The Ring Of Truth

by B Cameron Lee

  Arwhon dressed very carefully and leaving off the under-padding and the hauberk, donned his jerkin for warmth before heading out to find the latrine.

  As he stepped through the door, onto the porch, squinting in the bright sunshine of a chill, clear spring morning, Arwhon glanced to his left. Chalc sat under the window in a rustic wooden chair, tipped back on its rear legs, regarding him with keen interest, still dressed in his woollen shirt and leather trews. Arwhon nodded to him.

  “Good day to you Chalc. The rain seems to have passed.”

  The smith smiled and nodded.

  “It has that young Arwhon but there’ll be more.”

  Arwhon stood quietly for a moment, soaking up the bright sunshine and took stock of his surroundings. The mountains of Mehgrin’s Wall loomed to his left, west of the village, imposing themselves into his field of view, providing a snow-capped, scenic backdrop to Cumbrisia’s End. Just up the road a little, on the edge of a small cobbled square, the inn he had seen last night looked like it was trying to sink its tired self into the ground, its ridge sagging in the middle of the roofline. The smithy was the last building on the road out of the village. Arwhon took note of his immediate surroundings. Across the yard was the rear of the blacksmith’s shop and to his right, the double-doored barn housing the horses. The little courtyard in the centre was neat, level and gravelled and a water trough filled with fresh clean water stood near a sturdy hitching rail at the back of the shop. It all spoke of careful ownership. Something the rest of Cumbrisia’s End seemed to lack.

  The upper doors of the barn were tied open and Arwhon felt the novel presence of the Barsoomi horse as a feather-touch in his head. Not seeing what he was after, Arwhon asked Chalc where the privy was. He was directed to the purpose built little hut down behind the barn and upon his return found there was food waiting for him. He ate his breakfast of salted, boiled oats and goat’s milk with great appetite, sitting in the spring sunshine on the edge of the porch at Chalc’s feet. His side pained him but he tried not to show it.

  “Where are you bound?” asked Chalc as Arwhon ate.

  Arwhon looked up, a little surprised.

  “I am grateful to you Master Chalc but I do not know you very well. My father told me to keep my business to myself and not to ask the business of others.”

  “Your father is a wise man but we have a special bond you and I.”

  Arwhon studied the smith closely, still not sure about the way the man’s eyes slitted in his smooth, dark face.

  “What would that be?” he enquired cagily.

  “I made your sword.” Chalc replied.

  “And not very well,” retorted Arwhon, slightly suspicious of the smith.

  The older man chuckled, ignoring the slight.

  “You are right of course. Here, let me show you.”

  He reached under his chair and pulled out the pieces of the broken sword. He had stripped it down to its component parts. The rivets holding the two halves of the simple wooden handle had been punched out, the handle removed and the handguard slid off over the tang.

  Chalc pointed to a small indentation on the tang which had been hidden under the wooden handle.

  “This is my mark. I was a swordmaker in my homeland, a good one, although there wasn’t a huge demand for my trade. The life of a swordsman in my country is restricted to those who are prepared to dedicate many years to its discipline. The Dominion captured me during a raid on my village in one of their expansionist wars. They slaughtered my wife and children and set me to turning out this style of sword for their troops. Quick and easy to make and there were a lot of smiths making them. Make five a day and I ate. Less and I got beaten. I hated the Dominion with a passion so, with a lot of the swords I made, I only tempered half the blade to ensure they would snap easily at that place. I liked to think I was fighting the Dominion in my own way. Where did you come by this one? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Arwhon thought for a moment. The smith was mild mannered and seemed to be open in his speech. Maybe he should give the man a modicum of trust. After all, he was sitting on the smith’s porch with a full belly and his wound treated.

  “My father, Bryan, willed it to me. The chainmail also. He said I might need them one day. The sword is one he brought back from the Dominion Wars when the Dominion was crushed.”

  “Not crushed Arwhon, merely pushed back from the western and southern lands. The Dominion is still a formidable foe and controls many of the lands in the east and north, including my homeland. As long as Empress Martine rules, there will be many deaths at the hands of the Dominion. She is a cruel and heartless woman.”

  Chalc looked saddened.

  Arwhon felt deep within himself that this man could be trusted so he relaxed his guard a little more.

  “Trugor, down on the coast of Myseline, more than two and a half weeks on horseback to the west.”

  Chalc appeared puzzled.

  “Where I come from. On the coast. My father was a Trader there but he was a fisherman long before that. I have an elder brother and sister, much older than me, born before my father went off to the war. I’m the son he made when he came back after four years away. My mother died bearing me and my brother and sister still blame me for her death. It saddens me they think so but it’s a burden I’ve had to bear my whole life.”

  Chalc heard the pain in the lad’s voice but remained silent, allowing Arwhon to unburden himself.

  Arwhon could not understand what was happening to him. He had not spoken this freely to anyone, not even his own father and rather than stop he felt compelled to finish the story.

  “About three weeks ago the Draakon Reavers came in their black ship. The first raid on Trugor since the Dominion was defeated. They killed only my father and burnt down only our Trading warehouse. There was but minor looting elsewhere. When the red sail of the Reaver ship was first sighted approaching Trugor, my father sent Staril, my older brother, back to our house to protect Raleen and me. He stayed at the warehouse to defend it.”

  Looking downward, Arwhon plucked at a thread on the cuff of his shirtsleeve before continuing his tale.

  “I wanted to go and fight the Reavers too but Staril grew angry and made us obey our father’s command and stay home. When the Reavers left we ran down to the harbour to find our father dead and most of our Trading stock burnt, destroyed in the Reaver’s fire. Staril found a letter in the secret place under the flagstones of the coldstore, along with enough gold to restart the business. That letter, penned by our father, suggested my brother and sister should carry on the family business while I was sent off to go and find my Grandmother.”

  Arwhon turned his face away, his eyes filling with tears. The memory of the father he loved writ openly across his clear, open face.

  “So, was your father a gentleman?” quizzed Chalc gently.

  Arwhon sighed. “No, it was our mother, Sareeni, gave us ‘nari.’ She couldn’t live happily without it, said it was a large part of her although father wasn’t bothered. It’s her mother his letter instructed me to find, although I do not know exactly where she is or what I could say to her. Her name is Cristal nasi Tsalkini and she lives in a city called Belvedere in Southland. Do you know of it?”

  Chalc nodded, his odd shaped eyes crinkling, smile lines jumping easily to their corners.

  “Aye lad, I’ve been there. It’s a rich city, with high, white walls and lots of tall buildings and carriages and things. It’s the main seaport on the coast of Southland, sited where the Wandering River empties into Moreland Bay on its way to the Turquoise Sea. Too busy for me, with all its citizens rushing about like feeding chickens but a wealthy place nonetheless. Its a long ways from here mind, maybe four weeks or so on horseback; without pushing too hard. Two weeks travelling east down the Grand Valley through Cumbrisia, the country you are in now, until you reach the Great Southern Road at Crossroads, then another week or more travelling to the south until you reach the border of Southland. From there it is near an
other week until you reach Belvedere.”

  Chalk shifted in his seat to look at Arwhon more closely.

  “The Great Southern Road forms the border between Cumbrisia and Barsoom all the way to Southland. You will need money for such a journey. Tell me, why didn’t you take ship?”

  From Chalc’s question, Arwhon realised the smith knew little of the sea and endeavoured to provide a clear response.

  “My father’s letter seemed to suggest I should travel by horse and besides, this early in the year there are usually fierce storms on the Western Ocean and no ships to be seen. We were surprised when Jalwynd, Captain Belmar’s ship, docked a few days before I left. The day the Reavers came. He was sent north really early in the season to buy urgent supplies for the new King in Encarill but he was only intent on returning there with his cargo. Few ships ever depart from Trugor on long voyages. I do have some money for travelling though.”

  Arwhon emphasised the point by opening his belt pouch and tipping its contents into his palm. Apart from some gold and silver coins of various denominations, the silvery ring with the odd design, taken from Petrad’s little finger, also tumbled into the palm of his open left hand.

  Chalc stared at it, transfixed.

  “Where did you get that ring? Please. May I examine it?”

  As he handed the ring over, Arwhon told the smith it had come from Petrad’s finger. Chalc held it close to his eye and rubbed the ring a few times, turning it as he did. The sun glittered off its alien metal, which bent the rays of sunlight slightly, contrasting the relief of the strange design etched into the surface until it stood out plainly. It was made from a metal Chalc had never seen before in all his years of smithing.

  After a while he sighed and passed it back.

  “Do you know what it is?” Arwhon asked him curiously, having seen the smith’s interest.

  “No, but you could try putting it on to see if it fits. It’s an intriguing looking ring and I don’t recognise the metal. It could be Dwarvish or some such in origin.”

  Chalc waited, almost eagerly, as Arwhon replaced the coins in his pouch then regarded both of his hands closely before selecting a finger.

  He finally pushed the ring onto the third finger of his right hand. It fitted perfectly, although it had come from Petrad’s little finger. As the ring slid into place over his finger joint, there was a strong stinging sensation followed by a burning pain. Almost as if needles were being plunged into his finger. Arwhon cried out and suddenly feeling dizzy, thoughts spinning through his mind, sat with his head bowed and right arm tucked to his side for a few moments until he felt a little better. Then he tried to remove the ring from his finger.

  He couldn’t.

  It wouldn’t shift.

  The pain diminished then passed as he gingerly lifted his hand to inspect the ringed finger. Tilting it in the sunlight he was stricken to find the ring was in the final process of fusing to his flesh; his skin now growing into and becoming one with the ring. With a cry of alarm Arwhon tried once more to tear the patterned circlet from his finger but to no avail, it was now part of him. Worried and angry he looked askance at Chalc but the older man merely smiled, unconcerned.

  “Magic works in mysterious ways. That ring does not feel evil and its now part of you. I know not what it does but it could save your life many times before it eventually chooses another. It has its own life. You will see.”

  “I had no trouble removing it from Petrad’s hand. Why was that?” Arwhon queried.

  “Because he was dead,” was the succinct answer.

  The sound of heavy, stertorous breathing drew their attention and both Chalc and Arwhon looked up to see the innkeeper waddling heavily toward them from his tavern. Arwhon could tell he was an innkeeper just by looking at him. Almost as wide as he was tall, the man’s piggy eyes glinted in his sweating fat face under thin oily strands of lank hair. His apron was filthy with grease and figured with ancient, now unidentifiable stains.

  Drawing closer, the short fat man drew a few deep breaths before hailing them.

  “Morning Chalc, morning stranger. I see you are healthier than you were yesterday. Bugger, if the lad had died I could have had a share in his horses. I just came over to see what was happening with Petrad’s belongings. If I can’t have a horse, I might as well wangle something out of the situation. I wonder if the lad knows the law about a thief-killer’s right to keep the thief’s possessions. Thought I might as well have a look over them and see what is useable.”

  Arwhon could not believe what his ears were hearing, looking backward and forward between Chalc and the innkeeper in total disbelief as the latter spoke. Neither man acted as if something untoward were happening.

  Arwhon made an instant decision and looking the innkeeper in the eye squarely, his distaste for the man quite apparent, he spoke up.

  “My name is Arwhon and as the person who killed the thief, I will have first look over the belongings. You are welcome to anything I don’t want after Master Chalc has made his own choosing. I will bring the leavings over to you later.”

  The innkeeper appeared surprised at this turn of events and his dirty face soured momentarily until a greasy, gap-toothed smile replaced it and he agreed readily, quickly taking his leave before turning around and straining slowly uphill back to his inn. As he lumbered away, Arwhon was sure he heard some grumblings.

  Once the man was out of earshot, Arwhon turned to Chalc.

  “Did you hear what he said about wishing me dead?”

  “No, but it appears you did. New talent? Funny that. Most likely thanks to that Ring which has now become part of you. It must have a powerful magic if it can actually reveal the Truth behind the things people say. A word of warning, don’t tell anyone what it is or what it does. Guard the secret well or you may end up loosing that finger or much worse, your life. I’ve never seen nor heard of such a Ring before and I repeat, guard its secret well. Now, let me go and fetch the rest of Petrad’s belongings so we can see what else is on offer.”

  Chalc rose and went over to the blacksmith shop, returning with the large crossbow and the pack and saddlebags from the big grey’s saddle. They were beautifully crafted and the leather heavily tooled with a pleasing, intricate design of intertwining ivy. Not something the average man could ever hope to own and obviously stolen by Petrad along with the horse. Chalc set them on the ground, opened the pack and took out a thick, soft sleeping blanket which he spread out on the porch between them. Onto this he tipped the contents of both saddlebags. Only two items stood out from the jumble of food packages and spare clothing. A purse and a sheathed dagger. Arwhon tipped the contents of the purse onto his palm and was rewarded with a mixture of coins, including quite a few small golds. He tipped them back into the purse, placing it beside him on the porch before picking up the unusual dagger in its sheath.

  The sheath was constructed of stout black leather and was very well made. Curious designs wreathed over it, tooled into the leather while chased silver protected both its mouth and chape. A thick leather loop was provided on the rear for threading the sheath onto a belt. The handle of the dagger was leather wound, with silver wire spiralling around the whole to bind it securely. Arwhon gently removed the narrow, handspan length knife from its sheath and saw the sharply pointed, double edged blade was engraved with a design similar to the one inscribed on the Ring, now grown to be part of him. He heard an oath and looked up to see Chalc studying the dagger intently.

  “What is it?” he asked Chalc.

  “I don’t know but the blade is engraved with the same design as the Ring you now wear and it is made from the same metal. It could also be a thing of magic but as to its purpose? Whoever possessed the Ring most likely owned the knife also; possibly the Barsoomi horse too.”

  Arwhon thought for a moment, weighing trust and necessity.

  “I first saw the Barsoomi horse about twenty days ago when two men, who were searching for me, came to Artur Stimson’s farm around dusk only three days
after I’d left Trugor. They had my description and came from the east. How did they know about me? Artur sent them on their way. I spotted the same horse again, with its rider, in Bentwood about eight or nine days ago. I was in the stable of the best inn, checking on Tansy and accidentally overheard a conversation between a well dressed man named Driscol and Ripley, the Barsoomi’s rider. They were discussing making a delivery of a ring and a stolen horse to someone in this very village. There was no mention of a dagger at all. Maybe it’s another of Petrad’s acquisitions.”

  Chalc scowled. “Ripley must have come over the pass by himself. Easy pickings for Petrad with that bloody crossbow. You were very lucky Petrad didn’t hit you square on or you would have been dead too, in spite of your mail. I don’t think Ripley was the owner of the Barsoomi, the condition of the horse indicates it has been pining for quite a while. Probably since the death of its original rider before the horse was acquired by that Ripley character. Once again, you have been very lucky. A Barsoomi horse doesn’t just bond anyone.”

  There was a tingling inside Arwhon’s head and at that very moment a loud neighing was heard coming from the barn. Arwhon felt an emotion not his own, irritation. He sought Chalc’s eye as he replaced the patterned knife into its sheath and stood, threading it carefully onto his belt.

  “I believe the Barsoomi wishes my presence. Take what you want from the spoils except for the Barsoomi’s saddle, saddlebags and pack, I’m keeping those. Maybe the blanket too. Whatever is left after your choosing I’ll take over to the inn when I’ve seen to the horse. The innkeeper could maybe distribute some things he doesn’t want among the villagers”

  Arwhon picked up Petrad’s purse and placed it in his belt pouch, turned and walked toward the barn. Chalc watched him go with a studied expression on his face, dark brown eyes intent, before returning his attention back to the pile in front of him. There were a few things he could use there and the crossbow was worth keeping to sell or swap later if he had need.