Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) by Rob Donovan

She winced at
the dramatic nature she had approached Rhact, but it was essential for her to
keep her distance. Her duty was to ensure those selected attend the Ritual,
nothing more. By default the villagers feared her as they did all members of
the Order. She was not sure how she felt about it.
    When
the face-changing man had not displayed any apprehension towards her, she had
been angry. She was used to people cowering before her. It made sure people
generally did as she asked. She had not realised how much she had come to rely
on people’s terror to get what she wanted. However, in Longcombe, the sight of
the poor men and women looking at her in abject terror was not something she
took pleasure from. She figured it was because this time she was the reason for
their angst and not just her reputation. She was in essence a contradiction.
    She
shivered at the thought and concentrated on the task in hand. Her first steps
sank until she was covered up to her knees in wet mud. She winced as the cold
water oozed into her boots. With each step she took, her legs grew heavier as
more and more mud caked onto her. The search was so slow it was torturous.
Occasionally, she startled a salamander, but that was the only real wildlife
she came across on the ground.
    There
was no way of telling the time on the Marshes of Night, but by the time
Marybeth believed it was dusk, she had not had any success. She had discovered
three areas where the ground rose up into something resembling a mound. Here
the terrain was a little more solid but there was nothing to indicate an
entrance to a hidden chamber. There was also no light shining on any water. She
continued to trudge through the mud.
    Without
warning, the wet sludge rose higher than her knees and continued to climb
higher every second. She began to sink quickly and realised she had walked into
drowning mud. She fought the urge to panic. She had never experienced drowning
mud but she knew the worst thing to do was thrash around which would only
increase the speed with which the mud consumed her. The witch took a few
breaths to calm herself, her eyes frantically searching for something to cling
on to. There was nothing. She closed her eyes and concentrated on elevating her
body above the mud. It was a skill she had learned from Mondorlous. However,
for some reason her powers did not seem to be responding.
    Marybeth
pursed her lips in anger as the mud compacted around her legs, making it
extremely difficult for her to move. The mud gurgled as if happy it was being
fed. She stayed still which slowed her descent, but she still continued to
sink. Think, you stupid woman. There must be a way to escape.
    She
managed to hoist her staff out of the mud and lay it horizontally across the
surface. At least she could hold onto it. The mud now compacted around her
waist. In response, she wriggled her feet to ensure that she could still move
them. Get on the staff, you fool. She took a deep breath and then pushed
down on the staff, crying out with the effort. After what seemed like an
eternity, she managed to hoist her body partially free enough to flop her back
on the staff. She escaped the mud with a huge squelch. She lay there panting,
sweat streaming down her face. A squirrel watched her from a branch high above.
    “Get
lost,” she said, “hope the Gloom devours you.”
    The
squirrel chattered and then bounded off. At least she had managed to stop
sinking. Eventually she had enough energy to work the staff around under her,
rotating it at a right angle so that it supported her hips. With another
enormous effort, she managed to lift one leg out of the muck and then the
other. They came free caked in mounds of viscous sludge. Dollops of black tar-like
mud flopped from her boots. Relief washed over her. Still angry with herself
for being so stupid, she paddled slowly to firmer ground, where she collapsed
against a boulder. How could she have been so careless?
    She
wiped a chunk of mud from her cheek and