Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 1 The Former King

by Adam Corby

  Up the stairs they rode: found, at length, the pillared terrace overlooking the city. They found the Governor-General and his guests. They found the merchant princes, who had profited from the bandar pelts. The warriors pulled up their ponies, not knowing what to do. With so much store of riches before them, what should be done first?

  ‘Now mark me, you rabble,’ proclaimed Porekan Delbar, stepping forward. ‘Know you not who I am?’

  The warriors laughed suddenly, and surged forward. Was it not obvious beyond telling what should be done first?

  Some moments later, the stairs resounded again to the hideous odors of burning flesh and hair, sweat from blackened armpits, and blood. Everywhere there was blood.

  * * *

  And through it all rode Ara-Karn with Gundoen beside him and, somewhat behind, Kuln-Holn and the bodyguard. Ara-Karn looked about him at the spectacle of the destruction of the works of centuries. His face was stained in sweat, bathed in lambent firelight.

  That aristocratic face was raised slightly. The lips were parted, the dark beard glossy; the eyes sparkled with the strange jade fire. His nostrils flared pleasurably in the stench; his elbows swung somewhat by his sides to a certain rhythm. He held his pony in fierce check almost unconsciously, with a mind only for the tumultuous carnage surrounding him. And his cheeks puffed and fell now and then, as if he held a light merry tune upon his tongue.

  Kuln-Holn could now behold him only with a shudder.

  The former fisherman took no delight in those scenes of pillage. His was a peaceful spirit, and his dreams partook of that spirit. He had dreamed of glory and prosperity, but never of how to get them. In his dreams the rosy times somehow just magically came to pass. Yet was he certain that this was not the only road to them. Surely She would have no need to gain respect through blood and terror, as if She were no better than a petty chief whose people detested him. But then he thought, Perhaps these people have been wicked, and this is how She punishes them. Perhaps Ara-Karn has been sent here as Her scourge. That thought heartened him somewhat, though he did not fully believe it.

  They rode past a temple of brown stone, whence issued screams of agony and death. Ara-Karn bent over to Gundoen and murmured something, chuckling softly at his own words. Gundoen frowned and looked down at the stones of the street, saying nothing. Kuln-Holn thought, Even the great hunter is disgusted at these scenes. What sort of man can it be who takes delight in them?

  They rode down the firelit street. Kuln-Holn shut his ears to the inhuman screams of the brutalized priestesses of Goddess. All he could think was that they must have been wicked indeed to merit such awful punishment as this. And he repeated this thought to himself thrice over, until the screams of the priestesses were lost in the roar of the burning buildings.

  Riders crossed their path: Gen-Karn and a handful of Orn warriors. Kuln-Holn saw Gundoen’s hand tighten on the hilt of his sword, as if the chief expected some trouble. But Gen-Karn did not heed. He rode swaying on the back of his large pony, a bottle of wine in one hand, the other pinioning the hands of a naked wench lying belly-down on the back of his pony, her long golden hair concealing her features.

  ‘Ho, Ara-Karn!’ roared the chief of the Orns. ‘Hail to the Warlord of the North!’

  Ara-Karn, to Kuln-Holn’s surprise, smiled as good-humoredly as if to the companion of his heart. ‘Hail to the chief of Orn,’ he said, touching his brow with two fingers in salute.

  Gen-Karn swilled at the bottle, smacked the woman’s round rump, and roared his approval. ‘Here’s a fine feast for my eyes! Lead us so, Ara-Karn, and I’ll be your man for life!’ He waved the arm with the wine bottle at the crumbling ruins, the bodies choking the streets, the burning portals. He drank in the fulfillment of his long-awaited vengeance as eagerly as he had swilled the fine wine.

  ‘Enjoy the sight to its fullest, Gen-Karn,’ the Warlord said calmly. ‘This will be the last city we take thus.’ He seemed gray and drained of a sudden.

  Gen-Karn frowned his confusion. Then he laughed roaring and pinched the poor girl’s buttocks until she cried out. ‘Hail, Ara-Karn!’ he shouted.

  ‘May Ara-Karn be damned!’ cried a terrible voice. ‘May his loins wither like dried grapes! May his hair fall with his teeth to the ground. May She curse him and his name forever more!’

  From the blackened ruins of a building came a haggard figure. Her hair was gray, loose but clotted with dried blood. Her robes were torn and darkened with filth, exposing pale bent legs. She stepped from the smoking shadows, and her eyes blazed with reflected flames.

  ‘Curse you, Ara-Karn,’ she cried huskily. ‘Goddess, hear my prayer! Bring down such shadowed doom upon this man’s head that he shall be an example for all the ages yet to come!’

  Kuln-Holn shuddered at these terrible curses. For even through the blood and filth he could see that her robes were those of a Priestess of the Goddess, those who dedicated their maidenheads to Her. She had been virgin and inviolate – until now, when black-hated barbarians had stormed the city, sparing not even the temples. And her gray eyes gleamed with a holy flame.

  Ara-Karn looked down upon the helpless, abject, pious figure; and it seemed to Kuln-Holn that the enjoyment had returned to his features. ‘Take her,’ he said.

  Gundoen stared at his Warlord. ‘Do you not see what she is?’ he muttered.

  ‘Take her,’ shouted Ara-Karn.

  The guards bound the shrieking creature’s arms to twin pillars. But of a sudden, they stood not in charred ruins, but in a small green field, and the pillars had turned into the branches of a great oak tree.

  The other warriors looked about. They found themselves outside the city, in the vale below the broken gate.

  The great oak tree jutted against the sky, black against the burning city, like an inhuman idol.

  The priestess swung on the cords binding her fleshless bony wrists. Her arms were stretched apart, and when the fire-winds breathed out of the devastation, the branches waved and rose. The priestess thus hung in the air, and kicked and spat at them while she damned forever the name of Ara-Karn.

  ‘The only way to hang a wench,’ Gen-Karn approved drunkenly. Only he seemed to laugh at what struck superstitious awe into the hearts of the others.

  Ara-Karn ignored him. He was as calm and as stiff as ice. To the guards he directed, ‘Kill her.’

  But at this the guards hung back. They looked at each other, then dropped their gazes. ‘She is a priestess,’ one muttered, still ashen at her curses.

  ‘And I a god,’ replied Ara-Karn. ‘Now will you obey me?’

  They steeled themselves, and once more approached the priestess where she hung in the weird oak tree. But even then, through the clouds, the smoke, and the gloom of the mountain pass, a shaft of Goddess-light struck the priestess and the oak. The light grew bright there, almost too bright to look upon; and it glowed and spread, and pushed the warriors back. They struggled against it, but in the end gave over.

  ‘Obey me,’ said the Warlord.

  But they answered, ‘Lord, we cannot.’

  ‘Gen-Karn, will you do this thing?’

  Gen-Karn considered for a moment. He shook his head. ‘She’s your wench,’ he said drunkenly. But now even the chief of Orn seemed shaken, and afraid.

  ‘Lord,’ pleaded Kuln-Holn, taking some hope, ‘can this be a part of your mission? Surely she cannot have sinned so—’

  But Ara-Karn was not listening to the words of his prophet. He was looking at the swaying holy woman, his face growing hard. He looked round, and for one terrifying moment his gaze rested upon Kuln-Holn. But then the eyes passed on by and sought out Gundoen. ‘And you, my father,’ he said harshly. ‘Can you do it?’

  Gundoen looked upon the shrieking woman. ‘Why?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Because it pleases me. Will you do it?’

  He turned away. ‘Not I.’

  ‘Well then.’ He swung from the saddle-blanket and drew his long bright sword. Until then the Warlord had done no
fighting; the beautiful blade and the hilt of Tont-Ornoth were still bright and clean. He approached the holy woman at such an angle that she could not spit at him or kick him with her blackened feet.

  But the light of Goddess seemed to withstand even him. He pushed and strove, and managed to reach half a pace within the golden bright circle. But there he stayed, struggling, unable as it seemed to go farther.

  ‘May your own God damn you in darkness, Ara-Karn!’ she screamed. ‘May you never know contentment! May you be gorged on the blood you spill! May you fall at the very summit of your conquests!’

  He drew back the long bright blade.

  ‘May you be your own enemy! May your own woman be your death!’

  Ara-Karn swung the blade. And he uttered a word – or a syllable – ever after through the last passes of his life, Kuln-Holn would recall the sound, which seemed to crack even the bones of the mountainsides about them.

  The words of the gray priestess ceased. They became choked, then turned to howls of mortal pain. The bright blade bit into her torso.

  Ara-Karn stood before her, his feet planted wide in a woodsman’s stance. He drove the sword through the brightness, through the filthy gray robes, through flesh and bone and on into the harder flesh of the oak.

  The light of Goddess died.

  And the greensward inside that circle withered and browned. The leaves upon the old oak shriveled and crisped and fell like dead souls to the ground. The bark and bole of the tree contracted, seized up, and seemed to swallow in half the form of the gray priestess.

  She hung there, impaled on the sword of Tont-Ornoth, still struggling. But her curses had ceased, and only a bright thin trickle of spittle and blood oozed from her lips.

  Ara-Karn stepped back, looked up to heaven, and sighed. Kuln-Holn, Gundoen, Gen-Karn, and the guards looked on with blank, astounded faces.

  Ara-Karn turned back. He seemed suddenly old and very weary. He mounted his pony once more. The front of his chest, his legs, face, and beard were bespattered with blood. He did not bother to wipe it off.

  ‘By the jade sword of God!’ swore Gundoen, agape.

  Kuln-Holn could not look. He felt dizzy in the saddle, as if about to retch.

  Even the hardened Gen-Karn was moved. Without a word he dropped the wine bottle and flung the golden-haired wench to the ground. She whimpered, looking about her fearfully, then fled into the shadows. Gen-Karn did not heed. He turned his pony and rode off toward the city. His warriors followed him, looking back in horror on the ghastly scene.

  Ara-Karn put his heels to his pony and rode into the city he had pulled down. The others, staring back with horror, did not start after him at once. Then they came somewhat to themselves again and followed him in silence. When Kuln-Holn could again summon the courage to look at his master, he saw the darkened outline moving slowly against the red flames. But now the head was no longer lifted, and the elbows did not swing rhythmically, and the cheeks no longer puffed and fell with the merry tune.

  Not even Gundoen seemed to wish to come up abreast of the Warlord now; they all rode some two-score paces behind him, still in utter silence.

  At last Gundoen muttered, ‘She was the Guardian of the Pass.’ He shook his head. ‘Hertha-Toll spoke of her. While the Gray Priestess lived, Gerso could never fall.’ He looked at his Warlord, his adopted son, as though even he had come to trust in Kuln-Holn’s belief that this man must be a god.

  A desperate cry sounded from ahead.

  Kuln-Holn looked up. He saw a black shape leaping from a darkened alleyway, longsword in hand. It leaped upon the other black shape of Ara-Karn, knocking it from horseback. The two shapes rolled and struggled in the broken, bloodstained streets, becoming one in darkness, no longer distinguishable from where Kuln-Holn, Gundoen, and the guards were.

  Gundoen spurred his pony forward. He shot to where, ahead, one of the figures was rising above the other slowly, longsword lifted on high. The chief drove his pony crashing against the man, knocking him a dozen paces to the ground. The guards came up and pinioned the attacker viciously. When Kuln-Holn reined up, he saw that the man was young and handsome. His chin was smoothly shaven, and the rags upon his naked limbs had once been fineries. He might have been a prince of this land before Ara-Karn had come.

  ‘I am well,’ said the Warlord to their eager questions, rising to his feet. ‘But what have we here?’ Kuln-Holn was shocked to hear what seemed like humor in his master’s voice.

  ‘A young Gerso nobleman, for the look of him,’ Gundoen muttered savagely. ‘We should not have ridden so far behind you, lord. Forgive me. It shall not occur again.’ He looked at the youth with fury in his light eyes. ‘Shall we kill him?’

  ‘Let me speak with him first.’ Of them all, only Ara-Karn seemed calm – as if he had not been the one just attacked in the very shadow of death. He approached the boy, who was still struggling, fiercely but futilely, against the arms of his captors. The hardness upon the Warlord’s face melted away as he gazed upon the stranger. He smiled.

  ‘You are rather young to play an assassin’s role, are you not? How many winters have you, boy?’

  The boy snarled savagely, his eyes slits of hatred.

  ‘From your rags, you appear well born. Was your family wealthy?’

  The boy kicked against the guards, but they held him firmly.

  ‘Yes, no doubt wealthy. Titled also,’ calmly resumed Ara-Karn. ‘Tell me, were you happy? … Still you will not speak? Well, deeds are the finest language. Your home is here in the city? Well, of that place that holds so many happy memories there remains only so much ash and blackened stone. You can never go there again. But if you could – would you ever be happy there again, do you think?’

  The boy only grunted in his struggles to be free.

  Ara-Karn smiled kindly, sadly. ‘I will answer for you. You could not. There is no going back to what you were before. So you hate me, boy?’

  Still there was no answer. But now a savage gleam of hard humor lighted the slits of his eyes.

  ‘Yes, I see. So you can understand this tongue after all. Will you join me, then, and be my lieutenant?’

  ‘Lord!’ protested Gundoen; but the Warlord silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand.

  The boy spat at Ara-Karn. The white spittle mixed with the priestess’ blood on the glossy dark beard.

  Ara-Karn smiled more broadly. ‘So. And your mother, boy,’ he said suddenly. ‘Where is she?’

  Then it broke from the exhausted youth – a cry of despair and anguish – ‘Dead!’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘Dead!’

  ‘Brothers?’

  A sigh. ‘Dead too.’

  ‘Any sisters?’

  Anger flared again. ‘Dead, damn you, or—’

  ‘—Or being raped by my soldiers. She must have been pretty, then. Or perhaps not. My men were never too very particular.’

  The boy screamed his anguish and tried to bite the arms that held him. ‘Damn you!’ he cried. ‘Damn you! Damn you!’

  ‘Lord,’ Kuln-Holn asked, swallowing with difficulty, ‘is all of this necessary?’

  ‘Yes,’ broke in Gundoen with heat. ‘Hasn’t the lad suffered enough? Kill him cleanly and have done.’

  ‘Kill him?’ queried the Warlord, his voice rising. ‘Be sure I’ll not be so kind. What is kindness to me? And when have I ever cried, “Enough”? Why, I intend to let him go free.’

  ‘Free!’ cried Kuln-Holn.

  ‘As free as he may ever be now,’ said Ara-Karn.

  ‘This is madness,’ groaned Gundoen. ‘Can you not see the look in his eyes? His hatred for you is greater than any feeling he has had before in his life. It must be greater even than that of his first love affair – that is, if one so young has had a love affair yet. If you free him, he will be your unremitting enemy as long as he lives.’

  The Warlord of the far North looked his general calmly in the eye and said softly, ‘Yes?’ And such was the look in th
ose dark eyes that the chief was forced to look away, a deep disgust growing in his simple heart.

  ‘Set him on a horse,’ commanded Ara-Karn in that soft, calm tone that admitted no disobedience. Swiftly it was done. The stupefied youth ceased all his struggling when he found himself astride one of the guard’s ponies.

  ‘See that he has weapons,’ added the Warlord.

  ‘Weapons!’ swore Gundoen to the smoky skies.

  ‘And enough provisions to last several passes’ ride,’ Ara-Karn continued, as if Gundoen had not spoken. ‘Go on – no need to worry about the young lord. He will not attempt another foolhardy attack. He is growing up now. He knows that vengeance tastes best when cold.’

  The Warlord mounted his own pony. He brought it next to the boy’s, head to tail, so that the two men both sat abreast and faced in opposite directions. They were so close that their knees brushed against each other. In one swift thrust, executed so skillfully that none of the guards could have stopped it, the young Gerso could have whipped out his dagger and stabbed Ara-Karn in the chest, thereby exchanging lives. Or he might have brought up the leather reins in his hands and strangled the older man. But the boy, seemingly bemused by all that was happening, seemed not to think of either of these things.

  Ara-Karn leaned back, regarding the boy. His posture was relaxed and insolent, as if he only sat before a mirroring pool and not some deadly enemy.

  ‘Boy,’ whispered Ara-Karn so softly that only the two of them and Kuln-Holn, who had ridden closer in order to protect his master, could hear it. ‘Boy – until this pass that is all you have been – a young and foolish boy, who has done nothing but play in the sunlight. Now, however, you are a man, for you have a purpose – something only a few ever attain. Most men live and die frivolously, never knowing the darkness of being a god, of seeing a goal that justifies their lives, which makes their existence real. Only a few know that shadowed joy, and of those few only the rarest handful ever attain the heart’s dark desire.