Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  “What’s one more sacrifice, huh?” she said.

  “Compared to the deaths that incurred? Yes,” he said. He paced back and forth. Was the man capable of saying anything longer than a sentence at a time?

  “Isn’t it obvious, no one knows what happens to the stones after they are cast in the waterfall. Supposing one of the moon stones was selected: I needed all three stones, and where would we find the Gloom? This is the only time we see it in twelve years,” she said, mounting her horse.

  He nodded in agreement but reached out and grabbed the reins, preventing her from going anywhere.

  “I think we both need to confront Iskandar before we do anything,” he said. This was it, this was the critical moment. She would find out now whether she was right to confide in Mondorlous or whether he really was a tool of Iskandar’s. She hoped he would trust her. The horse stamped a hoof impatiently.

  “Iskandar does not want this scroll to be public knowledge. I have seen him kill to keep it a secret. He has made his feelings on the matter clear,” she said, staring straight ahead.

  “Don’t you want to know why? He could have very good reasons.”

  “Reasons that justify the sacrifice of a life every twelve years forever and ever?” she felt his grip on the reins weaken slightly. He is not convinced of Iskandar now either. “Do you have the stones?” he said.

  “Two of them, the third is with that family I was watching,” she said, gesturing towards the direction which they had come.

  “Where are the other two stoneholders?” he asked.

  “Dead.”

  She hated the amused expression on his face and knew what he was thinking. The irony was not lost on her; she was talking about doing what was best for the people of Frindoth but had no qualms about the deaths she had witnessed so far.

  The Order had done this to her. Before she joined she would have been horrified at the thought of all of the deaths that were happening. The Order had de-sensitized her to such emotion. She could see the bigger picture and accepted there would be casualties along the way. She hated thinking in those terms, but that is what Iskandar had moulded her into. For the second time that day she found herself explaining her actions to Mondorlous.

  “One was dying anyway, I couldn’t save her. The other was a useless drunk wasting his life. He would have killed himself sooner or later through his drinking. I couldn’t risk either of them telling people about me stealing the stones. Besides, the scroll says the only way to appease the Gloom is for all stoneholders to be sacrificed. It was a necessary contingency.”

  “So that is your plan. Go to the mountain, reunite the stones with the table and defeat the Gloom so you can be seen as a hero to the people of Frindoth,” he said.

  “I’m not doing this for the people of Frindoth,” she said. She looked up at the squirrel perched on the branch above her; it looked back at her with glowing blue eyes. “I’m doing it to avenge my father.”

  With that, Mondorlous dropped the reins and stood aside. She clicked her heels and her horse sped off into the trees.

  * * *

  The three of them stood over the freshly dug grave. Mertyn had been digging it all morning whilst the girls had been preparing Brody’s body. They had originally planned to transport it all the way back to Longcombe, so Brody could have a proper ceremony and be seen off by all his friends.

  More importantly, Mertyn wanted Rhact and his family to have a chance to say good-bye. After two days of travelling, however, his son had already begun to decompose badly. The stench made his eyes water.

  He despised the idea of the last memory of his son being a rotting corpse he pulled along in a wagon, so had suggested they find a nice spot and bury him. Neither Tyra nor Brenna disagreed.

  He was worried about both of them. Their grief had manifested itself in different ways. Whilst his wife withdrew into herself, barely functioning, Brenna seemed to handle the situation too well. She did not demonstrate any visible signs of sadness, but Mertyn knew from the way she distracted herself by talking about anything but Brody, she was merely in denial over his death.

  He looked at his son’s body wrapped in cloth and ready to be placed in his final resting place. Tears welled. I should have saved you, son. You deserved far better than to be buried in a random hole. As if sensing his thoughts, Tyra slipped her hand into his. He knew the intimate gesture was meant to reassure him, but it made him feel a whole lot worse.

  His thoughts turned to the Ritual and the awful moment the executioner had kicked the box from underneath Brody. Mertyn had fought to get to him. Tyra was right behind him, hysterical. No matter how many people Mertyn seemed to punch or shove, there was always another body to take their place and block his way. Every now and then he glimpsed his son’s legs kicking at the thin air. Finally there was just the one man to beat: the giant member of the Order who held him at bay as if he were a child. I didn’t even make the platform, he thought as he stared at the empty grave.

  Mertyn barely registered the Gloom’s arrival. He only had eyes for his son’s limp body swinging back and forth peacefully in the mayhem that surrounded it. When the crowds had thinned, he reached his son and still held onto some ridiculous shred of hope he would still be alive.

  One look at his son’s face dispelled the notion. His beautiful face was contorted in agony, his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. His paternal instinct had kicked in as he tried to shield the sight from Tyra and Brenna. Both of them screamed at the sight of Brody and rushed to hug his lifeless form. The four of them stayed in that embrace for a long time, until he suggested they return home.

  Getting out of Lilyon was not easy. By the time they freed Brody’s body from the gallows, the city square was mostly deserted. They carried him back to the wagon unhindered, but making their way through the streets was a nightmare. Chaos surrounded them. Fights broke out openly and unscrupulous thieves tried to climb on the wagon, afraid the three of them had stolen something valuable before they had a chance to steal it. By the time they cleared the city gates, half of their possessions had been snatched.

  They had chosen a secluded spot on a river bank a few miles off the North road. Brenna figured since Brody’s favourite spot back home was the town bridge, he would have liked to have been close to the water.

  “Does anyone wish to speak before I begin?” Mertyn asked. Tyra shook her head slowly from side to side.

  “I will, if you don’t mind,” Brenna said. She did not look up from the grave as she spoke and so did not see the smile Mertyn gave her.

  “Brody was the best brother a sister could ever wish for. No brother ever looked out for his sister like he did. No brother ever played with his sister like he did and no brother ever taught his sister as much as he did.” As she spoke, tears flowed down her face, at last the grief swept over her in waves. Beside her, Tyra’s shoulders jerked up and down as she sobbed. “Most importantly, no sister had ever been prouder of her brother. He had grown into a young man. A man who was loved by all, admired by all and respected by all. Frindoth will be a poorer place without the sound of his laugh. Brody ...” she choked as she said his name. “I miss you so much already.”

  When she had finished, Mertyn leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “That was beautiful,” he said. Tyra could not manage to speak and so nodded in agreement, dabbing her eyes with a cloth. The two of them looked at him expectantly. He felt the weight of their expectant stares upon him. He had always hated the burial ceremony. He had only done it once before, when his father had died. Then he was more overcome with fear than the heartache he should have been feeling for his father.

  He had been drunk as he tried to cope with his fear for enclosed spaces and barely remembered the ceremony. The thought of burying Brody now horrified him. He angrily brushed a solitary tear aside and stared at the hole he had dug.

  “Please, Mertyn,” Tyra said at last. “It is what he would have wanted.”

  “I know,” was a
ll he could say. He was determined to see Brody off to the other side in the correct fashion.

  Breathing rapidly, he lowered himself into the hole. The dark walls loomed over him and immediately gave the impression they were closing in on him. A wave of dizziness caused the walls to stretch out in front of him. He cried out and then cursed himself. The ceremony was about Brody, not about him.

  He fought against every instinct to climb back out of the grave. As his feet touched the bottom of the hole, he swayed slightly as another wave of nausea overcame him. His palms were already sweaty.

  He looked up at Tyra and Brenna and saw nothing but love and encouragement in their eyes. He tried to smile at them, but the feeling of panic was too strong. You can do this, just lie down quickly and get it done. Do it for your son. With every bit of willpower he had, Mertyn forced himself to lie down. He lay there trembling as Tyra and Brenna sprinkled dirt onto him, careful to avoid his face. He struggled to remember the traditional words and his voice wavered with every syllable uttered.

  “The earth bed that I have dug and now lie in, I give you to share. It is my final gift to you. May you keep it warm and sleep peacefully for eternity.”

  As soon as he had finished speaking, he jumped up, an icy shiver ran through his body and he frantically brushed the soil from his clothes as if he was on fire. Tyra and Brenna helped him out of the grave and hugged him.

  Without another word, they lowered Brody’s body into the grave. Between the three of them it was a struggle but they were careful to do it with dignity.

  “To bury a child is the most tragic thing a parent can do. We were blessed with a son that brought us immense happiness and by doing his duty to Frindoth, also brought us much pride. Brody Brooker, although your body sleeps in your earth bed, may your soul ascend to the moons and shine down over us forever more,” Mertyn said, and with that began covering his son with earth.

  After a while Brenna helped, but Tyra just stood next to the grave and wailed.

  It was Brenna who sensed him first. She spun around and raised the shovel in a threatening manner. He was leaning against a tree, arms folded and chewing on a stalk of grass.

  “Please, I just wish to offer my condolences. He was a great man,” Maxhunt said. Within a few strides, Mertyn was in his face and prodding his finger angrily at his chest.

  “You don’t get to utter a word about him, do you hear me? You are not fit to even mention his name,” he said. Maxhunt withdrew a few defensive steps and held his hands in supplication.

  “My apologies, I meant no offence,” he said as he leered over Mertyn’s shoulder at Tyra.

  “What are you even doing here?” Mertyn said, moving to the side to block his view.

  “I’ve come to offer you my help.”

  “I spit on your help. You have never been interested in helping anyone but yourself.”

  Maxhunt now focussed on Mertyn, a sickening grin spread across his face, revealing yellow teeth. They almost complemented his red beard.

  “You are quite correct,” he said. “But I thought I could help you with your grief.”

  “I am not interested in any of your petty games, Maxhunt. Fuck off before I take your head off.”

  “Not even if I can tell you why your son died?”

  “Nothing you say has any interest to me,” Mertyn replied and turned away from him.

  “What do you know?” Tyra asked, moving towards Maxhunt. Her interest surprised him. Mertyn wanted nothing to do with the poisonous man.

  “Tyra, you know he is vermin. Please don’t listen to a word he says,” Mertyn said and began to pull her away from Maxhunt. She shrugged him off.

  “I want to hear what he has to say,” she said.

  Her voice was high pitched and full of desperation. The two of them looked at Maxhunt expectantly, who delighted in taking his time before he answered.

  “Brody died because not all of the stoneholders went to Lilyon,” he began at last.

  “We know that,” Mertyn said before Maxhunt raised his hand to cut him off.

  “I know you know that. But what you don’t know is your best friend lied to you. Don’t you think it was strange how Rhact made a big show of leaving the town to go after you but could only accompany you on some of the journey? I guess you were too absorbed by your own tragic news to think about it. But all this time your best friend never told you his own daughter also received one of the stones and should have gone to Lilyon.”

  The words hit Mertyn like a hammer blow to his stomach. Tyra fell to her knees and began sobbing all over again. “You lie,” was all he could say, but even as he said it, Mertyn knew it was the truth.

  “Do I? Why do you think Jensen was so cold towards his father?”

  Mertyn’s mind raced with images of the last few weeks: Jensen’s hatred towards Rhact; Janna being ill for a few days after Brody had received his own stone, Rhact managing to convince the bandits to let him pass. He had been a fool and he had been betrayed. Suddenly the world swam and he struggled to remain on his feet as the ground rushed to meet him.

  Chapter 20

  Vashna watched uncomfortably as Stasiak twisted the knife in the man’s scrotum, the man yelled in pain.

  “I will not ask you again, how do we get past the canyon?” Stasiak said.

  “I have no idea, I just follow orders,” the man said, pleading with his eyes for Stasiak to believe him.

  “Wrong answer. I am going to enjoy this.”

  Vashna turned and left him to it. He believed the man was telling the truth but knew better than to deny Stasiak his pleasure. The turncoat warlord sat down by his campfire and removed his boots, rubbing the dull ache from his feet. Despite his growing reputation, he did not advocate violence for the sake of violence.

  The primeval instinct that ran through Stasiak’s veins was one he could not identify with. Where Jefferson found him, he had no idea. Still, he recognised the man’s atrocities were sending the right message. People feared him and with each town they encountered, more and more were ready to yield to his way.

  They had been marching to Lilyon for two weeks now and had reached the chasm of Dulmovia, a thousand-foot drop into a rocky gorge. He had crossed the canyon many times in the past using the Great Bridge—the single most awe inspiring sight he had witnessed in Frindoth.

  It was solid stone that stretched exactly five hundred feet across the chasm arching slightly in the middle. At the apex stood a small keep, a replica of Canyon Castle he had visited a month before to try to persuade Hamsun to join him. The small keep was always patrolled by no less than a hundred guards at any one time. It was the only way to cross the chasm from the west to the east and like Lilyon, no one had ever been able to sack it.

  Two giant stone arches marked the start and end of the bridge. On the west side stood the legendary Yasmon, bending on one knee ready to shoot an ice dart from his bow at the mythical Fire Lion that occupied the east gate. Considering it was made entirely of stone, the fire lion was frighteningly realistic, every inch of it was made to look like a flame. In short, constructually, the Great Bridge was an architectural miracle. No one had come close to fathoming how it had been built.

  As a child, the legend of Yasmon slaying the last remaining Fire Lion in Frindoth had been his favourite story. The common perception made out that the Fire Lion was a beast as ferocious and destructive as the Gloom but the actual texts suggested otherwise. The Fire Lion was actually a wise and majestic creature that acted as a guardian of the people. It was strange how time had altered the truth. He wondered how he would be perceived once the inevitable war took place.

  Vashna had accumulated over ninety thousand men, far above the number he thought necessary to usurp Jacquard. The number was good, but he had to get the men to Lilyon. He had no doubt he would annihilate Jacquard’s army. Most of the warlords that had stayed loyal to the king were ageing men and past their prime. With the exception of Hamsun, none of them could match him tactically.

 
He needed an alternative way to cross the chasm since King Jacquard had banned any man wearing the colours of the eastern regions from crossing over. For years there had been strong rumours that the Lucians knew of a secret passageway that led down into the canyon and up out the other side. So far Stasiak’s brutal inquisitions of the natives had yielded no favourable responses.

  The monster came and joined him at the campfire. His face was caked in blood and merged with his green face paint to form a mess of angry colours.

  “He died without saying anything,” he said, “I doubt he knew anything anyway.”

  I could have told you that, Vashna thought. The delay frustrated him. He was eager to get to Lilyon and get this battle out of the way. It was not that he disliked Jacquard. In truth, Vashna had always found the king had treated him fairly and with respect. If anything, that was the problem, Frindoth needed a ruthless king. Someone who showed no mercy and did not bother with those whose lives were not important. Jacquard did not take advantage of the hierarchy afforded to him. He treated peasants and serfs the same as he would treat his own son.

  The time of the warlords had passed. Frindoth was crying out for a new leader, one that recognised the hierarchy, whose subjects knew where they stood.

  Stasiak mistook his silence for disapproval.

  “If there is a passage through the chasm, I will find it, lord,” he said.

  Vashna noted Stasiak did not call him “my” lord. As if he did not need to answer to anyone but recognised Vashna’s status and tolerated it. The monster was a bit of an enigma. It was hard to believe the savage sitting next to him was only seventeen summers old, but the way he sought Vashna’s approval sometimes unnerved him and reminded him of that very fact.

  “I have no doubt you will. If not, we will have to pay Hamsun another visit,” he said.

  * * *

  Jacquard ate alone in his room. Outside, night had fallen, the curtains rippled in the light breeze that accompanied the dark. From where he sat, the red moon was at its fullest. He popped a slice of chicken into his mouth and paused, thinking of his son.