Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  “My father,” she scoffed. “How do I know what he believed in? For someone who claims they know what he believed in, you did not even know him.”

  The man raised his hands in supplication to quiet her. She obeyed without question.

  “I never met your father but I know he discovered the truth about the Gloom and wanted to destroy it.”

  “The magical truth which you refuse to tell me?” she said sulkily. He smiled at that.

  “You have the scroll,” he said, as if that answered everything.

  “The Scroll tells me how I may defeat the Gloom, not what it is.”

  “It is not in my interests to divulge all that I know at this stage.”

  “And what are your interests?” Marybeth said. She stood up and moved towards him. If she faced him it might convince him she was not afraid. He did not move but she registered a flash of anger cross his face. He did not appreciate being challenged.

  “My interests are the same as yours and your fathers before you. I want to see the Gloom defeated and Frindoth not held to ransom to the sacrifice.”

  “For what gain?”

  She knew she was pushing her luck, but did not care. The light of the fire danced across his face. She had to look up at him and felt like a defiant child.

  The man sighed as if the whole conversation bored him. He walked over to one of the straw dolls on the floor and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands and smiled.

  “Does this stuff work?” he asked, holding up the doll.

  “It serves its purpose,” she said, “you avoided the question.”

  He threw the doll in the fire and watched to see if she reacted. The fire popped and crackled but Marybeth made sure she fixed her eyes firmly on him. She needed to know; she hardly knew anything about the man before her.

  “I told you before, I don’t like to be questioned.”

  He sighed again and looked up at the trees. He seemed to be deliberating how much he could tell her.

  “My gain is my concern. Let’s just say I have some issues with the Order too, and I do not like how Frindoth is being ruled. All you need to know is that our goals are the same, we both want to defeat the Gloom.”

  “Yet I am the one that will be blamed whilst you remain in the shadows.”

  “For now,” he said, “but you will discover I am a useful ally.” As he spoke his face changed shape and suddenly she was staring at the face of her father. She gasped and stepped forward to see more clearly, but when she did, his face had altered back. Had she imagined it?

  The man smiled and then pulled his hood up, covering his face in shadow.

  “I have to get to Lilyon,” he said and began to walk away.

  “Wait,” she said and then chastised herself. She didn’t mean to sound so desperate. The man turned, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “I only have one of the stones.”

  “You will soon have the other two. I have seen to it that Jaegal will seek your help. He will find he has his hands full with one of the stone bearers.”

  Marybeth shuddered at the grin the man gave her before he left.

  Chapter 10

  Jacquard sat at the head of the table in his war room. He was dressed in his old battered chain mail, with his battle cape adorned around his neck. In his picturesque home surrounded by lavish gardens and fountains, it was easy to forget the horrors of war. By putting on some of his armour, he was reminded of the battles he had fought, the wounds that had been inflicted on him and the lives he had taken. He found it helped him from becoming complacent when others were fighting leagues from where he sat.

  His war council sat round the table before him. Twelve seats surrounded the table, but only eight of them were occupied. They represented the twelve regions of Frindoth. Each had a warlord that ruled the region, but ultimately Jacquard was their king.

  They had already covered the Ritual and how it was going to take place. Each warlord would attend to witness the sacrifice so that they could return to their region and reassure their people they were safe from the Gloom for another twelve years.

  Twelve, thought Jacquard. Everything is bloody twelve. Twelve stones that dictate how we live our lives, twelve regions that divided up Frindoth, twelve months all named after the colour of the stones. I just can’t get away from the cursed number. Yet here around his table, there were only eight men seated. He was failing in his leadership. Something would have to be done.

  He glanced at the empty wooden chairs. Each one decorated with the emblem of their respective regions: the Green serpent emerging out of the blue ocean of Yurisdoria, the gold chain of Snowland, the silver shark of Meadowmead and the purple falcon of Wildecliff Shore. All four chairs were supposed to be occupied by warlords. Jefferson had been right; they were going to use the Ritual as an excuse to take Lilyon and the bronze throne. A throne that might not have a prince to occupy it once Jacquard was gone.

  Jacquard looked at his son. The boy had taken the news well, like a prince should. He had simply nodded at his father after receiving the news and then shrugged his shoulders like it wasn’t a big deal. He saw it in simple terms. As far as he was concerned, it was his duty. There was nothing that could be done about it and that was all there was to it. It was Jacquard that had broken down, a mixture of pride for his son and the ill luck that fate had selected him.

  Althalos stood rigid against the stone wall. A huge tapestry hung behind him depicting a map of Frindoth. The hanging had been woven for Jacquard as a gift from the Easterly Rock region when he was first appointed king. Despite dozens of repairs over the years, the map was slightly frayed now and the best craftsmen had never been able to capture the splendour of the original.

  Althalos wore his armour to the meeting as well, adopting his father’s precedent. Unlike Jacquard’s battered armour, Althalos’s gleamed in the morning sun. He wore only his breastplate and greaves, choosing to leave his gauntlets and neck guard in the armoury for comfort. He held his helm under his right arm. If he found it heavy, he was not showing it as he listened intently to the others. At eighteen summers, he was growing more and more into the armour every day; it now looked like it fit him correctly.

  Jefferson sat on a wooden stool, appearing to doze. Jacquard knew full well that this was a trick of his, though, so that the other warlords could speak freely.

  When Jacquard had first declared Jefferson would attend the council there was uproar. Previously, only one representative from each region was allowed to attend and only in extreme circumstances was this representative someone other than the ruling warlord. Jacquard appeased them by asking how Frindoth was supposed to have a chief adviser if he was not allowed to the war council meetings. Reluctantly they had agreed, and over time accepted Jefferson as he offered good advice. Still, they would all prefer it if he was not there and Jefferson was always careful to remain in the background and not overstep his mark.

  Jacquard had met similar resistance when he introduced Althalos to the meetings. His explanation that he was the future king and therefore it was vital for him to learn how to rule was not so easily accepted. The warlords asked to bring their own sons for the same reason, to which Jacquard had flatly refused (perhaps unfairly), but he thought it was imperative everyone had an equal number of representatives at the meeting, and this meant only one from each region. As king, he was allowed to impose the exception to the rule.

  Raised voices distracted Jacquard from his thoughts. Hamsun, a hulking figure of a man, belittled Da Ville’s ability to control his own territory.

  “This council has little time to deal with outlaws in your pissing little wastelands,” Hamsun said as he took a gulp of wine from his goblet.

  Jacquard watched disgusted as half of the mouthful trickled down Hamsun’s red beard and onto his large but muscular bare chest. Hamsun looked strange without his giant battleaxe strapped across his back. The leather that crisscrossed his torso was the only form of clothing he ever wore on his upper body.

  No weapons
were allowed in the war council room. Jacquard had never forgotten Hamsun’s booming laugh the first time he had removed his axe at the door and handed it to a young servant. The boy could not handle the weight and immediately dropped it to the floor and then rather embarrassingly struggled to drag the axe along the floor to the armoury. Eventually two more servants had helped him, much to the amusement of the other warlords.

  “You do not understand,” Da Ville protested. “They are nightwraiths. Impossible to find and impossible to fight against.”

  “Well, burn down the forest then. Simple,” Hamsun said.

  Jacquard looked at Da Ville. He had been a good fighter once. Now he was a balding man with his best years behind him. Where his frame was once solid and lean, now the muscle had started to break down and loosen. Even his jowls sagged, so that he looked like a hurt puppy.

  The nightwraiths he referred to were actually a group of outlaws residing in Fankopar Forest. Jefferson had briefed him fully before the council had met. They were a group that had devised a clever way of using the darkness of the forest to attack travellers. They painted their bodies and faces black and only used non-reflective weapons such as wooden clubs and rocks. The only thing that could be seen were the whites of their eyes.

  Da Ville’s description of nightwraiths was not too far from the truth. Still, despite Fankopar Forest consuming the majority of the Mantini region, Jacquard failed to see why the nightwraiths were causing so much of a problem. The forest was often too dense to cross and he couldn’t imagine it had many visitors, except for those explorers that wished to tackle the Calipion Range.

  “I think Hamsun is right, as much as Frindoth should help its residents maintain order, I think its armies could be put to better use than to root out a few outlaws in Fankopar Forest,” Jacquard said before looking at Da Ville and adding softly, “You will have to deal with this issue yourself for the time being, my friend.”

  Frustrated, Da Ville nodded his consent, before scowling at Hamsun’s smug expression.

  “I think the more pressing issue is the four empty seats we have in this room,” Jacquard said.

  As if noticing the empty chairs for the first time, the warlords turned their heads in unison and stared at the chairs. A few shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  “I have received no word as to why our friends from the west have not attended today. It appears they no longer think themselves as our equals. Before I start to interview replacements for these schemers’ positions, do any of you have any news on this matter?” Jacquard began.

  His aim in asking this question was to test the loyalty of those in the room. In truth, Jefferson had again briefed him on the situation. He had also accumulated various reports from his own spies.

  His council had informed him that Vashna, who controlled Yurisdoria, the largest region to the west, had begun to add new recruits to his already impressive army. Although the warlords ruled their own individual regions, it was impossible for them to preside over all of the inhabitants in their area. As a result, all of the regions had pockets of towns and villages that lived in peace and were autonomous.

  Jacquard was taught by his father that when the twelve regions were originally divided up, each contained within its border a troublesome tribe or area that would keep the warlords focussed on ruling their own regions rather than getting grandiose designs on usurping the bronze throne.

  In Yurisdoria, which ran along the majority of the coastline towards the east of Frindoth, the ruling warlord always had to contend with the Eurthriami, a tough sea folk that refused to be ruled by anyone. For years the Yurisdori had attempted to bring them in line with the rest of the region but had always failed. Jefferson had reassured Jacquard the situation still had not changed.

  What was worrying, however, was that Vashna is believed to have held several highly secretive meetings with the warlords directly bordering his region, during which he drew attention to the apparent weakness of Jacquard’s rule now he was older and only had the one young son and no relatives to inherit the throne. If Althalos was selected for the sacrifice, then once Jacquard died, the throne would rightfully be contested by the other warlords. Jacquard was not surprised by Lord Frindolin of Snowland’s and Gambon of Meadowmead’s absences at today’s council. Although useful in combat, they were easily persuaded by a stronger force.

  He was surprised not to see Prandor of the Wildecliff Shore region. Prandor was a small stoic man who controlled the southeastern tip of Frindoth, a small unattractive region made up mostly of chalk rock. Prandor, was generally not interested in any affairs concerning Frindoth and preferred to keep his small army of warriors to themselves. He was, however, loyal to the kingdom and Jacquard was more concerned for his safety than worried he had joined Vashna.

  Jacquard scrutinised each of the warlords around the table. Each declared they had heard no news and avoided eye contact with him except for Hamsun, who stared back defiantly.

  “I will not lie to you, my king. I was approached by Vashna.”

  The confident man that had ridiculed Da Ville only moments earlier was gone. Hamsun was now gravely serious. There were one or two gasps from the other warlords. Jacquard was quick to assess whose were the most exaggerated. He knew both Jefferson and Althalos would have noted it too. Kana of the southern region, the only other warlord whose land was close to Vashna, had the most animated response. His mouth fell open and he ran his stubby fingers over his shaved head as if in despair.

  The southern region differed most from the others in the way its inhabitants lived their everyday lives. They were not as civilised and did not fear the Gloom as the others did. They actually welcomed the Ritual and treated the Gloom with reverence. They saw it as a worthy sacrifice to a god that must be appeased. They reflected this in their appearance, painting white skulls on their black skinned faces in honour of those that had been sacrificed to the Gloom in the past.

  Jacquard glanced at his son and advisor, who both acknowledged with almost imperceptible nods that they had both noticed Kana’s reaction to the news.

  “He and his captains sought my audience in the red month. I did not notify you of this, my lord, and for that I apologise, but I must admit I was curious. Vashna has never disguised his dislike for you and how you have ruled over Frindoth. I wanted to know what he had to say.”

  Hamsun looked at Jacquard, and seeing that his king offered no reproach, continued with his story. He was relishing the audience now and was not so measured in what he was saying. As he turned his head from side to side to address everyone in the room, the beads in his beard clattered against the oak table.

  “He believes that you have become weak, my lord. That Frindoth governs itself as it pleases. Throughout the kingdom there are hundreds of towns and villages that live under their own rule. They do not fear or care about the warlord that is supposed to rule them. He says Frindoth should be united, that everyone should obey one law. Why should some communities get away without paying taxes just because they are remotely based or the tax collectors do not see it as worth their time troubling them?

  “He stated you are an ageing king who no longer has the thirst for war. A king who wishes to live out the remainder of his days in peace and ignores the plight of the kingdom. He is worried you are not setting a good example to your son and when the time comes for the prince to sit on the bronze throne, he will be ill-prepared.

  “He believes when the throne was in Yurisdoria under King Vandain, Frindoth was a stronger kingdom, one to be feared and one to be proud of. The throne was stolen and it belongs there by rights again.

  “In short, my lord, he plans to rule Frindoth himself.”

  When Hamsun finished, there was an eerie silence in the room. Everyone was aware on some level that Vashna fancied himself as king, but hearing Hamsun talk so frankly about the situation had drawn attention to the fact that they were facing war.

  The words stung Jacquard even though he had been expecting them. They hurt beca
use there was an element of truth in Vashna’s statement. Despite his attempts, he had let areas of Frindoth go unpunished for not paying their taxes. It was because he chose to use his resources elsewhere, but was that really fair on those common folk that obeyed his laws?

  From a certain point of view, the throne did belong to Yurisdoria. It had been located there for over two hundred years before Vandain was slain by Montagion in the war of the canyon. If stories were true, then that is how the Great Canyon came into existence. Montagion stole the crown for himself and moved the crown to Rivervale where it had remained ever since.

  Jacquard was never proud that his lineage could be traced back to a usurper, but Vashna’s claim that the throne by rights deserved to be in Yurisdoria was ludicrous. At some point in Frindoth’s bloody history, the bronze throne had been located in all of the regions. All except Brimsgrove, which was a subject the warlords liked to tease Tulber on.

  The sun shone through the one window in the room making it difficult to see the other warlords. They appeared as shadowy outlines to the king.

  “And just how does he plan to rule Frindoth, when he can’t even control his own people?” Da Ville asked. “Yurisdoria has not managed to bring the sea folk under its rule for a thousand years.”

  Hamsun looked at Da Ville. He recognised the warlord was now trying to belittle him in front of the others as some sort of recompense for earlier.

  “I raised the same question,” Hamsun said, “he showed me Simoton’s head in a basket and said he thinks I would find Yurisdoria was now completely his.”

  Jacquard shot Jefferson a look, who now appeared to be wide awake. This was alarming news indeed. If Vashna had vanquished his old enemy, then he was more prepared than they had been led to believe. It also meant that his army must be more numerous than the reports suggested.

  “And what did he offer you in order to join him?” he asked Hamsun.

  Hamsun looked down at the table. He had obviously wanted to avoid this part of the conversation.