Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 03] - The Ancient Legacy(V1.0)

by Mitchell Graham

  Since the journey began, Gawl made it a point to walk among the men every day and get to know them. Perhaps it was not the most common practice for a king to follow, but then, he reasoned, he wasn't a common king. Anyone who was willing to fight and die for freedom was a person worth knowing. He was aware of the effect his physical presence had on people. That couldn't be helped. At seven feet tall and nearly 340 pounds, his was an imposing fig­ure. Most people were usually too intimidated to approach him, so he went to them instead. What he found was that the Mirdanites were more sophisticated than he had first assumed. Even the youngest soldier was aware of the shifting political climate in the world and strongly disap­proved of what had happened in both Sennia and Elgaria. Like James, they knew it was only a matter of time before Alor Satar turned its attention toward Mirdan.

  As far as religion went, they were liberal in their views, particularly compared to his Sennians. Basically, they be­lieved it was better to five and let live. This, Gawl as­sumed, was because the Church had far less influence in Mirdan. Most surprising to him was that the majority of the soldiers thought that Sennians were provincial and closed-minded. He heard the expression "as narrow-minded as a Sennian" more than once while he was walk­ing. It was an attitude he intended to change. The borders would be open again, and the Church, while it would al­ways play a strong role in his society, would confine itself to moral and not secular matters in the future. The role of religion was to promote understanding and love, not to po­larize people. Change for the sake of change was not a concept he embraced, but neither was stagnation.

  James and Quinn had gotten used to his sojourns among the men. They generally rode together at the front of the column. Despite the damage to his leg, James never let it hamper him. Overhead, the sky was gray and the clouds were moving rapidly, giving the impression that it might rain any moment. . . but of course it didn't. It rarely

  rained on the plain, but when it did, you had to take shelter quickly. The drops of water were corrosive and unless you dried off quickly, your skin would begin to burn after a few minutes.

  For the last hour Gawl had been talking to a young man named Kevin. He was perhaps eighteen years old and had a pair of mild brown eyes and a head of curly brown hair to match.

  "I don't believe in God, your majesty," Kevin told him.

  Gawl blinked and looked down at him. "Really?"

  "I know it's not a popular thing to say, but a lot of peo­ple think the way I do. Bertram, that's my best friend, feels the same way I do."

  "Interesting. Do your parents also feel as you do?"

  "My parents are dead, Sire. They were killed in the siege at Steormark. But to answer your question they were both God fearing people right up to the time that Duren collapsed the house they were living in on their heads."

  "I'm sorry, Kevin," Gawl said. "Is that why you don't believe in God, or have you always felt that way?"

  "I've felt this way since I was old enough to think for my­self. If there is a God how could he let something like that happen, your majesty... or this?" Kevin said looking across the plain. "They were good people who never harmed anyone in their lives. My mother was sewing a dress for my sister's wedding when she died. My father sold paints and never had an ill word to say about anyone, nor they him."

  "Terrible," said Gawl, shaking his head. "Truly terri­ble. And based upon this you've concluded that God doesn't exist."

  "I mean no offense, Sire. These are my personal views."

  "I understand."

  "May I ask you a question?"

  Gawl was aware other men around them were listening to the conversation though they were trying not to be obvi­ous about it. "Go on."

  "Do you believe in God after what they did to you?" Gawl smiled. "Yes, I believe there is a God. I confess that I don't always understand his logic or why he does what he does."

  "But I'd always heard—"

  "That I don't get on well with the church. That's true, but disagreeing with how priests are trying to ran things doesn't necessarily equate with rejecting God's existence. I disagree with a lot of people. You may find that hard to believe considering what a pleasant fellow I am."

  The smile that Gawl flashed the young man and those around him was distinctly feral.

  Kevin blinked and pulled his head back slightly. "Uh .. . I'll remember that, your majesty." "I've been obliged to change my view many times throughout the course of my life, young man, and I've found few things are all black or all white. This is just a piece of advice ... try to keep an open mind on the sub­ject. I have a friend who is very fond of saying that. It's surprising what you might pick up when you do." "I will, your ..."

  Kevin's sentence broke off as a faint high-pitched hum seemed to come from all around them at the same time. At the front of the column Prince James threw up a hand, halt­ing the men. Like the rest of the soldiers, Gawl stopped in his tracks.

  The quake, stronger than any of the previous ones, started gradually and continued to build in intensity for the next three minutes. The ground began to heave so vio­lently, Gawl had to struggle to keep his balance. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it was over.

  Gawl looked along the column, spotted James and Quinn and waved to them. Both waved back to signal they were all right. A little more than a half mile ahead he could make out the shattered remains of the old town where they would stop.

  "Well," Gawl said, clapping Kevin on the back, "be-

  fore we were interrupted, you were in the process of telling me—"

  The king would have completed his sentence, but the expression on Kevin's face stopped him cold. He twisted around, following the young man's gaze. People were pointing and staring at something on the horizon. To his chagrin, it was what Gawl least wanted to see. An enor­mous wall of sand had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and was coming toward them. And it was coming fast. He had seen sandstorms before, but this one was at least eight stories high and extended for hundreds of yards in each direction. The sky had taken on a yellowish cast, while the wind around them picked up, causing the flags to. crack as they whipped back and forth. At the front of the line the sound of trumpets told Gawl that James had seen it, too.

  The soldiers reacted at once, beginning a quick march in the direction of the ruins. After two hundred yards the trumpets blew again, but by then the volume of the wind had increased so much that the trumpets were barely audi­ble at the rear of the line.

  One more glance over his shoulder at the storm racing down on them was enough to convince Gawl that any at­tempt at an orderly advance would result in a lot of people being killed. The sand wall had nearly doubled in size and was pulverizing everything in its path. They no longer had minutes—they had seconds.

  Gawl shouted to the men around him, "Make for the rains!"

  The soldiers started trotting. Incredibly, the standard bearers were trying to hold onto their standards and run at the same time. And it was clear then if he didn't get them moving, they were dead.

  "You!" he bellowed to the nearest soldier, a boy not more than sixteen years old. "Drop that damn thing and run . . . now!"

  A moment later the king was racing at full speed with the Mirdanites. Visibility was dropping rapidly as the trailing edge of the storm began to overtake them. Near him, the boy he had yelled at stumbled and fell. Without breaking stride, Gawl reached down and jerked him to his feet. The wind at his back was now so strong the particles of sand striking his neck stung like bees. Gawl gritted his teeth and pounded forward, his long legs covering the ground rapidly. After two hundred yards his breath came in ragged gasps and there was a pain in his side under the rib cage.

  Stop and you 're dead.

  With his strength ebbing, he clenched his teeth and re­doubled his efforts, running as he had never run in his life. Ahead in the failing light a low gray shape loomed—the surviving portion of a wall. Gawl made for it and hurled himself over, not knowing what lay on the other side. He struck the ground hard, knockin
g what little air was left in his lungs out as the full fury of the storm broke over them, the wind rising to a banshee shriek. In desperation, Gawl grabbed for the wall and held on with all of his strength. He had no idea how long he clung there, he only knew that it was getting harder to breath. Sand particles were filling the air. For all he knew, the soldiers around him could have been alive or dead. It was impossible to tell because visibility was almost gone.

  The last thing he remembered before a black curtain settled over his eyes was that his knuckles were bleeding.

  27

  Henderson

  "Guardian," said Teanna.

  Her voice seemed louder than normal in the stillness of the cavern. The square that she had materialized in was just as deserted as when she had left it. Several seconds later the air in front of her blurred and began to ripple, then the fireflies appeared.

  It was like looking into the water of a pond someone had just disturbed, as the moving air consolidated itself into the shape of a man.

  "Greetings, Princess. What is your question?"

  "What information can you provide me on Terrence Marek?"

  The Guardian tilted his head to one side and assumed the unfocused stare that Teanna associated with talking to a machine. At least that was what she thought he was doing.

  "He is the latest Sandresi bishop. Born sixty-eight years ago, he succeeded Artur Mandas. According to the information in my database, he has no living relatives."

  "I don't understand what you mean by 'database.'"

  "You may think of it as a library. Most of our books were placed into it a long time ago, but new ones are added from time to time, particularly where such informa­tion involves ring holders. This is per my programming."

  "Programming?"

  "The instructions the engineers gave me," the Guardian explained.

  Teanna was not sure she understood, but there was no time to waste. "What do you know about the Sandresi?"

  The pause was much shorter this time. "The Sandresi are an ancient sect who broke away from the main Church in 3713 to form their own religious order. This was one year after the war was concluded." "The Ancient War?"

  "Correct. They did so because they believed that mankind's lack of morality had resulted in its own destruc­tion. When conventional negotiations to resolve the schism failed, the Sandresi resorted to unconventional means to persuade their brethren that they were correct. At first their assassinations were confined only to officials in the Church's hierarchy; later they were expanded to include anyone who disagreed with the precepts the Sandresi advocated.

  "As you may have guessed, such a methodology only polarized things further. The central Church excommuni­cated their bishop, a woman named Meskhent, and or­dered her to leave the country. Unable to find a home in any of the other nations, Meskhent and her followers set­tled on the island of Coribar, where they established their own Church."

  Teanna frowned and thought for a second. "What was it the Sandresi wanted?"

  "Basically, they wished for a religious oligarchy headed by their bishop. The Sandresi felt that only by re­turning to a morally based government could people fulfill the word of God. The morals they espoused were morals of their own construction."

  Teanna frowned as she tried to digest what the last phrase meant. Apparently, the Guardian noted her reac­tion, because he offered an explanation unasked.

  'They felt the ritual infliction of pain was necessary to cleanse and purge evil from the soul. Eating meat from animals with cloven hoofs was strictly forbidden, as was the consumption of liquor. One was expected to pray three times a day in order to show proper devotion to God. Fail­ure to do so was punishable as a crime.

  "Do you wish me to go on?"

  "No. According to what my father told me, the assassi­nations didn't stop after they settled on Coribar. Is this true?"

  "It is."

  "So the Sandresi still feel the same way?"

  "Any person or group that does not think as they do is considered an enemy. Their clerics teach the populace that killing one's enemies is a holy act. Since, in the past, Coribar lacked the military strength to impose their will on the rest of the world, most of their activities were con­ducted in secret."

  Teanna studied the Guardian for a moment, weighing the meaning behind his words. From previous conversa­tions, she had learned that his meaning was not always ob­vious on the surface.

  "You said Coribar lacked military strength in the past. Is this still true?"

  "No."

  "What changed?"

  "They now have a navy and an army of some signifi­cance."

  Teanna took a breath before asking her next question. "How large an army?"

  "Assuming their women take an active role in the com­bat, a fair estimate would be just under sixty thousand."

  "Sixty thousand," Teanna repeated. She had been pre­pared for a figure five times lower. Coribar now posed a serious threat. And when coupled with the fact that Marek had met with both Vargoth and the Orlocks, the implica­tions were ominous.

  "I have another question. Do you know how many Or­locks there are?"

  The figure the Guardian gave her nearly caused her to gasp. Teanna put a hand to her throat and took a step backward. Even if half the creatures were children or fe­male, the size of their army was staggering. More pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place.

  "The last time we met, you told me the Orlocks have one of the rings and that I caused it to become active."

  "You were not the cause, only the catalyst," the Guardian replied.

  A look of irritation crossed Teanna's features but it dis­appeared quickly. "Why do you play word games with me? Answer the question."

  "I did answer the question, Princess. Do you require a further explanation?"

  Teanna let out a long breath and composed herself.

  "Yes."

  "Personally, you did nothing. The creatures merely watched in hiding while you altered the brain chemistry of the priest, Kellner. Once they understood what the true func­tion of the Emerald Cavern was, they were able to accom­plish the same thing. Four of them died before Shakira made the attempt herself. She alone was successful."

  "All right, they have the ring," Teanna said. "Why haven't they tried to destroy us?"

  "Speculation is not part of my program, Princess."

  "You mean you don't know."

  "I mean I don't speculate."

  "When I was in the cavern, I came across a number of very odd things. To me, it appeared that Orlocks and men once worked together. Could this be true?"

  "It is."

  "Then what happened to change all that? Why do they hate us now?"

  "That would require a long answer, Princess," said the Guardian.

  Teanna walked over and sat down on one of the little benches. "Take your time."

  28

  Devondale

  There were only about a dozen people in the church. In another minute Lara would walk down the aisle and they would be married. Mathew wondered whether all bridegrooms were nervous. When her father said some­thing to that effect earlier, he had laughed. People were al­ways saying that sort of thing. The fact that everyone he came into contact with that morning kept asking him if he was nervous probably had a lot to do it, he decided. The power of suggestion, Mathew thought. Under normal circumstances there would have been more people present, but it was far from a normal situa­tion. Martin Palmer had quietly passed the word around town to a few select people that Mathew and Lara were getting married. The person most obviously missing was Collin Miller, whose absence saddened Mathew. He wished his old friend could have been there.

  With a resigned breath, he looked down at his son and smoothed the boy's hair. It was the third time he had done so that morning. Bran made a face and tolerated the un­wanted attention well enough, though as soon as Mathew looked away, he ran his hand back through it, returning it to its former disheveled state. A surreptitious glance a
t his father told him that he was safe.

  While they waited for Lara to make her appearance Mathew thought about how their relationship had changed. It was nothing sudden, but the change was fundamental.

  When he looked in the mirror, a man's face looked back at him. The boy he felt like was still in there somewhere. He was sure of that. As he wondered how long that feeling would last, a conversation he once had with his grandfa­ther came back to him. He recalled asking the old man when he began feeling like an adult, and the answer sur­prised him.

  "I'm still waiting," his grandfather had said. "For what it's worth, I once asked my father the same thing, and he wasn't certain, either. He thought it was somewhere be­tween eighty and eighty-five."

  The memory made Mathew smile. Father Thomas clearing his throat shook Mathew from his musings and he glanced up. The priest made a small gesture with his chin.

  "A fine friend he is," a voice said from the audience. "I'm gone two days and he steals my wife."

  "Collin!" Mathew exclaimed, spinning around. He was so preoccupied, he hadn't heard him come in.

  Collin Miller was seated next to his mother and father, grinning. He got up and met Mathew in the aisle. They both grabbed each other in a fierce embrace, but the cele­bration was short-lived. The organ music began before ei­ther could say anything.

  "Go," Collin whispered. "We'll talk later." He gave Mathew a gentle push toward the altar.

  Mathew got there in time to see heads turning toward the rear of the church.

  Years later, when memories of that moment surfaced again in his mind he recalled his mouth being open at the sight of Lara as she walked down the aisle. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Murmurs of admi­ration came from the other women, and the men in the au­dience nodded in agreement. Her gown clung wonderfully to her figure and she was carrying a small bouquet of flow­ers. Mathew watched her come toward him, her eyes bright and hopeful. Martin Palmer left his daughter at the

  altar, kissed her on the cheek, then shook Mathew's hand. He took a seat next to his wife and put an arm around her shoulders. Amanda was crying quietly.