The Ring Of Truth

by B Cameron Lee

  Fate.

  The lips of the wound were red and puckered but dry and starting to heal together and the whole didn’t look infected. Arwhon realised that, sensibly, he would have to stay with the smith for a while if he didn’t want to tear the stiches out and ruin Chalc’s handiwork.

  Coincidences.

  Again.

  Chalc prepared a vile smelling mixture of herbs in sheep fat and applied the salve gently to the outside of the wound followed by a clean pad of sweet smelling spongy moss before Arwhon was bandaged up again.

  “Have you still got the barbed head you took from the wound?” Arwhon asked the smith.

  Chalc’s lips rose at one corner of his mouth in an enigmatic smile.

  “No, I put it in the melt for your sword. Your blood will now be part of the alloy.”

  5. The Sword.

  After Chalc finished dressing his wound, Arwhon snuggled down under the blankets, his head nestling into the moss-filled pillow and immediately dropped off to sleep. His slumber however, was not peaceful. For only the second time in his life, a lucid dream swept through Arwhon’s sleeping mind like a strong wind through a corn field, creating its own reality. As the vision slowly began to build, the mist obscuring his view began to disperse. It was at that moment Arwhon realised he was but an observer in his own dream.

  Out of the diminishing haze rode a party of men and women on Barsoomi horses. He recognised the horses as such, somehow. The riders, dressed in fine robes befitting nobles of high rank, bore longknives in bejewelled sheaths attached to brightly dyed, tooled leather belts. Arwhon recognised the colourful designs on the belts. It matched those on Duran’s saddle and packs. The men and women sat the small saddles on their horses easily, almost carelessly. Their robes and fine cloaks, embroidered with bright swirling designs, made a splash of colour against the grey dullness of the dreamscape.

  There was laughter and merriment until, in the dream, the sky darkened and a shadow fell over the party. Looking up, fear was writ large upon the faces of the young nobles as a great shape swooped down on wide-spread, feathered wings. The great clawed front feet of the flying beast plucked one man and one woman from their saddles and swept them up into the air, disappearing swiftly into the lowering cloud. Arwhon had glimpsed the great beast only momentarily but would never forget what it looked like. It had the head and wings of an eagle, only much greater in size, with feathered and taloned front legs. The back half of its body, complete with a catlike tail, looked to be from one of the big mountain lions of legend, supposedly still prowling the high forests in the far north of Myseline.

  The dream scene shifted, to a great tent with many people standing silently in front of a raised dais where a King and Queen, wearing ornate robes, sat on ornamented chairs gazing sombrely out over a huge throng of their subjects assembled before them.

  Another shift, this time to skeletal, scantily clad people who resembled Chalc, serving food and drink to the man and woman who had been lifted from their saddles by the flying beast.

  Shift. Bodies chained to a wall in a cavern.

  Shift. A marble pool full of fresh blood.

  Shift. The same pool, with a beautiful, olive skinned, naked woman beside it, the blood in the pool now fast congealing.

  Shift.

  Shift.

  Shift.

  The Shifting was now too fast to make out details, leaving just a whirling kaleidoscope of colour and shapes.

  The effect was hypnotic.

  Sleep eventually offered surcease from the visions.

  Morning beat its way into Arwhon’s troubled mind along with the sound of hammering. His head ached slightly but he managed to ignore the dull throbbing and stretched his tense muscles, feeling a gentle tug of pulling stitches on his injured side. The herbs Chalc had applied to the wound, although messy looking, were working wonders. There was hardly any pain now.

  Arwhon rose to find a breakfast bowl of porridge cooling rapidly on the table along with a mug of herbal tea. After dressing, he quickly spooned it down and drank the tea before wandering out into another crisp but clear morning.

  A mild spring by all accounts, although up here in the mountains it still felt chilly to Arwhon, who was more used to the temperate coastal weather.

  First, a visit to the stables to check the horses and brush down Duran. The Barsoomi stallion did not really require a brushing but the exercise was good for Arwhon and the glow of satisfaction coming from the horse made the exercise all the more rewarding. Tansy too, snorted her satisfaction at her turn under the brush. Arwhon supposed he could hand over the old family horse to Chalc for his personal use, as there was no other horse in the stable and the smith was bound and determined to travel with him as his servant.

  Before leaving the stable for the forge, Arwhon promised to take both horses for a ride on the morrow.

  Duran approved.

  At the forge, Arwhon found Chalc hard at work, covered in sweat and wearing only a full-length leather apron over his trews. The smith’s right arm rose and fell rhythmically as he pounded the glowing bar of steel on the anvil with a large hammer. Chalc’s left hand firmly grasped the long tongs which held the steel bar steady. Arwhon settled down comfortably to watch.

  The bar was hammered flat to the length of a sword and then folded in two and hammered again. As the colour of its heat left it, Chalc asked Arwhon to pump the bellows of the forge with his good arm. Arwhon moved over beside the bellows and soon had the charcoal coals in the forge sun hot. Chalc pushed the metal bar into the coals and heated it to near whiteness before removing it and going through the process again, hammering the bar flat, sparks flying, before bending it in two and repeating the exercise.

  Throughout the morning the process was repeated again and again and when a tiring Arwhon thought Chalc had finally finished, he snatched a brief respite from the bellows. Chalc was far from finished though and after he took a long, thirst quenching drink Arwhon was asked to keep the forge hot while the steel bar was reheated and folded many more times. Around lunchtime, when Chalc stopped hammering for a while, he told Arwhon the secret of a quality Tarkent blade was in the number of times the bar of steel was bent and hammered. A minimum of thirty times before it was suitable for making ordinary blades and nearly twice that for special swords.

  More was always better.

  After eating, back to the forge.

  By mid afternoon Arwhon was totally exhausted and happily agreed to finishing up when Chalc eventually informed him that the first stage of the sword’s manufacture was now complete. The smith had not had one customer the whole day and Arwhon was rapidly seeing for himself that business was slow for a smith in Cumbrisia’s End.

  After the evening meal, Arwhon fell into bed, his eyes closing immediately. The exhausted youth slept a deep and dreamless sleep for the entire night and in the morning woke early, refreshed. While he was heading to the privy at daybreak, Arwhon met Chalc coming from the barn with straw still in his hair and realised the smith had given up his bed for him but no amount of protesting would make Chalc take it back.

  They breakfasted together, companionably, before Arwhon announced his intention of riding out each morning to exercise the horses. Chalc studied him for a moment, deliberating.

  “Go up to the pass and back, do not ride off the road. Petrad was not the only malcontent around here and one man alone makes an easy target. Keep your eyes open or you may wind up dead and horseless. Just as Ripley did. Take one horse at a time. If you make it back with one, then you can take the other. Wear your mail also. Just in case.”

  Chalc smiled inwardly as he spoke. It wouldn’t hurt to have the lad scared; he would be sure to keep his eyes open and live longer that way. Arwhon just nodded, accepting the advice. After all, Chalc lived in these parts.

  It took Arwhon quite a while to don his padding and struggle into his mail hauberk. It took even longer to saddle the big grey stallion but the horse stood patiently while Arwhon struggled with the tack
, thanking Fate his new Barsoom saddle was quite small compared to the one Tansy carried. He would have to deal with the heavier saddle next but luckily, Tansy wasn’t nearly as tall as Duran.

  Eventually Arwhon led Duran out of the stable and over to a handy stump where he mounted up. The stallion, full of spring and bounce, let Arwhon know how happy he was to get out of the stable at long last. The big grey strode along gently though, feeling his rider’s aches and pains through their bond.

  As Arwhon rode up through the village, retracing his steps towards Durhain’s Pass, a number of the villagers stopped what they were about to stare at him with open curiosity as he clip-clopped by them. Duran had put condition on in his few days in the barn and Arwhon sat him easily. He looked a lot less the commoner who had ridden into the village a handful of days before. The now shiny chainmail he wore also added to that opinion, Arwhon having polished it the best he could with his left hand during the rare spare moments in his day.

  The discoloured snow was all but gone from Durhain’s Pass when Arwhon rode through the long narrow chasm to eventually rein in Duran at its highest point. He sat looking out over a large slice of eastern Myseline, his dark blond hair flowing back in the strong wind blowing from the west, up through the pass. He would have to remember to ask Chalc if he knew who the Durhain was who had given his name to this place.

  The ground fell away rapidly before him; the road appearing smaller and smaller as it disappeared, snaking steeply downhill into Myseline proper, following switchback after switchback before eventually winding off into the distant haze. It was hard to believe he and Tansy had toiled up that steep ascent just a short while ago. Due to the lack of clarity in the air Arwhon could not see the coast though, which was over two weeks ride away and he could only just make out the light green of sprouting barley and wheat way off in the distance. Late spring down there, while up here at this altitude, spring had only recently arrived.

  Arwhon had the feeling it would be a long time before he returned to Myseline, if he ever did.

  Sadness mixed with excitement as he turned Duran around with just a slight pressure from his knee and with the road surface now drying, risked stretching the horse to a slow collected canter on the way back to Chalc’s blacksmith shop.

  Their ride together was magical. It was like riding in an armchair. Arwhon had never before ridden a horse which accommodated its stride and gait the way Duran did to make his rider more comfortable. No wonder Barsoomi horses were prized above all others.

  After arriving back at the forge Arwhon unsaddled Duran and rubbed him down slowly, the weight of the mail he wore an unwanted but necessary encumbrance. It was then the turn of his faithful Tansy, born and bred in Trugor. She was less easy to handle due to her forced inactivity and was only half as comfortable as Duran. Seemingly recovered from her trip up the mountains, she strode out eagerly but not smoothly when it was her turn to be exercised.

  It was a great relief for the tired and sore Arwhon when he eventually arrived back at Chalc’s barn after his second run out to the pass. Tansy seemed to have four stiff legs compared to Duran and the jolting had taken its toll on him. He brushed her down then forked both horses some pea hay from the loft above and filled their water buckets to the brim before leaving the barn. He was now quite exhausted and his side ached but it was a good, healing ache.

  The sound of hammering was still coming from the forge so Arwhon took the opportunity to strip off his mail and underpadding then slip on his shirt before putting together a simple meal for two, consisting of dark bread and cheese from his supplies. He carried it to the forge, rather than calling Chalc to eat. The steel bar, now sword length, had just been put back into the fire which seemed, to Arwhon’s untrained eye, a little cooler than it was yesterday. Chalc beamed when he saw lunch had been prepared for him.

  “Thank you Arwhon nari Tsalk. I’m getting toward the end of this part of the exercise but must admit that I’m rather weary today. This is the day I shape and temper your sword. The blade should be exactly the length from your bent wrist to the point of your shoulder, the correct length for a tazuri or short sword. Ideal for horseback, in tight situations and especially for beginners. Its longer sister the tazaki is only for experienced swordsmen. The tempering of your blade must be exactly right for hardness and flexibility, otherwise the whole exercise is wasted. I added a couple of handfuls of rare earths to the steel melt when I began. It will stop the sword from rusting. I was lucky to find some in the hills around here years ago. My earlier training in Tarkent allowed me to recognise the colour and texture of it. If you want to watch your sword coming into being, just find a comfortable seat after we have eaten.”

  All too soon, after finishing the repast and taking Arwhon’s measurement, the smith was back at work and Arwhon found an ideal viewing position. The sword length bar of multi folded steel was hammered and heated and hammered again with a lighter hammer than previously, until the blade portion emerged. It was a one edged sword, slightly curved and just under half a span long including the tang for the handle. It looked too thin, neither huge nor bulky and totally unlike any blade Arwhon had ever seen before.

  Chalc trimmed some excess steel from the handle end with a hammer and cold chisel and Arwhon saw the tang take its final shape. Toward the end of the afternoon, Chalc was happy with his efforts and heated the blade in the forge until it was brightly glowing. He then removed it from the heat and stamped his mark on the tang while waiting until the colour cooled to an even, dull red before plunging the sword into the water trough to quench its fire. Steam exploded from the water’s surface as it bubbled rapidly. After a few minutes the cloud diminished and Chalc withdrew the blade, inspecting the bluish colour of the steel. He was well pleased with it and smiled at Arwhon with satisfaction.

  “This will be a good one, possibly the best I have ever made; Fate was guiding my hands. It was a good day’s work. Now young fellow, let’s go eat, I’m hungry enough to consume one of those horses.”

  Another day with no custom for the smith, Arwhon realised. It was a wonder he made a living at all.

  Instead of starting to prepare the evening meal after he washed and cleaned himself up, Chalc announced he was going to eat at the inn for a change and invited Arwhon to accompany him. Arwhon insisted on paying and Chalc reluctantly agreed.

  They walked companionably up the slight hill to the old, crooked stone building in the chill of the evening gloom. A creaking sign, swung off a couple of hooks on a bracket above the door, showed a picture of a pig with wings and below the picture, in faded, ornate writing, a name.

  ‘The Flying Pig’.

  They went in, Arwhon having to duck his head under the low lintel of the entry. As he passed through the door, Arwhon glanced to his right. There, in a little alcove, a place to hang cloaks, judging by all the pegs on the wall, a diminutive man sat folded within his dark cloak, his face partially concealed by the hood. Suddenly, his head swivelled slowly round and his fixed stare came to rest upon the Ring on Arwhon’s right hand before travelling up to meet Arwhon’s gaze. The strange fellow’s eyes were black, all black; no whites showing at all and the skin of his face, the small amount exposed to view, was a pasty white. Arwhon shivered as icy tingles coursed up and down his spine and quickly looked away from the intensity of the little man’s gaze as he followed Chalc into the taproom proper.

  It was a large room, almost the length of the building, lit by half a dozen candles and a cheery fire at the far end. Dirt had built up to fill the angle where the floor joined the wall but no one seemed to pay it any heed. There were a handful of male customers in the long room, scattered thinly about the end with the fire. Most greeted Chalc warmly as he and Arwhon entered. A couple of what could be loosely termed ‘serving girls’, their breasts bulging over their dress fronts, sat amongst them.

  Approaching the bar, Arwhon caught the fat little innkeeper’s attention and indicating the alcove behind him with his thumb, asked.

 
“Who is that undersize man over there?”

  The innkeeper looked around Arwhon’s shoulder before quickly replying.

  “There’s no one there!”

  Sure enough, when Arwhon turned, the nook was empty, not even a drained ale mug perched somewhere to show anyone had ever been there. The innkeeper eyed Arwhon quizzically before moving away down the bar to serve drinks.

  The log fire, blazing in the hearth, cast its cheery glow, lighting and warming the far end of the large room. Before much time had passed, Arwhon found a heavy mug of the local dark ale shoved into his hand. The bowl of food which followed was passable fare but a bit greasy, large lumps of indeterminable meat with peas, potatoes and other root crops from winter storage mixed into a stew, accompanied by a large slab of grainy, stale bread. Quantity over quality seemed to be the hallmark of the fare.

  “Big job on?” the innkeeper enquired of Chalc who, mouth full, couldn’t answer, merely nodding, busy with his food. The innkeeper took it in his stride and turning to Arwhon said.

  “He alus eats in here when he does big jobs.”

  Then he turned his attention back to Chalc.

  “Don’t you?”

  Chalc nodded again, mumbling something around the stew he was stuffing into his mouth, accompanied by big chunks of the stale bread, washed down with gulps of ale.

  Deciding no answer was forthcoming, the innkeeper left them to it.

  After the filling meal, Arwhon sat back quietly and refrained from entering the general conversation, rather choosing to listen and watch as the talk flowed back and forth over a game of dominoes. A few locals came up to him to give thanks for his killing of Petrad who, truth be known, had been a curse for a number of years. Most of them generally told the truth but Arwhon was amazed at how many people lied to others as a matter of course; the Ring on his finger giving him the truthful version of the conversations being carried on around him. The serving wenches were particularly dishonest and the truth of what they said did not bear repeating. Besides himself, the only really honest person in the whole bar room was Chalc.