Kelven's Riddle Book Five

by Daniel Hylton

  Aram leaned forward. “Then you do not fear his artifacts?”

  “Artifacts?” Hargur gazed back at him in confusion. “What is a … artifact?”

  “Far to the south,” Aram replied, “upon the eastern borders of Elam, there is a great city set among a forest of mighty trees. There is an abandoned city there as well, whose buildings you could use for shelter.” He fixed the lashers with a stern gaze. “But there is a tower there that was built long ago by him who was once your “great father”. Will it trouble you to dwell near such a thing?”

  A strange eagerness seeped into Hargur’s flat black eyes. “Do not the humans want this forest – or the city?”

  Aram shook his head. “No man will ever dwell there.”

  “And there are many great trees?” The eagerness in Hargur’s eyes and in his voice was obvious and unrestrained.

  “Mighty trees,” Aram answered, “and many of them. A great forest filled with some of the largest trees I have ever seen.”

  “And the humans don’t want them?”

  “They do not – because of the tower that exists in that place,” Aram told him. He leaned forward once more. “And you would not fear this tower?”

  Hargur shrugged even as the gleam of excitement in his eyes grew. “It is only stone, and the Great Father will not return to dwell in it.” He watched Aram for a long moment in silence. “You would let us live among these trees, master?”

  “Forever, if you wish it,” Aram replied.

  Hargur blew a great breath from his nostrils. “I will go,” he declared.

  “And I,” said Bildur.

  “And I,” Pentar repeated.

  Aram nodded in decision. “We will go south tomorrow, into Bracken. There, I will acquire food for our journey.” He held up a cautionary hand. “I am going toward the southeast,” he stated, “and the forest with the city and the tower lies nearly due south of this place. I cannot go with you.” He looked closely at Hargur. “Can you find your way to the forest if I give you directions?”

  It was Bildur that responded. “The Second is very good with directions – it is why the Great Father placed him in command of the slave wagons.”

  At this, Hargur shot his companion a fierce, angry glance. Then, abashed, he stared at the ground for a long time before looking up once more at Aram. “I am sorry for that, master. I never hated humans as some of our kind has done. I despised my work. I swear that I will never harm a human again.”

  Aram met his apologetic gaze solemnly. “I am sorry for that, too – but it was Manon who is responsible for the great evil that was done. It was for that reason I destroyed him.” He looked around at each of them. “We will let it be in the past, but you will each swear to me as Hargur has now done – that there will be no harm brought to any human ever again.”

  The lashers responded quickly, in near unison. “I swear it, master.”

  “Alright.” Aram looked around and noticed that gloom was thickening in the ravine. The sun had gone and night was falling quickly. “We will take turns tending the fire, and go south at dawn.”

  “We will tend the fire, master, that you may rest,” Hargur offered.

  Aram looked at him and noticed that in the light from the fire, the big lasher’s emaciated condition was even more apparent. He shook his head. “You need rest as well. We will all take our turn.”

  Hargur gazed at him in surprise. “As you say, master.”

  As he lay down on his side near the fire, the thought crossed Aram’s mind that he could easily be slain during the night by these beasts who – until mere weeks ago – had been his sworn enemies, but he put it from him. He was almost too tired to care.

  Besides, had they wanted to kill him, they could have done it at any time since he blundered into their camp.

  And the look of longing on each massive face when he made them the offer of a home in the southern part of the world had been unmistakable and real.

  He closed his eyes and slept.

  By the time the rising sun showed above the eastern horizon, they had abandoned the camp and were moving up through the ravine toward the south. As soon as possible, Aram moved the company up onto the ridge top so that they might walk in the warmth of the sun as they made for the crest of the hills.

  At mid-day, they could look southward and see, beyond the edge of the hills, the wide land of Bracken. It was a green land in spring and summer, but now, browns, tans, and yellows pervaded the landscape. The only swath of green in sight meandered through the middle of the land, several miles off – apparently there were evergreen trees that grew along the banks of the Secesh as if snaked through Bracken on its way to the Great Western Marsh.

  Villages dotted the wide floor of the valley. The nearest village in sight lay very near the verge of the hills. Aram pointed. “We’ll go there,” he said, and the four of them turned down off the ridge top to the right and began descending along the bottom of a dry watercourse that fell toward the south.

  The valley was yet several miles off and the sun seemed to fall down the sky as they made their way along the winding ravine that slowly dropped toward the valley. Afternoon had faded and evening had taken possession of the earth when they at last stood at the edge of the hills and looked out from a stand of juniper at the village, less than a half-mile off.

  Aram glanced over the sun and then looked around. “There is ample wood for a fire,” he said. “We can camp here if we must.”

  He looked up at Hargur. “You and the others must stay here,” he told the lasher. “These people know you only as overlords and I do not wish them to be frightened. I will go out and see if I can manage us some grain.”

  He turned and looked back up the draw. Then he lifted his arm and pointed. “Set up camp behind that corner, out of sight.”

  “As you say, master,” Hargur agreed.

  Aram looked back out at the village. Evening had fallen, the shadows were long. There were few people in sight, though smoke rose from nearly every chimney. “I will return as soon as I may.”

  He approached the village cautiously as evening deepened across the prairie. There was stubble in the fields surrounding the huts. Apparently, they had been able to make a crop, and with no overlords stealing it away, there should be surplus.

  When he was less than a hundred yards away, a man walking near the edge of the nearest field to the village looked up and saw him, and immediately ran out of sight among the huts. Moments later, a small crowd gathered, standing warily between two huts on the side where he approached.

  Aram stopped and held up his hands, palms outward, showing that he bore no weapons.

  “I mean no one any harm,” he stated in a voice that carried to the people gathered together watching him.

  There was a long discussion among the small clot of villagers, and then one man separated himself and came cautiously toward him. The man seemed to be stooping, peering at Aram as he came.

  About thirty feet away, the man stopped, gazing at Aram with widened eyes and staring up into the hills. The man was of medium height, very thin, dressed in torn, ragged clothing despite the chill of the evening, and he had dark hair and dark eyes.

  “You – you have come from the north?” The man inquired in halting, astonished tones.

  “I have,” Aram affirmed.

  The man hunched lower, twitching nervously, like a rabbit preparing to scurry away to any available shelter. “Are you a spirit?”

  “I am not.” Aram lowered his hands to his side. “I am a man like you, and I am hungry. And there are three others with me. Do you have any spare food?”

  The man rubbed his hands nervously over one another. “How did you escape from the fire?” He asked with frank suspicion. Holding up one finger, he indicated the hills. “It went high into the sky and burned along the hilltops, when it was yet summer here. You came out of the fire?”

  The question puzzled Aram. He frowned and made to inquire as to what the man meant, but then he recalled the
devastation in the valley of Morkendril and realized that Manon’s dissolution would have been a frightening and cataclysmic event for people dwelling so near to the tower.

  After pondering it for a moment, he decided that a carefully couched honest statement was the right response. “I was rescued from the fire by servants of the Maker.”

  The man straightened up a bit though he still leaned forward and peered at Aram closely. Then, abruptly, he jerked erect in amazement. “You came from the south with the army!”

  “I did,” Aram agreed.

  “And you are yet alive.”

  “I am.”

  The man stared up the slope of the hills behind Aram for a long moment. The muscles along his jawline worked with furious agitation. “And the grim lord?” He finally asked.

  “He is slain,” Aram stated firmly.

  “He will not return?”

  “He will not.”

  The man hesitated, darting fearful glances up into the high ground to the north. “How can you be certain of this?” He asked.

  “Because I slew him.”

  The man stood for a moment longer, watching Aram and sending quick glances up into the hills. Then his gaze jerked back to Aram’s face and focused there. His eyes flew wide and he knelt down so quickly he seemed to tumble to earth whereupon he bent forward and bowed his head to the ground. “You are the one they name Aram,” he stated with abrupt and breathless realization. “You are he they name as king.”

  “I am he,” Aram affirmed.

  The man immediately made himself small upon the ground, pushing his forehead into the earth, trembling. “My name is Metch, master,” he said. “I am your servant.”

  “Don’t bow to me, Metch – get up,” Aram told him, and then, when Metch remained on the ground, he repeated the command more firmly. “Get up. Stand up and face me. You are not my servant, and I am not your master. Nor is the grim lord your master any longer. You are free.”

  Warily, Metch looked up at him, though he remained upon the ground. “You may have our food,” he said.

  Aram held out his hand. “Get up on your feet.”

  Metch flinched away from the proffered hand even as he rose carefully to his feet.

  “I only want whatever portion of your food that may safely be spared to aid me on my journey into the south,” Aram replied.

  Though Metch had risen up onto his feet upon Aram’s stern command, he nonetheless stood unsteadily, as if he might drop again at any time. He peered at Aram. “You slew the grim lord?”

  Rather than delve into the attributes of the Sword or attempt to describe the events inside the tower, Aram simply nodded. “I did. He is gone from the earth for all time. He will not return to trouble you again. As I told you – you and your people are free.”

  Metch blinked at him, and was silent for a moment; then, “We have set the harvest aside, my lord,” he said. “It is stored in the granary.”

  “You have set it aside?”

  Metch bowed his head. “For the gathering,” he answered.

  Aram shook his head. “There will be no ‘gathering’,” he told the villager. “The harvest is yours and will ever be from this time forth.”

  As Aram had noticed so long ago, upon the slopes of Burning Mountain, it would take time for those enslaved for generations to comprehend the concept of freedom. The passage of much time was required to heal wounds as deep as those that had been inflicted upon these people.

  Slowly, as the sun sank beyond the horizon, he began to move toward Metch, who still appeared as if he was ready to bolt. “Do not fear me,” Aram said gently. “I mean you no harm. I only need a bit of your food – whatever portion may be spared.”

  The villager seemed confused, unable to grasp the meaning of the conversation and the words contained within it like “free” and “the harvest is yours” that he’d just had with the strange man who’d come over the hills, “out of the fire”. Lowering his head once more, he pointed behind him. “The granary is at the center of the village, my lord,” he said.

  “Show me.”

  Aram followed Metch into the village as the light failed from the west. Metch took him to the center of the collection of huts where one larger building stood alone. Moving to one side of the door of this building, Metch indicated the interior with a cautious hand. “It was only a fair harvest, my lord,” he explained sheepishly. “It was planted too late.”

  Aram paused and looked at him. “Is there enough for your people to survive the winter and still be able to plant in the spring?” He asked.

  Metch nodded cautiously even as a frown took possession of his face. “Yes, my lord – more than enough for that,” he replied. “But the gathering –”

  “I told you,” Aram repeated, a bit too harshly. “There will be no gathering – ever again.” The he softened his tone and spoke more kindly. “You will learn, Metch. It will take time, but you will learn the meaning of freedom.”

  Aram moved to the door and looked over a short retaining wall into the interior of the granary. Small windows set high into the outside walls let in just enough of the twilight for him to see that the granary was piled to a depth of perhaps no more than three feet with two different kinds of crops. Still, the entire granary was covered to this depth and it was a reasonably extensive structure.

  One crop, by far the larger amount, was grain. The other was a crop Aram didn’t recognize. It was similar to grain, in that it was comprised of something which was obvious a seed of some plant, but the individual seeds were larger, fuller, like tiny eggs.

  Aram looked back at Metch. “There is another crop besides grain in here. What is it?”

  Metch nodded. “Those are banzo seeds, my lord.”

  “How is it prepared as a food?”

  Again, Metch flinched at Aram’s gruff questioning. Still, he answered warily. “They are soaked in water for several hours to soften, and then they may be warmed and eaten as they are, or placed in water with wheat and heated to make a broth.”

  Aram turned back to examine the strange crop with interest. “Do – did – the overlords eat of this crop?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Metch replied. “In fact, they seemed to prefer it. We are only allowed to keep banzo seed in years when the crop is full, and even then sometimes they take it all.”

  At this, Aram turned and frowned at him and once more spoke too harshly. “They will never take your crop again, Metch – I told you this. There are only three of their kind left upon the earth, and they answer to me.” He turned back toward the granary’s interior. “Can you spare some of those banzo seeds and a bit of grain for my journey into the south?”

  Metch had lowered his head at Aram’s fierce tone. “You may take it all, if it pleases you, my lord.”

  Aram spun toward him in irritation at this response, annoyed by the man’s meekness, but then checked himself in time. He must ever remember, he realized, that these people had lived in proximity to great evil for the whole of their lives, generation upon generation. He drew in a deep breath and spoke more gently. “You will get used to freedom, I promise you,” he told Metch. “You will – in time. Now, if you will spare me some of your food, I will take only what I and my companions require.”

  He glanced around in the gathering dark. “Do you have something in which I might carry it?”

  Metch nodded, staring at Aram with an odd light in his eyes. “We have bags made of animal skins, my lord – you may have any you desire.”

  Aram forced a smile. “May I have four of these bags?”

  “You may have them all –” Metch caught himself as he saw the hardness come back into Aram’s eyes, and he turned quickly away into the gloom. “Four, my lord. I will bring them at once.”

  Aram stopped him. “May I borrow a pot as well – something to prepare it in?” Then, considering, he amended, “Best make it two.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The villager went into one of the huts near him, re-appearing after but a few moments with
the desired items.

  When Aram had filled the leather bags with grain and banzo seeds, he secured the tops with leather thongs that Metch provided and then he laid a careful hand on Metch’s shoulder. “I thank you for this,” he said. “And I will return to repay you, I promise.”

  He looked around. No other villagers stood nearby that he could see. He looked back at Metch. “Are you the elder?” He asked.

  “My lord?”

  “Are you the village elder?”

  “No, my lord – we have no such thing.”

  Aram frowned at him. “Then why did you come out to me?”

  “The others were too frightened.”

  Aram nodded. “Then you are now the elder,” he told him. Turning away from the look of astonishment in the former slave’s eyes, he went back northward toward the hills.

  57.

  That night, over an open fire of dead juniper, Aram warmed a measure of grain in the larger of the two pots, and he and the lashers ate their first decent meal. Hargur and his companions recognized the banzo seeds immediately, prompting Aram to disperse most of that foodstuff to the lashers, keeping but a small portion for himself.

  Hargur hefted the bag Aram gave him and looked doubtfully at Aram’s. “You did not keep much for yourself, master.” And he held his bag out as an offering.

  Aram shook his head. “No – you will require more than me, even after you get far enough south where there is more game.” He secured the top of his bag and set it aside as he pushed Hargur’s away. “You have farther to go than I do and I want you to make the journey well and arrive safely.”

  Hargur stared at him for a long moment with a strange light flickering in his large flat eyes, and then he also set his bag aside and gazed down into the flames of the fire. “I see why the world follows you, my lord.”

  Aram glanced at him but didn’t reply as he stirred the grain in the pot. That night he slept more easily than the night before.

  The four of them were up before the sun the next morning and Aram led them to the edge of the valley of the Secesh.