A Circle of Iron
Copyright 2012 Greg Benage
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Cover art: Wicked Cover Designs
Cartography: Tom Fayen
Digital Production: Jason G. Anderson
For Mashenka
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This is a work of fiction. Persons, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
Turley whisked the coarse bristles of the brush across the pocked surface of the statue fragment, some small god or local spirit the city’s builders had worshipped. Only the head of the statue had survived the insults and ravages of centuries. The face was very like a woman’s, Turley thought, but with sharp, angled features and overly large eyes of a peculiar shape. One ear was concealed by fine, flowing hair, the stone worked so skillfully he almost fancied he could make out each intricate strand. The other ear was visible, the hair tucked behind it ever so delicately. The end of the ear had chipped off long ago, but from the lines of what remained, Turley imagined that it might have been tapered. Like a horse’s ear, almost. He chuckled to himself at the image.
Stone rattled on stone behind him and Turley whirled around, his heart racing. Broken columns, crumbling walls and fallen stone blocks the size of houses greeted him silently. He slipped the dagger out of his belt and waited, holding his breath. After twice having his claims stolen by bravos and bandits, he’d decided to take a chance and venture deeper into the ruined city. He’d heard the stories of scavs going missing, but they were nothing new. He’d heard the rumors of wights in the ruins.
Turley grinned and shook his head. Stories and rumors never hurt anyone. Scavenging was a dangerous business, and he knew the risks. But they were nothing compared to the rewards. One good find, one rich source, and he’d never have to toil again. He could buy some land of his own, with peasants to till the soil. He could marry some high-born lady with big tits, wide hips and a slender waist. Maybe a widow, or better yet, a young maid with a dowry. A woman who could bring some assets of her own to the table, besides what she had between her legs.
If he found a big enough source, Turley could afford to be choosy.
He turned back to the stone head and grasped it firmly on either side. This is it. This is the one. He rolled the fragment to the side, straining with the heft of it, and studied the soil beneath. Dark, almost black. Rich and fine. Turley’s pulse raced. He buried his fingers in the earth and dug around until they found the first stone, its surface rough and faceted. Turley uncovered it carefully. He blew on it, working it with his fingers to clear away the dirt. The object was an oblong crystal, roughly the size of a man’s thumb. The scavs called it quint. It had some value in its own right—the small crystal would make for imposing stakes at the gambling tables—but it was more important to Turley for what it signified. He placed the quint in the wooden pan at his side and dug around until he’d extracted three more.
Like most scavs, Turley knew just enough about magic to tell a source from dead stone. Raw magic slowly leaked from an object such as the statue fragment over the centuries. As it did, it congealed in the soil, hardened and eventually formed a crystal. The four quints alone were more wealth than Turley had ever possessed, but what they meant was that he’d struck it rich. The statue fragment was infused with magic. Some of it had leached into the soil, but not all. Not even a small portion of what was still bound into the stone.
Turley reached into his bag and withdrew the hammer and chisel. Break it, bag it and get it back to town. He placed the point of the chisel in one of the statue’s eye sockets and raised the hammer. Before he could bring it down, his wrist was caught in an iron vise and the hammer dropped from suddenly numb fingers.
The figure that stood there was backlit by the setting sun, and Turley squinted into the fading light. He saw the face, and looked back at the head of the statue.
Oh . . .
Pain flared in Turley’s throat and the world went red. Then it went black.