“So they were a help to you, then?”
“A very great help,” Timmon replied.
“Where are they now?”
“They have gone home to Panax – but promised to return with the spring.”
Satisfied with this information, and noting that Ka’en and Mae had already accompanied Dunna to their home in the city’s second level, Aram turned to Eoarl. “I am tired, my friend, and thirsty.”
Eoarl grinned. “Sit, my lord, and take your ease. I will tap one of my finest kegs.”
The lashers, over time, came to be accepted by the peoples of the earth, prized for their ever-willing aid in difficult tasks requiring the application of stout muscle and bone. And the great beasts’ work with wood produced myriad useful objects highly sought-after by farmers, merchants, and the like.
There was, however, one curious thing done by them.
In the second year after the Great Battle, a pilgrimage was organized for all those that lost men in that terrible struggle. As the families of the fallen visited the sacred graves and gazed curiously out over The Valley Where Two Gods Died, it was found that others had made the journey to the north as well. The three lashers, Hargur and his companions, were seen gathering something from the floor of the valley itself.
Later, it was discovered that what was gathered were bits of the debris from the destruction of Manon’s tower. These bits of black stone were subsequently brought by them back to Aram’s valley, where they were piled in an empty field just south of the city, next to the limits of the orchard. The lashers never explained this act, but continued to do it faithfully, year by year, so that the pile of stones grew.
Observing them in the act of doing this one year late in his life, Findaen groused, “If they don’t stop this – the day will come when we can rebuild that accursed tower right here!”
Ka’en watched with pensive eyes as Hargur, Bildur, and Pentar added their burdens to the growing pile of stones, and then she laid a hand on her brother’s arm.
“Leave them alone, Fin,” she said. “It’s just something they need to do.”
The Age of Peace
As the years of Aram’s reign lengthened and became more than a decade, the roads throughout all the land were gradually repaired, bringing all parts of the kingdom together. It was learned then that the crossings of the rivers at the lower end of the valley were actually stone culvert bridges that had been submerged by floodwaters over time. Nikolus and Timmon oversaw the dredging of the channels until the bridges once more rose safely above the current. The bones of the dragon, upon the ridge between the rivers just downstream from these culverts, can be seen gleaming strangely in the light of the sun unto this day.
Over time, wide paved roadways linked every part of the kingdom, including Seneca. The road across the Lost was rebuilt and manned way-stations erected once more at intervals where there was a dependable water supply. The wild folk abandoned Lamont and scattered once more throughout that rocky, dry wilderness. It was a group of that wild folk who discovered that the Mountain of the Deep Darkness had been leveled in a horrific blast, caving in upon itself and sealing the entrance to the Pit.
For Aram, when he heard this, the news confirmed what he had suspected – that every bit of Manon was gone from the earth.
There was nothing upon the horizons of his realm, in any direction, that threatened the peace.
Keeping nothing for himself, the king put the treasure of his ancestors, brought out of Rigar Pyrannis, to work throughout the land. Money flowed freely, and commerce flourished.
Peace and freedom prevailed.
Ka’en gave birth to another daughter, named Ania in honor of Ka’en’s grandmother, Lancer’s mother. This girl, fair-haired like her older sister, grew tall as she grew older. Mae and Ania were both comely and spirited, causing Eoarl to remark to Aram one day, “I don’t know what will cause you the most anxiety, my lord – the hordes of young men who will inevitably come around, or the fierceness with which your daughters will greet them.”
Aram grimaced in reply and only partly in jest. “They are high-spirited, are they not?”
Eoarl laughed. “You will forgive me, my lord, but they come by it rather naturally.”
Aram scowled at his friend. “I assume that you mean from their mother.”
“Yes, from their mother, of course,” Eoarl responded, as his grin broadened. “What else would I mean?”
When Ania was three years old, Ka’en found that she was once again with child. On the day of the child’s delivery, Dunna came out of the birthing room to summon Aram. Seeing the solemn expression on Dunna’s features, Aram came to his feet.
“What is the matter – is Ka’en alright?”
“She is fine, my lord.”
“Then what is the matter?”
Dunna shook her head. “Go on in – she will tell you.”
Aram burst into the room to find his wife smiling up at him.
“You have a son,” she informed him, softly. “I have my heir – two, in fact – and now you have yours.”
Aram took the child, gazing with wonder down upon the boy, as black-headed as himself. “What is his name?”
“That is up to you, my love. Give him your name, if you like.”
Aram shook his head. “Every man should have a name of his own.” He looked at her. “What is his name?”
“I would name him Naetan,” Ka’en replied.
“Naetan?”
Ka’en nodded. “There is a tale, told to me when I was young, of a monster that came up out of the ocean, swam up the River Broad, and terrorized the people of Stell and the countryside round about. Naetan was the name of the hero who challenged the monster and defeated it, driving it back into the sea.”
Aram looked down upon the boy once more. “Hello, Naetan, my son,” he said.
Four years later, Ka’en gave birth once more, to what was to be her last child, another girl. And at last, she agreed to employ the name of her mother. The girl was named Margra’eth. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, like her older brother, and like him, grew up slim and tall.
As Naetan grew to manhood, it became apparent that he was calm and level-headed, much like his grandfather, Lancer. Years passed, peace pervaded the land, and Aram tired of the day-to-day affairs of the realm. He began to delegate more and more of the responsibilities of governance to his son, and Naetan, quietly and with calm efficiency, took quite easily and naturally to holding the reins of authority.
In the twentieth year of her life, Mae married a man from Stell named Daved, who was named Prince of Wallensia. Findaen, older now, and gray-haired, willingly stepped down into the role of Chancellor, a position once held by his father.
Jame, the Hay of Lamont, now in his thirties, took to visiting the capitol more and more as Ania grew to womanhood. One day, when she was eighteen, Jame approached Aram and Ka’en with his head lowered and his manner steeped in diffidence. As the young ruler of Lamont stuttered and muttered in his attempts to express that which was on his heart, Eoarl, now very old, and a widower, shook his head in amiable disgust.
“I am so blind that I can’t see the sun on a clear day,” the old farmer stated, “but I sure as hell can spot a man hopelessly in love.”
And so Ania, who – when asked – was very much disposed to marry Jame, did so, and then went eastward to become Dame of the land of Lamont.
Three years afterward, Margra’eth announced that she was disposed, in her own right, to marry Bertar, the eldest son of Matibar of Seneca.
And so it was that the children of Aram and Ka’en came to be scattered far and wide throughout the kingdom. In due course, as time passed, they were compensated by the arrival of grandchildren who came often to visit them, and the streets of Regamun Mediar, now fully restored and fully populated, reverberated with the shouts and the laughter of a third generation of royalty.
When Naetan was nearly thirty years of age, he took to wife the granddaughter of Olyeg Kraine, a
woman by the name of Nathlie. Within four years, Nathlie had given birth to a daughter, Nina, and then a son, Joktan. Aram, who had offered no input on the matter, was nonetheless immensely gratified by the choice of the name for his grandson.
With Naetan now dealing with the majority of the concerns of the kingdom, Aram and Ka’en spent most of their summers at the cottage on the ridge above the river in the north of the high plains, below the mountains.
Thaniel had also taken a mate, named Shael. One summer morning, very early, as Aram left Ka’en asleep and wended his way down to the shores of the sea to watch the rising of the sun, he found Thaniel waiting for him. For a time, the two old warriors watched in silence as the first of the sun’s rays flared above the sharp teeth of the mountains beyond the Sea.
Sensing agitation on the part of the horse, Aram looked over at him. “What troubles you, my friend?”
“I would ask something of you, Lord Aram,” Thaniel said after a moment.
Aram turned toward him. “Anything that is in my power, I will do,” he replied.
Thaniel swung his head around and looked at him. “I have a son.”
Aram smiled widely at this news. “Shael has given birth?”
“Last evening, just after sunset,” the horse affirmed.
Something in the horse’s demeanor gave Aram pause. “Is there a problem?”
“No, my lord – the child is fine, as is his mother,” Thaniel responded. He looked away for a moment and then looked back. “I would like to name the child Aram, my lord.”
It took a moment for this to register, and then Aram frowned. “Cannot you think of a better name – that of your father, perhaps?”
At this, Thaniel swung his head around to face Aram fully. “No, my lord,” he stated. “For there is no better name for my son than that which is borne by my brother.”
Aram met the horse’s gaze for a long moment and then inclined his head. “I am greatly honored, my friend. More than you can know.”
After that, Aram and Thaniel often met upon the shores of the Inland Sea as the sun climbed up over the sharp-edged eastern horizon. Usually, they did not speak. After all that they had shared, there was little to say. Sometimes, however, one or the other of them felt compelled to reminisce.
“Do you remember Wamlak?” Aram asked one morning.
“He was the cleverest of men,” Thaniel replied. “And a great warrior.”
“I wish he had lived,” Aram said. “And his father, Donnick, as well. Would that they had both lived.”
“The world will always miss them,” Thaniel agreed. “There is a void now that only they could occupy.”
Unknown to them, Ka’en and Shael, accompanied by young Aram, were never asleep as their husbands believed, but had slipped down the ridge as was their wont, to stand in the shelter of the trees upon the height and watch the old warriors welcome the new day.
And each of those new days looked down upon a world ever more at peace.
The Horses
From the beginning of Aram’s reign, many of the horses abandoned the remote and protected range of the high plains to move out into the world and dwell with the men with whom they had gone to war. A few remained in the high country with Thaniel, but most did not. As a consequence, there began to be a division within the ranks of those people.
One summer day, troubled by this apparent and growing division, Jared left Nikolus and traveled alone up and over the pass and onto the high plains. He found Aram and Thaniel communing together near the king’s cottage. After greeting Jared and perceiving that the rangy brown horse wished to speak with Thaniel privately, Aram excused himself and went inside.
Jared broached the subject without preamble. “Our people are becoming two people,” he told Thaniel. “Some have stayed in the wild, but most have gone to live among men. Many even work with men, aiding them in their daily labors.”
“This rumor of horses working with men has come to my ears,” Thaniel agreed, “and I realize that some of our people wish to bond with men in this way. But understand, Jared; by doing so, they will become something less.”
“Something less?”
“Our fathers’ ancient alliance with men was based upon equality,” Thaniel told him. “But now I hear that there are those of our people who pull plows in the fields for men – like oxen. Is this true?”
“Some do – yes, my lord,” Jared answered hesitantly. “But they do so as friends – comrades – the same as when they went into battle together. Besides, men have always been ascendant in the alliance. Lord Aram, after all, is not just the king of men, but the king of all.”
“True,” Thaniel agreed, “but we never plowed their fields.”
He looked away and gazed at the eastern horizon for a long moment. When that moment grew even longer, and still he did not speak, Jared broke the silence. “You may forbid it, of course, if it displeases you.”
At that, Thaniel turned back and looked at him. “No,” he replied, “I cannot.”
“But you are the Lord of All Horses, now,” Jared reminded him. “Our people must obey your writ.”
“There is now no need for a Lord of All Horses, Jared. Nor will there be ever again. Thanks to Lord Aram, the world has forever changed. The old ways are gone, and will not return.” He swung his head and looked away once more. “The age of gods on earth ended when Aram destroyed Manon, and with the conclusion of that age, many things are irrevocably altered, including the need for a lord for our people.”
He hesitated for a moment, still gazing away, and then looked back and continued. “Even the need for a general alliance may be reasonably argued to be unnecessary. In this new age, men and horses may make their own alliances – of a personal nature, if they like – without the need to consult with me.”
Jared stared at him. “And this is to be our future?”
“And our present,” Thaniel answered. “Hear me, Jared – the world has changed, and we must change with it.” His voice grew low and quiet. “Lord Aram would never ask it of me, but what I say is nonetheless true. If his field required plowing, and there were no oxen to accomplish the task, I would willingly step into the traces for him.”
Jared’s eyes widened. “You – in front of a plow? I cannot accept that you would do this – even if it were for the king – for I would not.”
“Accept it not, then,” Thaniel replied. “It is nonetheless true. As I said – Lord Aram would never ask it. You know him; he would turn the entire field with a shovel before he would ask such a thing. But that fact does alter the reality of this new world in which we live. Horses must make their own way in it now, without a lord to guide them. Each must decide for himself how he will live out his life. As for me, I will remain here – and with Lord Aram.”
“Do we truly risk becoming something less?”
“What else is there for us?” Thaniel asked bluntly. “There is only to live here in the wilderness or to live among men. Each of our people must choose which – I will make the choice for no one.”
“Then we will undoubtedly become two people,” Jared stated glumly.
“You are yet alive, and are very clever,” Thaniel told him. “And you know both worlds. You may guide our people that dwell in the world of men – remind them of who they are – and I will guide those that remain here. And you will be a bridge between us.”
Jared went silent and looked away. After a time, he said, “I will come often to seek your counsel, my lord.”
“You need not seek my counsel, Jared,” Thaniel replied. “For you will know better than I what is required of horses dwelling in the world of men. But I will be glad to see you whenever you come.”
And so Jared went away, and Thaniel stayed with Aram, and the truth of Thaniel’s words is demonstrated by an -
Incident in the Year 1712 of the Age of Peace
Upon the eastern banks of the Broad, less than a mile south of Stell, there lived a young man by the name of Keegan. He was an only child of a
ged parents, born when his mother was in the change of life. He had been given that name in honor of an ancient mariner who lived centuries earlier in the time of Aram the Magnificent. Captain Keegan had been a rough and rugged seaman whose exploits were expounded in a book of history that was perused often by the young man’s father.
Keegan – the young farmer – had lost both of his parents when he was but seventeen. They had gone across the river and beyond Stell to the hamlet of Cottonwood to help his mother’s sister and her family when they were ravaged by illness. Both had contracted the same illness and succumbed.
Though prior to tragedy his young life had been consumed by dreams of going south to the ocean and sailing forth upon it like his ancient namesake, Keegan had inherited the farm upon his parents’ deaths and for five years after their loss he dutifully worked the ground, making it produce as a sort of monument to them.
He owned no oxen – those that pulled the cart that had taken his parents beyond the Broad were never returned. Nor did he seek to recover them, for there was a large brown horse that had been in his family since before the time of his great-grandfather who sufficed to do the necessary heavy labor. The horse had once had another name, but Keegan simply called him Big Brown. Though Keegan’s father insisted that the histories told the truth when they stated that horses had once communed with men; Big Brown had never once responded to the spoken word.
One evening in spring, Keegan led Big Brown along the banks of the river as the sun sank toward the horizon. As they walked toward the house, he reached out and laid his hand on the broad shoulder of the horse.
“Long day – hey, big fella?”
Big Brown, as usual, gave no reply.
Keegan gazed westward, admiring the way the rays of the setting sun spun warm bands of red, yellow, and orange color upon the roiling surface of the Broad.
Then something else caught his eye.
At the bottom of the bank, jutting from the mud at the edge of the water, something gleamed.
Kelven's Riddle Book Five Page 49
