Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (14 page)

Master
Worrell sauntered into the room, obviously revelling in his slaves’ unease.
Anastas hated him more than ever then. She was of average height at five feet
tall but she towered a good half foot over him. He looked ridiculous in his
maroon velvet robe that was draped around his shoulders. A good quarter of the
material dragged along the floor after him. She watched as he picked up a ladle
and examined it, pretending to be interested in its craftsmanship.
Say what
you have to say, you despicable man, soon I will never have to look at you
again
. As if he could hear her thoughts, he turned and looked at her.

“No
more chores for you, Anastas. Today is your big day. You are off to Lilyon with
your knight,” he spat the word “knight” out as if it was a bit of undercooked
meat.

Anastas
remained silent. Ghorum put a reassuring hand on her back. Master Worrell
pretended not to notice, although he was probably seething at the show of
solidarity.

“Have
you got your dowry ready, Anastas?” he said.

“I ...
I don't have anything to give, Master. I don’t own anything,” she said.

“Oh
but you do, my dear child,” he said, reaching into his maroon cloak and holding
up a small black stone. “Oh yes you do.”

*
* *

Jaegal
stood over Clarathea’s bed. The old woman looked peaceful in death. Her mouth
open and her skin had begun to turn a slight yellow in colour. Other than that
and the rancid smell, she could have been mistaken for someone in a deep sleep.
A friendless woman sleeping in her shack on the outskirts of a pox ridden
town,
he thought.

He
glanced around the shack, it was a typical old person’s home: dust clung to all
the surfaces, whilst cobwebs formed in every nook and cranny imaginable; the
furniture basic and littered with hundreds of useless items hoarded over the
years.

He
looked at the fragile frame of the woman.
Fucking weak humans
, he
thought. Even when they die, they can’t do it right. In a moment of anger, he
flipped the bed. Bones snapped as the rigor mortis that had set in was
disturbed.

Jaegal
prodded the sheets with his foot until he found it. He carefully bent down and
picked up the small bronze stone, taking care not to touch the dead body as if
it could contaminate him in any way.

“Well,
that’s just peachy,” he said.

As
far as he was aware, there was no precedent for the situation he found himself
in. Never in the archives had it ever mentioned that one of the twelve people
chosen for the Ritual had died before the Ritual could happen. Some had
resisted going and that is why the Order chaperoned them to the capital, but
never had one been found dead.

Jaegal
kicked the lifeless body as if it would somehow bring her back to life. He ran
a hand over his chin, feeling the stubble as he contemplated what to do. Could
he gamble on the stone being placed in the fountain and hope it was not
selected? He dismissed the idea. If he returned to the capital empty-handed
then the Ritual could not start. The archives clearly stated that all twelve
people must be present before it begins.

There
was no other way but to take the body back with him to Lilyon. This conclusion
further irritated him. Not only had he travelled for six days to get to the
stinking hovel this bitch called a home, now he would have to travel all the
way back, carrying her stupid carcass. He kicked the body again for good
measure and smiled as another bone cracked.

 *
* *

Marybeth was not
sure if she could hear the screaming or if it was her imagination. She detected
it more from the disturbance in the night air, the roosting birds that fled
from the trees and candles being lit in the village.

She closed her
eyes and tried to push the image of the young girl from her mind. Rhact’s
aggressiveness had surprised her. The father was clearly scared but she admired
his resolve. There was no doubt in her mind that he would protect Janna at all
cost.

“You did well,”
she winced at his voice. She had not heard him approach and that unnerved her.

“It doesn’t feel
like it,” she replied.

“Doing the right
thing seldom does.”

“That is if I am
doing the right thing?”

She opened her
eyes and looked around the camp. Everything was the same as it had been when
Rhact had been here moments before. At first she could not see him, but then he
moved from behind a tree and into the light cast by the fire. He was different
from how he appeared to her before. His hair was now dark and he looked more
youthful. His eyes were still just as stern and unforgiving, though. He was
dressed in a black cloak; the hood resting down his back seemed far too large.

“We’ve been over
this. What we are doing is for the good of Frindoth. It is what your father
believed in,” he said.

“My father,” she
scoffed. “How do I know what he believed in? For someone who claims they know
what he believed in, you did not even know him.”

The man raised
his hands in supplication to quiet her. She obeyed without question.

“I never met
your father but I know he discovered the truth about the Gloom and wanted to
destroy it.”

“The magical
truth which you refuse to tell me?” she said sulkily. He smiled at that.

“You have the
scroll,” he said, as if that answered everything.

“The Scroll
tells me how I may defeat the Gloom, not what it is.”

“It is not in my
interests to divulge all that I know at this stage.”

“And what are
your interests?” Marybeth said. She stood up and moved towards him. If she
faced him it might convince him she was not afraid. He did not move but she
registered a flash of anger cross his face. He did not appreciate being
challenged.

“My interests
are the same as yours and your fathers before you. I want to see the Gloom
defeated and Frindoth not held to ransom to the sacrifice.”

“For what gain?”

She knew she was
pushing her luck, but did not care. The light of the fire danced across his
face. She had to look up at him and felt like a defiant child.

The man sighed
as if the whole conversation bored him. He walked over to one of the straw
dolls on the floor and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands and smiled.

“Does this stuff
work?” he asked, holding up the doll.

“It serves its
purpose,” she said, “you avoided the question.”

He threw the
doll in the fire and watched to see if she reacted. The fire popped and
crackled but Marybeth made sure she fixed her eyes firmly on him. She needed to
know; she hardly knew anything about the man before her.

“I told you
before, I don’t like to be questioned.”

He sighed again
and looked up at the trees. He seemed to be deliberating how much he could tell
her.

“My gain is my
concern. Let’s just say I have some issues with the Order too, and I do not
like how Frindoth is being ruled. All you need to know is that our goals are
the same, we both want to defeat the Gloom.”

“Yet I am the
one that will be blamed whilst you remain in the shadows.”

“For now,” he
said, “but you will discover I am a useful ally.” As he spoke his face changed
shape and suddenly she was staring at the face of her father. She gasped and
stepped forward to see more clearly, but when she did, his face had altered
back. Had she imagined it?

The man smiled
and then pulled his hood up, covering his face in shadow.

“I have to get
to Lilyon,” he said and began to walk away.

“Wait,” she said
and then chastised herself. She didn’t mean to sound so desperate. The man
turned, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “I only have one of the stones.”

“You will soon
have the other two. I have seen to it that Jaegal will seek your help. He will
find he has his hands full with one of the stone bearers.”

Marybeth
shuddered at the grin the man gave her before he left.

Jacquard
sat at the head of the table in his war room. He was dressed in his old
battered chain mail, with his battle cape adorned around his neck. In his
picturesque home surrounded by lavish gardens and fountains, it was easy to
forget the horrors of war. By putting on some of his armour, he was reminded of
the battles he had fought, the wounds that had been inflicted on him and the
lives he had taken. He found it helped him from becoming complacent when others
were fighting leagues from where he sat.

His
war council sat round the table before him. Twelve seats surrounded the table,
but only eight of them were occupied. They represented the twelve regions of
Frindoth. Each had a warlord that ruled the region, but ultimately Jacquard was
their king.

They
had already covered the Ritual and how it was going to take place. Each warlord
would attend to witness the sacrifice so that they could return to their region
and reassure their people they were safe from the Gloom for another twelve
years.

Twelve,
thought Jacquard.
Everything
is bloody twelve. Twelve stones that dictate how we live our lives, twelve
regions that divided up Frindoth, twelve months all named after the colour of
the stones. I just can’t get away from the cursed number
. Yet here around
his table, there were only eight men seated. He was failing in his leadership.
Something would have to be done.

He
glanced at the empty wooden chairs. Each one decorated with the emblem of their
respective regions: the Green serpent emerging out of the blue ocean of
Yurisdoria, the gold chain of Snowland, the silver shark of Meadowmead and the
purple falcon of Wildecliff Shore. All four chairs were supposed to be occupied
by warlords. Jefferson had been right; they were going to use the Ritual as an
excuse to take Lilyon and the bronze throne.
A throne that might not have a
prince to occupy it once Jacquard was gone.
  

Jacquard
looked at his son. The boy had taken the news well, like a prince should. He
had simply nodded at his father after receiving the news and then shrugged his
shoulders like it wasn’t a big deal. He saw it in simple terms. As far as he
was concerned, it was his duty. There was nothing that could be done about it
and that was all there was to it. It was Jacquard that had broken down, a
mixture of pride for his son and the ill luck that fate had selected him.

Althalos
stood rigid against the stone wall. A huge tapestry hung behind him depicting a
map of Frindoth. The hanging had been woven for Jacquard as a gift from the
Easterly Rock region when he was first appointed king. Despite dozens of
repairs over the years, the map was slightly frayed now and the best craftsmen
had never been able to capture the splendour of the original.

Althalos
wore his armour to the meeting as well, adopting his father’s precedent. Unlike
Jacquard’s battered armour, Althalos’s gleamed in the morning sun. He wore only
his breastplate and greaves, choosing to leave his gauntlets and neck guard in
the armoury for comfort. He held his helm under his right arm. If he found it
heavy, he was not showing it as he listened intently to the others. At eighteen
summers, he was growing more and more into the armour every day; it now looked
like it fit him correctly.

Jefferson
sat on a wooden stool, appearing to doze. Jacquard knew full well that this was
a trick of his, though, so that the other warlords could speak freely.

When
Jacquard had first declared Jefferson would attend the council there was
uproar. Previously, only one representative from each region was allowed to
attend and only in extreme circumstances was this representative someone other
than the ruling warlord. Jacquard appeased them by asking how Frindoth was
supposed to have a chief adviser if he was not allowed to the war council
meetings. Reluctantly they had agreed, and over time accepted Jefferson as he
offered good advice. Still, they would all prefer it if he was not there and
Jefferson was always careful to remain in the background and not overstep his
mark.

Jacquard
had met similar resistance when he introduced Althalos to the meetings. His
explanation that he was the future king and therefore it was vital for him to
learn how to rule was not so easily accepted. The warlords asked to bring their
own sons for the same reason, to which Jacquard had flatly refused (perhaps
unfairly), but he thought it was imperative everyone had an equal number of
representatives at the meeting, and this meant only one from each region. As king,
he was allowed to impose the exception to the rule.

Raised
voices distracted Jacquard from his thoughts. Hamsun, a hulking figure of a man,
belittled Da Ville’s ability to control his own territory.

“This
council has little time to deal with outlaws in your pissing little
wastelands,” Hamsun said as he took a gulp of wine from his goblet.

Jacquard
watched disgusted as half of the mouthful trickled down Hamsun’s red beard and
onto his large but muscular bare chest. Hamsun looked strange without his giant
battleaxe strapped across his back. The leather that crisscrossed his torso was
the only form of clothing he ever wore on his upper body.

No
weapons were allowed in the war council room. Jacquard had never forgotten
Hamsun’s booming laugh the first time he had removed his axe at the door and
handed it to a young servant. The boy could not handle the weight and
immediately dropped it to the floor and then rather embarrassingly struggled to
drag the axe along the floor to the armoury. Eventually two more servants had
helped him, much to the amusement of the other warlords.    

“You
do not understand,” Da Ville protested. “They are nightwraiths. Impossible to
find and impossible to fight against.”

“Well,
burn down the forest then. Simple,” Hamsun said.

Jacquard
looked at Da Ville. He had been a good fighter once. Now he was a balding man
with his best years behind him. Where his frame was once solid and lean, now
the muscle had started to break down and loosen. Even his jowls sagged, so that
he looked like a hurt puppy.

The
nightwraiths he referred to were actually a group of outlaws residing in
Fankopar Forest. Jefferson had briefed him fully before the council had met.
They were a group that had devised a clever way of using the darkness of the
forest to attack travellers. They painted their bodies and faces black and only
used non-reflective weapons such as wooden clubs and rocks. The only thing that
could be seen were the whites of their eyes.

Da
Ville’s description of nightwraiths was not too far from the truth. Still,
despite Fankopar Forest consuming the majority of the Mantini region, Jacquard
failed to see why the nightwraiths were causing so much of a problem. The
forest was often too dense to cross and he couldn’t imagine it had many
visitors, except for those explorers that wished to tackle the Calipion Range.

“I
think Hamsun is right, as much as Frindoth should help its residents maintain
order, I think its armies could be put to better use than to root out a few
outlaws in Fankopar Forest,” Jacquard said before looking at Da Ville and
adding softly, “You will have to deal with this issue yourself for the time
being, my friend.”

Frustrated,
Da Ville nodded his consent, before scowling at Hamsun’s smug expression.

“I
think the more pressing issue is the four empty seats we have in this room,”
Jacquard said.

As
if noticing the empty chairs for the first time, the warlords turned their
heads in unison and stared at the chairs. A few shifted uncomfortably in their
seats.

“I
have received no word as to why our friends from the west have not attended
today. It appears they no longer think themselves as our equals. Before I start
to interview replacements for these schemers’ positions, do any of you have any
news on this matter?” Jacquard began.

His
aim in asking this question was to test the loyalty of those in the room. In
truth, Jefferson had again briefed him on the situation. He had also
accumulated various reports from his own spies.

His
council had informed him that Vashna, who controlled Yurisdoria, the largest
region to the west, had begun to add new recruits to his already impressive
army. Although the warlords ruled their own individual regions, it was
impossible for them to preside over all of the inhabitants in their area. As a
result, all of the regions had pockets of towns and villages that lived in peace
and were autonomous.

Jacquard
was taught by his father that when the twelve regions were originally divided
up, each contained within its border a troublesome tribe or area that would
keep the warlords focussed on ruling their own regions rather than getting
grandiose designs on usurping the bronze throne.

In
Yurisdoria, which ran along the majority of the coastline towards the east of
Frindoth, the ruling warlord always had to contend with the Eurthriami, a tough
sea folk that refused to be ruled by anyone. For years the Yurisdori had
attempted to bring them in line with the rest of the region but had always
failed. Jefferson had reassured Jacquard the situation still had not changed.

What
was worrying, however, was that Vashna is believed to have held several highly
secretive meetings with the warlords directly bordering his region, during
which he drew attention to the apparent weakness of Jacquard’s rule now he was
older and only had the one young son and no relatives to inherit the throne. If
Althalos was selected for the sacrifice, then once Jacquard died, the throne
would rightfully be contested by the other warlords. Jacquard was not surprised
by Lord Frindolin of Snowland’s and Gambon of Meadowmead’s absences at today’s
council. Although useful in combat, they were easily persuaded by a stronger
force.

He
was surprised not to see Prandor of the Wildecliff Shore region. Prandor was a
small stoic man who controlled the southeastern tip of Frindoth, a small unattractive
region made up mostly of chalk rock. Prandor, was generally not interested in
any affairs concerning Frindoth and preferred to keep his small army of
warriors to themselves. He was, however, loyal to the kingdom and Jacquard was
more concerned for his safety than worried he had joined Vashna.

Jacquard
scrutinised each of the warlords around the table. Each declared they had heard
no news and avoided eye contact with him except for Hamsun, who stared back
defiantly.

“I
will not lie to you, my king. I was approached by Vashna.”

The
confident man that had ridiculed Da Ville only moments earlier was gone. Hamsun
was now gravely serious. There were one or two gasps from the other warlords.
Jacquard was quick to assess whose were the most exaggerated. He knew both
Jefferson and Althalos would have noted it too. Kana of the southern region,
the only other warlord whose land was close to Vashna, had the most animated
response. His mouth fell open and he ran his stubby fingers over his shaved
head as if in despair.

The
southern region differed most from the others in the way its inhabitants lived
their everyday lives. They were not as civilised and did not fear the Gloom as
the others did. They actually welcomed the Ritual and treated the Gloom with reverence.
They saw it as a worthy sacrifice to a god that must be appeased. They
reflected this in their appearance, painting white skulls on their black
skinned faces in honour of those that had been sacrificed to the Gloom in the
past.

Jacquard
glanced at his son and advisor, who both acknowledged with almost imperceptible
nods that they had both noticed Kana’s reaction to the news.

“He
and his captains sought my audience in the red month. I did not notify you of
this, my lord, and for that I apologise, but I must admit I was curious. Vashna
has never disguised his dislike for you and how you have ruled over Frindoth. I
wanted to know what he had to say.”

Hamsun
looked at Jacquard, and seeing that his king offered no reproach, continued
with his story. He was relishing the audience now and was not so measured in
what he was saying. As he turned his head from side to side to address everyone
in the room, the beads in his beard clattered against the oak table.

“He
believes that you have become weak, my lord. That Frindoth governs itself as it
pleases. Throughout the kingdom there are hundreds of towns and villages that
live under their own rule. They do not fear or care about the warlord that is
supposed to rule them. He says Frindoth should be united, that everyone should
obey one law. Why should some communities get away without paying taxes just
because they are remotely based or the tax collectors do not see it as worth
their time troubling them?

“He
stated you are an ageing king who no longer has the thirst for war. A king who
wishes to live out the remainder of his days in peace and ignores the plight of
the kingdom. He is worried you are not setting a good example to your son and
when the time comes for the prince to sit on the bronze throne, he will be
ill-prepared.

“He
believes when the throne was in Yurisdoria under King Vandain, Frindoth was a
stronger kingdom, one to be feared and one to be proud of. The throne was
stolen and it belongs there by rights again.

“In
short, my lord, he plans to rule Frindoth himself.”