True Fire Book 1.
THE RING OF
TRUTH
B. Cameron Lee
Copyright © 2016 B. Cameron Lee
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1533385904
ISBN-13: 978-1533385901
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to Paul and Frances van Vegchel
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Robyn for her assistance with editing and to Lisa and Gina for their constant encouragement.
1. A New Beginning.
Captain Belmar leaned against the starboard rail of his coastal trading vessel, Jalwynd, as she slid over the crest of the glassy wave and surfed down the far side. Spume, thrown back from the ship’s plunging bow pattered over the short, bow-legged man in his worn, ornate frock coat but he paid it no heed. A flicker of a smile passed over his weather-beaten, walnut face as he watched the helmsman curse and firmly grip the spoked wheel to keep the wilful craft to her true course.
The diminutive Captain reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a short brass telescope, a present to himself when he was finally promoted to Captain all those years ago. Placing it to his eye, he trained the instrument on the forbidding, wave-hewn white crags of the coastline which they had followed north since leaving Encarill ten days ago. There were only two safe harbours along the five hundred nautical mile stretch of sea cliffs to the south behind them and the Captain was happy they were nearing their goal. By his reckoning, usually dead accurate after a lifetime spent in the arms of his first love, the ocean, the headland of Dome Rock should soon be coming into view.
Jalwynd’s destination lay just beyond that headland, a safe berth at Trugor’s harbour in its lee.
A stronger gust of the steady south-westerly wind bellied the already taught sails, moaning through the straining shrouds and causing Jalwynd to heel momentarily. The seagulls working the ship’s white wake rose smoothly, wheeling in response to the gust as Captain Belmar braced himself against the rail automatically, his knack allowing him to feel his ship in her entirety, every plank and piece of timber, every rope and shred of canvas, even the sailors aboard her.
She felt quick and alive under her straining sails.
The diminutive Captain didn’t trumpet his ability. Not everyone possessed a ‘knack’ but his loyal crew knew he had one. They’d been at sea with him long enough to tell.
Jalwynd was a lucky ship.
The feel of the trim, taut vessel beneath him wasn’t the only reason for Captain Belmar’s satisfaction. Early spring at sea was normally cold and blustery with vicious storms raging in from the vast Western Ocean, pinning crews beneath decks until it was their turn on watch but this trip the ship and its crew had experienced unusually mild and fortuitous weather. The Captain had never known its like before and it perplexed him. Puzzling or no, the odd weather had resulted in the fastest and safest trip up the coast from Encarill his ship had ever made and that was certainly cause for celebration.
Belmar turned and made his way over to stand beside the helmsman, his rolling gait perfectly counteracting the movement of the ship beneath him.
“Jeffen, you ever know’d weather like this so early in the season?”
The grizzled, bearded helmsman took his ice-blue eyes off the compass in its binnacle, long enough to gaze across the rolling, glassy swell, gauging the distance to the lighter blue of the shallower water near the shore, before focussing them on his Captain.
“Nope.” Came back the succinct reply.
“We’ve bin together nigh on twenty year Jeffen and I’ve never know’d anything like this weather at this time of the year. It ain’t right.”
The helmsman set his eyes back on the compass and turned the ship’s wheel a little to correct its course before replying.
“It ain’t natural is what. Somats goin’ on. Somat big. We shouldn’t be here anyways. Way too early for us to head north. Since ‘at spoilt bastard of a Prince, Jerome, took o’er the throne when ol’ King Rickard got sick, nuttin’s bin right in Myseline. I blames his Mother. Damn foreigners.”
Jeffen noisily cleared his throat, hoicked and spat lustily over the starboard rail so the prevailing wind lofted his phlegm well away from the ship. It was a long speech for him and Belmar digested the helmsman’s opinion slowly, turning it over in his mind. Somehow, old Jeffen knew things other folk didn’t but his knowledge, however it was gained, came in handy at times and he was invariably correct in his summations.
The good Captain had been uncomfortable testing his ship, Jalwynd, against capricious Fate so early in the year. Exposing his ship and its crew to the dangers of such a long voyage on the normally unpredictable, heaving, sometimes black Western Ocean was not his idea of common sense. He would never have willingly made this trip so early in the year but the new King of Myseline himself had chosen Jalwynd for the task and ordered Captain Belmar north to Trugor to pick up supplies.
Encarill, old King Rickard’s beloved capital, was fast running out of basic supplies due to greed and poor planning. Rickard’s bastard son, Jerome, now King, was profligate, with no respect for conserving resources. There had been far too many feasts for unproductive nobles and courtiers in the harsh depths of winter. The shortages weren’t Belmar’s fault but he had been sought out because of his ship and his skill and ordered to fetch a cargo of grain and wine back to Encarill.
Quickly.
And when a King commands, you go.
Jalwynd’s passage down the silt-laden Salwin River from Encarill’s harbour to the sea had been very swift. Due in most part to the melting spring snows pouring from the foothills of Mehgrin’s Wall speeding them downstream. It took all of Belmar’s skill to avoid Jalwynd broaching as they raced toward the ocean, still bare farmland flashing by each side of the ship.
From the moment Belmar’s sturdy vessel shot out from the shelter of the Salwin River’s broad mouth into the Western Ocean and turned her voluptuous figurehead north, a fortuitous south-westerly wind had sprung up from nowhere and blown steadily ever since.
Jeffen’s words encapsulated Belmar’s feelings in a nutshell.
It certainly was not natural and something was going on.
A wind-fragmented call from the lookout perched in the crow’s nest at the top of the mainmast reached down to him.
“Dome Rock ahead Captain”.
The cry was repeated by the First Mate, Wallas, as Captain Belmar waved in acknowledgement.
Ten days of clear weather. Most unusual. Belmar had expected a few storms at least. He sighed and collapsed his telescope, replacing it in his frockcoat pocket. Jalwynd would soon be docking at Trugor, the hub of Trading for central Myseline.
The coastal plain east of Trugor, stretching all the way to the foothills of Mehgrin’s Wall, a good two weeks ride by horseback, was mostly fertile farmland, woods and fens. Last year there had been bumper crops of grain and grapes, so this early in the season the warehouse at Trugor should be nearly full of first-rate supplies. The Trader who owned it, Bryan nari Tsalk, was a natural businessman and had probably bought up most of last season’s surpluses. He always drove a keen bargain for his Trade goods but Belmar knew him to be an honest and fair man at heart.
Jalwynd’s rigging thrummed in tune to the constant wind and Captain Belmar thrummed with her, feeling as trim and taut as his ship. He turned his attention ahead and could just make out the unusually shaped headland which marked their destination. Jalwynd was rapidly bearing down on the massive rock promontory, the end of which had worn to a bare, white, rounded shape over the millennia, somewhat reminiscent of the top of a skull. Sometime during its long history, the dome had become the foundation for what appeared to be a monument.
A single, black, four
sided obelisk speared over a hundred feet into the air, soaking up light and remaining unmarked, defying the elements. None knew of its origins, it had been there as long as men could remember but there were many legends regarding its beginning. That’s all they were, legends.
No one knew the truth of it.
Around that headland lay Trugor and a safe anchorage.
The modest port of Trugor was a favourite for Captain Belmar. Once a small fishing village but now grown over the years to a bustling Trade centre. Low white cliffs, home to vast flocks of seabirds, protectively flanked each side of a large bay. Smaller fishing boats reclined above the high water mark on a wide, shingly beach just north of the sheltered harbour. Houses, stone built and slate roofed, huddled darkly together against the ocean’s stormy wrath, marched up the slope of the hill to the top and beyond. Squeezed between them, the steep cobbled streets twisted down to the small docks, passing an assortment of shops and two inns along the way.
The good Captain’s destination, the Tsalk family warehouse, lay at the northern end of the stone paved docks adjacent to the shingly beach, standing alone, it’s back tucked against the low white cliffs.
Captain Belmar mentally readied himself to utter the commands for all necessary course changes and sail adjustments as Jalwynd neared the white mass of Dome Rock. Suddenly, a sleek dark shape shot out from behind the headland, its red sail furled and its forty or so blackwood oars flashing in the sunlight as they rose and dipped in perfect unison. Each stroke scattered sparkling drops of salt water as the boat’s crew responded to the fast, insistent drum beat marking the time. The vessel was so close Jalwynd’s crew could hear the occasional grunts of effort as the rowers bent to their task and make out the red leather jerkins of the olive skinned oarsmen, some of whom sported multiple piercings while all bore the drakon tattoo on their right forearms.
The Draakon Reaver ship, for that’s what she was, forged straight as an arrow for the open ocean, slicing due west through the incoming tide at speed. Despite his stunned surprise, Captain Belmar’s eyes instinctively swept the low, lean vessel noting her name, ‘Kraaken’, carved into the bows above the steel tipped ram and caught a glimpse of the golden pennant fluttering at its masthead. He instantly barked orders down to the Mate, readying Jalwynd for immediate flight in case the Reaver ship should turn on them.
The First Mate relayed the Captain’s orders to the barefoot crew with a commanding bellow and they quickly scampered into the rigging to furl the topsails. Captain Belmar stood by his helmsman on the quarterdeck ready to order evasive manoeuvres if necessary, praying to the Fates it wouldn’t come to a fight but the Reaver ship held her course, speeding straight out to sea, oars bending under the strain, seemingly ignoring Jalwynd approaching from the south off her port side.
Luck.
Or benevolent Fate.
All aboard Jalwynd slowly let out their collective breaths as the Draakon Reavers shipped their oars and raised the square, red mainsail. The Reavers were leaving. Before long, Jalwynd, and her crew now busy trimming sails, rounded the headland and entered the more sheltered waters beyond, slowing rapidly under reduced sail. The mains were gradually furled one after another and a few topsails redeployed in order to keep the ship’s forward momentum toward Trugor. Captain Belmar felt his eyes drawn to the obelisk on Dome Rock where sunlight, reflected from the smooth-sided, night-black pillar, momentarily blinded him. As his vision cleared, residual white spots still remaining, he turned his head to look toward Trugor and observed a well-risen plume of thick, black smoke, fouling away to the north-east as it cleared the cliff top.
Its source, the Trader’s warehouse.
Oily flames engulfed the building, licking long red tongues toward the heavens as the supplies Captain Belmar was sent to procure were rapidly being incinerated.
The now worried Captain once more took his spyglass out and looked over the rest of Trugor. There was no sign of any damage to the town nor were there any other Reaver ships present in the harbour.
Very odd, he thought as the spyglass was returned to his pocket.
As the distance to Trugor’s harbour closed, the Captain, with his naked eye, could just make out tiny figures forming a bucket brigade across the docks to the Trader’s warehouse, trying in vain to fight the huge flames. There was an explosion, probably an oil or whiskey barrel he thought, and the fire-fighters scattered in case of more.
He wished them Luck.
Although time seemed to crawl by during their final approach to Trugor, it was not much longer before Jalwynd cleared the protective sea wall and eased into the close-shouldered harbour. Crewmen furled the last of her sails and she coasted in slowly on forward momentum. It seemed an eternity to the Captain though, as he was forced throughout that short time to watch the warehouse finally burn to a smouldering pile of ash and debris. The Tsalk warehouse had contained most of the grain and wine Belmar had hoped would fill Jalwynd’s holds. Capricious Fate had intervened once again; it would now take a good few weeks to acquire the supplies he needed for his new King.
If they were available.
Captain Belmar hoped there were enough supplies left to fill his ship here at Trugor, otherwise he would have to travel even further up the coast. Pickings to the north could be scant and also costly. He trusted that Fate had spared his Trader friend, Bryan, hoping the man had not been harmed during the Reaver attack on the warehouse and would soon be able to help him locate some more supplies.
He’d always been of service before.
Ropes were thrown to the tired men waiting on the dock and Jalwynd, now with all sails furled and tied securely, was pulled into and made secure against the padded buffers of the stone wharf. The usual joviality and banter was sadly missing from the strained, smoke smudged faces of those ashore and the acrid smell of recently damped-down fire hung pungently around the rapidly dissipating pall of smoke. Before long Captain Belmar had debarked from his vessel and was standing on the dock, talking to the Harbourmaster who breathed through a damp handkerchief pressed to his nose.
“Doesn’t look much like yer normal Reaver raid, Jak.”
“No Cap’n, it weren’t. Looks to me like they came here just to burn down the Trader’s warehouse, although why is a bit of a mystery.”
“What of Trader Bryan, Jak?”
The harbourmaster’s lean and wrinkled face fell and he looked uncomfortably at his boot tops for a moment, gathering his thoughts before replying.
“They killed him Cap’n. The Reavers were on us before we knew it. They rowed in swiftly and marched straight to the warehouse. We was getting all the available men ready for our defence of the town over yonder but they seemed to know where they was going and ignored us. Bryan was standing out front of his storehouse, wearing his rusty chainmail and carrying that old sword he brought back from the Dominion Wars. Never had a chance to use it though. The cowardly Reavers surrounded Bryan and slew him with spears before setting fire to his warehouse. They must’ve used a barrel of lamp oil to get it well started before they left. Apart from some minor thieving near the wharf, that was all the damage the Reavers caused in Trugor. Right strange goings on, if’n you ask me.”
Captain Belmar chewed his bottom lip as he stood thinking. This wasn’t right. Reaving was a fairly rare occurrence since the Dominion Wars, as the Reavers mostly stuck to piracy at sea now and generally that only occurred in the fairer seasons. This wasn’t how Reavers normally behaved. That gold pennant he had spotted on the black ship’s masthead told him the Reaver Admiral was aboard. What was he doing in Trugor of all places? And why kill a Trader then take nothing?
This was a real mystery, with no ready answer to it.
“Aye, it’s a puzzle alright. What of his family?” he asked the stalwart Harbourmaster.
“They’re over with the body. See. There.”
The Harbourmaster pointed.
The Captain’s gaze followed the gnarled finger and took in the three standing figures, heads bow
ed beside a partially shrouded object on the ground. Belmar left the Harbourmaster and made his way over to pay his respects to his dead friend and his children.
Bryan nari Tsalk lay in a large, dark pool of his own clotting blood beneath a raggedy blanket, close to the still smouldering remains of the family’s Trading warehouse. His body was clad in the rusty chainmail hauberk he had died in and his exposed, lifeless right hand still gripped an old, much dented sword. The well-used, worn blanket which barely covered him was tented by the broken end of a spear haft protruding from his chest. The spear had been run into the chainmail and through his heart before the shaft was snapped off in the melee.
Bryan nari Tsalk, a survivor of the Dominion Wars all those years ago, had fallen at last. To some cowardly Draakon Reavers.
The Reavers had left none of their own behind, so no one was really sure what price they had paid for their raid. It was devastation for the Tsalk family though. Bryan had been its backbone and its strength. Now the warehouse was burnt to the ground and Bryan lay dead before it.
It was Staril, Bryan’s eldest son, poking around in the slurry of warm ashes after the fire had been finally put out by the bucket brigade, who’d found the letter and the bag of gold in the secret hiding place beneath a flagstone in the coldstore. He’d read its words to Raleen and Arwhon over the body of their father, there beside the smouldering, acrid ruins.
The remains of the family warehouse.
My children. If you are reading this, then I am dead.
The gold is to rebuild the Trading business. That is my
wish. Staril and Raleen, that task belongs to you.
Arwhon. You are to visit your Grandmother, Cristal nasi
Tsalkini in the city of Belvedere in Southland.
I bequeath my sword and mail to you.
Take the horse and some money with you also.
The Ring Of Truth Page 1