Amund felt a shiver move spasmodically along his spine. “What sort of man is this Lord Aram of yours, Marcus?”
Marcus grinned over at him once more but his mirth faded quickly and he grew serious. “You’ll see.”
They camped by the road that night where a large tree had fallen over in a past storm and created a sort of meadow where there was plenty of grass for the horses. A clear stream fell out of the west and tumbled gently down through the hollow. Two wolves came in from the gloom and communed with Marcus and Thom for a moment before melting back into the shadows, seeming to become one with the twilight.
Amund watched them recede and then looked over at Marcus. “What was that about?”
Marcus shrugged. “They just told us that the woods about are secure – we’ll be safe here for the night. And they went to find supper.” He looked at the stream and held out his hand. “We might as well fill our canteens. There’s no shortage of water between here and the fortress but there’s little need to stop unless the horses require it. We should make expeditious use of our time. You rest, Dean – I’ll fill yours.”
Amund handed over his canteen. Looking around as twilight fell, he pulled his cloak higher. “It would be nice to have a fire.”
Marcus looked up from his work at the edge of the brook. “I’ll start one,” he said. “Thom and I can gather wood.”
Amund stared back, surprised. “You know how to do that – start a fire?”
The young prince laughed. “Lord Aram himself showed me. He pointed over at his pack, lying on a fallen log. “And provided me with the tools.”
Amund helped Thom and Marcus gather deadfall from the surrounding forest and then watched, fascinated, as the young prince mounded small twigs and dried leaves, shaping them into a small pyramid. Waving away Thom’s offer of assistance, he put flint to stone and set the pile ablaze. After the flames leapt up, he put ever larger pieces of wood on the stack. In a very short time, the fire was blazing fiercely, warming the evening and pushing back the darkness.
“I’m impressed, Marcus.” Amund admitted. He eyed his young companion for a long moment. “You’ve changed, my boy.”
Marcus looked up and met his eyes. “For the better, I hope.”
Amund nodded. “So it would seem.”
“It’s definitely for the better,” Thom added quietly. The captain looked over at Amund with an odd, intense expression on his face. “Marcus would make a fine High Prince now.”
Marcus shook his head. “Lord Aram would make a better one.”
Thom laughed low. “No – Lord Aram has no interest in the throne of Elam. No offense, Marcus, but he’s much too big to be a mere High Prince, if you get my meaning.”
Marcus nodded. “I do,” he said simply.
Amund watched this byplay with narrowed eyes but said nothing.
They ate a cold supper in silence and then Amund settled back and lit his pipe. Gazing across the fire at Marcus, he breathed out a cloud of smoke, glanced once at Thom, and then asked abruptly, “In your opinion – is Lord Aram a good man, Your Highness?”
Marcus looked at him, surprised, but nodded without hesitation. “Oh, yes, a very good man.”
“Is he ambitious?”
Marcus frowned at him through the smoke. “What do you mean? In what way?”
Amund tamped deliberately at the leaf in his pipe, peering closely at his handiwork. After a moment he looked up again. “I listened to what you and Captain Sota said with great interest. Powerful men, like our own Prince Rahm for instance, or maybe like your Lord Aram, generally want to increase their power and their possessions.”
“I see what you mean.” Marcus stirred the fire with his boot, sending sparks flying and brightening the blaze. Then he shook his head. “Lord Aram seems intent on but one thing, Dean – much to the chagrin and disquiet of many of those that are around him – and that is the destruction of Manon the Grim.”
“The so-called ‘lord of the world’ in the north?”
Marcus nodded. “That is the central focus of his intentions.”
“But you think he will turn his attention away from that intention for a time and help us in our struggles against Rahm?”
“I do.”
Amund’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he do so, do you think?”
“Because,” Thom broke in, “as the prince stated, he is a good man.”
Marcus lifted his eyes and looked at Thom. Then he met Amund’s gaze. “There are men around him that have known him for a long time, Dean, for much longer than Thom or I have known him. Every one of them describes him as a man who does the right thing simply because it is right. I’ve seen it in him myself. He is truly a lord, in every good and proper sense of the word.”
“You’re not a student anymore, Marcus,” Amund admonished him, “and I am not head of the Academy – drop the ‘Dean’ and call me simply Amund, if you please.” He attended to his pipe again for a long moment and then lifted his gaze once more to look across the fire. “Wallensia, Duridia, and Lamont – they are part of his kingdom?”
At this, and to Amund’s surprise, Thom and Marcus both laughed. “All these lands would gladly submit to him completely were he to assert his will,” Marcus replied, “but he makes no such assertion. His kingdom, as near as I can tell, exists only in the minds of others. He himself claims no such station in the world.”
Amund frowned. “Yet he flies the standard of the ancient kings,” he protested.
“He names it a family heirloom,” Thom said.
Amund went very still for a moment. He started to speak, but then instead put his pipe to his mouth and drew on it, frowning, his eyes moving slowly back and forth between his two companions.
“He flies it to please his wife, the Lady Ka’en,” Marcus added, when Amund did not speak. “She made it for him.”
“His wife? So he has a spouse?”
Marcus nodded.
Amund’s frown deepened. “Where did she learn the configuration of the standard?”
“I have no means of knowing the answer to that,” Marcus said simply as he shrugged and shook his head.
Amund gazed into the fire for a while, thinking, and then he looked up again. “If he’s married, then it’s likely that he is no more than a man.”
Marcus frowned at him quizzically. “Yes, of course – what did you think he was?”
Ignoring the question, Amund persisted, “So – he’s just a man, like you or me?”
Thom leaned his head back and laughed outright and loudly and a smile crept onto Marcus’ face at this suggestion, though it faded quickly. The young prince shook his head. “No, no – forgive me, Amund, but Lord Aram is nothing like me, or even you. He’s much, much more, I assure you.”
“What is he, then?”
Thom stifled his laugh and grinned across at him. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “Rahm is but a worm by comparison. We have that from a very high authority, don’t we, Marcus?”
Marcus smiled in agreement; then he stared down into the flames and considered. “Some folk – Mallet, for one – think him a god. Many others think that at least he was sent by the gods. And Captain Wamlak believes he is one of the ancients.”
Amund puffed at his pipe and watched the young prince across the fire. “And just what do the two of you think he is?”
Thom shrugged. “I’m inclined to agree with Wamlak.”
Marcus looked up and met Amund’s gaze. “I’ll tell you what he is, Amund, and I’ll use your word. He is a king. That’s what I think – nay, it’s what I know – he is a king.”
Amund kept his eyes fixed on Marcus face as he studied him. Then, after a moment, he asked, “And what if – despite what Captain Sota declares – this ‘king’ wants to sit upon the throne of Elam?”
Marcus considered this and then slowly nodded. “Then he may sit the throne of Elam. I can think of no one better.”
Amund’s eyes narrowed. “You trust him so much? You know him so well?�
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Marcus shook his head at that. “I know him very little – he is a difficult man to get to know. But I trust those who do know him, and have followed him for years. They are good men – free men, and honorable. And then there are the noble ones that follow him. They think of him and speak of him in much the same vein.” Marcus moved one hand, indicating the horses grazing down along the banks of the stream. “Ask them.”
Amund turned his head and watched the horses for a while. Then he knocked out his pipe and reached for his bedroll. “Well, I will meet him soon myself, and the Maker knows we need his aid. I’m tired, lads, I think I’ll try to sleep now.”
Marcus nodded. “I’ll rest, too, but I’ll keep the fire going.”
“No – you rest, too, Marcus,” Thom offered. “I’ll tend it.”
Amund frowned at them. “You should both rest. It’s a warm night.”
“Yes, for now.” Marcus agreed smiling. “It will get cool toward morning though.”
“Well, you know better than I do about such things,” Amund admitted. “Good night, lad. Good night, captain.”
“Good night, De – good night, Amund,” Marcus answered.
“Good night,” Thom acknowledged as he got up to position a few of the larger chunks of wood onto the flames before finding his own bedroll.
The next day they journeyed on through the forested hills on the east of Elam – ever shadowed by Lord Aram’s wolves – crossed the crest of the hills and gradually began to lose altitude. They camped once more on the eastern slopes and rose with the dawn; they were already an hour upon the road when the first rays of the sun pierced the green woods. Before them, the road went nearly straight on and descended gradually. The trees grew taller. Then the ancient stone pavement leveled out where great trees rose up from relatively flat ground and clear streams meandered northward through occasional lush meadows. They were out of the highlands but still very deep in grand, thick forests.
About mid-day, they came rather suddenly into the outskirts of an abandoned city. The forest had apparently made little attempt at invasion through the centuries, or perhaps it had been defeated in its efforts by unknown forces, for it failed completely at the outskirts of the city. Though it was obviously very ancient and utterly deserted, the city and its beautifully-wrought stone structures were yet intact and showed very little effect of the ravages of time.
Amund sat up straighter in the saddle and gazed about him in amazement at the abandoned grandeur of a city he had never known existed. Despite its beauty, however, the city seemed to unsettle the horses, for they picked up the pace without prompting and hurried eastward along a wide grand avenue, Thom and Norgen forging ahead. The horses’ hooves rang on the ancient stone and the echoes redounded through empty streets.
As they progressed deeper into the environs of the abandoned city, Amund began to feel a creeping sense of unease. Whether it was simply imparted to him by Huram’s attitude or arose from a different quarter he could not tell, but he looked around more closely at the uninhabited grandeur. Off to the south, toward the heart of the city, a lone black spire rose up like the tooth of a serpent, gleaming as if newly constructed.
Amund stared at the spire, and as he did so, the feeling of disquiet intensified. Another thought occurred to him and he glanced around him before settling his attention on Marcus. “Where are the wolves?”
Marcus shook his head as he pointed toward the northern edge of the city. “They won’t pass through this place, so they go around.” He shivered as he turned his gaze southward, toward the distant ebony spire. “We won’t dally, either. We’ll just use the road to get through this place as quickly as we can.”
As he also glanced once more at the spire, Amund felt ice form in his veins. “No,” he agreed, “we do not need to tarry here.” And he was glad to finally pass through the ancient stone and get back among the giant trees. He didn’t look back.
By evening, they had emerged from the forest and were traveling across undulating grasslands, broken here and there by scattered groves of trees and ancient, abandoned farmhouses. The wolves ran close beside them now, loping easily through the tall grasses. Just as the sun dropped upon the hills, Amund looked ahead, to the east, where he could see the broken and burned spires of a ruined town rising above the prairie. Catching Marcus’ attention, he pointed ahead.
“Stell?”
Marcus nodded. “We’ll camp near its outskirts this evening.”
“Will we be safe here?” Amund asked. “The last I heard, Manon’s beasts held sway in this part of the world.”
Marcus smiled. “Lord Aram ran them all off – or killed them. This is his domain now.”
Frowning, Amund glanced around, especially toward the north, where a line of hills angled down to the southeast. These were edged by a winding line of trees that obviously verged a sizeable stream. The River Stell. In the breaks between the trees, he could see that on the far side of the river there were expanses of worked ground. Farms.
As the river with its attendant farmland grew closer, he could see that there were people working in the fields in the fading light of day. Many stopped to watch the three men on horseback, tentatively raising their hands in greeting to which Marcus responded in kind.
They camped among the ruins of an ancient town near the southern end of a bridge that arched northward, spanning the Stell. Eastward, the blackened and broken spires of Wallensia’s ancient capitol caught the last glints of sunset and edged the black horizon like shining teeth. The wolves, which had accompanied them for most of the day, did not show. When asked, Marcus replied, “They’ve gone back, in order to return into the forests on the east of Elam. Nothing will endanger us now. And we are making excellent time, Dean. Day after tomorrow, early, we will reach the fortress.”
All the next day they traveled northward along the western shores of a mighty river, which Marcus informed him was known as the Broad. They passed through four villages of farmers, all of whom seemed tentative and rather poor, but who smiled broadly and waved at them as they passed.
When queried, Marcus told Amund that they had only recently been added to the rolls of free people and that the land upon which they expended their labor, once slaveholdings of the grim lord, were now their own. That night, they slept in the house of Rober, the newly appointed elder of the northernmost village who professed his intention to move eastward, across the river, as soon as the harvest was safely deposited in the granary.
On mid-morning of the fifth day, Amund saw the ramparts of a great fortress begin to rise up out of the prairie ahead. Just before mid-day, after being ferried across the mighty Broad, they rode up along the edge of this fortress and around to its western side.
Amund let out a gasp at that which his eyes beheld.
A vast army covered the grasslands. Thousands of tents spread away from the walls of the fortress north and east, with men and horses moving among them. Here, in one place, was a force easily the size of Basura's entire strength of arms – nay, more. Here was a force that could challenge the might of Rahm. And even as they watched, a large herd of horses, bearing armed men, came into view from the southeast.
A slim, dark-headed soldier with a bow slung casually across his back turned and shouted up at someone on the wall. “The Prince has returned.”
Seeing Marcus and Thom dismount, Amund slid off Huram's back. Despite the novelty of his surroundings, he nonetheless turned to Huram before following the others. “Thank you, Master Huram,” he said gravely.
“It was my pleasure, I assure you, sir,” the horse replied.
Marcus turned to the archer. “Is Lord Aram at the fortress, Captain Wamlak?”
“Yes,” the dark-haired man answered. “The eagles saw your approach and informed him. He returned from the north this morning. He awaits you in the council chamber.” He shot Marcus a look of admiration. “You were not expected before the morrow.”
“Huram, Phagan, and Norgen are more eagle than horse; we fairly
sped here,” Marcus replied with a smile and then he glanced out across the prairie at the horses approaching from the southeast. “Seneca?”
Wamlak turned and looked as well, grinning. “Yes, here they come. Week by week, there are more and more of them.”
When the soldier turned back, Amund asked him. “You say the eagles told him of our arrival?”
Captain Wamlak’s grin broadened. “Nothing moves beneath these skies but what they see it.”
Feeling very much out of his depth at approaching a man for whom eagles served as couriers, Amund followed Marcus through the gates, up a long flight of stairs, and into a large room situated along the northern wall of the fortress. Natural light filtered down through openings in the wall, and there were lamps lit as well. Everything, though orderly and tidy, was of a rustic nature. There were several men standing about, and a large eagle was perched on the back of a sturdy chair. After gazing in amazement at the bird for a moment, Amund turned and studied the men standing in that room. His eye was immediately drawn to a tall, stern-faced man with dark, shoulder-length hair. The gleaming silver-gold hilt of a sword rose above the man's right shoulder. This man was engaged in conversation with both the eagle and a young, fair-haired man with friendly, open features and a ready smile. When Amund's gaze fell upon the tall man, he found that the man's fierce green eyes were fixed upon him as well.
The young, friendly-countenanced man separated himself and came toward Marcus and Amund, holding out his hand. “You must be Prince Marcus' friend, Amund,” he said.
Amund took the proffered hand. “I am, sir,” he replied. “My father, Heglund, is – was – High Chancellor in Elam.”
The young man's smile widened further. “You are the son of a High Chancellor? I am Findaen, son of Lancer, former Chancellor of Wallensia. Come, meet Lord Aram.”
Amund followed Findaen to the opposite end of the room, studying the man with the sword as he approached him. It was hard to tell his age, but Amund suspected that he was actually younger than he first appeared. His features were those of a man perhaps no more than forty, but there was a sense of age and implacable fierceness about him that Amund could feel but couldn't define. And there was something else – a sort of electric emanation of power that came from the man. It made Amund’s nerves tingle at their extremities.
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 43