Scowling at this, Aram turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”
Leorg was seated on his haunches, wrapped in bandages, holding one paw gingerly up off the unforgiving stone. “Lord Durlrang told me many times that if he could choose the circumstances of his death, he could think of nothing more desirable than that his last act be expended in rendering you aid, my lord.”
“He did more than that – he saved my life,” Aram told him. He met Leorg’s gaze for a moment and his eyes overflowed even as his countenance darkened. “I would that it was the other way around – that I had died and he had not.”
“And Lord Durlrang would not have it so,” Leorg chided him gently. “For he could not change the world, and thereby save it. You, my lord, can.”
Aram stared at him, bitterness and grief fighting for control of his heart, and found that he had no answer.
If he had known in that moment the extent of the sorrow still to come, he could not have borne it.
Carefully, he removed Durlrang’s body from the talon of the dragon and carried him down the stairway to the great avenue, laying him gently on the grass beneath the spreading branches of the trees of the orchard. It was then, as he stood gazing down upon the lifeless body of one of his oldest friends, that he remembered another, even more ancient friendship.
Thaniel.
Since their parting at the foot of the steps, he had not had any contact with the great horse.
Bending his mind to the effort, concern flooding his heart, he sent a thought searching out across the undulating grasslands of the valley.
Thaniel – are you there?
After a long silence, the reply came back.
The horse’s voice seemed odd, lacking its usual deep timbre.
Near the end of the avenue, Aram, south of the pyramids.
Hearing the strangeness in Thaniel’s tone, Aram looked one more time at Durlrang and then sprinted rapidly out toward the end of the avenue. Smoke still rose into the sky from many points in the valley. As he grew closer to the end of the avenue, he saw that there were two thin tendrils of smoke arising from a point just south of where the avenue joined with the main road, near a stream that meandered through a shallow depression.
Thaniel stood at the bottom of that depression, near the twin sources of the tendrils of smoke, with his head lowered.
Even before he came near, Aram grasped the terrible meaning of the scene before him. Beside the stream, lying very close together next to the base of a vertical wall of a small outcropping of rock, there were two smoldering carcasses. Though they were burned so badly as to be rendered unidentifiable, Aram nonetheless knew immediately who they were, or had been. By his posture and demeanor, Thaniel knew them, too.
Florm and Ashal.
The world’s most ancient horse, the venerable lord of all his kind, had evidently been trying to protect his spouse by positioning her next to the rock as he stood between her and the alien menace prowling the skies overhead. Both had died in wicked conflagration.
It seemed to Aram in that moment that his heart, in order to preserve itself, turned to stone. The day, still so young, had already begotten more tragedy than any heart could sustain.
Walking slowly, as if the terrible weight of the miles of sky above him had become as solid as the mountains and fallen upon his shoulders, Aram moved down the slope to stand beside Thaniel. He knew that he should weep, but his eyes felt dry and cold as harshest winter.
“I am sorry, my brother.” It was all he could think to say.
The horse didn’t move. His head was low, and his eyes were closed. After a moment, he said, “This is the doing of Manon.”
Aram stared down at the smoking mound of flesh and bone and hair that had once been his first friend upon the earth. “Yes, it is,” he affirmed.
“I place my life in your hands, Aram,” Thaniel said then.
Aram looked at him sharply. “What do you mean – to what end?”
Thaniel swung his head around, opened his eyes and looked at him. Those large dark orbs were filled with the pain of unbearable loss. “I will bear you to him and give up my life in any way that will aid you in his destruction.”
Aram’s eyes narrowed and hardened and his heart grew colder yet. “Oh, I promise you, my friend; I will destroy him. And it will not cost your life.”
Thaniel continued to gaze at him. “I want vengeance for my father and mother, Aram.”
Slowly, Aram nodded; his eyes like green ice, as hard and cold as his heart. “I will give you vengeance.”
65 .
By the next mid-day, the valley filled up with men and horses.
Alerted by Kipwing of the catastrophic events that had occurred in the valley, Findaen and the other captains had gathered every man with a mount and come north with all haste, stopping for only a few hours in the deeps of night, and then coming on to the valley, arriving in late morning. As they filed across the river, they stared with wondering eyes at the huge alien carcass yet smoldering upon the ridge between the rivers.
Though most of the macabre flesh had been consumed, the enormous bones stood up stark and pale in the sunlight, silvery bright, like burnished steel. The most astonishing thing of all, rendered more so by their first glimpse of the massive remains of the beast, was the fact that – as Kipwing had related – their prince had done this. Yes, everyone knew of his sword, that very strange and powerful weapon whose origins were steeped in mystery; and it had undoubtedly played its part. Still, the fact that he had slain such a monster on his own amazed them beyond words.
They found Aram at the edge of the orchard, below the walls of his city, at work digging four graves, one each for Florm, Ashal, Durlrang, and Simma. Thaniel stood off to one side, immense and silent. Ka’en, Aram informed Findaen, was inside the great hall, attending to the many wounded wolves and bears, and could use aid in that labor.
Refusing aid in his current endeavor, Aram put the men and horses to work doing other things. Some he sent out to scour the valley for survivors and dead bodies alike. To others, he gave the task of burying the bodies of the loyal wolves and burning the carcasses of those that had come into the valley with evil intent. Still others, he sent south to the town, to attend to the dead there.
By careful questioning of the horses, he found several that were willing to climb the long stairway up to the great porch and help the men dissemble the carcass of the dragon that had died there. Aram himself, he told them, would use the Sword of Heaven to cut up the huge carcass if it became necessary. Once it was reduced to segments, they would move the pieces to the edge of the porch, spilling them into the passageway below where others could drag them into the countryside for final disposal.
“Call upon me at need,” Aram said, looking around at the assembly. “Let us return this valley, as soon as we may, to a semblance of what it was before evil came here.”
Watching him as he gave orders, Findaen was struck by the difference in Lord Aram.
He had always been apart, even above, his contemporaries. Now, with the horrific events that had occurred in his valley, and with the slaying of the dragons – a feat far beyond the comprehension of every man other than him – Aram seemed even further apart than ever. But it wasn’t just the astounding deeds that he had recently committed in defense of his wife, his valley, and his city that had wrought the change. There was something else.
Lord Aram, always a hard, dangerous man, now seemed to be frighteningly so.
Though he was as considerate and accommodating as ever, he now gave commands with a terseness that belied his acknowledgement of something all those who knew him had accepted long ago – that his lordship over the men that followed him was unquestioned, and very nearly absolute.
He was a king.
Others had known it for some time.
He knew it now.
But even that fact didn’t explain the depth and extent of the change that had occurred in the heir to the ancient monarchs that had ruled f
rom this valley.
There was an unstated sense of purpose that had not been there before. Findaen had known Aram longer than any other man present, and he had always known him to be a man of intense determination and unwavering will. Both attributes had, in some mysterious way, been heightened by the events of the last day.
Findaen could not say for certain just how the change was exhibited; in fact, it was felt far more than it could be seen. But as he watched Aram giving directions to the men for the restoration of his valley he felt it plainly.
Lord Aram had changed.
And the world would soon feel the effects of that change in this, the king of free men.
After Aram had assigned duties to the men, Findaen gathered up a few of them and went up the stairway and into the city to lend aid to his sister.
He found her in the hall, dealing with dozens of wounded wolves. As he knelt down beside her to inquire as to how best he and his companions could lend her aid, he looked over and said, “There is something different about your husband.”
She nodded without looking at him. “Yes, Fin, there is – and it frightens me.”
His gaze sharpened. “Frightens you? How?”
“He is so cold and distant now.”
“To you?” He asked.
She hesitated for a moment and then shook her head. “No – not to me, or to anyone, for that matter. He is as kind to me as ever. It’s – inside him – that’s where the coldness is, somewhere inside.” She shook her head again. “I can’t explain it, Fin. But it scares me – for him.”
After a moment, he nodded. “Yes, I think I just witnessed what you’re talking about,” he said. He straightened up and looked around. “Well, Sis; we’re here – put us to work.”
It should have been a delicate, somber process, gathering together the dead. Instead, because of the charred nature of the bodies, which interfered with the process of the natural stiffening of muscles, it was often messy, appalling work. The worst moment occurred when Thaniel was pulling the bodies of his parents, placed upon a frame built by Aram, toward the orchard where he’d agreed that they would be buried. The horse, who would accept no aid in the fearful task of bringing his parents bodies to their final resting place, stumbled backward as he was dragging his father’s body to the top of a small rise. His hoof slipped on a rock that turned beneath it. He stepped back to regain his balance and buried his hoof in the charred remains of Florm’s flesh.
Aram froze in silence, horrified, while Thaniel flinched and looked back, aghast at what he’d done. Then the horse dropped his head and moved out to the end of the rope. There he stood for a long while with his head lowered almost to the ground, breathing heavily with his eyes closed.
Finally, Aram said quietly, “I’m sorry, my brother; that was my fault.”
“No, Aram; it was mine.” Thaniel stood unmoving for a moment longer. Then he spoke in anguished tones. “I know that my father and mother are in a far better place, in a pleasant field, running through grass that reaches to their withers and is ever green and sweet. Still – I miss them, and always will.”
“I know, my friend, I know.”
When the bodies of Florm and Ashal were at last moved up the avenue and placed in the graves that Aram had dug for them, alongside Durlrang and Simma, Aram sent everyone away, except for those connected to the dead by blood. He, Thaniel, and Ka’en, along with Borlus, Hilla, and their son, and Durlrang’s daughter, Shingka, and his nephew, Leorg, stood quietly together for a while as the sun dropped down the sky and began to slide behind the great black mountain.
Finally, Aram looked over at Thaniel. “What do we do now, my friend?” He asked gently.
“I do not know,” Thaniel replied. His head was lowered to the ground and his eyes were closed. “We have never buried our kind in the earth before this.” When Aram did not immediately respond, he continued. “He was your friend, my lord. Say, or do, what seems right to you.”
Silently, Aram nodded.
He looked down for several minutes upon the bodies of the four people whose graves he had dug with his own hand. Florm, the Lord of All Horses, and his spouse, Ashal. Then Durlrang, the fierce chief of the wolves of the high plains. All three of them were cherished friends. And then there was Simma, who he had not known well at all, and yet whose father was one of his oldest and dearest companions. Raising his head, he gazed around his valley as the shadows lengthened and birds began to settle into the trees of the orchard, chirping softly in the evening. Nature, it seemed, was doing its best to erase the effects of the terrible tragedies that had overtaken this gentle place.
Aram glanced over at Ka’en, who was crying softly, and then he looked back out over the shadowed valley and spoke.
“Once, I was alone in a world that seemed forever darkened by evil, where goodness was hunted to destruction by the vile servants of the grim lord. It seemed to me many times that evil would ultimately triumph and the world would be lost forever to the malice of Manon. Then I met Florm, the Lord of All Horses, the son of Armon, and the grandson of Boram. And in him, I met hope and wisdom. I learned that goodness yet dwelled in the earth in optimism and strength. He was a father to me when I was fatherless. Lady Ashal was to me a mother when I was motherless.” He looked down. “I will miss you – I will miss you both.” At this, his voice broke as his heart swelled with grief and he paused, squeezing the moisture from his eyes.
Ka’en stepped up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Reaching up, Aram covered her hand with his and drew in a shuddering breath.
“Lord Florm,” he said, opening his eyes once again, “gave me purpose. He showed me that for good to prevail, evil must be resisted by those with the courage, the will, and the strength to resist.” He looked for a moment over at Thaniel. “And he introduced me to my nearest friend, and the only brother I have ever known.”
He paused once more, swallowing at the grief that threatened to overcome him. Then he looked down, breathing deeply, and continued. “Lord Durlrang, my friend, I will miss you. Faithful servant and companion, you came to my aid when I needed you most. Run well…” His voice broke again and once more he went silent. Ka’en gently squeezed his shoulder.
Regaining his composure, Aram went on, “…run well, my friend, through those green fields of your long home, where your faithful spouse has so long awaited you.”
He choked down his rising emotion and looked at the fourth grave, where Simma lay quiet. “And you, daughter of my great friend; I thank you for giving all in the defense of your family and my mate. We will miss you. Your father, your mother, and I – we will all miss you.”
He stood quietly for another long moment, and then he took up his shovel and began filling the graves. It took him more than two hours to replace the earth he’d removed from the ground in order to inter his lost friends. Night drew on before he was done. Knowing that he would refuse any and all offers of aid, Ka’en and the others stood to the side, silently, while he labored at his appointed task.
At last he was finished.
He laid the shovel aside and stood with his head bent down upon his chest.
Then, abruptly, and without speaking another word, Aram left the graveside and went rapidly away from those gathered there. Walking quickly, he disappeared among the trees of the darkening orchard. Ka’en gazed after him in stunned silence. His demeanor suggested that he intended to walk away from this place of sorrow and continue on until he reached the very ends of the earth.
A few moments later, they heard him, deep among the trees, giving vent to wrenching sobs of grief. Startled, Ka’en made to go to him, but Thaniel moved between her and the orchard, preventing her.
“Stay, my lady. Stay with us,” he said to her quietly. “This grief of Lord Aram’s is from a time before you, before he found you and you brought joy into his life. Let him be. When he has released his grief, he will return and then you may console him.” He raised his head and stared into the gloom beneath the trees where Aram
had gone. “May this be the last of such grief that he – or any of us – will bear.”
.
66.
Five of the injured wolves of Leorg’s band died from their injuries, despite Aram and Ka’en’s best efforts. Borlus had suffered a deep gash along his left front shoulder that worried Aram for some time, but eventually, it stopped seeping and began to heal. Shingka, who’d been very seriously hurt, suffering from many cuts and gashes, nonetheless recovered at an astonishing rate, surprising everyone but Leorg and Aram, who knew that her fierce, martial spirit must necessarily be allied with an equally fierce constitution.
Gorfang hovered on the edge of life and death for the better part of a week, remaining unconscious. Ka’en worried and fretted over him daily, trying to get him to swallow a bit of water, but to no avail. The wolf did not die, but he remained in exile from the land of living souls.
On the afternoon of the fifth day, the ancient wolf’s body seemed more emaciated than before. When he still showed no response to Ka’en dipping her fingers in water and placing them in his mouth, she looked up at Aram with limpid eyes.
“What else can I do? Is he going to die?”
Aram shook his head in sorrow. “I cannot say, my love. I don’t know what else there is that may be done for him.”
She looked back down, her tears dripping onto the matted hair of Gorfang’s shoulders, where the bone bulged and seemed determined to pierce through. “He saved me, Aram. He saved my life. He woke me and took me into the mountain else I would have perished. Then he fought three wolves to save me.” She looked up again. “He cannot die – he cannot die.”
Aram knelt beside her and gently probed the old wolf’s throat with his forefinger. After some time, he found it; a weak, slow pulse. It was unsteady, but it was there.
He looked over at Ka’en. “Talk to him. Wherever he is, maybe he will hear you. What else is there to do? Talk to him.”
“Show me where his heartbeat may be found,” she said.
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 56
