Only Stones Remain (Ballad of Frindoth Book 4)

by Rob Donovan

  "Kisvar? Kisvar Zavos!" Someone called behind him. He turned towards the voice expecting to see soldiers marching towards him. In the distance he saw some movement, shadows silhouetted against the brilliant sunshine.

  "They will be..." Jensen began to say. But when he turned the Ghost Assassin and her panther had already disappeared.

  ***

  Goater stepped through the tent and his eyes immediately narrowed as if he sensed something was amiss. Jensen met his stare briefly and then averted his eyes. He tried to recall if that was something he would normally have done or not. He could not remember. Some soldiers, obviously drunk, were singing a song nearby and the dull light of flickering campfires could be seen through the black canvas.

  The Shaman scratched at the stubble on his neck and then moved over to Scamp to check her bonds. She breathed heavily as he squatted by her as if afraid he might harm her. He grunted when he discovered they were far more secure than the night before.

  “You ran off,” Goater said.

  “Yes,” Jensen replied.

  “You kill?”

  “Yes, two people.”

  Goater nodded. “Stronger potion now needed I think.”

  Jensen remained silent. It was obvious they wanted the bloodlust to continue to flow through him until it reached breaking point. By killing he had relieved his desire. He still felt an undercurrent of it coursing through his veins but the desire was manageable.

  Goater retrieved a leaf from a jar in a chest and added it to the cup he carried. He sniffed it and gave the slightest of nods. Jensen could not smell anything. He felt the cold edge of the knife resting against his hip. He had secreted it inside his pants by his hip just before they came and tied him up. He was relieved that he could pivot his fingers enough to touch the blade from the other side of the tent pole.

  “This will do ya,” Goater said and chuckled. “This will do you good.”

  Jensen had thought about this situation all day. Norva had instructed him not to have the potion tonight. It was easy for her to say. She was not the one that had to refuse Goater or at least deceive him into thinking he had taken it. He had considered many options from freeing his hands first and attacking Goater to pretending to swallow and hoping Goater did not notice he hadn’t.

  He had ruled all of them out. Goater always made sure Jensen swallowed and any attack on the Shaman would just draw unwanted attention to him and Scamp. In the end he decided the only solution was the crudest.

  Goater checked Jensen’s bonds and then moved to stand before him. He put the cup to Jensen’s lips and Jensen wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell.

  “Why?” Jensen asked.

  Goater smiled spreading his rings which revealed his swollen lips between each one. “Because,” Goater said.

  “You are a sheep,” Jensen said.

  Goater’s grin broadened. “We both are. Now open.”

  Jensen complied and took the concoction into his mouth. It tasted vile, of tomatoes and something else, juniper berries possibly? He swilled it from one cheek to the other before swallowing; this was more in defiance rather than anything else. Goater scowled, “Open wide.”

  Jensen obeyed to show the potion had gone. He could feel Scamp watching him. He had told her of his encounter with the Ghost Assassin and what she had said to him. The young girl had been unable to come up with a solution for not swallowing the potion either.

  “You still doubt me,” Jensen said bitterly.

  Goater shrugged and turned to leave. “Sleep,” and with that he left the tent.

  “You swallowed?” Scamp asked only a few moments after Goater had left.

  “Keep your voice down,” Jensen said and glanced towards the entrance. “What was I supposed to do?”

  Scamp did not reply. Her ginger hair looked unrulier than ever. She flicked her head to try and rid the bangs from her eyes.

  Jensen reached for the knife. He swivelled to move it closer to his hands as his fingertips stretched along his back in an attempt to reach the blade. He used his forearm to try and knock it towards his hands. A shooting pain travelled up to his shoulder and he gasped as his joints protested at being forced into unnatural positions.

  The hilt of the knife dug into his skin but he ignored that pain. It was nothing compared to the pain in his shoulder. Finally, he managed to touch the blade with his fingertip. He hooked it with a nail and pulled it towards his hands. As soon as he was able to get a proper grip he set it against the rope and began the painstaking process of rubbing it against the blade.

  It did not take long. Norva Steel’s blade was sharp. The rope may have been fastened tightly but that made it taut and easy to cut through. Within minutes he had severed enough of it to be able to free his hands. He immediately thrust his fingers into his mouth and pushed his tongue down. His gag reflex kicked in and he vomited most of the potion back up. It splattered on the mud and over him - warm and redolent of tomatoes. It tasted just as vile coming up as it did going down, which made him gag even more, bringing up the remnants.

  He spat out the last of it and then set about liberating himself from the rest of the rope. He scrambled over to Scamp and began working at her bonds.

  “What do we do now?” Scamp asked when she was free.

  “Don’t know, didn’t think that far,” Jensen admitted. He looked around the tent for another weapon. One knife between them would not get them far.

  A drunken cheer went up from a nearby campfire. What had he been thinking? They would not stand a chance once they left the safety of the tent. Goater would return in the morning to find their ropes cut and the vomit on the floor. He would be punished more than ever.

  “Did Norva not say anything? Scamp asked.

  “Would I appear this indecisive if she did?” Jensen snapped. Scamp folded her arms and sat back down against her pole.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Waiting for Norva,” Scamp said.

  “We can’t just wait for her. Someone might come. We need to get out of here ourselves.”

  Scamp looked up and arched an eyebrow at him. “After you then genius.”

  Jensen looked around the tent again. There was a locked chest which belonged to Goater and a few sacks of dried meat. There was nothing that could help them escape. Reluctantly he sat down and contented himself with burying his vomit. It was not long before he heard the soft even breathing that indicated Scamp had fallen asleep. How could the girl nod off at a time like this? But then again what else was there to do? To attempt an escape now would be pointless. The soldiers around them were still awake and fuelled by ale, and would be more than willing to spill blood.

  Jensen closed his eyes and attempted to sleep himself. It remained elusive however. His mind would not find peace with the decision he had made. He had slowly begun to earn Goater’s trust. He had killed upon request and taken the potions regularly. He should have waited for a more opportune time. He had been impulsive and naïve. The story of his life so far.

  The sounds of merriment continued and Jensen found himself listening to the songs and even mouthing along to some of the words. How could the soldiers be so content knowing they were heading for war? How could they be so happy marching along with their sworn enemy and even worse, the Glooms? War was a strange beast.

  He must have nodded off eventually because when he opened his eyes the camp was still. The glowing lights of the fires had dwindled to a muted orange. The songs had been replaced by heavy snores.

  The orb of the lime moon shone against the tavern. There was no sign of the blue or red moon. Did that bode well? Jensen was sure Sharoon could probably draw some sort of conclusion from the absence of the blood moon but Jensen sure couldn’t.

  A man’s snore cut off mid intake. Jensen frowned. Had something happened to him? Or had he drunkenly turned over? He thought of Norva Steele. She said she would come. He had not doubted her. He held his breath and strained to listen. He heard a soft squelch: a boot in the mud or a knif
e entering flesh?

  “Scamp wake up,” Jensen said. “Scamp.” The girl did not move. He quietly got to his feet and crawled over to the girl. She stirred as he nudged her. “Scamp.”

  Scamp groaned. “Wha-”

  He clamped a hand over the girl’s mouth. Her eyes flew open and her hands clawed at his briefly before she recognised him. “Someone’s out there,” he whispered.

  “Norva Steele?”

  “Possibly.”

  The pair of them got to their feet and edged towards the door. Jensen pulled back the canvas and surveyed the camp. Bodies lay strewn everywhere as men slept. What was the point in erecting tents if the men were just going to pass out next to them? Jensen watched for any signs that anyone was awake. There had to be sentries somewhere but he could not see any.

  “I think this is our chance,” Jensen said. Scamp grabbed his arm and squeezed. “It will be alright,” he said in an attempt to reassure her.

  “No, look,” the girl said and motioned towards one of the tents nearby.

  The flap was open and Goater sat within staring straight at them, the light of the blue moon illuminating his lip rings so they glistened like frost. Jensen froze. His heart seemed to lurch in his chest and his knees almost gave way. They had been seen and now there would be no end to his punishment. Goater would inform Cordane that he could not be trusted and they would have no use for him.

  “Why hasn’t he moved?” Scamp said.

  Confused, Jensen looked harder at the Shaman. Scamp was correct; Goater stared at them but seemed to be looking past them. It was only then that Jensen saw the thin trickle of blood that snaked from the corner of Goater’s mouth. The Shaman slumped forward, fell off his chair and landed in a heap on the floor. Behind Goater stood the Ghost Assassin. She was barely taller than the chair the Shaman had been sitting on.

  “Ready?” Norva Steele asked stepping over the Shaman and wiping the blood from her blade on Goater’s back.

  Chapter 18

  Tatanya stood on the battlements in nothing but a small silk dress. She wore no shoes on her feet and the wall was cold underfoot. She had no idea how she had got to the top of the wall or even why she was there. The world around her was silent. It was an eerie image.

  She looked at the soldier next to her. He had been turned to stone whilst firing an arrow. One hand pulled back the bowstring whilst the other gripped the bow. He had been biting his lip and squinting as he aimed. Tatanya peered closer, so that her face was inches from his. She could see the sheen of sweat under his nose and was tempted to wipe it away for him. She couldn’t of course, that too had solidified.

  Instead she followed the soldiers aim and looked along the shaft of the arrow. The arrow was aimed upwards and so she visualised the arc the arrow could travel. She estimated the flight would land somewhere in the middle of the battle. It had an equal chance of striking one of his men as well as one of the enemies.

  The statue blinked suddenly. She recoiled as if she had been spat upon. It was alive! The poor man was trapped inside a hard shell.

  “I can’t do anything, I am truly sorry,” Tatanya felt compelled to say. The soldier looked at her and she could read the agony in that look; the pleading from the man to be released. She stepped away unable to hold his gaze any longer.

  All along the wall men were frozen in various fighting poses. She saw one statue with tears falling down his rigid cheeks. She looked out from the battlements, something she had been avoiding doing.

  She cried out as she surveyed the scene. Man fought man in suspended animation, expressions of anguish, agony, despair and triumph etched on their faces. She saw men with blades less than an inch from their necks, knowing that even if they were ever to be freed from their stone tomb, they would die instantly. It did not matter if the men were defending the White Palace or attacking it they had all shared the same fate.

  Although it was broad daylight and the sun shone through a thin layer of clouds, the red moon was also visible; a one-eyed angry God looking down at the rage beneath him.

  On the horizon, there was movement. Glooms! Dozens and dozens of Glooms all shape and sizes and resembling all kinds of creatures. Mertyn and his family had mentioned these Glooms but for some reason Tatanya could not picture them in her mind. She could now though. They were here before her to see.

  The Glooms rushed the battlefield and barrelled into the frozen men, smashing them to pieces instantly. Lives full of hope and courage ended in mere seconds. Bodies disintegrated never to be pieced back together, never to be buried.

  “No!!,” Tatanya cried, her hand covering her mouth as she let out a sob. A large eagle shaped Gloom swooped down and plucked up a few men engaged in bitter combat. They were carried into the air still in their awkward positions, sword arms raised ready to strike. The Gloom squawked and let the men tumble to the ground where they collided with other statues and shattered one and all. “No!” Tatanya repeated.

  From somewhere behind her she heard the voice that had haunted her for so long. It drifted up from the deep, dark depths of the Pit like smoke snaking its way to the surface. “Little girl, little girl.”

  “No!”

  Tatanya awoke with a start, sitting up in her bed. She panted as she struggled to get her bearings. The sheets clung to her clammy body and she kicked them away. They were knotted around her ankles and she struggled to free herself, kicking desperately to get them off her. With every kick she recalled the horrible images from her nightmare.

  There was a knock on the door and Shana entered before Tatanya could give her permission. She did not mind. Shana was a welcome sight. She held a candle and wore a long gown. Her hair was dishevelled. She pursed her lips and then smiled sympathetically.

  “Same dream?” Shana said.

  Tatanya nodded. “It is getting more and more real every night. I think it might come true.”

  “Possibly,” Shana said. She set the candle down by Tatanya’s bed and poured some water from the jug on the bedside table into a glass. She handed the drink to Shana.

  “It can’t be true, it is so horrible,” Tatanya said after swallowing most of the contents of the glass. It made her feel better and her heart beat slowed.

  “War is horrible.” Shana said.

  “How can it be true? How can I be seeing the future?”

  “You probably aren’t. The war of all wars is close. We have all heard what the enemy is capable of. Those things are bound to play on our minds.”

  Tatanya suddenly felt a chill and began to pull the sheets up to cover her. They were still wet. Shana stood and whipped them off. She flung them to the corner and retrieved some more from a basket.

  “You are not having the nightmares,” Tatanya said.

  “No,” Shana admitted as she shook out the sheet and then covered Tatanya. She began tucking the sides around Tatanya’s body and the act was so similar to what Tatanya’s mother used to do that Tatanya felt a surge of warmth towards Shana.

  “Why me?”

  Shana shrugged. “I could ask why am I the only one not having nightmares? What is wrong with me?”

  “You sleep with the Prince. You have someone to protect you.”

  Shana blushed and she looked away. “We don’t say that out loud.”

  Tatanya frowned. “No one can hear us.”

  "No but Morag always says that if you don't say a secret in private you will not say it in public accidentally,"

  "That actually makes sense."

  "It does."

  "Did Morag really say that?" Tatanya asked. Shana burst out laughing.

  "Yes, she did. She is not a bad woman you know."

  Tatanya pulled a face. "Just bossy,"

  "Yes, she is that."

  Shana lay down next to Tatanya and placed an arm over her. Tatanya welcomed the affection and had to force herself not to snuggle into the young woman. She did not want to appear too needy. Especially as she had already disturbed Shana with her nightmares. They lay in silence for a
while and Tatanya wondered if Shana had drifted off to sleep. She would have liked it if she had, although she did not wish to upset the Prince. Outside, the night sky had already begun to brighten; dawn would not be too far away.

  "Have you seen much of the King?" Shana asked disturbing the quiet.

  "A little," Tatanya said and felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. She had seen him once since her episode in the Pit where he had made the effort to come to see her and see for himself that she was alright. The visit had been short however and Jacquard had very little to say. Once he had established she was not seriously affected by the trauma, he left. Tatanya had wanted him to stay. She missed him. They had spent a lot of time together and since they had returned to Lilyon they never seemed to have the time to speak. She knew it would be so. The King even warned her, but that did not stop Tatanya missing his company. She had looked after him. As stupid as that sounded, he had been in a bad way and she had cared for him in her own way. Without her, he may have lost his mind.

  She knew he still suffered. She could see it in his gaunt features and haunted eyes. She believed he had rid himself of the bad man but with that came new horrors. Terrors that involved facing the consequences of his actions.

  "He misses you," Shana said.

  "He does?" The news shocked Tatanya.

  "Of course, why wouldn't he”?

  "He has been reunited with his son, his wife and discovered he also has another son he did not know existed. I would think he would have little time to think of me now."

  Shana shifted her weight so that she lent on her hand; her elbow taking most of the load. With her other hand she stroked Tatanya's hair behind her ear. "You know that is not true."

  "He was so abrupt the last time he visited me."

  Shana sighed. "That is because he is a man. Men cannot express themselves when they are upset or wish to show concern. They would rather clamp their jaws shut and run away."

  "That's stupid," Tatanya said. Old Saisko had never told her about this kind of behaviour before.