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The sky was profoundly dark, a rich, midnight blue but so crowded with stars that it quite took the sentry’s breath away. There were recognizable constellations, of course, and dense clusters which he couldn’t name but, most astonishingly, there were the rings.

Of course, viewed from Betrushia’s surface they didn’t look like rings, although the sentry had seen artist’s impressions back in his schooldays in Tusamavad of how they must appear.

From his point of view, however, they were spectacular enough. A great, broad diagonal line like a pointillist rainbow, its colours shifting and merging endlessly, took up half the sky; stars peeking occasionally between illuminated dust‐clouds.

As darkness drew on, the rings would shimmer gloriously, the light from Betrushia’s sun gaining in strength as night turned to day. Then, just before dawn, shafts of sunlight would set the rings ablaze, transforming them into an incredible display; a sky‐bound ocean of glorious colour.

It never failed to move the sentry even though he had grown up with the phenomenon. Since joining the army he was also awake for many more dawns than during his childhood.

Something made him look down and, for a moment, he could see only blackness. The great dark trees whispered slightly in the breeze. He looked down at his feet, conscious of a deep, rumbling sound somewhere at the edge of his perception. He cocked his head inquisitively and the light from the rings glanced off his crest.

The sound came again, like behemoths whispering far below the surface. The sentry strained to make out the sound, his warty face crinkling with the effort.

Then he felt it, a slight, rocking sensation, as though the jungle had been delicately pushed to one side. His knees gave slightly and he had to struggle to keep standing.

The sentry had quite forgotten the rings now. He didn’t even notice a pattern of falling stars which lit up the far horizon. His every sense, every instinct was trained on the low trembling beneath his feet.

In one movement, he stripped off his rifle and grenade belt and threw himself down onto the soft jungle floor. Wet leaves and mud slapped onto his uniform.

He was tempted to put his ear to the ground but decided this was too ridiculous and contented himself with crouching on his haunches, ears pricked.

There was another tremor. The sentry felt himself sway slightly, his boots creaking as he rocked on his heels. Around him, the sounds of the night continued undisturbed.

This had to be reported, the sentry decided. If it were some kind of earthquake then the officers would need to know: and if the Cutch had developed some new device, perhaps to sabotage the armistice, then he might just get the Pelaradator’s Star for spotting it first. He stood up excitedly.

If he had been a little more vigilant, his mind not filled with dreams of glory and shining medals, the sentry might have seen the thing that burst suddenly from the jungle and tore him to pieces.

* * *

5

Raining Stones

There was a fragrant, dusty smell about the place as the woman rose in silence from her bed.

The room around her, though icy, held something of the feel of winter sunshine, its blank stone walls hard and pale and cold.

Shivering, she pulled the rough hessian robe over her head, twitching involuntarily as the material brushed against her skin. There was no mirror in which she could check her appearance; in fact, no decoration of any kind in the room, save for the plain golden cross, its shaft entwined with gilded flames, which hung crookedly on the far wall.

The woman pulled a basin and jug from under the bed and gazed at her reflection in the frozen water. It would have been nice if the place had been a little warmer, she conceded, but such comforts were hardly the Chapter’s way.

Decisively, she punched at the block of ice and it loosened, slipping about in the basin. Another blow and the liquid water beneath was freed.

She scooped up a couple of handfuls and splashed them onto her