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

by Mitchell Graham

  "Oh," Mathew said.

  "I also told him to keep his blasted elbow glued to his right side during the bout or I would personally drown him in the well," Collin added, continuing to smile.

  "Oh," Mathew repeated. "I hope Father Thomas didn't hear—"

  "Mat!" Collin said, shocked.

  Mathew frowned and glanced at Father Thomas, who was watching the proceedings with a beatific expression on bis face. He returned Mathew's look with a pleasant nod.

  Whatever Collin had said to Carly, it seemed to work. Three times Carly attacked, and three times he was par­ried, but his opponent's riposte kept missing when Carly deflected it with his elbow, which he immediately re­turned to cover his exposed hip. To his credit, Carly took advantage of each miss and scored on the counter riposte. Clearly confused by what was happening, the other boy looked at his coach, who responded with a shrug. The balance of the bout went very much the same way it be­gan, and Carly eventually got the win.

  When the last hit was scored, he was so beside himself with excitement, he jumped straight up in the air yelling like a madman, and almost forgot to shake the other boy's hand. Lara leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek when he returned to the bench, still beaming. Mathew couldn't remember seeing anyone turn that red before, but he was very happy for Carly.

  His own bout was less dramatic, despite his earlier trepidations. He had observed his opponent, Wayne Jack­son, carefully in each of his previous bouts. Though he was a tough competitor, Wayne was also a good head shorter than Mathew, and had less reach. Conscious that everyone on both the Gravenhage and Mechlen teams were watching, Mathew took the strip, a plan already formed in his mind. He shut out the catcalls and derisive laughter from Berke Ramsey and his teammates and con­centrated on the task before him.

  Instead of maintaining a normal fencing distance of about six feet, Mathew lengthened their contact by an additional half step, placing himself just out of the boy's range. One after another of Wayne's attacks fell short, which only caused him to press harder as he attempted to close the distance. The result was disastrous, and he wound up both overextended and off balance, making him a very vulnerable target. By the time the last hit was called, he was so desperate to get to Mathew that he com­pletely telegraphed his intentions. The moment Lieu­tenant Herne gave the command to fence, Wayne started down the strip with one rapid advance after another while Mathew retreated. With time running out and his opponent drifting farther and farther away, the boy threw an all out effort into his lunge—and fell short. Mathew saw it com­ing and stepped back, using his longer reach to hit him on the shoulder. The Devondale supporters erupted in a cheer. The victory was now secure and Devondale was de­clared the winner. Thorn Calthorpe generously came over to shake hands and offer his congratulations, while Father Thomas gathered everyone from his team in a circle and raised a cheer for Mechlen, as was the custom.

  Mathew should have been happy and pleased with him­self, but he wasn't. When they were done, he separated himself from the group and walked alone across the square to the old stone well. Tight-lipped, he kept his eyes mostly on the ground, avoiding those glances that followed him.

  He was painfully aware, at least in his own mind, what people were whispering, and suspected that some of those comments would probably reach his father. The win, elegant though it had been, was of no consequence to him. He had gotten sick in public, and everyone was going to assume he'd been afraid. It would only be a mat­ter of time before the story fully circulated, and the prospect made him miserable. Though few people would even give a second thought to such things, it assumed a place of primary importance in the mind of an awkward seventeen-year-old.

  * * *

  He brought the bucket up from the well and took the tin ladle off its hook. He was just finishing his third cup when he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see two people approaching.

  "How have you been, Mat?" Giles asked mildly. "Fine, Giles, and you?" he replied.

  Mathew recognized the other man as one of the soldiers he had seen earlier. He appeared about the same height as Giles but was built more solidly and was clearly several years older. Except for a prominent scar above his left eye, he had the same coloring and facial features as Giles. Sev­eral times in the past, Mathew had overheard different De­vondale girls commenting about Giles's curly brown hair and good looks. Though he knew it may have been a little small-minded, Mathew wrote it off to a lack of discrimina­tion on their part.

  "Oh, sorry. This is my brother, Terren," Giles said, in­troducing them.

  Unsure what to expect, Mathew kept his expression neutral as he and Terren shook hands. He tossed the re­maining water in the cup on the ground and refilled it from the bucket, offering it to Giles, who, oddly, didn't take it right away. Instead he searched Mathew's face for a moment before finally accepting the cup, gulping down the contents in a single swallow. His brother waved it away.

  "That was a good bout you fenced at the end," Giles said. Terren nodded in agreement.

  "Thank you," Mathew replied.

  The compliment came as a surprise, but also made him wary.

  "It looked like you beat him with your head, I think. Yes?" Terren said, his comment more statement than question.

  "I was lucky," Mathew replied guardedly.

  "Lucky?" The soldier's brows came together and he ap­peared to think about what Mathew had said for a second.

  "No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I suspect luck had very little to do with it. Rozon didn't think so either. Actually, he pulled me aside just to watch it."

  Rozon? Mathew wondered just how many people had been watching the bout. The whole thing had seemed pretty elementary to him. It was just a matter of carrying out his plan.

  "Well, I would wish you luck, but I believe you are fencing my brother next. So," he said, clapping them both on the back at the same time, "I will say only that it was nice to meet you, young man." He turned to Giles, ruf­fling his hair good-naturedly, and added, "And you, I'll see later." Terren started back to the square and called over his shoulder, "Both of you have a good match."

  Surprisingly, it sounded to Mathew as though he meant it.

  "Young man! He's only four years older than us," Giles snorted when his brother was gone.

  "He seems nice," Mathew offered.

  "Oh, he is. I mean he's my brother and all, but some­times he gets a little full of himself. He helped raise my sister and me after my father died, so he always tries to act like he's older than he is."

  Mathew didn't know that Giles had a sister, or that his father was dead. He felt a twinge of guilt because he had been doing his best to dislike Giles, and here he was act­ing in a perfectly pleasant manner.

  "I see. I'm very sorry."

  Giles waved away the politeness. "It's really not as bad as all that. You should meet my sister, Lea. She's two years younger than me and fussier than my mother ever was," he said, shaking his head.

  "Was?"

  "Yeah, both my mother and father were killed when I was about nine."

  Mathew stared at him. He had no idea that both of Giles's parents were dead.

  "They were coming back from Tyron Fel, where my aunt Shela lives. She'd just had a baby, and my mother

  thought it would be a good idea to stay with her for a week until she got back on her feet."

  Mathew thought he should say something, but was at a complete loss for words.

  "They never made it there. They ran into a band of brigands. My uncle and some other men found them three days later. Throats were cut and they'd been robbed."

  "Giles, I—"

  "Kind of stupid, isn't it, robbing someone with no money? They were carrying food and baby clothes."

  All Mathew could think of was to dumbly repeat, "Giles, I'm really sorry. I had no idea."

  He had been prepared to lump Giles together with the rest of his team, but found himself beginning to like him instead. Despite the brashness he'd displayed earli
er, Giles actually seemed a genuine and straightforward individual.

  After taking another drink, the other boy shook his head, clearing away the memories. "That wasn't what I came over here to say. I don't even know what made me bring it up, to be honest."

  "My mother died when I was nine." Mathew felt silly almost as soon as the words, were out of his mouth.

  Giles looked at him for a moment, then said, "Damn, the world's an odd place."

  They stood staring at each other for a moment, and then a strange thing happened—they started laughing.

  "Well, I guess it is at that," Mathew agreed.

  "Look, Mat, I know you saw those two muttonheads telling Jerrel Rozon and me what happened a while ago."

  The smile faded from Mathew's face and he retreated to his habitual wariness.

  "Well, forget it, would you? It doesn't mean a thing. They're fools. You know what Jerrel told them?" Giles asked.

  "No," Mathew replied cautiously.

  "He told them that he got sick to his stomach just be­fore every battle he ever fought. Can you imagine that— Jerrel Rozon."

  In fact, Mathew couldn't imagine it. Jerrel Rozon looked to be about as soft as granite. And he was consid­ered one of the most brilliant commanders in Elgaria. Jerrel Rozon getting sick before a fight?

  "On my honor, Mat. That's just what he said, and some other choice things too that. . . uh . .. polite company prevents me from repeating."

  Mathew looked at Giles closely but could find no hint of mockery or sarcasm. In fact, it seemed quite the con­trary. Suddenly, he found the whole incident funny, something that was highly unusual for such a reticent young man. Both of the boys began laughing again, al­though neither was certain exactly at what.

  "Let's get back before they come looking for us," Giles said, clapping Mathew on the back.

  Mathew reached out and squeezed Giles's shoulder in return, and they walked back across the square together.

  The world certainly was a strange place.

  5

  Alor Satar, Karas Duren's palace in Rocoi

  Eric Duren bent down and grasped the middle of the statue, grunted and lifted with all his might. His fa­ther, standing next to him, lifted at the same time. Sweat broke out on Eric's forehead, but slowly, after three failed attempts, they succeeded in raising it to about chest height.

  When it was about halfway up, Eric leaned backward sharply, pulled, while Karas Duren pushed as hard as he could. Eventually they managed to stand it upright, then both of them collapsed to the ground.

  "Next time make the servants do it," Eric gasped, try­ing to regain his breath. "That's one of the advantages about being the king."

  Duren chuckled and rolled over onto his back, look­ing up at the sky. "Some things are worth working for," he said.

  "I don't see why we need another statue. The garden's already full of them."

  "It's a gift from our Bajani friends," Duren explained. "The Kalifar of the Five Tribes is coming to visit next week. It seems they have reconsidered our proposal for an alliance."

  Eric Duren propped himself up on one elbow and looked at his father. "The Elgarians closed the ports?"

  "They're an extremely predictable people. Those raids you've been staging along their northern border turned out to be the final straw."

  Eric shook his head and laughed softly, and Duren shared in the moment, patting him on the leg. "Don't you think the Bajani will eventually find out it was us?"

  "By that time I imagine the war will be over."

  "What about Cincar?" Eric asked. "We're going to need them too."

  "Cincar is not a problem. With Elgaria out of the way, they'll have a free run at the shipping lanes in the South­ern Sea. They'd like that almost as much as seeing King Malach in his grave," Duren said. "He was the one who froze them out of the western markets, and Naydim Kyat's father has never forgotten that."

  "We'll need to be certain," Eric said. "Their navy could be a huge factor if they decide not to join us."

  "We signed the treaty yesterday, before you returned from your visit to our western neighbor."

  "What about the men I took? Armand is going to have a fit if he finds out any more of his soldiers have... ah . .. suddenly deserted, shall we say."

  Duren rolled over, looked at his son and shrugged. "The casualties of war, I'm afraid."

  His father said this so blandly, it sent a chill down Eric's spine. At the bottom of the hill, just before the gar­den path disappeared into the trees, there was a large blackened area of ground. Several workmen were busy with rakes and shovels, trying to smooth a mound of earth in the center that reminded him of a large grave. He was certain it hadn't been there before he left.

  "Did we have a fire while I was gone?" he asked.

  "Not really," Duren answered, pushing himself up to his feet and dusting off his shirt. "Some of my experi­ments don't always go as smoothly as I would-like."

  Another shudder ran down Eric's spine. "Have the Or-locks had any success in finding the other ring yet?"

  A brief look that might have been annoyance ap­peared briefly on Duren's face, but vanished as quickly as it came. He stared off at the horizon toward the south and said absently, "They're in a place called Devondale at the moment, following the merchant that traitor sold

  it to. We should have it soon . . . very soon."

  "Where's Devondale? I've never heard of it."

  "It's a small town in Elgaria, about four hundred miles south of Anderon. The nearest city is Gravenhage."

  "What in the world are they doing there?" Eric asked.

  "The merchant who Soames sold the ring.to apparently goes there every year for their Spring Festival to sell his pots and pans. Hopefully, with all the crowds, the Or-locks can slip in and get it quickly."

  "But, can they be trusted?"

  Duren shrugged. "I suspect so. We've reached an un­derstanding with each other, so to speak. The ring actu­ally has no value to them. When the Ancients created the last eight, they made each of them unique; able to work only with one person. It's actually something of a miracle mine functions at all. Perhaps it's a sign from God our time is at hand, wouldn't you say?"

  "I wouldn't know," Eric said. "I'm more comfortable relying on myself than waiting for divine messages."

  Karas Duren looked at his son and smiled. "So am I, Eric."

  "Father, I know what you've told me about the ring, and I've seen some of the things you can do, but are you certain we're taking the right path? The West is not sim­ply going to disappear."

  "Disappear?" Duren repeated.

  "Yes, Father, that's what I said. They are not. . ."

  Eric's voice trailed off when he realized his father was not looking at him. A servant girl was walking toward them, carrying a pitcher of water and glasses on a silver tray. He had seen her around the palace a number of times before, a pretty young thing with dark brown hair and large hazel eyes, though her name escaped him at the moment. His mother had probably sent her with drinks for them.

  The girl stopped in her tracks as a loud, high-pitched whine came out of nowhere. It didn't seem to emanate from anywhere in particular, but was all around them.

  Several of the servants working at the burnt area also looked up.

  The whine continued to increase in volume, but his fa­ther stood there, not moving.

  A second later the girl dropped the tray she was carry­ing. The pitcher and glass crashed to the ground as a bril­liant white light enveloped her. The light formed itself into the shape of a column, became opaque, then shrank, compacting itself into a ball before it winked out of exis­tence. Only the echo of a distant chime remained.

  In shock, Eric jumped to his feet. The girl was gone— vanished, as if she had never been there. On the ground lay the silver tray with shards of broken glass around it.

  Eric heard his father take a deep breath and say, "One never knows, do they?"

  6

  Devondale

 
Toward the end of Devondale's match with Mechlen, Collin Miller watched the gray clouds roll in from the west. The temperature had dropped, and if the treetops were any indication, the wind also seemed to be freshening. They would have to hurry to get the competi­tion over, he concluded. At most there were only two hours of good light remaining. Father Thomas apparently had similar thoughts and called for the match with Gravenhage to begin.

  Across the square, Mat and Giles Naismith were walk­ing with each other, talking and smiling. Although Collin didn't care for Giles, he conceded that wouldn't be a bad thing if he managed to get his friend to ease up on him­self a little. In the last half hour, at least two people had told him that Mat threw up behind the town council building. One of them, Gene Warren, who lived in Mechlen, also said that Berke Ramsey was spreading the story around. At least Gene had the decency to ask if Mat was all right rather than gloat as that pea brain Berke did, Collin thought.

  Collin watched Mat and Giles shake hands as they sep­arated. "What, was that about?" he asked as Mathew walked up.

  "Nothing really. He was just telling me not to be so hard on myself."

  "Good advice," Collin agreed. "Father Thomas gave us the bout order while you were over there. You're up first, followed by Lara, Daniel, me, Carly, and Garon."

  "Who do I fence?" Mathew asked, lowering himself to the ground. Once he was in a sitting position, he spread his legs as wide apart as possible and reached toward his toes, limbering up.

  "I think Berke Ramsey is first for them."

  Mathew paused in mid-stretch. "Really?" he said, looking up at Collin. "That's interesting."

  Collin frowned. Personally, he couldn't see anything interesting about it at all. Mathew's face had a distant, preoccupied look, but Collin decided not to say anything for the moment.

  Father Thomas stood on one of the small benches and called for everyone's attention. "Gentlemen . . . and lady," he added quickly, with a brief nod to Lara, who in­clined her head. "The first match will begin in two min­utes. If you would be kind enough to take your places."

  Both teams went to their respective benches, and Mathew took his position on the fencing strip. Though his friend appeared calm, in fact almost nonchalant, Collin could see that Mathew's eyes were fixed on Berke, who sauntered onto the strip with an idiotic grin on his face. He also noticed the fingers of Mathew's left hand tapping rapidly against his thigh.