Aram shrugged. “I’ve been hungry before, my lord.”
“Perhaps the wolves could help.”
Aram looked up at him sharply. “The wolves?”
“They could bring you food. You could command it.”
Aram shook his head decisively. “They will have troubles of their own in a winter like this. I would not consider it.”
Joktan gazed down at him and was silent for a long time. Aram could feel the unseen eyes upon him. Finally, the ancient king spoke. “You really are the one right man, aren’t you?”
“I don’t understand.” Aram frowned.
The specter sighed. “I’ll explain it sometime.”
Aram rose and went into the trees and gathered more wood, which he threw on the fire. In the roaring blaze, the wet, frozen wood sizzled and popped. He looked over at Joktan.
“Don’t worry about me, my lord. I will survive.” He glanced around at his makeshift campsite and saw its possibilities. “I’m near home and near the horses. I may wait it out right here.”
Joktan nodded. “Do you remember what you told Durlrang? About fishing in winter?”
“I do.”
“There are fish in both of these rivers, beneath the ice.”
Aram frowned out into the darkness. “That ice is thick and the water below it is deep.”
“Perhaps the sword will do something.” Joktan’s hood lifted slightly, as if he were looking at the hilt of the sword rising above Aram’s shoulder. “It is yours to use, you know.”
Aram thought about it and then nodded. “Perhaps.”
Joktan watched him in silence for several minutes and then turned toward the darkness beyond the firelight. “I must be going.”
“Why, my lord? You are most welcome here.”
The specter sighed again, a tired sound. “Thanks, Aram, but it takes a lot of energy to be away from – my place – especially if I am visible for any length of time. That is why you usually don’t see me, you know, but I am often nearby.” He gazed into the fire for a long moment. “Do something for me, Aram, if you will.”
“Certainly, my lord. Anything.”
“There is a stretch of troubled ground to the southwest, on a low ridge north of the central river.”
Aram nodded. “I know it.”
“Come there when the snow melts and you are able to move.”
“I will, my lord, as soon as I am able.”
“Good.” Joktan sounded pleased. “I will wait for you there and rest so that I will be strong when you come.”
Aram repeated his promise. “I will come, my lord.”
“Good.” The tall, dark figure faded then and Aram felt him leave, even as he saw the specter disappear from view. Once again he was alone.
Over the next few days, he improved his campsite, gathering firewood and clearing the snow and mounding it up around the area to give shelter from the wind. At night, he slept beneath a tall sweeping fir near enough to the fire pit that its warmth reached his feet. Now that the armor had regained its strength to the point where it matched his body temperature, it would be some time before it again lost its potency.
It snowed, twice, though neither storm was intense, each putting down only a few inches of fresh powder. Two weeks after Joktan’s visit, Sera’s dried meat ran out. Aram was almost glad to see it go.
The next morning, he went down to the river bank, slogging through the deep snow. There were several small inlets indenting the river but nowhere were there the shallow, gravelly backwaters that existed in smaller streams like those in which he had success in earlier winters in his own valley. He struggled back up the ridge and went across and down to the smaller stream on the south.
The river to the south, though smaller, was much the same as its neighbor to the north. Both were too near their outlet into the sea and their waters were too placid and their banks too uniform everywhere. Though lined with reeds and marsh grasses, there was no place where fish might become trapped in shallow eddies as in a more quickly flowing stream. He glanced up at the sun. It was past midmorning and rising toward its zenith.
He drew the sword and studied it. It was a simple affair. There were no markings or writing inscribed on it anywhere and its shape was plain, a long sleek blade of sharp and shining metal. Even at that, however, it was beautiful. Its strange yellow-white metal gleamed in the cold sunlight. Because of the sun’s position, it felt like nothing in his hand. In fact, he had the distinct impression that if he let it go, it would actually rise into the sky.
As he turned it over and back, watching it gleam and shine in the sun, it began to emit a sound. It was soft at first but the more the sunlight fell upon it the louder it became, finally becoming unbearable, hurting his ears. Faint, tenuous flames appeared and began twirling along its length, wreathing the metal in fire, growing brighter by the moment. He sheathed it and retrieved the hood from his pack. After pulling the hood over his head, he unsheathed the sword again. This time, though he could still hear the humming song of the metal distinctly, the hood insulated his ears and reduced the sound to an acceptable level.
Still, it made him nervous after a few moments. Standing there, listening to the beautiful but unearthly sound of the humming metal and watching the flames whirl and writhe along the length of the blade, an unsettling thought occurred to him. What if Manon could hear it as well? Yes, the grim lord’s tower was far away across the world, but a noise this unusual would certainly stand out from the everyday tumult of the planet to any ear that was listening. Was Manon listening and could he hear at this distance? Aram didn’t know. Nonetheless, he sheathed the sword until he was certain of his plan.
He stood on the frozen bank and considered but no plan presented itself. He had no idea what would happen if he simply plunged the sword into the ice but in the end, he decided that there was nothing else to do. He would simply pierce the ice for a moment and watch what happened. Drawing the sword, he stepped to the edge of the frozen river and pushed the blade down into it. It slid in without resistance. Instantly, the ice melted in an ever increasing circle away from the blade and the water immediately surrounding it began to steam and boil.
He withdrew the blade and sheathed it. The ice continued to melt and the hole expanded until an area of open water spanned the river. The snow on the ground around him melted away as well and the water continued to hiss and bubble, a sizeable area of the river having been brought to a boil. Gradually however, the melting slowed and stopped and the water grew calmer though it yet steamed, sending clouds of vapor upward.
And then fish began to pop to the surface of the steaming water. Four or five at first, and then more than a dozen. They did not move but floated quietly on their sides on the surface of the river. Aram picked up a handful of snow and tossed it into the stream. Instantly it hissed and disappeared. Apparently the river, a portion of it at least, around the point where the blade had entered the water, was scalding hot. The fish were not only dead; they were at least partially cooked as well.
Checking his armor to make sure that there were no seams, he waded into the river and recovered as many of the larger fish as he could. Some of them floated away from him beneath the ice that remained downstream and some were in water that was too deep but in the end he recovered eight fish of good size. They would not only sustain him for several days but they were new fare and would add much needed variety to his diet.
Back at camp, he placed all of the fish but one into a deep snow bank and impaled the other, turning it slowly over the fire on a stick. Fish, then, though unseasoned by anything other than the smoke that rose from the fire, became his staple food for the rest of the time that he was camped on the ridge.
Over the next few weeks as the sun crept slowly northward and the snow settled and compacted and lost some of its depth under the influence of slowly rising temperatures, he gradually improved his bare campsite until it became something more.
Cutting some of the smaller lodge pole pines that grew furt
her down the slope, he built a lean-to against the rock complete with a rudimentary bed to keep his body up off the ground at night and pegs from which to hang his gear. He laughed to himself one day as he stood back to admire his work. He’d told Ka’en once that he intended to get Florm’s permission to build a summerhouse near the Inland Sea. He had had something a bit grander in mind at the time than what he saw before him, but even at that the small shack was beginning to feel like a home away from home.
One morning he awoke to a warm breeze blowing stiffly out of the south. Dark clouds gathered low on the western horizon and moved across the high plains toward him, overspreading the sky. By midday it was raining hard.
It rained for three days. The snow began to rapidly disappear and the ice broke up in the rivers. And then the rivers began to rise just as Joktan had predicted.
When the storm passed, the sun shone out in a clear, warm sky. Over the next week, the snow left the high plains almost completely, except for the deep banks under the trees and on the north sides of rock spires and the formidable ice disappeared from the rising rivers. The rivers rose up the slope toward his camp to alarming levels. Across the river, beyond the forests at the base of the mountains, water roared down out of the peaks in thunderous amounts. It began to seem to Aram that the sea could not possibly contain all that which was being poured into it.
Gradually, though, after about ten days, the water levels started falling. The ground above the waterline began to dry under the sun’s warm rays. Spring came out of the south and began to feel its way across the high plains and into the mountains to the north.
And then the rivers began to recede dramatically. One bright morning, Aram looked along the ridge that led to the west and reluctantly decided that the time had come for him to leave. It was odd. As anxious as he was to get back to his city, re-enter the world of men, and especially to see Ka’en again, it was difficult to leave his shack on the small ridge above the river. He realized with a start that it was the first dwelling he had ever built with his own hands.
He gathered his things, doused the fire, and headed west along the ridge. The rivers to both sides of him were yet partially in flood stage and more than likely still impassable but the higher ground along the top of the ridge was open and dry and he made good time. In a week, he’d covered perhaps a hundred miles and the rivers were back within their banks though the currents were still vigorous. He angled down the slope to the south, waded the rapids at the bottom end of a long shallow pool, and turned toward the southwest.
One afternoon, he came upon a deer, an older buck without antlers that was crippled and near death. It tried feebly to rise as he approached but could not. Gasping from the exertion, it lay on its forelimbs and waited to see what he would do. Aram was surprised that it had survived the winter in its sickly state. He went over to the animal with slow, measured steps and knelt down beside it. Closer examination proved that it would die where it had fallen and that it could no longer forage for itself. If left alone, it would starve, surrounded by the green approach of spring.
He cupped water from a nearby stream in his hands but the deer would not respond to his offering of drink. Then he gathered a handful of new grass and held it under the animal’s nose and mouth. The buck snuffled weakly at the offering but then turned away from it as well. Apparently, it was weary of life.
Aram studied the animal for a long moment. Then he slid his hand gently along the emaciated throat. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said, “but it looks like you have come to the end of your life’s path. I can’t let you lie here and starve, and there is a way that you will do me some good.”
The deer gazed back at him, seemingly without fear. Being careful not to show his intentions; with one hand on the buck’s head, Aram slid a dagger from his belt with the other and quickly ended its life. The animal’s head dropped and it passed quietly. Aram stood back and let the buck’s blood drain into the earth as an offering to the Maker.
After a while, he dressed the animal, trimming the spare meat from its bones, and buried it in the soft dirt on the slope of the ridge. He felt strange. He was not overly troubled by the death of the buck; it was a prey animal, after all, and had been on the verge of a slower, more painful death than the one he’d granted it; still, he felt an odd sort of sadness that any of the Maker’s creatures had to die.
As evening came on, he set up camp in a clump of pines along the ridge top and started a fire. Cutting the venison into strips, he laid the strips along the length of a pole and let them hang above the low fire throughout the night, so that they would dry out and cure. He had no salt, nor could he discover any veins of the substance in the rocks round about. Lacking that first of all seasonings, he rubbed the meat with leaves of the pungent brush that grew in abundance on the ridge, hoping rather than knowing that it would help the meat cure and add some flavor. By midmorning of the next day, the venison was dry enough to pack away, so he broke camp and went on to the southwest.
The low ground along the rivers was still muddy and soft but most of the high plains were open and relatively dry. There was no reason not to call for the horses. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to use the Call. A few more days would bring him to the site of the ancient battlefield where Joktan awaited him and he had the distinct impression that the ghostly king wished to speak with him undisturbed by the presence of others.
The day came when he could see the line of the mountains that separated the high plains from his valley, a low rumpled line on the distant western horizon. In the evenings, the far mountains appeared purple against the sunset, but in the morning when the sun struck them full on, they were white. Snow still covered their higher slopes. He could not go home just yet.
There was another weak snowstorm and a period of cold that followed it and lasted for several days. Winter was still trying to beat back the approach of spring but it was a futile last gasp effort; the sun continued moving resolutely northward. By the time he reached the site of the ancient battle, the grass was greening up even on the northern slopes of the low ridges, most days were pleasantly warm, and winter had retreated northward into the mountains.
He arrived on the northeastern edge of the wounded ground that marked the site of the battle one afternoon as the sun was touching the tops of the distant mountains to the west. The disturbed earth began rather abruptly, rough, mottled ground where grass struggled to survive let alone green up like the rest of the high plains round about, and what trees grew there were gnarled, small, and twisted with many dead branches, though most were mature specimens and some were obviously ancient.
There were pits in the ground like miniature craters and eroded ravines that ran from the high ground toward the river, places where grass refused to grow and hold the soil in place. Rocks jutted up here and there, especially along the spine of the flat ridge containing the site. He could see why Thaniel would think it a place of evil, a place that had been cursed by the events that transpired there so long ago.
As he moved into the wounded ground, the sun slipped behind the mountains far to the west and he began to look for a place to bed down for the night. As he started to make camp near a broken spire of rock surrounded by stunted trees, Joktan appeared, a dark apparition in the evening.
“Not here, Aram,” he said without preamble and he pointed toward a higher mound a half-mile or so further west. “If you will, camp on the top of that rise, just beyond the jumble of rocks in that sparse growth of low brush. I will await you there.”
Before Aram could answer, he faded into the twilight. Aram moved on in the failing light and found Joktan standing in the center of a circular growth of stubby, pungent brush. The specter indicated an area near one of the strange pits in the earth where there was a respectable, though thin, growth of grass.
“Gather wood and build a fire in this pit, Aram. Let’s have some light while we talk. Have you eaten?”
“Yes.” Aram nodded while he laid his pack and extra sword on the ground.
“I ate some dried venison as I traveled.”
Joktan sat down on a grassy hump on the far side of the pit. “I wish we had some wine.” He said.
Aram looked across at him. “Could you drink it?” he asked curiously.
“Here, yes. It is the only place. Now, about that fire?”
Aram ranged about the area as the last of the light faded and found limbs that had broken from trees and an old stump, from which the ancient roots radiated like the twisted legs of a mangled spider. He lugged all of it to the pit and put a portion of it down inside, stacking it in the shape of a small pyramid. Then he went to his knapsack for his flint and ironstone.
“Why don’t you do that trick with the sword, Aram?” Joktan said, and Aram could hear the amusement in his voice. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that again.”
Aram frowned up at him. “What about Manon?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Joktan answered. “What about him?”
“Won’t he know if I use the sword?”
“He’s clever, Aram, but he’s not that clever. There are many things he cannot know without the aid of spies, especially something that occurs at this great a distance from his tower. I searched the area before you arrived. There are no spies of his anywhere about.”
Aram gazed at him for a moment longer, and then pulled the sword from its sheath. Instantly, it pulled toward the west, toward the unseen sun beyond the horizon. It was an attribute of the weapon, Aram realized, that he would have to learn to anticipate, if he were to master the use of this unearthly blade. He shoved the point of it into the piled wood and instantly the fire blazed up. He slid the sword back into its sheath and looked across at Joktan. The ancient king had his arms stretched out toward the fire and to Aram’s surprise there were two hands – composed of very substantial appearing flesh – that extended beyond the ends of his sleeves.
At that moment, as Aram watched, the ancient king reached up with those same two hands and slid the hood of his robe backwards off his head. Stunned, Aram found himself staring at the noble visage of a man who’d been dead for ten thousand years.
Kelven's Riddle Book Two Page 13
