A Ritual of Bone

by Lee C Conley

  ‘There were many, friend,’ answered Bjorn. ‘I saw only perhaps a dozen but a day’s ride north and I heard the horns of many others. There could be thirty, or fifty, or more. I don’t know. But I believe that these Wildmen have been raiding the barrens and, now, have turned their gaze across the border into our lands, coming from the hills to north. They are taking people. I only tell you all this as I would warn you, move your people until it is safe. This is why I must ride to warn your lord, and then return west to bring word to the lord that sent me.’

  Bennis was quiet and thoughtful, and then spoke, ‘I have to plough before winter, there is still much to do. I must think, but I will find some food for you, friend Bjorn. Rest as you need, there is ale, and I will send word for you, and as soon as the horse is ready, we will go. If you will excuse me, I must speak with my people, they will have questions, the wife certainly will.’ Bennis smiled, and then rose and said, ‘I will return shortly friend Bjorn, and then we will go.’ Bjorn nodded his thanks, and then the farmer disappeared behind a drape into the back room.

  Before long he returned with food, some bread and cheese, and then hurried off again leaving Bjorn to watch the fire burning away in the hearth.

  Bjorn sat watching the smoke rising up through the roof a while until the farmer, Bennis, returned to tell him his horse was ready when needed. Bjorn rose from his seat next to the fire and turned to the farmer.

  ‘Thank you, but I must be on my way. We should not linger. I need this seeing to,’ said Bjorn, indicating the shoulder. ‘Do you know yet what you will do?’ Bjorn asked.

  Old Bennis frowned and said, ‘I do not know yet, perhaps I will show you to Kervan’s hall in the village and listen to what he says on it. Perhaps we go to the village for a few nights, perhaps we stay, I do not know but I thank you for the news, and for the warning.’ He smiled and placed his hand on Bjorn’s good shoulder and said, ‘It was an honour to sup with Bjorn the Hunter. Now follow, I will show you the way. It is not far.’

  The farmer led Bjorn out to the horses. Once mounted, they rode down away from farmstead, following a path off into the trees while Old Ben talked.

  He talked about the local folk, the local game he had caught, his bad onion crop this year. He seemed to have a tale for every rock and tree along the path. Bjorn rode mostly in silence but listened to his host’s tales and rode onwards.

  The cart track went on winding through the seemingly endless pine forests that covered most of the northern regions. The track they followed, merely two wheel ruts along a well walked path through the trees.

  They had ridden perhaps less than half a league when Bjorn suddenly raised his hand, his talkative companion falling silent.

  ‘There’s someone coming. Horses.’

  They watched the forest ahead. The farmer began to speak but Bjorn sharply raised his arm again, and he fell silent once more.

  ‘Listen,’ said Bjorn.

  A small group of horsemen came around a bend ahead and reined in when they saw them. They were warriors but not dressed for war. They wore no mail. They wore plain clothes or leather under their long cloaks and had shields slung at their backs. One had a coloured pinion hanging from his long spear, his lord’s standard.

  One rider came forward and raised his open hand. He wore a green cloak trimmed with furs. His fair hair tumbled from beneath his helmet which concealed his face, all but a friendly smile. ‘Greetings, old friend,’ said the rider to the farmer with a nod, ‘and who is your companion?’

  Bjorn rode forward. ‘I am Bjorn the Hunter, in service of High Lord Archeon, and may I also ask yours?’

  The warrior laughed. ‘I am Kervan Staggat, these forests and the lands about Pinedelve are my own. I heard the famed Bjorn was coming to my hall,’ he said with a glance at the farmer. ‘So, I rode to meet you myself, well met, friend.’

  Bjorn nodded and said, ‘An honour.’

  The warrior continued, ‘We have met once before Bjorn, some years back. I rode in the hunt you led for Henry Kekburt. I was much younger then, still a lad. I remember you shoot that boar after old Henry missed it, a memorable shot.’ He removed his helmet and revealed his face.

  Bjorn remembered the boar and Kekburt, but he could not place this man in his memory. He smiled and said, ‘Of course, lord, I thought I knew your face from somewhere. Well met, friend.’

  Kervan smiled and kicked his horse back towards his men.

  ‘Come, friends. I have some good ale and mead. I would be honoured to host you. I hear you are wounded? I have a healer, I will send for her on our return.’

  Kervan and his men rode them back to the village, which turned out to be not much further along the track. The lord had replaced his helmet and rode up alongside the bedraggled hunter.

  ‘A nasty wound. You were wise not to pull it out,’ said Kervan. Bjorn grimaced but gave no reply.

  Kervan continued, ‘One wonders how such a thing could happen? So, tell me, Bjorn, what has Lord Archeon got you out up here for? You have no bags, no bow. Are you travelling unarmed?’

  Bjorn again recounted his recent travels hunting the beast and of his escape after the ambush. Although, he kept silent about his lone pursuer, he did not want the blame for being followed. The others riding behind all listened in as Bjorn told his tale, and the farmer Bennis nodded and smiled when the hunter spoke of him.

  The trees eventually opened out into a rocky valley carved from the ground like some great cleft and nestled at its bottom was the small village of Pinedelve. Little clusters of houses covered the valley floor each with small patches of ploughed land or animal enclosures huddled around them.

  ‘Pinedelve, friend Bjorn, my home,’ said Kervan as he led them along the track towards the nearest houses. He and his men shouted greetings to folk who had come out to watch as they rode past.

  Pine trees crowned the ridges above them as they rode further into the village. Kervan led the riders towards the long hall that was built on raised land near the centre. There were many buildings here, huddled around the hall forming a couple of crude streets. The folk they passed were mostly woodsmen and hunters. It seems that word had spread that a renowned hunter had come to their village, a small crowd had gathered to catch a glimpse of the man they had heard tales of.

  The man they saw however was haggard and dirty. To many, he was much older than they had imagined, his tangled black hair streaked with grey. His cloak was torn and frayed and his once fine clothes and face were covered in filth, riding on a tired dirty horse.

  Some of Kervan's men came out to take their horses. The master of Pinedelve led Bjorn up the wooden stairs into the long hall. As soon as he dismounted Bjorn watched the lord giving instructions to various servants, who scurried off about their tasks or trailed behind their lord into the hall. His men followed and closed the door to the curious rabble forming outside.

  CHAPTER Ten

  Hern’s Farm

  He stood staring into the water of the babbling creek below. His hands were still shaking. Arnulf couldn’t believe what his eyes had seen this day. He heard footsteps approach behind him.

  ‘M’lord, they still haven’t returned. I think something might have happened.’

  Arnulf shifted his gaze away from the creek below, to the farmstead in the distance. It was barely visible from where he stood, a small huddle of buildings nestled against the far cliffs. His gaze lingered there a while before shifting to fall upon the Waystone before him.

  The afternoon was late, the sun already hung heavy in the western sky. The towering ancient stone, known to the local folk as the Waystone, stood alone on a grassy hillock beside the old trail and marked the pass north back into the mountains. The old stone cast a long shadow across the trail that ran beside it. The road they would soon again take.

  His eyes traced the road from the small bridge he stood upon, to the Waystone, and beyond as it wound back up through the break in the cliffs and up into the passes of mountains. The huge cliffs of the mou
ntains nearly surrounded them, a great barrier of stone rose to the sky and went for many leagues in either direction. The old Waystone marked the only way up into the old passes, now rarely travelled and treacherous. The passes were said to reach across The Spine of the World, crossing the expansive mountains and into the barrens bordering the northwestern frontier of Arnar. Arnulf looked again at the farmstead in the distance. It sat upon a terrace of land at the foot of the cliffs to the east.

  ‘Arnulf?’

  Arnulf stared off at the distant farmstead without turning.

  ‘Where are they?’ he said finally. Arnulf scanned the moorlands and the farm track leading off towards the cliffs and the distant farmstead, hoping for a glimpse of his returning men.

  He sighed, and then said, ‘Look, Haf, the beacon, it hasn’t been lit’.

  The big man stepped forward and looked off up into the mountains beyond the Waystone.

  ‘I’m sure the men at the watch post are still safe. We slew them all, m’lord,’ said Hafgan reassuringly.

  Arnulf clutched at the wooden charm hung at his neck, and then said, ‘Aye.’

  He returned his gaze to the creek below. It frothed over the stones before disappearing under the mossy wooden frame of the old bridge they stood upon. Arnulf placed a shaking hand on his axe head to steady it.

  ‘How’s the boy?’ asked Arnulf.

  ‘He’s hurt bad, m’lord. He and a few of the others who were hurt are heading back for Ravenshold.’ He hesitated, ‘The lads asked me if we were all heading back?’

  Arnulf turned to the big warrior beside him. Hafgan was one of the biggest men Arnulf knew of, one of his own house-warriors, his best. Hafgan stood awaiting an answer. His face looked grim, his mail splattered with dried blood. He had removed his helmet. His head was shaved, and he wore a swirling inked design on his left cheek, hiding an old scar. Arnulf surveyed the big warrior. He alone seemed unshaken. Arnulf felt his spirit bolstered by Hafgan’s grim resolute face. He was glad to be in such company.

  Arnulf then looked back towards the straggle of men he now led. Several stood watching, leaning on their spears or shields, while others sat amongst the trees beside the road. They looked tired and forlorn. One sat clutching his arm rocking slowly back and forth against a tree. Arnulf nodded towards him and looked enquiringly at Hafgan.

  ‘He was wounded, m’lord, but he says it’s not bad. Looks like it hurts like hell though. He could have gone back with the others but…’ He hadn’t finished when a horn blew from the south.

  The horn’s call drew Arnulf’s gaze to the horizon. He spotted the glint of steel. A small host of men appeared on the brow of the hill to the south.

  ‘It’s Erran,’ said Hafgan.

  ‘And Fergus has come,’ said Arnulf as he spied the blue eagle emblazoned on the shields of the approaching outriders. ‘Thank the gods.’

  There were horsemen approaching, and amongst them marched the warriors and men of the villages and farms who didn’t own a mount but had shield, axe, and spear; Arnar’s proud warrior folk. There were a few amongst them, the house-warriors and sons of wealthier farmers and merchants–those who could afford the expense–wearing mail that shimmered in the dying sunlight.

  The men turned to look and some cheered as the approaching men spilled down the hill towards them. Arnulf spotted Erran amongst them. The young warrior kicked his horse into a gallop and broke away from the host.

  Erran reined in as he reached the bridge.

  ‘Lord Arnulf,’ he said with a nod.

  Erran was Arnulf’s youngest warrior, the horse merchant’s lad, but he was strong, and he rode well. His father bought him a sword too, a fine blade for one so young.

  ‘I brought the household men and a dozen others, and I sent word as you said.’ Erran turned to the approaching riders, and then dismounted. ‘Lord Fergus caught up with us by Bryrebrook, m’lord,’ said Erran as he turned back to face them. A look of concern grew on his face as he looked around at the other guardsmen. ‘What happened?’ asked Erran.

  The young warrior turned to Hafgan, ‘Where are the others?’ he asked. But instead of an answer, Hafgan waved him aside with a grave look as the other horsemen rode up and reined in by the bridge.

  ‘Hail, Lord Arnulf,’ called Fergus as he rode up between his outriders. Several women road in his guard, well-armed and in fine armour, Fergus’s beautiful but deadly chosen warriors.

  Fergus rode with no helmet and had a distinct long mane of thick red hair and a long beard he wore braided.

  ‘I came as soon as I got word, my old friend. My hall is close,’ said Fergus with a smile. His smile faded as he looked at Arnulf and his men. ‘What happened, Arnulf?’ asked Fergus.

  Arnulf looked up at his friend Fergus and said, ‘We have been attacked, men are dead. Hagen is dead.’ He paused and looked toward the floor to mask his grief before continuing. ‘We heard a bell on dead moon watch.’

  ‘A bell?’ said Fergus.

  Arnulf nodded. ‘Hagen took some men out to look. We heard his horn sound, calling for aid. We marched out in force to search for them.’ He paused. ‘We found him dead this morning. No sign of the others. We found other bodies, but they weren’t of our folk, just Hagen. He is dead.’ He paused again. ‘Then we were attacked…’ He trailed off.

  ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ said Fergus. ‘Outlaws?’ he asked. But as Fergus looked from Arnulf to his men, he knew this was not so.

  ‘They looked like beggars or some raving mushroom cult. But it could have been a disguise…or some foul trick.’

  Fergus listened on with a now amused face and waited for Arnulf to continue.

  ‘They were ghosts, dead men walking. We filled them with arrows, but they just came on. They tore him apart.’ Fergus looked shocked at this last statement. Arnulf looked away again trying to push the gruesome memory to the back of his head, and then went on. ‘The poor lad, one of my men, tore him to pieces. We slew them all, but there could be more.’ The men nearby looked at one another warily.

  Fergus shook his head in disbelief, ‘Dead men.’ He laughed. ‘You sound like you are the one who has joined the mushroom cults, Arnulf.’

  Arnulf studied the floor. He didn’t like feeling foolish.

  ‘Is he leading me down the path, Haf?’ asked Fergus, turning to the big warrior.

  Hafgan shook his head slowly.

  Fergus looked at them both, and then off toward the Waystone and the hills beyond.

  There was a sudden commotion erupting behind Fergus and his horsemen. The men were shouting. One of Arnulf’s guardsmen, the man who had been gently rocking back and forth, had leapt up and sprinted off onto the moor and into the maze-like tangle of briar.

  ‘Thom you cowardly bastard,’ bellowed Hafgan but to no avail.

  Erran went to mount his horse, but Arnulf placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Not now.’ Arnulf shook his head, ‘No, let him run. Stupid bastard dishonours himself. His father’s will feel his shame. I will deal with him, don’t you worry.’

  Arnulf watched him run and disappear into the trees. Some of the men grumbled disapprovingly but Arnulf paid no heed. Instead he turned to Fergus, still sitting on his horse, and said ‘I will ride back and search the passes. Will you ride with me?’

  Fergus nodded. ‘I will ride with you, Arnulf. You are the Lord of the Watch until winter. It would be my duty.’ Fergus bowed mockingly from his saddle with a mischievous grin, and then said, ‘Lead on, old friend. I would see your ghosts and dead men for myself.’

  Behind the great tangle of beard and red hair Arnulf could see the Fergus he had known as a boy. He had that same look in his eye he had worn since they were young. Arnulf felt a smile creep onto his face. ‘It is good you are here, Fergus,’ said Arnulf.

  Arnulf looked back thoughtfully toward the Waystone again and the mountains beyond, and then traced the cliffs to the distant farmstead at the end of the meandering farm track across the moor.

&n
bsp; ‘First, I must check at Hern’s farm over the moor,’ said Arnulf. He beckoned for his horse. ‘I sent men there who should have returned hours ago.’

  Fergus looked to the farmstead.

  ‘Less than an hour’s ride I’d say. You think they are besieged by ghosts and Grebins?’ laughed Fergus.

  Arnulf feigned a smile, and then said, ‘Well, perhaps we will find out.’

  ***

  They rode up to Hern’s farm in the dusk light carrying torches to light their way as the light faded. Most of Arnulf’s men made camp by the Waystone, to guard the way to the pass and await the wagons. Those who could ride accompanied Arnulf and the horsemen of Weirdell to investigate the farm.

  They followed the muddy farm track across the gorse tangled moors. Arnulf rode alongside Lord Fergus, followed by their sworn house-warriors who rode dressed for war.

  Fergus’s fierce shield-maidens rode behind him. Some had flowing locks of long hair whilst others wore their hair tightly braided and had paint on their faces. All finely armed, they were women it was wise not to anger.

  The warriors rode all armoured in mail and wore the sigils of their lords emblazoned on their round shields, Arnulf’s crimson axe and Fergus’s Blue Eagle. The sworn warriors wore swords and fine axes at their belts. They carried long spears tipped with coloured pennons; Arnar’s finest warriors. Arnulf and Fergus led twenty well-armed warriors on horseback. The small force moved in a loose straggled column along the track as they followed their lords across the moor.

  Hern’s farm sat on a wide terrace of low cliffs that thrust up over the moorland below but still lay in the shadow of the great grey cliffs above. Those cliffs marked the southern ridges of The Spine of the World.

  The path wound its way across the moor, running between thick patches of gorse and briar before falling into the shadow of the cliffs. Even in the evening gloom, they felt the darkness of the cliffs above bearing down on them, like riding in the shadow of a stone colossus towering above them. With their shields slung on their backs, and while carrying their torches in the failing light, they rode swiftly and soon reached the rocky path that led up onto the farm’s terrace.