Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 4 Darkbridge

by Adam Corby

  On the seventh pass or thereabouts they crested a small wooded hill and came upon the beginning of a great, hollowed plain. The horses seemed unwilling to go on. There was the smell of bitter cinders in the women’s nostrils. Kis Halá stumbled over something – Allissál saw by the torchlight two metal-clad figures lying in each other’s arms, fastened in the embrace of death. The stink of half-consumed flesh assaulted her.

  The clouds parted briefly, as if by design. The full power of the restless jade eye stared down, flooding the plain with its evil light. A tangled patchwork of intricately grouped bodies of men and horses and dogs and wolves and other, unknown beasts, covered the great plain. Moonlight glinted off the icy metal of silver hauberks, notched axe-blades, torn iron mail and shields with curving slivers cut from them. For a long moment the two women stopped, entranced by the mute horror of that scene; then the clouds moved in, and darkness took again the plain.

  At last Emsha, her shudder audible in her words, asked, ‘Majesty … what is it?’

  ‘The necropolis of Ghezbal Daan,’ Allissál replied. ‘Come.’

  She rode down the field, picking a careful path among the bodies of the slain. Emsha hesitated, then muttering and making the Sign of Goddess ten times over, urged the pony after. In silence they wandered, holding cloaks over their mouths and nostrils. Allissál thought briefly of Ampeánor riding through Egland Downs. It was no wonder he had returned so near to madness. She wondered how this now might affect her; and she urged Kis Halá to a greater speed.

  Twice round the circuit of that hollow plain Allissál led Emsha, searching for signs of another path leading away from the place. But there was none. Apparently all those who had gone with Ghezbal Daan had perished here. The last of Ul Raambar had ended their lives here, in a place where none would mourn them, nor give them proper rituals. Not even Goddess should know their end, unless it were that dark God told Her.

  At the center of the plain, surmounting a tremendous pile of the stained broken bodies and the wolf-friends of the Madpriests, Allissál found the helm of Ghezbal Daan. Only the helm she found, and nothing more: but she knew it, for she had known Ghezbal Daan, and his helm had been like no other’s. She kissed it, tasting the salt and blood dried upon its dented crest. She placed it on the peak of those heaped bodies like a crown.

  ‘Please, majesty,’ Emsha said, ‘can we not leave this place?’

  It had begun to rain, an ice-cold rain of winter. It pelted them, making of their cloaks sodden heavy masses. The hiss of it spattering from all the war-gear of the dead was the most mournful sound Allissál had ever heard. She lifted her face into the rain and opened her mouth. The chill drops bit her tongue. Even rainwater was bitter here.

  ‘Very well.’

  The wind rose again, colder with the rain, as they left that verminous plain. They went at hazard, Allissál letting Kis Halá choose her own path through the woods and vales. How the little trees managed to live here she could not tell, but it seemed all the more horrible, and all the more mocking, that they did.

  For three passes the rain fell unabating, gathering in flood-roaring streambeds and leaving icy sheens upon the undersides of rock ledges. The darkness was complete about them now, as if they had been driven into a bag tied tight: nor Goddess, nor God, nor even the little light of the torches lit their path, for the rain had killed them all. Finally they stumbled upon a small cave in a face of rock. There they huddled together wordlessly, wringing the water from their clothing and awaiting the rain’s end. It seemed as though it would never end; but at last it did.

  They rose and took up again their journey. Allissál disdained now to carry the torches. Her eyes had grown big in the darkness, and bright things hurt them – moreover torches were beacons here, and she could not slough the feeling of being spied upon. They rode deeper into darkness. Though the rain had ceased, clouds still covered heaven. They rode, and felt the bushes and brambles catching at and scratching their legs, rending the hems of their cloaks.

  There were other reasons to avoid the bushes, for slimy, creeping things congregated there, their pallid moistened eyes bulging in the darkness, then winking out. Once the pony started and all but bucked, and even Kis Halá lifted her massive head anxiously in the breeze. There was a strange odor in the cold air, unclean and loathsome, and from far off came the rumbling, shambling sound of some monstrous, reptilian beast. Thereafter Allissál kept to the rocky hills and ledge-plains, even though it exposed them more to wind and watchful eye.

  The air grew colder. Now it seemed colder to Allissál than even the mountain air about her childhood castle in winter. Emsha began speaking again, in short hasty sentences. Allissál knew she spoke to distract herself from the cold. She felt a little ashamed of herself then, that she had allowed Emsha to accompany her.

  They halted to rest and eat. The clouds broke open, and God blazed over their heads. Grudgingly and with great difficultly, Allissál built a small fire. Emsha huddled over it. Allissál beheld her old nurse’s hands and arms, calloused and grimy, and her legs filthy and scarred. She looked as filthy as any squat barbarian witch-woman of the far North. Allissál had often wondered how anyone could live like that. Then she thought, And do I look any better?

  She rolled into a ball away from the fire. Still she could feel the dirt upon her body. She itched beneath her robes, her flesh crawling with insects. She shook her head angrily and crawled to the side of a small nearby pool.

  ‘Majesty, what is it you do?’

  ‘I am bathing,’ she answered angrily.

  ‘But majesty – the cold. You will fall ill.’

  ‘I care not.’ She threw off her robes and sank into the pond. The coldness of the water beat her like a blow, numbing her feet and knees and breasts; but she set herself against it and washed herself at her accustomed speed, scraping her flesh with chipped flat stones. Her hair she found in such knotted snarls it would have been better suited for a wild bird’s nest. She cursed beneath her breath. What had it ever brought her, this hair of hers, but misery, and a kind of fame she had not wanted? She caught it by the handful and slashed it with the dagger. The hair fell in thick sheafs onto the dark mud, gleaming in the glare of the fire. Now all that remained was a ragged brush. She rubbed it beneath her hands, liking the feel of it.

  ‘Majesty! Whatever have you done?’

  She stood up out of the black pond into the toweling rough hands of the wind. ‘Only what should have been done long ago.’

  Emsha took Allissál to the side of the fire and covered her with the heavy cloak. But the fire gave off little warmth as it hissed and spumed with what fell into it. For it had begun to snow.

  The two women huddled together beside the fire. Allissál insisted on opening her cloak and arranging it over the both of them, so it served them like a little fallen tent. Down came the flakes of snow, whitening the back of the great cloak. Allissál abode silent for a space, listening with but half an ear to the tales Emsha told of colds and sicknesses. She shuddered and shook with cold. It was not sickness she looked for, but death, death by frost. It maddened her for a time, then she ceased to care.

  She looked out beyond the fire in the meanwhile, and watched with wonder this black land turning white.

  ‘Emsha, were you ever in love?’ Her words were chattered; she could not rule her jaw, which shivered and shook.

  ‘I love your majesty.’

  ‘No. I meant a man.’

  ‘Ah.’ Emsha was still for a time. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Once, there was a man for me, majesty. He was in the Palace guard. He was a Fulminean – not tall or very handsome – in fact he was not what you would call a great man in any way. But he was sweet to me, and I loved him with all my heart. Ah, I sound like a foolish girl now. Then he was put into another command, and I bore his child apart from him. That was a strong fat boy, a beauty to behold; but he fell ill and died within passes of his birth. It was just then that your majesty was born; and the Merciful Lady
granted that I be honored as your nurse. The man – Nerphalen Eron was his name, is that not a nice name? – he wrote me letters for a while, and then there was nothing. There have been times I have wondered what our boy might have become. He was free born, you know, since his father was free and would have owned him.’

  ‘Emsha, why have you never told me this before? I would have united you and your nicely-named Nerphalen Eron. I would have ordered it.’

  ‘Ah, majesty – perhaps that is why I did not tell you. Then I would have had to leave your majesty’s service. And it is not a fitting thing for a servant to complain about her life to her mistress.’

  ‘And you never saw him since?’

  ‘No. Yet I never left off loving him. Some sleeps I will lie and think of him, and remember the nice things he did for me, or the sweet way he had of doing little things. That gladdens me, especially when the sadness is upon me.’

  ‘Perhaps that is the best sort of man to love.’ Allissál’s fingers hurt her strangely, and there was a dizziness and lightness within her brow. She felt warmth and chill at once and wished only to lie and sleep forever beneath the snow; but not for anything would she tell Emsha.

  ‘Majesty, do not say it so,’ the old nurse protested. ‘Love is a wonder – the only thing we have from both the Lady and Her Lord. It is the most powerful force of all: for what else could hold even the sky-walking gods? Why, if I had never loved, I do not know what I might have become.’

  ‘It may be even as you say, my wise philosopher. And this way I love you is truly a pleasure to me. But of this love of men and women, it held little luck for me.’

  Emsha was still a little while at that. Then softly she asked, ‘If you had the choice, majesty, would you then take back all the hours and passes you have spent loving men?’

  Allissál did not answer for a long time. Then she answered, ‘No, Emsha, wise Emsha. I would not take back even so much as the most heartsick hour.’

  ‘Then there you are. Majesty, I have heard it said that only those who have never known love can speak a word against it.’

  The snow fell thicklier about them now. The fire was dead. Allissál felt a dry ache about her throat, but would not cough. ‘There has been enough of philosophizing this pass, I think,’ she said as clearly as she could. ‘God should be falling low to the horizon now. Let us sleep, and see if His light will guide us when we wake.’

  ‘As you wish it, majesty.’ They lay very close together. Again Allissál felt the silent raging of the fever, and could not sleep at first, though she feigned it with her breath. She was starving, and wondered how it was Emsha could bear with the meager meals they shared. Even Kis Halá was but a remnant of herself. And this was but the first snow. The fantastic tales they told of Madpriests must be false. What sort of creatures could survive full winter in this land?

  When she woke, it was from dreams of a winter she had spent in Vapio, where they wore thin loras all year long. Something heavy bore down upon her; she struggled, threw back the snow-laden cloak and sat upright in the darkness. Then she saw what had burdened her, and gave out a little choked cry.

  Emsha lay stiff in the snow. She had died that sleep.

  Quickly Allissál caught the old stout face between her hands and rubbed the pale, pale cheeks; but cold and stiff they stayed. Oddly, she herself felt better now. By some strange magic all her own, Emsha had rendered her a final service, and given her the vital heat of her own broad body.

  Allissál sat silent for some minutes, weeping. Her fallen tears poked patterns in the silver snow.

  At length, she bethought herself of Kis Halá. She heard a sound from close by, but it did not sound like her mare.

  A black shape shot out of the silver and fell on her. An arm around her throat – a grunt in her ear – black robes over her eyes and mouth – a daring hand forcing its way up her robes—

  She kicked and clawed at what she could. A mocking laugh greeted her efforts. She redoubled them. The man’s body pressed against her belly; she tried to reach the dagger but her cloak lay in the way. She beat at his arms, trying to keep his hand from choking her. Flecks of jade and fire-opal danced before her eyes.

  For a moment she was above him and caught a glimpse of a half-muffled face and two gleaming, red-mad eyes staring into hers. They rolled again, and she was buried in his robes and the sour male stench of him. He pinched her about the buttocks. She brought up her knees between his legs. He grunted and hugged her closer and bit her cheek until she could taste the blood streaming into her mouth along with his spittle. Then her flailing hand struck a chipped stone beneath the snow and she drove it against his face. The stone slashed his cheekbone, scraping away flesh. With a foul oath, he released her.

  But she was after him, striking him again and again. With a sweep of his long arm the Madpriest hurled her back. She fell, and lost the rock. But then Kis Halá reared and drove her heavy hooves against the black-swathed body.

  Against those flashing weapons, not even a Madpriest had defense. Even after the man was dead the enraged mare would not leave off her attack, until Allissál clasped Kis Halá’s gleaming neck, speaking breathless words of calm into her ears.

  Kis Halá at length consented to be soothed, and disdained the bloody mass below her hooves. Allissál swayed with the movements of the great beast, too weak to let go.

  The sound of clapping hands brought back her strength. Snatching the dagger from her girdle she whirled about. Though the snow-clad land gleamed silver in the ceaseless darkness, the sky was black, and against it nothing could be seen.

  ‘Who is there?’ she cried.

  ‘Put away that toy,’ rejoined a rough masculine voice in a dialect oddly like to that of the barbarians of the far North. ‘Or I’ll rip those elegant robes from you and feed your body to my dogs.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  There followed a slight, rasping chuckle.

  ‘Estar Kane.’

  There was no title attached to that name; Allissál had never even heard it before. But the man spoke it as if he were the master of the world.

  She glanced at Kis Halá’s back. But half a score of black shaggy mongrel shapes eyed her suspiciously, uttering low and hungry growls. She sheathed the blade.

  ‘And who are you, who dare to enter our lands alone and unprepared?’ inquired the voice beyond. ‘And in that cloak! It seems to me I have known that cloak before – but it was no woman who wore it!’

  She bridled at his tone. ‘Address me with manners. I am the Empress Allissál nal Bordakasha, Divine Queen in Tarendahardil and last of the house of Elna.’

  ‘Elna!’ he said with scorn. ‘Elna was one of us! He sold his tribesmen to the women’s-cult for power. Do you think we get no news here? An empress without an empire is lower than a tavern slut. Now again, tell me who you are?’

  Her shoulders fell. ‘No one.’

  ‘Better.’

  A shape emerged from the darkness against a snowy hill. It was the figure of a man, tall, rangy, garbed wholly in black robes and close-swathed leggings. Even his head was concealed in those wrappings: only the eyes were bared, bright hard eyes wrinkled with ironic amusement, glinting the ruby red of madness. He stood casually, one hand lazily held on hip, the other holding in its black gauntlet a sword of exquisite workmanship, of bright flame-like blue steel and a hilt of silver and steel, upon which had been worked in gold and fire-opal an intricate device. Allissál had seen that device and that very sword before: it was the sword of Ankhan of the Strong Heart. Only by Ankhan’s murder could this man have gotten hold of this sword. Ankhan would never have surrendered it alive. The memory of the broken haunted ruins of Ul Raambar swept through her mind, and she grew warm with hatred. Now she knew the meaning of that name. This was the man who had destroyed the Jewel City.

  He stepped forward, sheathing the sword with a swift smooth movement as he did so; knelt, and began rifling the body on the ground.

  ‘Better, but still not truth,’ he r
esumed in his barbarous tongue. ‘For now you are the slayer of Al-Tah, one of the most feared warriors in the Darklands; also one of my lieutenants. He was a demon of a fighter, Al-Tah.’

  She recognized the respect in his voice and drew back a step. She had just murdered one of his friends. What was he likely to do to her in return?

  He saw her movement and divined its motive. He chuckled. ‘Don’t think I will seek blood-price from you. If Al-Tah died, it was only his reward for having been stupid enough not to knock you senseless before he took you.’ He gathered the man’s valuables in one gloved hand, hefted them, then stowed them in a pouch at his side.

  She was a tall woman, but she did not even reach his shoulders. His savage dogs growled and snapped. The wind blew oddly at his black wrappings. He was gazing at her with unmistakable desire within his sinister ruby eyes. ‘Do not think I would make the same mistake, beautiful one.’

  Her hand felt for the hilt of the dagger. ‘Would you—’ she began, her voice a hiss.

  His laughter stopped her: bitter, reeking laughter. ‘Fear not, She-Tooth! Those women hold no appeals to me I cannot buy or beat into submission. If I took my pleasure of you, I could never be certain when you might decide to let that knife of yours kiss me beneath my ribs. No doubt others have had equally delightful treatment at your hands, but not Estar Kane! – And I think it would be a waste to kill you, Golden One. Why do you come to my lands?’

  ‘To escape.’

  ‘From Ara-Karn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  The old rumors recurred to her mind. She remembered words and artful hints, passages from the book of Skhel read between the lines, and the tales told at court. She spoke it then, that word upon which all her future had come to depend.

  ‘Darkbridge,’ she said.

  He laughed.

  ‘Why do you laugh? Was it nothing but a myth, then? Does Darkbridge not exist?’