Kelven's Riddle Book Four

by Daniel Hylton

  Without hesitation, Boman raised his hand. “I’ll wait for them, my lord.”

  Aram shook his head. “I must go to the aid of Prince Marcus’ friends in Elam. I will need all my captains. I cannot spare you.”

  Moving his hand, Boman indicated one of the young troopers from Duridia. “Finn is excellent with direction and is sure-witted and competent.”

  Aram met the young man’s eyes. “Are you willing?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Aram nodded with decision. “Choose ten companions. We will leave you at the edge of the valley. Kipwing will watch over the wagons as they traverse Cumberland. When they come, lead them to the fortress.”

  “I will, my lord.”

  Aram spoke to Thaniel, turning him toward the east. “Let us go, quickly.”

  42 .

  The regiments of the High Prince of Elam began their movement across the road and into Basura, settling among the green pastures and irrigated fields, trampling crops as they established campsites and latrines. Though accomplished without martial conflict, it was nonetheless a rude and forceful invasion and the reaction of the local citizenry was exactly what General Zelrod Slan had hoped for and expected.

  Slan was standing in the shade of a tree watching soldiers dismantle a fence in order to facilitate the forward movement of troops when a commotion broke out among a group of subordinate officers off to his right. For the moment, Slan ignored the raised voices and kept his attention fixed upon the troops before him. A few hundred yards to his front, there was a sizeable stream flowing from south to north. Some way beyond the point where he intended to anchor his left flank, that stream emptied into the River Shosk. Summoning a courier, he sent word to all his generals, instructing them to encamp on the near side of this stream. As the courier departed, the Basuran farmer whose property was being desecrated stormed up to confront him, having been directed to his position by his subordinates.

  “This is an outrage, general – I insist that you order your men to stop this destruction,” the farmer demanded without preamble. Panting in fury, the farmer directed Slan’s attention toward a small herd of cattle that were also watching the proceedings with growing – and increasingly agitated – interest. “Why are your men trespassing on my land and tearing down my fences? My animals will discover that breach and get out. Will these soldiers be helpful in getting them back in as they are in setting them loose, I wonder?”

  “Trespassing?” Slan turned raised brows and flinty eyes upon the farmer and spoke coolly. “How is it possible, my good fellow, that representatives of your High Prince may be accused of trespassing?” He waved one hand about and held the other up to defray the farmer’s response as he continued. “Is not all of this Elam?” The flint in his eyes hardened toward obsidian. “Or do you Basurans think of yourselves as separate? As for your fence – I need it removed in order that my troops may more easily enter that field and encamp.” Then Slan seemed to comprehend. “Oh – are you afraid that your cattle will be lost?”

  The farmer stared, perplexed and made suddenly wary by the general’s cool response to his justified anger. Feeling abruptly out of his depth – and for reasons he could not fathom, even threatened – he drew in a calming breath and frowned, forcing himself to respond in a lower tone. “Of course my animals will get out – and might be lost.” But as understanding of Slan’s cavalier attitude toward the situation failed to find him, his anger rose again. “Surely you know that what your men are doing is illegal,” he protested.

  Ignoring the last assertion, Slan shook his head in sadness. “It would be a sorry thing indeed if such fine animals were to escape and be lost. But do not fear, my good man. The loyal troops of the High Prince require sustenance, anyway. We will simply eat those animals and then you will know exactly where they have gone.” An expression of fatherly concern took possession of his features. “Will that solution satisfy the issue?”

  It dawned on the farmer then that no mistake had been made – there was nothing here that was subject to rectification, whether legal or moral. The military man standing before him had always intended to encroach upon his private property, undoubtedly with the approval of the throne in Farenaire. The rumors of impending trouble between the throne and the House of Basura had become reality upon his own doorstep. If things in the country had deteriorated to the point that the servants of Rahm Imrid would blatantly defy the ancient laws of private property then there were far more important things to be looked after.

  A wife.

  And three daughters.

  The man spun on his heel and made to leave but Slan moved his hand and the guards standing nearby prevented him, laying hold on him and turning him around once again to face the commanding general.

  When the farmer met his gaze once more, Slan bent a look of mild surprise upon him. “Where were you going? Did I give you the impression that our conversation was concluded? For it is not.”

  Raw fear had by this time fully replaced the anger upon the farmer’s countenance. Returning Slan’s gaze warily, he remained silent.

  Slan folded his arms and leaned against the trunk of the tree. “There are more things than just cattle that are owed to the people of Elam by the traitorous house of Basura,” he stated.

  “I am no traitor,” the farmer protested, though he spoke quietly and his voice shook.

  “Indeed?” Slan looked shocked. “Am I so mistaken? Are you not a citizen of Basura?” Making a show of looking around carefully, Slan peered one way and then the other and then slowly nodded his head. “Yes, yes – this is indeed Basura. I am sure of it.” He looked back at the farmer. “And you are a citizen here. You see – I am not mistaken.”

  The farmer looked from one to the other of those standing around him, like a hunted animal caught in a trap, suddenly aware of the true nature of his circumstances. “I am of the House Basura,” he admitted to Slan. Then his tone devolved into pleading as he continued. “But I am a simple farmer – I do not involve myself in politics.”

  “Ah, but that’s the way with politics, isn’t it?” Slan spread his arms wide. “It affects us all whether we are directly involved or no.” His black gaze hardened. “But you say that you are loyal to the throne?”

  The man’s gaze slid away for a moment before returning to the general’s face. “I am not a traitor,” he repeated.

  Slan shook his head. “But that is not an answer to the question that I posed, is it?”

  When the farmer remained silent, Slan continued, “There is a way that you might prove your loyalty.” He studied the man closely. “You appear as if you might be of an age to have children still living at home. I wonder – is one of those children a female? Or perhaps there are more than one?”

  The flush that appeared on the man’s face as his eyes blinked nervously gave Slan his answer. The general smiled with approval. “Well then, my good man, the wagons that will convey the High Prince’s gift to our northern ally come along in a few days. You will be more than pleased to contribute to the needs of your country, I am sure.”

  Slan let the man sweat and fidget for a moment longer and then waved his hand. “You may go now. And do not worry over your cattle – they will be put to good use.”

  As the farmer hurried away, Commander Kemp, the young officer Slan had chosen for his aide, snickered and remarked to the general, “That ought to stoke the fire, sir.”

  Slan turned his cold eyes toward him. “Stoke it? I am only just now setting the fire, Kemp. There will be many an opportunity for stoking it in the days ahead.” He let his icy gaze rest upon the young officer long enough to make him look away; then ordered, “Follow that man, Kemp. Tell him your commanding officer requires food and drink. Make him bring it to me himself.” Abruptly, he held up a hand. “No – tell him to have his daughter bring it. Let us see whether she will suffice as an addition to the High Prince’s gift to his northern ally.”

  Kemp hurried away after the unfortunate farmer and Slan turned his at
tention back to the troops tearing down the fencing. On the opposite side of the field, the small group of cattle stamped and milled, growing increasingly nervous. Slan fixed his attention upon them for a moment and then turned to one of the guards.

  “Have the butchers come up,” he said, and indicated the cattle. “Let us begin to put the bounty of Basura to good and proper use.”

  Kemp returned after a short while, followed by the farmer. The farmer held a wooden tray bearing a pitcher of drink, a mug, and a loaf of bread. Slan frowned deeply as the pair came up. “I wanted his daughter to bring it,” he told his aide.

  Kemp flinched and saluted. “Yes, sir; I know, but Faris here claims that his wife and children have gone to the next town to visit his brother.”

  Slan kept his attention centered on Kemp. “When did they go?” He asked.

  Kemp blinked. “I did not ask, sir.”

  Slan glanced at the farm house beyond the field and then moved his eyes to Faris. “When did your family make this ‘visit’ to the next town?”

  Faris swallowed hard. “They have been gone nearly a week, General.”

  Slan’s eyes flicked momentarily in the direction of the house. “Then who are those people I see driving very quickly away from your farm in an oxcart?”

  The farmer blanched. “They are neighbors, General.”

  “Why were your neighbors at your house?”

  Faris blinked and licked his lips. “They came to – to buy a measure of grain.”

  Slan remained leaning against the tree as his night-black eyes watched the distant oxcart move out onto the road and hurry eastward. Silence fell, thick and sinister. After the cart had gone over a slight rise and out of sight, the general’s gaze moved back to Faris. His features were bland, his emotions unreadable. Then,

  “Do you know the penalty for lying to an agent of the throne of Elam?” He asked.

  Faris was no fool. He had realized in the course of the last hour that his country had effectively gone to war with itself. The immediate future, especially for him, was bleak, dark, uncertain. Having – hopefully – put his family beyond the reach of the odious man in front of him, he now knew that he was vying for his own freedom, perhaps his life.

  “I told no lie, general,” he stated as calmly as possible. “My neighbors were visiting but, with the circumstances created by the presence of your troops, they thought it best not to stay and complete the transaction. We will conclude our business another time – if you will allow it, of course. I fully understand, given the current situation, that you and your men may require my grain. It is at your disposal.”

  “How very considerate of you, sir.” Slan went quiet and watched him, letting silence gather and thicken. He knew the man was lying about the identity of the refugees headed eastward in the oxcart. There was no doubt but that he’d hurried his family away from the invading troops and only stayed behind to give them time to escape and to try and salvage what he could of his property. But there was something even more important to Zelrod Slan than discovering the truth of anything. Nay – it was more than simply important; it was vital, and urgent.

  Slan wanted blood.

  The High Prince had expressed a desire for war with these villainous people who put their own desires and possessions above that of the good of the rest of Elam. Slan therefore meant to initiate war. And he knew instinctively that atrocity and outrage were the best way to push this people to the brink.

  He looked across the field toward Faris’ house, noting the tall strong oak with its many thick, wide-branching limbs that stood in the open area between the house and the barn.

  He brought his gaze back to Faris as he delivered a quiet command to the guards.

  “Hang him,” he said.

  Faris went white. “But I have right to a trial,” he blurted out.

  Slan shook his head. “Enemies of the throne have no rights at all.”

  The farmer’s eyes nearly started from his head. “General – please, you cannot –“

  Slan leaned forward and silenced Faris with a slap across his face. “I will not allow dogs to speak to me – certainly I will not allow them to question my decisions.” He pointed across the field. “There is a good strong oak in this man’s yard,” he stated as he indicated the great tree to Kemp and the guards. “It will serve very well.”

  The command came out without emotion, cold and harsh. “Hang him.”

  As the guards dragged the struggling farmer off toward the tree in the yard of his own house where his life would end, Kemp hesitated and turned back to Slan.

  “What?” Slan demanded.

  “I apologize, General – it’s just that I don’t know how to properly hang a man.”

  Slan’s lip curled. “Properly? Why do you concern yourself that it be done properly?” The general moved his hand and indicated the distant barn. “Every farm has rope. There is probably an abundance of it in that barn. Get a length of it – make sure it’s long enough – tie a loop one end and run the length through the loop.” Making the instructive motions, using his own neck as a template, he continued. “Loop it around that farmer’s neck in such a way that his weight will pull it taut. Throw the rope over one of those stout limbs, drag him up off his feet, tie off the rope, and let him hang – he will die, sooner or later. There is no need to trouble yourself about whether or not it’s done properly.”

  As his aide nodded and started after the guards, Slan stopped him. “Oh, and Kemp, I will sign a notice detailing Faris’ crimes against the throne, as a warning to others. When you have him up and swinging, return here for the notice. You will then take it back and pin it to his clothing.”

  “Yes, General.”

  As Kemp trundled off, Slan crooked a finger, summoning another of his subordinates that stood nearby. “Hareid and Oren should be across the road by now, south of the main road leading into the province,” he told the man. Then he indicated the troops moving past him into Faris’ open field where the butchers were even now rounding up the cattle and herding them back the other way. “Clevin’s men will be in position by nightfall. Tell Sub-general Shum to bring his regiment across and position it north of Clevin, between his left and the river.”

  He chopped his right hand in the air. “I want an unbroken line from Shum’s flank in the north southward and across the road to Hareid’s flank in the south. You will instruct Dureban to remain in reserve on the west of the high way until we see how Basura will respond.” He turned his strange and disconcerting gaze upon his aide. “One thing more – tell the supply officer to gather every farmer’s wagon from the countryside round about, over the next two days – as many as he can find, with oxen – and to see me for special instructions. Go.”

  When his aide had gone to deliver his instructions to his subordinates, Slan leaned quietly against the tree for a while longer, watching the troops spill into the field and spread out near the stream on the far side. Once the deed over at the oak by the barn was done, he turned his attention that way and watched as Faris kicked and twitched and died. Eventually, the farmer’s body went limp, but his dying exertions kept it turning and swinging slowly in the sun for a while. After being suspended, the farmer had struggled for perhaps three minutes before going quiet.

  As much as he relished such scenes, Slan knew that there could be no more of that for a time.

  For Zelrod Slan was not really bloodthirsty, but rather hungry – hungry for power and prestige. Not that he was averse to the shedding of blood; far from it. It was a necessary and very good means to a desired end.

  He had fully expected complaint and even resistance from the locals to his current actions and it had been his intention, upon invading Basuran territory, to summarily execute a citizen on any ostensibly legal ground. Faris’ only sin had been that of being unfortunate – he was simply the first to have a personal encounter with Slan.

  By nightfall, his army was firmly entrenched inside the province. The scene with Faris, except for the execution
, was played out many times up and down the long line as the troops of the throne appropriated provisions from the citizenry. Slan’s subordinates were instructed to take what they needed, but they were not to cause physical harm. Faris was meant as an object lesson in enforced obedience, not a sign of what was to come.

  For all he knew, Basura was not entirely united in its opposition to the policies of the High Prince. There might be citizens all across the province who, when made aware of the punishment for disobedience, might feel constrained to render genuine and willing aid to the troops of the throne, not just of goods but of information. Some might even join the effort to bring House Basura back into the fold of Elam – or to its knees.

  Politically, it would be better if Basura cracked and fragmented, thereby proving to the other Great Houses that the common folk would not always blindly succumb to the will of the ruling families. Regular folk might instead rather bow to the superiority of the throne, which held the interests of all Elam’s citizens as equal. It was a strategy – or at least a hope - that had to be given opportunity to reveal itself. In deference to that hope, Faris’ execution had to be provided with the appearance of necessity and legality.

  In any event, Slan did not want to push Basura away; rather he hoped that Basura would come to him. First, of course, there would be an envoy of some kind, maybe even a member of the family. Basura was one of the few provinces where there were people who still bore the ancient name. In most, as in Slan’s province of Valrie, though still ruled by vestiges of the ancient bloodlines, the name itself had long ago passed into history.

  Whoever Basura sent to treat with him, they would find him implacable in his demands that they lay aside resistance to the policies of the throne and pay reparations. He would make certain that the great house would find it impossible to comply, even if they were so inclined, which he very much doubted. Eventually, of course, perhaps in the fall after the weather moderated, he intended to push Basura into violent reaction, and give his Prince what he desired most – a winnable civil war.