The Ring Of Truth

by B Cameron Lee

  “Kuiran’da....... Kuiran.”

  There was no need for the masculine honorific of the M’Herindar, Kuiran thought, he was among Men now.

  “Many thanks to you Kuiran, if you had not arrived when you did we would both be dead now. How is Arwhon, my young companion?”

  Chalc’s enquiry caused a fleeting shadow to pass over Kuiran’s handsome face.

  “I’m afraid I arrived too late to save him from the mortal blow. I was here at exactly the time they said though. I don’t understand.” Kuiran’s voice trailed off.

  “Who said to be here at this time?” Chalc asked sharply.

  “I cannot say right now Sir. I’ll tell you when I can.”

  “I’m Chalc, not Sir. I served that youth lying there because he had a purpose in the scheme of things. Are you sure he’s dead, Duran doesn’t think so.”

  Chalc walked over to where Arwhon lay, unconsciously taking off the amulet of concealment and placing it in his pouch. Too stunned to realise that Kuiran had been able to see him while he was still wearing it.

  There was no blood visible on Arwhon’s chainmail but the hilt of the Truth Dagger protruded from his chest. It had gone straight into his heart. Chalc could feel no pulse at wrist or neck but something was not right. He sent to Darla, asking what Duran thought and the answer did not surprise him. Arwhon was there and not there. Dead but not dead. Duran could still feel him faintly through the bond between them.

  Kuiran closed his eyes and stood silently in thought before he spoke to Chalc.

  “We must wait a while before we do anything with him. There is more to this event than first appears. While we wait, you can help me smash the bad magic carried by these men.”

  They went from body to body, removing anything that could possibly be a magical item. Most were wrapped in cloth but a few were just crammed into a pocket or pouch. They piled the dark, greasy, ugly assortment of artefacts next to a flat rock and Kuiran started to smash them, placing each item on the hard stone one after the other and pounding them with one of the metal bound ends of his staff. Some of the dark magic items splintered easily and some exploded into dust or fragments but soon all were destroyed.

  “The less dark magic in the world the better.” Kuiran declared. “Now we must see to your friend.”

  9. Truth.

  The subterranean cavern was vast and glowed faintly in the pale light given off by the phosphorescent fungi growing on its walls among the ferns and liverworts. Huge natural buttresses of stone rose up to support its lofty ceiling where stalactites hung in untidy disarray. Like diamonds on a tiara, the bright spots of the glow-worms living amongst them twinkled their tiny lights. From the floor of the cave the ceiling appeared as the night sky covered in stars, each pinprick of light a tiny glowing body. A cool breeze, laden with the musty scent of decaying vegetation, blew through natural potholes from the forest floor above. In the dim light, three silver haired old women could be seen sitting side by side, staring deeply into an onyx black pool in the centre of the cavern. Not a ripple marred its surface and all that could be seen in the inky depths was the myriad reflections of the glow-worms far above.

  Stillness.

  Expectation.

  A mist began to form on the surface of the water. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, thickening as it materialized before gently rising in a thick pillar of fog above the centre of the pool.

  Arwhon’s second last waking thought had been sheer annoyance at allowing his foe, Kroy, to pull the Truth Dagger from the sheath on Arwhon’s own belt. His last thought had been a wild unbidden scream at the pain of being pierced through the heart by his own Dagger.

  Everything went dark.

  Was he dead?

  How could he think like this if he were dead?

  What was happening to him?

  Ever so slowly images began to coalesce from the blackness around him as the world once more took form again. The shaping of it reasserted order and soon Arwhon could see his surroundings. A dimly lit cavern with a starry ceiling. Stars? He turned and in the gloom noticed three, old, silver-haired women, sitting in a line observing him. There was a vague familiarity to them. Looking downward, he bit off a cry of horror. His feet were mist and below him was an inky black pool of water, above which he hung suspended.

  “What dark magic is this?” he cried. His voice becoming lost in the immensity of the cavern, echoing. “This, this, this….”

  “It is great magic, youngling, and not evil. Do you have a name?”

  “Arwhon. Could you get me down please?”

  Another of the aged women spoke.

  “That is not possible, you would die.”

  Arwhon considered, remembering.

  “But I’m already dead. Stabbed through the heart with my own Truth Dagger.”

  Now it was the turn of the third member of the group, who looked to be the eldest.

  “You are not dead, yet. This pool can capture certain souls on their way to the next life. Only a few come this way, especially those who are of importance to the future. This may not be your time young Arwhon. All is in balance. I see the Durhain’s Ring came with you.”

  Arwhon glanced down at his hand; the Truth Ring was there in substance still married to his misty finger.

  “What do you know of the Ring?” he asked.

  The eldest answered him. “It is truly ancient, made before the First People gained magic and became the Elder Races, one of which in turn became the predecessors of the M’Herindar. It has only been a thing of rumour until now. The Ring was born in Firemagic and its purpose is unknown.”

  Another of the old ladies shook her head impatiently.

  “Enough of this, there is no time.”

  The eldest ignored the outburst and continued.

  “We are the Wise Ones of the M’Herindar. We look into the future as the waters of the pool reveal it to us and try to bend events so a particular future may come to pass. This pool is of the blood of Ch’ron, He who is the forest above. Home to the M’Herindar.”

  M’Herindar? Who were they? Chalc had talked of them but suggested the tales were the stuff of legend.

  “Are you real or is this a dream?” Arwhon gazed around the cavern again.

  “We are real, as are the M’Herindar. It falls upon us, as descendents of the Elder Race, to set you on the path of your destiny. The Ring has accepted you as an honest man and also one in which M’Herindar blood flows. How you came by that blood, we do not know exactly but in the early times of Man’s coming to this land, union between M’Herindar and Man was not unknown. The practice was discouraged because M’Herindar live so much longer than those of the race of Man and it was too distressing for some to see their partner age and die before their eyes. The Q’Herindam, on the other hand, did not care and had partner after partner from the race of Man, breeding more and more halflings. These they kept away from Man to use as they would. You have magic within you Arwhon, how it will eventually manifest is unknown to us presently but you are an important player in the destiny of many of the races of this world. We also know that you will have need of a Servant, an Arm and a Shield. To that end, we have provided an Arm for you. Use him well.”

  “I don’t understand. If I have magic, why hasn’t it come out? Why didn’t it save me from being stabbed?”

  Arwhon’s confusion was readily apparent.

  “Your Servant has made you a sword. It has taken some of the magic from the Ring and the Dagger. The secret is in the design the Ring so lovingly copied onto its blade. When the sword was first put into your hand, you could not use it. As you train with it you will eventually become a very skilled swordsman. It is the same with magic. First you have to recognise it, after which you need to be trained in its use. Magic often manifests itself in dreaming true dreams. Have such dreams come to you?”

  “Yes, in the last month. I dreamt of the Prince and Princess of Barsoom, captured by Empress Martine.”

  “Excellent. You may be the one
who frees them.”

  The three Wise Ones slowly nodded their heads in unison.

  “Me! But I am only a mere Trader’s son on my way to visit my Grandmother in Belvedere.”

  Arwhon was flustered, unable to believe the way the Fates seemed to be controlling him. He looked down to where his feet should be and shuddered at the sight of the mist, drifting above the pool. As he watched, tendrils of the mist became the scarlet of flame and started to climb around him in a lazy spiral, spinning clockwise. The three Wise Women did not appear to notice the red spirals.

  “Yes, you will still visit your Grandmother but you will discover Fate has a great design for you. We beseech you. Do not fail us or the world as we know it may cease to exist. On your shoulders ride the hopes of all decent beings of this world. We will help where we can but our abilities are limited, dark forces are in concert against us.”

  The three Wise Ones silently looked up at him as Arwhon slowly revolved in the gathering draught above the pool. The fiery spiral was winding tighter, closing in on him as it spun ever faster. He saw concern for him writ on those three wise faces as he drifted above the pool, suspended limply in their gaze.

  Hanging helplessly.

  He should, by all rights, be dead.

  “Time for you to go,” the Eldest said softly, “the others are worrying. Look for your Shield in Belvedere.”

  Arwhon felt himself dissolving as the spiralling flame embraced him closely and once more everything faded into an unrelieved black. The last thing he saw was a light, way down in the depths of the pool, a pure glow, starting from a pinprick and rapidly enlarging as he dissipated.

  Chalc and Kuiran stood looking down on Arwhon’s limp body, the hilt of the Truth knife still protruding from his chest. The body had not given any indication of life for the last fifteen minutes. Neither a breath, nor a beat of the heart had moved that stilled young man. Duran had tried gently pawing at the body with his front hooves, determined to get a response and Chalc was now holding him back.

  “Do you think your armlet would work on him?” Chalc asked Kuiran for the fifth time.

  “No, it is useless once life has fled.” Kuiran replied patiently yet again.

  “Well, we can’t stand here looking at him all day. We have to do something,” Chalc replied. “Pull that damned dagger out of his chest at least.”

  Kuiran leaned over and gently grasping the hilt of the Truth Dagger, steadily withdrew it in one firm motion. There was no blood to be seen on it and no blood leaked from the small hole it left but dead bodies did not bleed and Arwhon’s body lay still, unmoving on the road. Kuiran threw the Dagger down near the corpse.

  Chalc spoke. “He could almost be alive, lying there like that. Can’t see a mark on him apart from that tiny hole in his chainmail.”

  Kuiran said nothing, sorrowfully shaking his head. He had been sent here to protect the young man now lying dead on the road in front of him. His first mission outside of the Darkwood and he had failed the Wise Ones. How could he hold his head up when he returned home again? He looked over at Chalc, the pain obvious on his face.

  Kuiran and Chalc both heard the gasp at the same moment. Their heads whipped round and down to gaze at Arwhon’s body just as it took in a great breath and started coughing. They looked at each other wide eyed for a moment before quickly lifting Arwhon to a sitting position and thumping his back. Arwhon coughed again and took another breath.

  “Easy, don’t beat me to death,” he croaked. “Could I have a drink of water please?”

  Chalc rose swiftly to fetch Arwhon’s own water bottle from a prancing Duran, the horse neighing excitedly at the sight of his recovering master. Arwhon looked at the young giant beside him.

  “Who are you?” he asked, already suspecting the answer.

  “I am Kuiran, it means ‘My Arm of Strength’, I was sent here to protect you.”

  “Good start.”

  Arwhon was only joking but a stricken look passed across Kuiran’s handsome face so Arwhon quickly continued.

  “I have just seen the Wise Ones, you did everything exactly right. If you had come earlier I would not have had the opportunity to talk with them, although I don’t know if I like being so close to Death.”

  Chalc reached down and clasped Arwhon’s shoulder.

  “It’s great to have you back Master. I’ll make camp and see to the horses after dragging these bodies away.”

  Kuiran jumped up.

  “You deal with Arwhon, Chalc, relate what has happened here while I take care of the bodies. I’m responsible for their deaths so I’ll clear up the mess.”

  Chalc didn’t argue as he and Arwhon watched Kuiran quickly tie a cord to his staff, using it to sling the weapon over his shoulder before picking up a body in each hand and walking off into the woods with them. He returned after a few minutes to pick up another couple.

  “Strong, isn’t he,” commented Chalc. “I don’t know where he came from but he flew into those bandits like a whirlwind. Thought I was passable good with a staff but he could teach me a thing or two.”

  Arwhon took a good look at Chalc and for the first time saw the bloodstain on the front of Chalc’s shirt.

  “Are you hurt Chalc?” he asked in concern.

  Chalc smiled and lifted his shirt, beneath was a small puckered scar, freshly healed.

  “I was. Two of Kroy’s men shot me with a crossbow. One right in the side of the chest but Kuiran pulled the bolt out and told me he placed his magical armband on my chest, over my heart and the wound healed rapidly. I owe him my life. Oddly though, he said he tied the armband back onto his arm, but I can’t see it.”

  Arwhon smiled at his friend and teacher.

  “He was sent by the Wise Ones of the M’Herindar.”

  “The M’Herindar! You mean they actually exist.”

  “Not only that but I met the Wise Ones. Apparently I’m supposed to save the world. Me, a Trader’s son! What a fancy. Can’t see it myself but Kuiran is my Arm and at some stage we will also be joined by a Shield. You, Chalc, are my Servant.”

  Chalc looked chagrined. “Not a very good one. I should have seen this ambush coming and been better prepared. I am sorry I failed you Arwhon.”

  He stepped over to where Kuiran had discarded the Truth Dagger and picking it up, handed it back to Arwhon, hilt first. “Better put this away and take better care of it in the future. You may never get another second chance.” He smiled to soften his criticism.

  “You didn’t fail me Chalc.” Arwhon paused as he wiped the blade clean until it shone then resheathed the Dagger. “The Wise Ones knew this was going to happen. They sometimes get a glimpse of the future in their pool and knew I would be coming to see them. They needed to talk with me. So when they sent Kuiran, they arranged for him to arrive too late, just after I was stabbed and ‘died’. It is good to see you again Chalc, and I truly thank you for being my Servant.”

  Both men rose. Arwhon slowly, he was now no longer a boy or a youth. He had made the transition to manhood. Dying to do so. They clasped wrists as men do, Chalc recognising that the unsteady young man before him, now hugging his Barsoomi horse around the neck, was rapidly maturing. He left Arwhon talking to Duran and went to set up camp for the night, choosing the tree cover on the opposite side of the road from where Kuiran was dumping the bodies. Chalc headed for Rancid first, it might be an idea to put up the tent as Arwhon looked as though he needed a bit of cosseting. Chalc didn’t think Kroy would be back tonight, as most of his men were dead.

  Dusk was nearly a memory by the time the hot evening meal was being eaten around the small campfire, water set to boiling for herbal tea afterwards. It was good to have a fire again. Rancid the mule was picketed although probably didn’t need to be, while Duran and Darla grazed freely under the trees. Being bonded they would not wander far and were handy guards during the night.

  Conversation went back and forth across the fire as Master and Servant conversed with Kuiran, getting to know him be
tter. They had mistaken him for M’Herindar at first but he told them the story of his delivery to Vehrin’del by the seas of the Rift and explained how he was adopted by her to be raised M’Herindar. No one knew of his true origins.

  The Arm took first watch that evening and Chalc took the second. Neither expected Arwhon to stand watch so soon after his ‘death’, so they let him rest for this night, tucked up alone in the tent so as not to be disturbed. Kroy was not expected back immediately but Arwhon still needed guarding very carefully from now on.

  Kroy sat at the small, dimly lit table in an alcove off the main taproom, his second in command, Grady, scratched idly under his eye patch while the other remaining member of Kroy’s original Dominion company concentrated on his beer. The ‘Horses Head’, a seedy tavern in a dark back alley of Crossroads was their headquarters for now. Kroy lifted his ale mug and grunted at the foul taste of the brew he swilled. Things had not gone according to plan. By now he should have had that damned ring and the Barsoomi horse in his possession and been on his way back to Empress Martine. The patterned dagger and the extra Barsoomi horse would be his alone though, Martine had not mentioned them. Spoils of war he thought pragmatically.

  He and his men had to be careful in Crossroads; the Dominion was hated anywhere outside of its boundaries, doubly so, now news of the abduction of the Prince and Princess of Barsoom had spread throughout the land. He sighed and put his half empty mug down.

  “We have to go back and see what became of the ring. Did either of you see where the giant came from?”

  Grady, in his youth a big strong man but now going to seed if the large paunch hanging over his belt was any indication, had been with Kroy a long time. He shook his head in answer to the question.

  “E just ‘peared out o’ nowheres. Big bugger, an’ fast with thet bloody tree trunk. We wus lucky to git outa thur in one piece.”

  The remaining squalid member of the trio just nodded, anything Grady said was fine by him.

  “Well, we have to go back and find out what happened. The old man should be dead by now from the crossbow bolt in his chest, so if we arm ourselves with crossbows before we return, we should be able to kill the big man from a distance if he’s still hanging around there. We can’t go back to Goristoum without the Barsoom horse and the ring Martine paid handsomely for or she’ll skin us alive. I’m not joking either, I’ve seen it done. Not a pretty sight.”