“Until evening, then,” returned Aram and he turned once more to mount up.
As Aram swung into the saddle and Heglund and Amund prepared to take their leave of him, Marcus held up his hand. “Lord Aram – may I be considered among the contingent that will remain behind?”
Aram looked at him in surprise. “You may do as you like, Your Highness. You need not answer to me.”
“Nay – not so,” Marcus replied. “I have given you my fealty and will not revoke it until you give me leave to do so. I wish to remain in your service, my lord. Besides that, Phagan will want to winter among his own people. I will return with the others when General Kraine releases us, if you will allow me to stay.”
“As you will, Marcus,” Aram said. He gazed at the young man for a long moment, his face devoid of expression, and then he turned back to Heglund. “Until evening, then.”
“Until evening, my lord.” As he and his son hurried away, Heglund summoned his oxcart and driver. “To Sevas, quickly.”
Later that afternoon, after leaving Marcus and the contingent of twenty men to aid General Kraine in taking possession of the hurling machines and of the disposition of the prisoners, Aram gathered up the rest of his troops and headed east. Reaching the banks of the stream on the west of Tobol, he sent the wolves away to the north, back across the river, with orders to turn eastward and disperse among the eastern woods as before. Durlrang stayed with him, of course, and Leorg and Shingka were released to make their way back to Aram’s valley where they might rejoin their young family and aid in guarding Ka’en.
Aram and the main body of his troops went back east by way of the gates of Tobol and the main road. They arrived at Sevas when the sun was yet but an hour in the sky. As the horses cantered through the town, people came out of their houses and places of business to line the roadway. They made no noise. There was no cheering, but men removed their caps and women placed their hands over their hearts. News of that which had occurred beyond the gates of their second city had come to them and they knew full well that it was the work of this man from the east and his troop of men mounted on horses – those strange beasts their best scholars had thought gone from the earth for all time.
Upon first entering the town, Aram nodded his head to some of the citizens that were standing alongside the street. Then, as the people responded and began to acknowledge him and his troops in small ways, he became uncomfortable with the attention. He spoke to Thaniel in order to hurry him on into the shade of the woods that thickened just beyond the house of Heglund Basura.
Amund came out of the house when they thundered by and followed them into the trees, coming up to Aram and inclining his head. “The oxcarts with provisions for your men will be at the edge of the forest within the hour, my lord. There are grains, dried fruits and meats, also bread and fresh vegetables.”
Swinging down off Thaniel’s back, Aram tendered a grateful acknowledgement. “My men and I thank you, sir.”
“Not at all, my lord; we are honored to be of service, small though it is. Will you return with me to the house?” He asked and then laughed. “My father is most anxious to engage you in conversation.”
Thaniel swung his head around and looked at Aram. “Go, my lord. You need not attend me. Findaen may remove my armor.”
Aram met Thaniel’s gaze for a moment, looked at Findaen who nodded his head in agreement with the horse, and then turned to Amund. “I will come with you.”
The room in which they placed him so that he could change into fresh clothes – at the same time sending his own to be cleaned, reminded Aram of the Silver Arms, far to the east in Lamont. The chamber was expansive, with a bed to one side, and was richly furnished with heavy drapes at the windows and beautifully carven wood furniture that was upholstered with padded cloth of a rich brown color.
After washing up, he chose simple trousers of a dark green cloth and a white shirt from the closet to which a servant directed him. Then, dressed into these new clothes, he refused the boots in favor of his deerskins and followed the man down to the dining hall.
The dining hall was nearly as grand as that of the Hay of Lamont, wide and long with tall windows on the west side and an enormous table in the center that ran for much of its length. Richly upholstered chairs lined the table on both sides. There was a very fine chair at the head of the table, with the carved head of a hawk adorning its high back, and another that matched it in construction and decoration thirty feet or so away on the other end.
Heglund and Amund were standing to one side of the room, near the high windows, as he entered. A very thin, fragile-appearing, white-haired woman was already seated at the table, to the left of the fine chair that sat at its head. A much younger woman sat next to her. Both women turned to look curiously at Aram. When he returned their gaze for a moment, they inclined their heads to him politely and then found reason to look away and engage each other in conversation.
“Lord Aram! Welcome to my home,” Heglund cried as he and his son came to greet him. “This is my wife,” he stated, indicating the older woman, who remained seated but stretched out her hand to her husband. “The Lady Livia. And this is my granddaughter, Janifera.”
Aram bowed slightly to both women. “It is an honor,” he said.
Carefully, aided by her granddaughter and her husband, Lady Livia came to her feet.
“My husband will have expressed the gratitude of this House to you,” she said. “But I really must add my voice to his.” She inclined her head to him once more. “Thank you, sir, for all that you have done.”
Aram found the old familiar discomfort rising in him. “There were many beside me that were involved in driving the enemy away from Tobol, my lady,” he replied. “General Kraine and the men of this province behaved admirably.”
She frowned and seemed surprised by his curt response. Her eyes flicked toward her son, standing a bit behind Aram. Amund smiled and shook his head slightly. Livia brought her gaze back to Aram’s face. “General Kraine and our people fought well and bravely, of that I am certain. Nonetheless, sir; I thank you and your people for your part in this victory.”
Regretting his terse response, Aram looked into her faded eyes and then bowed, more deeply this time. “It was my – our – honor and privilege.”
“Please, Lord Aram; sit here by my father,” Amund said, indicating the chair to the right of the one at the table’s head.
When Aram was seated, Amund took the chair next to him. Involuntarily, he flinched and glanced up at the hilt of Aram’s sword. He drew in a deep breath and surreptitiously moved his chair a bit further away from his guest. Heglund helped his wife back into her seat and then positioned himself at the head of the table.
Perhaps they assumed that Aram would be very hungry after his journey from the west, for food was immediately brought to the table. Dinner was comprised of relatively simple fare, boiled potatoes with butter, venison, and a tasty, rather sweet, dense vegetable with which Aram was unfamiliar. The man and woman serving the table offered him both wine and beer. Aram chose wine.
There was very little conversation, other than small talk, during the course of the meal. Out of deference to Aram, who was in fact famished, though he forced himself to eat slowly and with a measure of dignity, Heglund and Amund withheld their questions.
When supper was finished and the dishes cleared away, Aram abruptly turned toward Heglund and said without preamble, “Do you know of a man named Hurack Soroba?”
Surprised by the question, Heglund simply nodded. “Soroba was for some years Chief Councilor to Waren Imrid when Waren was High Prince of Elam.”
“You knew Marcus’ father well?”
“Yes,” affirmed Heglund. “I was his Chancellor.”
“And you knew that Waren and his family were poisoned by Hurack Soroba?”
At this, Heglund stared. “He was? I mean – yes, I always suspected, but how –?”
“He admitted to it before I slew him,” Aram stated.
Heglund started, along with everyone else at the table. “You slew Hurack Soroba?”
“I did,” Aram replied bluntly. “On the southern edge of the plains. We were looking for slave trains to rescue when we found him coming south with a company of lashers.”
Heglund and Amund exchanged a look.
“Why did you kill him, my lord?” Amund asked.
“Because he served Manon,” Aram said simply as he turned to him. “Marcus told me of his suspicion that his uncle, Rahm, had conspired with Soroba to destroy his family. I – induced Soroba to confess his part in it to me.” He shrugged. “I then became convinced, based upon his words and his behavior, that it would be best not to leave him alive, so I did not let him live.”
“You knew, did you not,” Heglund inquired, “that Soroba was the prince of the north’s emissary to the throne of Elam?”
“Yes.”
“You kill his emissary and disrupt his trade in slaves.” Heglund’s eyes narrowed. “Will this not bring the attention of Rahm’s northern ally more directly upon you, my lord?”
“That will be nothing new.” Aram smiled thinly. “I have already defeated the armies of the grim lord three times. As I told Soroba before his death – I have lived much of my life with Manon’s eye fixed upon me.”
Heglund’s brow furrowed. “This northern prince – whom you name the ‘grim lord’ – he has ever been your enemy?”
“Yes,” Aram answered. “Just as I have ever been his.”
“Lord Aram,” Heglund said, as he leaned forward intently. “My son has told me of your assertion as to the identity of the prince of the north. But I trust that I give no offense if I ask it of you myself. Who is this ally of Rahm’s, this Manon, who names himself ‘lord of the world’?”
Aram frowned at this, surprised. “Have you not heard his name before? Is he not in your books of history?”
“There is a ‘Manon’ that is named in our histories, of course – an ancient god, and the enemy of King Joktan.” Heglund gazed back at Aram with rapt attention as he gave his reply. “But why would Rahm’s Manon be mentioned in history? He is our contemporary. How can it be, as you told my son, that he is the same god that fought against Joktan and Kelven so long ago, and was declared as destroyed, as they were, in that great war?”
“Because he was not destroyed,” Aram corrected him. “As I told Amund, It is true that for a time he was reduced – but he was not destroyed.”
As the meaning and forceful delivery of Aram’s words impinged upon those seated at the table, Heglund stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath, and the women gasped.
“So then, he – Manon – he is the same? He is Rahm’s northern ally?” Heglund asked, desperately trying to hold onto his disbelief. “He is the ancient god? Are you claiming this?”
“Claiming?” Aram met his eyes. “No, sir – I am stating it. He is the same. Kelven confronted him upon the mountain and intended his destruction. But Manon kept a part of himself in reserve. He was diminished in that meeting with Kelven, it is true, but he survived. And now he has arisen again.”
With an effort, Heglund moved his eyes from Aram’s face and gazed at his son. After a long moment, he looked again at Aram. “Forgive me, my lord; but are you certain of this?”
“I am certain.” Aram replied. “I have seen him. At least, I have seen his fellring and spoken with it. He is the same that slew King Joktan.”
Amund’s eyes widened and he leaned forward, causing Aram to look at him. “You have seen him?”
“And I have seen his fortress in the north of the world,” Aram affirmed. “He is Manon the Grim, and he has arisen again.”
“His fellring?” Amund looked at him in confusion as Aram’s earlier words registered. “You stated that you have seen his ‘fellring’?”
Aram nodded. “Long ago, in the war with Joktan, Manon learned that he could project small pieces of himself into far and disparate reaches of the earth. The horses named them ‘fellrings’. Now that his strength has grown, he is able to do so once again. I met one of his projections in the east, in the wastelands beyond Lamont. I talked with him. He is Manon the Grim, and none other.”
White-faced, Heglund reached out and touched Aram on the sleeve. “If he is a god, then are we not lost? For how will he ever be defeated? We do not have Kelven with us now – or even Joktan.”
“No.” Aram reached up and indicated the sword. “But we have this.”
Heglund stared at the sword and then turned his gaze downward upon the table and was silent for a time. When next he looked up, distress clouded his eyes. After exchanging a glance with his son, he looked at Aram.
“My lord, you have our undying gratitude for that which you have done for our people. And there is no question but that you are a great leader of men.” He paused, and his eyes went to his son and then to his wife before coming back to Aram. “It’s just that – forgive me, my lord – but only a few months ago, I had never heard your name. And now you tell us such astonishing things, that –” The distress in his eyes deepened and he held up a hand. “I do not doubt your words, my lord, but it is difficult to hear these things…”
Aram smiled grimly. “Doubt my words if you must. But tell me this – have you ever looked upon a lasher?”
“The beasts that come out of the north? Yes; I was at the palace once when Soroba came to confer with Rahm. He brought several dozen of them with him. Monstrous things, they are. Why?”
Aram’s smile disappeared. “From whence do those beasts arise, do you think?”
Heglund frowned and searched Aram’s face for clues. “I do not know, but they appear as if hell itself has spawned them.”
“He produces them,” Aram said quietly, watching Heglund closely.
“Manon?” Heglund’s widened gaze flicked to his son and back again. “How?”
Aram made to speak but then he hesitated and turned to look at the women across the table from him. Turning further, he looked at Amund for instruction.
Anxious for him to continue, Heglund waved Aram’s hesitation away. “My wife may hear anything that I hear, Lord Aram, and Janifera is strong. If things progress as we all believe they shall, she will be a princess one day. As such she will need to discover the strength to face the realities of the world in which we live.”
The young woman blushed at the mention of her future possibilities, but nonetheless nodded gravely to Aram. “I will hear what you have to say, my lord, however strange or macabre it may be.”
Livia inclined her head as well. “As will I.”
Aram studied the two women for a moment longer, as if confirming with his own impression of them the truth of their words. Then, finally, satisfied, he turned back toward Heglund.
“They are produced from the wombs of his slave women,” he said plainly, “and from those women that Elam sends to him.”
Janifera blanched and gasped, and Livia Basura put a trembling hand to her throat. Heglund stared in horror. Only Amund received this statement stoically.
“It is why,” Aram continued, “that Manon’s need is urgent and unabated. The more of his lashers I slay, the more he will have need of your young women.”
“Not ours,” Heglund replied and his eyes blazed. “Not any longer.”
“No, not ours,” Amund agreed fiercely. “The House of Basura halted its participation in Rahm’s ‘gifting’ to his ally more than a year ago.” Then his face went white and he looked at his father in horror. “But how many did we allow to be sent into such depravity before then?”
Heglund gazed aghast at his son and turned almost pleadingly to Aram. “My lord – you are certain of this? It is why the girls go north?”
Aram glanced once more at the women across the table before continuing. “Each woman,” he said quietly, “can give birth but once in the production of those beasts, for the process takes her life.” He looked at Livia and Janifera in sympathy. “Forgive me for being the bearer of these tidings into your home.”
Both women were crying softly, tears making small tracks down their faces.
Heglund suddenly sat up straighter and gazed at Aram with his eyes full of righteous fire. “I must beg your forgiveness, Lord Aram, for any doubts that I have harbored before this. Please tell me – how may the people of Basura aid you in preventing the perpetration of this horror?”
“The answer is simple,” Aram replied. “Though it may require more bloodshed to bring it about.” He looked directly at Heglund. “Someone other than Rahm Imrid must sit upon the throne of Elam. I cannot go north to confront Manon with enemies at my back. I would prefer to have the aid of a friend instead.”
“Yes, someone other than Rahm must rule in Elam,” Heglund agreed. He blinked and some of the fierceness left his eyes. “You, Lord Aram? Will you replace Rahm?”
Aram started and frowned. “No. Never. Waren’s son, Marcus, belongs there.”
“As your vassal?” Heglund persisted.
“As my friend,” Aram stated to the older man, his frown deepening in displeasure at the former Chancellor’s suggestion. “And my ally.” His gaze hardened as he turned his gaze full upon the older man. “Your son and I already held this discussion, sir. As I told him; I have no desire to impose my rule on anyone, sir.”
“I did not mean to offend you, my lord.” Heglund answered, somewhat abashed by his guest’s demeanor.
“I am not offended, sir,” Aram replied shortly. “But hear me clearly; I do not covet what rightfully belongs to another.”
“How do we bring it about?” Asked Amund in calm tones, directing the conversation back to the main question. “How do we replace the odious Rahm with our young friend?”
Aram looked at him. “Even with the near destruction of the army he sent against you, the strength of those yet allied with him is formidable. My own forces, even with the addition of Seneca, number less than fifteen thousand men. Mine are more experienced, but –”
“Seneca?” Amund’s features conveyed shock as he interrupted. “Seneca yet exists? The land lost in the mists of the far east ages ago? Or do you speak of another?”
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 50
