The grim lord had pondered the events of that day and had decided that Aram had tricked his two otherworldly companions, no doubt sent along with him as agents of those that had created the weapon, Manon’s own deluded brethren among the stars. Had the Astra known that Aram would plunge the sword into the earth, wreaking undoubted havoc deep into the planet, they would have prevented him; of that Manon was convinced. It was likely, therefore, that they would prevent him if he attempted such an act a second time.
This fact, if indeed true, presented another problem for the god to consider. If his armies succeeded in killing Aram, would the two servants of the Maker take the weapon up and return it to whence it came, thereby depriving him of it as a spoil?
Manon wanted the sword. He had come to believe that it might be the one thing that would allow him to circumvent many of his long-range plans and bring his goal to fruition much sooner than anticipated, and was therefore worth almost any sacrifice. The fact that his enemies had been foolish enough to place such a weapon within his grasp was telling, suggesting desperation. Their fear of his growing strength had evidently reached the point where they hoped to weaken him by giving a man the power to reduce his armies.
In truth, it mattered very little whether the sword came into his hand or escaped him somehow.
Manon knew himself to be beyond the reach of any belligerent action on the part of the other gods in any event, even a concerted one, so long as he moved deliberately. If, however, he gained possession of the sword, yielding its power to his disposal, he could dispense with caution. With it in hand, his strength would be exalted above the interference of anyone, even the Astra; he was certain of it.
To that end, he hoped that Aram could be persuaded to come to him without conflict, and bring the weapon within his reach. But Aram had shown that same streak of foolish stubbornness that his ancestor had exhibited all those centuries ago.
Manon would now be forced to submit to the exigencies of a gamble. He wanted the sword, wanted it badly, but for the sake of his other plans going forward, he was willing to risk its loss, for he wanted Aram's death even more. This troublesome man had to go so that he could concentrate on Elam and the remnants of humanity. Having decided on the means of taking the risk entailed in his decision, he had sent for the eldest of his first children to come to him as soon as the army had begun trooping southward.
The doorway filled with a huge form and Vulgur entered the room, approached and stood in front of Manon with his eyes turned downward upon the floor.
“Look at me, my son.”
Obediently, Vulgur looked up and met the obsidian gaze of the Great Father.
“The army goes south?”
“Yes, Great Father.”
“I have given much thought to the killing of the man and the attainment of the weapon.”
Vulgur remained silent, gazing back expectantly.
“You must take care of the place where you meet this man,” continued Manon. “Avoid all volatile places, such as the mountainside where you met him before. I do not believe that he will attempt the same action as on that day, but no further risk must be taken with our forces. I do not wish a repeat of disaster like that which occurred upon the slopes of the smoking mountain. It was a great loss; I cannot spare more.”
Vulgur trembled under the quiet rebuke. “I understand, Master.”
“I have come to believe that this man's instincts to protect his friends will betray him. You must use this.”
Vulgur wrinkled his massive forehead. “Master?”
“Rather than attacking the man, my son, assault those with him,” Manon explained. “Deploy your forces wisely. Focus your efforts on endangering those with him; find a way to divide them and make them vulnerable. He will come to their rescue and he will then be vulnerable himself.”
Manon went silent for a moment to allow his eldest to digest this and then continued. “Meet him upon ground that gives no advantage to his use of the weapon or of the horse people. Develop a plan that will isolate him, and then he is at your mercy.” He leaned forward slightly toward the enormous lasher. “Understand this, my son. There are creatures that accompany the man. They will slay many in his defense; it cannot be avoided. Send the first children in upon him in one surge, surround him, and you will get him. Take the sword up yourself and return it immediately to me. It is of great value and worth great sacrifice. But more than anything, I desire the death of the man.”
“I understand, Great Father.”
“I want the man dead, my son,” Manon repeated. “Slay those around him; reduce his forces if you must. Eventually, he will make a mistake and then you will have him. Bring me the sword.”
“Yes, Great Father.”
“Go now; go and do as I require.”
The immense lasher lowered his head, turned on his heel and went out, down the circular hall, out through the great doors, and up the long gangway, making for the army that was even now moving southward through Bracken to begin the process of removing the last impediment to the Great Father's plans for creating a new and better world.
7.
Marcus sat in the passenger seat of the oxcart as it trundled southward through the broad green expanse of his homeland. He was one full week south of the gates, three days north of Calom Malpas, and ten days, more or less, from making his report to the High Prince in his palace of Farenaire at the base of the Iron Mountains.
It had been twelve days since the confrontation with the “barbarian” army. Marcus had been surprised – nay, astonished – when scouts reported the movement of a large body of troops coming westward down the valley of the dry lake. A few days earlier, he had stood on the tops of the hills to the south of the smoking mountain and looked eastward and had seen nothing but rolling expanses of apparently empty prairie extending toward distant hills. The lands to the east had seemed empty. No farms, no houses. True, there were ruins of some kind near the base of the flat-topped butte, and evidence that a large structure had recently burned atop that rocky hill, but nothing moved or stirred among the wreckage. Certainly, there had once been people there, but no longer. Everything to the east had seemed devoid of life, an apparent wilderness. Then suddenly, this army had appeared.
Poor Edverch had been terrified. Only with great effort had the General managed to hold his courage and deploy his men to meet the challenge presented by this unknown host. When it was reported that there were “beasts” with the approaching army, and that its commanders rode these beasts, Marcus had thought that Edverch would faint dead away. Marcus had felt the cold thrill of anxiety, too, but it had been accompanied by a peculiar, eager expectancy.
When the unknown army had deployed about a mile away at the eastern edge of Cumberland, he experienced another surprise. There was nothing particularly “barbaric” about this body of armed men. The ranks were well-ordered, obviously armed with high quality weaponry and had deployed into ranks at least as well as had Elam's own troops. They were armored alike and dressed in uniforms, though with three distinctly different looks. Standards flew in the air above them. Rather than barbarians, they looked to Marcus like the representatives of legitimate and official governments.
Moreover, when the commanders of the opposing army came out to parlay, they were no rough-clothed denizens of the wild. The young man in the center, Findaen of Wallensia, had been well-spoken, cultured, open, friendly, and accommodating. The two men that had flanked him, Edwar of Lamont – a land of which Marcus had heard – and Boman of Duridia, while more stoic than Findaen, had both seemed learned and reasonable.
From the first, however, there had been no question as to the disposition of authority on the “barbarian” side of the field. Findaen of Wallensia had seemed much like Marcus and probably occupied a similar role in his own society. And the other two men had also carried themselves with authority, but it was the tall, dark-haired man who, along with a massive horse, stood behind the others that drew Marcus' eye. He was dressed in black armor tr
immed in gold and was the only one of the opposing Captains who was accompanied by a standard-bearer.
This man exuded strength and authority and – something else. Looking at him, the prince felt an urge to step back and hold his tongue. Marcus' own father had been a noble-looking man, tall and authoritative. And he had to admit that his uncle Rahm cut quite an imposing figure as well. But though Marcus had never seen a king – indeed, such a thing was unknown – king was the word that came unbidden into his mind as he gazed upon the supreme commander of the opposing forces.
The standard that flew above this kingly man's head also drew Marcus' attention. The golden image of a horse's head on a field of crimson sparked a memory somewhere deep. He had seen it before – of that he was certain, in an old book perhaps or during the course of one of his studies in ancient history at the academy in Eremand. Snapping lightly in the breeze, it spoke to him of ancient grandeur and power and of a forgotten age of monarchs.
Thinking about that standard now, he leaned forward and rapped on the back of the driver's seat.
“Rald – turn east at the next crossroads.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He dare not be too late in making his report to the High Prince, for his standing in the palace was tenuous enough as it was, but in light of what he'd seen and heard, it was time to have a frank talk with Amund Basura. If anyone in all the land of Elam might have knowledge of ancient symbols and their meaning, it would be Marcus' old teacher.
Besides, it was known that the Basura family had pulled all of its members and close associates back inside the borders of its own province, which meant that Janifera would be there. For Marcus, any excuse to see her needed little justification.
8.
“Lord Aram, the hawks say there is movement in the north of Bracken.” Alvern's voice came down and pierced Aram's mind, commanding his attention.
“An army?”
“It is a sizable force, I am told, my lord.”
“Coming south?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Aram swung Thaniel aside and let the column tramp past on its way toward Burning Mountain. His chest tightened at this news even though it had been expected. He had known that Manon would seek vengeance for the destruction of his army upon the slopes of Burning Mountain and the ensuing plundering of his slave trains. Here was evidence that the grim lord was sending forth his power to exact that vengeance.
Aram's own army was green, untried, and now within a space of a few weeks it would very likely be brutally tested. There was little hope that Manon's objective was anything other than Aram and his followers. Nor was there any hope that the sword could render another miracle; he was absolutely certain that the Astra would prevent any such attempt a second time. Consequently, the coming conflict would be reduced to a straight fight of force against force and if Manon sent a large measure of his strength, Aram's only real hope would be that the sword might somehow enable him to bring a measure of equality to the contest.
He hadn't really wanted conflict with Elam, but as a result of the stalemate with that great land, the only thing his army had learned thus far was to march and maneuver with a semblance of order. That was fine, and necessary, but it wouldn't help them much when the time came to fight.
Also there was the new weapon developed by Arthrus that Aram desperately wanted to incorporate into the training of his soldiers. Earlier, when the horses had come down from the plains to stay for the duration of the war, Aram had secured permission from Florm to impress several of them into Arthrus' service. Aram had given instruction to Arthrus to bring the lance and spear points from the armory at Regamun Mediar and turn them into weaponry for the new men recently come from Stell. Arthrus had responded admirably but he also had a surprise for Aram when he returned from his travels in the east.
“I call it a spike, Lord Aram,” the man with the scarred and gnarled hands had said, passing the object into Aram's hands. “It's a pike, but much shorter, you know, so I thought – spike.”
Aram examined the unusual weapon, frowning, unsure what to make of it. It was only about five feet long with a handle that tapered rapidly as it went away from the deadly end, making the whole thing rather lopsided, much heavier toward the head.
Watching his prince, Arthrus said, “Here's the thing, my lord. It's just that I've heard you wish so often that you had more archers among your troops, men that can use the bow – a weapon of distance, you call it. Well, not only are bows more difficult to make, but few men use them well, so – may I show you something?” He asked, reaching for the “spike”.
Aram handed the weapon back to its creator.
Arthrus turned and with one quick throw, looped the spike in an arc through the air and lodged it in the back wall of his shop. Grinning, the ironmonger turned back to Aram. “There are thousands of spear points, as you know, Lord Aram. We could make more pikes and lances than we could ever find men to use them. And with constructing proper bows being a time-consuming and difficult prospect, I decided to try something else. The trick is that the soldier wielding one of these things isn't required to be very clever. Its weighted toward the point, you see, so all you have to do is throw it and the deadly bit, being heavier, will naturally pull it in the direction of the throw. I promise; this thing will do serious damage to anyone in its way.”
Seeing a light beginning to flicker in Aram's eye, he continued. “It's not much good beyond ten or fifteen yards, but over such a distance, thrown with force, it will certainly cause injury to an enemy, maybe even death. And once it's been put to use, the soldier can then revert to the use of his sword or his pike, whatever he likes – against a diminished enemy.”
Aram retrieved the spike from the back wall, wedging it loose with an effort. After examining it for a moment further, testing its heft in his hands, he looked up at Arthrus. “You are a clever man, my friend; this is an invention of brilliance.” Then he frowned. “How many have you made?”
“Only a hundred. I wanted your approval before I went further.”
“And how many can you make in a day – or a week?”
Arthrus shrugged. “I've got a pretty smart lot of young men helping me now. After we perfected the design, we made most of the hundred in one day.”
Aram nodded. “Good. I need ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand?” Arthrus let out a low whistle. “That will take some time.”
“I understand, my friend,” Aram agreed, but his tone remained insistent. “You have solved a problem for me with this weapon, and I want it in the hands of as many of my men as possible, as soon as is possible, so they can get used to handling it. Can you train more workers, will that help?”
Arthrus considered. “I could take some of the more experienced men away from making armor, I suppose.”
Almost immediately, Aram shook his head. “No. We must not do that.” But then he hesitated and considered for a moment. “How are we supplied for armor?”
Arthrus glanced over into the recesses of his shop where breastplates, leg and arm guards, shields, and helmets were piled in substantial amounts. “We have enough helmets on hand for all the men from Derosa, and I've noticed that the others have their own anyway. We're still about two hundred shields short of being able to protect all of our own people, and shields are the most difficult and time-consuming. Breastplates – we're probably within a hundred or so. Production of shin-guards and arm-guards is lagging pretty badly – the design is tricky, and all men aren't the same length in their limbs, so the margins are smaller.”
Aram nodded as he looked down and studied the spike he held in his hands. “Duridia has their crossbows, so they can wait, but I'd like at least every second or third man of Derosa and Lamont to be armed with one of these. Finish the shields and breastplates; leave the other items for later. This weapon of yours will make a greater contribution. How soon can you deliver two or three thousand?”
“A month, maybe less.”
“Alright.”
Aram handed the weapon back. “Make as many as you can, as fast as you can.”
Arthrus nodded, pleased with his prince's approval of his invention. “We'll do our best, my lord.”
And he had. Before the army left to confront Elam a little more than a week later, the ironmonger and his helpers had managed to contrive almost a thousand spikes and the rate of production was increasing daily. Aram was anxious to start training with the new weapon. He envisioned a tactic for use after each man in his forces had been armed with a spike, whereby his troops would deploy in three ranks. When the enemy approached, or conversely, if his own men moved forward until the enemy was within twenty yards or so, each man in the front rank would drop his long pike, throw the spike, then drop to his knees so that the second rank could step up, repeat the maneuver, and then drop down to make way for the third rank.
At the end of it, the enemy would have suffered serious damage and Aram's men would again be deployed in three ranks, ready either to advance or to receive the enemy's charge. Knowing that he could now employ a weapon of distance, short though that distance may be, gave him a sense of confident satisfaction. While it didn't make up for the lack of archers, it did give his soldiers another means of inflicting injury and death upon the enemy before closing with him, while that enemy was still several yards away.
He had hoped for a relatively “safe” way to gain experience for his men with the new weapon and the tactics he envisioned by going south on the west side of the Broad and freeing the remaining occupants of the countryside around Stell. Any of the grim lord's forces yet in that region could be overwhelmed at little cost to Aram's soldiers while providing them with needed battlefield experience, and the last vestiges of Wallensia would then be folded into his principality.
But now, with Manon on the move and coming south – most likely straight at him – he was forced to forget that plan and focus on preparing his men to face a brutal and fearsome foe before the advent of summer. They would have to get comfortable with the use of the new weapon without actually drawing the blood of an enemy.
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 6
