“Your daughter impresses me, my lord. Gold does not.”
Lancer looked up and studied him for a moment. “You mean that, don’t you?”
Aram waved a hand, indicating the pile of coins. “This is a tool. It will buy armor. I know its power over people, but it has none over me.”
Lancer smiled ruefully across the table at his future son-in-law. “I believe, Lord Aram, that you have just rendered Wallensia the richest kingdom on earth.”
“Make me rich as well, my lord.” Aram answered. “Let me take your daughter as my wife.”
Lancer smiled. “You and Ka’en will be wed one week after harvest.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Lancer looked at him for a long time then, without speaking; if Aram had been a different sort of man, he would have fidgeted under that gaze. The Prince’s smile had failed and did not return. When finally he spoke, the words came out with deliberate emphasis. “In the meantime, Lord Aram, try not to die.”
Aram met his gaze evenly. “I told Ka’en that I will always return to her, my lord. I did not lie to her.”
“I know that you did not mean to lie to her.” Lancer nodded, still without expression. “But the world in which we live is becoming increasingly dangerous. And you, my young friend, are walking the most dangerous of all roads in a dangerous world. I observed Ka’en in the months after you left us – through the winter. Her spirit was mired in grief and doubt. If you died – she would not be able to rise above the grief that would attend your death. She is on the veranda. You should go to her.”
Aram stood and slid the sheathed sword over his head, bowed to Lancer, who inclined his head in reply but did not stand, and left the hall. He found Ka’en pacing nervously on the veranda. Aram was surprised to see that the sun had slid toward midday. Ka’en came to him.
“You spoke with my father?”
He nodded, taking her in his arms. “We will be married in the fall.”
She leaned back and looked into his eyes. “And you accept that?”
“You are the one that told me we need to abide by tradition, Ka’en.”
She closed her eyes and leaned her head forward onto his chest. “I know. But fall is such a long time away.”
“Only a few months, you said.” He reminded her. She did not answer but kept her face buried in the front of his shirt. He lowered his nose into her hair, breathing deeply of her wildflower scent. He sighed and spoke, his voice muffled. “They will pass quickly enough, perhaps.”
But he did not believe it.
It was a beautiful spring day and she had arranged for their lunch to be served on the veranda. Aram knew that there were things he should do but was loath to leave her. Findaen arrived a half-hour later, looking for him.
The young man bowed. “My lord, you wanted to meet Arthrus?”
“I did. Are the weapons distributed?”
“Every man has a sword. The rest are being moved into the storehouses behind the tavern. They are the storehouses of my father. They are secure. Donnick will set some men to attaching spear points to shafts after lunch.”
Aram nodded. “Good.” He looked at Ka’en, drew a deep breath and stood. “Yes, we should go see Arthrus.”
He bade Ka’en a reluctant goodbye and then retrieved the second bag of gold from his room.
Arthrus Kornell lived at the end of a street that branched off the main avenue and passed between buildings on the west side of town after which it became a narrow lane that wound up the slope toward the wooded hills. Arthrus’ house was small and square but well-built. Behind the house, backed up to the tall pines and fir trees of the forest that filled the hillsides stood his workshop, much larger than the house, sporting three tall smokestacks, one of which belched intermittent puffs of black vapor into the air.
Findaen led Aram around the house and through the workshop’s large double doors into the dim interior. Inside, the shop was comprised mostly of one large, open room with odd bits and pieces of iron and steel, along with various tools made of the same metals arrayed about the floor in unruly piles. Arthrus was alone, at a table by a furnace near the back wall, working at creating a clean, sharp bevel on the leading edge of a plow blade. He looked up, saw Findaen and Aram, and laid his tools down, wiping his hands on a dirty apron as he came toward them.
Aram studied Arthrus Kornell as he shuffled unhurriedly through the scattered debris on the floor of his workshop. He was of about medium height and with a sturdy build, heavy through the torso in the way of men past their prime. His hair was dark, rather long, and curly, covering most of his ears and forehead, dropping perilously close to his left eye. His dark eyes appraised Aram for a moment and then settled on Findaen. A broad grin came over his rounded face. He held out his right hand to the Prince’s son. Every knuckle on that hand bore wounds in various stages, bleeding, scabbed over, and scarred. Aram instinctively liked the man.
“Welcome Findaen. Here on your own business or your father’s?” He leaned forward, his grin broadening. “More importantly – did you bring whiskey?”
Findaen grinned back, took the proffered hand and pumped it vigorously. “Hello, Artie. Actually, I’m here on business of the highest order.” He turned and indicated Aram. “This is Lord Aram, of the valley of kings.”
Arthrus met Aram’s gaze and inclined his head respectfully. “I know of this fine gentleman, Findaen. He it is that saved us from ruin a while back, by sending the black rider.” He looked down at the strange metallic bag in Aram’s fist and then glanced at Findaen with a suddenly serious expression. “By any chance, did he bring whiskey?”
Aram laughed outright. “I’m sorry, sir – it seems that we neither of us remembered whiskey.”
Findaen looked suddenly pained. “Actually, Lord Aram…” He reached under his cloak and produced a bottle of the amber liquid. Arthrus roared with approval and went immediately to a cupboard in the wall, motioning for Findaen to retrieve three glasses that were stored on a shelf inside. Then he waved his two visitors to a table near the front doors.
“Findaen can pour – no one wants these filthy hands of mine to touch any of the glasses, especially not mine.”
After they sat and Arthrus had drained one glass and had a refill he glanced at Aram and then focused on Findaen. “Now,” he said, “what can I do for you gentlemen?”
Findaen deferred to Aram. “Lord Aram can explain our needs better than I can, Artie.”
Arthrus turned his gaze expectantly to Aram.
“Did you see the black rider when he was on the field?” Aram asked.
“I did, my lord.”
“The man and the horse were both armored.”
“Yes.” Arthrus nodded. “I noticed that fact.”
“We need armor like that to be made for both horses and men. I have brought the armor that was worn that day – by both the horse and the man – for use as a reference.”
“Very good.” Arthrus sipped his whiskey. “How much – how many?”
Aram gazed at him steadily. “At least eight hundred horses, and – eventually, I hope – thousands of men.”
The curly-haired man opened his eyes wide and whistled softly through his teeth. “You’re talking about an awful lot of pounded steel and chain mail.” He glanced around the interior of his shop. “As you can readily see, my lord, there is not enough here for even one such suit of armor – none of this material is even of the right sort, anyway.”
His wide eyes came back to rest on Aram. “You’re talking about outfitting an army. At the moment I can’t even outfit one man.”
Aram made a motion with his hand. “Where do you get your material? Perhaps more may be gotten – of the proper kind.”
Arthrus’ gaze flicked to Findaen momentarily and then came back to Aram. A troubled expression settled into the depths of his black eyes. “My lord, what scraps I can acquire are purchased at outrageous expense, a great degree of difficulty, and a fair amount of danger. It is one factor that makes
our lives here in Derosa much harder than in years past.”
Aram nodded sympathetically. “But can you get more?”
The trouble in Arthrus’ eyes deepened. He shook his head slowly. “My lord, there is not enough treasure in all the land of Wallensia to acquire what you describe.”
Aram handed the bag containing the gold from Rigar Pyrannis across to Arthrus. “Perhaps this could be of aid to our cause?”
Arthrus glanced at Findaen quizzically and then pulled open the bag and looked inside. His eyes snapped wide and his low whistle came again, not nearly as soft this time. He stared at the gleaming contents of the bag for a very long moment and then raised his astonished gaze to Aram’s face.
“I correct myself, my lord – there is more than enough treasure in this very room.”
Aram indicated the bag. “Will that buy the metal we need?”
Arthrus smiled broadly, making his eyes crinkle into twinkling slits. “My lord, this will buy the metal, the ships that the metal comes in, and the harbors they sail into – at both ends of the journey. If you like, it will buy the towns and the surrounding countryside as well.”
“I just want steel for the armor – and perhaps more weapons in the future.”
Arthrus nodded and gazed once more into the bag. “Just a handful of these will accomplish that, my lord.” His smile faded and he looked up, first at Findaen, then at Aram. His troubled expression returned.
“What is it?” Aram asked.
“My lord, it’s just that the place where I get my metal is a dangerous place. The men I get it from are dangerous, possessed of a decidedly criminal bent. If we walk in there with a bagful of monarchs, well –”
“Lord Aram is a dangerous man as well, Arthrus.” Findaen interjected. “And you and I are not so easily intimidated.”
Arthrus shook his head. “I’m not talking about intimidation, Findaen. These men live outside the law – the grim lord’s as well as everyone else’s. They don’t think anything about killing folks.”
“Where do you get your steel?” Aram asked.
Arthrus motioned with his chin, pointing south, out through the doors of his workshop. “From Durck, on the sea. It’s a town to the southeast that lies pretty much outside anybody’s official borders. So far, even the grim lord’s servants haven’t found it.”
“They make steel there?”
“Oh, no.” Arthrus shook his head. “The steel comes from across the sea – from an island someplace, I think. Privateers bring it to Durck in their ships when they have a market for it, along with kolfa – which there is always a market for – and spices, and other things. Durck is their town, they pretty much run it. They are the dangerous men of which I spoke.”
“Will they do business with us?”
“They will do business with anybody who has money.” Arthrus reached into the bag and lifted out one of the coins. “But just one of these, my lord, will buy a whole ship and a crew, and a cargo to put in it. We walk in there with this and they will kill us all and just take it. This is more gold than they will ever see – even if they all live for a thousand years.”
“What if we take several men with us?”
Arthrus shrugged. “There are many of them, my lord. And though they spend a lot of time fighting each other, they will stand together against us.” He looked up at Aram as a thought struck him. “If the black rider came with us –”
“He will be there.”
Understanding flickered in the depths of Arthrus’ eyes. “Ah.” He said, and looked quickly away. He nodded. “Well, then, there is a chance.”
“How far away is this – Durck?”
Arthrus thought a moment. “About eight days by oxcart. One needs to hug the hills to the east. There’s an old road there against the hills, an ancient stone road, off the beaten track, out of sight, you know.”
“We’ll be riding horses.” Aram said. “That should make the trip shorter.”
Arthrus’ whistle sounded again. “Even me?”
“Will you be our guide, and help us negotiate with these privateers?”
Arthrus nodded slowly. “I will, my lord, but it will be a treacherous and tricky business. As I told you – they are dangerous men.”
“Let me worry about the danger, Arthrus.” Aram answered evenly. “Just help us acquire the steel.”
Arthrus looked down into the bag, replacing the coin, and then pulled it shut and handed it back to Aram. His face set in hard lines of determination. “I am very glad to be of service to you – and to my Prince – my lord.”
“When can we make the journey?”
“Whenever you wish. There are always ships coming and going in that place. The unofficial marketing of goods – most of it stolen – is the life blood of Durck.”
Aram nodded and glanced around the shop at the various projects scattered about on the floor. “When can you go, Arthrus?”
The man with the dark, curly hair pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “That plow is the last thing anybody needs from me for a while. You say the word, my lord. I’m ready.”
Aram looked at Findaen. “When Durlrang and his people arrive, I will send them westward through the woods. Alvern can watch the plains and get word to us of any movement on the part of the enemy. I would like to get the steel coming. Perhaps we should go now, and let the men and horses finish the pairing-up process in our absence. We can commence training them upon our return.”
Findaen nodded in agreement and Aram turned back to Arthrus. “I will give you the pieces of armor for use as templates, but what about help? You will need assistance in making what we need.”
“There is my son, for one.” Arthrus said, and then he grinned sheepishly. “You will meet him shortly. I had just sent him to the tavern for, uh, supplies, when you gentlemen arrived.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Donnick’s youngest hangs around once in a while, seems to show an interest. I could train him and perhaps a few others. How soon do you need the armor?”
“We need it as quickly as possible, man and horse, man and horse – in that order, one by one – as many as you can fashion.” Aram answered. “But I know that we are limited in manpower in more ways than one. Those who will be soldiers need to train, and those who will be craftsmen will be few. I understand this.”
He studied the amber contents of his glass and thought about it for a moment. “However, if we can avoid a major engagement his year, we could train the men and horses over the summer, and then put as many as are capable to work though the winter making armor and weapons. If, that is, Manon will give us any time at all.” He glanced at Findaen. “I suppose that I should go west and see what his armies are up to. But I would like to acquire the steel first.”
Arthrus refilled his glass. “I’ve never ridden a horse, my lord, but it’s obvious that they move much faster than an oxcart. I think that we could go to Durck, make arrangements to get the steel – providing there are privateers in the harbor; there usually are – and return within a week.” He studied Aram’s face. “They won’t have it on hand, you know. They’ll have to get it. If you are able to convince them to do business with us, I will return to Durck and retrieve the steel when it comes into harbor. The whole process may take several weeks.”
Aram was dismayed by this, but then he glanced down at the bag on the table. “Perhaps we may be able to incite them to hurry a bit.”
Arthrus followed his glance and nodded. “Money and fear, my lord, that is all that these men understand.”
Aram smiled grimly. “Perhaps we can give them a bit of the one and a healthy dose of the other.”
They sat and finished the bottle, with Arthrus doing most of the damage to its fiery contents. His son returned after about an hour, a strapping young man named Jamarth that bore a striking resemblance to his father in every respect but the amount of lines on his face, the color of his hair, and the measure of his girth. The boy was tall and thin, with red hair and intelligent eyes.
Af
ter agreeing that they would start for the seaside town of Durck on the morrow or the next day, depending upon the arrival of the wolves, Aram and Findaen took their leave and went to the south of the town to observe the men at their training.
Donnick had set posts in a line across the training ground, to which he’d attached bales of straw. Under his supervision, men were thrusting at the bales with swords and spears. Jonwood and Mallet were among them, working at their own training and helping to train others. The fact that they had gone west the year before and helped Aram kill four lashers gave them the somewhat exalted position of being experienced in battle. Though that episode constituted but a tiny bit of experience, it was worlds beyond what any of the other men on the training ground could imagine.
Beyond the pikemen and swordsmen, toward the trees, a smaller group of archers was being trained under Wamlak’s supervision, taking turns releasing arrows into makeshift targets. Aram estimated that there were about five or six hundred men working at becoming soldiers. The rest of the men of Derosa were behind them, in the valley beyond the town, laboring at their farms in the fields to the east. Even if every man on the ground became an accomplished warrior, it was a very small army with which to attack the might of Manon.
Donnick noticed Aram and came over, bowing his head slightly as he approached. He indicated the men lined up across the field with his hand. “I’m not a warrior, my lord, but I thought that if the men just had weapons in hand and something at which to strike, instinct might guide them as well as anything.”
Aram nodded his approval. “I had very little else with which to work when I started. And I like the fact that you are training them in ranks. They will go onto the field of battle in ranks. It gives men strength to know that a comrade stands beside them, whatever they are doing.”
Donnick seemed pleased with Aram’s comments, though the tall stoic Derosan did not show it overtly. When he turned to watch his recruits, Aram studied the man surreptitiously. Donnick was much like his son, unflappable, quietly intelligent, and capable.
“Have the men been trained like this continuously?” Aram asked.
Kelven's Riddle Book Two Page 31
