Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 1 The Former King

by Adam Corby

  ‘Forgive me, forgive me!’

  Then Ara-Karn left the hut, and Kuln-Holn was a little reassured. Later he wondered why he should have been so fearful of gentle Goddess’s messenger, and just what it was that had made him cry out so. But he put it from his mind with his dreams. He did not see the stranger for quite a while after that.

  When they did meet again, Ara-Karn took Kuln-Holn up to a nearby hill and pointed to the great mountain rising to the South, which because of its shape and the color of its snowy peak was known as the Breast of Goddess, Kaari-Moldole. Kuln-Holn nodded, explaining as best he could. The mountain was the site of the women’s worship. There lovers went to pray to Goddess and others to seek Her aid in all things from childbirth to the fertility of the fields. It was the holiest place for many weeks’ journey around, a place shrouded in mystery and holiness. The stranger looked up at it strangely, then gestured to Kuln-Holn.

  They journeyed to the slopes of Kaari-Moldole, taking two passes to reach her base. For food they ate berries and nuts and trapped small game; they lapped at the banks of hill-fed streams for drink. At the base of the mountain, where the sacred woods began, Ara-Karn made Kuln-Holn stop while he went on alone. Kuln-Holn should have warned him about the prohibitions and curses laid upon trespassers, but he did not dare. This man was Her servant.

  He made camp in the wild, hearing in the dense green about him animals prowling, branches snapping, and the calls of the clustering birds. Many birds nested on these sheltering slopes. He went up the base of the mountain until he came to a clearing, where he felt safer. He could see the expanse of the sea below, and serene Goddess beyond, and he knelt to Her, gave prayer, and slept. When he awoke the sky was dark and She had disappeared. The winds were rising, and the clouds, dark gray and greenly foul, they were falling. The air grew close and angry, and Kuln-Holn was alarmed.

  The clouds settled about the crown of the mountain, where the Holy River was rumored to have its source. Then the dark cloud obscured the peak and the winds rose, violent, scattering dead leaves in the air. Kuln-Holn shivered, waiting under an overhanging rock for the lightning and the downpour to begin. He heard the rustle of the many birds flying down off the mountain, fleeing to the woods below.

  Suddenly a great black cloud rose from off the sea, and rose swiftly toward the mountain – then he saw it was not a cloud but a flock of great black evil birds – thousands of them – flying too closely together, their deadly beaks aimed this way and that. They flew around the mountain, screeching as if in call or answer; then they vanished, and Kuln-Holn saw no more of them. The earth beneath shook once, in reply to one tremendous clap of lightning; he cried out to Goddess to let this storm break and be done; but the storm never broke. Instead the air was somehow lightened, and the clouds broke here and there. Kuln-Holn climbed up on the rock, nervously looking about him; but of the dense green cloud and the deadly birds there was no sign. At the end of the sea the clouds parted, and gold-bearing Goddess shed Her light upon the mountain once again.

  Shortly thereafter the stranger came back down the mountain. In his hands he held the thick bundle of pointed sticks with black feathers on their ends and the curved wooden instrument. Without a gesture Ara-Karn passed the rock and went on down the path. Kuln-Holn hastened his abasements and followed, daring to ask no questions.

  So they came down out of Kaari-Moldole and were not even stricken. Again Kuln-Holn wondered greatly that the storm had not broken, and he wondered if it would be safe to add this to his preachings. But for then he thought it best to speak no word of this.

  When they returned to the village, not even the guards awaited them. All was bustle there, for it was the time of the great feast, to bid the hunters good luck before they departed on the great Hunt for bandars.

  V

  The Warriors’ Departure

  WHEN GUNDOEN AWOKE from the thanksgiving feast, he forgot all about his wife’s ill-omened words and sought out Estar, Foron, and Garin, the best trackers and most skilled woodsmen of the tribe.

  ‘It is time,’ said Gundoen the chief. ‘After this storm we will need a good Hunt. Are you readied?’

  ‘Since the feast, chief,’ laughed Garin, who was a handsome young brave with curling hair the color of the bark of the coslin tree. ‘We will cast a weird upon all the bandar we see, that none but us may bring them down!’

  Then Gundoen laughed, and the trackers slung their packs over swift ponies and took the path past Outpost Rock into the territories of the Korlas. As they passed the brown fields, they laughed, and waved to the men and women toiling, then plunged into the forest’s shadowed depths. Gundoen went back to the village, smiling; but when he saw his wife standing bleakly on the porch of his great hall, his smile washed from his face, and he passed without a word. In the village below he helped repair the ruined huts, lifting great logs unaided and laughing as his muscles bulged and cracked like iron fired red hot.

  Later the women prepared hardbreads that would not soon go stale, dried smoked meats that would be eaten from horseback, and skins of ale and mare’s milk. And the men sharpened their swords and skinning knives, and polished their heavy hunting spears. They worked their wooden shields with new leather, embossed with red symbols of protection. They tended to their ponies, fattening them more than many people of the tribe. There would be little food for the ponies on the long trail to the Forest of the Bandar.

  In the great chief’s hall the warriors gathered. They were the pride of the village, mighty spearmen, agile trackers. Warmed by the smoke of the blue cook-fires, they tested their weapons, argued strategies, and swore great curses on the Korlas’ heads.

  In all the world, bandar roamed only in these wild lands north of Gerso, only in certain deep woods, the Forest of the Bandar. High up were these cold forests, and far from the sea – many passes’ ride from the village of Gundoen’s folk. And only once in all the year were the skins of the bandars the shining green so prized in the faraway South. And that time was now, for the springtime mating season was upon them, bull and cow. Yet this too was the time of their greatest ferocity and unpredictability. The bulls were savage in their rut, the cows most dangerous protecting their newborn. Every year they chose different mating grounds in the hidden depths of the cold, high forest; and this was why the work of the scouts would be so vital.

  Too, other tribes would hunt the beasts. Korlas would be there, and Buzrahs, and stout Durbars, and hunters from Gen-Karn’s Orn tribe. Most of the tribes sent expeditions, because selling bandar skins was the only way many of the tribes could obtain the valued things from the civilized lands of the faraway South: costly cloths and silks, spices, fine weapons with a lasting sharpness on their edges.

  Some years, especially after a long, harsh winter, the bandar would be few and the hunters many. And recently there had been hunts on which no bandar pelts were taken at all. Instead the hunters had warred upon one another, starting harsh blood-feuds. So Gundoen thought to hunt earlier this year than was customary and steal the finest pelts before the other tribes’ hunters even reached the hunting grounds.

  In all this time of waiting, Gundoen never saw the barge-robber; but the guards who watched him reported all that he did. They told him the man’s beard grew longer and that he wore the tunic of the tribe – also that he learned the tongue of the North, though his words were few. At the first, Gundoen showed great interest in the stranger’s doings, and he laughed when he heard of the randy woman left standing; and he shrugged when he heard of the finding of the head of Ob-Kal-Ti. But when they spoke of how the folk had begun to pay a greater heed to Kuln-Holn’s hourly preachings, Gundoen quickly lost his interest. He had been quick to ask for anything that might give him an excuse to kill the stranger; when it became clear this would not come to pass, he grew bored and no longer asked the watchers of the man’s doings. In time and amid the flurry of preparations for the great Hunt, the guards themselves lost interest, and the watch upon the stranger ceased.

 
Gundoen saw the Pious One only once, and then he saw that the little prophet had cut his beard neater and mended his tunics so that they were not quite so ragged as before. Also Kuln-Holn seemed to walk with a more upright bearing, as if he were a hunter with kills to his credit. The chief frowned, but did not ask what these changes might portend. He did notice that the Pious One was looking noticeably thinner, as if he were not eating enough; this made Gundoen laugh. The barge-robber was eating the man out of his hut, he thought. It was good to see him paying the price of his foolishness.

  When the weeks of ten passes of jade God overhead had lapsed, and they began to look from Outpost Rock for the return of the scouts, the foreign merchants came to see the chief. They were as usual all smiles, bows, and flowery gestures, now that they knew that the tribe was about to embark upon the Hunt. Gundoen only looked at them with ill-concealed disgust.

  ‘Greetings, O Chief,’ bowed the older merchant Zelatar Bonvis. ‘We trust that all goes well with the preparations? Is there anything we can do to aid your people?’

  Gundoen shrugged. ‘Well enough. We need no help.’

  ‘Your hunters look forward to the Hunt with great eagerness, and that is well. Each man hopes to be celebrated as the Hero of the Hunt.’

  ‘The Hero of the Hunt?’ asked the younger merchant, whose chin was smooth as some woman’s.

  ‘Yes,’ responded Zelatar smoothly. ‘In every great Hunt there is one hunter who is most responsible for its success. This man is named the Hero of the Hunt and is awarded the greater share of the gold – more even than what the chief receives. Of course, those years when the chief’s share and the Hero’s share go to different men are rare indeed. For usually it is Gundoen who is the Hero of the Hunt. What hunter is greater than Gundoen?’

  Gundoen shrugged and turned back to the tending of his ponies. They were sleek, plump creatures – especially the brown mare, a wild and amorous creature who had foaled several of the finest ponies in the tribe and was one of the chief’s most prized possessions. ‘That is one of the reasons I am chief,’ he muttered.

  Behind the chief’s back the two merchants exchanged knowing smiles.

  ‘Not the only reason, I am sure,’ resumed Zelatar. ‘There are many reasons why Gundoen is chief – each better than the others. He is a great fighter, a wise leader, and the most skilled battle commander in all the North. Yet most important of all is the chief’s skill at wrestling.’

  ‘Yes.’ The younger merchant nodded. ‘Even I had heard of that before I ever came to the North. They speak of his skills at the gates of Gerso. They say he has never yet lost a wrestling match, and that the bones of all his many adversaries, crushed by the main strength of his arms, decorate the walls of his great hall.’

  ‘All foreigners are liars,’ growled the chief. ‘I have only a few of the bones, and those of men from other lands. Otherwise the spirits of my tribesmen would haunt me. But it is true when they say I have not yet been vanquished. Do they really speak my name before the gates of Gerso?’

  ‘Often, great chief. And now that I have met you, I find no cause for wonder in it.’

  Gundoen looked down at his massive torso, his great long arms and short legs like tree trunks upside down, growing thicker and more knotted as they rose.

  ‘Tall men make poor wrestlers,’ he said simply. ‘Also, it is more important that a man need to win in his heart than that his arms have power.’

  ‘This will be the greatest Hunt of your career, O Chief,’ said the bearded merchant. ‘What else were the storm and the eclipse if not omens for the good? They foretell great deeds done by strong men. You will gather more pelts this year than you have ever done, more than three ordinary hunts. I prophesy it.’

  ‘Mighty is Gundoen,’ chimed the merchant newly come. ‘So, therefore, mighty is the tribe of Gundoen.’

  ‘While we, on the dark side, are but poor, impoverished merchants. The nations of the South grow surfeited with bandar skins, and will pay us no more than a third of the prices that once we got. Every year that passes leaves us less and less money. Yet even so we will not pass our miseries on to Gundoen. We have known him long, and dare call him friend. However, great chief, so that we are not driven penniless in our efforts to bring you the finest of Southern goods, we must ask that this year the price of pelts be halved.’

  The chief frowned. ‘Only half?’ he cried.

  ‘For our own protection only, O Chief!’ uttered Zelatar. ‘Truly, we would not do this unless we were forced to it. And perhaps next year things will be better. And think – this will be the greatest Hunt in all the history of the tribe. Even at the lower price you will gather more gold than you did last year.’

  ‘You think to cheat me,’ growled Gundoen, pulling out his great bright sword. ‘You would only give us half of your gold for that for which we risk our lives! What do you say to half a head to do your business with?’

  ‘Mercy, great chief, mercy!’ The merchants fell to their knees before him, groveling shamelessly. ‘If you slay poor merchants, how will others come to trade with you? And perhaps next year will be better!’ The wily Zelatar knew that this was the moment of greatest risk, upon which all his gamble depended. The chief would either slay them out of hand or concede to their price.

  For a terrifying moment the chief looked down at them, and it seemed that his anger would get the better of his need. But then he spat with disgust. ‘You are not worth dirtying my blade. You foreigners are no more than robbers even at your best. Get you gone, bandits! You know well enough I have no choice but to accept your price.’ Zelatar and Mergo bowed fearfully and slunk out of the chief’s sight. They walked through the village streets with heads and shoulders bowed, as if the chief had utterly abashed them. But when they returned to the guest hall, they caught each other’s eyes and laughed aloud.

  * * *

  At last, Estar, Foron, and Garin returned, bursting with news. On a crude map etched on hide, they showed the areas where the signs of bandar had been most plentiful and where the Korla lookouts had been. The Korlas, knowing the spears of Gundoen’s men, watched the paths whenever they were clear. The hunters met again, in earnest now, and determined which paths were best to follow and at which points the Korlas would most likely set their spies.

  The women packed up the last of the foodstuffs, and the hunters put a final rubbing of animal fat upon their blades. The ponies were packed with supplies and brushed down. And when all was finally made ready, the feast was set forth.

  This was the good-fortune feast, and to it all members of the tribe, even outcasts like Kuln-Holn, were invited. A large clearing in the middle of the village, just before the chief’s hall, was swept clean, and pits were dug in the ground and filled with branches and logs for open cook-fires. Fresh straw was strewn about over the hard sandy ground. The largest tables from the halls were brought forth and placed in a great hollow square. Then the chief poured out the ceremonial cup, the God’s cup: brown ale spilled into the fire, whose steam, they prayed, would find pleasure in the nostrils of dark God and stave from them His envy and His evil. This Gundoen did in the custom of their grandfathers before them; then they all cheered and cried for feasting. Out came the finest foods and baked goods; out came kegs of ale; and out came goats and mares and pigs, butchered and thrown to roast over the blazing red cook-fires. The stores of the village were being exhausted in this feast, but that did not matter.

  ‘If we have a good Hunt, we’ll have all the food we want,’ the chief said. ‘If the Hunt is bad, why feed dead men?’

  The people were glad enough to put aside the troubles of the past and rejoice in the promise of future luck. The young men and women danced together in the square to the beat of the wooden drums, and there was much singing. Hertha-Toll invoked the blessing of the Goddess, and Alli passed out the first round of brimming dark ale. The feast began.

  After the feast came the entertainments. Especially popular was Alli, favorite of the chief’s concubines. She danced
an enticing roundabout, then brought out her young son, a strapping big fellow for his four years. Everyone cheered at this, loudest of all the chief; and it was as if the Storm had never washed away the crops.

  Then Hertha-Toll, the Wise and the Sorrowful, came to the center of the tables. It was her custom to speak on what she had seen or dreamed concerning the Hunt. Everyone quieted at seeing the look that was on her face.

  ‘I have had a dream,’ announced Hertha-Toll. ‘I have seen swift feet and red spears, the flow of much black blood. The spears of our people were drenched in it, yet in hunting our men had little success. Even so, the pile of pelts I saw was large – larger than I have even seen before. This is to be a great Hunt, the most successful in the generations of our tribe – this I prophesy!’

  Boisterous cheers roared at her words. The two foreign merchants from the civilized lands nudged one another and smiled. They too had reason to be glad at this news, for Zelatar had had enough experience of the woman’s wisdom to know that many things forecast by Hertha-Toll came to pass.

  ‘And the Hero, wife!’ called Gundoen, holding out his ale-bowl so that Alli might refill it. ‘Who is to be the Hero of the Hunt?’

  Hertha-Toll’s glad face vanished, and she was silent. She looked about the square of long tables and gazed at each man. Last of all she looked at the stranger, the barge-robber, sitting next to Kuln-Holn.

  She turned back to the chief. ‘His face was in the shadow,’ she said at last. ‘I could not recognize it. It was a strange face.’

  Gundoen frowned darkly. The people’s murmurings fell lower. Hertha-Toll walked back to her place at the chief’s side in silence.

  Gundoen rose suddenly.

  ‘The final offering for Him who is without name,’ he said, growling. He poured the dregs of his bowl of ale into the coal-lit fires. A cloud of hissing steam arose from the spot. ‘I call upon the Dark Lord to grant us luck and witness our Hunt!’