At least until tonight.
Soames knew that bringing a third party into the scheme would increase his risk, but it couldn't be avoided. When the king had heightened security around the excavations, he needed help to get the job done.
Wilson's loose tongue had almost gotten them both killed earlier. Neither of them had seen the ambush until it was too late.
Stupid, he thought, just plain stupid. With two arrows in his chest, Wilson was probably dead. He'd warned the fool to keep his mouth shut. Well. . . too bad for Wilson. Due to some quick thinking, he had managed to get away clean before he was identified. Certainly whoever had tried to kill him was still out there, but they were probably blocks away now. The fools. He would just have to lay low for a while, till things calmed down.
Every once in a while he checked back over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit, all the while keeping well back into the shadows. With a little more luck, he would make the fifteen-mile ride back and slip into the palace unnoticed. It was wonderful.
Sturga was an old city—one of the oldest in the North Country. Once an active commercial center, it had the misfortune of being located directly on the border between Elgaria and Alor Satar. When the war concluded, the city had been virtually divided down the middle by the two nations, and was now governed by two separate counsels, each with its own mayor. Its streets were narrow, twisting, and uneven, worn down from centuries of use. Though most of the homes he passed were neat and tidy with wood shingle roofs, he noticed that a few had the new red tiles that were becoming so popular over the last few years. Most of the homes were made predominantly of either brick or gray stone. Some had heavy wooden beams set in faded yellow plaster, parts of which had fallen away over the years, revealing the foundation material underneath. It would be a perfectly pleasant neighborhood when the sun was out, Soames decided. Just the kind he would live in one day.
Quinton Soames was a trusted officer in Karas Duren's personal bodyguard. He had been a soldier ever since he was twenty years old, and it was all he really knew, except for thieving. When construction on the new palace wing in nearby Rocoi began almost a year earlier and the ruins were discovered, he was the one they entrusted the task of cataloging the artifacts. Most of it was junk, of course— combs, brushes, pieces of glass, and some pots. Still, if people were willing to part with good money for that kind of rubbish, who was he to argue? A few of the pieces were even valuable, like the odd ring he sold earlier that evening for six gold crowns.
Must have been its color, he decided.
They had also found parts of old machines the Ancients might have used at one time or another. But no one at the palace had any idea what they did. Whatever the machines were, it was obvious the king had an interest in them—an obsessive interest, in Soames's opinion. Rumors had been flying around the palace for weeks about He plucked the dagger from his belt and, with deft fingers, quickly slipped the latch on the door and went in.
It took a full minute for his breathing to return to normal as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He was in a kitchen. A copper kettle sat on the stove, and a small table with two chairs stood in the far corner of the room. The limestone floor wouldn't creak when he walked on it. In the center of the room was a solid-looking butcher block table with a bowl of peaches on it. Soames absently picked one up and took a bite, then wandered over to the window and looked out. He congratulated himself on eluding the patrol once again, but their persistence was becoming annoying. He was far too clever for their clumsy efforts.
Once he was certain they were gone, he'd let himself out, get to his horse, and be back at the palace before the guard changed. For the first time in several minutes Soames let himself relax and examined his surroundings. Even in the dark he could tell it was a pleasant little room. Exactly the kind he was going to have one day. He fingered his gold coins lovingly and thought about what it would be like—away from the army, away from the king with his unpredictable moods. Just a quiet, peaceful life—
Soames never got the chance to complete his thought. The kitchen window burst open, showering him with glass, and a powerful arm gripped him around the throat and lifted him off his feet, pulling him backward. Soames fought wildly, trying to break the grip. Panic seized him and his legs kicked out. He tried reaching his dagger, but as soon as he did, his arms were also pinned. In the struggle, his coin purse broke loose and the gold crowns clattered out onto the floor. The arms that held him were immensely strong, almost completely white, and hairless. The grip around his throat never slackened, and soon his struggles grew weaker. Terror took hold as he fought to remain conscious, still trying to pry the arm loose from his throat.
Through a haze of pain he watched the kitchen door slowly open. There was just enough light from a nearby
street lamp to see by. He tried to scream, but there wasn't enough air left in his lungs to do so.
A slender figure wrapped in a gray cloak stepped into the room. Like the creature holding him, its skin was parchment white and disheveled yellow hair hung down almost to its shoulders. The Orlock glanced around the room for a moment without speaking, then slowly walked up to him.
"The ring," it said, holding out its hand.
"What?" Soames gasped.
"I don't wish to ask again, human."
Soames's ferretlike eyes narrowed as his mind raced to find a way out of the situation. "I don't know what you're talking about. I just came to town to visit a friend and maybe have a drink or two. That's all. If Duren finds out you've attacked one of his officers, you're going to be in deep trouble."
The Orlock stared at him without blinking for a moment, then glanced at his companion, who was holding Soames.
"We know about the last ring that was found this morning, and we know you took it. You've been stealing artifacts from the palace and reselling them here in Sturga for several months now. Since you're an officer, I'll assume you possess some degree of intelligence. So, let us make a deal. Hand over the ring to us and we'll tell Lord Duren you escaped. You can keep the rest of your plunder and your life. I assure you it's a far better bargain than Karas Duren would extend.
Soames shuddered at the thought, but his eyes again narrowed shrewdly. "Why so interested in the ring?" he asked.
"We're not—Duren is."
"Then we're both out of luck," Soames said. "I sold it to an Elgarian merchant named Harol Longworth. By now he's already on his way to Devondale for their Spring Festival. But he's coming back in three days. I can get it for you then. I swear."
The Orlock looked at Soames for several seconds, then reached out and took him by the chin, turning his head one way and then the other. Very slowly the creature leaned forward and brought its lips close to Soames's ear. "What a pity," it whispered.
In the month that followed Roland's death, Karas Duren learned more about the rings. While he came to increase his abilities significantly, he also found the results were not always predictable. Sometimes things exploded, melted, or just disappeared without his intending them to do so, which proved very annoying.
Try as he might, he was never able to learn why the Ancients wanted to destroy the very things that gave them virtually unlimited power. Such incongruities baffled him. Certainly an exercise in poor judgment, he concluded. In the end only eight rings remained. He possessed four of them, which left four others unaccounted for. One was stolen earlier, leaving three loose in the world. Duren had instructed his agents to redouble their efforts to recover them. This was the subject of today's meeting. The two men with him were his sons, Armand and Eric.
After the soldier closed the door behind them, Duren raised his hand, and the lamps around the room blazed, revealing a large manlike creature in the corner. Its skin was pasty white, and disheveled strands of yellow-white hair hung down just past a pair of slender shoulders. Its face was large and misshapen, with a flat nose and wide nostrils. Both of his sons immediately drew their weapons, but Duren restrained them, reaching o
ut to place a gentle hand on each of their arms.
"It's quite all right, Hrang is a friend. I am so grateful you came," he said to the Orlock. As Duren spoke, a large chair scraped across the room to him, and he sat down. Armand and Eric glanced at each other. The Orlock displayed no reaction.
Ever so slowly, Duren's sons released the grips on their weapons. Only then did the Orlock appear to relax, lowering the axe he was carrying. His black eyes, however, continued to move between all three of them, watching
and alert. The creature was dressed in black from head to foot and wore a hardened leather jerkin designed more as a piece of armor than for comfort.
"Have you found what we spoke of?" Duren asked. "We found it, Duren," it replied in a low tone of voice, not much louder than a whisper.
Armand, the older of Duren's sons, started to react when the Orlock failed to use his father's title, but Duren shook his head, unfazed.
"Excellent," he said. "Give it to me." The Orlock hesitated before continuing. "We were too late. The ring was sold to a human, an Elgarian merchant, by one of your ex-soldiers shortly before we got there." "Ex-soldier?" Armand asked.
The Orlock laughed once to himself, but didn't respond to the question.
A small tic appeared under Duren's left eye, and he seemed to be containing himself only with effort. "You disappoint me. I do not like to be disappointed," he said, emphasizing each word.
The creature immediately backed up against the wall, putting his hands to his throat, and began to gasp for air. The tic under Duren's eye became more pronounced. Confused, his sons looked from their father to the Orlock and then back again. Duren watched impassively as the creature went to its knees, choking. Seconds passed before he released it.
"I want those rings—all of them. Do you understand me, Hrang? Nothing else matters—nothing. Plans have been made. Events set in motion that cannot be stopped. I would not like to be disappointed again."
The Orlock, whose expression was unreadable, nodded, rose slowly and started walking toward the darkened library. When he got to the door, he stopped, looked at each of the three men in turn, laughed again under his breath, and was gone.
Armand was a big man with large hands, broad shoulders, and a full beard. He was dressed in the same black and silver uniform as his soldiers. As soon as the Orlock disappeared, he spun around on his father and snapped, "Have you lost your mind?"
Duren raised his eyebrows and considered his son's question. "I don't think so," he said eventually.
"But, Father, Orlocks?" Eric said. "This is insanity. What have we to do with Orlocks?"
"What has anyone to do with Orlocks for that matter?" Armand added.
Eric was shorter than his brother and considerably less wide, closer in physique to his father. Sharp features and intense brown eyes immediately gave the impression of intelligence. Unlike Armand, he was dressed in green and black silks. Where his elder sibling was blunt in manner and speech, Eric was far more reserved and polished. Though he lacked Armand's physical prowess in battle, he was acknowledged by both of them to be the superior tactician.
Duren regarded each of his sons, a faint smile playing on his lips. "One world, one rule," he said eventually.
The message was clear at once. They had seen the very same words carved at the base of their greatgrandfather's statue in the palace rotunda almost every day of their lives. Large, forbidding, and possessed of an uncanny ability to discern the weakness of his enemies, Oridan had nearly achieved his goal on two different occasions. Almost single-handedly he had carved the nation of Alor Satar out of the bloody succession wars nearly 160 years before, to become the most powerful and feared country in the eastern world. Oridan's goal became his son's, and though less successful than his father, Gabrel Duren had managed to nearly double the size of Alor Satar in the fifty-three years he ruled. Gabrel was their grandfather.
Eric had not yet reached his ninth birthday when his father's campaign against the West had collapsed, thanks in large part to the weaknesses of their allies. He remembered the events in vivid detail. Armand and he had spoken of it to each other on numerous occasions, reviewing the things that went wrong. Their father never did.
"How will this time be any different, Father?" Eric asked.
Duren walked across the room and stood next to ths odd crystal column rising out of the floor. His fingers ran lightly over the smooth surface almost like a caress barely touching it. •
While he did so, his eyes became distant and unfo cused, but he spoke not a word. Armand and Eric looked at each other, puzzled by their father's odd behavior, and waited.
After a moment Duren turned back to them and sat down to explain.
4
Devondale
Mathew saw Lara and Daniel waiting for them by the entrance to the garden next to Father Thomas's house.
"Hello, Mathew," Lara said, smiling as she saw him walk up.
He returned both her smile and greeting as he shook Daniel's hand.
With wide cheekbones and expressive brown eyes, almost hazel in color, Lara would have been considered beautiful by any standard. Her face was framed by a mass of thick chestnut hair that hung loosely about her shoulders. A year or two earlier, her figure had lost most of its angular features, rounding out nicely. Mathew noticed she was wearing her hair back that day, which made her look older. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but decided that making no comment would be best as Collin greeted the others.
"Hey, did you hear about the soldiers in town?" Daniel asked.
"Yep," Collin answered. "Mat and I passed a group of them on the way here."
"I wonder what they're doing here in Devondale."
"Didn't you listen to Father Thomas's sermon at all?" Lara asked. "They want volunteers to go to Sturga and fight the Bajani. They've been raiding the border towns."
"Well, they can ask till their hearts are content," Collin replied. "I'm not going off to fight anyone. I've never even seen a Bajani."
"Collin Miller, you couldn't go if you wanted to," Lara said. "You're not old enough,"
"I could too go. Rory Osman went just last summer, and he's only four months older than me."
"Rory Osman is a year older than you—and good riddance," she said emphatically. "He was nothing but a braggart, a troublemaker, and he lied about his age."
"The soldiers looked like they were headed in this direction," Collin said, changing the subject, and looking somewhat unnecessarily down the street. "Mat overheard them talking about Orlocks."
Daniel and Lara both blinked in surprise and turned toward Mathew.
"I said I thought I heard one of them say something about Orlocks, but I'm not certain. I was just passing by and I wasn't trying to overhear their conversation." He gave Collin a sour look.
"No one in Devondale would even know what an Or-lock looks like," Lara said, lowering her voice. "My father says they haven't been seen since long before we were all born. I thought all of the filthy things were destroyed in the war."
"I suppose they were," Mathew replied cautiously. The mention of Orlocks made him grimace. If there were any Orlocks still left in the world, he wanted nothing to do with them.
While his friends were talking, Mathew glanced around Father Thomas's garden—it looked oddly empty. Usually there were at least eight to ten others there by now, and today there were only the four of them.
"What are you looking so confused about, Mathew?" Lara asked.
"I thought there would be more people here for the practice, that's all," he replied.
Lara took a deep breath and smiled. "Mathew Lewin, I swear, if your head wasn't fixed to your shoulders you'd leave it at home. Father Thomas told us last week that services would be short today because of the tournament. Practice ended a half hour ago. Everyone's already left for the square. I had Garon take your equipment down there for you," she added, affectionately brushing a rebellious lock of hair off his forehead.
"Goddamn it! We were so blasted busy at the farm it must have slipped my mind. Oh hell, I hope he's not angry
He was about to add something stronger, but seeing Lara's eyebrows arch and the smile disappear from her face, he decided against it. Ever since she made the transition from tomboy to young woman about a year earlier, Lara had begun to show an increasing dislike for strong language in public, even though she could curse as well as any man he'd ever met if she wanted to.
"Uh . .. sorry, I. . ."
For an answer to his mumbled apology, he got a lifted chin and a disdainful "Hmph," before she turned and walked out of the garden gate.
Daniel watched her leave and shook his head. "I wonder where they learn that look?" he said.
"I think their mothers teach them secretly when no one's around," Collin replied, pushing Daniel toward the gate. "Let's get moving."
As they emerged from the garden and were starting down the street, Mathew's arm was gripped by a set of strong fingers. Turning, he looked back at the broad, smiling face of Ella Emson. Her husband, Lucas, the town's blacksmith, was with her. Lucas was a wide man, thickly muscled, with a full beard, short brown hair, and an amiable expression. His wife nearly matched him in both height and girth.
"Why, Mathew Lewin, just look at you!" Ella exclaimed. "I swear you've grown another six inches since I saw you last. How have you been? And how is that father of yours?"
"Thank you, ma'am. I've been just fine. My father's well too. But if you'll excuse me, I have to get—"
"Oh, I just can't believe it. Can you, Lucas? I remember when he was born. Don't you, dear?"
"Yes, Ella. Of course I remember. I was there, wasn't I?" Lucas replied patiently. "Missed you in church, Mat. Will Bran be here today?"
Collin and Daniel discreetly separated themselves from Mathew and kept walking. They looked over then-shoulders sympathetically and wiggled their fingers goodbye.
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0) Page 3
