Kelven's Riddle Book Three

by Daniel T Hylton

  There was a torch burning just inside the cavern, set in a mound of piled rocks. He pulled it out and lifted it high, easing back along the side of the wagon. The floor of the vehicle on which the cone rested was well off the ground, and came nearly to his shoulders. The cone itself was about ten feet tall and five feet in diameter, and sat in the middle if its conveyance. A foot or so from its base, there was a thin metal ring that completely surrounded it, shining like gold in the light of the torch.

  As he came toward the rear, step by cautious step, holding the torch high, he watched the cone for signs of movement, but he also paused every other moment to hold his breath and study the blackness that surrounded him for dangers that might lurk beyond the influence of the torch. Hearing a slight whispering movement, like that made by something heavy sliding surreptitiously over stone, he lifted the torch higher and let the light push back the darkness. Immediately, his eye fell upon a very large elliptical object, lying on the cavern floor, perhaps thirty or forty feet behind the rear of the fellring wagon.

  The object moved – or quivered – now and again, tremulously, and seemed to emit a pale yellowish glow.

  Perhaps it was a trick of the light from the torch’s flame. Aram took a few careful steps toward the object, holding the torch high, and realized suddenly that he could see inside the massive leathery sack, for that’s what it was. Something lived and breathed in there – something huge, terrible, unnatural, and yet vaguely familiar.

  “Hello, my son. At last we meet.” The quiet, cultured voice came from behind him.

  Aram froze. In his shock at finding the unborn monster, he had forgotten the fellring.

  “Turn, I beg you,” the soft voice spoke again. “Look upon me. Let us commune together, that we may know one another.”

  Slowly, trembling, Aram turned to look up at the rear of the cone.

  A narrow door stood ajar in its sloping sides. A figure stood outside it, gazing down on him with obsidian eyes.

  Manon.

  The god was tall, thin, dressed in flowing robes of silver, and the skin of his face and head was smooth and utterly devoid of hair. From where he stood, Aram could see that the fellring’s feet rested on the level floor of the wagon just inside the circumference of the thin metallic ring. The thought came –

  If he steps outside that circle –

  “You are Aram, are you not?” The gently menacing voice asked. “Yes, of course you are – the son of Joktan the Prodigal, my old enemy. Long now have I wanted to meet you. Remove that silly hood, and let me see your face.”

  Obediently, Aram complied, and then he looked up, and met the god’s eyes. And in that moment, he knew that he would very likely die.

  35

  Manon gazed down upon the man with some surprise. The face was familiar to him – it was very like that which had belonged to a long-vanquished foe. Although that enemy had, in the end, proved to be little more than an irritant, it had nonetheless been his intention to wipe the earth clean of that blood. Now, here, standing before him, was fairly convincing proof that Joktan’s descendents had survived.

  Or was it coincidence?

  The race of humans was as odd as it was pathetic. Manon had often observed that there were similarities of feature and deportment even among humans that were ostensibly unrelated by blood. This might be yet another example of that trait. He had not been present when the Maker had brought this race forth – or, as was more likely true, discovered it emerging from the rubble of the universal convulsion and then claimed it as his own. Manon himself had long ago concluded that he would have passed on the idea of encouraging this particular species to multiply, inhabiting and populating any of the many worlds. Interestingly enough, though, humanity was quite prolific in the art of propagating itself, and surprisingly difficult to eradicate, as he knew from experience.

  So, the fact that this man resembled another that had died ten millennia earlier was probably nothing more than a coincidence. Still, the resemblance was striking. Manon looked beyond the man, through him, actually, at that which interested him most. The weapon. The god’s eyes could clearly see its pulsating power, shining through the man’s being, illuminating his bones, as if it were the only thing of substance and the man who bore it merely a ghost.

  At the back of the cavern, a red glow appeared and expanded out of the darkness, producing a thin, gray-cloaked figure whose attention was fixed on Aram, but then was immediately drawn to Manon. The figure stared at the god, blinked in some confusion, and then disappeared.

  Manon smiled. A servant of Ferros, which meant, no doubt, that his brother would appear momentarily.

  He returned his attention to the man. In the human’s eyes, there was wariness, and something else that the god could not quite discern, but no fear. Maybe he was related to that fool Joktan, after all.

  36

  Aram saw Bendan appear and leave just as quickly, and also came to the conclusion that Ferros would shortly appear on the scene. He looked up to find the god’s gaze on him.

  “My son,” Manon asked, “why do you resist me?”

  The voice was smooth, pleasantly modulated, pitched neither noticeably high nor low. The question was delivered in tones of concern, as if from a loving parent to a recalcitrant child.

  Aram was somewhat surprised that Manon knew so little of the man standing before him that he would think that acting the part of a disappointed parent was a strategy that bore even the remotest possibility of success. He had lost his initial fear of the fellring, having seen the hunger in the god’s eyes as he gazed upon the sword. For he believed that Manon could not grasp the sword with the tenuous hand of a mere projection of himself, nor could he transport it back across the miles without the aid of lashers – all of whom lay dead outside the cave.

  Florm was right; gods did have limitations. They weren’t magicians, or even sorcerers; Manon obviously coveted the weapon and its power, but he would be required to come and wrest it away in person. Otherwise, it would have to be physically delivered into his hand and Aram had no intention of committing such a foolish act. So, the god was stymied. He dare not kill Aram, or the risk would be run that the sword would be lost to him forever. Thus, the employment of gentle manner and conciliatory tone.

  Aram slid the hood through his belt, and met the god’s eyes. “You killed my family.”

  “No, surely this can’t be laid to my account. If it is true that your family died, then I am sorry.” Manon’s demeanor grew almost regretful. “You are a leader of men, Aram. You surely understand that, in the accomplishment of great things, sacrifice is inevitable.”

  “Sacrifice is a voluntary action, my lord. My parents and my sister were murdered.”

  “By who?”

  “By your overseers.”

  The god gave no physical response to this, no shake of the head, not even a shrug. “We are making a better world, Aram. There is inevitable pain in such a process. You could aid us in this endeavor, if you would.”

  Aram almost laughed in incredulity. “I will resist you ever, my lord; of this you may be assured.”

  Nothing flickered in the deep eyes. Manon moved one hand slightly. “Come and talk with me. Come to me, and let us find reason.”

  Aram shook his head. “There are many of your servants between me and you. For the moment, any meeting other than this is impossible.”

  The god smiled slightly. “Do you suppose that my children will not stand aside at a word from me? Say that you will come, and they will not only let you pass, but will aid you in your journey.”

  Aram was stunned by this statement. Could it really be that easy? Rather than a long, protracted war, in which many would die, was it possible that Manon would invite his own destruction into his bosom?

  But then the god’s eyes flicked momentarily upward, to the hilt of the sword, rising above his back. In those blue-black eyes, raw, naked lust gleamed for just a moment; and though it was almost instantly masked, Aram saw it. Ice took hold of
his insides at that look. A question came unbidden into his mind, and it seemed that with its coming, screams of alarm echoed around the interior of his skull.

  Why would Manon lust for something which, in the hand of another, could easily kill him? Did the god have a means by which he could separate Aram from the weapon, at little cost to himself? Did Manon, in fact, know exactly what this thing was?

  Aram took an involuntary step backward as these thoughts erupted inside his brain. And despite the many unanswered questions, he suddenly knew the answer to the first. No – it would never be so easy.

  He looked back up, but Manon’s attention was no longer centered on him. The god had lifted his eyes and was gazing into the darkness.

  “Hello, my brother,” he said with a slight smile.

  Aram turned. Ferros stood in the deep darkness, twenty yards or so from the egg sack, surrounded in red mist, like billowing, smoky light. The god of the underearth studied his brother for a moment in silence and then he turned to examine the egg sack containing the young dragon.

  “What have you done here?” He asked, and the timbre of his voice was low, angry.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Manon answered.

  Ferros looked at his brother. “How very wrong you are – you are in my domain here.” He glanced at Aram and then again at the young dragon. “You threaten a man whose protection I have guaranteed when he is in my domain – where he is at this very moment. Worse, you have once again violated the Maker’s trust, freeing the Laish from their sleep, and allowing them to produce a child. Now, you have imprisoned that child, for purposes at which I can only guess, but into which – I am certain – you have not looked deeply enough to understand the peril that you have brought upon us all.”

  He turned his gaze full upon Manon, and the gleaming eyes contained undisguised anger. The molten bronze in their depths seemed to burn and smoke. “Again, I ask. What have you done here, brother?”

  Anger flashed in Manon’s eyes as well, the sapphire depths seethed with blue flame. “Interfere with me and I will destroy the child – and the man as well.”

  Ferros looked at Aram. “Leave this place.”

  Shaking, terrified by the rising potency in the atmosphere, Aram turned to comply.

  “Wait.” This came from Manon.

  Aram looked up and met the cold obsidian gaze.

  Gathering his composure, Manon spoke quietly. “Come to me, Aram. Put away the lies that others have engendered in your thoughts and come to me. Say that you will do this and my armies will stand aside.”

  Aram met the fierce gaze for a moment longer, and then, without returning an answer, quick-stepped along the side of the wagon and out of the cavern, nearly running by the time he reached the bright sunlight. He hurried across the flat, open ground, past the mutilated bodies of the lashers and into the rough, higher ground beyond.

  Here he stopped to catch his breath, and to wait for the ragged pounding of his heart to slow. After a few moments, he looked back toward the mouth of the deep darkness. The fellring had not detonated; the brother gods must still have been talking with their anger in relative check. And Aram realized that the anger expressed inside that place had been legitimate, not contrived for his benefit. The pressure that had surged in that vast space had pushed upon him like a vise, terrible in its aspect and intensity.

  He stood there in the tenuous shade of one of the prickly trees as his breathing and his heart-rate calmed, and a terrible realization came over him. The issues and events in which he was embroiled were bigger than he’d known, certainly too big for the participation of a mere man. But if so – why had Kelven, and the Astra, made it possible for him to retrieve the sword? Manon obviously did not fear it, but, as Kelven had suggested, instead coveted it greatly. Kelven was debilitated now, reduced, but the beings arguing in the darkness behind him were not; they were potent, frighteningly so. Yet they both of them obviously feared the power of the “Laish”, those creatures that Joktan had referred to as dragons.

  He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, staring at the mysterious mountain with the dark, triangular wound in its flank. Dear Maker in the heavens – how could he hope to challenge such a being as Manon when he could not even abide the terrible – and strangely physical – presence of the god’s anger?

  37

  After several minutes more, when fire and destruction had not roared out of the cavern, he turned and made his way southward to where Findaen and the horses waited.

  Thaniel saw him emerge from the brush and rocks. “Is it a fellring then, Lord Aram?”

  “Yes,” Aram answered and he looked at Findaen. “Let’s rejoin the others.”

  “The lashers are dead?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  Thaniel swung his head around as Aram climbed into the saddle. “What else do we need to do here?”

  Aram shook his head as he looked northward at the black slopes of the mountain. “Nothing. The wagon cannot move on its own accord – I think that much is sure; and Ferros is there now. Let anything further be resolved between the two of them.”

  Thaniel blinked. “The god of the underearth was in there – with you?”

  “Yes.” Aram twisted forcefully in the saddle as if to urge Thaniel away. “Let’s leave this place.”

  They turned west, toward the river. After a few moments, Findaen, who had been watching him narrowly, asked, “Are you alright, my lord?”

  “Shaken a bit,” Aram admitted, “but otherwise unhurt. Let’s find the others and go on into the east.”

  They went out to the riverbed and turned south. When they found the others, waiting where they’d left them, Aram gave Ka’en a quick, slight smile, and then simply continued on down the river toward the south and the distant road. Glancing up at the sun, he said, “We have most of the day left; let’s use it well.”

  Perceiving something unusual in his tone, Ka’en looked over at her brother, frowning. Findaen just shook his head, lifted his eyebrows slightly and shrugged, and then followed Aram southward.

  They gained the road at nightfall and camped beneath the bridge. Every member of the party noticed Aram’s subdued attitude, but no one remarked upon it. Not even Ka’en, gazing upon his knotted brow, knew how to broach the subject of what troubled him, so the camp remained, for the most part, silent. After a quiet supper, Aram sent Leorg and Shingka into the darkness and turned in earlier than usual.

  At sunrise, the party regained the road and went on into the east, the horses moving quickly along the ancient pavement. The landscape grew less rough and rocky with the passing miles. Gradually, the stony ground with its prickly brush began to give way to occasional wide, grassy spaces, though there were still no trees, except for those with thorns. The road began a long, gently sweeping curve toward the south and Kipwing informed them that the sea grew nearer. Far ahead, the rough horizon began to rise up and resolve itself into a range of fairly formidable mountains whose slopes were cloaked with the green of trees.

  The ravines and shallow river beds that contained streams broadened out, and as they went further east, began to support running streams of water rather than being mostly dry washes. Late in the day, they came down out of the hills onto a wide, level area through which a stream large enough to be called a river wound its way toward the sea. On the east side of this shallow valley where a small, clear tributary spilled down a gentle slope and angled toward the river and the ground tumbled up into hilly country once more, Aram left the road and turned aside, descending onto the grassy level of the broad river bed.

  Looking around, he took in the fairly abundant grass, the clear-flowing stream, and the relative shelter of an overhanging rock ledge.

  “We’ll camp here.” He glanced down at Durlrang as he started to dismount. “After you find supper,” he told the old wolf, “come back to me and send Leorg and Shingka out to the north and west.”

  He stepped over to Huram in order to help Ka’en down. She smiled at him tiredly. �
��You’ve driven us hard all day and not said two words to me, my love. In fact, you’ve said very little since the black mountain.” Leaning down, she rubbed at her calves with a gloved hand and looked up at him. “Is everything alright?”

  Aram hesitated, glancing over at the others, who had dismounted and were freeing the horses of their burdens and preparing to set up camp. Mallet had already gone into the low hills to try and find enough dry brush for a fire. He met Ka’en’s eyes. “I’m just feeling a bit out of my depth again.”

  “Why?”

  Folding his arms, he leaned back against Thaniel’s strong flank, closing his eyes for a moment. He let out a tired breath. “I’m not a god, Ka’en.”

  She smiled. “Mallet thinks you are.”

  His eyes still closed, he shook his head shortly, dismissing her attempt at humor. “I’m not a god,” he repeated, “and yet I presume to fight against one – probably the most powerful of the lot. How can I win such a fight?”

  Her smile became a frown. “With the sword, of course.”

  He shook his head again. “He didn’t seem to fear it at all.”

  “What?”

  “He was not afraid of it; in fact, he lusted after it.”

  “He –?”

  “Manon.”

  Startled, she drew herself erect and her eyes flew wide. “You talked with him – in the cave?”

  “He was there, yes. It was a fellring after all.”