Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  Amelie was the first to speak. “Isn’t … isn’t that where we’re going?”

  The others nodded without taking their eyes from the screen.

  “So how are we—”

  “I have no idea …” murmured Tasker.

  Suddenly the screen went off and there was a click and whirr from the direction of the cab. The glass partition slid down.

  “You need to see this, Tasker!” shouted the driver, pointing ahead.

  Everyone peered past him. The road in front curved off to the right, and just after the bend they could see scores of the uniformed figures arranged in military order across the road. They were gathered around gigantic, camouflaged vehicles, which formed a formidable barricade of steel. Each of the figures was carrying a black, stick-like weapon, which they held to their shoulders. They seemed to be pointing in the direction of the convoy. Above the roar and rumble of the cars they could hear a solitary voice, sharp and metallic, as though spoken by a machine:

  “STOP!” came the command, the voice steely and calm. “STOP YOUR VEHICLES! WE ARE AUTHORISED TO USE DEADLY FORCE!”

  All eyes turned to Tasker.

  “Keep going!” he shouted at the driver. “Radio the others! No one is to stop!”

  Amelie was horrified. “Jeremy, you can’t be serious! They’ve got TANKS! We don’t stand a chance!”

  “It’s Tasker, and I’m deadly serious!” he snapped. He looked back to the driver. “I said, tell the others!”

  The driver turned in his seat, his face ashen. “But, Boss—”

  “They’ll make way!” he shouted. “TELL THE OTHERS!”

  The driver raised a black oblong to his mouth. “We’re to keep going! He says they’ll make way!”

  They were drawing close now, the tyres screeching as they rounded the bend. They could see the soldiers’ helmets, the whites of their eyes, their glances and shifts as they realised that the convoy was not going to stop. The turrets on top of two of the giant vehicles started to swivel, pointing their long barrels at the lead cars.

  Ash turned on Tasker. “What are you doing?!” he cried. “You’re going to get us all killed!”

  Tasker held up his hand. “The flags!” he shouted. “Just wait!”

  Naeo looked from Ash to Tasker and, almost without thinking, she pushed the bootlace into her pocket and began to raise her hands. She looked out into the countryside, seeing trees and bushes, turf and hills. Essenfayle should walk, but surely there was no time.

  “STOP!” The metallic voice was no longer calm. “HALT OR WE SH—”

  There was a sudden hesitation.

  The convoy thundered on, careering towards the wall of steel.

  And then one of the military vehicles shifted, lurching on its tracks, rolling out into a field. Then the other did the same, growling off in the opposite direction. Suddenly the soldiers lowered their weapons, rose to their full height and in good order, jogged at double time to the roadside, lining up in formation. They were not running but withdrawing, responding to some unheard command.

  Naeo lowered her hands.

  Only one man remained, tall and stiff-backed in the centre of the road. As the convoy swept between the assembly of soldiers, he shouted something to his men and instantly heels were clicked and hands snapped up in salute, then he too quickly stepped to the roadside. At the instant they swept past, he stood perfectly to attention, lifted his chin and gave an unflinching salute.

  “Godspeed!” they heard him cry.

  And then they were gone, tearing out on to the open road.

  Ash peered out of the rear window then turned to look at Tasker. The two regarded each other for a moment and smiled.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ash. “I should’ve had more faith.”

  Tasker shrugged. “Ah well, trust is earned,” he said, then added: “I just hope this does it.”

  Ash laughed. “So … ‘Other friendly forces’… that guy on the television – was he talking about the Merisi?”

  Tasker nodded. “We’re known to most governments,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  Ash settled back, but Amelie looked unconvinced. “But I still don’t understand what we’re going to do when we get to the circle,” she said anxiously. “You saw the pictures – they make that roadblock look like child’s play! All those soldiers and tanks and guns! And even if we make it past them, there are those things in the middle of the circle …”

  “I know,” said Tasker, pushing himself back into his seat. “The truth is, I’m not sure what we’ll do.”

  For a long time there was silence. And then suddenly Naeo sat bolt upright.

  “I have an idea!” she cried.

  Paiscion, Sylas and Simia leaned over the railing, watching the last of the Suhl helped aboard by the crew of the Windrush. At the very back, waiting for everyone else, was Bowe, murmuring words of encouragement to the old and feeble.

  “I hope you liked the music – I chose it for the occasion,” said Paiscion, as the final strains faded and died.

  “What was it?” asked Sylas.

  The Magruman smiled. “It’s a ballet called Spartacus – do you know the name?”

  They both shook their heads.

  Paiscion filled his lungs with the damp air. “An ancient Roman warrior, who freed his people from slavery.” He turned and winked. “So, not unlike yourselves.”

  “I don’t know about that,” laughed Sylas. “It was Espasian who got everyone out.”

  “Well I’m sure he had more than a little help,” replied Paiscion. “I’ve never seen anything like that storm! We hoped that you might be able to free Bowe and a few others but this –” he swept his hand out over the Windrush – “this is beyond our wildest dreams!”

  The ship bustled with activity. The crew were leading the weakest to the many berths below and laying out mats and cushions for those strong enough to stay on deck. But what made the scene truly remarkable were the expressions on people’s faces. Eyes sparkled, heads lifted and once-weary faces shone with hope. Even here, in the heart of Gheroth, beneath the shadow of the Dirgheon, there was a sense that anything was possible.

  “Things are changing, everyone can feel it!” exclaimed Paiscion. “We could never have dreamed of this a few weeks ago – never!”

  Sylas smiled at Simia and she grinned back. She was the old Simsi again, bold and fearless, her face open and her head high. He felt a great flush of affection for her then, his companion through each of these incredible, bewildering, horrifying days, and he thought he could see the same warmth in her.

  “But still there is much to be done and more we cannot see,” said Paiscion. He patted the handrail of the Windrush. “Before we came here, we prepared this old girl for a fight – we worked day and night to get her shipshape. But the river was open all the way here. Even as we passed through the Barrens we saw nothing: no Slithen, no Ghor patrols, nothing. Something is afoot – something with its beginning and end in Thoth’s own darkness.”

  Sylas’s smile faded. “I think we know what it is,” he said.

  He told the Magruman about Triste’s conviction that Thoth was about to wage war between the worlds. And then Simia told him of their encounter with the Dirgh in the Place of Tongues, and about the warning Thoth had given as he had been borne away: “not one Undoing but five, each measured in agony and loss.”

  The more he heard, the darker and more brooding Paiscion became, and when Simia recounted these final words, he leaned heavily on the handrail and bowed his head. “So much hate,” he murmured into the darkness. “So much pain. Why can he not let us be as we are meant to be?” He lifted his head and turned back to them. “Well, if all this is true,” he said, a little wearily, “the dangers are far greater and the time even shorter than we thought. We need to set sail without delay.”

  He led them back to the quarterdeck, issuing instructions to his crew as he went: “Raise the gangway” and “Cast off the ropes” and “Ready the passengers”. But as they reac
hed the wheel, a cry went up from the bird’s nest high above. They looked up and saw a sailor pointing out across the city.

  Sylas’s skin prickled and turned slowly, preparing himself for the worst.

  But what he saw was quite wonderful. There was a blaze of light high above Gheroth: a ring of exquisite archways floating over the city, flooding the rain-filled skies with a hopeful light. They sent out long beams above the highest rooftops, across the teeming streets and on to the dark flanks of the Dirgheon.

  It was the Temple of Isia, shining like a beacon above a soulless city. Silhouetted against the bright archways, they could see scores of priestesses, standing shoulder to shoulder on the great stone terrace, like sentinels. They watched over the streets full of freed prisoners, singing as they walked; over the Suhl of the slums, joining the mighty throng; over a ship setting sail under the forgotten standard of the Suhl.

  A cheer rose from the front of the ship, sweeping like a wave along its length.

  The light sparkled in Paiscion’s eyes. “In the darkness, there is the light!” he said, smiling at his companions.

  Then he turned to the crowds gathered on the decks. “Friends, prepare to set sail!” he cried. “The valley awaits!”

  “… and so this marvel, this Glimmertrome, is at once here with this and there with that. In its to and fro, it holds the Yin and the Yang, the me and the you.”

  AS THE CAR PRESSED on towards the stones, Naeo curled on her luxurious bed of leather and dreamed. She dreamed of Mr Zhi, somewhere high and free, looking down upon the distant shores of the East. She dreamed of the countryside, passing in a blur of fields and hedgerows, streams and open plains. But most of all, she dreamed of a watery darkness; of sails filled with buffeting winds; of faces, white and wasted, peering out towards an unknown shore. And beneath her she felt the heave and yaw of a ship, bearing them onwards to sanctuary.

  It was the pain that pierced her sleep, creeping up from the small of her back in needling fingers, reaching up her spine and out to her shoulder blades. It had found her again, and this time it gripped like an icy claw, making her wake with a gasp.

  She saw her singed bandages on the floor by her side, no longer white but stained with black. So much black. Her stomach turned as she realised that it had come from her, drawn from her own foul wounds. She had told herself that they were superficial – just scars – but this was an infection. The Black was consuming her.

  “Relax, try not to tense. I’m going to give you some more morphine.” It was Amelie, her voice close and soothing. Naeo tried to slacken her muscles, settling back on to the car seat. She found it damp with her own sweat.

  “You cried out in your sleep,” continued Amelie. “I had to change your dressing. Don’t worry, I sent the boys away.”

  Naeo looked ahead and saw Ash and Tasker crammed into the front with the driver. They looked so uncomfortable that she smiled in spite of the pain.

  “Did it work?” she asked. “That police thing?”

  “The poultice? A little. It certainly drew out some of the Black, but there’s more. I wish we could get you to hospital.” She paused. “Do you even have hospitals in the Other?”

  The Other. In her pain Naeo had almost forgotten where they were heading. “Are we there?” she asked, pushing herself up. “At the stones?”

  “Yes, but hold on, I haven’t given you the morphine yet!”

  “I don’t want it,” said Naeo. “I can’t, I need to focus.”

  Amelie took her arm. “But, Naeo, you’re in no state to—”

  “I’m fine with clean bandages,” she insisted, leaning over to the window to peer out. “That’s more than I’ve ever had before.”

  The convoy was parked on a grass verge at the side of the road. Ahead, across some fields, was Stonehenge, its majestic stones jutting like ghostly totems. But they were not alone. All around and forming a neater, sharper circle, was a cordon of steel. It was made of vehicles of all kinds, bulging with all kinds of strange, angry-looking objects, most of them pointing into the middle of the stone circle. Between them, figures marched and scurried, bearing with them more hard-looking things: things on their shoulders and things under their arms – things of weaponry and war. And above, buzzing and thrumming in the midday skies, was a great swarm of machines, turning about like hornets over a nest.

  All this angriness was not directed at the stones themselves, but at what lay within. The Ghor paced the fringes of the circle, marking their territory, snapping and lunging at anything that drew too near. Other, cat-like creatures had climbed the stones and arched their backs, clawing and hissing at the buzzing hornets above, sometimes leaping the height of a house to ward off those that swooped too low.

  And at the centre of all this, in the very heart of the stones, was a gigantic pile of bounty – a haul of shiny steel cases and large wooden crates, of vessels and flasks, weapons and instruments. Between them, bound and gagged, cowering in small groups of two or three, were people. Hostages. Hunted and seized by Thoth’s creatures, snatched away against their will, now waiting; waiting for who knew what.

  It was a horrifying scene – a scene of two worlds in a mortal lock, fingering the trigger of war.

  Naeo felt gentle, soft fingers take her hand. She looked across to see Amelie’s troubled face close to her own.

  “You don’t have to do this, Naeo,” she said with a worried smile. “We can wait – wait until they’ve fought it out. Until you’re better.”

  Naeo shook her head. “I have to go,” she said.

  “No, you don’t. We can—”

  “I do,” said Naeo, looking out at the stone circle. She squeezed Amelie’s hand. “We both do. Sylas is there.”

  Amelie gazed at her, her eyes glistening. “You really are like him, you know.”

  Naeo smiled. “I know.”

  Amelie made her way up the length of the car and knocked on the partition. Ash and Tasker peered over their shoulders and nodded.

  Once everyone was back in their seats, Naeo reached into her bag and pulled out the package Mr Zhi had given her. Her companions watched expectantly. She pulled away the paper and ran her fingers over the face of the Glimmertrome: the two plates, one white and one black, and between them, the beautifully ornate needle, rising in shiny twists and swirls to a tiny clasp, made of the same exquisite metal.

  “Do you think it’ll work?” asked Ash.

  “It’s from Mr Zhi,” said Tasker, arching an eyebrow. “Of course it’ll work.”

  Ash turned to Naeo. “But are you sure about this?”

  Naeo lifted her eyes and smiled. “No. Are you ready?”

  “I’m serious, Naeo,” he insisted. “If you’re busy seeing what Sylas is doing, how will you see what’s going on here? How will we make the passing?”

  “What choice do we have?” said Naeo, exasperated. “If we get as far as the circle, we won’t make it through without taking them with us,” she nodded towards the Ghor and Ghorhund prowling through Stonehenge. “Look at them all! As soon as we’re through, they’ll be all over us! They’ll slaughter us! I’ll need his help on the other side.”

  “And you really think if we get to Sylas quickly enough, you’ll be able to stop them?”

  “Who knows?” said Naeo anxiously. “But it’s the best hope we have.”

  Amelie sat forward. “I still don’t understand how the Glimmertrome fits into this.”

  “Because if everything has gone to plan,” explained Ash, “then Sylas should be on the Windrush by now, on his way back from Gheroth. And if he is, then the river will bring the Windrush near to the stone circle, and if we know exactly when it’s near, we might be able to get to it – and to Sylas – before those things get to us.” He glanced at Naeo. “Is that right?”

  “That’s the theory.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘ifs’,” said Amelie.

  “Right,” grumbled Ash.

  Tasker cleared his throat. “Well, I think Naeo’s right, this is s
till the best hope we have. We need to see where Sylas is, then wait and pick our moment. Then it’ll be down to Naeo and Sylas to –” he took a long breath and exhaled – “to do whatever they can.”

  Ash turned back to Naeo. “OK. But be careful with this Glimmertrome thing. I mean, if it doesn’t feel right, you have to stop, OK?”

  Naeo shrugged. “Sure,” she said, wondering how any of this was supposed to feel ‘right’. She had no idea what the Glimmertrome would do, nor how she was going to get them through Stonehenge, nor what she and Sylas would do if they found one another.

  She turned her eyes around her companions. “OK, everyone? Ready?”

  Amelie, Tasker and the driver nodded.

  “Right then,” she said, and she snapped the clasp off the needle of the Glimmertrome.

  Sylas rubbed his eyes and laid the quill carefully on the deck. It was hard to concentrate on writing; he was so, so tired. The newly written Ravel Runes writhed and settled before his weary eyes, and then became still.

  He set the Samarok to one side and turned around, sliding his legs beneath the railings of the Windrush, so that his feet dangled over the dark waters. For a while he sat there in silence, resting against the rails, peering out over the froth and chop of the ship’s wake. Both banks of the river bristled with the shacks and stalls of the slums and he enjoyed listening to the sounds of preparation, the bustle of activity, the sense of change in the air. Word had reached the slum-dwellers and they were on the move.

  He soon heard some steps behind him. It was Simia, supported by another of the passengers. She thanked her helper and then sat down next to Sylas, handing him a tankard of Plume and a piece of bread.

  Sylas smiled his thanks. “Looks like everyone in the slums is getting ready to leave,” he said, nodding towards the riverbanks. “You can hear them packing up. They sound pretty excited.”

  “Good news travels fast with the Suhl,” said Simia with a smile. “They’ve waited long enough. And they know this is it – their chance to get to the valley.”