The Ring Of Truth

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The Ring Of Truth Page 5

by B Cameron Lee


  No, he couldn’t return home now. He was no longer a boy.

  He’d killed a man.

  Arwhon suddenly realised the light was failing and he was in deep shadow now, the sun no longer shining through Durhain’s Pass. Shivering as the afternoon chilled rapidly, he realised he had to find shelter and soon. It had been miserably cold last night, camped in a stone hut with Tansy for company and he’d been hoping for a warm bed tonight, a necessity now with this damn wound in his side. He checked to the east, downhill. The muddy, rutted road descended easily into a long wooded valley. Way off in the distance he caught glimpses of smoke rising from among the trees, probably from the village he had been told of before leaving Myseline.

  As Arwhon turned toward Tansy, the movement caused his chainmail to jerk the crossbow quarrel in his side, instantly inflicting a sharp stab of pain. He swore and was immediately tempted to pull the bolt out but hesitated. If it was barbed, hauling it out could be disastrous. For now, cutting the exposed shaft away was the best he could manage. Arwhon gathered up his belt, still lying next to the body of his attacker and buckled it gingerly around his waist before taking the small utility knife from its sheath. He used it to cut the fletching off the shaft then pulled his jerkin over the end of the bolt before carefully scoring around the exposed portion of the crossbow bolt as near to his chainmail as he dared while thanking Fate he’d chosen to keep his mail on, in spite of cursing its weight.

  The slight movement of his actions was agonising as Arwhon cut into the wood of the shaft but he gritted his teeth and persisted until he could hold the embedded end between finger and thumb of his left hand and snap the rest of the shaft away.

  By Fate it hurt.

  Bloodied and in pain, Arwhon felt light headed. Bent over his wound he approached Tansy to settle her down. The horse was edgy, the smell of blood in her nostrils but after a few comforting pats and a quiet word, she ducked her head for the familiar fondle behind the ears and nudged Arwhon gently with her nose.

  Another horse whickered nearby and Arwhon turned quickly to the source of the sound, apprehensive. The call came again, enquiringly. It appeared to have come from a little way up the rise to the right of the road where a small copse of evergreen bushes grew.

  Another attacker or a thief’s horse securely hitched?

  He couldn’t leave a horse to die, tied to a tree.

  Dropping the broken point of his sword near Tansy, Arwhon painfully trudged up the rise to have a look around, clutching the hilt of the half-bladed sword tightly in his left hand, though little good it would do against an attacker. By now, blood stained his jerkin on the right side and seeped downward, wetting his trews but he didn’t have time to fiddle with the wound right now. Night would fall soon and the temperature would plummet. He knew that the village was not far down the hill and he would likely freeze to death if he stayed out here. If he was lucky there would be an inn and a sawbones perhaps.

  Arwhon gingerly made his way up the last of the slope and peering through the sparse evergreens saw a horse hitched to a stunted tree in the clearing. Not the sort of horse one would expect a murderous thief to own. It was a large and well bred dark grey stallion, although thin and rough looking in its winter coat, with a pack tied behind the luxurious saddle and matching saddle bags.

  Ripley’s horse! Or the one he was supposed to deliver to someone. He must have been a victim of the very same robber not so long ago.

  The grey horse studied him intently as Arwhon, grimacing in pain, struggled to push through the bushes before placing his sword on the ground and clumsily untying the stallion’s reins with his left hand. He kept his right arm tightly clamped to his side, praying the tall horse wouldn’t play up at the smell of blood. Surprisingly, the strange horse leaned forward and gently nuzzled Arwhon’s left hand before raising its head and staring him straight in the eyes.

  Instant recognition of some sort passed between them like a bolt from the blue and Arwhon felt a measure of respect for the horse, or something akin to it. What the feeling which passed between them was, neither of them knew, but it was enough for him to consider keeping the horse for his own.

  Arwhon looked about and found a path to lead the horse back down the hill. He picked up his sword and set off, the big grey following willingly, causing no trouble. Tansy and the strange horse touched noses tentatively with Tansy’s ears shooting forward at the contact before the old horse slowly relaxed.

  The newcomer was accepted.

  With the wound in Arwhon’s side weakening him, it was too much to lift the body of his attacker over the grey stallion’s back. He debated leaving it by the road but relented and using his only piece of rope, tied the dead man’s wrists together before attaching the other end firmly to the saddle of the big grey. The crossbow presented yet another problem, and he struggled for a while to tie it onto the grey’s saddle with one hand. Arwhon then carefully placed the broken pieces of his sword under the ties of the roll behind his own saddle on Tansy and attempted to mount up while holding the grey’s lead rein. Luckily Tansy was patient, as it took three attempts to finally climb aboard her, the last made from the top of a large rock beside the road.

  When he set off, the big grey calmly followed at the end of his rein, ignoring the thief’s body dragging along behind, bouncing over rocks in the road like an overlarge, floppy rag doll.

  It was now quite late in the afternoon and the sun had long since disappeared behind the bulk of the mountains as it descended into the west.

  In the dim twilight it was growing colder by the minute and his breath now plumed in front of him.

  Arwhon, shivering uncontrollably, was just managing to stay upright in the saddle as the little cavalcade entered the village, only a couple of miles further downhill from where he had been ambushed.

  Off in the distance Arwhon heard a ringing sound but paid it no heed as first one dog then another started barking at his advent.

  Although this village lay athwart the only road through the mountains, it looked to be a poor place. The first houses he saw were low stone buildings roofed with slate, heavy shutters open to reveal small windows and doorways he would need to stoop through to enter. Smoke rose from their chimneys to be blown away in blue fragments and he smelled the pine in it. The stout window frames held thin, oiled hide, a means of admitting light and keeping out the cold. Glass was not cheap and getting it here would have cost much. Money these folk could not afford. Behind each house, he could just make out a cleared patch of land, enough to grow some vegetables and no doubt, somewhere nearby, there were sheep or goats pastured on the rough alpine grass.

  Virtually the only animals which could survive up here.

  As Arwhon rode further down into the village, he created quite a stir with the big grey dragging a battered, dead body down its muddy main street. A number of residents emerged from their hovels, muffled up against the cold, to silently stare after the little procession. A few shy, ill kempt children hid behind the adults, peering curiously around their legs at the mounted stranger.

  The houses a bit further down the road were larger, some with window glass and as he drew near them he noticed a faded sign above one that proclaimed it a village store. Opposite, across a small town square was a rundown inn, the biggest building he had seen in the village so far. It was a low two storied affair with a stone walled yard and stable built onto one side. He considered stopping there but it looked dismal and unkempt, rubbish and weeds competing around the front of the building with shreds of faded, peeling paint fallen from the exposed woodwork. He wanted Tansy well cared for and the inn did not look promising.

  Arwhon wearily gazed around in the dim light, barely able to keep his eyes open, feeling somewhat lost and uncertain as darkness fell, unsure as to what he should do now. He was cold, shivering and feverish and realised he was unfit for further travel.

  A few curious onlookers had silently gathered but Arwhon ignored them, hating to be the centre of attention. Perhaps he
should find a representative of the law and try to explain what had occurred earlier.

  A clanging sound drew his attention and he saw smoke rising from what was obviously a blacksmith’s shop a little further down the muddy road from the run-down inn. The rhythmic sound of steel being hammered was the ringing sound he had heard earlier from the outskirts of the village. The smith was working long hours but there should be food and care for his horse there. That dealt with, he could then see to himself, maybe get a room at the inn. Approaching the smithy on horseback in the last light of the day, the grey still dragging the dead thief along, Arwhon saw the back of a broad, well muscled, fairly short man in a sleeveless leather jerkin, limned by the fire in the forge. The smith was hammering red glowing steel on the anvil before returning it to the coals and pumping the bellows to heat it again. His movements were economical and he worked smoothly despite his age, indicated by the long, grey, single plait hanging down his back.

  Arwhon drew Tansy to a halt and pulled himself erect in the saddle just as the blacksmith turned, aware of him in spite of the noise from the hammering.

  The smith appeared to be of middle age but his face was not the face of a man from these parts. The dark eyes regarding him were slanted and narrow at the corners, still with few wrinkles around them, while the skin of his face was relatively smooth over the high cheekbones and broad flattened nose. A slight smile played over the smith’s mouth as those calm brown eyes took in the body lying on the ground behind the horses, then the horses themselves before finally coming to rest on Arwhon.

  The tall, young man sat up straight in the saddle of the old mare, in spite of the fresh blood on the right side of his jerkin, leaking through from under his hauberk. Blood had also run down to stain his trews below the mail. His shoulder length dark blond hair was held back by a plaited leather headband and his honest, youthful face still needed time to become the man he would be one day. Despite the youth’s bearing, his distinctive green eyes were having difficulty focusing on the smith.

  Arwhon drew breath and began to introduce himself but unfortunately, for the second time that day, he tumbled out of the saddle.

  The smith gazed down at the sleeping figure on the simple cot, a puzzled expression on his worried face. The lad was young, but those bright green eyes he had seen filled with pain had also held great determination before the lad fainted and toppled from the old horse. There was something about him. Fate had marked this youth for some purpose. An unusual prescient feeling shivered up the smith’s spine. This young man was far more than he appeared but it would have to remain a mystery for now. At least until the lad woke.

  The wound to his side had been tended and his body washed down; now it was up to time and his youth to repair the damage caused by the crossbow bolt.

  The smith collected himself from his reverie and left the hut; there was a lot more work to do before he could sleep for the night.

  4. Servant.

  Why was he in a cave?

  Why was the light so dim?

  Arwhon gazed around at the shadowy rock walls with their tapestry-like covering of fine-fronded ferns and exotic phosphorescent fungi. He appeared to be floating above a natural pool, around which sat three ancient women, each blessed with strange eyes and a full head of long silvery hair.

  One of them suddenly noticed him and drew the attention of the other two to his presence.

  “How did you come here?” demanded one of them.

  “Who are you?” asked a second.

  The third merely smiled to herself.

  “It has begun,” was all she said.

  It was only then Arwhon noticed the pale, red aura which was slowly enveloping his body from the feet up.

  Glowing red coals in the fireplace provided a low light in the small, plain room where Arwhon first came too, his dream fragmenting as he shakily took his bearings. The steady drumming of rain on the shingle roof must have woken him. Deep shadows clung to the corners and in niches as the knotted, dark wood planking of the walls soaked up much of the available light. He felt disoriented and uneasy.

  What had happened?

  The last thing he remembered was starting to introduce himself to the smith. What then? With his left hand, he gingerly lifted the blankets covering him and found not a stitch of clothing on his clean, washed body, only a bandage over his lower chest, covering the wound in his right side. Dropping the blankets back he surveyed the room, neat and tidy although not very big and he occupied the only bed in it. There was not much furniture to speak of either, a simple but sturdy table and single chair, a small chest at the foot of the bed and a low dresser by the wall. The dying bed of coals in the hearth spoke of time passing, as the room was quite warm and dry.

  Footsteps on the porch.

  Arwhon tensed, not knowing what to expect.

  The door opened and the smith entered, wearing a long sleeved, rough woollen overshirt against the cold outside. Water from the rain ran off it and puddled on the floor as he shut the door.

  It was dark out.

  The man, seemingly of middling years, walked over to the fireplace and returned bearing a metal bowl with a spoon in it plus a chunk of grainy dark bread. He held them out to Arwhon, who painfully pulled himself up to a sitting position and took the offering gratefully.

  “I am known as Chalc the Smith. It is time for you to eat.”

  “Arwhon nari Tsalk. Where am I?”

  The blacksmith raised an eyebrow at the name given him.

  “In my humble abode. I couldn’t leave you out on the street; especially in this weather. This village is known as Cumbrisia’s End.”

  Arwhon nodded.

  “Am I in trouble for killing that man? He tried to murder me.”

  “No, no young fellow. Set your mind at rest. Petrad was a rogue and a thief; had been ever since he returned from the Dominion Wars. It’s only recently his exploits involved murder; starting from the moment he stole that damn crossbow from a returning caravan guard. He’s been thieving off the odd traveller for years but the village turned a blind eye to it and left him alone because he was too big for them to handle and the extra money coming into the village economy from his exploits was very welcome. Not many of us sanction death though. Some of the villagers are calling you a hero while others are grumbling about the loss of that extra income. But not too loudly mind. I treated the wound in your side, the stitching is not so neat but it will hold you together and your two horses are put up in the stables.”

  “Two horses! But I only have one. The grey stallion is one Petrad stole.”

  “Now you have two. The stallion is a Barsoomi and it wouldn’t be separated from you. In fact it stood over you when you fell and allowed no one near. I had to whisper it, a useful knack for a smith, gentling horses. If it’s not yours, Petrad must have killed its rider some time in the past and taken it for his own but it obviously didn’t bond him.”

  “Sorry, ‘bond’, I don’t understand.”

  “You mean you haven’t heard of Barsoomi horses?” the smith asked, an incredulous look on his face.

  “No, what about them?” Arwhon replied, puzzled by the smith’s obvious surprise.

  Chalc’s eyebrows drew together as he concentrated for a moment and Arwhon took the opportunity to spoon down some of the delicious stew and take a bite of the wholesome bread while he waited for the explanation.

  “Barsoomi horses come only from Barsoom, a country many leagues to the east, bordering this one. Out on the open plains is where they are found and they only breed true when raised on the grass there. The nomadic herders of the plains know the mysteries of their existence but relate it to few.”

  While Chalc spoke, Arwhon addressed more of the tasty stew and listened to what was said about the grey stallion.

  “A Barsoomi mount is to be prized above all others but not everyone can have one. It is the horse which picks the man or woman who it feels is right and makes a mental bond with them. It has something to do with the E
lder magic. The Barsoomi horse is then able to feel the rider’s moods and be able to locate its rider anywhere. I have heard it said they can converse with their rider too but I personally doubt that. That grey stallion out there has bonded you, so, it is yours and you are it’s, until one of you dies. And Barsoomi horses are renowned for long lives.”

  Arwhon placed his empty bowl on the floor beside the bed as he digested the information about his new mount. The stew, with lots of peas in it, along with the chunk of bread, had been surprisingly tasty and filling. Satiated for now he laid back down, his eyes starting to close as he yawned, his head lolling. The foreign smith stood looking at him for a moment, studying the young man lying before him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You are tired. We will talk more on the morrow. Goodnight.”

  Chalc turned and placed more wood on the fire before picking up the empty bowl and leaving the warm room.

  Lying in the glow of the coals and the hesitant flicker of new flames beginning in the fireplace, a strange feeling of contentment, not all his own, stole over Arwhon, mostly unrecognised in his rapid plunge into sleep. ‘Warm stall, kind man with hard feed and a stiff brush, plenty of pea hay to nibble on and comfortable straw to sleep in.’

  Before long, Arwhonwas snoring.

  The morning sun, stealing through the oiled hide of the only window in the single room, woke Arwhon and before moving, he took a moment to assess his surroundings in daylight. His clothes, washed, dried and mended were draped over the back of the room’s only chair and his clean and oiled mail lay on its seat. He rose slowly, guarding his right side and pulled a blanket around his shoulders for warmth before carefully making his way to the chair. Checking for the hole in his chain mail, caused by the crossbow quarrel’s broadhead, Arwhon found it had been repaired. So well was the work done that Arwhon wouldn’t have detected it except the shiny new metal links stood out from amongst the older rust-pitted ones. As well, the rough wire repair to the middle of the chest, holding closed the hole from the spear thrust which killed his father, had also been replaced with some quality work.

 

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