A Ritual of Bone

by Lee C Conley

  Without warning, the dark figure rushed headlong towards him, screeching an awful keening wail. Its robes billowed out as it glided horribly at a terrifying speed.

  Beneath the robes, the apprentice glimpsed glistening black limbs which were slender and terrible, inhuman. Its ribs protruded prominently beneath the stretched black skin of its abdomen.

  It approached with the skittering determination of some dreadful spider. A pair of those familiar vulpine eyes now glared out from darkness of the hood, boring into his soul and eating what warmth dwelt within him.

  A fiendish grotesque skull-like face revealed itself from the darkness of the hood, an awful toothy maw agape. He caught a glimpse of curved horns jutting from beneath the flapping hood as it rushed towards him. The malevolent eyes glowed bright like a burning flame.

  The apprentice screamed and tried to run. His limbs seemed to be mired in an infuriating slowness. He felt ensnared in a horrifying slow motion as the dark creature hurtled towards him.

  It was upon him. He screamed in terror and levelled a desperate blind kick in hopeless defence as it bore down onto him.

  ***

  With a lurching kick into the side of the wagon, he awoke himself screaming out in agony. The apprentice clutched at his leg trying to suppress the pain by cradling it tightly. The shooting burst of excruciating pain dulled, and then throbbed again with another flash of agony. He gritted his teeth as waves of pain washed over his ankle. He rolled about in the back of the wagon, holding his leg.

  He could feel the splint against his leg giving way as he moved. He may have broken it. There was the sharp and ferrous taste of blood in his mouth. He had bitten his tongue as he clamped his teeth down hard and clenched them together during the surges of pain. The apprentice cursed angrily.

  He snatched up Logan’s staff from where it laid beside him and pushed himself upright. The panic of being chased still had his heart pounding in his chest and his breathing heavy. It had only been a dream. A terrible dream, yet it had felt so real. He felt a cold sweat cooling his skin, it made him shiver. His dream left a lingering sense of unease which he couldn’t shake, as if someone was staring at him even now. He looked around.

  ‘Bad dreams again, boy?’ asked a derisive voice from the front of the wagon. Bronas turned to regard him with a spiteful smirk.

  The feeling of panic slowly subsided. The apparitions of his nightmare were already fading from his memory in the light of day, replaced by a feeling of growing foolishness.

  The abashed apprentice felt instantly irritable from the embarrassment and throbbing pain in his leg. He gave no reply to the hired sword, just returning an angry glare.

  The apprentice busied himself examining the splint reinforcing his broken leg. He had certainly broken it. One of the shafts straightening his leg had splintered, and the binding which lashed it all together seemed loose. He cursed again.

  ‘You were calling out and thrashing about back there. Looked like you were having another bad dream,’ continued the hired sword. ‘Must have woke yourself when you kicked the side of the wagon,’ said Bronas, amused.

  The apprentice was annoyed by this obvious and completely unsympathetic remark from his companion.

  ‘It was probably the pain of my leg disturbing my sleep,’ said the apprentice sheepishly. ‘I don’t remember any dream.’

  The hired sword grunted and turned back to his reins.

  ‘I thought we might have stopped for the night,’ continued the apprentice.

  ‘No, lad.’ Bronas laughed without turning, ‘You haven’t been asleep that long.’

  ‘How long was I asleep,’ asked the apprentice.

  Bronas rubbed his chin and replied, ‘I dunno, not long. Only an hour or two.’

  The apprentice looked up at the sun in the sky to gauge the time of day.

  ‘When will we stop?’ he asked.

  ‘Got a couple of hours of good light left yet,’ replied the hired sword impatiently.

  The apprentice looked out from the wagon and surveyed the countryside around them, fearing a glimpse of old menhirs or a strange fog creeping in. There was a long silence as the wagon’s wheels rolled along the muddy road. A lone Rhann slowly circled high overhead, its presence always an ill-omen. With its ominous dark wings spread wide and with scavenging eyes, it studied the landscape below.

  The apprentice turned to search the sky behind them. It was still there. It did not look much further away. But still, it had been on the horizon for two days now. A thin tower of pluming smoke broke the skyline of the western mountains.

  ‘It still looks like it is coming from the mountains,’ commented the apprentice, trying to lift the awkward silence. ‘Are you sure it is not coming from the passes?’

  ‘I told you, boy, nothing up there. Dunno where that is but that’s a big fire. Its somewhere closer than the mountains, a few days behind us now I reckon.’

  ‘What could it be,’ asked the apprentice.

  Bronas sighed as if he preferred the silence and replied, ‘I don’t know, I told you, and I don’t really care so long as it’s behind us and not in front of us.’

  ‘Could it be bandits?’ asked the apprentice apprehensively as he searched the roadsides for anything that might be lying in wait for their wagon.

  ‘No, not likely,’ said Bronas flatly. ‘Whatever’s burning is something big. Probably some dispute between lords, and that smoke means one of `em’s losin’. Looks like a village or a hall, maybe some outpost or fort. Then again, could be a lot of bandits,’ he said, and with the latter, turned to flash the apprentice a grim smile.

  Every bump sent a sharp pain spiking through the apprentice’s leg. He would be glad to get off these old roads and onto a ship. He felt exposed, just the two of them on a small wagon. They would make an easy target for lawless men.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked the apprentice anxiously. ‘How much farther?’

  ‘Still a few days out from Peren,’ replied Bronas. ‘You will get a ship there.’ He turned back to the reins and resumed his silence, ignoring the apprentice.

  Despite the hired sword’s assertion, the apprentice still worried for his colleagues. What if they met trouble on the roads? He clutched his necklace and watched the distant column of ominous smoke. He muttered a prayer to Hjort, to keep both himself and the others all as fleet-footed as the uncatchable stag and one step ahead of trouble. He grunted in grim amusement and it sparked a throb of pain. He would certainly not be fleet of foot and needed all the help the old gods could send him.

  Out of boredom, he idly ran his hands along Logan’s walking staff. Such a gracious gift. He did not want to think about how bad this journey would be without it. There were glyphs the apprentice had noticed, carved into the staff’s head. The apprentice did not recognise them. He meant to ask Master Logan about it when they next met, and he could return the staff with his most sincere thanks.

  The apprentice looked around and sighed. The wagon moved so slowly, barely faster than walking. There were still a few more long, bumpy, and painful days stuck in the back of the wagon. He hoped it would be more comfortable aboard a ship.

  He should have no trouble buying passage south to the capital for himself and his cargo. He had coin enough and documents of payment from the College, if need be. People knew the College paid out on these documents, and so they were as good as gold or silver.

  Already, he longed this journey to be over. He much desired for the comfortable and warm surroundings of the College and the city. At least he was thankful for getting away from the cold, damp marquee and the campsite up in the passes, away from those eerie old stones and ancient bones, and soon, this wagon and these terrible wet roads.

  That nagging presence still lingered. He had hoped it would diminish the farther away he got from those old passes. Alas, it still haunted him like a fell shadow. It prickled the hairs on the back of his neck, an uncomfortable feeling of something staring at him from some hiding place. It seemed always to lurk
just over his shoulder. There was never anything there when he summoned the courage to look. He shuddered and tried to force his thoughts away from the feeling and the surreal memory of his nightmare: That dark inhuman face with its terrible eyes still haunting his thoughts. It seemed to come hurtling towards him every time he closed his eyes.

  He tried to keep himself distracted. He tinkered with his splint, trying to reset and tighten the ruined thing. He did what he could to keep his leg healing straight. It was not looking hopeful. He did not have the skill of his masters, and the pain forced him to stop if he moved it too much.

  He did not want to have a crippled leg. He had seen the cripples begging in the streets around the College. They were wretched souls. He feared he could one day share their fate. And now the bindings of his splint were loose, each bump painfully resonated through his ankle even more. He did not know how much more of it he could take. He gritted his teeth and resigned himself to several more painful days and cold aching nights stuck in the back of this accursed wagon.

  Thought of returning to the College would have to get him through this. He had a feeling that portentous things awaited him at the College. His apprenticeship must nearly be complete. He and his colleagues would be hailed as most eminent and illustrious scholars upon their return, once the others of the College learned of what they had achieved. What power they had wielded over death in those forlorn and forgotten ruins. He was sure Eldrick could do it again before the council. His masters and, perhaps he himself, could even earn infamy in the pages of the Great Histories. He allowed himself a smile.

  The hairs prickled up on the back of his neck. He looked around, searching for the lurking watcher. He noticed a strange, gnarled tree growing on the hillside.

  For a fleeting moment, he saw a flicker of darkness out of the corner of his eye. A glimpse of a solitary figure, hooded with dark floating robes. It stood, staring menacingly. But when he flicked his eyes back to the tree, there was nothing there.

  The young apprentice let out a manic cackle. Bronas threw an inquisitive look towards the back of the wagon, but the apprentice did not acknowledge it.

  The apprentice could not understand why this apparition was haunting, not only his sleep, but now his waking moments, ever lurking at the edge of his vision. He wondered if he were simply hallucinating. Perhaps he was slowly driving himself to madness in the back of this wagon? Or was some dark malignant presence truly pursuing him. The apprentice dared not think on it. He sunk low into the wagon and trembled in silent dread.

  The wagon’s wheels struck another hole in the road. His leg exploded with agony as the wagon jolted his ruined leg. He sat numbly, barely registering the unyielding pain.

  He stared unseeing into the wood of the wagons timber frame. His thoughts wandered, his eyes distant. The apprentice thought of dark places while haunted by terrible, malign eyes.

  EPILOGUE

  The Road to Arn

  The morning light brought a heavy downpour. The rain lashed down upon the horses and their hunched riders, cloaks pulled tightly to keep off the weather. A cart rumbled along the road amongst the riders, its cargo lashed down beneath and concealed by a waxed canopy. A troop of armoured warriors rode at its sides as they filed along the east road out of Ravenshold.

  Hafgan reined in beneath the lone tree which stood by the roadside on the outskirts of town. Arnulf had glanced up at the tree as he passed but did not stop. Arnulf rode slightly ahead, alone but for the hound padding along beside his horse. The cart rolled past behind Hafgan as he looked up into the tree.

  The rope creaked as the limp body twisted in the wind. They had found him at dawn, hung from the neck with a length of frayed rope. The young warrior, Erran, reined in beside him.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ said Erran. ‘Haven’t cut him down yet then?’

  ‘No,’ replied Hafgan. ‘The high lord ordered him cut down. But they won’t come out `til this stops I imagine,’ he said, holding his hand up to the rain. ‘He’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Or will he?’ mused Erran grimly. ‘I wonder if they will find who did it?’

  ‘Not likely, lad. The guards saw nothing. Likely had a hand in it, too, but nobody is saying nothing.’ He paused, ‘Word got about, and will likely spread, too. The townsfolk have laid their blame. They’ve heard what the College has been doing up there. Calimir here has paid that price.’

  Erran looked up. ‘Do you think he was in with them up there, Haf?’ asked the young warrior.

  ‘Who knows? I doubt it. Probably did nothing, but that don’t change nothing. The College will still answer for all this. Arnulf will make sure.’

  Hafgan threw a glance to his lord. He rode with a heavy head. He had asked to ride alone for a time.

  A sudden roar erupted from the wagon. The covering shook wildly, clinking the chains holding its cargo in place. Wild, furious screeching emanated from beneath the heavy covering of the wagon.

  Horses escorting the wagon became spooked and shied away. Astrid fought to control her mount. She and Fergus rode at the head of the wagons escort, her shield-maidens forming a majority of the riders.

  ‘I hope he can’t get out,’ said Erran as he watched. His horse had become nervous at the sudden outburst.

  ‘He can’t. That cage is solid and he’s chained good,’ replied Hafgan. ‘We’ll get him south to Arn. The king can see for himself.’

  The covering thrashed as Ewolf fought against his chains within the cage. He screamed bestially. Hafgan hoped there was some way to reverse this curse. He felt a great sorrow for his broken lord. The College would indeed answer for this, but they could also be the only hope to save the lad, if he could be saved.

  Hafgan watched his lord a moment. Arnulf did not turn at the terrible sounds coming from the cart. He rode on solemnly.

  Hafgan frowned and turned back to Erran. The young warrior was watching Astrid as she rode past. She frowned at him when she caught his eye. The other shield-maidens riding with her threw him unfriendly glances as they passed.

  ‘I would leave her be, lad. She’s a cold one,’ muttered Hafgan.

  Erran looked at him and grinned. With that, he kicked his horse away from the hanging corpse to follow after the cart.

  Hafgan could hear the sound of hooves approaching up ahead. He took one last lingering look at the dead scholar. He grimaced and wheeled his horse away to join his companions.

  A patrol appeared ahead. They were returning to the Motte. There were half a dozen riders, the high lord’s men. The lead man rode up and hailed as he approached.

  ‘My lords,’ he greeted anxiously, ‘we just came back. I saw it. By the gods,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ demanded Fergus.

  The rider looked spooked. ‘A dead man, lord, walking.’

  ‘Where?’ pressed Fergus.

  ‘We struck it down, lord, but it kept coming. It was back up that way.’ He pointed off.

  ‘Did you kill it?’ asked Fergus, referring to the dead man.

  ‘I think so, lord. It still shook after several blows but did not rise again. I still cannot believe my eyes,’ said the horseman, shocked.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘We warned the first farms we came to, as we were supposed to, but some we found completely deserted. Something was not right. We found blood. We got out of there quick, lord. But the folk we saw, we told them to make their way here for the high lord’s protection. Many saw the smoke of the Motte and feared the worst.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Fergus.

  ‘I must get word to Lord Angus. Safe travels, my lords,’ he said before riding off quickly.

  ‘It’s spreading,’ murmured Hafgan. He clutched a pendant at his neck. ‘Gods save us.’

  Here ends

  A Ritual of Bone

  Volume I

  of

  The Dead Sagas

  A Note on

  the Dead Sagas

  A Ritual of Bone will shortly be followed by

  Volume II
: A Ritual of Flesh and will continue this epic saga of the struggle between the living and the cursed dead.

  Only valour and steel can stand

  against the rising dead

  I would like to take the time to thank you for

  reading.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lee is a musician and writer in Lincolnshire, UK. He lives with his wife Laura and daughter Luna in the historic cathedral city of Lincoln. Alongside a lifetime of playing guitar and immersing himself in the study of music and history, Lee is also a practitioner and instructor of historic martial arts and swordsmanship. After writing his successful advanced guitar theory textbook The Guitar Teachers Grimoire, Lee turns his hand to writing fiction. Lee is now studying a degree in creative writing and working on his debut fantasy series The Dead Sagas as well as also generally writing speculative fiction and horror.