The humming increased in volume until it dominated everything, blocking the whisper of the wind through the heather and the soft gurgle of the half-seen burns. The small creatures vanished again, creating an unsettling sterility. It became difficult to talk, hard to think with that persistent hum.
“What's happening?” Melcorka gripped the hilt of Defender.
“The Druids are creating a vacuum, I think,” Bradan said. “They are driving everything away from the moor so that they can take it over.”
“The power of sound,” Melcorka said. “I have not heard the like before.”
“ 'In the beginning was the Word',” Bradan quoted the Bible. “ 'And the Word was with God'. Words and sounds are more important than we realise.”
The humming continued, joined now by a deep-throated chanting that raised the small hairs on the back of Melcorka's neck. “I think something is happening,” she said.
The first man came from the north, drifting across the heather as though his feet did not touch the ground. Wearing a long, hooded white cloak that shielded his face, he placed a single wooden branch on the ground, moved to the outer circle of stones and stood still as the humming and chanting continued. The second man appeared from slightly east of north, added a stick to the pile and stood at the next stone in the circle a moment later, and the third a few moments after that.
“They appear in a deasil fashion,” Bradan said. “As if they follow the rotation of the sun.”
One by one, the robed and hooded men appeared, each adding to the pile of sticks before taking his place beside a particular standing stone. The humming increased in volume until it became an almost physical phenomenon, painful to the ears. With the arrival of each man, the stones glowed brighter, as if they were drawing light from the dying sun. Only the central, tallest stone remained in darkness.
When a man stood at each stone in the outer circle, the humming and chanting reached a crescendo and stopped. The absence of sound was as painful as the noise had been. Nothing stirred on the moor, not wind, not an insect. Even the burns were silent.
Without any visible signal, each man stepped forward to the middle circle of stones, again in a deasil, sunwise, formation. The chanting started again, low and soft.
“I've never seen anything like this before,” Melcorka said.
“I doubt anybody has, except the Druids, if that is what they are.” Bradan pitched his voice low.
“Look! What's happening now?”
Another man walked towards the triple circle. Dressed in a black cloak, he passed around the outer ring, touching each stone in turn, before stepping to the middle circle where the Druids stood.
Moving slowly, the man in black bowed to each Druid, none of whom returned his greeting. When he completed the circuit, the man in black moved to the inner circle, moving deasil, touching each stone before he approached the tall monolith in the centre. The sun hesitated on the western rim of the hills, retaining a sliver of ochre-red as if reluctant to disappear and leave the earth unattended by light.
“I don't think I like this.” Instinct impelled Melcorka to touch the hilt of Defender. The sword felt cold, as if all the power had retreated from her.
“Nor do I,” Bradan whispered.
The man in the black cloak stood at the central stone. The chanting increased with the Druids speaking a language that neither Melcorka nor Bradan understood, but which Bradan guessed was either so ancient no scribe had ever written it, or so sacred that only the Druids knew it. One by one, the Druids stepped to the innermost circle, still chanting.
By now, the sky was full dark, yet the stones still glowed. The man in the dark cloak lifted his hands as if in supplication, with the others following his movements. High above, the clouds parted, allowing the moon to shine through.
The Druids began to chant again, moving forward towards the man in black. When they surrounded him, he removed his cloak to stand stark naked in front of the central standing stone.
Each of the white-cloaked Druids produced a tiny, leaf-bladed knife from within the voluminous sleeve of his cloak and reached for the naked man.
“I thought you said the Druids didn't have human sacrifice,” Melcorka said.
“I didn't think they did.” Bradan wished he had not brought Melcorka here. He felt a sickening slide of disappointment. He had been wrong – these were not the people to help Melcorka. He had raised her hopes for no reason.
“We should leave,” Bradan whispered.
“No.” Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender again, without knowing why. Still, the sword felt cold, lacking its customary thrill of power. “It is not finished yet. Watch.”
“The victim does not look unwilling,” Bradan agreed reluctantly.
The naked man stood with his arms outstretched as if welcoming the bite of the Druids' blades. The first of the Druids nicked his arm with his knife, then the second, then the third until all had cut the naked man. Unmoving, the naked man ignored the blood that flowed down his arm to his fingertips and on to the recumbent slab. With that part of the procedure complete, each Druid then cut his own forearm and allowed the blood to fall.
“They're filling the footprints with blood,” Bradan said, relieved that there was no human sacrifice. “And look!”
The moon was bright in the sky, surrounded by a red halo. Quiet beside the triple ring of stones, the lochan caught and enhanced the reflection, as if it had drawn the moon down to the Grainish Moor.
“That is the saying complete,” Bradan said. “The one, the three, the sacred blood from the Druids and now the mirror of the moon. I can't feel that I am any different. Can you, Mel?” He asked, more in hope than in expectation.
“Watch.” Melcorka put a hand on Bradan's
