Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  He knew this storm.

  He felt the thunder in the pit of his stomach, the lightning in his veins, the rain pricking like sweat. But most of all, he felt its winds. He breathed them into his lungs until they buffeted his ribcage, until they became his breath, until they were his and he was theirs.

  And then something slammed into his side, knocking those winds from his lungs. He felt his bones twist, his muscles strain to snapping point. As his back arched painfully towards the sky, he looked down and saw a fiery crest and two gigantic horns slide beneath his arms. The Rager gave a triumphant snort and then, with a flick of its mighty neck it launched him somersaulting into the night. The force almost ripped Sylas’s head from his shoulders, his limbs flailing as though he were a rag doll. In the passing blur he saw Simia sliding face-down over the flagstones, the hellish army closing in on her.

  And then the ground came rushing up. He threw out an arm to protect himself, but too late: the white stone crashed into his shoulder as he fell heavily on to his back. Pain exploded through him, making him cry out.

  He could hear the charge of the Rager, the roar of the army, the thunder of foot and claw.

  No time for pain. No time to think.

  He was vaguely aware of Simia somewhere near, but he didn’t look at her. No time even for her. His eyes were ahead, gazing up at the night sky. Into the storm.

  He forced everything from his mind. Everything but the storm.

  And when there was only the storm, he found it waiting for him.

  He closed his eyes and imagined himself above the clouds, where the storm was the strongest, where the winds reigned supreme. Then he breathed them in, spinning countless gusts and gales into a whirling vortex of apocalyptic power.

  And then he exhaled.

  The winds came with a full-throated yowl. They crashed down from above, slamming into the ground and wrapping Sylas and Simia in a wailing, raging calamity. It tore their clothes and whipped at their hair. And then gently lifted them on to their feet.

  Its fury, it saved for Thoth’s army.

  When Sylas looked about, he saw writhing streaks of shape and light: a dizzying torrent of motion. It was everything he had imagined: a vast whirlwind, fierce and wild, and he and Simia were at its heart.

  He saw the Ghorhund sucked into the tornado of dust and cloud and for an instant they were suspended, claws outstretched, fangs bared. But then they were hurled to the side, whipped around in a vicious spiral. They sailed up, circling and screaming as they were swallowed by the storm.

  Sylas was thrilled and horrified as the charging army of Hamajaks, Ghor, Ragers and Tythish ran headlong into the winds. When they struck the whirlwind, it warped and stuttered but raged on, consuming them, throwing them up in the endless churn. Tusk-like teeth punched through, forcing Simia to duck and shove Sylas out of the way, but even as they both staggered back, the Hamajak issued a terrified scream. In a blink it was gone, whipped up in the broth of limbs.

  As more and more beasts threw themselves at the winds, Sylas felt his own breath pummelled from his lungs. The tunnel of wind slewed and lurched like a wild spinning top and where it bent and bulged a forest of limbs broke through.

  “Down!” he cried, pulling Simia to her knees as the claws swiped overhead. She squealed as a Rager burst into the eye of the storm, its horns flailing just inches above them. They both fell on their backs, staring wide-eyed into the throat of the winds, watching as the Rager spiralled slowly into the skies. Sylas closed his eyes, desperately trying to gather his thoughts, to return to the winds. For a moment all he could think of was the stone rumbling beneath him, the beasts closing around him.

  “You’re losing it, Sylas!” screamed Simia at his ear.

  He blocked out the squeals and huffs and screams. He forgot the pounding of his heart. He thought only of the winds, of their hunger and might, of their endless, irresistible motion. Only when he truly felt them, only when he had pulled them near and made them his again, did he dare to open his eyes. He looked up into the silvery tunnel and saw them begin to respond, shaping themselves between his outstretched hands like clay on a potter’s wheel. Soon the protruding claws and limbs were flailing once again, whipping around and around, spiralling up into the night.

  “That’s it!” cried Simia, pushing herself up on her elbows.

  Together they watched the whirlwind gather pace and strength, and as it did so its shape became clean and true: a snaking tunnel, rising high into the jostling clouds and beyond, to the wide-open sky. Finally, in the far distance, it opened to the tranquil moon, which shone down, lacing the tunnel with silver. It was like an eye peering down through the tempest, watching over them.

  The sight gave Sylas new hope. He pushed himself up and pulled Simia to her feet. Together, they looked through the walls of wind and into the square.

  They could see none of the white stone of the plaza now, nor the buildings, only a rippling sea of bodies surging towards them, pulled ever inwards by the whirlwind. None of the creatures now stood a chance, none came close to breaching the walls. Instead they were ripped up into the air, drawn up and up, high over the city until their screams were lost in the clouds.

  Simia turned and looked at Sylas with new wonder. She watched as he moulded the storm, shifting his hands to keep the vortex straight and true. He was aware of her gaze, but he did not dare return it; his thoughts were still in the body of the storm. If he could just hold himself together, it was his to command.

  “Follow me!” he yelled at Simia over the wail of the winds.

  He stepped out towards the livid wall but did not flinch, because he knew it was with him. As they walked the winds moved with them – surging forward into the sea of bodies, driving a path through arms and legs, tails and teeth. The great whirlwind caught them up, inhaling them into its mighty lungs as Sylas and Simia edged forward, drawing nearer and nearer to the shadow of the buildings on the other side. And all the while, they saw the bodies of the Ghor picked up and hurled skywards, they saw the burly forms of the Hamajaks flicked up into the air like so much litter, they saw the last Tythish and Rager sent sprawling in a tangle of limbs, only to be dropped somewhere far away, somewhere among the skeletons of the Barrens. And for a moment, it seemed it was over.

  But then came the voices of many, bellowing through the storm, echoing across the Place of Tongues.

  “Vyrkans, rise!” commanded Thoth. “Rise with the winds!”

  Sylas felt a sudden chill. And then Simia shrieked, pointing up through the tornado. Sylas followed her terrified gaze just in time to see a stream of distant bodies pass in front of the moon … then turn sharply downwards.

  The Vyrkans plummeted into the open mouth of the whirlwind. Once inside, they folded their wings and fell like arrowheads, cutting through the air, keeping clear of the walls. They grew larger and larger, until Sylas thought he could make out white faces in the blackness.

  “Sylas, do something!” screamed Simia, raising her hands to her face.

  Sylas turned his eyes around the vortex. And then he realised: it was easy for them, too easy – all the Vyrkans had to do was fall.

  He threw his hand out in front of him, forcing the whirlwind to bulge away, and then he turned on his heel, hand still outstretched, making the winds bow outwards as he went. The bulge circled before him, and as he turned ever faster the whirlwind began to warp, winding into a corkscrew. When he looked up he could no longer see the moon nor the Vyrkans, only a twisting helter-skelter of winds. The tunnel to the skies was no longer straight but a writhing snake, turning ever tighter.

  His eyes searched, looking for any sign of the Vyrkans. He expected them to erupt from the darkness any second, stealthy and fast. But then there was a movement high above, in the loops of the whirlwind. He saw black shapes careering across the sky, flung free by the tightening twists.

  It was the Vyrkans, their wings flapping uselessly as they were hurled wide of the vortex, their momentum throwing them down into
the square so that their black bodies broke on the stone, shattering the slabs.

  Still Sylas turned and turned, twisting the corkscrew, feeding the winds. He turned until the rain of Vyrkans ceased, and still he turned, afraid of opening the way to the skies. It was only when he felt Simia’s hand pulling at his arm that he slowed.

  “OK, Sylas!” she shouted over the gale. “It’s OK!”

  He drew to a halt, gasping for air, staggering with dizziness. Above him the whirlwind gradually unfurled, stretching itself straight until it once again revealed the moon, glowing serenely in an ocean of stars.

  There were no Vyrkans to be seen – only the winds and the skies.

  They both looked about them, expecting to see more of Thoth’s creatures, but all they saw was stone and brick and shattered windows.

  His arms still aloft, Sylas turned slowly and peered through the winds, across the square, to the rooftop. The great Dirgh was standing at the very edge, his hollow eyes fixed on Sylas, his robes flying about him like crimson fire. For some moments he glared in silence, and then he took another step forward until he seemed about to fall.

  He tilted his head a little to one side, as though considering an impossible riddle.

  “So you wish to live to see the end of things?” he boomed in countless hateful voices. “Then so be it! But know this: before it is done, you will see not one Undoing but five, each measured in agony and loss, each the cost of your defiance! This will be your legacy, Sylas Tate; this, your union of worlds!”

  With that he raised his arms so that his robes became a wall of silk, shrouding him from view. And he fell.

  For an impossible, thrilling moment Sylas watched Thoth, Lord of the Priests of Souls, falling to his certain death.

  But suddenly the robes were no more. Instead, he was shrouded in black: the black of leathery wings and supple limbs, of a dozen Vyrkans swarming like a plague of moths, bearing him up into the night. They swooped from all sides, from their many perches around the square, and now they were one, their wings beating to a common rhythm so that they looked part of the same colossal beast, holding its creator in careful claws. Up and up they flew, circling briefly around the Temple of Isia before disappearing into the clouds.

  For some moments Sylas stared in silence, the chill of Thoth’s presence still heavy upon him, the horrifying words still echoing in his mind. He was so consumed that he almost lowered his arms, almost let the winds falter.

  Simia stepped in front of him. She looked pale and drawn, but then he saw the trace of her fearless smile.

  “You did it!” she said. She hesitated then took a step forward. She put her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. “You really did it, Sylas!”

  He could feel her body still trembling, and then he realised that she was sobbing, openly and freely: sobs of horror and relief.

  Only then did he lower his arms from the winds and wrap them around her. “We did it, Simsi,” he said.

  Without its master, the great vortex slowed around them, becoming looser, larger, stretching out before them. The howl began to fade.

  And then, somewhere beyond, there was a snort, the thump of giant claws striking stone, the blast of nostrils.

  It came so quickly they had no time to react. The Rager erupted from the blur of winds, its scaly face raging red, its horns lowered in a thunderous charge. The remains of the winds caught it in the side, sweeping its legs from beneath it, snapping its gigantic body around and heaving it up into the air.

  Just for an instant its horns travelled on into the calm; on, towards Simia.

  Sylas pulled her away, but too late. A horn caught her shoulder, slicing through her tunic, hooking her up.

  There was a gasp. A shriek.

  And then she was gone.

  “The truth must come before all else: this is the way of the Merisi. But this kind of truth does not come without cost; these pages are written in loss and bound by Sacrifice.”

  THE GLASS WAS SO CLOSE – so fast and so close.

  It glittered as it scythed through the air, heading straight for the outstretched form of Mr Zhi.

  But then, to her astonishment, Naeo saw the downpour of glass change its path, parting above Mr Zhi’s green glove to fall either side of him. And as the deadly hail fell to the ground so did he, tumbling on to the soft turf below.

  She heaved herself up, grimacing from twinges of pain in her back, and turned to look for Mr Zhi.

  He lay splayed where he had fallen, and to her horror she saw blood soaking through his jacket. She ran over to him, her heart failing with every step.

  She reached him at the same time as Ash and they both crouched next to him. “Mr Zhi!” she panted. “Are you all right?”

  He turned away from them, seeming to pull something out from his shoulder and cast it aside, then he looked up, his old wrinkled face wet with sweat. “I’m fine. Just taken a little –” he winced and returned his hand to his shoulder – “a little by surprise.”

  He pushed himself up on to an elbow. “We seem to be out of time,” he said in an urgent voice. He looked at Naeo. “We must work together, you and I.”

  Instinctively Naeo looked desperately at the shattered dome, the burning tree, the debris all about them.

  “Trust yourself,” said Mr Zhi, touching her face. “This is your time, my child. Remember all you’ve learned, all you’ve done. That’s all any of us can ask,” he said, looking past her. “Now, I must leave you to deal with the Ray Reaper, while I face an old adversary of mine …”

  Naeo turned to follow his gaze.

  Scarpia was high in the branches of a nearby tree, prowling along a narrow branch, claws scouring the bark. Her quick, feline eyes shifted between Naeo and Mr Zhi. Her lips parted and her narrow pink tongue slid across her razor-point teeth.

  Mr Zhi held his shoulder, swung into a sitting position and then, without pausing, rocked forward and rose to his feet. As he walked off towards Scarpia, he turned and said: “All that comes is meant to be. Now is a time of sacrifice.”

  Before Naeo had a chance to wonder at the meaning of the words, she heard Ash screaming, “Naeo! Behind you!”

  She snapped her head towards the centre of the dome. She saw the rainbow of fire gathered in a tight coil, writhing high above the gardens, curling like the backstroke of a whip. Even as she watched, it darted towards her, unfurling, trailing a fiery tip that fizzed and spat. Tendrils of colour became a horrifying onslaught of flame, stretching out towards her in a single blazing sinew.

  The Ray Reaper.

  “MOVE!” screamed Ash, pushing himself upright.

  But she did nothing. She was frozen to the spot. She watched the approaching fire and she hesitated. If she had any instinct to react, any gift, any calling, it had left her.

  Or perhaps it had never been there at all.

  She watched in horror as the fire came on, until she felt its blaze on her face, needling her skin, searing her eyes.

  And then she remembered.

  She remembered this heat.

  She saw the lattice of fire in the Dirgheon, twisting and turning above her head. She saw Sylas standing next to her, with her, his strength becoming hers, hers becoming his. And suddenly she remembered how that felt: that quiet, knowing certainty. That absence of doubt. That power.

  And that was when she lifted her hand, as though to protect her face from the blinding heat.

  The band of coloured flames reached out, seeming certain to find its mark. But then it halted. It hung in the air before Naeo’s hand so that it made her open palm smart. But she was not frightened. She knew this fire. It was the fire of the sun, the natural sun, of the painted colours of the rainbow. She knew it, and it was part of her.

  She turned her hand and the weave of colours twisted before her. She raised her hand, and the trail of fire rose with it. She gathered her strength and then swept her arm down, starting a ripple in the length of light: a ripple that became a wave, surging back along its le
ngth up into the great space beneath the dome and then down towards its end. There, the barely visible Ray Reaper watched with surprise as the curl of beams hurtled back towards it. Moments later the end of the glowing twine bucked, leaping high into the air and snapping back on itself with a deafening electric crack. As a blaze of coloured fire erupted from the rainbow, the Ray Reaper fell backwards through the glass, suddenly engulfed in flame. Naeo heard the creature screech and wail as it disappeared from sight.

  And then, wrenched free of the Ray Reaper’s grip, the writhing twine began to float upwards, paling as it went, its colours losing their garish glow. Naeo let it drift from her fingertips, allowing the weave of light to rise into the void: to once again become an arc, and then a rainbow.

  “How … how did you do that?” It was Ash, standing unsteadily at her side, his clothes still smoking and his cheek and neck a livid pink.

  “Essenfayle, of course,” said Naeo, with a brief smile.

  But there was no time to celebrate, as suddenly they heard a loud sound behind them: a screech and a bang. They turned to see Mr Zhi still walking towards Scarpia, his gloved hand held high. And then they saw why.

  The metalwork of the broken dome was buckling and, one by one, the struts were snapping loose, turning in the air and then plummeting to the ground. Scarpia was in the tree, shifting from branch to branch, using one clawed hand and her long, snaking tail to direct her assault. By some feat of Urgolvane, as her tail flicked, the steel of the dome squealed and broke, sending down length after length of steel scything down like spears, their twisted tips cleaving the air, heading straight for Mr Zhi.

  But Mr Zhi did not slow his steady march towards the trees. His gloved hand darted about his head, its movements smooth and fluid – like in a dance or martial art – and his fingers opened and closed: grasping and releasing, grasping and releasing. Something about the glove seemed to unpick Scarpia’s sorcery, because in response the steel spears checked in the air before they even reached him, changing direction and sinking harmlessly into the turf at his sides.