The mighty Stékkr towered above the three as they entered into the sacred domain. As they passed from the outside to the inside, a great change marked the land that they trod upon. The gloomy sky above was largely obscured by the red leaves, though the world was none the brighter, for a deep shade layered the land beneath, and were it only a little earlier, some light source might be needed.

Even by the time the three had reached the treeline, they could hear the low distant tones amidst the still and creeping morning. It was a stale and crackling voice at first, muffled and diminished by both distance and obstacle, but it cut through the silence of morning like a needle through a silken cloth. A man spoke and sang and chanted, but of what words he uttered, none could be discerned from afar. Not wishing to miss any else, the rangers quickened their walk through the trees and went towards the source of the voice.

While it was not nearly as dark as night, it was dark enough so that when the three came to a place where they had a clear view of a small glade, about a hundred feet away, they could clearly see the illumination and fires that lit up the trunks of the trees, nearby. Coming closer, they heard the voice grow mightier in volume, and when they were within ten fathoms and no longer blocked from sight by large shrubberies, they beheld the congregation in full. First there was the great crowd of onlookers that had come to watch, and these had come in plenty. There was not a huge number of people in total, but it was nonetheless a greater number than he would have expected for witnessing a daybreak ritual. They all watched silently, either captivated by the sight or too fearful to do so. All stood to the side, distant from the ritual, and none moved or dared to speak.

In front of a single Stékkr trunk, they were all gathered.

At least a hundred witches must have been there, sitting in thin wooden chairs, in many circles surrounding smaller circles. Though their garb varied much, all were clothed in black and bore the strange tools of their craft. Some held frayed ropes, others bore forked branches. Some carried the severed hands of hanged men, and there were some that held dirt in one hand a rusty iron nail in the other. The head of each was bent, and the eyes of some focused upon a bonfire that lay in the centre of the smallest circle, while others kept them lightly shut. All muttered their own incantations and hexes. Flames wreathed the heads of every witch and seer present in the ritual. Some were greater than others, but the souls of all those within the rings burnt forth with a smoldering and contemplative intensity.

Walking throughout the many circles of witches, three tall and hooded men made slow rounds. Upon their black robes were woven many embellishments and scripts in alabaster thread. Each brandished a quick finger as he passed, chanting softly in a deep and strange tongue. They did this throughout each circle, slowly advancing inwards towards the center, whereupon just over a dozen witches knelt in a ring that bordered a great bonfire. Once at this circle, each seer stopped behind each witch, and stood there for a time as he performed his magics.

One took a long metal rod with three fine silver chains on its end and traced many symbols in the air above the head of the witch he stopped at, twisting his fingers through the flames that rose up from the crown of her head. Another stepped around to place his hand upon her face, whereupon a black ink was left behind in obscure scripts of incantation. Yet another took the left arm of each witch and placed into her palm a little burning candle. He held a small wooden board, emblazoned with many strange symbols and letters beneath the candle, and then withdrew both after a few moments. After each time, he made a small note upon another tablet he kept, and scraped the wax droplets off of the board before moving onto the next.

Just before the bonfire itself stood the elder seer. Ancient and wrinkled, garbed in shawl and robe, he rose as a pinnacle amidst stones, and in his hands were thousands of small sparks. About his head, flames danced forth and burnt with an even greater intensity than the bonfire before him. From his wrinkled and aged throat, two voices rang in song and chant, echoing through the trees many times and not ceasing until long after the words had left him. The first was low and rolled like thunder. It bore through the bodies of all that were gathered around, neither being redirected by objects or diminished by distance. Almost from within rather than from without, the voice was felt more than it was heard. The second was higher, sharper, and quicker in tone. Like the other, it passed through all things, uncompromised and was felt as a shaking of the body. Like lightning, it sprang forth from where the elder seer stood and branched out in all directions, hitting all those squarely and quickly.

When several rounds had been by made by the three seers about the central circle, the tones of the elder seer changed, and he turned to step out of the circle and towards the base of the tree until he was within arm’s reach of it. He paused, as though suddenly broken from his trance and considering his actions. He drew a thick-bladed knife from a sheath upon his belt and held it before him in both hands. He remained still for a moment.

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Finally, with a single and perfect motion, he raised the blade to the bark of the tree. In the same motion, he pulled downwards, taking a long length of bark with him. Quickly, he released his left hand from the blade to catch the shorn bark before it reached the ground. Moving back to the table, he carefully placed it atop the cloth. Like the motion that made for its cutting, the wood harvested was a perfect cut.

Many times he repeated this, creating a pile of long strips of bark upon the table. When at last he seemed to have carved enough, he began to sort out the wood into individual piles. As he did this, two young acolyte seers to take the completed piles to a smaller table, away from the circle. There, they began to weave, forming long torches in the rough shapes of horns. The construction did not take long, but the gentle and practiced movements of the acolytes made for delicate and precise movements that made the whole process seem like a dance of wood than an assembly of a tool. With tight and richly-dyed cords, the tinder was woven together, whereupon it was returned to the elder seer. This in turn, was repeated until many torches had been created, each with as much care as the last.

All throughout, the elder seer continued his odd song, occasionally gesturing with ember-laden hands around the whole circle. Sometimes he moved from his place at the bonfire and walked around the perimeter, aided by a staff nearly as ancient and gnarled as he. Towards the end of it all, the young acolytes returned to him, bearing many bundles of black cloth that was connected to some white leather object. Unraveled, they were revealed to be heavy masked cowls; a hard white leather shell in the shape of a flat skull, tipped with a long crow’s beak protruding downward from the nose and mouth. About the edges was sewn a tight black cloth. Placing them likewise upon the table, the boys joined beside the elder seer, who was now pouring some pale liquid from a carafe into a small bowl. When he stepped away from the table, holding the bowl and a leafy branch, the tall seers went to the table and gathered the torches and masks, following in the elder seer’s path, and being followed in turn by the acolytes, who carried the rest.

The elder seer went round the circle in rhythm, flicking the branch before each witch he passed, sprinkling them with the pale liquid. Some flinched, but most made no motion at all. It was really only a few that had any sort of reaction to the ritual at all; for the bulk of the kneeling women simply held themselves in trance, performing the steps and receiving spells as they came. Others watched beneath the cover of half-lidded eyes, trembling with despair but still with the lack of imminent fear.

The tall seers fitted the masks upon each witch after the elder seer had passed and anointed them, fitting the leather onto their faces and securing the cowl around the head and neck. Once so garbed, the last remaining differences disappeared from the circle. Each witch was indistinguishable from the others, guarded from what new terrors awaited them, but shielded from the heartache of departing from their families and friends, possibly never to return. Into their shaking hands, the seers placed the torches. Some received only one, while a downtrodden few received as many as five, which they had no choice but to prop up upon their knees and hold with both arms.

The ritual went on, and further incantations were made and placed upon the circle. Sometimes the witches were instructed to stand, sometimes they were brought before the elder seer who placed signs of foresight upon them. At one point, even the elder witch came from where she had been observing nearby, and placed pendants about the necks of each witch as the elder seer imbued the jewels with powerful omens. Throughout it all, he continued his chanting, though it often varied in word and in melody.

Of what words the elderly man chanted, Górin could make no sense of. However, in days to come, those strange sounds and tones returned to the surface his mind as he lay half-awake, staring up at the dark skies. When the fire had dimmed low, and only the pale light of stars reigned overhead, when silence pervaded all, marred by no man or beast or pest or wind, those unfamiliar words returned like a disembodied echo within his mind. Broken and fragmented were the verses, as though one attempting to recall a half-remembered song heard only once long ago, and yet, he beheld their meaning as simply as though they had been spoken plainly to him just a moment before. And this is what the echoes said:

The fires of the past that burn them all to ash…

I hear the Lady…

I hear the Lady…

Look to rain-soaked ash and scattered...

Look to the grey stone statures that lay...

Look upon the raging and swifting scars…

Burning through the ash and-

Spinning the yarn, spinning the tale

Spinning of the wheels that turn the world,

The Dark Lady speaks from her throne in the Abyss.

There be burnished stone from the north

There be the echoes from the storms of the east

There be the shadows from the trees of the south

There be the palls from the hills of the west.

A thousand cairns risen,

A dozen gravegivers sicken,

The burning and weeping alone.

Send off the smoke and the fire,

for they had soon burnt their homes.

Shadow through water, like moonlight through river.

The fires of the past that burn them all to ash…

And the old land shall be renewed.