The Circle of Stone (Darkest Age)

by A. J. Lake

  DARKEST AGE BOOK THREE

  THE CIRCLE OF STONE

  A. J. LAKE

  SPECIAL THANKS TO LINDA CAREY

  For Mike: first, last and always

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Prologue

  In a cave underground, the dragon Torment brooded.

  He had no lair now. He had lived all his long life in the mountain that had birthed him, the rocks groaning in agony as he burst from them. He had rested in the high caves, preyed on the creatures that lived on the mountain’s slopes, and flown through the flaming crevasse at its heart, to do the bidding of the one who had summoned him. Now master and mountain were gone. The caves of his home were red-hot slag and grey ash, and Torment, damaged and half blinded, had fled from the dreadful heat to this low, cramped place. It had held some of the little ice creatures once, and Torment made them his prey...

  He roared, and the sound brought snow thumping down outside the cave entrance. His lair was gone, the prey had all disappeared, and everywhere the rock was hot and painful even for him to touch. But that was not the worst. The voices were still with him. They were silent now, but he could feel them curled up in his head, waiting to call on him again. In another place, the ice dragon slept, enfolding a hill like a white cloak. Her great shoulders twitched, scattering rocks down the slopes, as she dreamed of flight – the winds rolling around her; the white fields stretching away below.

  She was dreaming about the last time she had tasted the snow-wind and felt the air swell beneath her wings. There had been another dragon: she had swatted it down. There had been fire, coming suddenly out of the air as she tried to rest, and nearly engulfing her – but her wings had been powerful enough to take her far away, to a place where the snow lay undisturbed. Where was the voice in her head now, the tiny call that had woken her? It had spoken to her: pricked her out of sleep, goaded her into the air. And then it had vanished, leaving her to return to her sleep. Deep in her dreams, she wondered if she would ever hear the voice again.

  Under the heavy pall of smoke, in the fiery heart of Eigg Loki, another dragon howled.

  He was all made of fire. He had been a long time forming: countless years of close-banked rage had twisted his shape out of the heat of the earth. For a century or more his maker had been imprisoned in the caves above, and in all that time the dragon had writhed in the fires below the surface, gaining form and breath until he dreamed the burning dreams of his master. And today the dragon had awakened.

  His master was free of these cramped walls of rock. He’d broken out into the world beyond, the infinite space outside of these walls, and had already begun to split himself, spread himself, and to devour. The dragon gathered itself to follow. Nothing would exist but the glory of fire.

  He was held back. A new thought came into his mind and stuck there, like a rock that could not be burned: Not yet. Later. He thrashed and spat, straining upwards as his master shot into the air, away from him, and disappeared.

  Alone and thwarted, the fire dragon screamed, pouring his flames from the mountain until the sky above him turned black. It was not enough to burn clouds. He would burn everything, everywhere . . . when he was free.

  Chapter One

  Eigg Loki still burned. Its red light was visible through the trees, and its low thunder sounded all around them. They must be more than five leagues away by now, Edmund thought, but he could still feel the rumbling beneath his feet.

  He stopped for a moment to look back. He could no longer see the snow fields through the black trunks, but the sight of the mountain was still imprinted on his mind’s eye: the waves of molten rock pouring from it; the snow giving way before the tide of fire and clouds of ash sweeping over the land. Edmund wondered how fast those tides were moving. He and his six companions had walked across the snow for most of a day before the fire erupted, reaching the shelter of the forest not long before sunset. But there would be no more rest now. The fire was creeping towards them across the ice: the trees could not shelter them against this. Already, the lake where they had fished not three days before would have turned to steam, and then to a pit of blackened rock. He thought unhappily of Jokul-dreki, the glacier dragon who had carried him and his friends down the mountain: he had jolted her out of her sleep by picturing the destruction of her home, and now it had happened. At least he had seen the great dragon flying away. She would be safe – for now.

  ‘Come on, Edmund!’ Cathbar had come back for him, and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. The captain’s voice was urgent. ‘No standing about: those fires are moving!’

  Edmund hurried after him. They abandoned their recently gathered firewood, and loaded the water bottles on one of the two horses. The young girl from the Snowlands, Fritha, went ahead of the party, finding paths between the scaly trunks. Cluaran the minstrel and his quiet friend Ari followed her with the horses, who flattened their ears nervously. On Cluaran’s horse, his mother, Eolande, sat with her head bowed, the only member of the party seemingly unaffected by the general haste.

  Edmund walked behind, with Elspeth. She was walking as fast as the rest of them, even though her face was still pale beneath the smoke-grime, and she unconsciously nursed her wounded right hand. When he touched her arm she turned to him with a wan smile.

  ‘I was trying to hear Ioneth,’ she said. ‘I can feel her voice in my head, if I concentrate – but it’s so weak.’

  Edmund looked down at her hand, its palm marked with a livid red slash. ‘Do you think . . . Will she be able to fight, now?’

  ‘She has to.’ Elspeth’s voice was filled with determination. ‘She gave her life to make the sword! It’s the only reason we’re here. It’ll come back, and we’ll find Loki and kill him.’

  Edmund did not answer. He had been there when the crystal sword was destroyed, only a day ago, in Loki’s underground cavern. Elspeth had gone in to kill him. Instead, the demon-god had tricked her into freeing him, and the sword that should have saved them all was gone. Maybe Ioneth’s spirit still lived – he had too much faith in his friend’s good sense to think she was deceiving herself – but he had seen the blade shattering. He trudged on beside Elspeth without speaking.

  The sun had long since set, but the bloody light of the fires still followed them through the trees, and the air felt unnaturally warm. Edmund was beginning to sweat inside his thick furs. The patches of snow underfoot were giving way to damp, slippery pine needles, and melting drips from the branches above fell on to their heads.

  ‘Slow down!’ Cathbar called, ahead of them. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  Fritha came running back, her face pale – and Edmund saw what they had seen. The red light that surrounded them came from ahead now, as well as behind. At the same moment they heard the crackle of flames. Both horses whickered in panic.

  ‘We must get upwind of it,’ Cathbar said urgently, turning back the way they had come, but Fritha shook her head.

  ‘We go to the river,’ sh
e said, and started off at an angle, beckoning them to follow.

  She led them at a run through the dark trees, while the air grew hotter and the red light ahead began to flicker. The smell of smoke stung Edmund’s nose, and he heard Elspeth breathing raggedly. Ahead of them both horses were trying to break into a canter, giving little whinnies of fear, while Cluaran and Ari ran beside them, each talking to his charge in a low voice. Only Eolande, effortlessly keeping her seat on the leading horse, seemed not to have noticed the danger they were in.

  ‘It’s here,’ Fritha called over her shoulder.

  It was a stream rather than a river, not wide but deep, with stony banks sloping down on each side. The fire was visible on the far side: a yellow bank of flame in the near distance, veiled in smoke.

  ‘It’s moving away from us,’ Cathbar said. ‘Look at the trees.’

  Edmund peered into the smoky gloom, wrinkling his nose. The trees on the far side of the stream seemed oddly small and slender – and he realised they were stumps, stripped of their branches. Many seemed to have fallen, and lay in strange diagonals against the others. There were no leaves or branches to cut off their view of the fire; only bare trunks.

  ‘They’ve already burned,’ said Cathbar.

  The horses were standing still, wild-eyed and sweating, and Edmund found himself moving close to their steaming flanks, though he did not feel cold. The whole party huddled together, as if for reassurance.

  ‘This is Loki’s doing,’ Cluaran said, with certainty.

  Ari nodded. ‘Not even lightning could make a fire like this in winter,’ he said. ‘We’re lucky he started it where he did. But for that stream, it would be burning here.’

  ‘You think it was luck?’ Cluaran retorted. ‘Even weakened as he is, Loki could find us and burn us with a thought.’ He gazed bleakly at the distant flames. ‘No – he likes to play games with his enemies.’

  They stared at each other; a circle of pale faces in the red-lit gloom.

  ‘He’s somewhere in the forest, isn’t he?’ Elspeth said.

  Edmund’s throat felt tight. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘I say we let him wait for us,’ Cathbar said. ‘Stay where we are till daybreak so we can get a proper sight of him when we meet him. Besides,’ he added with a pointed glance at Eolande, ‘didn’t my lady here tell us he was strongest by night?’

  Cluaran looked thoughtful. ‘You have a point,’ he agreed. ‘His illusions may have less power by daylight, though if he chooses to use force . . .’ He let the words tail away. ‘If we are to meet him, I would rather we saw him clearly.’ He looked around the group. Ari was nodding, and Elspeth, rubbing at her hand again, made no objection. Edmund’s legs felt like water at the thought of walking through the dark towards the fire-demon, and he nodded too as Cluaran asked, ‘Are we agreed?’

  ‘No,’ Fritha said.

  She reddened a little as they all turned to look at her. ‘I mean,’ she said hesitantly, ‘you will stay here; that is good. But I will go on now.’

  Edmund saw his own consternation reflected on the faces of the others.

  ‘My home is on the other side of this river,’ Fritha said quietly. ‘I must go there and find my father.’

  She was already turning from them when Elspeth started forward, taking her by the arm. Edmund thought he saw a glint like tears in his friend’s eyes.

  ‘I’m going with you,’ she said.

  Edmund expected Cathbar to argue, but the captain nodded. ‘You’re right, girl,’ he said. ‘We owe him that much.’

  It was true, Edmund knew. Grufweld had given them hospitality he could ill afford, and allowed Fritha, his only child, to guide them on their dangerous journey. ‘I’ll come too,’ he said, though his voice sounded thin and strained.

  Cluaran exchanged a look with Ari, and sighed. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘The way should be easy to find, at least.’

  The river was barely wide enough to wet their feet, but once on the other side Edmund felt as if their last refuge had gone. Smoke curled around him, stinging his nose and eyes. The flames came no closer, but their heat and the smell of the burning hit him like a solid force. And all around them were scorched trunks, hot to the touch; some of them were crowned with dull red embers that showered sparks on the travellers as they moved through them. Cluaran and Ari led the horses at the back of the party, and the animals stepped cautiously on the hot ground, the whites of their eyes showing.

  Fritha led them swiftly, and Edmund wondered how she could find her way in this charred wilderness. Her haste infected him, and he quickened his pace, fearing every moment to come upon Grufweld’s hut and find it in flames.

  He became aware that the reddish glow around them had grown brighter, and the heat more intense. Then, from ahead, he heard the crackle of burning, louder than before – and Fritha gasped and stopped.

  She was standing at the edge of a clearing that was ringed with the blazing skeletons of wood, and charred stumps. Ash and smoke hung in the air in a thick pall, pouring from the trees whose trunks still burned. Inside the clearing the ground was black and featureless, bare of everything but ash.

  Fritha had turned, white-faced. ‘We must go on, quickly,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘Look!’

  At the far end of the clearing, maybe a hundred paces away, was a wide gap in the forest. The trees were not as badly burned here but they had fallen to right and left, leaving a broad channel like the wake of a man walking through tall grass. In his mind’s eye Edmund saw Loki, grown to giant size as he had been when they last saw the demon, standing in the midst of this devastation and laughing before setting off to leave a trail that his enemies would follow. He ran to Fritha’s side, and her horrified face told him that the trail led towards her home.

  It was agreed between them without words that they could not go through the dreadful clearing: the horses shied back if they approached it, and not one of them wanted to set foot on that blackened ground. Fritha led them in a wide circle around it, squeezing the horses between the trunks that still stood; skirting the ones that still blazed. She moved at a run, barely looking back to check that the others could follow. Both Edmund and Elspeth were breathless by the time they reached the beginning of Loki’s trail. The smell of burning was less here, and the light of the flames was behind them. But the ground was ripped and broken, and lined on both sides with twisted roots as thick as a man’s leg where the trees had been torn up and thrown aside.

  Fritha took a deep breath, before stepping on to the unnatural path. ‘Komm!’ she called, and began to run down the wide track.

  The slash in the forest canopy above their heads revealed a sky that was beginning to lighten.

  ‘It’s near morning,’ Cathbar said. ‘Or as much morning as we’re going to get. If his power is less by daylight, maybe we’ve come in good time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t rely on that,’ said Cluaran.

  Fritha had stopped ahead of them and held up a hand. She waited until they came up to her before speaking. ‘My home is near here. We must lymskast . . . go soft.’

  The swathe of torn trees ended only a hundred paces further on. The trunks closed in ahead of them again – but through them, Edmund could see weak grey light. They were at the edge of Grufweld’s clearing. His heart started to thump.

  ‘Stay close,’ Cathbar hissed – but Fritha was already rushing forward, out of the trees. Edmund and Elspeth followed close behind.

  Fritha’s home was just as he had seen it last. Edmund let out a breath he had not realised he was holding as relief washed over him.

  The snugly built hut with its wolf-hides nailed over the door, the drying-shed behind and the neatly stacked woodpile all spoke of peace and order. Even the fiery glow from the kiln where Grufweld burned his charcoal looked warm and reassuring. Edmund felt Elspeth’s grip on his arm relaxing. As the other three came out of the trees behind them, Fritha gave a cry of joy and started forward.

  The hides over the hut’s door swung
abruptly aside, and Grufweld appeared in the opening. The huge, bearded man’s face looked tired and worn, but he held out his arms in welcome to Fritha.

  ‘Come inside, quickly!’ he called. ‘There’s danger out here!’ Edmund and Elspeth followed Fritha towards the hut, and the welcoming glow of firelight within.

  A roar of fury interrupted him. From behind the charcoal-kiln a figure rose, black and shapeless, waving a fiery rod. It lumbered towards them, howling unintelligible words. Cathbar yelled and ran at it, drawing his sword.

  ‘Stop!’

  Fritha, a dozen paces from the door of her home, had stopped dead, turning to face the apparition.

  ‘Fethr?’ she stammered.

  The black figure put its hand to its head. He had been draped in thick furs, Edmund saw now – and he gasped as the man threw back his hood.

  Facing Fritha across the clearing, brandishing a charred stick like a weapon, was another Grufweld, the mirror of the man in the doorway – and with the self-same horror in his face.

  ‘It’s a trick!’ cried the first man. But Fritha was standing still, midway between the two, looking from one to the other in bewilderment.

  Cold horror took hold of Edmund. I was looking for a burning giant, he thought, and all the time he was here – Loki, in the form of Fritha’s father. But which one?

  Elspeth’s face was white and she was staring at her right hand, as if willing the sword to appear. Cluaran, Cathbar and Ari had all drawn their weapons and were looking vainly between the two Grufwelds. One of these men was their mortal enemy – but which?

  From behind him he heard Cluaran’s voice, low and choked: ‘Your skill, Edmund – use it, for pity’s sake!’

  Edmund forced his eyes shut. Even that tiny movement seemed an effort. In the welcome darkness, he felt outwards . . . and touched something huge: a wall of thick black smoke, pushing back at him. Waves of dizziness washed over him; he swayed, and felt Elspeth gripping his shoulders. ‘Try again!’ she whispered. ‘Please.’