Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

“So it seems,” said Simia, with the trace of a smile.

  “Are you … OK?”

  She blinked. “Well I can’t feel my leg and I’m under a Rager, but otherwise I’m fine.”

  “Well you definitely sound yourself,” he said, laughing in relief.

  She grunted, wriggling her shoulders and trying to move. “Are you just going to talk or are you—”

  Suddenly she looked up above his head, her eyes widening.

  Sylas turned, the smile falling from his face.

  He looked straight into the face of a human ape, looming over the back of the Rager, its great silver mane flared, its yellowing incisors dripping drool. Its eyes flicked between him and Simia, then it reared back on its hind legs and thrashed its chest with its fists, letting out a mighty, triumphal scream.

  Instantly two, three, then four more appeared at its sides, silhouetted against a maze of lightning. All of them thumped their chests and screamed their victory.

  In those precious moments with Simsi he had forgotten all about the Hamajaks. He shifted towards Simia, putting his body between her and the beasts, raising his hands. But he knew it was too late.

  The leader surged forward, its fists crashing down on the Rager, breaking bones where they fell. Sylas could reach out and touch it now. He could smell its breath: the stench of festering gums and the rotting flesh of its last meal.

  And then it hesitated.

  Its giant arms fell to its sides, its screams fading to a panting huff.

  The others too had frozen, looking up the lane. There was something almost human in their expressions, something that betrayed their surprise, their fear. And then they each began to shuffle anxiously, drawing closer, into a pack.

  The leader chattered in a half-animal, half-human voice. It thumped its chest as though to rally its troop, but the rest did nothing. Their eyes shifted to their companions and then back up the lane.

  “What’s going on?” murmured Simia from behind Sylas.

  He started to push himself up. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “They’ve seen something – up the lane.”

  He edged ever upwards, over the round ribcage of the Rager, until his eyes peeked over the top.

  He blinked in disbelief.

  Ghosts.

  Hundreds, perhaps thousands of silent ghosts.

  They were walking shoulder to shoulder down the middle of the lane, their pale faces looming out of the dark, their unblinking eyes seeming to stare straight through the creatures. Their bodies, such as they were, were wasted and thin, shrouded in filthy rags, their skin sallow and grubby, their hair long and matted. All this gave them the appearance of wraiths, of a deathly host emerging from hell itself. But as they approached a row of flaming torches, light glistened on clammy brows and sparkled in staring eyes. It played across forms that were solid and real, across muscle and bone. There were men and women, the young and the old, those who limped and stumbled.

  And as they came, Sylas realised that they were not silent at all. They brought with them the sound of hushed words and the patter of countless feet against rock.

  These were not ghosts.

  This was an exodus. And it was coming from the Dirgheon.

  The Hamajaks began chattering loudly among themselves, their great manes on end, their eyes furtive and frightened. Then one of them bolted up the street, back in the direction of the square. The rest hesitated, looking from one to the other, and then they too turned, bounding away as fast as their feet and fists could carry them. The leader paused a little longer, its eyes shifting between the advancing army of spectres and Sylas, as though weighing what to do next. And then, with an almighty shriek, it flung itself about, tearing off along the lane.

  Simia hit Sylas’s leg. “What’s happening?”

  He looked down and shook his head.

  “You won’t believe it,” he said.

  “Try me!”

  “It’s them, Simsi. It’s the Suhl.”

  She blinked up at him. “What do you mean? Which Suhl?”

  “All of them!”

  They passed in a fog of whispers – the whispers of those who had not raised their voice for years, who had almost forgotten how to speak. Some glanced at Sylas, some even nodded and smiled, but none of them stopped – they all moved on, intent on leaving the Dirgheon far behind. Many held hands or linked arms, comforting one another as they headed out into the unknown. Grown men threw arms around shoulders, supporting each other as they took their first steps in years.

  “Help me up!” demanded Simia. “I want to see!”

  Several of the passing prisoners stopped and turned. They frowned and looked over inquisitively towards where Simia lay.

  “I mean it, Sylas, get down here, right now!”

  Sylas watched nervously as the closest among the passing crowd stepped forward and clambered up on to the Rager, peering into the crevice behind.

  Seeing the ghostly face, Simia shrank back, pressing herself into the shadows.

  The man raised his hands and retreated a little. “It’s OK,” he said, in Simia’s, rich, rolling accent. He knelt down. “I heard you – you’re Suhl, aren’t you?”

  She gazed at him, her face filling with emotion. “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “Not at all, really.”

  “You’ll be OK, little one,” he said. There was something in that husky voice that was to be believed – to be trusted.

  “She’s trapped,” said Sylas. “Can you help me move this thing?”

  The man nodded. “We all can.”

  He looked back into the lane and gestured to his companions. After a brief exchange they arranged themselves around the Rager, and in spite of shaky limbs and wasted muscles, they began heaving with all their might. Sylas leaned his back on the beast and planted his feet against the wall, pushing with the rest of them. Slowly but surely, the gigantic corpse began to roll away.

  Simia grimaced as the weight shifted off her arm and her cheeks drained of their little remaining colour, but she did not cry out. She would not show her pain, not in front of these people – these people who had suffered so much.

  And then with a final twist of the body and a slap of the tail, the Rager fell away. Simia huddled over her arm, cursing under her breath. Her wrist was blue and purple and there was a deep gash near her elbow.

  Sylas took her round the shoulders. “Come on, Simsi.”

  With his help she was soon pushing herself up, flinching as she put her weight on the twisted knee.

  But when she finally looked up she forgot her pain. She gaped at the endless procession of whispering figures, at the stiff bodies wrapped in rags and the drawn, tired faces showing their first flicker of hope. For a moment she just watched, soaking in the sight of them. Then her eyes filled with tears.

  “Did you do this?” she asked, quietly.

  “I don’t think so,” said Sylas.

  An old woman was hobbling by, using a broken plank as a crutch. She slowed and turned to them. “It was him!” she whispered. “Espasian! Espasian has come!”

  The Merisi stood around the circle of glass, their eyes fixed on its centre, their faces sombre and drawn. For some time, none of them moved. Finally it was Franz Veeglum who stepped into the circle and knelt, folding his long thin form to sit cross-legged at Mr Zhi’s side. He attended to the old man as best he could, pulling out and casting aside the shard of glass, cleaning his face with water collected at the waterfall and covering the wound with white muslin cloths. They were not bandages – it was too late for bandages.

  Only when these things had been done to his satisfaction did the undertaker bow his head to his leader and friend.

  Naeo felt tears rolling down her cheeks. She hardly knew Mr Zhi, but in their few hours together he had made her feel safe; she hadn’t felt that way for a very, very long time. But it was more than that. She knew he had done this for her. He had walked into Scarpia’s hellfire k
nowing that she was more powerful than he; that he did not stand a chance.

  Again his parting words played through her mind: “A time of sacrifice,” he had said.

  And then, suddenly, Mr Zhi’s hand quivered and grasped Veeglum’s arm.

  There was an excited murmur among the Merisi and many stepped forward to try to see his face. Veeglum seized his hand, leaning closer.

  Words seemed to be exchanged – slow, halting words, spoken so quietly that all that could be heard was a murmur. Veeglum nodded his head and removed his jacket, rolled it up and then eased Mr Zhi up a little to use it as a pillow.

  Everyone saw his face then, and any hope fell away. His skin was white – not pale, but marble white – and the many folds and lines that told of a long and important life seemed deeper and darker, as though they had been etched into his face. If there was one hint of the Mr Zhi that everyone knew, it was in his eyes. They at least were still quick and bright. And they turned towards Naeo.

  “Mr Zhi vishes to speak vith you,” said Veeglum, beckoning with long fingers.

  Breathlessly, Naeo stepped into the circle of glass, hearing it crunch and tinkle beneath her feet. She flinched – it seemed too loud, too hard. She walked to Mr Zhi and knelt next to him. His kindly old face broke into a smile.

  “I’m so sorry!” she blurted. “I … I just couldn’t …”

  Mr Zhi’s hand slid across and fumbled into hers. It was frighteningly cold and clammy.

  “No, NO!” he whispered, faintly.

  “But they came to find me! If I hadn’t—”

  “They came to wage war,” whispered Mr Zhi. He looked at her keenly, as though willing her to understand. “A war on us all. On our future. On all we might be.”

  She met his eyes, but then looked down. “I’m just so sorry …” she said, sobbing.

  He clasped her hand tightly and lifted his head. “No, my child. All is as it should be. This is your journey now; I am at the end of mine.” He winced, closing his eyes and taking shallow breaths. He lifted a finger and pointed out at the gardens. “That must be my way now.”

  Naeo followed his gaze as it moved from the grasses by his feet, to the long fronds of flowers on the hillside, to the pool at the base of the waterfall.

  “I don’t understand!” she said. “Where?”

  “The source of things,” he said, with a faint smile, his eyes dancing with the ripples, shifting in the dappled light. Then he looked up the great column of water, up and up that dazzling spire of foam until finally he gazed at the endless bubbling torrent high above, leaping and sparkling between rocks and moss and grass.

  “There!” he murmured.

  And then his eyes faded and closed.

  “And so it must fall to these, the Bringers. They bear the burdens of a truth we are not ready to believe.”

  THE CROWDS PARTED BEFORE them like two great rivers, flowing with a shuffle and a whisper. Some stopped to watch their passing, looking curiously at the two children who fought against the tide. Some seemed concerned, eyeing Simia’s cuts and bruises, her injured arm and leg, and Sylas, bearing her weight across his shoulders. One tall, thin man approached to see if he could help, but when Sylas insisted on continuing towards the Dirgheon, the stranger gazed at him in bewilderment and carried on alone.

  And then, finally, they rounded a corner and saw the Dirgheon towering above them, black and menacing.

  “There!” exclaimed Simia. “There it is!”

  It was strange to look at that evil place with anything other than dread and even stranger to feel a flood of relief, but that was what they felt. They saw its massive ebony sides rising above them, its highest reaches wearing the storm clouds like a crooked crown. They saw the vast red banner hanging down the nearest of the terraced sides, and at its centre the immense and empty face of Thoth glowering down upon them. They saw all this and they were glad, because they knew that the worst was behind them and that the end was near.

  They stumbled on up the lane, heading for a broad space at the foot of the Dirgheon, which flickered with firelight. They could hardly believe that they were so close.

  “Simsi?” he said.

  Simia glanced up at him.

  “I’m just thinking, what if Bowe’s not there?”

  She blinked at him irritably. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “What if we passed him along the way? What if he’s in one of the other lanes?”

  Simia thought for a moment. “Well, he’s a Scryer,” she said with a shrug. “He’d probably have seen us even if we didn’t see him.”

  “Really? With all these people around?” said Sylas dubiously. “Remember in the Meander Mill, at the Say-So? I asked you why he was hiding up in the gallery and you told me he couldn’t—”

  “… he couldn’t bear to be too close,” said Simia, nodding slowly. “Because it was all such a muddle. You might be right.”

  Sylas gnawed his lip nervously. “Well, I suppose if he got out, that’s a good thing, whichever way you look at it.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Come on, we’ve got to try,” said Sylas, starting out again.

  But after a few paces Simia said: “If Triste was here, he’d be able to find him.”

  “You think?”

  “One Scryer looking for another – how could they miss each other?”

  Sylas grunted. “See what you mean.”

  Simia slowed a little. “Do you think he’s all right?”

  “Who, Triste?”

  She nodded.

  Sylas looked away, feeling a pang of guilt. He had to admit he had barely thought of Triste since they arrived in Gheroth. “I’m sure he is,” he said, vaguely.

  She shook her head. “Out there on the Barrens, on his own, with the Kraven. And those burns!”

  Sylas stopped and met her eyes. “Simsi, I think if anyone can look after themselves out there as well as you, it’s Triste.”

  She looked at him doubtfully and he saw the anguish in her eyes.

  “Seriously,” he insisted, “I bet he’s already on his way back to the valley!”

  She gave a heavy sigh. “If he isn’t, I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself.”

  She let him lead her on and together they staggered up the final stretch of the lane. As they went they did their best to keep their eyes up, to scour the faces of the stragglers as they traipsed away from the Dirgheon. So intent were they on the faces that the end of the lane came upon them suddenly, leaving them blinking into bright torchlight.

  Before them was a small plaza lit by burning urns dotted about its perimeter. At its centre, wide steps rose to the Dirgheon’s entrance, which towered darkly above them, its gigantic doors thrown back. A few weak, limping figures were still emerging from the black interior, but they seemed to be the very last: an old man, leaning heavily on a stick; a terribly thin woman looking lost and dazed; a man crawling on all fours, a smile spreading across his face as he saw the light.

  Below them, the steps were teeming. These were the old and the weak, the injured and the diseased: the last few for whom the prospect of escape was simply too much. The promise of fresh air and an open sky had brought them this far, but now they just gathered in small groups, staring gratefully at the world that had become a distant dream, taking deep breaths of air that they had almost forgotten. Their expressions betrayed their thoughts: however this might end, it was worth it for this moment.

  Some of their younger, stronger companions moved among them, talking to them, reassuring them, trying to persuade some to make the journey onwards. But it was futile: there were hundreds and they were not for moving.

  Sylas and Simia began limping towards the nearest of the groups, searching through the many faces, hoping against hope that Bowe might be among them. A host of hungry eyes blinked up at them as they approached but then paid them little more attention, assuming them to be more recruits to their hapless band.

  Sylas was about to speak to some of them when there was
a commotion at the top of the steps. At first all he could see was an excited crowd jostling near the entrance, but then some stepped to the side, as though making room on the steps to allow something or somebody to pass. A whisper went up among them, a whisper that quickly became excited chatter.

  And then the crowd parted.

  Two large figures staggered forward, each the other’s support, arms across one another’s shoulders. Both dragged limbs and had a sickly complexion, but that was where the similarity ended. One had a long pallid face and doleful eyes; the other a powerful build and glistening mahogany skin. One had the tattoos of a Scryer around his head, the other a diagonal scar across his face.

  Simia squeezed Sylas’s arm excitedly.

  The chatter swelled into a chant.

  “Espasian! Espasian! Espasian!”

  The two men eased one another down the steps, turning to nod at those who bowed as they passed. Still the chant grew in volume, filling the square, singing between the buildings.

  “ESPASIAN! ESPASIAN! ESPASIAN!”

  And then the Scryer stopped, dragging his companion back. Espasian looked at him in bewilderment and then glanced around the square.

  The chant faltered and then stopped. Everyone was watching the Scryer.

  Bowe’s deep green eyes were fixed on two children at the bottom of the steps, two children holding each other across the shoulders just like them.

  Espasian looked down at them. For a moment he blinked, seeming barely able to believe his eyes. And then his scarred face crumpled into a grin.

  “Sylas!” he bellowed, his voice dry but full, echoing around the square. He turned his eyes to Simia and his grin broadened. “And young Simia, of course!”

  “Espen!” cried Sylas, helping Simia up the steps. “Bowe! You’re alive!”

  The two men staggered down to meet them and when he was close enough, the Magruman reached out and gripped Sylas by the shoulder.

  “Call me Espasian! Today I feel more worthy of that name.” He looked at them both. “So you came to set us free!”

  Sylas grinned. “Well, you beat us to it!”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Bowe, his features alive with a new excitement. “Did you draw Thoth’s guards out of the Dirgheon?”