In a flash, Kolgar leapt, seizing the brush in his teeth, tearing the flesh of Flinneran’s fingers as he did so.
Flinneran cried out in pain and reached to retrieve the brush as Kolgar leapt past, but the others fell upon him on the instant and with vicious teeth began tearing the flesh from his bones. As he screamed against the hideous pain, and as his life’s blood began to flood away, his last thoughts were of how wrong it was that his life, his hopes, and his plans would all end thus – and how terribly unfair.
51 .
Amund stood upon the walls of Tobol, Basura's second-largest city, and gazed to the west across lands formerly under the governance of his family’s House, where now the soldiers of Rahm Imrid roamed and camped and despoiled, driving the fair green land into ruin. What had started as scattered cases of harassment, theft, and intrusion had by late summer devolved into blatant murder, wanton destruction, and wholesale confiscation of private property. And these abuses were being perpetrated upon the farmers and villagers of Basura by thugs wearing the colors of a throne that had once commanded their allegiance.
Shaking his head sorrowfully, he sharpened his gaze. The leading elements of that enemy could be seen not more than two miles distant, coming inexorably closer, day by day. The troops of Rahm Imrid had so far faced very little resistance as they had come eastward. But no more.
Here, at the walls of Tobol, Basura would stand and be pushed no further. There would be no more retreat.
Soon then, the situation would devolve even further. The enemy would arrive at these walls and there would be open civil war in the land of Elam.
Amund looked down and to the left and then back to the right where, along a tangent running north and south upon the high ground to the east of a small stream, men wearing the colors of Basura were erecting defensive structures below the city’s walls. In the earth above the banks of the stream, sharpened poles were imbedded into the ground at a sharp angle, projecting away from the base of the walls. More poles topped with wicked-looking steel spikes protruding from all sides of their upper halves were being sunk into the streambed itself. By all appearances, General Kraine knew his business. If Rahm's minions intended further intrusion, it would come only by determined effort and at a cost of blood.
The High Prince's obvious intent was to provoke a violent act against representatives of the throne by the House of his former High Chancellor. Such an act would provide the necessary expediency that the throne needed. It could then be responded to with violence and at the same time be defended politically.
To this point, Basura had not mounted a martial defense of its lands, preferring instead to concentrate its population in the eastern half of its territory, along with any goods that could be moved with alacrity and thereby denied to the invaders.
Nor had the forces of the throne launched an all-out assault, but had instead kept moving slowly and steadily eastward, occupying the lands left vacant by Basura’s retreat.
But whichever of them it was that made the next move in this dreadful game over the following days or weeks, there would unquestionably be violence.
The former High Chancellor of Elam, Amund’s father, Heglund Basura, had decided that while he would not authorize an offensive assault against the troops of the High Prince, neither would he give away another inch of ground. Tobol and everything to the east would be defended to the last extremity.
The news from beyond was not good however. Reports from reliable sources told of more soldiers of the throne coming up the main road from the south. Thousands more, so those reports said. At the moment, Basura was outnumbered perhaps two to one. When those others arrived, the odds would grow insurmountably worse.
As he watched the movements of the distant enemy forces, Amund's thoughts turned once again to Prince Marcus and his “Barbarian King” in the east. Nothing had been heard from the young prince since he’d left Basura in the spring. There were rumors that Rahm hunted him with the intention of killing or imprisoning him, but there had been no news on that front either. Amund thought it likely that had the High Prince succeeded in his designs upon the last of Waren’s line, he could not have kept it secret. No – Marcus still lived and was safe somewhere – perhaps far away, in the eastern wilds. Such was Amund’s daily hope.
But now, watching the long lines of the enemy approach day by day and appear more sinister in intent, his thoughts turned more strongly toward the fierce, armored leader of men Marcus had encountered beyond the gates – the mysterious man of the east.
Would he help them if he knew of the direness of their situation? Would he sympathize with their position? Would he care about the internal difficulties of Elam, or was he engaged in his own endeavors, without regard to anything beyond his own borders? And even if the king of the uncivilized eastern peoples were amenable to proffering aid, how would Amund find him in order to tender the request?
Movement in the distance, beyond the lines of the enemy gained his attention and re-focused his thoughts on the enemy at hand. Perhaps a half-mile behind the long broad front of Rahm’s troops, something came into view, something tall and tri-cornered, ominous in appearance, and apparently constructed of huge wooden poles. Poles of such height and girth that they must have come from very large trees. Dark fingers of dread closed around Amund’s heart like a vise.
Slan was constructing something back there, behind his lines. But what?
Engines for assaulting the defenses of a city?
Amund glanced to the right and left along the top of the walls, where the men of Basura continued to patrol while watching the west. None of them, at least for the moment, gave any indication that they had seen the distant and enormous constructions. Amund drew in a deep, calming breath and looked back west, toward the enemy.
“Master Amund!” Someone called his name from the city side of the wall.
He turned away from the parapet, went to the opposite side, and looked down, into the gloom of the tower containing the stairway that led out into the city, from whence his name had been shouted. Standing in the well of the tower, leaning out to peer at him around the circular stairway, was a courier from his father's house in Sevas, his home city and their capitol, on the eastern border of Basura.
Amund focused his attention down though the shadows and onto the dim face of the courier. “What is it?”
“Prince Marcus has come. He wishes to meet with you, sir.”
Amund’s muscles stiffened as if from the shock of an unexpected lightning strike. He gazed down, unbelieving. “Marcus? He is here? How? - from whence has he come?”
“From the eastern forests, sir.” the courier pointed out through the wall of the tower behind him. “There are two horses with him.”
“Two –?” Amund froze for a moment and then gathered his wits and started down the stairwell. “Where is he?”
“In Sevas, in your father's house, sir. He is consulting with the High Chancellor even now.”
As his feet touched the top step of the stairwell, Amund halted, went back out onto the wall and took one last glance at the sinister thing being built behind the lines of the enemy a mile or more away. Then he pivoted and sprinted down the stairs, shouting orders as he descended them two at a time. “Bring a cart – make haste!”
The courier, now standing in the street outside the tower, grinned and bowed at him as he appeared. “I beg your pardon, sir, but there is no need for a cart. Prince Marcus has sent transportation.” He turned and indicated two magnificent creatures waiting in the wide street behind him.
Amund stopped dead in astonishment. He had seen depictions of horses in books, drawings of those magnificent creatures that had once walked the earth in ancient times, but those drawings did not compare to the two splendid beasts that stood before him now. With their muscular bodies, long, sleek legs, proud, arching necks, and intelligent eyes, these were awe-inspiring creatures indeed. One was light gray in color; the other was a very dark brown, almost black. He stared and then turned his
gaze upon the courier. “They bore you here, Morel?”
Morel laughed. “Only this one bore me, Dean. The other is for you. This is Huram” – here he indicated the large gray horse – “and Phagan of the horse people, who bore me here. Huram will bear you to your father’s house, if you will.”
“He will bear me –?” Amund looked at the great beast doubtfully. “Is it difficult – to ride, I mean?”
“No,” Morel assured him. “And Huram will help you.” The courier watched him for a moment and then indicated the horses. “You may speak to them, if you like, sir.”
Slowly, Amund turned and bowed his head to the horses, as much in amazement as in respect. “I am pleased to meet you both,” he said.
The answer resounded inside his mind, shocking him with its electric clarity. “It is my pleasure, sir,” Huram, the gray horse replied. “I bring greetings from Lord Aram, master of the free lands.”
“Lord Aram?” Unable to contain his amazement, Amund bowed again as he tendered the question. “Would Lord Aram be the kingly leader of the army our Prince Marcus met upon the fields of Cumberland in the spring?”
“The same. He sent us to bring you to him, if you will come” Huram replied. “But your young prince can tell you more than I, for he is here.” The big horse swung his head around and looked toward the east, shifting his weight as he did so. “Lord Aram impressed upon us that we should be urgent in our task.” Looking back, the horse moved again and turned so that he stood beside Amund. “Take hold of my mane and mount up,” he suggested. “I will bear you to Marcus.”
“Oh – of course.” Fighting hesitation, swallowing his nervousness, Amund stepped up on the box that Morel placed beside the horse, grabbed a fistful of the thick hair along the horse’s neck, and swung up into the saddle.
“Hold onto my mane as we go,” Huram instructed him and when Morel was mounted on Phagan, the horses wheeled and cantered through the streets of the city toward the east. Citizen’s gaped open-mouthed at the sight of the scion of the great House of Basura riding on the back of a creature of legend.
The journey that would have taken more than three hours in an oxcart was reduced to much less than one by the horses’ long legs and easy stride.
They pounded through the gates of Sevas, through the square, and on up the incline into the eastern neighborhoods of the capitol to the small hill upon which sat the principal house in all Basura. Heglund, Marcus, and another man, tall and martial-looking, waited for him in his father’s garden when the horses stopped by the gate and Amund dismounted. Another horse waited just outside the gate to the garden. Walking to the front of Huram, he turned and bowed his head. “I thank you, sir.”
“It was my honor, I assure you” the horse replied.
Amund bowed again, looked into Huram’s eyes for a long moment and then entered the garden. Coming close to the three men that waited there, Amund met his father’s eyes and then embraced Marcus. “It is good to see you, lad. Very good indeed.” Before Marcus could respond, Amund held him away and blurted out, “And what news of your barbarian king?” He turned his attention to the tall, soldierly man standing next to the prince. “Is this him?”
“No.” Marcus laughed, though it was a short laugh that succumbed rather quickly to an expression of urgency. “I have just come from him,” Marcus informed him. “He wants to meet with you, Dean Amund. As soon as is possible.”
“Me?” Amund looked from his father to the horses and back to Marcus. “He sent you – for me?”
Marcus seemed older and more serious than Amund remembered. The young prince stated gravely, “Lord Aram asked me who in all the land of Elam might be trusted to treat with him. I gave him your name, and he sent me straight away.” He indicated the tall somber man that stood nearby. “This is my friend, Thom Sota, formerly a captain of Elam, now a captain in the army of Lord Aram. It was he who smuggled me safely out of Elam and away from the clutches of my uncle.”
Hearing this, Amund grasped the tall man’s hand gratefully. “We owe you much thanks for that, sir.”
Thom nodded gravely. “I figured that I was doing what I could to save Elam’s future,” he answered.
“Indeed.” Amund looked back at Marcus and studied him for a moment, noting the new-found maturity in the set of the young prince’s face and the look in his eye. “Indeed.”
He glanced around the garden, noting the one other horse, and then looked up at the porch where his mother stood with the other women of the house. Turning, he looked out to the open street, crowded with curious onlookers. “Is Lord Aram here then?”
Marcus shook his head. “No – he is in the east, at his fortress on the banks of the River Broad, where his army is encamped. He sent me to bring you to him. Will you come?”
“Fortress – army?” Amund met his father's eyes, where he saw the light of hope flicker for the first time in many days, before turning back to Marcus. He shook his head. “Can you not take a message to him that will suffice – inform him of our situation?” He waved one hand toward the west. “Rahm's forces will move against Tobol before winter, maybe sooner,” he said. “Perhaps even in the next few days or weeks. I doubt that it is wise for me to be absent for any great length of time.”
“It will not be necessary for you to be away long, Dean.” Marcus indicated the horses. “Huram, Norgen, and Phagan brought us out of the east in less than six days’ time. If you will come with us, we may see Lord Aram at his fortress and return to Elam in less than ten days’ time – two weeks at most.”
Amund turned widened eyes upon Huram. “You will bear me there and back again – so quickly?”
“It will be my honor,” answered the gray horse.
Amund stared for a long moment and then looked at Heglund. “It may be that this is our one hope, father. Perhaps Marcus' kingly friend will aid us in our extremity.”
The chancellor nodded without hesitation, though as he did so, he glanced involuntarily toward the west. “Go, my son. See what this man of the east will do. We will not likely win the coming fight if we are left to fight it alone.”
Amund drew one deep breath as he gazed back at his father, and then he twisted around and glanced up at the sun. “I suppose I will need bedding and food, as well as traveling clothes,” he said. He looked at Marcus. “The sun is still well up. Shall we go now, or would you like one night in a bed?'
Marcus glanced up at Janifera, standing behind her mother on the veranda, and then, after but a moment’s hesitation, he shook his head, somberly. “Let us go today, now. If the forces of the throne intend to move against you soon, Lord Aram will want to know of it.”
“He will want to know?” Amund asked the question thoughtfully, as he moved toward the house. Then, abruptly, he stopped and looked back, studying Marcus’ face carefully. “Will your noble friend take an interest in our affairs, do you think?”
“He is descended from the ancient kings,” Marcus answered quietly. “He will think that they are his affairs, too.”
Amund watched him for a moment with his eyebrows raised slightly. He looked long at the horses, and the look of thoughtfulness strengthened upon his face. Then, without another word, he turned and sprinted up the steps, summoning his manservant as he went. “I will return in moments, Your Highness.”
When Amund had returned and Morel had secured his pack behind the saddle on Huram’s back, Marcus descended the steps from where he’d been talking quietly with Janifera. Thom was already astride Norgen when the other two mounted up. Respectfully, Marcus inclined his head to Heglund, looked into Janifera’s eyes for a long moment, and then spoke to Phagan. The three men and horses swung away from the garden and went quickly eastward into the forested highlands, disappearing in moments beneath the trees.
For the next hour, they climbed up among the tall hardwoods, gaining altitude. When they reached the summit of the first wooded ridge that ran north-to-south, much to Amund’s surprise, they turned southward.
“Why
do we go south?” He asked Marcus. “Is not Lord Aram in the east?”
Marcus looked back at him. “There is an old road on the eastern border of House Shau, just to the south of that House’s border with Basura. Long ago, it connected Elam with Wallensia. Though it is mostly gone on the western slopes, it’s still in good shape over on the eastern side of the hills. Use of it will greatly facilitate our journey.”
As the sun fell away to the west and the gloom deepened on the forest floor, the small company gradually angled toward the southeast, uphill and down, and across tumbling, clear streams. When sunset was no more than an hour away, they came upon an ancient stone road and turned due east upon its venerable surface. Amund was surprised at the quality of this ancient thoroughfare of which, until now, he’d had no knowledge. Enormous trees rose up through it here and there, disrupting its level smoothness, sometimes to the point that they had to detour out among the trees. But for many fairly long stretches it was intact and made for easy traveling.
The gloom deepened as they turned away from the sun. Once, Amund glanced to his left as the corner of his eye caught something that appeared to move through a shaft of angled sunlight. He did not see the object that had arrested his attention, but he did see that which followed.
His heart skipped a beat.
The thing that sped along through the gloom beneath the trees was visible for just a moment, but he saw it clearly.
It was a large white wolf.
“Marcus.” He hissed.
The prince glanced back at him curiously.
Amund nodded his head to his left. “Wolves. Out there.” He whispered hoarsely.
To his utter astonishment, Marcus grinned and nodded, slowing Phagan’s pace to fall in beside Amund, letting Thom ride ahead. “They are friends,” he said, “and accompany us for our security. They answer to Lord Aram.”
“Wolves answer to him, too?”
Marcus frowned. “I’m certain I told you that part, didn’t I? They came with him when he faced Rahm’s army in Cumberland.”
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 42