Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  As it turned out the chase was not a long one. When Rhact manoeuvred the wagon over the hill, he was surprised to see that Mertyn and his family had parked up and were seated by the side of the road eating an early lunch.

  As Rhact pulled his wagon up alongside the other, Mertyn stood up. Tyra, Brody and Brenna all remained seated. They exchanged unspoken greetings with the rest of Rhact’s family, but were clearly waiting to see how Mertyn would react.

  “You didn’t wait for us to say good-bye,” Rhact said. It wasn’t a challenge, just a statement of fact.

  “Nope,” Mertyn said. He remained straight-faced for a moment before breaking out into a huge grin. “A decision I’ve been secretly regretting all morning.”

  Rhact returned the grin and hopped down from his wagon to embrace his friend. The rest of the family followed suit, pleased to be reunited with their friends.

  After briefly replenishing themselves, the two families set off again. Rhact and Kiana joined Mertyn and Tyra on their wagon, whilst the children followed on the other. Rhact often allowed Jensen to take the reins. He was a skilled horseman and took the reins when he accompanied Rhact to Compton.

  They travelled down a narrow lane where wild hedges and trees closed in on either side of them. Mertyn spoke of his admiration for his son and how he was dealing with the news. Rhact thought his friend had come to terms with the news a bit more since their argument. He briefly toyed with the idea of telling Mertyn everything, but decided against it. His wife seemed more preoccupied with pointing out the various species of flowers as they rode. Any time Kiana mentioned the Ritual to her, Tyra magically managed to spot a new species.

  “I know he has been unlucky in being selected, but a one in twelve chance of being selected is still pretty slim, don’t you agree?” Mertyn said, brushing a gnat away from his face. Rhact nodded in agreement. “I mean, when you actually break it down and look at it, if I was to lay twelve cups upside down in front of you on a table, I then told you that a ball was under one of the cups and you had to pick it, you wouldn’t fancy your chances, would you?” he continued.

  Rhact nodded again but this time it was an effort. He felt sick. What was he thinking? Sitting next to his best friend, trying to go along with him and reassure him his son might actually survive the Ritual, when he knew full well his own actions could mean the opposite.

  He had to believe the witch knew something. There was a reason why she was letting him go through with his plan. She felt the Gloom could be stopped and if that was the case, then Brody would be fine. He risked a glance back at Brody. He was sharing a joke with Jensen and playfully fighting over control of Flame. His stomach dropped. On the other hand, no one had ever defied the Gloom before, and if the ghost stories from his childhood were to be believed, the result of his actions could be catastrophic.

  “I will stop the gloom,” he murmured.

  “What was that?” Mertyn asked.

  Rhact turned in surprise; he hadn’t realised he had spoken aloud.

  “Not long before noon,” Rhact said quickly.

  Mertyn frowned, confused by the statement. He was distracted by Brody calling out to him, though. Something in Brody’s tone made Rhact look at him as well. The boys were frantically pointing to the distance. Rhact turned to see what they were looking at and once again his stomach lurched.

  Standing about two hundred yards on the road ahead stood four figures side by side.

  “Bandits!” Rhact hissed.

  “Brody, Brenna, come back here,” Mertyn said.

  The two obeyed instantly, Rhact noticed as he and Kiana returned to their wagon. Rhact retook the reins from his son.

  The two wagons approached the quartet. Rhact could see they were all young men who could not have been older than twenty-five. The two to the right were clearly brothers. The inner one was the elder. He had his hair pulled back tight across his scalp and tied into a ponytail. His face was hard and pronounced with a chin that jutted out. His younger brother had the same hairstyle and protruding chin, although his skin was softer and his build less toned. Both carried crude axes.

  On the other side, a man stood smiling. He had a round, flat face and had the look of someone who had spent their childhood tormenting animals. He was confidently batting a club into the palm of his hand. To his left was the tallest of the four and most likely the leader. He was a bald-headed, burly man, topless with a heavily tattooed broad chest. Even though there was a chubbiness about him, Rhact could see he was stronger than he looked. As a weapon he carried a short iron sword. He lifted an arm to halt the wagons. They had come close enough.

  Rhact glanced across at Mertyn who looked back warily. They did not look too much of a threat as far as bandits went, but Rhact knew better than to underestimate an enemy. Mertyn rubbed his right eyebrow which looked like a nervous gesture but signalled to his friend that he should stay silent and let them talk first. It was a gesture they had not had to use since their travelling days. Rhact felt a familiar frisson at the situation until he remembered his family was beside him.

  When the leader spoke, he had a surprisingly high voice.

  “We are the famous outlaws of doom. You will kindly hand over your possessions and we will let you live,” the leader said.

  “And your daughters,” the younger of the brothers added.

  The leader pursed his lips. He clearly did not like his comrade speaking but remained silent. Rhact struggled not to laugh.

  “Never heard of you,” Mertyn said. “Have you, Bill?” he said, turning to Rhact.

  “No, Fredrik,” Rhact replied.

  The false names was another well-rehearsed routine of theirs. The bandits were clearly inexperienced. Rhact would not have been surprised if this was their first attempt at robbery. Mertyn had obviously picked up on this too. His family had never seen him in this kind of situation and Rhact was latently pleased they were not showing their unease. When neither of them moved, the leader spoke again.

  “Sirs, I must insist you hand over your possessions and daughters.”

  “Do you hear that, Bill? We have just encountered the most polite outlaws in the whole of Frindoth,” Mertyn said, smiling broadly. The leader hesitated, clearly at a loss of what to do.

  Rhact jumped as a whistling sound shot through the air and ended with a thunk by his head. An arrow lodged itself in the wooden board above his head.

  “Down,” he shouted to his family, who instinctively were already making themselves as small as targets as possible.

  Two more arrows landed nearby, one bounced off the wheel of the wagon and the other lodged itself between Rhact’s legs. Several arrows landed on Mertyn’s wagon, some ripping through the canvas.

  “Not so bold now, are you?” a gruff voice said.

  To his side a stocky man emerged from behind the hedge. He was the hairiest man Rhact had ever seen. He wore a small green tunic and trousers which barely contained his body hair. His face was covered in an unkempt beard and bushy hair so that the only skin Rhact could see on his face was around his eyes.

  Rhact could not see where the arrows originated from but several more men revealed themselves. Some were cleverly camouflaged in branches and leaves so that at a quick glance they could be mistaken for part of the hedge. Finally he spotted movement in the trees and could make out a cocked arrow pointing directly at him. Rhact counted at least fourteen men in total and reasoned there must be several more he could not see.

  The stocky man placed a reassuring hand on the original leader, who seemed relieved at the company.

  “We’ll work on your delivery, Pinky," he whispered to him, before turning his attention to Mertyn and Rhact. “As my son was saying, your belongings and your daughters.”

  Rhact was surprised at the display of tenderness the man showed his son. Nevertheless, he was under no illusion as to the danger they now faced. The men that had revealed themselves had a completely different aura to them. They made no effort to appear tough, but from the way
they stood, statuesque and alert, it was evident they were no strangers to this kind of situation.

  Whether they had been blooding in the youngsters, or using them as a ploy to lure Rhact and the others into a false sense of security, the result was very effective. It was Mertyn who spoke first.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,” he said calmly.

  “Ho ho, look what we have here. The cocky one has now become the gentleman,” the leader sneered. Around him his men sniggered.

  Rhact felt Kiana reach for his hand, he took it and hoped it would reassure her.

  “And why, pray tell, can you not?”

  “We need to get to Lilyon,” Mertyn said. The leader threw his hands in the air theatrically.

  “Roast placenta, why didn’t you say so? Well, if you have to get to Lilyon, be on your way.”

  His goons continued to laugh as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. Rhact shot Mertyn a look, the reference to the placenta marked the bandits as men from the north. It was their custom to eat their wives’ placenta raw immediately after the birth of their sons. If they could not stomach the meat raw, then they roasted it, but this was generally seen as a sign of weakness and was used as an insult. The reference also told Rhact that they were in a lot of trouble, for the northern bandits were feral and uncompromising.

  The leader suddenly stopped laughing and his expression changed into a hard stare.

  “Stop stalling, you son of a pig’s whore, and hand over what we have asked for. I am looking forward to selling your possessions and riding your daughter.”

  “Does that even make sense?” Jensen whispered in Rhact’s ear. Despite himself, he suppressed a smile and urged his son to be silent.

  “You don’t seem to understand, sir. Perhaps I am not making myself clear. We need to get to Lilyon before the solstice. If we don’t, you will not be around to enjoy anyone’s daughter.”

  Rhact held his breath as he watched the realisation dawn on the leader’s face. A couple of the outlaws edged away from the wagons as if they might be tarnished by being associated with the Ritual. The leader, however, was not convinced.

  “You expect me to believe one of you is a stoneholder?” he said. Mertyn nodded.

  “Either my son or my daughter, we are not sure which. We are on our way to Lilyon to consult the Order,” Mertyn said.

  Rhact was impressed with his friend. It was a clever thing to say. If Mertyn had said it was Brody who had the stone, then they would have still taken Brenna. This way there was no way the outlaws would stop them from going and judging by the hairy leader’s treatment of his son earlier, he would not begrudge Mertyn and Tyra accompanying their children.

  In a last show of defiance, the leader spat on the ground and asked Mertyn to prove it. Tyra reached inside her dress and pulled out a black cloth. Rhact noticed that several of the outlaws now leaned forward for a better view. She unfolded it several times to reveal the orange stone. The leader instantly signalled for his men to stand aside.

  “Be on your way, it is an honourable thing to offer yourself as a sacrifice, even if you have little choice,” the leader said.

  It was hard to believe that moments earlier he had been ready to cut their throats. Thieves have a strange sense of honour.

  Mertyn nodded and spurred his horse into action. Rhact went to do the same but found the leader now stood in front of Flame. One by one his cronies joined him. The leader stroked the mare’s mane. Much to Rhact’s annoyance, Flame seemed to like it and nuzzled her face into his palm.

  “I never said that you could go anywhere,” the leader said.

  “The tax still applies to your family,” said a man who had positioned himself next to the wagon and leered at Janna. Rhact slapped his seat to get his attention.

  “My daughter is due to get married to the young man on the wagon ahead. We must go with them,” Rhact said.

  “How convenient,” the leader said. Ahead of them Mertyn’s wagon came to a standstill. “Keep moving, friend, I’ve been generous enough to let you pass, don’t test me,” he shouted to Mertyn without taking his eyes of Rhact.

  Rhact saw the indecision in his friend’s eyes but signalled for him to go on. Reluctantly, Mertyn urged his wagon forward. The leader addressed him again.

  “Even if I was to believe the crap you just uttered, a wedding does not affect the fate of Frindoth and more importantly me. I have no interest in letting you pass.”

  “How about now?” Jensen said.

  Rhact turned and was appalled to see that his son stood within the shadows of the canvas pointing Rhact’s crossbow at the leader.

  “Put that away, son,” Rhact snapped. The leader merely smiled.

  “It appears that your son has more courage than you. How embarrassing!” the leader said.

  The outlaws had all moved in closer now, forming a tight circle. They were like cats poised to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. Rhact tried to think. There were far too many of them to fight. He could maybe give them his clothes, etcetera, but that would not appease them. The bald-headed youth started to sling his club against the floor. Dust sprayed up with each loud thump. The effect was intimidating to say the least.

  “I won’t ask you—” The leader stopped talking and his mouth fell open in wonder. “Two of you!”

  Confused, Rhact turned to see what he was looking at. Janna was holding her stone between her thumb and forefinger for all to see. The outlaws fell back, one or two actually jogged away, convinced that there was some mysterious magic at work for two people in such close proximity to have received stones.

  “I assume we can proceed now?” Rhact said.

  The leader stepped aside wordlessly; his friends did the same. Several of them pointed their little fingers to the sky and looked up in an effort to ward off any evil spirits.

  When they were clear of the outlaws, Janna apologised for revealing the stone.

  “There is no need to apologise. It was the only thing we could have done. You used your head and saved us. Your brother would do well to learn from you,” he said, glaring at Jensen, who folded his arms and resumed his sulking.

  * * *

  A small crowd had gathered around the wagon in Longcombe. If ever a wagon was loaded up with more meretricious goods, the crowd had yet to see it. Most notably, there was a golden sceptre with the word “Mayor” inscribed on the handle. No one could remember this ever being awarded to Pinkleton, though. A young boy emerged from Mayor Pinkleton’s house, red faced and sweating profusely. He struggled to hold a small chest. A man stepped forward from the surrounding crowd to help him load it in the one remaining spot on the wagon.

  Finally the mayor emerged from his house with his wife on his arm. He was dressed in his finest clothes. An emerald velvet coat, trimmed with white fur that reached down to his knees. One could mercifully only just see the garish red trousers he wore. On his head was a matching red hat which leaned to one side in an absurd fashion, so that it almost defied gravity by staying on his head. He wore polished black boots, each with a shiny, square, gold buckle. The boots formed a narrow point around the toes, the tip of which curled up on itself several times.

  His wife was dressed far more conservatively in a basic white dress, decorated with flowery patterns. Her long blond hair fell in wavy locks past her shoulders. The two were an odd couple.

  “Where are you going, Mayor?” one onlooker eventually asked.

  Henry Pinkleton looked around at the crowd. He seemed surprised by the gathering as if he had just noticed them for the first time.

  “I am off to Lilyon, my dear fellow,” completely directing his response to the wrong man. There was a small gasp from the crowd.

  “You have been given a stone?” a woman asked.

  “Should that surprise you? Even Lord Mayors are not exempt from the Ritual.” The mayor was the only person in Longcombe that addressed himself as “Lord Mayor”.

  “No, you can all breathe a sigh of relief. I do not h
ave a stone. Three unfortunate souls from this town have received stones in the last couple of days. This is highly unusual. As Lord Mayor, I am off to Lilyon to show my support for these wretched individuals.”

  “You mean to be nosey and find out who the other two are?” a voice from the back of the growing crowd said.

  The mayor shrugged as if the reason did not matter. He helped his wife onto the wagon and grabbed the reins to his horses. Unlike everyone else, who only had one horse to pull their wagon, the mayor had four. All were white with no markings, a sign of extravagance. Before he could signal for the horses to go, another voice called out from the crowd.

  “How long will you be gone for? Who is in charge of Longcombe?”

  Despite their tendency to laugh at the mayor, the townsfolk were generally at a loss without him. Not so much because of his excellent leadership, but more for the fact that it was generally accepted, his was the final say.

  “I expect only three weeks. You will be fine. I am leaving Banbury of the Green Stag Inn in charge. Farewell, people of Longcombe, it is with a heavy heart—” Before he could finish the sentence, he was thrown back in his seat as his horses mistook his speech as a command to depart.

  The mayor left Longcombe to the laughter and jeers of his townsfolk whilst frantically trying to regain control of his horses and looking back in despair as his hat flew off his head onto the road behind him.

  When he was to return several months later, he discovered a completely different town from the one he had left.

  ***

  Three other people left Longcombe that morning. The third stoneholder, Elsie Brookman, and her husband packed their saddlebags on their horses and attracted a much smaller audience than the mayor. They rode out of Longcombe, Elsie with her head held high and staring fixedly on the path ahead, her husband glaring at everyone that watched them go.