“Is there aught else on the road that comes out of Elam?”
“Yes, but the traffic is much further south and appears to be local, farmers and merchants, perhaps. There are several small villages – and one very large town – that lie along the transit of this road as it passes through the Land Beyond the Gates and goes toward Elam.”
“Did the slave train stop at the town by the hills or does it proceed?”
“It proceeds. It is passing the southern walls of the town even now.”
Aram made his decision. “We will assault them from the northern hills, just beyond the small lake.”
“I will watch from above,” the eagle answered.
Aram quickly explained to the men what he intended, and described for them what Alvern had seen. “We will attack the wagons from the flank as planned, as they move from our right to our left. If we go quickly, we should have some time to examine the ground and deploy. Does everyone know what to do?”
There was silent assent to this question.
“Alright, let’s go.”
They went through the gap into the green land beyond, where they found the small lake with its stream flowing southward, just beyond the junction of roads, as Alvern had described. As they passed over the bridge and then turned northward, leaving the road for the wooded hillside just beyond the small lake – actually a very large seeping spring – Aram looked westward. He could see the low gray smudge that defined the town, but could not make out the oncoming wagon train. This was good, for it meant that they couldn’t be seen either.
The hills rose rather sharply from the edge of the road and quickly became thickly wooded, with evergreens interspersed among colorful broadleaf trees. As a consequence of this mix of growth and undergrowth, there was ample cover, even for armored horses. Thaniel, who was completely armored, splintered small saplings as he passed among them. Wamlak positioned his archers at intervals – guessing at the distance, because the disposition of the lashers along the train was unknown. The captains and soldiers that would make the assaults on the great beasts placed themselves and their men at similar intervals, with Aram on the left, and Ruben, whose object was the driver of the lead wagon, positioned at the extreme left of the line.
They waited silently, fidgety and tense, as each man in his own mind and in his own way went over what would shortly be expected of him. Finally, an hour later, they heard the rumbling of wheels on the road, and the archers began to ease forward. Aram moved Thaniel down the slope as quietly as possible until he could see out through the trees. The lead wagon rolled past, followed by the second. Between the second and third wagons, two lashers lumbered along side-by-side. Though the beasts’ presence proved beyond doubt that it was a slave train, the fact that they traveled in pairs was troubling to him – not because these two beasts would present much of a difficulty for him; neither was a harbigur, and he would slay them easily. But if the other four lashers, back along the train, also traveled in tandem, then the work of his companions was rendered more difficult. And now, with the enemy in range, there was no means of giving the others warning, or time to alter tactics. It was proceed or nothing.
Drawing the sword of heaven, he nodded to Ruben, a dozen yards away on his left, and he and Thaniel charged out of the trees, with Durlrang a low sleek shadow flashing along the ground. Thaniel’s passage through the saplings and underbrush was thunderous. Both lashers turned and raised their weapons, wondering at the sudden commotion on the wooded hillside. As he came into the open, Aram twirled the sword overhead, gathering undiluted sunlight as Thaniel closed the thirty yards or so to the enemy. At the last moment, as the lashers raised their pikes into Thaniel’s face, Aram leaned outward and drove the point of the weapon straight at them, unleashing the power gained by but a few moments of exposure to the sun. It was enough.
Flame erupted, sizzling and popping in the air about the lashers. The tips of their pikes gyrated wildly as they spun away from the sudden burst of bright light and heat. Then Thaniel drove past on the left. Aram swung the blade with both hands, reaching out as far as he dared and left both of them in a heap, one dying, and the other dead. Immediately, Thaniel spun right, charging back along the wagons, looking for the others. Several of the drivers had abandoned their wagons, running back along the road toward the distant town, or up onto the wooded hillside. One fled like a rabbit southward across the open plain. They all appeared far too young to be overseers. Aram noted this fact, but let them go; at the moment, he was far more interested in lashers.
The next pair, which had also been traveling in tandem between the fifth and sixth wagons, had been engaged by Findaen, Mallet, and one other. Both lashers sported arrows protruding from torso and arm, evidence of the efficiency of Wamlak and his archers. One beast, that had been closest to the origin of the attack, had gone to his knees, and was flailing wildly at Findaen – who was still mounted – with his short sword and multi-thronged whip. Aram noted with some surprise that Findaen fought him singly. From the back of Andaran, as the horse turned and plunged, he hacked and stabbed in a workmanlike manner. Brackish blood flowed freely down over the great beast’s body from dozens of wounds.
The second lasher had moved away and out onto the grass beside the road, giving himself room to maneuver. Mallet, much to Aram’s chagrin, had dismounted and faced the lasher with only his lance. The other Derosan, a young man named Calvan, sat astride his horse, sword drawn, looking back and forth between the two duels, obviously undecided as to which fight to join. Aram had no such difficulty.
“The one facing Mallet,” he said simply, sending the silent command into Thaniel’s mind.
Thaniel surged forward. Before the beast could recognize that a new threat was bearing down on him from the rear, Thaniel roared past and Aram slid the sword of heaven through his body. Mallet, who had been hunched forward, ferociously intent on the fight, straightened up and shouted in dismay at the abrupt loss of his enemy.
“Sorry, Mallet,” Aram shouted back. “Go help Findaen.”
Things had progressed even further with the last pair of lashers, which had been moving between wagons seven and eight. One was already on the ground, prone and unmoving, his chest full of arrows and his throat slashed, evidently by the teeth of wolves. Wamlak had dismounted and with cautious probing of the huge form, was checking to make sure the massive beast would not rise again.
The second lasher had managed to back up against the side of the wagon and roared in pain and fury as he lashed out at his enemies. Shingka and Leorg slashed at his clawed feet and lower legs from beneath the wagon, as Jonwood rode his mount back and forth and hacked at him with his sword. Erak Barris had managed to pierce him with his lance, which the lasher had broken off near where it entered his body, but Erak had acquired another from one of his companions, and the wild-haired man continued to jab ferociously at the great beast with this second weapon.
After a moment, Aram realized that this fight would be won and that he ought to let it alone. He sheathed the sword and went to Wamlak, who was just now regaining his mount after making certain the first lasher was dead.
“Where are the others?”
Wamlak glanced down the road and pointed. Three of his archers, not engaged in either of the ongoing duels, had overtaken the drivers that had fled toward town and were herding them back toward the train. Another had gathered up the driver that had attempted to escape across the prairie, while the others searched the hills behind them for those that had run into the woods Aram nodded. “Good,” he said, “I’ll go check on Ruben and return in a moment.”
At the front of the wagons, Ruben had dismounted from Varen, and stood on the ground with his sword pointed at the back of a prone figure. He looked up as Aram approached.
“He dove onto the ground at the first sign of trouble, my lord. I haven’t killed him – should I?”
Aram dismounted and removed his hood. He walked to the driver and looked down. The driver lay prone, on his belly with his
arms folded over his head. He was shaking. Aram prodded him with his boot.
“Turn over – show me your face.”
The driver clenched his arms tighter and tried to draw up his legs.
Aram knelt down and spoke in a quiet, deadly tone. “I don’t mind killing overseers, even when I can’t see their faces. Do you want to die curled up like a child?”
The arms unclenched, the head turned, and one wild eye stared up at Aram in terror. “I’m n-not an overseer, s-sir!”
The man’s voice revealed youth, and the face was smooth; he was, in fact, very nearly a child. Aram watched him a moment until the head turned back to the ground and the arms tightened again.
“If you’re not an overseer,” he said, a bit less fiercely, “and you want to live – then show me your face.”
The young driver responded to Aram’s voice as if it were a whip lash. He rolled over, sat up, and scrambled back against the wheel of the wagon, where he stared at Aram with wide eyes.
Aram remained kneeling where he was and studied the man. Certainly, he was not an overseer. It wasn’t just his youth – the dark-haired man couldn’t have been more than twenty, perhaps even younger, and he lacked the hard-bitten, seamy, surly quality of every overseer Aram had ever encountered.
“Why are you driving this wagon?”
The eyes widened further. “They will kill me if I don’t obey.”
“Who will kill you?”
The beasts.”
“The beasts are dead; so they will be killing no one.” Aram noted the young man’s tattered clothes and worn boots. “Where are you from?”
“Midvale, in Elam.”
Aram considered it. There would, of course, be no overseers in Elam, for there would be no slave-tended farms. So why would that land’s young men drive slave wagons for Manon? Elam’s complicity in the grim lord’s evils must run deeper than suspected.
“Do you know what is in these wagons?” He asked. The question had another purpose beyond the obvious – at the moment, Aram wasn’t sure of the cargo himself.
The young man nodded; his eyes so wide that the brown centers were lost in a field of stark white.
“What?” Aram insisted.
“W-women – girls.” The voice was truly that of a young man now, very frightened, and Aram thought, somewhat ashamed.
“Where are you taking these women?”
“N-north.”
“Why?”
The young man blinked back fear. “Why?”
“Why are you taking these women into the north?”
The driver swallowed at his distress; shame appeared upon his face and mingled with the terror in his eyes. “They are the High Prince’s gift to the lord of the north – the one who lives in the great tower.”
“And do you know what happens to the women that are taken there?”
The shame deepened. “I can guess.”
“And yet you do it.”
“Not by choice.” There was anger, now, mingled with the fear and the shame. “I would gladly drive them into the river and drown them all than take them to that place.”
“Is that all you can think to do – drown them?” Aram’s sarcasm was cruel, and he knew it. Drawing a deep breath, he softened his tone. “Wouldn’t you rather help them find safety and freedom?”
Something in Aram’s voice engendered a change in the young man’s demeanor. There was something else in his eyes now and in his voice when he spoke. Defiance, perhaps – or hope.
“Tell me, sir. Where is this freedom of which you speak?”
“With me,” Aram answered, and then he indicated Ruben. “With us.”
The driver stared at Aram for a long moment, and his attitude changed again, and became more open. “You tell me where to drive this wagon, sir. If there is freedom at the end of that road, I will go gladly.”
Aram allowed himself to smile. “What is your name?”
“Luca. Luca dal Fygar.”
“My name is Aram. I am lord of the free lands to the east. That is where freedom lies – and where you will drive this wagon. Tell me, Luca; how does a son of Elam end up carrying its daughters into slavery and horror?”
Luca’s fear had gone; his features hardened. “I am a slave also.”
“Indeed. And how does a son of Elam become a slave?”
The answer came back soaked with bitterness. “He becomes a slave when his older sister is given up as a part of the gift to the lord of the tower, and his parents are slain because they are poor and foolish enough to resist. Then he is sent to the orphanage until he is old enough to be of use to the High Prince. That’s how.”
Aram rocked back on his heels, stunned at the similarities between his own life and that of this young scion of Elam. He gazed at Luca with sudden sympathy. “This happened to you?”
Luca’s fists clenched even as his eyes welled. “My life, thus far,” he answered.
Aram lifted his head and looked back along the string of wagons. “And the other drivers?”
Luca nodded. “Similar stories to mine, I imagine. We’re not allowed to talk to each other much.”
The sounds of battle had died down, and Findaen and Wamlak arrived, wondering about the disposition of their prisoners. Aram stood and extended his gauntleted hand to the young man of Elam. “Your life just changed, Luca. Let’s go talk with your companions.”
Luca gazed up at him, and then amazement filtered in and removed all other emotions from his features. He took the proffered hand and came to his feet. Dusting himself off, he met Aram’s gaze. “I’m free?”
“Yes. What will you do?”
The slim young man looked around, looked at a Ruben, and stared for a long moment at the horses. Then his eyes came back to Aram. “Can I go with you?”
Aram nodded, “I think it best.” He moved toward the small clot of drivers, clustered together near where he had slain the first pair of lashers. “Let’s see how many of the others feel the same way.”
The rest of the drivers were very like Luca, young, mostly – though a couple were older – ragged, thin, and frightened. Aram looked at Luca. “Join us,” he said. “And as your first contribution, sift through these others – tell them the situation, and discover their thoughts. I have to see to the contents of these wagons.”
Luca nodded and moved toward the group of drivers. Aram turned to Findaen. “Everyone alright?”
“Yes, my lord,” he answered, and he laughed. “Though Mallet complains that you robbed him of a kill.”
Aram grinned ruefully. “Perhaps I did – if so, I wish I hadn’t. I must learn to let others join the fight.”
Findaen became abruptly serious as he gazed back. “Yes,” he said, “you must.”
Aram went around to the back of the wagon and examined the door. It was narrow and almost as tall as the back panel of the wagon. There was no lock, just a long bolt slipped through two round catches. He glanced once at Findaen, slid the bolt up out of the catches, and pulled the door wide. Though there was a bright sun rising toward mid-morning, the interior was gloomy, nearly, as night. The only light finding its way into the interior came through slats at the sides. Memories of his own trials, long ago, in a wagon very like this one, assaulted him from the dim depths. He drew a deep breath and looked in.
Utter silence greeted him as he peered into the dimness. Gradually his eyes adjusted and made out dark shapes clustered near the front, as far from the door as possible. The interior of the wagon, though similar to those that had transported him across the plains so long ago, was configured slightly differently. There was the conduit running along the flat roof, but no wide slats along the side for chaining slaves. Instead there was a wide slat in the middle of the floor that ran the length of the wagon.
There was movement at the front, accompanied by the clinking of chain. The occupants were chained then, but not to the sides as he had been. And, he was thankful to discover as his eyes adjusted, they appeared to be clothed.
; He took one step back and held out his hand toward the dim interior. “Can you come toward me?” He asked. “You will not be harmed.”
There was no answer for a long moment, and then a soft voice answered. “Who are you?”
“A friend. The beasts are dead – you will not be taken north.” He waited a moment. “You are to be free – all of you. Come; let’s see about removing your chains.”
Someone began sobbing quietly. After another moment’s hesitation, the sound of clinking metal came again and the shapes moved toward the door, resolving themselves into the figures of eight young women dressed in ragged clothes. Aram looked into eight pairs of wide eyes and spoke gently.
“You are safe now, you are free.” He made a motion with his hand, palm up. “May I see about your bonds?”
The nearest woman, barely more than a girl, dark-haired and thin, but tall, held her left hand hesitantly toward his. A thin clasp, with a simple key slot at the side, encircled her wrist, and a length of chain looped from this to a similar clasp on the wrist of a second woman, and so on. Aram glanced at Findaen. “Get Mallet to help you – see which of the lashers has keys.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The dark-haired girl looked up at the use of the title, and searched Aram’s face with wide eyes. “You’re a lord?”
Aram smiled. “Of the free lands to the east. If you wish, you may go there and find a new life.”
Tears erupted from her eyes. “We’re not going to be fed to the beasts?”
“No.” Aram returned, startled by the question. “Is that what you –?”
He checked himself, and shook his head. “No, child, I told you, you are safe now.” He let his gaze sweep over the other faces, clustered behind her. “You may all go with us to the east and be free, if you like.”
“You killed the beasts?” A voice asked, incredulously.
Aram tried to discern the questioner among the shadowed faces but failed, so he addressed the slim, dark-haired girl. “My companions and I killed them. They are not allowed in our lands. Now, will you go with us?”
The girl wiped at her eyes, and there was resignation in them, as if his offer was but another command. “Where else would we go?”
Kelven's Riddle Book Three Page 17
