Only Stones Remain (Ballad of Frindoth Book 4)

by Rob Donovan

  No, it was best to get on with the inevitable. The men would be killed regardless if it was by Kisvar Zavos’s hand or not. Jensen snorted. The line between himself and the warrior Kisvar Zavos became more and more blurred each day. In truth, as Jensen he was miserable, as Kisvar Zavos he excelled and was content in his own skin.

  He looked over to where Cordane sat hoping the Warlock would be satisfied with the day’s destruction. The leader was not even watching. Instead he beckoned a messenger who had approached. Jensen edged closer so he could hear.

  The messenger was a young man, with receding hair. He was scrawny and from the way he scratched at his arms was obviously nervous. Cordane ignored the man’s discomfort. He was used to such nerves in his presence.

  “There has been three more sir,” the messenger said.

  “Where? Cordane asked. He flexed his fingers until they cracked and Jensen moved a little further away. When Cordane was angry he knew better than to be around.

  “On the outskirts of the camp.”

  “Same method?”

  “Yes, stabs to the neck and heart.”

  Cordane nodded. “Go, rest up. Let me know if there is any more news.”

  The messenger bowed and trotted off, quick enough to let Jensen know that he was relieved to be away from Cordane but not too swift as to be disrespectful of the Warlock.

  “We should have killed her when we had the chance. Lord Frindolin?”

  One of the Warlords that stood by Cordane stepped forward. He was the tall one, with a styled moustache. Out of the three Jensen thought him the most refined and looked out of place by Cordane’s side.

  “Yes Cordane.”

  “I want her found and brought to me. Alive or dead I don’t care.”

  Lord Frindolin nodded and strode off.

  “You sure you don’t want me to sort this problem out?” Raoul Seth said. The King of Lakisdoria lounged in his chair and swigged from a flagon filled with wine. It was the King’s default pose.

  “Lord Frindolin can handle it,” Cordane said.

  “I’m sure he can,” Raoul Seth said, although his tone suggested he thought anything but. Next to him his sons sniggered. Jensen wished to stab them right there and then. He did not like the way the Lakisdoreans now strutted about the land as if it was theirs. Sharoon had alluded to there being a master plan afoot to prevent them taking over, but at the moment Jensen could not see it.

  “Who’s next?” Cordane said diverting everyone’s attention back to Jensen.

  Jensen stood erect and waited for the next challenger. He wished they would clear the bodies away. He stood in a circle of stones. Surrounding him several soldiers stood and watched the action. There were some who placed wagers but not many. There had been no one who was as good a fighter as he. Those stupid enough to bet against Kisvar Zavos quickly lost their money. The contest was not about the fight; Jensen realised that on the second day. It was about showing how impervious Kisvar Zavos was and how devoid of emotion he could be.

  As if to demonstrate the soldiers parted and an elderly man walked nervously into the ring of stones. He held a trident of all things and he could barely keep a hold of it. He trembled as he raised the weapon in both hands and there were tears in his eyes. Jensen was struck by how similar he looked to Feelo Khom who was a stable master back in Compton. The man had the same bushy eyebrows and crooked smile. Like Feelo this man had very little hair, what he did have was brushed over his head and lifted when the wind caught it so it looked like weeds in a pond swaying in the breeze.

  The man halted as Carle stepped in front of him and placed a hand out. “Our next challenger to Kisvar Zavos is Temaka. He is seventy-one summers young and has a wife who is too frail to get out of bed. Temaka had three sons, only one of which still lives. The eldest died when a wagon collapsed on him when he was repairing it for some friends in his village. The second Kisvar Zavos killed yesterday, making a widow of his pregnant wife. Temaka is an honourable…”

  Jensen tuned out the rhetoric. He did not want to hear the man’s story. He doubted if it was even real. It was designed to garner sympathy for the old man. Everyone knew the contest was a gross mismatch and was a needless sacrifice. Jensen instead concentrated on Carle. The captain apparently had risen high in Cordane’s opinion following a brief meeting with Cordane in Shangon. The Warlock had been impressed with how well drilled Carle’s men had been and how they had challenged Cordane before he entered their fort. Carle appeared obedient and sensible. He reminded Jensen of Hemmel Thane.

  Jensen’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. The former weapon master’s death still angered him. It was needless. Jensen shuddered, “needless” that word cropped up a lot lately.

  The elderly man snivelled as Carle continued to recount his story. Jensen was bored of listening to the speech. It reminded him of one of Sharoon’s sermons. On impulse he strode forward and brushed past Carle. The old man saw his sudden movement and tried to raise the trident to strike. Jensen batted it away with his sword and then swung his blade at his opponent. It cleaved into his neck and Jensen saw the whites of his eyes as they rolled upwards.

  “I hadn’t finished,” Carle said.

  “I had.” Jensen said. The crowd jeered. It mostly consisted of Lakisdoreans and whilst they liked to witness violence, they believed in honourable deaths. They did not like that Kisvar Zavos had not given Temaka a sporting chance. Cordane however, seemed pleased. He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes alight with glee.

  Surely that would be it for the day. Five bodies were enough to prove his worth; especially the way Jensen had just killed Temaka?

  A sudden buzz washed over the crowd. Many of the men turned and strained to see what the fuss was about. Jensen could see nothing over the mass of heads. As the murmurs grew louder Jensen could tell whatever caused the commotion was not good. This was not the excited chatter one would associate with a new challenger but the hushed whispers of those who were afraid. Several of the soldiers ran to their tents, either to retrieve their weapons or simply run away.

  King Raoul Seth stood on his chair as did his sons. When they saw what all the fuss was about they drew their curved swords and jumped down. They began barking orders and several Lakisdoreans surrounded them in a tight defensive formation.

  “Stand down,” Cordane said. “You embarrass yourselves.”

  Raoul Seth glanced nervously at Cordane and ordered his men to disperse but he still did not sheathe his weapon. Jensen still could not see what the source of the commotion was but he felt a tingle run up his spine all the same. Had the Prince arrived? Surely not, the Lakisdoreans would have relished such a visit not huddle together in fear.

  Suddenly Jensen saw it. It stood a good two feet taller than the men who fell away before it. It was a Gloom, it had to be, but it appeared to walk on two legs and looked distinctly human. Jensen instinctively stepped back as the Gloom advanced. It wore no armour and had an imposing physique which bulged with muscles. The closer it got the more Jensen could see. What he had mistaken for a helmet was actually horns protruding from his head. It was the eyes that captivated Jensen though. They were dark purple and blazed in the sun.

  “Do not show any fear men,” Raoul Seth said. His men looked at him incredulous. How was it possible not to be afraid in the presence of such an awesome beast?

  Jensen was so mesmerised by the figure that he had failed to register the others that followed behind. Several other Glooms trailed behind, some were human-like whilst others took more feral forms. Another swooped over the heads of the soldiers causing them to duck. It veered to the left before landing with a thud. Jensen could have sworn the sand under his feet shifted with the impact.

  The Gloom that parted the crowd reached the circle of stones and appraised Jensen. He felt rather than saw the other soldiers distance themselves from him. Jensen planted his feet in the sand and willed his legs to stop shaking. The Gloom’s tongue flicked out as if he could taste the nature of him. It
sneered at what he discovered. It then turned its attention to the circle of soldiers that had dared to stay, before facing Cordane.

  To his credit, Cordane looked unperturbed by the sudden interruption. He stood next to his chair with a look of mild bemusement. Kana and Gambon did not display the same level of bravery. Kana had moved behind his chair and used it as a shield whilst Gambon looked green as if he had suddenly swallowed something very unpleasant and it was quickly making its way through his digestive system.

  “Xandamon, it is good to see you,” Cordane said. He did not offer a hand to shake though. Maybe it was not the custom or maybe he thought the Gloom was not worthy. The whole situation was bizarre.

  “Your men are weak,” The Gloom replied.

  “Most men are,” Cordane said.

  “All of them are,” Xandamon insisted.

  “Not all,” Cordane said.

  Xandamon turned to face Jensen. “Him”? Jensen wanted the sand to part and swallow him whole. He did not want any part of this meeting. He wanted nothing to do with the Glooms. Had this been Cordane’s intention all along? Did Cordane intend to offer him as a sacrifice like the Ritual of the Stones? “Show me.”

  It talked. The damn Gloom talked. When had they started talking? Xandamon turned to Jensen and his face was unreadable. The other Glooms began to spread out around the ring of stones. Most of the soldiers quickly moved away, some stayed in an act of defiance but the fear on their faces suggested they wished they had moved away. Jensen felt like he had when he first fought in the tournament. Gone was the confidence he felt as Kisvar Zavos, he was just a boy again; a boy who was out of his depth.

  Jensen searched around for an ally but found none. Who was there left? Groadan and Naila had left him long ago and the next closest thing he had to a friend had been Hemmel Thane who had been murdered last week. Even Sharoon would have been a welcome face but she was nowhere to be seen. He had barely seen her since Hemmel Thane’s death and the revelation that she was his mother.

  “Carle, call the next contestant,” Cordane said.

  Carle flinched as his name was mentioned. The unflappable captain bowed his head and pushed his way through the soldiers. He returned seconds later with a young girl. She could not have been more than seven summers. She was half Jensen’s height with big round eyes and brown hair that fell past her shoulders. She stared around at the scene open mouthed. Tears of terror fell down her cheeks.

  “Go ahead Carle,” Cordane ordered.

  Jensen did not see that Carle was holding something until he threw it on the sand. It lay there etched in the sand staring accusingly at Jensen - a straw doll, so perfectly made but worn with the endless times it had been played with.

  The girl reached for it but was pulled back by Carle. The captain did not take any pleasure in the act and grimaced as the girl howled in despair as her favourite toy was discarded.

  “This here is Natalia. She is eight summers old and up until a few hours ago was playing nicely with this doll outside her home without a care in the world. Her mother was singing to herself inside as she scrubbed her kitchen floor. Her father was repairing a chair, cursing as he accidently struck his thumb with a hammer…”

  Jensen tried to block out the story. He did not want to hear it. He could not hear it. He tried to convince himself that the little girl was evil.

  She murdered her mother whilst she slept. She is not innocent. She murdered her mother whilst she slept.

  He recited the mantra over and over and begged his mind to believe it.

  Cordane stared at him and narrowed his eyes as if reading Jensen’s mind. The Warlock’s mouth never moved but Jensen knew what he was thinking. If Jensen showed him up in front of Xandamon, his life would be over.

  She is a murderer, she is a murderer. It is all an act she is a murderer.

  The girl looked up and appeared to see the Glooms for the first time. She sobbed and nestled into Carle seeing him as the lesser of the evils. A trickle of urine flowed down her leg and her dress grew dark at the front.

  Jensen could not look any more. The choice was simple; he had to kill her. If he didn’t then they would both die. What was the sense in that? At least if he killed her one of them would live.

  To do what? What had his life become, he had already killed so many. Over a dozen in recent days alone. Over a dozen people that did not deserve to die. “Needless,” he hated that word with a passion.

  In the crowd a Gloom brayed. Was it a sound of excitement? Was it despair? The Glooms were animals that craved blood but could they sense the pointlessness of a contest between a warrior and a defenceless little girl?

  “Kisvar Zavos,” Cordane said when Carle had finished his speech. “Throw down your sword, surely you don’t need it.”

  Jensen felt his legs go weak. He staggered and nearly fell. He lifted the sword and stared at it. He was skilled with the weapon. With it, he could dispatch the life of the little girl swiftly. Without it, the fight would be messy. He would have to beat her to death or strangle her. His stomach churned at the thought of watching the girl’s eyes bulge and her smooth skin grow a deep red as his hands clamped around her neck and squeezed. He dropped the sword and despised himself for doing so.

  “Where’s my mother? I want my mother,” the girl’s voice silenced the crowd. A few of the soldiers turned away from the scene in disgust. Jensen felt no commonality with them. Because of their willingness to follow these monsters, they had led Jensen to this moment. He had enjoyed the crowds as they chanted his name. If he was honest with himself, he had even enjoyed the thrill of some of the recent bouts with the more skilled men. But this was a step too far. He would not become the monster they wanted him to be. He would not be Stasiak’s replacement.

  He blinked and suddenly it was not the little girl with blond hair standing next to Carle. It was his sister Janna. She was younger obviously but he recalled a time when his sister had stood snivelling like Natalia. His sister had chipped a tooth falling against Mayor Pinkleton’s wall. Brody had laughed when he saw the fragment of tooth in her hand and the resultant drops of blood. He had told Janna that now her teeth were cracked it would only be a matter of time before they all shattered and fell out. She would be known as the toothless lady. Janna had run home to their parents in floods of tears. It had been the only time Jensen and Brody had come to blows.

  Carle thrust Natalia into the ring of stones; she fell to her knees and then scrambled over to her doll. She sat on the sand and cradled it to her chest as she looked around in terror.

  “Begin,” Cordane said, his voice ringing out in the mid-morning air.

  How could a man be so heinous? What made Cordane so despicable?

  She is a murderer. She is deceiving you just like Rufus Wilgorn did in the contest. She is really a ferocious fighter.

  Xandamon stepped into the circle. He snatched the doll from Natalia and ripped it in two. The cry from the little girl was harrowing. He pulled her roughly by the arm, jerking her to her feet and led her to the edge of the circle.

  “This one is more suited to Blackthorn,” the leader of the Glooms said without as much as a glance at Cordane. “Let’s see what your warrior can really do.” Xandamon tilted his chin upwards and let out a shrill whistle which caused his neck muscles to flutter. Several Glooms whooped and barked in response, jumping up and down in excitement.

  “What is happening?” Jensen asked to no one in particular. The relief at not having to kill the girl quickly ebbed away. Once again, the crowd parted, this time a two headed Gloom stood in the clearance. It was the same height as Jensen and more humanoid rather than anything else. Like Xandamon its figure bulged with oversized muscles. It held two jagged blades in each hand and waddled along on short, stumpy legs.

  The heads each had a horn the size of a rhinoceros horn protruding from the top, so they looked like comical mocks of Raoul Seth’s hair. They also had fangs hanging over their lower lips and past their chins.

  “This is W
arbell Trang,” Xandamon said. “No one cares about his family or his past. Can you beat him?”

  The Glooms hooted with joy and Jensen noticed the crowd had suddenly swollen again. Lakisdoreans exchanged wagers with Frindothians and craned their necks to see the spectacle.

  Jensen slowly picked up his sword, never once taking his eyes off the two-headed Gloom who appeared quite willing to let him retrieve his weapon.

  “We smell your fear,” the head on the left said.

  “It’s putrid, it’s weak,” the head on the right said.

  The two headed Gloom raised both blades and chimed them together as if the heads were saluting each other before the combat started.

  “Rule number thirty-five: everything that breathes can be killed,” Jensen said to himself. There was no sign of the little girl anymore. He shuddered what her fate would be.

  Warbell Trang advanced, one hand twirled its blade in fast circles, and the other held its blade dead still. Jensen did not move. He studied everything he could about the creature as it advanced. Its strides were short and the difference in the way the Gloom handled the weapons implied the heads controlled their side of the body independently. If he could defeat one side quickly, he might stand a chance against the other.

  When the Gloom was less than three feet away, Jensen dropped to one knee and scooped up a handful of sand, flinging it at the heads. The Glooms tried to block the yellow shower but it was of no use. The right head screamed louder than the other and Jensen noticed the right foot stagger back swinging the creature round. He did not hesitate and thrust at the exposed body. The Gloom blocked with its other hand and the head snarled at Jensen.

  The right head shook furiously trying to rid the sand from its eyes, but the Gloom still managed to launch an attack. Jensen parried the first strike, instinct rather than skill saw him duck the next which came from the right hand - so much for his theory that the hands were controlled independently. The attacks came thick and fast, equal to anything Hemmel Thane used to throw at him. There was more power behind them however, and Jensen found himself tiring. It did not help that he had fought several opponents already.