A Ritual of Bone Read online

  The master had, of course, chosen their remote location with this gruesome study in mind, the study of the human body through dissection. It has been a study of the dead and indeed of death itself, in both its medical and also spiritual sense. The old master had said, “If we were to understand death, we can perhaps prolong life itself and advance our healing ways and lore. Who knows, even command death itself one day?”

  And so, his curiosity and, perhaps fear of his encroaching age, led to a great study of the anatomy of both man and animal and the ways and beliefs of peoples old and far, seeking the secrets of life and death.

  His master had amassed quite an agenda of reports. Other than the anatomical work, there were also his mystic studies, from the chilling Bone Ritual to various religious ceremonies and rituals concerning death rites and the invocation of the gods and spirits of many peoples.

  The apprentice looked over the catalogue of all the studies and findings he was to deliver, for they had found much in their various fields and also dismissed much as myth. Surely the council would be satisfied with approving the venture.

  He paused, placing his large quill down on the table and looked out over the ruins. The mist was lifting as the day wore on, leaving a clouded sky above the old stones and twisted trees. He looked at the path winding down through the ruin and thought of his time spent in this old place and his long journey here. He thought of his return back to the great College with this terrible throbbing pain in his foot.

  The apprentice sighed and again scribbled with his quill, casting his mind back over his time on the expedition in making his own report.

  The apprentice turned to his master’s weathered tome and began to leaf through. He desired greatly to transcribe as much from his master’s grimoire into his own as his time allowed.

  He knew what he desired the most, the notes of the Bone Ritual. As he leafed through the pages, his eyes passed over strange texts and symbols. He had seldom had such access to his master’s work.

  Master Eldrick’s herb lore contained detailed pictures of the plants and trees produced with far more skill than the apprentice was able to replicate. His mystic studies of gods and lore contained many strange eldritch texts and arcane symbols.

  Then his eyes then fell upon symbols and texts that gave him a sudden chill. He remembered these markings, the Bone Ritual. He began hastily scribbling much of the various recreations of the rite into his own grimoire.

  The apprentice had witnessed the rites firsthand now. For after many failed attempts, the masters had been finally successful only this past moon, yet, after trying it again only three nights past, nothing.

  This recent failure greatly troubled the master. He could not risk making the claim of success at the College without proof or the ability to do it again. At least the master had done it once before and now, the apprentice knew, he sought to do it again. The apprentice knew this for certain, for Eldrick had been often of late, closed away alone in his tent at work on the mystic symbols, searching for further secrets of the ritual. The apprentice suspected this was truly an ancient and powerful rite, of that he had no doubt, and he was certain few men had ever, let alone living now, known its secrets. He saw the great intellectual power one wielding this knowledge could achieve.

  As he turned the pages, his eyes fell upon obscure texts he could not decipher but was sure were related to the ritual, perhaps some ancient sources from which the master was drawing from. He did his best to transcribe them, but the scripts were written in a strange hand, which was hard to replicate.

  He came to the arcane symbols and notes of the most recent Bone Rituals. He felt that cold shiver and, again, as he stared long at the page before him, that strange sense of watchfulness came upon him once more.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of shadow amongst the ruins, just out of the edge of his view. He looked up quickly from his work. The surrounding ruins outside the marquee still looked pleasant in the sunlight. He searched the grassy, moss strewn masonry and the clawing trees. Nothing.

  The feeling passed. Last night was still playing tricks on his mind. He went back to his work. There was much to be done, and the afternoon was upon him. Tonight’s ritual was approaching, and he wanted to transcribe as much as he could from his master’s writings before the daylight failed him. Then later in the darkness of night, he would observe another attempt at his master’s latest work.

  ***

  It must have been late in the afternoon when the apprentice heard the sound of a wagon accompanied by horsemen, clattering up the stony path towards the camp. He looked up from his writing. The cart was drawn by an old and overworked pack horse, its head hung low and weary. A hooded figure sat upon the cart, swaying back and forth as the wheels clattered over the rocks and uneven ground. It was Truda, Master Logan’s apprentice. She had returned from her errand.

  Two weathered roan horses slowly trailed the cart. Their riders were cloaked but glimpses of worn leather and rusting mail could be seen below. Their faces stern and grim, as weather beaten as the mounts they rode. Hired blades. Truda raised her hand in greeting. The cart came to a stop outside the marquee.

  ‘It went well?’ called the apprentice as she clambered down.

  ‘Just a girl, her two guards, searching for her fallen loved ones,’ replied Truda. Lowering her hood, she flashed him a wry look. ‘Perhaps a father, a brother…a fallen lover,’ she said, leaning close with the latter as she sauntered up to him. ‘There were a few close moments when my heart was in my mouth, but we made it through okay. Could have gone a lot worse. It’s a nasty business going on up there.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked the apprentice, curious of the missed adventure. ‘I was going to ask you the same,’ replied Truda, glancing at his leg. ‘Master said you were injured?’

  The apprentice tried to hide his embarrassment. It seemed everyone now knew. He looked down at his work before him. ‘Aye, I fell in the ruin last night. My leg’s in agony.’

  She laughed. ‘I heard. Master is at the lower camp drinking with the hired swords. He told me just now. ’Running from something’ he said?’

  ‘Aye, something like that,’ replied the apprentice ruefully. ‘Anyway, you’re avoiding my question. What happened?’ asked the apprentice, desperately trying to change the subject.

  She grinned. ‘Well, we heard word of a skirmish over the border between Jarlson’s men and the crown troops, not a big one, out near Dunholme Tower, so we set off.’ She leant provocatively on the table and continued. ‘Jarlson’s raiders hit them hard and fled before more crown troops showed up. They don’t even bother burying the dead anymore, you know? Anyway, a Cydor patrol stopped us near the field. Fortunately, they didn’t just kill us as looters. They bought our story. We didn’t have anything but a few stripped bodies, no valuables or loot from the dead, so they believed us and went off scavenging themselves. My heart nearly stopped…’ She trailed off as her gaze shifted to the tents behind him.

  Master Eldrick emerged and hurried towards them. He looked down at the apprentice, noting his work but continuing out to the cart without word.

  ‘You’re late,’ he snapped at Truda as he examined the cart’s load. ‘Yes, good,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Come quickly, take them straight to the cave.’

  He dismissed the still waiting guards with a gesture and waved the wagon up the track further. The silent horsemen slowly wheeled and began a slow trot back down the track. No doubt to join Master Logan and their comrades for a drink.

  ‘Now, Apprentice,’ he snapped at Truda. ‘Get a move on.’ He then hurried back inside his tent. Truda shrugged, and with a sigh, turned and climbed back onto her cart. She called thanks to the hired swords as they slowly trotted off. The lead rider turned in the saddle and with a slight grin, raised his hand to clutch his hood in some kind of casual salute. The apprentice caught a smile on Truda’s face as she flicked the reins, lurching the cart into motion. His gaze returned to the riders as they slowly tr
otted back down the track. An unexpected pang of jealously hit him, followed by a sudden dislike for their sell-sword protectors, in particular that lead rider, the rider his gaze now rested upon as they disappeared through the twisted trees. Perhaps the master was right in his mistrust of them?

  The cart rolled past, and as it moved away, the apprentice’s gaze fell upon the linen bound cargo stacked in the back, some blood-stained. More bodies for the master’s work. The master came back out of his tent in a hurry and came to the apprentice.

  ‘I am sorry, boy, I will need my grimoire for now,’ said the master. He scooped up his large book and hurried off after the clattering wagon. Obviously, he could not resist the immediate dissection of Truda’s latest finds.

  The apprentice watched Truda depart until the cart passed out of view from his seat by the entrance of the marquee. He knew where she was going, heading up to the small cave set into the rocky crags a little away across the ruin. The cave in which the master had been conducting his gruesome studies on the specimen corpses of Cydor. He shuddered.

  The apprentice had thought that the master’s anatomical work seemed fairly complete from the writings he had read that afternoon, but who was he to judge such things? He watched as the master hurried away, his robes flapping until he slipped from view into the decayed ruin. The apprentice was glad he was missing this one and didn’t want to think of the blood and the macabre scene soon to be unfolding.

  ***

  The hour was late in the day, the light would soon fail him, and he did not like to work by torch or lantern light if he could avoid it. He did what more he could until the dusk came upon him. The campsite was empty, and the cold night was drawing in.

  Master Logan had not returned to the camp, he had been gone since the morning. The apprentice now found himself the lone occupant of the camp.

  He painfully rose to his feet and made the short way to the hearth using his walking staff. He reached for the flints and tinder to start the evening’s campfire. There was wood stacked next to the fire, but it was running low. It was his job to collect the firewood and keep the wood pile stocked, but he had not done so today, and with Truda off on her errand, no one had done the chore. There was enough wood to get the fire going at least. He scraped the flint with his knife in a smooth firm motion, and the tinder took first time, a skill he had mastered in his time here.

  Once the fire was going to his liking, the apprentice examined the remaining wood pile. A little kindling remained and, anyway, over the weeks past, he had collected more to dry, and it was piled on the other side of the marquee. Someone would have to fetch it later. He was sure the masters would not mind in his incapacity.

  His foot throbbed with pain. He wished for a little more of Logan’s tea and root. Perhaps later, he would allow him, but for now, he had to endure. He rose to make his way back to his tent but sank back down at a burst of pain. He sighed heavily. And so, sat watching the darkening ruins about, pondering the coming night’s ritual observation.

  The thought of witnessing another Bone Ritual made him uneasy. The feeling grew as the moment came creeping closer by the hour. It had haunted him for weeks now since he first saw it, and although he could not take part, he still hoped he could watch. He sat there trying to divert his thoughts, his leg in pain. He was not able to relax, he had much on his mind. What if they were successful this night? He could not miss another chance to look into the dark abyss, incredible but so very terrible. Such eldritch power totally awe-inspiring to behold.

  He was drawn by the morbid desire to see the Bone Ritual again. The apprentice remembered the strange droning chanting, the macabre altar, the strange arcane symbols and writings on the floor, which they also marked on the bones themselves. The skeleton of a warrior buried long ago. Ancient bones from a tomb found inside a large burial mound at the ruin. As the evening darkened and the time approached, he couldn’t put the memories out of his head. He remembered the cold dark presence that came upon them, stunning them with terror and wonder. As he sat there trying in vain to keep the cold at bay, he couldn’t stop himself thinking of it. He remembered the way suddenly, it moved. The memory chilled him every time it came to him. It had now haunted his dreams for weeks. Like a twisted puppet suspended on invisible strings, it moved. The bones moved.

  CHAPTER Four

  The Hunted

  The first thing he remembered was the smell. His mouth watered at the smell of roasting meat over a fire. Bjorn`s shoulder burned, and his head was pounding as his vision slowly cleared. He was starving, his stomach aching for food, for some of that meat. Bjorn tried to raise his hands to his head but found he couldn’t. His hands were bound. So were his legs. He panicked as he realised the truth of his capture.

  Bjorn fought to release himself, but it was no use. As he struggled, pain lanced through his back. He remembered. He had been hit by an arrow and it was still half-buried in his shoulder. A numbing pain had crept across his back and down his arm. He found he was bound tightly, his arms behind him.

  ‘Poison,’ he muttered. The arrow must have been poisoned for him to fall into unconsciousness so quickly.

  Bjorn cursed under his breath and carefully tried to look about at his surroundings. He appeared to be bound to a roughly trimmed branch and lay on his side with his face in the earth. As he looked around, his shoulder lancing pain with every movement, the hunter became aware he was not alone. There were others around him and, like himself, they were trussed to branches like game from a hunt. None of them moved. They all lay limp and motionless. The missing villagers perhaps? Some looked to be from Arnar, although their clothes were ragged and filthy. He could make out the sound of men nearby, there was smoke and that alluring smell of food floating through the trees. Bjorn listened to the raised voices and talking nearby. He listened but could not make out the words.

  He rolled over painfully and his eyes met a fierce gaze staring through a mat of wiry dark hair. The man’s face dirty and his beard wild. They stared at each other for a long moment.

  ‘Where are we, friend?’ whispered Bjorn after a while.

  The man said nothing just merely returned him an icy stare.

  ‘Do you understand me?’

  Still, the man said nothing and just closed his eyes. Bjorn studied him for a few moments. He was dressed in crude skins, and his features were strange. He was not a man of Arnar. Perhaps one of the clan folk, or a wild man descended from the savages of old. The man opened his eyes after some time to find Bjorn still watching him and closed them again.

  Bjorn checked himself. They had taken his belt upon which were hung the sheaths of his hunting knifes and his Woods Blade. There was no sign of any of his gear or of his horse. They must have taken his horse. He left the poor beast tethered up near the rocks as he fled. Only a fool would have left such a valuable prize.

  Bjorn still had his boots on, had they found it? He slowly tried to bring his bound legs up towards his hands. He pulled and struggled at the bindings on the branch and slowly slid them up till he could reach his boot. He slid his fingers inside. It was still there, they hadn’t found it. Bjorn smiled and slowly took the small blade from its hiding place in his boot. He fumbled with it, trying to cut his bindings. He dropped it. He rolled over and searched the floor with his bound hands frantically till he had it again.

  He tried again and again until he suddenly became aware of the man watching him again. He had seen the knife and was bobbing his head up and down. He stopped when Bjorn looked over at him, and then suddenly, snatched at the knife. He missed. The man’s hands were bound in front of him so he had the advantage. He lunged again and seized the knife by the blade and cried out as it cut into his hand as he snatched it away.

  Bjorn rolled over to face him, ignoring the pain shooting through his back. The man stared at the knife wide-eyed and looked at his hands as the blood trickled between his dirty fingers. He held it fearfully as if it were some animal and could attack him and gazed in wonder at its shiny stee
l blade as though he had not seen such like before.

  The man’s cry had been noticed, and a growing sound of approaching footsteps reached the bound pair. A sudden look of terror came over the man’s face, and he dropped the knife to the floor. He then closed his eyes and fell limp to the floor, lying perfectly still. Bjorn rolled over to face the sound and as it drew near, he closed his eyes also. He was aware of someone standing close by and looking over them. Bjorn could hear the sound of chewing and the smell of food grew stronger.

  He peeked out from under his closed eyelids to behold his captor. He could not see his face but he was barefoot. He wore crude clothing fashioned from skins and adorned with bones and skulls of animals. Bjorn could see in one hand he held a half-eaten bone of the cooked meat. Bjorn was ravenous.

  The man stooped low over the captives and moved out of view behind him. Bjorn didn’t dare move, he was hardly breathing. The man’s feet came back into view again, and then he appeared to move away back through the trees. Bjorn opened his eyes. As his captor moved away, Bjorn saw his long dark hair matted with mud or paint and a quick glimpse of the back of a mask before he disappeared into the forest.

  Once he had gone, Bjorn slowly moved to feel around behind him for his small knife. He had it. He rolled over to keep the blade from the reach of the man beside him. As he turned to face him, Bjorn was met with an icy stare as he began to blindly hack and slice at his bindings. It took some time, but then his hands were free.

  Bjorn quickly sat up and began to cut away at the bindings around his waist and legs. He was restrained with thin twisted strips of some kind of tree bark, but now he could see what he was doing it didn’t take long before he was free.