The final part of Rob Donovan’s free serialised story set in the same world of Frindoth as his newly released book “Ritual of the Stones”. In this story we follow the journey of Pewtory the Lesser bard as he travels to Lilyon to witness the Ritual.
Pewtory the Lesser Bard part 39 – Concluding Pewtory the Lesser Bard
No one saw Pewtory the Lesser leave Boscalt in the still of the night apart from the guards. It seemed everyone had celebrated too hard at the Masker’s Ball (or their own version of it) and now slept away the affects of the alcohol. The guards at the South gate merely nodded as he passed. They were used to people leaving the “town that bleeds” at all hours on a night such as this.
As soon as he was out of sight he allowed the tears to fall. The absence of weight on his shoulder haunted him. As much as the pole had been a burden on his neck and shoulder it had brought comfort to him in its familiarity. It meant he could feel the presence of Willow and Wisp at all times.
Without the pole he felt naked and exposed. It was as if the process of his undoing had already started.
He had left all of his possessions behind in the palace. He had returned to his room after he was sick and lay on his bed. He was not a religious man but he had prayed to the three Gods of Frindoth for guidance. He asked for strength to do the right thing and not give in to his selfish desires to be remembered. When this did not seem to yield any results he simply asked for forgiveness.
He had spent the remainder of his time strumming Beth with no real tune in mind. He did not want to play another song when the last one had been such a good memory. Eventually as the lights in the town dwindled and the drunken revelry quietened he said goodbye to his friends.
Willow and Wisp did not give him the hard time he had expected. He had anticipated the fish would snub him and express their disgust but instead there had been nothing but sorrow in their behaviour. He had placed his hand inside the bowl and cupped it and the two fish swam inside and rested on his palm as they kissed his fingertips. Pewtory had tried to find the words to say goodbye but could not think of any. The fish were equally taciturn. The time for words had passed.
He had left the room with a note against the bowl for Bard Kallum to take good care of them. He had then slipped his room key under the door of the Bard’s door. Bard Kallum was a decent man. Pewtory had no doubt Willow and Wisp would be well cared for.
Pewtory the Lesser gazed back at Boscalt. The town looked magnificent in the moonlight. Each of the streams and waterfalls that cascaded down the hill glittered as the reflected the moons. Pewtory had witnessed the splendour of Lilyon but Boscalt equalled it in his opinion.
All three moons were visible tonight. The scene was magnificent. The large green moon shone boldly to the left, whilst the blue moon rivalled it with its dark craters providing a dappled effect. It was the red moon that caught his attention. It was positioned directly over the town as if it was aware of the bloodshed that was about to occur and was trying to warn everyone.
Pewtory placed his hands on his hips and felt the dagger that he had secreted in his belt. He knew it was just his imagination but the blade seemed to pulse against his thigh. It reminded him that the time for dawdling was over. He now had to act.
Pewtory turned from Boscalt and once again entered the forest. The foliage was the night darker and more oppressive. Creatures scurried in bushes nearby as he approached. He shivered despite the warm night. He passed an owl in the trees staring at him in cold judgement. The bird of prey’s large oval eyes accused him of treachery. Pewtory ignored the animal and pressed on.
It did not take him long to find their campfire. As before it was the only light in the forest. He followed the orange glow that emanated from the dark trunks in the distance. The smell of ash reached his nostrils mingled with the scent of nettle tea.
With each step Pewtory felt the dread surge through him. He reached for the dagger and found his hand trembled. His squeezed the hilt out of fear of dropping the blade. He tried to be calculating and decide who he should kill first. Arthur was his first thought. He should eliminate the biggest threat while he had the element of surprise. He should have little difficulty in disposing of Elsie afterwards.
The idea made him choke back a sob. “Dispose of Elsie!” She was not some rabid dog that had fallen in a village and needed to be taken away before she spread disease. Yet he had to think of her that way. He had to be detached.
As he neared the two prone forms lying next to each other under a shroud of blankets he reconsidered his plan. He did not think he could kill Elsie if she was awake. If he killed her first then at least his mission would be complete. It did not matter what would happen to him after that. Let Arthur have the satisfaction of avenging his wife.
Pewtory stepped into the clearing and surveyed the scene. The Brookman’s lay close near to the fire but he knew this was for protection rather than warmth. They had not bothered to erect the shelter this time but had just added an extra blanket across them. Next to the fire lay a pot of water and a pole next to it. Arthur had probably used the pole to suspend the pot over the fire long enough to heat the tea. The rest of the site was impeccably tidy. They must have lit the fire and gone straight to bed.
The Bard felt the heat of the burning logs on his face. The fire spat and hissed suddenly as if to warn him away. Pewtory thought about ducking behind tree as Arthur stirred in his sleep, but the elderly man rolled away from the glowing embers and soon settled.
Pewtory took a deep breath and crept forward. He nudged any loose twigs and leaves out of his path to muffle his footsteps. Elsie lay at his feet. The old lady seemed so frail in sleep. Her body appeared to have shrunk and her chest barely moved as breathed deeply. A soft, endearing snore could be heard as she lay with her mouth opened slightly. A strand of hair had fallen across her face and curled inside her mouth. Pewtory felt an overwhelming urge to remove it.
Elsie shifted onto her back and as she did so the blanket fell off part of her body. It exposed one of her pockets and for the first time Pewtory caught sight of the cause of all his problems.
The xxx stone lay nuzzled against the old lady’s body. It was the first time Pewtory had ever seen one of the Ritual Stones close up before. He had heard about them often enough and even seen one from afar at the last Ritual but he had never been so close to one that he could touch it.
There was nothing remarkable about it other than its colour, but even that was not extraordinary. It did not glow and shine brightly, but was just dull, almost pastel in appearance. There was nothing to suggest it yielded such power that people had to die for it. Although, the more he looked at it, the more he thought that was not necessarily true. There was something about the stone. He was drawn to it in a way he couldn’t explain.
He shook his head to clear it from distraction. If he was going to go through with the act he had to do it now. He turned the dagger sideways and moved towards Elsie’s throat. Memories of her happiness earlier in the evening tried to force their way into his mind but he focussed on visualising the clear swipe across the woman’s gullet and then clamping a hand over her mouth. She won’t feel any pain, he tried to convince himself.
The blade was an inch from a throat. He took a deep breath and then moved to stab the dagger.
“Pewtory?”
The Bard cried out as Elsie opened her eyes. At the last second he managed to curb his movements so that he fell to one side. Arthur sat up instantly.
“What are you doing here?” the old man said.
Pewtory struggled to breath. His body shook with nervous tension. There was no hiding the knife in his hand and the puzzlement on Elsie and Arthur’s face when they saw it killed him.
“I…I…couldn’t leave things like I did earlier,” he said thinking on his feet.
“What are you talking about?” Elsie said sitting up and wiping her eyes. It was an instinctive act though, Pewtory could see they were both wide awake.
“Earlier, when you thanked me for the night, I was so rude. I think I was giddy from the performance and I was not thinking straight. It was I that should have been thanking you.
You are so brave fulfilling your duty at the Ritual. You have the type of courage I could only dream of having. And you have such…dignity.”
Pewtory knew he was babbling and not making any sense to them. He saw Arthur glance again at the dagger in Pewtory’s hand.
“I wanted to give you this,” Pewtory said raising the knife. “I know it is not much but it means a lot to me, it was my Fathers. I know it doesn’t make much sense as you might not be around long to keep it but I just wanted you to have something.”
Pewtory held it out to Elsie but she did not reach for it.
“TAKE IT FROM ME!” he shouted and did not care that they both flinched. It was Arthur that took it and then put a protective arm around his wife. The distrust that he first regarded Pewtory with had returned in his expression.
“I need you to leave now. Immediately,” Pewtory said. He pulled his knees to his chest and lowered his head. The tears had returned.
Arthur did not need any more encouragement and began to collect their possessions. Elsie was not so easily convinced. She hesitated as she stood.
“Pewtory, what is going on? Maybe we can help.”
“You can’t,” Pewtory said as he wept into his knees. “You have to get away from here quickly. If I meant anything to you, please just go.”
When she did not go straightaway he shouted again. It was over, he had failed. He did not care that he had been about to kill the woman, the moment she had opened her eyes, he had seen clarity. He could not do it. Yes he wanted to be famous rather than be forgotten, but not like this.
No one would ever know the sacrifice he had made. They would all think the worst of him, but he did not care. At the end of the day, he would know and that was all that matters.
Pewtory closed his eyes and did not open them again until he was sure they were gone.
***
He must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes it was light. The fire had burned down to ash and charcoal and smouldered lightly. Pewtory blinked as his eyes adjusted.
“I warned you what would happen,” a now familiar voice spoke from behind him. A man emerged from behind him and dropped something at Pewtory’s feet. The Bard cried out and scrambled away from the decapitated head of Archie Freestone. The Peddler’s face was contorted in pain, his blank stare revealed the terror of his final moments. Moments that told Pewtory that he had survived the blow to the head the Bard had dealt him only to live to face more horror.
Pewtory bit down on his fingers as he struggled to breath. He dragged his eyes away from his friend and to the man that now stood over him. He was tall and handsome. He had short, matted hair and a severe nose. He shook with barely contained fury. Pewtory flinched at the intensity in the Stanger’s eyes.
He held a bloodied cloth in his hands which he now unravelled and spilled the contents to the floor. More heads! Pewtory identified Red Jack, the thief he had stopped in Compton and Bard Kallum. The last one was too much to take and he was violently sick. His stomach and throat burned where there was nothing left to bring up apart from bile. There were two more but they faced away from Pewtory. Upon seeing this the stranger poked them forward to face the Bard with his toes.
Pewtory did not recognise them at first and he did. They were Melvin and Sheila from the Falconer’s Stump.
“You monster,” Pewtory whispered. He stared at the collection of heads before him. Heads that he had talked to and interacted with. Ironically it was the heads of Red Jack and the thief that disturbed him most. As much as he mourned the death of Archie and Bard Kallum he had anticipated their deaths to a degree. But the other four? There was a senseless there, a randomness that he could not fathom. It hurt that these men were destroyed for merely coming in to contact with Pewtory.
“Didn’t I tell you? Why did you doubt me? You saw what I did to Lionel the Lark. Why did you think for one minute I would let you get away with failing me?”
“I tried. You must see that I tried,” Pewtory whimpered.
“You failed. That is all that matters. You can hardly say you tried, you changed your mind at the crucial moment. You knew what you were doing. You let her live and for that I will see to it that everyone that you came into contact with is killed. No one will remember the name of Pewtory the Lesser.”
The words hurt him but Pewtory was determined not to grovel in front of the Stranger. He looked at the collection of heads before him. They looked like fake, as if sculpted for the next Masker’s Ball. The dried blood that plastered across the neck smelt of iron.
“But you will.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You will remember my name. Pewtory the Lesser Bard will live long in your memory. I will forever be the one who defied you. You can kill me but you will never forget-”
“I’m not going to kill you. Don’t you recall anything I have ever said? I will make you suffer. What is left of your pitiful life will be agony. You will pray for death but it will never come,”
The Stranger reached a hand out so his palm faced Pewtory and his fingers were all outstretched. A cruel smile appeared on his face and he suddenly clenched his hand. There was a loud snap and shooting pain lanced through Pewtory’s left leg. He screamed and saw that his leg had broken, snapped into two so that it protruded through his skin. The sight was more horrific than the pain.
Another crack and his collarbone snapped. A third and he felt searing pain in his fingers. Pewtory’s vision darkened. His brain did not know which pain to deal with first. He flopped on the floor as his world swam. Another snap and the pain was in his chest. On and on it went as the Stranger broke bone after bone.
Pewtory’s eyes rolled into his head and he struggled to understand where he was. All he knew was agony. Endless, unrelenting pain. The Stranger spoke but Pewtory could not process the man’s words. All he knew was that the tone was mocking.
From somewhere amongst the trees a woodpecker hammered against a tree trunk. It sounded like mocking laughter. Eventually the world stopped spinning and Pewtory realised the torture had ceased. Had the Stranger stopped or was it merely a pause in the punishment? He had no idea if he had been conscious the whole time or not.
It hurt to breathe. Every inhalation, ironically took his breath away. He fought to focus on his surroundings. Slowly the heads swam back into clarity. The trees took shape again, the leaves rustled as if nothing had changed.
Pewtory tried to move his arm and cried out with the pain it caused. There was no way he could move. Suddenly a large flat stone was placed in front of his face. He stared at it uncomprehending. Was it supposed to fall on his head? It made no sense. And then it did.
Wisp was dropped on to the stone momentarily. Pewtory saw his friend gasping for breath for the second time in less than a day. He could have sworn the fish looked at him and begged for help. The Stranger picked the fish up by her long beautiful tail and then slapped her down against the stone.
Wisp exploded upon impact. Her innards burst through her scaly skin and splattered Pewtory’s face. He felt warm liquid land on his face as he screamed. He was inconsolable as the Stranger left Wisp’s carcass on the stone. The once impeccable body was a deflated shell. It oozed white matter. Pewtory wailed at the horrific sight.
He struggled to move his hand to pick up the fallen fish even though he realised it was pointless. His friend had been destroyed and there was nothing he could do to reach her. Black spots flashed before him as the pain hit him.
The Stranger knelt down before him. Willow tangled helplessly pinched between his fingers. The red fish struggled hopelessly to get away. Pewtory tried to talk but all he could manage was a gurgle.
“Just so you know. I am going to walk away from you now. The second I do, I will have forgotten your name. You achieved nothing but the death of your loved ones. Did you really think I did not have a contingency plan in the event of your failure? The Ritual will not happen and the only difference is that no one will remember you ever existed. It is a shame, a massive shame. Farewell Bard.”
And with that he dropped Willow on the ground in front of Pewtory and walked away. Pewtory screamed and fought to get to his one remaining friend in Frindoth. His body would not respond, he could not even move an inch as Willow flapped in front of him gasping for air. From somewhere in the forest the woodpecker hammered away as normal, oblivious to Pewtory the Lesser Bard.
Have really enjoyed this story, and am sad to see it finish! Great ending, shocking but really good