Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (26 page)

“That
was beautiful,” he said. Tyra could not manage to speak and so nodded in
agreement, dabbing her eyes with a cloth. The two of them looked at him
expectantly. He felt the weight of their expectant stares upon him. He had
always hated the burial ceremony. He had only done it once before, when his
father had died. Then he was more overcome with fear than the heartache he
should have been feeling for his father.

He
had been drunk as he tried to cope with his fear for enclosed spaces and barely
remembered the ceremony. The thought of burying Brody now horrified him. He
angrily brushed a solitary tear aside and stared at the hole he had dug.

“Please,
Mertyn,” Tyra said at last. “It is what he would have wanted.”

“I
know,” was all he could say. He was determined to see Brody off to the other
side in the correct fashion.

Breathing
rapidly, he lowered himself into the hole. The dark walls loomed over him and
immediately gave the impression they were closing in on him. A wave of
dizziness caused the walls to stretch out in front of him. He cried out and
then cursed himself. The ceremony was about Brody, not about him.

He
fought against every instinct to climb back out of the grave. As his feet
touched the bottom of the hole, he swayed slightly as another wave of nausea
overcame him. His palms were already sweaty.

He
looked up at Tyra and Brenna and saw nothing but love and encouragement in
their eyes. He tried to smile at them, but the feeling of panic was too strong.
You can do this, just lie down quickly and get it done. Do it for your son.
With every bit of willpower he had, Mertyn forced himself to lie down. He lay
there trembling as Tyra and Brenna sprinkled dirt onto him, careful to avoid
his face. He struggled to remember the traditional words and his voice wavered
with every syllable uttered.

“The
earth bed that I have dug and now lie in, I give you to share. It is my final
gift to you. May you keep it warm and sleep peacefully for eternity.”

As
soon as he had finished speaking, he jumped up, an icy shiver ran through his
body and he frantically brushed the soil from his clothes as if he was on fire.
Tyra and Brenna helped him out of the grave and hugged him.

Without
another word, they lowered Brody’s body into the grave. Between the three of
them it was a struggle but they were careful to do it with dignity.

“To
bury a child is the most tragic thing a parent can do. We were blessed with a
son that brought us immense happiness and by doing his duty to Frindoth, also
brought us much pride. Brody Brooker, although your body sleeps in your earth
bed, may your soul ascend to the moons and shine down over us forever more,”
Mertyn said, and with that began covering his son with earth.

After
a while Brenna helped, but Tyra just stood next to the grave and wailed.

It
was Brenna who sensed him first. She spun around and raised the shovel in a
threatening manner. He was leaning against a tree, arms folded and chewing on a
stalk of grass.

“Please,
I just wish to offer my condolences. He was a great man,” Maxhunt said. Within
a few strides, Mertyn was in his face and prodding his finger angrily at his
chest.

“You
don’t get to utter a word about him, do you hear me? You are not fit to even
mention his name,” he said. Maxhunt withdrew a few defensive steps and held his
hands in supplication.

“My
apologies, I meant no offence,” he said as he leered over Mertyn’s shoulder at
Tyra.

“What
are you even doing here?” Mertyn said, moving to the side to block his view.

“I’ve
come to offer you my help.”

“I
spit on your help. You have never been interested in helping anyone but
yourself.”

Maxhunt
now focussed on Mertyn, a sickening grin spread across his face, revealing
yellow teeth. They almost complemented his red beard.

“You
are quite correct,” he said. “But I thought I could help you with your grief.”

“I
am not interested in any of your petty games, Maxhunt. Fuck off before I take
your head off.”

“Not
even if I can tell you why your son died?”

“Nothing
you say has any interest to me,” Mertyn replied and turned away from him.

“What
do you know?” Tyra asked, moving towards Maxhunt. Her interest surprised him.
Mertyn wanted nothing to do with the poisonous man.

“Tyra,
you know he is vermin. Please don’t listen to a word he says,” Mertyn said and
began to pull her away from Maxhunt. She shrugged him off.

“I
want to hear what he has to say,” she said.

Her
voice was high pitched and full of desperation. The two of them looked at
Maxhunt expectantly, who delighted in taking his time before he answered.

“Brody
died because not all of the stoneholders went to Lilyon,” he began at last.

“We
know that,” Mertyn said before Maxhunt raised his hand to cut him off.

“I
know you know that. But what you don’t know is your best friend lied to you.
Don’t you think it was strange how Rhact made a big show of leaving the town to
go after you but could only accompany you on some of the journey? I guess you
were too absorbed by your own tragic news to think about it. But all this time
your best friend never told you his own daughter also received one of the
stones and should have gone to Lilyon.”

The
words hit Mertyn like a hammer blow to his stomach. Tyra fell to her knees and
began sobbing all over again. “You lie,” was all he could say, but even as he
said it, Mertyn knew it was the truth.

“Do
I? Why do you think Jensen was so cold towards his father?”

Mertyn’s
mind raced with images of the last few weeks: Jensen’s hatred towards Rhact;
Janna being ill for a few days after Brody had received his own stone, Rhact
managing to convince the bandits to let him pass. He had been a fool and he had
been betrayed. Suddenly the world swam and he struggled to remain on his feet
as the ground rushed to meet him.

Vashna watched
uncomfortably as Stasiak twisted the knife in the man’s scrotum, the man yelled
in pain.

“I will not ask
you again, how do we get past the canyon?” Stasiak said.

“I have no idea,
I just follow orders,” the man said, pleading with his eyes for Stasiak to
believe him.

“Wrong answer. I
am going to enjoy this.”

Vashna
turned and left him to it. He believed the man was telling the truth but knew
better than to deny Stasiak his pleasure. The turncoat warlord sat down by his
campfire and removed his boots, rubbing the dull ache from his feet. Despite
his growing reputation, he did not advocate violence for the sake of violence.

The
primeval instinct that ran through Stasiak’s veins was one he could not
identify with. Where Jefferson found him, he had no idea. Still, he recognised
the man’s atrocities were sending the right message. People feared him and with
each town they encountered, more and more were ready to yield to his way.

They
had been marching to Lilyon for two weeks now and had reached the chasm of
Dulmovia, a thousand-foot drop into a rocky gorge. He had crossed the canyon
many times in the past using the Great Bridge—the single most awe inspiring
sight he had witnessed in Frindoth.

It
was solid stone that stretched exactly five hundred feet across the chasm
arching slightly in the middle. At the apex stood a small keep, a replica of
Canyon Castle he had visited a month before to try to persuade Hamsun to join
him. The small keep was always patrolled by no less than a hundred guards at
any one time. It was the only way to cross the chasm from the west to the east
and like Lilyon, no one had ever been able to sack it.

Two
giant stone arches marked the start and end of the bridge. On the west side
stood the legendary Yasmon, bending on one knee ready to shoot an ice dart from
his bow at the mythical Fire Lion that occupied the east gate. Considering it
was made entirely of stone, the fire lion was frighteningly realistic, every
inch of it was made to look like a flame. In short, constructually, the Great
Bridge was an architectural miracle. No one had come close to fathoming how it had
been built.

As a
child, the legend of Yasmon slaying the last remaining Fire Lion in Frindoth
had been his favourite story. The common perception made out that the Fire Lion
was a beast as ferocious and destructive as the Gloom but the actual texts
suggested otherwise. The Fire Lion was actually a wise and majestic creature
that acted as a guardian of the people. It was strange how time had altered the
truth. He wondered how he would be perceived once the inevitable war took
place.

Vashna
had accumulated over ninety thousand men, far above the number he thought
necessary to usurp Jacquard. The number was good, but he had to get the men to
Lilyon. He had no doubt he would annihilate Jacquard’s army. Most of the
warlords that had stayed loyal to the king were ageing men and past their
prime. With the exception of Hamsun, none of them could match him tactically.

He
needed an alternative way to cross the chasm since King Jacquard had banned any
man wearing the colours of the eastern regions from crossing over. For years
there had been strong rumours that the Lucians knew of a secret passageway that
led down into the canyon and up out the other side. So far Stasiak’s brutal
inquisitions of the natives had yielded no favourable responses.

The
monster came and joined him at the campfire. His face was caked in blood and
merged with his green face paint to form a mess of angry colours.

“He
died without saying anything,” he said, “I doubt he knew anything anyway.”

I could have told you that,
Vashna
thought. The delay frustrated him. He was eager to get to Lilyon and get this
battle out of the way. It was not that he disliked Jacquard. In truth, Vashna
had always found the king had treated him fairly and with respect. If anything,
that was the problem, Frindoth needed a ruthless king. Someone who showed no
mercy and did not bother with those whose lives were not important. Jacquard
did not take advantage of the hierarchy afforded to him. He treated peasants
and serfs the same as he would treat his own son.

The
time of the warlords had passed. Frindoth was crying out for a new leader, one
that recognised the hierarchy, whose subjects knew where they stood.

Stasiak
mistook his silence for disapproval.

“If
there is a passage through the chasm, I will find it, lord,” he said.

Vashna
noted Stasiak did not call him “my” lord. As if he did not need to answer to
anyone but recognised Vashna’s status and tolerated it. The monster was a bit
of an enigma. It was hard to believe the savage sitting next to him was only
seventeen summers old, but the way he sought Vashna’s approval sometimes
unnerved him and reminded him of that very fact.

“I
have no doubt you will. If not, we will have to pay Hamsun another visit,” he
said.

*
* *

Jacquard
ate alone in his room. Outside, night had fallen, the curtains rippled in the light
breeze that accompanied the dark. From where he sat, the red moon was at its
fullest. He popped a slice of chicken into his mouth and paused, thinking of
his son.

He
had mixed feelings about Althalos’s disappearance. He was relieved his son had
not been hanged, but then was concerned for his well-being. There was also a
feeling of putting off the inevitable. With his son’s escape, not only would he
have to go through the emotion of preparing for his death again, this time he
would have to hunt him down first.

The
stale smell of smoke wafted in through the window. The last of the fires had
been put out earlier this evening; by all accounts the damage to the city was
not as bad as he first thought. At least not physically. The gates still held,
one or two shops had been burned to the ground and a section of the library
would need rebuilding, but other than that the city had escaped surprisingly
unscathed.

It
was the long-term impact on the citizens that concerned him now. At last count,
Paule Jacobs stated there had been a total of fifty-three bodies found
scattered throughout the city and they were the ones that were identifiable.
His physicians were still trying to piece together others. The Gloom had
certainly left its mark on the White City.

After
his meeting with Iskandar, Jacquard had wandered down to the city square to
survey the damage himself. The gallows still lay broken and tilted to one side.
He stared at the rope that had been fastened around his son’s neck. It now
looked tattered and frayed, incapable of supporting his son’s body.

Most
of the bodies had been removed from the gallows. Jacquard had already paid his
respects to Ulric’s body, making sure that the former knight went to Trilight
with his sword in his hand. Even in death his former friend still looked
powerful. He kissed his forehead and whispered a silent prayer begging for
forgiveness before letting the embalmers continue their work.

One
body still remained on the platform. It was the old lady that had been one of
the first to put herself forward. Jacquard recalled the silent dignity in which
she approached her fate. She had now been freed from the noose by her husband,
who sat and cradled her head in his arms, putting his cheek against hers and
weeping silent tears. Standing above the husband was an obese man dressed in
some dirty but flamboyant looking clothes. He reached down and rested a plump
hand on the grieving husband’s shoulders, causing the man to break down. The
large man looked uncertain what to do next and settled for kneeling down next
to the couple and bowing his head. The image had an enormous sense of sadness
to it and emphasized Jacquard’s failure as a king.

It
was this mental picture that Jacquard was thinking of when a female voice spoke
from the corner of the room.

“For
a king that has just had his city decimated, you are remarkably unprotected.”

Jacquard
shot to his feet, holding his dagger.

“Relax,”
the voice said, “if I wanted to kill you I would have slit your throat whilst
you gorged on that fine chicken.”

A
woman emerged from behind his wardrobe.
How had I missed her?

“Don’t
be too hard on yourself, I’m good at this,” she said as if reading his
thoughts.

She
stepped more clearly into the light cast by the candle. Jacquard saw she was
surprisingly small, no more than four and a half feet tall. Her hair was cut
short and spiky. From her left ear hung a gold hoop, a small scar on her chin
blemished an otherwise smooth complexion. She was not pretty in the
conventional sense, her snub nose prevented that, but she was certainly
alluring.

It
was how she was dressed that caught his attention, though. She wore a white
blouse and cotton trousers that were so worn they were almost see through. It
looked as if she had been wearing them day in and day out for the last year.
Although they clearly needed to be washed, Jacquard doubted they would survive
being submerged in water. The only respectable thing she was wearing was a silk
glove on her left hand.

“Who
are you and how did you get in here?” he said.

The
woman casually sauntered over to where he was standing. He raised the dagger in
warning which she ignored as she reached for his chicken. She picked up a leg
and bit into it, before throwing it back on the table. She made a show of
licking the juice off her fingers before answering.

“Scaled
the building and entered the window,” she said, indicating the opening behind
her.

“Impossible,
it is a sheer drop outside that window,” he said.

The
woman shrugged as if it made no difference as to whether he believed her or
not.

“My
name is Norva Steele,” she said, popping a potato in her mouth. “This is good
food, a feast fit for a king.”

The
name sounded familiar. He racked his brain. He stared at the woman trying to
find anything familiar about her features. The realisation hit him like a
slingshot.
Surely it couldn’t be?

The
woman looked back at him and raised her eyebrows, amused as he tried to place
her. He looked more closely at the scar. It had faded since he last saw it but
he now recognised the definite flick at the bottom of it, giving it the
appearance of some ancient symbol.

“The
ghost assassin?” he said in wonder. Norva sarcastically bowed in
acknowledgment.

“But
that’s impossible. You were locked in the sub level of the Pit. No one can
escape from there.”

“You
are finding a lot of things impossible this evening, I suspect,” she said. “I
did manage to escape. It wasn’t easy and it took me long enough, that I grant
you.”

“Fourteen
years,” he said and then was suddenly afraid.

He
remembered why she was sentenced to the sub level all those years ago. She had
set out to murder Cader, the formidable warlord of Rora. This she accomplished
with apparent ease, slitting his throat in his sleep. The sinister part of the
story was Cader knew she was coming.

In
preparation, he surrounded himself with his most trusted bodyguards and doubled
the number of guards protecting his castle. Somehow, Norva evaded all of
Cader’s defences, killed him and then escaped undetected, thus earning the
moniker of the ghost assassin. She was never caught, but instead chose to turn
herself in to Jacquard a month later.

When
he sentenced her, she showed no remorse and did not provide a reason for her
actions. Jacquard was aware Cader had a reputation of being aggressive in
governing his region and was known to make drunken nightly ventures into
neighbouring towns to satisfy his sexual urges.

Jacquard
had been planning to gather evidence of Cader’s behaviour and confront him when
Norva had struck. In a sense she had done him a favour and the fact she had turned
herself in caused Jacquard to show some leniency.

 Norva
was adamant she be treated as highly dangerous and be sentenced to death. When
Jacquard remarked she did not seem dangerous now, Norva amazed everyone by
freeing her bound hands and taking the guard escorting her hostage. She
released him soon after, but despite these actions and against Jefferson’s
advice, the king could not bring himself to sentence her to death. A decision
he now might regret.

“What
are you doing here?” he said. He didn’t bother asking how she had escaped.

“Surprisingly
enough, I’m here to help you.”

“Help
me? How could you help me?”

“In
many ways,” she said with a twinkle in her eye that sent a frisson down his
spine. “But the most important of which is to tell you that you are being
betrayed by one you trust.”

“Who?”

“I
believe he goes by the name Jefferson,” she said, moving over to examine a pair
of decorative crossed swords on the wall. Jacquard snorted at the idea. The man
had been the family’s advisor for as long as he could remember.

“Impossible.”

“If
you say that word one more time I’m afraid I will have to assassinate you,” she
said. “Sit down and listen to me.” Stunned by the sharpness in her tone, he
complied.