Gods. Please let them move it.

But even as the Geomancers struggled, the troll did not budge.

They changed position, now spacing themselves evenly in a circle around the troll. They cursed and yelled and grunted with determination as they tried again, but to no avail.

“What are they hoping will happen?” whispered someone behind Morrígan.

“Fools,” murmured another. “All they need is a good pivot—”

Heat began to rise in Morrígan’s face, but she tried to ignore them. Across the field, Colonel Eodadh threw down his cloak and joined in the effort himself.

If only I could help.

It had been two months since Morrígan had asked Yarlaith to teach her magic, but the healer had been too busy with his own private experiments and scribblings to even show her the basics. She had assumed that he’d have more free time now, considering Fionn the Red had left the clinic, but this seemed to cause Yarlaith to work even more frantic and frequently than ever. He had said that the Academy of Dromán was looking to fund his research into the alchemical methods used to re-attach Fionn’s arm. Apart from that, Morrígan knew little else about his work.

One by one, the mages dropped their arms. Sweat soaked their faces and dripped onto their tunics. Still, the troll hadn’t moved an inch.

“I told you! I told you they couldn’t do it!” said Fearghal to nobody in particular. “What a bloody waste of an evening.”

The butcher turned back towards the village; the others meekly followed, but Morrígan remained behind. With her uncle busy with his work, she didn’t have much else to do for the evening.

The colonel called out to the Geomancers with some strange arcane word, and all nine immediately stopped and stood in attention; the troll leered on behind them.

“Dismissed,” he said.

The soldiers broke formation and wandered back to the village, mumbling to one another. Morrígan caught Berrían’s eye, and he threw his shoulders up in an apologetic shrug.

Dusk crept in overhead, but with the sky covered by a dead sheet of grey clouds, it was impossible to tell where the sun was setting.

Colonel Eodadh remained behind.

“There’s nothing more we can do,” he said. “I believe Berrían already explained that this may be a matter of flesh, not earth. It seems that the troll itself has been petrified, and now bears no similarities to stone.”

“Yes,” said Morrígan, bowing her head.

The colonel broke away and walked over to the troll, rubbing his hand across its shin. Its legs were bent in a crouching stance, arms covering its face from the direction morning had come. From here, Morrígan could see the exact spot her mother was killed.

Grief’s familiar claws scratched against the inside of her throat. Her lip quivered and her mouth went dry. Tears filled her eyes.

If only we didn’t have to work so damn early that morning.

“Is there nothing else that could be done?” she asked. “What if we tried with all twelve?”

“No,” said the colonel. His tone was harsh and reproachful. “It is not a matter of magnitude. Not even a thousand Geomancers would be able to move the troll.”

“Is there no other way?” Morrígan looked up at the troll’s hideous, deformed face. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to never have to see it again.

“Not with magic.” The colonel pulled up his hood and turned to leave. “Why don’t you ask the Simians to lend you an engine?”

As he left, Morrígan considered his suggestion, even though it was meant in sarcasm.

Magic has so many rules and boundaries. Simian engineers must be far freer than our mages.

There were still no developments from Penance or Cruachan. Some of the more cynical and imaginative residents of Roseán had started to dub the conflict “The Invisible War.” They claimed that the king never was attacked, and the story nothing but a fabrication to give the Crown a mandate to raise taxes and declare war on Penance. It all sounded a lot like paranoia, though. Many of the villagers were uneasy since the Harvest Moon festival.

It wasn’t the beadhbhs that put them on edge. It’s the fact they’ve grown sober.

Peadair had given away the last of his alcohol that night, and there had been nowhere for the villagers to drink since.

The evening was quickly growing cold, with darkness setting in from the east. Morrígan wore only a simple gown and cardigan, for Yarlaith had forbidden her to bring out her beadhbh cloak again, considering those that attacked the village.

She stood by herself a little longer, fantasising about the day she’d learn magic and leave Roseán to study in the Academy. She had seldom left the safety of her tiny village, and it had been hundreds of years since Humans had even stepped foot outside of Alabach, in fear of the Grey Plague that drove them from their homeland.

We don’t even know what the plague was. She looked to the misty peaks of the Glenn to the north. How can everyone be so content with living out their lives in a cage?

The view of the Glenn was serene and silent; the local wildlife retired earlier and earlier each night with winter setting in. The mountains stood before her, drained of colour in the waning light, like a dusty oil painting. The overgrown grass of the surrounding fields stood completely still, separated by thick, motionless hedgerows like stone walls.

It was the stoic tranquillity of the scene that made the movements of the dark figure all the more jarring. Morrígan squinted through the dimming light and saw something shaped like a man — a very large man—creeping towards her. It grew clearer in her vision with each step.

A Simian!

She recoiled in horror as the stranger approached, but he too paused when he saw her. For a tense moment they looked at each other, alone in the empty field, in silence.

Is he here to harm me?

Although his arms and head were exposed, the Simian wore a heavy chest-plate, tinted deep with blue. He carried a simple leather pack over one shoulder, and his fists seemed strong enough to crush stone. His dark, hairy face was stern and stolid, but there was a hint of apprehension in his eyes. After a moment’s breath passed, he spun on his heels and bolted up towards the Glenn.

“Wait!”

Morrígan gave chase. The Simian must have been a spy of some sort, watching the Geomancers at work. If there were others nearby, Morrígan needed to know.

But he couldn’t be a threat. He wouldn’t be fleeing if he was a threat.

The Simian’s long muscular legs carried him far quicker than Morrígan’s, but he was still within sight as the mountains rose up overhead.

Maybe he can help. Maybe he can get his engineers to move the troll.

Still, she carried on, even as her breath ran short and the Simian disappeared into the hills ahead of her.

What if the others were right? What if there really isn’t a war? What if we’ve been given false information about the Simians this whole time?

It was only now that she realised how close she was to the mountains. The Teeth of the Glenn stabbed the sky, rooted deep into the ground before her. Morrígan stopped to examine her surroundings, hills and winding paths extending out in every direction.

Where did he go?

She considered her options. It was getting late, and soon it’d be too dark to continue searching.

She turned back towards the village, but something caught her eye. The rocks of the mountains were uniform all around her, like a man-built wall, but several feet away, the smooth stone turned rough. She followed the shape of the stone. A dark, yawning hole stood at its base.