Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 4 Darkbridge Read online

  Before that onslaught, the wearied guardsmen fell. The space around Gorn-Tal grew. Sur-Pal and Bel-Kor Jin and other chieftains surged onto the parapets. Arms rose and fell, and a spray of blood marked the sweep of the blades. Already the stone between their feet was littered with shattered bits of bronze and iron as well as the fallen. The line of guardsmen wavered and shrank back. Gaps began to appear between men.

  But then Berowne ran up the steps by the southern lance-tower. Behind him, and below the northern lance-tower as well, came the men of the second watch. Berowne swept his massive arm forward, and the new men advanced alongside the wall of the lance-towers. Beneath stone symbols and the carven heads of Emperors the armored men entered the battle and forced themselves along the first level of the battlements, granting needed rest to the weary men of the front ranks.

  Berowne himself stood like a middle lance-tower at the center: the very breadth and mass of him seemed to lend support to the line. The men locked shields and gripped their lance-hafts firmly: and the line held. Then Berowne began to lean forward into the battle, and the defenders seemed even to gain a little. Now they were only two steps away from regaining the parapet. In vain did Gorn-Tal, Sur-Pal and Bel-Kor Jin beat axes and swords against the shield-wall about Berowne. Gorn-Tal had cast the only one of his strange weapons he had borne up the ladder; and not all the strength or fury of the blows could budge Berowne once he planted his feet.

  The guardsmen took heart and the barbarians began to take the worst of it. But then seven Fire-Walkers appeared on the parapet, and in their midst stood Roguil Arn the Axe-Bearer. He, the chieftain of the Vorisals, looked over the scene below him; and in the icy blue of his pale eyes, eyes that reflected the snows and frozen lakes of his homeland, burned now the flame and delight of battle.

  The Fire-Walkers, men of long faces, square beards, and pinkish eyes, moved forward deliberately into the battle. They went like some good shepherds to the task of shearing, who cast their eyes sagely over the flocks, choosing in their minds which sheep should first be shorn, and how to go about the thing so that the flock stays calm. So the Fire-Walkers chose the weakest points in the battle, and went to support their fellows.

  But Roguil Arn cast his eyes up and over the scene. He saw the yard beyond, and the inner gates closed fast against the invasion, leaving only one small brass door open at the side. And beyond that Roguil Arn saw the Palace of the Bordakasha rising against the clouds. He saw the White Tower and the Disk of Goddess burning like a welcome-torch to his appearance.

  Then the eyes of the Vorisal fell again to the lines of the guardsmen standing thickly clustered upon the second and third steps of the battlements.

  ‘By dark God’s eye,’ laughed Roguil Arn, ‘Is this truly all the men who have held us in defeat for a year? Shame, shame upon all the tribes!’ He lifted back his head to the Walk of God in the sky, and opened his mouth wide to it, and shouted joyously the war-song of the Vorisals – a sound more like the barking of the northern dogs than any human voice. At that inhuman sound, the blood was chilled in the guardsmen’s veins.

  Then Roguil Arn shook his wild locks, for he wore no helm; and he threw himself like a spear into the battle.

  The huge, silver-chased axe of Roguil Arn smashed into Berowne’s shield first of all. It was heavy, that axe. Few others of the tribe could lift it one-handed, let alone wield it in battle. Swung by the hands of Roguil Arn, no metal or man might stand against it. Berowne’s huge round shield was shattered into a thousand slivers of bronze, wood and leather. It sounded like a thunderclap, deafening and staggering the captain. Quickly the guardsmen threw themselves between their captain and this new demon of an enemy. Roguil Arn hewed again with the great axe, carving huge hunks out of the shields.

  Against that axe, nothing the guardsmen did availed. The barbarians now stood in a solid line the full length of the battlements, with men behind them; and Roguil Arn fought laughing with one foot raised upon the second step.

  There was not a tribe of all the first army that did not have some warriors there to gain honor for their descendants. But there was fear in the eyes of the guardsmen, the fear of death. Southron bodies were strewn everywhere between the two sides, and the stones had gone slick with blood.

  Behind the guardsmen on the third step, Berowne leaned like a mountain against the rearward parapet. Wordlessly he accepted water from some of the men. There was confusion in the Tarendahardilite’s amber eyes, and the fat left hand trembled where it hung by the huge thigh, as if it felt still the sting of Roguil Arn’s blow.

  Then a new man ran up the steps to the battlements. Ullerath strapped on his helmet and approached the captain while a man told him how things went. The Eglander went down on one knee beside his rival and put his hands to the big man’s shoulders.

  ‘Will you dare fight once more, grandfather,’ he shouted above the din, ‘or should I now become the captain, and tell Kiva you will not defend her?’

  ‘Do you call me old, you puppy?’ Berowne snorted. Perhaps four summers separated them. ‘By Goddess’ sweet breath, I can smell her upon your arm!’ He rose, and took up his great hollow helmet.

  ‘She has been complaining about this bedlam you have risen here. Are you not considerate enough, in beating back these barbarians, even to be quiet about it?’

  The captain laughed, and embraced his rival, the metal of their corselets clashing. ‘There is a Madpriest of a barbarian at their center,’ Berowne said lightly. ‘Shall we set him down together?’ So they made their way through the triple ranks and went against Roguil Arn.

  Around the Vorisal now a whirlpool of guardsmen swirled, some attacking, others sprawling on the stones near death. Desperately, like bees swarming stinging about the snout of some great-pawed bear who has laid bare their nest, the bravest and most foolhardy of the guardsmen threw themselves at Roguil Arn. And had it not been for these few, hurling themselves to bitter death, then surely the chief of the Vorisals alone would have broken through the ranks and split the defenders in two – and then the barbarians would have won the battle.

  Now Berowne and Ullerath stood against him. First Ullerath thrust at him with his lance, drawing blood – Roguil Arn swung the ponderous axe, but the Eglander was too swift, and danced back. Then Berowne held his shield close before him and hurled the full weight of his body against the barbarian. Roguil Arn, unbalanced by the blow he had aimed at Ullerath, fell back four paces beneath the weight of the captain, and leaned against the parapet gasping. Then he rose, shook again his wild locks and kissed the bloody axe. He felt no pain, only the gladness of a good fight and the pleasure of his strength. Not even that enormous blow from the captain’s huge body had been enough to tear the beloved weapon from the hands of its master.

  But in those few moments Ullerath and Berowne had rallied the defenders. All together, they beat back the renewed onslaught of Roguil Arn. The shield-wall was in place again, and all the guardsmen’s feet were planted firmly on the stones of the second step. So they held their ground despite all the fury and strength of the barbarians’ attack.

  Soon the chieftains and the champions gave place to their fellows, the last of the warriors of the first array. Almost six thousand men had gone now against only a few hundred, and still the few hundred held their ground. They had done more than any man would have thought possible. But now they were weary, and blood and sweat stung their eyes in the shadow of their helmets. They cried out for water, for sleep and for respite: it was not granted. Against them the more than five thousand warriors of the second army were even then readying themselves.

  There among the bustling crowds of men, no warrior stood taller than Born-Oro-Tirb of the Jalijhas. He towered over all other men, so that a man might be judged tall if the crown of his head reached to the hollow between Born-Oro-Tirb’s collarbones. He was the greatest champion of his tribe, but it was his father Gan-Birn who was chief of the Jalijh. To Gan-Birn Gorn-Tal now went. ‘O Chief,’ the Orn said, ‘grant me this gi
ft: adopt me into your tribe so that I may fight at the side of your son.’

  Gan-Birn was a tall man, but not nearly of a height with his son. He had a bald pate, long white locks at the back and sides of the head, and a great gray bush of a beard. There were lines about the old chief’s eyes, and his gaze gleamed craftily. He looked at Gorn-Tal, and took a fistful of his beard in his hand.

  ‘Chieftain of Orn, you have already fought, and won great honor according to the words of those who have come down off the heights. You cannot want for riches, for all of your tribe’s share is yours alone, to do with as you please. Why are you so eager to return to the fight?’

  ‘I have had dreams and seen the Gray Priestess. This battle will be my last. So I would gain what glory I can and kill as many of our enemies as I can, so that their spirits will serve as my slaves in the lands beyond.’

  The old Jalijha chieftain nodded. ‘That was well spoken, the word of a fine man. You would do me honor, Gorn-Tal of Orn, if you would take the blood of our tribe. My own son will be your sponsor.’

  So it was arranged; and even as the first waves of men from the second army were swarming up the ladders, the ceremony was completed. Gorn-Tal learned and spoke the hidden words of Jalijh. He swore friendship to the tribe, and he and Born-Oro-Tirb intermingled their blood and drank from the same bowl of beer. Thus Gorn-Tal of Orn was brought into the tribe of Jalijh. Then, shaking their weapons, Gorn-Tal and Born-Oro-Tirb led the Jalijhas up the high ladders and into the windy battle beneath the southern lance-tower.

  Beneath the southern lance-tower fought the Pes-Thos led by their three brother-chieftains, Kan-Brin, Estar-Brin, and Aln-Brin-Daln. Climbing the midmost ladder was the champion of the Eldars, Poran-Dilg, whose boast it was that he alone of all the tribesmen had never used the bow. Huge of girth was Poran-Dilg, and his hands were the biggest of any man’s in the armies. Between Poran-Dilg and Roguil Am there was the fiercest rivalry, for they were the two greatest champions of all the men who had followed the black standard of Ara-Karn, and each boasted that his weapon was heaviest and best-biting.

  Poran-Dilg had heard the great praise accorded Roguil Arn in the first of the fighting, and his ears burned with blood to better the deeds of the Vorisal When he had come down off the rocks of the coomb, Roguil Arn had looked to the totems of the Eldars first of all, a boastful look. But Poran-Dilg, his gaze fixed firmly to the heights of the battlements, had ignored the Vorisal chief.

  Now he stepped down heavily from the parapet and waded through men to the very place Roguil Arn had held. He was grim as an old boar, Poran-Dilg: silver-bristled, bent-toothed and evil-eyed. He gave no war-cry, but raised the great axe and hewed mightily at the blazing shield-wall. He aimed to win where his rival had failed, and split the defenders at the middle of their lines. At his first stroke the Eldar carved and ruined two of the guardsmen’s shields so that a break opened in the wall and the barbarian line surged forward. But swiftly the guardsmen closed the gap and so the line held. Again Poran-Dilg battered the bronze wall, and again – slowly, grudgingly, the lines of armored men shrank back before him. They left their limbs and broken bits of blades and shields as a welcome-carpet for the bronze-shod feet of the chieftain of the Eldars; and the dolorous cries of the slain rose like a chorus against the toll of the alarm-bell of the guardsmen.

  * * *

  Meanwhile Berowne and Ullerath ranged behind the triple lines, shouting words of encouragement and stepping in to do battle for any man weak with weariness or wounds. Youths from the refugees ran up and down the steps to the courtyard, bearing up vessels of food and drink to the embattled men. There was desperation there along the lines, for all the two officers could do. The men had had too little rest, and looked with dreadful eyes upon every man of them taken down on litters through the courtyard to the tent of the wounded. Ill could they afford the loss of a single man against those odds. They could not gain ground on the enemy, but lost it. Deep in their hearts they knew of only one hope, their last: that they might somehow force the barbarians back off the battlements. Then the advantage would lie heavily on the side of the guardsmen, and they might enjoy some brief breaths of rest. But the line of the parapet seemed a thousand steps away.

  ‘Ah!’ fretted Ullerath, ‘if only Father Ennius were here! Where is he, why does he not come?’ Restlessly the Eglander roamed behind the lines, gripping his lance firmly in his fist. He knew the confidence of the barbarians would be shaken only if one of their champions were slain. He cast his eyes over the barbarians to see which of them might be greatest, and his eyes fell easily on that one fighting beneath the southern lance-tower. There was none other of the stature of the Jalijha Born-Oro-Tirb.

  Recklessly the Eglandic lieutenant ran the length of the triple lines, holding his shield before him and drawing back his lance. At the end of the lines he loosed the lance, leaning into the cast. True to Ullerath’s aim the heavy lance drove into the leather and metal shield and Born-Oro-Tirb’s sword shoulder, making the Jalijha howl.

  Ullerath swept out his sword, broke out in front of the shield-wall and hurled himself at the towering man. Roaring, the champion of Jalijh tore the lance out of his shoulder and shield and threw it aside. Blood streamed from his shoulder; even so he raised sword and strove against the Southron. Great blows the swordsmen exchanged, battering each other’s shields.

  But Ullerath had misjudged one thing. Death stood at the Jalijha’s side in human form, and it called itself Gorn-Tal. The Eglander did not face one barbarian champion, but two. Now these two, blood-brothers of the lesser sort, rained such blows on him that Ullerath could not strike back. He was driven against the lance-tower, sick with dread. The iron blades rained against his shield like smith’s hammers. Ullerath cast his eyes to the shield-wall. Weakly he cried for succor. Born-Oro-Tirb was laughing wildly, and in his heart the Orn prayed thanks to dark God, that He had granted Gorn-Tal such pleasure before he must die.

  But Berowne, standing out of the triple lines once more, saw his lieutenant. With a sudden, savage thrust Berowne drove his lance deep into the shield-arm of the Orn so that the iron leaf burst out of the flesh on the far side. Berowne drew back on the lance, and the head in parting tore apart the bloody muscle, so that Gorn-Tal was stricken and had to fall back to the parapet. Then Berowne threw himself against the Jalijha’s chieftain’s son: the Tarendahardilite and the Eglander now joined forces against the barbarian, cutting him on the legs and arms until Berowne drove his lance against the Jalijha’s lower belly, deep into the vitals. The tall man paled and cried out. Then Berowne tore out the lance, and the black blood and juices gushed upon the stones.

  Born-Oro-Tirb went down on his knees. Tears were streaming from his eyes and his young lips were moaning helplessly. But in his last moments he remembered his manhood, and glared on his foes who had slain him.

  ‘So,’ he mumbled, ‘you have slain me, you two – only two, and Southrons at that! This was my time, and no glory to you, for I saw the Gray Priestess and it was the Couple who have decreed that this should be. You will not live long, but the rest of us will rape and slay your famous Empress for all that you can do! – But leave my body here for my tribesmen to carry down to the encampment, and do not mutilate or boast over my corpse, or else Gan-Birn my father will seek you out, and roll both your bloody heads down the slopes of the roads of this city!’

  So the Jalijha mocked Berowne and Ullerath – uselessly, for neither knew the tongue of the far North. Ullerath kicked the body aside, and the two friends stepped back behind the shields.

  IV

  War

  ABOUT THIS TIME, the Charan Ennius Kandi was seen walking alone through the corridors of the darkward side of the Palace. His form passed before the windows and the balconies opening from the corridors above the cliffs. Rumor flew ahead of him; everyone in the Palace had heard Gundoen’s scream and learned its cause.

  As ever, on the orders of the Queen since High Town had fallen, a single male slave followed quie
tly a hundred paces behind the Gerso.

  At length the charan entered upon a long passageway that stretched empty before him. He followed its length for a while, then stopped and turned back suddenly, in the way of a man who has just remembered something he has forgotten. There were no open doorways there, so that the slave who had been following stood still, and bowed as the charan passed him.

  The Gerso struck the slave in the head. The blow threw the man back, his head struck the wall, and he fell senseless to the floor.

  Ennius Kandi dragged the body to an open balcony admitting Goddesslight and cool, sweet air. The Gerso lifted the body over the parapet.

  In the winds the falling body turned over and over. The limbs flailed and twitched. Then it struck an outcropping of rock and was flung outwards, tumbling faster. At last it vanished in the Palace dump-heaps, smoky and blue in the distance.

  ‘Now dog my steps,’ said the Gerso, ‘if you can.’

  He passed below. On the level of the kitchens and the slaves’ quarters, he followed a long dark passage hewn out of the mountain. At the end two of the Imperial household guards stood before an ancient door. The torchlight gleamed off their armor.

  ‘I am come at the Empress’ request, to look to the prisoner,’ said Ennius Kandi.

  ‘Certainly, Father Ennius,’ they said.

  They entered the crypt and met the jailer, a guardsman recovering from a wound in his shoulder. He took torch and keys and led them down the passageway. The men passed low, round doors on their left. The musky, intimate smell of the mountain closed around them. The doors had no openings, only heavy, oiled bars and rings of bronze, and numbers burned into the wood. The four men reached the end of the first passage and were led back and down again. At the turning-back of this second passage the jailer stopped. He consulted the list upon the leather band on his wrist.

  ‘Here is the door,’ he said.