The Ring Of Truth

by B Cameron Lee

  Keeping his right arm down, clamped to his side with his thumb tucked into his belt, Arwhon struggled to open the barn door with only his left hand. The hinges were well oiled but the door was heavy and his side still throbbed, although it felt a little better now than earlier in the day. Opening the lower doors washed the inside of the barn with more of the bright late-morning spring sunshine. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight, lazily following slow air currents while the smell of fresh hay and new horse droppings scented the air. He was pleased to make out both horses, their watchful heads turned toward the entrance.

  The Barsoomi’s gaze swept over him and Arwhon felt satisfaction, suddenly realising the bond went both ways. Checking in both stalls he saw the horses had been curried and well fed with hard feed and a goodly quantity of sweet smelling pea hay, forked down fresh from the loft above. He would have to pay Chalc a decent reward for all his troubles before continuing on his journey.

  Arwhon felt very lucky indeed. It would have been easy for anyone to rob him and leave him for dead somewhere after he fell off his horse for the second time. Only it hadn’t happened because an honest blacksmith had intervened.

  Chalc was indeed a good man, one Arwhon felt he could trust. Perhaps a friend for life but now he must leave to find his grandmother, who seemed so far away.

  The Barsoomi nudged his shoulder for attention and Arwhon absently stroked its muzzle, deep in thought. He couldn’t keep calling the horse ‘the Barsoomi’. As if in answer, a name sprang unbidden into his mind, ‘Duran’.

  “Duran.”

  At the sound of the spoken name, the horse’s head shot up with both ears pricked forward and it whickered down its nose, blowing sweet horse breath over him.

  That was it!

  The horse had a name, ‘Duran’.

  It took a while, explaining to both horses while he gave them a quick currying that there were things he needed to do. Before long, Arwhon left them to their feed and rest and went looking for Chalc. He found the smith, newly returned from the inn, storing the pack, saddlebags and crossbow behind the door in the corner of the hut.

  “Thought I’d save you some lifting. I took the rest of the stuff over to the inn for you. There wasn’t much. We need to talk some more about the situation you’re in and I have a proposition for you.”

  Just at that moment a villager, dressed in a thick leather jerkin over a homespun woollen shirt and leather trews, approached the corner of the blacksmith’s shop carrying a broken spade and spying Chalc, hailed him.

  “Good day Master Chalc, I just came to see if you could fix this spade for me.” He held up the damaged item and pointed to where it had cracked across the blade where it formed the neck for the handle.

  Chalc took it and studied it.

  “This is one of mine. How did you come to break it?”

  “Just digging, Master Chalc.”

  “Trying to lever that bloody rock out of my garden,” is what Arwhon heard, third finger on his right hand tingling.

  Chalc smiled. “Just leave it with me and I’ll repair it shortly. Come back before dark with three coppers.”

  The villager nodded and left, looking over his shoulder at Arwhon, curious about the young stranger, before disappearing around the side of the smithy.

  Arwhon couldn’t contain himself a moment more.

  “He was lying to you Chalc. He tried to lever out a rock from his garden using the spade.”

  Chalc looked thoughtful for a moment before responding.

  “That Ring is working for you already but I didn’t need it to know he was lying. I made this spade and it would never break with normal use. Now, about that proposition. Take a seat and rest while I make us something to eat.”

  Arwhon’s curiosity was roused but he had to wait as Chalc retired into the one room abode where he quickly prepared a mid-day meal of bread and cheese with hot, fresh herbal tea to drink. He brought their plates and mugs outside so they could sit in the midday sunshine while they ate.

  Chalc removed his roughspun shirt to soak up the sun’s warmth and Arwhon saw the smith’s strong forearms, hard as tree branches, were marked with innumerable small scars. Most likely burns from hot metals splashing or sparks from hammering white hot steel. Chalc cast around for a place to start the conversation and Arwhon, thinking he was going to ask for payment, took out his recently acquired purse and offered a gold coin to the smith.

  “No, put that away, coin is not what I wanted to talk about. I feel responsible for your sword breaking so I’m going to make you another. Not just any sword mind but one in the style I was trained to make in my homeland. It will take you a couple of weeks to heal from your wound and that time can be spent profitably, learning to use the sword left handed. When your wound is healed, you can then switch and learn with the right hand also. I’ll teach you the way of the sword from my country and you will learn to move your body more fluidly, not tromp around like some Trader’s son. No offence intended of course. I will also train you to fight without a sword. Your body can be a weapon in its own right. The time will be good for the Barsoomi also; he’s in quite poor condition.”

  Arwhon interjected. “Not ‘the Barsoomi’. He’s named Duran. He told me, I mean; it came to me.”

  Chalc smiled. “He told you. In the language of Barsoom, Duran means ‘Tracker.’ How else could you come by his name other than from the horse?”

  “I think you’re right, Duran suggested it. He responds willingly to the name and it seems to fulfil some need within him.”

  Chalc nodded. “There is more than coincidence at work here Arwhon. Too many intersections of chance occurring in one place. Fate is involved, as well as magic. Someone or something is gathering the fabric of happenstance and somehow knitting it together. We will need to be careful.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. When you leave I will be coming with you as your servant...”

  Before Chalc could continue, Arwhon interrupted.

  “But I don’t need a servant and definitely cannot afford to pay for one.”

  Chalc’s eyes twinkled. “I seem to remember picking you up from the road out there and stitching and bandaging your wound. I’ve already served you. You are young and untried. I can protect you. As to payment, I require none.”

  For some strange reason, Arwhon felt relieved. He felt a comfortable familiarity with this short smith who came from a foreign land and realised he would indeed relish the man’s company and teachings. Nevertheless, he wanted to be sure the right choice was being made for the right reasons. Control over his own life seemed to be getting away from him at the moment.

  Indicating the blacksmith’s shop, barn and yard with a wave of his hand, Arwhon asked.

  “Why would you want to leave all this though? It’s your life.”

  Chalc studied the sincere young man for a moment before answering.

  “I’ve been here far too long and business is very slow. I do good work and everyone around here now owns tools and metalwork which came from my forge. Those items will last a long time, unless used wrongly. There’s no real reason for me to stay on here anymore and I feel the need for adventure again. If we happen to travel to my homeland, sometime in the future, even the Dominion will think twice before taking a gentleman’s servant prisoner and I would dearly love to see my home again before I die.”

  Arwhon was surprised. “Can’t you just go there?”

  “No, the laws of the western lands are not those of the Dominion. When the Dominion was pushed back by the Western Coalition, it merely contracted. About half still remains. Only the stronger countries among those prepared to fight for their right to self determination were freed from the Dominion’s foul clutches. The lands to the north and east of Debrishar are still under Dominion rule. A Dominion driven by evil and greed, formed from a number of countries which were once free. If I go there without a pass, the authorities will pick me up and imprison me or worse. No one is really free in the Dominion and heavy t
axes swell the coffers of Empress Martine, may her name be cursed. She is over one hundred years old but doesn’t look a day over thirty. Great magics are at work in Goristoum and not good ones.”

  Arwhon’s expression registered confusion as he scratched his brow. These were places he had never heard of.

  “Goristoum?”

  Chalc paused at the query in Arwhon’s voice.

  “What do you know of the geography of the lands Arwhon?”

  The answer was not long in coming.

  “I’m afraid I know little of it. My father was often busy and I didn’t receive much extra education. Not having a mother to care for the family meant all of us had to work long hours, leaving scant time for aught else. Apart from a little reading, writing and numbers, all I really know about is Myseline and a little of Cumbrisia. Mostly things to do with Trade. My father wouldn’t talk of the war or the places he’d fought. Could you tell me something of the lands please?”

  Chalc studied Arwhon for a moment, weighing up his eager request. Decided, he looked about for something to draw in the dirt with, finally grabbing the upper portion of Arwhon’s broken sword. Grasping the blunt blade and using the end of the tang, he draw a map of all the lands in the gravelly dirt of the yard. Quickly finished, Chalc used the tang to point to the various countries as he spoke of them.

  “Lying alongside the Western Ocean is Myseline, the other side of Mehgrin’s Wall and you’ve already journeyed across it and are now here in Cumbrisia’s End.” The sword tang made a dot in the dirt. It seemed to Arwhon such a small distance on the large map. “To the east of here is all Cumbrisia until it meets the Plains of Barsoom at Crossroads. Here.” Once more the tang of the sword made a mark on the map. “We have already spoken of the Great South Road being the boundary between Cumbrisia and Barsoom and it leads to Southland and its capital Belvedere, where you are bound.” The sword was once more pointed at a spot on the map.

  Arwhon studied the distance he had already travelled and the remaining journey he had before him to Belvedere. It was almost twice as far.

  “I didn’t realise just how far apart places were,” he said wondrously. “The lands are huge.”

  “Aye lad. That they are. Now let us run through the rest. Debrishar, home to the Dominion’s cruel Empress lies to the east of Barsoom which is now a free nation again, although the Dominion is constantly trying to win it back. There is always trouble on the borders of those two countries. Goristoum, foul heart of the Dominion, capital of Debrishar, is here.” Chalc poked the dirt. “My own country is a long way to the east, bordering the far side of Debrishar, up in the forested mountains of the high plateau. I hope for you to see it one day. It is known as Tarkent and we take after the eastern style of people from Cheshwon, even further to the east. Cheshwon is a very large and still free country, more than a match for the Dominion. Its far coast meets the Wyalonion Ocean. To the southwest of Cheshwon and south of Tarkent and Debrishar lies Graswyn, another Dominion subject which has a border with the eastern side of Southland.”

  Arwhon nodded in understanding, having followed the tang of the sword as it progressed over the map. Chalc had covered most of the southern half of it but there were still large areas to the north. Arwhon thirsted for knowledge of them.

  “Tell me more about the Dominion please.”

  The half sword moved up over the map drawn in the gravel of the yard as Chalc continued.

  “To the north of Debrishar, where it adjoins the plains of eastern Barsoom, lie The Broken Lands. Boulders of all sizes are everywhere scattered and the people farm the spaces in between them. They are an old people, small, dark and generally peace loving. Some say they were once related to the Dwarves. It is also said they joined with the Dominion rather than fight against Empress Martine’s forces. They have no army and there’s nothing in the Broken Lands for the Dominion, except the tributes of food and sturdy little horses which stream south throughout the year into Debrishar. The Dominion leaves the Broken Lands and its people unmolested, as it has come to rely on the food and horses the Broken Lands provide. Indeed, the Dominion would find it difficult to feed all of its population if that supply of food ever diminished.”

  Chalc paused to take a sip of cold tea before continuing.

  “From the border of the Broken Lands west to the Rift and north of Barsoom, lies the Darkwood. No one goes there. It’s rumoured to contain many of the M’Herindar, one of the Elder Races, and their magic is still very strong. Too strong even for the Dominion. The inhabitants of the Darkwood are tall and slender, with pale skin and silvery-blond hair. Tending to shun strong sunlight they live in the cool dimness under the trees of the forest and are rarely seen. It was not always that way. Often, in early times, the M’Herindar used to travel all the lands, usually by night, caring for the new people, Man, who colonised their country. The M’Herindar spread joy and happiness wherever they went but that came to an end a long time ago. Unfortunately, a number of the M’Herindar were slain by those among Man with evil in their hearts, so the M’Herindar retreated into the Darkwood and left us to carry on killing one another.”

  “What lies north of Cumbrisia?” Arwhon asked, his curiosity piqued by the sudden rush of new information. “My father never said.”

  “The Forbidden Lands. Everyone, even the Dominion, leave them alone. Lots of strange things occur there and most people are aware of the wrath of its inhabitants if they are ever disturbed. Few who travel to that misbegotten place ever return and those who do are quite twisted inside and prone to evil deeds. The people who travel to the Forbidden Lands journey there to find and bring back small magical artefacts which are worth a lot of money. Usually to evil doers, as the magic of them is evil. There is an old legend which says the Forbidden Lands will rule the known world one day but many discount it.”

  Chalc paused for a moment to take another sip of his drink before continuing on with his lesson.

  “Between the Forbidden Lands and The Darkwood is an arm of the Northern Sea known as the Rift, which ends many miles to the north of Crossroads. Interestingly, among my people, there is an ancient tale which says that in the far distant past there was no Rift.”

  Arwhon was hooked. This was all a revelation to him and he couldn’t contain his curiosity.

  “Then why is there one now?” Arwhon asked eagerly, totally involved in Chalc’s lesson.

  Chalc took time to recall the legend, a studied look of concentration lingering on his smooth brown face, before replying.

  “Long ago, so I was told, the M’Herindar wandered over all the lands as I mentioned. Then the race of Man arrived in their country and the M’Herindar eventually withdrew into the Darkwood and shunned contact. The story tells of two main factions comprising the M’Herindar; those who wanted to rid the world of Man and the rest, who valued and nurtured these new people. The two groups argued and then fought, using mighty magics. The power of that Earthmagic caused the world to split and the sea rushed in to form the Rift. It’s rumoured the rocks littering the Broken Lands came from the forming of the Rift. It’s even said they rained from the skies for two days. I don’t know if that part is true, although the Broken Lands, by all accounts, are certainly full of rocks. The original M’Herindar remained in the eastern side of the Darkwood while the faction which wanted to remove Man from the world moved to occupy the western Darkwood on the other side of the Rift. Eventually the place became known as the Forbidden Lands and the people there renamed themselves the Q’Herindam. The magic of the two groups is not openly contested these days, as each group is more than strong enough to keep the other in check. Individuals among these peoples live a long, long time. Many centuries I believe.”

  “Then where did the original men and women come from to fill all the lands the M’Herindar gave up?” Arwhon queried.

  “I know not lad, the legend makes no mention of that.”

  Arwhon sat silently for a moment, gazing at the many lines drawn in the dirt delineating whole countrie
s, digesting all the new information and reordering his concept of the world. It was a far bigger place than he had ever imagined and Arwhon wished he’d had more time in his youth for learning but, in a family without a mother, there was always some task to do that demanded time and kept a young lad busy.

  He came to a decision.

  “I will accept your offer Chalc, you may ride with me as my servant but I won’t be able to pay you much, as I don’t have much.”

  Chalc smiled his mysterious smile, nodding.

  “I have enough for both of us, trust me.”

  It was only later in the afternoon, as Arwhon sat resting in the last of the warm sun shining into the open side of the blacksmith’s shop, watching while Chalc worked around the forge repairing the villager’s spade and adding more bits of steel to the molten, white-hot puddle that was Arwhon’s broken sword, that Arwhon realised the Ring, grown now to be part of his finger, had not altered one thing Chalc had said.

  The smith was a proven honest man.

  Arwhon leaned forward with interest, watching Chalc with new respect as the smith poured the molten steel into a stone mould shaped to cast a flat bar of steel. When that bar had slowly cooled, Chalc would begin the construction of Arwhon’s new sword.

  No travellers passed through the village that day, the season still being early. Chalc’s only income was the three coppers the villager begrudgingly paid him for his mended spade.

  After supper, tasty stew with peas again, Chalc unwound the bandages from around Arwhon’s lower chest and they both inspected his side by candlelight. The wound was larger than Arwhon had expected from the feel of it but Chalc explained he’d had to cut the flesh even more to get the barbed quarrel head out. Having cleansed the wound the best he could and treating it with a wash made from astringent herbs, it had all been sewn back together using some boiled, twisted hairs from a horse’s tail. The whole area around the wound was mottled blue-black with bruising from the force of the quarrel’s impact at such close range and Arwhon was triply glad he had worn his chainmail, even if it was uncomfortably heavy, rather than carrying it rolled up behind his saddle.