A Ritual of Bone

by Lee C Conley

  ‘I pray you don’t have to, lord,’ ventured Hafgan. ‘But look around, a town full of people make the same claims, dozens lie dead or are missing, trusted warriors swear it upon the honour of Arnar and the gods themselves.’ He paused. ‘Let my lord ride south and get news to the king. Let him take this before the king and hear what the College have to say on this.’

  Angus frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘Please, lord,’ said Arnulf, ‘I cannot bear to be here. Aeslin, my little girl, Idony, they were in that hall. They are with the gods.’ He paused, stricken with grief. ‘I cannot bear to be reminded of it every moment of the day. Let me be away for a time. My son will be here, Engle, and Haf also.’

  ‘No, lord, my place is at your side,’ cut in Hafgan.

  Arnulf nodded gratefully.

  ‘You were not expected to be back here `til after the snows clear, lord. I can manage,’ offered Engle. ‘The hall should be rebuilt by your return, and your seat will be waiting. Ewolf will be here in your stead.’

  ‘Aye.’ Arnulf nodded.

  There was a silence.

  ‘Aye, the king must hear of this,’ said Angus finally. ‘But the watch posts must remain manned. See to this and I will allow it. You have done your part up there, Arnulf. All of you have. I will do mine and see these lands scoured clean of this evil.’

  The door of the guard room crashed open as a warrior rushed in. The sound of commotion outside followed him. A spine-chilling shriek rose over the cacophony.

  ‘Lord Arnulf,’ the warrior gasped, ‘come quickly. It is your son.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Vengeance

  Calimir closed the door to the guardhouse and turned. His normally meek demeanour slowly perturbed by a rising anger. He stormed away towards the gates, barely noticing the commotion erupting across by the far palisade. He was suddenly furious. He fought to contain himself as he walked.

  How dare they? Such absurd accusations against him, against his College. For sorcery! Absolutely absurd. There would be no substance to it. He knew the College could prove it, too. Sorcery is a thing of myth.

  But the sheer absurdity of it all had him riled. How could these men of power be so superstitious and foolish? He would see one of these dead men for himself and find the truth of the matter.

  He felt angry that they would test Angus’s trust in him. He had worked hard to prove the worth of the College. Angus sent a lot of gold and silver to the College coffers, and he had paid him well for his services. He worried that the high lord now doubted him.

  A pair of soldiers pushed past him in a hurry as he passed through the gates. They hurried towards the raised voices and shouts. It was likely some drunken fight and of no concern to him.

  He noticed a small group of townsfolk stared at him as he descended from the gate. He waved but received only icy stares in return. Many of the townsfolk still sheltered on the slopes of the Motte, too scared to return to their homes. They had set up a rambling sprawl of makeshift shelters, built from what they could find. Many folk sat huddled about, swathed in blankets and cloaks. Refugees in their own town.

  Folk whispered and watched him with suspicion. A sense of rancour towards the staring townsfolk did nothing to improve his mood. He had done nothing but try to help these people since his arrival. He perhaps had come across slightly condescending, or even mocking, while listening to the accounts of those few townsfolk he had spoken with earlier. They had obviously been fooled by a clever rouse.

  The dead don’t walk.

  The attention on him intensified as he passed amongst the townsfolk. He began to feel uncomfortably self-conscious as he made his way back to Angus’s wagons. Folk stopped their conversations to watch him pass. Others were pointing him out and whispering amongst themselves. It was more than the mistrust of a stranger. He was beginning to feel distinctly unwelcome.

  He was in no mood for these superstitious fools. The College was the very centre of knowledge and study in these lands. Now these folk stare at him as if knowledge is something not to be trusted – the backward fools.

  He found the wagon where he had stowed his belongings. As he rummaged through a bag, someone knocked into him as they passed and sent him sprawling to the floor.

  ‘Watch where you stand,’ came a spiteful voice. ‘You’re not welcome here, sorcerer.’ The last word dripping with vehemence.

  The two men went on their way and joined another group, who all stood nearby, watching him menacingly.

  An old woman cackled at him from amongst them, ‘You and your College will pay for this, you little bastard.’ She pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘Murderers,’ she shrieked before being bundled away by a younger woman.

  He quickly rose to his feet and fumbled in the wagon. He took out a wine skin and his pack and hurried off. He went to join the safety and more familiar company of Angus’s warriors. They, at least, treated him no different from normal and offered him a measure of protection from these idiot townsfolk.

  He sat on the grass slope not far from the cookfire of some of Angus’s weary and foot-sore men. Looking about, he could see unfriendly eyes still lingered upon him.

  He twisted the cap off his wine skin and took a deep drink, ignoring the unwanted attention. His anger had subsided into a more anxious fear. These folk truly seemed hostile towards him. Many had lost loved ones, they needed someone to blame.

  He sighed and stared into the low flickering flames of the cookfire. The wine was good, from the Telik traders in Eymsford. He took another deep draught.

  The gloom of dusk was encroaching. Angus’s warriors seemed a little less lively than normal, the dark mood of the town smothering their usual cheer. Most of them paid him no notice and left him to his wine as he tried his best not to be noticed.

  The pair of men who had knocked him to the floor at the wagons lingered nearby, trying to intimidate him. They were doing a fine job of it, too. They moved between clusters of townsfolk, talking and throwing spiteful looks in his direction. They pointed him out to some of the Motte’s guardsmen. Even they turned to throw hateful glares at him.

  Calimir sank low against the grassy bank of the Motte and covered himself in his cloak. He took a long drink from his wineskin and looked up into the clouds. The dark smoke from the burnt hall rose up high into the sky and dispersed into the clouds overhead. The wine helped him slip into a light and uneasy sleep.

  A hand clamped suddenly over his mouth. He awoke in shock and tried to call out. His cries were muffled by the tight grip over his face. It was dark.

  ‘You make a sound and I’ll slit your throat right here and now,’ said a harsh, whispered voice in his ear.

  The terrified scholar was pulled to his feet. He struggled to get free. He felt the cold touch of steel press against his throat. He froze in terror.

  ‘He ain’t coming quietly,’ rasped another hushed voice.

  ‘Aye.’

  Calimir felt a sharp blow to the back of his head, and then nothing as he fell into dark unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Dolmen’s Eyes

  He was roused from his rest by a chill gust of wind. It was dark. He pulled his blanket closer around him. He found himself still laid in the back of the wagon. His eyes slowly adjusted to his dark surroundings. The motionless wagon appeared to be surrounded in a swirling ethereal mist.

  He thought it strange and sat up. The wind still gusted against him but it made no disturbance in the strange mist. Strange indeed, he thought. He pushed himself up with the butt of Logan’s staff and looked around the campsite with nervous curiosity.

  The fire had burnt down, but he could make out the campsite around the wagon. It was night, and several hours until dawn, yet the white of the mist offered a strange illumination to the gloom.

  His companion laid on the floor on a ground sheet. The hired sword slept motionless, covered in his cloak. The apprentice did not want to wake him.

  He stepped down from the wagon.
His hair was blown about by the strong gusting wind, yet the wind made no mark on the strange mist that hung thick in the air. The breeze was strangely silent. The surrounding night was shrouded in an eerie quiet.

  Looking out into the gloom beyond their cooling hearth-fire, he could make out strange shapes though the mist. He began to curiously wander towards them. Ancient stone menhirs emerged from the rolling fog.

  He had not noticed any such stones when they had stopped the wagon to strike camp. Nor had he noticed any trees nearby the road, yet there were evidently trees growing amongst the old stones. It gave him an odd feeling. The menhirs reminded him of those around the mounds and eerie ruins back up in the passes. He felt glad to be away from that cold place.

  He wandered further between the stones, every step taking him further from the wagon. He continued onwards, looking into the misty murk between the trees.

  He examined the strange old stones as they loomed out at him through the haze. He stopped before one such stone and touched the cold rock of its surface. Up close, he could feel that there seemed to be traces of a faded patterning, which had once been carved into the old menhir.

  Oh, how his master, and certainly Logan, too, would love to see these stones for themselves. He decided he would return to further examine some of the stones in the dawn light. He could perhaps record some of these strange markings. He was certain the masters would appreciate such an endeavour. The hired sword would grumble at the delay, but despite his intimidating grim nature, he was still in the employ of the College. He would have to indulge the apprentice’s work.

  As the apprentice absently ran his hand over the faint carvings, his thoughts turned to Truda and his masters. He had enjoyed the company of Master Logan’s apprentice. He missed Truda. It would be very good to talk with her again, to see her face, her quick smile and her wry eyes. He thought of her for a lengthy moment and sighed.

  He longed for the familiar company of his colleagues. The hired sword had been solemn company on the road, as if the man resented having him along. The apprentice was not unaware of his burden on the man’s workload. He did not feel good for much of anything other than sitting in the bumpy wagon and resting his broken leg.

  It was then he suddenly realised, his leg barely felt any pain. He walked for dozens of metres but had not considered his leg once. He still walked using Logan’s staff, but he had walked all this way from the wagon with both his legs, almost forgetting the injury. The normally shooting agony of walking had been replaced with only a dull ache. The splint Logan and his master had set was obviously working.

  He hoped they were not far behind. After all, the masters had completed much of their work, otherwise he would not have been sent back ahead of them with a wagon full of reports and findings. The apprentice knew his master, Eldrick, had all but completed his work, as had Logan weeks prior, but still he seemed preoccupied with yet another few rituals. His master had felt something was unfinished yet knew not what it was. The apprentice had often lately heard him mumble how close he was. Almost obsessively his master had insisted on more time, eager to stay a little longer yet to see his work through.

  The apprentice hoped his master’s work had not been slowed by his own departure. He had not completed several of his studies for Eldrick. He had not finished his moon observations. The very study he had been engaged in when he fell and broke his leg.

  Suddenly reminded, he looked up to search the night sky. The silver shimmer of moonlight betrayed its position in the sky through the strange mist.

  He had done his best to continue to chart his observations whilst on the road, despite his absence. He hoped the work would perhaps still be useful to his master when he returns. Each night since his departure he had observed the moon. Its shape noted and its position charted. He recorded his findings as best he could in the back of the bumpy wagon.

  With a weird shock that struck the pit of his stomach, he noticed it was the wrong shape. He knew the moon was waxing, the dead moon had been some nights past now. Only yesterday, it had been merely a slim waxing crescent. Through the mists above he became bewildered at how it could look such as strange shape?

  A chill ran down his spine. He had never seen such a moon. It felt un-natural and made him apprehensive. The more he stared up at it, the more it resembled a terrible eye, peering down upon him through the mist and wind.

  He heard a twig break off in the gloom. He felt a pang of panic and looked into the swirling mist. Dark shapes of what he hoped were other standing stones stood looming through the fog. He could make out the nearby trees growing amongst them.

  That dreadful sense of being watched crept over him. It made him shudder. He hoped it was just the buffeting of this strange and silent wind against his face, or perhaps the watchful eye of that strange moon glaring through this eerie mist which had him so spooked.

  He thought it best to begin to make his way back to the wagon. He should have known it to be unwise to go venturing off from the wagon at night.

  The apprentice turned to retrace his steps through the menhirs and back to the wagon. As he walked, the apprentice worried about what his grim companion could do if he got himself lost. The hired sword would likely be glad to wash his hands of his crippled burden. He might not even look for him if he found him gone in the morning and quickly move on.

  He flicked nervous glances up at the watching moon. The luminous eye watched his every step. It stared down at him. His fearful mind gave it a terrible vulpine quality with definite vertically elliptical pupils. He felt its glare bearing down at him from the sky whilst exuding a spiteful malice, which was unsettling. His imagination played upon him. He thought he saw it blink slowly as he was looking away.

  He found himself slightly afraid. Glancing around nervously at every night-time sound he heard through the mist. He quickened his pace.

  He walked for several long minutes using Logan’s staff to steady himself in the darkness. Surely, he should have come out from amongst the strange stones and found the wagon by now. He felt a sudden surge of panic, and he realised he had likely gotten himself lost.

  The apprentice cursed under his breath. How could he have allowed himself to be this stupid? He was certain he had come from this direction. He must have wandered farther than he thought. He continued onwards, hoping the wagon was just up ahead.

  A sudden crack of a broken twig startled him. It was much closer this time. His heart leapt into his mouth, and he scanned the swirling tendrils of mist where the sound had come from. Nothing.

  His panic swelled in his belly, and he hurried onwards. He felt himself shake with fear. He felt very alone. He wished Truda was here. She never seemed afraid, never shaken, even at his master’s more grizzly studies or at being sent off across the borders to war torn lands to gather subjects for Eldrick’s work. He remembered how she would often laugh at his anxious temperament. It would be a welcome laugh right now in this dark place.

  The apprentice stopped as he thought he heard someone call his name. He listened. Nothing, just the eerie silence of the mist.

  He heard it again. It was a voice he knew. It was Truda’s. Relief and excitement lifted him as his hurried onwards towards the voice.

  They had caught up, he thought. The others must have caught up and found the wagon.

  He heard his name again. It seemed distant and hard to place.

  ‘Truda, I’m here,’ he called out, ‘

  He knew they must be looking for him.

  ‘I’m here,’ he called, ‘Where are you?’

  He hurried onwards.

  He stumbled into an open clearing and found himself amongst a circle of the standing stones. The mist seemed clearer here. At its centre, a huge dolmen loomed out of the gloom.

  The ancient structure consisted of several upright stones, which supported a large flat horizontal capstone. The single chamber it created yawned open and was full of a darkness his eyes were unable to penetrate. The apprentice had studied something similar back
at the ruins with Logan. He had said they were likely some sort of important tomb. The scope of the engineering required to create such a monument was impressive, thought the apprentice.

  He spotted a figure moving slowly by the ancient dolmen. A dark figure in a long flowing robe moved silently through the mist. The apprentice could not see any features through the gloom.

  ‘Truda?’ he called and moved closer.

  The figure halted, and its hooded face slowly swung to regard him. A deep darkness from beneath its hood stared back at him.

  He gradually slowed to a standstill. It did not look like Truda.

  The apprentice’s blood froze as he stood staring into the dark hood of the robed figure. It did not move. It just stared in silence, looking strangely hunched and peering up from a near crouch.

  The apprentice took a step back. The figure started to move, only slowly, but it began to raise its arm. He froze. The robed figure pointed straight at him.

  The apprentice was terrified. He stood petrified, his heart pounding in his chest. His feet would not allow him to move.

  Something appeared from fog around him.

  He found himself confronted with dozens of glaring eyes staring at him through the mist. He gasped, looking around the menhirs surrounding him. The eyes glowed with a rich malevolence and watched him hungrily. Some seemed only yards away. They surrounded him, lurking in the thick fog beyond the ring of stones, yet whatever bore them seemed obscured by swirling tendrils of mist.

  With a feeling of dread, he slowly turned his attention back to the cloaked figure. It stood silent staring at him. His heart jumped as he realised it was closer. It now stood in the open ground between the dolmen and him. He had not seen it move.

  It looked motionless and just stood staring intently at him. Still, he could not penetrate the darkness beneath its hood. It had no face. He thought he heard his name whispered from the mist about him. His eyes darted about trying to place it.