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

by Mitchell Graham

  garians in the first rush, but moments later the hand-to-hand fighting began. Across the courtyard Mathew saw Father Thomas parry a soldier running at him with a halberd. The priest sidestepped, ducked under the man's backswing, and slashed upward with both hands. The soldier shrieked as his stomach was laid open. Father Thomas's next blow ended the fight. The priest and two men started forward once again, only to be met by more soldiers coming from the house. Around the courtyard, Vargothans were going down, but so were the Elgarians.

  Mathew looked back at the main gate and saw Lara waiting with the wagon. She waved when she saw him.

  "All clear," Garon yelled from the back of the stables. Askel Miller and his group emerged from the front door a moment later.

  "Help Father Thomas!" Mathew shouted. "The rest of you with me!"

  He started toward the main house. Surprisingly, black smoke was already pouring out of the top floor of the barn.

  Mathew cursed under his breath. He didn't know who had started a fire, but the last thing they wanted was to send a signal to the garrison. They would have to move fast. Two more Vargothans died with arrows in their chests, killed by Askel Miller, firing as he ran.

  Nearby, Collin had engaged one of the mercenary offi­cers, a large man nearly a full head taller than he was. The Vargothan raised a double-bladed axe above his head and Collin's quarterstaff moved in a blur, catching the man in the throat, then across his ankles. He went down heavily and would have risen again, but a roundhouse blow not only fractured his head, it broke the quarterstaff in the process. Collin looked at the piece in his hand, dropped it on the man's body, and drew his sword. He saw Mathew and held up three fingers.

  A nearby scream jerked Mathew's attention away from his friend. He spun around and watched in horror as an of­ficer ran his sword through one of the Gravenhage men.

  There was something familiar about the soldier, and when he turned, Mathew knew who it was. Their eyes locked.

  "You," Kennard said.

  The mercenary recovered from his surprise quickly and started walking toward Mathew. "This is going to be a pleasure."

  There was no point in replying, so Mathew attacked.

  Kennard deflected his lunge and riposted at Mathew's chest. Mathew counterparried, redoubled forward, and at­tacking again. Kennard barely had time to step back. The moment Mathew recovered, however, Kennard came at him. His first feint to Mathew's low inside line was an ob­vious ploy, so Mathew paid it no attention. Kennard was obviously hoping that he would lower his guard. When Mathew didn't react, the real threat immediately followed. It came just over the top of his forearm, aimed at his rib cage. Using the middle part of his blade, Mathew parried sideways, stepped in, and hit Kennard full in the face with the bell of his weapon. He landed two more blows to the side of the mercenary's head with his other hand. A dag­ger produced seemingly out of nowhere slashed at Mathew's stomach and made contact with his forearm in­stead. Searing pain shot up his arm and his shirt went red.

  The advantage immediately then shifted to Kennard, who lunged for Mathew's heart. Mathew's blade was pointing at the ground and there was no time for him to ex­ecute a chest parry. Off balance, he stumbled back and be­gan to fall. In desperation, he turned his hand down so his thumb pointed at the ground and parried away and to the outside of his body. Using the move his father had taught him many years ago, with a snap of his wrist he executed a flying riposte, and caught Kennard on the side of his neck. It was not a heavy blow and it barely cut the skin. Kennard stopped for a moment and felt the wound, his features twisting with contempt.

  "You'll be joining your shipmates in a second, boy. Give them King Seth's regards."

  But then an odd thing happened. The moment the mer­cenary took his hand away, a bright line of blood shot two feet into the air. Mathew scrambled backward on his hands and heels as Kennard advanced on him. The merce­nary's next step was more of a stagger, and the third worse than that. Blood squirted freely from Kennard's neck. His eyes widened in shock. Over his shoulder Mathew could see Lara running toward him, her sword drawn.

  A look of disbelief appeared on Kennard's face as he took another step and slowly collapsed to his knees. Blood gushed through his fingers and ran down his arm. In the last seconds before he died he may have realized that his carotid artery had been cut. With the last reserves of his strength the Vargothan struggled to his knees and raised his sword above his head. But the blade never came down. Lara, still running at full speed drove her weapon through Kennard's back, knocking him to the ground.

  She let go of her weapon and helped Mathew to his feet. "Your arm," she said. "You're hurt."

  Mathew kissed her. "I'm fine. Get back to the wagon. I'm going to help Father Thomas."

  Lara opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "I'll be all right, I promise, but I can't fight and worry about you at the same time ... please."

  "Worry about yourself," she said. "I'd like my husband back in one piece." Lara looked at the barn, now fully ablaze, and added, "Hurry Mathew—we don't have much time."

  She gave him a quick hug, retrieved her weapon, and trotted back to the wagon.

  Mathew watched her go, and shook his head. He quickly scanned the rest of the compound. As far as he could tell, they had only lost four men, compared to a score of the en­emy. A number of his companions were still fighting, but the odds were definitely shifting in Elgaria's favor.

  Across the courtyard Father Thomas finished with the soldier he was fighting and was about to start back toward

  the house when a movement on the porch caught Mathew's eye. Andreas Holt was there with a dagger in his hand. He threw it at the priest's back.

  "Look out!"

  Everything about Father Thomas moved at the same time. The priest spun and batted the dagger out of the air with the flat of his blade. If the governor was shocked, he recovered quickly enough and ran back into the house, drawing his sword. Father Thomas broke into a full run, and launched himself through the double window.

  By the time Mathew reached the house, he found the priest and Andeas Holt engaged in a violent struggle. His friend had placed himself between Ceta Woodall and the governor. On the stairs, behind them, another mercenary was bringing his crossbow to bear. Mathew saw that he would never get to the second man in time in time to stop him, and so in desperation he reached for the power at the precise moment the soldier's finger was squeezing the trigger. The crossbow snapped out of existence. Startled, the man let out a cry, missed his footing, and fell the rest of the way down the steps. He didn't move again.

  Holt was obviously an accomplished swordsman. He circled the point of his blade in front of Father Thomas and made a number of feints, testing the priest's defenses. Father Thomas paid no attention to them.

  "You made a mistake, Thomas," said the governor. "Our men will be here any moment. Throw down your weapon and we'll let you go."

  Father Thomas made no reply nor did he let Holt move any closer to Ceta.

  Another feint.

  "I've heard a lot about you, priest. It was accommodat­ing of you to come to us. We enjoyed your woman last night, by the way. She's quite the screamer. Unfortunately, she'll probably want to stay here now that she knows what real men are like."

  Silence.

  "I'm curious," said Holt. "What possesses a general to leave the glory of the battlefield for the obscure life of a priest? Did you lose your nerve?"

  Two more feints.

  Satisfied that no more mercenaries were coming down the stairs, Mathew started for Holt, but Father Thomas held up his hand. "Stay where you are, Mat," he said, his eyes never leaving his opponent. "There's an old parable I used to teach in church about a warrior who slew his ene­mies using the jawbone of an ass. That's all our friend is trying to do."

  The governor's upper lip pulled back in contempt. "That's right, boy, stay where you are. When I've done with him it'll be your turn."

  Without warning, Holt launched a fearsome attack at
the priest. Father Thomas pivoted sideways off his front foot. In the split second that followed Mathew heard rather than saw the parry his friend made. It was no more than a flick of his fingers. The priest's arm then shot forward with a riposte, impaling Holt through the chest. The gov­ernor's momentum carried him forward, and he grabbed Father Thomas by the front of his robes.

  Siward Thomas watched impassively, his face devoid of expression, as Andreas Holt's fingers relaxed slowly. He slid to the floor onto his knees and his head lolled for­ward. That was the way he stayed.

  Father Thomas looked down at him, made the sign of the Church, and turned away as Ceta Woodall ran across the room into his arms.

  "Oh, Siward. I knew you would come for me. I prayed for it. I wanted you to come more than anything in the world. What he said, none of it was—"

  "Shh," said Father Thomas, stroking her hair. "It's all over, love. It's all over. I'll never leave you again."

  Tears rolled down Ceta's cheeks and she kissed him again and again. His hands stoked her hair and he gently touched her face. Father Thomas held her and they stood in the middle of the room, clinging to each other.

  Out in the courtyard, the sounds of fighting had finally died down. Most of the Vargothans were dead. Mathew slipped quietly out of the room.

  30

  Henderson

  The moment Mathew reached for the echo, two heads came up at the same time, though they were a thou­sand miles apart. Teanna d'Elso knew it was him immedi­ately; so did Shakira. For months the Orlock queen had suspected that he was alive, but this was the confirmation she had been waiting for.

  Shakira was old even by Orlock standards. Few of the creatures ever lived past forty—she was nearly fifty. Ter-rence Marek, Archbishop of Coribar, sat across from her and observed her reaction. One minute they were talking, and the next her eyes went wide and she stared out the tav­ern window.

  Marek waited. He was good at waiting. Like his inhu­man companion, he and his people had waited for nearly three thousand years to claim what was theirs. The holy scriptures foretold that victory would be theirs, and Marek believed in the word as it was written. The rest of the world had strayed from the true path. Corruption was rife and morality continued to sink to new depths with each passing day. All that was about to change.

  The Orlock finally turned back to him and a cold pair of eyes fixed on his face. Marek neither flinched nor looked away. Politics and necessity made for strange bed­fellows. He had learned that a long time ago. There was intelligence behind those eyes he'd learned, and he had gleaned that much from their conversations.

  "Is something wrong, your majesty?"

  "Lewin is alive." Though understandable, her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

  "Alive? Are you certain? I thought he was killed years ago."

  "I'm certain."

  "This presents a problem, don't you think? We had thought to deal only with Teanna d'Elso. Now there are two ring holders."

  "Not two. Lewin no longer has his ring. He possesses power of some type ... different from hers... but very weak. It is of no consequence."

  "We must leave nothing to chance," said Marek. "I can­not believe his disappearance was an accident. If what you're saying is correct, it's obvious they have been en­gaging in a hoax of some kind. The question is, why?"

  Shakira slowly shook her head.

  "No," said Marek. "He cannot be allowed to live. It's too dangerous. What if this is a trap?"

  The queen regarded him. "What would you have me do?"

  "Kill him. He cannot be allowed to live," Marek re­peated. "It would be far too dangerous. Do you know where he is?"

  "I know," said Shakira. "The power he possesses is nothing compared to mine."

  "Really? Lewin killed thousands of your people, re­member?"

  The Orlock leaned forward and brought her face closer to Marek's. "Orlocks never forget."

  The stench of decay was so strong it nearly caused him to gag, but he did not pull away. "That is well, your high­ness. May I ask how you know these things?"

  "Lewin made contact with the machine. I felt his mind."

  "But how could he do that if he no longer has his ring?"

  "This I do not know," said Shakira, leaning back again.

  "I only know he did it. Sometimes between ring holders it is possible to see through their eyes. Apparently this is still the case with him."

  "You can read their thoughts?" Marek asked.

  "Only if the person lets down their guard, as he just did. The Nyngary princess is too strong. She blocks out of instinct."

  Marek did not understand about blocking, but seeing through another's eyes made sense to him. "What was it you saw?"

  "A fight of some kind in a house between the merce­nary soldiers and two men; one was a priest, the other was Lewin. A woman was also present, but she was not fighting."

  Marek was shocked. "A priest? Can you describe what he looked like?"

  "No. It happened too quickly," Shakira said. "I only saw that the priest was very good with his sword—he killed the Vargothan."

  Marek stared at her for a moment. "It might be Siward Thomas. I was told that he escaped from prison recently."

  The Orlock's brows came together slightly. "Thomas ... I know this name."

  "You should. He was the one who routed Alor Satar at Veshy. Your people were in that battle. He is also the man who lured your brethren into a trap in the town of Tremont several years ago."

  A small twitch appeared under Shakira's eye. "Do not push me, Marek."

  "That was not my intention. We have both waited a very long time for this opportunity. The scriptures say that at the dawn of the fourth age, the children of the overthrown kingdoms will rise up and cast out their op­pressors. When this is done, God's word will reign supreme. This is our time."

  "This may be our time, but for different reasons," Shakira replied. "Read your books, priest. See whatever meaning you wish to see in the words. Men wrote those words, and we place no trust in men."

  "If I could just show you—"

  "The words?" Shakira sneered. "We were created by men and it was men who betrayed us. We believe in our­selves, not in any gods that you invented to help you sleep at night."

  Marek wasn't sure if the expression on Shakira's face was a smile. It was difficult to tell with Orlocks. But some­thing she said had caught his attention. "Tell me more about how men created you, and about this betrayal. I have never read anything about it."

  The Orlock queen didn't reply immediately. Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she took a final bite of the meat she was eating and tossed the bone onto her plate. It was a small, delicate bone that reminded Marek of a child's fin­ger. He shuddered inwardly and forced the thought from his mind. Shakira stood up and pulled her cloak tighter. The material was a deep blue velvet that contrasted with her yellow hair. Marek also stood. They were nearly the same height.

  "So . . . you are curious? Have you never thought how Orlocks came to be in this world?"

  Teanna was in the process of talking with the Guardian when the image of Mathew Lewin popped into her mind. Like Shakira, she also saw the fight in the house. She rec­ognized Father Thomas immediately. The woman with him she didn't know. Neither was the Vargothan familiar to her. It made little difference. If her cousin wanted to throw his money away employing mercenaries, that was his business. What she was not prepared for were the fleet­ing visions of Shakira and Terrence Marek sitting together and talking that appeared a moment later.

  For the past hour she had been absorbing what the Guardian had shown her. The images made her stomach turn. It was no wonder the creatures hated humans. She

  understood so much more now... so much more. What her ancestors had done to the Orlocks was simply mon­strous. Teanna pushed her chair back from the machine and rubbed her face with her hands.

  "Do you wish to go on to the next disk?" the Guardian asked.

  Teanna took a deep breath and lea
ned back. She shifted her position to stop the light from passing through him. The Guardian looked better as a solid person, even if he wasn't alive. Having him go translucent in the middle of a conversation was disconcerting. A plate of food she had created a half hour earlier still sat on the table next to the machine, untouched. There was more she needed to see and precious little time to do it. Absently, Teanna picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

  "Would you like some?" she asked.

  "My operations do not require food, Princess."

  "I know," Teanna said, tossing the sandwich back on the plate. "That was a joke."

  The Guardian tilted his head to one side and his eyes went blank for a second. "Ah ... a humorous anecdote or remark. Yes, that could be construed as funny. I shall re­member that. My program is designed to learn a great many—"

  "Never mind," said Teanna.

  She reached forward and passed her hand over the silver disk as the Guardian had taught her to do and a beam of light appeared. Images began to form after sev­eral seconds. Like her electronic companion, they were three dimensional, but more translucent. She was look­ing at a type of newspaper the Ancients had once used. At least that was how the Guardian had explained it. The pictures spoke and moved as if they were alive. It was simply incredible . . . like looking through a window into the past.

  Her question about why the Orlocks hated humans had produced no results, and she turned to the Guardian, puzzled.

  "I thought you said this machine could provide answers."

  "You must first ask the right question. There are 20,737,605,306 entries in the database."

  Teanna took a deep breath. "Those are the number of books in your library, is that what you're saying?"

  "In a manner of speaking. Some may be news reports from a particular time period, as well as books, encyclo­pedias, and other reference material."

  Teanna didn't understand the last part, but she wasn't about to say so again. The part about "news reports," how­ever, made sense.