Duran was getting restless. He no longer wanted to go uphill to Durhain’s Pass for exercise. Each afternoon as Arwhon trotted him out onto the road after leaving the smithy, the big grey stallion tried pulling to the east, wanting to follow the road down-valley but Arwhon would not let him go that way despite Duran’s mental urging.
The final nudge to Arwhon came one evening as he was idly polishing the patterned dagger he carried everywhere now. He felt incomplete without it being somewhere on his person and gained great satisfaction from burnishing the already clean white metal of its blade, meditatively running a rag over the ever twisting design engraved on both sides, following the torturous motif with his eyes until his mind quieted and stilled to a point where he was gazing into a formless void.
On this particular evening, while sitting at the table, Arwhon woke from his reverie just as he put the knife down on its side and spun it without thinking. The spinning stopped with the blade pointing to the east. He idly spun it again and the same thing happened. After twenty five spins, all pointing east, Arwhon was getting jittery, there was magic at work here. Real magic, not a knack.
Magic he knew nothing about.
Maybe Chalc was correct in his theory regarding strange forces driving present events.
He went to fetch Chalc and when they returned to the hut Arwhon spun the blade three or four times to show the smith. Again and again the blade came to rest pointing due east. It was obviously time to continue on with his journey. By mutual agreement he and Chalc decided they would leave in three days time and ride due east, travelling down Cumbrisia’s Grand Valley until they met up with the Great Southern Road at the city of Crossroads.
Arwhon was quietly excited at the thought of the impending meeting between he and his Grandmother in Belvedere.
The following day, Chalc found a villager with a mule for sale and managed to trade the crossbow Arwhon had taken from the murderous Petrad as part payment. The mule was the only one for sale in Cumbrisia’s End and the seller appeared to have got the better of the bargain. Chalc also carried a roughly tied hessian-wrapped parcel under his left arm.
Arwhon was sitting on the porch when Chalc returned with the mule on a long lead rope. It was almost as tall as Tansy and looked ridiculous with its horse’s body and long donkey-like ears. The beast was in poor condition and wary of them both, its ears lying back along its neck as it regarded them cautiously. Chalc handed the parcel to Arwhon with a grin.
“I took the liberty of spending a little money Master. This is for you.”
Arwhon took the parcel and opened it as Chalc led the gangly mule into the barn and put it in a stall next to Duran. The ill-proportioned animal hungrily ate everything offered to it, grain, pea hay, even the bedding straw it was standing on. After Chalc left the barn there was a moment of neighing and clashing of teeth. He arrived at the hut to find Arwhon trying on his new, dark grey, soft woollen cloak. Someone in the village was skilled at weaving and making.
“This is a wonderful gift Chalc. So warm and comfortable. Thank you.”
Just as the words left his mouth the neighing and clashing from the barn increased in volume. Arwhon turned to run to the stable but Chalc caught his sleeve.
“Feel through the bond.”
He smiled as he said it.
Arwhon did and was amazed as Duran flooded in. Pride and a haughty regality flowed through the bond to him, as well as outrage at the mule. It apparently did not recognise its superiors! They were fighting! Suddenly there was a feel of satisfaction and a loud squealing came from the stables. Chalc nodded at Arwhon and they strode back into the barn to find a sorry looking mule with a large bite mark on its neck, head bowed before the much larger stallion.
“Lesson one,” Chalc chuckled. “More tomorrow.”
The skinny mule was an ornery, mean sort of beast and Chalc had tried bargaining for a decent price due to its proclivity for firing out any of its four legs and kicking without provocation in any direction. In truth, it was most likely the main reason the beast was being sold but the seller held firm and Chalc had to add coin to the deal as well as part with the big crossbow.
Two days with Chalc cured it of that particular bad habit. Chalc walked around the hitched mule, approaching from all different directions. Each time it tried to kick him, Chalc wasn’t there but a small rap from a thin length of wood was. The mule was so mean only Chalc was initially exempt from being booted. In a very short time though, the mule, named ‘Rancid’ by Chalc, had softened to the smith and was starting to respond to him in other ways, even allowing Chalc to rub between its floppy ears. Arwhon knew, even without having to be told, that Chalc had a knack with horses. He just wished he had some sort of knack himself.
His brother and sister both did.
The time was drawing nearer for them to finally leave Cumbrisia’s End and in an effort to put a halt to the endless questions Arwhon asked of him, Chalc had sat him down that afternoon for a long chat. He spoke of the many towns and villages they would encounter along the main road as they travelled down the long, Grand Valley to Crossroads. Most could provide some form of bed and stables for the horses and Rancid, so even with some nights spent under the stars, their trip should be a comfortable one.
Arwhon’s curiosity was temporarily assuaged.
The day before they were due to depart was the day Chalc presented Arwhon with his new sword. The smith organised a little ceremony out in the yard before Arwhon finally got to unwrap the clean piece of plain white linen from around his new sword and see it for the first time.
The simple perfection of the oiled black leather sheath gleamed in the fading afternoon sunlight. The ovoid guard was also black as was the leather bound handle. Every part its exterior spoke of perfection. Arwhon took hold of the sheath, near the sword, with his left hand and gently nudged the sword guard with his left thumb, freeing the blade from the scabbard. He withdrew it gently. As he did, the Ring on his right hand came into contact with the handle of the sword and started to silently vibrate. As the incredibly shiny steel of the blade finally left the sheath, the sword itself started to vibrate in concert with the Ring and began to glow a deep cherry red. Before their disbelieving eyes, the design from the Ring started to slowly duplicate itself along both sides of the now smoking tazuri blade. Arwhon, unnerved, tried to let go of the sword but his hand remained tightly clenched around the handle, against his will, as the motif was wrought completely along its length.
Both sides of the blade.
The glow gradually faded from the steel and Arwhon, recovered from his initial fright, carefully inspected each side of the still-cold blade.
The sword was perfect. The blade length was exactly right, bent wrist to point of shoulder and the design from his Ring had deeply etched itself into the steel, although there had been no heat involved. Chalc stood mesmerised by this awesome display of magic and it was quite a few moments before he shook himself out of his trance.
Arwhon drew a breath. “It’s beautiful and wonderful at the same time.” He swung the blade a few times. “And so precisely balanced. The Ring has accepted it as its own. Truly Chalc, I stand in awe of your mastery.”
Chalc smiled modestly at this utterly honest appraisal of his work.
“I will admit it is the finest piece I have ever made. Definitely the best one yet.”
Arwhon sheathed his new blade and strapped the sheath to his belt, striding up and down the yard with the sword banging against his left leg. Chalc looked on amused, smiling broadly, until Arwhon noticed his amusement.
“What?”
“Its better to wear a Tarkent sword high on your waist, or strap it to your back crosswise, out of the way, hilt poking above your right shoulder. That way the sword will soon become part of you and its a lot easier to manage while on horseback. Personally I prefer wearing a tazuri at my waist but it is your choice. One day you may choose to carry a tazaki also. It has to be worn at the waist however, as it cannot be drawn over the sh
oulder. The blade is too long.”
Chalc chuckled to himself.
“That is if you ever become a good enough swordsman or if you ever find a sister for your blade but for now I’ll show you how to make a simple harness for yours. Let’s go in, it’ll soon be time to eat”.
Just then, they heard the clip clop of horse’s hooves approaching.
Chalc started, listening. “Four riders on horseback,” he hissed. “Get into the hut. Quickly!”
Arwhon didn’t argue, he had never heard Chalc use that tone of voice before. He ran into the hut, still wearing his new sword and stood behind the slightly open door, peering out through the narrow crack.
Slouching in the saddle, four unkempt, wild looking riders dressed in reeking unwashed clothing and riding rough looking horses, rode into the yard of the smithy. They drew up in front of Chalc.
“You the Smith?” One of them rasped as the ruffians, with mendacious, wandering eyes, surreptitiously surveyed every detail.
Chalc answered in the affirmative, standing calmly before them.
“Check my horse’s shoes, I feel one is loose,” ordered the same man as he stepped down from the saddle.
Arwhon didn’t like the look of these four well-armed riders. None of them had greeted Chalc with any politeness and their horses looked ill kept.
As Chalc checked the horse’s shoes while keeping a weather eye on the riders, the man on foot slowly started making his way towards the barn. Chalc lowered the last of the horse’s feet he was inspecting and Arwhon gasped as the smith moved, so rapidly he seemed to blur, arriving at a spot a few paces in front of the inquisitive rider.
“I don’t take kindly to strangers walking around my yard. Your horse’s shoes are fine. I suggest you mount up and move on.”
The tone of voice Chalc used brooked no argument.
The man swore an oath and went for his sword, ripping it out of its sheath and swinging it back, prepatory to striking Chalc a deadly blow. The smith never hesitated, and moving with uncanny speed, stepped inside the swordsman’s guard and delivered a crunching blow to the man’s nose with the palm heel of his right hand while his other hand simultaneously found the wrist of the man’s sword arm and twisted mercilessly with a pressure hold, causing the sword to fall from the man’s limp hand. Blood had sprayed out with the crunch of the facial blow and the assailant fell back, disarmed, all thought of attack gone with the pain of his profusely bleeding, smashed nose.
The other riders drew their swords and faced Chalc. The largest of them spoke out.
“We want the Barsoomi horse and the ring. Give them up and we’ll let you live.”
Courtesy of the Ring he wore, Arwhon heard.
“We get the horse and ring first, then you die.”
As they walked their horses toward Chalc, Arwhon could bear it no longer and opening the door, stepped out onto the porch. The riders drew rein and sized up this possible new threat before one of them spoke.
“Look, the boy’s actually wearing a sword. Take him Will.”
A bearded rider, obviously Will, slid off his horse and headed toward Arwhon, drawing his sword as he advanced. The other two slowly rode up on Chalc, standing motionless near the now kneeling downed rider, who was still moaning, hands to face, blood trickling down his arms.
Furious neighing came from the stable as Duran kicked at his stall, trying to break out and come to Arwhon’s rescue. Arwhon could feel the horse’s worry beating in his brain.
It was all too much.
In the face of the scruffy Will’s murderous approach, Arwhon shakily drew his new sword and held it before him just as he had been taught by Chalc.
With the Barsoomi screaming, two armed riders ganging up on Chalc and one heading for him, Arwhon felt the now familiar tingle from the Ring on his finger. His new sword started to glow before naked flame rippled up and down the blade. Will’s mouth fell open and he nervously drew back.
“Lads, lads! What’s this,” he cried.
His tone of voice must have conveyed a sense of urgency, for the others pulled up their horses and turned to look where Will was staring, white faced, at the bright flames coruscating over Arwhon’s naked sword blade.
Fear etched itself on all their faces as they made the hand signs to avert evil. Chalc stood his ground as the rider’s frightened eyes flashed betwixt themselves before reaching a unanimous unspoken decision.
Ignoring their fallen companion, the two mounted riders spun their horses around and hurriedly tore off, not even waiting for Will who had quickly sheathed his sword and was still scrambling to mount his own horse. All three cast anxious glances behind them as they thundered down the road, back from whence they’d come.
As Arwhon relaxed, the flames on his sword died down. He sheathed his curiously still-cool blade and, with wobbly legs, went over to join the smith. Chalc picked up his kneeling assailants sword and examined it closely.
“Very similar to the sword you arrived with Arwhon. A mass produced Dominion weapon.”
He turned his attention to the bloodied rider who was now attempting to stand.
“Stay on your knees. Tell me, who sent you?”
The man sneered at Chalc.
“I ain’t tellin’ you nuthin’.”
Chalc executed a very quick and powerful side kick. There was a loud crack as the man’s upper arm shattered. He screamed with the pain of it and clutched the arm with his other hand.
Arwhon’s stomach contracted with the shock of the sudden violence but he realised he had to rely on Chalc’s experience in these matters.
Chalc resumed. “Who sent you?”
“It was Kroy,” the man sobbed through his pain, intent now on supporting his broken arm.
“What did he want?”
“A Barsoom horse and a ring.”
“Was that all?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve told you everything. Can I go now?”
Chalc momentarily examined the sword again before dropping the point and expertly running it through the man’s heart.
“No.”
Arwhon went white. Death. Just like that. Why would Chalc choose to kill an unarmed man rather than let him go?
“In answer to the questions you want to ask me Arwhon. I fear more of Kroy’s riders, or Kroy himself will come for us when those three riders return to wherever they came from. They are Dominion, to a man. Far out of their own lands and hunting in ours. All they understand is death. You need to understand it also. I do not like to kill, nor do I like to leave live enemies behind me. Now go inside and start dinner while I take care of this carrion.
Before long, Chalc came indoors.
“Change of plan Arwhon, those thugs were here to take Duran and the Ring. They didn’t seem to know about the Dagger so that’s a bonus. We’ll assume there are more of them nearby. It’s quite probable we’ll be attacked sometime soon. Maybe at dawn. We must leave tonight”.
‘Adventure certainly has its moments.’ Arwhon thought to himself as he stirred dried peas into the last stew they would eat together in Chalc’s abode.
6. A Death on the Road.
Duran’s enthusiasm for leaving Cumbrisia’s End was quite evident as Arwhon struggled to saddle the lively horse just after dark. He was trying to keep calm about leaving but with the bond shared between horse and rider, the pair of them fed from each other’s excitement and anticipation of the adventures ahead. Chalc kept an eye on them, amused, as he quietly went about the business of getting himself ready.
Most of his smaller metalworking tools were distributed through the packsaddles strapped comfortably onto Rancid’s back. The mule wasn’t quite sure about the whole matter but from first touch, trusted Chalc implicitly and accepted its lot with equanimity.
All those years ago, when he’d first arrived in Cumbrisia’s End, the humble abode Chalc now lived in had been vacant, its owner a casualty of the Dominion Wars. Chalc had just moved into the empty hut, cleaned the whole place up and started blacksmit
hing at the forge. The villagers were more than happy for him to do so as they had a smith in their forge again.
Now it was time for him to move out.
The town’s next blacksmith, should one turn up, could repeat the cycle. A true blacksmith would have his own tools, as a blacksmith makes the tools he uses for his livelihood during his apprenticeship years. It was a necessary part of the training.
Although Cumbrisia’s End had been Chalc’s home for over seventeen years, ever since he’d drifted here at the end of the Dominion Wars, he experienced no remorse at leaving. He felt as if his time of waiting, a self imposed exile, was over. Mysterious and possibly magical events were transpiring around Arwhon, who’d arrived a young stranger and awakened Chalc from many years of dull routine. An irresistible beckoning drew the smith onward to new adventures and perhaps a less solitary life
Within an hour, they were ready to leave. Both horses stood saddled, with bedrolls secured behind the cantles and saddlebags bulging with supplies. Their rudimentary tent, taken along in case of bad weather, was tied down lengthways along the top of Rancid’s packsaddles, together with a few cooking pots, wrapped in sacking to stop them clanking.
Arwhon mounted first and sat securely astride Duran, his cleaned and polished chainmail concealed beneath his new, dark woollen travelling cloak, Chalc’s gift. His leather jerkin was packed away for now as the night was not too cold. Arwhon once again fingered the hilt of his new sword, where it protruded from under his cloak at the right shoulder, the specially made harness holding it comfortably in place. Chalc now wore his long sword, the tazaki, clipped high on his belt on his left side and it almost seemed part of him as he moved around making last minute preparations.
Chalc paused for a moment and glanced up at Arwhon paternally, the youth had definitely matured in the short time he’d been here. No longer a boy but not quite a man yet, Arwhon had broadened out a little and now moved with the beginnings of a lithesome feline grace. Destiny was writ strong on the lad’s face.
The Ring Of Truth Page 10