She looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. She tried to conjure a defence, but nothing came. Her cocksure expression faded and she began to struggle.
“At least face your end with dignity,” he said. “Or is that too much to ask?”
She spat her defiance.
He thrust her hand into the vortex, then retreated a pace.
She squirmed and fought to pull her hand free but the gushing fountain of energy held it as tightly as a vice. A change came over the trapped flesh. It began to liquefy, releasing itself as thousands of particles that flew into the swarm of stars and spiralled with them. The process increased apace, the vortex gobbling up her wrist. Rapidly she was drawn in to the depth of her arm, which likewise disintegrated and scattered.
The band was rooted, their expressions a mixture of horror and macabre fascination.
Her leg had been sucked in now, and it was melting before their eyes. Strands of her hair followed, as though inhaled by an invisible giant. Jennesta’s disintegration speeded up, her matter eaten by the surging vortex at a faster and faster rate.
When it began to consume her face she finally screamed.
The sound was instantly cut off as the energy took the rest of her in several gulps.
She was plunging down an endless tunnel. A tunnel that sinuously twisted and turned. A tunnel without walls, like a vast, transparent tube; transparent but faintly iridescent. Outside, if the word had any meaning, there was both nothing and everything. Nothing in the sense of being utterly devoid of recognisable points of reference. Everything in that the dark blue velvet beyond the walls was peppered with countless stars.
She fell, helplessly. And caught a glimpse of a pinpoint of light, far, far below. It grew at a remarkable rate, rapidly swelling to the size of a coin, a fist, a shield, a wagon wheel. Then it was all-embracing and rushing at her, obliterating everything else.
She dropped, not into light, but complete darkness.
To her amazement, she woke up.
She was on her back, lying on what felt like soft grass. The air was balmy, and she could smell the sweet perfume of flowers in full bloom. Other than distant birdsong, all was quiet. Blinking at the sky, she saw that it was a perfect blue, adorned with a smattering of pure white clouds. The sun was high.
Two revelations occurred as her mind began to clear. First, she was alive. Second, this obviously wasn’t Maras-Dantia. It also dawned on her that she was naked.
Her limbs were leaden, and she felt battered, though it seemed she had no major injuries. She tried to raise her head, but she was weak and nauseous, and found it too much of an effort. Her sorcery was also apparently depleted. She struggled to conjure the simplest of rejuvenation spells, and got nothing.
But she had enough of her senses intact to feel the power coursing through the ground beneath her. The raw magical energy in this place was of a strength and purity that far outdid the almost spent vitality of Maras- Dantia.
So she had no option but to lie where she was, in hope of regaining her vigour naturally.
She couldn’t tell how long she was there; she was feverish, and such rational thoughts as she had were on matters other than the mere passing of time. They mostly concerned the retribution she would exact on her father, her sister and the hated Wolverines. If she ever got to see them again.
The day slid into evening. It began to get dark, and cooler. Overhead, stars were appearing.
She heard a sound. It took a moment for her to identify it as an approaching horse. The animal was plodding slowly, and coupled with the squeak of wheels and the jangling of chains it became obvious it was pulling a wagon. It came to a halt close by. Someone dismounted. There was the crunch of boots on gravel, then an absence of sound as whoever it was walked onto the grass.
Somebody gazed down at her. She could only make out that it was a human male, and he was robustly built. He stared for what seemed an age. Not just at her nakedness, but her general appearance. By any yardstick she was beautiful, but her beauty had aspects most observers found disquieting. Her singular eyes were part of it, as was the perplexing configuration of her features: a face a mite too wide, particularly at the temples; a chin that came almost to a point; a vaguely convex nose; a shapely but overly broad mouth, and a mass of coal black, waist- length hair. But it was her skin that was most arresting. It had a slight silver-green lustre, and a dappled character that gave the impression she was covered in minute fish scales.
She was fully aware of the depraved nature of the man’s race, more than once having admired their inexhaustible cruelty. If his intentions had been dishonourable in any way there wouldn’t have been much she could have done about it.
But instead of subjecting her to lust or brutality he performed an act of compassion he would later, albeit briefly, regret. Stirring himself, he spoke. His tone was kindly, concerned. When there was no reply he bent and wrapped her in his rough cloak. Then he gathered her up with the ease of a mother lifting her child, and as gently. He carried her towards his wagon.
Jennesta finally got a better idea of where she was. Even in the dying light she glimpsed a verdant landscape. She saw meadows, cultivated fields and the rim of a forest. Not far away stood a range of rolling green hills.
They came to a road, and the wagon. The man put her aboard tenderly, slipping a couple of folded sacks under her head as a pillow. When they set off he drove carefully.
Lulled by the swaying of the cart, she lay, fatigued, looking up at the rising stars. Despite her fever and her weakness she turned the same thought over and over in her mind.
She had had the luck to come across a good man.
The following week was a blur.
She had been taken to a farmhouse. It was modest, and needed thatching. There were chickens and pigs in the yard. In the house was the farmer’s wife and her brood; four youngsters, all boys.
The farmer and his wife tended Jennesta. They fed her, bathed her and spoke soothingly to her until she got back her senses.
She feigned memory loss, and let them assume she had been attacked and robbed of everything. They just about accepted that the odd greenish patina of her skin was the result of a childhood malady, and soon seemed to ignore it. And it wasn’t so outlandish, they told her, in a world that had orcs in it.
The reference to that particular race revitalised Jennesta. She interrogated the couple, demanding all sorts of information. Where were these orcs? Were they the only non-human race in this world? What was the humans’ political set-up and where did its power lie? They found her questions baffling, and couldn’t understand why she didn’t know the simplest of facts. Jennesta blamed her contrived amnesia, pretending to recall a blow to the head.
What she learned was that she was in Peczan, the cradle of a great empire. It was incomparably mighty, though it had its enemies. Most of these were barbarian kingdoms, often at each other’s throats, and of little account. Peczan’s only possible rival was the orcs, who occupied a far-off land called Acurial. But even they posed little threat, Jennesta was told, given their aversion to warlike ways. Naturally she couldn’t accept her hosts’ talk of the orcs of Acurial being docile, and felt sure they spoke from ignorance. But she held her tongue on the subject.
What she learned set her planning. Now there was a goal, and she turned her will to achieving it.
She had almost entirely recovered physically. Her magical abilities were another matter. They had started to return, but feebly, though she still felt the land’s amazing fecundity. Her plan could hardly be realised from a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. She needed to move on. That meant fully regaining her powers, and the use of people to serve her purpose.
Jennesta applied another kind of power to the oafish farmer. His conquest took just days. Once seduced, he was clay in her hands, and she remade him in her own image. Where there had been humanity, now there was only a dimwitted devotion to her whims. Where there had been tenderness towards his family, now there was callous indifference.
Such was her hold on the man that he willingly conspired in replenishing her powers. In the event, his wife’s contribution was poor fare, mean and stringy. But the hearts of the four boys proved extremely nourishing. Her abilities restored, Jennesta had no further need of the farmer. She dispensed with him by simply removing the cloud from his mind and allowing him to see what had been done. His suicide provided her with a fleeting distraction.
The farmer was her first acolyte. There would be many more.
