Chapter 1. One Dream Shattered
For somebody who was used to court life, surrounded with all the attention and honours, the mountain was a very dangerous place.
Orin ar den Raamternan, son of Argen Raamternan, king of the Plain Countries, and the only heir to his father’s throne, realized this a bit too late. His whole escort was scattered last night in a fierce attack of an enormous pack of the Longhaired wolves, most dangerous in the early spring when, savage with hunger, they attack everything that moves. Orin was a brave fighter, but a pack of wolves would be too much even for a much better warrior than him. Ten surrounded knights with their long swords succeeded to keep the ferocious animals at bay for some time, but there were many wolves, and their hunger was a force that overwhelmed any attempts of resistance. Men fell one by one; the powerful jaws ended their cries. Orin wielded his sword savagely, but fear and excitement weakened his efforts - some strikes found their mark, but it was not enough. Soon, the last warrior was dead, because his men guarded him above their own lives. It was knight’s honour to die for his lord. There were only a few servants and squires remained, who were hiding behind the swords of their masters. Their only weapons were short daggers and rods - they were doomed, too. Nevertheless, they tried to protect their prince with their bodies. Finally, ragged and exhausted, Orin escaped the jaws and found shelter high in the tree-top of an old pine tree. The servants were down, in the melee, and their resistance was almost over.
The prince still couldn’t feel the pain in his wounds, undoubtedly because of the shock.
At last, full of scratches and exhausted, he was lucky enough to get away from the hungry jaws and to find a shelter on the high branches of an old pine tree. Because of the shock, he had not yet started to feel pain in his numerous wounds. His clothes were stained with his blood, and blood of his men. The strong stench urged him to vomit, but somehow he was able to control the urge. He watched in terror as the last of his guards disappeared, protecting the retreat of his prince. He felt no sorrow for them - Orin was always taught that it is soldier’s sacred task to give life for his master; what shocked him was the brutality of killing, the agony of the bodies that quivered under the black-furred mass of the huge beasts. It was not death in battle, it was a slaughter. The ground was soaked with blood, but the corpses were dragged into the wood to the last.
Stocked between the branches, he spent the night in some kind of half-sleep, torn by the nightmarish dreams about wolves, death, and comfort of his quarters in the Castle-on-the-River, where he daydreamed of heroic deeds and quests worthy of greatest heroes of the past. The wounds started to burn, and there was numbness in his limbs, caused by the cold wind and uncomfortable position.
How all of it seemed simple there, back at home! Without much thinking of the obstacles, many dangers on the road and enemies, he shall fearlessly reach the end of his quest, find the lost Ring of the Kings, and spread his rule through all known lands! It will be a real heroic quest, quite different from those brawls in the court halls, duels from which he always came out a victor, because there was nobody who dared to confront him seriously, him, the heir apparent. He will show his power to the whole world, and it will not be the usual power gained by inheritance, but something completely different, something more real.
The reality was rarely corresponding to the daydreams, even the royal ones.
Leather clothes and the cloak were not adequate protection from the icy wind, even in the thick treetop. It was sheer luck that saved him from falling down out of that uncomfortable position. When the morning came, he was frostbitten, stiff and utterly discouraged. The bleeding stopped; by some miracle, his wounds were all skin-deep - not one fang had buried deep in his flesh. Still, it was not much of a comfort for the defeated prince. This was the very beginning of his quest, but now it seemed more like the end.
With the rising of the sun, the beasts left for their hidden lairs. The Longhaired wolves liked the moon and its ghostly radiance much more.
Orin moved his leg. It was completely numb. He succeeded to free himself from his shelter, but missed the branch he tried to reach. With the clatter of broken branches, he trashed on the wet, hard ground. Trying to rise, he felt the blood starting to circulate slowly through his legs.
Nothing broken, he thought with relief. Scratches and bites burned mercilessly all over his body. With an effort, he crawled to the sword that was lying on the ground, where he threw it to make climbing easier. He grabbed the sword’s hilt. The closeness of the weapon always calmed him. There was nothing on this world he trusted more than the cold steel. Martial arts were a religion for him. Sword in hand meant power over common people. And if a man is to survive, he has to have such power.
Orin believed that the power is the only thing that matters in this miserable life. His father, Argen Raamternan, had a royal power, but it was only illusory and now it was descending. The king was old, and numerous enemies plotted endlessly against him. One of these days they will succeed in their intention and show to everyone that even the king is only human, vulnerable and mortal. Orin wanted no such power. The power he dreamed of was complete, undeniable and endless.
Many wise men have spent their nights trying to find the answer on his question, and finally they came to him, admitting their failure. Nobody knew the secret of ultimate power. A rumour began in the kingdom, about the prince possessed, the prince gone mad...
...until one day, an old man in a long black cloak limped to the throne, coming from nowhere, nameless, looking small between the tall king’s guards. His face revealed advanced old age, and deeply set eyes shone with wicked glow, hiding unimagined darkness. He stopped, leaning against a long wooden staff which was changing in shades of green.
“I know what you are looking for, prince,” said he impudently, his dry voice somehow filling every corner of the vast hall, without showing honours to the heir apparent, “and I know the answer to your question.”
“Why don’t you bow to the prince, as it is appropriate?” asked Orin insolently. He was not used to disrespectful behaviour.
“I bow only to the true power”, answered the old man.
“You say that you know its secret - what do you want in return?”
“Very little. You will find out when the time comes,” said the old man, and then he began telling the story.
“In ancient times, when the Blue Mountains were still young, mighty kingdoms existed in the Plain Countries. Hard and long wars for supremacy were waged, wars with many losers, but without the victor. Powerful sorcerers wove their demonic webs of spells; brave warlords led armies in bloody battles. And then, from the dark depths of time, emerged a sorcerer not known to anyone, and brought with him an item forged probably on the fires of hell, Ring of the Kings, the tool of ultimate power. It is not known whether the sorcerer intended to give it to someone, or maybe to keep it for himself; for, on the day he wanted to show it to the world from the highest tower in Sun City, an enormous dragon came from the sky, seized the Ring, and vanished with it in the heights. He who finds the ring shall rule the world. Nothing could stand against his will.”
It was a dream come true for Orin ar den Raamternan.
“How can I find the ring?” asked Orin.
“I don’t know where it is,” said old man, “but I do know who may have more knowledge than I do. Search for the Dragon Rock beyond the Blue Mountains and maybe you will find what you want.”
“If it was the ultimate power,” asked the prince curiously, “why did the sorcerer allow the dragon to snatch his ring?”
“I do not know answer to that question, prince, but I do know a few things concerning the nature of the Ring’s power. It rules the mind. He who wears it dominates over anything that has a soul, so much I can tell you.”
“Well, then this power isn’t ultimate!” exclaimed Orin. “There are many things without a soul in the world! Even with the ring, a man cannot rule over storms, fire, and earthquakes! And any animal can be a
danger for the bearer of the ring. How is he different, then, from the other rulers, if he masters only the people? This power isn’t ultimate; it is a kind of power which most of the good kings wield!”
“You are wrong, prince,” answered the old man coldly. “All things in this world have a soul. The spirit defines existence of all things. Without spirit, nothing exists, nothing lives and nothing dies. Even the death doesn’t signify non-existence of the spirit, because for something to die, it must live before. After life, spirit goes to the spheres of death. When there’s no spirit, there is a void. And in the void, there is no death or life. Only in the void the Ring of the Kings has no power at all.”
“Who are you, old man, to have such knowledge?”
“It matters not who I am. The better question is what I want.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I am old, and I haven’t got enough strength for a long journey. You are young and strong. You can go in the search for a legend. The Ring was supposed to bring peace for the warring kingdoms. This land is on the edge of a new slaughter. You know that the king is old and weak, and you are not the only one who wants his throne. It is my wish that you find the Ring of the Kings and use it for the welfare of all the land. It is my only wish.”
The old man turned then and left the hall without a goodbye, limping lightly, and the king’s guards didn’t bother him, but his words still echoed in the air, almost tangible in the silence. There were numerous questions left unsaid, but it was too late.
Of course, Orin was not able to resist the temptation. He gathered a large escort and left in the search for a legend, not aware of what he got into. Now they were all dead, and his chances to live through the following night were small. He stood up, bracing himself on the sword, and looked around. His whole body was shivering but the strength did not leave him completely.
All the equipment lay scattered on the ground. He grabbed the nearest bag and started to gather everything he could use. Once he gathered enough food, he took off the ground a longbow, which unfortunately hadn’t been of much help to its previous owner, and picked all the arrows he was able to find. Then he began to walk slowly forward, leaning on the long rod. He did not want to stay in this place for a minute longer than it was necessary.
The sun rose over the mountaintops when he finally came out from the forest and saw the broad and steep hillsides of the Blue Mountains - wide, slightly wooded meadows, and barren rocks.
He stretched out on the sun-warmed grass, whose wet warmth had a healing effect on his beaten body (or so it seemed to him). His back ached as never before in his life. He must think of something useful now, and think of it fast. The next night could be the last for him. His wounds will fester, certainly. He had to do something before it happened, because he’ll be beyond salvation then.
But the fatigue overcame Orin as soon as he relaxed. At the moment, he couldn’t make his mind to focus on anything. The night spent in the treetop was taking its toll and the prince fell asleep.
He awoke, sensing someone’s presence, straightened up quickly and grabbed the sword. Not far away, a man with long black hair, dressed in shabby clothes, was sitting on the rock and watching him. Orin jumped in a fighting position, but then he felt dizzy from exhaustion and staggered.
The man smiled. “Peace,” said he in the Valley language, showing an open palm toward Orin.
The prince smiled to himself with relief. “You are really a great warrior,” he muttered, “almost attacking this poor peasant.”
“I didn’t know that Valley people talk to themselves too,” said the man with laugh.
“Who are you?” asked the prince.
“I think you are now more interested in what do I have for lunch. And your wounds also need cleaning. Or else you are in big trouble,” answered the man and stood up, signalling Orin with his hand. Orin, slightly confused, didn’t have a choice.
They walked up the hill until the sun reached its zenith, arriving finally on the plateau with the small cottage.
The man waved Orin to enter, and he obeyed. For the first time in his life, he entered a shepherd’s dwelling. He was struck by the various odours. The room was half dark. Dried herbs were hanging on the wall. It was quite unbelievable that somebody lived in such a hole.
His host pointed to a crudely manufactured wooden table in the corner.
“Sit down,” said he. He was not very talkative, obviously.
The man brought on the table a loaf of bread baked in the ashes and a wooden plate filled with goat cheese. Orin accepted the offer without a word and started devouring the food.
“You are a lucky man,” stated the shepherd suddenly.
“How do you know that?” mumbled Orin between two swallows. “Do you know me by any chance?” This was not impossible at all. The glory of the king spreads far away. Even the Blue Mountains were not completely separated from the rest of the world.
“I don’t know why I should know you,” answered the man, “but anyone who in this time of the year survives the attack of the wolves must be a lucky one.”
Orin glanced at him in wonder.
“How did you know?” asked he again.
“The scent of blood and death reaches far. This morning, on the pastures, I sensed it. Here, men are rare visitors. It would be a waste to left any survivors to the wolves.”
“And you? Don’t you have a fear of the wolves?” asked Orin.
“Everyone fears the wolves. But they don’t bother me.” The man smiled mysteriously. “They don’t even come here.”
Orin continued with his lunch, thinking about the strange shepherd. The man radiated such serenity that Orin, used to humbleness and awe from the others, started to feel uneasy.
“What is your name?” asked he, just to break the silence.
The man smiled again.
“I haven’t had any special name for years. The goats call me guardian,” said he calmly. “There’s nobody else here.”
He rose from the table and went to the fireplace.
“But, you can call me by my old name - Arios. Once they called me Arios.”
“Once? Well, you don’t seem so old to me!” wondered Orin.
“I am not old. Up here on the mountains the time is passing slowly,” said Arios while cleaning the fireplace.
“You must be tired. If you want, lie down and get some sleep.”
That was a good advice. Orin rose from the table and placed himself on what obviously was the shepherd’s bed. It didn’t look all that clean, but in the darkness this fact was not important to Orin. This was surely better than sleeping on the tree branch. While looking at his silent host as he moved skilfully through the dusk of the cottage, the prince drifted away on the pathways of dream… where the wolves waited for him.
“Let’s see if we have something against bite wounds,” said Arios to himself, seeing his guest asleep. Soon, the cottage was filled with the fragrance of healing herbs.