Kelven's Riddle Book Three

by Daniel T Hylton

  8

  Findaen watched the dark hordes of the enemy fill the plain below the western flanks of the mountain. Absolute fear, wrought by the sight of certain and imminent death, pervaded the atmosphere like a venomous cloud, and paralyzed him. He could not move or even think – and his lungs forgot how to draw breath.

  Tens of thousands of gray men and thousands of lashers formed up in a wide, deep mass, rank upon deadly rank, stretching all the way across the dry valley at the base of the mountain and nearly all the way back to the base of the towering wall of dark mist that obscured the world to the west. Legions of the grim lord – a terrible, vast host, come to kill Aram and his small army.

  The men of Derosa were going to die.

  Findaen tried to look at his companions but could not tear his eyes away from the hordes of the enemy.

  Then, to his left, Lord Aram moved, spurring his great mount, Thaniel, out in front of the line a few paces. Clad in strange golden armor, the tall lord gazed down upon the hosts of the enemy for a few moments and turned to look at him. When his eyes found Findaen, they were dark and narrowed, and hardened with fury. These were the eyes, Findaen suddenly realized, that enemies saw in the last moments of existence. And the spell, cast by the uncounted numbers of enemies in the plain below, was for a moment broken by that fierce gaze.

  “My friends, I want you to be courageous and hold this line until you see my signal,” Lord Aram said. “Then – move to the north, around the flank of the mountain to the hills beyond. Do not run, move in an orderly manner. I will return.”

  Findaen stared at him and swallowed at the lump of fear in his throat. “Where are you going, my lord?”

  Lord Aram’s eyes hardened further. “To see what may be done.”

  Confusion fought for its place, struggling with the fear in Findaen’s mind. He blinked. “You’re going to try and negotiate?” He asked, incredulously.

  Aram’s smile was thin, cold, deadly. “No.”

  A few paces beyond, Nikolus and the great brown horse Jared moved forward. “You mentioned a signal, my lord. What is the signal?”

  Aram glanced at him. “You will know it when you see it.”

  “And we are to wait here?”

  “Yes – until you see the signal – then move around the mountain to the north.”

  Findaen met Nikolus’ eyes a moment and then looked at Aram. “My lord – if you mean to fight – then we will go with you.”

  “No!” This word came out with dark ferocity. “Not a single man is to come forward under any circumstance. This is a direct order.” Aram’s gaze swept the line of men, horses and wolves. “When you see the signal – move away to the north, around the mountain.”

  He turned away and his great black horse, Thaniel, cantered down the slope toward the enemy army far below. Durlrang, the massive black wolf that shadowed Aram’s every movement, fell into place beside the horse, but at a look from Aram, reluctantly stopped and sat down on the dry grass several paces in front of the line.

  Nikolus spoke to Findaen as he kept his gaze on the retreating form of their leader. “What do you think he means to do?”

  Findaen swept out his hand in frustration, indicating the deadly thousands below, and as he did so, with a shudder, the terrible fear returned.

  “What can he do – against that?”

  Nikolus turned his dark eyes to Findaen. The tall, thin, dark-haired man’s face was white but set. “Does he mean to fight alone – again?”

  Findaen shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  They watched Aram’s figure, astride the black horse, dwindle down the slope of the mountain toward the hosts of the enemy. As he went, he pulled the hood of his otherworldly armor over his head, further arousing Findaen’s suspicions.

  Aram stopped where a horizontal line of rocky outcropping marked a point where the mountain broke over slightly and steepened as it continued on toward the plain below, which by now was filled with the unmoving but fully deployed dark masses of the enemy army. Here Thaniel halted and after a moment they saw Aram dismount.

  He stood gazing down upon the vast army for a long moment and then he turned and for several minutes he and Thaniel seemed to be conferring. It soon became apparent, from the movement of Aram’s arms and the horse’s obvious discomfiture that they were, in fact, arguing. Finally, Aram leaned forward and placed his hooded head against the forehead of the great horse.

  A few moments later Thaniel spun and charged back up the slope toward their position. But he did not come all the way back to the line, instead stopping about thirty yards to their front where he wheeled to look down the mountainside at Aram. Durlrang went forward to stand by the horse.

  “What is he doing, Thaniel?” Findaen asked, but the big horse ignored his question.

  Down on the plain, the enemy began to move.

  Standing alone on the flank of the mountain, halfway between Findaen and his companions and the dark masses of the enemy, Aram drew forth the magical sword that he had brought back with him from Kelven’s Mountain. He held it out toward the enemy and it caught the light of the sun. Flame began to twirl and flash along the extent of the exposed blade.

  The enemy’s army moved more quickly, those out on the wings running; the black horde moving to envelope Aram like the swelling tide of a dark and deadly ocean. As they closed on his position, a mass of arrows arose from the rear, converging upon Aram as they descended. But then lightning erupted near him and the arrows fell in a massive, dark, but harmless cloud of dust. Still, the enemy came on.

  To Findaen’s left, Nikolus and Jared moved forward. Nikolus’ gaze found Findaen and his dark eyes were hard.

  “He means to fight them alone.”

  Findaen felt his fear evaporate, even in the face of the approaching masses of the enemy’s hosts, to be replaced by angry frustration.

  “Not this time,” he said, and speaking to Andaran, moved the horse forward of the line. Without looking back, he drew his sword and nudged the horse into a gallop.

  “Come, men of Derosa,” he shouted. “This is also our fight!”

  They swept forward, down the slope toward their leader, Thaniel and Durlrang thundering ahead of the small group of horses and wolves, while the pikemen, led by Mallet and Donnick, charged forward as well, running full out down the mountainside, even as they fell behind.

  Before they went fifty paces, Aram, standing alone on the rocky rise as the enemy closed around him, hunched forward and bent downward; the sword flashed and disappeared.

  From deep in the earth there came a strange sound, as if in the massive skeletal frame of the world, a great bone had snapped.

  The mountain groaned and shook.

  Andaran stumbled and pitched forward, ejecting Findaen from his back. All around him, men and horses went down as the mountain trembled beneath them. Even the fleet and agile wolves sprawled helplessly in the violence of the mountain’s throes.

  Findaen lay for a moment, stunned, gazing upward along the flank of the mountain at its summit far above. As the mountain continued to shake, its top split open and shot smoke and fire into the sky. Terrified by this sight, he rolled to his right and got to his hands and knees. Around him, men and horses and wolves tried to stand but the earth’s torment was too rough and violent.

  He turned, crawling on his hands and knees on the shaking ground, and looked down the slope. Aram had disappeared. Along the tangent of the rocky spine where he had stood, the mountain had split open and was spewing molten rock in a fiery, smoking flood.

  Dark smoke rose from the burning rock and obscured the sight of the enemy that had been beyond, but even over the groaning of the tortured earth Findaen could hear the terrible screams of men and lashers caught in that molten flood, and knew that the army of the enemy was being consumed.

  Once again, Aram had called forth mysterious, magical powers and had astonished and destroyed his enemies.

  But where was he?

  After a time, the moun
tain began to grow quieter, though it yet spewed lava from the wound in its side, while far above, smoke boiled from its summit. Findaen got carefully to his feet. Smoke obscured everything to the west, even the massive bank of mist from which the enemy had appeared an hour before.

  And then he saw the great horse Thaniel get up, find his footing, and stare down the slope in frozen astonishment. Findaen followed his gaze.

  Out of the smoke and fire that raged along the flank of the mountain where the rocky spine had been, a figure appeared, wreathed in twirling flame.

  The fiery figure was Lord Aram.

  The strange armor that he wore was blazing white now, shimmering with intense heat. As he stumbled up the slope, away from the pouring stream of lava, the heat from his armor set the dry grass ablaze.

  Aram stopped for a moment, swaying, fire crackling and popping in the grass around him, and with slow uncertain movements of his gauntleted hands, sheathed the blade of the sword of heaven. Then, hands hanging limp at his sides, he started again up the slope.

  Dark clouds boiled up suddenly in the west, above the fires, as if they had materialized out of the unseen wall of dark mist, darker and heavier than the smoke, and within moments rain fell from those clouds in sheets, extinguishing the fires in the grass around Aram, and killing the shimmering waves of heat that emanated from his armor.

  Aram stopped after a moment, looking down, then he took another step as the deluge poured down around him, stopped once more, and then, like a dead tree submitting to the will of the wind, he fell forward onto his face. He did not move again.

  With a desperate whinny, Thaniel started down the slope toward him.

  Without waiting for Andaran, Findaen followed, but was immediately sent back to the earth, prone, on his face, as a bolt of bright blue flame smashed down out of the heavens and struck the side of the mountain.

  As the echoes of the roaring thunder clap died away across the side of the mountain, Findaen looked up.

  The blue lightning had struck Aram. His body convulsed for a moment and then went still. Several yards in front of Findaen, Thaniel struggled to his feet and charged down to where his master’s body lay, followed by Durlrang.

  When Findaen arrived on the scene, the horse had managed to turn Aram’s body over and the wolf was frantically licking the hooded face. Findaen shoved him aside and tore off the hood. Aram’s eyes were closed and the skin of his face was red, and yet there was an unearthly paleness to him.

  Findaen put a finger to Aram’s neck and then looked up at Thaniel in astonishment.

  “He yet lives.”

  The horse looked up the slope at the approaching men of Derosa.

  “Timmon.” He roared.

  The clever man from Aniza separated himself from the others and came near. “Yes, my lord?”

  The great horse gazed at him through the eyepieces of his armor.

  “You always have rope.”

  “I do.” Timmon agreed.

  “And now?”

  “Yes, even now.”

  “Tie Lord Aram to my saddle.”

  Timmon blinked his eyes. “My lord?”

  “Do it, and make certain that he will not fall. See to it that he will stay upon my back for a hundred miles over rough ground.”

  Findaen stood up. “What are you –?”

  “DO IT!” Thaniel roared. “Do it now.”

  Together, with Mallet’s help, they sat Aram in the saddle of the armor on Thaniel’s back. Timmon tied Aram’s booted feet into the stirrups on either side and then pulled his arms forward, around the horse’s neck. He lashed Aram’s hands together in front of Thaniel, tying them securely; then he tied a knot composed of many loops around each of Aram’s arms below his shoulders. The ends of these ropes he pulled up and across Aram’s body and down to each opposing stirrup, fastening them tightly after pulling out all of the slack. He repeated this process with each of Aram’s legs, tying rope snug around each hip and running the ends across the saddle to the opposite side.

  After examining his workmanship for a few moments, he addressed the horse. “Lord Aram will curse me for the bruises he will have but he will not fall off.”

  Thaniel returned his gaze for only a moment and then wheeled away and charged across the mountainside toward the south, followed by Durlrang.

  Timmon stared after the surging horse and then looked at Findaen. “Where is he taking him?”

  Findaen watched them fade through the continuing storm. “To Ka’en.”

  He looked down at Aram’s hood, still clutched in his fingers, turned to study the burning, smoking, violent activity of the top of the mountain for several moments, and then glanced around. “Come. We’d better see that everyone is alright, and then get organized and get off this mountainside before we all die.” He turned and looked down the slope but everything to the west was obscured by smoke from the continuing flow of molten rock. Nothing moved in the smoke near them but far away they could still hear the high pitched notes of echoing screams. If there was anything left of Manon’s army, it was running westward for its very life.

  9

  The plains to the west were dark; the last vestiges of twilight had faded. The only light came from the first stars and the Glittering Sword of God that slashed across the night sky overhead. Still, Ka’en gazed into the west.

  Far away, the horizon smoldered darkly red about the unseen summit of Burning Mountain. Despair gripped her. Thoughts of Aram overwhelmed her. What had happened? Where was he?

  She thought for a brief moment of the life she desired ever since meeting him. Of peace and tranquility, of children and a home, of quiet suppers and a shared cup of kolfa on cool mornings. And she wondered if, after all, it was only a desperate dream, with no chance of fulfillment. Aram had said many times that nothing was certain, and that there were dark and desperate years ahead before they could settle down to peace and quietude.

  Though he was ever stolid in facing that which lay ahead, there were times when she knew that he, too, longed for simpler, less dangerous times. Once, when he stood on the balcony of her father’s house, gazing out across the fields as the sunlight faded, she had asked him whether he wished to eat inside or out on the veranda.

  He did not answer for several moments. Finally, she prodded him.

  “What shall we do, Aram?”

  He did not look at her but he spoke, and his voice was low and harsh, underlain with virulent ferocity.

  “Somehow,” he said, “someday – I will find my way to his tower and I will run him to ground. I will drive this sword into him until it will go into him no further. I will destroy him. And then it will be ended and everything will be alright.”

  He turned and faced her and there was a terrible light in the green depths of his eyes. His face was set and hard.

  After a moment, he seemed to see her for the first time; surprise crossed his face. He shook himself and the hardness left his eyes; his features softened. He frowned slightly and she knew that he was wondering whether or not he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.

  “What did you ask?”

  She smiled into his troubled eyes. “I said – if it’s alright with you we’ll eat out on the veranda tonight.”

  “Oh – certainly – that’s sounds fine.”

  She often thought about that unguarded moment and it worried her that for Aram, more and more each day, the war seemed to be devolving into a personal contest between him and Manon. It was as if the rest of the world was involved only on the periphery of things, concerned only with making sure that the two of them would one day meet and settle everything between them.

  There was no question but that Aram was the most powerful man in the world and that he stood at the fulcrum of events – probably, he was the fulcrum. But he seemed not to be cognizant of this fact in the same way that other men would be – the ancient kings, for instance. He cared nothing for the trappings of power and position, or wealth; he cared little about the regard with which others v
iewed him. He was a man that had talked with gods but was uncomfortable with adulation from even the simplest of men.

  Ka’en admired him all the more for these qualities but she was concerned that he approached every decision not as the leader of the free peoples of the world, working in concert toward a common end, but as a lone warrior that needed the help of others only in as much as their actions could help him reach a private goal.

  She had heard the story of the meeting between Joktan and Manon in the last great battle, and she dreaded the reenactment of that scene with Aram standing where his forebear had stood so long ago. Her greatest fear was that the result would be the same now as it had been then.

  But there was plenty of dread to be had in the meantime, too. Perhaps Aram was a tool of destiny as it sometimes seemed to her that the whole rest of the world believed. There was an air of unavoidable destiny that surrounded him. Hawks believed him to be the Sent One, a man in whom the spirit of Kelven resided; wolves, because of something Leorg had overheard Florm say, believed him to be Kelven himself. Many men thought him to be a god, or at the least a tool of the gods.

  Ka’en believed him to be what he professed to be – a man. And while others seemed to think that his actions were predestined by higher powers, she was convinced that all his deeds were entirely under his own control; that he was just a man who did what was right because it was right. But that knowledge held a special jeopardy for her, because it meant that he did not have to face Manon in order to be killed – he could die in any battle, by the hand of any enemy, or even as the result of the flight of a stray arrow.

  Perhaps he was dead now, separated from her by distance and darkness, beneath that faraway smoke and fire.