Stone Rising Read online

  But other things, too; deeper things, more personal.

  He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to stem the tide of visions, red hair and brilliant green eyes that bored through his soul, but the drink had loosened his grip, causing his mind, his desires and frustrations to betray him in a flurry of unbidden images.

  Torture. That had been the word for this journey. How long had they been close, the two, the hothead youth and flame-haired girl? Throughout their childhood, the pair had been the top of their classes, the most naturally gifted in the shamanic arts. Both of them had matured faster than their peers. So alike, yet so different; her, sweet natured, yet with a serious streak when she needed it. He, stern, grim, yet with a playful side that could be teased loose by her merest smile. How many times had he dreamt, during his youth, of the two being together? Imagining in his deepest slumber the fantasies he daren’t act out in the waking world.

  Yet it was those very same dreams that had caused that which he so desired to elude him. After one particularly lucid night, he’d awoken to find her standoffish, pale, unwilling to come near. Only when she’d confessed to her dream-walking had he realised that he had been betrayed by his own slumbering mind.

  Yet over time, the years that followed, he’d found his way back into her good graces. Slowly, but surely, charming his way into her circle, gaining back her trust. Then, just as he’d thought himself in position to attempt to strike up a relationship, he’d arrived.

  Marlyn. Perhaps in different circumstances they could have been friends. The young lad was certainly likeable enough, in a rural, country-bumpkin way. Too likeable, he thought, with a hint of envy, remembering the time the youth had spent with Gwenna after the Tuladors’ escape from the clutches of Bavard and Memphias.

  Yet even now, even with the young knight out of the picture, transported along with the rest of his comrades to who-knows where or when, Pol couldn’t quite find the courage to approach Gwenna. Something seemed… different about her, since the victory at the top of the Beacon. She wasn’t a different person, no. But she seemed more ‘mature.’ Wiser, bolder, moving with more conviction. Every now and then he heard something in her words, a glint in her eyes that reminded him of their fallen master, Wrynn.

  It was disconcerting, had taken him aback, yet it detracted not from her loveliness, or her appeal. Perhaps it was this potent English beer, or maybe he was just ready to snap, had taken enough and was willing to brook no more, but Pol resolved that he was going to make his move, come what may.

  Only minutes ago he had watched as she had finished her wine, red-hair glinting in the golden light of the hearth, leaving behind her the sweet and subtle aroma of wild flowers as she had strode from the room.

  He downed the last dregs of his pint, wiping the flecks from his stubbled chin as he nodded to his friends.

  “Excuse me, gents. It’s been a pleasure. But methinks it’s time for me to retire for the night.”

  ***

  Gwenna’s heart raced, but she fought it down, maintaining her composure. She had never done this before and wanted to do it properly; here, now, in this land where her connection to the spirits was weak at best, the process was harder than it should be. She closed her eyes, concentrated, feeling the warmth as she opened her shaman-senses to the elements.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t be doing this at all. But was that Wrynn’s wisdom, or merely her own trepidation, she wondered? She had known the girl for mere weeks, barely more than a stranger. Yet she knew, deep down, that that wasn’t fair. They had been through much together; the flight from the North, through strange lands, this young woman’s knowledge of the people their only guide. Without her bravery and confidence in them, chances are they probably wouldn’t even have made it this far.

  Besides, Virginie had a spark of something different within her; an enthusiasm, a craving for life, even a hint of rebellion, which mixed with her seeming innocence made for a heady combination. After the weariness and solemnity of her troupe since their appearance in this land, Gwenna found it refreshing, exotic. Dare she say it, enticing.

  There, her link to the elements was clear; though she had long since lost most of her ability to call upon those spirits, to summon their aid, ask them to lend her their powers, this didn’t diminish her sight. They were there, all about them, subtle, almost invisible, close, within the room, further afield, in the rest of the inn, the village, even further within the darkness of the forest. She could feel the slow and stern spirits of the stones within which the troupe slumbered; the cackling and hungry spirits of fire within the hearth; the playful, capricious spirits of air that tittered and flew twixt the trees outside. An invisible world within a world, a bubble within a drop of water. Yet which world was the bubble, which the droplet? That of the spirits, or that of mortal man?

  A sight, a knowledge that few amongst mankind would ever see, ever know. A knowledge that only the hungry would ever attain. Should those with the sight be willing to share.

  Gwenna was willing.

  With that thought, she willed her essence down into her limbs, feeling the tingling passing through her arms towards the soft, cool hands that gently clasped her own, to where Virginie sat cross-legged before her on the bed, her own eyes closed, breath shallow, halting in nervous anticipation. The shaman’s energy flowed down, through her fingertips till it reached the girl’s skin, then stopped, resisted by infinitesimal force, a soap bubble brushing against gossamer fabric, the bubble not bursting, the gossamer not yielding, both in delicate balance.

  “Open yourself,” the red-haired woman breathed, her voice quiet, soft in the darkness of the room, lit only by the pale light of the moon. “Have no fear, it is only I that you feel.”

  A moment of pregnant pause, then the resistance faded as if t’were never there, Gwenna’s energy, her essence, leaping the boundary twixt flesh and flesh, skin and skin, nerve and nerve. A shock, a jolt, subtle, delicate, as connection was made, and both girls gave an involuntary shudder at the meeting of spirits, the joining of two nervous systems as one. There was no pressure on Gwenna’s part, no rush, no insistence, no forcing of her will upon the girl’s. There was only release, letting her essence slowly, naturally merge with that of Virginie’s, like paint slowly swirling and mixing with water in a jar, the two spinning, gracefully yet warily, feeling each other out before coming together as a whole that was not entirely one and not entirely the other.

  The shaman opened her eyes and saw Virginie with her shaman-sight for the first time. The young woman was staring about, delicate lips slightly open in a wonder as her wide eyes scanned the room, taking in for the first time the sight of the spirits of stone that slumbered within the walls, further beyond her borrowed sight flaying the walls and reaching into the hearth of the bar area downstairs to see the hunger of the fire, further still, the sprites of air that flitted on damsel wings and trails of silver in the sky beyond.

  Gwenna watched, her own heart pounding in empathic harmony with the girl’s. Had it been so for her, she wondered, her first time seeing into the world of spirits? Had she herself felt that awe, that wonder? And when, she thought, with a hint of melancholy, had she lost it? When had the power of the spirits become nothing more than a means to an end? Was this what war had doomed them to, to no longer enjoy life, but to see everything as nothing more than a tool to aid the fight? How she envied and admired the French girl’s naivety and innocence. How she wished she could recapture that. Part of her knew that that could never be. But another, stronger part of her rejoiced in seeing it within the girl before her, old feelings being given new life, new purpose simply by sharing this experience, by starting this girl on the journey.

  Was this why Master Wrynn had been so great a teacher? Had his own sense of wonder, of joy been refreshed each time he had helped guide another new student along the path of spirit-craft? The wisdom within her suggested that this was so.

  Virginie turned her head, brown eyes glazed with awe but then focusing, locki
ng onto Gwenna’s own green orbs, the connection between the two deepening as they looked into each other; the sense of openness, oneness, the curious mixture of intimacy and vulnerability causing them both to shiver.

  Can you hear my thoughts? thought Virginie, the voice in her mind a reflection of her physical words.

  Yes, replied Gwenna in her mind, a smile upon her lips. And you can hear mine.

  How is this possible?

  Everything has a spirit, even you and I. Your bon-frères are right in at least that regard. Even as we can commune with those spirits around us, so we can commune with each other. But the spirit of a person is so much more complex, so layered and deep compared to that of the primitive spirits of air, earth, water or fire. To open oneself up entirely to another like this, voluntarily, is intimacy of the highest kind. Both of you sharing your thoughts and feelings like no two mortal lovers ever can.

  I feel as though I should be scared. You could know everything about me in an instant if you wished and I couldn’t stop it.

  And you I.

  The young woman’s fingers tightened about hers and Gwenna responded in kind.

  I trust you, came Virginie’s thoughts, the words carrying with them a torrent of mixed feelings, heady, potent, that washed over the shaman. Gwenna was not surprised to find the feelings echoed within herself. And she knew that the girl would be able to feel that too.

  And I trust you.

  The two, the pale, flame-haired shaman and the tanned, petite French woman drew closer, eager now to extend their intimacy in the only way that now seemed right and natural.

  ***

  Pol burst out of the door, stalking out into the cool night, not noticing the whispering touch of the breeze on his skin as he wrung his hands in frustration and fury. He tried to still his beating heart, leaning against the stone wall of the outside of the inn, reciting mantras taught him by Wrynn in times past to try to calm himself, but to no avail. The muted sounds of merriment from the troupe within only served to highlight his despair.

  Denied.

  It had been with determination in his heart and hope in his breast that he had made his way up the stairs and along the corridor of the inn in search of Gwenna. But even before he had reached the door, he had stopped, halted in his tracks by a feeling that had bombarded his shaman-senses. Perhaps none of the others would have felt it, none save Gwenna herself, but he had. The mighty yet subtle binding of two souls as one, radiating from behind the door like the warming blaze of a fire into the coldness of a dark and cosy room. A level of intimacy, of oneness that he had dreamed of for years. Of he and Gwenna, his childhood sweetheart.

  Yet this intimacy was not with him, no. It was with the girl, that French woman, their guide. Oh, how the blood had drained from his face at the thought. So strong, so stern, so manly he had thought himself. Perhaps if I prove myself, he had used to think. Protecting her throughout the battles of the Beacon, throughout the journey through this vast land. Perhaps then… But no. No matter what he had done, it had never been enough. His leader, his love, had been ever wary, ever inscrutable. Ever unapproachable. And now, to find himself usurped, beaten to the punch by a naïve and unknowing young woman who had no right, who knew nothing of Gwenna, nothing of her past, her troubles, her land and people.

  And yet he knew now that that would not be true. She had now attained a level of intimacy with the one he loved that he never would, leastwise whilst the girl still lived.

  He fumed, head sent into a spin by the mixture of his damaged pride and that potent English ale. He turned, leaning against the wall with his forehead, before his stomach convulsed, liquid erupting from his mouth in painful, fitful gasps, as though his body sought to expel his pain along with the alcohol. At last, the tremors subsided and the physical pain began to recede.

  Only the mental pain remained to keep him company in the dark of the night.

  “Looks like you’ve enjoyed yourself a little too much,” came a voice in the dark behind him. “Moderation, my friend. That’s the key.”

  With an effort, Pol turned his aching head to stare into the gloom. Through misty eyes he could just make out a figure, dark, robed, standing beside a tall horse, black as midnight. With a frown, he fought to bring the figure into focus.

  “You?” Recognition now. “What do you want?”

  The robed figure took a step forward, lowering his cowl so that the silvery light of the moon revealed his face, soft of features yet hard in purpose.

  “I’m here to take the girl,” came Francois’ even, measured voice. “The Malleus are on their way, even now. Try to stop me and you will die.”

  Pol snorted in mirth. Stop him? Part of him was tempted simply to step aside and wave the man by. That would sort out his problems in one fell swoop. A part of him thought that. But then the rest of him, a loyalty bred into him through years of companionship, fought back.

  Angry he may be; but traitor to his people, he was not.

  “No.” He turned his entire body, now, facing the Frenchman, fighting to keep his balance against the dizzying effects of the ale. “I cannot allow that. Leave and take your idle threats elsewhere.” He smiled, groggily, though within he was a cauldron of simmering rage. “Though many thanks for your warning about the approach of your friends. Much appreciated.”

  “Fool,” hissed the clergyman. “Have it your way…”

  He stalked forwards.

  Yes, thought Pol, with a dark humour that began to give way to incandescent fury. Have it my way indeed.

  As his foe approached, Pol reached out with his mind, summoning upon his shamanic powers; rusty and unused paths of power beginning to surge as he exerted his will. The spirits of the land sought to evade his grasp, attempting to flee and twist away from his touch, but his rage was not to be denied. He bound them with his will, shackling them with chains of anger and hatred, contrary to all the teachings of his master. The spirits cried out in pain, tearing chunks from his soul in desperation to evade him, but his will was the greater and, with a roar of triumph, power flooded his being like it had not since before they had entered the portal that fateful night.

  A flash, a whoosh, and mighty balls of fire erupted to cover his hands; gloves of incandescent flame that mirrored the anguish he felt within, ready to be thrown at his startled opponent.

  “Sorcery!” The word spat from Francois’ lips, hatred and fear warring in his eyes to the amusement of the shaman.

  “Aye. Of the most foul and dark kind, my friend. I would have let you live, had you left. But unfortunately, you caught me on a particularly bad –“

  Pol’s words were cut off by a resounding twang that echoed through the night, followed by a meaty, wet thud. A puzzled frown and the shaman looked down to his chest. The fire faded from his fingers, dissipating in the breeze as he reached to touch the sleek, black shaft that stuck out some inches from his sternum. Comprehension dawned as he looked up, to see the bon-frère pacing calmly forwards, the spent crossbow held expertly in the nook of his arm.

  Pol collapsed to the ground, the strength fleeing his limbs as fast as the spirit power leeched away, now his grip on his unwilling companions had been disturbed. As he lay there, bleeding on the ground, face growing cold from lack of blood, the dark robed form of his killer loomed over him.

  “Such will be the fate of all witches.”

  The figure strode away and into the door. With a gasp, the shaman’s head fell back into the grass. Pol opened his mouth, trying to call out, to shout out a warning to his friends. No sound came out, merely a trickle of blood that flowed from the corner of his mouth and down, down into the thirsty earth.

  Chapter Six:

  The orange glow lit up the bottom of the sky, the hellish hue reflecting in the ocean to lend it the appearance of a lake of fire.

  Appropriate, thought the Plainsman. Given the times.

  The wind blasted the salty spray into his olive-skinned face and he squinted his keen, brown eyes against the sting as he
stared from the prow of the speeding boat, towards the distant shore. The buildings rose up, dizzyingly, reaching out to scrape the sky like so many of the buildings they’d seen these last hellish weeks. Now, silhouetted against the burning sky of encroaching dawn, they had all the look of mountains, looming in the distance, ominous and forbidding.

  They knew what dwelt there. Same as what dwelt everywhere in this forsaken land. There was no hope for the people of this city, bereft as it was of true life, the claws of Those Beyond the Veil already sunk deep into this land. No, this city would be the same as the one before and the one before that; moaning hordes of flesh-puppets, poor souls trapped within their own bodies, doomed to be nought but witnesses to the desecration and carnage they inflicted in the name of their new masters. To inflict pain until there was no more pain to inflict. And then, when they had no purpose, to do nothing, save to roam, save to rot. Doomed to wander till even their cruelly and unnaturally animated bodies would fall and lay, lifeless and still in the dust.

  Only then would they know peace.

  “Steady yourselves.”

  The firm voice of the Farmer from behind him warned the Plainsman of impending waves. He grabbed onto the rail, maintaining his balance as the speeding craft bounced over turbulent waters. Long-since adapted to riding this strange beast, his train of thought was barely interrupted.

  Whatever apocalypse had occurred here had long passed; the streets of all the towns they’d visited, thronged with wandering once-men, vacant, empty, wandering like wayward livestock, like sheep with no shepherd.

  But something had changed of late. Something had stirred them up, set them to move. Slowly, at first, trickles, pockets of once-men. But then joining up, forming great streams, rivers of the damned, charging forward, all in the one direction, drawn as though filings to a magnet, as though geese migrating for the winter or salmon forcing their way upstream to spawn.