Joktan nodded. “Very well. Manon needed armies – great armies, loyal armies. As powerful as he is, he cannot enslave humanity without aid. He himself would never mate with a human woman – although such a thing is possible –for he thinks that our kind is too far beneath him. But in the depths of his tower there are men whose nature he has altered by dark and terrible means, until they are little more than monsters. And there are also dreadful beasts that he has conjured up out of his own dark thoughts and brought to life by giving them of his very own life force. All of these creatures – abominations of nature – will mate with human women.”
He shuddered involuntarily and drew in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Rebuild the fire, Aram, it is getting low.”
After Aram had replenished the fire’s fuel, Joktan watched the mounting flames push back the night for a few moments and then continued. “The young women and girls that the overseers take are brought to the tower where they are given to these vile beasts. The altered men produce the gray men as their offspring, the rank and file of Manon’s armies. A human woman may give birth to as many as four or five of these before she is used up. From that point until she dies, she is a slave in his nurseries.”
He looked up at Aram. “Can you bear hearing this, my son?”
Aram nodded grimly but did not trust himself to speak.
Joktan lowered his gaze again as if he were addressing the fire. “When a woman is given to one of the terrible beasts of Manon’s conjuration, she may give birth only once, for the process kills her. But the results of that process are those creatures which we know as lashers.” He looked up at Aram. “This is the evil that the overseers are willingly a part of – you need not regret the killing of any of these traitorous men. Many of them, perhaps all, know of their master’s purposes for the young women of the world – they do the gathering after all, as with your own sister. But they trade their souls for a measure of freedom, and for a semblance of mastery over their own kind. It is treachery of the worst sort.”
Aram met his gaze and the two men looked at each other across the fire, the old, dead king, and the young, fierce warrior. For several minutes, Aram fought down the convoluted mixture of fury and anguish that rose in him and fought each other for supremacy. Finally, he spoke, his voice shaking.
“Manon must be destroyed, my lord.”
“Oh, yes, he must.”
Aram reached behind and drew the sword and held it forth, straining to keep it suspended over the flames even as it tried to dive straight down into the earth and find the sun on the far side of the world. He turned it back and forth slowly and it shot reflected beams out from the fire that severed the darkness like bolts of lightning. “And this,” he said, “will destroy him.”
“I have been assured that it will.” Joktan agreed.
Aram pondered the blade a moment longer and then slipped it back into its sheath. He looked at Joktan. “The day will come,” he said, “when I and this blade will find him. Even if I do not survive that meeting, my lord, I assure you that he will not.”
The old ghost met his gaze for several moments and then nodded. “The world after Manon will need you, my son – see that you survive that meeting.” He stood up.
“Sleep now, Aram.” He said. “Tomorrow we will commence your instruction.”
As Aram watched, he faded away, seeming to sink slowly downward into the earth.
For the next ten days, every day from sunup until deep into the night, Joktan instructed Aram in the art of war, teaching him about training men, about separating them into fighting units ranging from companies to larger divisions of a thousand men or more. He taught him the fundaments of deploying men and moving them about on the field of battle. From his ancestor, Aram learned how to move massive armies across distances, how to keep them supplied, and how to arrange them in lines of battle when it came time to fight.
Joktan explained the basic tenants of battle formations, of maneuvering those formations, and how to read the enemy’s disposition and exploit it. He talked of the use of terrain in choosing where and how to fight, something for which Aram already had decent instincts. As the days passed, and spring came slowly to the high plains, Aram began to get a sense of the knack of viewing armies as living organisms and teaching those organisms to respond to commands.
Watching Aram move rocks that signified various military units about a mock miniature battlefield one afternoon in response to suggestions by Joktan of what his enemy would do, the old king chuckled admiringly.
“All you need now, my boy, is an actual army.”
Aram, intent on what he was doing, nodded absentmindedly without looking up. Joktan watched him for a moment.
“You know, Aram, you may be the best of us.”
Aram looked up from his lesson and frowned. “My lord?”
“I said that you were the best of us.” Joktan leaned back against a spire of rock and gazed out across the plains. Aram straightened up. Joktan glanced at him and smiled slightly. “Sera is right about me, you know; I was very proud. But ten thousand years of walking the earth, reflecting on failure, will humble any man.” He sighed deeply. “There have been moments, Aram, when I felt that the weight of all that time, pondering failure, must surely drag me down and drown me in the very soil of the earth.”
“It was not your failure, my lord, but Manon’s.” Aram stated quietly. “He is the one that turned to evil.”
“Yes, and I should have stopped him.”
Aram shook his head. “Kelven should have stopped him, and Ferros. All the gods, for that matter – it is rightfully their affair as well. More so because Manon is one of their own. And – forgive me, my lord – but why does not the Maker take a hand?”
Joktan studied him. “You think big thoughts for being a mere man. You ask big questions as well.”
“Is it improper to ask such things?”
Joktan shrugged. “Not of me, but then I have no answers. You see, Aram that is what makes you different. You were born a slave, without expectation of anything beyond that; yet here you are, trying to sort out the universe.”
Aram shook his head. “I have no wish to sort out the universe, my lord; I just think that the gods should deal with Manon – he is one of them.”
“I agree with you.” Joktan said. “But they are just another people, after all, with their own unique faults and weaknesses. It is true that the gods are greater in strength and power than men, but I sometimes think that just means that they are capable of making bigger messes.” He fixed Aram with a thoughtful look. “The Maker, however, has taken a hand. That sword you carry – that is His work. The gods, as powerful as they are, could never contrive such a thing.”
Aram frowned at him. “Is this His answer, then; to give a man a weapon and then watch to see what he will do with it?”
“Maybe – I can’t speak for one so high.” Joktan answered solemnly. “But I will tell you this, Aram – no one else in heaven or earth could have granted you permission to wield something so powerful as that sword.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for the Maker just to punish Manon Himself ? Destroy him for the evil he has done?”
Joktan shook his head. “I don’t know – perhaps. But would the Maker kill one of His own creations?”
“Manon is evil. He deserves death.”
“Yes, but would the Maker mete out such punishment to someone who is, in fact, one of His children?”
“Why would He not?” Aram spoke fiercely. “Our people, who have suffered so much at the hands of Manon, are His children as well, my lord.”
“Yes, of course, our people have suffered much and it is a great evil – I daresay that I understand this better than anyone.” Joktan shook his head again, regretfully. “I have no answers, Aram. I only know that a great power has been delivered into your hands and that the end of all these things must then fall to you. Can you bear such a burden?”
Into Aram’s mind came a vision of the lovely and elegant Ka’e
n, princess of Derosa, her freedom and her very life menaced by the terrible evil and vile designs of the grim lord.
“Yes.” He said.
Two days later, the ancient king appeared as Aram was eating breakfast.
“The passes will open in a few days, probably less than a week. It is time to call for the horses, Aram.”
Aram looked up at him, an odd constriction tightening in his chest. “Are my lessons complete, then?”
Joktan smiled. “You will do well, Aram; you are a natural warrior. All you need now is an army. Tell me, do you feel up to facing the Choalung again?”
“Choalung?”
“The beast in the depths of the quarry that surrounds Rigar Pyrannis. Can you face him again?”
Aram nodded slowly. “Yes, sir, if I must.”
“Good.” Joktan clasped his hands in satisfaction. “I want you to go back to the pyramid and go inside to the main chamber. There is something there that is rightfully yours.”
“Mine? What is it my lord?”
“It is yet another weapon. Not as powerful as the one you acquired on the mountain, but powerful in its own way, nonetheless.”
Aram finished eating and stood up. “What do I do?”
“There is a tall rectangular structure made of black onyx in the main chamber, near the back wall. The sarcophagus of my queen lies atop it.”
“Yes.” Aram said. “I know of it.”
“Go to the right side of it at the back and lift the floor tile just behind it, on the corner.” Joktan made a circular motion at the ground with his hand. “Reach down into the floor – you will feel a lever. It is in the upright position; move it to the horizontal position. A door will open in the side of the bier. Beyond that door you will find your inheritance. It is all yours, use it as you will.”
Aram frowned at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps not now, but you will.” Joktan glanced at the sun, just clearing the great mountains far to the east. “The horses are moving north – they are just now a few miles to the south of the city. If you call them now, you may make the city by nightfall.”
Aram began to gather his things. After a moment he looked up. “What is that creature in the lagoon at the bottom of the quarry?”
Joktan laughed, shaking his head. “No one knows – perhaps a great fish of some kind. We punctured a subterranean stream where he had been living in peace, probably from the time that the ancient world was overturned. He has been angry with us ever since. He is not stupid, however, and possesses a memory. I doubt that he will wish to tangle with you again.”
Aram glanced around the empty camp and slung his pack over his shoulder. He met the king’s eyes. “I have enjoyed our time, my lord.”
Joktan gazed at him for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his countenance. “I have begun to care about you, Aram, as a father cares for his only son. Go carefully. I will always be nearby and will help you when I am able. When you are far away from this place, I cannot always advise you but I will do what I can.”
He glanced again at the sun. “Two things more, Aram, before you go. One is cautionary – the other is vital. The first is that you have not yet met the worst that Manon will send against you.”
Aram frowned at this but said nothing. Joktan continued. “There is a larger breed of lasher, called harbigurs – champions, I think it means – that tend to have command of the grim lord’s more important battalions. They carry broad, scythe-like weapons called halberds that can do immense damage to a line of men on a battlefield. I’ve seen them take out three or four men at once with one sweep of the blade. And they are particularly dangerous to horses. Sooner or later, you will come up against them.”
Aram nodded and looked away and was silent for a moment as he digested this information. Then he met the king’s eyes. “And the second thing, my lord?”
“It is perhaps the most important thing that I will ever tell you, Aram.” Joktan paused a moment and looked into Aram’s eyes, his own gray-green orbs deadly serious and earnest. “To be a good general, Aram, you must love the army, and revere every soldier in it as a brother. But to be a good commander on the day of battle, you must be willing to sacrifice every life in that army, including your own, in order to accomplish the army’s purpose – which must only ever be the peace and freedom of your land and your people. Do you understand this?”
“I do, yes.”
“It is a difficult thing to make decisions that cause the death of those that trust in your judgment. Can you do it?”
“I think so.” Aram nodded slowly.
Joktan shook his head. “You must not just think you can do it – you must know that you can. A general must plan for battle with only victory in mind and cannot think about the life-or-death consequences. He must also be able to adapt to changing conditions on the field without thought of who is placed in danger by his actions. Think on this often as you go.”
“I will, my lord.” Aram promised.
Joktan looked up. The sun had cleared the mountains and was rising into the brightening sky. “Then I will leave you now, so that you may get on with what you have to do.”
Before Aram could respond, the old king disappeared, leaving him alone in the cool morning. Aram gazed about him, feeling suddenly more alone than he had in some time. Strong emotions surged in his breast. Joktan was not alone in his familial sentiments – with the ghostly king’s departure; Aram felt the acute loss of a son who watches his father leave for an undetermined period. After a few minutes, he doused the fire, turned toward the south, pulled the Call from beneath his shirt and blew one long note into the small silver cylinder.
Ten
By midmorning, he could see, far off to the south the distinctive shape of the top of the pyramid at Rigar Pyrannis beginning to rise above the southern horizon. He crossed two shallow river valleys and by midday, had begun to periodically put his ear to the earth. An hour after the sun crossed the apex of the sky and declined to the west, he put his ear to the earth again. This time he heard it – the distinctive, far off thunder of pounding hooves.
He stood up and gazed southward. About five miles off, just cresting the top a low ridge and moving down the near slope, there were two black specks, moving quickly. He found a fallen log jutting out from a stand of pines and sat down to wait in the warming sunshine.
Within minutes, the two horses appeared on the ridge opposite, splashed across the shallow river below his seat and thundered up to him. He stood to welcome them. It was Florm and Thaniel, the ancient lord of all horses and his only son. Thaniel looked as immense, black, powerful, and sleek as ever, but to Aram’s discerning eye, Florm, his father, appeared more aged than before.
Aram bowed. “My lord and my brother – it is a fine day to see you both.”
Thaniel bowed his head to him, but Florm blew a loud blast from his nostrils and stared for a long moment.
“Lord Aram; did you not climb the mountain?”
Aram nodded. “I did, my lord.”
“And you saw Lord Kelven?”
“Yes.”
The old horse’s confusion was abundant and obvious. He swung his great head and stared into the northeast. “Then how –?
“I came through the mountains, my lord.”
Florm stared at him. “But spring has only just come.”
Aram grinned. “Very little snow stays on those high peaks in winter – the winds won’t allow it. I walked on rock most of the way.” He shrugged. “When I got to the high plains though, the snow was too deep. I had to camp by the Inland Sea.”
“You came through those mountains in winter?”
“I did.”
Florm shook his head. “You are an astonishing man, my young friend, more astonishing than anyone I have ever known.”
“So you are pleased to see me, then?”
The ancient horse laughed and Thaniel’s deep rumbling chuckle echoed the sound. “It is marvelous to see you again, my friend – it’s
just that I was stunned to hear the Call so near at the very coming of spring. I expected to come to you on the plateau east of Vallenvale.” Florm cocked his head slightly. “Why did you not stay on the mountain?”
“There was no reason to stay, my lord.” Aram answered, and he reached back and patted the hilt of the weapon. “I acquired that for which I went, and then I wanted to come home.”
The horses looked curiously at the strange, metallic hilt protruding above his back. Thaniel nodded his head in satisfaction.
“So there was a weapon.”
Aram smiled with satisfaction at the great black horse. “Yes.”
“Just as you suspected.”
“Yes.”
Florm glanced from his son to Aram and chuckled. “You are the cleverest of men, my friend.” The old horse gazed at him for a long moment with his large, luminous eyes, studying him in silence. “There is something very different about you, Lord Aram. You have changed.”
Aram nodded slightly. “I suppose so.”
“Is it the possession of Kelven’s sword that has altered you?”
“That, and knowledge, my lord.” Aram answered quietly. It was true; he felt the change in himself but was as surprised as always at the old horse’s powers of discernment.
“Tell me, my young friend, what will be the result of that change?”
Aram gazed out across the greening plains for a minute and then looked at Florm. “Mainly this, my lord. Manon has hunted and slain our two peoples for millennia. He has hunted me all my life. The time will come – I swear it – when he will know in his turn what it is like to be hunted. No false bravado, my lord – I will run him to ground, and by the grace of the Maker, I will destroy him.”
Florm gazed back at him in silence but Thaniel stepped forward, his great frame quivering with excitement. “What do we do now, my lord? As always, I am at your service.”
Aram answered with quiet conviction. “What we always intended, my friend. We will combine your people with mine and build an army. We will need a mighty army if we are to fight our way to the grim lord’s tower.” He hesitated. “For the moment, though, I need to go to Rigar Pyrannis.”
Kelven's Riddle Book Two Page 15