He was implacable now. The wolves had to go or die. In his first few forays out of the city he stayed near the main avenue and was cautious. But gradually his old boldness came back, though now it was tempered by wisdom. He never traveled without his sword, two spears and four daggers stuck in his belt. Whenever he left the city, he was armed to the teeth.
One day in early spring as he was just east of the river, following the tracks of a large pack, he entered a stand of tall pines. As he leaned against the bark of a tall conifer, his hand came into contact with a sticky substance. He wiped his hand on his pants but the substance was difficult to remove. It was resin from the sap of the tree. As he examined it, the dream he’d had during his fever came back to him.
He ate all the food from one of his small leather pouches and used it to collect as much of the resin as he could find. Then he continued his hunt but the wolf tracks turned east and went up into the hills so he left them and crossed back across the river. From that day forward, he began to look for trees that resembled the tall, thin, gray-barked trees of his dream.
He didn’t really believe in dreams but it didn’t matter, the resin was real. Whether he’d simply noticed it before and it had subsequently appeared in his fevered dream was of no import. He now had an idea for a bowstring.
As winter crept northward back into the high mountains and spring entered the valley, he went back to war. His left side, especially his arm, had not recovered its full strength but it didn’t deter him. His right hand and arm were, if anything, stronger and he was considerably wiser. Consequently, he slaughtered wolves by the dozens, even hunting them outside what he considered to be his area of control, eastward into the timbered hills, north into the long draws below the mountains, and south of the sinking river. And always he watched for tall, thin trees with gray bark.
One day he was far to the north in the foothills of the mountains, and up a long, steep sided hollow, tucked up against an outcropping of black rock, he found what he was looking for. It was a stand of tall slender trees with gray, closely woven bark.
There were no limbs on the trees for several feet from the ground and the trunks were perfectly straight. Eagerly, he took his knife and cut long furrows into the trunk of one tree and stripped away a long piece of bark. Forgetting all else he sat and carefully worked his knife lengthwise down through the strip of bark. And there they were—long thin cords threading like the white tendons of an animal through the bark of the tree.
Taking care not to girdle the trees, he gathered strips of bark from several of them and spent the rest of the morning separating the threads from the bark. By early afternoon, he had at least a hundred of the threads or more. They were very strong and flexible and looked as if they could be woven into strands. Maybe, just maybe, he had the material for his bowstring.
He left off hunting for that day and hurried back down the valley to the city. As he went, the sky clouded over and it began to rain. Over the next several days, the storm stayed over the mountains and the valley. This suited him. He was happy to stay inside the city and work on his bowstring.
He carefully braided the strands together and using the leather bowstring as a template determined its length and looped the string at both ends, weaving the strands back into themselves. Then he stretched the finished product between two heavy stones and coated it with the resin from the pine trees. He split some feathers he had gathered during his travels and cut grooves in the end of his arrows, attaching the feathers in the grooves with the resin.
Everyday for several days, he worked the resin along the length of the bowstring until it seemed ready. He had no experience upon which to judge its readiness, just his instinct and trial and error. Finally, he strung the bow. Going down to the broad porch, he nocked an arrow and loosed it into the sky and then shouted for joy as the arrow sailed into the heavens in a perfect parabola and sank into the damp earth more than a hundred yards from the wall. His greatest wish was realized—he had a bow, a weapon of distance.
Over the next few weeks he made several strings and many arrows, finally perfecting both processes. And he made a taller and stronger bow that would project longer arrows over greater distances. With the creation of the bow and arrow and the making of shafts for spears, a process he’d long ago perfected, he had, in effect, become an accomplished weapons maker. And as his weapons became better and deadlier, so did he.
All through planting time, at the end of each day’s work, he practiced with the bow, aiming at targets placed at different distances, shooting on the run, even learning to use it from his weakened left side as well as his right, releasing the arrows with either hand. And he practiced shooting to either side as he ran. He wove willows into targets so that he could retrieve and re-use his arrows. Still he broke many, but he gradually became so proficient that within the distance of a hundred yards not much would escape his rapid and accurate shooting.
He went back to war as soon as the spring sowing was done. And now, wolves were brought down at ever-greater distances although, with his wolf skin clothing, he could usually get as close as he pleased. By the end of that summer, his second in the valley, he’d slain more than a hundred wolves. Their numbers had grown thin throughout the breadth and length of the valley, between the mountains and the twin rivers, and even across the river into the wooded hills beyond, an area of almost four hundred square miles.
Wolves that were not killed began to leave the dangerous valley for safer ground. After harvest, as winter was coming on, he sometimes went for several days without the sighting of a single wolf or even a track. He went farther afield, crossing the river more often and going so far from the city in every direction that he was often obliged to spend three or four nights away from his home. When he camped in the wilderness, he scattered steel arrow tips in a circular pattern around his camp so that anything that approached during the night would be injured and discovered before it could attack.
It was during this time, as he was becoming familiar with the whole of the valley and the uplands that surrounded it, that he discovered something he’d always suspected. The river that ran through his valley was the same one that had sucked him into the mountain on that rainy day more than a year ago. It made a sharp turn to the west at the extreme southeast corner of the valley where a low line of hills separated it from the river that he’d followed when he fled his bondage. That other river continued on to the east into the timbered mountains that bordered his valley on the east and southeast.
And he discovered another interesting thing. Here and there throughout the valley, there were ruins of sizeable settlements, all made of stone and laid out geometrically, with central squares, main avenues, and secondary streets. It was as if there once had been satellite towns, no doubt farming communities that traded with or serviced the city.
And there were remnants of ancient roads running throughout the valley that connected these scattered communities. The main road that intersected the broad avenue coming out from the city at the pyramids traversed the whole of the valley, north to south. In the north, it rose up into the foothills where another main artery, just as wide and as well constructed, branched off at right angles and went straight west, up though and over the gentler hills to the north of the great black mountain. The main road continued northward from this intersection and went out of sight toward the distant mountains.
To the south, the valley road angled to the southeast in a broad, sweeping curve, following the course of the river. There, at the extreme southeast corner of the valley where the sinking river turned back west, the road crossed the river at a wide, shallow place in the stream. Broad, flat paving stones had been set into the streambed to facilitate crossing.
Beyond the crossing, the ridge that separated the two rivers was more moderate in height and steepness here than at any other point. To the east it grew increasingly rough and rocky as it merged with the pine hills, finally being incorporated into them completely where a lone spire of rock jutted into
the sky. Westward, the ridge rose slightly and grew ever narrower and steeper until it converged with the steep flank of the mountain above the place where the river sank and went into the earth.
Between the two rivers, a massive cut had been engineered through the ridge by the ancients so that the road arched gently over it in a straight line. The crossing at the southern river was similar in size and construction to the first. To the south of this river the road curved up and out of sight into jumbled hills that were largely covered in broadleaf trees. Curiously, after crossing the river, the road deteriorated in size and quality; there were places where the forest had reclaimed it.
The hills beyond the southern river resembled the green hills that Aram and Decius had bypassed two years earlier. As they trended eastward, south of the river that went generally straight into the east, there was very little change in their physical makeup other than a slight increase in altitude and roughness and a corresponding change from broadleaf forest to pine woods. Back to the west, however, the ground south of the river changed rapidly, becoming rougher and rockier, higher and wilder; until finally it became the sharp ridge forming the southern wall of the canyon through which Aram had passed when running for life and freedom almost two years before. Somewhere down there, two or three miles downstream, Aram and Decius had made their fateful crossing into the land that had cost Decius his life and brought Aram his freedom.
It occurred to Aram, as he stood on the ridge between the two rivers and gazed down into the dark canyon that he had never tried to recover Decius’ body. Probably, it had been utterly consumed but even if not, Decius had been slain by the river’s edge and the intervening periodic floods would have washed anything that remained of him to the west. Aram could do nothing for his friend now except that to which he was already committed—the destruction of the wolf packs.
By the time that second winter’s snows forced him inside the city; Aram had a clear idea of the layout of his valley and the countryside immediately surrounding it. Snow came early and fell often throughout the winter and Aram spent his time adding to his weaponry and improving the room below the tower and its furnishings.
Four more years passed. At the end of that time, he was in unchallenged possession of the valley. He never saw wolves now unless he went into the hills to the north or the east or crossed the twin rivers to the south. He seldom did this. As long as they stayed clear of his valley he no longer went looking for them.
He developed the ground to the southeast of the defensive wall until it became a respectable farm with fields and orchards that produced in plenty. Wheat was now grown on an acre of angled ground above a small stream to the south. Bread was no longer a luxury; after collecting grain enough for his needs and for seeding the next year, he often left the rest for the deer.
And he had now become familiar with almost the entirety of the city. The great frescoed hall was in the center of the city on its lowest level, surrounded by smaller administrative buildings and many beautiful mansions. Behind it was the granary and just above it, on the next upper level, was the armory. The next few levels, rising up the mountain, consisted of lesser homes and buildings, including the infirmary, though none of the structures could be described as plain. His apartment, and the tower that rose above it, was located near the topmost level, with a view down over the city and the valley beyond.
Once, during his fourth winter, which had brought abundant snow and very cold temperatures and had locked him inside the city for a full three months, he’d taken torches and made the journey down through the long dark maze of corridors, stairways, and blocks of square rooms to the subterranean river. Perhaps, he conjectured, it all was intended to be defensive in nature. But there was no definitive clue that he could discover to explain the amount of work that had gone into accessing the river deep in the heart of the mountain.
He never went down there again, instead spending his free time in improving the city and exploring the regions near his valley. Always, now, as he roamed, he looked for signs of other people. He hated to admit loneliness, but many times as he walked the grand porch and gazed out over the valley, the thought came unbidden that the life he now lived could be greatly improved in one way—by the addition of a spouse and partner—a wife. A woman.
He had not seen another living person since the day Decius died and no evidence of others since he found the bodies of the two men the wolves had killed near the sinking river. As for them, he never found any clues as to who they were or where they’d come from.
One evening in late summer of his sixth year in the valley, just after sundown, he was looking for a suitable campsite along the top of a bluff above a small stream on the east side of the river in the southeastern corner of the valley. It had been a while since he’d checked that part of the valley for wolves and he was looking for any sign that they had been killing deer along the fringes of his domain.
The sun had slid behind the mountain and he was about to bed down in a stand of stubby pines clustered on the bluff above a sharp bend in the stream when the sounds of conflict erupted from out of the bottom of the draw. They were sounds that he instantly recognized—the snarls and eager yips of a pack of wolves on the attack.
Quietly he prepared for battle and then peered over the edge to see what it was that they’d cornered. He froze in amazement. Four men were backed up against a rock wall on the far side of the stream in a defensive line, swords drawn. Before them, circling and growling in preparation for attack was a full pack of wolves, eight in all.
Five of the wolves, the largest of the pack, had forced the men back against the cliff, while three smaller ones fed on a deer’s carcass near the riverbank. The men held short, broad swords and lighted torches. It appeared that they’d defended themselves successfully so far but it was nearly dark down in the bottom along the river, and when the light failed completely they were doomed.
Carefully Aram positioned himself so that he had a clear shot with his bow down the small, narrow canyon. He decided to kill the three smaller wolves first. Nocking an arrow, he shot the first one in the body. Its head shot upward in shocked surprise and without making a sound it ran flat out head first into a rock, where it fell on its side, twitched for a moment and then was still. The other two looked for a moment at their companion’s bizarre behavior, and then went back to gnawing on the deer. Aram let another arrow fly. He shot the second wolf in the neck. It stood up, stumbled sideways and fell silently. So far, then, so good. The men were still holding the five large wolves at bay, but the stalemate wouldn’t continue much longer.
He aimed an arrow at the last small wolf. The light from the western sky had almost completely failed. For whatever reason, Aram’s last arrow went slightly astray, striking the last of the smaller wolves in the haunches. It howled in furious pain and stumbled about on its two good legs, snapping at the offending wooden rod that was lodged in its hindquarters.
This attracted the attention of the five larger wolves. Unable to see Aram on the ridge above, they assumed that this injury to their young had somehow come from their cornered prey and instantly they turned and charged the men. Aram leapt off the bluff and ran toward the melee. He killed one wolf on the run and nocked another arrow as he ran. Then the remaining wolves realized the nature and source of the new attack.
They were evidently from a different area and had not encountered Aram before, for they turned to attack him. He dropped his fifth wolf by sending an arrow down its howling throat as it charged him. Then he dropped his bow and drew his sword. There were now just three. Leaping to the right, he slashed at the one on that side as it turned toward him. His blade cut a long gash in the wolf’s side behind its front legs. Screaming in pain and fury, it went down as its guts tumbled out.
Aram’s impetus carried him a short way past his attackers. He spun to face them just as the remaining two wolves whirled to continue their assault. He caught the second as it hurtled right at him and ran his sword deep into its throat. Bracing h
imself, he pushed the weight of the stricken wolf into the charging body of its companion. Pulling his sword free he buried the steel blade in the neck of the last wolf and with a twisting yank nearly severed its head.
After checking to see that he was uninjured, Aram went around and made sure every beast was dead. There was a bit of fight still left in the one he’d slashed in the side, but he dispatched it with a stroke across the neck behind its head. Then he turned to examine the men.
They had not moved from their defensive posture beneath the rock and were gazing at him open-mouthed. Aram lowered his sword slightly and approached them. He did not consider it until later, but he must have appeared quite a sight, stalking in out of the twilight after slaying eight wolves with apparent ease, dressed in his rough clothes made of wolves’ skins, his hair hanging long, and his jaw bristling with a full beard.
He studied the men in the light of the torches.
“Are any of you hurt?”
A young man with blonde hair tinged with copper and a clean-shaven face stepped slightly forward. The young man was a bit above medium height and was dressed, Aram noticed with a start, in a long-sleeved shirt and trousers, both of heavy cloth of good quality, and a leather vest. He’d seen clothing like this before, on the bodies of the two men he’d buried on the ridge above the siphon five years earlier.
“All of us are hurt a bit, but none seriously, I think.” The young man looked around at his companions for verification of this statement. They all nodded, staring at Aram. The young man turned back to him. “We owe you a great debt, sir, probably to the extent of our very lives.”
Aram ignored the gracious statement as he studied the man. The copper-haired young man possessed a pleasant face, with an open and friendly expression, blue eyes, a firm nose, and a mouth that appeared as if it couldn’t wait to break into a smile. He met Aram’s fierce gaze with wariness and respect but without fear.
Kelven's Riddle: The Mountain at the Middle of the World Page 13
