Aram returned his gaze steadily. He was gladdened to see the depth of concern the old man felt for his people. Any people with such a governor could not be easily lost. He smiled. “His name is Joktan.”
Lancer raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Pardon me, my lord?”
“The great king in the stories—and they are true, by the way—his name is Joktan. I am a son of his line.”
“I am not surprised.” Lancer said. “I think I could have guessed it. So he really did defeat Manon long ago and give the world an age of peace?”
It was Aram’s turn to be astonished. “Is that what your legends say?”
“Yes.” Lancer answered and he frowned at Aram’s look of surprise. “Why? Is it not so?”
It occurred to Aram then that different parts of the world might have diverse understandings of the events of the days of Joktan, especially if they weren’t directly involved in those events. Lancer’s people—all the people of the southern plains, in fact—might have no direct knowledge of what had happened on the high plains around Rigar Pyrannis or in the meeting of Kelven and Manon. Their legends of those events would be vulgarized, just as Joktan’s name had been. He shook his head.
“No, my lord. That is not what happened. Manon slew Joktan in single combat in the last great battle when the forces of men were destroyed. It was Kelven that reduced Manon—at the cost of his own life—and gave the world an age—a wild age—of relative peace.”
Lancer stared at him. “So Kelven really is dead?”
“Yes.”
“And your ancestor did not defeat Manon?”
“He defeated his armies, certainly, several times, but not Manon himself. Manon cannot be defeated by force of arms. It must be done another way.”
Lancers eyes grew wide and troubled. “And now we do not have Kelven to aid us. What will you do?”
“I will find that other way.”
“Do you have any ideas—or access to any secret knowledge that might aid you in this?”
“No.”
Lancer leaned across the table toward him. His hands trembled. “You do not know how to defeat Manon.” It was statement but he wanted verification. Aram met his gaze and shook his head.
“I do not. Not yet.”
Lancer stared down at his plate in silence and began picking at his food with his fork. “I am a good administrator, Aram, even an engineer of sorts. In my time I have kept my people alive and fed even as we lost access to our best lands. I have designed and built roads. I even improved this town—its structures and its infrastructure.” He looked up. “I am a good administrator.”
“I believe you, my lord.”
“But I am not a man of war, Aram. War requires a different sort of man than I am. It requires a man of steel and fire who can kill and is skilled at killing, and who does not hesitate in his work even when the field around him is covered in blood.” He shook his head slowly and deliberately. “I am not that man. You are that man.”
“I do not like war any more than you do, my lord. No man should.”
“No, but you are a man who knows how to wage it. And war is coming, is it not?”
“It is already upon us.”
“Yes, it is. I have seen that it is so.” There was deep sadness in Lancer’s voice. “Soon the whole world will be aflame with its fire. And it is a war that we do not know how to win.”
“There is a way, my lord, I believe it, and I will discover it.”
The old Prince gazed at him without expression. “Is it even remotely possible for us to negotiate for peace?”
Aram sighed. “If it were possible, I would do it. But Manon does not need to negotiate, nor does he mean to. He means to enslave the whole world. And his strength grows daily toward that end. No, my lord, our only choices are to fight or to submit to his chains. I will not submit to chains.”
Tears erupted from Lancer’s eyes and his hand trembled as he laid down his fork. He hung his head and Aram watched in awkward discomfort as the gray-haired Prince gave himself over to grief. He did not know what to do, so he waited in silence. The Prince sobbed quietly but his chest heaved with the force of his emotion. Finally, Lancer wiped his eyes and raised his head.
“I’m sorry, lord Aram.”
“No, my lord—I understand. How may I help?”
Lancer sighed deeply and wiped his sleeve across his face. “I always hoped, even when we were finally pushed from our ancestral homes out on the plains and had to fall back behind the walls of Derosa that, if we could not prevail, we might at least delay the inevitable. That we might push back defeat for a generation or two.
“When I saw the might that was arrayed against us last fall, I knew that such was not the case. I knew that we had come to the brink. And now we know that the armies of the enemy are gathering in force less than a hundred miles from our gates.”
The old man seemed to diminish in size. Even his eyes, as he looked up at Aram, seemed to droop. His voice was thick with emotion. “I cannot bear the thought of my daughters and my son dead in the very cream of their youth, or bound in the evil chains of slavery. I cannot bear it.”
Aram leaned across the table and grasped the old man’s hand with a firm grip. He spoke evenly. “That will not happen, my lord, I promise you.”
“You will take them away, beyond Manon’s reach?”
“If necessary, yes. But I intend to destroy Manon before his reach extends across the breadth of the whole world.”
Lancer blinked his eyes and spoke with an edge of bitterness in his voice. “But you admitted that you did not know how.”
Aram released his hold on the old man’s arm but held his gaze. “I told you once of Kelven’s Riddle.”
“Yes, I had never heard of it.”
Aram nodded. “That’s because Kelven left the knowledge of it only with the lords of the horses. It tells of a man who comes into the world and finds a mighty weapon. A weapon that I believe is the key to defeating Manon. I intend to discover what he meant. I intend to find the weapon.”
“Are you the man the riddle speaks of then?”
“I don’t know. The horses think so.” Aram pushed his plate away and spoke earnestly. “It doesn’t matter, my lord, whether I am the man or not.”
Lancer frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Look—the horses think that the riddle is a prophecy of some kind. I don’t. I think it is exactly what it is described as being—a riddle. No one can see the future, not even Kelven. No one can foresee the birth of a particular man thousands of years hence and say what that man is going to do. Only the Maker can foreknow such a thing—and that is because He can say what will be and then bring it to pass. But even He, I believe, does not manipulate time.
“Time moves in one direction only—forward. And no one, not even the gods, can visit the future. I don’t think that Kelven was trying to foretell the future; I think that he was trying to impart information to the right sort of man, whenever that man came along.” He tapped the table pointedly with a stiff forefinger. “My lord, I think Kelven left a weapon somewhere on the earth—one that can destroy Manon. I just need to solve the clues in the riddle and find it. And I’m going to.”
Lancer nodded slowly and seemed to regain his composure. “That makes sense. But if it’s true, the weapon must be found soon. And you believe that you can do it?”
“Yes.” Aram answered. “I can.”
“Will there be enough time?”
“My lord that is why we must raise and equip an army. We must draw a line upon the earth that we can defend until I find the answer to the riddle.”
“Then do so with my blessing, lord Aram. All that I control is at your disposal.” The old man reached across and touched his arm. “Please, protect my family.”
“I will, my lord. Do not fear for them.”
At that moment, footsteps sounded in the hall and the door swung wide. Findaen stepped inside the dining hall. Aram stood. Findaen glanced at his father
and then addressed Aram. “The men are ready, my lord.”
“I’m coming.” He hesitated for just a moment. He wanted to ask about Ka’en and her plans for the day but then decided it wasn’t the time. He bowed to Lancer. “Have a better afternoon, my lord.”
Lancer stood and returned the courtesy. “Thank you, lord Aram, for everything.”
Aram turned and followed Findaen out of the house and down through the town to the training grounds.
For a week, the men trained every day from early morning until supper with a break at lunch. During this time, Aram only saw Ka’en at the evening meal, and Kemul was invariably present, doing his best to monopolize her attention. Increasingly, two other young men who never showed up for weapons practice joined him at supper.
Every evening, at the end of the meal, Ka’en stood and pointedly smiled at Aram and rendered a pleasant, “Goodnight, my lord”, but Aram, miserably, knew of nothing better to do than to stand himself and say, “Goodnight, my lady.” His aching need to see her and speak with her—spend time with her—grew daily in intensity and was never met.
Finally, at the end of the week, when he’d scheduled a day of rest for the men on the next day, he followed her out into the corridor after the evening meal.
“Lady Ka’en.”
She turned slightly and looked at him with an unreadable expression.
He spread his hands. “May I see you tomorrow?”
She smiled—tiredly, he thought—and nodded. “I would like that.”
“We aren’t working tomorrow—we have a strategy meeting in the morning but that’s all that is planned. Perhaps we could have lunch together?”
She inclined her head again. “I’ll cook for you.” Her eyes looked past him and clouded. He turned. Kemul and his friends stood in the hall, preparing to depart. Kemul’s eyes, like flat discs of cold steel, met Aram’s for a moment, and then he looked at Ka’en standing beyond.
“Goodnight, Ka’en,” he said. He used no title, just her name.
She nodded at him silently. He gave Aram another hard look and then he and his companions went out into the night. Aram looked back at Ka’en. She smiled.
“Tomorrow then, my lord.”
“Tomorrow, my lady,” he agreed, and he felt a frown descend over his brow as he watched her ascend the stairs. “Goodnight.”
XXIV
Kemul came to the morning strategy session along with four other men, two of whom were his usual companions and two others who were unknown to Aram. Lancer was there as well but left the management of the meeting to Findaen and Aram. Findaen stood and looked around the table.
“I’m very pleased to report that all the men are becoming familiar with the use of a sword; there are about two hundred that show some measure of skill with a bow and a hundred and fifty, more or less, that show a propensity for the pike. Next week, lord Aram wants to start training the men to maneuver in units.
“Now, we need to start thinking about officers. Obviously, those of us here will serve in such capacity but we’ll need men with leadership skills to serve as officers of the smaller groups. Watch for such men as they train. Lord Aram thinks we should begin drilling the men in units of tens—ten, fifty, one hundred, and so on. Any thoughts?”
Kemul leaned forward with a sneer on his broad face. “It seems to me that ‘lord Aram’ is doing an awful lot of thinking for all of us. Are the men of Derosa no more than sheep?”
He let the words fall like a challenge. There was a stunned silence that stretched out. Around the table, the others looked at each other and then at Aram. Aram said nothing. Kemul indicated him with his hand and went on.
“Before this man came—a man that none of us know anything about—there were no armies that came against us. How do we know that this man is our ally? He wanders in out of the wild and we place our fortunes in his hands. What kind of sense does that make? It seems to me that we should be negotiating with Manon instead of preparing to follow this ‘lord’ to our doom.”
Aram looked at him. “You cannot negotiate with someone who is bent on your destruction, Kemul,” he said reasonably. “It would be folly to try.”
Kemul went red in the face. “Are you calling me a fool?”
“No,” Aram shook his head. “I don’t know you well enough. I’m simply telling you that Manon won’t negotiate with those whom he thinks are rightfully his subjects.”
“So you say,” Kemul snarled. “But perhaps it would be better to be his subjects than yours.”
Aram shook his head again. “I don’t have—nor do I want—subjects. We’re talking about freedom here. War with Manon will come to our part of the world whatever we do. War or slavery. We fight or we accept his chains. Those are our choices. There are no others.”
Kemul leaned forward, his voice thick with bitter anger. “Again—so you say. We don’t know the truth of any part of what you say. In fact, how do we know that you are not in league with him?”
Aram jumped to his feet in sudden fury, but Lancer intervened, waving him back to his chair. He turned to Kemul. “These are difficult times, Kemul. I understand your feelings. But we know lord Aram’s qualities and we trust him. Let us all work together in this matter. You are a leader, yourself—lend your strengths to your people.”
Kemul stared down at the table, his face dark with anger, but he went silent. Lancer’s careful words seemed to have found a mark. After a few moments, Findaen got back to his feet. “Alright,” he said, “today is a day of rest for everyone. Just remember—as we train, watch your men for signs of those qualities that might mark them as potential captains.” He took a deep breath. “I’m buying drinks at the pub for anybody that wants one.” He looked at Aram. “Are you coming, my lord?”
Aram nodded and got to his feet. He was not surprised by Kemul’s dislike of him but he had been taken aback by its virility and openness. He glanced at the thickset man, who did not look at him, and then accompanied Findaen to the tavern. They got their customary table at the back and Findaen ordered drinks. He looked at Aram.
“I’m sure you know what that was really about, my lord. Do you want to talk about it?”
Aram glanced around at the men, Jonwood, Wamlak, Mallet, and Alred. He shrugged but shook his head and turned his attention to his drink. “Probably not right now.”
He sat silently while the others discussed the qualities of the various soldiers under their training.
A little before noon, Findaen and Aram left the others and went back up the street toward Lancer’s house. Aram was excited about the prospect of spending time with Ka’en and had put the earlier incident with Kemul from his mind but as they came into the broad courtyard before the main door, Kemul and his two companions stepped forward from beneath the trees at the side. Kemul had a long, broad sword in his hand. He stopped in front of Aram and pointed the weapon at his chest.
“I claim the right of duel,” he said.
Seeing the murderous intent in the man’s eyes, Aram reached instinctively for his sword.
Findaen stepped between them, his eyes wide in shock. “What is the meaning of this?”
Kemul glanced at him and then slid his gaze back to Aram. “Step aside, Findaen, this has nothing to do with you. I claim the right of duel with this man—it is my right under the ancient laws of our people.”
Keeping his sword down but watching Kemul, Aram addressed Findaen. “What is this right of duel that he speaks of?”
Kemul stepped forward and roughly shoved Findaen to one side with the broad blade of his weapon. “I’ll tell you what it is, usurper. It is my right under the laws of our land to remove any threat to my claims of ascension and of marriage.”
Aram’s eyes hardened. “So this has to do with the lady Ka’en.”
“With Ka’en, yes,” Kemul nodded and his sneer broadened. “But also with all Wallensia—and because I think you are a danger to us—an enemy.”
Aram studied the man, trying to check his rising anger and at t
he same time find words that would turn the situation toward more reasonable discourse. “Your people have an enemy, Kemul—and so do I. It’s Manon. We should be fighting him together, not fighting each other.”
Kemul’s face reddened and he took another step forward and shouted at Aram. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies, usurper. You don’t belong here—we don’t need you controlling the simpleminded among us and confusing Ka’en.”
Aram raised the tip of his sword. “The lady Ka’en can make up her own mind about things. There is no point in my killing you, Kemul.”
Kemul grinned savagely. “You don’t want to kill me then, my lord?”
“No.”
“Then I shall kill you.” Kemul’s steel slid forward in a flash. It was immediately obvious that the man was skilled in the use of a blade. Aram was just able to move aside at the last moment before the steel pierced his belly. Still, the blade caught him in the left side of his body, cutting a deep gash and careening off a rib. Aram stumbled and went to his knees.
“Die, you bastard.” Kemul snarled. He raised his sword for a killing stroke.
There was an odd sound from above. Aram looked up. Ka’en was standing on the balcony of her father’s house, looking down upon the scene. Her lovely brown eyes had gone very wide and her hands were over her mouth in an expression of shock and horror.
Kemul saw his chance in Aram’s distraction. He swung his heavy sword in a high vicious arc, bringing it scything down toward Aram’s head. Quickly, Aram brought his sword up to fend off the savage blow, but the man’s arm was powerful. Kemul’s blade clanged against Aram’s, driving it downward.
The man was strong and skilled with a blade. At the end of its stroke, Kemul’s sword ricocheted off the side of Aram’s head and slashed into the top of his left shoulder. Intense bursts of light flashed behind Aram’s eyes and there was an explosion of pain in his upper arm.
But, with the pain, came the old familiar eruption of cold fury. Everything vanished from Aram’s mind but the intent to kill. As always, the inner fury focused him—made him quick and deadly despite the injury to his head and shoulder. Kemul did not recognize his peril. He swung his sword upward again, meaning to finish his rival in one tremendous down stroke. Before the stout man could bring his steel to bear, Aram rose from his knees, centered his blade, and stabbed upward with his might. The sharp point of his sword entered Kemul’s body below the ribs and sawed upward, rending bone and sinew and turning his vital organs to mush.
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