A Ritual of Bone Page 4

  The Wildman looked on in wonder. He began to bob his head up and down and was making a low whooping sound. Bjorn gestured to be quiet, but whether the man understood or not, he wasn't sure. He continued his strange, low whooping as Bjorn checked the motionless captive who lay beside him. As he rolled the figure over, he saw it was a man. From his clothes, a man of Arnar. He was dead.

  Bjorn shrank from the corpse and its cold pallid skin and rolled it away from him. The hunter rose to his feet, but still crouching low, he took a look around him. There were others laid nearby. There was no signs of life amongst them. A deer and other small game were trussed up on a branch nearby, no different from the prisoners, all spoils of the hunt.

  He could hear the sound of his captors through the trees. They were close. He made to move against a tree to peer in the direction of the sounds, but the strange Wildman’s whooping became louder. They would hear him. Bjorn frantically tried to hush the man, and as Bjorn drew closer again, he quietened down and raised his bound wrists to the hunter in a wordless plea.

  Bjorn looked about. Even if the other captives were alive, he had no hope of escape with them, they would be run down before they had gone a league. His only hope was to slip away and disappear into the forests and hills alone. He thought a moment. If his escape was soon discovered, this strange man could provide enough distraction to let him slip away unseen. Yet, if he left him, the wild man would call out and his captors would be on him in seconds. He had little choice.

  The man looked at Bjorn with his wrists raised towards him. The hunter put a hand over his own mouth, a gesture of silence he hoped, and slowly moved the knife towards the man’s bonds. He became silent, his eyes transfixed on the blade. Bjorn cut his hands free and moved back. The Wildman instantly began to pull and untie his legs.

  Fighting the throbbing pain in his shoulder, Bjorn rose and moved behind a tree. The Wildman was now silent, still working at the bindings around his legs. Bjorn could see the thin wisp of rising smoke and the flicker of fire through the trees only a stone’s throw away. The fire looked to be set amongst a small huddle of rocks. He could see figures moving about. He could smell their cooking. He was ravenous. How long since he had last eaten? He turned back to the Wildman. He was now free, squatted low against the ground, watching the huntsman. Bjorn eyed him carefully, waiting for a sudden movement, but the man simply nodded and silently backed into the trees and, within moments, disappeared.

  The hunter reached up and gently probed the wound in his shoulder as best as the pain allowed. He could feel the crust of dried blood on his skin, the shaft, still buried in his back was sticky and the puncture still weeping fluid. It must have struck bone for him to be still breathing, he had been lucky. There is nothing I can do about it now, thought the hunter.

  Bjorn turned his attention back to the fire through the trees for another glimpse of his captors. The sun was almost gone, and the shadows of dusk had crept between the trees. The hunter could see little through the tangle of branches and undergrowth. The rocks and bushes obscured his view, but he spied higher ground overlooking the camp. He must see if he could get to his horse or face a long journey, possibly being pursued through the wilds on foot. He must find his horse if it was here.

  He moved away low and silent through the trees, being careful not to make any sound, but the forest was his craft. Bjorn melted into the darkened forest and circled around the camp until he looked down upon the fire below. There were six of them he could see, all huddled around the fire, illuminated from the shadows in a red and orange glow from the flames.

  Could it be? They were primitives, clad in skins and appearing to be adorned with bones and skulls, some human.

  His captors were armed with little more than sharpened branches. He watched as one of them scraped at a hide near the fire. They were using stones to scrape and cut, and he noticed some of their spears also had heads of sharpened flint. Stone Men? Were these the savages of old legend? Bjorn looked on in disbelief. Some were butchering a carcass while others sat around eating and seemed to be daubing their faces and hair with the blood of their kill. He couldn’t take his eyes from their food, the large chunks of meat roasting over the fire. It smelt good to the starving huntsman.

  It was then he heard the whicker of a horse amongst the bushes, it seemed to be not far from where he had been bound and laid. He must have passed right by and not seen her standing quietly amongst the dark undergrowth. He made his way back. He needed to get to his horse and be quietly away before they next checked the prisoners. He had lingered too long already.

  Bjorn made his way back down and through the darkened trees to where the savages had left the prisoners. They left their other kills by the prisoners. She must be near too? Just another prize from the hunt.

  He searched silently. With each passing moment, a frantic panic built in his stomach. Then, the familiar shape loomed up before him out of the gloom. She was tethered to a low bush with thick branches. The thick foiliage had blocked her from view. He let out a held breath in relief.

  Bjorn smoothed her nose and spoke a gentle word in her ear. The horse flicked her ears but made no sound. He felt for his saddle and reached into his bags. They were open and had been tipped out, empty. His bow gone, and his axe, too; everything. Then he spotted a torch moving amongst the trees. It was coming towards him. Bjorn swore under his breath and ducked out of sight. They were checking the prisoners.

  The bone-clad savage appeared carrying a flaming branch in one hand, and chewing at a hunk of meat with his other. Bjorn had run out of time. He would soon be found to be missing, not enough time to get away. He had only one choice.

  The savage tore at the meat, chewing noisily, and didn’t notice a dark shape steal from the shadows behind him. The hunter seized his face from behind with his weak arm, covering his mouth, and plunged his small knife into the savage’s throat. He drew the knife across his throat in a swift action and felt the blade ease as it pierced his wind pipe. The savage dropped his flaming branch and made a gurgling, wheezing sound while clutching his throat. But he could not cry out. He bit hard onto Bjorn’s finger. The hunter had to grit his teeth not to make a sound, but the pressure quickly eased and the man went limp, blood slowly pumping away from his neck. The hunter let him drop to the floor and shot a glance back to the camp. He could see the fire through the trees. Nothing. They had not heard.

  Bjorn saw the meat on the floor and stood there horrified. It was an arm, a human arm. Charred and half-eaten, it was unmistakably human. Its fingers twisted and blackened. The hunter felt a wave of sickness come over him. The smell.

  He held on to a branch and tried to control his gagging stomach. That smell, how good it had smelt. The thought of it now made him retch. They were cooking people. They were eating people. He stood frozen and horrified, staring at the blackened arm.

  Bjorn couldn’t move. He just stood staring at it, but he knew he must go, and go now. He shook himself free of the stare and seized his chance. He untethered his horse and led it quickly into the shadows. He mounted up and rode off between the dark trees.

  ***

  He rode as fast as he dared between the trees. Clinging low to his horse and holding the reins with his arms around its neck so as to avoid the low branches that came at him out of the darkness. Every hoofbeat seemed to jar his shoulder painfully as he rode, but the elation of his escape seemed to have deadened the pain somewhat.

  As he emerged from the trees, he recognised he was back in the rocky pass. Suddenly there was the blast of a horn behind him. They had discovered the dead savage or the missing prisoners. A pang of excitement and fear ran through him. He rode for the mouth of the pass. He would head south and west to make for the border. Then the horn sounded again but this time it was answered. Another horn blew off to the north, and then another somewhere closer. There were more of them, other hunting parties. The horns blew again in pursuit and Bjorn rode on into the night.

  CHAPTER Five

 
; The Longship

  The mist hung low over the rolling waves as the first glow of sun appeared on the far horizon. The prow of the ship surged forward through the low swells. The sail bellied in the strong south wind, a wind to take them home.

  At the ships’ stern a lone man stood at the tiller watching the sunrise. He looked off starboard, the sky brightened with shades of orange and red as the orange orb of the sun crept up over the seas. The colours of the deep rolling ocean came to life out of the grey of the night. The man at the tiller was Olaf, and he was glad of the sun, it meant they held a northerly course across The Great Sea and must surely sight the southern shores of Arnar soon.

  They had sailed on day and night after the first oarsman had died. He was one of the new ones, a slave the captain bought back in Myhar. Olaf recalled the dry dusty ports full of many strange dark-skinned peoples. It was a place called Otowig, or Atwowic. He really wasn’t sure. The peoples of those arid lands spoke in strange tongues and accents like nothing he had ever heard, every merchant and trader seemed to speak differently.

  Old Graff and his boys had left the ship at port some months back and the captain was still short of oarsmen. The captain had been directed to the slavers by a merchant he had dealings with. Some local merchants knew an obscure Telik dialect used in trade with foreigners there. Others just gestured and pointed at their wares speaking fast and loud in a local dialect but it allowed the captain to trade. Gold it seemed, spoke in all languages.

  There were Telik slaves, who spoke a common tongue, up for sale in the slave pens. Folk captured from the wars that ever raged between the Myhar realm of Syx and the southern Telik lords. However, these seemed a poor choice. The captain made port often in Telik and did not want trouble when he did. It would not look good for a foreign ship to have Telik slaves on the oars.

  The slave pens also stocked many men of different races, locals and people from the other lands of Myhar. And so, the captain chose two. Both were men of Myhar, and unlike the existing Cydor oar-slaves on board, they were dark-skinned and much larger in build. The captain kept them chained and placed them at either end of the ship so they had little contact. Neither spoke a language the men aboard could understand, but they seemed to know their purpose and gave little trouble.

  The ship had made the unplanned and treacherous two week crossing across The Great Sea at inordinate risk, but the captain was in great haste. Fear had sailed from Myhar with them.

  It was after a few days had passed when one of the new slaves started to get sick. Olaf and the others first thought it was just sea sickness, but then the slave collapsed and started to bleed.

  He died screaming, and the crew quickly threw his body into the murky depths. The loss of a man on a voyage marked it with a bad omen for the men. And, perhaps, it was a coincidence, or perhaps some bad supplies from a strange land, but Olaf noticed that now, by the sunrise of each day, more men had taken ill. Fear crept amongst the crew. Many feared they had brought something with them from those strange exotic shores. They feared they would catch the sickness and die in the same terrible way as that dark-skinned oarsman had, crying out in terror as dark blood oozed from his eyes and mouth. A grizzly demise, this was not the glorious death in battle or a death undefeated in old age as many men in Arnar strove for.

  The crew were eager to throw the dead man overboard. And once they had, and without leave from the captain, the fearful crewmen seized another slave, a man of Cydor, who was feared to be suffering the onset of the same terrible malady. They threw him overboard also. He went kicking and screaming into the waves and disappeared below. Unfriendly stares turned to linger on the remaining Myhar oar-slave.

  He had watched his countryman die and be cast overboard without any response. His solemn, dark eyes gave away nothing. The men called for him to be thrown over also. The captain refused and commanded he remain chained to his oar.

  The panic of a sickness aboard spread, and sailors prayed they would live to see their home shores. The captain wished to return home to Arnar with great speed before he lost any more men.

  The usual route home would have taken them east through the Telik straights and north, skirting Telik realms bound for the familiar waters of southern Cydor, and then west to Arnar, a voyage of months, through many seasons.

  Captain Sheb had sailed for long years and had travelled these distant waters before, but few ever dared attempt the long crossing. And even less can claim they have made it. The Great Sea was a vast expanse of unknown storm racked seas, known to have claimed many brave fools.

  The fearful crew would rather take their chances and urged the captain to make the risky, direct crossing. And so, he gave the order to sail north and across the great open seas. Never had he heard any tale of lands on The Great Sea between Myhar and Arnar, so he gave the command to make haste and keep going through the night.

  That was all many nights past now, days upon days of huge rolling swell and tumultuous skies. Olaf looked down across the deck where the men slept restlessly under the flapping sails. The figure of the captain still stood sentinel at the prow. The captain took many of the watches himself and had again stood all night at the prow looking off into the tenebrous waters, searching for approaching dangers.

  Captain Sheb had long sailed his ship Glyassin from port to port selling and trading the goods he saw profit to deal in. Olaf had learned in his years of sworn service that Glyassin was the name of a water goddess revered in western Arnar where she was built. His most recent venture had taken them far to the distant lands of Myhar to acquire silks and the great horns and beautiful skins of strange beasts. The mottled skins of Plain Stalkers and great cats were very fashionable amongst the Telik lords and rarely seen in Arnar, he hoped to return to the northern ports of Cydor and Arnar to trade his lavish cargo and make a great profit.

  But now, the worry of this dangerous open sea and worse, the sickness that seemed to be spreading through his crew. It weighed heavy on him. Profit was far from his thoughts.

  The sun had risen now and the red sail flapped in the good wind.

  ‘Sent by the gods,’ muttered Olaf.

  The prow of Glyassin carved through the rolling swells. She was an old longship but sleek and fast. There was an open deck and a lower deck where the oarsmen sat and the cargo was kept. The lower deck could be accessed through a hatch near the stout mast. Eight oars per side when fully manned, the old ship still made fair time at sea without wind and could course along the long rivers that flowed through Arnar and Cydor, rowing against tides and currents as they needed.

  The sail, hung on a single wide crossbeam, was patched here and there. It was once a deep crimson but was now fading in the years of sun. Still, a mighty fine sail, it had been acquired at the great port of Telos. The sail always reminded Olaf of those great, yet strange foreign Telik cities. Great markets and bazaars lined the waterfronts, a place where many exotic goods from far and distant lands could be found. The greatest harbours and buildings Olaf had ever laid eyes on, whole cities of stone.

  The captain drew Olaf’s gaze as he shifted his weight. The captain had stood in watchful vigil for many hours now. He wore a sword, known to have been bought at those exotic ports, a fine Telian short sword. It was the captain’s badge of rank, yet other than that, his clothes differed little to that of the crew. Olaf could see the sword now at Sheb’s waist as the captain stood at the prow, motionless, looking out to sea.

  The risen sun lifted the nights mist and as the morning wore on, it was discovered another two of the crew had become sick. One, another oar-slave but the other was one of Sheb’s sworn crew. Olaf was afraid. Most of the crew seemed fine, just a cough here and there but others had fevers.

  It could have been anything, probably just the food or water from Myhar, or the long rainy nights at sea. Olaf couldn’t help remembering the dark man’s eyes bulge as the blood trickled from them, dying and in agony.

  Even Olaf had a cough, but he had often spent the recent nights
guiding the ship by following the stars through the cold, rough seas. He was weary, but he knew they could rest soon. Land was perhaps only hours away. He longed for it to be the day to sight land, to make port before sunset and sleep in a good bed.

  Before the sun had reached noon above them, a thin dark strip could be seen on the horizon. It was land. They were home. The sleek hull of Glyassin cut through the rolling swells as Olaf steered them towards the distant shores. The great grey cliffs along the shores, of what must be southern Arnar, soon came into view.

  The captain, by then joined by several other excited members of the crew, turned, and made his way to the stern.

  ‘Olaf, turn to starboard and follow the coast. We make for the Arn’s Anchorage,’ ordered the captain.

  The tillerman nodded.

  He then turned and bellowed orders to the crew to adjust the sail upon the turn. Olaf steered clear of the cliffs and turned to follow them northeast. The waves broke against the tall cliffs. Great rocks could be seen in the surf at their base, it would be unwise to stray too close.

  Olaf guided the Glyassin along the rough coastline until the sail no longer had the wind and had to be furled. The oars put to sea.

  The beat of the oar drum was slow and steady below. The cliffs on their port side soon gave way to trees and rocky coves as they crept south west.

  The crew dumped the remaining suspect food and water from Myhar overboard. The sailors refilled the water barrels from a stream flowing down the rocks into one of the small coves that lay along the ships’ route.

  The spirit of the men improved greatly now the shores of Arnar were in sight. The horror of the slave’s gruesome demise already fading, and the menace of the sickness seemed to lift.