Olyeg’s frown deepened. “What of General Sota?”
“I need him elsewhere,” Aram explained. He looked around at all those assembled. “I have not seen the ground where we will meet the forces of the grim lord,” he admitted. “When I have seen it, I will place General Berezan and his force on the side where the flank is most secure – where the enemy is least likely to attempt an assault upon the end of our line.”
He brought his hands back together. “Next to him, at our center, will be Boman and his Duridians, and Edwar with Lamont. Olyeg with the other half of Elam will then deploy to the side of the field where the danger of a flanking attempt might be greater. In any event, Duridia and Lamont will stand at our center – for they are tested.”
Findaen leaned forward, frowning at Aram. “What of Wallensia, my lord? I know that we are small, but we have seen battle. Donnick and his troops performed especially well at Bloody Stream.”
Aram nodded. “Wallensia, with Mallet in command, will be positioned upon Olyeg’s flank, where the possibility of being flanked is greatest, whether it be to the left or to the right.”
Findaen stared at him. “Mallet? Mallet will be in command? But what of General Donnick?”
Once again, Aram moved his hands apart for a small space. “Where Elam and Duridia on one side of the field, and Elam and Lamont upon the other, come together, Donnick and Thom will be placed in general command of the troops in their vicinity. Donnick will command where Elam and Duridia come together, and Thom will be in command where Elam and Lamont come together. The other commanders in their vicinity – whoever they may be – will be instructed to defer to their judgment. I need those two potentially weak points to be made strong, and the presence of a commander who has been in battle will help to accomplish that end.”
He looked around, and met the gaze of every man at the table. “These two men have shown their mettle – as well as their steadiness in the face of the enemy. Does anyone disagree with me on this point?”
After a moment, Olyeg Kraine nodded solemnly. “I think it a wise decision, my lord.”
At this, everyone nodded in agreement.
Matibar, however, though he also inclined his head to attest to the soundness of Aram’s strategy, maintained a frown upon his taciturn features though he did not speak.
Aram watched him for a moment. “Captain?”
Before speaking that which was on his mind, Matibar looked at Andar, who, as a reply to the unspoken question, spread his hands and shrugged. “You are in command of our military, captain – do not defer to me in these matters.”
Matibar nodded his thanks, and looked back at Aram. “My lord, it is apparent that you have decided upon the placement of every contingent except that of Seneca. How do you intend to use us?”
In response, Aram addressed Andar. “It is true that Captain Matibar will command Seneca upon the field, sir?”
Andar nodded. “He is trained for it – I am not.”
Aram turned back to Matibar. “I want you to break your troops into three units, captain,” he told the Senecan. “You will position one unit at the center – where I want you to be in command – and the others behind our right half and our left.”
Aram moved his hands upon the table. “I hope to deploy the army in such a way as to be able to place your troops on higher ground behind our lines where you will have clear lines of sight to the front.
“The enemy, from his vantage opposite, may discern what he thinks is a weak point in our deployment, and he may mass troops there – at that place, wherever it may be upon the line. It will fall to you and your archers to concentrate the two units nearest that point and weaken him as he makes his assault.”
Aram paused for a moment and then went on. “If the enemy perceives no weak point and assaults the line equally along it, I will need you to weaken him all along the front, paying special attention to his lashers. It is my hope that those beasts will deploy in a line behind, rather than among his lesser troops. If so, this would give your archers clearer lines of sight to diminish those among the enemy that will be our most treacherous foes.
“As the battle proceeds, there will be times when our line is in danger of being breached. With you and your archers upon the high ground, it may be that you can use your weapons to prevent the breach. Thaniel and I will go to those places as well – as we are needed.”
Matibar nodded, but a frown asserted itself once more upon his face. “My lord, each of our archers is supplied with four full quivers of arrows. When these are exhausted, Seneca will not want to remain behind the lines while others bear the brunt.”
“I understand, captain,” Aram told him. “You and your men have all been equipped with swords from the armory?”
“We have, my lord.”
“Then when your missiles are gone; I will leave you to act as a reserve – put your troops into the line wherever they are needed, captain. By that time, I am sure, conditions will have become chaotic at one or more points along our lines, and we will need you to bring order to that chaos, if you can.”
Aram then invited a general discussion of his overall strategy, answering questions, and asking them as well. In the end, everyone agreed that his disposition of the forces of the free world was best, and the various commanders consulted with each other to make certain that his vision was equally comprehended by all.
As the day began to wane toward late afternoon, Aram concluded the meeting by saying, “Manon’s tower is a thousand miles, perhaps more to the north, beyond the limit of the great plains. The army will be on the march for two months, maybe longer. Every ten days, we will rest from the march, but upon those days of rest, we will array into lines of battle so that the men will get to know those beside whom they will stand in the face of the enemy.”
There was general assent to this, and then Aram rose. “Let us go then,” he said. “Let us get across the river, unite with Elam and Cumberland, and then march into the north together to do that which must be done.”
Seventeen days later, Boman and Duridia, at the head of the grand alliance of free men, left the rolling prairie of Cumberland and trooped onto the road leading through the gap toward the plains, and the great army began its march into the north to decide the fate of the world.
16.
Aram sat on Thaniel and gazed ahead at the large slave holding that spread out upon both sides of the main road just north of the battlefield of Bloody Stream. Behind him, the grand army of the free peoples of the world stretched all the way back onto the rolling green hills of Cumberland. Behind that, along all the roads leading back into Elam and up the valley of the dry lake, thousands of oxcarts, filled with supplies wormed their way forward.
A chill breeze came down out of the north, across the wide, flat lands and made Aram tug at the collar of his cloak. Spring was only now feeling its way across the hills to their rear and into the vast plains. Behind and above him, the sun shone wan and dim through a thin, high overcast. He leaned forward, peering at the settlement and then looked to his right, at Matibar, and to his left, at Wamlak.
“I see no lashers,” he stated.
“No,” they both agreed, almost as one.
“There aren’t many people about, either,” Wamlak asserted.
Aram sent a query skyward to Alvern. Kipwing was farther north, scouting ahead along the road the army would travel upon as it went to war, but his venerable grandfather was above Aram and would be so for the duration of the march.
“If there are lashers in the village,” Alvern replied to Aram, “they are hiding inside the huts, for I see none of their kind below me.”
Wamlak grinned. “Hiding won’t do them much good.”
Aram smiled but shook his head in abrupt conviction. “They are not hiding,” he said. “There are none here. Manon knows that we are coming and he is drawing in all his power.”
Looking down, he spoke to Thaniel. “Let us go see if I am right.”
The village was larger
than it had appeared from a distance, though most of the structures nearest the road were of ancient construct and had been either burned or otherwise damaged at some point in the past. The slave huts were clustered along the edge of the ancient town, between its ruined buildings and the fields.
Aram kept his hand on his shoulder, near the hilt of the Sword, but no enemy appeared to confront them as they rode slowly into the town.
Nor did any of the slaves come out to greet them.
“Where is everyone?” Matibar asked, looking around.
Wamlak chuckled as he pulled at his collar. “Staying out of the cold, I imagine,” he replied.
Aram turned in the saddle and looked back along the road, where Boman and the Duridians, the leading edge of the army, crested a rise not more than a mile behind them.
He shook his head. “If there were any of the enemy here, they fled northward yesterday or perhaps even before that.” He indicated the leading elements of the army coming up the road behind them. “They won’t stay to confront such power without the fullness of Manon’s might beside them.”
He swung down out of the saddle, though he kept his hand near the hilt of the blade. “Let’s find the inhabitants of this town – if they are yet here.”
On foot, leaving the horses in the road, they moved along a ruined street of the ancient town and made their way out to where the huts began.
Aram stopped. “Hello!” He called.
There was no answer but that of the chill wind whistling among the drab and dreary profile of the huts. Aram looked around, frowning. Was the village deserted? Had Manon recalled his slaves farther north, when he took his servants to him?
“We mean you no harm,” he called again. “Come out.”
He motioned to Wamlak and Matibar. “Check that hut over there – I’ll check this one. Beware of treachery,” he warned them.
At that moment, a scarecrow figure appeared warily in the doorway of the hut immediately to Aram’s front. It was a man, thin and ragged, so thin, in fact, as to appear emaciated.
Realizing that he was fully exposed to these armed strangers, the man slid sideways and peered at them around the corner of the doorframe. “Who-who are you?”
“I am Aram, the enemy of Manon the Grim,” Aram replied. “What is your name?”
The man stared at Aram. “You are the enemy of the grim lord?”
“I am – my army and I go to destroy him even now. What is your name?” He asked again.
The man emerged from the hut’s dark interior slowly and cautiously, blinking his eyes against the light. “I am named Hured.”
Aram studied him closely, noting the lack of energy and the curiously swollen aspect of the middle part of his terribly thin body. “Are you the elder?” He asked.
“No – Aluren is elder of this village. I am a member of the village council but no more. He is the elder.”
“What has happened here? Is there sickness in this village?” Aram asked. “And where are your overlords?”
Hured was too fatigued – or unwell – to reply to, or perhaps even comprehend that many questions, so, with an effort, he focused upon the last. “The great lasher came and took the overlords away, along with our grain and milcush.”
“They went north after collecting the harvest?”
Hured shook his head weakly. “This was after the collection of the harvest. The great lasher came with wagons and took much of our winter’s stores.”
Abruptly, understanding came to Aram; and with it came an explanation of the villager’s thinness and lassitude. Anger rose hard and sharp in him as once again Aram examined the man’s poor condition. “They took your winter’s food?”
“All but a small portion,” Hured confirmed.
Aram worked to keep his voice gentle, devoid of any hint of the fury that was blazing within him as he asked, “How many people are in this village?”
Hured shook his head. “I am not certain. About five hundred, I think, though more than a few have died.” He looked down at the ground as if in guilt. “We have rationed the stores – tried to make the food last the winter, so there will be something to plant.” He looked up with tears streaming down his face. “We killed and ate the oxen during the last snow.”
Aram drew in a calming breath and let it out again slowly. He glanced around. “Where is the granary?”
Hured tried to lift a hand and indicate the direction, but it was a futile attempt. “North,” he said. “At the edge of the village, just on the east side of the road.”
“Go back and rest,” Aram told Hured, and then he looked at Matibar and Wamlak. “Let’s find the granary and see for ourselves.”
They went back to the road, mounted up and went to the northern edge of the village. The granary was very large, much larger than that in the village of Aram’s youth. This had been a big and productive slave-holding. The building was round, perhaps fifty feet across and twelve feet high, and separated into two halves by a center wall. There were high windows spaced around the wall, each protected on the outside by a slanted extrusion that prevented rain from entering even as they let in a bit of light. There was a five-foot-high retaining wall just inside the main doorway, connected to the center wall, beyond which, on either side, was stored the harvest.
There was nothing in the room on the left. On the right, in the middle of this vast structure, in a pitiful mound upon the floor, there was perhaps an amount equal to fifteen or twenty bushels of grain. Beside it, there was another smaller mound of some rounded, reddish-brown substance that was unknown to Aram. He stared at the miserable pile. It was hardly enough to feed five hundred people for a week, let alone plant the many fields that went away from this village in all directions.
Aram glanced at Matibar and Wamlak and saw in their eyes the same anger that burned in him.
“We must help these people, my lord,” Matibar said.
Aram nodded without hesitation and turned to Wamlak. “Ride back – find High Prince Marcus. Bring him to me at once.”
Wamlak nodded wordlessly and went back to Braska, mounted up, and the two of them pounded back toward the south. After he’d gone, Aram looked once more at the pitiful stock of food, and then he and Matibar went back to where they’d left Hured.
Aram reached inside his pack and produced a piece of bread. “Eat this,” he commanded Hured. “Then I want you to find Elder Aluren and have him bring the village together in the center, by the road – all those still able to walk. Will you do it?”
Hured stared down at the bread in disbelief. Then he looked up at Aram with moist eyes. “May I give this to my wife and children instead?”
Aram nodded without speaking and reached inside his pack again, emptying the entire contents into Hured’s hands. “You need strength as well. Give what you need to your family, but eat some yourself – then go do as I require.”
Hured bowed stiffly and nearly fell. Matibar caught him and held him upright. The villager nodded his thanks to Matibar and then looked at Aram. “At once, my lord,” he said, and despite the dry, wispy appearance of the skin on his face, and the sunken aridness of his eyes, tears of gratitude appeared and overflowed down his cheeks.
As Aram and Matibar sat on their mounts in the road at the center of the village, Aram worked at tamping down the anger he felt for the actions of Manon’s minions, along with the pity for these helpless people that mingled with that fury. He needed to be cold and clear in his thoughts as he considered the problems before him.
Matibar looked over at him and frowned. “Is the Scourge trying to waste these people, or does he do this in an attempt to slow our progress?”
Aram thought for a moment and then nodded his head. “Both, I suspect,” he answered. “Manon knows we are coming and that this conflict will decide everything – in his favor, he thinks. So, he is pulling in all his strength in order to ensure victory.” But then a frown creased his brow and he looked over at the Senecan captain quizzically. “But why take all the food
? Why run the risk of having no future crops upon which to draw supplies for his armies? Does he prepare for a siege? Or does he expect to plunder the whole of the world for his needs after defeating us?”
Then the frown went away and a look of suspicion came into his eyes. “Or does he think that if he succeeds in wresting this weapon from my hand that he will have no further use of his armies – and consequently of these slaves?”
As he pondered this new possibility, he looked away and turned his gaze northward, staring with hard eyes up the roadway toward his unseen enemy, far away beyond the horizon.
Matibar, however, kept his gaze fixed upon the king. “Can he do it, my lord?” He asked after a moment.
Aram turned and frowned at him. “Do what?”
Matibar lifted his chin, indicating the hilt of the Sword. “Wrest that weapon from your hand – can he do it?”
Aram met his gaze for a long moment. “When I meet Manon,” he said then, “This Sword will pierce him. I will drive it into him. His hands will have no strength left in them to wrest anything from anyone – ever again.”
Matibar looked away for an instant and then looked back. “You told me once that the weapon was an heirloom of your line. I have talked with Wamlak and others, my lord, and I know that you went to a mysterious place in order to gain possession of it. I know that it is powerful beyond imagining.” He hesitated and glanced away once more. “If the Scourge were to gain possession of it –”
Aram shook his head. “Fear not, captain. The Sword has Guardians other than me, and they will not allow Manon to take it up. Should I fail, they will take it from the earth and move it far beyond his reach.” His eyes narrowed and he looked once more into the north. “The possibility of my failure is the reason we must destroy his armies now, in the battle that is before us, that we may leave him without the full measure of his power.”
Matibar had turned back and was gazing at him intently. “These other ‘guardians’ of the weapon, of which you speak – they are more powerful than the Scourge?”
Kelven's Riddle Book Five Page 14
