Darkbeast, but only seventeen made the journey back sitting astride their ponies. Wear it with pride, my lord, that your illustrious sovereign, the Golden Woman of the South, may see it and know the bravery of Karn-Gen-Karn!’

  A silence fell deep athwart the hall as Ampeánor accepted the token. There was surprise upon the stern faces of the Orns; anger upon those of the lower men. Ennius Kandi pointed, and spoke to his neighbors low words, at which they nodded. Then one man stood and said angrily, ‘O Chief, will you give this to an outlander and a Southron lord? What has he done, that he should have council-rights among us?’

  Gen-Karn’s brows fell, and anger bubbled through the scarred countenance. But then Sol-Dat rose to his feet with a full winecup and said, ‘Ren-Gora, take some other time to boast of all y
our doings: if you think you have a right to wear one, go northward and get your own Darkbeast-tooth! What chieftain have we ever known who has shown such generosity and kingliness? This is our true Warlord! You wenches, bring forth more barrels and clay jugs, that we may rightly hail our king!’ And the promise of more wine cheered them, so that their roar filled the ribbed hall, drowning out the protests of Ren-Gora, chieftain of the Raznami tribe.

  * * *

  After the feast, they met in the council chambers behind the banquet hall: Gen-Karn, Sol-Dat and some Orn guards upon one side, and Ampeánor, Ennius Kandi and Ferrakador with two lancemen on the other. There they argued policy.

  Gen-Karn told of how his spies sowed dissent among the greater tribes in the camp of Ara-Karn in the South: and how, before the year’s end, there would be wholesale defections to him and his standard.

  ‘For mark you,’ he said, setting down the heavy winecup chased with gold, ‘mark you, my lord, the tribes are not wild for this unending warfare. It is Ara-Karn whose madness drives them on, and his lackey Gundoen’s commands. Yet I have sent word among them of peace: not to trust in dice or God’s pleasure to sustain us forever, but rather sign pacts with all the cities of the South and have naught to do with lands below the Taril. And the warriors, who have wealth and women now, like this word of mine. They know me, and remember my years as Warlord – better than these!’ So he barked to his evil lieutenant’s avid approval, and gulped another mouthful of wine.

  ‘Yet why then do you hesitate?’ Ampeánor asked. ‘Ara-Karn and the others are now sundered from the North by the Taril. You have heard the latest reports we have had out of Postio, of how Ara-Karn’s forces were thrown back, with heavy losses. My Rukorian warships control the Sea of Elna. Think not that your fellow tribesmen will dare essay the sands of the Taril during High Summer, especially afflicted as they must be – rather they will have to wait until winter comes again. Until then, you alone, Gen-Karn, have power here in the North. Deliver the other cities: chop off the legs of Ara-Karn!’