Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  Suddenly, the Shangonite was all he could see. It was as if time slowed down and the world concentrated on just him and the Shangonite warrior in front of him. Instinctively he ducked away from a swinging sword, his attention purely on the man who had his sword raised above his head and was sweeping it down in a slow arc towards his head. Before he could, however, Althalos dove forward and plunged his sword into the man’s chest, withdrawing it before the man could register the pain.

  He did not turn to see the man fall but singled out his next opponent. His training took over. Years of practice in the sparring yard began to pay off. This man already had blood splattered across his face but his feint to Althalos’s left did not fool the prince who predicted the movement and dispatched his second adversary.

  Wave upon wave of enemies attacked him. Each looked more deadly than the last. Each wanting nothing more than to end his life. He was vaguely aware of Hamsun by his side, felling soldiers like a forester clearing trees. In front of him, he saw the young man called Royo fall to the ground, an arrow in his neck and an ugly gash appearing across his chest. Royo had been a fellow sparring partner with Althalos growing up, but he had little time to grieve his fallen friend as another enemy soldier advanced.

  A foe loomed in front of him. He deflected the initial strike, forcing his opponent’s sword down to his side. He did not, however, see the head butt that followed. It caught him right between the eyes. For a moment his vision blurred and the pain left him stunned. He tried to raise his shield in defence, but the blow had disorientated him and he found himself flying through the air as his legs were swept from underneath him. Childish mistake! He cursed himself as he shook his head. Fyfe would beat me for such an error.

  The sight before him filled him with dread. His attacker stood over him, sword arm drawn back ready to deliver the death blow. He braced himself for his final moments.

  The blow never came though. Instead, his enemy screamed in agony, his sword arm that only moments before had been poised to strike, was now severed at the elbow, courtesy of one of Hamsun’s axes. The great warlord towered in front of him and decapitated the man with another powerful swing.

  Before Althalos could register his gratitude, he noticed another Shangonite preparing to deliver his own fatal strike to Hamsun’s exposed back. Althalos sprung to his feet and intercepted the attack, before stabbing the man in the throat.

  “You repay your life debts quickly, Prince,” Hamsun said grinning, before whirling around and disappearing into the chaos of bodies.

  The battle continued. Every man Althalos killed was replaced with another. He found himself stumbling on the fallen bodies of both friends and enemies. Despite the number of people slain, neither side seemed to be advancing. Vashna, with his superior numbers would eventually win out.

  The prince’s arms screamed in pain, his muscles burned with fatigue and he allowed himself to fall back and others to take his place. He looked to either side. All along the line his soldiers were holding their own. He looked into the crowd of bodies. There was no sign of Vashna anywhere. If he could just find him, then maybe he could end the war.

  Hamsun appeared at his side again. His beard now unkempt, he was breathing hard and sweating. He pointed out a figure in the mass of fighting men.

  “Stasiak …” he said trying to catch his breath, “… must be.”

  Althalos strained to see where he was pointing. He was not hard to find, anyone that fought him was slain easily. He brandished two curved swords as if they were twigs, sending bodies flying. He was a lot younger than Althalos had imagined. With a shaved head and a painted blue face, he looked every bit as formidable as his reputation suggested.

  “I think it is time to implement that plan of yours,” Hamsun said through gritted teeth. It was clear the warlord wanted to face Stasiak, but was restraining himself in order to carry out his part in the scheme.

  “I think you are right,” Althalos said, his eyes not leaving the blue-faced warrior. “Fall back. Men of Rivervale, fall back,” he yelled.

  “Cowards, stand and fight,” Hamsun yelled, slowly retreating himself. His men responded instantly, fleeing in panic. Althalos saw that Stasiak had noticed him now. The warrior pointed one of his swords directly at him, and bellowed with rage.

  The action made him shudder. Up until now he had not been scared on the battlefield, instinct serving to make him fight for survival. At that moment however, he was petrified. He had never seen such evil in someone as he stared into Stasiak’s eyes. The awesome warrior brushed aside the man he was engaged with and headed directly for the prince.

  “Cowards,” he heard Hamsun yell again. He risked a glance to his left and right, both sides were holding their position as per the plan. They were to hold the line, whilst the centre collapsed.

  “Destroy the sniffling fools,” Stasiak said. The men around him, buoyed on by his actions, let out an almighty roar and attacked with renewed energy. Althalos’s men fled for their lives. Several were scythed down, arrows embedded in their backs. That is not part of the plan, he thought in alarm, they should not be turning their backs on their opponents.

  Fear gripped him as another two men fell near him. He was torn between carrying on the pretence of retreating or ordering them to turn and fight. They were throwing their lives away. He could see the same thought running through Hamsun’s mind. He flinched as another familiar face from Lilyon fell to the ground, dead before his body landed.

  “Retreat!” the warlord screamed and Althalos was thankful for it. He was not sure he could have proceeded with the plan. To his right, he noticed the yellow banner had been raised. This was the signal for the right side to push forward. Those that had fled had not left the basin but instead had gone left or right to replenish the battling soldiers on that side.

  To the left, there was still no sign of a yellow banner. He licked his lips. It was vital the two sides advanced at the same time.

  Vashna’s forces, headed by Stasiak, continued to plough their way through the centre. They could not afford to give up much more of the battlefield and still succeed with his plan. He wiped his brow where a new layer of sweat had formed. He was shocked at how coarse his skin felt. When he glanced at his hand, he saw flecks of dried blood on his fingertips.

  A horrific cracking sound reverberated around the plain. Althalos looked in Stasiak’s direction and through a tangle of bodies was appalled to see him stamping repeatedly on a soldier’s neck. The fearsome fighter was less than thirty yards away. Next to him one of his allies retched at the sight.

  Althalos looked over to his left again. There was still no sign of a yellow banner. Come on, Unger, don’t let me down. He fended off an attack from a warrior of Meadowmead, who had a painted shield of green hills revealing his origin. The warrior was not very skilful and Althalos killed him by ramming the edge of his shield into his eyes, making a horrific squelching sound that made him feel queasy.

  In front of him, three men charged at Stasiak seeking to take advantage of their numbers. One of them was knocked down by another foe who moved to intercept them, but the other two made it through to him. They moved in a coordinated fashion, one feigning forward and then withdrawing leaving the other to deliver the real attack. Althalos’s vision was blocked by two other soldiers engaged in a furious melee.

  Out of the mass of bodies, a huge man leapt towards the prince as if he had been launched by an unseen contraption. Althalos stabbed the man through the heart before he could land. When Althalos looked again, Stasiak was advancing towards him, the bodies of his two attackers lying motionless on the plain.

  The prince again looked over to his left. This time his heart leapt; Unger’s yellow banner swayed for all to see. The sun shone upon it making the golden colours seem more radiant.

  “We stand here,” Althalos shouted. Around him his men responded instantly, turning and forming a new line, as best they could. For the second time that morning, the prince watched Stasiak point towards him and singl
e him out.

  “Let’s see just how good you really are,” Althalos muttered to himself. Whether he was talking about Stasiak or his own ability, the prince was not sure.

  * * *

  Cordane surveyed the battle. Althalos had organised the smaller eastern alliance well and was holding his own. However, the valiant effort would prove to be futile. Vashna’s numbers were just too great. Cordane admired Stasiak as he remorselessly tore through the opposition. He was like a ship aided by a strong wind parting the ocean waves.

  Cordane had raised the boy, subjecting him to the most inhumane methods of training and thus knew the terror he was capable of. Yet still, this was the first time he had the opportunity to witness him in battle.

  The lad was not disappointing him. In fact, he excelled in every way a warrior could, leaving countless bodies in his wake. Some of them he just severely wounded, rendering them incapable of fighting further. These victims writhed in agony on the floor waiting for mercy that only death could deliver.

  Vashna sat next to him astride his horse. The warlord looked bored by the whole scene, if anything. He lazily ordered his men to advance where necessary, but seemed to view the whole affair as a minor inconvenience rather than the struggle for supremacy it actually was.

  The dark warlord had lost much of his zeal for battle when he learned Jacquard was not leading the army himself. Instead, he was disgusted the king had delegated the responsibility to his son. He saw this as a personal slight and fretted that his victory would be a hollow one as a result. The messenger who had delivered the news of the king’s absence had lost his head as a result.

  An almighty cheer erupted as Stasiak broke through the enemy line. Warriors before him, including the prince and a furious Hamsun, fled to safer ground.

  “Victory will be soon, my king,” said Moirin, captain of Vashna’s personal guard. Already they had taken to calling him a king.

  “I wanted to win a war, not preside over an annihilation,” Vashna snapped.

  Cordane held his tongue. Vashna’s army had the advantage but the warlord was foolish to underestimate the opposition. He would have to drive the complacency out of the warlord if he was to rule Frindoth effectively.

  Cordane’s attention turned to Carle and his unit. The warrior who had impressed him days earlier impressed him again today. His unit was making more progress than any other through the centre. Undoubtedly, the plaudits would go to Stasiak, but Carle’s well-drilled unit was contributing to the push. I will definitely keep you in mind for the future.

  “This watching is tedious. Moirin, get the men ready to attack,” Vashna said.

  “Is that wise, my king? The flanks are not advancing as well as expected,” Moirin said.

  Cordane frowned as a yellow banner appeared on the left flank. It was Calloway’s men waving it. Something about it worried him. In the centre, the majority of Althalos’s men continued to retreat. Why are they not all retreating? Stasiak and Carle’s men were deadly but was that the only reason why the men were fleeing in front of them? Come to think of it, he had never known Hamsun to back down in his life. Something was definitely amiss.

  As he watched more closely, Calloway’s unit seemed to swell in numbers and force back the Snowland warriors opposing them.

  “Vashna, Moirin is right, the enemy seems to be winning the day on the left flank,” Cordane said.

  “Then keep an eye on it yourself. I’m not going to endure this entire battle without getting my hands bloody. I will split this army down the centre and then circle back on the stragglers,” Vashna replied and with that he raised his sword in the direction of the prince and charged forward, bellowing his battle cry as he disappeared into the fray.

  Warriors on either side of Cordane followed suit, rushing past him and unnerving his horse. To his right, another yellow banner was raised. Cordane tried to think of the significance of this. In all of those tedious war councils Jacquard held, he could not recall a yellow banner ever being mentioned once.

  The right side seemed to push forward with new vigour. The yellow banners on either side of him advanced slowly, like a cat stalking a field mouse ready to pounce.

  Vashna entered the commotion, his men engaged with the enemy on either side of them. Cordane strained to see the prince amongst the mass of bodies, but there were now too many warriors in his way. Frustrated, he looked to the sky and focussed on a circling vulture.

  He closed his eyes and tried to channel out the sounds of the battle. Screams of agony and rage filled his ears, the clash of metal on metal. One by one the sounds faded as he emptied his mind. The acrid smell of blood filled his nostrils, this too he tuned out until he was at one with the world.

  Occasionally a kaleidoscope of men’s thoughts infiltrated his mind, the desperation to survive, the horror of imminent death. He ignored them all until he found the mind of the vulture.

  He felt the breeze on his face, the sense of gliding through the air and then when all other distractions had left him, he saw through the vulture’s eyes: eyes that took in the chaotic scene below and did not judge; eyes that only sensed the food nearby.

  Through these eyes he saw that the men were not retreating from the basin, but were instead veering to the left or right as they reached the edge of the plain to bolster the flanks. Cordane’s eyes flew open, the yellow banners on either side were now adjacent to him. The men that opposed them were being forced into the centre more and more as the enemy used the slopes on the circumference of the basin to their advantage. In an instant he realised their plan and shouted for Vashna to retreat.

  * * *

  If Stasiak felt any caution about taking on the prince of Frindoth, he did not let it show. Althalos rushed to meet him hoping the offensive stance would take the painted soldier by surprise. The two warriors met with a ferocity that surprised those around them as they fell away from the pair. Stasiak’s swords crossed to block Althalos’s strike. The two stayed like that for a few moments, Stasiak snarling like a dog at the prince.

  Althalos withdrew his sword and made to strike again but Stasiak was too skilful and forced the prince’s blade down to the ground with one sword and swung the other blade at Althalos’s neck with a backhanded motion. Not a good start! Althalos thought as he barely managed to duck away from the curved sword.

  Stasiak took advantage of the temporary loss of balance and kicked Althalos from behind. The prince struggled desperately to stay upright but ended up stumbling forward several steps before losing the battle and falling to the ground. Stasiak roared with laughter and advanced upon him twirling his swords about him like a masker with batons.

  Althalos was vaguely aware of the other soldiers fighting around him, for every one of them engaged in combat another watched the duel out of the corners of their eyes. He leapt to his feet and assumed a defensive stance. Infuriatingly, this only caused Stasiak to laugh harder.

  Althalos felt like a little boy. He knew the warrior before him was younger than himself, but the way he carried himself gave the impression of a seasoned veteran. He reminded Althalos of Fyfe, encouraging him to give his best attack only to be thwarted with ease.

  Stasiak attacked. Althalos managed to parry blow after blow but each one got closer to its mark as his arms grew weak. Sparks flew as the blades collided. He was defending purely on instinct, blocking the blur of blades that cascaded upon him.

  Yet still he got the sense Stasiak was toying with him, until he caught a glimpse of the warrior’s face. The eyes displayed a fury he had never seen before in any man. He has underestimated me! he thought with a wave of relief. The thought spurred him on, he felt a new lease of life enter his arms, and even managed a positive strike himself once in a while. Stasiak roared with frustration.

  “Die, you weakling boy,” he yelled.

  The subsequent attack that accompanied the words was awesome. Althalos blocked where he could but it was out of desperation rather than composure. He let out a childish yelp as the blade nicked his
cheek drawing warm blood. Exhausted, he fell to his knees, trying to maintain some sort of defence against the flurry of strikes.

  Suddenly, Hamsun was standing between him and Stasiak. The bearded warlord swirled his great axe above his head, bringing it down towards Stasiak’s skull with frightening speed. Stasiak blocked the blow but the effort caused him to drop a sword. It was the first time in battle that Stasiak had been weakened. Around them the king’s soldiers seemed to take encouragement from Hamsun’s success and hurled themselves into the enemy.

  Althalos looked for the yellow banners at each side of the basin. At first he could not see them and despair almost overcame him. If they had fallen then all was lost. The despair turned to elation, however, as he caught sight of the two banners being waved furiously side by side at the other end of the plain. The trap was set, now the prey just had to be caught.

  “Squeeze,” he shouted. “For Frindoth, squeeze!”

  Others took up the cry and fought their way into the enemy. For his part, Althalos attacked Stasiak with renewed vigour. Between himself and Hamsun, the fearsome warrior could only defend. Each step he was forced to concede made him angrier.

  “Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze,” the men were chanting now, forcing the enemy back. Confused as to what was happening, the enemy soldiers were easier to fight. The Shangonites, who at the start of the battle had looked intimidating with their painted skulls, now looked petrified as their masks washed off by sweat.

  Althalos’s men made up the perimeter of the basin. With each yard they gained, the tremendous number of enemy soldiers were forced back on themselves. With each step there was less and less room for them to manoeuvre.

  “Squeeze.”

  Stasiak screamed his frustration as his allies closed in around him preventing him from fighting the prince. He killed several of them in an effort to free up some room. Panic engulfed the trapped men. They tried to fight their way out of the wall of bodies but with their arms squashed against their sides, they were savagely slaughtered where they stood. Like boiling bubbles trying to escape a cauldron, thought Althalos with a wry smile.