Acir reined his horse to a halt in the shade of a clump of silver-leaved poplars and dismounted.

A thin stream trickled over gravel beneath the poplars; he led the bay to the water and let it drink. Swarms of black flies buzzed under the leaves; the horse swished its tail vigorously as it drank. Acir drew out his water-bottle and drank too. It was hot and humid, even in the shade of the fluttering leaves, but it was not the dry, intense heat of the desert which seared the skin and made the air taste of fire and dust. On balance, he thought, wiping the sweat from his face, he preferred that intense desert heat to this uncomfortable stickiness.

Propping himself against a poplar trunk, he took out his orders from his jacket and re-read them.

‘Report to me on progress at the Sanctuary Quarry. Marcien is the Commanderie officer in charge. Assess the situation. We need more stone for the Fortress. Do they need more Sanctuarees?’

A junior officer could have carried out this mission equally competently. So there must be a reason why Girim wanted Captain Korentan out of Bel’Esstar today.

In the distance the mountains that divided Allegonde from verdant Tourmalise shimmered in a blue haze of heat.

Inscribed below the written orders was a map; when he looked at the site of the Quarry, it seemed more close to Tourmalise than Allegonde. Girim could have elected to build his Fortress from Allegondan granite. This insistence on costly red stone could be seen as further proof of a disordered mind – or as an act of ultimate devotion to the Faith.

It was past midday when Acir reached the shade of the mountains. Glad of the fresher air, he stopped again to check his map.

Suddenly the ground rocked as a dull thud reverberated through the air. Choughs rose up in a black cloud, circling and cawing in panic.

His startled horse whinnied and shied. He pulled hard on the reins, stroking the brown head and murmuring reassuringly.

An explosion – deep within the mountain.

As he rode on up the road, he saw indisputable evidence of quarrying: traces of fine red dust powdered the bushes and brambles.

A little further on he had to pull his horse in to the side of the road to make way for a cart drawn by a team of oxen, laden with blocks of fresh-quarried stone, heading down to the Dniera and the stone barges.

Around the next bend, the road suddenly opened up and Acir found himself gazing at a vast excavation in the mountainside, a raw, red gash.

Here everything was clogged with red dust; the road, the few stunted trees, the rocks. In this barren hollow, men were working, tiny as ants against the sides of the cavernous bowl that had been hacked out of the hill.

‘Good day to you, confrère.’

A Guerrior approached Acir, striking his hand to his heart in salute.