Looking down, his gaze fell upon Kemplur Dendwar, the Third of his many first children, holding a burning torch.
“Why have you awakened me?”
“Curwor and Dimnur have not returned.”
“Have not returned? From –?”
“They went west for water this morning,” Kemplur explained. “We heard them shout a warning. Afterward, there was nothing, and they did not return. I thought perhaps that the Laish had found them.”
“No – the dragons are here,” Manon answered. He looked around. “Why am I in darkness? It is not yet night. Is there a storm?”
“No, father. When Curwor and Dimnur did not return, after raising alarm, we moved the wagon into the mouth of darkness.”
“And the child?”
“It is safe, Great Father.” Kemplur lifted his torch, increasing the influence of its light.
Manon stared into the gloom until his eye fell on that thing which alone mattered in this distant, forsaken part of the world – the sinuously serpentine, dim form of the young dragon asleep inside its enormous and leathery yet nearly transparent egg, lying in the middle of the cavern floor. A few hundred yards beyond, the darkness deepened toward something even darker as the floor sloped away and fell toward obscene depths.
“What should we do about Curwor and Dimnur? You said that you wanted six to come, and six to remain. Unless they return, there are only four, now.”
“Indeed. I would never have guessed,” Manon answered caustically and brought his gaze back to the anxious, upturned face of his third child. He waved his arm. “Go. Go and find them, of course. Now that you have awakened me, I will watch over the dragon child. Come back and report when you have found them – or when you have discerned what has happened to them.”
“Yes, Great Father.” The lasher turned to go.
“Leave the torch.”
After Kemplur left, Manon kept his gaze upon the egg, but he retreated back across the many miles to rejoin his larger, much stronger primary self. He decided to forgo his labor on that other second self for the moment – it was exceedingly delicate work – opting instead to maintain a heightened vigilance in the distant cavern, and to think.
What had occurred in the wild lands beyond Lamont? Surely, it was not the man, again. True, the spies had lost contact with him some weeks earlier, but at the time he had been traveling southwest with a small contingent toward Duridia, no doubt seeking aid and alliance. He might then go eastward into Lamont, but he could have no imaginable business in the wild country that lay further to the east of that land.
Perhaps his two wayward children had come against an unknown beast, more vicious than themselves, unaware, and it had injured or killed them. There were yet ancient creatures here and there, leftovers from the old world before humans, that wandered the wastelands – Manon had discovered and made use of a few of them himself.
It was not the dragons, certainly. He sent his mind outward, feeling toward the stark country to the north of his tower, where they made their lair while in service to him. They were there, both of them. He could easily feel the intense mental disruption caused by their harsh, disorganized minds.
Well, he would wait, and watch over his imprisoned prize – the thing that kept the dragons obedient – until Kemplur returned to report the substance of the matter.
34
As Aram and his party moved back down the riverbed away from the black mountain, Kipwing flew above them, watching the countryside and searching, at Aram’s instructions, for a better place to wait out the day and possibly encamp for the night. In the end, as nothing suggested itself, Aram decided to remain by the river, and to send the wolves north into the darkness after sundown. He then sent Kipwing back toward the lasher camp to see if there had been any change in the behavior of Manon’s servants.
After a few minutes, Kipwing called down out of the sky to the north.
“Two of the beasts have gone to the river,” he reported. “They have found the bodies.”
“Do they come this way?” He glanced at the sun, sliding toward evening. Could they get lucky enough to reduce the number of their enemies yet again, without engaging in general conflict?
I should have lain in wait by the bodies, he thought.
“They do not,” the eagle answered. “They looked upon the bodies, and now they go quickly back toward their camp.”
Aram balled his fist and drove it into the palm of his hand in frustration. “I could have killed two more. Why didn’t I stay?”
No one answered and he looked back into the north. “And the wagon?”
There was silence for a moment. “I cannot see it.”
Aram sat stock still on Thaniel’s back. “You cannot see it? Where has it gone?”
“I cannot answer this question, my lord,” the eagle answered with regret. “It is not visible in the country round about – though the lashers remain near the mountain. Perhaps they moved it into the mouth of darkness?”
He looked over at Findaen in puzzlement. “Why would they do this?”
Glad that Aram’s anger had passed, Findaen considered the question. “There must be something in it that needs protecting.”
Aram shook his head. “I told you what I believe it contains, and such a thing requires no protection. So why move it inside?”
“Does Manon speak from inside it – give them instruction?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know whether a fellring is always aware, or if it sleeps while enclosed.” He looked around in sudden wariness. “Perhaps it was loosed long ago, and walks about, and uses the wagon only as a shelter.” At his own words, his face twisted in anxious frustration. “I don’t know how it works.”
“Perhaps the lashers moved it instinctively,” Thaniel interjected, “without instruction.”
“Probably,” Aram agreed, hoping it was so; and then he hesitated. “Or maybe it wanted to be closer to something inside that cave.”
“What do we do now?” Edwar asked. After witnessing the carnage up the river, the captain from Lamont had lost much of his wary attitude concerning Aram, and now appeared to have his blood up, eager to be included in the action.
Aram glanced at him. “Tomorrow, we will go and look upon their camp, and see what may be done to separate them from the wagon and kill them all.”
Edwar gazed back at him quizzically. “You really do fear whatever is in that thing, don’t you?” He motioned with his hand up the river. “After what I saw today, it’s hard to imagine that you would fear anything.”
“A lasher can kill a man easily,” Aram answered, “several men at once, actually. But the thing in that wagon could very nearly destroy that mountain.”
The captain turned pale as he whistled in astonishment. “What can we possibly do about it, then – do we just leave it alone after the lashers are dead?”
Aram hadn’t known what he would do, but on hearing Edwar’s words, he felt as if a light had pierced a dark corner of his mind. “That’s actually a very good idea, I think, and probably the safest thing, too. If we can leave it without anyone to watch over it, or move it – abandoned – what can it do other than tear itself apart, damaging nothing but stone?” He grinned at Edwar. “A very clever solution, sir – clever indeed.”
Kipwing was still in the sky, making his last turns above them, guarding against surprise. Soon, he would go south as was his wont, to the sea. Aram looked up. “Are there oxen at the lashers camp?”
“No, Lord Aram. They were probably eaten long ago.”
Aram nodded at this. It made sense. For whatever reason, the fellring wagon had remained here for six years or more. It was probably never going back to the black tower so far away across the world, and caring for the needs of two – or more likely, four – oxen would have been an unnecessary chore. The oxen, consequently, would have figured among the first of the attendant lashers’ meals once they had encamped at the base of the mountain.
The company camped near the rocky slope
at the edge of the river bed. As water was getting low in all their canteens, Aram sanitized a good amount of the water from the stream, bringing it to a boil in Findaen’s kolfa pot, and then letting it rest before refilling everyone’s supply.
The horses required no such regimen, and after quenching their thirst directly from the stream, they grazed across the level floor of the narrow valley, finding what grass they could as the light failed. For their part, the wolves ate at the carcass of the slain shrinn, a half-mile or so further upstream – after dragging it away from the water – and then Leorg and Shingka went into the night between the camp and the distant lashers. Aram kept Durlrang close as was his wont, both because he worried about the health of the ancient wolf, and because he enjoyed his company.
In the morning, once again, Aram dressed into his armor, except for the hood which he stowed through his belt, and put on his clothes over the top. They left camp at sunrise, going back north to the small, rocky mound. Here, Aram left Mallet, Ruben, and Edwar to watch over Ka’en along with the rest of horses while he, Thaniel, Findaen, Andaran, and the wolves picked their way north through the desert toward the base of the mountain, which towered above them, a dark, shadowed mass.
Looking up across it steep, broken slopes, Aram was surprised to note that it was actually not as tall as it had appeared from a distance – not much larger, probably, than the man-made pyramid at Rigar Pyrannis. Deep canyons and gorges furrowed its dark slopes. They could not yet see the lashers’ camp, for there was a line of broken foothills just to their front.
Kipwing’s voice came down out of the morning. “There is but one piece of high ground between you and the beasts,” he said. “If you climb this high ground still mounted, they will see you easily.”
Aram acknowledged this and spoke to Thaniel, bringing him to a halt near a copse of thorny trees at the base of a small rise, beyond which the mountain arose. He dismounted, and motioned for Findaen to do the same, and then he retrieved the hood from his belt and slipped it over his head.
A thick, sour odor pervaded the air.
He looked at Thaniel. “Wait here,” he said quietly, “until Findaen and I go forward and see to the disposition of the enemy.”
They eased toward the mountain, zigzagging through the rocks, avoiding the spines in the prickly brush, and crawled to the top of an outcropping of rock. After listening for a moment, they peered over the edge.
There was an open area immediately in front of them that spread out to their left and right and was relatively level. This flat area extended from just below their position on the rocky outcropping to the base of the mountain, which rose rather abruptly from the level ground that surrounded it. The extended nature of the lashers presence here was immediately apparent in the sheer volume of filth and the hundreds of animal bones piled about the area. The terrible smell from the accumulated filth and the decaying remnants of flesh on the scattered bones quickly became overwhelming.
But none of this drew Aram’s attention as much as the dark, gaping hole in the sloping face of the mountain. Wide and tall, narrowing toward the top, it was almost uniformly triangular in shape, like the gaps found between large roots at the feet of great trees, and gave the black mountain the bizarre appearance of being an enormous stump of a burned and ruined forest giant that had once grown in that spot.
The rising sun found the flank of the mountain, striking it at a sharp angle, deepening the black shadow that was the interior of the cavern, but Aram had the odd, distinct feeling that light would have little effect on that dark inner space in any event.
And the wagon was there – it had been pushed inside the entrance of the cavern. Aram could see the ghostly outline of the tall, metal-tipped cone, the same shape he had gazed at long ago as it had progressed eastward across the plains south of the green hills toward Derosa.
He could see three lashers. Two were seated on rocks near the entrance to the deep darkness, gnawing on parts of a shrinn carcass, which had been torn into pieces and lay scattered about them. Another stood gazing almost directly at the spot where Aram and Findaen lay prone in the shelter of jumbled rocks. Aram froze even as he heard Findaen’s sharp intake of breath. But then the lasher moved his great horned head and focused on a point somewhat to their left, where his attention remained riveted for several moments more before moving on again.
A sentry.
The odor was nauseating, and grew worse as the sun climbed the sky and the morning warmed.
Try as he might, Aram could not locate the fourth lasher, much to his rising concern. But then something moved in the darkness near the wagon, and came toward the brightness of the outside, and gradually resolved itself into the shape of another of Manon’s massive lieutenants. They were all here, then.
The fourth lasher went to the sentry and spoke to him, and then he, too, sat down on a rock and began picking at the pieces of dead shrinn. For a time, Aram watched, wondering what could be done to draw the lashers away from the vicinity of the wagon, where they could more easily be dealt with.
And then it became clear to him.
No matter how or when he killed these four lashers, he still must go and look in that cavern, both to verify that this was indeed a fellring wagon – which by now seemed certain – and perhaps more importantly, to see what it was that resided here, and held Manon’s attention so firmly for so long. So, he would have to brave the wagon anyway, which meant that there was no real motivation for drawing the lashers away. He might as well kill them now, while they were distracted with consuming their morning meal.
He felt his heart rate quicken, as understanding came of that which he would have to do.
One other question tempered his sudden and strengthening resolve. Would the armor of Kelven protect him if the fellring destroyed itself? It had guarded him well when he went into the star, but the Astra had been there to guard him as well. Most of the protection had been provided by them – but how much had the armor lent to the moment? Would its strength suffice now?
He leaned close to Findaen and whispered into his ear. “Go back to the horses.”
Findaen looked back at him quizzically and a bit suspiciously.
“Go,” Aram whispered urgently. “Go back to Thaniel and Andaran and wait for me.”
“Aram –”
Aram met his eyes for a long moment.
“I have armor – you do not. I believe it will protect me if the fellring comes to life. I have the sword and the sun is bright – I do not fear four lashers. Trust me,” he said. “Go.”
Frowning deeply, but well aware of the depth of Aram’s justified anger at his disobedience of the previous day, Findaen finally complied, slipping backward off the rock and picking his way back through the jumbled rock and spiny growth toward the horses’ position.
Aram looked forward, across the open area.
The sentry had moved his feet and was turned, gazing almost due west. The rest were engrossed in eating.
He checked his armor, drew a deep breath, and slid forward off the rock, stepping into the open.
He was not noticed immediately. Then, when he had gone perhaps ten paces, closing but a fraction of the distance, the lasher sitting to the right of the opening that led into the deep darkness looked up, saw him, and roared.
They came at him quickly, and together, forming a line; and sharp, deadly weapons appeared in their clawed hands as if by magic.
He drew the sword, his attention darting to the wagon as the lashers approached. He knew instinctively that he dare not send forth fire that might reach the fellring. Whether or not it could be detonated by chance, he didn’t know, but was inclined not to take the risk. No, he must fight these beasts at the level.
Curiously, he felt little fear as the lashers approached. It was not false bravado; he was simply certain that four of them were no match for his weapon, whether he unleashed its slashing fire or kept it in check.
When they were within twenty yards, he began running straight at th
em. The lashers responded by forming a tight semi-circle and moving faster as well, closing the distance rapidly. At the last moment, he swerved to his left, leaping away from the sword hand of the lasher on the right flank of the semi-circle of beasts, and swung the singing, shining sword in a short, tight arc, severing the beast’s arm a foot or so above its hand as he swept past.
Brackish blood spewed. The lasher roared in pain and abruptly broke from the formation, clutching at its ruined limb. The others spun toward Aram, cutting off his line of escape. But Aram had no thoughts of escape. As he turned to face their charge, he glanced backwards at the wagon, sitting vague and ominous inside the dark mouth of the mountain. As far as he could tell, there was no movement either upon it or near it.
Aram halted then and held his position as he waited for the lashers to approach. He was completely unafraid. His lack of fear was not a foolish delusion of invincibility – he was simply sure of the outcome of this fight. His back was to the mountain now and the sword, exposed to unabated sunlight, glowed with fire, its song a roar of undiluted power.
He entwined the fingers of both of his gauntleted hands upon its hilt and swung with his might, arcing it across the line of their attack. Lightning flashed and boomed. The three lashers fell dead, severed at the midsection. Behind them, the injured lasher, kneeling in agony, lost his great horned head in a bolt of flame.
His enemies destroyed, Aram pivoted slowly to face the mountain and the entrance to the deep darkness. Still, nothing moved. The shadowy wagon inside the mouth of the cavern was quiet. Sheathing the sword, but keeping the hood over his head, he moved slowly and cautiously toward it.
When he reached the entrance, he halted and looked up, cocking his head so that one ear listened into the deep darkness, and studied the tall cone with its shining metal tip. There was no sound coming from within, and no figure stood outside the cone. Evidently, the fellring inside was asleep or dormant, or whatever was its state when not active. The tongue of the wagon lay on the ground, extended toward the opening, so he stood at the front of the vehicle. Examining the cone from his vantage point at the cavern’s entrance, he could discern no opening on the near side – he decided that if there was a door of some kind, it must be opposite his position, on the other side of the cone that faced the rear of the wagon.
Kelven's Riddle Book Three Page 37
