A Ritual of Bone

by Lee C Conley

  Dragged behind the procession were chained men and women dressed in white shifts. Nym realised with a twist of horror they were to be sacrificed. They looked to be slaves.

  However not all. One amongst them had been chosen. One, asked to take the honour willingly. That girl who’d accepted the honour, stepped with trembling pride, the dignified fear writ on her face, convinced she would take a revered place in the halls of the dead.

  The others fought the chains to escape. Slaves who had no want to die. They were dragged onwards, kicking and fighting until resignation subdued their cries and struggles.

  Nym stared at the sacrifices in a morbid fascination. She focussed on the girl and tried to imagine what that brave soul was feeling. She looked terrified, thought Nym. But still, what drove each step onwards so calmly? Was it pure resignation or vigour of belief?

  A commotion by the stone arch drew Nym’s attention. Horses were approaching; it was the huscarl’s men. Warriors made way and cleared space through the crowd. Riding in their midst, a finely dressed man. She recognised him from the festivals. It was Huscarl Warrick, the king’s own man.

  Warrick wore a decorative leather breastplate hung with plates of steel, or perhaps silver, which glinted in the flickering firelight. He wore a fine helmet and rich-looking clothes beneath his lavish, but likely ineffective armour. A long fur cloak hung down from his shoulders onto his horse’s rump and Nym could see a sword strapped at his belt.

  At his side rode a woman Nym had never seen before. Nym was awed by her elegance, wishing instantly she could be like her. Her strong face was pretty, her hair braided and long. The woman held herself with a confidence Nym envied. She heard snatches of murmurs from the folk stood nearby, she picked out the word ‘princess.’

  The king’s daughter had come. Arn was less than half a league along the river from the port, yet she had never seen neither the king nor his sons. She had heard talk of them of course, she had heard of his daughters also. Nym wondered if she truly was the blood of the old kings and if so, which daughter was now approaching the ancient stones. Flanking the woman on each side rode two heavily armoured men.

  ‘Is that the princess?’ asked Nym, pulling on Jor’s arm.

  ‘Aye, lass. And Lord Warrick, too.’

  ‘Who are those two warriors with her? asked Nym in wonder.

  ‘Huscarls, lass, the king’s best men, like Warrick, but likely not lords like him, I’d wager. But who knows? I don’t know them.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a princess,’ replied Nym avidly watching the riders as they reined in.

  Jor watched the Keepers of the Dead as they busied themselves amongst the stones, arranging the old bones of renowned heroes on stone slabs. The young virgins of The Three danced and dressed ribbons about the ancient stones whilst the masked priests depicting their revered gods took up positions, each before the carved stones dedicated to their sworn god’s likeness. Warrick and his riders had dismounted and stood in places of honour before the central pedestal.

  The drumming stopped. The crowd fell silent as an unmasked high priest raised his arms from the stone pedestal at the circles centre. He was an elderly man but still maintained a strong vigour, emanating a fierce authority in his demeanour. He wore a cowled-white robe, his greying hair and beard both long and wiry.

  ‘Welcome,’ he shouted. ‘Welcome, brothers, sisters.’ He shouted loudly for all to hear. ‘Tonight, we honour the gods.’ He paused. ‘We evoke our ancestors to watch over us, to guide us. There is pestilence, we ask them to drive it away from our lands.’

  He beckoned to the drummers and they once again began their rhythmic beat. He signalled for the other priests to begin their rituals. Their chanting and song began as the high priest then began a lengthy oration, the metre of his voice booming in concert with the hammering drums.

  There were horses, cattle, and goats all being slaughtered, their blood being collected in earthen bowls and flicked about the stones by the acolytes and priests.

  His booming speech drew to a close, and he summoned the sacrifices forwards. There were three in all. Nym had never seen so many, not even at the winter feasts was there rarely more than one sacrifice. He spoke quietly now, Nym could not hear his words. The three were led onto the central stone pedestal and bound to the altar slab. The high priest signalled for the drums to stop. The crowd fell silent and seemed to hold its breath.

  The high priest raised a long dagger up to the dusk sky and dedicated it to the gods. He stooped over the first sacrifice. The man struggled but the high priest swiftly drove the dagger across his throat. There was a gout of blood, which splashed crimson across his white gown. The priest moved around the other two, slicing their throats open one by one. The chosen girl accepted her fate silently and with honour. Only one cried out in fear; the last. The shriek of terror was silenced by the dripping dagger.

  The blood of the sacrifices flowed over the central pedestal, staining its surface with crimson ichor. The blood was again gathered up in bowls. The priests moved around each other painting lines of blood on their faces. Then, moving about the watching crowd, they did the same to the observers, daubing a smear of crimson with a finger on foreheads. The high priest himself tended Warrick and the princess before moving amongst the others in the honoured place within the stones.

  ***

  ‘It moved,’ cried one of the acolytes suddenly. ‘It moved!’

  Jor strained to see. He could make out the pile of old bones arranged on the flat stone. Acolytes moved about excitedly, obscuring his view from a good look. He had not seen it move, but his eyes had been on the sacrifices. Oh, how he desired to see the bones move himself. A good omen, he thought.

  ‘The ancestors are with us,’ called the high priest, ‘They will protect us from this evil. It is a sign. The gods are pleased.’

  The drums began again and a woman began singing, a charged melody that resounded about the ancient stones. The carnival like atmosphere began to return as the sun sank. There would be a celebration about the fires in honour of the gods. A much-needed release from the worry of the sickness that weighed heavy on folks’ thoughts. A small feast had been prepared as expected at such a ritual. Folk had also brought food. Ale had been brought from the town. There would be celebration until the fires burnt low. Some began dancing to the drums beat, wheeling and laughing. Possessions began to be thrown into the ditches, gifts to the gods.

  Suddenly, people nearby were pointing. Jor craned his neck to see over the crowd. A man climbed from the ring ditch and staggered towards the stones. It seems he had traversed its steep sides and now stumbled towards the priests assembled amongst the ancient rocks, his arms outstretched. The drums dwindled away as all attention fell upon the man. Some of the acolytes moved to intercept him but seemed to recoil as they drew close. The man fell to his knees. Jor assumed he was pleading with them, but he fell to the floor.

  The princess walked forward from Huscarl Warrick’s assemblage and strode towards the stricken man. Her guards called out, but she ignored their shouts of warning. They hurried after her.

  As she reached him, the man had collapsed to the floor, coughing up gouts of blood. She knelt before the dying man and seemed to speak softly to him. The armoured Huscarls seemed to be anxiously warning her back to Warrick and his honour guard of warriors.

  A gasp and murmur of alarm rippled through the onlookers. Nym watched the noble lady giving directions to the milling acolytes. They hesitantly lifted the man and began to carry him off as he thrashed in his death throes.

  ‘Another sacrifice to the gods,’ shrieked the high priest, trying to maintain order amongst the scared townsfolk.

  The princess snapped her head sharply to the high priest. One of her bodyguards placed a careful hand upon her arm and spoke in her ear. She did not take her glare off the high priest. She said something in return to the bodyguard and allowed herself to be led back to Warrick’s company, seemingly furious.

  More gasps and calls of a
larm from the folk nearby. Jor turned to see the crowd jostling. Jor heard a man’s voice call out loudly. The man soon staggered forward into view from the parting crowd. Jor could see he carried the limp form of a woman in his arms. From the man’s distraught wails, Jor supposed it to be his wife. The limp woman’s shawl glistened red in the flickering flames, the crimson of blood still visible in the light of the dying day. He cried out hysterically pleading for help. The Huscarls guarding the princess levelled spears at the approaching man, but he just fell to his knees sobbing, clutching the limp form of his beloved. He was hurried away after the fallen man carried by the acolytes.

  Panic spread through the crowds. The high priest shrieked out assurances. ‘The ancestors have spoken. The gods smile upon us, surely,’ he cried. He beseeched them to see the ritual through until its end, cursing those thinking of leaving with warnings and threats of divine umbrage.

  ‘We are forsaken,’ someone cried from nearby.

  The high priest urged the drummers to reluctantly continue their rhythms. An oppressive chill of fear shrouded the atmosphere and sullied the jovial revelry. Some nervously continued the celebration, trying awkwardly to settle into a festive mood.

  ***

  Nym felt a strange and subtle attention and turned, looking into the crowd around her. She started as her eyes met a staring face, staring not at the ritual amongst the stones but staring straight at her. Nym looked away with a shocked gasp, but then slowly turned to look at her again.

  The old woman still had her gaze fixed on young Nym. She held Nym’s gaze a long moment before shifting it away. It’s her. Nym had seen her before. It was the old woman again, the witch-seer.

  She was old. She had long wiry black hair contained beneath a dark scarf that draped past her shoulders. Strange trinkets adorned her hair and scarf. The woman’s beak nose framed dark shadowed eyes which gave her a slightly exotic look.

  Nym had never even spoken with her but still Nym had noticed the woman several times these past days, watching her with an unsettling gaze as she passed. It made Nym nervous. She looked away fearfully.

  Nym focussed again on watching the stone circle, afraid to turn in case that old mystic was still staring at her. The high priest stood upon the altar stone, his feet bathed in blood. He called out urging folk to remain and honour the gods.

  Nym let her eyes be once again drawn to the princess. Nym felt an awed admiration for this glamorous woman. She had tried to help that poor dying man regardless of the peril to herself. Nym thought, that in her place she would likely have recoiled away from the sick man in fear.

  Nym watched on as the princess now spoke in earnest to Huscarl Warrick. She saw him looking around into the crowds before nodding gravely as he replied. He seemed to be issuing commands to his warriors, motioning to them that they were leaving. The Huscarl respectfully nodded to the high priest, and then turned to lead his entourage back to their waiting horses.

  A man pushed past her, leading a small boy by the arm. Jor seemed to be looking about uneasily. Nym could see that folk did not know what to do. Jor’s gaze lingered upon the sickly old woman coughing nearby. He drew away from her. She saw other folk hastily dumping their sacrifices in the ring ditch and pushing their way out from the watching bystanders.

  ‘We should leave,’ said Jor apprehensively, catching the uncertain looks on the young faces of Nym and her brother.

  ‘Boy, break open that cask, pour it into the ditch here,’ said Jor with a gesture to the pit before their feet. ‘We make our sacrifice now and get away from this. I knew we should not have come.’

  Nym turned to see if the eerie old mystic were still behind her staring. There was no sign of her. She scanned the faces of the surrounding crowd. The old woman was no longer anywhere to be seen.

  As she searched, her eyes fell upon a familiar face and her stomach suddenly knotted. It was him. He looked in her direction with a blank look. His eyes were reddened, he looked drunk. Nym couldn’t look away. Her stomach tied in knots. He was stood with a larger woman of middle years. She had her arm around him. Nym thought either his lover or his wife. She suspected the latter.

  Recognition slowly crept across his face as he met her gaze. He looked her over lecherously before his face hardened, and he turned away, pointedly ignoring her. A pang of sickening guilt washed over Nym as she regarded the woman stood with him. The feeling was followed by a flush of anger and humiliation.

  Jor seized her arm and said, ‘Come, lass, we are going.’

  She was glad to be distracted from her thoughts and escape the uncomfortable proximity of this contemptible man as she allowed herself to be led away by the old tavern keeper.

  They pushed through the loitering townsfolk and hurried back towards the stone archway. Other townsfolk scurried back along the track through the darkening groves. The sun had set below the hills and the gloom of night closed in. Behind them, the ring of stones was silhouetted against the orange glow of the bonfires. The drums echoed down through the trees, their timbre becoming hollow in the growing distance.

  Nym looked up to a bright crescent of moon, which hung in the encroaching night sky. The sliver of moon looked framed by the illuminated edges of clouds overhead. She noted the first stars had begun faintly twinkling through the breaks of cloud above.

  Jor hurried along the track with his cloak wrapped about him. Finn trailed in his wake. Finn threw longing glances back towards the ruddy glow of bonfires behind him as he wheeled Jor’s empty barrow along the stony path. Nym knew he wanted to go back to the excitement of the drums and feasting.

  They passed under the ancient stone lintel of the monolithic archway. Nym looked back through the archway into that realm of ghosts and gods. She hoped to catch a final glimpse of her mother’s face somewhere in the shadows, looking back at her. Nym knew they were there somewhere and smiled.

  Armed men bustled into view and followed through the stone arch behind them. Forcing their way along the path, the warriors were clearing the way so the approaching horses might pass.

  ‘Wilhelm,’ came a shout from the side of the track. Darkened faces looked out from the gloom. Folk which had stood aside to make way for his lord’s horsemen. The other warriors jogged up the trackway bearing spluttering torches.

  ‘Wilhelm,’ came the call again. The warrior scanned the faces of the townsfolk he had just urged under the trees. A figure approached with a vague wave.

  ‘Jor! I didn’t see it was you,’ replied Wilhelm trying to keep his voice down. ‘Listen, Jor,’ he continued in hushed tones as the old tavern keeper drew near. ‘If you have any sense, you will get out of town. This sickness is spreading.’

  Jor nodded fearfully.

  Wilhelm looked about warily and continued, ‘Warrick is going back to Arn with the lady tonight. We’re pulling out of Anchorage til this blows over. If I were you, old friend, I’d get out, too. I must move on, he’s coming,’ said the warrior with a nod down the track. The sound of horses drew nearer.

  Wilhelm clasped his friend’s shoulder in farewell. ‘Stay safe, Jor,’ he said and jogged into the gloom.

  Nym heard his armour chinking as he moved off. Jor returned to her side as the horses were coming past. Two men moved up carrying torches to light the way. The Lord Huscarl rode at the front with the princess at his side, her guards close behind. Nym got a much closer look at them as they passed so close.

  Warrick looked younger than she expected, perhaps had not yet seen his fortieth year. His chin was shaven, revealing a lean face with sharp features.

  The lady’s horse trotted next to him. Nym could see the patterns woven and sewn into the princesses’ dress. She wore jewellery about her neck. The lady turned her head and seemed to look straight at her. Nym could not be certain, likely all she saw were shadowed figures standing aside for her beneath the trees.

  Several of Warrick’s men followed their lord, either jogging or riding in his honour guard. The last torches moved past, those carrying them, dis
appearing into the gloom so only the flame and glare of torches could be seen moving back towards the town.

  Jor hurried on, leading them back to the tavern.

  ‘I knew we should not have gone,’ said Jor absently as they he fumbled with the chain locking his tavern door. Once inside, he turned to Nym.

  ‘Lass, gather what you need. We’re going up into the city for a few days. I think Warrick has the right idea. If he’s not staying, then I’m off, too. Maybe he knows somethin’ we don’t. I know some people in the city. And you, lad,’ said Jor pointing a finger at Finn, ‘had best keep his hands to himself and keep your nose out of mischief.’

  Finn nodded vacantly. He looked concerned by their sudden flight from the town he knew. He had not really been into the city. Nym had a growing apprehension about not knowing where she was going. But still, it was a little exciting.

  They gathered a few small possessions and headed back out onto the street. Jor ensured the tavern was locked up, fussing over his chains before they headed off.

  Revellers and folk from the ritual had ebbed back through the streets. Some of the taverns they passed were open, spilling light and drunken cheers out into the night, the sickness forgotten with drink.

  Jor hurried on, unmindful of the loss of profit, instead driven by the fear of Wilhelm’s warning. Jor feared the roads could get closed and they would be trapped amongst the pestilence.

  The aging tavern keeper led them towards the old wooden bridge leading to the northern district of Anchorage. It spanned one of the small river channels that flowed through the port town out into the great delta river. The small channels were used as sewers and reeked of fish and foul effluence.

  Their route took them into the merchant’s quarter. A more prosperous part of Anchorage than the docksides she grew up in, the home of merchants and wealthier folk. They passed workshops and closed up trader stalls and made their way up the main street towards the north gate.