The Crown of Stones: Magic-Scars

by C. L. Schneider

The answer was simple. Then they’re all going to die.

  I let out a frenzied, frustrated cry and jabbed my sword up into the swarthy chin in front of me. As it penetrated, I hoisted my club to block the jagged blade closing in on my neck. Shoving its scraggly owner back, I brought the heavy weapon down and belted him in the leg. Something cracked. But in classic, Langorian style, he gritted his teeth and swung anyway; hitting the club and knocking it from my hand.

  He drew back to strike again. My sword still lodged in his kinsman’s head, I whipped the body around to block his oncoming swing, drew my sword out and plunged it back in; clean through the dead man’s chest and into the live one behind him. I threw the bodies off as one.

  Staggering back, wiping at my gore-streaked face, a woman’s scream spun me around. When it came again, I gauged its direction and ran.

  Chasing the recurring scream, as I pressed through the smoke and realized what section of the camp I was in, my goal suddenly changed. No longer was I rushing to save some unknown woman. My thoughts had converged on one woman who, last I knew, was being held nearby. One that was due to die here today—one that in countless agonizing dreams and illusions I had never once saved.

  Each frantic step convinced me it was her. Each held the promise that this time would be different. I would prove the vision and the dream wrong and keep Neela alive.

  I was so sure I was right. I was so certain my triumph had finally come, when I reached the source and saw I was wrong, disbelief slowed my reaction. Even seeing the dark-haired woman being forced down on a table by two soldiers, it wasn’t until a third drew his knife and shoved it through her shoulder—and her defiant scream pierced the air—that my mind registered her face.

  He dropped his pants, and I lost it. “Get the fuck off her! Jillyan was your Queen!”

  Head turning, long hair whipping across his pudgy face, the man sneered at me. “That’s what makes this so sweet.” With a snort, he returned to his catch. I ran over and shouldered him hard to the ground.

  Landing on his backside with an umph, pants around his ankles, the man flung me a nasty glare. “What the hell? Ask if you want a turn.”

  “What did you say?” I took a menacing step. “Do I look like a raping piece of shit Langorian to you?” Not waiting for a response, I jammed my sword in his groin. “Now you don’t either.” Ripping the weapon out, I slashed it across his throat and aimed my wrath-filled, white eyes at the men holding Jillyan down.

  The one on her right, scruffy and soot-stained, pulled a dagger from his belt. “We’re not giving her up. There’s a reward. And she killed my brothers.” He jerked his head at the nearby bodies of two men face down in the dirt.

  “Good,” I grunted.

  “I’ll cut the bitch,” he warned.

  I reached inward for the crown’s magic. Emboldened and incredibly pissed off, I said, “No, you won’t.” Focusing, I pushed my mind into his and grabbed hold. I hadn’t indulged in persuasion much in the war. It wasn’t a spell I was proud to own. It always felt too much like cheating. It felt damn good now as I motioned to the man’s companion. “You’ll cut him.”

  My prey’s resistance amounted to a single whimper. Then the spell tightened its grip, and he was mine.

  Confident after my last try, I aimed my magic-price at him as well. Restraining the spell’s hunger, focusing it, my hapless target began to pale and shrivel before my eyes. It was a slow drain. I bled his life out bit by bit as my will crushed his and, gradually, he shifted the blade off Jillyan—then pitched it at his friend’s chest.

  “Now you,” I said.

  The Langorian’s face and hands were sunken. Pieces of his skin were drying up and flaking away. His legs, no longer able to hold weight, buckled. He fell onto his belly, and I pushed harder, making him crawl toward the still twitching body of his kinsman. I wanted to see him take the knife out. I wanted to watch the man stab himself. I imagined how rewarding it would be. But manipulating the magic-price away from Jillyan, forcing the spell to feed solely on the one man, was harder without touching him. It was sapping my strength way too fast.

  Breathless, I released the spell. My hold on the soldier snapped. His body, a gray, empty shell, collapsed the short distance to the ground. As pieces of him became dust and took flight on the breeze, the crown’s auras fled my veins, and I instantly fell over.

  Color blurred my sight as the pleasure rolled through. Hot pain streaked across my chest as new scars formed. Sounds roared over me, stilted and muted like I was under water. I thought maybe I was. The wobbly ground sloshed around me like a sea of brown waves.

  When the soil came to a standstill, I lifted my head. Jillyan had removed the knife from her shoulder. She was sitting up. Blood was escaping her wound at a steady pace, painting her chest and arm. Her hands were shaking as she examined the hole.

  “Jillyan,” I said.

  She looked at me. A frantic, vulnerability shone beneath the dirt and bruises on her face. I wanted to kill the men who put it there all over again.

  Shoving the exhaustion aside, I got up and stumbled over. “Let me help.” Jillyan sucked in a breath as I took hold of her shirt and ripped the cloth away from the wound. The puncture went clear through, but it was clean. “When did they attack?”

  “I’m not sure. I was out hunting with the Arullans.”

  I pushed the torn garment back off her shoulder. “You didn’t see them come in?”

  She shook her head. “We were on our way back when we saw the smoke. We ran as fast as we could, but the camp was already besieged. The roads were choked with people. I only had a hunting bow and a few arrows. I took a sword from one of the bodies.” Jillyan’s pain-filled gaze wandered over the smoldering remains of our camp. “I was taught to fight long ago, to not shrink from violence. But killing my own people… I never wanted that.”

  “They gave you no choice.”

  “Then why do I feel so wretched?”

  “Because you’re not like them. Besides, if defending yourself guaranteed a clean conscience, I wouldn’t drink so much.”

  Jillyan surrendered to a small smile. “Here. It’ll be quicker this way,” she said and shrugged the rest of the way out of her shirt.

  Conscious of her nakedness, I worked fast. Tearing her already ruined garment into pieces, I packed the wound and wrapped her shoulder as gently as I could. “This’ll do for now.” I tied off the bandage. Dropping the harness off my back, I removed my shirt and slipped it over her head. I tried to put my arms around her then, but Jillyan twisted out of my grasp and hopped off the table.

  Going over to the body of the man who’d stabbed her, she stared down at him with a bewildered frown. “I was Queen for ten years. Ten years, and it meant nothing to him. What chance does Malaq have to make peace with men like this?”

  I had no real answer for that, so I walked over and stood beside her. I reached for one of her still-shaking hands. “I’m sorry they hurt you.”

  “I’m fine, Shinree.”

  “I know.”

  Entwining our fingers, Jillyan squeezed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, I don’t suppose I can convince you to hide? You’re going to have a hard time fighting with that wound.”

  She turned to me. “Will you come with me?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  Nodding, Jillyan’s gaze wandered over the cuts and bruises decorating my skin. When it reached the fresh colored scars on my hand, she paused a moment before taking in the ones spiraling across my bare chest. Lifting a finger, she traced them. “Many of these weren’t here before.” Jillyan dropped her hand and turned away. “I have to get my books, my research, before it’s all gone.”

  I grabbed her. “That doesn’t matter now.”

  “I want to help. You don’t know what this is doing to you.”

  “Yes, I do.” Confusion pinched her brow. It was better than the anxiety of before, so I left her with it. “You want to help?” I escorted her to the thick
wall of green bordering the camp. “Then run. Go deep into the swamp. I’ll find you when it’s over.”

  “Be sure you do.” Jillyan kissed me, long and deep, as if she might never see me again then walked off into the swamp. I waited until the vegetation masked her retreat before I turned away.

  The echoes of pain and combat grew distant as I moved into the southern end of the camp. I found no more enemies to slay. The Langorians had done their damage here and moved on, leaving behind an eerie silence and a distressingly high body count. As I walked between the flaming tents and lean-tos, dodging the pops of burning wood and falling beams, looking for survivors, I felt the air tremble. Magic was nearby. Its pulse was steady, but understated, making me think it had been here all along. I just hadn’t slowed down long enough to notice. I also hadn’t looked up, where high above the fires to my west, a curious vein of color streaked the sky. I headed toward it.

  More of the rotating pattern of hues came into view. Stretching far and wide, they ran horizontally and vertically, down both sides. Between was a curtain of darkness. Random points of color burst bright against the black. There were too many obstacles to see the bottom half, but I didn’t need to. I knew exactly what I was looking at. I just couldn’t believe the size. The door was huge. Its width could accommodate an entire army lined up in formation. I couldn’t guess the lives it must have drained to create it. But I could guess who: Jem.

  Or Lirih, I thought quickly.

  He could have spelled her, forced her to make the door.

  She could be here.

  I ran.

  The fire worsened as I neared the center of camp. The smoky haze swirling about my legs and feet mushroomed into a thick haze. Struggling to find the shortest path through the debris, I strained to keep the door in sight. Stinging eyes distorted my vision, forcing me to rely on sporadic angry shouts and the whinny of horses to draw me along.

  Pushing faster, I finally broke free of the cloud. Wheezing, sucking in air at a frantic pace, I blinked away the burn. It took only seconds then to recognize where I was: the clearing where I’d come that first morning to watch Malaq arrive through Lirih’s door. It was the camp’s equivalent to a town square. So it was only fitting we were all here now.

  Jarryd stood at one end of the square next to Krillos, who was on his knees, cradling Kit’s limp body against his chest. The amount of blood soaking her dress didn’t give me much hope. On the opposite end of the clearing was Draken. Decked out in gray silk with a touch of crimson, Langor’s King was silhouetted against the black interior of the doorway. His Queen was beside him. Hair loose and blowing about her shoulders, Neela’s face was full of wild aggression. A similar expression affected the soldiers atop their snorting, stomping warhorses.

  More Langorians came to join the ranks; a constant stream pouring in from all over the camp. One, a foot soldier, carried the Crown of Stones. He presented the artifact to Draken with a deep bow before taking his place with the rest of the troops.

  There was no sign of Jem or Lirih.

  Examining the crown, Draken smiled like a child who’d found his long lost toy. The expression flattened as it centered on me. “And here we are again, Troy. I told Jem there was positively no way you were dead.”

  “How did he take the news?”

  “He was rather torn apart by the whole thing, actually. It’s appalling how you drove him to the point of killing his own son. I think you traumatized the poor man.”

  “I traumatized him?” Laughing, I started closing the gap with Draken. As I drew closer his gaze honed in on the magic-scars adorning my chest.

  “I should have realized what this was before.” Interest grew quickly in is dark eyes. “I would ask how you repaired the artifact, but all that matters is that it’s done…and in the proper hands again.”

  Like Jem, Draken thought the magic was in the crown. I wasn’t about to tell him otherwise. “So, my father finally returned to kiss and make up.” I looked past him; studying the door. “That’s quite an apology.”

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Did he tell you where he’s been? What he’s planning?”

  “He’s working on a way to strengthen my army. The rest is irrelevant.”

  Fool, I thought. “Is he here?”

  “Jem declined my invitation. He doesn’t appreciate the stimulation a good raiding party can provide. He might be of a different opinion when I bring him this.” Draken held up the crown with an avarice grin.

  “I wouldn’t be in such a rush to hand that over if I were you.”

  Draken’s hawkish gaze tightened. “Save your ominous blather, Troy. I have what I came for. And then some.” He glanced at Neela. “Once your defenses fell, all it took was a tracking spell to find her. Did you know blood makes it practically foolproof? The day we were married Jem insisted I procure a little of hers each month. He never quite trusted she wouldn’t run off, or that you wouldn’t try to steal her.” Putting a hand on Neela’s chin, Draken scrutinized her hostile expression. “The question is what to do with all this residual anger. Perhaps,” Draken mused, “I should let Neela resolve her issues. After all, unfinished business with old lovers can be so distracting in a marriage.”

  “Leave her be, Draken. What Jem did to Neela was wrong.”

  “Waking the sleeping lion in her veins? I’m not so sure. Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered what Neela would be like with more of her mother’s fire?”

  “I never wanted her like this; a slave to my father.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Troy. It’s a spell. It will break and she will return to normal. But it will happen much faster…if you’re dead.” Steel sung as Draken drew his sword. He pressed the leather-wrapped hilt into Neela’s hand. “Go on then, love. Quench your thirst. Do us all a favor. And kill that fucking witch.”

  FIFTY FIVE

  Neela raised the weapon in her grip. She stepped toward me.

  I stepped back. “Goddamn it, Draken. I won’t fight her.”

  “Then stand there and die,” he replied carelessly. “The sooner we quit this foul place the better.”

  “You’re right in that. You need to get home. Before Jem takes your kingdom.”

  “You’d be better off paying attention to your opponent than spouting tales, Troy. My wife likes to play rough.”

  My gaze bounced between them as Neela crept closer. “Don’t underestimate him, Draken. He will take Darkhorne, and he will take your life.”

  “Jem is nef’taali. We have our differences, but he won’t betray me. He likes the influence and power our alliance brings.”

  “Then he’s opened the link between you? He’s told you about the city he’s building on the old ruins? The Langorians he’s spelled? He’s stealing your people and you don’t even know.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Your father has no desire to lead anyone but the Shinree. He’s perfectly content to be my vassal.”

  I laughed at him. “Haven’t you learned yet? If you keep a Reth under your thumb too long…he’ll cut it off.”

  Draken hissed. He called sharply to Neela, “I said kill him!”

  She rushed me. Unabashed violence shined in her eyes. Still I hoped, somehow, beneath the spell she knew it was wrong. She knew me. But Neela’s eager slash—a clear attempt to cut me in half—showed otherwise. She followed with five rapid strikes. They were reckless and predictable. Evading them wasn’t an issue. She had no skill to speak of. She had determination fueled by magic, which made eluding her akin to running in circles. Sooner or later, I would have to stop and go on the offensive. I would have to hurt her.

  I wasn’t ready for that.

  “Neela,” I said in earnest, “your hatred isn’t real. We aren’t enemies.” Her reply was a lunge. I sidestepped it easily. “This isn’t who you are. You aren’t a killer. You aren’t Jem’s toy.” I paused, spinning away her next attack. “And you aren’t a woman of Langor. I don’t care how Draken dresses you up, or what title he gives you.”
She swung again and I jumped back. I gave it one last shot. “You will always be Rella’s Queen.”

  Neela froze. Soft and hesitant, she whispered. “Rella…?”

  Encouraged, I nodded. “Do you remember it? Do you remember Kabri?” Her forehead tightened. I could see her struggling. “The sand? The water? Your throne?”

  Her sword arm dropped. The blade smacked the ground. “I lost it. I lost it all.”

  My heart ached at the sorrow in her eyes. “You didn’t lose it. Draken took it. But I can help you get it back. All you have to do is put down the sword. Like this.” I stabbed both blades into the dirt and raised my hands. “See? We aren’t enemies. You know me. You know I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Neela lifted her sword again. Not with menace. She examined the weapon with a vague expression, as if she couldn’t understand why the thing was in her hand.

  “Put it down,” I told her. “Put it down, and I will help you get Rella back.”

  Her gaze returned to me. There was a gleam of recognition in her round eyes.

  I watched it fade.

  “You can’t keep it,” she said.

  The breath went out of me. “No, Neela. Please. Listen to me.”

  “The power is not yours!” She charged.

  Pivoting away from her attack, I came up from behind, grabbed Neela’s sword arm, pulled it behind her and snapped it. As the bone broke and the hilt fell from her grasp, I threw a fist into her face and knocked her out cold.

  Lowering Neela to the ground, I turned to face Draken. “Your turn.”

  “My men—”

  “Your men,” I cut him off, “think you’re a coward. The way you skulk around in the background, letting your soldiers and your magic user—your woman—fight for you. I think we’re all starting to wonder,” I bellowed, throwing it out to the scores of troops that were listening, “if Draken of Langor has any spine left at all.”

  His goateed jaw clenched. “I’m more than happy to finish what we started in my bedchamber, Troy. But I am no fool. I know what anger does to a Shinree solder. I know what it does to you. If we engage now, with that look in your eyes,” he pointed at me, “I’d likely end up worse than Guidon.”