Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (8 page)

“Okay,
let’s see what we got here.”

He
reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out the brown stone he had found
there when he had woke up. It felt smooth to touch but had a heaviness about it
that did not seem to match its size. He tossed the stone in the air and watched
as it glimmered in the sunlight. A brightness seemed to emanate from within. As
he caught it, he contemplated what this meant for him. The hawk cried out
overhead. He closed his fingers around the stone and looked one last time at the
sun rising.

“Looks
like we are turning back, Silverspeck.”

The
horse nodded its grey mane, understanding perfectly.

*
* *

Jonas
Hodges may have been simple but he was no fool. He reached into the bucket and
pulled out the purple stone for the fifth time that day.

“No
sir-ree, that just can’t be happenin’.”

He
was standing over the well drawing some water. Master Rankton told him to fetch
four pails before breakfast—he was already very late. The first pail he had
drawn, he emptied into his own bucket without any problem. He hastily loaded it
into the wagon, his head filled with the possibility of finishing in plenty of
time.

He
had never been trusted with the wagon before. Master Rankton was a good man to
let him take both it and his favourite horse. Jonas was not about to disappoint
him. Other masters insisted their slaves walk down to the well and only carry
back one bucket at a time so they did not spill a drop of water. Master Rankton
was never that strict. He let Jonas carry as many buckets as he could at once
and did not punish him if he spilt some.

Once,
Jonas returned with only half a bucket of water, having tripped in his haste to
return. He had been beside himself with worry and immediately offered to return
to the well. Master Rankton had smiled and told him he only wanted to wash his
feet in the tub that morning and to be more careful next time.

This
morning, Master Rankton told him to take the wagon on the conditions he didn’t
get distracted (which Jonas was prone to do) and he was quick about it as
Master Rankton was due to go to Medhurst early.

The
second pail caused Jonas to pause. Whilst emptying it into his own bucket,
Jonas noticed the purple stone,

“Would
you lookee here at this,” he said. “Old Jonas has got himself a treasure rock.”

Smiling
he threw the stone back into the well. He knew better than to steal, Hector
Roberts had his hand chopped off for stealing last spring. He lowered the
bucket into the well. When the pail came up for the third time, Jonas frowned
as the purple stone appeared at the bottom again.

“Well
how did that happen?” he said frowning.

In
the five years he had been drawing water from the well, he had never found
anything but water in his bucket. Again, he tossed the stone in the well, this
time he listened for the “plonk” the stone made when it hit the water.

He
shrugged and then without giving it a second thought, proceeded to turn the
crank to bring the bucket up again, whilst humming to himself. This time when
the purple stone appeared Jonas was mightily confused. He was certain it was
the same stone, but how? He put the stone in the bucket and watched it sink.

“If
it sinks in the bucket, it must sink in the well. Yes-siree, Jonas knows that
much. So how are you ending up in the bucket?” he said, holding the stone in
his hand now.

This
time he placed the stone on the side of the well and lowered the bucket. When
the bucket came up with just water in it, he was perplexed.

“Tis
the stone, that proves it. Yup, yup, yup. Frindoth wishes me to have it.”

Over
the next hour Jonas tried many different ways of ridding himself of the stone: he
threw it down the well again and again; he hurled it as far as he could into
the nearby fields; he even buried it in the ground. Each time when he drew
water from the well it was in the bucket. Exasperated he sat down.

“Jonas
is not no thief.”

He
concluded that if he tossed the stone back into the well and didn’t draw any
more water, then he couldn’t possibly steal the stone. So that is what he did.

As
he sat on the wagon back to Master Rankton’s, he was not surprised when glanced
down and saw the purple stone sitting next to him.

*
* *

Ulric
von Coolidge rocked back and forth as he sat on his porch sharpening his sword.
It was a routine he carried out every day since he could remember. Around him
the busy sound of the forest filled his ears. Birds chirped in the trees and
rodents scurried in the undergrowth. He was hundreds of leagues from anyone and
that is how he wanted it.

Next
to him sat the gold stone he had found by his bed when he had woken up that
morning. He lifted the sword and examined the blade, the metal shone in the
morning sun. Whilst holding the hilt up to his face, he extended his right hand
alongside the blade as if he was cocking an arrow. He lifted his thumb so that
it was at a right angle to the rest of his fingers and then ran the blade
slowly across the thumbnail. The blade bit into the nail instantly.

Content
that it was sharp enough, Ulric von Coolidge then focused his only good eye on
one of the tin cans in front of him. He breathed deeply, letting his body calm.
When the blade stopped trembling in his hand, he swung at the cans, slicing
them neatly in the centre. He grunted in satisfaction. An itch under his eye
patch began to irritate him. He lowered the sword and cried out, glaring at the
gold stone next to the chair.
Why me?
he thought to himself.
Haven’t
I served Frindoth enough? Is my eye not good enough to appease the triple
moons? Were not my family enough of a sacrifice?

Ulric
knew all too well what the gold stone meant. He knew he would have to travel
once again to Lilyon where he would be forced to mix with other people, to
wander among them, pretend to care as they talked of their petty lives (for
they all did). Worst of all he knew he would have to face him.

After
all these years, after swearing never to go near him again, all he wanted was
to live out the rest of his days alone and in peace. Alone with his grief and
self-pity.

A
twig snapped causing him to assume a fighting stance. Ulric’s eye widened as he
saw the imposing black figure standing no more than ten paces before him. He
was bare-chested save for an intricate necklace made up of small animal bones
and shells that hung from his neck. His bald head reflected the sun, causing it
to look almost white. He held his hands slightly raised at his sides, palms
outfacing.

“Mondorlous,”
Ulric said. “Only you could creep so near to me undetected.”

“Your
great skills are weakening, old man. For I was not trying to be quiet,”
Mondorlous replied softly.

Ulric
snorted at this and lowered his sword. He had once tangled with the warlock and
although he had held his own, leaving both a healthy respect for each other, he
had no desire to do so again.

“So
Iskandar couldn’t trust me to fulfil my duty and go to Lilyon?”

Mondorlous
looked at the gold stone at Ulric’s feet.

“Pack
your things, I’ll come and get you in an hour,” he said before turning and
walking back into the forest.

*
* *

Jefferson
transformed his features and hobbled through the city. He cursed as he was
forced to meander through peasants offering him fruit that already showed signs
of rot. He despised the feeling of claustrophobia as they crowded round him,
their stench overwhelming.

Unlike
the clean air from the lofty position of the palace, the air at the base of
Lilyon was consuming. When he was unable to move even two steps without
stopping, he lost his temper completely by striking a man with his cane who had
persistently thrust a bruised bunch of bananas in his face. The man’s head made
a loud satisfying crack as he fell against the cobblestones.

He
looked up at Jefferson in disbelief as his hand felt the back of his head and was
covered in blood. Jefferson grinned as the man’s toothless mouth remained open
with shock as he stepped over his body.
Shouldn’t sell at such an extortionate
price,
he thought.

After
that, the peasants gave him a bit more room. Jefferson’s mood lifted. He was
enjoying the power he felt as he made his way through the streets. He
approached the west gate and turned off from the main streets to travel down
the side streets. The further he travelled into the maze of side turnings, the
more the traffic thinned.

Soon
he found himself halfway down a dark alleyway, that contained nothing but an
abandoned wagon and some scattered barrels. In front of him was a dead end as
the solid outer wall of the city towered above him. He looked behind him, there
was no one in sight. Either side of him were tall wooden dilapidated houses
built on a foundation of stone. Despite the congestion in the city, no one
purchased these buildings. Jefferson had seen to it that they were far too
overpriced for what they were and the location they were in.

Last
year, a rich merchant attempted to purchase them, with grand designs of
knocking them down and erecting a new tavern in their place. Jefferson recalled
how the merchant had strode into his office, his rotund belly puffed out even
further with arrogance and demanded that Jefferson name his price. The merchant
had too much money and very little sense, and saw it as a hobby to try and
rebuild the slums into something splendid. Jefferson had taken a great deal of
pleasure in refusing the upstart, a man that was clearly used to getting his
way. The man had cursed Jefferson and issued several threats before he stormed
out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A week later he was found on his
chamber pot with his throat slit and five gold coins stuffed in his mouth.

Jefferson
ran his hand along the surface of one of the outer walls. He tapped each stone
as he did so. When one of the stones sounded hollow, he paused and glanced back
along the alleyway again. Content no one was around, he pulled the stone away
from the wall to reveal a hidden lever. He pulled it and immediately a slab
with some of the barrels in the cobblestone street slid to one side to reveal a
stairway that descended into darkness. The wagon obscured the secret passageway
to any casual walker who might appear at the end of the alley. He looked round
a final time to be sure he was alone and then descended into the darkness, the
trapdoor closing behind him.

After
a few moments, Jefferson’s eyes adjusted to the dark. Away from the public, he
no longer needed to keep up the pretence of using the cane. Instead he lifted
the end to his face and blew on it. A brilliant blue flame engulfed the tip and
the passageway was illuminated before him. He strode purposefully down the
stairs, all hint of his limp vanished. At the bottom of the stairs, a solid oak
door blocked his path. He rapped impatiently on the surface and within seconds
a small window slid open to reveal a cottar peering through.

“Who
goes there?” the guard said.

“Jefferson,
you fool, now stand aside and let me through.”

“I …
I … I … need the password, sir,” the guard said.

“Helvasta,
you impotent worm.”

“Very
good, sir.”

With
that Jefferson heard a bolt slide across and the door swung open.

“I’m
sorry, sir, you can never be—” Jefferson kicked the door into the guard,
stopping his apology mid-sentence. The guard fell to the floor dazed, his nose
a mass of blood.

“Don’t
mention it,” he said as he entered.

Inside
the corridor he could hear distant screams of pain and torture. Alongside him
were rows upon rows of prison cells, each one interspersed with flaming
torches. Jefferson proceeded to walk down the corridor. He could make out the
silhouette of the prisoners in the darkness. Some were lying on their straw
beds, whilst others merely stood watching him. One brave prisoner reached out
to grab him. Jefferson grabbed his outstretched arm and yanked it against the
steel bar. It snapped instantly and the prisoner howled in pain. Alerted by the
distressed cries, a figure appeared at the end of the corridor.

“Master
Jefferson, I did not expect to see you so soon!”

“That
is why you are stuck down here in the catacombs of the city, Delmut.”

Jefferson
walked towards the figure that had addressed him. He was adorned in a long,
brown, hooded cloak, most commonly used by monks. Delmut, however, was far from
religious. As Jefferson reached him, Delmut pulled back the hood revealing his
unusual face. It was entirely painted with tattoos, depicting all manner of
grotesque images. One cheek depicted a dragon plucking a dolphin out of the
ocean, its entrails falling to the water, whilst another displayed a goat
straddling a child. The tattoos continued over Delmut’s bald head.

Why
Delmut decided to cover himself in these crude designs Jefferson had never
asked. All he knew was that it suited his character perfectly. For Delmut had
no feelings other than being happy when he tortured someone. He raised a hand
at Jefferson in greeting and grinned to reveal several yellow teeth.