Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (16 page)

“Bandits!”
Rhact hissed.

“Brody,
Brenna, come back here,” Mertyn said.

The
two obeyed instantly, Rhact noticed as he and Kiana returned to their wagon.
Rhact retook the reins from his son.

The
two wagons approached the quartet. Rhact could see they were all young men who
could not have been older than twenty-five. The two to the right were clearly
brothers. The inner one was the elder. He had his hair pulled back tight across
his scalp and tied into a ponytail. His face was hard and pronounced with a
chin that jutted out. His younger brother had the same hairstyle and protruding
chin, although his skin was softer and his build less toned. Both carried crude
axes.

On
the other side, a man stood smiling. He had a round, flat face and had the look
of someone who had spent their childhood tormenting animals. He was confidently
batting a club into the palm of his hand. To his left was the tallest of the
four and most likely the leader. He was a bald-headed, burly man, topless with
a heavily tattooed broad chest. Even though there was a chubbiness about him,
Rhact could see he was stronger than he looked. As a weapon he carried a short
iron sword. He lifted an arm to halt the wagons. They had come close enough.

Rhact
glanced across at Mertyn who looked back warily. They did not look too much of
a threat as far as bandits went, but Rhact knew better than to underestimate an
enemy. Mertyn rubbed his right eyebrow which looked like a nervous gesture but
signalled to his friend that he should stay silent and let them talk first. It
was a gesture they had not had to use since their travelling days. Rhact felt a
familiar frisson at the situation until he remembered his family was beside
him.

When
the leader spoke, he had a surprisingly high voice.

“We
are the famous outlaws of doom. You will kindly hand over your possessions and
we will let you live,” the leader said.

“And
your daughters,” the younger of the brothers added.

The
leader pursed his lips. He clearly did not like his comrade speaking but
remained silent. Rhact struggled not to laugh.

“Never
heard of you,” Mertyn said. “Have you, Bill?” he said, turning to Rhact.

“No,
Fredrik,” Rhact replied.

The
false names was another well-rehearsed routine of theirs. The bandits were
clearly inexperienced. Rhact would not have been surprised if this was their
first attempt at robbery. Mertyn had obviously picked up on this too. His
family had never seen him in this kind of situation and Rhact was latently
pleased they were not showing their unease. When neither of them moved, the
leader spoke again.

“Sirs,
I must insist you hand over your possessions and daughters.”

“Do
you hear that, Bill? We have just encountered the most polite outlaws in the
whole of Frindoth,” Mertyn said, smiling broadly. The leader hesitated, clearly
at a loss of what to do.

Rhact
jumped as a whistling sound shot through the air and ended with a thunk by his
head. An arrow lodged itself in the wooden board above his head.

“Down,”
he shouted to his family, who instinctively were already making themselves as
small as targets as possible.

Two
more arrows landed nearby, one bounced off the wheel of the wagon and the other
lodged itself between Rhact’s legs. Several arrows landed on Mertyn’s wagon,
some ripping through the canvas.

“Not
so bold now, are you?” a gruff voice said.

To
his side a stocky man emerged from behind the hedge. He was the hairiest man
Rhact had ever seen. He wore a small green tunic and trousers which barely
contained his body hair. His face was covered in an unkempt beard and bushy
hair so that the only skin Rhact could see on his face was around his eyes.

Rhact
could not see where the arrows originated from but several more men revealed
themselves. Some were cleverly camouflaged in branches and leaves so that at a
quick glance they could be mistaken for part of the hedge. Finally he spotted
movement in the trees and could make out a cocked arrow pointing directly at
him. Rhact counted at least fourteen men in total and reasoned there must be
several more he could not see.

The
stocky man placed a reassuring hand on the original leader, who seemed relieved
at the company.

“We’ll
work on your delivery, Pinky," he whispered to him, before turning his
attention to Mertyn and Rhact. “As my son was saying, your belongings and your
daughters.” 

Rhact
was surprised at the display of tenderness the man showed his son.
Nevertheless, he was under no illusion as to the danger they now faced. The men
that had revealed themselves had a completely different aura to them. They made
no effort to appear tough, but from the way they stood, statuesque and alert,
it was evident they were no strangers to this kind of situation.

Whether
they had been blooding in the youngsters, or using them as a ploy to lure Rhact
and the others into a false sense of security, the result was very effective. It
was Mertyn who spoke first.

“I’m
afraid I can’t do that, sir,” he said calmly.

“Ho
ho, look what we have here. The cocky one has now become the gentleman,” the
leader sneered. Around him his men sniggered.

Rhact
felt Kiana reach for his hand, he took it and hoped it would reassure her.

“And
why, pray tell, can you not?”

“We
need to get to Lilyon,” Mertyn said. The leader threw his hands in the air
theatrically.

“Roast
placenta, why didn’t you say so? Well, if you have to get to Lilyon, be on your
way.”

His
goons continued to laugh as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard.
Rhact shot Mertyn a look, the reference to the placenta marked the bandits as
men from the north. It was their custom to eat their wives’ placenta raw
immediately after the birth of their sons. If they could not stomach the meat
raw, then they roasted it, but this was generally seen as a sign of weakness
and was used as an insult. The reference also told Rhact that they were in a
lot of trouble, for the northern bandits were feral and uncompromising.

The
leader suddenly stopped laughing and his expression changed into a hard stare.

“Stop
stalling, you son of a pig’s whore, and hand over what we have asked for. I am
looking forward to selling your possessions and riding your daughter.”

“Does
that even make sense?” Jensen whispered in Rhact’s ear. Despite himself, he
suppressed a smile and urged his son to be silent.

“You
don’t seem to understand, sir. Perhaps I am not making myself clear. We need to
get to Lilyon before the solstice. If we don’t, you will not be around to enjoy
anyone’s daughter.”

Rhact
held his breath as he watched the realisation dawn on the leader’s face. A
couple of the outlaws edged away from the wagons as if they might be tarnished
by being associated with the Ritual. The leader, however, was not convinced.

“You
expect me to believe one of you is a stoneholder?” he said. Mertyn nodded.

“Either
my son or my daughter, we are not sure which. We are on our way to Lilyon to
consult the Order,” Mertyn said.

Rhact
was impressed with his friend. It was a clever thing to say. If Mertyn had said
it was Brody who had the stone, then they would have still taken Brenna. This
way there was no way the outlaws would stop them from going and judging by the
hairy leader’s treatment of his son earlier, he would not begrudge Mertyn and
Tyra accompanying their children.

In a
last show of defiance, the leader spat on the ground and asked Mertyn to prove
it. Tyra reached inside her dress and pulled out a black cloth. Rhact noticed
that several of the outlaws now leaned forward for a better view. She unfolded
it several times to reveal the orange stone. The leader instantly signalled for
his men to stand aside.

“Be
on your way, it is an honourable thing to offer yourself as a sacrifice, even
if you have little choice,” the leader said.

It
was hard to believe that moments earlier he had been ready to cut their
throats. Thieves have a strange sense of honour.

Mertyn
nodded and spurred his horse into action. Rhact went to do the same but found
the leader now stood in front of Flame. One by one his cronies joined him. The
leader stroked the mare’s mane. Much to Rhact’s annoyance, Flame seemed to like
it and nuzzled her face into his palm.

“I
never said that you could go anywhere,” the leader said.

“The
tax still applies to your family,” said a man who had positioned himself next
to the wagon and leered at Janna. Rhact slapped his seat to get his attention.

“My
daughter is due to get married to the young man on the wagon ahead. We must go
with them,” Rhact said.

“How
convenient,” the leader said. Ahead of them Mertyn’s wagon came to a standstill.
“Keep moving, friend, I’ve been generous enough to let you pass, don’t test
me,” he shouted to Mertyn without taking his eyes of Rhact.

Rhact
saw the indecision in his friend’s eyes but signalled for him to go on.
Reluctantly, Mertyn urged his wagon forward. The leader addressed him again.

“Even
if I was to believe the crap you just uttered, a wedding does not affect the
fate of Frindoth and more importantly me. I have no interest in letting you
pass.”

“How
about now?” Jensen said.

Rhact
turned and was appalled to see that his son stood within the shadows of the
canvas pointing Rhact’s crossbow at the leader.

“Put
that away, son,” Rhact snapped. The leader merely smiled.

“It
appears that your son has more courage than you. How embarrassing!” the leader
said.

The
outlaws had all moved in closer now, forming a tight circle. They were like
cats poised to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. Rhact tried to think. There
were far too many of them to fight. He could maybe give them his clothes, etcetera,
but that would not appease them. The bald-headed youth started to sling his
club against the floor. Dust sprayed up with each loud thump. The effect was
intimidating to say the least.

“I
won’t ask you—” The leader stopped talking and his mouth fell open in wonder.
“Two of you!”

Confused,
Rhact turned to see what he was looking at. Janna was holding her stone between
her thumb and forefinger for all to see. The outlaws fell back, one or two
actually jogged away, convinced that there was some mysterious magic at work
for two people in such close proximity to have received stones.

“I
assume we can proceed now?” Rhact said.

The
leader stepped aside wordlessly; his friends did the same. Several of them
pointed their little fingers to the sky and looked up in an effort to ward off
any evil spirits.

When
they were clear of the outlaws, Janna apologised for revealing the stone.

“There
is no need to apologise. It was the only thing we could have done. You used
your head and saved us. Your brother would do well to learn from you,” he said,
glaring at Jensen, who folded his arms and resumed his sulking.

*
* *

A
small crowd had gathered around the wagon in Longcombe. If ever a wagon was
loaded up with more meretricious goods, the crowd had yet to see it. Most
notably, there was a golden sceptre with the word “Mayor” inscribed on the
handle. No one could remember this ever being awarded to Pinkleton, though. A
young boy emerged from Mayor Pinkleton’s house, red faced and sweating
profusely. He struggled to hold a small chest. A man stepped forward from the
surrounding crowd to help him load it in the one remaining spot on the wagon.

Finally
the mayor emerged from his house with his wife on his arm. He was dressed in
his finest clothes. An emerald velvet coat, trimmed with white fur that reached
down to his knees. One could mercifully only just see the garish red trousers
he wore. On his head was a matching red hat which leaned to one side in an
absurd fashion, so that it almost defied gravity by staying on his head. He
wore polished black boots, each with a shiny, square, gold buckle. The boots
formed a narrow point around the toes, the tip of which curled up on itself
several times.

His
wife was dressed far more conservatively in a basic white dress, decorated with
flowery patterns. Her long blond hair fell in wavy locks past her shoulders.
The two were an odd couple.

“Where
are you going, Mayor?” one onlooker eventually asked.

Henry
Pinkleton looked around at the crowd. He seemed surprised by the gathering as
if he had just noticed them for the first time.

“I
am off to Lilyon, my dear fellow,” completely directing his response to the
wrong man. There was a small gasp from the crowd.

“You
have been given a stone?” a woman asked.

“Should
that surprise you? Even Lord Mayors are not exempt from the Ritual.” The mayor
was the only person in Longcombe that addressed himself as “Lord Mayor”.

“No,
you can all breathe a sigh of relief. I do not have a stone. Three unfortunate
souls from this town have received stones in the last couple of days. This is
highly unusual. As Lord Mayor, I am off to Lilyon to show my support for these
wretched individuals.”