Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  He flailed about, trying to tear himself free, but there was nothing to cling to. He tried to scream, but he had no voice.

  Then, as quickly as it had entered him, he felt it sliding away, pulling at his organs as it released him: slowly, reluctantly. He felt his teeth being drawn towards the back of his head, his tongue straining towards his throat, his eyes pressing into his skull. He had the strangest sense that his very thoughts were being raked from his mind, as though whatever was in him was trying to gather them up.

  He staggered forward and as he did so he saw Simia fall on to her hands and then crumple into the dust, her limbs limp.

  “Simsi!” he cried.

  He turned towards her, taking her under the arms, but as he did so he was struck again, this time in his side. The cold moved more quickly than before, surging into his body, knocking the wind from his lungs. He let go of her shoulders just as he felt the emptiness claw into his mind. This time it swamped every part of him, seeping into thoughts and feelings.

  And then a light burst out of nowhere, making him heave his heavy arms to protect his face. It bathed the swamp in a wide orange halo, burning into the night, driving back the darkness. Through his fingers he saw a ball of fire hovering above the ground, flames licking around its edges and sparks leaping from its surface. He could feel its warmth on his face, banishing the cold from his cheeks. At the same time the thing inside him seemed to recoil and shift, as though trying to find a place to hide. His heart shuddered and his lungs turned in his chest and then, in a dragging motion that drew him upwards, the thing rose through his shoulders and his skull, tearing at his thoughts as it passed.

  Finally, miraculously, it let go. He slumped forward on to his hands, taking great gasps of the freezing air, trying not to be sick. He turned to see Simia next to him, her face ashen and expressionless as she did her best to stand up, then fell again. He looked back towards the fading light and saw Triste standing beneath the fire, legs braced wide and arms aloft, his face contorted with pain. Between his hands he held a bundle of wood and brush that writhed with flame, spitting angrily at the night and crackling as it burned. Sparks fell on to his shoulders and glistening head, burning cruelly as they touched his skin.

  “Run!” bellowed the Scryer. “Follow the fire!”

  He rotated his shoulders and extended his arms and suddenly a tongue of flame burst from the side of the blazing orb, snaking out into the blackness. It struck the top of a nearby stump, setting it alight, and then careered onwards, carving through the night.

  They hesitated.

  “GO!” cried Triste, “before they take us all!”

  For a moment Sylas and Simia looked at one another. Then they ran. They ran with leaden limbs, still frozen to the core, with unruly legs that hardly seemed part of them any more. They ran blindly, wildly, with eyes only for the trail of fire, trying not to think of what crawled through the dark around them. The tentacle of flame fizzed and crackled, spat and snarled as if it were lashing the dark, but to Sylas and Simia it was a friend at their shoulder, leading them on, lighting their way. They ran so close to it that its heat seared their skin and its light blinded them, but they never drew away. What lay beyond was far, far worse. When Simia fell, Sylas pulled her to her feet and when Sylas stumbled, she hauled him on.

  As they ran the tongue of fire became a tendril and the tendril became a trace. It flickered ever more dimly as it curled through the darkness, casting less and less light. And then they saw its end, flicking like a serpent’s tail.

  Sylas felt a surge of panic – surely they hadn’t run far enough? And as though in answer, he heard another whisper somewhere behind: harsh and ghoulish. His heart began to fail, when suddenly he remembered Triste’s words on the river: “Keep your tricks to yourself until you really need them.”

  He cast his hand out towards the finger of light, closing his eyes, searching for the flames. At first he flailed in the darkness and cold, but then he felt them, burning through his veins, flickering in his mind’s eye: weak and failing, but there. He caught them up, nurturing their light and heat, gathering them in his chest before sending them out, along his arm, his hand, his fingertips, out into the night. He opened his eyes and saw the trail of fire flare and spark, twist and stretch. For an instant it pulled itself thin and bright, surging on and on.

  And then, suddenly, it went out.

  They both drew up panting then whirled about, peering into the night.

  “You’ve put it out!” cried Simia.

  Sylas whirled about, looking for the flames. “I thought … I thought I could—”

  “You can’t make fire where there isn’t any!” she snapped. “That isn’t how Essenfayle works!”

  The darkness drew in upon them, threatening them from every side, leaving them open and defenceless. They expected the whispers at any moment: the chill against their skin, at their throats, around their hearts.

  But as they paced about they realised that something else had changed. The ground underfoot was firmer and dryer, and they could no longer smell the damp and rot of the swamp, just the faintest smell of burning and dust.

  “We’re on the Barrens,” panted Simia. “Triste found the way!”

  “Will they follow us?”

  “Not if we can make a new fire!”

  He heard her scrabbling around in the dust and then the clatter of wood against wood. He bent down, laying his hands quickly on a piece of driftwood.

  “What about Triste?” he hissed.

  “The Kraven will have him by now!” said Simia, her voice full of fear. “We’re his only hope!”

  They scrambled through the blackness, pulling at dead roots, chafing their hands on rocks, listening without wanting to hear, knowing that the whispers were not far away. And then Sylas saw a flash in the night – a flintlock spark illuminating Simia’s terrified face. He staggered over to her and dumped his sticks just as the tinder took. There was a momentary flare and then the tiniest, most delicate flame sprang up. It was no larger than a fingernail, but their lives depended on it.

  They gathered around, shielding it from any breath of wind. Slowly – too slowly – it took, snaking through the dead grass and twigs, blooming into life. They nursed it, laying twigs gently, tenderly over the growing flames.

  Sylas glanced up. “I feel …” he stopped, trying to control his chattering teeth. “I feel … dead, inside.”

  “That’s the Kraven,” said Simia, shivering and turning to look out into the darkness. “That’s what they do. They steal your life away.”

  “What are they?”

  He saw her face crumple as she fought back her tears. He reached out, but she pushed his hand away.

  “I’m all right,” she said firmly. “But Triste! He’s out there on his own! With them!”

  Sylas laid more wood on the fire, feeling the first warmth from its flames.

  “What is it he’s up against, Simsi?” he asked, as calmly as he could. “What are they?”

  There was a brief silence. “Dead people.”

  “The Kraven do not see and they do not hear. They do not feel, or think, or do. All that they are is stolen.”

  IT WAS A COLD that pained the limbs and froze the air in her lungs. It surged upwards, curling icicle fingers around her throat, and then it started to squeeze. When her eyes flicked open she knew it was no dream, for there were the fingers, giant and marble-white. Her mouth gaped wide, somewhere between a gasp and a scream, and then it came: an avalanche of air cascading into her aching chest, filling her with a sudden explosion of life.

  Then she saw a shadow above her.

  “Are you OK?” It was Ash’s voice and it was full of concern. “You’re white as a witch’s frock!”

  He took her by her collar and pulled her out from under the broken hand of Merimaat’s statue, where they had decided to make their bed for the night.

  Naeo’s chest heaved and she panted violently, trying to force air into her lungs. She felt the pain c
lawing through her back, rippling through the black scar.

  “So c-c-cold!” she gasped.

  Ash felt her hand and looked shocked. He glanced over at the fire, but it had almost died and they had no more wood. He grabbed his rucksack.

  “Last time I did this I got into a whole heap of trouble,” he mumbled, grabbing a large stone and planting it in front of Naeo. He parted her curtain of hair and winked at her. “But what’s a bit of Kimiyya between friends?”

  He spooned something from a jar on to the stone, sprinkled it with a little ash from the fire and then cupped his hands on either side. The substance on the rock hissed and then spat out a puff of acrid smoke before bursting into a piercing white flame.

  “Easy as that,” he said, proudly. “Mustard … tastes good, saves lives.”

  The small flame grew and gave off a burst of radiant heat. Naeo shuffled closer.

  “So are you sick?” he asked, putting his blanket over her shoulders. “Is it your back?”

  Naeo shook her head, her teeth chattering. She swallowed to regain her voice. “No … not really. This is different. I feel so cold. So … dark.” She looked up at Ash. “I’m frightened this time … for Sylas.”

  “You think something’s happened to him?”

  “I know it has.”

  Ash searched her face, hoping she would say more, but she just looked blank and dazed.

  They sat quietly, staring into the white flame. Naeo slowly began to feel the heat penetrating her icy skin, restoring the barest traces of pink to her cheeks. The pain in her back started to ease, returning to the usual, bearable ache.

  Finally Ash drew a breath and turned to Naeo.

  “Well, we just have to carry on. Triste knows what he’s doing,” he said, sounding rather like he was trying to reassure himself as much as Naeo. “I’m sure they’ll be OK. My job is to worry about you, and you need to get moving – a bit of hiking should warm you up.”

  Naeo looked unsure.

  Ash thought for a moment and then narrowed his eyes. “OK, you’re right, let’s stay here for a while,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. “We should get you warmed up first.”

  Naeo pushed his arm away and heaved herself to her feet. “No … thanks. I’m OK. Let’s just go.”

  Ash smiled to himself and began packing away their belongings.

  The chill climbed Sylas’s spine. “Dead people?”

  Simia was still facing away from him, looking out into the night, searching for any sign of Triste.

  “People who died in the Reckoning,” she said. “On the Barrens.”

  “They’re still here?”

  “Some of them. Less and less these days. We were unlucky to run into them.”

  “The Kraven,” murmured Sylas, still finding it hard to believe what Simia had told him.

  “There are lots of names for them, but Kraven is the one that’s stuck.”

  “What … other names?”

  Simia turned back to him, her face still a ghastly shade of white. “Wraiths, spectres, ghosts …”

  “Ghosts?” murmured Sylas. “You’re saying that ghosts are real?”

  “Very real.”

  Suddenly there was a noise out in the darkness. A quiet, almost inaudible wheeze followed by a deep groan.

  Without breathing they inched closer to the fire, waiting for the voices and the cold.

  Then again, a deep groan.

  They exchanged a glance.

  Sylas grabbed Simia’s arm. “Get ready to—”

  But he was cut short, because suddenly there was movement – a shifting of shadows. Then footsteps – heavy and faltering – coming towards them.

  When the wraith appeared, its large body was stooped forward, bent almost double; its limbs flailed wide, its clammy white skin glistened in the firelight. But it did not whisper. It was silent. And it looked at them with wide, tear-filled eyes. Then they saw more eyes, tattooed across its naked scalp.

  “Triste!” they cried in unison.

  The Scryer stepped into the halo of light, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he simply exhaled, pitched forward and fell at their feet.

  The Ghor commander stood quietly, dutifully, its giant head held high, its mighty shoulders snapped back to attention. It stood so still that it barely seemed to breathe, its muscular, fur-clad limbs held tightly to its sides. It was able to stay in this stance for hours, days if necessary. But it was ready to rouse itself to arms in an instant. It was all in the training. And the breeding.

  But while its body was still, its blue, almost-human eyes were lively and sharp, passing along the long rows of books, reading their spines: the titles and authors, written in hieroglyphs, cartouches, runes and letters; in Egyptian, Greek, Persian, English and other languages it did not know. And here, in Thoth’s library, it need never look at the same book twice. The shelves disappeared into the darkness above and into the gloom on both sides. The bookcase was vast, limitless: a repository for all books written by all hands of all ages. The commander marvelled at the omniscience of its master, at the magnificence of his intellect: so many of these volumes scribed by his very own hand. The scribe to the gods themselves.

  How proud it was to serve.

  “You are loyal, Anubikan,” rasped the voice of many, echoing down the corridor of books. “I shall reward your devotion one day. I shall show you a book from the Beginning. A book that tells of the very first of your kind. The god in whose image you were created.”

  The commander allowed itself a twitch of the neck, a glance towards its master.

  “My Lord,” it growled, with a slight bow.

  Its master had promised this many times, a fact both knew all too well, and yet each time it was a new gift, a new joy. Its reverent eyes traced its master’s seated form. That bony, frail figure, which would be nothing without the folds of its cloak. It watched the skeletal fingers guide the quill with expert ease, the curling fingernails and discoloured fingertips stained by the flow of lifetimes of ink, ages of wisdom. It peered into the darkness of the hood, trying to glimpse the beauty of its master’s face: that face of all men, but so much greater than them all.

  “I shall be with you in a moment,” boomed Thoth, as though aware of the admiring gaze.

  Of course he was aware. Anubikan fixed its eyes ahead, reproaching itself for disturbing its master. It bit its tongue angrily until it tasted blood.

  Several minutes passed before Thoth finally spoke.

  “You have something to tell me.”

  The commander snapped its snout up in the air, stiffening its limbs until they burned. “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Well, go on.”

  “Your carriage is ready and the Hund have been despatched ahead. The other Dirghea will be readied for you well before your arrival.”

  There was a brief silence. “Yes, that is as I instructed,” said Thoth with a note of impatience. “What else?”

  Anubikan cleared its throat with a hacking growl. “It seems the Scryer was telling the truth about the child’s mother. She must be dead. She is not in the cells, we are sure of it, and none of our spies have seen her among the Suhl scum.”

  “The slums?”

  “Nothing, my Lord. We have searched them thoroughly.”

  “No one knows anything? You’re certain of it?”

  “Yes, my Lord. We made an example of some of them to be sure. Nothing. The only slave who had heard of her said she was dead.”

  “Let me speak to the slave.”

  Anubikan shifted uncomfortably. “My Lord, she died. Under interrogation.”

  There was an extended quiet, a quiet that set the commander on edge.

  “She was convincing, my Lord. The mother is dead.”

  “You had better hope so,” snapped the Priest of Souls.

  The commander swallowed and clicked its heels.

  “And there is no more word about this book? The book
they call the Samarok?”

  Anubikan shook its head. “Sorry, my Lord, no. We interrogated several of the Scribes as you instructed, but they claim to know nothing of its contents.”

  “Indeed …” muttered Thoth, sounding unconvinced.

  “One suggested that it was not of this world. That it is from the Other.”

  “No doubt,” growled Thoth, “but I would still have it. Such a book should be here, in my library.”

  “Yes, my Lord. We will find it, my Lord.”

  “Leave me now, Anubikan,” breathed Thoth. “I have one more thing to do before we leave.”

  Anubikan bowed deeply and heaved its powerful limbs into motion, striding towards the great brass doors.

  “Do you know the name of the book I will show you? The book of your ancestor?”

  Anubikan turned on its heel and shook its head. “No, my Lord.” In truth, it did. Its master had told him the name many times, at moments such as this. Moments of displeasure.

  Thoth raised his hooded head and turned, showing the barest trace of a pallid cheek.

  “The Book of the Dead.”

  “The law of the Passing is simple: never look back. Your way is onwards now; on, into another world.”

  With a hey-ho and an open yawn,

  We’ll wander out this morning!

  Singing hey-ho to the scarlet dawn,

  Among the birds a-calling!

  And a hey—

  “ASH.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have to?”

  “I thought it would cheer you up.”

  “It doesn’t. It makes me feel worse.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “No accounting for taste,” muttered Ash.

  They had been walking for what seemed like hours, though they had no way to tell how long for sure. The sun was still not up and they knew that, even when it was, it would be shrouded in grey. Naeo’s limbs were still leaden, but they had been warmed a little by the trudge. Ash had been right about that – it had been best to get moving.