Kelven's Riddle Book Five

by Daniel Hylton

  “I will await you then. Bring a shovel – you will need it.” And Joktan was gone.

  Frowning at this last instruction, Aram nonetheless turned and descended the stairs to find Thaniel and inform him that they would be making a journey on the following day. Afterward, he turned back toward the city and his family.

  “Why does Joktan need to see you now – and why there?” Ka’en asked him.

  Aram shrugged as he looked down at Mae, cooing in the crook of his arm. “I don’t know what Joktan wants, but Goreg – Durlrang’s son – seeks an audience as well,” he answered. He looked up and met her eyes with a reassuring smile. “I won’t be gone but a few days.”

  “If it storms while you are away,” she protested, “you might be trapped there until spring.”

  He shook his head. “The Sword will melt any snow that might fall in the pass. Don’t worry – I will be back as I promised.”

  Before the sun cleared the eastern hills the next morning, Aram and Thaniel were already across the river and climbing through the forests toward the pass. The sky was clear but the air was brisk and grew ever colder as they gained altitude. Off to the north, the sky had a hazy look, as if in that direction a storm was taking shape.

  They crossed the mountains and camped near the meadow where Aram had saved Florm’s life so long ago, but neither of them remarked upon that incident. Florm and Ashal’s deaths were still too fresh, too painful.

  Late the next morning, they came to the area of troubled ground where the battle for Rigar Pyrannis had been fought and lost. Joktan was already there, corporeal, seated next to the fire pit, gazing down into the earth. He looked up as Aram dismounted.

  “Did you bring a shovel?”

  Reaching into his pack, Aram produced it. “I did.”

  But the ancient king was in no hurry to set Aram to whatever task required the use of that particular instrument. He motioned toward the pit. “Let’s have a fire and share a cup of kolfa.”

  After freeing Thaniel to leave the region of troubled ground and go graze down next to the river, Aram gathered wood and built a fire. After the kolfa boiled, he poured two cups and handed one to his ancient ancestor.

  “Why the shovel, my lord?” He asked.

  “Patience,” Joktan responded shortly. Then he gazed at Aram with a wry smile playing about his mouth. “I confess that I did not anticipate your solution as it concerns Elam, simply riding into that land and killing its ruler,” he said, and then he held up his hand to prevent Aram’s response. “But I heartily approve – a much better solution than a civil war.”

  His eyes went upward to the hilt of the Sword. “You begin to understand the power of that thing, do you not? I was nervous, I confess, when you went so boldly through the entirety of Elam. But I should not have been. I watched you slay the dragons with it, after all.” Then his gaze came back down to Aram’s face and the wry smile had gone, to be replaced with an odd expression of concern. “It is becoming rather difficult to tell where you end and that unearthly weapon begins.”

  He sipped at his kolfa and frowned at his descendent. “Is it becoming a problem for you?”

  “The Sword?” Aram frowned back at him and shook his head. “No, no problem. It is just a weapon, after all – a powerful weapon, as you say, my lord – but a just weapon nonetheless.”

  “And you control it? It does not control you?”

  Aram met his gaze coolly. “I control it.”

  There was a silence and then Joktan smiled again and nodded with satisfaction. “I am beginning to think that you will live, after all, when you face the enemy.”

  Aram dropped his gaze down into the flames. “That is my hope, my lord.”

  Joktan studied him for another long moment. “You are a king, you know. Everyone that knows you sees it.”

  Aram nodded as he watched the fire consume the dry wood. “I know.”

  “Still, my son; you are in a very odd situation for a king,” Joktan went on.

  Aram looked up, curious. “Why? How so?”

  “Despite the fact that everyone knows it and accepts it; there is no one but me, a dead monarch, to affirm your kingship,” Joktan replied. “There is a process, you know, for ascending to rule at Regamun Mediar.” He frowned at his own words, stared down into the flames and continued in a quiet tone. “At least there was – once.”

  Aram shrugged. “Once Manon is destroyed, it will simply be that I am king – if I survive. I have little interest in process.”

  “I know this about you,” Joktan agreed. “Nonetheless, you should at least have the symbol of authority.”

  Aram gazed at him quizzically. “Symbol?”

  The ancient king looked down and examined the grass that surrounded him. “I told you once that my blood is in this soil, my bones beneath this earth.” He leaned a bit to his left and patted the ground. “The symbol is here, too. It is also beneath this earth. It fell some short distance from me upon my death, but it is still here. Hence the shovel.”

  Aram looked at him with the light of understanding in his eyes. “And you want me to dig it up.”

  “More than that, my son.” Joktan’s features were a study in solemnity. “I want you to have it. And I want you to wear it. You are my heir – and you are now king. The crown cannot stay here – it must go with you always.”

  “A crown?”

  Joktan looked at him and chuckled. “Don’t worry – it is a relatively simple thing. It will adorn your brow nicely.” He finished his kolfa and looked up at the sun, rising high in the morning, and then stood. “We might as well begin,” he said.

  Grasping the shovel, Aram stood and moved around to stand next to Joktan. He looked at the king, frowning. “Are you certain this is necessary? Your bones are here, my lord – I would not wish to disturb them.”

  “It is necessary,” Joktan replied and he indicated the spot on the ground he had patted earlier. “Have no fear – as I stated; when my body fell, the crown landed away from me. You will not disturb my bones. Dig here.”

  It was at that moment, as Aram sank the bit of the tool into the soil, that the strangeness of the situation struck him. He hesitated and looked over at Joktan. “This feels odd to me,” he admitted, speaking his feelings aloud, though quietly.

  Joktan threw back his head and laughed outright. Then he gazed at Aram, grinning. “There is no one upon the earth that is stranger than you, Aram,” he declared. Moving his foot, he tapped the ground. “This is important. And it is necessary. Dig.”

  Aram began to remove the earth from the spot indicated by Joktan. When the hole was a bit less than two feet deep, Joktan reached out and laid a cold hand on Aram’s arm. “Careful now, you are almost there. It is made of pure gold, and can be damaged. Move the shovel out a bit, push it deep, and lift the earth in one large clump.”

  Aram complied and as he lifted the clump of damp earth, something caught the sun and gleamed.

  “Yes, there it is,” Joktan stated, and there was strong emotion in his voice. “Clean it up, remove the earth, and let us see it.”

  Laying the shovel aside, Aram knocked the dirt away from the exhumed symbol of those that ruled for thousands of years at Regamun Mediar. It was a simple golden circlet. On one side, at the front, there was a raised portion of three triangular points, with the center point being the tallest of the three. Embossed in the middle of this center piece, in the widest area, there was a circle with tiny lines extending off from it in eight places, as if it was intended to signify the body of the sun.

  After Aram had cleaned the earth from it with his sleeve, Joktan studied it for a moment and then looked at Aram. “Put it on your head,” he insisted. “Let us see if it will properly fit the place where it belongs.”

  Aram turned it over and over in his hands, admiring the simple elegance of the thing. But after a moment, he shook his head. “No. Forgive me, my lord; I cannot wear it now. I will carry it with me always, but I will not wear it until Manon is no more.”
>
  Joktan gazed at him for a moment in disapproving silence. Then he turned his head away and looked out over the fading green of the autumnal landscape of the high plains. After a few moments more, he sighed and nodded. “Alright,” he said quietly. “I suppose that is what I expected of you.” He turned back and spoke earnestly. “But bear it with you always – it is the symbol of your birthright. And when Manon is defeated, put it on.”

  Aram met his eyes. “When Manon is no more,” he agreed, “I will wear it.”

  He went to his pack and stowed the crown carefully, and then he went back and replaced the soil he had dug up. Joktan was seated once again in his accustomed spot. Aram sat down as well and indicated the pot resting on the coals. “More kolfa, my lord?”

  Joktan nodded. “We have time, I think, before the wolves arrive.”

  Aram looked across at him. “I had forgotten about them,” he admitted. “What do they require of me, do you think?”

  Joktan shrugged. “That is their concern,” he replied. “And yours, of course. But I do not know. Anyway, they are coming and will be here soon, and then you can ask them.”

  They shared another cup and talked of general things, with Joktan once again finding good humor arising from Aram’s actions in deposing Rahm Imrid. “That was a great thing,” he said, more than once. “Would that the distance was not so great and I had been able to be there to see it.”

  Just after mid-day, Thaniel, still down near the river, lifted his head and focused his attention upon the high ground to the north. “Wolves,” he told Aram.

  Arm stood and looked off toward the north and immediately sucked in an astonished breath.

  Over the slope of the hill came Durlrang.

  Only it was not Durlrang.

  The wolf leading the pack that came over the crest was large and black, and moved with a somber confidence. For just a moment, Aram felt emotion rise in him at the sight of Durlrang’s son – the very image of his father.

  For that’s who it was. Durlrang’s son.

  The wolf stopped some feet away from Aram and bent his head over to the ground, in which action he was joined by all his people.

  “I am Goreg, master,” the black wolf said. “Son of Durlrang. I seek an audience with you, if possible.”

  The voice reminded Aram of Durlrang as well; the inflections in his tone were, if anything, fiercer. Perhaps it was because of his youth.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Goreg, son of Durlrang,” Aram replied. “Your father was a great friend.’ He looked away as he felt emotion stir within him. “A very great friend.” Gathering himself, he looked back at Goreg. “What do you require of me?”

  “Require?” This word seemed to trouble Goreg. “I am not worthy to require anything of you, master.” He gazed at Aram for a long moment and then cast a brief glance at Joktan. “Do I interrupt?”

  “No. Ask of me what you will.”

  Goreg met Aram’s gaze. “I am told that the enemy sent great beasts into your valley and that it was one of these beasts that slew my father.”

  “You heard correctly,” Aram affirmed.

  “I am also told,” Goreg continued, “that you slew these beasts, master.”

  Aram nodded. “I slew them. They are both dead.”

  “But the enemy that sent them still lives?”

  “He does.” Aram answered as he studied the wolf closely. The animal seemed agitated by strong emotion. “Why did you seek this audience, Goreg?”

  Goreg glanced around at the wolves with him, perhaps ten in all. Then he met Aram’s gaze once more. “You will fight against the evil one?”

  Aram nodded. “Until he is no more.”

  “We wish to go and fight him with you.”

  Aram gazed at Goreg in surprise. “You wish to fight with us?”

  “I want to avenge my father,” Goreg stated. “And if possible, I would like to stand in his stead in service to you, master.”

  Aram frowned. “But who will remain here to watch over your people?”

  “No one, master. If you will have us, we will all go to war with you.”

  “All?”

  “If you will have us,” Goreg repeated.

  Aram looked the company over once more. “How many are there in your band now, Goreg?”

  “Nearly two hundred.”

  Aram considered this. Slowly, he nodded as he came to a decision. “There are plenty of woodlands with food in the west where your people may winter with plenty,” he said.

  He knelt down and looked into the wolf’s eyes. Deep inside those dark brown orbs, there shone the same clear determination that had been resident in his father’s gaze. Aram nodded. “Bring your band,” he told Goreg. “We will face the enemy together.”

  Goreg bent his head to the earth. “I am most grateful to you, master.” Then he looked up. “When do you return to the west?”

  “On the morrow,” Aram replied.

  “We will be here in the morning, master.”

  Aram raised his hand in salute. “You will be most welcome, you and all your people.”

  Joktan watched them leave and then looked at Aram. “What are your plans?”

  Aram sat down and replenished the fire, even though the day had warmed. “A quiet winter,” he said.

  “And in the spring?”

  Aram kept his gaze directed downward into the flames. “A quiet winter first, my lord. In the spring I will go to bring justice upon Manon.”

  “With the army?”

  Aram looked up and gazed at his ancestor. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes, I will take the army.”

  “Elam as well?”

  Aram lowered his eyes from the shrewd gaze of the ancient king. “What Elam will or will not do is the province of High Prince Marcus,” he said.

  Joktan stirred impatiently, even angrily. “He is your vassal, Aram; you made him so when he was elevated by your actions. You may insist upon his strength going north with you. I believe, my son, that you must do so. Without Elam’s strength, you are too badly outnumbered.”

  Aram looked up then and smiled thinly. “I have discovered something important, my lord,” he replied. “It is that I am truly never outnumbered. This Sword will bring parity to almost any situation. I will draw his army out into the sunlight and I will destroy it.”

  “I have seen the ground where you will face that army,” Joktan stated and he shook his head. “There is very little sunlight in that land.”

  “I know – I have also seen it,” Aram replied, and then he shrugged. “The grim lord may not wait for me to come to his door. He may very well send his armies into the south to prevent us – where there is sunlight. I intend to follow the snowmelt north. If it takes all summer and many battles; I will reduce his armies bit by bit.”

  Joktan was silent for a moment, then, “Would you like me to talk to Marcus?”

  Aram looked at him sharply. “No, my lord, I would not. Marcus is a good man and will join me if asked. But there is much for him to set right in his own land.”

  “This is true,” Joktan agreed. “But the winter should suffice to accomplish any ‘setting right’. I know what you told the council – Marcus’ labors will be made much the easier because those that would be inclined to oppose him will not do so out of fear of you.”

  Joktan drew in a breath and let it out. Then he leaned toward Aram and spoke earnestly. “Send an emissary to Elam, I beg of you. Say only that you intend to go north in the spring to meet the enemy. If Marcus is as honorable as you believe him to be, he will do what is right.”

  Aram gazed down into the fire and considered. Then, after a moment, he nodded. “I will send an emissary.” He looked up again. “But I will make no demand of him, my lord. No one should enter this fight unless he does so willingly.”

  “And this is how you will seek to govern?” Joktan asked. “This is how you will act as king?”

  “If I survive Manon’s destruction,” Aram affirmed, “I will attempt to govern with
out coercion.”

  Joktan’s eyes narrowed. “It is not coercion to insist upon the aid of those who owe you everything.”

  Aram watched him for a moment, his face a study in sobriety. “I don’t intend to collect on debts, my lord – except from the grim lord himself. He owes much for all the evil he has done, and he will pay. Everyone else must be truly free.”

  He looked around the high plains, where the grass was gradually fading from the last vestiges of summer’s green to tan. Turning his head further, he gazed eastward, toward the distant, unseen Inland Sea. Sorrow made its way onto his face.

  “All I ever wanted,” he stated quietly, “was to live someplace out of the way, in peace and relative solitude, with her.” He looked up as a cloud passed before the face of the sun. “I never wanted to be king, I never sought a destiny or a crown; I only wanted her.”

  Joktan grimaced at these words even as he nodded. “I know, my son, I know. But you are strong – stronger than anyone I have ever known.” He waited until Aram looked at him before continuing. “Whether it be destiny or no, Aram; it is the doom of the strong to bear the troubles of the world. It has ever been so, and will always be so.”

  At that, Aram dropped his gaze. “Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to complain.” He sighed and looked up once more. His eyes were sharp and hard. “Have no fear – I will accomplish that which it has become my destiny to do.”

  “If I could lift this burden from you, I would do so,” Joktan told him in solemn tones.

  Aram shook his head and smiled slightly. “The burden is mine, my lord; and I will bear it to the end. As I said – I did not mean to complain.”

  They talked about other things then, pleasant things, and the day wore away. Aram gathered more wood as the sun sank toward the western hills and he and his ancient ancestor communed deep into the night.

  Finally, hours after the Glittering Sword of God had dropped out of sight beyond the western horizon, Aram stretched and rose to lay out his bedroll. Joktan looked up at him. “I will go with you now, if you have no objection, all the way to – to the end of things.”

  Aram met his eyes. “I have no objection, my lord. I will be grateful to have your counsel.”