At last, however, one late evening, after crossing the river and slinking westward along its banks out of sight of the town and its fields, he made his way into the western fringe of the village, along the shadowed streets and finally rested on his own cot, in his own hut. With the artifact wrapped in a cloth and clutched tightly to his breast, he turned his face to the wall. He intended to sleep long, in one unbroken stint, recovering his strength, and then start off on the way north toward his destiny on the morrow.
There was now no reason to tarry in the despised environs of his former existence.
The very thought of his northward journey, however, troubled him greatly, and defrayed sleep. How would he avoid the wolves? If they caught him trying to escape the valley to the north along the great road as he’d been instructed, there would be questions. They might even insist on taking him to Aram to answer for his actions. Such a result would mean ruin. But the serpent had specifically instructed him to go northward along the great road, where he would meet with other wolves, servants of his master.
Where did the domain of one tribe of wolves end and the other begin? How could he escape the attention of one and pass into the safe company of the other? The evening faded to twilight, the night came on, and still he could discover no answer to his dilemma. Though desperately needed, sleep eluded him.
Then, abruptly, Flinneran sat up, a wonderfully clear and relieving thought driving the despair from him.
The serpent that gave him the instruction knew nothing of the passage through the mountain. Nor, most likely, did the wolves.
But Flinneran did know of it. And therein lay his means of egress from the valley – and his salvation.
He lay back, smiling to himself, closed his eyes and prepared to welcome the needed sleep. All he had to do was avoid being seen going into the city. Once safely there, he would make for the passage and go through to the other side. Then he just needed to go northward along the western side of the great mountain and thence angle through the sand hills until he again found the road somewhere beyond the borders of the valley. By then he should be far removed from the influence of Aram’s wolves.
The serpent had placed no time limit upon the completion of his appointed task, and since Manon the Great lived forever, it undoubtedly mattered little when the artifact came to him. Longing for his new life to begin, Flinneran was certain that his anxiety for the success of his mission was likely greater than that of his master’s. He need not worry about the extra time it would take to detour safely through the mountain passage.
Clutching his artifact, content and hopeful, he fell into slumber.
When he awoke, the window above his bed was dark, as black and as separable from the gloom as the wall surrounding it. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he gazed up through it and resolved the tiny points of light that were the distant stars. Rousing himself, he went to the door, opened it, and peered eastward. The horizon was black and the sky held not even a hint of pink.
It was still deep in the night. Nonetheless, Flinneran felt completely rested and the air seeping in through the open door, though not warm, was not overtly cool either. Sudden excitement drove the last vestiges of slumber from him, clearing his eyesight, sharpening his wits.
It was time to go.
He gathered as much food as he could from his small cache, put on his cloak despite the relative warmth of the night, tucked the artifact inside his shirt, and headed northward through the fields toward the city. He went straight and fast, making no attempt at stealth. Because of the deepness of the hour, there would be no one about, and the city was an hour or more away. Speed rather than stealth was what was required.
As he walked, he thought of the journey ahead of him. How far was it, he wondered, from the despised valley of his current situation, to the honored position that would be his in the fortress of his master? He remembered the long transport from the plains and thought of that great distance. And then there had been the journey through the sandy hills when Aram had brought them east. Was the distance to his master’s domain a farther journey than that had been?
The thought dismayed him.
But then he brightened as he remembered that the transport from the plains had moved on an easterly course for almost the whole of it, just as had the subsequent journey from the village to the valley. And the serpent had said that his master’s home was in the north. Perhaps, after all, in relative terms, it was not so far.
Still, he realized, whatever the distance that lay before him; he would need more provisions than the meager bundle he’d put together in his hut. But even that was an issue that was easily resolved. There was plenty of food, including fruits and dried venison in the city, in Aram’s larder, and he would fill out his supply from those stores, stuffing every pocket, every fold in his cloak.
The sky began to brighten after the better part of an hour had passed, growing pink above the eastern hills. He was still nearly a half-mile from the city, so he picked up his pace. It would not do to let any of the winged people see him – for in this part of the world, most of them answered to Aram rather than to Flinneran’s distant master. As the pre-dawn twilight strengthened, enhancing his ability to see the way forward, he hurried until he was almost running. Reaching the great stairway that led up to the front of the city, he bounded quickly upward. The brightness in the eastern sky was growing with alarming rapidity.
The sound of voices stopped him just as he reached the top.
Men’s voices.
Here, in the city? His heart turned over in his chest and caught. Was it Aram?
Crouching on the third stair down below the level of the porch, he cocked his head, held his breath, and listened, poised to dash downward if necessary. After a few anxious moments, he discerned that the voices were in fact not coming nearer his position. Rather they now seemed to be receding, moving away and off to the right. Cautiously, he reared his head above the top of the stairway and peered across the great porch.
Two men were walking from his left to his right through the great passage just beyond the grand archways that pierced the city’s façade. Gaining the central avenue, they turned away from him beneath the largest of the arches, whereupon they continued up and into the city along that main thoroughfare. There was a thin tendril of smoke rising from the domed structure to his left, so he surmised that they had come from the great hall. As dawn was yet some time away, he realized that they could not have just arrived. They must be staying inside the city. Had he come hurrying up the stairway but a few minutes earlier, he would have blundered into them, for the granary, which was his destination, was on the next street over from the hall.
After reaching the second level of the city, the two men went into one of the large houses on the right and disappeared. Having caught random bits of their conversation, Flinneran discerned that they were working in one of the houses, most likely that dwelling which they’d just entered.
Were there two only, or were there more? Maybe there was a whole company of men involved in whatever project brought them here.
This thought made his head whipsaw around and he stared with frightened eyes down the stairway and strained his ears for sounds of approach out on the unseen avenue that lay beyond the defensive wall. After several minutes, having seen or heard nothing moving in the pre-dawn gloom, he turned the other way, gazing with rounded eyes at the front of the city and straining his ears for any small sound. Sometime later, the sound of hammers rang out from the house up the street where the two men had gone. But nothing else disturbed the coming dawn.
The sky grew brighter. Soon, the fowls of the air would take wing and their sharp eyes would peer down upon him; there was no time to dally. He pivoted and stared once more down the long stairway and then listened out onto the great avenue.
The stairway was deserted and he could hear nothing from beyond the wall. Perhaps luck still held with him, then, and there were only two workers. Returning his attention to the great porch, he gazed towar
d the left, from whence the two men had come, but there was only silence. Not a shadow moved anywhere in the twilight. Behind him, the coming dawn strengthened further.
Gathering his courage, he darted into the open and ran to his left, toward the great hall. He covered the distance in seconds and was through the arches and into the passage on the right of the hall that led toward the granary. Finding an alcove in the wall, he stopped for a moment to let his breathing calm down and listened once more.
Nothing moved or made a sound near at hand.
After a moment, he again heard the sound of ringing hammers far away to the right of the main avenue, in the direction that the men had gone. He was undiscovered. Quickly, he made for the granary, and found Aram’s stash of dried venison, dried fruits and bushels of grain. Working feverishly, he stuffed every available pocket and pouch with dried venison and fruit, ignoring the grain. Since he carried no means of cooking or even boiling water, grain would do him no good on the journey ahead.
Finally, satisfied that he could carry no more, he moved toward the exit. At the door of the granary, he stopped, listening. Again, hearing nothing nearby, he went out and turned toward the top of the city, choosing streets that climbed up to his left to avoid any possible contact with the two workers. The morning grew bright enough that he feared that Aram’s winged spies might already be in the sky so he kept to the shadows of the houses where possible and crept along beneath overhanging eaves and under the cover of trees where he could find them. Just as he found the passageway through the mountain, the first rays of the sun shot above the horizon.
He ducked inside and peered out, scanning the skies for the shadow of a wing.
Nothing moved in the morning sky near at hand.
Far below, the sound of hammers continued unabated.
He’d made it.
It was then that he remembered his gold, hidden away beneath the roots of the tree by the river at the southern end of the valley. His heart sank. Peering out once more, he looked into the south through the slanted light of the morning. Even with his head filled with thoughts of the glories to come, how could he have forgotten his treasure?
He sat in agony for some time, torn between his lust for the stolen fortune and the pull of great rewards certain to be bestowed upon him by the Lord of the World at the completion of his assigned task.
Then, thinking of the sack of golden coins in the room beneath the tower, he looked the other way, down and into the city. The tower was closer to his current position than it was to that of the two men he’d seen earlier, but uncertainty over their reasons for being in the city and their possible movements made trying for that gold seem riskier than attempting recovery of the hidden cache. Retrieving the gold from beneath the tree, though, would necessitate a delay of another day and night in the valley, even if he slipped back out of the city and down to the tree by the river unseen.
But trying for the gold in the tower risked discovery, perhaps a calamitous end to his efforts on behalf of his distant master, and the consequent dashing of his hopes for a new life. Besides, if he failed, Manon the Great would likely abandon the bestowing of rewards for the dispensation of punishment.
In the end, the desire to please the Lord of the World, who could undoubtedly bequeath wealth beyond imagining upon a trusted servant, and his need to see ruin visited upon Aram, won out.
Turning away from the valley he hoped never to see again in the course of his life, he went quickly along the dim passage. For much of the journey, the passageway was dark, for the sun was newly risen and he had to feel his way along in order to maintain his balance, keeping one hand upon the wall. Finally, the morning brightened sufficiently that the sunlight found the high, unseen shafts in the stone, letting him see the way ahead more clearly.
A thrill shot through him.
He was safely away and treading the road that would lead to a new life.
45.
“What do we know of our spy?” Manon’s sapphire eyes were hard and sharp as he examined the mighty black bird riding the breeze outside the doorway high up in the walls of his tower. “Was he successful in getting a thing of the woman?”
“Yes, Great Lord; he was successful.”
“What is the thing?”
“I plead your forgiveness, my lord, but I have not been able to make personal contact with him.” Bezathog replied. “I have not seen the object.”
“Indeed.” The grim lord’s eyes hardened further. “Are we certain he has the object?”
“Yes, my lord – of that I am certain. The serpents saw him return to the village with it.”
“Where is he now?”
The bird blinked its glittering eyes. “That is why I came to you, my lord. He did not go northward along the road as instructed. The serpents did not see him leave his hut, yet he is gone. But he is not on the northern road as instructed,” Bezathog repeated.
Manon pointed one stiff, sharp finger at the bird. “Go. Find him. Employ the wolves of Vallenvale. Tell them to find him and to bring me the object.”
“Yes, Great Lord. He will be found. The object will come to you – I swear it.” And with mighty beats of its massive wings, the bird lifted up and sailed away toward the south.
The grim lord watched him go and then gazed into the southeast for a few moments before moving back into the dark interior, sweeping the door closed with one small movement of his hand.
46.
It was just after mid-day when Aram and his company returned to the fortress three days after leaving Bryen and the wagons, and the men that had agreed to wait at the border of Cumberland to guide them in. Kipwing watched over the wagons and their drivers and had reported that they were progressing steadily through the northern reaches of Cumberland and were thus far unmolested.
As they were relieving the horses of their burdens, Findaen came down the stairs out of the fortress and met them at the corner of the walls.
“Is Marcus here?” Aram asked without preamble.
“He’s on the walls, my lord, looking through the starglass. He saw you come.”
“Bring him. Meet us in the war room. ”
Impelled by Aram’s gruffer than usual attitude, Findaen turned to comply without answering.
When Marcus descended the walls and entered the room, Aram was bent over the rude map of Elam that the young prince had drawn for the benefit of Alvern the eagle. He looked up as Marcus came in, nodded a greeting, and indicated a place on the parchment with a stiffened finger.
“What is here? Whose province is here?”
Marcus moved around the table to stand next to him, and examined the place Aram indicated. “That would be the province of Basura, my lord.”
“You described them as friends, I believe.” Aram looked over at him. “How well do you know them?”
“They are the best people in all the land, my lord.”
“They are more than friends, then?” When Marcus nodded, Aram continued. “Who among them is well-known to you?”
On the instant, Marcus felt a name take form on the tip of his tongue that he did not wish to speak. After a moment’s hesitation, in which he swallowed that name in favor of another, he stated, “Amund Basura was my teacher at the academy in Eremand, my lord. After my father’s death, he was like a parent to me. He is the first son of that house.”
“So he is a good man – trustworthy?”
“Utterly so,” Marcus answered.
“And he opposes the policies of the High Prince?” Aram persisted.
Marcus’ features darkened. “He despises Rahm Imrid, my lord – as much or more than even I do.”
Aram watched him for several seconds, digesting this information. Then, “You are mounted on Phagan?”
Startled by the abruptness of the query, Marcus gazed back with raised eyebrows. “Yes, my lord.”
Aram nodded. “Then prepare; gather supplies for several days. At dawn, you and Phagan, along with Huram, will go to Basura. You will go south along the
river and then turn west through the forests on the east of Elam. Alvern will guide you on your way and bring you to your friends.” He lifted his finger from the parchment and raised it in caution. “Be certain you give him clear and precise information as to the location of your friends, so that he may take you safely to them.” Aram straightened up and fixed Marcus with his fierce gaze. “Bring this Amund to me, if he will come.”
Marcus stared. “Bring him, my lord?”
“Yes, and quickly, if he is agreeable. I must learn his mind as to the state of things in your land. We have little time before the enemy is upon him and his house.”
Marcus stiffened. “They are being attacked?” He asked in alarm.
“The province is invaded,” Aram replied bluntly. “Alvern states that there has as yet been no contact between the two forces, but it will surely come, for Rahm’s forces move deliberately eastward. Hence – there is little time, as I said.” As the Prince spoke, Marcus looked into Lord Aram’s eyes and caught his breath because of what he saw there. In those green depths the cold light of deadly purpose shone brittle and hard.
As the young scion of Elam hesitated, trying to comprehend the meaning of this abrupt and blunt conversation, Aram frowned. “Do you understand what is required?”
“I know that you want me to bring Amund to you, my lord,” Marcus answered carefully. “But to what end? Is it your intention simply to save him from danger? For there is another – there are others in that land worth saving.”
Aram’s gaze softened and he leaned toward the young man. “Hear me, Marcus. It is my intention to save the whole of that land – your friends first and foremost. But I cannot simply invade Elam at my own volition. I must have permission and agreement in order to act.” He smiled. “You must know by now how quickly a horse can move across the face of the earth in relation to the speed of a man on foot.”
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 36
