Kelven's Riddle Book Five

by Daniel Hylton

  Kelven’s Riddle Book Five

  The Stronghold of Evil

  Cover Art: Lance Ruben Smith

  Copyright 2014 by Daniel T Hylton

  All rights reserved

  ISBN-10: 1502859467

  ISBN-13: 978 - 1502859464

  This book is dedicated to those men and women of the United States that willingly don the uniform of America’s Armed Forces, and go into the dark and dangerous corners of the world, risking everything that the rest of us might remain free and secure in the homeland.

  This book is also dedicated to my brothers and my sisters, both of blood and by marriage, and to my children, both of blood and by marriage, and to my nieces and nephews, and to my closest friends. All of these fine people – and they know who they are – will find their very best attributes exhibited by the characters that live among these pages.

  Finally, this book is dedicated to her.

  My wife.

  My life’s companion.

  My treasure.

  My love.

  Karen.

  He comes from the west

  And arises in the east.

  Tall and strong, fierce as a storm upon the plain.

  He ascends the height to put his hand among the stars

  And wield the Sword of Heaven.

  Master of wolves, Friend of horses;

  He is a prince of men and a Walking Flame.

  He enters the stronghold of evil,

  To bring down the mighty,

  And return peace.

  Kelven’s Riddle

  1.

  Manon, the grim Lord of the World, stood in the opening high in his tower and gazed to the southeast across the earth where he’d sent the Laish to kill the woman, the mate of the upstart heir of Joktan who had brazenly declared himself the enemy of a god. But those great beasts had gone into the south many days ago, in the dark hours before dawn. It was now nearly two weeks later, mid-day, and the sun was high, pinned to the apex of the sky.

  There was only silence from the southeast.

  There had been screams of fear and pain in the hour that the sun rose in the east on that morning that the dragons had killed and burned and destroyed up and down the length of that far-off valley. Manon, privy to the thoughts of his indentured servants, had been satisfied that all had gone as planned. The woman was dead, and the anger of the dragons soon to be satiated upon the pitiable souls that dwelled there.

  But then, within an hour of each other, the dragons’ minds had abruptly gone silent. With each, before the silence, there had been a momentary howl of anguish.

  Had they been slain?

  Had the Brethren involved themselves, or sought help from the Astra?

  Manon doubted the involvement of the Brethren. In ancient times, when Aberanezagoth opened the secret door and unleashed them upon the world, the combined strength of the gods had been insufficient to slay the fearsome beasts. Even the mighty Astra had to settle for containment. There were two of them that traveled with the man, Aram, it was true, and he possessed a mysterious and powerful sword. Still, Manon did not think it possible that such a combination could have destroyed the Laish.

  What, then? Had they attempted to fool their master? Had they somehow cut him off from their thoughts and sought to escape his control? No, it could not be that, for if it were, they would no doubt have gone for their child, imprisoned in cavernous mouth of the Deep Darkness. Manon had opened the eyes of his second self in that dim and distant place, and in none of the days since he’d sent them southward had there been rumor of the dragons.

  He would continue to be vigilant for treachery, but as the sun passed through mid-day yet again, for the thirteenth time since he’d commissioned them to slay the woman, he had not seen or heard any sign of them. It was apparent that there had been no act of betrayal. Something entirely different – and unexplained – had occurred.

  The eagles and hawks of all the earth had allied with the man, Aram, and had driven the grim lord’s spies from the skies above that valley and the countryside round about, effectively blinding him. His earthbound servants, serpents and the like, were too limited in their movement to aid him without the help of winged creatures, and wolves had proven notoriously untrustworthy. As a consequence, it had grown increasingly difficult for Manon to acquire dependable intelligence from the southern regions of the world.

  What had happened to the Laish, therefore, was unknown.

  There remained another possibility, of course. Perhaps, as before, the Astra had summoned aid from their own kind and had once again managed containment of the giant beasts. If so, well enough. Manon had no further use for them anyway.

  He began to turn away, but then his eye caught a flash in the sky, far off to the southeast.

  An instant after the first, there was another flare of light from that distant horizon.

  And then more. Fire flashed again and again, illuminating that horizon and the sky above it.

  Manon focused his attention there.

  Another flash, and then another, as if lightning blazed on a clear day, but arising from the earth rather than striking from the sky.

  Abruptly, he understood, and he smiled to himself. The Laish, then, as he hoped and believed, had been successful in killing the woman of Aram. The flashes of distant fire came from the man’s sword as it reflected the heat and light from the sun as had been described to him by those of his servants who’d witnessed the phenomenon.

  Manon closed his eyes and sent the tendrils of his mind out, out, and over the horizon, feeling for potency from the one who wielded the flashing sword. The distance was great, almost too great even for a mind as powerful as his had become. Further and further he reached out, feeling ever further southward, across valleys and rivers, over mountains and high hills. The distance grew ever greater and his senses dissipated with the miles; but, then…..

  Ah…..there it was.

  Fury.

  Fury, and pain, and – loss. There was no further doubt. The dragons had slain Aram’s woman, and he was sending a challenge into the north in the only way he could.

  Manon opened his eyes and watched the lightning flash and flare above the distant horizon.

  Good, he thought, very good. Now you will come to me, and then everything will change.

  Satisfied at last that – whatever had become of the Laish – that which he desired was accomplished, he turned away, into the interior of the tower, sweeping the door shut with a slight motion of his hand. Sending a thought down through the tower, he summoned that child who was now his First.

  “Hargur – come to me.”

  “Yes, master.”

  The grim lord waited in the center of the vast round room until Hargur appeared in the doorway. The great beast hesitated and stood still, uncertain, his bulk filling the opening.

  “Come, my son.”

  Hargur approached diffidently until he stood with downcast eyes but a few meters from his master. Manon studied the immense lasher that had been his Second until the death of Vulgur – and now was his First. The god had come to understand that, in the creation of life, only the primary aim of that process was controllable. The final product always bore the result of a measure of chance. As a consequence, his First Children displayed sometimes surprising differences of personality.

  Vulgur had been implicitly faithful and ever diligent in carrying out the Great Father’s instructions, never thinking for himself beyond the bounds of that which the god allowed. This particular child, however, had often shown a streak of independence. Though this unusual trait of Hargur’s had never once devolved into insubordination, nonetheless, he had demonstrated a willingness to alter Manon’s instructions in the field. These al
terations were always of a tactical nature that never actually subverted the grim lord’s desires, but that nonetheless showed this child thought for himself beyond his Great Father’s commands.

  “Look at me, my son,” Manon said to him.

  Hargur looked up, meeting the obsidian gaze of his master.

  “You have recalled all the wagons that are used for bringing human women to this tower – as I instructed?”

  “Yes, Great Father,” Hargur replied. “There are but two of our trains that have not yet returned. The vultures say that they are in Bracken, three days away.”

  “And the harvest wagons have begun to move south?”

  “Yes, Great Father.”

  Manon fixed him with his baleful gaze. “You will alter the transport wagons and then you will send them back into the south to aid in bringing the balance of the harvest to this tower.”

  Hargur blinked his flat black eyes. “The balance, master?

  “Yes – all of it, from all across the plains, from the valleys to the east, and from Bracken. And gather all my First Children here, in Morkendril.”

  “Yes, Great father.” Hargur dared to keep his gaze fixed upon the face of his master. “What of the slaves? Winter comes. What will they eat?”

  And there it was again, the Great Father thought – this particular child’s penchant for thinking on his own, wondering about his master’s instructions, of their reasons and purposes, something Vulgur had never done.

  Regretting once again Vulgur’s death, Manon nonetheless suppressed irritation. Then, after a moment’s consideration, Manon decided to explain his decision to his newly-appointed Eldest.

  “The man that is our enemy will bring an army to this tower in the spring. I know him, my child – he will have pity on the people of the plains when he finds them in distress. He will no doubt give them of his own supplies, and anything that weakens him assures that you and your troops will defeat him when he stands before you.”

  Hargur lowered his eyes and spoke hesitantly. “But if the slaves starve before spring, master – how will he be weakened?”

  “They will not starve, my son. Many have secret stores they have laid aside – and you may leave them their oxen to eat, if you do not require them for transport of the harvest. Also, grasses and roots abound in those lands.” Manon made a dismissive gesture. “Let them scavenge what they can; they will not all die. Enough will survive to distract our enemy.”

  Silence fell while Manon studied Hargur but the huge lasher kept his eyes respectfully upon the floor and said nothing further.

  “Go, my son,” the god said finally. “Do as I instruct.”

  “Yes, Great Father.”

  2.

  Kelven stared in disbelief at the shimmering outline of his ancient friend.

  “He slew them? You are certain of this?”

  “I was there,” Joktan replied, “and I saw it. I witnessed him destroy them both.”

  “There are two Astra that travel with him,” Kelven persisted, his tone saturated with doubt. “Are you certain it was not they that slew the beasts?”

  Joktan shook his hooded head. “They aided him, but it amounted to little. It was the Sword he wields that brought down the dragons.”

  “How did he come upon them?” Kelven demanded. “Did he hunt them – or did the enemy send them to attack him?”

  “Neither, my lord,” Joktan answered. “They were sent into his valley while he was away, in Elam. Apparently they were meant to kill the woman, Ka’en.” He went silent for a moment and gazed down into the spring. “By chance, he returned in time to prevent her death. He battled the dragons and slew them for her – to protect her. He came back into the valley just before they found her. Still, before they were slain, they killed many and destroyed much.” The ancient king lifted his eyes and turned to face the god. “I told you, my lord, did I not, that his love for this woman would be the salvation of our cause?”

  “You did say this,” Kelven admitted, but then added a word of caution. “Of course, he has not yet defeated Manon.” He continued to stare with an unqualified expression of astonishment upon his handsome face. Deep inside his eyes, molten gold churned and seethed. “Aram slew them both – with the Sword – he slew them both.” It was both a question; and an utterance of amazement.

  “He did.” Joktan’s reply was firm, as was the nodding of his hooded head. “I witnessed it.”

  The god turned away and gazed at the distant walls of vertical stone that surrounded his valley. “Remarkable,” he stated quietly, and then again, “Remarkable. This, I did not foresee.” After another long silence, he shook his head in wonder. “Who is this man?”

  Joktan watched Kelven for a moment and then looked away as well. His head came up slightly.

  “He is my son,” he replied.

  3.

  Aram paced nervously back and forth outside the door to the bedroom, stopping every other step to cock his head near the wood and listen. Once in a while, there would be the sound of low voices from the room beyond, and an occasional low moan from Ka’en. Mostly, there was only silence.

  True to her vow, Ka’en was giving birth to their first child in Regamun Mediar, the city of Aram’s fathers.

  Aram had wanted to stay with her throughout, but she told him in firm tones to wait outside with Eoarl.

  “Dunna will take good care of me,” she promised, gritting her teeth against yet another contraction.

  “I will, you may depend on it,” Dunna assured him, as her jet-black eyes sparkled. “This is woman’s work, and your lady is strong. She will be just fine.”

  Dunna became a surrogate mother to Ka’en almost upon their first meeting in the previous winter, and that bond had only strengthened when the older woman from Lamont had come east to care for her son, Muray, injured in the Battle of Bloody Stream. After Muray recovered to the point of insisting that he would accept no further mothering and would return to the fortress to rejoin his men, even if he must lean upon the aid of a staff, Dunna and her husband Eoarl had come north into the valley to be with Ka’en.

  The expected day had arrived shortly thereafter. Reluctantly, Aram agreed to remain outside while Dunna and Cala attended to Ka’en as she gave birth.

  Ka’en’s pains had started just before sunrise and – to his great concern – had continued throughout the morning and into the afternoon. After he’d been hustled out of the bedroom, Aram had nothing to do but pace and worry, back and forth, even as Eoarl, his friend and Dunna’s husband, encouraged him to go out into the sunshine, or to sit and enjoy a smoke with the older man.

  “Dunnie will take good care of your mistress, lad,” he said, forgoing the use of Aram’s title in the familiarity of the moment. “These things always take a while; you’ll have to be patient. The child will come when it’s ready. Come, sit, have something to eat and drink.”

  For a while, now and again, Aram would comply with this suggestion and try to remain calm and distract himself with talking with the older man, whose company he normally enjoyed. But as the day wore on he would find himself once again pacing and listening at the door. Eventually, the day faded away. In the valley outside the city, evening deepened toward night. With the passing away of the day, Aram grew ever more concerned as the only sound from beyond the door continued to be an occasional low moan of pain from his wife.

  Then, after a period of prolonged quiet, during which Aram seriously considered ignoring Ka’en’s stricture and charging into the room, she let out a sharper sound of agony. Aram froze and glanced over at Eoarl. The older man had fallen asleep and was dozing before the fire. Pivoting, he reached for the door, but at that moment another sound came from the room beyond.

  It was the cry of a child.

  He burst into the room to find Dunna turning toward him with a small bundle in her arms, wrapped in a blanket, while Cala sat near Ka’en and bathed her forehead with a cool cloth.

  Dunna’s dark eyes shone.

  “You have
a daughter, my lord,” she said.

  Aram reached her in two strides, taking the bundle from her arms and looking down upon the tiny human with pink skin, tufts of golden hair, and brilliant blue eyes. After a long moment of gazing upon this small marvel, he looked over at Ka’en. She smiled tiredly up at him.

  The sight of her, flushed with fatigue, her skin moist with exertion, sent a shiver of fear through him.

  “Are you alright?”

  She nodded weakly. “I am fine, my love.” But her soft voice was quieter than usual.

  He frowned. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, yes.” She smiled weakly. “Just very tired. What do you think of your daughter?”

  He returned his gaze to the tiny wonder in his arms. “What is her name?”

  At this, Ka’en went quiet.

  “What would you like her name to be?” She asked after a moment.

  Watching the tiny fingers entwine around his thumb, Aram shook his head. “It is not mine to say. We already discussed this, remember? I thought you would give her one – your mother’s.”

  “What was your sister’s name?” Ka’en asked softly.

  Frowning, Aram looked over at her. “Maelee.”

  She thought for a moment with her eyes closed and then smiled and nodded. “I like it.”

  Aram’s frown deepened as he watched her. “What do you mean? For her name?”

  “Yes – I mean that we will name her after your sister, and call her Maelee.”

  “Not Margra’eth, for your mother – as we decided?”

  Ka’en shook her head. “Her name is Maelee.”

  Aram watched his wife for a long moment and then nodded and gazed down into the two tiny, sky-blue eyes. “Hello, Maelee – I am your father.”

  The child watched him with wide eyes and then made an odd, small sound.