The immense bulk of the mountain fascinated him. Whenever he could raise his eyes without drawing the attention of the watchful lasher, he gazed at it. At its southern extremity, the mountain broke off rather sharply and fell away out of his view. Aram wondered if the same stream that marked the southern border of his valley flowed out of the regions beneath that broken edge of the mountain.
Back the other way the mountain rose ever higher as it ran to the north until its black massiveness was lost behind the eastern heights of the rocky ridge that separated the field from the sleeping quarters. Day after day, Aram stared out at the vast expanse of country between his field and that distant mountain, trying to spot the places where a running man might quickly get out of view of anyone in the valley.
Problems between the lashers and some of the men soon developed. Those men that had not borne the rigors of the transport well began to lag behind in the amount of work they produced. Stronger men like Aram were able to turn the soil quickly, but as planting time approached, one of the lashers, the one that guarded the northeast corner, began to abuse the slower workers in his area. At first it was just a rude kick or shove from a clawed hand that put a man in the dirt, but as the plowing of the field neared completion, the abuse grew more severe, and the lasher would occasionally use his whip. One day, in a fit of irritation, he swung his sword and slew a man.
This action brought the other lashers charging to the scene of the slaughter. The skinny overseer came running as well, his face red with anger and his dagger drawn. It was his neck that was at risk if the new field did not produce its expected quota. The three lashers came together in an explosion of fierce sounds, cursing ferociously and gesturing angrily with their whips though there was no actual physical contact. Work ceased as everyone in the field stopped to watch the tableau unfold.
As the argument raged, the lasher who’d killed the worker abruptly spun and swung his sword at the overseer. Fortunately for the little man, he’d stopped just beyond the reach of his overlords. But the action intensified the conflict between the lashers. Swords came out, threatening deadly force against the one who’d done the killing and as if he knew he’d crossed a line that should not be crossed; he retreated, dark and sullen.
Aram knew nothing of the seniority that governed the ranks of the overlords. One of them was larger but he couldn’t tell if that attribute imparted any real sense of superiority. But from the incident there sprang the seed of an idea. If lasher society was not monolithic and serious disagreements could occur within their ranks, then this incident would probably not be the last. Here, beyond the outskirts of civilization, there would very likely be more—and perhaps more serious—incidents. Aram would lie low, do his work, stay out of the line of fire, and plan anew. And he would make the southeastern corner of the field his own plot of earth. There he would work every day until the opportunity came.
Since, at the first, he’d been assigned to the far southeastern corner of the field he thought it should appear a natural thing for him to work that area as his rightful place. Every day, head down, he went to that corner and worked the ground there where the river issued from the wilderness and ran along the south side of the valley. When it came time to plant, he planted there; when weeds sprouted and the natural grass tried to re-assert itself among the wheat, he took his hoe and fought the necessary vigorous battles in that part of the valley. Working hard and diligently, he slowly but surely enlarged his area of responsibility until he was virtually alone in that part of the field. Eventually, he was generally ignored and the lasher that guarded that corner of the valley spent most of his time walking the perimeter and gazing out at the eastern slope.
Because of the constant presence of the overlord, Aram realized that starting a cache of food as he’d done before was impossible. Besides, there was really no good place to store a cache. There were ample rocks and brush in the virgin ground just beyond the edges of the field but that area was separated from the field by a strip of no-man’s-land. From the first they’d been instructed to leave a wide swath of bare ground around the whole of the field into which no one but the lashers could go. A lasher was always within sprinting distance of Aram’s corner and any excursion beyond the prescribed borders would result in an instant death.
He contented himself with studying the lay of the ground beyond the fields while he worked. The river that ran along the southern border did not come straight out of the eastern slope. A few hundred yards beyond the extreme southeastern corner of the field there was a break between the ridge on the south and the broad slope where the stream rushed into the valley at a nearly right angle from south to north. Colliding with the last rocky vestiges of the slope, it was then forced back to the west where it ran between the new field and the base of the ridge as it flowed westward.
If an opportunity was presented and Aram could dart across that section of ground between the field’s corner and the opening of the canyon from whence the stream came, it was possible that he could get into the canyon and be out of sight of the field within minutes. Whenever he could, he studied that ground, trying to get to know every outcropping of rock, every clump of brush between him and the near bank of the stream where it turned the corner. The ridge to the south was effectively ended at that point and the long slope formed the eastern bank of the river as it went out of sight. Whatever lay beyond that point he would have to deal with as it came, if he ever got the chance to run.
One day, when he lifted his eyes to study the ground beyond the field, he froze in astonishment. Standing in plain view among the brush and rocks just beyond the eastern edge of the field was a tall figure dressed in dark clothing, looking directly at him. A deep, black hood hid the figure’s face, but there was no doubt—he was staring at Aram.
While he gazed at this apparition in wonder, forgetting his work, he found his view suddenly blocked by the enormous bulk of the lasher. Startled, he looked up into the cold black discs of the monster’s eyes and the hideous, massive face framed by sharp, shiny horns. The flat black discs gazed down at him without expression.
“Why do you come to this part of the field everyday, little man?” The lasher’s voice was cold and harsh and rumbled like low thunder.
Aram averted his eyes downward and stood very still as he stared at the bright green blades of new wheat pushing through the earth. Deep in his chest he felt the thrumming of the increased tempo of his heart. He swallowed and gave his answer. “Because this is where I was sent on the first day.”
With vicious suddenness, Aram was seized by his neck and lifted from the earth. Instantly, he was in agony. His breath was cut off and he could feel his heart straining to pump blood to his head. The pain was intense and grew at an alarming rate. He dropped his hoe and tried desperately to insert his fingers between the great clawed hand and his throat in an attempt to regain his breath and lessen the horrible sudden weight that his body was exerting on his neck. The lasher pulled Aram close to his face and loosened his grip slightly. Aram gasped for air and inhaled hot putrid breath. The leathery skin of the lasher’s face contracted in a malevolent grin.
“Do you think perhaps you will escape into the hills, little man? Let me tell you, you should try. There are wolves in this country, fierce servants of my great master. If they catch you they will tear your flesh to ribbons. They will feast on your bones while you yet live.”
Aram recoiled at both the content and the delivery of this statement but managed to suck in enough air to croak out a respectful answer. “I was sent to work here at the first. If my lord wishes me to labor elsewhere he need but send me.”
There was a halo of red growing at the edges of his vision and he felt the deep well of unconsciousness opening below him. His plunge into that darkness was imminent. Then, with a snort of disgust, the lasher dropped him and moved off to patrol the perimeter. Aram lay recovering his strength for as long as he dared and then, careful not to look around, he got to his feet, raised his hoe with shaking hands and qu
ivering arms and went back to work.
When he dared, he glanced back out at the edge of the slope but the strange figure was gone and no one else seemed to have noticed him, not the other workers or the lashers. Perplexed, he wondered if he’d hallucinated. But that didn’t seem reasonable—he had not been sick recently and it wasn’t a particularly hot day. There was nothing to explain the vision and the mysterious figure never reappeared. But at least the lasher had not ordered him to another part of the field.
As the wheat grew taller and the days longer, Aram grew increasingly impatient. He’d grown strong from the amount of work he’d forced himself to do. He was a model slave and as a consequence, except for the one incident, he was left pretty much alone. But the lasher, though he’d shown no further interest in Aram, was always patrolling the perimeter nearby. The one that had precipitated the earlier incident in the northeast corner of the field now guarded the southwest corner where the river left the valley. Aram suffered the anguish of guilt for wishing that someone in that area would lag in his duties enough to precipitate another distracting incident.
He never talked to Decius of his desire to escape for fear that the younger man would want to come with him. It would be difficult enough to manage an unseen exit from the field without having a second person to worry about. Further, escape into and survival in the surrounding wilderness would be dangerous enough for a man as strong as Aram, let alone someone less hardy. And there was the very real likelihood that such an attempt would fail anyway, that the lashers would catch them, and Aram did not want to be responsible for Decius’ death.
The wheat grew taller, spring began to warm toward summer, and Aram’s desire to escape devolved into anxiety as the year slipped away and week after week went by without opportunity. Finally, in a spasm of frustration, he decided to consider the option of making a bold daylight run and began to surreptitiously watch the lasher’s movements for signs of a pattern he could exploit. But nothing came of it. The lasher was always nearby, and always alert.
Then, one afternoon in late spring, a terrible thunderstorm arose in the foothills to the east, piling its dark masses high and obscuring the mountain. It rumbled and flashed as it overspread the whole breadth of the eastern slope. Suddenly, like a beast loosed from its leash, it crashed down the slope and roared across the valley. Lightning sizzled on the ridges round about as thunder rolled back and forth. The dark clouds opened up and rain poured down in a flood. The deep loam of the valley floor quickly became unworkable. Aram looked up to see the lasher striding his way, motioning for him and the other workers to quit the field and make for the road.
Just then a bolt of white-hot power exploded into the earth a few yards away, blinding Aram and knocking him to the ground. When he found his feet again, the lasher was standing over him, bellowing at him to get back to the road; then the overlord strode away to the north to empty the other workers from the field. In moments he was lost in the driving torrent of rain.
Aram stood gazing after him only a moment before the years of pent-up yearning erupted inside him. Without further thought, he turned and sprinted out of the field toward the southeast. In a few strides he was among the brush and rocks. Then, though he was nearly blinded by the downpour, he started to run as fast as his legs would move, for with the action he’d just taken there came a rush of great fear. Now that he’d actually turned his fiercest desire into action, he felt his guts recoil inside him in a paroxysm of sheer terror.
If the lasher had seen him bolt, he would be dead shortly. If the rain lessened before he could round the corner out of sight or if it stopped so that his flight was seen, he would certainly be caught and killed. But he’d cast the die and there was nothing to do but run. He was already well out of the field and if he went back; if he was discovered coming in out of the brush, there would be no questions asked of him. He would be slain.
But the rain did not stop. If anything, it came down more heavily. Aram was running blind and grew so afraid of losing his direction in the sodden gloom that he angled to the right and made for the river. In the terrific downpour, he almost ran into the churning water, sliding to a scrambling halt just in time. Finding the river and avoiding a plunge into its current, he had his bearings, so he turned upstream and ran alongside it. Navigating the rocky slope and brush-covered ground was more difficult than he’d anticipated. Any misstep and he might twist an ankle and ruin the progress of his flight. Then, abruptly, the stream angled sharply to the right. He’d reached the corner and was into the canyon. And he was still alive.
There was smooth, bare rock at the river’s edge where the current dug into the flank of the slope and scoured away the soil whenever the level of the water was high. With the amount of rain falling from the sky, the river would likely be over this rock in a few minutes, so he made the most of it, pushing the muscles in his legs to the limit. But even as he ran he could see the water level rising. Finally, he was forced off the smooth rock by the growing flood and back out among the grass and brush of the slope. And still the rain pelted down. He was thoroughly soaked by this time, his clothes weighed on him and his boots had become large clumps of muddy hindrance.
Then the river angled sharply back to the left, toward the east, and the wall of the canyon grew steeper, with slag heaps of rough and tumbled rock between its base and the river’s edge. The going became extremely difficult. It was at this point, as he paused for a moment to examine the ground to his front, that he heard the thunk of heavy feet and the sound of hoarse grunts coming from behind him. He swung around in stark fear, expecting to face the fury of a lasher’s whip and sword. Instead, he saw a sodden shock of yellow-white hair and the frightened round face of Decius pop up over a boulder.
Somehow, the little man had seen Aram’s exit from the field, discerned its meaning, and followed him. In a brief moment of time, Aram’s emotions ran the gauntlet from fright to anger to disappointment and finally to acceptance. There was no time for recrimination, and now that Decius was here, he couldn’t send him away. Quickly, he ran back to the boulder and yanked the smaller man up and over it.
“Stay with me, Decius, and don’t look back, whatever happens. Follow as close as you can because I won’t stop. Understand?”
Decius blinked his round eyes and nodded breathlessly. Aram glanced down the canyon but saw no sign of pursuit through the driving rain. He clapped Decius on the shoulder and hurried on.
As the river roared along the bottom of the canyon, it tumbled over massive boulders, the detritus of eons of erosion from the canyon walls. The two men were forced to scramble over and around enormous piles of jumbled rocks, among which grew masses of willows with exposed roots that caught at their feet and tripped them again and again. If they hadn’t been running for fear of their very lives, Aram would have abandoned this tangent of flight and backtracked, maybe to negotiate the broad slope to the east of the field where running would be easier. But that tack would take them back out into full view of the field. So, instead, he kept doggedly on, though he knew that over such terrain as they now traveled any lasher chasing them would have a marked advantage.
After an exhausting hour of stumbling forward with all the speed he could muster, slowing now and then to help the shorter Decius over particularly rough spots, the rain began to slacken and he could see the way ahead more clearly. It would get no easier. Not only was the canyon becoming rougher, its walls were growing ever higher as it cut its way eastward into the broad slope below the foothills of the great mountain. And the waning of the storm meant that they could be more easily seen by anyone following them.
If their absence was discovered and they were accurately tracked, they would be caught, of that Aram was certain. His only hope was that they’d gone far enough to the east to get past the worst of the storm but that it was still raging over the valley behind them. Certainly there would be some confusion as the overseer sorted the men and counted them. If they were lucky, it would be some time before it was discover
ed that two of the workers were missing and the trajectory of their flight discerned.
The river was now a roaring flood and Aram and Decius were forced higher up the flank of the canyon into even rougher ground where for centuries the rock had broken from the walls and piled onto the slopes. As he scraped and clawed his way forward, a tiny voice in the back of Aram’s mind kept screaming at him to run, but he could not obey. The way forward was barely navigable. It was all he could do to just keep moving. He did his best to ignore the terrified gasping of Decius and the screaming in his own skull and concentrate on making progress up the tangled canyon. Eventually, looking for any advantage, he made his way up the slope to the very base of the sheer walls and found that the rocks piled there were small enough to facilitate somewhat better progress.
Gradually the storm shredded itself into jagged gray clouds and began to die away to the west. The evening sun angled into the canyon through rents in the cloud cover. Aram judged that there were less than two hours until sunset. If they could keep moving and get into the darkness of night without discovery, they could remain high on the slope at the base of the cliff and feel their way forward throughout the night. Aram knew that they needed to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the lashers. Saturated and chilled as they were, with nothing but rock around and no decent-sized patch of level ground, sleep would be impossible anyway.
Freedom was somewhere ahead; if they avoided capture and lived until nightfall, Aram intended to keep them moving toward that goal.
The storm finally dissipated completely and the lowering sun shone in a clear sky. Now Aram suffered the agony of anxiety. If they were being followed, and by now that was probably the case, they could be clearly seen against the backdrop of the canyon wall, scrambling over the loose, jumbled rock at its base. Without looking back, Aram tried to listen for sounds of pursuit behind them in the canyon but heard nothing. He steadfastly resisted the urge to turn and look. To do so would detract from their progress but more importantly, if he looked back and saw lashers on their track, stark fear would derail him.
Kelven's Riddle: The Mountain at the Middle of the World Page 4
