Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (29 page)

“Yes, Longshaw?”
Jacquard smiled in an attempt to reassure the knight. He was not used to seeing
him on edge. The knight entered the room and shut the door behind him. “I take
it you heard the discussion?”

Longshaw nodded.
“Hard to close your ears when you are in the same room.”

Jacquard smiled
again, “It is difficult not to overhear but easy to keep your opinions. Yet I
sense you want to offer some advice now?” Longshaw’s cheeks coloured and he
hung his head. “Relax, my friend. I would gladly hear what you have to say.”

“Forgive me, my lord,
but I heard no mention of Raoul Seth.”

Jacquard slumped
back into his chair. In all the pandemonium he had forgotten about the
Lakisdoan king. Suddenly he felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.
It was too much to bear. “Raoul Seth,” he echoed.

“He needs to be
told,” Longshaw said.

“Does he? The
Gloom has never crossed the sea. Not once in all of my reign and of those
before me. There is no need to inform Lakisdoa of our weakened position.
Besides, he probably already knows.”

“But the
Treaty,” Longshaw insisted. “It will be better for the Treaty if we inform him
out of courtesy. Even if he already knows, it would count for a lot if you
informed him.”

Jacquard nodded.
He was not being told anything he did not already know, but he was grateful all
the same. Too many people had died for the Treaty for it to be jeopardised by
such a blatant disregard of respect on his part. If Raoul Seth decided to act
upon the news then so be it. At least Jacquard would not be the one to break
it.

Jacquard took a
swig from his goblet. The wine tasted warm as he swished it around in his
mouth.

Should he ask
Raoul for help? Maybe he was being too harsh on the king. If Raoul Seth led the
Lakisdoans across the sea, then maybe they could crush Vashna between them. It
would certainly solve the problem and Althalos’s first foray into battle would
be a successful one. If, if, Raoul Seth could be trusted.

It was a big
“if”. Raoul Seth was a pious man. Whereas the people of Frindoth recognised the
three moon gods, Lakisdoans worshipped them with an appalling degree of zeal.
The last time they had met was four years ago when Jacquard and a small envoy
had made the customary sojourn across the sea. The terms of the Treaty
expressed the kings met every five years on alternate soil to maintain
relations. This usually involved a terse dinner and an overnight stay.

Last time, Raoul
Seth kept Jacquard waiting in Helvastas just outside the capital city for a
week whilst the Lakisdoans observed the Red Moon God Staogon’s birthday. Apart
from the wait, Jacquard had been furious to learn how the bloodthirsty deity
was being worshipped by a series of contests between slaves fighting to their
deaths. One contest was rumoured to have made a mockery of the Ritual of the Stones
by having a lion dressed as the Gloom devouring defenceless children.

There had been
no proof of this, however, and Jacquard had been forced to endure the
exquisitely hosted meal with its stilted conversation.

Longshaw cleared
his throat, stirring the king from his reveries. He glanced up at the knight
who was looking at him with concern.

“I will draft a
letter tonight. Select a band of trusted men to go to Lakisdoa. Tell no one.”

Longshaw bowed
and left the room, leaving Jacquard to his thoughts.

Jefferson
encountered the first members of Vashna’s army as he crossed the grasslands of
Shangon. They occupied a small fort that overlooked the Great Canyon. Vashna’s
banner showing the green dragon blazed in the morning sun and forced a wry
smile from him.
So Kana has been persuaded at last
. It was the first bit
of good news he had come across since Delmut had informed him of Norva Steele’s
escape.

He
was still livid about it. After striking the useless worm, Jefferson had
insisted on seeing the cell where she had been held captive. Delmut insisted it
was still locked and he could not fathom how the ghost assassin had escaped.
Sure enough, when he reached the cell, the door was still bolted shut, and the
manacles still locked. Somehow, she had managed to free herself from the iron
chains without unlocking the mechanism.

In
his anger, he went to lash out at Delmut again, but this time the painted man
cowered away. To be fair, it was not the Pit keeper’s fault. Jefferson had not
trusted anyone else and retained the solitary key to her cell as soon as he had
learned of the stone.
So how did she escape?

The
question had been annoying him since he had fled the city. There was no way he
could have stayed in Lilyon with her on the loose. If she told Jacquard the
truth, which he suspected she would, judging by her confession to the king over
the killing of Cader, then no amount of excuses or word play would convince the
king of his innocence.

In a
way, he was glad the truth was out. He no longer had to pretend to be the
feeble old advisor he’d murdered so long ago. Although it had been important to
maintain the illusion of a trusted ally, he loathed portraying such a weak
character knowing he was more powerful than everyone in that palace.

He
wondered if Iskandar knew who he really was. Surely he must. Iskandar was no
fool, but why had he never told Jacquard? Then again, would the gullible king
have believed him? He did not even know when his dear friend had been murdered
and another man had assumed his identity.

How did you escape, Norva?
As he
watched the first of the lookout soldiers spot him on the horizon, he decided
maybe she really was a ghost.

He
was forced to stop his approach to the fort when two arrows whistled through
the air and embedded themselves in the soil in front of him, causing his horse
to rear. He handled the animal superbly, maintaining his balance as he settled
the creature down.

“Identify
yourself,” an authoritative voice from within the fort said.

“Cordane,”
he said, pulling his hood back to reveal his face. Gone was the wispy grey
hair, the multiple wrinkles and the tired eyes. In their place, was a hard-faced
man with a crooked nose and tight lips. His hair was a much more youthful
chestnut colour than the elderly Jefferson’s and cut short and flat. Cordane
was how he appeared to Vashna and was his true self. The man that was Jefferson
was now officially dead. The false appearance discarded like the true identity
of the man years before.

“State
your busin—”

Cordane
smiled as the voice cut off. The soldier obviously did not know who he was and
was no doubt being severely reprimanded for challenging him. As if to confirm
his thoughts, the doors to the fort swung open and a small, squat figure came
hurrying out to meet him.

“I’m
truly sorry, my lord,” the man said between deep breaths. He reached out to
take the reins of Cordane’s horse, before hesitating.

“May
I?” he asked, his face blanching at his mistake.

“By
all means, lead on,” Cordane said.

Later
that night, Cordane sat in a basic but comfortable hut eating roasted duck and
herbs. Opposite him sat Carle, whom he now knew to be the leader of this
particular legion and commander of the fort.

Their
conversation had been limited. Carle appeared to be a no nonsense leader,
answering only when Cordane spoke to him. In complete contrast to the lookout
he had encountered earlier, Carle appeared to have his men well organised and
operating efficiently.

Inside
the fort, the soldiers occupied themselves by checking weapons and running
endless drills. Cordane was impressed with how tirelessly they went about their
duties. He observed one group of men fighting for most of the afternoon with
stones tied to their arms to build up their upper body strength. He’d been
pleasantly surprised by how effortless the majority of them found the exercise.
These were men that were not bullied into joining Vashna, but believed in his
cause.

“When
will Lord Vashna be passing through?” Cordane said.

“Through
here?” Carle answered as he chewed on a chicken wing. Cordane tried not to be
repulsed as greasy juice ran down his chin, “He is not passing through here.”

“Oh?”
Cordane stopped eating.
Why on Frindoth would Vashna not pass through this
fort?
It marked the only point that his army could cross the canyon. Carle
placed the chicken wing back on his plate and looked at Cordane, unsure whether
to continue. Cordane flicked his hand impatiently, gesturing that the commander
had his permission.

“Vashna
decided it would take too long to mobilise his force and march it down to
Shangon. The bridge here is narrow and is not strong enough to support a legion
of soldiers crossing it, to do so would take weeks, weeks he felt we did not
have.

“Instead,
he has decided to send half his force down to the Shangon crossing and then to
march up through Yurisdoria, where they can attack the Great Bridge from the
other side. With the Yurisdorians distracted, Vashna will renew his attack on
his side of the bridge. It is thought that facing enemies from two different
directions, the Yurisdorians will not be able to cope and it should be easy to
defeat them. By the time Jacquard sends his army to face us, Vashna’s entire
army will be ready and waiting for him on the plains of Widerule.”

Cordane
digested the plan as he chewed his food. It was a shrewd plan and made perfect
sense. Hamsun had left his army behind to attend the council believing they
could withstand Vashna as long as he tried to cross the Great Bridge. Any
attempt for the army to cross the canyon at another bridge would take weeks and
by that time he would have returned with the full weight of the western army.

Is Vashna skilled enough to take the Great Bridge, though?
he pondered. Vashna was a calculating and ferocious warrior, but
his pride let him down. Would he be able to resist the temptation to conquer
Yurisdoria rather than consolidate his position and wait for the enemy?
He
has waited too long for this opportunity to throw it away now; containing
Stasiak will be the problem. A problem I can help with.
He noticed Carle
staring at him.

“Something
on your mind, Commander?”

“If
I may be so bold as to ask you a question, my lord?” Carle said, wetting his
lips.

“It
appears you already have, but I permit you to ask another,” Cordane said.

“Where
do you fit into all this?”

“Me?”

Carle
lowered his eyes, unable to look at Cordane. He spoke quickly as if he was
afraid his courage might desert him.

“I
am no fool, sir. I have seen how Vashna has sought your opinion, and I sense
you are a very powerful man. If we win this war, Vashna gets to be king, I am
not so sure what you get out of it.”

“Deciding
whether or not you are backing the right man, are we? Afraid that I may double-cross
Vashna?”

The
directness of the commander delighted him. It was refreshing to converse with
someone who thought beyond the next battle.

“No,
my lord. My loyalty lies with Vashna and will always do so providing I believe
in his cause. Jacquard has let the regions govern themselves for too long in
the pretence of peace. If I am backing the wrong man, then so be it. I would
just like to know, is all,” Carle said, eventually raising his eyes to meet
his. Cordane laughed.

“Well
said, young man. I believe in the same thing as Vashna: For too long, Frindoth
has been allowed to fester in its weakness, to focus on the poor morons that
soil its land, to allow its people to bow down and worship some shadowy entity
as if it were its slave. If Raoul Seth knew how weak Frindoth had become, he
would not hesitate to breach the hundred-year peace agreement.

“Frindoth
needs to be ruled by a strong king, to open its eyes to the mysteries of the
world. I believe Vashna is that man. I do not wish for anything other than for
him to become king. And when he does, for it is inevitable, I will teach him
how to become the greatest ruler Frindoth has ever seen.”

Carle
bowed his head at the response. Whether he was convinced or not at Cordane’s
speech was hard to say.
It does not matter if he believes me or not. It is
the truth, at least for the time being.

Carle
began gathering up the empty plates but Cordane gestured for him to sit. Carle
sat down reluctantly. He looked around the room for something to distract him.
Cordane noticed beads of perspiration were forming on his brow.
He is
suddenly not so at ease with me.

“Tell
me, Commander, have you seen much of Stasiak?” he asked. Carle hesitated before
answering, as if selecting the best way to answer the question.

“I
have seen him in battle and marched with him.”

“And
what do you think of him?”

“A
fierce warrior, good with a sword, even better with two.”

The
reply was automatic. Carle stared at his hands as he answered.
What is this?
Suddenly the commander is holding out on me?

“And?”

“And,
my lord?”

“Anyone
could have told me that. What is your personal opinion of him?” Cordane tried
to keep his question pleasant but it was clear to both of them he demanded an
honest answer.

He
studied Carle who was fixated on the flickering flame of the candle in front of
him, as if he drew comfort from its warmth. The wax had almost melted, so the
flame was all that could be seen in the holder. The light danced across Carle’s
face illuminating his green eyes sporadically. The man was free with his
tongue, but also knew his place. Cordane liked him and made a mental note to
remember him for the future.

“The
boy is reckless and has an unquenchable thirst for violence. There are men that
like to inflict pain on others for some sadistic sense of enjoyment, but this
Stasiak is something altogether different. He is a monster. He hurts others for
no reason. He doesn’t seem to get any pleasure from it. He just does it.

“It
is almost programmed into his blood as if he does not know any better. I am
uncomfortable being on his side, but I am damned pleased I am not fighting
against him.”

“Can
he be controlled?” Cordane said, unfazed at Carle’s words.

“I
don’t think so. At the moment he obeys Vashna, but the man is an animal, no one
knows where he came from or who his family was.”

“I
do,” Cordane said, and watched with relish as Carle looked at him in surprise.
The candle finally burnt out leaving them in darkness as he said, “He came from
my household.”

*
* *

Jensen’s
stomach growled for what seemed like the thousandth time that morning. He was
ravenous and this only exacerbated his anger. He kicked a stone, sending it
flying into the undergrowth, a startled rabbit hopped away in surprise making
him even angrier. Another potential meal had escaped him.

Four
days had passed since he had fled his family and still his anger had not
abated. Every time he tried to see his father’s reasoning, he pictured him
collapsed on his knees, a defeated figure. This only fuelled his wrath. Even if
he didn’t agree with his father’s actions, at least he could respect his
conviction and courageousness in making his decision. But the broken man he
left behind contradicted all of those things and demonstrated how ill-conceived
his scheme was.

He
flopped on the ground, thoroughly miserable.
I am better off on my own. If
he can’t protect us any more, then what is the point in staying with him
.
He stared up at the treetops. The leaves differed in their shades of green as
they overlapped. Every now and then a small breeze caused them to sway as if
the branches were vibrating.

How
had it come to this? Less than a month ago, he was thinking how good life was.
He was free and did not have a care in the world. Endless days spent with
Brody, Janna and Brenna.
Gods, I miss Brenna
. A crystal clear memory of
her smell came to him, fresh hay tinged with her own scent. It was so realistic
he could almost taste it. He closed his eyes and thought of her, her lips
against his and then cautiously her tongue seeking his. He felt himself grow
hard and smiled at the notion.

That
time seemed so long ago, there was no point thinking about it now. Instead, he
focussed on another memory: The four of them sat by the river scoffing apples.
Brody bragged he could juggle four apples and eat one of them at the same time.
They had been enthralled when a group of maskers had visited Longcombe earlier
in the year and one of them had managed to eat three apples whilst juggling
them. Since then, Brody had been determined to replicate the trick.