Stone Rising (34 page)

             
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 chair 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.”