Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (5 page)

A
hand went up tentatively. The witch gave a slight nod to acknowledge the
villager had her attention. Rhact was not too surprised to see it was Andre
Hollington. He was showing no sign of his exploits from the night before. Rhact
thought he was the only man in Longcombe who had enough courage to address the
witch directly, although there was a slight waver in his voice when he began
talking.

“How
will we know if we are selected?” he said.

“You
will know,” the witch said. “The stones will find you.”

“Stones?”

“Yes,
stones,” the witch’s reply contained an amused tone to it. “There are three of
you.”

Taking
advantage of the stunned silence that followed her revelation, the witch
departed from the stage. Rhact’s mind was racing. To the best of his knowledge,
never had there been more than one person selected from the same village, town
or city. Now three had been selected from Longcombe? What could that mean? Was
it just ill-fated luck, or was there something more significant going on? The
uneasy feeling crept into his mind again. Something was wrong, very wrong. He
needed to speak with Kiana and Mertyn.

The
majority of the crowd began to disperse, lost in their own thoughts and keen to
get back home. There were still a few pockets of people that remained sombrely
discussing the witch. He spied Kiana and his stomach dropped. Standing beside
her and talking very closely in her ear was Maxhunt. Rhact hesitated, debating
whether or not to approach her.

Kiana
looked at him nervously. She still spoke to Maxhunt and was truly sorry for
what she had done to him, but she was also aware how uneasy it made Rhact. He
was not the jealous type, but he was conscious that Kiana used to love Maxhunt
and was going to marry him.

It
was this that was causing him to hesitate. He did not want to come across as
attempting to prevent them conversing, as if he couldn’t handle Maxhunt talking
with his wife.

In
the end it was Maxhunt who made the decision for him. He saw Rhact and left Kiana’s
side, sauntering towards Rhact.
What had Kiana seen in him?
His long
ginger hair was tied messily into a ponytail, his face was covered in uneven
stubble and his teeth were yellow. He was taller and more muscular than Rhact,
but he did not carry himself well and always appeared to be sneaking somewhere
when he walked. As the two of them passed each other, Maxhunt grabbed Rhact’s
arm and drew him close to his mouth. Rhact could smell ale on his breath.

“When
you are chosen, your wife will come back to me,” he said. Rhact looked at him,
trying desperately to control the fury he felt. “It will be just like old
times, you know, when she used to scream my name so loud the town used to wake.”

Rhact
shrugged off Maxhunt’s hand.

“I
remember the old times as Kiana leaving a down and out serf to be with me.
Guess you have to alter your memories to please you, Maxhunt. After all, they
are all you’ve got.”

For
a moment Rhact thought Maxhunt was going to swing at him, instead a terrible
smirk appeared on his face.

“We’ll
see,” he said before strolling off. Rhact shrugged and joined Kiana.

“I
see he has forgiven you then,” she said, attempting a weak smile.

Later
that night, Rhact and Kiana sat together, Kiana on her rocking chair and Rhact
at the table. Both Janna and Jensen were in bed. They were discussing this
morning’s meeting. The fact there were three people selected from Longcombe was
not a good sign. Although neither of them could fathom what it could possibly
mean.

The
mood of the villagers had shifted throughout the day, from trepidation and
uncertainty, to one of resolve. The villagers prepared themselves for the news
that it could be their loved ones selected. Banbury Wilmot had declared free
drinks at the Green Stag Tavern, but although many of the villagers had gone
back to the bar, no one was in the mood to take full advantage of his offer.
Rhact and Kiana had returned home after only a few. They had insisted Jensen
stay in that night. Their son did not protest much; like most of the town, he
was too preoccupied with the impending doom that would befall some of them.

The
next day was largely the same. Rhact and Mertyn ventured out for something to
do more than anything. Longcombe was like a ghost town. The few villagers that
were out and about tried too hard at laughing and false joviality. Even Mr
Hollington was alone in the Green Stag.

“I’ve
never seen the town like this,” Mertyn said as they returned after staying for
just the one drink.

“No.
The whole place is in shock. Kiana will not be parted from the kids’ sides.”

“Tyra’s
the same. I keep telling her the odds of it being us are so small but ...”

Rhact
squeezed his friend’s arm as he tailed off. They both knew that the odds were
now significantly larger than they had been the other night.

“If
the worst happens—” Rhact began.

“Don’t.”

“If
the worst happens, I will be there for you and your family, you know that.”

Rhact
watched his friend’s bottom lip wobble. Of the two of them, Mertyn had always
been the more emotional one. Mertyn brushed a tear from his eye with the back
of his hand.

“Same
for me and yours,” Mertyn could not look at Rhact as he said it. “Moons this is
stupid. Nothing has happened yet.”

It
was the “yet” that Rhact was concerned about.

The
worst happened later that night. Rhact and Kiana had sent the kids to bed and
were seated with a glass of wine. A knock on the front door interrupted their
conversation.

“I
can’t be dealing with anyone right now, Rhact,” Kiana whispered.

He
motioned for her to be silent. The knocking came again. He looked over at the
lantern that sat on the mantelpiece; it was too late to put it out now. When
the person knocked for the third time, he grew curious. He left his chair and
crouched towards the window. He risked a glance but was unable to see a thing.

Suddenly
the door flung open to reveal Jon Holdsworth. Jon was the biggest man in town
by a long way. He was only half a foot shorter than the perimeter wall and had
the muscular build to match his frame. He was nicknamed Jon Slow due to his
simple nature. It was a slightly harsh nickname as he was no less intelligent
than the average man, it was his deep voice and the fact he slurred his words
when he spoke that gave him his moniker.

Tonight,
however, Jon Slow was clearly not himself. His eyes had rolled into his sockets
so that only the white was visible. His chest was bare and he wore only a black
pair of ragged pants. He walked into the room in an awkward fashion, his legs
jerking as if in spasm. Kiana instantly recoiled, folding her legs up underneath
her body and putting her fist in her mouth to prevent a scream. Instinctively,
Rhact got to his feet and stood between Kiana and Jon Slow.

“Chivalrous,
but ultimately futile,” Jon said. “If I wanted to harm your wife, she would be
dead already. May I come in?” It was Jon’s voice but the slur was gone.

“You’re
not Jon, are you?” he said.

“How
perceptive of you.”

“Then
who are you?”

“Some
call me the witch. My real name is Marybeth.”

Rhact
hesitated and then stood aside. He pointed to the chair he had been sitting in.
Jon took it; he moved in a sort of shuffle, one leg stumbling in front of the
other, as if the real Jon Slow was fighting the witch’s possession every step
he took. When seated, he looked at Rhact expectantly, as if Rhact had asked him
to be here.

“Can
you hear me in there, Jon?” he said, feeling woefully inadequate.

“No
he can’t. Don’t worry, he will be fine. He will just wake up with a headache
and a little memory loss.”

Rhact
looked at Kiana. It was clear she had no idea what to do either. Her fist was
still in her mouth. He wished she would take it out. It was the most bizarre
thing to hear Jon’s voice but know he wasn’t talking to him. Not being able to think
of anything to say, he remained silent and took a seat opposite the possessed
body. She can only be here for one reason, he thought. She has given a stone to
Jon and is going to give it to me. A shiver ran up his spine. As if reading his
thoughts, the witch finally spoke.

“I
have made camp in the woods outside the village. It is to the west of here,”
she said.

“Do
you need anything?” Rhact asked, not knowing what else to say.

He
immediately chastised himself. What could a woman that has the power to posses
someone the size of Jon Slow possibly need that he could provide? The witch
ignored the question, though.

“Tomorrow
night you must come and see me – but it must be before dawn. I will be camped
to the west just outside the perimeter wall. I know you, Rhact Oberon. I know
the way you think. You will wrestle with your conscience and explore every
possibility. Eventually, you will come to the conclusion that what you believe
is the only solution. That solution will then lead you to think that you can’t
come and see me, but you must, Rhact Oberon, you must.”

“What
are you talking about, what will I have to decide? Are you telling me that my
family is in danger? I want to know!” Rhact could detect the fear in his voice.
Had he been chosen?

“Just
remember to come and see me.”

“Why?
Why can’t you come and see me in person?” Rhact said.

“Rhact!”
Kiana said, obviously appalled at the suggestion. The witch also chose to
ignore the slight.

“You
have to make your own decisions. You have to come to your own conclusions.”

“But
I don’t even know what I am supposed to be deciding!” he cried, although he had
a strong idea; he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. As if confirming his
thoughts, Janna started screaming. Kiana jumped up immediately and ran from the
room. Rhact began to follow and then paused at the door to look back at Jon
Slow. The whites of Jon Slow’s eyes were no longer visible, instead Rhact could
see the unmistakable piercing green eyes of the witch.

“Remember
to come and see me,” Jon repeated.

Kiana
called to him from upstairs causing Rhact to be momentarily distracted. When he
looked back, Jon was looking around the room blinking rapidly with a confused
expression on his face.

The
Marshes of Night obtained its name because it was said to be the only place in
Frindoth the sun never touched. No one could explain the phenomenon, as the
surrounding areas all experienced normal daylight. The Marshes of Night were
just a black spot on the land, as if the sun itself forgot to illuminate the
land there, or was too afraid. Bizarrely, vegetation continued to flourish in
the Marshes regardless of the rules of nature.

Marybeth’s
journey to the Marshes had taken just over a day. It was a full day before she
was to contact Rhact using Jon Slow. She cantered through Elmwoods, under a
thick canopy of leaves. The sunlight fought through the branches and bathed odd
patches of the floor in a golden mist. The nearer she got to the Marshes, the
more infrequent the rays from the sun became and before she knew it the leaves
had thinned out and there was no more sun. The ground began to soften and
darkness engulfed her.

The
Marshes of Night were purported to be a bland, desolate area of dank vegetation
and isolation. Few travelled to them as there was nothing to be found. One or
two people who wished to remain hidden might hole up there for a few days but
they never stayed.

Marybeth,
however, found the marshes beautiful. They were not completely devoid of light;
the sun could still be seen but it was as if someone had put a cloth over it.
Pools of water were calm black discs, where mists hovered, swirling languidly
amongst the swaying reeds, giving the impression the Marshes were alive. Even
the trees were mesmerising; unlike the tall thin trunks of Elmwood, the trees
scattered throughout the Marshes had an ancient, mystical feel to them. Their
thick, gnarled trunks twisted unnaturally.

She
dismounted and tethered her horse to one of these trees on the outskirts of the
Marsh. There was little point in trying to steer a fully rested horse through
the soft ground let alone one she’d ridden pretty hard over the past day.

The
face-changing man had provided rough directions towards the middle of the Marsh
where the ground began to rise and the light touched the water. Looking at the
swamp, though, the instructions seemed too vague to be any use. Where was she
to start? Foxtails zipped around the Marsh parting the mist with their flight,
whilst dragonflies hovered over the stagnant water and giant lily pads. As
pretty as the area was, trying to find the Chamber was not going to be easy.

She
closed her eyes and reached out with her other senses, a skill Iskandar had
taught her. Sounds were magnified. A frog croaked and then splashed into the
water; farther away a rodent scurried in the rushes. She could smell the septic
ponds interspersed with fresh spores as easily as a bloodhound. However, none
of these fragrances or sounds were unusual or enlightened her to the location
of the Chamber of Scrolls.

Frustrated,
she opened her eyes. She was going to have to wade into the swamp and search
for an incline. She unsaddled her horse, extracting only the bare minimum she
thought she might need, which consisted of enough food to last a few days. She
did not envisage the search to take any longer than that. The Marshes were vast
but not to the extent that she could not find all of its hills. Besides, she
could not afford to be any longer as she had to return to Longcombe.

When
she had left the village, the residents had still been in shock. She winced at
the dramatic nature she had approached Rhact, but it was essential for her to
keep her distance. Her duty was to ensure those selected attend the Ritual,
nothing more. By default the villagers feared her as they did all members of
the Order. She was not sure how she felt about it.

When
the face-changing man had not displayed any apprehension towards her, she had
been angry. She was used to people cowering before her. It made sure people
generally did as she asked. She had not realised how much she had come to rely
on people’s terror to get what she wanted. However, in Longcombe, the sight of
the poor men and women looking at her in abject terror was not something she
took pleasure from. She figured it was because this time she was the reason for
their angst and not just her reputation. She was in essence a contradiction.

She
shivered at the thought and concentrated on the task in hand. Her first steps
sank until she was covered up to her knees in wet mud. She winced as the cold
water oozed into her boots. With each step she took, her legs grew heavier as
more and more mud caked onto her. The search was so slow it was torturous.
Occasionally, she startled a salamander, but that was the only real wildlife
she came across on the ground.

There
was no way of telling the time on the Marshes of Night, but by the time
Marybeth believed it was dusk, she had not had any success. She had discovered
three areas where the ground rose up into something resembling a mound. Here
the terrain was a little more solid but there was nothing to indicate an
entrance to a hidden chamber. There was also no light shining on any water. She
continued to trudge through the mud.

Without
warning, the wet sludge rose higher than her knees and continued to climb
higher every second. She began to sink quickly and realised she had walked into
drowning mud. She fought the urge to panic. She had never experienced drowning
mud but she knew the worst thing to do was thrash around which would only
increase the speed with which the mud consumed her. The witch took a few
breaths to calm herself, her eyes frantically searching for something to cling
on to. There was nothing. She closed her eyes and concentrated on elevating her
body above the mud. It was a skill she had learned from Mondorlous. However,
for some reason her powers did not seem to be responding.

Marybeth
pursed her lips in anger as the mud compacted around her legs, making it
extremely difficult for her to move. The mud gurgled as if happy it was being
fed. She stayed still which slowed her descent, but she still continued to
sink.
Think, you stupid woman.
There must be a way to escape.

She
managed to hoist her staff out of the mud and lay it horizontally across the
surface. At least she could hold onto it. The mud now compacted around her
waist. In response, she wriggled her feet to ensure that she could still move
them.
Get on the staff, you fool.
She took a deep breath and then pushed
down on the staff, crying out with the effort. After what seemed like an
eternity, she managed to hoist her body partially free enough to flop her back
on the staff. She escaped the mud with a huge squelch. She lay there panting,
sweat streaming down her face. A squirrel watched her from a branch high above.

“Get
lost,” she said, “hope the Gloom devours you.”

The
squirrel chattered and then bounded off. At least she had managed to stop
sinking. Eventually she had enough energy to work the staff around under her,
rotating it at a right angle so that it supported her hips. With another
enormous effort, she managed to lift one leg out of the muck and then the
other. They came free caked in mounds of viscous sludge. Dollops of black tar-like
mud flopped from her boots. Relief washed over her. Still angry with herself
for being so stupid, she paddled slowly to firmer ground, where she collapsed
against a boulder. How could she have been so careless?

She
wiped a chunk of mud from her cheek and flung it to the floor. Lightbugs
flittered about her, dancing to their own silent song. Their yellow bodies
looked magnificent as they stood out against the red glow from the moon. She
frowned as something inside her mind clicked. She was missing something.

She
looked at the Lightbugs again; they buzzed excitedly in their swarms. All of a
sudden it came to her. It wasn’t the Lightbugs that caused her mind to tick,
but the glow from the moon. The stranger had told her the Chamber was located
where the light touched the water. If there was a spot in the Marshes where all
the rays of the moons penetrated the trees, then maybe that was where the Chamber
was.

Energized
by the possibility of this revelation, she set off, the tiredness in her legs
forgotten. At one point she thought she had found the spot she was looking for.
There was a small mound and the light from all three moons penetrated the
surface. However, after searching the entire area twice, she realised the light
only fell on the mound due to a fallen tree.

Disheartened,
she proceeded on. It was not long before she came across what she was looking
for. There was a small clearing in the trees, where the light from all three
moons reached the mound’s surface. At first glance the clearing looked like any
other mound she had come across: the reeds sprung out of the ground
sporadically; a dead tree trunk lay across the water that surrounded the
incline and a film of algae lay across the surface of the water.

As she got closer
to the mound, she could see that the water surrounding it was clearer. The film
of
algae was in actual fact the reflection of the green
moon. About half a foot underneath the surface, Marybeth could see a
cobblestone surface forming a circle about four feet in diameter. Her heart
raced; this must be the entrance.

She
tried stepping on the submerged surface but instantly slipped and landed on her
rear instead. Once again she found her legs caked in mud and cold water. The
cobblestones were slick with moss and algae making for a treacherous platform.
Frustrated, she felt around the circumference of the concrete circle but
touched only smooth stone. Puzzled, she straightened. There must be something
to trigger an opening.

She
found it eventually within the fallen tree trunk when she happened to catch a
glimmer of metal reflecting the moons. She thrust her hand in and felt a metal
lever covered in the slimy deposit of the swamp. One yank of the lever and the
water around the slab drained away as the stone rose out of the water in a
column. It stopped after climbing a few feet to resemble a well.

Her
heart pounded. Up until now, she had not fully believed that the Chamber of
Scrolls could have existed. The face-changing man, had been convincing, but
anyone could be convincing. She had travelled to the Marshes wanting to believe
in the Chamber’s existence but deep down she had still been sceptical. As the
slab across the surface divided up into segments, each one lowering deeper than
the next, to form a spiral staircase, she allowed herself to truly believe.

Stone
grated on stone and a deep rumbling could be heard underground amongst the
burping and gurgling of the swamp. Finally the noise stopped and only one small
triangular segment remained where the slab had been. She hoisted herself up on
the circular stone wall and taking her lantern, sword and staff, descended the
stairs into the depths of the swamp.  

At the bottom of
the
stairs, Marybeth found herself in a narrow stone
corridor that curved off to the right. Water dripped from the low ceiling
falling on old established puddles. Each drop echoed in the silence. The
darkness in the corridor was thick, almost oppressive.

A frisson ran
down her spine. She stood at the entrance of an ancient place. A Chamber that
no one had found in hundreds of years. So many years, in fact, that it was
considered a fairy story. A myth that young children could invent imaginary
games for. She remembered travelling with her father as he looked for work and
watching some children argue over whose turn it was to choose what scroll they
found that day. One little boy insisted it was his turn and the scroll they
found would reveal how to summon a dragon. The boy had been dismissed by his
friends but Marybeth thought his ideas fantastic and longed to play in their
game.

She took a deep
breath and proceeded into the darkness. The ceiling sloped and forced Marybeth
to stoop at first
. She lit the lantern to get a sense
of where she was. She was worried that it might have got too wet from her
battle with the drowning mud, but much to her relief it had ignited on her
first attempt.

The
corridor stretched out in front of her. Taking another deep breath, she
proceeded with caution. The walls were mostly plain stone but occasionally
there would be some crude drawings depicting the Gloom. One image showed the
Gloom holding back several figures whilst men cowered before it. It was unusual
to see the Gloom portrayed as anything other than a destructive being.

“The
Children of the moon,” Marybeth muttered to no one. She was surprised that they
would have known about this Chamber, they were the only people who could have
drawn the picture and portrayed the Gloom as something other than a destructive
being. Their possible presence in the Chamber unsettled her, even if it was
years ago. She continued down the corridor, but with the lantern now attached
to her staff and one hand on the hilt of her sword.

After a while
the ceiling began to slope upwards again. Eventually the
light cast from the lantern revealed the corridor narrowed to a small hole.
Kneeling down, she saw the hole opened into a room. She looked once behind her
to make sure no one had followed her before crawling through.

She
found herself in a circular chamber. The curved walls arched into a dome far
above her head. A small wooden table and chair were situated in the centre.
Portholes with markings around their edges lined the walls from top to bottom.
The domed room smelled musty and for a moment all Marybeth could do was stare
in awe. The wall emanated a sense of something ancient, of something long lost.
Her thoughts whirled with the history that had occurred in this room. Who had
built it? Who had known all of the secrets in Frindoth? Was the answer to her
father’s belief contained within these stone walls?