The Ring Of Truth

by B Cameron Lee

The evening passed swiftly as the rain beat down without relief. The downpour seemed a commonplace event to the farmers, so Chalc ignored it as he tucked into the passable meal brought out to him by the cook, not the innkeeper’s wife, judging by the dark looks they exchanged. The village had recently slaughtered a pig so the meat was fresh, even if the fare was plain and before long Chalc and Arwhon both grew weary. They decided to retire so as to make an early start in the morning.

  The innkeeper just couldn’t spare the time to take Chalc out the back before they went up to their room, as it seemed like every man and his dog had decided to step out for a drink this stormy, wet evening and trade was brisk. The morning would have to do.

  The young Master, led by Chalc the Servant holding a lit candle, left the noisy taproom and headed upstairs to their plain but snug room. Arwhon undressed by candle light, his chainmail causing a little difficulty at first, before sliding into his comfortable bed, only to have Chalc hang the patterned dagger over the bedpost near his head and lay Arwhon’s new sword within arms reach on the floor.

  “Always have your weapons handy and easy to find in the dark. Wherever you are. You never know when you might need them.”

  Arwhon flushed, feeling slightly abashed, he should have thought of that. Chalc observed the rush of colour in Arwhon’s cheeks.

  “Master, I am teaching. Nothing more. You have a lot to learn in a short time and I can teach it to you. In my country, before a man is allowed to make swords, he has to be a Master swordsman. I trained in the arts of combat and stealth from the age of ten until I was ready at twenty five to become an apprentice blacksmith. It took a further seven years until I became a true swordsmith. I’ll protect you to the best of my abilities while I can but still I might fail. Then you’ll have need to use these weapons and what I have managed to teach you.”

  Arwhon visibly relaxed, and then a thought came to him.

  “Why come with me, Chalc? I’m just a young man on my way to see my Grandmother.”

  Chalc’s eyes unfocussed for a second, “There is Honesty about you and you have the Ring of Truth, the Dagger of Truth and a Barsoomi horse. None of which you started your travels with. There are people about who would kill you for just one of those items let alone all three. Besides, I desire adventure and my life was in a rut. Now get some sleep.”

  Arwhon nodded and laid his head on the pillow. Within seconds he was asleep. Chalc doused the candle and lay upon the bed, still dressed, listening to the sounds in the night, cataloguing them. The rain had stopped but water still dripped. The muffled sounds from the taproom below provided a background for the occasional creak of a wooden beam and the odd groan of the old building settling in the night. There was an infrequent snuffle or two from the barn below and the sound of regular breathing came from the bed next to him. All were accounted for and Chalc dozed. Arwhon must have dreamed in the night as Chalc was woken from his light sleep by the sound of Arwhon’s voice, crying out quietly once or twice.

  The lad was troubled.

  As the sun gilded the horizon, first light beamed in through the eastern facing window between the beds. Chalc woke Arwhon.

  “Get dressed while I go and see if we can get an early breakfast.”

  Arwhon sleepily complied and when Chalc returned, it was to find Arwhon ready to go, with his saddlebags packed and sword harness on over his mail, dagger at his belt with his cloak thrown on over the lot.

  Chalc smiled. “You learn fast Master, breakfast is waiting.”

  With that, Chalc grabbed his already packed saddlebag from the floor and poking his sheathed tazaki through his belt, followed Arwhon down to breakfast. They broke their fast with boiled oatmeal to start then fried bread and pork to follow. The inn even had a supply of Chalc’s favourite herbal tea.

  Toward the end of the meal, Chalc signalled the innkeeper over.

  “After our meal, we would like to look at the pigeon left here by the Dominion scum.”

  “Certainly, not a problem,” the innkeeper replied and five minutes later he led them to a shed out the back of the inn on the other side of the yard. Its door hung ajar and when they entered, it was to find a small cage empty, its latch undone. The innkeeper paled and he swung round to face Chalc.

  “It wasn’t me, I swear it wasn’t me. That bloody cook, no wonder she’s not around this morning.”

  Arwhon cleared his throat and as Chalc glanced at him, Arwhon gave his head a small nod.

  Chalc appraised Arwhon for a moment then turned back to the innkeeper.

  “No, it wasn’t you but someone released the bird and I think we’ve already met its owner.”

  Twenty minutes later they were riding out of Penultimate on well groomed, contented horses. Chalc slipped the old groom a couple of coppers extra in appreciation of his honesty and quality work. The old man’s face lit with a smile.

  “Fortune be on ye Chalc. Good Fate fare thee well.”

  The storm of the night before had passed, leaving the clear air chilled and damp. The paved road was slippery in places with thin mud which gradually dried as the sun’s rays evaporated the moisture from the surface. The world felt very busy and alive around them as they rode past cultivated fields and through patches of woodland.

  Chalc pondered their situation as they rode. Arwhon had told him who had really released the bird. The Truth freely available to them, thanks to the Ring grown onto Arwhon’s finger. Chalc knew he shouldn’t have trusted the sour faced old cook but he wasn’t expecting this. It was still two weeks travel east down the long valley to Crossroads, a small vibrant city at the border of the flat country.

  It was the only real city in Cumbrisia

  Past that sprawling, noisome place, the vast plains of Barsoom disappeared into the distance, a near-silent, rolling sea of grass split by the odd tree-lined river. Their own direction of travel from Crossroads was to the south, along the Great Southern Road to Southland. It was nearly four weeks riding from here to Belvedere without hurrying. They had money enough but Chalc mulled over the true identity of the man known as Kroy who left pigeons in taverns. Why was he watching out for them.

  The Ring?

  The Barsoomi horse?

  They were stolen and didn’t belong to Kroy at all, although he behaved as though they were his.

  Not enough evidence to know who he was as yet but danger could be lurking around any corner. Chalc knew he would have to be alert and wary at all times.

  Oblivious to Chalc’s concerns, Arwhon was happily riding along astride his Barsoomi horse. He was thinking less and less of his brother and sister and more and more of the Grandmother he had never seen. What was she like? Did she live in a fine house with servants?

  SLAP! An unseen branch whipped across his face. A dry cough sounded from his left.

  “That could just as easily have been a sword. Always keep an observant part of you in the present while you are thinking. Your life is a lot to lose.”

  “Thank you Chalc,” Arwhon returned, face stinging. “I shall take your most excellent advice.” From that moment on he swore to himself that he would endeavour to be more observant of his surroundings at all times.

  Day after day and village after village, they seemed to creep slowly down the expanding valley. Chalc was extremely cautious and took extra time to travel parallel to the main road on farm tracks and woodland trails, skirting small settlements. The experience far exceeded anything Arwhon could ever have imagined. He began to understand just how big the world in which he lived really was. Bryan, his father must have travelled and possibly fought on the very road they shadowed and it was only a small part of Cumbrisia.

  One day, while watering their horses at a shallow pool beside the main stream, well off the road, they both heard the drumming of hooves on the main road, borne to them on the southerly wind. By shading their eyes, both Arwhon and Chalc made out a band of nine riders in the distance as they swept by at speed, heading down the valley.

  Chalc sighed, “That’s a
relief. I would rather have them in front of me than behind me.”

  As the days passed during their descent down the valley from the heights of Cumbrisia’s End, the weather became warmer and the vegetation lusher; much more advanced in its growth than higher up. The mountains of Mehgrin’s Wall no longer appeared to loom above them and as the distance from those mountains increased, Arwhon could see the clouds shrouding the peaks. Mehgrin’s Wall stretched north and south in an unbroken line as far as the eye could see and much further than that according to Chalc.

  The villages the Master and Servant chose to break their journey were all an easy day’s travel from each other, built near and often named after some natural feature. Most often found alongside the cold, fast flowing stream which would soon widen to become a small river.

  They passed through ‘Cascades’ then ‘WoodenBridge’, ‘Spikerock’ and ‘Hollows’, staying the night in each of those villages before travelling on the next day. Some of the small hamlets were prettier than others and the standard of accommodation varied markedly. Usually, if a village or small town looked cared for, the accommodation was respectable and the meals ample and tasty but if a village appeared unkempt they spent the next day scratching at flea bites or worse. Sometimes, camping out in clear weather was preferable to inferior food and lodgings.

  Mostly the local residents were happy to see them, often asking news of other villages and friends or relatives higher up the valley, although in some villages the pair were eyed with suspicion by the locals. Arwhon was puzzled by the unwarranted distrust shown by the inhabitants but kept to himself, allowing Chalc to conduct the buying and the bargaining. He did, however, watch what Chalc did and how he did it.

  Life’s lessons never stopped.

  The Ring of Truth kept Arwhon alert too, at least until he learned how to distinguish the difference between what was spoken out loud and the truth the Ring imparted. The Ring’s translation was far more internal than the spoken word and once Arwhon got the hang of separating the two, he could follow conversations on both levels simultaneously. Both what was said and what was True. Some of the people they met thought he was very astute, while others, perhaps uneasy, sometimes made the small hand sign to ward off evil knacks.

  Arwhon learned to listen more, peacefully silent while Chalc did the talking and between them they devised a simple system of hand signals to communicate. Arwhon never gave any clues to the fact he knew the whole Truth of what the locals didn’t say and learned, over time, to lead the conversation around so people eventually told it. There was more to the Truth Ring than he had at first thought.

  It truly was a magical device.

  The first week or so of the journey had been fairly unremarkable thus far. The daily lessons in combat were building up Arwhon’s body and he moved lithely, with a balanced grace. His side had healed well and gave him no trouble at all now and he thrilled to be learning so much. Chalc was a stickler for accuracy. Close enough was never good enough for him and Arwhon had to be right on target or Chalc would give him a tiny bruise each time he left himself open; mostly to help him remember his training. Chalc was not heartless though and still spared Arwhon’s injured side from further damage. For an older man, his speed and power were amazing, not to mention the precision of his blows.

  Grand Valley broadened further now. Its floor a checkerboard of fields with the odd clump of woods rather than the long stretches of forest seen higher up toward Cumbrisia’s End. Other roads and tracks and trails, some with name markers, bisected fields where spring wheat, long sprouted at this lower altitude, carpeted the dark fertile soil with a rippling green sea in the early summer breezes. Way off in the distance, on the other side of the vale, small villages could be seen, smoke rising from chimneys to be captured by the same light zephyrs blowing past the travellers.

  The road they followed down the valley was now fully paved, although the paving was not in the best of repair and before long they came to their first proper signpost. The weatherworn arm, sagging a little on the stout post, pointed in their direction of travel. It read; ‘Forbidden’. Chalc returned a tight smile to Arwhon’s questioning look before explaining.

  “The only known road to the Forbidden Lands begins in the town of Forbidden and heads north. Quite a few travellers set off in that direction but not many return. Those who do are changed and speak of freaks and monsters and strange magic. No one has yet returned with gold but that is not the lure of the Forbidden Land. Other things come back, more valuable than gold, small artefacts with magical properties, mostly minor evils and curses. They are mere knickknacks to the Q’Herindam but worth a small fortune when brought back from there and sold into the right hands. The town of Forbidden, so I have been told, attracts what I would call the rougher elements of society. So stay close to me at all times.”

  Chalc paused then decided to emphasize the point he was making.

  “Risking derision, I will even come outside when you use the privy. We’ll tell people I’ve been hired to bodyguard you by your father, who has sent you to your grandmother to learn the gentile ways of civilised people.”

  Arwhon nodded in agreement. “A goodly plan Chalc, as usual, although I would prefer going to the privy on my own.”

  “Not an option young Master, believe me, a man is most vulnerable with his trousers around his ankles and his sword in its sheath.”

  Chalc smiled inwardly, he knew, such vulnerabilities had been part of his extensive training.

  It was hard to describe their first impressions of Forbidden. Riding along the main road in the direction the decrepit sign pointed, clearing a stretch of woodland then turning to their right around a huge rock, they saw the town in front of them.

  The settlement, lit by the descending sun’s rays, displayed grim stone buildings, dark and strangely greasy looking, if a building could be described as greasy. Chalc and Arwhon found it difficult to focus their eyes properly. When they looked at anything directly, their vision seemed to slide off the object. Smoke hung in a pall over the town, smudging the late afternoon sunlight somewhat and an unnatural quiet lay over everything as they rode into its outskirts. There were no children laughing and playing in the narrow dirty streets, nor farmwives in colourful clothes, buying or selling produce. In fact, the town seemed to be devoid of inhabitants. An expectant pervading hush lay over all. The sort of hush common before a storm. A rag of curtain fell back into place as they passed yet another hovel, the window frames open to the elements, bereft of even the standard oiled hide. Chalc shivered. Goosebumps.

  He did not like this town at all.

  “I think we should ride straight through and camp further on down the road, Arwhon. This place has the feel of Death to it. There is little good here.”

  Arwhon considered. The Ring on his finger was tingling somewhat and he did not know what that meant. Duran was skittish, tossing his head, ears pricked forward and very wary. Through him, Arwhon felt the presence of another Barsoomi horse and sent a mental question to Duran. The horse’s reply conveyed a lack of recognition of the other Barsoomi horse and a desire to get near it for a while.

  “No Chalc, we have to stay for a little while, Duran has picked up the presence of another Barsoomi horse and would like to communicate with it, as it is unknown to him. We’ll stop somewhere near it for a short while. Then we’ll leave. I agree with you, this place unsettles me too.”

  It was not far to the middle of town. Duran led the way and they soon arrived in the central cobbled square to find the other Barsoomi horse, an older dark brown mare, tied to a hitching rail in front of an inn. The inn’s sign, hanging above the front door, carried a picture of a strange beast with outstretched wings. It looked like the beast Arwhon had seen in his dreams; eagle head, front legs and wings on the body of a large cat-like creature with a tail. Under the picture the sign proclaimed, ‘The Lonesome Gryffon’.

  “So that’s what they’re like,” exclaimed Arwhon, turning to Chalc. “That creature on the sign
is the same as the one I saw in my dream and described to you. Only I didn’t see all of it at once.”

  Chalc nodded as he looked warily around the deserted square. They were the only people in it.

  Pulling up beside the Barsoomi mare, Chalc and Arwhon dismounted, moving to tie their horses to the rail before they entered the decrepit inn. Chalc looked about carefully and decided to leave Rancid on the lead rope attached to Tansy’s saddle and only tie Tansy to the rail, leaving enough space for Arwhon to hitch Duran next to the unknown Barsoomi mare.

  It was dark inside the inn and Arwhon bumped into Chalc as the old campaigner paused in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. What he saw was not a cheery sight. Filth. Weeks-old rushes scattered over the floor encrusted with food scraps, ignored to rot where mindlessly discarded. The place reeked of urine and a couple of rats were nosing boldly amidst the squalor. Fat rats, totally unconcerned with being out in the open during daylight hours. An unwholesome sign. Chalc’s eyes moved quickly around the room as he approached the bar, taking in everything. Arwhon, a step behind Chalc, could sense Duran outside communicating with the other Barsoomi horse.

  A large slatternly woman sat on a stool on the other side of the bar with a half full tankard in front of her. She looked at them narrowly as they advanced to the bar.

  “Waderyawant? Drink or food or both?”

  Chalc surveyed his surroundings distastefully and decided the safest option would probably be the most expensive but at least they would get out alive. He tried to sound pleasant.

  “A bottle of wine please. The young Master enjoys a glass of wine now and again.”

  “Ain’t got no glasses, only tankards but I might be able to find yers a bottle of wine. Take a seat while I go look for one.”

  With that she struggled off her stool and headed for the small door behind the bar. Chalc mentally measured her width against the door and thought it could be a close thing. Just before she reached the door he hailed her and casually enquired as to who owned the horse outside. She paused, peering owlishly over her shoulder through the gloom for a moment before carrying on without answering.