Kelven's Riddle Book Three

by Daniel T Hylton

  “You are most welcome, my lady,” he replied.

  Aram looked at her, surprised once again at how much this beautiful woman could accomplish simply by speaking a few gracious words. I must learn to remember that my greatest asset stands at my side, he thought.

  For three days, Aram, Ka’en, and the others were guests of Boman. They met the elders of Duridia, including Boman’s father, an amenable man named Aldon who had abdicated the governorship in favor of his son when his health began to fail. The talking horses quickly became a sensation, drawing large crowds wherever they went, something that Florm and Ashal seemed to enjoy, but that Thaniel eventually found unacceptable, and he took to going to the river and wading out into the marshes where none could follow. After a time, with assurances from Aram, the wolves were allowed inside the wall but were generally given wide berth.

  Boman’s wife was a small woman named Lenci. She had borne four children, was full of life and loved to laugh. Despite her sharp tongue, and brash, open manner, Ka’en found her to be a delight, spending the days with her while Aram and Boman walked the countryside and talked. Aram suspected that Boman would have liked to witness the power of the sword, but he never asked, and Aram thought it best to secure his friendship by subtler means.

  Eventually, Boman informed Aram that Duridia kept more than four thousand men under arms. They possessed few swords, so most of the soldiers were pikemen and crossbowmen – this was the small bow held at the level by its user that Aram had first seen employed by the men at the wall – and they were decidedly adept in the employment of both weapons. Aram suggested that he could send swords south via the horses, a few hundred at a time, if an alliance could be struck, and Boman replied that he was certain they could agree on some kind of suitable payment. Aram, of course, had absolutely no desire to be recompensed for weapons that would never see use anyway, if his army was not somehow enlarged.

  One day they were walking the banks of the river to the west of town, and were for the moment alone. Aram, on impulse, presented Boman with the gift of a few monarchs for the people of Duridia, intending to make the point that what he desired in exchange for the proffered weapons could not be counted in terms of money or exchange.

  Boman frowned down at the coins gleaming in his palm, seemingly unaffected by the massive amount of wealth represented there. “There is no need to try and buy my friendship, Lord Aram,” he said quietly, and he extended his hand to return the money.

  Aram gazed at the stolid, quiet man with sudden chagrin, but he did not reach out to accept the return of the coins. He sighed. “Forgive my impulse, Lord Boman. I was not attempting to buy your goodwill, but – I was wanting to convince you of my goodwill. I am not wise in the ways of the world, of this I am made aware daily. As you pointed out, my wife is my superior in such things. But it has fallen to me to fight against Manon’s designs, and it is a fight I will lose if I stand alone. I need friends.”

  Boman did something then that Aram had not seen him do in four days. He grinned broadly as he held out the golden monarchs. “I will be your friend. And we will fight with you. And we have little use for gold.”

  Astonished and greatly pleased by these sought-for but unexpected declarations, Aram grinned back. “I have even less use for it,” he admitted. “I brought these and others with me to exchange to Lamont for silver in order to improve the variety of currency in Wallensia. You may keep them or throw them into the river, as you like.”

  Boman glanced out at the rippling water and for a moment Aram thought that he might indeed fling them into the current. But then he shrugged and slid them into an inner pocket. He shrugged. “Who knows what needs the future will bring upon us.”

  “Indeed,” Aram agreed, relieved that no offense seemed to have been taken. He looked hard at Boman. “You mean it, sir – you will stand with us?”

  Boman met his gaze. “We will stand with Wallensia.”

  “Many will die – perhaps both you and I.”

  Boman slid his eyes up to the hilt of the sword. “Many, yes. And perhaps me, Lord Aram – but surely not you. It seems likely to me now that you bear our hope – and the hope of every free man.”

  Aram had heard similar words from others many times. But hearing them now from the stolid, understated governor of Duridia while standing in the warm sun by the peaceful river, they seemed to carry more weight than ever before – perhaps because the next time he faced the enemy, the army behind him would have grown five-fold. No more would he have to hide in ambush, or slide along the flanks, and poke at his enemy with one stiffened finger. Five thousand hard, tough men were enough to make a fist and strike a more direct blow.

  As relieved as he was that Wallensia would now have allies, Aram had to set aside any desire to celebrate in order to address practical matters.

  “I intend to move against the enemy in the spring, Governor. We are fairly secure to the banks of the Broad. But I mean to cross over and push the frontier even further, freeing the slaves as we go.”

  Boman gazed back at him stolidly. “As I said – call at your need, Lord Aram; we will come.”

  They walked on in comradely silence for a while, northward along the wide, gently flowing stream. Then Aram hesitated, slowed, and halted, causing Boman to turn toward him quizzically.

  “You probably understand this already, Governor, but an army on the move must be properly supplied and sheltered.”

  A somewhat sardonic smile crossed Boman’s features. “It’s true that we have never gone to war, as you have, Lord Aram. We’ve fought all of our battles along our own borders – a circumstance that needs changing, in my view. But we do understand the necessity of providing for those that will be away from home for some time. Every farmer that can spare it will provide an oxcart and, as it was a good harvest this year –” He paused, frowning. “As for shelter, however – what sort of shelter have your people devised for your men to use?”

  “I can show you what we have – they’re in storage at your watchtower,” Aram answered. “A man named Arthrus came up with idea of soaking heavy cloth in a thin mixture of oil that comes from pine trees. Once cured, the cloth can be draped over a form made of poles. It goes up quickly and can be taken down just as quickly.”

  Boman gazed at him incredulously. “Your princess sleeps in one of these?”

  “Lady Ka’en is stronger than she might appear.” Aram replied. “So far, at least – she hasn’t complained.”

  The governor laughed. “Well, sir – if a lady can manage in such a shelter, then the men of Duridia certainly may do so.” His good humor trailed off and he grew serious again. “My thoughts and my words are considered and set. Do not fear, Lord Aram; when you call on us, we will be ready.”

  Aram inclined his head in gratitude. “I will send an eagle named Alvern.”

  This genuinely surprised Boman. “An eagle?”

  “There are several noble peoples with the gift of speech,” Aram replied. “The lords of the air are one such people. I will send him to you when my need arises.”

  Boman contemplated this statement for a moment, and then looked at his new friend. “The world has certainly grown more interesting since you came.”

  Aram smiled but made no answer.

  On the morning of the fifth day, they prepared to take their leave of Duridia. After breakfast, Boman walked with Aram into the front room of his house where a crowd had gathered. The governor surveyed the gathering and then turned to Aram. “It is an ancient tradition of my people – and judging by what is written in the Book of Wallen; it is a tradition of Wallensia as well – that any alliance be put on paper, with copies held in possession of both parties. Is this agreeable to you, Lord Aram?”

  Aram inclined his head gladly. “It is.”

  Boman motioned toward a table that had been placed where there had been a single chair before. There were now two chairs positioned at either end of the table. “Then let us sign the agreement of alliance, and my father and Lady Ka’en
will bear witness.”

  Aram felt many things as he signed his name as Ka’en had taught him – he felt gladness that four thousand hardy men had been added to the strength of those that resisted Manon, and he felt a strangely powerful sense of pride that he was entering into an agreement on behalf of the people of Wallensia – Ka’en’s people, his people.

  After the signing, Boman stood and addressed the room. “The people of Duridia, children of Durid the Strong, who built this land in ancient times between the hills, south of the plains and north of the sea, hereby ally our strength with Aram Adamantum of Wallensia, for good or for ill, in victory and in defeat –” he hesitated and then deliberately altered his words – “for victory. This agreement shall stand, as it did in the days of old, until the sun ceases to rise in the east, and the ever-green grasses fail from the prairie. So says Duridia.”

  To Aram’s surprise, utter silence followed this pronouncement, but all stood as one and each man and woman placed one hand upon his or her heart. Boman looked at Aram expectantly.

  He glanced at Ka’en, who gave him a smile of encouragement, and then he stood also.

  “Across the face of the earth,” he answered, “there are many people like us, scattered and small, but free. And all of these have faced the wrath of the grim lord alone. This is no longer true. Duridia and Wallensia now stand united, and others will join us. We will not be pushed from the earth, from our lands and our homes, simply because another wishes it. We will stand; we will fight; we will live free, or die fighting for that freedom.” He stopped himself short and looked down for a moment. When he looked up again, there was a fierce light in his green eyes. “No – such an attitude does not suit us. As Governor Boman said, this is for victory. We will fight, and we will win.”

  And then they cheered.

  Boman stepped to one side into the crowd to retrieve something from his wife, Lenci. Turning back to Aram, he reached across and handed him a large, rectangular package. Aram looked down. It was the Book of Wallen.

  23

  The sun had risen past midmorning as they sat on the horses where the road crested the summit of the hills east of Duridia, and gazed down upon the valley that ran toward Durck and the sea. One lone oxcart was just now turning southward at the junction of the road from Derosa and the road that crossed over it as it came from Duridia and went on toward the east. The oxcart had come from the east, evidently from Lamont, or from lands in that direction. Aram considered catching up to its driver and questioning him, but decided against it. Boman had told them what he knew of Lamont, and the rest they would soon discover for themselves.

  When they rode through the junction, the oxcart was still visible to the south, trundling toward Durck. Beyond the junction, a bridge arched over the stream and the road went on, winding upward into the hills, sturdy and sound. Once again, Aram had reason to marvel at the skill and competence of his ancestors’ engineers. Like the other constructions that the ancients had left behind them, this road appeared as if it would stand unto the end of time.

  The hills lost their gentler aspects as they went eastward and grew rougher, higher, and rockier, but the road went sturdily on. Juniper grew in thickets, clustered mostly along the bottom of draws, through which tumbled frothing streams. The heavy scent of the sea hung on the air and once they glimpsed its distant, deeply blue mystery from the crest of a hill.

  Eventually, the hills gave up every pretext of gentleness, and the road wound across a series of rocky, sharpened spines. Bridges arched over deep canyons, but very little water ran there now, the country had grown drier as they went east. As the sun settled toward sunset, they were still in this wild country, among corrugated hills with scattered copses of twisted and thirsty juniper, so Aram began looking for a place to spend the night.

  Though they possessed full canteens, the horses would require water in much greater amounts. He had hoped to find a spring, but the rugged canyons contained no free-flowing water now, being, evidently, the creation of occasional fierce storms. Or perhaps they were simply natural features of the rough and rocky landscape; in any event, there were no springs or streams of any size that coursed through the jumbled bottoms. Nor was there any grass.

  In the end, having been assured by Thaniel that the horses could survive a night or two without water or sustenance, he settled on camping in a stand of junipers in a swale above the road, sending the wolves into the surrounding hills to find supper and watch for danger.

  The night passed peaceably enough, though Ka’en shivered despite his best attempts to keep her warm. She had been chilled since Derosa, but had remained quiet about it. Aware of her discomfort, Aram had been conflicted on that first night. He feared for her health, but he treasured her company – and Findaen’s words to him in the tavern at Derosa rang always in his mind. She’s safer with you than anywhere else in the world.

  In the morning he built a fire from deadfall and insisted on a hot breakfast for all. Leorg and Shingka had surprised a large number of quail up a draw, and had succeeded in killing several. Mallet cleaned them and roasted them on spits over the fire, while Aram, ignoring the presence of the others, enveloped Ka’en in his arms, imparting his warmth to her as the sun climbed above the hills. Then they went once again toward the east and the mounting sun.

  At midday, they sat on the summit of a hill and gazed at the dark line of a wall that traversed the entirety of the land, stretching from the high country in the north down the spine of a long ridge into the south and out of sight, down over the tumbling hills toward the unseen ocean. This defensive wall was of wood, but more substantial than that of Duridia, higher, and well fortified. There was a gate in the wall where the road entered, and it was closed. The gate was flanked to either side by enclosed towers; if there were guards, they were not exposed upon the wall; they looked out through slits in the superstructure.

  Gazing at this formidable obstruction, Aram felt off, irritable, and abruptly tired of facing walls. He looked at Findaen. “It seems the further we get from the frontier with Manon, the more cautious folk become. Is it just the wildness of this part of the world where they live, you think, or something more?”

  Findaen rubbed his chin and then wiped the sweat from his brow. Despite the coolness of the preceding night, the day had turned unseasonably warm. “Manon’s reach has not come here, surely. We know that their neighbors to the west are not the issue. But perhaps there are dangers to the east that warrant caution on all fronts.”

  “Probably,” Aram agreed, but his irritation remained. He glanced at Ka’en, noting that her face appeared more pale than usual.

  “Are you alright?”

  She smiled perhaps a bit too brightly. “I’m fine. Having the time of my life.”

  Mentally castigating himself once again for allowing her to come along, he looked around at the others. “Same thing as before. Thaniel, Durlrang, and I will go forward and discover the nature of their temperament.”

  He drew the hood over his head as a precaution and rode slowly forward, down across the valley where a tiny stream issued from the rocky hills to the left and then up the incline until he was within thirty yards or so of the gate. There he stopped. Looking up at the slits in the tower’s abutments, he saw that those slits were wide enough to show a man’s face. There was a face in each slit, six in total, three to the left of the gate and three to the right.

  “Stay behind Thaniel, Durlrang,” he instructed the old wolf. “Hello!” He shouted up to the walls.

  Five of the six faces disappeared, replaced by the obvious and deliberate threat of arrows extruding from the slits. One face, in the lowest of the openings to the left, remained.

  “Who are you, and what is your business at this gate?” That face’s voice demanded.

  “My name is Aram. I am from Derosa, a city to the north. I wish to trade with Lamont.”

  There was a long silence while Aram was scrutinized. The face was shadowed, the voice, when it spoke again, muffled. “I
never heard of Derosa. Why do you hide your countenance – and what kind of strange beast is this?”

  I’ve heard that question now at least three times too many, said Thaniel.

  Aram repressed the old familiar frustration. The day was unusually warm; perhaps for this reason, he found himself excessively annoyed at the tenor and content of the question. Also, despite the eventual success of his venture into Duridia, he found himself growing tired of suspicious strangers. “If you will lower your weapons then I will remove this hood – and this is no ‘strange beast’. My friend is a member of the ancient and honorable race of horses. You would be wise to refrain from giving offense.”

  He was instantly sorry for his sharp reply, and it was answered by a lengthy silence. The shadowy face watched him and the steel-tipped missiles remained pointed unwaveringly at him. Finally –

  “What is your business with Lamont?”

  “Exactly that – business. I wish to trade for silver.”

  “We have no silver.”

  “I was told otherwise.”

  “You were told wrong.” The owner of the face and voice had evidently judged him and found him wanting, and had reached a conclusion. “Be gone now, and approach us no more.”

  Aram’s irritation became anger. It was his own fault, he knew, but the thought didn’t temper his frustration. “I’m staying.”

  “We will kill you where you are.”

  Before he could subject anger to reason and stop himself, he reached for the sword, but stayed his hand just in time. “Try to kill me,” he replied harshly, “and I will burn you to ashes.”

  Another silence, followed by an odd, small sound, like the creaking of leather. It was a sound Aram recognized. Instantly, he drew the sword forth just as five missiles streaked toward him.

  Sunlight flashed off the blade, ash fell in a cloud around him. Expecting a second volley, he kept the sword angled toward the top of the wall, but the song of the sword arose, and fire cleaved the heavens. The arrows did not reappear and the lone face disappeared into the darkness of the tower.