The Crescent Stone

by Matt Mikalatos

  “An excellent point,” Gilenyia said.

  “But . . . if they belong to the Scim?” Madeline looked at Gilenyia.

  “They are weapons of unimaginable magic. The Scim cannot be trusted with such things.”

  The Scim spokesman had continued talking, little caring about the conversation happening on the wall. “—then we shall bring a thousand years of darkness and tear every white stone of this city down. We shall salt your fields and burn your homes, and the great darkness shall reign. Flame and darkness, death and suffering await you. What say you, Elenil army?”

  In response, the Elenil army shouted jeers, and several arrows were loosed toward the Scim front lines.

  “So be it,” Crooked Back roared. “May darkness rain down upon you!” With that, the Scim army raced down the hill to battle. The terrible screaming and shrieks of the Scim sent shivers down Madeline’s spine. The Elenil army met them, and the sounds of metal on metal resounded over the field.

  It was terrible to watch, like hundreds of car accidents happening at once. The sounds of horses screaming, the shouts of humans and Scim, the bellowing of war animals . . . And yet here, upon the wall, someone was playing a stringed instrument and singing with a clear, sweet voice, and Madeline could smell the remnants of the sweet juice in her cup and someone cooking a delicious meal farther along the wall’s edge.

  The contrast turned her stomach. It was like a Roman coliseum, and she had a box seat with the rich and powerful. Below them, humans—kids like her who had come here because of injustice and trouble and problems in their world—risked their lives so the Elenil could sip fruit juice and discuss politics and hats. It wasn’t a war, it was an entertainment. She set her glass down and waved the servant aside when he offered another.

  Still, they watched.

  The Knight of the Mirror and his people carved a swath through the Scim. None seemed able to stop him. Hanali pointed out an explosion of flame and explained that it was Shula, that she had the power to burn like a torch without being harmed. “It was what she asked for when I invited her to the Sunlit Lands,” Hanali said.

  Gilenyia smiled. “She is a fierce one.”

  The battle continued. An Elenil soldier in white armor rampaged through their own lines on an enormous rhinoceros.

  Gilenyia winced. “Who is responsible for that soldier?”

  Hanali cleared his throat. “I will make inquiries.”

  A gigantic spider stalked through the armies. Madeline shivered at the thought of being out there among them. The Scim moved with barbaric efficiency, tearing Elenil soldiers to bits where they were most vulnerable.

  Hanali leapt to his feet and strode closer to the battle, his hands clenching the balustrade.

  “What is it, Cousin?”

  He stared at the field with a sudden intensity. He pointed out a strange Scim soldier in a black helmet shaped like a horned skull who was dragging a flaming woman across the field. “They’re targeting the magic users.”

  Madeline jumped up and stood beside him. “Is that . . . is that Shula?”

  “I am afraid so,” Hanali said grimly. “And there.” He pointed to their right. A monstrous bat plucked a flying man out of the sky. “They’re stealing our magic.”

  “We have to get out there,” Madeline said. “We have to do something!”

  “There is nothing to be done,” Hanali said. “If those upon the field cannot prevent it, we will not arrive in time to do any different.”

  Madeline watched in horror as the Scim in the black skull dragged her new friend away from the city walls and toward the Scim army.

  14

  NIGHT’S BREATH

  [The Scim] were evil things, their hearts filled with wickedness and foul deeds.

  FROM “THE ORDERING OF THE WORLD,” AN ELENIL STORY

  Jason couldn’t find Delightful Glitter Lady, though he did occasionally hear what sounded like someone playing a bagpipe half underwater, which he assumed was her. He did, however, catch sight of the Knight of the Mirror again. The battle was so thick that if he kept an eye out for any unengaged Scim and avoided them, he didn’t have to fight much to make it through the crowd. He was getting the hang of it. His fear and worry sluiced off him, his muscles relaxed, and his ability to focus came back. His hands weren’t shaking anymore.

  He was glad his helmet was still on, though, as one Scim warrior knocked him pretty well with a broadsword. The Sunlit Lands guy who could fly (Jason couldn’t remember his name) swooped down and took the Scim away. The Scim roared the horrible things he would do to Jason when he got back on the ground. Jason knew he was getting targeted by the Scim for his white armor, but the armor also made it easier for his side to keep an eye on him. They were watching out for him.

  A quick count of his arrows showed he only had nine more. He looked for a discarded weapon, but slowing down was an easy way to become a target. He ran toward the Knight of the Mirror. After a moment, he noticed Baileya running alongside him, her Kakri spear tucked beneath her right arm.

  “Head back toward the city wall,” she shouted. “Now!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “The Scim are targeting the more heavily magical soldiers tonight. They are trying to not even engage with the Knight of the Mirror. There is an evil plan in motion, and I cannot see the shape of it. The Knight has ordered the less experienced to fall back to the city gates.”

  “But I can help—”

  The flying teen dropped down beside them. “The Black Skulls! You can’t see it from the ground, but they’re triangulating on Shula. I think they’re trying to kill her! Permanently!”

  “Who’s Shula?”

  “The burning girl,” he said. “Baileya, try to slow down one of the Skulls. I’ll see if I can distract the second one. Shula should have a chance against one instead of three.”

  Baileya’s eyes grew wide. Jason followed her gaze. She had sighted one of the Black Skulls. The Skull was riding a possum the size of a horse—its long rodent snout covered in blood, its red eyes filled with bloodlust, its bald tail whipping the air. The Skull itself wore a white robe, the hem of which was filthy with mud and ichor. It wore black gloves and boots, and on its head was an antelope skull painted a shining black, the curved horns rising several feet. In its right hand it held aloft a sickle.

  “Run, Jason!”

  Baileya sprinted, leaping like a deer over soldiers from both sides. Jason knew she meant for him to run for the gate. Everyone had warned him to stay away from the Black Skulls, and his own brain was screaming at him to do as he was told and run for the wall, but something else—a deeper voice—said this was the whole reason he was here. To protect people. What if Madeline was out here somewhere?

  He tightened his grip on his bow and ran after Baileya.

  Baileya ran full speed at the Black Skull, sliding to the ground in front of the charging possum. Jason opened his mouth to scream a warning, but she crouched calmly in the beast’s path, and at the last possible moment jabbed the curved, bladed side of her spear into the mud, dropped to her knees, and tilted the blade forward.

  The possum slammed into the spear. The blade sank into the possum’s chest, and it let out a horrible scream as it collapsed, crushing Baileya beneath its heavy corpse before skidding to a stop.

  The Black Skull stood slowly, apparently unharmed, its towering horns rising to their full height with a slow implacability, the blade of its sickle glinting in its hand. It turned, the black cavities of its eyes regarding Baileya. Distracted from its mission, it stepped toward the woman who had dared impede its path.

  Baileya shoved the possum’s head to one side. But to Jason’s horror, she didn’t stand. She scrambled backward until she found her spear, broken in half now, and used what remained of it to get to her feet. Her left leg hung limply, twisted at an angle that made Jason sick. She dropped her spear, reached behind her back with both hands, and pulled two curved daggers out of her sash.

  Why am I standi
ng here, doing nothing? A distant buzzing echoed in Jason’s ears. His thoughts came thick and slow. The Black Skull had crossed nearly half the distance to Baileya. Shake out of it!

  Jason, still a solid twenty feet behind Baileya, slipped an arrow from his quiver and onto his bow. His heart beat so hard against his chest he thought it might break through. He felt the magic, clear and strong, and opened the conduit through his tattoo as wide as he knew how. The confidence of an expert archer flooded him, and the sounds of battle fell away until he saw only one thing: his target. The heart of the Black Skull. He wouldn’t allow that thing near Baileya, wouldn’t let it hurt her. He breathed once, twice, then held his breath and loosed the arrow. It flew past Baileya, so close the fletching could have brushed her cheek. It sank into its mark, and the Skull stumbled backward.

  It did not fall.

  It righted itself, snapped the arrow from its chest, and stepped forward again, sickle raised.

  “No!” Jason shouted and shot another arrow, then another and another. Five, six, seven arrows, and still the Black Skull walked, its robe an explosion of arrows but not stained with a single drop of blood. Two more arrows, and then Jason was out, and the thing still stalked toward Baileya.

  Jason ran between them. “Stay away from her!”

  The Skull laughed, and a chill ran down Jason’s spine.

  He balled his fists, ready to fight the thing to the death. He heard Baileya shouting at him to get back, but it barely registered in the face of those horrible empty eye sockets and the towering horns of the skull.

  A meteor streaked between them, and its supercharged air blew Jason back. He stumbled into Baileya, and they fell to the ground. From the center of the fire, a girl’s face turned toward them.

  “Shula!” Baileya shouted. “It’s a trap!”

  “Run,” the flaming woman said. “I’ll take care of him.”

  Another bright, cascading explosion of fire came from Shula, the hot air singeing Jason and Baileya. Jason helped Baileya move farther from the flames, but the Black Skull advanced despite the heat.

  The Black Skull caught on fire, its robes alight, the arrows like torches in its chest. The sickle fell from its hand, the blade red from the flames. It grabbed hold of Shula with both hands. She kicked at the Skull, but it didn’t respond to the blows any more than it had responded to the arrows or the fire. The Skull’s laughter came rolling over the battlefield again, and it called out in a loud voice, “Victory!”

  The Scim roared and echoed the Black Skull’s cry, smashing weapons against their shields and helmets as they stopped fighting and began a sudden retreat. “Victory!” they shouted. “Victory, victory, O People of the Shadow!” The Black Skull, still aflame, ran, dragging a struggling Shula. A wolf loped up alongside the Skull, and the Skull pulled itself onto the wolf’s back.

  Baileya grabbed Jason’s arm so hard it bruised him. “Jason. If tonight’s battle was only to capture Shula, then we must frustrate their plan.” She pushed a curved dagger into his hand. “Slow them however you can. The Knight of the Mirror will come to your aid.”

  There was no time for instructions or second thoughts. Jason strengthened his grip on the dagger and ran as fast as he could, passing wounded Scim warriors and monstrous limping creatures. A desperate need to stop the Black Skull washed over Jason. He’d been telling himself that this wasn’t his battle, but now this horrible magical creature had grabbed some Earth girl and was dragging her across the field—headed to a terrible end, no doubt. And sure, the girl could light on fire, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a human being, and it didn’t mean Jason wasn’t going to do everything in his power to help her. He tried to run faster, but he kept stumbling on the broken bits of weapons and bodies on the field. If something didn’t give soon, he would lose them. He couldn’t keep up with the wolf.

  Then, as if in answer, the wolf caught fire. It let out a long, plaintive howl and collapsed beneath the Skull. Jason didn’t lose a step, just kept running straight ahead. The Black Skull paused for a moment, getting a better grip on the nape of Shula’s neck, then strode forward through the battlefield, dragging Shula behind him.

  Jason was close now, close enough he thought he had a chance if Shula could slow the Skull down just a minute longer. Thirty seconds and he would be there. His skin hurt from his burns, and he could feel Shula’s heat growing as he got closer. He settled his grip on Baileya’s dagger and got ready to use it.

  A body slammed into him from the side.

  It was a Scim warrior, one grey fist holding a club nearly as tall as Jason. It growled, and its foul breath struck him like a blow just before the club did.

  Knocked off his feet, Jason landed on another fallen soldier, whether human or Scim he couldn’t say, but the Scim warrior was in front of him already, the club swinging toward Jason’s chest. He tried to roll away, but he was too slow. He felt his rib cage go, and a cold breeze settled onto him—Shula’s heat moving away. So this is how it was going to end. Jason felt a distant regret, cushioned by the thought that he could rest now. He wouldn’t have to worry about his parents anymore, wouldn’t have to carry his grief about Jenny. He didn’t need to save Shula or Madeline or anyone . . . He could just let it all go.

  A horn sounded in the distance, and the Scim’s head snapped up. It gave Jason a quick sideways glance, but the horn sounded again. The Scim grunted, kicked him once, and loped after the other Scim.

  Jason still had Baileya’s knife. It was loose in his hand, but he couldn’t tighten his grip. He had lost his . . . what was it? Unicorn? And the burning girl. But he still had other things. Like this. The knife. But someone would need to come get it, because his legs weren’t working. In fact, his arm wasn’t moving either. His thoughts seemed to be coming slow too. Like in a dream, or being half awake. Where was his unicorn again? He thought he heard her trumpet in the distance.

  He closed his eyes, and the darkness swept him away.

  Madeline watched in mute horror as Shula was dragged across the battlefield by a black-skulled warrior.

  “No doubt a message,” Gilenyia said. “They begin the battle saying we’ve stolen their artifacts, and they end by stealing ours.”

  Hearing Gilenyia call the humans “artifacts” sent a chill down Madeline’s spine. The Scim sounded retreat with a series of shouts about their victory and then a thin, shrieking blast from something like a trumpet. The battle shifted as the Elenil army targeted the Scim who carried the Elenil’s magic users with them.

  Gilenyia stood, and one of her attendants immediately draped a thin satin stole over her shoulders. It nearly touched the ground. “Come,” she said. “We shall walk awhile among the corpses.”

  Madeline shivered. The thought of walking out on the battlefield among the broken dead filled her with horror, but Gilenyia said it with a complete lack of passion, like she was inviting someone to take a stroll around her neighborhood.

  Madeline shot a look at Hanali, hoping for a reprieve. Instead he said, “I must speak to Rondelo. Gilenyia will return you home.” So. Madeline would go and walk among the corpses with Gilenyia.

  Two human attendants flanked them as they descended the stairs and followed the wide avenue through the gate. A ragtag stream of wounded soldiers headed the opposite way, entering the city. Two people held up a third person. A woman helped a man—no, not a man, he looked to be twelve or thirteen—hobble inside.

  “We’ll help them directly,” Gilenyia said. “But first, the more heavily wounded.”

  She strode straight toward the center of the battlefield where the fighting had been most vicious. They passed broken spears and crushed pieces of armor, people sprawled on their backs, groaning, trampled in the mud. There was a metallic tang in the air and an underlying smell of smoke. The sound of the Scim’s retreat came to them like distant waves beating on stone.

  Gilenyia stopped in the center of the field, her satin stole stained where it had dragged along the ground. A teenage boy lay at her fe
et, the shaft of a spear jutting from his chest. His dark hair was plastered to his brown skin, his eyes closed but moving rapidly beneath the eyelids. He was breathing: a slow, irregular rasping sound. Gilenyia knelt beside him and put one gloved hand lightly on his chest. “We start here.” To her attendants she said, “You know what to bring me.”

  Madeline’s heart climbed into her throat. The entire field looked like a trash heap, only it was people and creatures strewn across it. To her left was some sort of wooden wagon, arrows stuck in the sides like porcupine quills. There were hands reaching out from beneath it, and a tall, heavily muscled beast, neither human nor Scim, collapsed beside it.

  “Come here, girl,” Gilenyia said.

  Madeline could barely respond. Her mind felt distant and slow, but when Gilenyia snapped her name, she made her way to the Elenil woman’s side. The attendants had returned, working together to drag a Scim warrior beside the broken boy at Madeline’s feet. One of the Scim’s jagged tusks was broken off, and black tattoos crisscrossed its skin. It was unconscious. A great gash from a sword had parted its filthy tunic and torn across its chest.

  “Take hold of the spear in the boy’s chest,” Gilenyia said. “I have broken the blade from the other side.”

  Madeline goggled. “What?”

  But Gilenyia did not repeat herself. She was demurely removing her gloves. The attendants looked away, and Gilenyia snapped at them to find more wounded. “There are some we can save,” she said, tucking her gloves into a small pocket inside her stole, “and some who can save others. Now take hold of the spear. Good. When I say, pull it out. It will require some strength.”

  The wood of the spear was rough and thicker than Madeline had imagined. Something with large hands must have held this weapon. She accidentally jostled the spear, and the boy groaned. Gilenyia gave her a sharp look then put one hand on the boy’s chest and one on the Scim warrior’s chest.

  Gilenyia’s hands were not flawless white like her face. A network of golden tattoos covered each hand like spiderwebs. Her palms, fingers, and even fingernails were laced with intricate patterns and intersections and partings. A glowing pulse branched out through the tattoos, and a small wave of heat touched Madeline’s face.