The Ring Of Truth Read online

  My only regret is that we all did not have enough time

  with your mother. Sareeni was a wonderful woman and

  a patient wife.

  I would like to be cremated and my ashes given to the

  sea.

  Farewell my children. May the Fates be kind to you.

  Bryan.

  Through stinging eyes, Arwhon had watched Jalwynd slowly glide in to the harbour to be moored up to the dock. As the posthumous message from their father was read out by Staril, Arwhon surreptitiously observed the rough looking, barefoot sailors, voyage over, idle now on Jalwynd’s deck awaiting permission to debark, their eyes eagerly cast toward the town’s taverns where a two week thirst could be slaked. Even a muted reception by the tavern girls would be better than none at all.

  Arwhon also noted the diminutive ship’s Captain briefly talking to Jak the Harbourmaster before Jalwynd’s skipper turned toward them and headed over, weaving side to side with his nautical, rolling gait.

  As the good Captain approached the bereaved family, he took note of the three Tsalk offspring. Staril was the large one on the left. Tall and broad shouldered like his father, with Bryan’s reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes, he was stubborn and could be a little taciturn but he was a solid man and had inherited some of the family Trading knack. Raleen, standing in the middle, was almost as tall as Staril and although not beautiful in the classic sense, she was still a very striking woman, with her yellowy-green eyes and her thick brown hair carefully plaited and arranged on each side of her head, framing her clear open face. Belmar had always liked to deal with Raleen rather than Bryan or Staril, as he felt he was getting better value for his gold, even though he knew he wasn’t.

  Her Trading knack was strong.

  Belmar idly wondered if that was her only gift, as he turned his gaze to the third member of the trio.

  The youth stood with his head bowed in sorrow, chin on chest. This must be Arwhon, not known to Belmar but spoken of by his Trader father Bryan. Although of a height with Raleen, the lad appeared to be still growing and must be in his eighteenth or nineteenth year by now. Tall and rangy, he looked almost gangly standing beside his older brother and sister and the dark blond, shoulder length hair hiding his face was a fair contrast to that of his siblings.

  Captain Belmar nodded to them as he approached the group and stood before them, head tilted back, looking upward to make eye contact.

  “Mister Staril, Mistress Raleen and Master Arwhon, my sincere condolences for your loss. Bryan was a good man and none could have asked for a better friend.”

  Staril’s reddened eyes gazed down bleakly at the Captain before replying in a halting voice.

  “When the Reavers were spotted he sent me home to protect my brother and sister and tried to guard the warehouse himself. Truth be told, I’d far rather have had my father than all the Trade goods in it. Now we have neither.”

  Raleen regarded the Captain in silence, fresh tear tracks streaking the soot on her face as she gathered her composure but her voice, when she spoke, was firm and kind.

  “Thank you for your condolences, Captain. We’re sorry we’ve nothing to Trade at the moment. If you can make us a list of what you require, we’ll see if it can be filled for you in the coming days. For now we have more important matters to attend to.”

  Her eyes returned to the blanketed figure at her feet.

  Captain Belmar nodded understandingly and turned his gaze to Arwhon with the intention of giving the lad some small encouragement. Arwhon raised his face to the Captain and Belmar was startled by his first sighting of the intense green of Arwhon’s eyes. The colour was brighter than new oak leaves, deeper than a forest pool and as seductive as a high class courtesan. The Captain was deeply moved by the intensity of pain visible in the young man’s extraordinary eyes. He felt truly sorry for the lad and silently vowed to help the youth in any way he could.

  Arwhon nodded wordlessly toward him and the Captain returned a brief encouraging smile. There was an air of preoccupation about the lad, an awkward silence which made communication difficult. Belmar could see little evidence that he possessed the Trading knack of his siblings.

  Arwhon, in his grief, had turned his attention inward once more. His eyes became dull, lifeless and vacant-seeming as the fire in them died and he bowed his head to hide the welling tears. It wasn’t fair, his life was hard enough as it was but now he was supposed to leave the only family he knew and travel Fate knew where to visit his Grandmother.

  The Captain addressed Raleen.

  “If you needs any assistance, I’d be honoured to help.”

  Looking down into his kindly, brown and wrinkled face she managed a wan smile.

  “Thank you Captain. As always, an officer and a gentleman. If we do need any help, I’ll most assuredly ask you.”

  Belmar bowed his head and politely withdrew from Bryan’s children. Arwhon adrift once again in a sea of private thoughts.

  Memories of his father.

  Arwhon’s earliest recollection was a hazy memory of Raleen, loudly admonishing him for running into the neat slate-roofed, stone walled cottage with muddy bare feet, his passage marked by dirty tracks across the freshly scrubbed flagstones of the kitchen floor.

  That and the ever-present odour of fish.

  He was about four years old then, while Raleen was in her ninth or tenth year. Staril, two years older than Raleen, wasn’t around much during the daytime. He was already working the family fishing boat with their father, heading out onto the dark blue ocean early each morning the seas allowed to fish with Bryan, returning to the harbour just on dark, tired and taciturn. It was tough and unrelenting work; thrust on a growing boy who had no choice but to shoulder the burden of his share of the labour.

  In those early years, when Arwhon was small, his father seemed huge and coarse to him, with large work-gnarled hands and a long, livid scar across the left side of his face, partly hidden by his reddish beard. The smell of fish was always on him, even after he’d bathed and the mica of fish scales turned up everywhere. But as the years passed, Arwhon discovered a deeply caring nature and an unexpected softness to the man, underlying the ever present sadness apparent in his father’s somewhat pensive green eyes.

  Arwhon’s young life was one of constant toil, helping his sister with her many chores and later, in addition to the work at home, he hurried down to the shingly beach when the fishing boats came in to help his father and brother repair nets and gut and scale fish alongside buxom fishwives and their blushing daughters.

  There was always something to do and never enough hours in a day to do it.

  Arwhon, motherless from birth was wet-nursed by a villager who Bryan paid when he could, in fish when he couldn’t. She cared for the lad until she fell pregnant again and delivered another child. His sister Raleen, barely eight years old, had to take over the role of carer for him and the family home; cleaning, washing clothes and cooking meals while his father and brother were away. It was hard for both her and his brother Staril.

  Arwhon learned that his mother had died bearing him, a source of continual sadness for their father. It was also the root cause of the friction between himself and his siblings, who laid blame upon Arwhon for their mother’s death.

  His father never reproached him and tried, with the little time available at the end of each full day or when the storms came howling across the ocean from the west, to teach him a little reading and writing. Arwhon studied both letters and numbers and often sat at the kitchen table writing words and sums in a spidery, cramped hand, the charcoal screeching on the slate in the flickering light of a fish oil lamp.

  War, however, was not a topic his father taught. The many battles Bryan fought in during the years of the Dominion War were never mentioned but still he managed to teach Arwhon a little of the land they lived in and the disposition and loyalties of the few countries adjoining Myseline.

  Sometime in Arwhon’s twelfth year, his father sold the fishing boat and
opened a small warehouse to start Trading. He had the knack for it and business prospered. Daily life became a little easier for the whole family but still Arwhon felt the resentment from his brother and sister. They made him feel like a thief for having stolen their mother from them.

  It was a hard burden to bear.

  Both Staril and Raleen seemed to have inherited a knack for Trading from their father but Arwhon hadn’t felt the call at all. He could find no apparent knack for any task he undertook but still his work was neat and tidy. He’d no idea what he wanted to do with his life but his young mind was full of the fantastical stories of sailors, heard during stolen moments at the harbourside, his mental images of heroic deeds gleaned from stirring songs sung by the occasional travelling minstrel working the inns. The still growing youth imagined journeying beyond the mountains, of seeing far off exotic places and participating in thrilling adventures. He dreamt constantly of fantastic exploits, with himself as the sword wielding hero. All childish fantasies distilled from tall tales of derring-do. Unfortunately, Arwhon’s wish came true far sooner than he ever envisioned.

  The death of his father was the catalyst.

  Arwhon would be leaving his lifelong home of Trugor in a few scant days, the morning following the ritual scattering of their father’s ashes on the Western Ocean. It was a fitting end; their father choosing to personally enrich the seas with his remains, for it was the sea which had unceasingly nurtured them through the hard times.

  The whole town turned out to watch as Bryan nari Tsalk’s body, dressed in fine clothes and wrapped in his best cloak, was laid on the criss-crossed logs of the pyre erected on the beach near the burnt out warehouse. He looked as if he was merely sleeping while solemn villagers came and went, leaving small fragrant posies or gifts of food for the afterlife. Bryan had been well liked and respected for his hard work, honesty and fairness. The town of Trugor had greatly benefited from the part he played in the warp and weft of its commerce and culture.

  Staril, now the eldest in the family, applied a burning torch to the oil soaked logs which caught rapidly, fanned by the strong breeze, popping and crackling as Bryan quickly disappeared inside the flames. For the second time in as many days a column of smoke ascended in front of the cliffs. The watching crowd respectfully remained until the roaring fire diminished and the logs fell inward upon themselves, sending a cloud of sparks flying skyward before the fire eventually diminished to the flicker and glow of a long farewell. That was when the whiskey barrel came out and Bryan’s memory was toasted.

  Many times before the barrel was emptied.

  The day following the public funeral pyre was the day set aside for the private funeral ceremony. Following his wishes, Bryan’s ashes would be scattered on the sea. The morning had dawned fine and clear, with the previously constant south westerly wind dropping away, seemingly just for the occasion.

  The ocean was like a millpond as Captain Belmar took the helm of his own longboat and headed out of the harbour with Staril, Raleen and Arwhon aboard. The crew plying the oars were all volunteers, as sailors could be superstitious about death and the Captain was a fair man.

  The three Tsalk siblings sat alone in the front of the longboat accompanying the small wooden chest containing Bryan’s ashes. The rowing was relatively easy and soon the longboat was gliding swiftly through the glassy swell as they headed out to the open ocean past the headland with its single, ancient spire. That remarkable column had been there all of Arwhon’s short life and was as much a part of the scenery as the headland itself but as the longboat made its way past Dome Rock, oars rising and dipping in unison, Arwhon’s attention was inexorably drawn to the black spire, his eyes widening as the shadowy surface shimmered like fire to his gaze. A red aura surrounded the whole spire and a low buzzing sound began, hardly heard at first but gradually growing in volume like an approaching bee swarm until it filled the air with a thrumming noise before suddenly ceasing.

  A shiver ran down Arwhon’s spine as the red colour of the obelisk dimmed and its surface returned to the normal unremitting black. No reaction was apparent on the faces of his fellow sailors. He turned first to Staril and Raleen, but they shook their heads in bewilderment at his excited description of the sound and colour he’d seen. None in the party had noticed anything unusual and some gave him odd searching looks, shaking their heads in disbelief at his questions. Arwhon fell silent and cast his eyes down as a dull headache started at the base of his skull.

  Out on the Western Ocean, the funeral rites were quickly over and Bryan’s remains given to the bosom of the seas. The ashes sank quickly and quietly.

  Bryan was home.

  Arwhon was up well before dawn; he’d eaten the large breakfast Raleen prepared for him far too hastily and his stomach felt a little queasy now. All the reasons for remaining in Trugor ran round and round inside his head, one after the other and Arwhon found it hard to dismiss them as he tried to think more positively about his journey to come. Everything was happening so quickly; was it only yesterday they’d scattered his father’s ashes on the sea?

  By the time Arwhon had saddled the family’s retired and ancient horse, Tansy, a stout old cob more used to pulling a small cart than being ridden and the gear packed to his satisfaction, the morning sun was peeking over the barely seen mountains far to the east, shining brightly in the cloudless blue sky.

  It was time to go.

  Staril and Raleen were the only people to see Arwhon off when he was ready to leave, as he’d already visited his few good friends the previous evening to say final farewells. Arwhon fiddled, checking Tansy’s girth strap for the umpteenth time before turning and hugging both of his siblings tightly in a wordless farewell. Choking on emotion, he took hold of the reins and quickly mounted the quiet old horse which grunted as she felt his weight settle into the wide saddle.

  Staril was secretly glad to see Arwhon leave. Jealousy played no small part in that. Why would their father instruct Arwhon to go and visit their illustrious Grandmother instead of him? Still, looking on the bright side, Arwhon had no knack for anything and was just a useless mouth which required feeding. Better he did go away and take the old horse with him. She was even more unproductive than Arwhon.

  With little apparent emotion Staril quickly wished Arwhon well and stepped back, waiting for him to ride off but Raleen hurriedly moved to stand by Tansy’s stirrup for a moment or two more, looking up at Arwhon with tears in her eyes. He was almost like a son to her, despite the closeness of their years. She had taken on a large part of his upbringing and although she bowed to Staril’s view of Arwhon being responsible for the death of their mother, in her heart she could not find it in herself to blame the lad. Raleen reached up and took Arwhon’s left hand in both of hers; holding it fondly for a moment as he sat astride Tansy, ready to ride away from Trugor, who knew for how long?

  The chainmail hauberk their father had died in, with his blood washed out and a few broken links in the front hastily repaired with twisted wire, looked bulky and ill-fitting on Arwhon’s gangly frame. As for the old notched sword pushed through a loop in the belt around his waist; it seemed totally incongruous to her.

  Her brother looked so young and unprepared for life.

  Naive.

  Unbidden, a tear coursed down Raleen’s cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her sleeve.

  “Remember Arwhon, that I love you dearly. Take good care of yourself and come back to us one day. We’re your family.”

  The words seemed to penetrate and Arwhon shifted his gaze from the far distance to look down at Raleen.

  “Thank you Raleen. You’ve been far more than a sister to me and I appreciate it more than you could ever know. You’ll be forever in my thoughts.”

  Hearing that, Raleen let go of his hand and stepped back beside Staril, who chose to merely nod toward his brother. Arwhon nudged Tansy with his heels and the old horse moved off at the walk. He rode slowly up the hill and out of town with just an occasional glance back ov
er his shoulder.

  Raleen waved until he could see her no longer.

  Staril had already gone about his tasks, happy he had one less dependant now.

  Never, in all of his dreaming, had Arwhon envisioned his adventures starting like this. The consequence of an inexplicable Reaver raid resulting in the death of his father. The emotional dam threatened to burst but he swallowed the grief down with a few solid gulps and a deep breath. There was plenty of time for mourning later on.

  The road pointed straight toward Mehgrin’s Wall, at least two weeks ride away and Arwhon found he could just make out the hazy heights of the mountain peaks far in the distance as Tansy picked her way slowly along the rutted road, carefully avoiding some of the larger uneven rocks embedded in its surface.

  He wondered why the mountain range was named so?

  Who was Mehgrin and why did she need a Wall?

  2. A Journey Begins.

  Arwhon clutched the hood of his cloak more tightly to his throat and plodded on through the sticky mud leading Tansy by her reins. His ideas of what constituted adventure were changing rapidly as reality supplanted fancy.

  For the first two days of his journey the sun had shone from a clear blue sky and the unusually balmy spring weather was ideal for travelling. Tansy was fresh and excited to be going somewhere. For an old horse she strode out briskly at a good pace, her head held high. The surprisingly dusty road was quite rutted in places and busier than Arwhon expected as he and Tansy passed loaded carts and wagons heading for Trugor. The fine dust raised by their steel shod wheels hung in the air and occasionally Arwhon had to cover his mouth and nose with a kerchief to breathe. A fair proportion of the traffic was devoted to hauling ale or wine barrels but a number of carts were loaded with winter root vegetables and cabbages heading for market. There was even the odd wagon load of hand-tied bales of straw, a product universally utilised by Trugor’s populace.