Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  “Mansuri! I ordered you to stand aside. Now lower your weapon,” Jacquard said again. This time his knight obeyed.

  “We are not your enemies,” Iskandar said as if nothing had happened. “The sooner you realise that the better.”

  “Then stop treating us as such by keeping secrets from us,” Jacquard said.

  “I have not kept anything from you. I told you there is no way to defeat the Gloom. Marybeth thinks she can stop him. Unfortunately for us, she has no idea of the danger she could unleash. We must stop her before it is too late.”

  “Is that why you were enjoying a leisurely lunch?” Mansuri said. Where the other knights all showed signs of exertion, Mansuri and Iskandar both looked calm and unflustered.

  Iskandar smiled at the knight and said, “A man needs to eat.”

  Mansuri rammed his sword back into its scabbard in response.

  Jacquard could not stand to witness the bickering any further. Again, he was left feeling that he was not in control of ruling his own kingdom. He instructed Longshaw to ready the horses and make the necessary preparations for an immediate departure, before turning his attention back to Iskandar.

  “We leave in an hour, I suggest you begin talking.”

  Chapter 24

  The rain fell heavily as Althalos’s army crossed the Luciana border, it was the kind of rain that fell sideways and was cold. They had been travelling for four days. Althalos had set a fast pace. He was eager to unite with Hamsun’s army before Vashna found a way to cross the Great Canyon. Besides, he figured the harder the pace he set, the less time the men had to question his father’s decision and challenge his leadership.

  By and large the men seemed to have accepted him as their leader. There were the occasional snide comments about following a boy to their death, but most of the time they appeared eager to give him a chance. He was grateful for that. He knew if he were in their position, he would much rather be led by a man that had a proven track record and had earned respect.

  As the rain increased, Althalos looked back at the ranks of men marching dutifully behind him. They looked thoroughly miserable; some were shivering in their armour, soaked through to their bones. The various flags representing the different areas the men had come from looked pathetic. The material was drenched, so it fell flat against the pole that attempted to display it so proudly.

  With each mile they covered, the grass gave way to mud. Each step seemed heavier than the last and his feet seemed to sink into the ground that bit more. He had chosen to march with his men for the last twenty miles. Hamsun had protested at this, pointing out that a leader ought to be seen as leading his men, being visible at all times. Althalos had shrugged off the suggestion and opted to demonstrate his leadership skills by setting an example.

  He wanted to make sure they understood he would not ask them to do anything he was not prepared to do. He also adopted this philosophy when it came to setting up camp for the night. Whereas the other warlords and their captains slept in grand tents, he slept rough amongst the men. He used the opportunity to get to know their names and faces and more importantly introduce himself personally.

  He thought his actions had gone down quite well with the men. They seemed happy he was taking the time to get to know them. Many seemed glad at the chance to converse with a prince, and share their stories and concerns.

  On their first night he had asked a group of Aselinians if he could join their fire and camp with them. They had been edgy at first, but soon warmed to him when it became apparent he was only there to get to know them, share their wine and their humour.

  He smiled as he recalled one particular man commenting on his luck. A short man in contrast to the other Aselinians, who went by the name of Qualy. He had a big bushy beard and a taste for wine that could rival any man Althalos had met. As Althalos lay down after his meal, Qualy had said, “Fuck me, all her life the wife has been moaning at me, saying she wished she shared a bed with a prince and not a fat bearded fool. Who would have thought that it would be me sharing a prince’s bed? You wait until she hears about this.”

  As the sound of thunder rolled over head, Althalos signalled for the men to stop.

  “We camp here tonight,” he shouted and listened as the message was relayed further and further down the lines with instructions for setting up a perimeter and lookout arrangements. Many of the men simply fell where they stood, thoroughly exhausted.

  Althalos looked at the rolling hills in front of him. His view was severely hindered by the rapidly descending dusk. Tomorrow was going to be even harder. If the rain continued, climbing those hills was going to be cumbersome and sliding down the other side, equally dangerous for the horses.

  He turned as Hamsun approached on his huge horse, a black stallion he called Havoc. The man looked as fresh as if he had just come out of the royal baths. He was swigging wine from a flask. The liquid dribbled down his beard which he had re-braided. He was happy now that war was upon them and he could actively do something to save his people.

  “Welcome to my land, Prince,” he said. He took a final mouthful of wine and then cast the flask to the ground, where it shattered against a rock upon impact.

  “It is very beautiful. You must be very proud,” Althalos said. He imagined it probably was on a clear day but he struggled to visualise it now. Hamsun shrugged as if it did not matter to him whether the land was seen to be picturesque or not.

  “You push the men hard,” the warlord said.

  “Too hard?” Althalos asked. Hamsun laughed.

  “No, not too hard. It will help with their conditioning.”

  Althalos yawned, “It has certainly assisted with my conditioning. I thought this land of yours would be a lot easier to cross than it is proving to be.”

  Hamsun jumped down from his horse and immediately the flat of his boots disappeared in the squelching mud. He looked down and laughed.

  “I fear you are not crossing it in the best of conditions, my prince.”

  Around them, tents were already being erected. Flags were alsobeing placed, as if they were the most important part of the shelter. Althalos could not understand how the various factions still had to distinguish themselves from each other. They all marched as one and were united in a common cause, what was the point in maintaining boundaries?

  When he looked back at Hamsun, he could see the warlord biting his bottom lip and straining to see something in the distance. Althalos followed his gaze and saw, very faintly, a thin plume of smoke against the gray sky rising from beyond the furthest hill. He knew the warlord was feeling guilty about not being with his people and searched for something comforting to say. What could he say though? The situation was what it was. He dare not push the men any harder. Failing to think of something suitable, he decided to focus on what they did have control over.

  “By my calculations, we will be with your people in just over three days, weather permitting. That’s three days to channel our anger into hurting Vashna and the rest of the traitors.”

  “Three days may be too late, but I intend to have that scum’s head on a plate all the same,” he placed a hand on Althalos shoulder. “I think I might turn in, young prince. Forgive my rudeness.”

  With that, he skulked off into the diminishing light. Althalos watched him go with a heavy heart.

  * * *

  That night Althalos wandered through the camps. Despite his body’s protests, the prince did not feel mentally tired. The men were in various states of drunkenness or sleeping. Some sang crude songs heard in the taverns, whilst others sat and swapped sombre tales of the Gloom and the destruction it had caused to their homes.

  Althalos acknowledged the men as he walked amongst them with a nod. Word had got round of his nightly mingling and so he found none were surprised to see him, although they quieted when he approached. He was not looking for any particular group of men, but just whichever group felt right to sit with.

  He had already eaten a quick meal with Unger and his capt
ains. The warlord of Rora was happy to dine with him and his captains in his plush tent but made it clear his hospitality did not extend beyond the meal. The food was adequate but the conversation strained.

  They mostly talked about the best place to engage Vashna in battle. Unger felt it was more advantageous to draw the enemy into the forest of Namiba where the difference in the two sides’ numbers would not count for much. Bounson, Unger’s second in command, a plain laconic man, believed they should head directly to Hamsun’s castle and defend it. That way the onus was on Vashna to conquer them.

  In truth, Althalos was not sure what the best course of action was. He wanted to survey the situation nearer the time and once the scouts reported back and he knew exactly what he was facing. He did know if they holed up in Hamsun’s castle there was nothing to stop Vashna from ignoring them and marching straight onto a relatively unprotected Lilyon.

  The heir to the throne had been walking for almost an hour amongst the soldiers when he reached the edge of the camps. He was about to return inwards when he noticed a fire burning outside the perimeter of the soldiers’ camp.

  He turned to a soldier eating dried meat and pointed out the fire. “Whose camp does that fire belong to?”

  “That’s Henrik’s party. Some of the Brimsgrove folk like to maintain a degree of separation from the rest of us,” the man said without looking up.

  Curiosity got the better of him and he made his way towards the light. The rain had ceased now but the wind still had a chill. As he got closer to the fire, he saw the soldiers had made no attempt to conceal themselves from anyone else, they had just chosen to be apart.

  There were six men round the fire, two were lying on their sides and eating their meal, whilst another three sat huddled under a blanket, sharing a flask of drink. The sixth man was standing apart from the others, urinating against a tree. They were having a lively discussion of which he was the subject.

  “He’s impressed me so far. There are no airs and graces about him. He sleeps amongst us and not in one of those fancy tents. He marches the same number of miles as us. I don’t see the problem,” said one of the men lying on his side. He was a middle-aged man, his hair thinning on top.

  “Therein is the exact problem. He is trying to be one of us,” the middle man amongst the squatters said. As he did he waved the flask of wine about, slurping some on the wet ground.

  “Dougnall, you stupid sot, mind the wine!” a rather obese man to his right said as he snatched the flask away.

  “I’m just saying a leader should distinguish himself from his soldiers. He should be able to be seen all the time, certainly not pissing about amongst his troops,” Dougnall said. Althalos couldn’t help but smile as the man echoed Hamsun’s words.

  “Then he is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t,” said the original speaker. “If he shares in the work he is not being a leader; if he distances himself, then no doubt you will call him aloof. The poor man can’t win.”

  “I don’t have a problem with his behaviour,” said the man that had been urinating. He now staggered back to the group with a damp patch around his groin. He had the biggest hooked nose Althalos had ever seen. When he spoke, Althalos could only see the sides of his mouth move.

  “Curses, Theordon, did you actually pull down your breeches to piss?” Dougnall said, as the man plonked himself down next to them and reached for the wine.

  “Ain’t as if we are going to be seeing any wenches, is it?” Theordon replied. He swigged the wine, actually using the rim of the flask to push his nose out of the way as he brought it to his mouth. “As I was saying, I don’t have a problem with his behaviour. I just don’t want to follow him.”

  The others looked at each other before the other man lying down asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, I don’t respect him. Like half of this army, the man has never been in any battle, never faced danger in his life and here he is, expected to deliver us from the greatest danger Frindoth has faced.”

  Althalos winced. He feared this type of conversation amongst the soldiers. It was exactly the concern he’d voiced to his father before setting out. The prince crept closer to the camp and began to circle the perimeter to get a better look at the two men lying down. A twig snapped under his foot but none of the men noticed.

  “He is supposed to be handy with a sword. Some of the lads were talking of his exploits in the practice yard,” the original speaker said.

  Althalos could see the man now. He had a gentle face, his lips were turned up at the edges slightly to give the appearance of an impish smile waiting to break out. He had short silver hair and wore a beard that age had not yet reached, for it was mostly black and only had flecks of grey round the edges. Althalos felt a rush of warmth towards the man. The two of them had never met, yet here he was defending him. He felt a surge of gratitude.

  “Wooden swords against little squires hardly makes him a sword master, Terrie,” Theordon said. Althalos crept in closer to where Theordon sat with the others. He could understand the man’s reservations, yet this did not quell the anger rising in him.

  “We all have to learn somewhere,” Terrie said and threw his chicken bone into the fire.

  “He is unproven. He knows nothing of combat. Who is to say that he won’t piss himself and flee at the first sign of Vashna’s army? I tell you, the man is not fit to lead this army.”

  “Although, he is good enough to sneak up behind you and put steel to your neck,” Althalos said.

  Theordon cried out in alarm. Several birds roosting in the trees took flight at the scream. There was a short pause as the soldiers registered their surprise before they sprang into action. They only half drew their swords, though, indecisive at drawing against a royal and defending their friend.

  Althalos made the decision for them, removing his blade from Theordon’s neck.

  “My apologies, my lord, I did not mean offense,” Theordon said, checking his throat for signs of blood.

  “Yes, you did, but your apology is accepted all the same. I do not begrudge your concerns. If I was in your situation I would no doubt feel the same,” Althalos said.

  The soldiers relaxed slightly as Althalos walked fully into the light cast by the fire. Now that the other soldiers were all standing, their faces were not so illuminated. The light from the flames flickering on their faces made them appear more hostile.

  “Who out of you is the best swordsman?” Althalos asked.

  No one answered him, but they all looked towards the man that had been lying next to Terrie. It was all the answer the prince needed.

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “Valrik, my lord.” Althalos regarded the man. He looked lean but strong with a long face and sharp features which ruined any chance he had of being handsome. No wonder you became a good fighter.

  “Who is the next best warrior?” he said.

  This time Dougnall stepped forward. Chin jutted out, as if daring anyone to challenge his claim. None did.

  “My name is—”

  “Dougnall, I know,” Althalos cut in. “I was observing you all a lot longer than you think.”

  Theordon frowned as Althalos let the ramifications of the words sink in. If they had not detected the prince’s presence, then already their estimation of him had increased. Althalos could see the soldiers trying to recall their conversation and ascertain whether they had said anything to incriminate themselves.

  Several other men emerged from the darkness, obviously alerted by Theordon’s scream. Among them was Tulber: The Brimsgrove warlord seemed surprised upon seeing Althalos. The prince ignored them all.

  “You are right to question my prowess in combat,” Althalos said. He spoke loud enough so that the growing crowd could all hear him. “Valrik, Dougnall, it is an honour to make your acquaintance. I would now ask you attack me as you would a Yurisdorian warrior.”

  There were a few gasps from the audience; neither man moved.

  “My l
ord, I appreciate what you are trying to do, but these two really are formidable opponents. There is no need to prove yourself,” Henrik said, the captain of the group tried to assume some level of control of the situation.

  “I’m afraid there is exactly a need to prove myself and I am happy to do so.”

  “Then if you insist on this folly, might I suggest two other opponents,” Henrik said.

  “In war you don’t get to select your opponents. Surely experienced campaigners such as yourselves should know that,” Althalos said as he smiled at Theordon. It was a dig and a cheap one, but he was starting to enjoy the attention. Tulber made no attempt to intercede and was looking at Althalos with disdain. You want me to fail. We will see, Warlord.

  Henrik stepped forward but lowered his voice so only Althalos could hear.

  “My lord, I’ve heard of your skill with a blade in the palace courtyard. Our comments were cruel to hear but they ring true. A courtyard is a million miles from life and death situations,” he said.

  “I agree, but I am your prince and will one day be your king. I have given you a command and I expect you to obey it,” he said, lowering his voice to match Henrik’s and then louder, addressing everyone. “Besides, as I see it, it is a win-win situation. If I am triumphant against these two fine men, then perhaps some of you will be a bit more confident in my ability. If I lose, then your concerns were correct and you get to pick a new leader, someone you all can have faith in.”

  By now, there were perhaps as many as one hundred soldiers forming a close circle around them. He looked around at the faces, all of them were watching closely, some with a look of fear. If he was killed here tonight, they were witnessing the event and might be brought to question why they did nothing to prevent the situation. He noticed with a pang of disbelief some of the men were exchanging coins, betting on the outcome.