Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn 4 Darkbridge Read online

  Ullerath laughed. ‘Against your living presence my campaign has nothing to fear,’ he said, ‘but I will not contend with memories.’

  Even then a tremendous cry went up from the throats of the guardsmen. Ampeánor had struck the last Orn warrior below the helmet, where the neck joins the skull. Now the bone was crushed, brains showed with blood, and the corpse of Gorn-Tal dropped like a stone to smash against the greedy rocks below.

  At that sight the voices in the square were stilled; but the cheers of the guardsmen lifted high and joyous.

  Wordlessly Kan-Brin and Estar-Brin gathered the broken body and bore it away. They laid it in the center of the circle of chieftains. Mutely they regarded it, twisted, bloody, grotesque. Then the slaves laid the corpse out formally on a bed of straw in a cart, and conveyed it to the camp.

  There, far from the clatter of swords, what once had been Gorn-Tal, last living Orn, was taken by the nine, his beautiful bed-slaves. More by far he might have claimed from the conquered cities of the Southlands. But he had ever been a grim and lonely man, and the chatter of many voices about him had been to him a thing unbearable. So these nine had been all he took. Now with tears in their lovely eyes they washed the body of the blood and filth of battle. About his head they bound colored linens in the shape of the twisted headbands of sailors. Up and down his long limbs they ran soft sponges from the Southern Ocean, and over the flesh they sprinkled with their slim, long-fingered hands fragrant spices and crushed herbs blended in water and oils, to take from the corpse the hateful stench of wasteful death.

  Thereafter the beautiful women arrayed the body of their conqueror in golden armor. And upon the death-bed beside him they laid his treasured weapons, axes and bows and curious lances and swords and knives. With these they strewed gemstones and bundles of flowers tied with stalks of rare herbs. And gently and lovingly with fragrant oil the maidens caressed the face of the great Orn, taking from his features all hatred and doom and suffering, leaving only peace. They brushed back his hair, making its long curls glossy. So it was said that never in his life had Gorn-Tal looked so beautiful as he did in death.

  With that the slaves let fall the sides of the large tent and revealed their lord in death. Around the bed they set the coffers, open to reveal the wealth the Orn had won in battle. Gold and silver and fine silks were there aplenty, along with cups and drinking-bowls inlaid with gold, all of the finest craftwork.

  And there came the Blind Ones, those warriors who had been first to go up the ladders in the season when the guardsmen had poured down on them the vicious potions of the Imperial Embalmers. Now scarred about their faces, their eyes burned out and ghastly, they tented together, attended by slaves. Some warriors had held it shameful to let them live, for in the far North any man who could not hunt or fish was sent into the wilderness to die. But others would not have it that the Southrons should claim as victims men they had not rightly slain; and besides, these were different times and the tribes were poor no longer. So the Blind Ones grew famous as tale-tellers and singers, and often made so great entertainments during the long misery of summer that some credited them alone with saving all the encampment from going mad and falling on one another.

  Now these settled on all sides of the open tent of Gorn-Tal. They mourned the fallen one, and recited at length his deeds. More than the death of a man, this seemed to them the passing of a whole tribe, one of the mightiest in its time. And this man was the only Orn to defy Gen-Karn and live. And they told of his recent deeds, of how he had gone up the ladders again and again and had become a man of five tribes, a thing unheard of. Around the Blind Ones the halt and gravely wounded sat in silence and gave tears to the black earth in mourning for this man whom once none gave shelter. That had been in the winters of Gen-Karn’s strength, when all feared him and praised him as the greatest Warlord the tribes had ever known. But in Tezmon he had lost his life in a ghastly way spoken of only in whispers.

  And later, when the lovely slaves took away the body and placed it in a barge in the sea, the warriors left the tent standing, a symbol of Orn in the camp. So they followed the customary death-rites for a chieftain, even though there were no other Orns there to succeed Gorn-Tal.

  And long after the hour of the longsleep came the Blind Ones, the wounded, and the nine lovely bed-slaves remained about the body; and the music of their mourning went up sweetly into the warm, bright air of the southern fall.

  * * *

  In the square below the Iron Gate all was tumult and confusion. The last ranks of the third array were mounting the ladders, but over the Iron Gate Ampeánor of Rukor stalked the parapet, going between the shield-wall and the attackers from one end to the other, tall against the sky. Like a thorsa he roamed, ferocious, bloodthirsty; no man might stand against him. Goddess blazed off his armor and the great shield; red blood dripped from the iron leaf of the lance-head, and his eyes were twin terrible stones in the shadow of the helm. The barbarians struck token blows at him and leaped back onto the rope ladders. The mercenaries scarcely offered him even a blow. The name of Elna-Ana passed from mouth to mouth like the bitter, unfelt kiss of whores. Never had the tribesmen known such fear of an enemy: they masked it with anger, but defeat was in their hearts. Born-Oro-Tirb was dead, and Aln-Brin-Daln, and Poran-Dilg and now Gorn-Tal, he who had twice won the parapet. Who yet lived who could defeat this man?

  Now a delegation went to the shelters of the Vorisals. Among them were the chiefs and counselors of all the tribes of the fourth and fifth armies. Yan-Oro, the chief of the Yurlings, spoke for them.

  ‘O Roguil Arn,’ the Yurling called into the shelter, ‘Chief of the Vorisals, now Gorn-Tal and Poran-Dilg lie dead, and there is not a single man of all the tribes who would deny that you are our greatest champion. I myself was always of this mind. It was you who won our greatest victory in this battle, and since you left the fighting things have gone against us. And now there seems no hope of victory so long as Elna-Ara stalks the battlements. This we will offer you, chieftain, if you will return to battle: one half of all the treasure we personally have been allotted from the campaigns of the South, and three parts out of every five which are granted our tribes when the fastness falls. All this we pledge to you, if only you will go up the ladders and kill this Southron.’

  The Vorisal broke from the tent and stood tall over them, a strong young man broad-shouldered and pale-eyed. ‘Do you think my axe is for sale?’ he roared. ‘Do you take me for a Gerso merchant?’

  At this they took pains to allay his anger, but with a sweep of his hand Roguil Arn silenced their babbling. ‘As for this Southron,’ he said, ‘I do not fear him. Not for all your gold would I do this thing; I will accept both deed and gold, however, as my proper due. But I do not go to battle without my tribesmen, and they are wounded and weary. What will you offer them?’

  ‘This,’ replied Yan-Oro boldly: ‘all the hunting and wood-felling rights of the Silver Forest, up to the banks of the Black River, will the Ekilehs and the Kagions yield to your tribe.’ The men of those tribes gaped to hear this, but assented.

  ‘That is well,’ Roguil Arn said, and dismissed them. The chiefs and counselors went away, for the most part well-content; but when they were gone, then the scowl broke from the Vorisal’s face and he laughed. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, ‘I would have given them gold for the pleasure of fighting this Southron. Now I will prove to all men I was Poran-Dilg’s better. Wait for me, Elna-Ana: Roguil Arn claims you!’

  And the young chief threw back his head and flung wide his arms to the setting Jade moon and laughed like the barking of a wild dog.

  Nam-Rog was then pacing before his shelter. Anger and worry rode upon his features, and deep in thought he chewed his beard. Then at once he called to his side Avli-Oan, a tracker of the Durbars.

  ‘Avli-Oan, you are the swiftest man in our tribe on either foot or pony. Take horse now and ride down past the ruins of this place. Find Erion Sedeg, the leader of the mercenaries, and say to him these words fr
om me: What has held him up so long? Are we to count on his big words no longer? His time has come to prove his loyalty to Ara-Karn. Bid him spur on his men and bring up with all haste what he has fashioned. Go now, or else this one Southron will prove the salvation of the last of Elna’s kin!’

  * * *

  In the shadow of the age-old stones of the Palace, a curious quiet reigned. Slaves and highborn alike remained shut in their chambers, and spoke only in undertones. A superstitious fear had taken hold of them, that what they did might have an ill effect upon the battle. It had begun among the slaves, who believed that it had been the dying scream of Ampeánor’s prisoner that had conjured up the assault. Quickly the fear had spread, reaching even to the story of the Vapionil in the Southern Wing. Even they, herb-quietened or wine-wrought, moved with an exaggerated delicateness. It was as if noise or cry might shatter the shell-like fragility of their yearlong shelter here.

  So it was that when the Queen emerged from the White Tower into the long passageways of the upper levels of the Palace, she entered into silence as into a tunnel under the earth, and met no one before her. Behind her went two servants in the tunics of the middle stories, big men bearing the heavy wooden staves used to punish rebellious slaves. At length the Queen reached the recessed door of the Gerso Charan Ennius Kandi.

  Softly she spoke to the two men. Their lamps shone strangely off the portions of her mask not shrouded by the black cowl.

  ‘And your fellow?’ she asked.

  The men looked at each other. ‘Pardon, your reverence,’ stammered one, ‘but he is missing. Maybe he went to join the defense of the gates?’

  She left the men at the entrance, and entered the chambers alone.

  Heavy hangings covered all windows and the entrance to the balcony. The dark, almost unseeable figure of the black-clad woman stood a few paces from the closed door, at the end of the anteroom. What thoughts or memories may have passed beneath the smooth surface of the golden mask, no man might have said.

  The figure started suddenly. There had been a noise from beyond the hangings to the balcony. A man appeared there; in the sudden flood of Goddesslight the woman was revealed before him. The man stopped short, seeing her; she, like a thirsla come upon the lair of a mountain-thorsa, was moveless.

  Ara-Karn stepped into the room and closed the hangings behind him. His hair was in disarray from the wind, his arms half bare; he wore a hunting-tunic and the harness of Gerso; at his belt was a knife-sheath, which was empty. His soft leather shoes were wet.

  The darkness filled the room like the warmth of a good fire. There is a certain safety in darkness, whatever its attendant fear – also freedom. Many are the words that may be spoken aloud in darkness that would die short of a whisper in the light of Goddess.

  The Queen tossed back her head beneath the black cowl, like some fine-spirited blood horse. ‘I had not expected to find you here, my lord.’

  He bowed courteously, extending his arms in the ritual gesture of hospitality. When he rose, his features were composed again. But had she been privileged to behold those features an hour before, in the gloom of the grove where the stone basin stood, she would not have been able to believe they were the features of the same man.

  ‘Tell me, why is it that the Savior of Tarendahardil is not on the battlements?’

  ‘I was waiting for you,’ he said gravely, ‘Alastaphele.’

  As always at the mention of that name, Allissál felt a chill upon her breast. Reaching into the depths of her sleeve, she felt the jade handle of the dagger and was comforted. ‘It is over, this game of yours. The masks are fallen at last. When this attack ends and Ampeánor returns, there will be no more hiding for you.’

  ‘There is still one mask left to fall.’

  ‘Do you expect that I should save you?’

  ‘No.’

  In truth, she had hoped to find him here. She had readied herself for him most assiduously. But first there was something she must know.

  ‘It appears you have murdered one of the servants I set to watch you. Also you have freed Ampeánor’s prisoner. Where did you take him? Is he here?’

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘I see.’ There was the weight of iron in her tone. ‘Did you know that I would leave the choice up to you?’

  ‘That choice was always up to me.’ He took a slight step forward and to his right; she did likewise, to maintain the distance between them.

  ‘Did you hope that I would save him?’

  ‘I knew that you would not.’

  ‘And that – that thing they did to him: did you foresee that as well?’ Fear and anger welled within her. She disliked being alone with him. She no longer knew what to expect. They were speaking softly and quite calmly in the dim, enshrouded room; she longed for the shriek of light.

  ‘It was for that very thing that I returned to this Citadel a year ago.’

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘And it came to pass. Did it please you to behold your friend cut as not even a Madpriest should be? Did it gratify you that he did not betray you even then?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  She saw his eyes, taunting and wild in the darkness. Greenish flecks sparked in their depths like laughter or murder. She noticed that beneath her robes she was shaking. She could scarcely control her voice. Her right hand gripped the dagger handle so tightly the bones ached.

  ‘That will be his fame,’ he said. His self-mastery was wonderful to behold: only his eyes and the twist of his lips betrayed him. ‘Had he stayed what he was, a hunter and chieftain childless and beer-loving, then he would soon have passed from the memory of his tribe. Gen-Karn would have finished him. I gave him generalship of the armies, and I gave him this. It was this trial which made him great. Now he will live in all the lands for as long as Elna did: the chieftain, the general, the warrior not even the Vapionil might break.’

  ‘Will you take the glory for that, too?’ The time had come. She would never fathom the depths of his heart. He knew what she wanted and denied her of it mockingly. The time had come. She knew it.

  By now they had exchanged places: it was he who stood before the anteroom, she who had her back to the hangings of the balcony. Now she stopped. He did too.

  Because Ampeánor must not learn the deeper secrets of this man – must not have the satisfaction either of killing him or of the farce of a public trial. Because this man was her enemy. Because it was her city he had laid waste, and herself he had betrayed and used. And because only she was Bordakasha

  ‘It was a test,’ she groaned. ‘It was meant only as a trial. I wished to see how far you would allow it to go on – how far he would order it to go on. But you were both too proud, too mad, and it went on. You failed the test, you both failed – and because you failed, I failed as well.’

  ‘Yes. Only Gundoen triumphed.’

  Because he had murdered Qhelvin of Sorne. Because he had betrayed Ankhan and Lisalya and their city Ul Raambar. Because of Elnavis’ degradation. Because of Tarendahardil. Because of all his crimes. Because Elna would demand no less.

  ‘You might have slain Ampeánor on the beach in Rukor, and all this would have been avoided. Why didn’t you?’

  ‘In order that all this might come to pass.’

  ‘Why? Did that man mean nothing to you? Did his love for you mean nothing? Have you nothing in that heart of yours but a mad brooding for revenge? How could you endure it, to sit so calmly and watch him treated so?’

  ‘Because I knew you would then end up as you are: alone with me here.’

  Because he remained a danger to all men and cities, and now more so than ever, since his mask threatened to fall. And because she feared him and the madness that rode him. And in the end, because she had to regain peace, peace within her soul as well as in her body. It had to be. It had to be.

  ‘May Goddess damn you,’ she moaned, half a cry. ‘May you be cursed and tormented for a thousand years for this, Ara-Karn.’

  Never had she felt such anger in all her
life. She was seizing and releasing the dagger; she could feel its sharpness chafing the skin of her arm. Again she tried to drive herself to do it, in a mindless fury if in no other way. She knew then something of the madness Ampeánor must have felt in the bath-chamber. She swept her hand out of the sleeve.

  * * *

  He saw the empty hand dart out of the sleeve, vague and pale in the dimness, and rise to the shoulder of the black robes. There was an iron brooch there, embellished with black cundan stones cut in the likeness of a chorjai blossom, the flower of death and mourning. The hand pulled the brooch free and let it fall to the floor. The thick, heavy folds of black linen fell apart, like the opening of a bud in springtime, to bare one high, red-tipped breast.

  A shudder of suppressed passion took the body of the Queen.

  The faint light seeping into the room from the balcony beyond the hangings outlined the dark-robed form as both hands drew back the heavy cowl and pulled free the mask of gold. The yellow gold, dulled in the dimness, revealed a finer radiance behind it, of silver-blue eyes, a high glowing brow, cheeks like flowers kissed by Goddess near the dark horizon, and wide, perfectly-shaped lips deep red with paint, all framed by golden, foaming hair bound up in luxuriant tight masses and snaky coils. The folds of the cowl had fallen open to display by contrast the long, sinuous curve of the neck responding to the quickening beat of a single vein.

  In all their fierce love-bouts through the Spring and Summer, not once had she removed the mask. She had opened to him all the rest of her naked body, but not once had she let him behold her face.

  The sounds of the battle seemed dulled and diminished in the close, dark room, even as time seemed to slow and grow heavy in its pace. The Queen reached with long, elegant fingers whose nails were stained a red darker than that upon her lips, to the second iron brooch. The single garment of the robe slid open and apart. For a moment the fabric caught on the angle of the shoulder, so that her form seemed halved, all dark folds of linen below an expanse of smooth flesh, flower-scented in the secret flat hollow between the twin high breasts, descending to the swell of the hip. Her skin was the hue of new-fallen snow in the mountains of the Spine at the Dusky Border, a soft chill pallor blushed with the rays of distant Goddess. Then she shrugged, or perhaps it was no more than another shudder – the linen slid from the shoulder. The long, flattened sweep of the beautiful legs spiraled naked from the mound of linen. The golden fur of her sex had been trimmed, shaped and scented, an ornament like a jewel to perfect and surmount the curves of the lower belly and the softness of the inner thighs. Below those delicately curling tufts, clasping like a lock the right upper thigh, was a band of gold adorned with blood-red rubies cut in the semblance of human hearts.