Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0)

by Mitchell Graham

  When he was through talking, nearly two hours later, he sent for the morticians to make burial arrangements. The king's artisans, under his personal direction, built a small shrine in Roland's honor in the very room where he had died, and placed his head, now encased completely in silver, on a marble pedestal in front of it.

  Duren thought Roland would be pleased.

  2

  Elgaria, Town of Devondale

  Five hundred miles to the south, in the country of Elgaria, Bran Lewin came to a halt where the forest road forked.

  "All right, I'll see you at the church after I've delivered this cord of wood to Helen Stiles," he said to his son.

  "Are you sure you won't need my help?" Mathew

  asked.

  "Oh, I think we'll be able to manage. You need to get to town. You've got a big day ahead. Besides, Obert is gen­erally there in the mornings to help Helen with the chores. I'll meet you at the square as soon as we're finished."

  Bran and Mathew hugged briefly before separating; Bran proceeded down the left fork while Mathew took

  the right.

  Mathew Lewin was a skinny-looking young man, only a few weeks shy of his seventeenth birthday, his adoles­cent proportions accentuated by thin legs and a pair of boots that seemed too large for the rest of his body. He was dressed more for the country than the town, wearing brown breeches and a sturdy woolen shirt. He started over the small bridge that led into Devondale and paused for a moment to watch his father before continuing.

  The ancient wooden boards creaked under the weight of his boots as he crossed to the other side. The bridge had been there so long no one could remember who built it, or even when it was built. Beneath it, a rapidly running stream bubbled noisily over the rocks. Popular rumor went that more than five hundred years earlier, during the

  second Orlock War, a battle had been fought near the vil­lage. A neighbor had told him that both the bridge and stream were named for Martin Westry, the man who com­manded the force that defended the town. The battle was a story passed down by word of mouth over subsequent generations, and no one really knew for certain whether it was even true.

  At the end of the bridge Mathew turned left and broke into a jog along the dirt path that would eventually widen and become Devondale's main street.

  It was a cool, pleasant day in late winter, and the first signs of spring were beginning to appear. The branches of many trees already contained tiny buds, and with the ex­ception of a few scattered clouds, the sky above was a sharp blue. The morning air had a fine crisp feel, rich with the scent of pine needles covering the ground.

  That morning, Mathew's mind was on other things, specifically the conversation he'd just had with his father and the fact that he was already late for the warm-up practice Father Thomas wanted to hold before the fenc­ing tournament that afternoon. After listening to Mathew ask him for months and months, Bran had finally given in and agreed it was time for Mathew to have a sword of his own. He could hardly believe his ears when his father ca­sually brought the subject up as they walked toward town. Now, so buoyant were his spirits, and so preoccu­pied was he with how he was going to fence that day, that he completely failed to notice the two dark-robed figures who stepped out of the trees directly in front of him. Their sudden appearance was such a surprise that he took two steps back, nearly falling.

  Both men were dressed like Cincar traders, the cowls of their robes pulled down low so it was impossible to get a good look at their faces. Mathew swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to get his heartbeat to return to normal.

  "Your pardon, young man. We didn't mean to startle you," the taller of the two men said. "We're looking for the South Road

  and a merchant named Harol Longworth. We were told he would be coming this way."

  "Harol?" Mathew replied. "We just passed him about fifteen minutes ago."

  He tilted his head to the side to get a better look at the man's face, and the stranger turned his head away.

  "This is the South Road

  then?" his companion asked.

  "Yes."

  "We thank you for your help," the first man said.

  "Please don't let us detain you further."

  Strangers were a common enough occurrence during Spring Week, when the population of Devondale swelled to nearly three times its normal size. The man's voice, however, sounded more mocking than grateful as he and his friend stepped aside to allow Mathew to pass. For no reason Mathew could name just then, a vague feeling of discomfort began in the pit of his stomach, which in­creased as he walked by the strangers. He could almost feel their eyes watching him. Out of caution more than anything else, Mathew moved his cloak slightly to one side with his elbow as he passed, giving him better access to his belt dagger.

  Nothing happened, other than encountering the smell of a strong cologne as he passed. Mathew put about fifty feet between himself and the strangers before turning to look over his shoulder, and was surprised to find they were already gone. He frowned and searched the shad­ows, but saw nothing. After a few more seconds he shook his head, chiding himself for having an overactive imagi­nation, and resumed his jog along the path.

  Whatever misgivings Mathew had were all but forgotten by the time he reached the town square in the center of Devondale proper. The square contained several large old shade trees and a few wooden benches, as well as a white, octagonal-shaped gazebo with a wooden shingle roof and latticework around its base. Two separate paths ran from one side of it to the other, and a walkway framed the en­tire perimeter. It was one of his favorite places.

  Mathew abruptly slowed down to a walk, self-conscious about drawing unnecessary attention to him-

  self. Had he not done so, someone would certainly have stopped him to ask what his hurry was. That was Devon-dale. Everybody knew everybody.

  The town council always took special pride in keeping the grass in the square neat and trim, and some of the lo­cal women took it upon themselves to see that flowers were planted around the base of the trees in spring and autumn. Since it was still a little early in the year, the beds were all bare, except for a few green sprouts that had begun to push their way up through the soil. Sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, making a spi-derweb of shadows on the ground. At the far end of the square an elderly white-haired man was busy with a saw, trimming the lower branches of a maple tree. They both saw each other and waved at the same time.

  Mathew noticed the colorful banners hung across the street in preparation for the Spring Week Festival. The festival always promised to be exciting; though to him, it had seemed to grow a little less so in recent years.

  Spring Week in Werth Province was a time everyone looked forward to. There would be jugglers, fireworks, contests, and dancing. Harol and the other merchants would set up stands to show the latest goods from their travels.

  It might be a good idea to get a new pair of boots, Mathew thought.

  Although his present ones were well broken in and had good wear left, they were getting a little snug. And his fa­ther had commented over dinner a few weeks ago that he thought Mathew had grown another inch or two. For his part, Mathew didn't feel any different. But he decided, somewhat pragmatically, it was just as well his feet were keeping pace with the rest of his body.

  The first gentle sounds of a flute and violin reached him before he got to the end of the square. Unfortunately, since Mathew was effectively tone deaf, the music was just so much noise to him, and after seventeen years he had no need to see who was playing. Though he could distinguish a violin from a flute as having a thinner sound, that was about the extent of it. Sometime before old Father Haloran died, the priest and his mother had made a number of abortive attempts to increase Mathew's appreciation for music. Ultimately, he suggested that Mafhew direct his efforts toward the study of math.

  Every Sixth Day, Akin and his brother Fergus, silver­smiths by trade, sat in front of the council building under the old oak, playing for anyone who c
ared to listen. They had been doing that for as long as Mathew could remem­ber, and to his mind it wouldn't be a Sixth Day afternoon without them. Privately he suspected that even if no one were to show up, the brothers would probably continue to play to an empty square.

  Devondale itself wasn't a large place, and he knew just about everyone who lived there, so it came as a surprise to see three soldiers walking down the street just ahead of him, wearing the dark brown cloaks of Lord Kraelin's men. Of course, Mathew had seen soldiers before, but their presence was a bit unusual. The town was not ex­actly in the center of the realm.

  With his long legs, Mathew quickly caught up to them and nodded respectfully when they glanced in his direc­tion. The leader, a plain-faced man with somewhat high cheekbones, wore an officer's silver leaf insignia on his left breast. He eyed Mathew briefly and returned a curt nod before resuming his conversation. The word "Or-locks" caught his ear as he walked by, almost causing him to miss a step.

  Orlocks ? Why in the world are they talking about Or-

  locks? he thought.

  Before he could give the matter any further consider­ation, he heard his name called from across the street. "Ho, Mat."

  A sandy-haired boy emerged from the doorway of Mar­garet Grimly's cloth shop and trotted over to join him. Mathew's face broke into a smile as they shook hands. Collin and he had been best friends since they were chil­dren. Also seventeen, Collin was just above middle height,

  and though shorter than Mathew, was broader in the chest and shoulders. His eyes were a warm brown that always seemed to carry a hint of mischief in them, and for reasons Mathew was at a loss to explain, most of the girls in town seemed to find it attractive.

  "What were you doing in there—buying a dress?" Mathew joked.

  Collin shrugged. "Margaret needed help unloading some new bolts of cloth, and my dad volunteered me for the job."

  "What's the matter with Albert?"

  His friend looked around to make sure no one was watching and mimed a small drinking motion with his hand.

  "Really?"

  "Albert's a good man and all, but my dad and I had to help him home twice last week," Collin said.

  "Twice? What did Margaret say?"

  "Nothing you'd want to hear," Collin said, keeping his voice down.

  Mathew shook his head sadly.

  "Hey, did you know there are soldiers in town?" Collin asked.

  "Just passed them," Mathew said, indicating with his head.

  Collin began to turn out of reflex.

  "Stop that," Mathew hissed.

  "Huh? Why?"

  "Because they'll see you."

  "So? Who cares if they see me? I'm not breaking any law."

  "Neither am I. I just think it's better if we keep to our­selves." Mathew by nature was an observer with a precise eye for detail. He also tended to be a good deal more cau­tious than his friend.

  Collin shrugged and turned back. "What do you think they're doing here, Mat?" he asked. "Nobody ever comes to Devondale."

  "There's trouble at the border again," Mathew said. "My father and I met Harol Longworth on the way in and he told us about it."

  Suddenly full of interest, Collin asked, "What sort of trouble?"

  "Fighting."

  "Fighting? Who's fighting?"

  "Soldiers from Alor Satar and Kraelin's troops. Harol said he was in Sturga and heard the news there."

  Collin let out a low whistle. "Duren again, huh? Do you think we'll go to war with them?"

  "I don't know. I certainly hope not. From what he said, it sounded more like a skirmish, but even that can't be good. By the way, weren't we supposed to meet Daniel here? Where is he?"

  "He went ahead with Lara and Carly after I had to stay and help Margaret," Collin replied. "We're both late now."

  At the mention of Carly Coombs, the corners of Mathew's mouth turned down. It wasn't that Carly was a bad sort, just annoying to be around. He stood too close to you when he spoke, and he tended to rattle on and on about the most senseless things. Or at least they seemed senseless to Mathew. In truth, he'd always felt a little guilty about avoiding Carly, and once even tried to include him in their circle of friends, but nearly every­one agreed that Carly was too irritating to take for any extended period of time. Mathew supposed that he couldn't help being irritating. His parents were much the same way—they got right in your face when they talked.

  Maybe his children will turn out normal, Mathew mused.

  Like many of the other young men in town, Carly regu­larly showed up for Father Thomas's fencing classes. Un­fortunately, Carly never improved much. Year after year he did the same thing, and year after year he fell for the same tactics. He had a tendency to overreact with his chest parry, swinging his blade far too wide to the outside of his body, which left a small area of his flank exposed

  just below his sword arm. Virtually everyone in the province who fenced eventually picked up on his weak­ness. After parrying the attack, they would cut back under Carly's blade and hit him on the hipbone. It absolutely drove him to distraction, and he would stomp off the fenc­ing strip when the bout was over, his face beet red, com­plaining about what a "lucky shot" it was.

  Once, during a competition with a team from a neigh­boring town, after Carly's third loss in a row, Mathew's friend Daniel pulled Carly aside and tried to tell him what he was doing wrong. The information just seemed to pass over his head. Completely oblivious, Carly replied, "I can't believe he got in a touch like that. Did you ever see such luck?" Daniel had rolled his eyes and went to get a drink of water.

  By the time the boys caught sight of the little gray church, Mathew had rehearsed at least five different sce­narios regarding the tournament in his mind and his pulse was beating more quickly. For the past month he had been able to think of little else, and his stomach was turn­ing now that the time was approaching.

  At one time the church had been a fight brown or tan, but the passing years now rendered the stones a dull gray. A stained-glass window, the pride of the congregation, had recently been added above the double doors. Just to the right of the church was Father Thomas's rectory, and on the other side there were two more houses and the be­ginning of the North Loop Road, which led away from Devondale toward Gravenhage.

  "Uh-oh," Collin said, "I think church is over."

  Mathew muttered a curse under his breath when he saw people filing out. He hated disappointing Father Thomas. Not that the priest would say anything, but you'd know it all the same. Both boys picked up then pace. Fortunately, a few people were still standing around in groups chatting, as was the custom after Sixth Day services.

  While he was trying to think of what to say to Father Thomas, a movement well back in the trees caught his at­tention. Mathew frowned and stopped, staring at the woods to get a better look.

  "What are you doing, Mat? We're late for the practice already," Collin said.

  "I. . . thought I saw something moving in the trees by Silas Alman's house."

  "Where?"

  "Over there to the left," Mathew replied, pointing.

  "I don't see anything," Collin said. "What was it?"

  "I'm not sure ... something... ."

  "It's probably just Silas. It is his house. C'mon," Collin said, pulling Mathew by the elbow.

  "Maybe you're right."

  "Hey ... are you sure you're okay?"

  "I'm fine," he replied, shaking his head. "The competi­tion probably has me a little on edge, that's all."

  "Just relax, Mat. You'll do swell."

  Mathew started to say something, but abruptly stopped when something white moved in the woods again.

  Maybe Collin's right, he thought. It probably is Silas.

  Still staring at the woods, he continued walking toward the church.

  3

  City of Sturga, on the Elgarian border

  With the possible exception of Quinton Soames, most of the people who lived in northern Elgaria were preoccupied with the
violent storm that had broken over their country. Soames was a thin, slightly built man in his mid-fifties, with a large Adam's apple and quick, nervous hands. Depending upon the circumstances, his occupa­tion tended to vary between soldier and thief. Tonight he was the latter.

  Two full days of lashing rain and wind had slowly died down about an hour earlier as the storm moved out to sea. Since then the temperature had dropped, resulting in a gray fog that floated wraithlike through the town. From the window of the home he'd just broken into, Soames cautiously moved the curtain back an inch or two and peered into the street. Fortunately for him, whoever lived in the house was away. He wiped the perspiration from his face, took a deep breath, and waited for his heart rate to return to normal. He had just run almost ten blocks.

  A few more seconds one way or the other, he thought. The important thing was that he was safe and there was nothing to indicate that he was being followed.

  Directly across the street from the house, a row of shops were shut down for the evening. Soames peered suspiciously at the shadows in the doorways, his nose twitching speculatively. He waited another three minutes until he was satisfied, then slipped quietly out the front door. Given the late hour, it was not surprising the street was deserted.

  All the decent citizens are probably in bed, he thought.

  Out of long practice, Soames kept close to the build­ings as he walked toward the harbor.

  Not too fast and not too slow, he told himself. Just one of the locals out for the evening.

  The night air was cool and damp, filled with a watery haze that was getting thicker by the minute. Diffuse yel­low light from street lamps spilled onto the wet bricks be­neath them. He could almost taste the salt in the air from the ocean.

  Soames smiled to himself and fingered the gold in his coin purse as he walked. He was a lucky man. If the mer­chants were willing to pay good money for the artifacts he'd been smuggling out of the palace ruins, it made no difference to him whether they were from Elgaria, Alor Satar, or Sennia. Money was money. After three months of successful pilfering, no one was any the wiser.