Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (36 page)

Brenna
did not like the scene one little bit and began to back away from the four
adults she had loved and trusted her whole life.

“MY
BOY IS DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU TWO,” her mother shouted.

“I’m
so sorry, Tyra,” it was Kiana that took the lead now, trying to identify with
the woman she had shared so much with. “Please, don’t let Janna die too.”

“Do
you think I care for your children now? Do you think I honestly give a damn
about them now you have killed my son?” her mother screamed in Kiana’s face.

Brenna
willed her mother to calm down. She wanted to call out to her again, but the look
on her mother’s face scared her too much.

“Please,
Tyra, we are best friends.”

“Were
best friends,” her mother corrected.

Brenna
watched as her mother plunged the dagger into Kiana’s chest. Kiana’s mouth
opened in surprise. She tried to speak but only a gurgling noise could be
heard. It was then the blood appeared from her mouth and trickled down her
chin. She made one final attempt to communicate before falling over on her side,
dead.

A
wave of bile forced Brenna to retch. It burned her throat as she swallowed it
back down. She jumped as Rhact let out the kind of howl she did not think could
escape from a man. She took one look at Kiana’s motionless body lying on the
ground, eyes staring at her accusingly, before turning away and fleeing into
the darkness.

*
* *

Rhact’s
whole body shook with rage. He stared at his wife and cried out once more. She
had fallen on her side, so that her face was away from him. All he could see were
strands of  hair covering her left cheek. The ends of her hair were already
matted with blood.

Every
muscle screamed with pain as he attempted to free himself from his bonds. His
breath came in rapid deep bursts. His cheeks swelled and then deflated as if
someone was pumping his lungs for him. There must be some mistake, they could
not have just killed his wife. He tried to think rationally but images of his
wife in happier times flashed through his head.

His
attention turned to Tyra and he could not make sense of the woman who had just
stabbed his wife. Tears flowed as he looked into Tyra’s cold remorseless eyes.
He watched her give Mertyn the knife and motion towards him. It all seemed like
a horrible dream.

“Do
it,” Tyra said.

Mertyn
hesitated.

“Do
it,” she repeated.

“Wait!”
Mertyn said. He held the dagger to his forehead and wiped his brow. Streams of
sweat fell down his face. Rhact felt numb. He was mesmerized by his friend.

“I
need time to think. He is my best friend.”

“Kiana
was mine. Do it for our son.”

Rhact
focussed on her. Rage consumed him, he made a final struggle to free himself
but the rope still held his hands firm.

Mertyn
spun the dagger in his hand and bit his lip. Rhact could see the indecision
playing on his mind but barely registered it. He thought only of his dead wife.
Mertyn looked from Rhact to the corpse and back again and seemed to come to a
decision.

“I’ve
got to do it. There is no going back now. If I cut you free, you’ll kill Tyra.
It is written all over your face. I’ve got to do it,” Mertyn said.

Mertyn
threw away the dagger and picked up his sword from one of the fallen bandits.
He looked at the blade in apprehension as if he was scared of what it was
capable of. Rhact could see his friend was trying to convince himself but did
not care.

Somewhere
out there Janna was fighting for her life, if not dead already. Either way he
was helpless to save her. Jensen had disowned him and his wife lay dead at his
side. All because of him.

He
could see the pain etched on Mertyn’s face. His friend was babbling to himself,
arguing for and against his actions. He knew if he asked his friend to spare
him, he would. His friend was looking for some guidance from Rhact, some reason
why he should let him live. Rhact had none.

“Do
it,” Rhact said.

Mertyn
stopped talking to himself. He looked at Rhact in shock and then seconds later,
understanding. In that instant he recognised his old friend.

Rhact
managed a weak smile as Mertyn placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it
gently. He then closed his eyes as his best friend used his other hand to ram
his sword into his heart.

The
sound from the horn that echoed around the basin made Althalos’s blood run
cold. It was just an ordinary blast that the prince had heard hundreds of times
before. No different from the noise that disturbed him from his dream a few
days ago, yet the ramifications of the noise sent a chill up and down his
spine. They were coming!

Althalos
stood at the centre of his frontline which spread across a third of the basin.
He had positioned his men at first light, eager not to be caught out by Vashna.
Beside him stood Hamsun, his beard braided as neatly as Althalos had ever seen.
The great warlord had not slept, it seemed, in order to meticulously prepare
his appearance for the battle ahead.

He
had slept only a few hours himself and even that had been a broken sleep. He’d
gone over every scenario he could think of. Tried to analyse every eventual
outcome of the day ahead, even though he knew it was pointless. He did not need
experience to know battles rarely went according to plan.

Surprisingly,
the other warlords had been very receptive of his idea. Even Unger and Tulber conceded
it was the most likely chance of success. Unger seemed to look at him in a new
way. The snide comments were gone and he spoke with slightly more respect when
addressing him. Tulber still looked upon him with disdain though. Althalos just
hoped the plan worked.

The
horn reverberated over the plain a second time. The sound of hundreds of men
marching in their direction was enough to send another shiver down his spine.
The clatter of armour as they walked seemed to form a steady rhythm.
Were
they stamping as they marched?
Althalos knew they weren’t, but to consider
the noise was caused by the sheer volume of the opposition was too much to
bear.

He
heard men gasp as Vashna’s forces became visible for the first time. They
flowed into the basin like honey into a cup. A slow, all-consuming movement
that just went on and on. The prince thought of the conversation he had with
his father. Jacquard had been wrong when he had tried to describe the feeling
just before battle. It did not make Althalos less eager to engage in war, it
made him want to run away and hide forever.

It
wasn’t long before he could make out the various factions within the enemy. The
Shangon people formed most of the front line.
Their reward for joining
Vashna late
, he thought bitterly. The painted skulls on their faces added
to their intimidating appearance. Behind them he could make out the colours of
the silver of Meadowmead and the gold of Snowlands.

Overwhelmed
didn’t begin to describe how he felt and yet still they poured onto the plain.
His horse shook her mane and whinnied. He struggled to control her and
embarrassingly was nearly thrown from her back.
That would have looked
terrific!
he thought and then laughed to himself. The soldiers were almost
halfway across the plain when a deep drone ceased their advance.

“By
the Gloom, look at the number of them,” someone said behind him.

“More
for us to kill,” Hamsun turned and barked.

“Do
I ride out to meet him?” Althalos asked. He knew that was the usual protocol
between enemies.

“Vashna
has not come here to negotiate, my prince,” Hamsun replied.

The
Shangonites dropped their weapons and began to convulse violently, lifting
their arms to the sky and moaning in unison. It was a tactic Althalos had heard
they used before engaging an enemy, but seeing it for the first time made his
mouth go dry.

“Pay
it no heed, boy,” Hamsun said beside him as Althalos exhaled loudly. “They are
just men like us. They have no special powers, it is all just trickery.”

The
words did little to reassure him. From amongst the ranks behind him, one or two
men uttered their own insults at the display, refusing to be intimidated.
Althalos was glad to hear the bravado but when he looked at his men he saw
mostly apprehension.

Without
a second’s thought, he rode along the front line.

“Sons
of Frindoth, you stand before me, ready for battle whilst an unspeakable
nightmare ravishes your homes. I ask you to remember that. I ask you not to put
aside the feelings of anger and despair you feel as the Gloom does what it
wills to your loved ones.

“We
should not be here. We should be at home protecting our families. That is where
we all wish to be.”

As
he rode along the frontline, he tried to make eye contact with as many of the
men as possible. Some looked scared. Most looked intrigued by what he was
saying.

“The
enemy we face today is taking advantage of our plight. They seek to capitalise
in our time of weakness, choosing to ignore the threat to their own families in
an effort to rule Frindoth. At a time when Frindoth should be united against a
common enemy, they seek to divide us. I ask you to remember this when you look
them in the eye. I ask you to channel the anger you feel into your swords.

“The
Gloom cannot be harmed, but by the three moons of Frindoth, those bastards
opposing us can. And as long as you can stand, I ask you to make them bleed.
Bleed them for the people of Rora.”

A
huge roar went up from the warriors along the edge of the battlefield. Althalos
rode along the men.

“Bleed
them for the Aselinians.”

Another
roar erupted. He was pleased to see Calloway leading the cheers amongst his
men.

“For
those from Easterly Rock, for the Lucianians.”

The
biggest cheer sounded, men bashed their swords against their shields to add to
the clamour.

“For
Brimsgrove and for Rivervale.”

He
rode his horse back to the centre of the line, before dismounting and clipping
the horse with his sword to send her on her way.

“Bleed
them for FRINDOTH.”

Unanimously
the men shouted. The noise hurt Althalos’s ears. He looked at the faces of
those immediately surrounding him. The passion they displayed, the fury in
their eyes made him swell with pride. The din continued for a long time. Across
the plain, Vashna’s army was silent, which he thought was more unnerving than
if they had responded with their own jeers.

He
retook his place in the front line, retrieving his shield from the ground.
Hamsun looked at him out of the corner of his eye, “A little too dramatic, but
it worked for me.”

Althalos
nodded as Vashna’s horn sounded again to advance his force.

“You
ready to be part of history, my prince?” Hamsun said and grinned with a smile
that did not quite reach his eyes.

“You
speak as if I have a choice, friend,” Althalos said and then broke into a run
yelling at his men to charge.

A
myriad of thoughts raced through his head. He had read countless books on
warfare, from evasive manoeuvres to daring strategies of attack. He knew all
about the most suitable weapons for various terrains, or the best armour to
wear in close contact. However, none of the books ever mentioned the feelings
that ran through a soldier’s head as he met the enemy for the first time.

Knowing
an army of soldiers was following him into battle whilst he registered the
malevolent expressions on those rushing to meet him, left him feeling a mixture
of fear and exhilaration. The thing that surprised him most was how quickly he
was out of breath and how heavy his sword and shield had become.

He
assumed the adrenaline would consume him and those kinds of emotions would not
register until after the battle, but bizarrely he found himself worrying as to
whether or not he had the stamina to reach the opponents.

Some
of the faster men overtook him, their battle cries screeching through the
morning sky. Around him warriors had already engaged, screams filled the air
and the clatter of swords on armour filled his ears. He focused on a Shangonite
directly in front of him. The man, it seemed, had singled him out as well. His
tongue was a bright pink colour in contrast to the white paint on his face.

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.