The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne

by C. L. Schneider

  A troublesome disorientation hung over me, like the morning fog after a long night of drinking. Recognizing my preoccupation, Jarryd said little, other than to offer me water. Yet, his curiosity was blatant. I gave him a vague, “I found what I was looking for,” and was grateful he didn’t push for more.

  I noticed a few more marks on my legs as I pulled on my breeches, but my existing scars were unchanged. What Fate had done wouldn’t show on the outside. Not unless I wanted it to. Not until I could make it. But I felt it in me. A constant, not unpleasant, tingle ran beneath my skin. A noticeable lightness of mind and soul allowed me a deeper sense of myself. Where I processed and stored Jarryd’s memories and emotions felt distinctly different now from where I’d received the eldring sensations. The well holding half of Jarryd’s soul was alive and vibrant, while the death of the youth had made my link to the beast’s hive mind dormant and cold.

  But I can awaken it. I knew without doubt now. All I needed to awaken my perception of the eldring consciousness was a fresh injection of blood and magic.

  My awareness of the crown’s auras was greater as well. I could pinpoint them inside me with zero effort. It took considerable more work to ‘see’ the runes inside the streaks and swirls of the scars; layer upon layer of experience and wisdom; lifetime upon lifetime of information. I could only hold onto the writing for a breath before it shifted back. And I couldn’t make sense of it at all. Trying to read the runes was like chasing a leaf on the wind. Their meanings felt perpetually at the edge of my grasp.

  Based on Fate’s last words, I was guessing my ability to decode the runes was tied to my memory loss. That made focusing on understanding them a waste of time. I had to recall my acceptance of the library. Experience it as I should have the first time.

  What quicker way for Fate’s gift to fully integrate than for me to feel its arrival?

  Pain and all, I thought, as we jumped back through the waterfall.

  The corridor beyond was as vacant as the first time. The yellow light had vanished. All that remained of the stone barrier was a deep groove in the sandy floor. “It just lifted up,” Jarryd said, glancing at the ceiling as we crossed the empty space. “I tried to get through for a while. When I couldn’t make a dent, I waited, thinking you’d come back.”

  “How long was it?”

  “All together? About five hours.”

  I was glad Jarryd was in the lead. It kept him from seeing me stumble. He felt my shock though. I tried to make light of it. “I didn’t think you had that much patience.”

  “I don’t. I went back up to the keep. For this…” Pausing, Jarryd bent to retrieve something leaning against the shadowy wall. Spinning around, making his torch light flicker, he displayed a Langorian axe five times as big as the one hanging from his belt. “I only took a few swings before…” His eyes lifted to the ceiling, indicating the rising of the stone. “The guards were awake when I left. I took care of them. Not that way,” he added before I could ask. “But they will have some lumps on their heads for a few days.”

  I nodded my approval. He brushed it off with a shrug, rested the hefty weapon back against the wall, and moved on.

  I was less attentive going out than coming in. If there were traps, Jarryd would have triggered them by now. Though it made sense that whatever snares had plagued Lady Brielle’atroy’s slaves had been triggered by Fate, and likely disappeared with her.

  We’d gone a bit further when Jarryd stopped. As he took out his flask and offered it, his anxiety was palpable. He wanted me to ease it with conversation and a drink, but I couldn’t abide the delay. I accepted the flask in silence and motioned for him to push on.

  After a couple of swallows I was pining for the superior batch I’d consumed in Draken’s room. I gave Jarryd back his coura with a grimace. “Did you see Malaq when you went up for the axe?”

  “I didn’t look for him. The halls were packed. Servants and slaves were running all over. I tried to find the armory on my own but this damn place is like a web—and a poorly made one at that. I finally started yelling until someone pointed the way.”

  “A crazed Kabrinian yelling his way through the halls of Darkhorne…I’m surprised they didn’t do more than give you directions.”

  I felt his amusement. As it dwindled, a sense of somberness settled in. “What happened in that room, Ian? I keep getting this buzzing, humming sound. Like the link is full of noise.”

  “I don’t sense any change.”

  Jarryd stopped in his tracks. The stairs were less than a foot away. Heat was wafting from the fires in the room above. But as he turned to face me, with the torchlight revealing the impatience on his face, I knew he was making a stand. Jarryd wasn’t going to budge until I gave him something.

  “There was a spell in the room,” I said. “Strong and old. Full of incredible knowledge.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. But she gave me what I came for, and more.”

  “She? Gods, it’s always a woman with you, isn’t it?”

  “I think you’re confusing me with Malaq.”

  “No,” he shook his head. “You’re just as bad.”

  “If it helps, she was also an old man.”

  A scowl tightened his scruffy features. “It doesn’t.”

  Jarryd turned away. I thought about trying to address his frustration, but he was already taking it out on the stairs as he marched up.

  We reached the platform with Draken’s macabre throne chair. I took off my key and inserted it in the lock. The floor closed with far less noise than it opened; sealing the memory of Fate inside like a tomb.

  Jogging down from the dais, we set out across the tiled path. We passed the intersection leading to the alcoves, and a faraway sound rose above the border of crackling flames. It was a muted noise, but unmistakable.

  Jarryd swung his wide blue gaze in my direction. “Was that a scream?”

  “No. It was a whole damn lot of them.”

  FORTY ONE

  Clothed in leather armor black as night, Ordree was the only Arullan archer stationed at the battlements. Her sleek appearance cut a fine figure against the backdrop of winter sky and snow-capped mountains. It was also a noticeable contrast to the mass of Langorian bulk standing with her. Some wielded crossbows as big and ugly as they were. Others were carrying longbows that made the Kaelish version look like a child’s toy.

  Envy swept over Jarryd as he peered through the spitting flakes at the line of archers. The emotion shifted to something less focused as he noticed the Arullan woman.

  As if sensing his stare, Ordree’s head whipped around, sending a measure of flakes flying off her springy curls. She smiled, and he tensed.

  He doesn’t want to like her. But he does. Good, I thought, he won’t be alone.

  “Talk to her,” I told him. “See what you can find out.”

  As Jarryd left my side, a Langorian boy left the wall and rushed toward me. As he came close enough to get a good look, he tried to change his mind. His boots didn’t care for the fast shift of direction. They slid through the slush layering the rooftop and he nearly fell into me.

  Recovering his balance, the boy repositioned the quiver falling off his back. With strained authority, he announced, “The King said archers only on the rooftop.”

  His voice was deep, but with the lack of hair on his square face, I put him at a similar age to the Shinree boy who’d left plum sauce on my ancestor’s journal.

  “Are you an archer?” I asked him.

  He shrunk some. “No, Sir.”

  I retrieved his hat that had fallen off in our near collision. Shaking it free of snow, I noticed his black hair was cropped short. The style was similar to Malaq’s, but the sides were uneven, like the boy had cut it himself.

  King for a day and they’re already emulating him.

  He
fought against flinching as I stuffed the hat back on his head.

  “I’m supposed to be here,” he said, lifting his dimpled chin. “I supply the men.” He jerked his thumb at three squat barrels against the wall. Barbed shafts protruded past their rims. “I watch for runners, too, trying to sneak through the line and breach the wall. The soldiers say they don’t need me, but I know better. If I’m looking out, they can keep their aim.”

  “Smart.” He cracked a smile at my praise. “I bet you have a spyglass I could borrow.”

  Hand red from the cold, the boy reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out and extended the instrument with a practiced flip of his wrist. “It belongs to my brother. He’s out there.” Deep-set eyes drifting toward the plateau, the boy’s face flushed as he listened to the muffled cries of combat.

  “I’ll take good care of it.”

  He handed over the spyglass and ran back to his barrels.

  I met Jarryd at the roof’s edge. Together, with Ordree, we stared down at the moving mass darkening the wintry landscape. The fast-paced, deafening dance of bodies stretched far beyond view. Closer, still inside the walled courtyard, Elek’s forces were mixed in amongst his machines. The wheeled wooden and metal monsters dwarfed a Rellan catapult two fold.

  I glanced at Ordree. “When did it start?”

  “Not three hours past. As you can see from their progress, our enemy is quite aggressive.”

  “It’s the spell. They don’t have a choice. Any guesses on casualties?”

  “Moderate, but climbing. The heat of bodies has warmed the air. Snowmelt has felled many on both sides that might not have otherwise succumbed.”

  I raised the spyglass. After a moment’s survey of the terrain, I agreed with her. The ground was not ideal for combat. Icy in some spots and snow-draped in others, what lie in between were patches of mud and a deepening layer of red slush. A good amount of men were slipping and sliding in the bloody slop, but it was easy to recognize those belonging to my father. Though his troops hailed from the same lands as our own, they wore an abundance of green and black.

  My father had chosen his colors.

  “Victory should come from skill, not the quality of a man’s boots,” Ordree mused. “Even the High King has trouble keeping to his feet, and his attire is of the most excellent craftsmanship.”

  I lowered the spyglass and gave her a hard look. “Malaq is out there?”

  Ordree gave me a sideways glance “The onus is on him to defend the lands, is it not?”

  I slapped my borrowed scope in her hand. “Show me.”

  Ordree lifted the tool to her eye. “At last check he was in the middle left quadrant of the battlefield.” Her movements were slight as she shifted, peering out across the plateau. “He is an impressive man, our new King. Not many can fight as well as they speak. Though, it is my observation, this one requires no weapon to be armed. Ah…he is farther out now. It appears some Rellan’s have cut a path for him.”

  Ordree pointed. We traded the scope again, and with her direction, I found Malaq. He was clashing with one of the resurrected my father had raised to fight for him. Mostly bone with strips of hanging skin and moldy cloth, little had endured to identify the man’s race. Not so with Malaq. His imposing form, wet and muddy, swinging a Langorian axe in one hand and his fine Kaelish sword, Natalia, in the other; the origins of Mirra’kelan’s new king were not to be missed.

  I scanned out, past the congested plateau, to the tiny dot of forest where Krillos, Liel, and I had encountered the skin bear. The mountains beyond were wrapped in mist. I had my doubts the thick fog was as empty and benign as it appeared. Coming in, sweeping left and right, small groves of leafless treetops stretched up to the heavy leaden sky. Closer slopes were bathed in shadow. Trailing off the sides of the plateau, the drop-offs were severe and dark. Shadows moved toward the bottom of both. I might have dismissed it as swaying trees, except the mountains surrounding Darkhorne were barren.

  “Damn,” I muttered. “Looks like another wave is approaching from both sides.”

  “Yes,” Ordree agreed. “But the difficult climb has slowed their approach. I sent a messenger to Elek suggesting a runner be dispatched to warn the King.”

  “Did you see one leave?”

  “No, but surely one has been sent by now.”

  “What are you orders?”

  “To save our arrows. We attack only those attempting the gate, until the King returns to tell us otherwise.”

  “And if the King doesn’t return?”

  “Then Elek will assume command in his place.”

  “I bet he will.”

  Ordree’s dark eyes narrowed. “You imply deceit, Shinree.”

  “Yes, I do.” I walked away from the edge of the battlement. Signaling the Langorian boy, he ran up, and I tossed him the spyglass with a grateful wink.

  Ordree called after me. “Elek will not receive your interference well, Troy. Neither will he open the gate at your request. And if you breach the wall, you have the outer moat to cross. The guards will not risk lowering the bridge in the middle of a battle simply because you ask it.”

  “I wasn’t planning on asking.” Or using the bridge.

  Jarryd matched my swift pace toward the exit. “What are we doing?”

  “Getting Malaq back inside the wall.”

  “I don’t know what you expected him to do. War is on his doorstep.”

  “I expected him to be smarter than this. Malaq’s not a soldier.”

  “No, he’s a leader. One who knows his men need to see their new King fight beside them.”

  “They have. Now it’s time to get him back before they watch him die.”

  “He’s not alone out there, Ian. And we both know he can fight.”

  “The man only has one eye, Nef’taali. That’s one hell of a blind spot. A blind spot he’s had no time to train with or adapt to. It won’t be long before someone sneaks up on it. Now, I’d tell you to stay here, but…”

  “There are only so many times we can have that conversation.”

  “Exactly.” I yanked open the rooftop door. “How do you feel about a swim?”

  FORTY TWO

  Serrated steel swiped at my chest. Jumping back, I pivoted to the side and swung at a second man looming on my right. As my blade sliced through leather, then flesh, I laid eyes on Jarryd. He was to my left, knives drawn, and as soaked as I was. Conjuring my door in the middle of the outer moat had gotten us around the gated wall, the hornblende, and Elek. It had also left our clothes crisp and icy, and our bodies chilled to the bone. After using a hook and rope to scale the wall of the moat, I’d roused the magic in my scars to warm me. Jarryd, however, seemed unbothered by the cold as he ran up to engage a short, doughy-faced Kaelishman. The soldier’s soft middle suggested he was more adept at eating than fighting, but the film over his eyes reminded me his skillset wasn’t the issue.

  The bulk of the combatants were farther out. Only a small fraction of our enemies had pushed through to make it this close to the keep. Most that had were skewered with arrows. Some were floating face down in the green scum coloring the surface of the exterior moat. Murkier, wider, and deeper than the internal trench that ringed a portion of the keep, this one ran the length of the outer courtyard wall—and wasn’t to be taken lightly. Deep, with sides too sheer and tall to climb, the luminous fish swimming in its depths were said to own teeth sharp as daggers. Thankfully, we’d climbed out before confirming the rumor.

  A large number of dead comprised the front line. Those Jem had revived from my first use of the Crown of Stones were exceptionally hard to put down. With little flesh to cut or blood to spill from the bodies of my former victims, puncturing organs that had long since gone rancid was futile and messy. Such hits slowed their advance, but only repeated solid blows with a weapon heavy enough to shatter bone, had any great effect.
r />   I hollered for Jarryd that I was pressing on.

  “You go!” he yelled back. “I’m fine here. Besides,” he paused to slash open his adversary’s middle. “You’ll move faster on your own.”

  “Just watch your back.” I went to say more and a rain of arrows punctured the man trying to outflank Jarryd. A quick scan of the keep’s rooftop showed a svelte, springy-haired form notching another bolt. “Guess you’ve got that covered.”

  Pivoting away from Jarryd’s lopsided grin, I shoved off my emaciated opponent and gave a hard stomp to his kneecap. Another one, and bone and cartilage blasted out. The bottom half of his leg fell to the ground. I swung a sword into the one he had left, shattering it. As he fell on the stumps, I brought my other blade to bear and took his head.

  Slashing left, then right, aggressively forcing my way through a heavy band of the dead, I didn’t waste time ensuring a kill. Systematically relieving the mass of decayed combatants of their limbs, I pushed forward; leaving a trail of rag-clad torsos flopping behind me in the deepening slush. I evaded when I could and steered clear of long engagements. Malaq would be moving swiftly with a contingent of men to clear the way. If I wanted to catch him I couldn’t linger or hesitate. Not even when taking the lives of the compelled. They may not have asked to be here, but hesitation in battle, whatever the cause, meant death.

  Still, their fate was on my mind, and as I advanced across the frosty expanse, engaging an assortment of living and dead, my thoughts shifted to Taren Roe. She was the first of my father’s spelled subjects. He’d offered her money to allow his control and she’d paid dearly for her greed. It made me wonder what he’d offered the men at the other end of my blades. Particularly those he claimed came willingly. Did he promise them glory in his new empire, or only the chance to breathe another day?

  Peering through a hollowed out shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Malaq. Unharmed, his swings and pivots were strong, fluid, and full of purpose. His intimidating form ripped through the ranks, and I had no doubt it was having the inspiring effect Jarryd predicted. Amid a mixed contingent of Langorian and Rellan soldiers who had warred against each other for centuries, Malaq was their common ground. They were working together to guard and protect their King. I was impressed.