The Steel Ring

by R. A. Jones

  “So you say.”

  “Test my knowledge, master, if you doubt.”

  The lama turned to the boy, prepared to do just that. But something in the set of Aman’s jaw, in the light flickering behind his dark eyes, told him it would be pointless to do so.

  The child was speaking the truth.

  So the Question turned his gaze back onto the night sky outside the window.

  “Why haven’t you said anything about this before now?”

  “Because I still enjoy the company of the brothers. I like to talk to them, especially when we debate a point of philosophy or history. And I like to learn.” He smiled slightly.

  “Last week, by watching in the kitchen, I learned how to bake bread.” He didn’t bother to mention that the very bread he had eaten with his soup just a few hours earlier might have been the product of his hands.

  “And you think such knowledge will be useful to you?”

  “I don’t think there’s any such thing as useless knowledge. Do you, master?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “And I would never want the brothers to think I didn’t appreciate their efforts on my behalf. I do.” His brow knit.

  “I’ll just have to do a better job of sitting still when I’m in class with them.”

  “I have a better idea,” the Question said. “From now on, I will instruct you personally.” He placed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “I assure you, I can take you places the other brothers have never been.”

  “I’d like that,” Aman declared, his mood brightening noticeably. “I’d like that very much.”

  “I suspect I shall learn from the experience as well, Aman.”

  The monk pivoted away from the window and resumed walking. With his shorter legs, it took young Aman a moment to catch up to him. They again walked in silence, until the Question came to a halt before the great door leading out of the temple.

  “Bring a torch and follow me,” he said, effortlessly pulling open the door and stepping out into the chill of the night.

  Aman did as instructed, standing on tiptoe to remove the nearest torch from its sconce, then scurrying after his enigmatic master.

  Following the path Aman knew would eventually lead down to the village of Oobang below, the pair strode briskly until a bend in the road hid them from sight of the Temple of Enlightened Anguish.

  Aman nearly bumped into the Great Question when the lama unexpectedly stopped dead in his tracks. When the boy stepped around from behind the Question, his torch cast its light on a familiar object.

  It was a granite slab, looking almost like the rounded headstone of a grave. But this was no tomb marker, but rather a religious shrine. On its weathered and pitted surface could be seen the worn images of various otherworldly beings. Most were human in bodily form, but with the heads of various animals: elephants, tigers, bears. A few bore no resemblance at all to any real creature Aman had ever seen, in either body or visage.

  Travelers through the mountains always paused here a moment to pray. Some left behind small offerings of food or handcrafts. Aman himself had often knelt before it, not so much to pray as to meditate and to contemplate all the mysteries that formed the universe.

  No one knew the identity of the shrine’s original builder. Some speculated it was as old as the world, and had sprung up fully-grown from the earth even as the mountains themselves did.

  “Bring the torch closer,” the Question commanded.

  Aman jerked with surprise; only this breaking of the silence told him how intently he had been staring at the images on the shrine. Alert now, he did as he was ordered.

  The Great Question reached out one hand and began to firmly press first one spot on the surface of the stone, then another and another and another, in a very deliberate and obviously specific order.

  No sooner did he pull his hand back from it than the shrine began to slide away from him on hidden tracks. The grating sound it made was nearly lost in the night wind. As it did so, an opening in the bedrock below it was revealed. What lay beneath its black mouth, Aman could not see.

  “Follow me,” the Question said, firmly taking the torch from the boy’s hand and stepping down into the hole. Without question, Aman followed.

  He found himself on a wide stairway that had clearly been chiseled from the very stone. Twelve steps took them down to the floor of a cavern that had likewise been carved from the granite by ancient hands wielding ancient tools.

  Once there, Aman stepped around the Question to stand beside him. His dark eyes widened at the sight of that which stood revealed in the glow of the torch the lama held high, and his mouth dropped slightly open.

  A thousand points of reflected light bounced back at him, sparkling off multiple mounds of gold, silver, diamonds and gem-laden jewelry. Each mound rose at least half way to the roof of the cavern.

  “It’s beautiful,” the boy gasped.

  “I suppose,” the Question replied absently.

  “There must be half the wealth of the world here,” Aman exclaimed.

  “Hardly,” the Question said, smiling beneath his hood at the child’s innocent naïvete. “But it’s enough to last any man a lifetime or more.”

  “Where did it all come from?”

  “Many places. From many sources. And when the time comes, Aman … it will be yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “If you are indeed the one the Council of Seven thinks you are, yes.”

  Aman pondered this in silence for a moment.

  “But I have so much already,” he said at last. “A warm home. Plenty of food. A mother who cares for me. Friends among the servants. You and the brothers.”

  “True.”

  “So shouldn’t this be given to help the poor instead?”

  “A good question,” the lama replied. “A caring one. But people can be helped in many ways. The use to which you put this wealth will determine its true value.”

  Aman nodded.

  “I can see the wisdom in what you say.”

  “Then we’ve completed our first lesson.”

  With that, the Great Question turned and began the ascent back up the stone staircase. Aman followed close behind him, never looking back at the mounds of treasure.

  It would be seventeen years before he saw it again.

  CHAPTER XX

  Summer, 1926

  The Great Question settled back easily into his stately chair. To his left sat the woman Prahmasung. To his right, Brother Han smoothed his robes as he, too, took his seat.

  Below them was a small, circular enclosure, forming an arena of sorts. Though resting inside one of the lower levels of the temple, its floor was bare earth, covered with a thin, cushioning layer of sawdust.

  Four young men stood on the arena floor, looking up expectantly. Each was clad only in a form-fitting loincloth. Prahmasung was neither so old nor so jaded that she did not appreciate their finely chiseled bodies. There was no sign of fat upon them, and their musculature was bold and well defined. She smiled as one turned his eyes to gaze at her.

  The four pivoted as one as a soft whooshing sound came from behind them. A portal set in one wall of the arena slid quickly upward, and a figure moved confidently from the darkness beyond.

  Prahmasung knew instantly that it was her son, Aman, even though his features were partially hidden by a red silken blindfold that covered his eyes.

  He was otherwise dressed identically to the four men who awaited him inside the arena. Prahmasung could not help but notice that, though he was only twelve years old, Aman was nearly as tall as any of the four men. His body showed none of the softness one would expect in a child; it seemed almost to ripple as he walked, as well developed muscles slithered under his skin in coordination with each other.

  Prahmasung’s smile faded.

  The four young men raised their eyes to look at the three spectators above them. The Great Question made a short, chopping motion downward with his right hand.
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  One of the men below swiveled and launched himself toward Aman, shrieking loudly as he aimed a blow at the boy’s head.

  As if he could see clearly through the cloth of the blindfold, Aman twisted his body, causing the intended blow to slash harmlessly past him. As it did, he grabbed the man’s wrist and spun him. When he released him, the man flew into the path of a second attacker, causing both to fall to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

  A third warrior came from the side and slightly behind. He launched a straight kick that caught Aman behind the left knee and dropped him to the floor.

  The man followed this up with an overhead fist, but Aman brought both arms over his head, crossing them at the wrist and blocking the blow. He let himself fall backwards, rolled and brought both feet up into his attacker’s midsection. The man was sent flying through the air, until he slammed into the wall of the arena and slumped to the floor.

  Aman kicked up with his legs, flipping himself up off the floor and back onto his feet in a single move. No sooner had he done so, though, than he swiftly squatted down, thus avoiding a side kick from his fourth opponent.

  Before the man could fully recover his equilibrium, Aman sprang forward, grabbing him by the crotch and the throat. With less effort than it would take to lift a lotus, he raised the struggling man above his head, then slung him to the floor with bone crunching force.

  “Hold!” Great Question barked.

  At his command, the four grown warriors bounded to their feet and stood at respectful attention. Aman did the same, making no effort yet to remove his blindfold.

  Turning in his tall chair, the Question gestured to a servant who had been standing some distance behind him. The servant, carrying a wrapped bundle in both arms, trotted lightly down the steps that descended from where he stood to the lip of the wall leading down into the arena.

  Leaning over that lip, he loosened the bundle and spilled out its contents. Four short hatchets, their razor sharp blades blinking in the torchlight, fell to the arena floor.

  The four men standing there looked down at the weapons, then back up at their master. He motioned for them to pick up the hatchets, and they did so.

  “My lord?” Prahmasung gasped, turning to the Question. He silenced her with the upraised palm of his hand.

  This time, the warriors gave no warning shrieks. Moving as silently as their training allowed, they spread out to encircle their prey.

  Though his vision was still completely blocked, Aman’s other senses sent him a steady stream of information. He could smell the traces of perspiration on each of his foes, could even differentiate the scent of one warrior from another by his unique odor.

  Even with the sound dampening effects of the sawdust, he could hear their footsteps as they spread out, could even hear their heavy breathing loudly enough to know they were now on all sides of him.

  The only thing he did not know was that each would now be coming at him with a deadly weapon.

  Oblivious to the impending danger, Aman firmly planted his feet and raised both hands, assuming the fighting stance he himself had devised in response to the training he had received in the martial arts.

  As he did so, the Question felt his eyes being drawn to the boy’s right hand. As was always the case, day or night, no matter the situation, encircling one finger of that hand was the steel ring he had worn around his neck as an infant; the one object he felt to be his very own.

  It was no longer a cause of amazement that the ring fit him perfectly. As the boy grew in size, so the ring appeared to, so that it was always an exact fit.

  The warrior on Aman’s left leapt forward, swinging his hatchet. Pivoting on his left foot and spinning 180 degrees, Aman easily eluded the blow, though he frowned slightly as he noticed the air displacement of the blow sounded subtly different than that made by an empty fist.

  The man who had been standing behind him was now facing him, and he aimed a swinging blow at the boy’s midsection.

  Aman hopped backward, jack-knifing his body to avoid the blow. But to his surprise, he was not entirely successful. He felt a slight but sharp tug at his belly as the blade of the hatchet came just short of gutting him.

  “My lord!” Prahmasung insisted, grabbing the Question’s left arm and squeezing it hard.

  “Quiet!” he hissed. Without taking his eyes from the arena, he reached down and took hold of both the woman’s hands where they gripped at his sleeve.

  Prahmasung winced as the lama’s hand exerted stern pressure on hers. He released her after pulling her fingers from their hold on him, and she dropped them numbly into her lap.

  She wanted to avert her eyes from what was transpiring below, but found she couldn’t. Backing away from his opponents, Aman dropped his left hand and ran two fingers across his stomach. Feeling sticky wetness, he brought the fingers up to his mouth and licked the blood from them. Prahmasung’s eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat.

  Aman was smiling.

  Then it was his turn to cut loose with a shriek, one that froze the blood and his foes in their tracks.

  Recovering quickly, the four yelled and rushed him as one. Hatchets were swung at speeds hard for the eye to follow. Yet Aman’s hands, unguided and unencumbered by sight, did so. Again and again, potentially killing blows were parried and diverted by his bare hands.

  Two of the warriors swung at him simultaneously, and the boy stopped each swing by grabbing the men’s wrists. He jerked their arms straight upward, then gave each a savage twist. Tendons screamed and tore, and hatchets fell from useless fingers.

  Aman dropped and caught the falling hatchets before they could hit the floor; he made no such attempt to keep their previous owners from sprawling in the dirt and sawdust.

  Now armed himself, Aman went on the offensive. In his hands, the twin hatchets moved almost as fast as the swirling blades of an aeroplane. It was all his two remaining opponents could do to ward off his attack, though they couldn’t prevent him from driving them backward before his onslaught.

  Aman slashed down to his left, his blade knocking the hatchet out of one warrior’s hand. He slashed to his right, with such force that he broke the head off the hatchet gripped by his last opponent.

  Like a gunman from the legendary Old West of America, Aman twirled his own hatchets, so he was now holding them with the handles pointing away from him.

  He drove the butt of one hatchet handle straight into the stomach of his opponent on the right. The man doubled over as all the air whooshed from his lungs, and toppled over sideways.

  Aman swung the hatchet in his left hand, catching his last standing foe in the temple with the sharp crack of wood.

  Then no one was left standing, save Aman.

  “Stop!” the Question barked loudly.

  At the command, Aman instantly stiffened to attention. He let the two hatchets drop to the floor of the arena, and reached up to pull the blindfold away from his eyes. He gazed defiantly up at those who had watched this exhibition.

  “Did you teach the boy those moves, Brother Han?” the Question asked softly.

  “No, master,” Han replied numbly. “I’ve never seen such moves.”

  “Nor have I.”

  The Great Question watched as the four men below helped each other to their feet and retrieved their fallen hatchets before staggering out of the arena through a doorway that had opened as if on its own.

  Aman remained standing stone still, eyes on his master. A sudden thought struck the grand lama, and his own eyes narrowed as they fixed the boy.

  “You were holding back, weren’t you?”

  Aman made no reply, which was all the reply the Great Question needed.

  “Don’t relax just yet, boy,” the lama said sternly, leaning forward in his seat. “This test is not yet finished.”

  With that, the Question made a slashing gesture with the side of his right hand across his throat. In response, yet another portal set into one wall of the arena below zipped up
ward.

  A rank odor, too faint for a normal human to yet sense, washed over Aman. He recognized it instantly, even before his hearing picked up the low chuffing sound that accompanied the smell.

  A large golden head poked warily out from the shadows into the light of the arena. Muscles like waves of liquid steel rippled beneath the orange striping of a large tiger that now padded out onto the arena floor.

  “No!” Prahmasung screamed, leaping to her feet.

  The Great Question grabbed her right wrist so hard that she yelped in pain as bone grated on bone. He roughly pulled her back down into her seat.

  “Are you insane?” she cried, trying vainly to pull free from his grip. “He’ll be killed!”

  “Or not,” the Question replied coldly, his blazing eyes causing her to recoil involuntarily. “Regardless, he must be pushed to the limit … and beyond.”

  Aman’s head had been tilted back, seeing and hearing all that transpired above. But there was no time to ponder it. He knew that if he allowed his attention to be divided now, he would surely die.

  He recognized the beast that crouched before him, eyeing him as if he was a succulent lamb. Aman had seen it when it had been carried, enraged, into the temple but a few days earlier.

  Three members of the Council of Seven, assisted by a dozen servants, had tracked the tiger down in response to urgent pleas from several of the nearest villages. It had become a man-eater, with a string of victims that included women and children.

  Aman had assumed that, once restrained, the animal would have been put to death. It was well known that once a tiger had tasted of human flesh, no other would satisfy it so long as it lived.

  Yet here it was, very much alive and already savoring the prospect of dining on the carcass of the boy who stood before him. He eyed his intended prey in momentary silence, then leaped forward even as he let loose with a roar that began deep in his chest, with the chilling vibration that never failed to freeze a victim in its tracks.