Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

Just then there was a movement further down the corridor.

  A pale hand appeared around one of the doorways, followed by a gaunt, white face. It was a woman, her dark hair falling in greasy knots around her shoulders, her pale eyes blinking into the corridor. Then another face appeared further down: a child this time. Then another in the far distance. Slowly the passageway filled with more and more forlorn figures, their eyes wide and disbelieving, their movements furtive and frightened. And as they came, something else emerged from the cells.

  Whispers. Whispers of thousands of weak voices, like dry leaves on the wind. At first they were just a rush of sound, but slowly they became one voice.

  And it spoke one word.

  “ESPASIAN!”

  It would not leave her. It washed through her thoughts and gushed down her spine. The Ray Reaper was gone, but the deluge thundered on, racing through her limbs, stirring the pain in her back. Ash’s words were warped and watery, his face bleary and distant.

  “It’s done, Naeo,” he gurgled. “Are you all right?”

  But she was fathoms deep, held in the great cascade. She saw him kneel down next to her.

  “Let it go, Naeo,” he said, cupping her cheek. “You’ve done enough!”

  Perhaps it was that touch, or his words, but suddenly Naeo felt something beyond the cool, airless veil, something vital and human to cling to. And in that moment the waters began to leave her, ebbing from her mind and draining from her chest, taking with them the creeping chill.

  She met Ash’s eyes for the first time.

  “That’s it,” he said, smiling. “Come back.”

  His voice sounded clear and crisp, and it came with other sounds: the roar and splash of the waterfall, the tumbling of water over rocks.

  And screams. And shouts. And a deafening, crashing sound, like the sky was falling in.

  She saw Ash look over his shoulder, and then she watched him stand.

  Reluctantly, she turned her eyes.

  She saw fifteen, perhaps twenty Merisi emerging from the trees, Tasker at their lead, breaking into a run. She could see the whites of his eyes, his features slack with horror.

  And then she saw Mr Zhi, bloodied and bruised, fighting on many fronts. The ground buckled beneath his feet, great clods of earth flew at him from each side, an entire tree flipped towards him, careering over the hilltop.

  There before him was Scarpia, directing her devastating power with graceful sweeps of claws and tail, her sleek flanks writhing in an elaborate dance. Mr Zhi performed a dance of his own, extending his gloved hand to each threat, halting it in its tracks, casting it aside.

  But he was losing the fight.

  Suddenly he was battered by a blizzard of rocks and earth, sent sprawling by the tree trunk, whipped by plants and branches. And then Scarpia threw back her head and let out an animal snarl. There was a metallic screech and a crash of breaking glass. A vast section of the glass dome scythed down, collecting into another lethal column of razor shards.

  In an instant Mr Zhi had fallen on his back and raised his hand. In a trice the glass column began to divide, falling either side of him in a flurry of slicing splinters.

  For a moment, it looked like he had done enough.

  But one piece of glass fell straight.

  One piece of glass fell true.

  The final flurries of winds would not leave Sylas. They whipped at the corners of his mind and squalled in his chest. He tried to set them loose, free them back to the storm, but for some reason they held on, as though reluctant to let him go. Still they whipped about him, turning in a vortex of dust and debris, keeping him from seeing where Simia had gone.

  In the end, it was not he but Simia who quelled the winds. When he thought of her face, of her scream, he felt something beyond the winds, something close and real. It was a feeling that all was undone. It was despair.

  The winds slowed and for the first time he thought to breathe out, to relax his shoulders. They did not go quickly, but slowly, inevitably, they lost their force. The detritus of the city fluttered down through the air: papers and peelings, the awnings of stalls, garments from clotheslines, rags from the nearby slums. He peered through them, turning on the spot, waiting for the first attack, readying himself to run, to fight. He peered between the falling trash, into doorways, among the rooftops.

  There was nothing.

  No sign of the Ghor, nor the Hamajaks, nor the Ragers.

  Nor Simia.

  He looked up and saw the whirlwind retreat into the clouds, gathering into the rumbling dark. Lightning streaked across the sky as if sewing it back together.

  He was alone. Horribly alone.

  “Oh what it would be to wake now – wake from these shattered dreams!”

  SYLAS LOOKED AROUND IN growing desperation.

  There was nothing in the Place of Tongues, nor in the nearby lane, except for a few scattered, limp bodies, lying lifelessly on the white flagstones. The rest of the creatures seemed to have disappeared, ripped up by the devastating winds, hurled skywards only to be lost in the heart of the storm. Was it really possible? All those creatures – the whole seething mass of them, carried off by winds alone? His winds?

  And then he had a chilling thought: had the winds taken Simia too? His eyes were drawn up to the clouds, boiling and bubbling like a devil’s brew. It was too horrifying to contemplate.

  He skirted the buildings and entered the lane, legs quivering beneath him, a knot in his throat. He looked quickly over piles of rubbish, through broken windows, past doors that flapped and banged in the storm’s winds. Still nothing.

  He remembered Simia’s face as Thoth’s creatures had charged: that expression of absolute trust. It made him feel sick. How could he have lost his concentration? Why hadn’t he stayed with the winds?

  He felt panic pressing on his chest and he became ever more frantic, peering into corner and crevice.

  And then he froze.

  There was something next to a shattered stall. Something large and living.

  Its flank heaved with slow, laboured breaths. It was slumped against a wall, its scaly flesh glowing pink between pieces of wood and scraps of awning. And he could hear it now, over the whistling wind: a strained whine as it breathed in, a spluttering huff as it exhaled.

  A Rager.

  Cautiously, he walked towards it, noticing that the breaths were coming ever more slowly and its exposed flank was fading from pink to grey. He saw the tail quivering against the wall; the huge, armoured head twisted at an odd angle; its massive, demonic features staring blankly. The colour drained from its brow and cheeks and as it did so, the beast let out a last, violent huff. Suddenly it too was still and silent.

  Sylas leaned forward. Could this have been the one? The one that took Simia? He shuddered at its flesh glistening with a final sweat. It was dead because of him, because of what he had done. He was aware of a distant notion that he should be horrified, but that was not how he felt. He felt glad.

  Then something caught his eye.

  There was a patch of red on the creature’s neck.

  Vivid, burning red.

  He steeled himself, expecting the Rager’s eyes to blink, its chest to heave, its mighty tail to lash out with a deadly blow. But it was still and lifeless.

  His eyes moved back to the patch of red, and in the same instant he realised what it was.

  Not scaly skin, but something lying across it. A splash of red hair, trailing over the creature’s neck and into the shadows beyond.

  Breathlessly he clawed at the debris of the mangled stall, throwing aside planks of wood, lengths of fabric, broken pottery.

  At last he could see her face – motionless and deathly white. But he could not free her. She was trapped, her arm twisted between the wall and the Rager’s tail.

  Tears welled in his eyes. “No, Simsi!” he cried, hurling more wood over his shoulder. “No! No! No!”

  He pushed at the beast with abandon, his words echoing down the lane.


  And then his words seemed to come back, loose and unformed, grunted rather than spoken.

  “Uh! Uh! Uh!”

  And then again, louder this time: “UH! UH! UH!”

  He did not hear them at first. He heard only his heavy pulse, his panted breaths. He clambered on to the beast’s flank and then behind, pushing himself into the small, dark crevice, kicking out at the tail, desperate to free her.

  “UH-UH-UH!” came the voices, too loud now to be denied. “UH-UH-EEEH-EEEH-EEEH!”

  The shrieks finally drew his eyes away from Simia’s twisted form, up to the surrounding buildings. There he saw eight, perhaps ten Hamajaks clambering down from the rooftops, swinging between windowsills and ledges, some climbing with their hands, others, bloodied and injured, hanging upside down by their feet or tails. Their gums were pulled back, their yellow teeth bared and drooling. For the first time, Sylas saw that their features were almost human, their eyes focused and bright. But everything else about them was animal, hungry and cold.

  He turned away, looking back to Simia’s tiny form, broken and still.

  He hardly cared what happened now.

  He crouched down to be near to her. And he waited.

  “No … No … No …” she murmured.

  For some moments Naeo just stared at Mr Zhi’s form, enshrined in a circle of broken glass. It was a strange, almost beautiful scene: the old man, quiet and serene, encircled by shards that showed fragments of his small, resting form – a little of him but not too much, as though he were already a memory.

  But one detail betrayed the jarring, horrifying truth. One single shard, long and thin, rising like a dagger from the centre of the circle.

  The flood had left her now but her limbs were heavier than ever, her heart as dark and cold as the deep. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered his last words to her:

  “Now is a time for sacrifice.”

  And then she thought she saw a movement. A flicker in the glass. Something shimmering from one sliver to another: a moving shape, a dancing flash of colour. Her heart leapt.

  But then she saw another and another: reflections, flitting between the polished planes – not Mr Zhi at all, but something happening beyond, at the edge of the glade.

  Her eyes lifted to the tree line, to the dark figure of Scarpia crouching and leaping, twisting and turning, casting a hail of magic.

  And before her, the Merisi.

  All of them were there, arranged in a wide ring of dancing bodies and fluttering robes, shifting with every missile thrown, rippling as they jumped and crouched with gloved hands outstretched. They leapt over spinning boulders and crouched beneath twisted beams, parrying swarms of pebbles that shrilled through the air like bullets. Sometimes the ring of Merisi broke, parting for a cartwheeling tree or a rift in the earth, but always it closed again, drawing tight, moving ever inwards, step by hard-fought step.

  And at their centre Scarpia raged and snarled, throwing up a cloud of dust as she dispensed her magic, calling upon all the power of Urgolvane to lift what may not be lifted, throw what may not be thrown. She tore at the earth and ripped at the trees, gathering them up in her wild pirouette to hurl them outwards, sending them clattering into the unwavering line of Merisi gloves, only to see them thrown aside or halted in their tracks. She split the earth, pummelling it until it became a pool of mud, only to see it settle beneath a Merisi palm. She threw down glass and metal from the roof, only to find her deadly hail turning in the air and spearing the ground around her, forming a mesh of razor edges.

  And then Naeo realised what was happening. The Merisi were turning Scarpia’s magic against her: letting her hem herself in, defeat herself. They closed in steadily, mercilessly, like a noose about a neck, and soon they were so close that Scarpia’s missiles were halted before they took flight, falling almost at her feet. She let out a wailing, furious shriek, wheeling about and kicking at the mounting pile of debris about her. Then she squealed and raised a claw to her face, a bleeding claw, caught on one of her own shards of glass.

  “‘You will reap what you sow’,” murmured Naeo under her breath.

  She tried to climb to her feet, to join the fight, but she found herself falling back down, her limbs still stiff and heavy.

  “Stay here,” said Ash at her shoulder. “I’ve got this.”

  He strode out ahead of her, straight towards Scarpia – straight into the fight.

  The Merisi were shoulder to shoulder now, their ring a solid wall. Scarpia’s ears were back and she snapped and lashed. But she could not reach them: she was surrounded by a jagged enclosure of steel and glass, rocks and branches. More than once she flailed into it, catching her arm, leg or tail. She tried to jump clear of it, but landed squealing on a criss-cross of metal, sliding back into her self-made stockade.

  But then there was a strange pause. The Merisi hesitated, seeming unsure of their next move and Scarpia used that moment of indecision to hit out at her bonds. She changed her tactics, using her strength alone to dislodge the debris. She braced her back and pushed out with her legs, sending a slew of rocks and glass and metal outwards into the approaching Merisi.

  A triumphant grin over her face.

  “You cannot hold me!” she shrieked. “I am a Magruman of Thoth! My power is older than rocks and rivers, older than petty clans and pretty tricks!”

  She sent a boulder rolling between the Merisi, a branch scudding across the glade, a shower of earth into the face of one nearby. The Merisi line began to falter and suddenly the side of the stockade broke open, leaving the way clear.

  Then Ash stepped into the breach. He lifted his head and raised his arms, his stance wide and assured, his features set and determined.

  Naeo’s breath caught. He looked like a Magruman.

  There was a rumble in the earth – deep in its bowels, far below the gardens. The trees that were still standing began to shake, shedding leaves and twigs. For a moment, Scarpia ceased her scrapping and fell silent, looking about her like a cornered animal.

  Then the rumble became a roar: the roar of grinding rocks and fissures snapping shut, of half-fallen trees heaving themselves upright and roots slithering back to their rightful place. It was the sound of Nature healing herself.

  The tangle of weeds and branches around Scarpia suddenly came to life, twisting and writhing around her like a nest of snakes. Grass wormed and wriggled, stems reared into the air, branches clawed.

  “That’s it, Ash!” murmured Naeo, a smile curling her lips.

  Scarpia froze, ears up teeth bared.

  The gardens roused themselves, seeking revenge for the hurt and harm. Roots and stems and leaves crawled like a net across her chest. Twigs became her bonds, branches her shackles. She lashed out at them with tooth and claw, struggling to hold them back, but their power was too great. She sank down amid the writhing pile, into the things she had so abused.

  Ash looked on, his shoulders heaving, his eyes wide and shot with red.

  “Reap what you sow, Scarpia!” he cried. “Reap what you sow!”

  Now he knew the touch of death.

  He had seen it, of course he had. Everyone had seen more than their fill of death at the Reckoning, and the Scryers more than most. He had seen fields of death, rivers of death, days and nights of death. And his Scrying eyes had seen all that came with it: the anguish, the confusion, the hate, the loss, the love never expressed, the words never spoken.

  He had seen death and his young heart had broken more times than he could remember.

  But this … this was what it felt like.

  Empty. Cold. Numb. Blank. Black.

  Black.

  But it was not complete. Not yet.

  Somewhere there was a radiance. A hint of warmth. A glow. And Triste curled towards it, drinking it in.

  He rolled into the ash of the campfire and pressed himself against the warm stones, clinging to life.

  He could not be sure when the Kraven had left him. The attack had been endless, and t
he darkness since, endless too. It was one infinity.

  But he knew why they had left him.

  They left because of the one who had spoken. The one who had touched Sylas hours before. The one who knew Sylas’s promise. Sylas’s greatness.

  It had been a woman’s voice; dry and hollow, but feminine. First she had spoken to the others, telling them to release the Scryer, to leave him be, and thankfully – miraculously – they had done as she commanded, rising through his chest and shoulders, tugging at his insides, reluctant to let go. Some had lingered a little too long and the voice had come again, sharper and harder, and he had felt the remaining Kraven shiver and start, spiralling up into the night.

  Only when they had gone had he felt her near, cold and lifeless. She trailed against his leg, brushed up his side, nestled into his shoulder. He felt her dead lips at his ear, heard her breath, like air escaping a tomb.

  “As you are life, we are death,” she had whispered.

  And then there were icy fingers against his cheek.

  “Tell the boy to let us die!”

  “Even the mighty Nile, that fount of life and spine of the empire, has a source that somewhere trickles meekly from the earth.”

  SYLAS RESTED BACK AGAINST the corpse of the Rager, its scales pressing between his shoulder blades. He heard the Hamajaks draw ever closer. He heard the scrape of their claws against stone; the shuffle of their giant bodies as they swung towards him; their shrieking cries.

  But he did nothing.

  Instead his gaze was fixed on Simia’s ashen face.

  She looked so calm, so peaceful now. None of the fight. None of the fire. Now, at the end, she looked like the young girl she really was: quiet and frail.

  He felt as crushed and broken.

  “Please don’t leave me, Simsi,” he said, reaching out to draw the red curls from her face.

  “I can’t. There’s a Rager on my arm.”

  He threw himself back, slamming against the flank of the Rager. Simia’s eyes blinked open and focused on him.

  Sylas struggled to find his voice. “I thought you were …”