Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (35 page)

He
rested his head on the desk and let sleep come to him as he thought of his
mother again in front of the mirror.

The
next morning he rode ahead with Hamsun. Unger and Tulber rode slightly behind
to converse in hushed whispers. Calloway rode just behind them. Grath rode
separate from them all, expertly guiding his horse with one hand. They had brought
thirty other men with them, the majority rode on ahead. So far, there had been
no land that lent itself to giving them an advantage in battle.

“I
heard about your little demonstration the other night,” Hamsun said grinning.
The mischievous look caused Althalos to smile. He was pleased Hamsun appeared
to have come out of his dark mood.

“Probably
not the most sensible thing for a prince to do,” Althalos said.

“Probably
not, but it worked. The men were impressed.” Althalos tried to suppress another
smile.

“I
don’t think Tulber was.”

“Bah,”
Hamsun waved his hands in the air. “Even if you defeated Vashna’s army single-handed,
you wouldn’t receive a compliment from that idiot.”

“Unfortunately,
I think you may be right.”

The
two men slipped into an easy silence. The morning was fresh. In any other
circumstances it could be considered quite a pleasant ride. The hills were not
so high now and there was more vegetation growing on them. In the distance, the
hills were covered by elm and oak trees. Althalos noticed Hamsun looking at
these hills.

“Is
that where you would have us fight Vashna?” he said, following the warlord’s
gaze.

“No,
I prefer an open fight. The cover of the trees does restrict his numbers, but
they can hide in them, just as easily as we can. I like to see my enemy,”
Hamsun said. Althalos agreed but did not think they might have a choice in the
matter.

“Beyond
those hills is a massive plain we call the basin. A huge area, where the grass
is short and there is no advantage for either side, whoever fights there and
wins, does so on merit.”

“Or
because they have the most soldiers?” Althalos said. Something in the way
Hamsun shrugged his response disturbed him. “You don’t think we can win, do
you?”

“Win
or lose, it makes no difference. People will die all the same, my family is
already dead. I have prepared my soul for the same outcome.”

With
that, Hamsun motioned his horse into a canter, leaving Althalos to ponder his
words. He was wrong, it did matter. The people of Frindoth did not deserve to
be ruled by a tyrant. If he could prevent that, he would. Besides, he wanted to
prove himself to the other warlords and justify his father’s faith in him.

*
* *

By
noon, the warlords were sitting around a pot of stew and overlooking the basin.
The debate was in full swing as to how best to fight Vashna. Depressingly, no
warlord had offered anything new. Unger still wanted to fight in the trees of
Namiba, whilst Hamsun wanted to fight out on the plain.

The
only thing they all agreed on was, it had to be one or the other. Several of
the fleeing soldiers agreed with Werderf in saying that Vashna could be no more
than a day and half behind. Considering a full night had passed since then,
Althalos realistically could only march his army as far a distance as they had
today and still give them a night’s sleep before the enemy was upon them.

“We
cannot win an open field skirmish. We are severely outnumbered. Our best bet is
the trees, why can’t you see that?” Unger said.

“I
would rather fight in a manner I was accustomed too, than fight like a coward,
stabbing from behind a tree trunk,” Hamsun replied.

“It’s
not cowardly if you have no choice.”

Althalos
stared out over the basin. Time was running out and yet he still did not know what
to do for the best. Hamsun was not exaggerating. The basin was a massive
expanse of grass. It was surrounded by a steep, tree-lined ridge that gave away
to woods. He wondered what could have caused such an anomaly in the land. If
the reports on Vashna’s army were correct, then even this huge area would
struggle to contain them all.

“We
can win if my men and Althalos’s fight from the middle of the line. You can
then flee to the trees if your nerve fails,” Hamsun said.

“Do
not call into question my proven integrity on the battlefield, when there are
others here that have never fought a war,” Unger said, turning to look directly
at him. Althalos sighed. Even on the eve of battle, the warlords could not
unite. What chance did they really have?

He
took a sip of his stew. The burning liquid distracted him from the arguments.
He looked at the pot suspended over the fire. The stew boiled, bubbles of water
trying to escape its container. He tried to ignore the insults that flew
between the warlords. Wisps of steam floated up into the air, small tendrils
desperate to escape the vast liquid.

“What
possible difference would it make to have your men in the centre of the line
compared to anyone else’s?” It was Tulber speaking now, but still Althalos’s
thoughts drifted to the pot.

“Because
the centre of the line is the spine and needs to be the strongest. I have the
most men, simple,” Hamsun said, gulping down some wine.

A
small breeze blew through their camp. The effect on the basin was mesmerising.
Although the grass was short, it still bent as the wind blew across it, each
blade capturing the sun so that it looked like a white ripple spreading through
the plain.

“Hamsun
is right. Our best option is to meet them on the plain, with our archers firing
from the safety of the trees,” Grath said, brushing some imaginary crumbs from
his sleeve.

“How
predictable that you side with Hamsun. I should have known the warlord of Rora
would have sided with the majority force,” Unger said. Grath ignored the insult
and Unger went on, “At least you have an opinion. I don’t see our leader
contributing anything.” 

In
unison, the warlords turned their attention to Althalos. Hamsun smiled
encouragingly at him but the rest looked upon the prince with a mixture of
desperation and disdain.

“As
stimulating as this bickering is, we need to agree what we are going to do and
swiftly,” Althalos said. “Unger, if you insult me one more time, I will rip out
your pubic hair, force your wife to knit a scarf with it and then use the lice
ridden material to strangle you.” All except Tulber laughed at the retort, even
Unger’s mouth twitched.

“That’s
a bit more like it,” Unger said. “What do you have in mind?” As he spoke,
Calloway threw more potatoes into the pot of stew. The broth bubbled and fizzed
as it consumed them, immediately engulfing the invading objects. The action
triggered a memory of his childhood when studying a battle with his tutor.

“I believe I have an idea,” he said, beaming to the others.

Rhact
did not recognise the man standing before him. He should have, all of the
features belonged to his best friend, but the cold eyes staring back at him
belonged to someone else. The malice in those eyes frightened him more than he
had ever been frightened in his entire life. Tyra stood farther back, her
silhouette an ominous presence.

Mertyn
stalked towards him and raised the torch so it was inches from his face. The
heat was overwhelming. Rhact was forced to withdraw slightly, squinting at the
brightness of the flames, but refusing to cower entirely. He wanted his friend
to see his face, remember the love they had for each other.

For
a moment, all they did was stare at each other. Kiana stood silently, shocked
by the venom in Tyra’s eyes.

“Please
let us go. They are chasing after Janna!” he said.

“If
she dies it will be because of you,” Mertyn said, the intensity of his stare
filled Rhact with dread.

“Please,”
Kiana tried. Mertyn did not even look at her.

“It
didn’t need to come to this. My son is dead. Brody, do you remember him? The
one you once said you thought of as your own? Dead! Because of you. Mister
arrogant fuck, who considers himself to be above the law of the land. Who deems
his daughter too important to be considered for a sacrifice. Let everyone else
die instead but leave my family alone.”

As
Mertyn spoke he spat, each drop of saliva that hit Rhact’s face felt like a
blow.

He
had imagined what would happen if he was ever reunited with Mertyn. He hoped
that his best friend would understand, but how could he? How could he ever
possibly forgive him for what he had done? Deep down, Rhact figured he would
never have to deal with the situation.

Yet
here they were and the guilt he felt was beyond anything he could have
imagined. He had felt culpable before but there was a strong difference between
feeling terrible for what you imagined you had done and dealing with the
reality.

Tears
rolled down Rhact’s cheeks. There was nothing he could ever do to make amends
for Brody’s death.

“I’m
so sorry. I was wrong, I can see that now, please my friend … Janna!” her name
caught in his throat.

“Friend?
Now I’m your friend again? Now it is your child that is about to die?” Mertyn
shook with rage.

“You
don’t want Janna’s blood on your hands, Mertyn,” Rhact said.

“Shut
up. You don’t get to speak now, do you hear me? You don’t get to talk.”

Mertyn
turned away from him and planted the torch in the ground. He paced up and down.
His shadow cast a demonic image on the floor. He kicked the body of the man
he’d killed, once, twice and then repeatedly, faster and faster. By the time he
had expended all of his energy, he was sobbing too.

“If
everyone had just carried out their duty, we might have been back in Longcombe
with all of our children now, toasting their health down at the Green Stag.”

The
pain the image conjured up was too much to bear. Rhact wanted nothing more than
for it to be true. Mertyn ceased pacing as if he too had allowed himself to
linger on the mental picture.

“Instead,
you sentenced so many people to death with your selfishness. You hurt so many
people. So many, Rhact. You should have seen the devastation left behind. You
should have seen Brody’s lifeless stare. He was so brave at the end, Rhact. My
boy. What happened to you?” Mertyn fell to his knees. The anger seemed to seep
out of him. “Why couldn’t you have even told me your plan? I told you instantly
when Brody received the stone.”

Rhact
knew Mertyn was looking at him for an answer but he had none to give, at least
not one that would satisfy his friend. He looked in the direction that Janna
had run and thought of the men hot on her trail. They may have already caught
her and the thought sent a new sense of despair through him. He had to think of
something. Next to him Kiana sobbed quietly. Once again he was left feeling
helpless.

“I
don’t know what you want me to say. I panicked. I just didn’t want to risk
Janna being selected. The witch came and saw me. She told me the Gloom could be
defeated if I fled with Janna. I saw a way to protect her, Brody and Frindoth,
so I took it,” he said. It all sounded so stupid now.

Tyra
stepped forward. He had forgotten she was there. There was no mistaking the
hatred in her voice.

“Shut
up! You expect us to believe you found a way to defeat the Gloom? A thousand
years of trying and no one has managed to find a way to even harm it, yet you
expect us to believe that you, Rhact Oberon, a candle maker from Longcombe, has
found the secret?” She snorted scornfully and spat at his feet.

“It’s
the truth,” he said.

“Enough.
Mertyn, give me your knife.” Mertyn obeyed. He seemed shocked by his wife’s
domineering tone. He was still on his knees as he removed the dagger from his
trousers. He regarded it as if he was surprised it was there. Tyra snatched it
out of his hands.

“We
end this now,” she said, turning to her best friends.

*
* *

Jensen
laughed so hard his sides ached. He and Maxhunt sat in an inn drinking their
fourth mug of ale. They had been there most of the afternoon and Jensen’s head
was spinning. He didn’t notice the looks of disgust the locals were giving the
two of them. They had arrived in the town of Apallo earlier in the day and
after securing a bed for the night, headed straight for the nearest tavern.

Both
of them failed to take any real notice of the destruction around the town. The
way the townsfolk were all out repairing burnt rooftops or mending broken
walls. The Gloom had visited Apallo just over a week ago and destroyed half its
population. The survivors had only just begun to come to terms with their loss
and started to rebuild their homes. They did not take kindly to the way the two
newcomers demonstrated a blatant disregard for their plight.

“I’m
telling you, Old Mayor Pinkleton still thinks it’s water and not piss inside
the statue,” Maxhunt said, joining in the laughter.

“I’d
love to go back and see it now I know that,” Jensen said. His smile faded as
the memory of the stone statue depicting the town’s mayor in the centre of
Longcombe dampened his mood slightly.

“Maybe
we will someday,” Maxhunt said, sensing the change of mood. The idea, although
an empty suggestion, comforted Jensen. “Innkeeper, another two mugs of your
finest,” he said, signalling to the sour faced man behind the bar. Jensen
watched the barman shake his head and mutter something under his breath as two
more of his regulars walked out.

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?