Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (32 page)

“Then
I suggest we not delay any further. Tell Mondorlous he is to report to us for
lunch within the hour,” Jacquard said and turned on his heels without waiting
for a response.

By
the time Mondorlous and Iskandar arrived in the palace hall, Jacquard and the
knights had finished their lunch and were growing impatient again. They were
eager to begin their search for the remaining stoneholders and begrudged having
to delay any further.

Iskandar
entered the room looking troubled, he glanced around nervously and walked
quicker than normal. Mondorlous, on the other hand, was his usual emotionless
self. The two members of the Order acknowledged their king and took their
places at the table. Without saying a word, they both commenced eating.

The
knights endured the nonchalant behaviour for a few minutes before Mansuri spoke
up, to the relief of everyone.

“Are
you planning on telling us what it going on or shall we wait for the stoneholders
to flee even further into their burrows?” the knight of a thousand ways asked
as he slammed his fist on the table. Next to the Cadaver Knight, Mansuri was
perhaps the one revered the most. His moniker was earned because it was said he
knew a thousand ways to kill a man. Jacquard was pleased it was him that asked
the question.

Iskandar
paused as he raised a spoon to his mouth surprised at the question. He slurped
from the spoon and placed it back down in the bowl.

“There
is no longer any need to find the stoneholders,” he said.

“What
are you talking about?” Jacquard said, no longer able to contain himself. “If
you know something then you must tell me immediately. I am tired of your
secrecy, Iskandar, you forget who rules here.”

Iskandar
took another mouthful before replying.

“I
do not forget, how could I when you keep reminding me?” Jacquard sat up a
little straighter at the comment but stayed quiet. “You must forgive me, my king.
I have only just found out the news myself and I have been deciding how best to
deal with the situation.”

“What
news? This is intolerable,” Jacquard said. One or two of the other knights
rapped the table in agreement.
How dare he keep me in the darkness like this
after what happened at the Ritual.

“I
found Marybeth,” Mondorlous said to audible gasps. “Contrary to what we
thought, she is not dead. She actually has in her possession two of the stones
and will shortly have the third.”

“What
in the three moons does she want with the stones?” Mansuri said.

“What
in the three moons, indeed. She believes she has found a way to defeat the
Gloom,” Mondorlous said in a monotone. There was nothing to indicate the
magnitude of the information he had just imparted. For a moment there was a
stunned silence in the room.

“Can
it be done?” It was Longshaw that spoke.

Jacquard
looked at Iskandar for an answer. The leader of the Order shifted uncomfortably
in his seat before looking at him. For the first time he looked nervous.
Don’t
you dare say it can, you condescending bastard. I will have you flayed by the
Gloom himself.

“There
is a possibility, yes,” Iskandar said at last.

Pandemonium
broke out. Jacquard flew across the table reaching for Iskandar’s throat. In a
flash, Mondorlous intercepted him, shoving him to one side. The other knights
drew their swords and advanced on the members of the Order. Before they could
reach them, though, a deafening crack reverberated around the room. The table
they were feasting on shattered into a myriad of splinters. Soup and wine
spilled to the floor.

The
next thing Jacquard knew was Mondorlous’s huge frame being pulled off of him by
Longshaw. However, the giant of a man easily wrestled him to the ground. Seeing
his friend in trouble, Jacquard propelled himself into Mondorlous so the three
of them tangled to the ground in an awkward heap.

None
of them could gain the upper hand. Every time Jacquard managed to free his arm
to strike out, he found that he was knocked off balance. He was vaguely aware
of Ryio and Kristan restraining Declan and Mansuri standing over Iskandar.

“Enough!
Gentlemen, we are wasting time.” It was Ryio that spoke.

Reluctantly,
Jacquard let his grip on one of Mondorlous’s legs go. He felt the giant’s
massive arm release its grip from around his neck. He got to his feet slowly,
feeling ashamed, like a schoolboy that had been reprimanded by his tutor. He
was surprised to see Mansuri holding a sword across Iskandar’s throat. The
blade pressed against the leader of the Order’s skin.

“Stand
down, Mansuri,” Jacquard said.

The knight
made no move at the command. He stared at Iskandar, choosing not to hear his king.
Iskandar seemed unmoved by the threat he faced. He no doubt viewed the danger
he was in as a minor inconvenience. Mansuri, on the other hand, seemed
determined to prove that it was not. Jacquard glanced at Longshaw who shrugged.

“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.”

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 captains. 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.