Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 2 The Divine Queen

by Adam Corby

  Then one of them in his sudden great fear took out his bow, and swiftly nocking an arrow bent it back to his chin, aiming full at Kuln-Holn’s breast. Kuln-Holn saw it all, but did not duck or lift his shield: threw out his chest instead, daring the man. Truly, the madness was like a drunkenness in him that moment, for he believed that nothing could harm him, not swords nor fists nor even the death-birds of Ara-Karn himself.

  The man below hesitated in awe seeing this; then one of his fellows knocked against him, and he released the arrow.

  It occurred with such suddenness that Kuln-Holn did not take it in when it happened: only later did he work it out in his mind as to how it all must have occurred. The assault was faltering, especially here where the defenders had gathered about the two deathless figures. The sounds of battle were dying out. The barbarians had paused, so that many defenders now found themselves without foes to face. Such a one was the carter, who, seeing the death meant for Kuln-Holn beside him, suddenly and without thought threw his own body in the arrow’s path. The shaft struck him in his belly, with such force that it drove clean through the leather. He fell dead at Kuln-Holn’s feet.

  And then Kuln-Holn, who had seemed fierce, went truly mad. He bent down, scooped up the corpse in his arms, and lifted it – aye, though the man had been taller than Kuln-Holn and a stoutly muscled man – lifted it armor and arrow and all, and hurled it down at his foes with all the force of frenzied wrath. Four it bore down beneath its weight; and two of the four cracked open their skulls on the stones far below.

  The other barbarians paused, looking doubtfully at the bloodied apparition before and above them. They shook their weapons in their dirty, sweating hands, as doubt robbed them of strength and will. Grudgingly, they gave back; the others along the lines did also. The square below emptied, and the noise of the battle fell away. A second lull had come.

  The defenders also fell back, grateful of whatever rest and refreshments they could glean. God was rising from the bright horizon. Two sleeps and five meals’ time had passed now since the tolling of the bells. Up and down the lines went women with carts of bread, throwing the loaves out to eager hands. But the women offered no bread to the Emperor or his followers.

  Last of all to leave the mound-wall was Kuln-Holn, who stood glaring from side to side with the ferocity of a thorsa of the dark wood, as if the swaying of his body might bring forth some new enemy. But even in the fullness of his fury he could feel the power failing him. Now not a god he felt, nor conqueror, nor warrior: hardly even a child, so great was the sudden weakness that engulfed him. With his last strength, he sheathed the blade and fell down the side of the barricade like one dead.

  * * *

  Again the barbarians came; again the defenders mounted to their places along the girdling mound-walls. Now there were scarce enough men to cover the extent of the barricades: and of those yet moving, not one was but notched and mottled with wounds, many minor, but some near fatal. They had come to resemble their own broken high statues: for, missing ears, fingers, eyes, hands, feet, teeth, they firmed what remained of their bodies and fought on regardless, to the last, to the end, to the death.

  They grieved their dead and exulted over fallen foe no longer. It had gone on too long for that. It was merely work and labor now, for a cruel, demanding taskmaster. Not even victory seemed to be a thing desired, but only rest. To many it was as if it had been their grandfathers who had gone down to repulse the first attack. Forgotten were Elna, history, the City Herself: there were only these walls, which they must defend, they knew not why.

  Overhead, clouds were gathering, great formless dark things like a veil drawn by Goddess across this most unpalatable thing, this ugly, noisy scar, which once had been Her favored City.

  The walls were in shambles, with corpses, broken weapons, spaces everywhere. A concerted effort would have gained victory for the fighters of either side; but it was exactly a concerted effort that was impossible. They could but wearily toil on, their faces lined as with great age, the unenthusiastic din of battle echoing beneath their helmets. They recked not; fought on.

  Behind them, from time to time, rode the young Emperor cursing, at times dismounting or even riding up the mounds to beat his own men to a great vigor. The superior vitality of the barbarians was beginning to tell the victory: those arms that had been bred to trade and simple toil could not, in the end, hope to equal those others, bred to the cold, cruel travail of the far North where Elna had long ago penned them.

  More than once sections of the walls had been turned save that the Emperor or some of his men had mounted the heights and beat back the assault; more than once the defenders would have fled, save that the fear of Elnavis had given them pause. They came to hate their Emperor who would not let them rest: to hate him more than they did the barbarians who were their foes. But more than hating they feared him – and so obeyed, long after they in their minds had been assured that they could no more. It was that very mixture of hatred and fear that gave them their strength. Wearily and yet again they toiled on, their faces lined as with great age, the unrelenting din of battle echoing beneath their helmets.

  * * *

  In the end, it was the noise of it that awakened Kuln-Holn.

  They had thrown him with the corpses, thinking him dead, so utter was that dreamless sleep that claimed him, so thickly covered with the blood of enemies were his armor and his flesh. Yet at last the noise roused him, and he stirred like a stiff dead tree in a light summer’s breeze.

  He stood swaying on his feet. What! he thought. Do they still fight? Why will they come on? Are their numbers endless? Despair, and a desperate hatred, welled in him. Those dark forms were no longer his tribesmen or his people. They were only the enemy.

  He staggered up the mound, forcing his way into his accustomed place. And there, disdaining shield or friend to guard his back, he began to give battle – not indeed to Durbars, Buzrahs, Karghils, or Foruns, but only to the enemy.

  He fought uncomprehendingly. It was as if his mind returned to the realm of sleep, and only his body still waked to do battle. His eyes were glazed like those of the dead; but his arms were quick as a tracker’s in his prime. Again and again, men fell before him; yet Kuln-Holn heeded not. For it was in the midst of that final battle, that the visions returned to Kuln-Holn: yet now visions only of the past. Happy now those times seemed, happier than when he’d lived them.

  He saw again his father; beheld the great bowl of the glaring sea that first time he had gone alone to fish; recalled his first sweetheart and the scent of the pine needles as he took her; remembered the words of his wife when she’d given birth to Turin Tim, apologizing that it had been but a girl; saw again that red, wet babe healthy with fat, and felt again his stab of joy, that it should be his and alive.

  He remembered the words Hertha-Toll, Gundoen’s wife, had said to him once: ‘Do not trust in your visions overmuch, Kuln-Holn,’ she had said. ‘And remember, that no prophet has ever seen his own death. That is a thing She mercifully shields from those whom it most affects. But the deaths of our dear ones we can see – and that is curse enough.’

  Then, those times had seemed hard enough; yet now they were tinctured with a sort of calm: the calm of a simple man who knew what his life was for, and had no doubts of it.

  ‘Hey, fellow, are you mad?’ It was the red-bearded man who had shouted. Kuln-Holn blinked. Behind him a gentle hand lay upon his shoulder, and he heard happy words of praise. Before him were no blades or men. The relentless din beneath his helmet had ceased. The enemy was gone. The broad square, the several twisting streets, were empty.

  ‘Where?’ he asked stupidly.

  ‘It’s over, friend,’ said the man behind him. ‘We’ve beaten them back!’

  Kuln-Holn sighed, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes. ‘How long?’

  ‘Man, do you not see? Look across the square! Listen to the city! It’s victory!’

  * * *

  Others had claimed the wor
n carpet, so Kuln-Holn lay upon the bare, jagged stones, scarcely feeling the pain. The women came again with their carts, dispensing loaves of hard black bread and cups of water. It felt good to eat again. Kuln-Holn could not even find in his mind how long it had been since the four of them had shared the contents of Berrin’s pilfered sack. Now he alone of them still lived.

  Gratefully, he closed his eyes. It was good to lie peacefully in the shade of the clouds, feeling the cool breezes rising up from the harbor. Kuln-Holn thought he could even smell the sweet salt tang of the sea. He would sleep soon; for now, resting was too sweet a thing to lose.

  ‘Victory!’ fluttered the vague, joyous shouts.

  ‘What does the Emperor say?’

  ‘Hold back, rest for now. He mistrusts them.’

  ‘Haven’t we won?’

  ‘Victory!’

  ‘Didn’t I say it: if we threw them back the third time it would be the end?’

  ‘Even if they do come back, we can hold them! We’ve held these walls so long, we can defend them forever!’

  Again Kuln-Holn inhaled, rejoicing in that sweet salt tang. But now he was aware of a subtle difference. He knew that smell. But from where? A suspicion, horrible as it was certain, darted into his mind. He remembered what they’d told him of the last raid upon the village of the Korlas; he remembered Gerso.

  He heaved himself up the side of the mound. He looked down and saw what he had feared.

  ‘They have left us a parting gift,’ he croaked over his shoulder, silencing the chatter below. ‘They’ve set fire to the lower quarters.’

  He remembered something Ara-Karn had once said long ago, before the warriors of the tribe had departed to avenge the Korlas’s raid: ‘What cannot be ruled can still be destroyed.’

  All along the circling length of the barricades the defenders stood in silence, watching their triumph turn to bitter ashes in the wind. With a lazy, mocking slowness, the north winds gathered the columns of black smoke and wafted them forward up the hills. Behind the smoke were the bright yellow fires, leaping hungrily from wall to wall. So wearied in themselves that their very bones had cried for mercy, leaning upon cudgels and swords, or sunk exhausted to their knees, those valiant men must watch, as their City, that had conquered, was destroyed.

  The fires spread throughout the quarters: the Thieves’ Quarter was in flames in a hundred-count; the dockyards were already more of smoke and ash than flame. The leading edge of the flames, driven with great speed by the quickening winds, swept upward toward the heights of the defended city. Flames were caught in the winds, hurled upward to alight on buildings streets away. The storehouse of a lamp-oil seller suddenly exploded with a thunderclap, flinging flaming bits of oil for hundreds of paces about.

  The men upon the mound-walls, already coughing for the dense, sweeping smoke, took off their helmets and threw them bitterly down, great grimy tears welling in their eyes. Oh, it was true that they were tired: but this was a thing too monstrous for them to bear. No barbarian had broken their fierce spirit; but now it was as shattered as those poor bits of statuary underfoot.

  The fires strode forward toward the barricade. Smoke grew thicker, driving men choking back into the lee of the walls.

  Last to descend were the Emperor’s men. ‘Wait until the flames come this side of the wall, then we’ll let you douse them,’ he shouted over the roar. ‘But let not a man of you cross those barricades!’

  The fires slowed and the winds died a bit, as if to gather strength – then with a single bound leaped over the barricades and fell roaring among the buildings of High Town.

  Staggering, the men rose to their feet. Without a word they gathered helmets and sought the fountains, the cistern-pumps, and the wells. They were city-dwellers: knew how to form the lines. The slopping water went in the helmets, hand to hand to hand. Kuln-Holn found himself in a line, awkwardly mimicking the movements of the others. The dense smoke gathered blindingly, filling his eyes with greater tears. To Kuln-Holn, the buildings were now only monstrous shapes of brown and dark gray relieved by flashes of lemon brilliance. It was some evil dream, endlessly passing those helmets. It did no good. He heard a man say behind him, ‘If only that storm would break—’ He remembered the clouds: yes, they had been stormclouds. But no rain would fall this pass. Goddess had turned Her back upon Tarendahardil.

  The heat thickened about him. The leather jerkins and metal plates had become unbearable. With weary curses the men discarded their armor and their weapons. In breeks or simple loincloths, many of them naked, they toiled on. Cinders and wind-borne flames were everywhere. Faces were charred. Tongues stuck in mouths filled with ashes. To the already frightful stench was added the hateful odor of burning human flesh.

  Then in a moment a thunderclap broke the roar of the flames, and the rain was falling, not in droplets but in sheets, as if from upturned buckets. The men foundered about as if they were underwater. The water fell steaming on the burning buildings, and the steam, the rain, the smoke and the clouds blotted Goddess out, and the city streets were dark as the lands of the Madpriests.

  Men howled for the joy of it. Even Kuln-Holn took up the helmet full of water and flung it into the air, laughing, drinking in rain as if it had been air; feeling it wash blood and sweat and dirt from him. Yet not for long could the storm maintain so fierce a downpour: soon the sheets became lances, and the lances droplets, pattering in the many muddy pools. Among those muddy streams and pools the defenders laughed and danced, all their faith restored, only to be dashed again.

  Behind them sounded a terrible, foreign laugh.

  Appearing on the crest of the mound-walls, dark against the pale-gray sky, were horsemen, huge and fierce and many. The tails of their war-stallions lashed, and down the hither slope of the barricades, rode the first of the returning barbarians.

  A few of the defenders ran to gather what weapons they could find, but the greater number of them, cursing or weeping, fled the scene. Half-clad, weaponless and dispirited, they were easy prey for the mounted invaders. The barricades were passed, and fallen Tarendahardil was no more.

  The barbarians rode laughing up the slopes of the barricades, exultant in hate. While these Southrons had watched their city destroyed, the barbarians had taken their ease in their tents, bathed and fed and comforted by their women. Then the rain had come: Nam-Rog had let the heralds give the signal: and the warriors rode refreshed and eager up the familiar, steaming Way of Kings. Steam and smoke and rain had concealed their way unto the very peak of the barricades. Now they rode these streets unopposed, their swords rising and falling like the scythes of summer. The last of the defenders fled before them, running to the final refuge of the Black Citadel.

  There, upon the wide roof’s edge, the Empress Allissál knelt still. Her black linen robes were sodden from the downpour, and her fair face darkly masked with streaks of muddy ash. She heard the cries upborne on the winds, and lowered her face. She had expected no better: still, it was hard to bid farewell to this city and all it was to her. She did not think of the loss of her own powers, but rather of the loss of Elna’s greatest achievement. At length, with great effort, she rose to her feet. Now, she thought, hardening her heart: now the choral dances were over, and it was the moment of the actors.

  She went to the doors of the White Tower, and passed within.

  * * *

  Upon the steps of the Brown Temple a last knot of defenders were trying to hold, urged on by the priestesses, who loudly prayed Goddess to come to their aid. At the sight, the barbarians laughed, burst through the defenders and rode on up the high steps. The priestesses took fright and fled, all but the ancient High Priestess. She, whether because too decrepit or defiant, stood her ground. The lead rider, a magnificent black-appareled fellow on a milk-white steed, spurred on his horse. The stallion would have shied away, as if even this dumb brute could sense her holiness; but the rider held him firmly. That massive, straining body rammed into the frail figure, and like a doll the prieste
ss was flung aside. Her body slammed against one of the pillars, backbone and skull shattering at once. The rider, laughing still, careered about and thundered down the steps.

  Kuln-Holn was there, and saw. He had fled in the confusion, but not out of fear. Fear was a thing stamped out of him now. He wrenched a bloody lance from a corpse and ran after the rider, and in fury drove the lance deep into the rider’s back so that it plunged through armor and body and started forth from the other side. The rider fell to the street, and his armor clashed about him, and his helmet was struck from his head.

  ‘Laugh now, why don’t you?’ vaunted Kuln-Holn. Yet in his fury he had not noted the man’s trappings, else he would have known them for those of his own tribe. Only now he saw them, as he looked upon the contorted, accusing, familiar face of the man he had slain: Garin.

  Spasms wracked the body of Kuln-Holn’s son-in-law. Ironclad hands gripped Kuln-Holn’s, so hard it was like to break his bones; and he felt the death-throes of Turin Tim’s husband.

  He remained thus, his hands still fiercely gripped, for some time. The battle passed by, and he was left in peace.

  With difficulty, Kuln-Holn extricated his sore hands, and dragged the body up the steps of the Temple Garin had so defiled. There he laid the corpse out as only the practiced hands of the Pious One could.

  ‘There is no river here, and the sea leads only to darkness,’ he muttered through his tears. ‘But maybe they will find you here and do you honor, Garin. O Turin Tim, forgive your father his many, many foolishnesses!’ And he said a prayer to Goddess for the safety of the ka of Garin, who had been the finest tracker in Gundoen’s tribe – perhaps even in all the far North.

  * * *

  Now only the Emperor and his followers still gave the enemy battle. They fought like trapped wolves. From his own history, Elnavis knew defeat might seem complete, but yet a man might arise reborn to cut down foes anew. But their opponents now were numberless, horsed and rested, and Elnavis knew that not together could he and his men gain the safety of his Citadel.