Stone Rising

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Was it… Stone?

  The struggle of their last weeks here – weeks? Or had it been months? – weighed heavily upon him. The promise of their lord, that he would find them and bring them back to him, no matter where they found themselves, had all but faded in his mind. Yet now, he remembered. He remembered the blazing figure that had soared overhead in their darkest moments. Remembered the infinite power that had radiated out. Remembered the calm reassurance of those booming, unearthly words.

  I will not rest, he had told them. Until I have found each and every one of you. Trust me.

  That trust had been sorely tested of late. But perhaps this day it had rekindled. For something was happening. Some big climax that he could not understand was approaching.

  A sound beside him and he turned. Pol stood there, next to him on the balcony, gazing out into the darkness beyond the slowly turning blades.

  “How goes it in there?” enquired Arris of his comrade. “Is Virginie well?”

  The other shaman spat over the side, the spittle taking some time to reach the ground.

  “As well as she could be, aye. What she did – summoning the powers of the spirits without teaching – was foolish.”

  Arris frowned at this dark mood in his friend.

  “Aye, it was. But without it, we probably would not be standing here.” A few moment’s pause, the other youth not deigning to reply, then Arris ventured: “And how are you? Are you healed? Well?”

  A curt nod.

  “Good as new, my friend.” Pol turned to his friend, a smile on his face, but it did not reach his eyes. “Good as new.”

  With a shudder of premonition, Arris turned his gaze from his friend to look back into the dark night beyond.

  ***

  “Welcome back to the world of the living…”

  The French girl gazed up with her brown eyes, weary, yet lighting up with joy as they locked onto Gwenna’s own green orbs. The shaman smiled down at her. Virginie blinked, shaking her head gently to clear the blurriness from the vision, the fuzziness from her mind.

  “What… what happened?” She winced as she tried to rise, before letting her head fall back to the rolled up sheets that served as her pillow. “My head hurts…”

  Gwenna nodded.

  “Spirit-sickness,” she explained. “It will pass.”

  Virginie closed her eyes, searching out with her mind to where she had felt the power flow before, but the channels were painful, sore, and she recoiled from the attempt. It was the same feeling as she would get in her hands after hours of preparing the skins her father had hunted; aching, strained, overused.

  Yet the spirits, even now, watched her from a distance. She was aware of their scrutiny, their eagerness. And, in some instances, their hunger.

  She opened her eyes, looking to Gwenna, whose soft, green eyes were shimmering with emotion.

  “I thought you said the spirits don’t demand anything of us?” she asked.

  Gwenna shook her head, a gentle smile on her face.

  “A small amount of energy, my love. A token piece of your spirit for the sake of balance, that regrows, quickly enough. Normally it is nothing of note. And it gets easier with time.” Her eyes widened slightly, in something like a mixture of fear and respect as she went on. “But you were so new, so fresh, so full of potential and purpose. The spirits couldn’t help but all lend themselves to your cause. Picture moths about an evening flame; they clustered about you, attracted by your light. And between them, they took too much.”

  Fighting the fatigue that clawed at her very soul, Virginie forced herself more upright, so that she was sitting on the cot. Nausea beset her stomach, but she forced it down. There was a window nearby, small, but it was open and the cool breeze that rolled in helped soothe her.

  “How ill was I?”

  Gwenna’s soft, warm hand reached out and held hers.

  “Close to death, at times.” At Virginie’s gasp, the shaman nodded, slow and solemn. “I’ll kid you not – it’s a miracle you live. In other times, with our powers restored, we could have healed you, easily enough. But not here.”

  A shadow passed across Gwenna’s face, now, and Virginie reached out with her other hand, to hold Gwenna’s between her two.

  “You were scared?”

  The flame-haired shaman nodded, face sombre in the half-light of small lamp that lit the tiny side-room.

  “Aye. It felt as though… part of me were cut off. I felt helpless. And alone.” Her eyes raised to lock onto the French woman’s.

  Virginie nodded, no more words needed, for she felt the same. As she gazed into the eyes of her friend – her lover? – something arose in her breast that, a fluttering, though whether fear or excitement, she couldn’t tell. So many conflicting feelings within her. Such closeness, such intimacy, such love and companionship with this woman she had grown to know these last weeks. And yet a fear, too, that wouldn’t go away. Her upbringing, the teachings of l’eglise; all lingered within the back of her mind, there, taunting, prodding. Shaming.

  You are corrupted, she could hear the venomous words of the bon-frères in her mind.

  Was she? She didn’t think so. All she knew was that she drew comfort and guidance from this young, red-haired woman before her and wondered how she had done without it before for so many years.

  “These… these feelings,” she began. “Do they come from the bond of last night? Or did the bond come about because of the feelings?”

  Gwenna shook her head slightly, ringlets of fire playing gently about the sides of her face.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But perhaps, if we live long enough, we may yet find out.”

  The French girl’s brow furrowed, so Gwenna continued.

  “Our friend from before, the leader of the Malleus band; he pursues us.” She narrowed her eyes, cocking her head to one side as she reached out with her limited shaman-sight. “Even now, I can feel him drawing nearer. Darkness. Hunger.”

  “What was he?” Virginie breathed. “He was powerful, fast. And I could smell the evil on him. He was no bon-frère, not like I’ve ever met.”

  “There are spirits,” the shaman explained, “that live in the dark places of the world. Ancient. Corrupt. Eager to lend their powers to all who seek them, yet less eager to relinquish their hold once they get a foot in the door to your soul.”

  “He was such a spirit?”

  A nod.

  “Yes. A spirit of darkness, clad in flesh. Perhaps, once, he was a man like any other. But over the years less of the man remains, and more of the demon takes control.” She winced, but too late, she had already used the word and it could not be taken back.

  Virginie’s eyes widened in horror.

  “Demon?”

  Gwenna sighed, the nodded, slowly. No use holding anything back from her now. They were beyond that.

  “Demon, spirit, whatever you wish to call it. Merely a term to describe the type of creature which you would do best to avoid.”

  “Are there many such creatures in the world?”

  Gwenna’s eyes narrowed as visions of horned monsters of fire and iron played across the forefront of her mind.

  “Not in this world, I would hope. And not that we have to fear right now.” She looked up and smiled. “These are things to discuss another day, after we win the battle to come.”

  The two fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts for a moment, even as they looked at each other. Without warning, Virginie reached forwards, slim fingers running through Gwenna’s red curls as she brought their faces close, soft lips touching soft lips in a lingering kiss, before parting with a gentle sigh of breath.

  “What was that for?” whispered Gwenna.

  Virginie smiled, the light of the act banishing the weariness from her youthful features.

  “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t all a dream.”

  Gwenna nodded in understanding.

  “It wasn’t a dream.” She rose, taking her cloak from the cha
ir beneath her and wrapping it about her against the cold. “But if we do not win this battle ahead, then it may soon be nothing more than a memory.” She leant forwards, kissing Virginie on the forehead, before pushing her gently back down onto the bed. “Stay here. Rest. And do not try to call upon the spirits, even if you begin to feel better. I will come back.”

  With that, she turned and swept from the tiny room, leaving Virginie alone with but the flickering candle and the lingering memories of that parting kiss.

  ***

  He was out there. Somewhere. He could feel it. Like the cold blue eyes of a stalking wolf as it followed you through the forests to the north of the Retreat. Yet what could they do? If what Gwenna had told them was true – and he had no reason to doubt it – then the man was, in fact, a demon. And, with the spirits now maintaining a healthier distance than even before, they were helpless to defend themselves.

  And Pol did not like feeling helpless.

  Yet the prospect of battle ahead was a welcome distraction. A focus for the turmoil within.

  Arris was still by his side and normally he would welcome his presence; the youth’s jovial and easy-going manner kept him light, kept him from brooding. But his constant enquiry was growing tiresome; it was as though Arris could sense his dark mood, and each time he asked how he was, it was a poker, stoking the fire within. When all he wanted was to let it burn down, quietly.

  Yet Arris was a good lad, a good friend. And an able-enough warrior. Physical conditioning had been part of their training under Master Wrynn. Each member of the troupe, in their prime, was strong, fit and trained in takedowns, tackles and strikes. Even without their shamanic powers, they were not completely defenceless.

  Though would that help against a demon with the speed and strength of ten men?

  A noise behind the pair, the creaking open of a door, and a petite form ventured out into the moonlight. Gwenna. Pol turned away, gazing with renewed intensity into the depths of the forest beyond.

  “Anything yet?” enquired her soft voice.

  A shiver down his spine; even in the depths of his mood, those familiar tones could brook no anger, no resentment. Out of spite, he clammed himself up further, shoring up his walls of betrayal that he might not soften towards her.

  He gave a brisk shake of the head.

  “Nothing.”

  She nodded as she moved in between the two men, her tiny form dwarfed by theirs.

  “Wait.” It was Arris, his voice quiet, yet urgent. “What’s that…?”

  He pointed out into the darkness and the other two followed his gaze. There, in the forest, the glimmer of lights, orange and flickering. Torches. Multiple.

  This didn’t bode well.

  “He would not have had time to recruit more Malleus in those short hours,” whispered Gwenna, almost as if to herself. Then her eyes widened as her train of thought reached its inevitable conclusion.

  Her fears were confirmed as a chorus of hate-fuelled calls filled the air, the bearers of the torches streaming out into the clearing about the windmill. A dozen. Two dozen. More. All villagers from the site of their escape.

  And there, striding at their head, the coldly smiling form of the Malleus man, chuckling to himself as the baying mob began to ascend the hill from the forest, up, up towards the shamans’ bastion.

  ***

  “You must!”

  Gwenna shook her head.

  “We cannot.”

  James’ brow furrowed, his bearded face wrought with confusion as much as fear.

  “But why? These men out there wish you dead – and us with you!” He held his wife close to his side with a burly arm.

  Gwenna breathed deeply, then sighed, feeling the helplessness of the situation the demon had put them in.

  “Those men out there are scared of us, their fear whipped up into something more by the words of that Malleus man.” The dusty interior of the windmill was quiet, save the relentless grinding of the cogs and wheel at its centre and the muted cries of the mob without. “They believe themselves to be doing the right thing by their families. They are not evil, merely misled. And if we kill them to defend ourselves, then we become nothing better than the Malleus man himself.”

  James spat his distaste upon the dry, wooden floor and reached for a pitchfork that leant against the curved wall, before eyeing the heavy, barred door, at the base of the mill.

  “You may be honour-bond by such sentiments, but I’m not. Anyone busts in that door, I will kill them.”

  Gwenna nodded solemnly.

  “That’s your right. I won’t stop you.”

  “Ah! So that’s how you get by the tricky subject of morality, is it?”

  The new voice echoed throughout the interior of the structure, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, causing hairs to rise and spines to shiver.

  From a shadow, on the far side of the mill, amidst all manner of wooden devices, a form strode forth, seamlessly appearing from the dark as though composed of the shadows themselves. Black from top to toe, save the glint of a silver hammer that dangled from its neck and the paleness of his lined and severe face.

  “Your plan is to allow the Englishman to do your dirty work for you? You think that absolves you of blame?” The creature that masqueraded as man laughed, the sound cold and sinister in the half-light of the room.

  Quick as a flash, James whirled, hurling the pitchfork with a strong arm, the twin-prongs sharp and lethal as they whistled through the air. But where there should have been a thud and a cry of pain, the shadowy form merely rippled, the projectile passing through him as though he were no more substantial than smoke, to clatter harmlessly against the far wall.

  “What are you?” cried James, recoiling in fear, even as the demon laughed once more.

  “Calm yourself,” snarled Pol. “He’s not really here, it’s merely an image projected by his mind. He’s outside, cowering behind the innocents he’s rallied to his cause.”

  The Malleus man nodded, an eyebrow cocked in amusement.

  “All true, all true. I, too, enjoy employing others to do my dirty work.” He fixed Gwenna with his cold eyes. “We’re not so different, you and I, no matter how much you may disagree.”

  She wrinkled her nose in disgust, taking a step towards his image.

  “You are a creature of darkness, of un-life. And I will not rise to your games. We will not kill those people outside, no matter how much you may taunt us.”

  “A pity. Nonetheless, you shall die this night. One way or another. I cannot permit you to live.” He made a flourished bow, before disappearing, his last words echoing throughout the interior of the building. “Au revoir.”

  The cheering from without increased, then with a start, the group looked up as a smash echoed down from above. A burning projectile arced in through the open window that led out onto the balcony, clattering from stair to stair as it fell. Another came in, then another, the hurled torches setting alight the dry wood, straw, flour, everything they came into contact with in the musty interior. The heat washed over the troupe as flames began to spread.

  “They seek to burn us out!” cried Felice, mouth agape with horror as she clung to her husband in fear.

  “The cheers only come from the front,” called Arris above the rising din of the flames. “Perhaps they don’t have us surrounded at the rear. If we run through the store,” he pointed down a corridor to the wooden structure that leant against the side of the mill, “then perhaps we can make good our escape!”

  A chorus of nods and murmurs of approval, as people began to run, but both Gwenna and Felice remained rooted to the spot, staring up the spiral staircase that wound its way up the inside of the mill to the rooms above.

  “Virginie!”

  A hand on Gwenna’s shoulder; Pol, pushing her aside. He looked at her, urgent, nodding.

  “Go,” he told her. “I shall get her, I’m stronger than you. Move!” He shoved her, forcing his way past and darting up the stairs, even as th
ey began to smoulder with the heat.

  Gwenna turned to Felice and James, fixing the Englishman with her worried gaze.

  “Go with him,” she implored.

  Caught between the stares of the shaman and his wife, he relented, nodding and taking off, gasping as he powered his bulk upwards through the blaze.

  ***

  Arris charged forwards through the dusty gloom of the store room. The building was long and thin, a barn for the storage of the ground grain. Empty sacks and spoiled grain lay here and there; the building looked like it had not been used for some time. No fire had been set here, yet, but the air was growing smoky, making each breath a chore.

  They needed to hurry.

  Minding his head, Arris charged on, hearing the laboured breathing of his comrades at his back. There, ahead of them, a door. It was barred, still, where they had locked it earlier, but a quick heave and the bar lifted. He hurled it to one side, to clatter to the floor, wrenching the door open and enjoying the waft of cool, refreshing air that blasted in and caressed his face.

  He poked his head out, looking left, then looking right. Nothing but piles of lumber and sacks filled with long-spoiled grain on either side. The coast was clear, the calls and cheers still coming from the other side of the mill. The way before them was easy; a straight run down the hill and into the woods where they might lose their pursuers. He nodded. Good. Turning to look over his shoulder, he beckoned for his friends to follow him into the night.

  “Quietly,” he whispered. “If they hear us, then it’s all for naught…”

  Silently, the troupe of shamans streamed past him until only Gwenna and Felice remained.

  The shaman leader shook her head.

  “I cannot leave, not till I see them behind us.”

  Felice, though pale, shaking, nodded her agreement.

  “Moi aussi.”

  “They will be seconds,” insisted Arris. “The longer we tarry, the more chance of being discovered…”

  A voice from behind him, quiet and nervous, as one of the other shamans tapped him on the shoulder.