Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 4 Darkbridge Page 3

  ‘You may think so, Southron,’ the aged chief of the Durbars answered gloomily. ‘You did not see her.’

  They had all of them seen her, all those who had gone up to fill the square below the Iron Gate. The Gray Priestess had shown herself to them; during the next battle, therefore, they would die. The tribesmen accepted that and steeled themselves to fight more fiercely. Among the warriors of the far North, to face certain death scornfully was the highest honor, to flee it the greatest shame. Their very fear of the unnatural forged in their breasts a greater need to hurl themselves into the fray as recklessly as bull bandars, and be done with it.

  Only one city before had given them any great trouble, and that had been Postio. Thirsting and weakened, the warriors had descended from the burning sands of the Taril, and the defenders of Postio had thrown them back several times. But in the end the warriors had realized that they must win or die, and the battle-hunger had taken them all in the belly, and they had swept down on Postio and left only long ugly ditches sowed with salt where once the finest vineyards in the world had flourished.

  Now a like battle-hunger took them as they gathered in their separate armies and awaited the signal.

  For a year they had struggled and labored and died beneath the accursed Iron Gate.

  In less time than that, they had conquered all the North.

  Truly, it was enough.

  They surged to their feet, armor clanking and clattering, and brandished their weapons and uttered their war-shouts. The sound filled the plain and echoed from the ruins of the city. They set themselves in order, those on horse and those on foot, with all the mercenaries behind them. It was as if in this time of year the earth had been delivered of some new, hideous harvest of steel and death numerous as the seeds of the earth; or that the dark mountain beyond the camp had been opened in a thousand wounds, and disgorged all its tens of thousands dead.

  There were the Borsos, whose chief was Ven-Vin-Van of the green eyes: they were from the long plains North of the Forest of Bandars, and raised long-maned ponies, the hardiest of the far North. Once they had been a clan of the tribe of El-Sabak, but they had grown numerous and, taking many women of other tribes in a score of raids, had gone North until they found the empty plains. They were famous for their endurance, and could run as fast and as long as their ponies: they had at Tarendahardil a score times a score of warriors.

  There were the Mairpongils and the Naur-Kols, once clans of the Toll-Vulkors. They dwelt in the foothills below the mountains of the Spine, and were known for crafting cunning traps to bring down game. Sur-Pal was chief over the Mairpongils, and Bel-Kor Jin led the Naur-Kols. These two were like brothers for comradeship: both were of a height and girth, and always fought side-by-bide and supported each other’s suits in the Assembly. They had exchanged blood and wedded each other’s daughter, and together they led beneath the Iron Gate a score and fifteen times a score of strong-hearted warriors, among the finest bowmen of them all.

  There were the Foruns, once a clan of the Durbars. Ren-Tionan was chief over them, having gained the chieftainship after Elrikal, his father’s brother’s son, had challenged Gen-Karn upon Urnostardil’s crown and been crippled so that he had not even had strength or heart enough to end his own useless life, and Ren-Tionan, who had loved Elrikal better even than his sweetest concubine, had had to leave his former chief upon the slopes above their village. When the winter snows had run in rivers down the darksides of the hills, then Ren-Tionan had gone up with some fellows, all the kin of Elrikal, and put the bones in a barge. They numbered there at Tarendahardil some two-score times a score.

  The River’s-Bend tribe was there, short warriors of great chests and long, curling arms, great wrestlers and bear-killers. Bur-Knap was their chief, a stout man, with a great love of food and beer – leastways, so he had been before the long journey across the Taril. Now he was lean and dark under this Southron sun, and his hair was shot with gray, and his heart held only hatred of the Tarendahardilites. He had been one of Nam-Rog’s most outspoken supporters in the Circle of Chieftains. He had taken for his standard a black banner cut by a line of red, like a stream of blood. Most heavily had the men of the River’s-Bend tribe fallen on the barricades of High Town; now they had no more than half a score times a score of warriors.

  And there were the Karghils and the Buzrahs, two tribes whose feuds were as old as the Stand on Urnostardil. But Cap-Tillarn had led his Buzrahs to Tezmon with Gen-Karn, and after Gen-Karn fell Gundoen for a punishment had sent the Buzrahs in wherever the battle was hardest, and now there remained but seven times a score of Buzrahs outside Tarendahardil, while Oro-Kang counted among his Karghils a score times a score, and schemed to put an end to the Buzrahs for all time once the stronghold fell. Oro-Kang was one of Nam-Rog’s greatest followers, while Cap-Tillarn was strong in his counsels that the army should depart for the homeland.

  The Fire-Walk tribe was there, a tribe set apart from all others.

  When at last great Elna had departed in defeat from Urnostardil, the Fire-Walkers had remained some years in the hills beyond the dusky border. Others of the survivors had stayed there too, but only the Fire-Walkers had returned to live in the lands where men dwell. By then the choicest dwelling-lands had been claimed by other tribes; the Fire-Walkers, who spoke with strange accents and had odd, reddish lights in their deep-hollowed eyes, sent out their men and settled at length on the slopes below the Peak of Goddess’ Wrath, which fumed and boiled without cease, and every generation poured out rivers of fire. So the Fire-Walkers won their name, but with their strange eyes and their jealous holding of the strange secrets of their arts, the Fire-Walkers were not well-liked among the other tribes. None but the most foolish ever stole women from the Fire-Walkers, and those who did, did not enjoy their prizes. As for the Fire-Walkers themselves, they left the other tribes alone, and would never have joined in the wars except that they had taken a love to Ara-Karn, who in the first winter of his Warlordship had joined them in their secret rituals. They were no more than a score times a score, but in their sure ruthlessness, their cruelty and the fear their looks and cries inspired in their enemies’ hearts, they were worth half a score for every man.

  There were Nam-Rog’s own sturdy Durbars, of warriors three score and fifteen times a score; there was the Orn, Gorn-Tal, chief and warrior and counselor of himself. There were the Vul-Laistons of the strong shields, three score times a score of men; and the tribe of Loit-Garn who could follow the roads of the trees in Darkbole forest and could bring down the fiercest bandars using nothing but long knives – their number under the Iron Gate was five times a score. And there was the tribe of the Gray Hands, once a clan of the tall Morbynas – a tribe of stone-fisted men who could hurl stones farther than any other warriors, and stood there now in numbers greater than twelve times a score.

  The Raznami were there as well: their chief was Ren-Gora, and he too had gone with Gen-Karn to Tezmon in the hope of greater treasure. But Gen-Karn had meted out all the best women and prizes among his own Orns, and Ren-Gora had liked it little better that the Orn would hold an alliance with the Southrons. It had been Ren-Gora who had led the rebellion in Tezmon when Gen-Karn had been found dead, slain by the spirit of Ara-Karn. It was said that in token and proof of his renewed allegiance to Ara-Karn, Ren-Gora had drunk the blood of Sol-Dat, Gen-Karn’s sunward man, before all the rebels. So Gundoen had accepted Ren-Gora back with open arms and honored him; and now before the Iron Gate the Raznami had a score times a score of men.

  The Vorisals fought there, tall thin men of long beards and far-seeing eyes. They were men of the snows, who each winter journeyed far into the dimness of the snow-lands above the far North, there to hunt and take furs of strange beasts, pelts the hue of silver and shadowed snow, rarer in the world than gems, and bringing a price in Gerso greater even than the finest bandarskins. They were not over-great of girth, but were quick with their lances, and the finest bowmen after the warriors of Gundoen’s tribe, who had u
sed the bow longest. Bar-East had been born of the Vorisals, but now he was of no tribe, being Speaker of the Law; and their chief had been Hilad-Dren, whom Haspeth had slain. Now their chief was Hilad-Dren’s sister’s husband, Roguil Arn the Axe-Bearer, a man of such height and girth that when he went abroad in winter in his fur cloak, he was often taken for a bear instead of a man. The Vorisals at Tarendahardil numbered eight times a score and more.

  From the deep broad lake Pes-Tho, the Pes-Thos stood strong in the battle, their weapon a long barbed lance good for skewering deep-going fish – or men. They were ruled by three chiefs, brothers: Kan-Brin, Estar-Brin, and Aln-Brin-Daln. These were men of long, curling black beards, rare among the tribesmen: it was rumored their true father had been a Gerso merchant who had lain with old Brin-Gorin’s young wife, she of the dark-flashing eyes. That stain and insult had been with the brothers since their triple birth; it was to overcome it that they had grown to be such fearsome fighters. They each had killed a man before they gained ten winters; their counts before Gerso had been more than a score apiece. They ruled their tribe fiercely, as a man will a woman with roving thoughts or a pony hard to the bridle. Side by side, shield to sword, they fought as if they had but one heart and spirit among them, and it was their great boast that never once had any of them been wounded in battle. To Tarendahardil they led two score times a score of warriors, fierce and dreadful men.

  The Jalijh were there among them, once a clan of the Pes-Thos. Gan-Birn was chief over them, a man of surpassing wisdom and honeyed words, but their greatest champion was Gan-Birn’s son Born-Oro-Tirb. Born-Oro-Tirb was the tallest man of all the warriors, a man who had never found a pony large enough to bear him in the far North, and so had won the name Tree-Legs; now he rode proudly on a chestnut stallion, the finest prize of the Charan Farnese’s stables. Born-Oro-Tirb was so strong, it was said that when he was still a boy he had brought his father a mare taken in a raid from the Undains, and had borne it on his back as a deed worth doing. Gan-Birn counseled, and Born-Oro-Tirb led the Jalijhas in battle, ten and a score times a score warriors who followed Born-Oro-Tirb as though he were the child of dark God Himself.

  There too were the Vinkars, once a great tribe, one of the original eighteen that had descended Urnostardil’s crown: now they were few, and of small stature. One of every three of them had followed Gen-Karn to Tezmon; of those, one of six had lived to rejoin the forces of Ara-Karn. The Vinkars had taken sweet pastures near the Pass of Gerso, and had journeyed too often to the city, and known too well the Southron pleasures there. Their chief was named Vurnar, but everyone called him Filn-Par Ri, a term for a man who dressed in the skirts of women. Thirteen times a score of men Filn-Par Ri led, men as good as the Southrons in battle.

  The Eldars, famed for their bitter, dark ales, stood in battle there. Poran-Dilg led them, but Farn-Jar-Gur was their chieftain. Farn-Jar-Gur kept to the North to oversee the conquered cities and send to the far North the endless streams of slaves and riches. Poran-Dilg was Farn-Jar-Gur’s brother, a man of tremendous girth, almost, it was said, the equal of Gundoen himself: of a long, squared beard gray and yellow, arms the thickness of a good woman’s thighs, and hands as big as buckets. Poran-Dilg alone of all the leaders there disdained the use of a bow, but fought only with his axe, a thing few others might even carry, let alone wield. Poran-Dilg laughed in battle, and the sound of it was like the beating of a great wooden drum to uplift the hearts of all his men and make his foes quake behind their shields. Between him and Roguil Arn of the Vorisals there was the sharpest rivalry. A score times a score of men Poran-Dilg had beneath him at Tarendahardil.

  The Harvols were there, a tribe once a clan of Gundoen’s tribe. They dwelt on rocky cliffs high over the white-greenness of the Ocean of the Dead, and were famous for the flocks of green-winged birds they had bred up to hunt them the fishes of the sea. Kerrin-Kalk was their chieftain, a man who had more than enough reason to fear and to fight: for his daughter’s husband had been Bern-Dak, he who had beheld Allissál the autumn before and been the first to take her for the Gray Priestess. The very next assault, Bern-Dak had fallen from the ladders upon the sharp rocks below the man-devouring Iron Gate. Now Kerrin-Kalk had seen that vision himself, and it had haunted him so, that during the gathering of the Circle of Chieftains he had been strongly driven to counsel departure. But when he saw Gundoen it brought back to his mind their kinship, and how he and Gundoen had stood together against Gen-Karn when it had seemed that they would surely be destroyed. So now he put about himself the curving gray armor, and girt himself with his heaviest sword, a prize forged in Ul Raambar itself; and he slung across his back a sack heavy with arrows, and spoke brave words to his men. Nor did they, strong to the number of two score times a score, see any trace of fear in the eyes of Kerrin-Kalk in the shadow of his bright helm.

  And there were the Undains, led by young Welo-Pharb after his mother’s brother Haln-Gaw lost his teeth and then his life beneath the Iron Gate. Welo-Pharb was counseled by Marn-Klarten of the dancing tongue: men of far-ranging schemes and ploys, clever in battle, counted at ten times a score – and the Korlas, those last few who had been at Orn guesting with Gen-Karn and so had escaped destruction at the angry hands of Ara-Karn and Gundoen: their chief was Estar Aln. And the Archeros were there, led by Ring-Sol, a young man of fiery blood. He had taken the chieftainship with bloody hands, but his men loved him, for he was always first in battle. He had been gravely wounded in the assault on Postio, and all but perished; but Gundoen came to his tent one sleep, holding in his thick hand a small leather bag. In that bag had been a herb ground by Hertha-Toll, and the herb closed the wound of Ring-Sol, so that his youth had returned him to health. And now he still had not learned from that lesson, but threw himself ever against the Iron Gate as if he had never been wounded in his life. Five and a score times a score of warriors were with him at Tarendahardil, and they all tall and feared in battle.

  And still more there were of tribes and of tribesmen there. The Kamskals, whose chief was Grent-Hol, sister’s-son to Est-Hol, he who had been poisoned by Gen-Karn in Orn, were men of great singing war-cries, who used slings with sharp stones before Ara-Karn taught them the way of the bow. Seven times a score of men the Kamskals counted. And there were the warriors of the tribe of Tont-Ornoth, Gundoen’s tribe: Kul-Dro led five and four score times a score fierce, battle-marked men, among whom were the finest trackers, the bravest spearmen, and the most skillful bowmen of the tribes.

  These and more there were of tribes and of tribesmen, for all the tribes were represented, even those most of whose warriors held garrisons over captive cities in the brightward South or the distant North: the Clargas, and those of the Lake-Tribe; the Toll-Vulkors and the Gise-Nathos and the Zisnonds and Yurlings; the Goat-Tribe, the Roighalnis, the Necistrols, the Kagions, the Ekilehs, the Gerinthars, the Sirgols, the Juehtsens, the Bolk-Girns, the Fulsars, whose totem was the fulsar-beast; the Morbynas and the Chalpions. And the warriors of all these tribes together were counted at ten and two score times a score. And beyond these were the mercenaries, the Southrons from the Delba and from Ilkas and from Bollakarvil herself, from Carftain and Mersaline and Ancha and other cities in the North: and these numbered a score times a score times a score.

  All those men fought beneath the Iron Gate of the Black Citadel.

  And alongside them fought ghosts, the unseen, implacable spirits of the dead and fallen of Urnostardil the mountain of the Last Stand. Ara-Karn himself had raised those spirits, bound them to their last living sons, and made those sons swear a binding oath to fight and never turn back, lest their own ancestors destroy them. There were not many of those spirits, maybe; no man could tell, for they rode and fought unseen by any eyes, unless Ara-Karn could see them, for he was half a ghost himself. No man saw them, but at times a warrior felt a chill touch him when no wind blew, and he felt his flesh creep as though it brushed by unfelt, unliving flesh. So the ghosts counted for more than their numbers, and had been the downfa
ll of half the cities the armies had overwhelmed.

  So, like the fishes of the sea, the leaves of the season, and the sands of the Desert were the armies of Ara-Karn marshaled in the plain brightward of the ruins.

  And in this way were the armies divided: for the first part the Borsos, the Maurpongils, the Naur-Kolds, the Foruns, those of the River’s-Bend, the Buzrahs, the Fire-Walkers, the Durbars, the Vul-Laistons, the Loit-Garn, the tribe of the Gray-Hands, the Raznami, the Vorisals, and Gorn-Tal of Orn: five thousand, eight hundred and forty warriors and more. For the second part the Karghils, the Pes-Thos, the Vinkar, the Jalijh, the Eldars, the Harvols, the Undains, the Archeros, the Korlas, the Kamskals and the men of Gundoen’s tribe: five thousand, four hundred and thirty warriors and more. For the third part the Chalpions, the Morbynas, the Fulsars, the Bolk-Girns, the Juehtsens, the Sirgols, and two and a half thousands of the mercenaries: five thousand, nine hundred and eighty warriors and more. For the fourth part the Gerinthars, the Ekilehs, the Kagions, the Necistrols, the Roighalnis and three thousands of the mercenaries: five thousand, four hundred and fifty warriors and more. For the fifth part the men of the Goat-Tribe and the Yurlings and the Zisnonds and the Gise-Nathos and two and a half thousands of mercenaries: five thousand, three hundred and seventy warriors and more.

  In all, they numbered more than twenty-eight thousand.

  And against these there were some three hundred guardsmen left alive, and two hundred of the Tarendahardilites that Ennius Kandi had trained to do battle on the summit of the Iron Gate.

  These now gathered quietly in the mountain winds and the tolling of the warning bells, awaiting the onslaught of the barbarians.

  Amid the tents of the Tarendahardilites the voices fell off also. There was no cause for it, nor did it happen at a stroke. But the children stopped their play and the men and women looked one another in the eye. Even the babies were stilled.