The eagle answered immediately. “The lashers have huddled together on the eastern side of the army and are in discussion, though a small group of their number has continued on to the west, toward the mist.”
Aram puzzled over this news for several moments but found it to be unenlightening. He glanced back at the sky. “Is the army coming back?”
“Not as yet, my lord.”
Aram thought about the broad gently sloping western flank of Burning Mountain, and how he’d thought that it would make an ideal battlefield for the army that held the high ground. Maybe, and he found his excitement level rising at the idea, exactly that scenario might play out this very day.
“How many lashers are with the army?” He asked Alvern.
“Less than a hundred, my lord.”
“Any harbigurs?”
“None that I see.”
Let them come, Aram thought, and as he did, he raised his hand again and began the army moving down the road, past the junction, toward the western flanks of Burning Mountain.
“What are they doing now?”
“The army has formed up on the road east of the dry lake.”
“Are they moving this direction?”
“No – but they are looking toward the east, at the smoke. The small group of lashers that went west has gone into the mist.”
“Good.” Aram said. “So – there are fewer than before?”
“It was a small group, my lord.”
“Even one fewer is an improvement. Do you think that it was a reporting party – sent to inform Manon?”
“That seems likely, my lord.” The eagle went silent, then – “My lord, the army moves – it comes toward you.”
Aram nodded with satisfaction. “Let them come.”
“They are coming.” The eagle answered.
Once around onto the western slopes of Burning Mountain, Aram moved his army off the road, intending to march them north across the gentle flank of the mountain until he could look straight down the valley toward the distant dry lake. On the left side of the valley a column of dust rose into the air, indicating the movement of the approaching army.
But that wasn’t what drew Aram’s eye and caused him to suck in a breath and hold it in stunned astonishment.
To the west, no more than six or seven miles distant, hanging between the hills to either side like a dark curtain, a two hundred foot high mass of thick gray-black fog rose above the western horizon, obscuring everything that lay beyond it. It was as if the world ended at the edge of that thick, dank, low-hanging cloud.
The sun shone down upon the top of the fog bank, but its light did not penetrate the depths. Nothing could be seen beneath that dense mass. The valley of the dry lake was covered. According to Alvern, most of the world behind it was covered as well.
For just a moment, Aram gave himself over to wishful thinking. If the army coming up the valley was trapped between his men and an unseen entity in the mist, whose wrath was directed specifically toward the servants of Manon, then this might be an easy thing indeed.
But even as he gazed upon the dark bank of mist, such thoughts faded. This mysterious cloud, silent and massive, did not seem to be the work of an ally. Perhaps that which caused it was in fact an enemy of Manon, but that did not make it an ally of men. The more he gazed upon it, the more uneasy Aram felt. It looked and felt wrong, evil, terribly out of place in the world.
And it was coming on. Slowly, but inexorably.
Even as he watched, the mist crept eastward up the valley, toward the mountain. He bent his gaze to the left side of the valley, toward the advancing army, to see if the mist had enveloped them. But they seemed to be staying ahead of the cumbersome dark mass, even pulling slightly ahead.
Unable to make sense of the mystery, with an enemy army approaching, Aram spent the next couple of hours finding exactly the ground upon which he wished to fight, and deployed his troops. By the time the sun had gone halfway down the sky, he was ready. Donnick and his triple line of pikemen were arrayed in a solid line across a smooth area of dry grass with the horsemen to either side, Findaen’s troopers on the left, and those led by Nikolus on the right. Shingka and her wolves were grouped up over to the far right, beyond Nikolus’ mounted men.
Satisfied with his arrangements, and certain that his commanders understood his desires, Aram sat on Thaniel a few paces in front of the center of the line, and waited as the enemy arrived on the plain below. Findaen, Nikolus, Durlrang, Wamlak, Jonwood, Mallet, and Shingka lined up beside him. The small army was situated about a mile up the slope from the level of the valley floor, right above the spot where the enemy most likely would deploy.
Down the slope, about halfway between them and the floor of the valley, there was the ridge of extruded lava that Aram had discovered on his summer sojourn to this mountain. Jutting up three or four feet from the earth, a fault line in the mountain, the extrusion ran across the field of battle at right angles to their line of sight, parallel to the tangent of the army’s deployment. Aram meant to let his enemy decide when to attack, and begin to move up the slope, and when the enemy lines were struggling to cross that rocky outcrop, he would launch his counter-assault.
The sun was barely two hours from sinking down into the bank of fog when the enemy army left the road and began to deploy across the flat plain below them. Alvern had been right – there were substantially less than a hundred lashers with the army; fifty would be a more likely number. And they were lucky in another regard. This was indeed the smaller of the two armies that had been at Flat Butte that summer, perhaps a thousand gray men, probably less even than that number.
Finally, after thirty minutes, the enemy was on line, spread across the valley at the base of the slope. But they did not attack.
Even from almost a mile away, Aram could see that many of them turned and gazed nervously to the rear, toward the slowly rolling bank of dense fog that was advancing up the valley.
As he watched, Aram heard a rumbling sound, low at first but growing in volume; the same sound that must have attracted the attention of his enemy in the valley below, coming from the mist.
It was deep and sustained, like the continuous, rolling thunder of a storm front.
He glanced sideways at Findaen. “What is that?”
Findaen returned his puzzled look. “I don’t know – but it comes from the depths of the fog.”
Aram turned back, frowning, and stared into the dark curtain of the cloud; listening to the mysterious low rumbling, and then his heart constricted in his chest. He knew what made the sound. An instant later, he knew what it meant.
Thirty Three
It was the sound of the tramping of thousands of boots, striking the earth in the valley of the dry lake.
The sound rose in volume and intensity; whoever the thousands were; there were many thousands, and they were coming.
The deep, rolling-thunder sound of tramping feet grew until it seemed that the bones of the earth would shake loose beneath it.
Dark shapes materialized from the base of the mist.
Out of the fog came a host.
Thousands upon thousands of gray men and lashers appeared from the depths of the heavy, low-hanging mist. The columns of gray men were ten or twelve wide, flanked by lashers. The vast army seemed to grow out of the darkness of the fog as if that dense, dank mass were its matrix. Triple rows of lashers flanked the columns of gray men on either side. The fog bank vomited them out by the thousands, rank upon rank, seemingly without end.
Aram watched in stunned horror as the might of Manon filled the plain below the mountain. He could not move; it seemed that he could not draw breath. Stark fear rippled up and down the line of men and horses and wolves that stretched a mere hundred yards across the slope of the mountain behind him. He could feel the undiluted terror building in the hearts of his comrades, a palpable, living thing, even as it surged in his own breast.
The army of Manon erupted from out of the fog for nearly an hour
, as the sun fell away to the west.
Finally, the servants of the enemy were all there, thirty thousand strong at least, perhaps more, and it appeared that more than a thousand were lashers; about half of those harbigurs. The terrible truth came at Aram like a massive, crashing wave of a dark, storm-ravaged sea and overwhelmed him.
They could not stand against this host.
They would be crushed.
And there was something worse.
They could not run.
Unless they stopped this vast army – and they could not – it would march across the plains of Wallensia and slaughter every inhabitant of Derosa, just as Manon’s armies had destroyed the people of Rigar Pyrannis on the high plains so long ago. By all appearances, Manon had nearly emptied his lands, had sent everything he could spare against them.
And now Aram understood.
The fog was the doing of Manon, or of creatures in his employ. The grim lord knew of Alvern and his kin, and understood that they must be blinded if he was to succeed in unexpectedly bringing a massive force to bear. Under cover of that dark, dense cloud, his legions had marched southward out of the far north, unseen, undetected, and then waited for their prey to come into the open.
This was why the fortress at Flat Butte had been abandoned, why the army stationed there had marched so purposefully off to the southwest, as if they were summoned to fill a need elsewhere. It had all been a ruse. Manon had known all along that Aram intended to assert control over the plains of Wallensia. It was as if the god had peered into Aram’s mind like it was an open book, and based on what he read there had decided on the best way to draw him and his army out into the open.
To kill him.
Manon knew, after all, precisely what man it was upon the earth that most endangered his plans to dominate all life. And, carefully, cleverly, he had set that man up to die.
Manon did not care about Stell, or even Derosa, at least for the moment. The horses did not concern him. His eye had fallen on Aram and had become fixed upon him, just as Florm had predicted it would. As he sat astride Thaniel’s back out on the broad slope of the mountain, Aram felt exposed to the full force of that smug, baleful glare. Though he saw no evidence of the presence of one of Manon’s fellring wagons among the gathered hordes below; nonetheless he knew that the grim lord’s attention was focused here, to watch the final unfolding of his scheme as it came to fruition. For he had sent forth his power to erase a problem while that problem was yet small.
A man had arisen – a nemesis, like unto Joktan his enemy of old; a man that meant to frustrate his designs. But Manon had grown wiser with the passing of ages, and more deliberate. He did not fear the combined strength of the peoples of the world, only forceful leaders, like Aram, who could harness and focus that strength.
The grim lord intended to kill this enemy now, while he was still young and inexperienced; he would not give him time to grow older, wiser, and powerful enough to present a challenge.
As he watched the vast host on the plain below deploy into a wide, deep line of battle, a mile wide at least, and more than a hundred yards deep, Aram drowned in bitter truth. He had been tricked, fooled completely, outthought, out planned, outmaneuvered, and utterly manipulated.
And then the truth of the situation ceased to be the cause of a flood, and became a catalyst for fire. Cold fury rose inside him, like an eruption. Fear and reason fled before the force of that fury. For several minutes, as the heat of terrible anger surged through him, his fierce gaze blazed toward the plain where Manon’s host was forming ranks. His eye fell upon the small ridge of rock that protruded like the spine of the earth from the slope of the mountain, where an hour before, he had planned to catch his enemy and destroy him.
Off to the left of this spine there rose a series of small vent craters, quiet now, but at one time they had helped to release the mountain’s inner pressure. The spine crossed the entirety of the mountainside, from these vents all the way to the northern slope of Burning Mountain – no matter their numbers; the enemy still had to struggle over it to strike at him. If he were to make a stand, however desperate, that spine of rock would be the place.
A half-mile below that small protrusion, spread out over the floor of the plain like the dark waters of a flood, the enemy’s army was gathered.
He reached up and pulled off his hood and looked down at the back of Thaniel’s head.
“Thaniel, walk out a few paces and turn to face our people.”
Thaniel complied, and when the big horse turned so that Aram could look into the eyes of his men, he saw that they were in the grip of paralysis, born of stark fear and raw terror. Every man, every horse, and every wolf; they were all frozen in place, immobilized; each one of them saw the imminent and certain reality of his own death gathered on the plain below.
Aram looked at every face, wanting their attention, but their eyes were fixed on the vast army of the enemy His own fear had gone, consumed by inner fury. He raised his voice. “My friends, this is not the end. I want you to be courageous and hold this line until you see my signal. Hear me. When you see my signal, move off to the north, around the flank of the mountain toward the hills beyond. Do not run, move in an orderly manner. I will return.”
Findaen pulled his gaze away from the massive host below and stared at him. “Wh-where are you going, my lord?”
“To see what may be done.”
Findaen blinked at him. “You’re going to negotiate?”
Aram smiled coldly. “No.”
Nikolus drew in a deep, shuddering breath and moved Jared a bit in front of the line. “My lord, you mentioned a signal. What signal?”
“You will know it when you see it.” Aram answered.
“You want us to wait?”
“Until you see the signal, yes – then move off around the mountain to the north.”
Their gaze for the moment removed from the terrifying host gathered below, Nikolus and Findaen focused on Aram. As their expressions cleared, they exchanged glances. Then Findaen spoke, and though his voice trembled, it was underlain with desperate earnestness. “My lord – if you mean to fight, then we will go with you.” Around them, men swallowed hard against the clumps of fear in their throats and nodded.
“NO!” The eyes of every man within earshot went wide at the ferocity in Aram’s voice. “You will not come forward – any of you! That is a direct order. Under no circumstance will any man come forward. You will wait here for my signal.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“What is the signal, my lord?” Findaen asked again.
“You will know it when you see it.”
Nikolus looked toward the mass on the plain below and then back at Aram. His voice shook. “You will return, my lord?”
“I will return.” Aram answered and without saying anything further, he nudged Thaniel around and started down the slope toward the enemy. Durlrang fell in beside the horse. Aram looked down. “Stay, Durlrang.”
The wolf hesitated and slowed but did not stop. “Master – I must be at your side always.”
“And you will be, my friend – but not now. Stay. I will return.” Reluctantly, the wolf slowed to a stop and sat on his haunches. Aram turned back toward the enemy as Thaniel cantered down the slope.
“Move at a good clip, Thaniel, but don’t run, “he said. “I want to appear as casual as possible for the sake of our people.”
Thaniel began to trot down the slope, but he swung his great head around and looked at Aram with his left eye. “What are you doing, my lord?” His voice was thick with doubt and suspicion.
Aram met his gaze. “I’m going to see what may be done.”
“But nothing may be done, Aram; not against a host such as this.”
“We shall see, Thaniel.” Aram answered coldly, and he pulled his hood down over his head, checking to see that it melded with his suit of armor at every point of contact. “Stop when you get to that rocky spine.”
Thaniel trotted
down the slope, closing about half of the gap between Manon’s massive force and the pitifully small group on the flank of the mountain. He pulled to a stop where the rocky spine broke up out of the earth; beyond it the mountain sloped away toward the plain below. Aram dismounted and studied his foe for a moment; then he turned and looked at Thaniel.
“Listen to me carefully, Thaniel. I want you to go back to our people, and this time I want you to run, hard, back to the line. When you see my signal, move them away around to the north. Alvern will watch for you, and guide you safely on your way. Then, if you can – come back for me.”
Thaniel gazed at him through the eyepieces of his armor, meeting his eye. He was quiet for a long moment, the muscles of his chest quivering with every breath. “Your death will not save us, my lord – my friend. Let us leave this place, and fight another time.”
Aram shook his head. “They are here. They will not go away. They will follow us to the east and kill everyone we love. We fight here, or we fight on the plains of Wallensia, or we fight in the streets of Derosa. But we must fight; they are here, and they mean to destroy us.”
“Let me die with you, Aram.”
“I don’t intend to die.”
“What will you do against this host?”
Aram put a hand on either side of the horse’s head and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Thaniel, my great friend; you are the nearest thing to a brother that I have ever had upon the earth. But you must do this for me – without question. I beg you – it is of utmost importance if we are to survive. Will you do it – or must I order you?”
Thaniel hesitated. “You are not going to die here today?”
“I am going to try very hard not to.”
“That does not encourage me.”
“I have no courage to give, Thaniel – I will need every shred for myself. Will you do as I ask?”
The horse struggled to speak, but it was a long moment before he could answer. “If I must.”
“Good. Then go back to our people. Run. Let Manon’s army see you run. Please, my great friend.”
Kelven's Riddle Book Two Page 55