One particular stone formation, by no means the most extraordinary, stood at the bleak heart of the moor. It was an arrangement of columns and lintels, standing stones and ramparts, that made a whole yet seemed strangely at odds with geometry. Not in a way that could be seen, so much as it could be felt. Through design or decay sections of the edifice were open to the elements — notably a ring of stone pillars the colour of decaying teeth.
Inside the circle, a light burned.
A block of polished stone, chest-high and weighing several tons, was set in the centre. It was worn smooth by age, but the smothering of arcane symbols it bore were carved deeply enough that they were still visible. And now a copious quantity of blood, seeping from a pair of eviscerated corpses, made the markings even more distinct. The sacrifices, one male, one female, were human, opportunely provided by a summary judgement of felony.
A lone figure stood by the altar. Those who favour the night and the creatures that walk it would have called her beautiful. She had waist-length, jet-black hair framing a face dominated by dark, unpitying eyes. The face was a mite too wide, particularly at the temples, and the chin tapered almost to a point. Her well-formed mouth was marred only by being more than usually broad. But her skin was perhaps the most startling feature. It had a faint silver-green sheen resembling that of tiny fish scales.
In short, her beauty was confounding, yet undeniable.
As dusk slipped into full night she undertook a profane ritual.
On the altar before her, alongside the gutted bodies, lay the five instrumentalities stolen from the Wolverines, and which the warband had coined stars. They were small spheres, each of a different colour: sandy, green, dark blue, grey and red. All sprouted radiating spikes of varying numbers and lengths. For the sandy sphere they numbered seven; the dark blue had four, the green five, the grey two, and the red nine.
The instrumentalities were made from an unknown material — unknown to all but a sorcerer elite, that is — and the Wolverines had found them indestructible.
Next to the instrumentalities stood a small, unembellished silver casket, with its lid open. It contained a quantity of material that was, impossibly, both organic and inert. The substance's texture was part waxy, part old leather, part lichen. It was unpleasant to the touch, but had a sweet aroma. In the parlance of wizards it was known as Receptive Matter. Sorcerers using it for benign purposes sometimes called it Friendly. But never Safe.
The sorceress recited invocations of tongue-tying complexity, and performed certain other rites both intricate and dreadful. Beads of sweat stood out on her brow. She briefly wondered if such a spell might be too taxing even for her.
Then, at the ritual's climax, she thought she heard the instrumentalities sing.
She had a moment of fusion with them. There was a kind of symbiotic connection, a melding, and brushed by their energy she glimpsed a fragment of their power. What she felt, and saw, was terrifying. Or would have been to any except those who lived by terror. She found it heady.
The Receptive Matter accepted the transfer. It divided and began transmuting into the required shapes. Not long after, exhausted, she gazed at the fruits of her toil and reckoned herself satisfied.
It was not entirely true to say that she was alone in the stone circle. Several others were present, standing at a respectful distance. But as they were technically dead the question of their presence in the normal sense was debatable. They were her personal guardians and fetch-its, the select few nearest to her, whose loyalty was unflinching because they had no other option.
Outside the circle, far enough away for privacy, stood a ring of more conventional protectors in the form of a detachment of imperial guards. Farther back still there was a road, or more accurately a rough track, on which a fleet of carriages were parked. In one of them, two men conferred in whispered tones.
To the conquered orcs of Acurial, Kapple Hacher was known as Iron Hand. He was Peczan's highest representative in the province. Or had been until the empire sent the female they had been waiting for. But for all her hints and threats he remained, at least in name, governor; and commander of the occupying army, with the rank of general.
He was entering his years of later maturity. There were lines on his face and hands, but he was as fit as many a younger man, and had seen action before climbing to his present position. His hair, close-cropped, was silver; and he went against tradition somewhat in being clean-shaven. He was a meticulous individual, ramrod- backed and always clad in a pristine uniform. His rivals, and every official had critics in the mire of imperial politics, saw him as being too much in thrall to bureaucracy.
Where Hacher represented the civil and military authority in the province, his companion embodied the spiritual. Brother Grentor was something like half the general's age. It was a measure of his ability that he had risen to become prominent in the Order of the Helix in so short a time. Unlike the general he sported a beard, albeit close-trimmed, and an ample shock of blond hair. The expression he wore was invariably solemn; and as dictated by his title of elder, he always dressed in the simple brown robes of his order. Grentor had his own detractors, and they held that he too jealously guarded the Order's secrets and privileges.
The soldier and the holy man personified the twin pillars on which rested the Peczan empire. Inevitably, there were tensions between these factions, and a continuous tussle over power and influence, making Grentor and Hacher's relationship occasionally fraught.
Grentor had a lace kerchief pressed to his nose and mouth. He said something, but the words were muffled.
'For the gods' sake speak clearly, man,' Hacher told him.
The elder gingerly removed the cloth and made a face. 'I said, how you can stand this vile smell of rotting vegetation?'
'I've known worse.'
'It wouldn't be so bad if we hadn't been forced to endure it for so long.' He glanced towards the stone circle. 'Where is she?'
'More to the point, what's she doing?'
Grentor shrugged.
'I would have thought you of all people might have known. She is the head of your order, after all.'
Grentor gave a short, mirthless laugh. 'M'lady doesn't take me into her confidence. I'm only the elder, after all.'
'I've never heard you sounding so disrespectful of such an important personage,' Hacher needled gently.
'I give respect where it's due. But in this case…'
'I did try to warn you about her.'
'No amount of warnings can prepare you for the reality of Jennesta.'
'I'll concede that. But seriously, what do you think she's up to out here? Between ourselves, of course,' he assured him.
'I don't know. Except that it's something important to her, and obviously involves the Craft.'
'It must be vitally important for her to be spending so much time here when there's rising trouble on the streets.'
'Ah, so you're no longer insisting it's all down to a few hotheads?'
'I still think the number of rebels is comparatively small. But a few can make a lot of trouble.'
'I know. My order's bearing the brunt of it.'
'Along with the military, Brother,' Hacher replied with a trace of irritability. 'We're all having to deal with it.'
Grentor looked to the stone circle again. 'It could be that whatever she's doing has a bearing on the situation.'
'Some magical solution, you mean? A weapon, perhaps?'
'Who knows?'
'I think it more likely that our lady Jennesta's pursuing some goal of her own. She often seems to put herself before the interests of the empire.'
Grentor didn't take the bait. There was a limit to how far anyone in his position would dare go in criticising Jennesta. 'You've heard what the creatures here think about what's happening in the sky, no doubt,' he said, steering the subject into somewhat safer waters.
