Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  “And did you call these winds?” asked Espasian.

  “He did!” said Simia, proudly.

  Sylas glanced at her and grinned. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without Simsi.”

  “Then you have done more for us than you know,” said Espasian. “Both of you.”

  Sylas felt a flush of pride, but he tried not to show it.

  Bowe was exploring Sylas’s face. “Do you know how Naeo is?” He looked across the square. “Is she … with you?”

  Sylas shook his head. “No, she’s gone to try to find Mr Zhi. We’re trying to find out—”

  Espasian raised his hand. “Not here, Sylas,” he said, glancing at the many faces gathered around them. “Leave the rest until we’re alone.”

  Bowe leaned forward. “But she’s all right, Sylas?”

  “Yes,” he said. He was sure of it. “She’s OK.”

  Espasian was looking around, his face darkening as he weighed the task ahead. “We need to get out of here,” he said quietly. “And we have to help the people who can’t help themselves.”

  Sylas and Simia looked at each other and smiled.

  “We can help with that,” said Simia.

  Espasian raised an eyebrow. “Everyone?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said Simia, looking at the crowd.

  “Does this have anything to do with canvas birds?” asked Bowe nervously.

  Sylas laughed. “Not quite.”

  “Well, if you really can help them,” said Espasian, “I’ll attend to the rest.”

  The smiles faded from everyone’s faces.

  “What do you mean?” asked Bowe incredulously. “You can’t be thinking of crossing the Barrens with the others?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” said Espasian firmly. “Can you imagine what would happen if Thoth caught up with them? Out there on the wastes? They’d be defenceless.”

  “But you’re in no fit state!” exclaimed Bowe.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Espasian, you can barely walk!”

  “And yet look what he did,” came a deep voice from behind.

  Everyone turned.

  A giant figure mounted the steps towards them. He had bushy brown hair, a great mane of a beard and a bear-like build made all the more imposing by thick leather armour on his shoulders, chest and flanks. It was the armour of a Spoorrunner.

  His face was set and stern, but as he reached them it broke into a guarded smile.

  “I will walk with you, Espasian,” said Bayleon, extending a hand.

  The General hunched over the feasting table, tapping a claw impatiently on the wooden surface. He had no appetite. How could he eat at a time like this?

  He threw himself back in his chair and raised his massive arms behind his head. His canine eyes travelled around the field tent: over the banquet of meats, the empty seats around the table, the entrance flapping in the wind and then out on to the hillside.

  Where the hell were they?

  He heaved himself to his feet, ornate armour clattering as he rose. He threw his clawed fists behind his back and paced up and down the tent, his wolfish muzzle hanging low and trailing drool. It was not the feast that made him salivate: it was the promise of battle. He could smell it now. War was so close he could almost taste the blood.

  Then one of the sentries ducked inside the tent.

  “Sir, they’re here,” it growled in the language of the Ghor. “Lord Grak is outside.”

  “What took him so long?” snapped the General.

  “They had casualties, sir.”

  The General grunted his disapproval. “Show him in.”

  The sentry took its leave and moments later a giant figure stepped inside. It bowed deeply, revealing a high, crested mane.

  “Great Lord,” it said.

  The General waved impatiently. “Were you successful?”

  Lord Grak stood to his full, intimidating height, showing his muscular chest, broad shoulders and scarred face: half man, half hound.

  “Yes, sir. We have the weapon.” He lifted the steel case at his side, turning it to reveal the yellow and black symbol on its side: three black segments radiating from a single point.

  The General eyed the case. “You’re sure? It seems … small.”

  “The rest will be built,” said Lord Grak. He prodded the case with a claw. “But this is where the power lies.”

  The General growled, the fur rising on his mane.

  “Good,” he snarled. “And the scientists?”

  “All as the Dirgh commanded. They are in the stockade. We’ll soften them up and then get them to work.”

  The General strode forward then, snatching up a half-plucked chicken from the table and ripping it in two.

  “You have done well, Grak,” he said, chewing and walking towards the entrance. “Come, address the troops with me.” He tossed half the chicken to Lord Grak.

  Grak caught the half-carcass in his jaws and devoured it with a snap, then licked his lips. He snatched up a skinned rabbit and followed the General.

  “I lost forty in New York,” he said at his commander’s shoulder. “Good fighters, all of them.”

  “Only forty?” scoffed the General, drawing back the flaps of the tent.

  They strode out into the wind and made their way between rows of saluting officers until the hillside opened before them. The ground fell away to a vast, open landscape, spanning in all directions. Before them, at the bottom of the hill, was something extraordinary.

  It was a gigantic oblong enclosure, bordered on all four sides by colossal uprights of stone. It was so immense that a haze almost obscured its furthest reaches, but its sides were as straight and true as the New York blocks on which they were modelled. Between the mighty stones was a shifting sea, not liquid but rippling nevertheless with muscle and sinew and steel.

  “Forty is a drop in the ocean,” said General Hakka, First Lord of Horugur.

  With that he lifted Grak’s arm in the air and with it, the steel case.

  Instantly there was a roar from the assembled thousands, and the sea became a tempest of raised fists and swords and spears, of gnashing teeth and flailing tails. Myriad flags were lofted in the air, bearing the emblems of countless regiments of all of Thoth’s creations: the Ghor, the Hamajaks, the Ragers, the Vyrkans, the Slithen and many others besides. And between each of these flags were standards in red, bearing a simple image: the empty face of Thoth, with hollow eyes and mouth.

  Grak grinned with jagged teeth. “When do we go?”

  “Tonight,” said the General.

  They exchanged a smile and then both arched their backs and lent their howls to the cries of war.

  “Gather the lost and gather the damned,

  Gather the Suhl, for here we will stand.”

  “COME ON,” SAID ASH, taking Naeo gently by the elbow. “Let’s walk – they want us outside.”

  Naeo was relieved that he was there to tell her what to do next. She stirred for the first time since Mr Zhi had spoken his last words, pushed herself up on to her feet and then, without thinking about it, she gave a slight bow. It was what the Merisi had done and it seemed right.

  As they walked away they passed the tangle of roots, earth and metal that now cocooned Scarpia. Somewhere deep in its centre they heard muffled snarls and the impact of her thrashing limbs. Naeo was glad to see a small group of Merisi standing guard, wearing their gloves in readiness.

  Just then another of the Merisi approached from the direction of the waterfall. Ash recognised her as the oriental woman from the meeting, the one called Kasumi. She was carrying what looked to be a fine circular necklace made of a metal that glowed in the sunlight. She nodded politely as she passed and continued purposefully towards Scarpia.

  Ash and Naeo exchanged an intrigued glance and they watched to see what would happen next. When Kasumi reached the guards she handed one of them the necklace, pulled on her green glove and then, with great care, started to climb t
he mound. When she was near its top, she turned back and took the necklace. Then she looked at each of her colleagues in turn.

  “Ready?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  They all nodded.

  She transferred the necklace to her gloved hand and drew a deep breath.

  “Now!” she cried.

  Seeming to sense danger, Scarpia suddenly struck out at her bonds, making the mound shudder and shake, but the Merisi had already stepped in closer, their heads bowed in concentration, gloved hands extended. At the same moment, Kasumi thrust the necklace down into the heap. She was wrenched forward so that her upper body disappeared entirely and, for a moment, it looked as though she might be dragged in. There were snarls and shouts from within and leaves and branches flew up in the air. Then Kasumi cried out and everything fell still.

  Scarpia’s growls and screams died away and all that could be heard was a complaint in feminine tones. The mound ceased its quivering and then something strange and magical began to happen: the roots and branches began to peel away, reeling back from the tangle. Kasumi raised her head, revealing three deep scratches across her cheek. But she did not pause to nurse them – instead she quickly clambered down off the shifting pile.

  She shot a triumphant glance at her fellow Merisi. “Let’s see how the cat likes its collar,” she said.

  As stems and leaves retreated, a figure began to appear, a figure with jet-black hair that crept down over a fine-featured face, with tapering eyes, one of which looked less than human. But even as they watched, the fur seemed to recede a little across the face, revealing dry and pinched skin, scarred by terrible burns. The cat’s eye slowly closed, the eyelid wrinkled and scarred. Scarpia cried out in anguish, not a bestial snarl but rather her own voice, the voice Nature had given her.

  “You have nothing to fear!” shouted Kasumi over the shrieks. “You are wearing a band of quintessence. It will do no more than return you to yourself!”

  And then, as the final twisted branch released her, Scarpia raised her scarred hands – claws no longer. She pulled at the necklace, which had drawn tight about her neck like a choker. But the more she pulled, the more it seemed to tighten, stifling her cry, and she quickly gave up her struggle.

  She lowered her head until she regained her breath and then looked up. Her disfigured face turned about, looking hatefully at her captors. And then she looked beyond, across the glade, at Naeo. She tilted her head a little to one side, her good eye travelling, taking in every feature. When finally she spoke, it was with her old voice – not a feline purr, but a purr nevertheless.

  “A saviour of worlds?” she sneered. “You can’t even save an old man!”

  Ash linked arms with Naeo. “Come on,” he said, drawing her away. “Let’s go outside.”

  Naeo held Scarpia’s glare for a moment, but then allowed Ash to lead her down the slope.

  Scarpia heaved at her restraints. “This world is already lost!” she cried. “You’ll see! Soon Thoth will reveal his great design! Then you will bow! Then you will weep!”

  Ash squeezed Naeo’s arm. “Keep walking.”

  “You won’t even make it back to Salsimaine!” Scarpia called after her. “You’re no match for the Priest of all our Souls!”

  Naeo slowed her step. Ash tried to keep her moving, but she freed her arm and whirled about.

  Scarpia gave a maniacal laugh. “You do, don’t you? You actually think you stand a chance!”

  Afterwards, Naeo was unsure why she had said it. It was a feeling rather than a thought.

  It was an absolute absence of doubt. A quiet certainty so clear and true that it might shake the foundations of the world.

  “I know I do,” she said.

  The grin fell slowly from Scarpia’s face. Her good eye narrowed. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because of Sylas,” said Naeo. “Because I’m not alone.”

  “I can’t,” said Sylas. “I’d like to come, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?” asked Bayleon, frowning. “We could use you out on the Barrens.”

  “Because of Naeo,” said Sylas. “We said we’d meet back at the valley as soon as we could and decide what to do next.”

  Espasian bowed his head. “You’re right, Sylas, you must continue your journey – we’ll only slow you down.” He tensed a little and glanced at Bayleon. “Much as I hate to disagree with my friend the Spoorrunner.”

  “It’s never stopped you before,” grunted Bayleon, and then his expression softened. “But yes, I’m sure we’ll fare well enough without you, Sylas. After all, we have a worthy Magruman to keep us safe.”

  Espasian gave a playful bow. “And an esteemed Spoorrunner to show us the way.”

  “Well you will have to make do without a Scryer,” said Bowe. “I don’t think I have the strength to walk the Barrens.”

  Espasian smiled and nodded. With that all of the companions reluctantly bid each other farewell, hardly believing that they must part after such a brief reunion. Espasian grasped Sylas by the shoulders and to the boy’s surprise, drew him close.

  “You’ve already done more than any of us could have asked, Sylas,” he murmured. “See you at the valley. Then you can tell me about Isia. I’m very, very intrigued.”

  He smiled, turning to shake Bowe’s hand.

  Simia meanwhile had thrown her good arm around Bayleon and buried her face in his chest.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, child,” said Bayleon, placing a large hand on top of her head. “They’d have caught me anyway and you got Sylas to safety, which is what matters. And look what you’ve done since. It’s a miracle!”

  She looked up at him and when she saw earnestness, she smiled. “We haven’t done too badly, have we?”

  “Not badly at all.” He ruffled her hair. “Now just get on and finish the job!”

  And so all too soon, Sylas and Simia said goodbye and began making their way slowly and unsteadily back down the steps. The crowds parted before them, whispering about the two children who seemed so friendly with the Magruman, staring with interest at the boy he had embraced.

  As they reached the bottom of the steps, Espasian’s voice boomed, echoing loudly around the square.

  “Listen well, my friends!” he bellowed. “It fills me with great joy to see you here, beneath the sky, free at last. But we must not linger. It is not safe. Those of you who are well enough to walk a distance must come with me. We will stop for Salve and refreshment in the slums, and then we will walk on, to the Valley of Outs!”

  There was a rumble of excitement around the square.

  “Those of you who cannot travel so far must take a different path,” he continued. “You must follow young Sylas and Simia here.” He pointed in their direction and all in the square turned to look. “They will take you to safety. There will be a short walk, so those who are able must help those who are not.”

  He paused as the air was filled with murmurings and the sound of people hauling themselves to their feet or helping others to do the same.

  “Best of luck, my friends!” he shouted over the hubbub. “We will meet again in the valley!”

  This time there was a chorus of hopeful and excited cries, of “Good lucks” and “Farewells”, of “Isia watch over you!” and “Long live Espasian!”

  Then a single voice rose up – louder and more resonant than all the others. It was a deep baritone singing a slow, haunting melody:

  “In far lands of dark and high lands and low,

  I hear songs of a place where none ever go …”

  Sylas looked about for the owner of the voice and saw Bayleon leading Espasian down the steps, his burly shoulders carrying the Magruman’s weight with ease. His head was high and his mouth wide.

  “… Locked in the hills, ’midst green velvet folds,

  A treasure more precious than gem-furnished gold …”

  Even before he and Espasian reached the bottom step, the assembly had taken up the song, their dry, unpractised voices
managing little more than husky whispers, but together, they made a rousing, unearthly sound. Bowe too had found his voice, and as he and his helpers joined Sylas and Simia, he led his fellow Suhl in song:

  “… For there dwell the Suhl, the last broken band,

  There dwell the lost and there dwell the damned.

  Tis their fortress, their temple, their garden of grace,

  Their last earthly haven, their glorious place.”

  So it was that Bayleon and Espasian made their way from the square towards the slums, and Sylas and Simia and Bowe led their following in the opposite direction, carried forward on the strains of an ancient song. Despite its sadness, it seemed to give the Suhl new life and hope, to lift their tired and ailing limbs for one last effort. The song rose among the sounds of the storm, filling the streets and passageways, halls and bedchambers, waking any citizen of Gheroth who still slumbered. It swept through the grand entrance of the Dirgheon and crept along deserted corridors, up dank stairwells, into empty cells and silent galleries. It whispered into Thoth’s library and murmured in the Apex Chamber, caressing the pool of Black until it stirred and bubbled.

  “In far lands of dark and high lands and low,

  I hear songs of a place where none ever go;

  Twixt Nature’s fair arms and held to Her breast,

  ’Neath the smiling moon and the sun’s warming crest:

  A valley of comfort, of gifts full and fair,

  Born of the earth and the rains and the air.

  And here rest the Suhl, the lost and the damned,

  Here is their haven, their one promised land.”

  As Sylas walked along the canal towards Ending’s Gate, he found himself sharing a grin with Simia. He turned briefly to see the long line of struggling, limping, lurching figures making their way along the towpath, their faces bright and animated, singing as they came. They sang as though the song were their anthem, as though they finally had a home to go to. Nearest of them all was Bowe, his great bulk supported by two older men but his face joyful, tears in his eyes.

  Leading Naeo’s father to freedom, leading the Suhl to new hope, Sylas felt full and free. The song swelled around him and, for that moment at least, he allowed himself to believe that all was well.