Kelven's Riddle Book Four

by Daniel Hylton

  As the missiles flew, he gave a further command. “Move away – left and right!”

  Matibar, Boman, Wamlak, and the Duridians wheeled away, allowing the men of Lamont and Derosa to lower their lances and close ranks a few yards behind Aram. Four more lashers went down in the onslaught of arrows, though two of those got up again almost immediately. Still, several of the enemy now seemed as preoccupied with the missiles that pierced them as with the approaching men and horses.

  Aram twirled the sword, holding its fire in check.

  Thirty yards, twenty yards, ten. The lashers closed the gaps in their ranks and readied swords to meet them.

  “Left, Thaniel – now!” Aram commanded and as the horse veered away, Aram leaned out and swept the sword in a line across the ranks of the enemy, releasing its latent fire. Golden lightning leapt out from it, sizzling and searing. Screams and howls erupted from the throats of the lashers. Many went down, dying where they fell, while others tried to twist away from the fearsome and deadly display. Terror and confusion disordered their ranks. The box behind them burst into flame.

  The mounted line of Derosans and Lamontans crashed into them and swept through, leaving those beasts still upright run through by lances. Durlrang left Aram’s side to aid in bringing down those few beasts that remained on their feet.

  Thaniel swung in a tight arc, driving his hooves into the soil of the plains and went at the lashers again. Aram employed the sword once more as the horse went through the thinning line of beasts. Edwar and Jonwood had lined up those of their men who had retained possession of their lances on the far side of the road and were coming again. Mallet had rolled out of his saddle, retrieved a lance form the body of a lasher and had engaged one of the monsters in single combat.

  Aram saw that the beast was already injured and made a quick judgment that Mallet would have his kill so he directed Thaniel toward those who still stood upright and were now clustered close to the box at the center of the road. Boman, Matibar, Wamlak, and the archers had formed a tight semi-circle to the south and were sending more arrows among the enemy at any and every opportunity.

  Aram made one last pass by the diminishing group of lashers and then it was over. While the others dismounted and went around making sure every one of the beasts was dead, Aram slid off Thaniel’s back and with Mallet, who’d made his kill, approached the box.

  Though the fire along the blackened scar in the wooden side of the box had subsided, it was still burning along the top; flames licked at a decorative edging of deep blue fringe. Aram sheathed the sword, motioned Mallet to stay a step behind him and went to within a few paces of what was apparently a door in the side of the conveyance.

  “Come out,” he commanded of whoever was inside. “Come out and be identified.”

  In the center of the door, a small window slid to the side, but no face appeared in the opening. Instead, a blue powder, like smoke, issued forth and fogged the air around Aram and Mallet. Aram still wore the hood and apparently because of that fact felt no effects, but Mallet went down as if slain.

  Aram turned and yelled for the others. “Get him out of here – but don’t come closer than necessary.”

  After Boman and four others had pulled Mallet clear of the blue powder which still hung in the air, gradually dissipating, Aram drew the sword and faced the box. “Is he breathing?” He called over his shoulder.

  “Yes, though his breathing sounds strange,” Wamlak replied.

  “Help him, if you can,” Aram said and he stepped close to the box, holding the sword over his head, gathering fire.

  “Come out,” he ordered again, “or I will burn you alive within.”

  After a long moment, in which the song of the sword rose to an unbearable pitch, the door moved, opened a crack, and then was pushed wide.

  A slightly-built man of medium height with a clean-shaven head and dressed in a scarlet robe stepped out onto the surface of the road. His shoulders were hunched, his head was leaned to one side, and one hand was pressed to the exposed ear. Around his waist, there hung a cloth bag. The man’s other hand was hidden inside the bag. Noticing a blue, smoke-like mist arising from the cloth container, Aram dropped the point of his sword to indicate it.

  “Take your hand out,” he said coldly, “and drop the bag, or you lose the hand.”

  Though his faced was screwed up in pain because of the sound of the sword, the man was handsome in a slightly effeminate way, with a slim nose, large eyes, and high forehead. His face was clean-shaven like his head, and for the moment twisted into a pain-ridden scowl. He squinted around at the group of men surrounding his coach and then brought his gaze back to Aram. After another long moment’s hesitation, he drew his hand from the bag, grimaced and placed both of his hands upon his ears and stared up at Aram’s gleaming blade.

  “Can you quiet that thing?” He asked in a strained, rather petulant voice.

  “No,” Aram replied. “Who – and what – are you?”

  The man gritted his teeth against the increasing pain inside his head and stated, “I am Hurack Soroba, emissary of Manon the Great, Lord of the World.” His eyes went back to the sword. “Please.”

  Once again, Aram indicated the bag around his waist. “Drop the bag.”

  With one quick movement, Soroba loosened the cord that held the bag in place and let it fall to the pavement.

  “Captain Matibar.” Aram called in a clear voice without taking his eyes from Soroba.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Do you have an arrow trained on this man?”

  “I do,” Matibar answered.

  Aram nodded. “If he moves anything other than his head and eyes; kill him,” he said, and he sheathed the sword, quieting its display of power and silencing its song.

  After shaking his head and rubbing at his temples, Soroba looked around at the ruin of his entourage. After taking several deep breaths, he shook his head sadly. He looked up and met Aram’s eyes. “What you have done here,” he stated, “will surely bring the wrath of Manon the Great upon you.”

  Aram smiled an icy smile. “I was born with the wrath of the grim lord already ‘upon me’, as you say.” He studied the slim man in the red robes for a long moment. “So – you are he that slew Waren, former High Prince of Elam, and his family, are you not?”

  Soroba flinched almost imperceptibly at the accusation but made no answer. Instead, he studied Aram in return. A contemptuous sneer slid across his finely-featured face. “And you must be Aram, who imagines himself prince of the peoples of the east.”

  Aram looked down. “What is in the bag?”

  “Power,” Soroba answered.

  “Pick it up,” Aram commanded, “and put it inside.”

  Soroba ignored the instruction long enough that Aram reached back and withdrew his steel sword, aiming it at the man’s chest. At that, Soroba scowled, reached down and picked up the cloth bag containing the “power”. With the bag in his hand, he hesitated for just a moment, the fingers of his other hand twitching in contemplation, and then he resisted the temptation and tossed it in through the open door.

  Aram stepped closer. “How did you slay High Prince Waren Imrid and his family?”

  Soroba ignored that, and he did not back away. Instead, he asked a question of his own. “Why will you not show your face?”

  Aram was silent for a moment. “Hold your hands out to your sides and turn around,” he ordered.

  Soroba raised his chin in defiance. “Why?”

  “Because I require it.” Aram lifted the tip of his sword. “Do it, or die where you stand.”

  Soroba’s scowl deepened, but after a moment, he held his arms out and pivoted slowly in a circle. As the man turned, Aram examined his clothing for further attachments or hidden compartments.

  After Soroba had come around to face him again, Aram reached up and removed the hood, holding it in his left hand.

  “Now,” Aram said coldly. “I will ask you one more time – how did you cause the death
of High Prince Waren?”

  Soroba shook his head. “I did nothing. The death of Elam’s former High Prince was an accident.”

  Aram narrowed his eyes and nodded shortly. “I gave you a chance to speak the truth,” he stated. Sheathing his steel sword, he reached up for the Sword of Heaven.

  Seeing the clear expression of determination on Aram’s face, Soroba blanched and lost some of his self-control.

  “Please,” he said, as his hands went involuntarily to his ears, “no more of that.”

  “Do not fear,” Aram told him. “If I draw this sword once more, you will hear nothing – ever again.” With his hand on hilt of the weapon, Aram fixed him with a cold flat gaze. “How did Waren die?” He asked.

  Soroba’s confidence was shaken by Aram’s demeanor and by his own lack of friends or allies. He considered the bodies of his dead retinue for a moment and then glanced around at the empty countryside with desperation seeping into the corners of his eyes. It was if he’d been expecting relief which had not shown. After one last stricken glance into the north, his eyes came back to Aram’s face.

  “It was not my doing,” he stated, and the tone of petulance re-entered his voice. “The Great Lord of the World wished for Waren to be removed and his younger brother to rule in his stead.”

  He hesitated and glanced up at Aram’s hand, still firmly upon the sword’s hilt. “Upon instructions from my master, I placed a vial of nectar of niessuh in the palace water supply.”

  “What is this nectar of niessuh?”

  Soroba swallowed. “It is a plant that grows in the north of the land of Bracken. Even a small drop of its nectar will kill a man or even an ox.”

  “And yet you survived,” Aram said in a dangerous tone which was not lost on the slim man in the scarlet robes.

  “The master gave me the antidote,” the emissary replied, cautiously. “The Lord of the World wished for another to sit the throne of Elam, but did not wish for me to die. He had – has need of me.” Silence fell as they faced each other and then Soroba seemed to recover a bit of his composure. “I am on a mission from my master, now,” he stated in stronger tones. “You would do well to let me go.”

  Without turning away, Aram indicated Mallet, prone upon the ground behind him. “Is that what you exposed my friend to – niessuh?”

  Once more, Soroba’s bluster failed. He shook his head. “No – that is daji powder.”

  “Will my friend die?” Aram’s voice was as hard and as threatening as sharpened steel as he asked the question.

  “No – no, I assure you.” Soroba’s tone devolved almost into pleading. “He will sleep for a time and then awaken. His head will ache for an hour or two perhaps, but there will be no long term damage.”

  “What is your mission?” Aram asked then, more softly. “Why are you here?”

  At that moment, it seemed to dawn upon Soroba that no help was forthcoming and that his life was fully in the hands of this tall, menacing stranger. He stood stock still for a moment and then in a flash dove for the interior of the coach.

  Just as quickly, Aram drew the Sword of Heaven and slashed away the door and the entire near side of the box. Soroba was on his hands and knees on the floor next to the seat, reaching for the bag of daji powder. He grabbed the bag and turned to fling it and its entire contents into Aram’s face.

  Aram clamped the hood over his nose and mouth, blunting the effects of the powder, but behind him men stumbled and cried out, and some went to their knees. A few collapsed upon the earth, twitching in distress. Sheathing the Sword of Heaven and drawing his steel sword again, Aram motioned for Soroba to step clear of the coach.

  There was a slight breeze and it moved the cloud of blue dust slowly off to the north. After making sure it was clear, Soroba stared up at Aram for a long moment before getting to his feet. The emissary of Manon seemed to shrink a bit as he once again stepped out onto the road.

  Aram’s eyes stung, but as the daji powder drifted away, he lowered the hood.

  He glanced into the coach and saw that it was empty, though now almost fully ablaze. Moving the sword, he motioned Soroba away from the fire.

  “Is everyone alright?” He asked of those behind him, never taking his eyes off the emissary of the grim lord.

  The voice that answered him was Boman’s, and it was tinged with uncertainty. “I think so, my lord, but – several men are down.”

  “Are they breathing?”

  “Yes – I think so.”

  Aram sheathed his steel sword and studied Soroba, deciding whether or not there was anything further to be gained from him. The man was obviously too dangerous to retain as a prisoner and was not likely to divulge any of his master’s secrets, even under extreme duress. In the end, he decided that the best recourse was to deny the grim lord any further use of this vile creature.

  He reached back for the hilt of the Sword of Heaven. Instantly, Soroba’s eyes widened with understanding. He opened his mouth to speak and took a step toward Aram, reaching out with his hands.

  With one sweep of the sword, Aram cut Soroba in two.

  The emissary stared in wide-eyed silence as he died; reaching out with both hands to lay hold on his slayer. Then his head drew back, his mouth opened wide, and a terrible scream issued forth.

  Something small and black, like dark smoke with a tiny vein of silver thread running throughout, flew upward out of Soroba’s open mouth and shot into the north, disappearing over the far horizon in but a few moments. It happened so quickly that even after witnessing it, Aram was not certain it had occurred. The shriek died away as the silver-veined black thing went into the north, and Soroba collapsed, his life’s blood pouring from the severed halves of his body into a widening pool upon the ancient stone.

  Aram glanced back. Several men were on their hands and knees, shaking their heads and coughing. Mallet was still stretched out. Kneeling by the big man, Boman gazed up at Aram in dazed confusion.

  “What was that?” He asked simply.

  “You saw it, too?” Aram shook his head. “I don’t know – it was something of the grim lord’s that is now returning to him.” He looked down. “How’s Mallet?”

  “Coming around.”

  41 .

  They rested by a small brook that trickled forth from the hills near the road, dousing cloths in the cool water and bathing the foreheads of men who’d been affected by Soroba’s powder. Mallet regained consciousness after an hour and other than his legs being wobbly when he tried to stand, and complaining of a headache, demonstrated no alarmingly serious effects. After a while he stood to his feet, rubbed his temples and looked around.

  “What happened?” He demanded. “Where are we?”

  Wamlak grinned up at him. “We’re right here. And the sun’s up there, like always. How’s your head?”

  The big man rotated his head slowly side-to-side, wincing as he did so. “Sore,” he admitted. “And kind of fuzzy.”

  Wamlak stood and pointed out toward the grasslands, at the wreckage strewn on the road. “That man poisoned you with something.”

  Mallet’s eyes went round with alarm. “Poisoned? – I’ve been poisoned?”

  Wamlak’s grin widened. “You’ll be alright.” But then the grin lost some of its mirth. “You had us worried there for a bit.”

  Mallet lifted one meaty hand and shielded his eyes against the sun, and looked at the scene of the fight. “What happened to the man who poisoned me?”

  “Lord Aram slew him.”

  Mallet nodded. “Good.” He turned and looked at Wamlak. “Did I get my kill?”

  The archer frowned. “You don’t remember?”

  “No.” Mallet shook his head. “Did I?”

  Wamlak spread his arms wide and his face lit up with astonishment. “You destroyed them all – all by yourself, before the rest of us could gather ourselves or Lord Aram employ his sword. It was amazing. That’s why that little man poisoned you.”

  Mallet turned away in disgust and found
Jonwood seated by the stream. The small man lowered the cloth he was holding to his forehead and held up one finger. He nodded solemnly. “You got one,” he said.

  Mallet rubbed again at his temples, but a smile took possession of his face. “And I’m beginning to feel better. All in all, a good day, then,” he stated.

  When everyone was able to ride, they mounted up, gained the road, and followed it through the hills toward the south, leaving the wreckage of Soroba and his companions for any and all passersby to find and wonder over.

  The hills became ever more heavily forested as they wended southward and gradually gained altitude. An hour or two later, after passing through a gap in the hills, the road began to trend downward once more and the woods thickened further. Back in the shadows of the trees, ferns and brush grew in abundance on the forest floor. The breeze, freshening out of the southwest and bringing with it scudding gray clouds, promised rain for later.

  The road, which was broad and smooth like all of those built by the ancients, eventually reached the bottom of a narrow valley and began to run alongside a sizeable stream. Grassy meadows lined the banks of the river, some of which, as they continued southward, began to take on the look of land which, sometime in the past, had been cleared of trees and worked as fields. The truth of this was soon borne out as ruined farmhouses, barns, and outbuildings appeared here and there, lining the stream or tucked back in among the folds of the hills.

  Rather abruptly, Aram realized where they were.

  This was Aniza, the homeland of Nikolus and Timmon, Ruben and Semet.

  It became increasingly obvious, as they wound southward along the stream, that once upon a time this land had been rich and resourceful. Now, there were only the scattered ruins of its former prosperity, sinking sadly into the still-fertile soil. Manon had not taken possession of this country but upon enslaving its people had moved them north and east, into his more secure domains.

  Toward evening, they broke out of the wooded hills into an open, gently rolling, and very green land. Almost immediately upon exiting the hills, the road entered into the remains of a large town. Ruined and burned buildings crowded the roadside. Broken, mangled, and weathered furniture and oxcarts clogged all the side streets leading away from the main thoroughfare – the debris of a long past, futile resistance.