Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  Jensen regarded the figure as he stalked the deer. He moved elegantly, without making a sound. He was tall even though he was walking in a crouch. His hair was short, dark with flecks of grey. He had a strong jaw. The type heroes are described as having in the bards’ tales. He was dressed lightly, a flannel shirt and trousers, both jet black in colour and immaculate in appearance.

  The man paused and raised his bow, his breathing became steady as he closed one eye and spied the deer with the other. He remained like that until his body hardly moved. If he were dressed in grey, Jensen would have mistaken him for a statue, such was his stillness. The deer chewed on the shrubs on the forest floor oblivious to the hunter.

  The man released the arrow and a whooshing sound filled the air. The deer hardly had time to lift its head before the arrow entered its neck. Two more arrows entered its body in quick succession sending it crashing to the floor where one leg jerked spasmodically for a few seconds before resting. Jensen had to double check the hunter was alone as the arrows had been dispatched so swiftly.

  The man flung the bow over his shoulder and looked around. Jensen held his breath, he was suddenly not so eager to be seen by the man. The man looked in Jensen’s direction, but from the way his look swept the area, Jensen was sure he hadn’t been seen. The man grunted and strode over to his prey, where he began fastening the animal’s feet together. Jensen watched as he hoisted the carcass over his shoulders with apparent ease and walked off in the direction from which he came.

  Jensen looked back towards the treetops. Every instinct told him to leave the man alone, he looked dangerous. His body, however, told him he was hungry and desperately needed a decent meal. As Jensen stood, a dizzy spell overcame him, causing him to lean on a tree to remain upright. This is stupid, if the man is as hostile as I think he is, then I am in no fit state to fight him.

  Still, the thought of a cooked meal encouraged him forward. The man was not hard to find. Smoke swirled above the trees from where he had constructed a makeshift fire on the ground below. He was expertly skinning the deer as Jensen approached. To the side of him was the man’s horse, a huge black steed.

  Before Jensen could advance further, a hand clamped around his mouth and a voice hissed in his ear.

  “Stay silent, unless you want to prove more of a fool than you are already.”

  The stench of sweat filled his nostrils as he tried to prise the grip away from his mouth. He screamed in protest but it only came out as a muffled sound. In front of him, the man flaying the deer paused and turned his head slightly in their direction. He knows I’m here. The thought worried him more than the imminent danger he was in.

  “Quiet. Back away with me if you want to live,” the voice said again. Jensen complied. He backtracked farther into the woods, half dragged and half of his own volition, until the deer hunter was out of sight. The last glimpse he saw the man was him nodding to himself, as if making a decision not to act upon the intruder.

  As soon as he felt the hand relax its grip, Jensen shrugged the hand off and whirled round to confront its owner. To his shock, Maxhunt stood before him. He looked tired, his clothes tattered and he smelt like he hadn’t washed in days.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Saving your life. You are welcome, by the way.”

  “By starving me? I was only going to ask for some food.”

  Maxhunt snorted in response. “Do you have any idea who you were about to ask for a snippet of food from?” Jensen’s hesitance answered the question. “I didn’t think so. That man back there, was none other than the Cadaver Knight himself.”

  Jensen’s knees turned to jelly. Had he really been about to approach the most notorious knight in Frindoth? What was he thinking? A bout of nausea rose up from his stomach causing him to dry wretch.

  “The same Cadaver Knight who had just witnessed the only girl he ever loved sacrificed to the Gloom. If you had bothered to look closer, you would have seen tethered to his horse the tattooed severed head of the man who hanged her.

  “I’m guessing he is not in the best of moods right now and he certainly wouldn’t be willing to share his food with the brother of the girl responsible for her death,” Maxhunt said, and tossed a dried slice of beef jerky at Jensen, who devoured it immediately.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Jensen said, looking over his shoulder to make sure the infamous Mikel Rhonson had not changed his mind and come after them.

  “Son, I’ve followed you since Longcombe.”

  “Are you that infatuated with my mother?” Maxhunt clenched his fists at the remark. That upset you, didn’t it, you obsessive prick.

  “There was a time when me and your mother was betrothed.”

  “Long ago, maybe. What I can’t understand is why you still can’t get over the fact that she left you for my father?” Jensen said, picking his teeth. His hunger had not been satisfied, but at least his stomach was no longer rumbling.

  “You know little, son.”

  “I know what I see. A sad man who once had it good but can’t accept he was always with a swan when he was no more than a duck at best,” Jensen said.

  He was raised to hate Maxhunt purely because he was his father’s enemy, but even without his father’s influence, he could see himself hating this despicable man. Everything about him oozed unpleasantness from his permanent sneer to his yellow teeth, Jensen had never seen him do a nice thing for anyone.

  “Maybe, but sometimes even the swan prefers the company of the ducks.”

  “I beg to differ. My mother chose my father because he is three times the man you’ll ever be,” Jensen said. Regardless of whether Maxhunt had just saved his life or not, he was not about to start pretending he was friends with this loathsome dog.

  “If that were true, why aren’t you by his side now?”

  Jensen sneered at him. Even in the middle of nowhere, Maxhunt was still up to his little games, trying to place wedges in family ties and breed uncertainty. He shook his head and brushed past him.

  “Son, wait, I did not find you to fight with you,” Maxhunt said. Jensen whirled to confront him.

  “Why do you keep calling me son? What do you want from me?”

  Maxhunt looked to the sky and bit his lip.

  “Because I think I might be your father.”

  There was a pause before Jensen laughed at Maxhunt and turned and walked away. Maxhunt caught up to him immediately and spun him around.

  “Shout at me, question me, but do not ever laugh at me. Not about this,” he said.

  The earnest tone in his voice took Jensen by surprise. Maxhunt dug his fingers into shoulders as he spoke. The pain made him angry. He flung Maxhunt’s hands off and shoved him away.

  “Enough, I don’t know what you want from me, but I am not interested. I have no desire to put up with your drivel.”

  Maxhunt drew his sword and raised it to Jensen’s face. Jensen immediately responded by reaching for his own weapon.

  “Relax, I am not going to attack you,” he said and turned the blade sideways so it was level with Jensen’s face. “Look into the blade at your reflection and tell me what you see.”

  Jensen’s hand remained on his sword, but he relaxed his posture slightly, curiosity taking over his instincts. “A handsome man in need of a shave?”

  Maxhunt smiled, “In need of a shave yes, but what colour is your stubble?”

  Jensen knew instantly where Maxhunt was going with this line of questioning. Ever since he grew facial hair, much to his chagrin, flecks of red hair sprouted amongst his stubble. It was something that had both appalled and fascinated him.

  “It means nothing, Maxhunt,” he replied. Maxhunt shrugged and sheathed his sword.

  “Maybe not, but have you ever wondered why you were so quick with your temper? Not a characteristic you share with Rhact, is it? Maybe it’s because he is not your father?” Maxhunt said. As he spoke, he stared intensely at him. Jensen could feel the anger welling up insi
de him, the uncontrollable urge to lash out. Don’t play into his hands. Control yourself.

  “That is a lame attempt even from some ditchdigger who has never heard of a bar of soap.”

  “Ah, a cruel jibe, intended to upset me. Another thing we have in common, that you do not share with your father.”

  Jensen could feel his cheeks becoming red. It took all his willpower not to clench his fists. Walk away, just walk away.

  “Suddenly you are not so sure, are you? The more you think about it, the more you realise it could be true.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Jensen said, trying to keep his face neutral.

  “When Rhact came to Longcombe with that idiot in tow, they came full of stories and a sense of adventure. They were two men that had defied their families and set out to explore the land. A romantic daydream, so many of us have dreamed of. No wonder your mother was attracted to him. He was a mysterious man that offered excitement away from the humdrum of town life in Longcombe. Why would she stay with a ditchdigger, as you so elegantly put it?”

  Jensen stood rigid listening to him. He wanted to get away, but his body refused to move, captivated by the lies and concoctions the man in front of him was weaving.

  “Imagine your mother’s disappointment when she discovered the lovable rogue she had settled down with turned out to be far from exciting. In fact, possibly more boring than everyone else. I mean, a candle maker, of all professions. Could you get more mundane?”

  “Careful, fool, that is my father you are talking about,” Jensen said.

  “But is it, though? Your mother, upon realising her mistake, came to me in a fit of despair, desperately apologising for leaving me. She was drunk, all right, I have no illusions about that, but she did seek me out and we did enjoy one last night together, for old times’ sake.”

  “You lie.” The protest sounded weak even to his ears.

  “I can promise you, I don’t. Ask Rhact if he knew where your mother was, the night the Green Stag had its fire.”

  Jensen had heard of this story, Rhact and Mertyn were supposed to have saved the inn by rushing into the flames and beating the fire out. They had been stupidly brave which they put down to being drunk out of their skulls. Apparently, his mother and Tyra were so appalled at their recklessness they did not talk to them for a week.

  If they were drunk that night, would it be inconceivable that his mother was too? A million thoughts raced through his head. Every decision that his father had made and he’d disagreed with, failing to see the logic in his decisions. The way he had been willing to betray his best friend and leave Frindoth to the wrath of the Gloom. All of the arguments they had, all raced through his head now. With such differences of opinion, was it inconceivable that they were not father and son?

  He sat down and put his head in his hands. This is all too much. I can’t cope anymore. He felt Maxhunt sit next to him and put his arm around his shoulders. He wanted to shrug the arm away, but was surprised how comforting it felt. The weight of it felt strong and protective. When was the last time Rhact had done that?

  Jensen thought back to when Rhact had twice struck him across the face. Did he really deserve to be hit for coming in late? He used to have a good relationship with him, but lately, even before all this business with the stones, they were growing apart. Could that have anything to do with what Maxhunt was saying?

  Jensen was suddenly very weary. He allowed himself to lean against Maxhunt. He did not want to think about anything and did not even care to protest when Maxhunt said, “Everything will be better now, my son.”

  * * *

  Rhact stared into the flames of their campfire. They swirled and crackled, hypnotising him with their ferocity. Beside him, Kiana was asleep. He was worried about her. Over the past few days, the life seemed to have ebbed from her. Each day they spent looking for Jensen was another day her heart seemed to break.

  She always seemed on the verge of tears. When she spoke it was to talk of all the things they would do as a family when they went back home, as if living in some make believe world where everything was going to be all right was the only way she could continue.

  Before she fell asleep, she asked Rhact what would be his dinner of choice when they got back home.

  “I know what Jensen will want, he will want roasted boar with thyme. That is one of his favourites,” she said. Rhact had seen Janna’s wide-eyed stare and knew his daughter was equally concerned about her mother

  “I don’t think we will ever be going back to Longcombe, my love,” he said.

  “We will,” she said, “you’ll see.”

  Rhact did not have the energy to argue and when she had asked him what food he would want, he had told her he was looking forward to eating duck. The response had satisfied her and she lay down next to him, closed her eyes and fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

  Janna was sitting on the other side of the fire. She sat cross-legged and was scratching a pattern into the dirt with a stick. He noticed she was crying. A trail of tears had left white lines down her dirty face.

  “You should get some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow we will be entering Fankopar Forest and will need our wits about us.”

  She nodded in response but made no move to settle down.

  “What is wrong with Ma?” she asked without looking up from the pattern she was making.

  “Nothing. She is just hurting right now, that’s all. She needs to believe that everything will be all right in order to get through this. She will be fine in a couple of days, you’ll see,” he said.

  “You speak as if you don’t believe everything will be all right,” she said.

  He sighed and went and sat next to her, putting his arm around her shoulders. From within the darkness an owl hooted.

  “I’m not sure it will, baby girl. We have to get somewhere safe, someplace no one will find us.”

  “What about Jensen? We must find him.”

  “He is long gone, Janna. He is far fitter than any of us and we are travelling by wagon. With his head start we have no chance of finding him, unless he wants to be found.”

  She nodded but he noticed fresh tears begin to fall, darkening the soil between them.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked.

  “I think so. Your brother is a young man now. Not only that, he is a resourceful man. Remember when he got caught stealing Ellory’s potatoes,” Rhact heard her chuckle at the memory, “your brother was found sneaking out of the cellar with his trousers loaded up with enough spuds to feed a family for a week. Anyone else would have held their hands up and admitted their guilt, but not your brother. Jensen somehow managed to convince old Ellory that he had noticed a nest of catermice next to the cellar and was rescuing the potatoes from infestation. Soon, Ellory had organised half the town into transporting his stock to a new location.”

  “Ellory ended up giving Jensen a sack of potatoes as a reward as well,” she said laughing.

  “That he did,” he said and laughed himself. “I think with a silver tongue like that, your brother is going to be just fine, don’t you?” She nodded her agreement.

  They stayed huddled together for a while longer, easy with the silence between them. Janna fiddled with the bandage on her right hand. It had begun to itch and needed to be changed. He had explained to her about her hand changing colour; he hadn’t mentioned Marybeth though.

  Vanity had got the better of her at first. The thought of her hand being discoloured for the rest of her life mortified her. What man would want to marry a girl with such an odd deformity, especially with what it represented? Her pride soon turned to fear, though, as he put on the bandage on her hand. She realised what it represented. She was a fugitive, no one must ever know she was a stoneholder. She could forget marriage and everything else that accompanied a normal life. Rhact’s heart had gone out to her. The thought of the future she faced filled him with sadness.

  The fire continued to burn fiercely, the warmth reaching every part of
his body. He shut his eyes and let himself enjoy the peacefulness.

  “Father?” she said, causing him to stir. He had been on the cusp of sleep.

  “Hmmm?” he replied.

  “Would it be easier if I turned myself in to the authorities?”

  The question woke him instantly. He was surprised at how quick to anger he was; only moments before he had been feeling sorry for her.

  “Definitely not.”

  “I was just thinking, all of these deaths are because of me, if I gave myself up then maybe they will stop?”

  “I am going to pretend I did not hear that question,” he said, removing his arm from her shoulder.

  “But why?”

  “Don’t be so ungrateful. Do you have any idea what has been done for you? I’ve lied to my best friend. His son, your friend, is probably dead because we have chosen to keep you alive. There is a city full of corpses because we have given you the chance of life. Jensen has run away because of the decision we have made. And you want to throw that all away, by turning yourself in to be executed?

  “Do not ever, EVER, make all of those deaths in vain. You make sure you do something good with your life now. You make this second chance count. Do you hear me? Don’t make me regret the decision to keep you alive.”

  “I just thought—”

  “What?” he cut in.

  “Nothing, I’m sorry,” she said and turned away from him, lying down and covering her face with her blanket. He could tell from the way it was shaking that she was crying again and instantly felt bad. Why did I turn on her like that? She is only a young girltrying to deal with an impossible situation.

  Frustrated, he stomped over to the wagon and retrieved his own blanket. There was nothing he could do to appease her now. He would apologise in the morning. He lay down to sleep, his thoughts awash with his harsh words and wondering whether or not Jensen was safe.

  It was true Jensen could look after himself, but he had never ventured too far away from Longcombe. Frindoth was a huge place and a lot more frightening than Jensen probably realised. As sleep overcame him, he prayed his son would be safe.