Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 1 The Former King

by Adam Corby

  He charged Ara-Karn with all the strength of his house-like body, watchful for the playful feints hunters in the past had employed in vain.

  But Ara-Karn did not attempt to dodge. He nocked an arrow in his bow and drew it back. He released it with a humming sound. The slender shaft shot like lightning, burying itself in the breast of the bandar.

  It was a mere pinprick to the beast, only serving to augment its rage. Quick as heartbeats came two more arrows, but now the man-thing was almost within reach of the eager tusks. And suddenly a wave of weakness struck the heart of the patriarch of bandar – with pain such as it had never known. The poison flushed outward like the heat of a good rut and blocked out vision from its eyes.

  Gundoen did not flinch when he saw the bull rushing down upon the defenseless stranger. If the man was foolish enough to seek death, then Gundoen would let him gain his journey’s end. The barge-robber had crossed him long enough. When Ara-Karn was dead, and the beast triumphing over the broken red remains, then Gundoen would step in and see what he could accomplish.

  He was just on the point of leaping forward, spear clutched tightly in his ball-like fists, when he saw – suddenly, miraculously, like something out of the legends of dark God – the bull pause, waver drunkenly, and crash deafeningly to the earth, just at the feet of Ara-Karn.

  VII

  Red Gold

  KULN-HOLN THE PIOUS ONE was troubled in his heart.

  Each pass, in the time between the second and third meals, Kuln-Holn sat in the shade beside the sandy square, preaching the words of his visions; and the women and the old men sat and listened. And each pass, after the fifth meal, Kuln-Holn bestrode Outpost Rock, gazing down the path to where it vanished in the darkness of the wood. And he told all who would listen, how of old he had hoped She would forgive him and send him a sign; and how then the destiny of the tribe would be fulfilled. They would know only food and comfort and the respect of other tribes. They would be the favored of Goddess, and many would come humbly as pilgrims to the village. Yes, even the greatest of monarchs of the civilized lands of the faraway South would come among them as pilgrims and pay homage to their shrines. So preached Kuln-Holn; yet the hunters did not return, and his words of hope rang hollow in the throat of Kuln-Holn; and he closed his eyes in the sickness of the shadow. And yet he knew not what he feared.

  Kuln-Holn wandered through the brown fields when the time of sleep lay upon the others, and he went up into the wood. He drifted near the slopes of Kaari-Moldole and gazed upon her peak, dazzling still with snow; yet he dared not pass the sacred limits now as he had done when Ara-Karn had led him there.

  From the lower hilltops Kuln-Holn looked toward the dark horizon. There the hills and valleys rolled away, secret beneath the green-leaved trees. The winds passed in flaws over the treetops; and it minded him of the thick seaweeds at the bottom of the bay, where the crabs hid. That was the territory of the Korlas; and beyond that, away out of his vision, lay the Forest of the Bandar. Kuln-Holn tried to envision the Great Hunt, but he had never known one, or even seen a bandar alive. He thought of Korlas, and of the way Gundoen had looked at Ara-Karn when the chief thought none could see. Kuln-Holn thought of the head of Ob-Kal-Ti rolling in the bottom of its empty death-barge; and it was as if a hand had closed about his heart, and he trembled. If only they would obey Ara-Karn in all things, all things would be well. So he told himself many times. Yet this was not the way he had thought Her word should come to pass.

  Kuln-Holn went back to fish. It was long years since he had fished – not since the time of his punishment, of which he did not like to think. Now he found his lines rotten and his nets eaten with holes. And now the palms of his hands throbbed as they had not done since his boyhood. But as he sat upon the swelling bowl of waters and played out his lines in the deep lonely spots, a little of peace swam down to the poor fevered mind of Kuln-Holn.

  Kuln-Holn caught no fish, as he had known he would not. The magic of the fisherman had been taken from him long ago. When the time was fitting, he slept in his boat and drank water from his skins. He ate little and had no use for food. Then the last of his water was drunk, and he turned his boat back to the land. In the bay he saw that all the other fishing boats were drawn up on the beach; this surprised him, for it was not a time of sleep. He looked toward the arm of land where the stream came down among the rocks and saw no women washing there, though the air was warm for the drying of tunics. None even of the children played there. Then Kuln-Holn knew what this must token, and wished the winds on faster. He drew his boat up aland, bowed to thank Her for Her providence, and hastily went up from the beach.

  * * *

  Among the village huts the hunters rode proudly – big men, strong-armed, their silent faces grimly smiling. In the sandy square before the hall of Tont-Ornoth they gave their ponies into the keeping of the old men who had stayed behind. They took bowls of ale from the women and squatted in the sand. Some of them had wounds the women saw to, salving them with pastes whose secrets were known only to Hertha-Toll.

  And the word of the hunters’ homecoming went outward to the fields and waters and the people crowded back into the village at the call; and among the last of them was Kuln-Holn. He looked anxiously over the faces of the hunters for the face of the stranger. Then he saw him, sitting near the chief, the bowl full of ale lying scorned before his crossed trousered legs. Safe he was and unwounded. Yet even then the fear did not depart Kuln-Holn’s heart.

  When all the tribe was assembled in the square, the tale of the hunt was told. In addition to the pelts the hunters returned with a score of extra ponies laden down with meat killed on the way back. The hunters had passed the Korla ambushes with only a few dead; they, like the men slain by bandar on the hunt, had been set in crude barges and left floating down the Al-Sin River, which flows out of the mountains and down to the Ocean of the Dead.

  And to show for it all, to pay for it all, were such piles of bandar pelts – piles and piles and piles – as had never before been seen together in one place. Not the oldest woman in the tribe could remember when there had ever been such wealth gleaned from a single hunt. The two foreign merchants in their so-clean robes were beside themselves with joy, when they saw the abundance and quality of those pelts.

  The tribespeople craned their necks to look at Hertha-Toll, where she stood by her husband. The women whispered to one another in awe: once again had the prophecy of the wise-woman been proved truth. The Hunt had been a great one. Ara-Karn, the stranger, had brought them luck.

  Now was the time for the accounting. The hunters lined up in a row before the chief’s hall. And their women went to the great piles of pelts and distributed them in heaps before the feet of the hunters as the men directed. Before each man were laid the pelts he himself had taken; and between the spearmen of the bands stood their trackers, with whom some praise must also dwell.

  The women and the men who had not gone on the hunt jostled forward now, eager to see the counts. It was largely on the basis of the counts that the Hero of the Hunt would be decided; and the close friends and kin of the hunter named Hero could hope to share in his wealth.

  But some women and men hung back, as if they did not care to see the accounting. ‘What difference will it make?’ they grumbled. ‘Everyone knows that Gundoen is always the Hero of the Hunt because he always gets the choice of the best trackers.’ They were envious of their brash and boastful chief, and there were many such. But the others crowded eagerly forward to see the counts.

  And here was a hunter with five pelts before him, and that was a goodly number; and here was one with eight, which was very good. And there were some with but two or three pelts, which was more common. And there were many with but one pelt, or only bare sand before their feet, but that was not shameful, for not all could be great hunters, and often the year’s luck turned against a man.

  In the end all the hunters had their pelts before them except those of the last band, of Garin, Ara-Karn, and the ch
ief, Gundoen. Yet most of all the many, many pelts lay untouched.

  The people murmured seeing this. ‘Surely,’ the women said, ‘surely not even Gundoen could have slain so many bandar? Perhaps Garin has killed some.’ But the men answered, ‘Foolish women, little you know of the craft of the great Hunt. Trackers do not slay bandar, and Garin is the best tracker of the tribe. Perhaps they stole most of those pelts from the Korlas.’

  Hertha-Toll went to the piles of untouched pelts and drew some forth. Garin was unmarried yet, and Ara-Karn had no women, so the chief’s wife did the service for all three. She brought the pelts over and laid them down according to the marks cut on the hides; and well she knew Gundoen’s mark after those many years.

  Before the chief she laid seven-and-ten pelts, a great number indeed, and one more than Gundoen had ever gained before. It was a great victory for the chief, and many of the tribe cheered and began to acclaim Gundoen the Hero of the Hunt. The chief only reddened at this, and shouted angrily for quiet; and the folk, seeing the wild light in his eyes, fell suddenly silent.

  Hertha-Toll went back to the piles of pelts and dragged some more around.

  Five pelts she laid before Ara-Karn, and that was a goodly number – an excellent number for a man on his first hunt and for a foreigner from civilized lands at that.

  Three more she laid before him, which was very good. And another five, and one further bundle of five; and Ara-Karn now had one more pelt before him than even the chief. And still Hertha-Toll went back and forth between Ara-Karn and the dwindling piles, until all the pelts were gone.

  Before the stranger stood a pile of pelts so high the others could not even see his waist. Eight pelts and a score lay there, all of them before the stranger, the barge-robber. That one man, on his first hunt, had slain more bandar than many entire tribes did.

  A great silence fell over the tribe. Some gazed in the direction of Kuln-Holn, who beamed happily, as if this were all his doing. Then they looked back and saw the chief, and grew timid at the look on his face.

  Hertha-Toll stood in front of the row of hunters. She raised her voice in the silence and said, ‘There is an end to the accounting. People of our tribe, whom do you acclaim as the Hero of the Hunt?’

  The women and the men, children and graybeards, and even some of the hunters, raised their voices and cried as with one tongue:

  ‘Ara-Karn! Ara-Karn! Ara-Karn!’

  Gundoen did not cheer these words. He only looked down on the ground before him, where lay his pile of pelts: a large pile of a great Hunt, perhaps the greatest the chief would ever have. And it looked like nothing beside the pile of the stranger’s first. Gundoen’s face turned dark as blood as he looked, and his brows drew down together heavily.

  Alli and the other concubines stopped their cheers, seeing that look on the face of the chief.

  * * *

  The foreign traders came up to the stranger first in the rush, laughing and clapping him on his shoulders, praising his victories. ‘Such a Hunt!’ they exclaimed when the chief had gone into his hall out of hearing. ‘Young man, you are the finest hunter we have seen in all this wild North – not like these barbarians at all. You do not belong here among them. If you wish, you may accompany us back to Gerso and the civilized lands.’

  ‘We will leave as soon as we settle accounts with the chief. You will be a wealthy man with your share, Ara-Karn. Yet what can a man buy here?’

  Ara-Karn smiled, his eyes dark. ‘When I go to Gerso, it will be in my own fashion,’ he said. Behind him, the women were bustling about the cook-fires, lighting them in preparation for the great victory feast. The roar of the crackling fires almost drowned out his words. ‘How will I be wealthy?’

  The merchants laughed. ‘Have they not told you? You are the Hero of the Hunt – the lion’s share of the gold will be yours. And you cannot get better prices for pelts than from Zelatar Bonvis!’

  The stranger stooped and picked up a pelt from his pile. ‘And what would you pay for this?’

  Zelatar appraised it: a fine huge pelt practically whole, with no rents and very few brown discolorations. It was the great pelt of the monstrous bull that had been the first to suffer the poison of Ara-Karn’s arrows.

  ‘A fine pelt indeed,’ said Zelatar, stroking it appreciatively. ‘Fit to be a cloak for the Empress Allissál herself. It must be worth at least three denas of silver, at the current low prices; but I will not be tight-fisted with you. Five denas of silver.’

  Ara-Karn’s smile broadened. ‘I know nothing of your denas or your empress,’ he said, ‘but I know a little about merchants. We should not quibble: I will accept fifteen denas of your silver for this pelt.’

  The people around them laughed or gasped; the merchants let fall their mouths, silent for once. ‘Surely,’ they stammered, ‘surely you cannot be serious! Why, even fitted out as a completed cloak in the imperial bazaars at Tarendahardil it would not bring so much!’

  The stranger shrugged. ‘As you say.’

  He walked over to the roaring open cook-fires and threw the pelt onto the burning logs. Almost immediately it blazed, sending forth a sickening stench that hung over the entire village and brought the chief suddenly to the veranda of his hall.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried the merchants and tribespeople alike, outraged at the loss of such a beautiful pelt.

  ‘Destroying fifteen denas’ worth of silver,’ shrugged Ara-Karn. ‘But no, not so much: you said only five, did you not?’

  ‘You threaten us and then destroy your own property! You are a madman. How can we deal with you?’

  Ara-Karn smiled mercilessly.

  ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘I have no use for the rest of these, if you will not buy them.’ He took two more pelts, both of premium quality, and hurled them onto the fire after the first. The merchants, outraged, sputtered; the tribe looked on astounded. Never had they witnessed such a spectacle as this. They did not know whether to laugh at the discomfiture of the merchants or be angered at the stranger. They looked to Gundoen for leadership, but he seemed just as bemused as the rest of them.

  Ara-Karn paid them no mind. He returned to the pile and picked out three more pelts. They too landed on the fires now billowing with acrid brown smoke. Six fine pelts he had destroyed – a goodly number for any hunter’s year and enough wealth to sow all the village crops twice over. He went back to the dwindling pile and picked out three more pelts; but this sight was more than the merchants could abide.

  ‘Stop!’ they cried. ‘You do not know what you are doing!’

  Ara-Karn stopped. ‘You will meet my price?’ They did not answer.

  He walked back to the fire.

  ‘We will meet it!’

  ‘For all the pelts the tribe has? For us all?’

  Their shoulders fell. They nodded, defeated men.

  Ara-Karn’s eyes glittered in the firelight. ‘Of course, you must also pay for the pelts that were destroyed through your own stubbornness.’

  Resentment flared on their faces, but only for a moment. Their faces fell once more as they nodded.

  Ara-Karn laughed. But the sound of it was lost in the sudden uproar from the tribesmen, all of them but Gundoen standing in the black square of his own doorway:

  ‘Ara-Karn! Ara-Karn! Ara-Karn!’

  * * *

  ‘Well, Bonvis?’ Mergo asked sneeringly, as they walked dejectedly away from the site of the great victory feast. ‘You almost had me believing in those fairy airs of great wealth. One half the usual rate! Now we will be lucky to gain back what we spent on the things we have for trade and the gifts to the chief and his hunters! When we come next year they will expect as much from us again!’

  Zelatar shrugged, the sour humor in his downturned lips more than evident. ‘Such are the risks of the trade, Mergo. Yet now Gundoen’s tribe may have the wealth to defy Gen-Karn after all. Is that not worth a temporary loss?

  ‘As for that man’ – he frowned – ‘he is a madman who detests us: how can
sane men barter with the mad? Whence he comes I know not, but I wish he would return. Do you know, Mergo, what they used to say of the wastes of the far North? Before great Elna chased the barbarians here centuries ago, they said that the wastes could not be inhabited. They said fierce spirits dwelt here that ate the brains of any men foolhardy enough to come hither. And those men were all driven mad by the loneliness and their travails. Looking at that man for the first time on the beach, Mergo, I was minded of those old tales.

  ‘Worry not,’ concluded the older merchant, straightening his shoulders and looking thoughtfully back. ‘Next year we will be able to negotiate the old rates. If I know Gundoen, that man will be dead within three passes. I saw how the chief looked at him, when they declared the stranger Hero of the Hunt. Such a man will not last long here or anywhere else. When we come here from Gerso next spring, we shall not see him. Doubtless not even his name will be remembered.’

  * * *

  That look the merchant had noticed was not gone from Gundoen’s face as he sat in his high seat above the long tables in the square. For across from the chief, sitting in the carved seat of honor reserved for the Hero of the Hunt, was the stranger. And every time the chief raised his head he saw nothing but the flushed face of the barge-robber, grinning back at him in triumph. So the chief did not look up from his plates much or join in the festivities more than he had to. He only stared sullenly down and drank his beer in full bowls. But he could not shut his ears to the tales and the laughter flying around the boards.

  ‘It was a feat such as no man ever has done before,’ Garin was saying loudly. The hunters were seated all around the tables, so that all those who had not gone on the hunt could be near one who had, in order to hear the tales. But Garin spoke the loudest, and all faces were turned to him, because he spoke those tales of the stranger that only the chief had heard before and before that had had to live through.