How could people live like that, lying to each other without batting an eyelid?
Suddenly, the front door swung wide open, banging against the wall. A gust of cold night air entered the cosy taproom, bringing with it the authoritive sound of steel shod boots on flagstones. The door slammed shut and a man of stature strode in from the cold of night, bringing a little of the dark with him.
Dressed in a fine, black woollen cloak, toggled at the neck but drawn back to expose an ornate sword hilt at his left hip, the man stood just inside the doorway while his cold, depthless grey eyes raked the room. His thin hard face with its close trimmed beard wore an expression of distain.
“I am Kroy, you may call me Sir,” he announced to the room in general before striding to the bar. Fixing his penetrating gaze on the innkeeper, who shrank back from its intensity, he spoke with icy authority.
“I am looking for someone by the name of Ripley. Is he staying here or anywhere in the village?”
“No one by that name around here. Sir.” replied the innkeeper shakily.
“He must be here. I am expecting a delivery. He has a Barsoom horse with him.”
All eyes flickered toward Arwhon. Kroy did not miss the moment and turned to inspect the person who had drawn their attention. As his gaze travelled insolently down Arwhon, Kroy’s eyes narrowed as he spied the Ring.
“Your name lad?”
Arwhon stood slowly.
“I am Arwhon nari Tsalk. Sir. Why do you ask?”
“I was expecting a special delivery. A Barsoom horse, its saddle and pack and a ring. Very like the one you are wearing. May I?”
Kroy stepped forward and with his left hand, grabbed Arwhon’s right, trying to pull the hand toward him for a closer inspection of the Ring, now firmly embedded in Arwhon’s flesh. He failed to notice Chalc’s rapid movement until his left elbow was grasped firmly in a vice like grip across the pressure points while a quiet voice intoned.
“My Master doesn’t like to be touched Sir. If you get my meaning?”
Chalc appeared to be servile, all the while putting more and more pressure into his grip on the stranger’s elbow.
Kroy’s hand was tingling now and the strength was leaving it. With a curse he let Arwhon go, glaring at Chalc before quickly surveying the rest of the smoky room. All the men were on their feet now and not looking very happy about the turn of events.
The odds were too great.
With a snort, Kroy swung about and headed toward the door.
“I will have what is mine by right. Mark my words young Arwhon. Our paths will cross again,” he shot back over his shoulder as he strode out of the inn.
However, Arwhon heard.
“If I don’t get that Ring for the Empress soon, she’ll replace me. Or worse.”
Gradually, the regular sounds of tavern life returned as the patrons settled down, discussing the appearance of Kroy at the inn.
Something new had occurred in Cumbrisia’s End!
Arwhon suddenly felt panicked and reared back.
Reared?
“Chalc, we have to go. Now! Duran’s in trouble.”
They jumped up immediately and bolted for the door, grabbing their jerkins on the way out. Speeding down the hill towards the smithy at breakneck speed, they were just in time to see a rider, bent over the neck of his black horse, galloping away. Heading down the valley.
“Damn fool,” was Chalc’s comment as they raced toward the stables, “Galloping at night.”
As he passed the back of the smithy, Chalc grabbed an oil lantern hanging from a beam and lit it with a long splinter, fired from the damped-down forge. Lamp held high, they ventured into the barn, Duran’s open stall door catching their eyes. The big grey stood against the rear wall, ears flattened back on his neck. He looked as agitated as Arwhon felt.
Duran saw Arwhon and whickered anxiously.
“Easy boy, he’s gone. Steady now.”
The big grey whuffed air out, rattling his nostrils and came to the front of his stall for a comforting hand, relaxing visibly while Chalc checked out the rest of the barn and gave Tansy a reassuring pat or two.
“Don’t reckon we’ve seen the last of him.” Chalc opined.
Later, to make conversation and try to lighten the mood as they closed up the barn again, Arwhon asked Chalc why it was that peas seemed to turn up in most meals.
“Very short growing season up here lad. Peas grow fast and can be dried to give us something green in our food during winter. The stalks and leaves can also be dried to make a light hay which the animals enjoy and it seems to do them well. Everyone up here grows peas in summer.”
Chalc grinned. “Makes you windy though.”
His comment preceded a noise like trousers ripping and they both laughed uproariously.
Mostly in relief, if the truth be known.
As they walked back to the hut and entered the door, Chalc asked.
“Did you know that man from the inn or did he know you?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before in my life but as I said, I did see Ripley in Bentwood during my journey here from Trugor. I happened to be in the stable when he and another man came in and discussed the delivery of a stolen ring and horse. He must have been on his way here with Duran, to deliver him to Kroy. Then there is the dagger also. I feel like a thief but I cannot take the Ring off and Duran has now bonded with me. Besides, Kroy was intent on receiving stolen property.”
Chalc, building the small fire up, smiled in sympathy at Arwhon’s dilemma before responding.
“Kroy is a bad man and deserves neither Ring nor horse but we still have to be careful. Tonight I sleep on the floor in here and will from now on. We must be on our guard at all times. Strange coincidences are occurring around you. What’s causing them is anyone’s guess. Might be the Ring on your finger. Or maybe something more sinister.”
Chalc made a small sign with his right hand. He wasn’t really superstitious but evil could be found anywhere. Arwhon didn’t notice it.
True to his word, Chalc made a pallet up on the floor near the door and slept there, his senses finely attuned to the night. Every night thereafter he slept across the doorway to guard his young Master. There were no further intrusions and Kroy, who had galloped away in the night, did not return.
In the morning, after breakfast, Chalc suggested Arwhon change his schedule and start exercising the horses in the late afternoons rather than mornings, as his sword training was about to begin. The smith opened the carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed and removed two wooden practice swords of a shape similar to the sword he was making for Arwhon.
“Time to learn how to use one of these,” he said as he passed one to Arwhon.
The handle of the finely made practice sword had been bound in leather in a criss-cross manner and each weapon had a small ovoid guard at the base of the handle. Arwhon hefted it in his left hand. It felt all wrong on that side of his body and it wasn’t heavy enough. A sword was better if it was heavy; you could do more injury with a heavy sword than you could with a light one.
“Is this a similar weight to a steel one Chalc?”
“Pretty close, yes. Why?”
“It is more like a toy than a real sword.” Arwhon grinned. “How could you do any damage with it?”
Chalc flashed a little smile, “Now you learn the dance of the toys,” was all he said in reply.
They went out to the clear space between Chalc’s house, the rear of the blacksmith’s shop and the stables. Over on the far side of the yard they could practice out of sight of prying eyes from the road. Here Chalc demonstrated the correct way to stand and move for this style of sword. It seemed all wrong to Arwhon, whose limited sword lessons were of the hack and chop variety but the Ring on his finger let him know Chalc firmly believed in what he was saying. Even so, Arwhon had difficulties in committing himself to this totally preposterous style of sword fighting and made no bones about it.
“I’m sorry Chalc but swords l
ike this might be all right in a city or something but they are just too light for rough and tumble fighting.”
Chalc, uncharacteristically, was rapidly loosing patience.
“Wait here,” he muttered curtly as he strode off towards his home.
In a few moments he returned with an elongated bundle, wrapped in a reed mat, which was placed reverently on the ground near Arwhon. Chalc then set to dragging barrels and boxes around the practice space. On the top of these, at varying heights, he placed an odd assortment of objects; including an old worn out saddle, stood on its end on a barrel, a long, straight piece of wood which he stuck firmly into the ground and even, after returning to his room to fetch it, a rare piece of parchment which he sat on the flat top of one of the boxes, its corners weighted down with small stones. From the overhanging roof of the blacksmith’s shop behind him, Chalc also hung a thin length of steel rod and a couple of old leather harness pieces; dangling at head height.
Returning to the bundle near Arwhon, Chalc gently unrolled the outer coarse reed layer to reveal a fine scarlet silk wrapping beneath. He picked this up and reverently folded the material back. As the last layer of rich red cloth fell away, Arwhon observed the plain black scabbard of a longer sword, a tazaki, with a leather-wrapped hilt protruding from it. At the base of the hilt was a small, beautifully worked, oval guard.
The whole spoke of precision and craftsmanship in every line but without ostentation. However, Arwhon thought to himself, it did not have the well used look of a weapon which deserved the way it was treasured.
He was in for a big surprise.
Chalc looked up at him.
“One of the first pieces of work I did at this smithy was to make myself a sword. I haven’t held it for five years now and may be a little out of practice in its use but I would like to show you what a tazaki sword from my country is capable of in the right hands. Watch closely.”
Chalc gripped the scabbard in his left hand, using his thumb on the guard to advance the sword from the sheath and slowly withdrew the blade with his right hand. The steel whispered its way out of the sheath with a very faint ringing sound and Arwhon was totally unprepared for the polished shine of the blade. It gleamed; every angle precise with wavering lines running along the sharpened edge, almost like water trailing down the blade. Only one edge was sharpened, the back of the blade being smooth.
Chalc pushed the sheath into his belt at an angle and slowly stalked to the centre of the practice area where he settled his feet, each one being placed carefully onto the ground with a slight twist, ball first. He then raised the sword slowly with both hands, holding the hilt in a manner Arwhon had never seen practised before, fingers flexing on the handle. It was like watching a spring coil as Chalc slowly drew to a motionless halt, sword held out before him.
He stood stock-still, breathing evenly, for over half a minute.
Suddenly, there was motion but what motion! Chalc uncoiled and flowed smoothly over the ground, the sword moving so quickly it blurred. Arwhon could barely see the blade at times.
Chalc swept rapidly around the practice ground in a matter of seconds, sword whirling around him, to arrive back at his starting position just as the ‘clunk’ of the metal rod hitting the ground came to his ears. Arwhon looked to where the rod had been hanging. Only half of it was there and that half was not even swinging, while the other half lay on the ground beneath. Strung up beside the piece of hanging rod were the two sections of leather strap, their lower halves gone but the upper still tied to the roof of the smithy. They were also motionless. Arwhon’s whistle of amazement reached Chalc as he resheathed his blade.
The smith turned and smiled.
“Not so rusty after all. Come and look at what a Tarkent style sword is capable of in the right hands.”
Turning away as he beckoned Arwhon over, Chalc walked over to the old saddle. As Arwhon reached his side, Chalc lifted the top half of the saddle away, severed at an angle from the bottom half; the single blow cutting cleanly through leather, padding and the slim metal saddle tree but not displacing the pieces. The standing wooden shaft had been similarly cleaved, with the cut portion lying beside it and the parchment curled in two parts with hardly a mark on the box underneath. Arwhon had never in his life seen such a display of precision swordsmanship. When they reached the smithy overhang, Arwhon picked up the length of thin steel rod from the ground and examined it. It was not a skinny piece and the cut through it was quite smooth.
“What state is your blade in now?” he enquired of Chalc.
For answer, Chalc removed the sword from its sheath and passed it to Arwhon, handle first. The young man took it gingerly, remarking on the light weight before examining the blade. Not a blemish marred the shine. Arwhon was chagrined and hung his head ashamedly.
“I’m sorry I spoke out of turn Chalc. My deepest apologies. Your skill with the sword is far greater than I could ever hope to attain. You have much to offer me and I would willingly learn if you would still teach me.”
Arwhon’s humility pierced the smith’s heart and Chalc allowed a small smile to wrinkle the skin around his eyes.
“It would be my pleasure to teach you but the training is long and the discipline hard. The two weeks before we leave will give you the basics but mastery will take many years of practice. Then you will be able to castrate flies on the wing.”
He smiled at his own joke and taking the sword back, wiped the blade carefully on the red silk cloth before resheathing it and wrapping it up again.
The afternoon was a long one for Arwhon, broken briefly by a traveller on horseback requiring a shoe for his horse. Chalc gave Arwhon stretching exercises and some basic moves to practice while he dealt with the traveller. Left handed was not natural and Arwhon managed to hit himself with the wooden practice sword a number of times before the lesson ended. There was just enough time for him to put on his hauberk and take the horses for their exercise. Gathering darkness forced him to cut short Tansy’s trip to Durhain’s Pass and he apologised to her while he brushed her down.
Shortly after the evening meal Arwhon found he could not keep his eyes open any longer, so he stretched out on the bed. The next thing he remembered was waking in the morning feeling refreshed. He had slept well and did so nearly every night thereafter during his training.
For Arwhon, life fell into a routine of training with the wooden swords and learning the basics of unarmed combat before dragging his tired body into the stable to take the horses for their daily exercise. He spent a lot of time picking himself up from the ground and with the exception of his injured right side, acquired small bruises all over his body, courtesy of Chalc, who was reminding Arwhon to keep his guard up by peppering the youth with targeted light blows every time his guard dropped. With all the movement involved in training, Arwhon’s right arm was becoming more and more mobile as healing to the wound in his side progressed favourably and ten days after being sewn up by Chalc, the stitches were removed and Arwhon gingerly started sword training with his right hand also.
Slowly at first then with more and more speed.
Young flesh heals rapidly.
The disciplines of both the sword and the Tarkent style unarmed combat were demanding, difficult and strange to him but the more Arwhon practiced the easier he felt moving in such a manner, placing his feet just so, his whole body balanced and able to move in any direction at any given time. It must be what dancing is like he decided as he went through the forms of his exercises yet again. Chalc was a hard master as far as training went and near enough was definitely not good enough for him as he drove Arwhon mercilessly.
Mid afternoons, Chalc would call a halt to the training session and return to the smithy for two to three hours, carrying out his livelihood and working on Arwhon’s sword. It was during these times Chalc could let his mind range over the training, pondering on just how quickly Arwhon was mastering his lessons. Had the lad always been so quick at picking things up or was the damn Ring having some sort o
f influence on him? Of more concern was whether the Ring was truly good or cleverly evil, bent on its own agenda and dangerous for those coming into contact with it. What was he letting himself in for and why had he volunteered to be Servant?
Arwhon used these afternoon periods to exercise the horses and later, prepare the evening meal for he and Chalc. It was an idyllic routine for all of them but it couldn’t last.
The lucid dreams returned a week or so after the start of Arwhon’s training. Mostly they involved the young man and woman snatched from horseback by the large winged creature. He could feel the fear and despair emanating from them through his dreams and decided to mention it to Chalc one morning.
“Are they real and something the Ring has brought to my attention or are they just a product of fever from my wound?”
Chalc just shrugged. “I’m the Servant. I serve. You must make up your own mind on that matter Master but your wound is clean and you have no fever.”
“But what of the creature which took them from their horses?”
“What creature? You never mentioned any creature. Describe it.”
Arwhon did, in great detail and as he did Chalc shook his head disbelievingly until Arwhon finished.
“What you have described is a Gryffon. They are known to live in the mountains of my country but are very rare and considered to be sentient. I have never heard of a Gryffon attacking humans before nor any stories relating to Gryffon attacks. This is all very puzzling, as you described one perfectly although you have never seen one and didn’t know of it.”
This wasn’t the only perturbation in their lives.
The Ring Of Truth Page 9