A Ritual of Bone

by Lee C Conley

  Wilhelm grunted in reply and said, ‘Aye, one of those days it seems.’

  The two warriors pushed their way through the crowd. The bystanders, flinching away on contact with the cold steel of their mail as the warriors pushed past them.

  Three men stood surrounded by half a dozen others. Two others lay on the floor, one writhing in pain, the other seemingly unconscious. They looked like sailors.

  The trio were headed by a large set man who was bleeding from his nose and hefting a broken table leg in his hands. His two companions flanked him, eyeing the encircling attackers whilst jeering and shouting.

  The lead man bellowed defiantly, ‘Come on, you dogs. Not one of you got the balls to take me.’

  He swung the table leg wildly at the nearest man facing him. The sailor dodged back out of reach.

  ‘As piss wet as Jarlson himself,’ bellowed the big man. ‘Ya fuckin’ traitors.’

  ‘Cydors,’ muttered Wilhelm.

  ‘Their civil war is now spilling out here, too, by the looks of it,’ replied Ox.

  ‘Not in Anchorage, I won’t have it. We’ve got to move.’

  Wilhelm spotted more men running from a ship on the wharf. The newcomers looked armed with an assortment of weapons, fish knives, hatchets, one had a heavy gaff. It was not immediately clear whose side the newcomers were on, but it appeared like this was about to get messy.

  Wilhelm could see more of his fellow warriors amongst the crowd across from him, also drawn from their patrols by the commotion. They needed to act and quickly. Warrick would be most displeased with such a breach of the king’s peace. A mass brawl and blood on the streets would not be overlooked. They would be cleaning the piss trench and scraping vomit from the floor of the mead hall for weeks if this went sour.

  He caught the attention of one of the warriors opposite and after an exchange of gestures between them, the patrols pushed out of the crowd and moved in to separate the brawlers. Only a fool would attack the king’s men.

  The flood of armed Cydor sailors running down the wharf, and the sudden appearance of the king’s men threw the scene into confusion. The trio in the centre seemed emboldened by the arrival of more sailors and began lashing out trying to break through to their arriving comrades.

  Wilhelm and the king’s men struggled against the brawling mob, pushing them back with the shafts of their spears. A handful of warriors with spears levelled, blocked the gangway of the wharf, halting the onrushing sailors and barring their path.

  Ox had several of the opposing crew pinned behind his spear as they shouted threateningly and taunted the remaining combatants. One of the battling trio, seeing an opening, took advantage of the restrained enemy and lunged.

  There was a flash of steel. The sailor buried a knife into an adversary’s neck. Blood gushed from the wound, the crimson ichor splattering over Ox and the nearest bystanders as the knife was pulled free. The stricken man made a terrible gurgling sound and fell to floor. A pool of his own blood slowly spread across the ground as the dying man convulsed on the floor, his life ebbing away. The crowd gasped and fell silent.

  ***

  ‘Hold it steady, you fool,’ said the old tavern keeper as he hammered the spile through the shive of the keg.

  ‘I may only have half an arm, but I can still stave your skull in if you don’t hold it steady,’ shouted Jor once more as he hammered the spile with his good hand.

  The poor drunk assisting him, who had only helped for a free draught of ale, had begun to wish he had not bothered.

  ‘Ha, there it is,’ said the tavern keeper, ‘Now, who wants a drink? Yes, yes, you`ll get yours. I already said as much, aye. Anyone else?’

  The tavern was occupied by the usual daytime crowd, a handful of regulars and the odd sailor. Most sat quietly on the benches around the central hearth, talking amongst themselves. A few others sat alone in silence nursing their earthenware tankards of dark ale. One man, plagued with a racking cough, sat trying to drink his ails away. It was quiet. Business in the taverns had been quiet the last few days, since that cursed ship had sailed in, scared off all the customers.

  The tavern air was musty and smelt of stale ale. The floor was covered in mildewing straw that was in need of changing. Wisps of smoke wound up from the hearth and out through the central hole in the roof, which other than the door, were the tavern’s only source of natural light.

  Jor struggled with a tray of tankards, his arm severed at the forearm. It made the job trickier than it once was. Although, over the years, he had become adept at balancing the tray on his stump and steadying it with his remaining hand.

  ‘Where has that lass got to?’ said Jor to no one in particular. He hadn’t seen the young waif all day. She certainly could be doing this for him, earning her keep.

  One of his regular patrons ran in and excitedly spoke to some of the men around the hearth. Several of them rose and made for the door.

  ‘What’s up, Seb? Something going on?’ enquired Jor as he watched his patrons leaving with purses heavier than he would like.

  ‘Proper scrap going on over the way, Jor. Come see. The guard is out sorting it and everything,’ said the man before he disappeared into the street.

  Jor had heard the growing commotion occurring outside. Fights were nothing new along the wharf front. But curious, he delicately placed the tray down on the bar and went to the door to watch from the doorway.

  It was all but over from what the tavern keeper could see. The king’s men were out, dispersing the watching crowd. The wharf had been closed off, but sailors crowded the jetties. A gaggle of men sat detained at spear point bound up in ropes. Others were being dragged away unconscious or wounded. There was still shouting as the king’s warriors struggled with a couple of the men, fighting on as they struggled against being bound.

  Jor suddenly noticed the body on the floor. Blood could be plainly seen, even from his vantage point. The door of his tavern was raised off the street slightly, it allowed him to see over the heads of the remaining crowd.

  ‘Oh, gods, the poor soul,’ muttered Jor.

  ‘Aye,’ said one of his patrons beside him as he too watched on.

  ‘Word is, they are all Cydors,’ said another, ‘Stupid fools.’

  Jor watched as the king’s warriors dragged the dead man off to one side and threw a sack over the body. One of the sailors had been shackled in irons and was being led away.

  ‘Seems we missed the best of it,’ said the man beside him, and then he turned and went back inside to his ale by the hearth.

  ***

  The street seemed busier than usual. She threaded her way amongst the passing folk, stepping aside for a man struggling with armfuls of fishing nets, followed then by a finely dressed woman carrying a basket. She stood to the side and watched the dozens coming and going, still clutching tightly, the chunk of silver in her hand.

  Another woman stood opposite, watching her intently. One of the witch-seers by the look. Her hair was adorned in trinkets, and the seer’s eyes were smeared with a dark paint, making her eyes bright and intense as she stared over at her. Such women were found here and there in every town, plying their trade in divination and selling strange potions for this and that. Nym had been to one once. The seer had read her fate from wooden cards she dealt out on the table before her. The woman’s attention made her uneasy, so Nym hurried on.

  Something was going on up the street a crowd had formed ahead. A man knocked into her, his face ashen and pale. He coughed hoarsely and stumbled on through the passing throng. Nym watched him disappear then ducked into a narrow side street, which backed onto the waterfront. She passed storehouses and small houses, and then came to a dishevelled hovel and pushed the door open. The door creaked as it swung open, spilling light inside.

  ‘Sister,’ came a young voice in greeting as she entered.

  A young boy sat to one side trying to sharpen a rusty knife on a rough stone. Her brother’s face had grown thin, his black hair hung greasy and mat
ted over his eyes.

  She came and knelt beside him.

  ‘Look what I found,’ he said, brandishing the old knife, obviously discarded and blunted.

  ‘You be careful with that, Finn. Don’t cut yourself.

  ‘It’s not sharp yet, still working on it. But I think I can get it good. Got us some food, too.’

  He gestured at some dried fish strips laid on a piece of filthy cloth and grinned.

  She frowned and said, ‘You be careful, little brother. They will catch you before long. It wasn’t the same one again?’

  Her brother laughed. ‘He can’t catch me, Nym. He’s too fat and stupid.’

  ‘What if he points you out to the king’s men and they catch you? They will take your hands or brand your face and sell you. Please don’t. I can’t lose you, too.’

  His face fell, her young brother looking crestfallen. He thought she would have been happy with his prize. She seemed angry.

  In truth, she was angry, at all that she had sacrificed this day for the lump of hacked silver she clutched still in her hand.

  ‘I could have bought us some food,’ she said as she slowly opened her palm to reveal the silver to her brother.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked accusingly. ‘You tell me not to steal, yet it’s OK for you.’

  ‘I earned it,’ she said ruefully.

  ‘How? The old man never pays us.’

  ‘Never you mind, little brother, but I didn’t steal it.’

  Finn eyed his sister suspiciously.

  Nym thought it best to change the subject. She stared up at the hovel. The roof had large holes in the reed thatching. In fact, the entire place was in great disrepair. The beams were rotten. One had fallen and rested an end in the dirt, the entire roof sagged on that side. The low walls had crumbled, the woven wicker frame exposed. It failed to keep the rain and filth from flowing in from outside and vermin scampered in and out at will. It would not be long before someone pulled it down and built a newer building in its place.

  ‘It will be cold tonight. It will likely rain later, too,’ she said. ‘We should go to the tavern tonight. Old Jor will give us something hot to eat, and it will be dry. I really would like a bath if he will let me,’ said Nym.

  ‘No, Nym. Do we have to? I don’t like going there. The old man doesn’t like me,’ whined Finn.

  ‘Doesn’t trust you, more like,’ replied Nym. ‘No, we’re going. I don’t want to stay here again tonight.’

  Nym looked thoughtfully at the knife in her brother’s hands.

  ‘Do you think you could get it sharp enough to slice a few slivers off this?’ she said gesturing with the silver.

  ‘I’ll try,’ replied Finn.

  The challenge set, he returned to sharpening his knife in earnest.

  ‘Good. Will be better in slivers, will go further. We’re heading by the weavers stalls first, I need something else to wear, this is ruined,’ she said brushing off her filthy shift. ‘And I could pay for a bath if the old man’s being off. You could do with one too little brother,’ reflected Nym.

  Finn pulled a face and returned to his knife.

  ***

  A warrior approached the group of men watching the aftermath of the brawl from outside a tavern’s door.

  ‘Move along, lads. Get back to your business,’ said the warrior as he approached.

  ‘Aye, we just came out to see,’ said Jor.

  ‘Nasty business, now inside you go,’ said the warrior.

  ‘Aye, looks it,’ said Jor waving his patrons back inside. ‘Just curious, Wilhelm. They won’t cause you no bother.’

  Jor moved up beside the warrior, and they both watched as the tavern’s customers filed back inside to retrieve their ales. Wilhelm eyed the men menacingly as they disappeared one by one.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ said Jor, turning to the warrior. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Aye, as good as I can ask for,’ replied Wilhelm, removing his helmet.

  ‘The gods have had fun these last few days, it seems. More death for the wharf front,’ mused Jor. ‘Perhaps it is cursed?’

  The pair both turned to look at the lone longship berthed at one of the docks.

  ‘Aye, so it seems,’ replied the warrior as he made a warding gesture towards the ship. ‘It’s called Glyassin. We think they brought the sickness with them.’

  ‘Folk are saying that it is cursed, that it sailed from Old Night’s own waters,’ said Jor in a low voice. ‘Death’s own ship they say.’

  ‘Aye, folk shun it. The harbour master said no other ship is willing to take a mooring at that dock. Nobody goes near it except the guards, but none are too happy about that duty.’

  ‘Aye, I bet. Is it true not one survived?’ asked Jor. ‘That’s the word here about.’

  ‘Not quite. All but one. We found the others scattered about, dead, blood everywhere. Not a pleasant sight, Jor, I promise you. Poor bastards.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, friend.’

  Something catching his eye, Jor leaned inside the tavern door and shouted, ‘You! Touch that keg and I’ll nail you to it.’

  Shouts and curses were thrown back at him.

  ‘Nail him to it? Ha, which you gonna hold? The nail or the hammer?’ came a slurred shout.

  Laughs followed.

  He turned back to Wilhelm. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered, itching at his stump.

  ‘One survived, you say,’ continued Jor, his interest piqued. ‘Who was he? Word about is all aboard died.’

  Wilhelm leaned close. ‘Aye, there was one,’ he said quietly looking about. ‘A foreigner, one of the rowing slaves.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Jor, rubbing his stubbled chin. ‘Did he say what happened? Where they’d been?’

  ‘No, not one of us can understand him,’ said Wilhelm, spreading his hands. ‘And I’ll tell you this, you must see him, not like any man I’ve ever laid eyes on, Jor. His skin is dark as tar. Never seen anything like it.’

  Jor, hanging off his every word, asked, ’What happened to him?’

  ‘Well, he’s been carted off to the College. They hope someone up there will know more. Perhaps one of them can speak his tongue.’

  ‘A dark man, you say, on Old Night’s death ship. Gods, I don’t know if I like the sound of that.’

  Wilhelm nodded gravely.

  ‘So, what they gonna do with it? The ship?’ asked Jor nodding at the cursed longship. ‘I imagine the harbour master wants it gone.’

  ‘I don’t know, Jor. I’ve heard nothing. But you’re right, folk want it rid of.’

  ‘Should cast it off as the tide’s going out. Set it alight, I say,’ said Jor.

  ‘Maybe they’ll do just that.’

  ‘Ahh, here she is,’ exclaimed Jor as he sighted the young waif returning through the milling crowd.

  ‘Where did you get to, lass? Got ale that needs serving. They might want food, too.’

  ‘Get that ale soaked up and get more in `em, I say,’ he muttered to Wilhelm.

  Wilhelm shook his head and threw the tavern keeper a sly grin. Jor chuckled.

  ‘Get on in there, girl. I’ll take their coin, though. I won’t be long.’

  Nym ducked inside, trailed by her brother. Jor grabbed Fin’s shoulder as he passed and said, ‘You stay out of trouble, lad, if you’re sleeping under my roof, you hear me?’

  Wilhelm eyed young Fin suspiciously as he quickly scurried in after his sister.

  Jor shrugged after they had gone inside and said, ‘I tell you Wilhelm, she’s a good help, does her bit. But I gotta keep my eye on him. A dead weight that one, another mouth to feed. Does half the work of young Nym there.’

  Wilhelm raised his eyebrow questioningly.

  ‘Knew their pa,’ explained Jor. ‘They come and go. I wouldn’t see `em out on the street. Besides, it’s just me here, and I need the help in the tavern. They don’t need paying, just feeding and a roof to sleep under from time to time.’

  ‘Ha, you do
n’t need to explain, Jor. She’s a pretty lass, aye,’ laughed Wilhelm.

  Jor felt slightly awkward and abashed at the suggestion. He was about to object but his attention was drawn to the street in front of him.

  A man pushed through the milling crowd and staggered towards them. People backed away as he approached them. He coughed hard, spluttering. He fell to his knees. There was a scream.

  The scream brought all eyes to fall upon the kneeling man. There were gasps of revulsion rippling through the street as people finally saw him. He seemed to be staring at Wilhelm and Jor, it was impossible to tell whether the man saw them. His eyes streamed with blood. He coughed again, dark blood frothed from his mouth, and he groped the air frantically before collapsing into the dirt.

  The crowd backed away. Even the remaining king’s men were reluctant to approach him, standing alongside the locals watching in horror.

  The man coughed and vomited and began convulsing violently, splattering blood about as he writhed. He froze in grotesque poses for a few moments before fitting once more.

  The street had grown quiet, all watching silently aghast as the man died. The dying man’s grunts and death throes were terribly audible in the shocked silence.

  Except neither Wilhelm nor Jor could not help but notice another sound amongst the crowd. They found themselves examining the onlookers. Looking nervously from face to face, neither could help but notice the pale drawn faces mixed throughout the crowd. The hacking coughs, which had once gone unnoticed, now barked throughout the eerie silence of the throng assembled before them. Were they sick, too?

  Another terrible scream pierced the air from somewhere nearby. Panic rippled through the crowd. There were shouts of alarm. People began running, hurrying away from the death laid before them.

  Jor cast a glance at the sinister longship moored at the dock, its mast rocking slightly back and forth. He shuddered. The aging tavern keeper could almost feel Old Night’s cold breath as he stalked unseen amongst them. Cold and silent strode the god of death, a grim smile upon his chill lips.

  CHAPTER Fourteen