Marcus frowned. “The grim lord? – Manon?”
Aram nodded.
Marcus glanced away and considered. Then he shook his head and looked back. “I don’t think Rahm views himself as a pawn. It’s true that his agreement with the prince of the north is a one-sided thing, weighted heavily in favor of – the grim lord, as you name him – but Rahm has his own agenda which is a separate matter altogether.”
Aram nodded again, and there was a hard, sharp light in his green eyes. “I am sure he believes this, but it is not true. Whatever Rahm’s intentions are, they will not be honored or even considered by Manon.” He smiled a tight smile. “Your uncle is a great fool, Marcus, but that will serve only to make him more manageable.” He raised a hand as Marcus started to protest. “I don’t mean to imply that I think it will be an easy thing, but it is better to have a fool for an opponent than a clever man. And any man who has treated with Manon and doesn’t properly fear him is a great fool indeed.”
He looked away again and gave himself over to private thoughts for a time. Marcus leaned back and gazed around at the unfamiliar countryside, noting – and understanding the reason for the existence of – the graveyard across the way. Eventually he looked back at Aram to find that the lord’s gaze was centered on him again.
“Thom says he will stay here, and he is most welcome,” Lord Aram said. “But what about you? What will you do?”
Marcus considered. “I’ve given some thought to that, my lord. Elam is my home though for the moment I am not welcome there.” He turned his head and looked wistfully toward the southwest. “But there are others there that I count among my closest friends who love my homeland as I do and who even now resist the policies of the throne.” He brought his gaze back to Aram’s face. “And they will soon find themselves endangered because of that resistance.” He shook his head almost mournfully. “It’s true that I cannot go home but neither can I bring myself to abandon those that I care about.”
Lord Aram’s eyes narrowed and sharpened, like those of a predator that has at last seen that which for so long he has lain patiently in wait. He had been leaning against the wall but now he stood up straight, tall, and imposing. Purpose and determination seemed to envelope him in a tangible aura. In that moment, Marcus got a true sense of the eastern lord’s power and strength of will. It was daunting but also thrilling.
Aram took a step toward him. “You need not abandon your friends, Your Highness, nor will I do so. When the time comes that we must go to their aid, we will do so and with all our strength.”
Marcus gazed back at him in astonishment but Aram continued matter-of-factly.
“The eagles will watch that land when they are able – and instruct the hawks to do so always – even as we see to our business. You will talk with them on the morrow and instruct them as to the geography of Elam and where it is that your friends reside within it. When Rahm prepares to move against your friends – if, in fact, he does so – then we will stand with them.” He reached out and placed a hand on the young prince’s shoulder. His eyes softened slightly. “Stay with us, Marcus; add your strength to ours. There are more warriors coming from the east to join with us. I promise you – your homeland will be free of tyranny. We will make it so.”
Marcus swallowed and nodded but didn’t trust himself to speak.
35 .
High Prince Rahm Imrid settled his shrewd gaze upon the man standing to the right of General Edverch.
This man, identified by Edverch as Zelrod Slan, was medium in both height and build, with a paunch of extra flesh around his middle. His face was unremarkable, round and full, a bit ruddy, with a chin that receded to a point. He wore a moustache below his small, stubby, rounded nose. The hair had long since vanished from the top of his head, but in obeisance to vanity, he had grown it long on one side and combed it over the bare expanse. Rahm would have passed the man over without even granting him an interview were it not for his eyes.
There was nothing bland or unremarkable about Zelrod Slan’s eyes. The orbs that peered out beneath his somewhat heavy lids were black and cold, and in those dark, chill depths there gleamed the subtlety of a serpent. Rahm had seen eyes like that but a few times, most often gazing back at him from a mirror. There was harsh pragmatism, uncaring and calculating, in his look and it gave testament to his character. Here was a man who would slaughter his own wife and children in order to further the success of anything he perceived as necessary or desirable.
He wore the blue and gold of the throne and the epaulet on his shoulder identified him as a sub-general.
“What is your House?” Rahm asked Slan.
“I am the first son of House Valrie, in the northwestern highlands, Your Highness. My father serves on the council, though you may, perhaps, notice him but seldom, for he is a quiet man.”
“I know him.” Rahm decided that he approved of the man’s voice as much as his eyes. When he spoke, Slan’s tones reminded the High Prince of Hurack Soroba, but without the oily smoothness. The timbre of Slan’s enunciation was harsher – and hard as stone.
“The lands of your House, I believe, are very near those of Basura,” Rahm suggested.
Slan bowed his head slightly in assent. “We are separated from that House only by the river, my lord.”
“Basura is a great House,” Rahm stated. “Their lands are broad and rich.”
Something glittered brightly for just a moment in the depths of Slan’s eyes, but was quickly masked.
Before the sub-general could respond, Rahm changed subjects. “There has never been any question as to the loyalty of House Valrie, unless I am mistaken?”
This time, there was nothing in Slan’s eyes, not even a flicker. “House Valrie serves the throne of Elam. Always has, and always will, Your Highness.”
“No matter who sits that throne?” Rahm tested him.
Slan did not hesitate, nor did his attitude reveal awareness of nuance in the question. “You sit the throne, Your Highness; therefore your writ governs without question in Valrie.”
Rahm spread his hands and spoke with regret underlying his words. “Would that all the Houses understood the need for unity with the throne if Elam is to exert her will and claim her destiny, but alas, there are Houses who place their own needs and desires above those of the land at large.”
“Surely, my lord,” Slan protested, “there is no suspicion in this palace that House Valrie does so?”
“No.” Rahm leaned back and tented his fingers. His gaze was fixed on the sub-general. “But House Basura is another matter,” he said quietly.
This time, Slan did hesitate, for just a moment, sliding his serpent’s eyes sideways at Edverch. But Edverch appeared to take no notice of the glance, and remained standing like an uncomfortable statue, gazing straight ahead.
Sub-general Slan returned his attention to the High Prince, and the answer he gave demonstrated the quality of his cleverness. In that brief moment of silence, he had correctly interpreted the reason for his appearance in the Great Hall at Farenaire. “I am aware of Basura’s behavior of late, my lord. It is widely viewed as unacceptable, or worse, by the citizens in my home province. I share their sentiment. As I stated, your writ governs the province of Valrie, and therefore it governs my actions. I am at your service, as always.”
Rahm was both pleased and satisfied though neither emotion showed on his face. “You went north with the army that passed beyond the gates?” He asked Slan.
“No, Your Highness; I was assigned elsewhere at the time.”
“What do you know of the events of that campaign?”
“General Edverch advised the general staff,” Slan replied. “I feel that I have been fully informed.”
“The army that went beyond the gates is now encamped between the river and the main road, near Basura.”
Slan inclined his head respectfully but did not respond.
Rahm leaned forward. “You called Basura’s behavior ‘unacceptable’ a moment ago, general
– I will tell you now that I name it as treasonous, traitorous. Tell me, do you disagree with this assessment?”
Slan’s eyes narrowed with understanding and barely disguised ambition. “No, my lord.”
“It is imperative that House Basura be humbled,” the High Prince stated bluntly, and then deliberately softened his words with the oil of proposed conciliation. “Basura must be humbled so that their people may be brought back into the fold, if possible.”
Slan nodded agreement but did not speak. He kept his sharp gaze riveted on his lord.
Rahm’s tone softened further, though it was with the quiet subtlety of the predator. “It is why that army is encamped on their doorstep.” He went silent and watched the sub-general for several moments, meeting the serpent’s gaze, wherein he saw the proper mixture of subservience and a naked lust for responsibility and influence. He leaned back and nodded in decision. “I want you to go north and take command of that army.”
Slan bowed without hesitation. “I am at your service, Your Highness.” When he straightened up again, however, he hesitated and glanced toward Edverch. Finding himself yet ignored by the older man, he looked again at the High Prince. “There are fifteen thousand men in that army, my lord, five full regiments.”
Rahm gazed at the sub-general expectantly but returned no answer. To Slan’s left, Edverch continued to stare stubbornly ahead, as if he knew that he had nothing to contribute and desperately hoped to not be consulted.
Slan cleared his throat and focused on his master. “It’s just that an army that size is usually under the command of a full general, Your Highness. As you know, I stand a step below that rank.”
Rahm smiled to himself. Zelrod Slan was fulfilling every description Edverch had given of him.
Rahm allowed his inner smile to reveal itself. “Of course you will be elevated, General. At once.” His smile vanished and his gaze hardened. “And if you execute my orders well and successfully, you may very well be elevated further.”
Slan bowed again. “I am unquestionably at your service, my lord. Send me where you will; command me as you wish.”
“Then go and reduce Basura.”
Once again, something hard glittered in the depths of Slan’s dark eyes. “Reduce them, my lord?”
“Take command of the army of the north – Edverch will accompany you to see that you are properly installed. Deploy your force along the borders of Basura, east of the road, inside Basura proper. Encroach upon their land and their holdings. Do what you can to provoke the traitors to rashness.” He held up a cautionary finger. “Understand – at the present moment, the situation is delicate. Others of the Great Houses sit astride the fence in this matter. I wish to make an example of Basura, yes. I wish very much to make an example of Basura, but I want Heglund Basura to provide me with the reason to do so.”
The glittering in the depths of Slan’s expression took on the look of a blaze fanned by a high wind. “I understand, my lord.”
“Basuran lands are broad and rich,” Rahm repeated, as once again he leaned forward. “There will be rewards for service well-rendered.”
Slan lowered his black eyes in an expression of humility. “Your approval will be reward enough, Your Highness.” Then he looked back up, meeting the gaze of the High Prince, and cleared his throat. “May I ask, my lord, if we know who commands the Basuran contingent?”
“A few months ago, I sent Olyeg Kraine into Basura to assess the depth of that House’s belligerence toward the throne. Of late, I have found reason to suspect the veracity of his reports. I have, in fact, found reason to suspect his loyalty.” Rahm let this statement lie for a moment before continuing. “Some time ago, without my permission or foreknowledge, he removed the entirety of his possessions and all of his family from the capitol and ensconced them in Basura. A month ago, I ordered him back to Farenaire. He has not responded.”
Slan considered this for a moment. “Kraine is a capable soldier, Your Highness. If he has defected and commands the Basuran forces, he will be formidable if things…deteriorate.”
“More than you can manage?” Suggested Rahm.
Slan laughed outright and his black eyes glittered. “No. Kraine is often described as being ‘decent and straight-forward’. Neither trait will stand the test of battle well – if it should come to that.”
The High Prince studied his new general for several moments. At first Slan met his gaze openly, but then he blinked respectfully and lowered his unusual eyes. Breaking the silence, Rahm rendered a quiet response.
“I will not mind if it should come to war,” he said in low even tones. “Under the right circumstances, it will in fact be preferable. Go now, and do well, general – create the right circumstances for war.”
Slan bowed deeply, looked once more into the gaze of his Prince, and then, followed by Edverch, turned and left the hall.
36.
The afternoon sun seemed to have stopped its westward decline at the hour of its greatest influence upon the earth below. Summer was arriving in fierce fullness upon the broad green land of Elam.
When General Zelrod Slan arrived at his new command after more than a week upon the road, he was tired and weary of the heat and the accumulating dust of travel. Another man would have retired to his tent and taken up his responsibilities on the following morning. Edverch, in fact, expressed a strong desire to do exactly that.
But Slan was nothing like most men. Alighting from the oxcart, rubbing vigorously at his aching thighs, he ignored the older man’s complaints, found a soldier lounging near the road and brought him to attention.
“General Edverch, Chief Commander of the forces of Elam, is here on business from the throne. Find your general officers and send them here to him at once.”
Edverch started in surprise at this, frowned, but then silently acquiesced and tried to rise to his full height. He was tired and hot, but the fatigue that had lately settled deep in his bones and sinew had more to do with a weariness of life in general than with the blistering pace Slan had established and maintained for the entirety of the trip north. The two men had talked little. Despite the fact that Edverch had recommended Slan to the High Prince based on the prince’s criteria, Edverch had little respect and no affection for his younger, subordinate companion.
The old general was tired of intrigue and wary of the direction the political winds of his homeland had lately taken to blowing. Not that he wasn’t loyal to Rahm Imrid, no such thing. There had been a time when he would have given his life for the High Prince, especially at the first, when Rahm had elevated him to his current exalted position.
But he was older now. Tired. He had never experienced war and felt no need to alter the portfolio of his life in order to grant it inclusion. He was willing, even happy, to let younger men pursue the ambitious intents of the High Prince. More and more, Edverch felt that he ought to be at home, with nothing more exciting than the laughter of grandchildren to interrupt the quietness of his existence.
But there was something else that nagged at him. Despite his defense of Rahm in the face of the barbarian king from the east, there had grown in him the conviction that the fierce, rough leader of the eastern forces was a man with whom Rahm could not contend. There had been something about that masterful prince of men, horses, and wolves that frightened him even now, in memory, and made his blood grow icy and sluggish in his tired old veins. If it came to war with those barbarians, Elam and its greater forces would wither in the face of such wild folk. There would be slaughter, probably ending with the loss of Rahm Imrid’s own head. If it came to that, Edverch wished to be far away from any place where the blood would spurt and flow and stain the grass.
One by one, the general officers of the northern army made their way to the roadside through the afternoon heat. On seeing Edverch standing tall in his best uniform, their eyes narrowed and they drew to attention, tucking in shirts and arranging jackets. None gave more than a passing glance to the Chief Commander’s paunchy companion.<
br />
“Is this everyone?” Edverch asked when the flow of men had stopped and no more approached.
The officers looked around and one by one nodded. One, wearing the epaulets of a full general, replied. “This is all of my staff, general.”
Edverch looked at him. “I know you. Your name is Laflan?”
The man saluted. “At your service, sir. I am in command here.”
Edverch was too weary to placate or explain. “No.” He indicated Slan with his hand. “This man is in command here.” The hand moved the other way, sweeping along the line of officers. “And these are now his staff – on orders of High Prince Rahm Imrid.” He looked back at the astonished and nonplussed General Laflan. “You will return with me to Farenaire for re-assignment.”
Ignoring Laflan’s astonished expression and waving away his unuttered objections, he turned and saluted Slan. “General Slan, this is now your army. If you will release me, I wish to return to that inn a few miles back along the road.”
Slan brought his hand to the corner of his eye. “Thank you, Chief Commander; you are released.”
Glancing up at the sun, which seemed anchored in the steely sky, Edverch then turned to Laflan. “How long will it take for you to gather your things?”
Laflan swallowed. “An hour, maybe less, sir.”
“Make it less,” Edverch growled.
Slan waited until the two men had moved away; then he addressed his new staff, all of whom flinched just a bit when his stark gaze fell upon them. “Call out the men by regiments,” he ordered brusquely. “There will be a review in an hour.” He turned to one of the lesser officers he had noticed earlier when studying his new command. “Prepare me a tent, and find some food and drink – I wish to refresh myself.”
Zelrod Slan had no wife or children. He’d given his whole life to this point in pursuit of power and influence, his own definition of success. Success, however, had heretofore always passed him by. In the ranks of Elam’s general officers, there had been several full generals who were younger than him. Though possessed of a clever intellect and filled with ambition, he didn’t quite look the part of the smart military man. In an army that had never confronted a sword raised against it in anger, appearance trumped ability. Consequently, Slan had grown accustomed to, though never accepting of, being overlooked in favor of handsomer faces and more impressive physiques. Now, though, fate and circumstances, and the dark motives of his Prince, had bestowed upon him an opportunity to shine.
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 25
