Mallet snorted. “For people who don’t like stone, they sure know how to stack it up tall.”
Aram, who couldn’t fathom why the descendents of the ancient Senecans had developed an aversion to stone, did understand one thing. He shook his head. “Not these people, Mallet. They didn’t do this. This was built long ago, by their forefathers.”
“What has happened to these people?” Wamlak wondered, also gaping upward at the marvel. “Why would they not seek to emulate those that could construct such things as this?”
“A superstition of some sort,” Aram guessed. “Probably as a result of what Manon did to them. Kelven told me that the people of Seneca were ravaged nearly to extinction. They might not even know or understand those more ancient people that they came from – other than bits and pieces.”
He looked eastward. A half mile beyond, where the area of wider pavement ended, the stone of the main roadway failed also, and the forest crowded close to the dirt track that led onward, into the trees. Beneath those trees, gloom held sway. Remembering what Syrus had said of Matibar, Aram looked at the others.
“The man on the beach said that this town – Candar – is just beyond where the pavement ends there. We’ll proceed slowly. Thaniel and I will go first. I want the rest of you to travel in a group a little way behind me, with Wamlak and Edwar in front, Findaen and Ruben on either side of Ka’en, and Mallet in the rear with Lady Ashal, Yvan, and Jerba.” He looked down at Durlrang. “Stay close, so that you may warn us, but it might be best if you and Leorg and Shingka were unseen.”
“As you wish, Lord Aram,” Durlrang agreed, and he and the others turned and loped northward into the trees where they melted into the shadows.
Aram watched while the company lined up as he had prescribed, and then he and Thaniel moved toward the place where the stone pavement ended and the dirt track continued on into the deep shadows beneath the trees.
“Go slowly,” he warned Thaniel. “We don’t want to surprise anyone else today.”
Where the pavement ended there was a drop of several feet from the edge of the stone down onto the surface of the track; as a consequence, the horses found it necessary to go into the forest and around this drop-off in order to avoid slipping and possibly injuring themselves or their riders. From this point, the road became little more than a wide trench in the earth, and it was obvious from faded impressions in the dirt that this trench was, in fact, the bed of the ancient road, just with its paving stones removed. Because of the immense overhanging branches of the trees that crowded the trench on either side, it was more like twilight than early afternoon, and the roots of those behemoths often hove out of the ground, looping atop the earth like gigantic serpents, rendering the way hazardous.
The forest on either side held no sign of habitations, although the mounds of paving stones that had been removed and carefully piled there in neat rows and blocks resembled ruins.
They went some distance beyond the end of the pavement – farther, Aram thought, than had been suggested by the man on the beach, and still there was no sign of a town. Just as he began to think that the remnants of Seneca lived among the treetops rather than upon the earth – he even looked up once or twice to check on the validity of this theory – the way ahead grew lighter and the forest trailed away on both sides. A wide green meadow, filled with well-tended fields, beyond which there was a town of two, and three-storied structures, appeared before them.
There was no wall surrounding the fields or the village; the dirt track led straight into its heart, without gate or guard structure.
At the edge of the forest, where the trees failed and the meadow began, Aram stopped.
The crops growing in the network of fields that lay to both sides of the road were in various stages of maturity, with people, here and there, at work in them. There were people visible in the town as well, walking the streets, and going in and out of the buildings along the main street – which is what the dirt track became once it entered the town.
As yet, it appeared that they hadn’t been seen. Perhaps because they had halted while still covered by the forest’s shadowy gloom, no looked their way or came toward them.
Aram waited, hesitant to move out into the open for fear of startling the people in the fields and sending them scurrying into the town, resulting in an uproar.
“What do we do?” Ka’en’s soft voice conveyed nervousness, as if Aram’s sense of uncertainty had been imparted to her and heightened.
Aram thought about it. “I guess I should go in first – alone,” he said.
“That seems to be the only plan we ever have,” Findaen groused.
Only slightly amused, Aram looked over at him. “Is there a better?”
“There should be.”
“But is there?”
Findaen glanced at Ka’en, and then shook his head. “No.”
Aram looked at Ka’en, too. “Whatever happens, I want you all to stay here. I don’t expect trouble – it looks like they don’t either – but if it happens – go back the way we came.” He dismounted, reached out and put a gauntleted hand on Thaniel’s neck. “You, too.”
“I, at least, should go with you,” Thaniel protested.
Aram laughed quietly. “They’ve never seen horses, my friend – certainly, they’ve never seen the likes of you. Stay; I will return.”
Aram looked toward the buildings, clustered in the center of the open fields. There was no sign that anyone had spotted them. “Alright,” he said, “here I go,” and he stepped into the open and began walking toward the town.
There was a man near at hand, bent over his work in a field of knee-high, leafy plants to the right of the road. As he stood up to straighten his back, he looked over and saw Aram. He leaned back to his labor, and then stiffened and looked up again. After staring for a moment, he dropped his shovel and began walking quickly toward where the road entered the town. Aram continued to walk slowly, but purposefully onward, pleased. The man hadn’t shouted, or even run, but it was obvious that there was someone inside the town that needed to be told of a stranger’s presence.
He’ll tell whoever matters that I’m here, he thought, and that will save time.
The man hurriedly entered the town and then turned and disappeared down a side street. By now, other workers, in other fields, had realized that an unknown man walked upon their road. Some, like the first man, dropped their tools and went toward town, but others simply remained where they were and stared.
Before he had crossed half the distance of the open area, a group of men appeared in the street and walked toward him, led by a tall, slender man – as tall, nearly, as Aram, with very dark hair and pale skin, dressed in a black cloth shirt, a leather vest, and leggings that fit tightly to his legs and were tucked into the tops of leather boots that were very similar to those that Aram had made for himself out of deer hide. The man’s face was clean-shaven, except for a thick, dark moustache. He walked with a determined, purposeful stride. Ominously, he carried a long bow easily in his left hand and there was a quiver of arrows slung over his right shoulder. The others with him carried bows as well, and though not kept at the ready, were nonetheless nocked with arrows.
Aram stopped, letting his arms hang down, away from any weapons.
When he had come within a few yards, the man stopped, looked Aram over carefully and openly, and then examined his companions standing in the shadows of the forest beyond.
His gaze came back to Aram’s face. “Who are you?”
“My name is Aram. I am the Prince of Wallensia, a land to the west. I have journeyed here by way of Duridia and Lamont, also lands to the west.”
The man nodded, his dark eyes expressionless. “I know of Lamont, though not the others. Prince?” This question came out skeptically, but not derisively.
“By virtue of my marriage to the woman back there,” Aram answered, “and not by birth. Any title I might claim by birthright was lost from the earth long ago with the deaths of my fath
ers.”
Something flickered in the man’s eyes. “Why tell me this?”
“Because it is true.”
The man shrugged, obviously disinterested in Aram’s past. “What do you mean by journeying all this way? What do you want?”
Discouraged by the man’s brusque, flat tone, Aram felt himself begin to grow impatient. “Your name would be a pleasant beginning.”
“My name is Matibar,” the man answered shortly. “What else do you want here?”
“Friends – and allies,” Aram answered honestly.
“Allies? Against whom?”
“Against Manon, the grim lord.”
Matibar glanced beyond him at his companions. “And for this you dared the vastness of the wilderness – with a woman?”
Aram smiled slightly. “It’s not that vast. We crossed it in less than two weeks.”
Matibar met his gaze. “Without trouble?”
“No,” Aram conceded, “not without trouble.”
“How did you withstand the winged demons?”
“There were no winged demons.” Aram shook his head. “They are gone. They went north, into the service of the grim lord.”
Once again, Matibar looked toward the edge of the woods. “What are these beasts?”
“Horses.”
Matibar frowned. “The histories say that they left the earth long ago.”
Aram shrugged. “These histories of which you speak are incorrect on that matter. The horse people survived the time of great trouble, and here they are. In fact, the lord of horses travels with us. Would you like to meet him?”
Matibar appeared unimpressed. “I know nothing of you, sir. You come out of the shadows, claiming to be a Prince of a land of which I know nothing, and say that you travel in the company of a lord of horses. Further, you claim to seek allies against the scourge of the world, whose attention we have carefully avoided for time out of mind. What do I say to these things?”
To Aram’s mind this question sounded rhetorical in nature, as if it should have been asked internally.
“It matters not that you believe me to be a prince or no.” Aram answered, searching for a means of breaking through Matibar’s impassiveness. “But will you not at least speak with the lord of horses, and hear his words on these matters, before sending us away?”
“Send you away?” Matibar’s eyebrows went up his forehead at this. “I can neither send you, nor detain you, sir. You have come. If you threaten the people of Seneca, I will destroy you all. Other than that, I can do nothing with you, or for you. All this will now have to come unto the disposition of Pindar in Mulbar.”
“And he is your prince?”
“He is the Eldest of the Line.”
“And I may meet with him?” Aram asked.
“Unless you wish to turn away now, and leave by the way you have come. Otherwise, you must meet with Pindar.” Matibar looked down for a moment and then met Aram’s gaze. “This grim lord of which you speak – he is Manon the Ancient, the one known as the Scourge of the World, is he not?”
“He is.”
Matibar sighed deeply, showing a hint of emotion for the first time. “I fear, sir, that you have crossed the wilderness in vain – what you seek is impossible.”
“Can you tell me why this is so?”
Matibar set his face in lines of sternness, but Aram thought he detected an undertone of regret when the tall, dark-haired man spoke again. “I do not think that Seneca will dare rise up against the Scourge.” He gazed into the distance for a moment and then met Aram’s gaze. “Is it true that he threatens Elam?”
“Intimidates, perhaps, might be a better term. He demands tribute, and it is paid.”
“Intimidation is not so desperate a thing, I think,” Matibar stated flatly. “And if there is truth in what we hear; Elam can afford a bit of its treasure.”
Aram’s eyes narrowed. “The tribute is paid in the bodies of young women – women that are strong enough to be made to bear a child.”
“Made to bear –?” Shock stiffened the Senecan’s features. “Young women? What kind of people give up their daughters?”
“Those people, evidently, who would rather pay than resist, even at the cost of their own souls. So – you do know of some of that which occurs in the world beyond your borders?”
An expression of horrified shock yet upon his countenance, Matibar drew a deep breath and nodded. “During the past few years, we have begun to trade with ships that come out of the west. They bring news of the world.” He looked up at the sword rising above Aram’s shoulder and sucked in a sharp breath as his expression changed. Abruptly, his eyes hardened. “What is this that you bear so casually into our lands?”
Something in his tone was caught by those that stood to either side; there was a marked increase in the tension of the moment. The tips of the nocked arrows lifted.
Ignoring the abrupt rise in apprehension, Aram kept his gaze on Matibar and answered cautiously. “It is a sword. What else would it be?”
The Senecan shook his head ever so slightly. “No – it is something more, a thing of power. I can feel its presence. More than that – I can see magic in it.”
Surprised by the man’s intuitiveness, Aram nonetheless shrugged. “It is an heirloom of my line. It goes with me ever.”
Suspicion seeped into Maibar’s eyes. “Heirloom? A moment ago, you stated that you were born without birthright.”
“The fact that my ancestors are gone does not alter the quality of their blood, nor does it deny my right to the heirlooms of my line,” Aram answered carefully. “This sword came into my possession but one year ago.”
“And if bearing such a thing denies you entrance into Seneca?”
“Then I go elsewhere to seek friendship,” Aram replied.
Matibar stiffened suddenly. “I have heard of you!”
“Have you?”
“Are you not he that slew Burkhed upon the quayside at Durck?”
“I am,” Aram said. So, Lubchek, or perhaps Keegan, or another privateer who’d either witnessed the event or heard the story had been to Seneca. The waters of the great ocean, it seemed, were as efficient at the telling of his deeds as were Kipwing’s winds.
Matibar was studying him with more interest now. “So you are the mysterious ‘lord of the north’ that so impresses them that sail upon the sea?”
Aram laughed softly. “I’ve been named this, among other things.”
The Senecan nodded. “It is of little wonder then, that you could endure the wilderness and its trouble.”
Aram let silence descend for a moment. “Why do you think my search for allies will not be satisfied in Seneca?”
Matibar looked away, and spoke as if from rote. “Long ago, we were a great people, and dwelled in cities of stone. In so doing, we sinned against the Maker, thinking ourselves greater than we ought. Because of our pride and our foolishness, the Scourge sent death among us, reducing us, that we might know our wrong, and return to live among the forests of our ancestors.”
Aram gazed at him in wonder. “And this is what your histories say?”
“Yes.”
Aram shook his head and answered quietly. “Seneca was not ravaged because it sinned against the Maker, or because it dared to dwell in cities of stone – much of the earth lives thus – but because it dared to stand with my ancestors against the evil of the grim lord, against him that you name the Scourge.”
The Senecan’s face flushed red with anger. “You presume much, stranger, wandering in from the wild and so casually disparaging our beliefs. Other than sailor’s stories of your exploits at Durck, there is no reason to believe you on any point. But answer me this one thing – if our histories be false, as you say, and your tale be true.” Matibar’s features, though still colored by anger, grew impassive. “Why would we stand with you now and risk a repetition of tragedy?”
42
Aram watched the man’s face for a return of the flicker of doubt he’d seen e
arlier, but Matibar’s features remained blank of any emotion.
“My tale, as you call it, is true,” Aram responded after a moment. “Kelven himself told it to me.”
This statement elicited a momentary look of contemptuous disbelief on Matibar’s features. “Kelven is long dead. He has not been seen on the earth in millennia, and he did not help us anyway, in our hour of need. That mountain is a tomb now, and no more.”
Having been to Kelven’s mountain, Aram was inclined to agree with this statement. Still, he shook his head. “Kelven is not dead, though he cannot leave the confines of his earthly home. And he did not come to your aid because the Scourge assaulted him and prevented it.”
Matibar shook his head as if by doing so, Aram’s assertions were thereby banished. “Let these matters be resolved between you and others who care about them, for I do not. You said that I could speak with one of your beasts?”
This question was delivered in a sarcastic tone, so that it elicited a chuckle from Matibar’s companions.
“Not a beast,” Aram answered harshly, as his own anger surged. “Horses are not beasts – they are people, like you and me.”
“Indeed?”
“Greater than us,” Aram answered. “For they are longer lived by far than are any of our people. Lord Florm, who stands behind me, was alive in the days of Seneca’s trials, and can speak to the truth of those days, having seen them.”
Matibar’s forehead wrinkled above his dark, skeptical eyes. “Much is said of you, sir, that is not easy to believe, but much of what you say is even less so. Perhaps I should speak with this marvelous ‘Lord Florm’.”
Aram understood the man’s cynicism. Still, he was angry and tired of the discourse that had apparently grown pointless, so he sent a mental request back toward his companions.
Kelven's Riddle Book Three Page 45
