“We all have trials and burdens to bear Arwhon. I’m M’Herindar but have no magic of my own. Remember, all journeys begin with the first step and you are well on the path of yours. Learn fast the things we show you and remember, you’re not alone. You seem to attract honest and well meaning friends. Trust them. They have your best interests at heart. It’s not often someone is chosen by Fate and it’s a real honour. Hold your head up but remain humble. Even the lowliest of the low has something to teach you, if you’ll only watch and learn.”
Having said his piece, Kuiran shouldered his mighty staff and strode off to the front again. Lareeta checked Binaway and dropped back to follow along behind, leaving Arwhon alone for a while to contemplate the enormity of the burden thrust upon him. As he rode, Arwhon pondered his feelings of inadequacy and his ability to perform up to the expectations everyone had of him. However, thinking about how far he had come in recent weeks, Arwhon realized it was possible. He just needed to believe in himself. Who else he thought, had been stabbed through the heart and lived to tell the tale.
They were right though, he was getting cocky.
That evening he amazed Lareeta when she took up the practice sword against his knife again. He ghosted through the moves she had shown him and before long she handed him the practice sword and produced her own longknife.
“Now we’ll see just how good you have become. Ready?”
He nodded and tapped her on the shoulder with the wooden sword before she had time to move.
“Lucky shot. Again.”
This time she tried to dodge in close to him but Arwhon quickly moved his right hand above his head, inverting the sword, so the blade was lying down along his body, sharp edge out. The edge of the practice blade caught Lareeta’s thrusting hand at the wrist. She stepped back, paused and then moved again. Once more his blade touched her knife hand. Thinking to trick him, on the next lunge, Lareeta quickly flipped the blade to her other hand during the attack. Arwhon sent the knife spinning with his sword before she even had a chance to catch it. Lareeta retrieved her knife.
“You learn fast but how about knife against knife?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. This ability seems to be coming to me from somewhere. Maybe it’s Chalc’s drilling. We could try.”
Lareeta was better knife to knife and once more spent time going through the motions slowly and speeding up as Arwhon quickly grasped each manoeuvre.
“Enough! You’re still determined to make these old bones weary, you young pup. We’ll continue tomorrow. Come sit by the fire and tell me of your early life. I have to report to the King of Barsoom eventually and he will want to know the story of the man who Reynaldo spent his life for.”
Chalc stood guard as both Lareeta and Kuiran sat and listened to Arwhon’s account of his early childhood, up until the time of his father’s death at the hands of the Draakon Reavers and then his subsequent trek to find his Grandmother in Belvedere.
“What is her name?” Lareeta enquired.
“Cristal nasi Tsalkini,” Arwhon replied and didn’t miss the expression of surprise on Lareeta’s face. “What? Do you know of her?” he asked.
“Everyone knows her. She is one of the richest people in Belvedere, nay, in all Southland and sits on Belvedere’s Council of Ten. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I had no idea. How can I hope to see her looking like this? The clothes I have are in no way fine enough for me to be presented to her.”
He looked worried, another problem to solve.
Lareeta laughed. “Do not concern yourself, little warrior, you ride a Barsoomi horse. In Southland that is almost equivalent to being royalty. You will be received well wherever you go. Although a few decent clothes would also help your image but those can be obtained anywhere. Relax. By all accounts Cristal nasi Tsalkini can be a good woman, although her enemies may not agree. Now get to your sleeping roll, tomorrow is another day.”
Indeed it was. As the sun crept over the eastern horizon the little band set off early, their pace increasing at Arwhon’s urging. He felt a need for speed, not only due to time running out for the captive Prince and Princess but also due to some inner urge which he could not fathom. Soon they’d left yet another village far behind them and were making good time.
The only interruption to their day came as they topped a small rise and stumbled upon a caravan of wagons under attack by bandits. The thieves were a large, well armed force and had the caravan surrounded. Dead guards lay on the ground with arrows bristling from their bodies. A burly, black bearded man ahorse gripped a well dressed merchant by the scruff of the neck, lifting him off the ground until his curled-toe shoes were clear of the roadway, his face slowly darkening to a mottled blue. Arwhon shouted at them and the black bearded man dropped the merchant, swinging his horse toward the small group.
As did the rest of his men, numbering over twenty.
“Back off and wait your turn until we’re finished or it’ll be the worse for you. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re well outnumbered.”
Arwhon took no notice and urged Duran forward toward the thieves. Chalc glanced over at Kuiran and shrugged his shoulders. Kuiran understood and in response they both moved forward to follow Arwhon closely. Lareeta sidled her horse around the edge of the impending conflict, she was not the type to face heavily armed thugs head on and she could protect Arwhon’s back from an arrow or two.
Sword drawn, Arwhon charged straight for the leader, who had already raised his own long curved blade. Without having to think, Arwhon dodged the first slashing blow aimed at his head and as the bearded man swung his fancy curved sword around for another blow, Arwhon parried, his own sword whistled through the air to meet the viscous strike. There was a red flash and the leader’s sword parted halfway along its length. His eyes boggled at the jagged remains of his expensive weapon and with a curse he threw it away and drew a large spiked mace from his belt.
Meanwhile, some of the other thieves, seeing Kuiran was afoot, tried to ride over the top of him but their horses baulked at his size and they found to their chagrin, slashing at his staff, that the wood could not be cut with their blades. Adding to their dismay was his ability to take them out of the saddle with a mere flick of the wrist as he freely did. Chalc was amused and stood watching for any sneaky attacks on Arwhon from the rear but most of the robbers were leaving him to their leader.
At the edge of the clearing a creeping bowman, left to stand watch, drew aim on Arwhon but didn’t see Lareeta until it was too late. From behind, she stroked her longknife savagely across his exposed throat. It opened instantly, spraying blood in a great spurts as he fell to the ground, dying. Meanwhile the leader moved his horse closer to Arwhon and swung the spiked mace viciously at the youth’s head. Without thinking, Arwhon reacted again and swung for the mace with his sword, hoping to deflect it. There was another bright red flash and the ball of the mace flew apart, smoking pieces scattering everywhere around.
There was a moments silence as the bandit chief’s eyes bulged at the sight of what was obviously real magic. It was altogether too much for the man. Roaring loudly, the bandit chief gathered up his remaining men and fled up a small trail to the west, through the trees and up into the foothills of the mountain range. Some of his unhorsed riders scrambled to get to their mounts and follow, with the remainder of the caravan guard harrying them as they left.
The caravan master was dusting himself off and massaging his throat as he approached Arwhon, who was still mounted on Duran.
“You have saved me and my caravan and I’m in your debt. Who do I address?”
The time for caution was passing and Arwhon gave a considered reply.
“Arwhon nari Tsalk, heading for Belvedere.” He turned in the saddle, making an all encompassing gesture with his left arm, “and these are my friends and companions, my servant Chalc, Kuiran who has sworn to protect me and Lareeta of the Barsoom.”
The caravan master bowed to each in turn.
“How m
ay I reward you young sir, for indeed you deserve a reward.”
“There is no need,” Arwhon replied. “Glad to be of service.”
There was a discreet cough from Chalc and the caravan master swung to him.
“You wish to claim a reward?”
“Well not exactly but we find ourselves with only our travelling clothes to hand and we need to be more finely dressed when we eventually arrive in Belvedere. At least moderately well dressed,” Chalc added, not wanting to be greedy.
The caravan master beamed.
“No problem, I have some fine clothes in the third wagon, you’re welcome to some of them. Indeed you have saved me from losing everything. Please try something on. It would please me greatly.”
When they left to continue their journey, about an hour later, both Arwhon and Chalc were the proud owners of some fancy garments. Unfortunately for Kuiran, he was too large to fit into any pre-made clothing and missed out, while Lareeta refused a new dress, saying she was quite happy with her Barsoomi robe. Their new attire was wrapped in plain canvas and tied on top of Rancid’s pack. Chalc arranged the packing carefully to reduce creasing, so the new finery could be put on fresh as needed.
For the remainder of the day, their trip proceeded smoothly, no one remarking on the mysterious red flash from Arwhon’s sword or his rash behaviour in charging forward into a potentially dangerous fray. He had to learn for himself how to handle his blossoming abilities and his companions hoped that Fate would also keep a favourable eye on him.
Arwhon had already died once since leaving home.
At their evening campsite, while Chalc prepared the meal, Lareeta declared she had nothing more to teach Arwhon, as he had absorbed years of training in just a handful of nights. There was a brief pause before Kuiran stood up, idly swinging his great staff.
“It is time Arwhon. Not everyone fights with a blade and you need yet more instruction if you are to live through your impetuosity. We cannot always protect you, so tonight and in the coming evenings I will train you in how to defend yourself against a staff.”
By the flickering firelight, Arwhon’s first foray into defending himself against the mighty staff wielded by Kuiran, resulted in him picking up bruise after bruise but his brain was racing and he started to recognise the underpinning of all the martial arts he had learned so far. Do not allow yourself to be manoeuvred to where your opponent wants you to be. Use your body to get to where you need to be to attack efficiently and calculate time and distance to avoid being hit.
The underlying strategy had seemed to work with everything Arwhon had studied previously and before long he was enduring far fewer hits. When Kuiran eventually stopped for the night with a promise to continue the following evening, their last before entering Southland, a bruised and exhausted Arwhon was more than happy to rest.
The next evening Arwhon was on fire and try as he might, Kuiran could land no clean blows on his student. All were parried by the practice sword or the ability to not be where the blow would land. All in their little party were amazed, including Arwhon himself.
“Chalc, my ability and reaction speed has changed markedly since I was stuck through the heart by my own dagger. Do you think the Wise Ones have done something to me?”
Chalc looked toward Kuiran, who pondered the possibilities for a moment or two before answering.
“I would say its possible but what makes you think it was the Wise Ones, young Arwhon? It could have been the Truth dagger itself. I didn’t know you before I pulled it out of your body but you are the only person alive so far who has managed to dodge my staff. Something has happened to you. Did you notice when you use your sword now, there’s a red flash? Cutting that mace into pieces was impressive and I bet there’s not a mark on your blade.”
“You’re right Kuiran, I checked. The sword is unmarked.”
Later, rolled into their sleeping blankets, each one of them gave thought to Arwhon’s burgeoning abilities.
What was he becoming?
Late in the morning there was yet another village to skirt and soon after the small band reached the border of Southland. A huge stone gatehouse sat astride the road, its crenulated wing walls extending for hundreds of metres to each side. Two guards in smart red livery manned the front of the portal, hung with huge wooden gates which could be closed in an emergency to shut off the Highway. Before they reached the portal, Arwhon asked why there were gates there at all, as it wouldn’t be difficult to ride around the wall. Lareeta provided the answer.
“At the eastern end of the wall is a huge impassable swamp, Walland’s Rue, caused by the confluence of the Golden River and the Wandering River which itself is formed from the Green, Snake, Blood and Slow Rivers, while to the west, the wall ends at a high cliff which is exceedingly steep and difficult to climb. There is also a border patrol along the wall on the far side, inclined to shoot first and ask questions later.”
The thorough explanation satisfied his curiosity and Arwhon and his group were soon passed through the gate by the neat red-coated soldiers. On the far side, tucked up against the wall, stood substantial barracks for the soldiers, an inn and a store doing brisk business selling meals and supplies to the many travellers on the road.
Riding harder now, with Kuiran loping along beside them tirelessly, the companions travelled from the border crossing, passing many wagons heading south for trade. In three more days they came to a place where the land fell away and the distant blue-green of the Turquoise Sea could be seen far to the south.
Even at this distance, they could make out the white spires and towers of Belvedere, reflecting the afternoon sun. They seemed to soar into the heavens, flags flying, with the blue backdrop of the sea contrasting with the brilliance of the buildings. Lareeta rode up beside Arwhon and leaned over as if to talk to him but gently grasped his shoulders, pulling him toward her to give him a quick kiss on the cheek before releasing him.
Arwhon blushed a deep scarlet, the colour rising quickly in his face.
“Take notice of your Grandmother and keep practicing your weapon skills. I have to leave now and report to my King. It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance and you’ll always be welcome in the land of Barsoom.”
Every word was true, he could tell even without the Ring and Arwhon felt somewhat saddened as Lareeta turned and rode off on Binaway, heading back up the road they had just travelled. Another honest person he could trust implicitly. Duran trumpeted loudly after the fast receding Binaway. The whinnied reply floating back on the breeze.
Chalc sat Darla, watching. A slightly quizzical expression flickered across his normally impassive face as he observed Lareeta riding off, looking as if she’d been born in the saddle. Sighing, he wheeled Darla around to follow the others.
The three of them camped for the last night of their travels at a caravanserai outside the gates of Belvedere but kept to themselves, shunning the company of the wagoners, merchants and their guards who were also encamped there. Some had arrived too late to gain entry to the city before the gates were closed for the night, while others tarried to make an early start in the morning.
A new day of great expectations.
As the first rays of the sun rimmed the horizon, Arwhon, already awake with the excitement of the occasion, climbed out of his blankets and using dried dung, built up the small fire to boil water. Chalc and Kuiran soon woke and the three of them were well breakfasted at the fire before grooming the horses and mule, until the faithful beast’s coats shone. Then it was their turn, thoroughly washing themselves in a canvas bucket before shaving and combing their hair. Now shining clean, Chalc unwrapped the fancy clothes the caravan master had given them in his gratitude. Passing garments out, they dressed in their new attire. Kuiran had to make do with shaking the dust out of his Rangers clothes. However, when he donned them they appeared renewed and refreshed. M’Herindar magic imbued them.
Arwhon had never before owned such expensive clothes as those he now wore. For once, he left off
his chainmail, packing it onto Rancid along with the under padding, although he did strap his sword harness and belt dagger on beneath his cloak. He had to be reminded by Chalc a number of times not to keep sticking his finger in his collar and pulling at it in an effort to give himself more room there.
Finally ready, they mounted and rode to the imposing gates of the City of Belvedere, preceded by the mighty Kuiran on foot. Already, at this early hour of the morning, a procession of carts and drays were entering the city as farmers brought in their produce to sell. Each one was checked thoroughly by the guards. Arwhon gazed along the outside of the walls as he waited to gain entry through the gate. They were high and smooth, the large blocks fitted together so well that no hand holds or gaps were visible in the stonework. All was white stone, gleaming and clean. It looked impregnable.
When it was their turn, the guards informed them that wearing swords in Belvedere was frowned upon except in times of war, so Chalc had to dismount and take his and Arwhon’s swords and pack them into Rancid’s packs. There was some discussion about the staff but Kuiran leant on it as though he needed it to walk and finally they were allowed through. Passing under the gate house, a gate tower to each side with the spikes of a portcullis above, they drew level with the last guard and Arwhon leant down from the saddle and casually enquired where he could find Cristal nasi Tsalkini. The guard paled immediately.
“Sorry my Lord. I had no idea you were here to see the Lady Tsalkini. Please do not report badly of us.”
“Of course not but where can I find her?”
The Ring Of Truth Page 23
