Multiple scars of black smoke meandered skyward, framing the background of Parwana’s eastern push—a slow, inevitable ride toward the next settlement. The numbers at her back continued to grow with each annexation. A mix of riders, foot soldiers, and a growing supply caravan trailed in her wake.

  Gone were the fineries from the days at the castle, only six months in the past, but a lifetime’s separation in perspective. The colorful dresses of cosmopolitan Irdri had been replaced with studded leathers. Since her plunge into the Siremirian plains, the products designed to accentuate her facial beauty in pursuit of attention from the opposite sex transitioned into crude black rings of rubbed charcoal, framing her eye sockets and mouth. Contrasted with a stark white interior courtesy of dried river clay, the effect was a menacing, inverted skeletal visage well-suited to building rapport among the local tribes. Barbarian ferocity was unmistakable, some said even magical in its own way, as was their menacing stature. A full head taller on average than humans, with skin of mottled grey accentuated further by contrasting tribal patterns, a painted collection of geometric shapes.

  When the signs of civilization appeared on the horizon, Parwana pulled up on the reins, turning her mount toward the trailing vanguard—the strongest, most commanding warlords collected from the communities vanquished or converted. “Send the emissaries.”

  A bald mountain of a barbarian, his face similarly rubbed with white clay between geometric lines of blue, derived from ground lapis lazuli, barked brief commands over his shoulder as the column rippled to a stop behind their adopted leader. The great sword on his back glinted in the afternoon sun, his eyes following three riders emerging from the back of the mounted column.

  Two women and an unimpressive man, all free of any armor or visible weapons, bubbled up through the vanguard, coming to a halt on their right.

  Their eyes glued to her, awaiting instruction, she flicked her head toward the community on the horizon. “Same approach, at least one of you back within an hour.”

  “Same offer of resignation?” one of the women inquired, the tip of her braided top knot bouncing while she nodded in understanding.

  Parwana’s hand rose to the skull-shaped whistle, dangling from a leather thong around her neck – an acquisition from the former leader of the village now smoldering in the distance. As her finger traced the smooth clay exterior, it registered the minute, anomalous change on the whistle’s surface: dried blood. She hadn’t bothered to wipe it off, after slipping the thong over the stump of a neck it previously adorned and laying claim for herself.

  “Yes, with one small addition. If they choose to capitulate—and survive, have all the whistle makers join their casters in receiving me, even the apprentices.” I will learn more about this clever little device.

  Casters were rare among the tribes, and most often limited in their potency from lack of formal training. Battle tactics relied on relentless rage and endurance. Regardless, her success required removing them first. Starting today, that formula would extend to the whistle makers.

  Her orders delivered, all three riders kicked their heels into the horses’ flanks and galloped on ahead.

  It had all evolved unexpectedly several months ago, once the gossip died down following her suspected, yet unproven, disposal of Kliger, and she had established herself as one of the city’s most powerful mages. Whether genuine or as a means of disposing of a growing threat, it didn’t matter. The council’s request to join a team from Irdri to parley with the burgeoning barbarian population to the east had provided the opportunity. Six of them rode out into the plains, but she walked into the community gathering hall, or hujra, to begin the discussions alone, five corpses buried just off the trail several miles back.

  The older woman, seated cross-legged on the ground in the center of the gathering hall, gave her a quizzical look as she entered unaccompanied. “Where are the others?”

  She dismissed the question, her thumb rubbing idly across the stone’s smooth surface in her pocket, coming to rest on the rugged tip of one protruding crystal. “They are no longer of any consequence.” She scanned the room, counting a dozen warriors seated around the outer wall. “Now, tell me about these skirmishes with your neighbors.”

  The constant warring among the barbarian tribes scattered across the Siremirian plains had become bad for business in Irdri, disrupting trade with the elves beyond the mountains. The council hoped for a negotiated agreement, exchanging shared prosperity for more security along the trade route. Parwana had other ideas.

  “What’s to tell?” the woman shrugged. “There are disagreements over land… resources. We settle them as we always have… with the axe.”

  Parwana offered a slow nod of acknowledgement, “And who can speak for the tribes collectively, negotiate on their behalf with the assurance their word will be honored among all the barbarians?”

  The woman barked a laugh that rippled around the others in the hujra like a wave. “Not a soul. Independence is the heart of barbarian culture. No one can speak for the tribe except its Chieftain. If any fool made such an agreement, it would be broken immediately, out of pure spite.”

  Recognizing this would not be a negotiation, Parwana pivoted to a different line of questioning. “And how does one tribe conquer another?”

  “By tribal custom, any tribe wanting to conquer another presents their forces and makes a formal offer of resignation, allowing their opponent to capitulate without bloodshed.” A dismissive frown emerged on her lips. “Not that it’s ever accepted. Assuming they decline, the responding tribe presents their warriors, voices their refusal, and the axes begin to fall where they may, until either the attackers retreat or the attacked surrender.”

  “And this is the nature of your skirmishes with your neighbors?”

  The woman shook her head. “Oh, Gond, no. The skirmishes, as you call them, are nothing so formal, mostly raids on settlements or acquisition of desirable land.”

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  Parwana’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why do you not seek to conquer your rivals, then?”

  “Too risky. Most tribes are not that different in size and skill. Few Chieftains are willing to pursue such an uncertain outcome. If you try and fail, then the predator becomes the prey very quickly.”

  A sly smile spread across the visitor’s face. “What if you were guaranteed victory?”

  The woman’s barking laugh rose once again. “What could we possibly have that would tip the scales with such certainty?”

  “Magic. More specifically, my magic. Make me your tent mother, and your enemies will line up to offer their resignations.”

  The woman was taken aback and didn’t reply until one of the men, granite-faced and silent until this point, placed his hands on his knees and rose from his seat. “Enough of this foolishness. I am Hure, the Chieftain of this tribe. There is no vacancy for the role of tent mother here.” He gestured toward the woman seated on the ground. “This is Glint. She is our tent mother. We have no need of another.”

  Parwana’s gaze locked on his, a polite smile on her lips. Her left hand clutched the stone in her pocket, her right hand danced, fingertips flicking toward Glint. Fifteen red darts lanced across the room, pummelling Glint’s head and chest. The force threw the woman backwards, her limp form careening off the hujra’s central post before landing in a puddle on the floor.

  “How about now?” Parwana asked. “Is there a vacancy?”

  Amidst a clatter of weapons being drawn, several of the elders rose instantly to their feet, ready for battle. Hure momentarily held them at bay with an outstretched arm, a double-bladed axe held high in his other hand.

  Parwana didn’t move a muscle. “I’m sure you’re all thinking about the best way to skin me alive before putting my head on a stick right now, and I don’t blame you.” She rose slowly to her feet, left hand still in her pocket. “First, allow me to offer you another perspective.” She scanned their eyes again. They’re definitely curious. With a deep breath, she made her pitch. “The demonstration you’ve just witnessed was no more than a spark caught in the updraft. The inferno of my magical potency is like none you’ve seen before. With my talents and your fighters, no tribe in Siremiria could stand against us. Think of the riches…the glory that awaits.”

  Returning his second hand to the axe’s shaft, Hure sneered. “Bold claims cost nothing. You would have me risk the future of our tribe on the words of a charlatan, rather than gut you where you stand?”

  Her eyebrows leapt as she offered a faint nod with her head tilted demurely. I’ve got him.

  “Fair enough. How about a risk-free demonstration? Who is your most troublesome neighbor?”

  Hure hesitated, eyeing her suspiciously. “I’ll not have you drag us into a tribal war.”

  Parwana raised one finger into the air. “Ah, ah. I said risk-free. Because I am not yet your tent mother, I’m not part of the tribe.” She spread her hands with a shrug. “My actions are not bound in any way to your accountability. You have nothing to lose.” Take the bait, you greedy bastard.

  A hard stare lingered between them for several seconds before Hure finally blinked. “All right, then.” He tipped his head over his left shoulder, the axe still poised to swing. “About a mile north.”

  “Excellent,” she purred. Boldly turning her back on them, strolling from the hujra, a sly smile rose to her lips. “Let’s go.”

  The chieftain led the procession of elders, Parwana under close watch, north past the livestock paddock and through the fields until they stood under sparse tree cover, half a mile from the neighboring settlement, its hujra and residential structures visible in the distance.

  He swept his arm toward the village. “There they are, my biggest pain in the ass. How close do you need to be? I’d prefer if they didn’t know we were here.” His eyes narrowed. “Just in case your performance falls short of expectations. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” she said, with an acquiescent nod. “This will do just fine.” Parwana took several steps to the side, surveying the layout in silence, while the others looked on. Her gaze swept the audience, eyebrows raised. “Shall we?”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Hure replied, his tone slightly skeptical.

  Parwana took a single step forward, withdrawing the stone from her pocket.

  “What’s that?” someone asked from the back of the group.

  She turned back to the group, holding it up, offering a brief look. “Just my spell focus. Casters use them to channel arcane energy, in place of the material components a spell would otherwise require.” If they only knew.

  She turned back to face the settlement, her free hand weaving patterns in the air as she began to speak the words of the incantation, quietly enough that the others couldn’t make them out. Although unnecessary for the spell, she couldn’t resist a measure of theatrics. Raising her hand, cloaked in a bright orange glow, over her head, she held it for a second before dramatically closing her fist, forcefully speaking the final word, and pulling her fist rapidly toward the ground.

  Orange fissures in the atmospheric fabric above the settlement tore open in twelve different positions, each belching out a flaming meteor larger than many of the buildings below. A rumbling hiss and the smell of sulfur compounded as the hulking projectiles grew in number, racing toward the village.

  When the first meteor demolished the hujra, a booming explosion rocked the surrounding area. Tremors rumbled underfoot, reaching the group watching from the tree line. Beams flew end over end into the air as flames cascaded outward from the impact. Within seconds, eleven more meteors pummeled the settlement before the fissures vanished. When it was over, not a single building stood. The rubble burned like tinder in a funeral pyre, flames reaching higher with each successive impact.

  Taking in multiple gasps of astonishment behind her, she smiled to herself. That should seal the deal. When the tremors in her fingertips started, as they always did with this level of exertion, she quickly pulled her hand in against her chest, out of sight. Drawing a deep breath to reclaim her composure, she spun back to the group. “You’re welcome to take a closer look if you feel the need to confirm the results, but I’d give it at least an hour if I were you.”

  The walk back was one of silent reflection for Hure. The group’s excited twitter drifted past him, white noise in the background. The speed and brutality of her demonstration had made the situation abundantly clear. This woman was a double-sided blade, and the edge thus far unmentioned was, by far, the sharper and more dangerous of the two.

  Less than a week later, she stood, as the tribe’s tent mother, with only five warriors facing almost forty. Gathered in front of their hujra, the opposing tribe had just officially rejected the offer of resignation, sneering in amusement as they sized up the meager opposition.

  She looked every bit the part of one of their warriors, hair in a top-knot braid, face painted with the tribe’s blue-and-white geometry. Two axe blades even peeked over her leather-covered shoulders.

  The sneers turned to shock when her fingers flashed, shrouded in a black, arcane aura, releasing a Circle of Death spell. A sphere of black energy materialized just above the ground in the middle of the enemy ranks. Striking the earth like a drop of rain, the energy rippled outward in a wave, sixty feet in all directions. A second and third sphere followed the first in immediate succession. With each living body it touched, the black energy sucked the very life from its victim. Onlookers watched them shrivel and age as the necrotic energy consumed their living tissue. Many were able to remain standing after the first wave; few withstood the second. None lived through the third. Most of the villagers outside the circle’s reach fell to their knees, wailed in agony, or both.

  Her path to the Glimmerstones and the larger fragment they guarded was coming sharply into focus.

  The Glimmerstone Enigma and The Siremirian Conundrum?

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