A Ritual of Bone

by Lee C Conley

  ‘This is pointless,’ muttered the hunter his frustration growing.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ said Bjorn as he handed the knife back to the Wildman with a forced smile. He would talk at the savage anyway, even if he received no answer in return.

  The Wildman shook his head and pushed the knife back into the hunter’s hands.

  ‘You want me to have this?’

  The Wildman stared back blankly.

  Bjorn laughed, bemused at the gesture. He shook his head. He turned the knife over in his hands once more, indeed a thing of crude beauty. The firelight flickered and danced across the faceted surface of the worked flint.

  ‘A fine gift. Thank you, Wildman,’ said Bjorn sincerely. Bjorn regarded the stone knife one last time before tucking it into his belt.

  The hunter cradled his axe in his lap, ever ready for some sudden move. None came. Bjorn felt ever more certain the Wildman did not intend to harm him. After all, he had the chance, whilst the hunter had slept. Instead the Wildman had stolen silently into the camp and made himself at home. The hunter sat bewildered by the situation.

  The Wildman turned the rabbit once more and then, satisfied with the meat, lifted the spit off the fire and sniffed it. He offered the spit over to the hunter but the hunter waved it away. The Wildman began breaking off pieces of cooked meat and eating it.

  ‘So, Wildman, here we are again,’ said Bjorn conversationally.

  The Wildman, engrossed in his food, seemed to be mostly ignoring the hunter’s presence as he ate.

  ‘You are a strange one,’ continued the hunter. ‘Why do you follow me? Why track me for leagues when you could have simply slipped away? And then,’ said Bjorn shaking his head in disbelief, ‘still not fearing me, even after I had you staring down the shaft of an arrow, bow drawn, ready to kill you.

  ‘Do you feel you owe me some debt? After I helped you escape the others of your kind. After I showed you mercy? Twice now delivering you from Old Night’s grasp. You owe me nothing, Wildman.’

  The Wildman ate his rabbit as the hunter talked on.

  ‘Wildman…’ said Bjorn in thought. ‘You must have a name? Some title?’

  But how could he make this savage understand him? The hunter thought a moment, before rising to his feet and drawing the Wildman’s curious gaze.

  The hunter gestured to himself, pointing.

  ‘Bjorn. I am Bjorn,’ he said slowly, placing a hand on his chest.

  He then pointed at the Wildman, inviting the savage to respond.

  The Wildman stared back, cocking his head.

  ‘Bjorn,’ tried the hunter again, again pointing to himself, and then back at the Wildman.

  He awaited a reply, but none came, just a blank level stare.

  Bjorn sank back down and sighed.

  ‘Pointless,’ muttered the hunter.

  ‘Tung…’

  Bjorn looked up startled. The Wildman had spoken. It was the first time he had heard him speak.

  ‘Tung,’ repeated the Wildman, now bobbing his head.

  ‘Et acha ay imeeuw,’ continued the Wildman. The savage then gestured at himself and repeated, ‘Tung.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, friend. But now at least we are getting somewhere,’ said Bjorn.

  The hunter pointed at the Wildman and repeated the word, ‘Tung?’

  The Wildman bobbed his head frantically and repeated the word himself.

  ‘Tung,’ said the savage with a sharp rap on his own chest.

  Then the Wildman gestured towards the hunter and said ‘Jorn.’

  ‘Aye, yes,’ replied Bjorn nodding. ‘Bjorn,’ he repeated with his hand on his chest.

  ‘So, I will call you, Tung,’ said the hunter, settling back against a tree. ‘Perhaps, in time, you can tell me what you want with me, Wildman…Tung even.’

  The Wildman cocked his head not understanding the hunter’s words and now remained silent. After a few moments of silence, the Wildman again returned to his food.

  Finishing his handful of dripping rabbit, Tung rose to his feet, wiping his hands on his furs. He calmly walked off into the shadows of the hills summit. The hunter heard him scrabbling around in the rocks that had fallen from the hollow’s sides.

  ‘Where are you going, Tung?’ called Bjorn.

  The Wildman returned without attempting a reply, carrying an armful of stones, and dumped them beside the fire.

  Bjorn looked on curiously as the Wildman picked out two rocks and began hammering the two stones together, smashing a large piece with a smaller one. The sharp, rhythmic clicks rang out loudly from the hollow and echoed off into the darkness.

  Bjorn watched on, curious.

  ‘What are you doing now, Wildman?’

  There came no reply. The Wildman, he now knew as Tung, continued working on the stone, ignoring the hunter.

  With a loud crack, the Wildman split the large stone along some hidden seam. With another few skilful strikes, Tung shattered one of the pieces into splinters of stone shards. The savage held one up to the flickering light of the fire.

  Flint, he is working flint.

  The hunter watched as Tung worked the stone, skilfully chipping away at the edges, making another blade of stone. He was making another knife. Bjorn began to see the Wildman in another light, impressed by his apparent knowledge and skill.

  The pair sat for some time in silence facing each other over the fire, Bjorn watching the Wildman work on his knife. The Wildman hardly acknowledged the hunter as he worked. Except only occasionally offering more of the rabbit, to which Bjorn again shook his head.

  The silence stretched on, and Bjorn’s thoughts turned to his nightmare, still fresh in his mind. Those faces staring back at him out of the darkness. He thought of his father. A quiet man, he was a hunter like himself. He let his thoughts drift back to memories of younger times, hunting with his father in the southern woods.

  He remembered the first time his father had let him take the opening shot on a deer they had stalked all morning. How he had begged for the chance, and when the day came, he had missed his mark. His father was not angry, ever calm and patient. But Bjorn never forgot that shot, vowing to never miss another. Of course he did. He missed many times back then, but never once did his father get angry, even after many slow hours of stalking a target.

  The hunter smiled as he sat before the dwindling fire. Still he never forgot that first attempt, the disappointment, he was so desperate to make his father proud. That memory had always spurred him on to learn, to be the best, to eventually gain the deadly proficiency he was now widely known for.

  The hunter couldn’t fathom why his father’s face had been in the dream, perhaps witnessing the shame of his failure, his final and most fatal failure. Would his father be watching the day he finally went to meet Old Night? Would he have made him proud in the end?

  Sat watching the Wildman but barely seeing, another face haunted him more than any other, her face. Her sad eyes staring out from the gloom as he burned, as vivid as the day they had last fixed upon his. Those sharp knowing eyes that saw right through him, saw straight through to his heart truer than any arrow he could aim. He often thought of that face. Her enchanting beauty had ensnared him all those years ago, those seductive looks she gave him, how could he resist her.

  And was she still waiting for him? Would she wait all this time for him? He remembered the promise he made. He had not been to her. How long had it been? Years, too many years. He would have done anything for her it seemed. Anything but stay. He sighed. He knew he had been a fool every time he cast his mind back to her face. The face of a love that haunted his dreams once more.

  After some time of staring into the flames lost in thought Bjorn slowly began to notice once more the steady sound of the Wildman, still delicately chipping at the flint. Then the sound ceased. Bjorn looked up, his eyes heavy and weary. Tung held the flint blade up to the fire and nodded, making an excited whooping, the first sound he had made for some time.

&nbs
p; Then, taking up a discarded flake of the shattered flint the Wildman began scraping the rabbits pelt that lay spread before the fire. Fighting his fatigue, Bjorn sat up. Although he felt in no danger, he did not think it prudent to descend back in to sleep with this strange intruder sharing his camp. So, he watched, too tired to continue his questioning monologue with his seemingly taciturn guest.

  The hunter watched as the Wildman scraped at the discarded rabbit pelt. Bjorn was more than familiar with this practice himself and was curious to watch the technique the savage employed. The hunter would have taken the process much further, drying and stretching, a process that can take days if done properly. But after crudely scraping away the tissue off the hide Tung seemed satisfied and began to cut the hide into strips with the flint blade.

  He wrapped the stone blade and fashioned a rough fur hide handle. He then began binding parts of the handle with short strips of sinew he had obviously removed from the butchered rabbit carcass before spitting the animal over the fire. All done in silence as Bjorn had slept. How long had he sat there? Quietly sharing the hunter’s camp as he slept.

  The light of dawn had begun to show on the horizon when the Wildman finally set the newly made knife down beside the waning embers of the fire to dry out the handle. It had not taken long but still a good while to make – Bjorn was not certain exactly how long he had sat there watching the Wildman work. In that time, the Wildman he now called Tung had fashioned a tool, possibly a half-decent weapon, in the matter of only hours. The hunter watched on impressed, fighting off the encroaching weariness to remain awake and vigilant.

  Bjorn awoke with a start. He had dozed off, unable to fight sleep any longer. The fire had burnt down. The sun had risen, but it was still early. He had not slept long. The Wildman slept opposite the smoking remains of his fire. Not a dream then.

  Quietly gathering his things, Bjorn prepared to leave. He intended to leave alone, leaving the Wildman to his slumber and quietly slipping away before he woke. The hunter had no doubt the Wildman would follow, but he intended to put some distance between them.

  As Bjorn crept to his horse, which was tethered to a nearby tree, he heard a strange hoot. Sighing, the hunter slowly turned. Tung was now sat up and regarding him curiously. Bjorn seemed to feel the shame of a child caught in the act of some naughty deed.

  Hastily gathering his knife and the remnants of the rabbit, the Wildman scrabbled around making ready to leave. He rose to retrieve his spear leaning against a tree, obviously recovered from the ravine.

  Bjorn had been quiet, not quite silent, but still, the hunter could move like a ghost through the brush. Still he had woken the Wildman. The movement of his passing shadow had perhaps woken him? Bjorn could not say but something had obviously stirred the Wildman’s senses and alerted him to the hunter’s departure.

  Sighing, the hunter turned and untethered his horse. Reaching into a pouch hung off the saddle, he brought forth a handful of oats. He held out the oats to his horse and stroked the beast’s muzzle, talking gently as it quickly devoured the offering.

  He surveyed the road ahead. The muddy track carved through the hillside and wound through the low valley lying below to the southwest and disappeared into the distant trees. Another few days ride, and he would reach Old Stones and the waiting lord, Archeon.

  He swung himself into the saddle and looked back at the camp. Tung stood, leaning on his spear with his head cocked quizzically, studying the hunter.

  Bjorn nudged the horse forward down the slope and made for the track below. The Wildman followed.

  The hunter kicked his horse into a canter as he reached the track.

  The Wildman ran along behind the hunter’s horse, easily keeping pace. Bjorn was impressed. Tung then moved up to the hunter’s offside, running nearly parallel beside him, but remaining slightly behind.

  Bjorn found himself bemused by his strange and unexpected companion.

  Turning in his saddle, Bjorn called out, ‘So Wildman, if you intend to keep following me, you had best keep up.’

  Bjorn kicked his horse onwards. The Wildman made no response, his face focused and resolute. He did not falter. The Wildman simply adjusted his pace to match the horse and inexorably ran on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Fear and Smoke

  ‘Fear.’

  ‘Fear?’ repeated Fergus questioningly.

  ‘Aye, Fear,’ replied Arnulf.

  ‘What did you feel when you first laid eyes on him? Were you not afraid?’ asked Arnulf as the pair rode at the head of the stretched column of weary warriors, all eager to return to their homes.

  ‘Of course not…’

  Arnulf glanced sideways at his old friend and snorted in amused derision.

  ‘And it was his fear that likely kept him alive when his masters died. He fled from those things like any sane creature would—perhaps from his own dead master—and lurked afraid in those woods awaiting the arrival of someone…alive. Imagine it, the poor beast. His fear kept him alive.’

  Arnulf threw a glance at the hound as it padded along beside his horse. The great shaggy beast was wagging its tail and sniffing around, no doubt excited by the many different scents of the moor.

  Arnulf smiled as he watched the beast, it seemed calm, content.

  The weary straggle of warriors had descended the pass and now moved away from the Waystone, heading back over the moor. Each step away from the ruins and the eerie slopes of the High Passes noticeably lifted the spirits of the tired warriors as they trudged along the moor trail.

  They had left the remnants of the grisly pyre far behind. The pyre now marked Arnulf’s legacy of his first encounter with the dead ones. The body of the warrior, Olad, had burned along with the rest. The grim monument of twisted, charred limbs and desiccated black faces now stood sentry over the path up into the High Passes. The pyre stood as a dire reminder to the passing warriors of their nightmarish foe. Many amongst them perhaps hoped it had been but a terrible dream, a dream of insanity and murder, and of dead men that walked.

  The last of the warriors and guardsmen filed past the ancient Waystone. The monolith cast its ethereal shadows over the warriors as they marched past. The great carved stone, an ancient marker for the route up into the mountains, laid by the forgotten people of millennia past. It was now said amongst the weary warriors that the old stone was perhaps even an ancient ward from the evil that dwelt in those high forgotten places. All these years, the Waystone had protected these lands, preventing the sleeping evil from spilling down into the lands of Arnar. That tale would surely prevail given the recent events of the past nights.

  ‘So, you will name the beast, Fear?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘Aye, it seems an apt name, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose, as good as any. And as you’re naming the miserable beast, you intend to keep it?’

  ‘Aye, I think I will.’

  The great grey hound lifted its shaggy head to regard his new master. Its tongue lolled out as it panted, before running off to sniff at the base of a gorse thicket.

  ‘Rabbits,’ commented Fergus. ‘Perhaps it will make a good hunting dog.’

  The flame haired lord steered his mount around another thicket of gorse in his path. The thorned-bush had encroached over one half of the seldom travelled track. Its spiny, yellow flowered branches forming a formidable obstacle which Fergus did not desire to risk his horse’s hooves near. It was known, one of those long thorns could make a horse lame if it pierced the softer sole of its hoof.

  Returning to the track, Fergus reined in his horse beside Arnulf once more. Arnulf stared off ahead. Fergus noted his friends weathered face; he seemed worn, older somehow. It had not been long since the summer feasts in which they had drunk and revelled as they always had. Fergus had not noticed it then but now Arnulf’s once rich dark brown hair had become streaked with flecks of grey. His eyes were cracked with lines and they hung heavy in his weariness.

  After a moment Fergus spoke, ‘You seem
distant, Arnulf?’

  ‘Aye…I was thinking about Hagen and the others.’

  A moment of silence passed between them.

  ‘Hagen was a fine warrior. I still can’t believe he is dead,’ said Fergus finally. ‘I remember training with him when we were lads. Do you remember?’

  ‘Aye, I remember,’ replied Arnulf with a faint smile.

  ‘You never could parry that strike, remember? That rising strike would smash you in the guts every time,’ said Fergus with a grin. The red-haired warrior settled back in his saddle and stroked his long beard as he cast his mind back to his youth.

  Arnulf laughed and said, ‘Aye. The bastard was always so quick.’

  ‘And he could drink,’ mused Fergus, ‘was always a good laugh at the feasts.’

  ‘He was one of my best,’ continued Arnulf. ‘We fought together under my father’s banner at Aeginhall. He fought beside me. It was our first proper battle if you think back. He always kept an eye out for us,’ said Arnulf.

  ‘Aye, that was a good fight,’ replied Fergus. ‘He kept you from pissing your breeches you mean,’ laughed Fergus, leaning over and slapping Arnulf on the back.

  Arnulf laughed and threw a fist into his friend’s arm.

  ‘You’re a funny piece of shit.’

  They laughed.

  Fergus’s face became solemn, and he said, ‘I will not forget old Hagen. I know my father will be saddened to hear of it.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Arnulf, thinking of his own father before going on, ‘Well, my father awaits him in the Halls of Night. He will keep him in good company. They can drink together again, and we will see them all again one day.’

  ‘Not too soon, though,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Arnulf.

  He turned to look at the warriors trailing behind them. Hafgan rode close behind, his face grim yet ever resolute. Erran rode further back beside one of Fergus’s maiden guard, the two appeared to be bickering and disputing some proposed contest of skill. It seemed she would have him prove himself against one of their own before having the honour of sparring with their renowned leader. The young lad was no match for the fierce faced warrior, she had him flustered. She wore an amused look as she taunted him. Astrid’s other warriors laughed with her.