Conan the Savage by Leonard Carpenter

to be held at midday in the Abbas Dolmium, a holy place located centrally enough for families from all the villages of the district to hie themselves hence on foot. Though not the site of any permanent habitation-doubtless because of its deeply hallowed reputation—it resembled any other dolmium in the eastern kingdom. It stood high on the windswept fell above Abbas hamlet, a ring of massive, crudely chiselled pillars connected by crumbling stone lintels and covered by a low, conical roof of poles and rushes to keep out the icy sleets of the rocky height. Though its stony skeleton had been reared in a past aeon—likely, it was rumoured, by some faith older than the Imperial church—it was now part of the network of shrines and temples of the high cult of Amalias. As such, it made a suitable place for seasonal devotions and sacrifices.
    The head priest was carried into the temple forecourt, passing amid a procession of virgins and their families just arriving from their long morning’s walk. Others, called from more distant hamlets, had spent the night in the sacred shelter of the temple, warmed by a fire of peat and bones laid at its centre. A layer of new green rushes had been stitched by the worshippers atop the damp thatching, and fresh-cut grass was strewn on the floor inside. Now the acolytes set to work erecting a brightly figured canopy at the altar end of the enclosure, behind which Epiminophas could don his second-finest robes and prepare the ritual.
    The ceremony got under way smoothly. One by one the virgin boys and girls, clad in sackcloth or coarse linen, were brought forward to the altar by their elder relations, some going proudly, some in halting shyness. Their names were called and affirmed as they went to the altar; then their right hands were brought forward, clutched firmly by a cowled acolyte, and their forefingers slit by a sacred copper knife in Epiminophas’s skilled grip. The fresh blood that dripped into the altar basin was used by a second acolyte to pen their names onto the sacred scroll, thus affirming each child’s place in eternal slavery to almighty Amalias.
    The witch-child, of course, was reserved for last. She arrived late, shortly after Epiminophas himself, but the looks and murmurs attending her appearance confirmed her reputation. Indeed, her wan, blank gaze made an eerie impression even on the arch-priest. As the girl’s cringing cousins and siblings were led awkwardly forward by the family’s moon-faced patriarch to receive their name-blessings, the deep, expectant silence proved how well the red-haired girl was known and feared by these ignorant clod-lumpers.
    At last the little witch was brought to the gory, blood-crusted altar, which yet was scarce redder than the tangled coils of her hair. She did not wear the grey-white jerkin that was customary for the ritual; instead, Epiminophas saw, she affected a most garish attire. Her floor-length robe was of faded green, loose and oversized about her slender wrists and hands, with just a wedge of flat, pale breastbone visible at the neck. Even more outrageous was what she carried in the crook of her left arm: an ugly child’s-doll, grimy-looking and crudely made, yet clothed and adorned in tailored garments and ornaments—necklaces, wristbands, diadems, and badges, most of them garish in design, though a few were of middling value.
    After a moment’s thought, Epiminophas determined not to challenge her trappings. The doll, it would appear, was a part of her wizardly show. If she chose to single herself out thus and aggrandize her meeting with the Imperial church, it could only redound to the temple’s greater credit as well as her own. If, on the other hand, the two sides ended in opposition, it would still magnify the church’s glory; only the charlatan’s downfall could be made any worse.
    “Name, child?” the priest roundly intoned. During the long pause that followed, Epiminophas sternly surveyed the watchers for any