Only Stones Remain (Ballad of Frindoth Book 4)

by Rob Donovan

  “Are you ready?” Marybeth asked as she fiddled with a loose thread on the silk seam of her cloak. She was more nervous than Althalos had thought.

  “I believe so,” It took two attempts to utter the words; his mouth was suddenly dry and he had to clear it.

  “What about the warlords? How many do we have?”

  Althalos lowered his gaze and tried not to stare at the Yurisdorians gathered in the far corner of the room. Vashna had been slain in the battle and they were yet to appoint a replacement. One of the two captains would have been the obvious choice but when Althalos had checked last night, they had not declared a new warlord. Benossa had assured Althalos they would have a warlord ready in time for the ceremony but there had been no news yet. Althalos knew he should have confirmed the decision with them before they had gathered in the hall.

  He took a deep breath, “Eleven I think,”

  “You think? We are supposed to have twelve!” Marybeth had been whispering but her voice rose a little too high. Her annoyance caused one or two people to mutter.

  Althalos glanced about nervously. They should have put the ceremony off until they were better prepared. Rushing it had been his idea because the soldiers wanted to return home to see their loved ones. Althalos did not see the point in either making them wait for him to be made King or letting them return home now and inviting them back in a few months’ time. But it seemed now that the lack of preparation had proved to be folly.

  “I know that, the Mantini issue was never going to be resolved quickly.”

  Marybeth closed her eyes and held out her hands by way of pacifying him. “My apologies, why the uncertainty over the eleven; have the regions that lost their warlords not replaced them?”

  Althalos looked over to the two other regions that had lost their leader. Meadowmead had replaced Gambon with one of his captains, Armutak. The appointment was steeped in controversy however, with the other two captains said to be less than enamoured with the choice. There were also strong rumours that the bastard squire Sidamon was looking to make a claim to the leadership of the region.

  Next to Meadowmead were the warriors of Brimsgrove. The two regions that had fought so fiercely against each other at the start of the battle, now stood alongside each other as if it was the most natural thing in Frindoth. Castrill, Tulber’s son and successor sat hunched on the bench alongside a burly looking soldier. Althalos knew nothing about the man, but from his general demeanour, he was not impressed. Althalos had been greatly affected by the news of Tulber’s death in battle. Tulber had been a thorn in the Prince’s side since Jacquard had instructed him to lead the fight against Cordane, but he had also been seasoned, passionate and loyal. He might have expressed his dissent at every one of Althalos’ decisions but he still obeyed them. His son was the opposite of his father in every way. He lacked height and the spots which had made Tulber’s cheeks pock-marked and angry, seemed to have skipped Castrill leaving his skin smooth. Althalos knew he would have to get the measure of these new warlords especially as Armutak’s people had so recently opposed him.

  “Your highness?” Marybeth said prompted him.

  “Only the Yurisdorians have yet to inform me of their appointed warlord. They assured me one would be ready today.”

  Marybeth rolled her eyes. She reached into her cloak and pulled out a scroll. The susurrus of noise ceased instantly as she held out a hand. From his elevated position on the dais Althalos could see alongside the formal text of the coronation there was also Marybeth’s frantic scribbling of instructions and reminders. Iskandar would have been mortified that such a sacred text had been defaced, but Althalos merely found it amusing.

  Althalos had not been alive when his father had been crowned King, although he had seen pictures in the tomes of such prestigious events. In those depictions of such historic events, the grandeur of the celebration had always been spectacular. The expense and the splendour of the occasion had oozed through the pictures showing pillars decorated with rose bushes and ribbons suspended from the ceilings.

  Today the palace hall was a far cry from such lavish trimmings. Because of the war one of the large glass windows had been boarded up where it had been smashed, allowing a draught to seep through, the stone pillars were chipped where swords had smashed into them. The servants of the palace had made a valiant attempt to make the hall look grand, but the clay pots bursting with flowers and the hastily hung pictures, did little to disguise the damage underneath.

  In a way, this pleased the Prince. Why should they hide from the fact that this was the state Frindoth was in? They had endured much and the repercussions were vast. He did not want people to attend a lavish event and then return to their home region not knowing if their homes were even standing. The attempt to liven up the palace sent the right message; Frindoth was hurt but its people would make the most of what they had.

  He felt the butterflies in his stomach and fought the unease threatening to rise within. He was not ready to rule, he was still so young. The familiar concerns which had kept him awake last night grew louder in his mind: People would see through him and realise he was an imposter. They would see that everything he had done so far, every decision he had made had been under the guidance of his father, or Hamsun, or Paule Jacobs and if it hadn’t been one of them then it had been sheer luck.

  “People of Frindoth,” Marybeth’s voice was crystal clear and projected to the back of the palace hall; whatever nerves she had seemed to have vanished. Althalos wished his would do the same. He gripped the sides of the throne and fought the rising panic. He watched his knuckles turn white. His breath came in short bursts. “You all know why we have gathered here and you all know the circumstances behind this.”

  There were some whispers in the crowd and Althalos winced at the poor choice of words. He knew the witch was talking about his father’s abdication but some took the meaning to be a result of Marybeth’s actions. She paused, realising her mistake but then continued regardless choosing to ignore it.

  Althalos’ palms sweated profusely, he wiped them on his cloak and saw the dark patches they made. Worried, he folded the material to hide the marks. He looked up to see if anyone had noticed. Most people were concentrating on the witch but some were looking at him.

  This made him even more nervous. He felt his cheeks grow warm and perspiration on his brow. A bead of sweat trickled down his face which he wiped with the back of his hand before shifting in the throne.

  “Relax, you led Frindoth to victory, you are more prepared and have more experience than I did when I was crowned. Look the part and people will believe in you,” his fathers’ words were barely audible; he had not moved realising it would not do to be whispering in his son’s ear as he was crowned. Althalos forced himself to relax; Marybeth still spoke to the audience.

  “It is the custom for the leader of the Order to regale you with religious litany and bestow the religious virtues that such a lofty position as that of King holds. Pomp and tradition has its place, but so does practicality. As many of you can tell by now I am no orator.

  I do know one thing though, in a time of turmoil, of perilous dangers and uncertain future, in a time when warlords question what is right for their regions and long-standing truces held with foreign cousins were blatantly ignored, in a period when the very existence of Frindoth was faced with extinction, one man accepted the responsibility thrust upon him by his father. One man embraced such a burden and thus by doing so demonstrated his true leadership qualities. He displayed courage beyond that expected, wisdom above his years, compassion when all others gave up and valour worthy of the mightiest of warriors. Even those opposed to him could not help but marvel at his prowess and respect his application.

  In short, one man showed all the qualities we expect from our King. That man sits on the throne next to me,” Marybeth thrust out her hand and pointed at Althalos.

  “Hail Prince Althalos,” Unger said.

  The Prince located the beaming warlord; he had p
olished his armour and it gleamed in the sunlight shining through the window. The tidal wave insignia of his region displayed on his breastplate seemed to ripple in the shards of light. Unger winked as others joined in the praise. Althalos once again felt his cheeks grow warm but this time heeded his father’s advice and did not squirm as everyone looked at him.

  “The laws of the land state that the majority of the regions must support the coronation of a new King,” Marybeth continued. She seemed to be revelling in the role now, her voice taking on a sonorous tone akin to a preacher. “We have eleven regions present, ten of which have warlords to speak on their behalf. In a moment I will ask the warlords to stand, but before that I need to address the representatives of Yurisdoria.”

  On the bench, Colck and Benossa sat alongside three other men who Althalos did not recognise. Benossa took up a third of the bench with his enormous girth, his face unusually serious. Colck, with his hair greased back to reveal greying temples, traced the outline of the dragon on his crest, his fingers moving the whole time.

  An uneasy feeling gnawed at Althalos, something was not right; the captains were too tense as if they were nervous about the next steps. He glanced at the three men next to the two established captains. They were large and mean looking. Two had ugly looking battle scars on their faces but it was the hard eyes which told the Prince they were seasoned warriors. The three men were equipped with swords and their hands were not too far away from the hilts.

  His father had forbidden weapons in the war council but for ceremonies such as today’s it was accepted that warriors could carry a weapon as a symbol of the trust in the new King and the King’s trust in his warlords.

  Marybeth seemed to sense the sudden change in the atmosphere and she paused before continuing.

  “I did not know Vashna well but his reputation preceded him.” Marybeth began. Standing behind Colck, Vashna’s widow Breshanel inhaled deeply and looked to the ceiling as she struggled to hold back tears. “Vashna was a great warlord. A man who sought only justice for his region and honesty from his men. War and desperation can lead men down a dark path, but when the time for reckoning fell upon Vashna, he made the right choice and accepted all responsibility for his actions. He was a proud man and a worthy leader. I hope whomever you have selected will honour the man before them. Have you chosen such a man?”

  There was silence in the room as the Yurisdorian contingent shifted in their seats and shared furtive glances with each other. Benossa and Colck exchanged glances before Benossa gradually rose to his feet; his sheer size seemed to dwarf everything around him. He commanded the room more than Althalos could ever hope to.

  "No your witchness," Benossa said. There were a few sniggers from the crowd at the chosen address to Marybeth, but the seriousness of the words kept most people quiet.

  "No?" Marybeth queried through clenched teeth.

  "Not exactly."

  "What does that mean? This is not the time for games Benossa."

  Benossa blinked rapidly, whether it was from the barely concealed anger of the witch or the fact that she knew his name, Althalos was not sure. He saw the twitch of one captain’s hand as it moved towards the hilt of his sword.

  "Benossa, speak you mind," Althalos rose eager to quell the growing tension. "You have nothing to fear in this room."

  Benossa licked his lips and looked down at Colck who nodded encouragingly. "The five of us here on this bench are the likely candidates to replace Vashna, but we have decided on a different course. We have selected someone different, someone who is worthier than all of us combined, only...only they don't know it yet."

  With that Colck and the other captains stood and drew their swords. The ringing of steel echoed round the palace hall as several others drew their weapons in response. For a second no one moved. Benossa held one hand up in a placating gesture, "Forgive me everyone that was not meant as an act of aggression. It is merely our custom when we select a new Warlord."

  Benossa then turned away from the crowd as did Colck and the others. They faced Breshanel, bent on one knee, bowed their heads and offered their swords overhead, holding them horizontally. Breshanel shrunk back into the person behind her as realization of such an act dawned on her. One by one, the Yurisdorians turned to face her and then mimicked their captain's act, bowing to Breshanel in supplication.

  "My lady, in you Vashna found a strength and resilience we could only dream of emulating. You counselled him with wise words and often he would credit you with successful war tactics. It would be an honour for you to lead us now."

  Althalos turned to face his father expecting to find shock on his face, but his father smiled and had tears in his eyes. He looked to his mother who caught him looking and nodded her approval. Breshanel scanned the room as if expecting someone to protest. No one did. If anything, there was an air of satisfaction.

  Breshanel took a deep breath, drew herself to her full height (which was just below Benossa's chin) and unsheathed her sword. She held it aloft, took another deep breath and shouted out, "clear mind, focused heart,"

  "VICTORY!" the Yurisdorians responded in unison. The cry sent chills down the Prince's spine. There had been female warlords before, but not for a very long time. He decided he liked the idea a lot.

  Breshanel stepped around the bench and took her place in the middle. One of the other captains dutifully moved to stand behind. He did not seem the slightest bit bothered at having to make way.

  "Can we continue now?" Marybeth asked, bemused. The ghost of a smile dancing on her lips told Althalos she had enjoyed the distraction and approved also of the appointment. "As I was saying, can all Warlords stand please?"

  Ten warlords rose to their feet and stood to attention. Breshanel stood as if she had belonged and had been doing it her whole life. Hamsun stroked his braided beard, his giant battle-axe looming ominously behind him. Grath was the biggest shock however, his long locks were pulled back, gone were the satin shirt and padded leather trousers Althalos was accustomed to the warlord wearing and, in their place he was dressed in copper armour. How had he not noticed this when the warlord of Aselina had been seated? Unger gasped as he too noticed Grath.

  "Tri-moons Grath, you don't wear armour into battle but you do for a coronation. You’re not right in the head," Unger said.

  Grath smiled, but did not respond. At least that had not changed.

  "Hamsun of Luciana I am about to utter the words which will pronounce Prince Althalos of Rivervale, King of Frindoth. Do you acquiesce the appointment?" Marybeth asked the warlord; she was obviously eager to end the service as quickly as possible.

  "I can think of no one better. I acquiesce," Hamsun said and bowed. "The people of Luciana pledge their loyalty."

  "Grath of Rora, I am about to utter the words which will pronounce Prince Althalos of Rivervale, King of Frindoth. Do you acquiesce the appointment?"

  "I acquiesce," Grath said and bowed deeply. "The people of Rora pledge their loyalty."

  On and on it went. Marybeth turned to every warlord and recited the same words; every single one of them pledged the loyalty of their people and acquiesced to the appointment. Like Hamsun a few others such as Unger and most surprisingly Tulber’s son, added the odd line of praise. The new warlord at least appeared in favour of the new King. Prandor had seen enough of Althalos to be satisfied it seemed, and so had the other newly promoted warlord.

  When all ten were done, Marybeth faced Althalos and asked him to rise. Althalos obeyed, rising to his feet and willing the churning in his stomach to cease.

  He had addressed an entire army and delivered rousing speeches, yet this petrified him more than that ever had. A barefoot priestess dressed in a plain brown woollen tunic tied with a leather strap around the waist, stepped forward and handed Marybeth a silver vessel. The contents of the vessel were smoking and Althalos detected the strong odour of juniper. Marybeth wafted some of the smoke towards him and then placed it on the floor to his left. Another priestess handed her a sh
allow bowl filled with viscous yellow oil. This one smelt of foxweed but not as pungent. Marybeth placed two fingers in the bowl and then ran them across the Prince's brow. The liquid was surprisingly hot but he did not flinch. Marybeth rolled her eyes and he tried not to smile. They had both read through the texts regarding the coronation and the oils and essence were an essential part of the service. Nowhere could they find the reasons why and the significance of them seemed trivial to them both. They had debated eliminating them from the service but had agreed not to; they did not want to change too much.

  "Ready?" she whispered.

  "As I will ever be," Althalos replied.

  Marybeth turned and held her hands aloft. "And now in front of the tri-moon deities I will conduct the oath." The witch turned to him once again but this time spoke loud enough so the whole room to hear.

  "Prince Althalos of Rivervale, son of Jacquard of Rivervale, you have been nominated by your fellow warlords with an overwhelming majority. The Order also endorses your claim. Are you willing to take the oath which will make you King of Frindoth?"

  Althalos looked across the crowd and spoke as clearly as he could; projecting his voice to the back of the room. "I am willing,"

  "Bring forward the crown."

  The crowd behind his father parted and Cody Ramsay stepped forward holding the crown on a blue velvet cushion. His hair had been cut neatly so it was shaved at the sides and his beard had been trimmed. He was dressed in the finest armour he had probably ever owned and it suited him. He would have looked handsome if it was not for the scowl on his face. Althalos struggled not to burst out laughing. Cody glanced nervously at the crowd and then hurried forward. The text stated that the first knight had the honour of carrying the crown and that he was supposed to walk slowly, left foot forward first and the right joining it and then repeating the process. Cody ignored the protocol completely. If he could have got away with tossing the crown to Althalos, the Truth Knight probably would have.