Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  A few minutes later, the surly man brought over two tankards. Maxhunt did not even acknowledge the man but slammed a gold coin on the table as payment, greedily slurping his new drink. When the barman hovered over him, he angrily wiped his mouth and addressed him.

  “Yes?”

  “I do not have enough change to cover this, sir,” the barman said through gritted teeth. He was obviously torn between accepting the custom and shoving the coin down Maxhunt’s throat.

  “Then keep it to cover the next drinks,” Maxhunt said. The barman clucked his tongue and skulked away. Another customer watching the scene rolled his eyes at the barman in sympathy.

  “May I propose a toast,” Maxhunt said and raised his tankard, spilling some of the contents onto the table. Jensen raised his own container but found he had to concentrate hard to prevent any spillage, “to the truth finally coming out.” He bashed his drink harder than necessary against Jensen’s own.

  “To the truth,” Jensen echoed, grinning foolishly.

  “May we give thanks to the Gloom for that fire twenty years ago,” Maxhunt shouted, causing one or two gasps from the other customers. One man stood up and put a hand to the hilt of his sword, but his wife checked him and instructed him to sit town.

  Jensen’s blood ran cold as the toast rapidly sobered him up. Even in his drunken state, he knew the years did not add up.

  He clinked his tankard with Maxhunt’s but it was a halfhearted gesture. If the fire was twenty years ago, then it would have been impossible for him to have been conceived that night as he was now only seventeen. He is drunk, he tried to reason. It was a slip of the tongue, no more.

  He sipped his ale lightly, suddenly aware of how much he was drinking. His mind was spinning. He desperately tried to recall the story Rhact and his mother had told him about the fire. Did they say when the fire had taken place, other than before he was born?

  He searched his memory trying to remember how many drinks they’d had and if Maxhunt was drunk and getting confused or whether he had been lying to him. It then came to him, the maskers! When the maskers had come to Longcombe last and enthralled Brody with the apple trick, his mother had commented how it had been the first time the maskers had been in Longcombe for fifteen years. Jensen had been twelve then. If the fire took place twenty years ago, it would have been the year of the maskers, something Maxhunt would definitely remember.

  Jensen chose his words carefully, “Maybe we shouldn’t be thanking the Gods. Maybe it was the maskers that set the inn on fire. That is what Banbury always said.”

  It was a lie and his heart thumped as he kept his eyes on his drink and took another swig.

  “Well Banbury is a fool then. I remember the maskers came in the blue month because of all the poxy blue decorations. They were gone a full two months before the Green Stag caught fire. Banbury is just soft and didn’t want to accuse any of the townsfolk.”

  The anger pulsed through Jensen, his opinion of Maxhunt transformed instantly. All at once, the conniving, smug man was back, the man he had despised all his life. Suddenly he was aware of how all the other people in the inn perceived them. He noticed the couple quarrelling with the bartender.

  “I can’t believe we wasted all those years,” Jensen said through gritted teeth.

  “I know, I spent every single day wanting to tell you. I knew you were my son and it tore me apart,” Maxhunt said and wiped away a tear. The theatrics only served to heighten Jensen’s anger.

  “It must have been hard for you,” he said slowly.

  “It truly was, my son.”

  “But not as hard as it was for my mother. To have carried me in her womb for two and a half years is a remarkable feat.”

  It took Maxhunt a second or two to realise what Jensen had said. When he did, his mouth fell open, trying to search for an explanation. Jensen did not allow one. He swung his tankard against Maxhunt’s face, heard the satisfying crack as the impact broke his nose and sent Maxhunt sprawling to the floor.

  “You filthy, lying bastard, I can’t believe you had me fooled.”

  * * *

  Brenna watched the scene unfold in front of her. She watched from the cover of the darkness and grew increasingly uneasy. When they had learned Janna had a stone, she’d been angry like her parents, but part of her just wanted to see Jensen again. To get away from everyone else and just be alone with him.

  When her father told her they were going to find Rhact, she obliged but secretly held little hope. As it happened, even she could have followed their trail. For fugitives, the Oberons were hardly discreet.

  They had stumbled upon a discarded campfire after the second day. The crudely set up camp looked like it had held court to an almighty scuffle as several of her friend’s clothes were strewn about the site.

  From there they were able to follow Rhact’s progress by following their wagon wheel tracks thanks to the rain. When they found the abandoned wagon at the end of the third day, she had feared for her friends. Her parents however, expressed only anger at the fact someone else might have got to them first.

  This only confused her. She could see why her parents were furious with Rhact’s family and to a degree so was she, however, she was having a difficult time associating Brody’s death with the family she had grown up with and loved so dearly.

  Now, as her mother towered over Rhact and Kiana menacingly, she did not like the way she was brandishing the knife.

  “Mother?” she said.

  Her mother either did not hear her or chose to ignore her, which scared Brenna even more. To be angry at Rhact was one thing, he deserved it, but to be threatening to kill them was another altogether and one she was not comfortable with.

  “Father?” she tried.

  Her father, fixated on Tyra, did not reply. Brenna had never seen him like this. He was livid. The light cast from the torch highlighted the protruding veins in his neck. They made him look ugly. She had been shocked by his brutality towards the fallen men.

  She felt nothing but pity for both Rhact and Kiana kneeling on the floor in front of her parents. The couple were completely at her parents’ mercy. Rhact’s face was a bloody mess and even she could see his thoughts were only for Janna. Why couldn’t they see it?

  Brenna did not like the scene one little bit and began to back away from the four adults she had loved and trusted her whole life.

  “MY BOY IS DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU TWO,” her mother shouted.

  “I’m so sorry, Tyra,” it was Kiana that took the lead now, trying to identify with the woman she had shared so much with. “Please, don’t let Janna die too.”

  “Do you think I care for your children now? Do you think I honestly give a damn about them now you have killed my son?” her mother screamed in Kiana’s face.

  Brenna willed her mother to calm down. She wanted to call out to her again, but the look on her mother’s face scared her too much.

  “Please, Tyra, we are best friends.”

  “Were best friends,” her mother corrected.

  Brenna watched as her mother plunged the dagger into Kiana’s chest. Kiana’s mouth opened in surprise. She tried to speak but only a gurgling noise could be heard. It was then the blood appeared from her mouth and trickled down her chin. She made one final attempt to communicate before falling over on her side, dead.

  A wave of bile forced Brenna to retch. It burned her throat as she swallowed it back down. She jumped as Rhact let out the kind of howl she did not think could escape from a man. She took one look at Kiana’s motionless body lying on the ground, eyes staring at her accusingly, before turning away and fleeing into the darkness.

  * * *

  Rhact’s whole body shook with rage. He stared at his wife and cried out once more. She had fallen on her side, so that her face was away from him. All he could see were strands of hair covering her left cheek. The ends of her hair were already matted with blood.

  Every muscle screamed with pain as he attempted to free himself from his bonds. Hi
s breath came in rapid deep bursts. His cheeks swelled and then deflated as if someone was pumping his lungs for him. There must be some mistake, they could not have just killed his wife. He tried to think rationally but images of his wife in happier times flashed through his head.

  His attention turned to Tyra and he could not make sense of the woman who had just stabbed his wife. Tears flowed as he looked into Tyra’s cold remorseless eyes. He watched her give Mertyn the knife and motion towards him. It all seemed like a horrible dream.

  “Do it,” Tyra said.

  Mertyn hesitated.

  “Do it,” she repeated.

  “Wait!” Mertyn said. He held the dagger to his forehead and wiped his brow. Streams of sweat fell down his face. Rhact felt numb. He was mesmerized by his friend.

  “I need time to think. He is my best friend.”

  “Kiana was mine. Do it for our son.”

  Rhact focussed on her. Rage consumed him, he made a final struggle to free himself but the rope still held his hands firm.

  Mertyn spun the dagger in his hand and bit his lip. Rhact could see the indecision playing on his mind but barely registered it. He thought only of his dead wife. Mertyn looked from Rhact to the corpse and back again and seemed to come to a decision.

  “I’ve got to do it. There is no going back now. If I cut you free, you’ll kill Tyra. It is written all over your face. I’ve got to do it,” Mertyn said.

  Mertyn threw away the dagger and picked up his sword from one of the fallen bandits. He looked at the blade in apprehension as if he was scared of what it was capable of. Rhact could see his friend was trying to convince himself but did not care.

  Somewhere out there Janna was fighting for her life, if not dead already. Either way he was helpless to save her. Jensen had disowned him and his wife lay dead at his side. All because of him.

  He could see the pain etched on Mertyn’s face. His friend was babbling to himself, arguing for and against his actions. He knew if he asked his friend to spare him, he would. His friend was looking for some guidance from Rhact, some reason why he should let him live. Rhact had none.

  “Do it,” Rhact said.

  Mertyn stopped talking to himself. He looked at Rhact in shock and then seconds later, understanding. In that instant he recognised his old friend.

  Rhact managed a weak smile as Mertyn placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. He then closed his eyes as his best friend used his other hand to ram his sword into his heart.

  Chapter 28

  The sound from the horn that echoed around the basin made Althalos’s blood run cold. It was just an ordinary blast that the prince had heard hundreds of times before. No different from the noise that disturbed him from his dream a few days ago, yet the ramifications of the noise sent a chill up and down his spine. They were coming!

  Althalos stood at the centre of his frontline which spread across a third of the basin. He had positioned his men at first light, eager not to be caught out by Vashna. Beside him stood Hamsun, his beard braided as neatly as Althalos had ever seen. The great warlord had not slept, it seemed, in order to meticulously prepare his appearance for the battle ahead.

  He had slept only a few hours himself and even that had been a broken sleep. He’d gone over every scenario he could think of. Tried to analyse every eventual outcome of the day ahead, even though he knew it was pointless. He did not need experience to know battles rarely went according to plan.

  Surprisingly, the other warlords had been very receptive of his idea. Even Unger and Tulber conceded it was the most likely chance of success. Unger seemed to look at him in a new way. The snide comments were gone and he spoke with slightly more respect when addressing him. Tulber still looked upon him with disdain though. Althalos just hoped the plan worked.

  The horn reverberated over the plain a second time. The sound of hundreds of men marching in their direction was enough to send another shiver down his spine. The clatter of armour as they walked seemed to form a steady rhythm. Were they stamping as they marched? Althalos knew they weren’t, but to consider the noise was caused by the sheer volume of the opposition was too much to bear.

  He heard men gasp as Vashna’s forces became visible for the first time. They flowed into the basin like honey into a cup. A slow, all-consuming movement that just went on and on. The prince thought of the conversation he had with his father. Jacquard had been wrong when he had tried to describe the feeling just before battle. It did not make Althalos less eager to engage in war, it made him want to run away and hide forever.

  It wasn’t long before he could make out the various factions within the enemy. The Shangon people formed most of the front line. Their reward for joining Vashna late, he thought bitterly. The painted skulls on their faces added to their intimidating appearance. Behind them he could make out the colours of the silver of Meadowmead and the gold of Snowlands.

  Overwhelmed didn’t begin to describe how he felt and yet still they poured onto the plain. His horse shook her mane and whinnied. He struggled to control her and embarrassingly was nearly thrown from her back. That would have looked terrific! he thought and then laughed to himself. The soldiers were almost halfway across the plain when a deep drone ceased their advance.

  “By the Gloom, look at the number of them,” someone said behind him.

  “More for us to kill,” Hamsun turned and barked.

  “Do I ride out to meet him?” Althalos asked. He knew that was the usual protocol between enemies.

  “Vashna has not come here to negotiate, my prince,” Hamsun replied.

  The Shangonites dropped their weapons and began to convulse violently, lifting their arms to the sky and moaning in unison. It was a tactic Althalos had heard they used before engaging an enemy, but seeing it for the first time made his mouth go dry.

  “Pay it no heed, boy,” Hamsun said beside him as Althalos exhaled loudly. “They are just men like us. They have no special powers, it is all just trickery.”

  The words did little to reassure him. From amongst the ranks behind him, one or two men uttered their own insults at the display, refusing to be intimidated. Althalos was glad to hear the bravado but when he looked at his men he saw mostly apprehension.

  Without a second’s thought, he rode along the front line.

  “Sons of Frindoth, you stand before me, ready for battle whilst an unspeakable nightmare ravishes your homes. I ask you to remember that. I ask you not to put aside the feelings of anger and despair you feel as the Gloom does what it wills to your loved ones.

  “We should not be here. We should be at home protecting our families. That is where we all wish to be.”

  As he rode along the frontline, he tried to make eye contact with as many of the men as possible. Some looked scared. Most looked intrigued by what he was saying.

  “The enemy we face today is taking advantage of our plight. They seek to capitalise in our time of weakness, choosing to ignore the threat to their own families in an effort to rule Frindoth. At a time when Frindoth should be united against a common enemy, they seek to divide us. I ask you to remember this when you look them in the eye. I ask you to channel the anger you feel into your swords.

  “The Gloom cannot be harmed, but by the three moons of Frindoth, those bastards opposing us can. And as long as you can stand, I ask you to make them bleed. Bleed them for the people of Rora.”

  A huge roar went up from the warriors along the edge of the battlefield. Althalos rode along the men.

  “Bleed them for the Aselinians.”

  Another roar erupted. He was pleased to see Calloway leading the cheers amongst his men.

  “For those from Easterly Rock, for the Lucianians.”

  The biggest cheer sounded, men bashed their swords against their shields to add to the clamour.

  “For Brimsgrove and for Rivervale.”

  He rode his horse back to the centre of the line, before dismounting and clipping the horse with his sword to send her on her way.

&nbs
p; “Bleed them for FRINDOTH.”

  Unanimously the men shouted. The noise hurt Althalos’s ears. He looked at the faces of those immediately surrounding him. The passion they displayed, the fury in their eyes made him swell with pride. The din continued for a long time. Across the plain, Vashna’s army was silent, which he thought was more unnerving than if they had responded with their own jeers.

  He retook his place in the front line, retrieving his shield from the ground. Hamsun looked at him out of the corner of his eye, “A little too dramatic, but it worked for me.”

  Althalos nodded as Vashna’s horn sounded again to advance his force.

  “You ready to be part of history, my prince?” Hamsun said and grinned with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

  “You speak as if I have a choice, friend,” Althalos said and then broke into a run yelling at his men to charge.

  A myriad of thoughts raced through his head. He had read countless books on warfare, from evasive manoeuvres to daring strategies of attack. He knew all about the most suitable weapons for various terrains, or the best armour to wear in close contact. However, none of the books ever mentioned the feelings that ran through a soldier’s head as he met the enemy for the first time.

  Knowing an army of soldiers was following him into battle whilst he registered the malevolent expressions on those rushing to meet him, left him feeling a mixture of fear and exhilaration. The thing that surprised him most was how quickly he was out of breath and how heavy his sword and shield had become.

  He assumed the adrenaline would consume him and those kinds of emotions would not register until after the battle, but bizarrely he found himself worrying as to whether or not he had the stamina to reach the opponents.

  Some of the faster men overtook him, their battle cries screeching through the morning sky. Around him warriors had already engaged, screams filled the air and the clatter of swords on armour filled his ears. He focused on a Shangonite directly in front of him. The man, it seemed, had singled him out as well. His tongue was a bright pink colour in contrast to the white paint on his face.