He inclined his head and was surprised to hear himself acknowledge the superiority of this kingly man.
“I am pleased to meet you, Lord Aram,” he said. “I am Amund, of the House of Basura in Elam.”
Aram shook his hand shortly and firmly and then asked without preamble, “What is it that occurs on the eastern borders of Elam?” He indicated the eagle. “Lord Alvern tells us that there is evidence of a coming confrontation between two opposing forces. From other sources we hear tales of strife and dissatisfaction, and possible dissolution – are these tales true?”
Amund was taken aback by Lord Aram's bluntness. Before he could make an answer, Findaen stepped up next to him. “You will forgive Lord Aram's directness. It is his way. You have traveled far, sir – are you hungry?”
At that, a frown of irritation crossed the tall lord's features. But it faded as quickly as it came, to be followed by a slight smile that played around the corners of his mouth. His eyes, however, remained serious. “Yes,” Aram stated, “forgive me; you must be hungry.”
“Actually, sir, just a bit thirsty,” Amund replied to Findaen as he gazed into Lord Aram’s eyes. “But you are right in your impatience, my lord. Our situation is serious – nay, it is dire.” He nodded his thanks as Findaen moved away to retrieve some water and then looked back at Aram. “That ‘coming confrontation’, as you put it, is between the House of Basura – my House – and the High Prince of Elam. To be as blunt as you, sir, we fear that it will break into open conflict at any time.” He drew in a deep breath, aware that the room had gone silent and was focused on his conversation with the tall lord, and then let it out and plunged on. “I have come, in fact, to see if there is any hope that you will come to our aid in some way. We are greatly outnumbered and soon it may become hopeless. There are more of the throne's troops coming up out of the south.”
“And what is your defensive situation?” Lord Aram asked. “How long can your people hold?”
“Our defensive posture is good, I think, though I'm not a military man. We are fortunate to have General Kraine with us and he has positioned our defenses along the eastern bank of a stream that runs to the north by the city of Tobol. The men are positioned, in fact, directly beneath the walls.” Amund thought for a moment. “I think we can hold for some time, though not for long, I fear, especially after the enemy is reinforced.”
Lord Aram's hard eyes hardened further. “And you expect conflict soon?”
“I do,” Amund replied. “I fear that open war may break out before my return, my lord.”
At that statement, there was a subtle change in Lord Aram's demeanor. Amund felt it as much as he saw it. Aram turned and looked at the eagle. “Lord Alvern, if you will, collect Kipwing and fly west to the skies above Basura. Keep me informed of all that occurs. We will be moving westward on the morrow.”
Amund gasped. “Moving, my lord? Do you mean –?”
Aram met his eyes. “We are coming to your aid, sir. There is much to do. If you will, go with Findaen and get something to eat and then rest. We will move at daylight. I assume you wish to accompany us?”
“Yes, of course,” Amund answered. “You will need me to guide you, will you not?”
“The eagles will guide us,” Aram replied shortly, “but I would not wish to impose myself upon your lands without consent.”
“What do you mean to do?”
Aram looked at him in with raised eyebrows. “I mean to drive them from before your walls, of course.”
Amund hesitated and looked down at the floor. “I fear that you may not arrive soon enough, my lord. It is far from here to the walls of Basura.” He looked up. “Unless there are enough horses to move the whole of your army?”
Aram shook his head. “There are something less than one thousand horses allied with us – barely eight hundred have chosen their riders. But those eight hundred will be at the walls of your endangered city in five or six days' time.”
Upon hearing this, Amund’s hopes fell. “Eight hundred, my lord? Against so many?” He spread his arms wide. “There are fifteen thousand of Rahm's men at our gates, and more are coming.”
In response, Aram smiled slightly. “These would be the same fifteen thousand that we met upon the plains of Cumberland in the spring?”
“They are,” Amund acknowledged.
“And their commander is the same?”
Amund shook his head. “No. Edverch is gone, replaced by a general named Zelrod Slan.”
“This Slan – he is a proper general?”
“He is rumored to be so,” Amund affirmed. “Many consider him to be clever.”
“Experienced in war?”
Amund frowned and shook his head. “No more than that which he has perpetrated upon our farmers and their families.”
Aram’s answer to this statement was to render a thin, cold smile. “He and his many thousands will not stand before my eight hundred, I assure you, sir,” he said. He reached down and drew a line with his finger across the table while watching Amund. “Your men are deployed along a wide front?”
“Yes, perhaps two miles. It is a long line, but thin.”
“And the enemy?”
Amund imitated the movement of Aram’s finger with his own. “Deployed opposite, my lord. At least they will be soon enough.”
“Also on a line?”
“Yes.”
Aram indicated both ends of the imaginary line on the table. “And what is immediately to the north and south of your line of troops in front of Tobol?”
Amund gazed down upon the table as if seeing the countryside of his homeland. “To the south is open farmland, and a small stream verged with occasional marshes. To the north is the River Shosk.”
“Flowing to the west?”
Amund nodded.
“How wide is this river, and how deep?” Aram asked.
“Fairly wide along most of its length, quite wide in places, but not overly deep, for it flows slowly there,” Amund replied. “There is a farmers' ford not far to the west from where it is joined by the stream that runs before Tobol.”
“And has the enemy tried to flank you from across the farmlands to the south?”
“Flank us, my lord?”
“Move some of his forces around and mass them against the end of your line.”
“No.” Amund frowned and shook his head slowly. “At least not before I left Basura. And he showed no intention of executing such a maneuver when last I looked upon his army.”
“You believe this Slan to be a capable soldier?”
Amund nodded. “As I said, he is known as a clever man.”
“Then he will eventually have the thought to flank you when it comes to conflict.” Aram smiled a grim smile. “With any luck, we will flank him first.” He turned to the young man that stood next to him. “Where are Boman and Edwar?”
“Among their men.”
“And Matibar?”
“He is with Governor Boman,” the young man replied.
“Bring them.”
“At once, my lord.”
Amund watched Aram closely. “You mean to go to war with Elam?”
“No.” Aram shook his head. “You, sir, and those that stand with you are Elam. Our young friend, Marcus, is Elam. Rahm Imrid is unknown to me, but his policies are not – his allegiances are not. Anyone allied with the grim lord is thereby an enemy of the free peoples of the world, and this includes the man that currently sits the throne of Elam.” He looked sharply at Amund. “Would you not rather see Prince Marcus on that throne?”
Amund hesitated and his eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you, my lord – not that I would necessarily be opposed to such an occurrence,” he added quickly.
Aram looked back at him with a hardened gaze and stern expression. “You may safely put such thoughts from you. I did not seek the position I now hold, and I want nothing from Elam but its help in defeating Manon – or at least its neutrality while I do so. If Rahm Imrid is removed, Marcus will sit
the throne.”
“As your vassal?”
“As my friend and ally.” Aram's gaze grew harder. “Or do you, sir, aspire for something more than your current place?”
Amund relaxed, let out a breath, and smiled. “No, Lord Aram, I assure you that I do not. My desires are as yours. I wish Rahm gone and the son of Waren ruling in his stead.”
“Then we are agreed.”
Amund nodded. “So it would seem.”
Aram studied the table with its imaginary lines for a long moment. Then he looked up. “Describe for me all the country just to the north of Tobol, beyond the river.”
Amund frowned. “But the enemy is to the west, before the walls.”
“Yes, but the north will be our avenue of access to the field.”
Amund's frown deepened. “Not the south, with the 'flanking' maneuver that you described?”
“You stated that the river to the north, while not deep, is quite wide.”
“It is, quite wide in places,” Amund affirmed.
“The enemy will consider it a boundary, then.”
Amund thought about it. “Yes, no doubt he will.”
“Then we will flank him where he least expects it.”
Amund stood quietly for a moment, watching the tall, stern “barbarian king”. “May I ask a thing of you, Lord Aram?”
Aram met his eyes and nodded.
“You stated that you desire Elam's help in defeating the prince of the north – were we to succeed in removing Rahm and placing Marcus on the throne. How well do you know this 'Manon', Rahm's ally?”
“Well enough,” Aram answered as he fixed him with his hard green eyes. “And you – how well do you know him? Do you know who he is and what he is?”
Amund paused, meeting his gaze. “I am not certain of the question, Lord Aram,” he admitted finally.
“What do you know of the world's history?” Aram asked.
“I am an educated man, my lord. I think I may safely say that I know as much about the ancient world as anyone in Elam these days.”
“What do you know of Manon?”
Again, Amund hesitated. “Which one? The ancient enemy of Joktan, or the prince who now bears that name and resides in the north?”
Aram’s eyes grew colder. “They are one and the same person.”
Amund sucked in a breath and felt his eyes widen. “Impossible.”
“Truth.” Aram watched him for a long moment. “He is a god. Did you not know? As such, he does not die. He may be slain, but he will not die otherwise. He is the same who opposed Joktan, and who met Kelven upon the mountain where he was reduced but not slain. He resides in the north as he did in days of old, rebuilding his armies from the wombs of your daughters.”
Amund breath failed him. “Our daughters –?”
“That is why they are conveyed into the north.” Aram spoke bluntly, but his eyes grew softer with sympathy. “It is a ceaseless river of horror and misery. Elam is its source and his tower is its outlet.”
Amund felt his eyes widen as a thought struck him. “His beasts?”
Aram nodded. “You are a perceptive man,” he said. A look of sadness, as though sparked by an old memory, crossed his face. “They are the produce of human women.”
“We – Basura – no longer send our children into the north as Rahm’s ‘gift’ to his ally,” Amund stated savagely. “We stopped our participation some time ago. But such vileness must be ended for all the families of my homeland.”
“Precisely,” Aram stated quietly.
Amund gazed back at him in despair. “But how? Who can kill a god?” He asked.
Aram’s expression did not change. “I can.”
Amund stared. Then, instinctively, his eyes went to the hilt of the sword. Even at a distance of several feet and though it was behind the lord’s back, its presence affected him, made his nerves twitch. He brought his attention back to Lord Aram’s face. “And if Rahm is removed – and Elam settled in more capable hands…..”
“Then I will go to him and destroy him,” Aram declared quietly.
Amund looked at the sword again. “With that, I suppose?”
“It is the reason it was forged,” Aram replied simply.
Amund met his eyes for a long moment. “I will do whatever I can to help you ‘settle’ Elam, my lord,” he said.
Aram nodded. “Eat and rest, sir; we move at dawn.” With that he left the room.
52 .
At Aram’s command, every mounted man, each of the eight hundred and seventeen that had been paired with a horse, was armed with both sword and lance. Wamlak and his troop of archers, though allowed to bring their bows, were nonetheless outfitted as all the others. There were riders from Wallensia, Duridia, and Lamont in generally equal numbers but except for Matibar, the land of Seneca would not be represented. Aram wanted only those men who had been chosen by their horses and were veterans of the Battle of Bloody Stream to go west with him. Each man had a large bundle consisting of his and his horse’s armor, and about two weeks supply of food, tied behind his saddle.
The sun still crouched below the plains to the east as the riders were ferried across the Broad and turned south to canter along the river. By the time it cleared the horizon, they were far to the south, near the line of hills that angled down out of the northwest. As they passed Rober’s village, the people, whether working out in the fields or moving in and around the village, stopped and stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed as the troop thundered by.
The man known to them as The Restorer was easily recognized, riding at the front, accompanied by his black wolf. The hearts of the newly freed people swelled at the sight.
Here was power – power that had made them free, power that watched over them, going somewhere in determined manner.
The company retraced the route taken only days earlier by Marcus, Thom, and Amund. Aram kept them going every evening until darkness fell and every morning he awoke them two hours before the sun. Every single morning, in the pre-dawn blackness, he instructed that every man dress into his armor, and then armor his mount, all without benefit of light. When the captains satisfied themselves that the procedure had been properly accomplished, the men were instructed to remove the armor, stow it again, mount up, and move out.
“I don’t want to have to wait for daylight to prepare to confront the enemy,” Lord Aram explained to his captains. “When the sun arises on the day of battle, they will find us already there, upon them.”
On the sixth day after leaving the fortress, at mid-day, the troop sat in the deep shade of the forest on the wooded slopes to the east of Elam, gazing out from the cover of the trees upon the substantial city of Sevas. Leorg and Shingka, having come down through the hills to the north in order to gather up Padrik and his people, were awaiting them when they arrived.
Aram, Marcus, and Amund dismounted and stood together, watching the town. Amund looked over at Aram and indicated a broad and tall house standing atop a hill a short distance from the woods.
“My father’s home,” he said.
Aram looked around for his captains. “The troops should rest and eat, and the horses released to graze” he told them. “But start no fires. All of you, men, wolves, and horses will remain hidden in the forest.”
After making certain that his instructions were understood, he turned back to Marcus and Amund. “I want to see the disposition of the enemy.”
“My father will want to meet you as well, my lord,” Amund stated.
Aram nodded. “Then let us go meet him.” At that, he and Findaen, Boman, Matibar, and Edwar dismounted and followed Amund and Marcus down the slope, out of the trees, across a sloping meadow, and into the Basuran capitol of Sevas. The Great House itself sat on the very eastern edge of town, perched on its low hill, and was five stories in height; each story was entirely surrounded by a broad veranda.
There were a substantial number of people going about their business on the streets near the large home that housed the lead
ing family of Basura though each one seemed cast down into gloom, as if a great care weighed upon them. They seemed to Aram’s discerning eye to be in great anxiety over that which was even then occurring in the west of their homeland. As they gradually became aware that eldest son of the House had returned, they stopped short to stare at the group that had emerged from the trees. Their attention was irresistibly drawn to the tall, dark-haired man with the gleaming hilt of a sword rising above his right shoulder, who strode along just behind Amund and Prince Marcus.
Not one could have told the reason why, but each found that his or her eye was drawn to this man and to none other in the group.
Heglund Basura stood before his door and also watched them approach. At the center of the group, walking a bit behind Prince Marcus and his son and some way in front of the others, there was a tall man with hard eyes and a severe countenance. Out of apparent deference to this man, everyone with him gave him space, so that even in the midst of an assembly, he walked alone.
This, the head of the House of Basura surmised, must be Aram, the barbarian “king” from the eastern wilds. Heglund met the group on the veranda and acknowledged Marcus and his son, but almost immediately he focused his attention on Aram as the man from the east climbed the steps to his door. The head of House Basura studied the man closely as he came near. He was tall with very dark – almost black – hair and beard, vivid green eyes, and he was dressed simply in dark clothing. He halted as he reached the topmost of the steps, deferring to Marcus and Amund, who walked in front of him.
Still, though he remained unassumingly behind the other two, the man imposed himself simply by being there.
And there was something more. Something unseen but nonetheless there. Heglund felt it plainly. As Aram came close, it seemed to him that the air pulsed with energy. Heglund found his attention drawn to the sword rising above the man’s shoulder. It was as Marcus had stated – the emanations came from the sword. There was power there.
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 44