‘Most certainly,’ said Macros. ‘We would do well just to stand here and let them come to us.’
For nearly an hour they waited, then a last a ripple in the air around the invisible enclosure announced the arrival of a quartet of young women. Pug suspected they were either among the most puissant of the Bloodwitches, or those they could most afford to lose if Pug’s group proved hostile.
‘You are unbidden here,’ said the leader, a striking young Dasati woman who was tall by her race’s standards. She had a bearing that set her apart from the others, so Pug assumed she must be the leader here.
Valko spoke before anyone else. ‘I am Valko, Lord of the Camareen, son of Narueen.’
That name provoked a response, but before the women could respond, Macros said, ‘And I am the Gardener. We have much to discuss.’
The leader nodded. ‘Indeed. You must all come with us.’ She stared hard for a moment at Valko, then turned and walked away. The other three stepped to either side, clearly indicating that Pug and his companions were to follow the tall young Bloodwitch.
As they reached the edge of an apparently empty clearing, Pug felt the energy pulse of magic and suddenly a walled fortification appeared. He realized that they had stepped past the boundary of a massive illusion, one designed to fool any onlooker until they actually made contact with the boundary. He also suspected that there were nasty surprises for anyone who did if they were not expected by those inside.
The enclave was ancient, Pug instantly knew. It had that look of stones which had been set in place for hundreds, even thousands, of years, worn smooth and seamless by the ceaseless caress of the wind and rain. Corners once sharp were now rounded, and a rut in the stone showed where countless feet had trodden from the gate to the entrance of the main building.
This was the first Dasati construction Pug had seen that was not part of some massive urban centre. It was simply a keep. It looked similar in many respects to one that he might find in the mountains of the Kingdom of the Isles, a square stone building with a circular tower rising in the middle, commanding a view of the mountain passes below that would warn any lookout of an enemy approach hours in advance.
Inside Pug could feel the vibrancy, which suggested for more than just the bustle of women busily taking care of the day’s needs, and in the distance he could hear the unmistakable sound of children. And they were laughing! The tall woman turned and said, ‘You must wait here for a moment.’ To Valko she said, ‘And you must remove your sword and give it to her.’ She pointed to another young Bloodwitch.
‘Why?’ asked the young Deathknight defiantly. His sword was hard won and represented much of who he was and what he had endured.
‘Because there are those here who wish you to be unarmed,’ answered Macros. ‘Please.’
‘Please,’ was a word rarely used in Dasati culture, and one that usually meant a pleading for life. In this context, it was a simple request, yet a powerful one. Valko removed his belt and scabbard and handed them to the young woman.
The leader of the four Dasati women departed, leaving them alone with the three remaining escorts. The hall in which they found themselves was just what Pug would expect from a simple keep: it was a short hallway, intersecting another with two doors, one at either end, presenting a blank wall to the main entrance. In ancient days, should the main entrance be forced, invaders would have had a short route to awaiting death. Glancing upwards, Pug saw the murder gallery above, down from which would rain arrows, bolts, rocks, and boiling pitch or oil. At either end of the hallway, massive doors waited, no doubt equipped with huge bars and reinforced to withstand all but the sturdiest rams. Pug could only speculate, but he imagined this fortification had never been taken.
Unlike the other Dasati buildings in which he had been, this one had decorations hanging on the walls. Ancient banners from the look of them; possibility insignia from antiquity, emblems of houses or societies long vanished. Pug could not tell. One of them, however, looked vaguely familiar, and his eyes kept returning to it. It was simple, a red field with a white glyph in the middle. The shape of it was almost recognizable, a single vertical line, bending to the right at the top and looping down to almost close against the vertical. Below that point, a short single line crossed and below that, another, longer one. Why did he think he recognized it?
Three women returned in the wake of the young woman who had greeted Pug and his companions. The three younger women who had waited with Pug’s group departed.
Pug studied the three newly arrived Bloodwitches. They were all older and gave off a strong sense of power. The eldest of them said, ‘Who is the Gardener?’
Macros stepped forward. ‘I am.’
The older Bloodwitch looked at him for a moment, then said, ‘No, you are not. But I know who you are.’