The Altar seemed part of the hillside itself, as in truth it was. Eremius had conjured it into being out of the very rock, a seamless slab as high as a man's waist and twelve paces on a side. Around the edge of the slab ran in high relief the runes of a powerful warding spell.
Like the runes on the great golden ring on Eremius's left forearm, these runes were an ancient Vanir translation of a still more ancient Atlantean text. Even among sorcerers, few knew of these or any of the other spells concerning the Jewels of Kurag. Many doubted the very existence of the spells.
Eremius found this to his advantage. What few believe in, fewer still will seek.
He stepped up to the Altar and contemplated the Transformation. She was a young village woman, fully of marriageable age and exceedingly comely, had Eremius been concerned about such things. The whole of her clothing was a silver ring about her roughly-cropped dark hair and silver chains about her wrists and ankles. The chains held her spread-eagled on the slab, but not so tightly that she could not writhe from side to side in an obscene parody of passion. In spite of the night chill, sweat glazed her upthrust breasts and trickled down her thighs. Her eyes held shifting tints that made them look now ebony dark, now silver gray, then the fiery tint of a cat's eyes seen by firelight.
Indeed, all seemed well. Certainly there was nothing to be gained by waiting. Eight more Transformations awaited him tonight, nine more recruits for his army.
Soon he could bargain from strength, with the ambitious or the discontented at the court of Turan. No court ever lacked for such, and the court of Turan had more than most. Once they were his allies, he could set them in search of the other Jewel. Illyana could not hide forever.
Then the twin Jewels would be his, and bargaining at an end. It would be time for him to command and for the world to obey.
He raised his left hand and began to chant. As he chanted, the Jewel began to glow. Above the Altar the mists took on an emerald hue.
Bora's breath hissed between his teeth. The mist in the westernmost valley was turning green. It was also the nearest valley. In daylight he could have reached it in an hour, for he was as keen-sighted by night as by day. Tonight, speed was not his goal. Stealth was what he needed, for he was a wolf seeking prey—an odd fate for a shepherd, but Mitra would send what Mitra chose.
Bora sat up and unwrapped the sling from around his waist. In the dry mountain air, the cords and leather cup had not stretched. In the mist-shrouded valley, it might have been otherwise; still, he could face anything but heavy rain. He had practiced almost daily with the sling, ever since he was no taller than it was long.
From a goatskin pouch he drew a piece of dry cheese and five stones. Since he was fourteen, Bora could tell the weight and balance of a stone by tossing it thrice in either hand. He had studied and chosen these five stones as carefully as if he were going to wed them.
His fingers told him that none of the stones were chipped. One by one he eased them back into the pouch, along with the last crumb of cheese. Then he tied the pouch back at his waist, picked up his staff, and started down the mountain.
It was no marvel that the mist turned the color of emeralds. The light pouring from the great stone in the ring was of such a hue. The stone itself might have been taken for an emerald the size of a baby's fist. Some men had done so. Two had been thieves; both would have preferred King Yildiz's executioners to what actually befell them.
Whether the Jewels of Kurag were natural or creations of sorcery, no living man knew. That secret lay beneath the waves, among the coral-armored ruins of Atlantis. For Master Eremius, it was enough to know the secrets of the Jewels' powers.
He chanted the first spell in a high-pitched singsong that might have been mistaken for the tongue of Khitai. As he chanted, he felt the vials of blood grow warm against his skin, then cool again. Their preservation spells were set aside. Now to make them his instruments of Transformation.
He set the first vial on the Altar beside the young woman. The herb-steeped cloth forced into her mouth had sapped her will but not destroyed it. Her eyes rolled back, wide with terror, as she saw the blood in the vial begin to glow. A faint moan forced its way through the cloth.
Eremius chanted three guttural monosyllables, and the lid of the vial flew into the air. He struck the Altar, five times with his staff, and chanted the same syllables twice more.
The vial floated into the air and drifted over the girl. Eremius' staff rose like an asp ready to strike. The light from the Jewel became a single beam, bright enough to dazzle any mortal eye unshielded by magic.
With a flick of his wrist, Eremius directed the beam straight at the vial. It quivered, then overturned. The blood rained down on the girl, weaving a pattern like silver lace across her skin. Her eyes were now wider than ever, but no thought now lay behind them.
Holding his staff level, Eremius passed it and the beam of light over the girl's body, from head to toe. Then he stepped back, licked his dry lips, and watched the Transformation.
The girl's skin turned dark and thick, then changed into scales, overlapping like plates of fine armor. Great pads of muscle and bone grew across her joints. Her feet and hands grew hard edges, then ridged backs, and claws a finger long.
The spell did not alter the structure of the face as much as the rest of the body. Scaly skin, pointed ears, pointed teeth, and eyes like a cat's still turned it into a grotesque parody of humanity.
At last, only the eyes moved in what had been a woman. Eremius made another pass with his staff alone, and the chains fell from wrists and ankles. The creature rose uncertainly to its hands and knees, then bowed its head to Eremius. Without hesitation or revulsion, he laid his hand upon the head. The hair fell away like dust, and the silver ring clattered upon the stone.
Another Transformation was accomplished.
From the darkness beyond the Altar stalked three more of the Transformed. Two had been purchased as slaves, one a captured caravan guard; all had been men. It was Eremius's experience that women fit for a Transformation were seldom found unguarded. Girls to yield up their blood for the Transformation of others were easier to come by.
The three Transformed lifted their new comrade to her feet. With a wordless snarl she shook off their hands. One of them cuffed her sharply across the cheek. She bared her teeth. For a moment Eremius feared he might have to intervene.
Then a familiar recognition filled the new
Transformed's eyes. She knew that for better or for worse, these beings were her chosen comrades in the service of Master Eremius. She could not deny them. Whatever she had worshipped before, she now worshipped only Eremius, Lord of the Jewel.
Eyes much less keen than Bora's could have made out the sentries at the head of the valley. Although no soldier, he still knew that they would bar entry that way. Nor was he surprised. The master of the demon light in the valley would not be hospitable to visitors.
With sure, steady paces, Bora passed along the ridge to the south of the valley. He reached a point halfway between the mouth and the source of the light. It seemed to lie in the open, not within one of the caves that honeycombed the valley's walls.
Below Bora's feet now lay a cliff two hundred paces high and steep enough to daunt the boldest of goats. It was not enough to daunt Bora. "You have eyes in your fingers and toes," they said of him in the village, for he could climb where no one else could.
To be sure, he had never climbed such a cliff in the dark, but never had he hoped to win so much or had so little to lose. The family of a convicted rebel would be fortunate indeed if Mughra Khan did no worse than to exile them.
Bora studied the cliff as far as he could see, picking out the first part of his route. Then he lowered himself over the edge and began his descent.