After the horses were relieved of their burden of metal and released, Aram shed his own armor and started a fire on the narrow beach, close to the trees and next to a bank of rocks that had been piled there by past floodwaters. “We might as well be warm,” he stated.
Thom sat down close to the fire and peered up into the hills on the far side of the river. Then he looked over at Aram.
“And if we’re spotted?”
Aram shook his head. “It will not matter, captain.”
Thom frowned. “You said this before, Lord Aram, up at the gates – that it wouldn’t matter if we were seen.” He looked back toward the road and then turned his suspicious gaze once more to the darkening hills opposite. “We are deep in hostile territory here.”
Aram shook his head again. “No, Thom – we are in Elam, your homeland and that of Marcus.” He indicated the surrounding countryside, and made a point of gesturing toward the far side of the river. “No one about us is the enemy; only him who sits the throne. And he will not sit there much longer.”
Thom would have liked to pursue the topic, but Aram rose and went into the trees in search of more wood to feed to the fire. After staring after him for a moment, Thom looked over at Marcus, shrugged, and went into the trees also to help with gathering fuel.
Later, after they had eaten and were seated upon the sand around the fire, Aram studied the slow heavy current of the river that flowed past their campsite.
He looked over at Marcus.
“Rivers usually have names,” he said.
“It’s called the Sunder,” Marcus told him.
“Will we follow it all the way south to the palace?”
Marcus nodded. “Mostly,” he said. “We will cross over it just north of the junction where the road goes west to Farenaire.”
Aram turned to watch the water for a moment longer and then stretched out with his feet toward the fire. “Let us rest,” he told the others. “I want to be up before dawn to prepare the horses. We must be at the gates of Calom Malpas as soon as there is enough sun to empower the Sword.”
They rose in the early twilight and by the time the sun began to show above the eastern horizon, were back upon the pavement of the road, cantering slowly southward toward the city to their front.
Aram glanced over at the emerging disc of the rising sun and then looked back at Thom and Marcus.
“Same plan as at the northern gates,” he said. “Stay behind me and let the horses have their head. I will get us through and into the city quickly. Unless we are confronted, we will not stop, but go straight on through to the other side.” He turned back to his front as they neared the city. “If there are troops in sizeable numbers, we will halt long enough that I may speak to them and then we will go on.” He looked eastward at the rising body of the sun as he drew the Sword. “But I will tell them only what is needed, no more. I want to go far today.”
Washing the Sword in the light of the new day, Aram spoke to Thaniel and the horse broke into a gallop.
The gates of Calom Malpas were open and there was an oxcart just coming through as the three mounted men stormed up. Seeing the armored beasts bearing down upon him, the driver of the cart abandoned his seat, bounded back through the gates, and leapt to the left out of sight. The terrified ox bolted off the road, dragging the bouncing cart behind him.
A man dressed in official-looking garb, and flanked by two soldiers, appeared in the road beyond the gates, just inside the city, staring toward the north in order to discover what it was that had so frightened the farmer.
Aram lowered the Sword and released its flame into the sky above the profile of the city’s skyline. He was careful to hold the tangent of the crackling fire higher than the level of the rooftops. Nonetheless, deep inside the town, beyond the limits of his control, one of the lightning-like bolts arced downward and struck the roof of a building taller than its neighbors, blasting the tiles into shards and setting the roof of that building aflame.
At this, the official and his companions abandoned the road and dove for the verge, out of sight.
Thaniel, followed by the others, thundered through the open gates.
There was no large military presence as there had been at the gates in the north, so Aram twirled the flaming Sword over his head to prevent any possible foolish attempts at bravery and kept going on toward the city’s interior.
Though businesses lined the road to either side; at this early hour, few people were in the streets. Proprietors of the various shops peered in terror from windows and partially opened doors as the three mounted men swept past. Very shortly, they passed the building with the burning roof, which lay along a side street that ran westward.
A few minutes more and they entered an open sort of square, bounded on all sides by large, tall buildings. This broad, open area obviously lay at the heart of the city.
“Halt!” Aram told Thaniel.
The great horse slid to a stop. Aram stood up in the stirrups and swung the Sword in a wide arc, letting its fire sing and crackle overhead. Then he sheathed the blade and looked around. Though no one was in sight, the citizenry having scurried for shelter, he was nonetheless certain that he would be heard.
“Know this – all you who hear my words,” he roared. “Rahm Imrid is hereby deposed. Marcus, son of Waren, sits the throne in his stead. Hear me – Marcus, son of Waren, is High Prince in Elam.”
He stood high in the stirrups for a moment longer, listening to the sound of his own voice echoing along the apparently deserted streets, and then he settled into the saddle and spoke to Thaniel.
“Go.”
There were more official representatives of the throne at work in and around the southern gates of Calom Malpas, along with a small contingent of soldiers. Aram employed the Sword once more, scattering these officials and troops that manned the southern gates, which were also open, and they drove through and out into the open countryside.
South of Calom Malpas, the landscape of Elam broadened out. The hills over to the east curved away and disappeared beyond the horizon toward a line of hazy, distant mountains. To their right, west of the road, the river meandered southward, coiling lazily among reeds and marshes. On both sides of the road, to the west and the east, well-tended farmland covered every foot of arable ground. Villages and sizeable towns became more numerous. Secondary roads angled away from the main thoroughfare in both directions.
Traffic increased upon the road but Aram kept driving south, scattering oxcarts and foot traffic into the farmland on either side. Off to the southwest, on their right as they drove deeper into the country, dark gray mountains, like the chipped and broken teeth of a massive predator, rose into the sky. “The Iron Mountains,” Marcus responded to a questioning look from Aram. Aram studied those distant gray and jagged peaks for a long moment, among whose high wild ramparts, rumor suggested, hid the wizard, Da’nisam, who had created the gun and given it to Keegan. Then he looked back to the front, into the south of Elam.
Ahead the land rolled gently away toward the distant ocean.
Abruptly, just as they were speeding through a gentle region of large holdings of farmland where the river broadened out and looped in long slow arcs toward the south, Alvern’s voice came down out of the blue. “There is a large body of men moving toward you along the road, my lord.”
“How many?” Aram asked.
“Many,” the eagle replied. “As many as I have ever seen in one place at one time.”
Hearing this, Thom moved Norgen up beside Aram and Thaniel. “What do we do now, my lord?”
Aram looked over. “We are going to Farenaire, Thom,” he replied calmly. “It matters not what stands between.”
Thom gazed back with narrowed eyes for a moment and then simply nodded his head and fell back into place beside Marcus.
A mile further on, now several miles south of Calom Malpas, they topped a rise in the road and gained an unobstructed view of the countryside of southern Elam. Without prompting from Ara
m, Thaniel slid to a halt.
Darkening the road for miles, coming straight toward them, there were thousands of blue and gold clad troops, their helmets and the tips of their pikes gleaming in the sun. The front rank was barely a half-mile distant. Seeing the mounted men suddenly appear atop the rise, the long columns ground down slowly, like a gigantic snake bunching its muscles, and stopped. Aram studied them and then looked over at Thom.
“Recognize anyone?”
Thom leaned forward in the saddle and gazed intently at the foremost ranks of the vast Elamite army. Then, after a moment, he nodded.
“It’s a long way, but that officer in front there looks like General Arrabi.”
“How well do you know him?” Asked Aram.
Thom considered and then shook his head. “Not well. He was at officer training school when I was there – I think he was a sub-general then. As far as I knew him, which as I said was not well, I always thought him a solid soldier and a good man.”
Aram gazed ahead for some time. Then he looked back over at Thom. “Is – was – he devoted to Rahm, do you think?”
Thom shook his head once more as a slight smile touched his face. “No more than any of us were, my lord. Like me, I think, he was simply dedicated to the army. Few men in the officer corps – or the ranks, for that matter – love Rahm Imrid.”
Aram nodded and reached back for the Sword. “Alright,” he stated, “I won’t kill him then until we determine where his loyalties lie now. Let’s go.”
He spoke to Thaniel and the horse lunged forward. Holding the weapon above his head, he let it collect power from the sun, now well up in the sky. As they bore down upon the long column of men, the Elamite general, Arrabi, rapidly deployed his foremost ranks forward, positioning the troops across the pavement with pikes and lances lowered and ready to receive their charge.
Back along the column, other officers followed his lead, spreading the men wide. By the time Aram and his companions were within thirty yards of the front ranks, they were facing endless ranks of troops in defensive posture.
The Sword was howling, latent with power.
Aram lowered the blade.
Remembering the blazing rooftop in the town behind him, and having no desire to kill any of those gathered before him, he raised it slightly before releasing its power.
With a crackling roar, fire shot from the tip of the Sword.
As flame leapt from the end of the blade and sizzled and snapped through the air above the Elamite army, blazing with golden potency, hot and sharp with fearsome magic, the troops fell to the earth in terror as one man, abandoning any thought of defense.
Aram waved the Sword back and forth in the air above the massed ranks of troops, giving the lightning-fire time to accomplish its full measure of frightening the men that cowered on the ground beneath it.
“Halt, Thaniel,” Aram commanded.
The great horse slid to a stop upon the pavement. Aram held the Sword aloft, letting flame flow through it unchecked, flaring high into the sky like bursts of power from the surface of the sun itself, and stood up tall in the stirrups. Infusing his words with rock-hard harshness, he raised his voice above the keening of the Sword.
“Lay down your arms – or you die.”
Many of the men had fallen to the earth atop their lances. Those that could now pulled them loose and flung them aside. Most simply lay where they were, covering their ears against the sound of the Sword’s fury and hiding their eyes from its awesome power.
Aram looked back along the long line of men, watching for any signs of resistance. Seeing none, he nevertheless held the Sword high and lowered his gaze to find the man identified by Thom Sota as General Arrabi. The general was crouched down upon one knee with his hand above his forehead, shielding his eyes from the blazing fire of the Sword.
“I am not an enemy of Elam,” Aram told him. “And I have no desire to slay her sons. But tell your men to abandon arms, general – or I will kill you all.”
Arrabi gazed up at Aram for a long moment. Then he placed his hands over his ears to mute the sound of the Sword as his eyes streamed. “Who are you?”
“Now!” Said Aram, ignoring the question.
Shakily, Arrabi got to his feet, though he kept his head bent forward with his hands still protecting his ears. “Lay down arms,” he commanded of the officers nearest him. “Pass the word – everyone – lay down arms. Do it now!”
Aram held the Sword out for a moment longer, lowering it a bit to let the flame sizzle and crackle in the air overhead back along the line of troops, causing any that had gained their feet to once again dive for the cover of the weeds and ditches along the roadside. Then, deliberately, he sheathed it and raised the eye guard of his helmet. He looked down and met the frightened eyes of the Elamite officer.
“You are Arrabi?”
Arrabi pulled his hands away from the sides of his head, rubbed at his temples, and then wiped his streaming eyes. Slowly, shaking, he straightened up to stand before Aram as he nodded in assent. “I am.”
Aram quickly and quietly took the man’s measure. Though obviously discomfited – indeed, stricken – by the awesome display of power from the weapon borne by the terrible stranger mounted on the armored beast, he nonetheless found the courage to stand and face Aram squarely.
“Please,” Arrabi asked of Aram. “Spare my men.”
Though impressed by the selfless nature of the general’s first request, Aram ignored it and continued to gaze into Arrabi’s eyes.
“To whom do you owe your allegiance?” He asked bluntly.
The general’s eyes widened at the arcane and unexpected demand of this query. He looked down at the pavement, swallowed, and considered the question for a long moment as he attempted to slow his breathing and still his rapidly pounding heart. Then, he looked back up at Aram.
“I swore allegiance to the flag of Elam,” he replied.
“And what of Rahm Imrid?”
Arrabi hesitated. “High Prince Rahm sits the throne of Elam. Therefore … he is due my faithful service.”
Scowling fiercely, Aram leaned toward him and tendered another question, his tone low and harsh. “And if he is removed from the throne of this land?”
Arrabi blinked the remnants of moisture from his eyes and stared. Something like the ghost of a secret hope passed through the depths of his brown orbs as he gazed at Aram. “My allegiance is to Elam,” he replied stubbornly. “He who sits the throne is due my faithful service.”
Aram watched him for a moment longer until he was satisfied that he properly comprehended the man’s meaning. Then he looked back along the column of men, some of whom had also once again found the courage to regain their feet though none had the nerve to retrieve his weapon.
“Where do you lead such a large body of men as this?” Aram demanded.
Arrabi swallowed once more. “To Basura.”
Aram’s eyes narrowed and hardened. “Chancellor Heglund Basura is a particular friend of mine,” he said in a soft, dangerous voice.
The general hesitated once more. His eyes flicked away for a moment toward the unknown, helmeted companions of this strange and terrifying man before coming back to Aram’s face. “Those were my orders from High Prince Rahm,” he explained warily. “I only –” He discovered that he had no good answer beyond the enunciation of his mission from his prince and his voice trailed off.
“And if Rahm were no longer High Prince of this land?” Aram repeated the demand.
Arrabi drew himself up to his full height, daring the wrath of the stranger. “Then I await orders from him who comes after.”
Aram leaned forward once more. “And if he who comes after be Marcus, son of Waren?”
Arrabi stared and then frowned in confusion. “I have seen Marcus, sir – forgive me, but you are not he.”
“No,” Aram laughed harshly, “I am not he. But he is with me and very soon he will sit the throne.”
Arrabi started and glanced back at Aram
’s companions, both of whose identities were obscured by facial armor. He studied the two of them and then brought his gaze back to Aram. “I am a general of the army of Elam, sir. I confess to a lack of interest in all things political.” He hesitated and looked around at the two subordinate officers that stood near him. “This also I confess. I have no great love of Rahm Imrid. I serve Elam and Elam alone.”
After making this statement, he watched his subordinates closely until they too, both of them, nodded in agreement.
“Hear me then,” Aram told them. “I go even now to depose Rahm Imrid. Marcus, son of Waren, will rule in his stead before the sun sets on the morrow.”
Arrabi wiped at his eyes again and stared up at him. Slowly he nodded. “May I inquire as to your identity, sir? Are you he that rules in the far north of the world?”
“You speak as to Manon, the ally of Rahm?”
Arrabi drew in a hesitant breath. “I do.”
Aram smiled grimly. “No – I am not Manon. I am the enemy of Manon.” He leaned over Thaniel’s head and spoke in hard tones. “I am Aram, ruler of Regamun Mediar, the ancient city of Joktan the king. I have come to set you and your daughters free of the malice of Manon and of his foul minion that now sits upon the throne of Elam.”
His voice grew harder. “You and your men, general, will stand aside and let us pass. Do so, and none of you will come to harm. Do it not and you will all die.”
Arrabi gazed back for a moment and then turned and barked orders to his subordinates. “Clear the road. Let these men pass.”
As the command began working its way back along the immense column, Arrabi looked up at Aram. “Do you mean what you say, sir? – that none of our daughters will ever again be torn from their families and borne away into the north?”
“Never again, general,” Aram assured him and then he looked at Arrabi with pity as understanding came. “You have lost someone? A daughter, perhaps?”
Kelven's Riddle Book Five Page 6