And he intended to make the most of it.
His home province of House Valrie occupied the highlands to Elam’s northwest, east of the mountains and just southeast of the border with Aniza. There was some rich farm ground in Valrie, scattered along river bottoms, but nothing like those vast lands that expanded east of the great central river and southward through Elam proper. Certainly, the House of Valrie possessed nothing like Basura just across the great river.
What profit Valrie garnered was gained mainly through mining the various metals that were found in relative abundance throughout the highlands. But it was not enough to make the province rich. Before Zelrod, in the time of Waren’s principality, the House of Valrie had accepted the difficulties of its geographical birthright, becoming a hardy folk, used to gaining little reward for long labor. They had, over the centuries, become proud of their somewhat rude and difficult existence.
Slan did not think like the denizens of the highlands that had come before him. He looked beyond the humble towns and villages of his homeland, beyond the borders of Valrie, and saw the wealth that lay there. And he coveted it.
Now, here was a chance to lay hold on some of that wealth and please the throne at the same time.
As his generals gathered their troops, he shunned the shade of nearby trees and waited patiently, standing out in the open while the men gathered. When they were fully trooped, he inspected them, walking the length of the lines in the blistering sun, and then back again before he dismissed them. Turning to the junior officer he’d temporarily chosen as his adjutant, he said, “I want to see every member of the general staff at my tent after supper.”
That evening he studied the men gathered around him as he allowed the silence to grow and thicken. In compliance with recent regulations from Prince Imrid, all wore the colors that designated them as troops of the throne, though they came from many different Houses. He decided to be blunt.
“There is every possibility that civil war may come to Elam.”
Letting that statement drop into the silence without enlargement, he picked up a glass of wine and sipped at it, watching the various responses that played across the countenances gathered before him. Most seemed surprised, and more than a few were shocked by this pronouncement, but nearly all, after considering, seemed willing to accept it. Several, after thinking it over, glanced instinctively toward the east, toward Basura.
Here and there, however, a few sets of eyes were turned downward and upon those downturned countenances frowns collected and stayed.
Noting the glances cast toward the east, Slan opted for further bluntness. “House Basura stands in defiance of the throne in Farenaire and must be dealt with.”
There was even less surprise registered at this statement. Several of the officers glanced at each other and nodded knowingly. But on those few scattered faces, the frowns of disapproval not only stayed but deepened.
Slan watched these responses with shrewd eyes. During the long trip north, he had come to understand that Rahm did in fact seek and desire war. And he grasped clearly the reasoning behind the desire. It was only through force of arms that Basura would be put in its place, and in the doing of it, the other Great Houses would be educated as to the new political realities in Elam. Power would be concentrated in the throne, more and more, and the throne’s representatives – men like Slan – would be elevated in ways that until now, with the archaic governmental structure of the Great Houses, had been impossible.
Like Edverch, Slan had never known war. Unlike that doddering old fossil, however, Slan longed for it. He understood clearly that the best means of asserting proper superiority over others was not intellectual persuasion or exemplary nobility. It was best and most efficiently done by physical subjugation. And if one intended to subjugate an entire people, the masses must be forced to witness the administering of death in order for the lesson to be fully learned.
Once, there had a younger brother in House Valrie, named Zellom. Unlike his older sibling, Zellom was tall, well-formed, and handsome. No match for Zelrod intellectually, he was nonetheless kindly, personable, and well-spoken – and as a consequence more well-liked than his elder brother. There had even been whisperings, uttered by those who made comparisons between the two, that Zelrod should give way to Zellom when the time came to discuss succession – the elevation to the day-to-day administration of the affairs of Valrie.
These whispers had found their way into Zelrod’s ears.
One day in early spring when the rivers ran high and wild, tumbling eastward through the highlands as they poured out of the distant snowfields of the mountains, Zelrod invited his younger brother to walk with him, ostensibly to discuss upcoming matters of interest to both of them. Zelrod had chosen the path they would take carefully and well. Some distance below the palace, the path rounded a bend, where the bulk of the hillside extruded and hid them from view of the house. Along this stretch of the river, all the land was controlled by the family and there were no other dwellings on the heights round-about.
The river rushed against the far wall of the canyon at this point, forming a great whirling pool on the near side. In summer, it was a favorite swimming hole of the two brothers. Now, with the mighty volume of water provided to the river by the melting of the deep deposits of winter, it was a maelstrom.
Zelrod knew that he took his own life in his hands when he suddenly tackled his taller sibling and drove them both off the path and into the mad rush of the current. Though Zelrod was actually the stronger of the two, Zellom was no weakling. It was at great personal risk that Zelrod maneuvered the struggling Zellom into a shallow backwater where he was able to lay hold on a rock and repeatedly strike his brother in the head until the struggling ceased. It was at great risk of discovery that he held the body underwater until he was sure that any threat to his future as head of the house was forever removed. It was at further risk that he lay on the riverbank, battered, soaked, and cold until he was at last discovered by a servant that had been sent searching along the riverside by an anxious mother.
The story he told, when he had recovered, of Zellom’s stumble into the maelstrom and his subsequent attempt at rescue were substantiated by Zelrod’s condition and his apparent brush with death. As time passed, Zelrod Slan was pleased not only by the fact that he had conquered and destroyed someone thought his superior in many ways, but also that he kept the truth of what had transpired on that river bank a secret for so long, so easily, and utterly without remorse.
Now, as he looked around at his new general staff, he saw more than one like Zellom among them, tall in stature, well-formed, and handsome. More to their detriment than these characteristics however, was the compassionate concern for others that shone on their faces. Such men did not suit his purposes.
It was time to winnow those whose support might become grudging in nature during the coming days and weeks.
“We are going to put this army to use,” he told them. “We are going to press Basura until they either comply with the wishes of the High Prince and the General Council or decide to resist the pressure we will put upon them. Either way, the treasonous influence of the House of Basura will be reduced.” He paused and glanced around. “Does anyone here object to this course of action?”
Silence.
Slan went on. “There will be rewards for service,” he said. “Conflict will inevitably produce spoils.”
At this, one of those whose face held a frown, a youngish-looking sub-general with blond hair, blue eyes, a square face and jutting chin, held up his hand.
“Speak,” Slan encouraged him.
“May I ask, sir, what you mean by ‘pressure’, and ‘conflict’? Are we to threaten – or go to war with – our own kinsfolk?”
Slan’s black eyes glittered as he gazed back. “We intend to threaten no one who does not threaten us,” he answered. “But this army needs to be fed and quartered and there is no reason why a province as rich as Basura may not meet our needs.”
&n
bsp; Despite his obvious trepidation at the malice in his new commander’s eyes, the young officer countered. “We have ample provisions sent up by the throne,” he protested. “And none of the men go without shelter.”
Slan settled his serpent’s gaze on him. “The days of thinking that the produce of the land is wholly owned by those who sit on that land are over. The wealth of Elam belongs to all of Elam. Why should the throne spend its treasure when there is food and shelter to be had less than a mile east of this place?”
The officer glanced around at his fellows, especially at those whose features were as skeptical as his own. “How will we pay them for what we take, sir?”
“Pay?” Slan allowed himself a look of utter astonishment. He spread his hands wide. “Basura is in debt to the throne as it is. Look around you – there is not a single man of House Basura in these ranks. This army went northward beyond the gates to protect the land from an invasion of barbarians; and where was Basura?”
The young officer returned no answer.
“If Basura will send no men to protect itself, or the land of Elam proper, then it can be expected to pay in other ways,” Slan stated, and then he leaned forward, toward the blond officer. “What is your House?”
“I am the third son of House Hulse, General. My father is Councilor Fered Hulse.”
“And your name, Sub-general?”
“I am Marteren Hulse, sir.”
Slan leaned back and considered. “Hulse – in the southwest. You are neighbors of Cinnabar, if I am not mistaken.”
“You are not mistaken, sir. Cinnabar is the last province before Vergon and the sea. We are the next to them toward Elam proper.”
“And are there others of your House among these here?” Asked Slan.
“Yes, sir, perhaps five hundred in the ranks.”
Slan let his gaze rove around the circle of men before coming back to rest on Marteren Hulse. “And does your House participate in the gifting of women to Manon, the great lord, our friend and ally in the north?”
Marteren Hulse’s eyes clouded over and there was barely disguised anger in his voice as he responded. “Yes, we do. More than our share, I am certain.”
“Basura does not participate,” Slan answered, and then the tone of his voice became bland. “And who decides what your share will be? Not you, surely.”
“Of course not, sir; the allotment is decided by the agents of the High Prince,” Hulse replied. “They exact the levy yearly.”
“But you think the levy too high?” Slan’s voice went even softer. “And you know better than the High Prince about such things, do you?”
Hulse hesitated at the underlying menace in the question but then decided to continue. “May I speak frankly, sir?”
“Oh, yes, by all means. I prefer to know the mind of every man upon whose judgment I must rely in the coming days.” As he gave this response, Slan’s black eyes once again met those of every member of his staff. Then he looked hard at Marteren Hulse and his voice lost all softness in favor of ice. “Give us your frank words, Sub-general.”
Cautiously, Hulse met Slan’s gaze. “The reason so many of our young men enlisted in these ranks of the throne rather than the House Guard and willingly came north is because there has developed a shortage of young women in the home province.” Hulse drew in a deep breath as if the air contained courage upon which he could draw. “The gift to the prince in the north has become a hardship for my province – especially among the poorer folk.”
Slan’s voice maintained its coldness. “Perhaps if House Basura had not halted its participation, the burden upon your kinsfolk would not be so great.”
Hulse’s only response to this assertion was a slight shrug.
Slan looked around. “Do any of the rest of you feel as Sub-general Hulse does about these matters?”
After a moment’s hesitation, two others raised their hands in acknowledgement.
Slan took note of them both and waited a moment longer to see if any others would join in the dissent. When none did, he stood. Indicating Hulse and the other two officers, he pointed in the direction that Edverch had gone a few hours earlier. “You are hereby relieved. Get your things and go and present yourselves to General Edverch for dispensation. When he goes south on the morrow, you will go with him.”
Hulse stood, shock upon his features. “What of our men still in the ranks, sir?”
“Your men, sub-general? Your men? Do they not wear the colors of the throne of Elam?” Slan’s eyes glittered. “They stay – you go. Now, go.”
After the three had moved away, Slan returned to his chair and smiled down at the earth between his boots for several moments. When he looked up, the smile faded. “It is not fair or right that some few have so much while so many have so little,” he said. Moving his hand he indicated Basura behind him. “Basura is rich, and because it is, it thinks to subvert the will of the High Prince of Elam, who acts for the benefit of all, and not just the few. We are here to help the people of Basura to understand the error into which they have fallen.”
He rose and began pacing back and forth. “I will ask you on the morrow to give me the names of candidates each of you feels could replace those I relieved here today.” He stopped and watched them until he got nods from all; then he resumed. “Those of you encamped next to the road will begin moving your troops to the east tomorrow. The rest of you will move into the camps that the others vacate. Over the next few weeks, we will continue the eastward movement until all troops are inside Basuran borders, on a line running north to south.
“You will take what you need from the land and the villages. When you are questioned by the locals, you will say only that the throne requires that which you have appropriated to meet the needs of its loyal soldiers. If you are questioned by agents of the House itself, you will refer them to me. Any questions?”
A thin, dark-haired general with a large wide nose held up his hand. “General – what about interactions with the locals?” As he asked the question, he leered around at his fellows. “I mean, these boys have been in camp for several weeks now with little or no contact with women. There are likely to be incidents. How do we handle that?”
Titters followed this but Slan did not smile. “Since House Basura will not participate in the High Prince’s gift to his northern ally –” He shrugged. “– its women may, perhaps, suffice as a ‘gift’ to the loyal men of Elam.”
The dark-haired general’s smile faded. “What if the woman does not consent to the ‘contact’, as it were?”
Slan shrugged again but his eyes glittered darkly. “When troops come into contact with enemy civilians, there will be unseemly incidents. How can it be avoided? As long as none of the men take advantage of our own people, I do not care.”
The general frowned. “But aren’t Basurans our own people, sir?”
Slan stopped pacing and stood very still. His gaze was black and sharp as it narrowed upon the questioner. “You must alter your thinking, all of you,” he stated softly. “No – Basura is not with us. They are not our people. They are the enemy.”
He moved his eyes and looked around at them all. “The High Prince wants Basura reduced – as a lesson to others who might entertain foolish and treasonous thoughts. But the political situation is ‘delicate’ as the Prince himself put it. So we will move cautiously. It is preferable that Basura act belligerently first, especially if the action is a concerted one. But we may do what we can to provoke that belligerence. Is this understood by all of you?”
This query was followed by a chorus of “Yes, sir”.
Slan nodded in satisfaction. “We begin our slow but inexorable movement toward the east at first light. Dismissed.”
37 .
Aram gazed down upon the village from the top of a low rise. It was the first sign of habitation south of the line of hills that angled down out of the northwest and dove into the rolling grasslands, forcing the river into a wide easterly bend. The village was fairly large, perhaps a
hundred huts clustered up against the edge of the hills to the west while a wide expanse of fields lay spread between the village and the curve in the River Broad. Beginning on the far edge of the village, there was a road that ran out to the river and then turned south. There were workers in all the fields.
Aram, Wamlak, Jonwood, Matibar of Seneca, Thom Sota, and thirty other mounted men had begun a sweep down along the east bank of the river intending to find and free any peoples between the fortress and the ancient city of Stell. In the hours immediately following the previous year’s battle, they had swept up all the people they could find in and around the city itself and moved them across the river to the east. But inevitably, in the tumult of that time, it had been impossible to find and save but a small portion of all those that dwelled on the western side of the river. Now, Aram and his companions intended to find all the rest and bring them into Wallensia’s fold of freedom while at the same time killing or driving out any and all representatives of the grim lord, whether lashers or overseers.
Findaen was not with them. He and the woman, Ella of Stell, had married and Aram had insisted that his brother-in-law spend this time with his new bride. Nor had Boman or Edwar come along, opting to continue readying their men for future action while enlarging the camp in preparation for the influx of the men from the east.
After a moment, Aram leaned forward in the saddle and looked to his left, at Wamlak.
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 26