origin, and therefore over four hundred years old. He picked it up and studied it. The ring felt like silver and nothing special happened. Its surface was smooth and polished. This was against all the rules. He was excited, amazed, afraid and completely shocked.
“Sometimes I cheat,” Gerique said, perhaps sensing his discomfort, and there was almost a trace of laughter in his voice. “I am not the only one who does, but the secret is in knowing when to cheat, and doing it for the right reasons.”
He was almost certain it was a reference to himself, and that Gerique believed he had used magic himself at Ocean’s Gate, or was he being over sensitive? Whatever was the case it didn’t seem to be a problem.
“Put the ring on, Cal Serhan,” Gerique said. “Never take it off, and never reveal to another what it is. To do so would be considered a betrayal.”
“But what is it, my lord? What does it do?”
“It protects. You cannot be cut by any blade or point while you wear it.”
He put the ring on. Nothing happened. He did not feel stronger, more powerful, or different in any way. There was no indication that the ring was doing anything, and it crossed his mind that Gerique could be playing some kind of elaborate joke on him, but why? He resolved to test the effectiveness of the ring in a definitely non-lethal setting before it might be put to the test at the end of an arrow.
“I shall wear it at all times, my lord.” He felt his spirits lift. He was important. He had been protected. He left the Faer Karan chambers feeling that he had stepped one pace closer to his goal, though it was still impossibly distant.
10 Falla
The practice sessions were compulsory, but nobody took them seriously. Delf stood opposite another man and they traded blows with their swords, but they swung at each other lazily, and telegraphed their blows so that it was easy for the other man to get his sword up and make a nice loud clang that could be heard all over the camp. Only when Bragga or one of his inner circle passed near to them did the blows become a little more energetic.
The bandits in Bragga’s band were not used to fighting, and did not really expect to have to fight. When their general wanted to menace a village and take food from it he usually turned up with two hundred men in tow, all armed. It was enough to make any village capitulate. It was his principal tactic.
Delf had to admit that it was a pretty good one. All Bragga had to do was keep the numbers up. He pressed anyone into service, no matter what they had been before. There were farmers, hunters, and even a scattering of artisans from the south who had had the misfortune to run into the self styled general. He gave them all swords, some form of mail armour, mounted them, and he had the appearance of an army.
Indeed, it was in his interests that they should not be good fighters. His core group of about twenty men were all quite useful, but not nearly numerous enough if the rest had been inclined to rebel. Bragga even allowed a right of challenge, so that any man could oppose one of his decisions, and nominate a champion to fight Bragga, and the winner’s point of view prevailed. Nobody dared to invoke it. The bandit chief fought with a sword and war hammer, a spiked, mallet-shaped thing that only he could wield. One blow from it was enough to shatter bone and tear flesh to a fatal degree.
Practice went on. It was supposed to be for an hour every day. It was Bragga’s way of saying ‘I’m in charge and you’ll do what I tell you when I tell you to’.
Glancing around, he noticed that Wulf was no longer exchanging blows with the man next to him.
“Hey, what happened to Wulf?” he asked.
“The idiot actually let me cut him. Must have been asleep,” the man said.
“You cut him?” he looked around. Where had Wulf gone?
“Oh, it’s nothing deep. Just a knick, but it bled a bit, so he went to get it bandaged up by the woman.”
A very small alarm
“Sometimes I cheat,” Gerique said, perhaps sensing his discomfort, and there was almost a trace of laughter in his voice. “I am not the only one who does, but the secret is in knowing when to cheat, and doing it for the right reasons.”
He was almost certain it was a reference to himself, and that Gerique believed he had used magic himself at Ocean’s Gate, or was he being over sensitive? Whatever was the case it didn’t seem to be a problem.
“Put the ring on, Cal Serhan,” Gerique said. “Never take it off, and never reveal to another what it is. To do so would be considered a betrayal.”
“But what is it, my lord? What does it do?”
“It protects. You cannot be cut by any blade or point while you wear it.”
He put the ring on. Nothing happened. He did not feel stronger, more powerful, or different in any way. There was no indication that the ring was doing anything, and it crossed his mind that Gerique could be playing some kind of elaborate joke on him, but why? He resolved to test the effectiveness of the ring in a definitely non-lethal setting before it might be put to the test at the end of an arrow.
“I shall wear it at all times, my lord.” He felt his spirits lift. He was important. He had been protected. He left the Faer Karan chambers feeling that he had stepped one pace closer to his goal, though it was still impossibly distant.
10 Falla
The practice sessions were compulsory, but nobody took them seriously. Delf stood opposite another man and they traded blows with their swords, but they swung at each other lazily, and telegraphed their blows so that it was easy for the other man to get his sword up and make a nice loud clang that could be heard all over the camp. Only when Bragga or one of his inner circle passed near to them did the blows become a little more energetic.
The bandits in Bragga’s band were not used to fighting, and did not really expect to have to fight. When their general wanted to menace a village and take food from it he usually turned up with two hundred men in tow, all armed. It was enough to make any village capitulate. It was his principal tactic.
Delf had to admit that it was a pretty good one. All Bragga had to do was keep the numbers up. He pressed anyone into service, no matter what they had been before. There were farmers, hunters, and even a scattering of artisans from the south who had had the misfortune to run into the self styled general. He gave them all swords, some form of mail armour, mounted them, and he had the appearance of an army.
Indeed, it was in his interests that they should not be good fighters. His core group of about twenty men were all quite useful, but not nearly numerous enough if the rest had been inclined to rebel. Bragga even allowed a right of challenge, so that any man could oppose one of his decisions, and nominate a champion to fight Bragga, and the winner’s point of view prevailed. Nobody dared to invoke it. The bandit chief fought with a sword and war hammer, a spiked, mallet-shaped thing that only he could wield. One blow from it was enough to shatter bone and tear flesh to a fatal degree.
Practice went on. It was supposed to be for an hour every day. It was Bragga’s way of saying ‘I’m in charge and you’ll do what I tell you when I tell you to’.
Glancing around, he noticed that Wulf was no longer exchanging blows with the man next to him.
“Hey, what happened to Wulf?” he asked.
“The idiot actually let me cut him. Must have been asleep,” the man said.
“You cut him?” he looked around. Where had Wulf gone?
“Oh, it’s nothing deep. Just a knick, but it bled a bit, so he went to get it bandaged up by the woman.”
A very small alarm
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