Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  Marybeth’s journey to the Marshes had taken just over a day. It was a full day before she was to contact Rhact using Jon Slow. She cantered through Elmwoods, under a thick canopy of leaves. The sunlight fought through the branches and bathed odd patches of the floor in a golden mist. The nearer she got to the Marshes, the more infrequent the rays from the sun became and before she knew it the leaves had thinned out and there was no more sun. The ground began to soften and darkness engulfed her.

  The Marshes of Night were purported to be a bland, desolate area of dank vegetation and isolation. Few travelled to them as there was nothing to be found. One or two people who wished to remain hidden might hole up there for a few days but they never stayed.

  Marybeth, however, found the marshes beautiful. They were not completely devoid of light; the sun could still be seen but it was as if someone had put a cloth over it. Pools of water were calm black discs, where mists hovered, swirling languidly amongst the swaying reeds, giving the impression the Marshes were alive. Even the trees were mesmerising; unlike the tall thin trunks of Elmwood, the trees scattered throughout the Marshes had an ancient, mystical feel to them. Their thick, gnarled trunks twisted unnaturally.

  She dismounted and tethered her horse to one of these trees on the outskirts of the Marsh. There was little point in trying to steer a fully rested horse through the soft ground let alone one she’d ridden pretty hard over the past day.

  The face-changing man had provided rough directions towards the middle of the Marsh where the ground began to rise and the light touched the water. Looking at the swamp, though, the instructions seemed too vague to be any use. Where was she to start? Foxtails zipped around the Marsh parting the mist with their flight, whilst dragonflies hovered over the stagnant water and giant lily pads. As pretty as the area was, trying to find the Chamber was not going to be easy.

  She closed her eyes and reached out with her other senses, a skill Iskandar had taught her. Sounds were magnified. A frog croaked and then splashed into the water; farther away a rodent scurried in the rushes. She could smell the septic ponds interspersed with fresh spores as easily as a bloodhound. However, none of these fragrances or sounds were unusual or enlightened her to the location of the Chamber of Scrolls.

  Frustrated, she opened her eyes. She was going to have to wade into the swamp and search for an incline. She unsaddled her horse, extracting only the bare minimum she thought she might need, which consisted of enough food to last a few days. She did not envisage the search to take any longer than that. The Marshes were vast but not to the extent that she could not find all of its hills. Besides, she could not afford to be any longer as she had to return to Longcombe.

  When she had left the village, the residents had still been in shock. She winced at the dramatic nature she had approached Rhact, but it was essential for her to keep her distance. Her duty was to ensure those selected attend the Ritual, nothing more. By default the villagers feared her as they did all members of the Order. She was not sure how she felt about it.

  When the face-changing man had not displayed any apprehension towards her, she had been angry. She was used to people cowering before her. It made sure people generally did as she asked. She had not realised how much she had come to rely on people’s terror to get what she wanted. However, in Longcombe, the sight of the poor men and women looking at her in abject terror was not something she took pleasure from. She figured it was because this time she was the reason for their angst and not just her reputation. She was in essence a contradiction.

  She shivered at the thought and concentrated on the task in hand. Her first steps sank until she was covered up to her knees in wet mud. She winced as the cold water oozed into her boots. With each step she took, her legs grew heavier as more and more mud caked onto her. The search was so slow it was torturous. Occasionally, she startled a salamander, but that was the only real wildlife she came across on the ground.

  There was no way of telling the time on the Marshes of Night, but by the time Marybeth believed it was dusk, she had not had any success. She had discovered three areas where the ground rose up into something resembling a mound. Here the terrain was a little more solid but there was nothing to indicate an entrance to a hidden chamber. There was also no light shining on any water. She continued to trudge through the mud.

  Without warning, the wet sludge rose higher than her knees and continued to climb higher every second. She began to sink quickly and realised she had walked into drowning mud. She fought the urge to panic. She had never experienced drowning mud but she knew the worst thing to do was thrash around which would only increase the speed with which the mud consumed her. The witch took a few breaths to calm herself, her eyes frantically searching for something to cling on to. There was nothing. She closed her eyes and concentrated on elevating her body above the mud. It was a skill she had learned from Mondorlous. However, for some reason her powers did not seem to be responding.

  Marybeth pursed her lips in anger as the mud compacted around her legs, making it extremely difficult for her to move. The mud gurgled as if happy it was being fed. She stayed still which slowed her descent, but she still continued to sink. Think, you stupid woman. There must be a way to escape.

  She managed to hoist her staff out of the mud and lay it horizontally across the surface. At least she could hold onto it. The mud now compacted around her waist. In response, she wriggled her feet to ensure that she could still move them. Get on the staff, you fool. She took a deep breath and then pushed down on the staff, crying out with the effort. After what seemed like an eternity, she managed to hoist her body partially free enough to flop her back on the staff. She escaped the mud with a huge squelch. She lay there panting, sweat streaming down her face. A squirrel watched her from a branch high above.

  “Get lost,” she said, “hope the Gloom devours you.”

  The squirrel chattered and then bounded off. At least she had managed to stop sinking. Eventually she had enough energy to work the staff around under her, rotating it at a right angle so that it supported her hips. With another enormous effort, she managed to lift one leg out of the muck and then the other. They came free caked in mounds of viscous sludge. Dollops of black tar-like mud flopped from her boots. Relief washed over her. Still angry with herself for being so stupid, she paddled slowly to firmer ground, where she collapsed against a boulder. How could she have been so careless?

  She wiped a chunk of mud from her cheek and flung it to the floor. Lightbugs flittered about her, dancing to their own silent song. Their yellow bodies looked magnificent as they stood out against the red glow from the moon. She frowned as something inside her mind clicked. She was missing something.

  She looked at the Lightbugs again; they buzzed excitedly in their swarms. All of a sudden it came to her. It wasn’t the Lightbugs that caused her mind to tick, but the glow from the moon. The stranger had told her the Chamber was located where the light touched the water. If there was a spot in the Marshes where all the rays of the moons penetrated the trees, then maybe that was where the Chamber was.

  Energized by the possibility of this revelation, she set off, the tiredness in her legs forgotten. At one point she thought she had found the spot she was looking for. There was a small mound and the light from all three moons penetrated the surface. However, after searching the entire area twice, she realised the light only fell on the mound due to a fallen tree.

  Disheartened, she proceeded on. It was not long before she came across what she was looking for. There was a small clearing in the trees, where the light from all three moons reached the mound’s surface. At first glance the clearing looked like any other mound she had come across: the reeds sprung out of the ground sporadically; a dead tree trunk lay across the water that surrounded the incline and a film of algae lay across the surface of the water.

  As she got closer to the mound, she could see that the water surrounding it was clearer. The film of algae was in actual fact the reflection of the green moon. Abou
t half a foot underneath the surface, Marybeth could see a cobblestone surface forming a circle about four feet in diameter. Her heart raced; this must be the entrance.

  She tried stepping on the submerged surface but instantly slipped and landed on her rear instead. Once again she found her legs caked in mud and cold water. The cobblestones were slick with moss and algae making for a treacherous platform. Frustrated, she felt around the circumference of the concrete circle but touched only smooth stone. Puzzled, she straightened. There must be something to trigger an opening.

  She found it eventually within the fallen tree trunk when she happened to catch a glimmer of metal reflecting the moons. She thrust her hand in and felt a metal lever covered in the slimy deposit of the swamp. One yank of the lever and the water around the slab drained away as the stone rose out of the water in a column. It stopped after climbing a few feet to resemble a well.

  Her heart pounded. Up until now, she had not fully believed that the Chamber of Scrolls could have existed. The face-changing man, had been convincing, but anyone could be convincing. She had travelled to the Marshes wanting to believe in the Chamber’s existence but deep down she had still been sceptical. As the slab across the surface divided up into segments, each one lowering deeper than the next, to form a spiral staircase, she allowed herself to truly believe.

  Stone grated on stone and a deep rumbling could be heard underground amongst the burping and gurgling of the swamp. Finally the noise stopped and only one small triangular segment remained where the slab had been. She hoisted herself up on the circular stone wall and taking her lantern, sword and staff, descended the stairs into the depths of the swamp.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Marybeth found herself in a narrow stone corridor that curved off to the right. Water dripped from the low ceiling falling on old established puddles. Each drop echoed in the silence. The darkness in the corridor was thick, almost oppressive.

  A frisson ran down her spine. She stood at the entrance of an ancient place. A Chamber that no one had found in hundreds of years. So many years, in fact, that it was considered a fairy story. A myth that young children could invent imaginary games for. She remembered travelling with her father as he looked for work and watching some children argue over whose turn it was to choose what scroll they found that day. One little boy insisted it was his turn and the scroll they found would reveal how to summon a dragon. The boy had been dismissed by his friends but Marybeth thought his ideas fantastic and longed to play in their game.

  She took a deep breath and proceeded into the darkness. The ceiling sloped and forced Marybeth to stoop at first. She lit the lantern to get a sense of where she was. She was worried that it might have got too wet from her battle with the drowning mud, but much to her relief it had ignited on her first attempt.

  The corridor stretched out in front of her. Taking another deep breath, she proceeded with caution. The walls were mostly plain stone but occasionally there would be some crude drawings depicting the Gloom. One image showed the Gloom holding back several figures whilst men cowered before it. It was unusual to see the Gloom portrayed as anything other than a destructive being.

  “The Children of the moon,” Marybeth muttered to no one. She was surprised that they would have known about this Chamber, they were the only people who could have drawn the picture and portrayed the Gloom as something other than a destructive being. Their possible presence in the Chamber unsettled her, even if it was years ago. She continued down the corridor, but with the lantern now attached to her staff and one hand on the hilt of her sword.

  After a while the ceiling began to slope upwards again. Eventually the light cast from the lantern revealed the corridor narrowed to a small hole. Kneeling down, she saw the hole opened into a room. She looked once behind her to make sure no one had followed her before crawling through.

  She found herself in a circular chamber. The curved walls arched into a dome far above her head. A small wooden table and chair were situated in the centre. Portholes with markings around their edges lined the walls from top to bottom. The domed room smelled musty and for a moment all Marybeth could do was stare in awe. The wall emanated a sense of something ancient, of something long lost. Her thoughts whirled with the history that had occurred in this room. Who had built it? Who had known all of the secrets in Frindoth? Was the answer to her father’s belief contained within these stone walls?

  She approached the table. Carved on the top was an inscription:

  The scroll chamber:

  Seek the scroll relevant to thy cause,

  Take it swiftly, do not pause.

  Only the worthy will the Custodians permit the right,

  To borrow a scroll from the Marshes of Night.

  “Whoever the Custodians were, they were crap at poetry,” she said aloud. Still, the warning unnerved her.

  Marybeth looked about the Chamber. There must have been at least two hundred portholes. Her head swam with the discovery. All of these portholes might contain secrets of Frindoth that no one else knew. She approached the nearest porthole. It was large enough to get one of her arms through and depicted a row of ships in front of an enormous wall. The Edge, Marybeth realised. The Edge was rumoured to be a gigantic stone wall that towered to the sky and surrounded Frindoth and Lakisdoa. Very few had ever seen the marked end of the world and like the Chamber it was considered to be a myth.

  She went to put her arm into the hole and then hesitated. The inscription mentioned “only the worthy may take the scroll.” What did that mean? Surely there must be some sort of defence, otherwise, anyone that discovered the room could learn Frindoth’s secrets.

  “Take your time,” she said to herself, remembering the drowning mud outside.

  The Chamber was silent but that did not mean the scroll was unprotected. Who were the Custodians, as well? She had seen no one else since she arrived in the Marshes. Again, her hand went to the hilt of her sword.

  An idea came to her. She placed her sword in the hole. It went in about a quarter of its length before there was a deafening thud as it was crushed beneath slabs of stone. Marybeth jumped backwards, dropping the rest of the shattered weapon. She shivered at the reverberating rumble that echoed around the Chamber. At least her suspicions were correct.

  Her hands shook as she picked up the staff and moved on to the next hole. This one showed a pointed-eared beast sitting upon a throne. Beneath it were smaller beasts reaching their arms up to the beast in supplication. Marybeth shuddered and moved on.

  The next hole showed a fortress. It had a tower in one corner that was higher than the others by some distance. There were figures with pained expressions, on their knees and holding their ears. Another porthole depicted an army dropping their weapons and fleeing from ghastly figures that emerged from sand.

  All around the Chamber the drawings filled her with curiosity. She vowed to return one day and learn all of the secrets. She wondered if any of the other Order members knew of this Chamber. The face changer implied that Iskandar might. Eventually she came across a hole which showed the map table.

  Like the table itself, the detail in the picture was exquisite. The stones were scattered about the table in what appeared to be the locations they had fallen only four days ago. “Surely not,” she whispered. But the more she studied the picture the more she realised it was. There were three stones drawn together in Brimsgrove.

  “By the Holy moons.” This is what she had come for. She peered inside, holding the lantern up to the entrance. She could just make out the bottom corner of a piece of yellow parchment. She placed the lantern down next to her and using two hands slowly inserted the staff again into the hole.

  She screamed as the stone slab slammed down on the staff, causing splinters to fly in her face. Cursing, she clawed at her face and hurled what was left of the staff to the other side of the Chamber. It bounced off the wall and landed on the floor.

  “Well, this is just brilliant,” she shouted as she paced backwards and forwards.
She stormed over to the table and read the inscription again.

  “Only the worthy will the Custodians permit the right,

  To borrow a scroll from the Marshes of Night.”

  “Only the worthy? Only the worthy?” she shouted. She must be worthy. The picture showed the location of the stones as she had seen them a few nights ago. She was the only one here that had witnessed the ceremony. It had to be her.

  Always have faith in yourself. The words popped into her head. They were the words her father used to say whenever she was worried how others would view her. She spied the broken staff on the other side of the Chamber. She had tested the porthole with her staff, unsure what would happen. If she did not think she was worthy enough to try the porthole with her own flesh, then why would it let her take the scroll? She began pacing again.

  There was no other choice, she was going to have to insert her arm into the hole. She doubted very much that she would be considered worthy, given her intentions to bring down Iskandar. Yet she had to believe in herself. She stopped pacing and thought of the mysterious man. He was helping her to find the scroll but the question was could he be trusted? She had no idea who he was or what his intentions were. She only knew he had not been wrong so far.

  “Gloom devour me if I’m wrong,” she said, stopping in front of the hole.

  She took a few deep breaths and raised her hand to the hole. Beads of sweat trickled down her face as first her hand and then her arm entered the darkness. She screwed up her face and uttered a silent prayer to the Moon Gods, expecting to experience excruciating pain at any moment.

  She was surprised when her fingertips touched the parchment. It felt like sand, as if it would fall apart if held for too long. Once she had enough of a grip, she withdrew her arm, sobbing in disbelief that her arm had made it out intact.

  “I’ll take that,” a male voice said.

  Marybeth whirled around to see a figure on the other side of the Chamber pointing a crude sword at her. His face was obscured by the shadow cast by the table. All she could see clearly was the blade he held. It had been snapped in half but still looked sharp. He held his other hand out with the palm facing upwards motioning towards the scroll. Marybeth laughed at the gesture.