Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0)

by Mitchell Graham

  Mathew whistled through his teeth.

  "Do you know what else?" Daniel went on excitedly. "If you reverse the curve of the glass pieces—I mean from out to in—and you put them in a small tube, you could even see really tiny things, smaller than you can see with your normal vision."

  Lara and Mathew looked at each other and shrugged.

  "That's pretty impressive," Mathew said. "What are you going to do with it once you finish? You have at least a dozen inventions lying around your house now."

  "Oh, I don't know. I suppose I'll think of something."

  "Until something else comes along that interests you more," Lara said.

  Daniel smiled self-consciously and looked at the floor, while Lara sat on the edge of the bed and turned her at­tention to feeding Mathew. Until the first spoonful, Mathew didn't realize how hungry he was. When he had almost finished the bowl, she paused for a moment and ran her fingers over his chin.

  "Yuck. You look like a bear. I'll tell your father to bring a razor the next time he comes."

  "Yuck?" Mathew said, feeling his chin. It might have been a little scratchy, but he didn't think it was all that bad.

  Lara surveyed him closer, shook her head, then leaned over to brush the usual lock of hair back from Mathew's forehead. As she did, Mathew suddenly became aware of how close her breasts were to his face. He also noticed the top two buttons of her dress were undone, revealing some of her cleavage. Unfortunately, Lara chose just that moment to look down, and noticed him noticing.

  Mathew neither saw her eyebrows arch nor the faint smile that played at the corners of her mouth. While he continued admiring the fulsome view, unbeknownst to him, Lara's left hand slipped under his bedcovers and crept unobtrusively up between the middle of his legs as she fed him another spoonful of soup.

  A second later Mathew's eyes flew open in shock and he almost jumped off the bed with a startled cry.

  "What?" Daniel said, dropping the brass tube.

  "I'm sorry," Mathew replied, catching his breath. "Just a sudden pain."

  "My goodness, are you all right?" Lara asked sweetly.

  "Yes," Mathew said, drawing out the word and look­ing at her.

  "You really should be more careful with yourself," she said, her eyes wide.

  "Don't worry ... I will," he promised.

  Lara apparently decided it might be a good time to get up, which she did, and quickly stepped back out of his reach.

  Daniel saw another look pass between them, but de­cided not to inquire further.

  "By the way, where are my clothes?" Mathew asked, changing the subject.

  Lara grimaced. "Helen had to wash them; there was blood on them and everything. But do you know what else? You have new boots! Yours were ruined from the snow, and she made you the loveliest pair to replace them," she said excitedly.

  "Really?"

  "Mm-hmm."

  Lara bent down and picked up a shiny new pair of boots from next to the little table.

  Mathew felt his stomach sink when he saw them. They were a dark burgundy with little intricate designs at the toe.

  "I just think they're the pretti—I mean, handsomest pair I've ever seen," Lara said. "Don't you?"

  All he could manage was a weak smile and a nod. She held them up so Daniel could see them as well.

  "Very attractive," Daniel agreed, a bit too readily. Catching Mathew's expression, he stifled a grin, and went back to examining the glass lens again.

  "Oh, Helen will be thrilled," she said, handing the boots to him. "She really wasn't sure you'd like them. Be sure to say something nice to her."

  "I will," Mathew said. But it sounded less enthusiastic than he hoped.

  "Well, make sure you get some rest. Right now, I have to help my mother with some chores, but I'll be back a little later."

  Lara left with a bright smile and a little wave.

  Daniel, noting Mathew's expression, quickly got up as well, on the pretext of going over to Lucas Emson's shop to discuss making some modifications for his invention. Following closely behind her, he stopped in the doorway and turned to Mathew.

  "I may just have to get a pair of boots like that myself," he said, obviously amused at his own wit.

  He barely managed to duck as one of the boots hit the door just above his head.

  The next morning, unable to sleep, Mathew rose early and sat by the window watching the sky grow lighter. He thought about Giles, and his other friends who had died, and about little Stefn Darcy. Why would the Orlocks pick Devondale, of all places, to attack? he wondered.

  He was trying to sort things out in his mind, when he noticed a figure standing by the road watching the house. Momentarily startled, he looked more closely. Berke Ramsey stared back up at him for a minute, then turned and walked down the road toward town.

  11

  Devondale

  TWO DAYS LATER HELEN PRONOUNCED HIS HEALTH suitably restored to allow him out of bed. Lara stopped by, as she had on each of the previous days, to check on his progress. She told Mathew that his father would be by later to take him home, which suited him just fine. All of the mothering was getting on his nerves. After delivering the message, she made a point of staying long enough to make certain that he shaved. He grudgingly gave in, put­ting aside his idea of growing a beard for the moment.

  True to his word, Bran arrived about an hour later. His face broke into a broad smile when he saw his son, and they hugged before a word was spoken.

  "Looks like Helen's cooking agrees with you, boy," he said, grabbing Mathew by the shoulders.

  Mathew couldn't remember ever being happier to see his father. After saying their goodbyes, Mathew tossed his sword and bow in back of the cart and they started walking down the road, leading Tilda.

  To his surprise, when they came to Westrey Bridge, in­stead of turning right, they continued straight ahead.

  "We're going into town?" Mathew asked.

  "There are one or two things we need to attend to."

  His tone left Mathew curious. "Such as?"

  Bran's face took on a serious aspect. "There's a consta­ble come from Anderon who we need to talk to."

  "A constable? Why?"

  "Palmer rode out to the farm this morning and spoke

  with me. It seems that Berke Ramsey boy made a com­plaint against you over the one who died."

  Mafhew's temper flared. "Look, if anyone—"

  Bran held up a hand, cutting him off. "No one doubts your word, lad—at least nobody from Devondale. He hasn't gotten many people to listen to him over the last three days, but there's also no denying the accusation is serious. That's why the constable is here."

  "Daniel was right. I should have finished my business with him before we left," Mathew said hotly.

  "Perhaps. . . but you'll do nothing now. You're to keep your temper and answer just what is asked of you. Do you understand me?" Bran was leaving no room for argument.

  Mathew fumed inside but kept on walking. They crossed the bridge in silence and entered the square. It was still the same town, and all the sights were familiar, but many of the barricades erected the night they left were still up, giving things an odd appearance.

  In front of the council building several men stood waiting for them. Trueman Palmer was there. So were Berke Ramsey, Silas Alman, Father Thomas, and two other members of the council. Mathew assumed that the slender, well-dressed man in dark blue was the constable, and the two men standing off to one side, similarly at­tired, were with him. When Berke saw them approach­ing, he pointed in their direction and apparently said something to the others because the entire group turned at the same time.

  "Steady, lad," Bran said quietly, sensing Mathew tighten.

  After tethering Tilda to a nearby post, Bran walked up to them and said, "We're here," without preamble.

  "Thank you for coming, Bran ... Mathew," the mayor replied, nodding to each of them. "This is Jeram Quinn from Anderon. You already know that Jeram is the king's constable.
And these are his men," he added, indicating the other two.

  Mathew followed his father's directions and ignored Berke's sullen expression. He acknowledged Quinn and his companions with a nod. He noticed they were all carrying swords, and from their look, they knew how to use them.

  Quinn stepped forward and offered Bran his hand. "I know your mayor has told you why we're here. You don't remember me, do you? We served with Lord Kraelin's regiment against the Sibuyan, more years ago than I care to recall."

  Bran frowned at him for a moment, before his expres­sion softened. "I remember you. It's been a long time," he said, shaking the constable's hand. "You've fared well."

  Quinn shrugged elaborately. "A bit older and grayer, I'm afraid. Mathew, I'm Jeram Quinn," he said, extend­ing his hand.

  Mathew stepped forward and took it. "Yes, sir."

  "Tall boy," he said, looking Mathew up and down. "What have you been feeding him?"

  For all his pleasantry, the constable's grip was firm, and his gaze was clear and searching.

  "Not enough," Bran answered flatly.

  "Why don't we go inside so we can all sit and talk?" Palmer suggested.

  Before Bran could answer, Quinn said, "Do you know, we passed a fine-looking inn as we entered your village. I've been constable these past fourteen years, and I do be­lieve this is my first visit here. I took the liberty of asking the innkeeper if he would allow us to use one of his pri­vate rooms where we can chat for a while."

  Mathew thought "chat" was an odd word to use, since the constable's dour-faced men didn't look particularly chatty.

  "We can say what we need to right here," Bran replied.

  "Come come, man, it's been a long journey for us and we're not here to arrest anyone—only to inquire and learn what happened. A serious charge has been made. I know you can appreciate that. Since my arrival, I've had an op­portunity to talk with your good Father Thomas as well as your mayor, and after hearing them, I have questions of

  my own. I would prefer to ask those questions in a re­laxed atmosphere."

  Berke started to speak, but a sharp look from the con­stable forestalled him. He shut his mouth, apparently content to sneer at Mathew instead.

  Bran's face, however, was devoid of reaction. He con­sidered the constable who returned the gaze with a frank expression and waited. An almost audible sigh could be heard from the mayor and his councilmen when Bran fi­nally made up his mind with a curt nod. Without another word, everyone turned and walked down the street to­ward the Rose and Crown. Both of Quinn's men took up a position at the rear, a fact that was not lost on Mathew.

  When they reached the inn, he was surprised to see that Collin, Daniel, and Lara were waiting for them. In addition, Lieutenant Herne was there, standing beneath a painted sign that bore a rose and crown on it. Mathew started to walk toward his friends, but a small shake of Collin's head stopped him.

  Cyril Tanner, the inn's balding proprietor, met them at the door, sunlight reflecting off his shaven scalp. He was a heavy man, with a considerable stomach and a beard as round as his head. He wore his usual spotless apron and a wide, amiable smile.

  "Welcome, gentlemen," he said, and led them across the common room.

  At that time of day there were only a few patrons seated around the fireplace or in the booths that lined the sides of the room. Since it was mild out, the fire remained unfit and their passage attracted no particular notice.

  The private room contained a long oak table with four chairs behind it and another one positioned at its end. A number of benches, three to a side, were arranged in rows, facing the table. The room itself was about thirty feet square and paneled in the same light-colored wood as the rest of the inn. The floors consisted of wide, rough-hewn wooden planks. Two shuttered windows on oppo­site ends of the wall behind the table framed a tapestry depicting a hunting scene that hung in between. On the wall to their right was a pair of crossed swords set over a shield bearing a crest Mathew had never seen before.

  "It's an honor to have you here, Constable," the innkeeper said. "I've set the room for you as you asked. I trust you will find everything in order."

  "Thank you, Master Tanner." Quinn replied, pressing a silver elgar into the man's palm. "Perhaps something to drink and a bit of lunch would be in order."

  "Of course, of course... I'll see to it at once," the innkeeper said, hurrying away.

  "Excellent."

  Quinn walked around the table and took the center chair. "Master Palmer, if you and your council members would be kind enough to join me over here, perhaps we can get started."

  With no instruction from him, the constable's men sta­tioned themselves on either side of the door.

  "What is this?" Bran asked.

  Mathew recognized his father's tone and put a hand on his arm. "It's all right," he said.

  Bran looked at him, then turned back to Quinn. "I asked you a question," he repeated slowly.

  "Be at ease," the constable said, holding up a placating hand. "This is an inquiry only, as I have told you—not a trial. I am here merely to find out what happened. They are here to assist me."

  "I don't like men with weapons standing at my back."

  "You have my word .. . they will take no action except upon my order."

  Bran grumbled something and sat down.

  "Young man," Quinn said, addressing Mathew, "you know why I am here, and what this is about, do you not?"

  "Yes, sir. I suppose so."

  "Fine. Then let me tell you this. You need not speak to me, or say any word at all, if you don't want to."

  "I have nothing I want to hide," Mathew said seriously.

  "Very well. Would you take a seat here?" Quinn indi­cated the chair at the end of the table.

  Mathew could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, but he walked deliberately to the chair, kept his face devoid of expression, and sat down. Everyone else in the room also found places and seated themselves.

  "Mathew, would you tell me what happened four nights past, and how Giles Arlen Naismith came to die?" Quinn asked.

  Mathew slowly recounted the details of the story once again. He looked directly at the constable as he spoke. It took him considerably longer than he thought to tell it. Every so often the constable would nod his head slightly, but other than that, he gave no indication as to what he was thinking.

  "So you say it was an Orlock blade that killed him?"

  Mathew looked out the window for the first time and paused a long while before answering. "If I had been stronger ... I would've gotten him back in time, and he might still be alive."

  "And then again, he might not," Quinn mused to him­self.

  "The responsibility was mine and I failed him."

  Seated next to Bran, Father Thomas smiled slightly and looked down at his feet. Mathew didn't know how long he had been talking, but he was more than grateful when the innkeeper returned carrying the refreshments. Unlike oth­ers in the room, the constable refused any wine. Instead he drank down a full mug of cold water, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands.

  With the small break concluded, he asked Mathew to be seated next to his father, and signaled to one of the men at the door, who nodded and stepped outside. A minute later Lieutenant Herne strode briskly in, saluted, and stood at attention in front of the constable.

  "Pray, be at ease, Lieutenant. You may have a seat over here."

  Herne made a small bow and sat stiffly upright in the chair the constable indicated.

  "You are Darnel Herne, Lieutenant, in the service of Lord Kraelin, here in Werth Province?"

  "I am."

  "And as I understand it, you found yourself in this vil­lage four days ago, did you not?"

  "I did, Constable."

  "Would you tell me, in your own words, what occurred at that time—and for heaven's sake, relax young man."

  The corners of Herne's mouth turned down, but he did ease his posture, if only a fraction. "We were seeking vo
l­unteers for the army," he began, "when news of the Or-lock attack came. A decision was made to form a rescue party for the little boy—Darcy, I believe his name was— and the farmer—Layton, the man whose son was killed. Two separate groups were formed. Bran Lewin led one party, and I deferred to General Rozon, who led the other."

  Quinn nodded and scratched some notes on a piece of parchment.

  "The weather was difficult, with the storm bringing not only snow and wind, but fog as well. We were no more than one hundred yards from the Layton farm when a fire arrow halted us. A second arrow followed it almost im­mediately. We understood it to be a signal of some sort, though none had been specifically arranged. Just after the second arrow was fired, we saw a band of Orlocks break from the trees. General Rozon immediately ordered a charge. If not for this boy's warning, we'd have ridden straight into a trap and been cut to pieces."

  "Did you actually see this young man there?"

  "I did, Constable. When we engaged the Orlocks, I saw him moving through the trees firing arrows at them."

  The mayor exchanged glances with two of the men on the council, and gave a curt nod of satisfaction as Herne continued.

  "I attempted to reach him, but was cut off by the crea­tures. The last thing I saw was one of them grabbing him. They both went over into the stream and I feared he was dead, either from the fall down the hill or from the Orlock."

  "How steep was the drop?" the constable asked.

  "Perhaps fifteen feet. As I said, I did not think he would survive it. When the fight concluded we came back to look for him, but there was no sign to be found."

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing. But considering the snowfall, it was not sur­prising we failed to locate any tracks. If the truth be known, Constable, I prayed that he was dead rather than taken by the creatures."

  "And was that when you organized a search party?"

  "It was. His father would not accept the fact that his son was dead and insisted on it. I would have done the same if it were my son."

  "If you please, Lieutenant, stick only to what you actu­ally saw and observed," Quinn admonished.