Chapter One

The fortress rose up out of the darkness like a rip in time, a place which once was great and now is slow to let that greatness die. It is a truth of life that all which is great must in its time fall, as the seasons turn and become ordinary again. Always there will be those who are reluctant to let the legend die, who grasp with dead fingers, striving to regain that which once was. From people such as these came the Forgotten Ones; out of their greed was great evil done; out of their deeds was the Earth twisted and wracked, torn asunder in the pursuit of ethereal delights. Out of their arrogance were Man and beast enslaved, robbed of dignity and spirit, slaves to another’s will. This was their place and its shadow still reaches out across the land whispering, to those who will hear, of hitherto unimagined riches and glory. Few and foolish are those who listen to that voice and their fate is agony beyond imagining, for the Forgotten Ones do not tread lightly in this world of ours. A man should pray that he does not fall into their hands for as soon as he does his spirit will cease to exist; the shell of his body inhabited by an old, sleepless malice. Even worse, it is said that in those who are enslaved in this manner a kernel of awareness remains, trapped in the depths, there to endure and bear witness to the horrors perpetrated by the invaders.
 
Around the base of the peak upon which the fortress stands runs a road of sorts. A road of straight lines, of carved stone and fired brick, an abomination astride the Earth. On an unnaturally still evening, a rider pelts down the road, her mount heaving and panting, foaming at the mouth, eyes askance, sensing the horror perched on the mount, watching and waiting. Around they ride and on, through forests where even the trees seem alive with malice. Branches flail at horse and rider, slashing at face and flank. On they ride, through the clutching limbs, on and on until the breach the outer rim of the forest. They slow to a standstill and stay motionless for a time, panting with exertion and the panic that overtook them travelling along the road. The rider, a girl on the cusp of womanhood, eases out of the saddle slowly and crumples to the floor. Her mount crops the grass and she rises after a while to stand, shadowed in the moonlight. Blond hair cascades to her shoulders where it has been hacked off unevenly, lending her a frail, unkempt appearance. The blond shower covers a nose that is a little too sharp, a mouth that is a little too thin and piercing blue eyes which seem to reach straight to the soul of the observer. She pauses, shakes her head and walks to the horse, a jet black mare who shakes her head, seemingly in reply and stamps her hooves, impatient in idleness.

A crack in the centre.

Chasms splintering outwards.

A thin wail in the darkness.

Silence for a time and then a voice, high and nasal, harsh against the starkness of stone,
‘The link is broken, how long this time before we can reform?’
A pause and then a second speaker stirs, quieter than the first yet full of silent, unspoken menace,
‘Soon, my child, soon. Have but a little patience; how many millennia have we striven in silence for this? We will not fail in this at the last; though we may be tempted to err and show ourselves too soon. No, peace and patience and all will be well my young friend.’
‘But how much longer must we wait for this glimpse, this chance that may trip the balance. I grow weary of waiting, of creeping in the shadows, fighting the yearning for what is past and gone and can be no longer. That we should be reduced to this, slaves where once we were masters, pitiful where once we were glorious, bright against the dark and terrible to behold.
‘If the wait proves too long for you perhaps I could alleviate your distress…It would be but the work of a moment...’ the words pour out, silky smooth with an undertone of steel. The second speaker stutters, coughs and concedes, somewhat sulkily,
‘I m content to wait, for a while, until the moment comes and then…’
‘…and then, my friend, there will be a future more wild than your darkest imaginings. But wait and watch, for a time longer and it will come.’

Back on the road the atmosphere has lightened; rider and horse ease slowly through the still autumn evening, relaxed, yet watchful still for signs of movement amongst the scrub that shades the skirts of the forest. No movement comes and so they travel onwards in peace for a time as the scrub thins, straggling across the increasingly arid landscape. Then, suddenly, the change came and the heat hit them like a vice. The girl shuddered, taken aback as always by the swift violence of the change from cool embrace to breathless grasp. She wonders silently whether healing is possible, whether healing will ever be possible, or whether men are doomed to struggle forever against the elements. She remembers, somewhat dimly, the world as it once was, shadow memories of a past long gone, incinerated in the dry, barren heat. She cannot put words to the memories, for who can give voice with clarity to echoes from the past, felt but never experienced, never realised in the flesh. In the memory dreams there is a city, cool and lush with covered walkways reaching as far as the eye can see, protecting idle passers by from the heat of the mid-day sun. The moons hang, full swollen and fecund in the dying rays of the suns, and their gossamer light reflects off deep pools of water. From a distance the pools appear to hang in mid-air, embraced by stone. The stone has its origin in the mountains of the North; a harsh land careless of the lives of those who live within its grasp, those who will carry its secrets gasping from life if needs carry them that far. The pools bear the imprint of this character, this casual contempt for human life, the arrogance of those who have moved beyond the human condition, become both more and less than those who strive on and struggle in the dust. Also within the stone lies a little of the crafter. It is said that every work of true art steals a part of the soul of the artist. These works are perilous to look upon for they have an essence of their own, a half-life and they ever search for more, for the life and vitality denied them by their creators. To stare upon them too long is to lose something of oneself within their depths; something which, once lost, is not easily or cheaply regained. Even now, it is said that one who creates too much of the old art may become stretched with the passing of time as if their soul has frayed and tattered in the presence of an eternal, unceasing wind. They can survive for a time in this state, but all eventually slip away into the still of the night, all but forgotten as they fly in search of peace; roaming fruitlessly in search of that which they gave away so heedlessly.

The city is always all but empty in these dreams and silent, but for the fluttering of the breeze and the skittering of dust around corners. This time is different, she feels a presence, not yet dangerous, but close, watching as she wanders through the city of her dreams. In her mind she slows, dawdling as if with all the time in the world and then spins abruptly, ready to fight or to run as circumstances require. The watcher scatters, flying into a myriad of shining fragments but too late, his image is etched in her minds eye. An old man, face lined with age and a million dreams, shoulders hunched and arms veined but she hardly notices these things. Fear grips her spine sending daggers of alarm through her limbs commanding flight above all things. Upon his brow, emblazoned in burning crimson, is the living serpent, dynamic, writhing, never static, an image straight from childhood nightmares. Time beyond time mothers tell their children,
‘Beware the serpent. Beware the nameless ones who bear the crimson terror on their face. Beware those who think to carry messengers from the sleepers who should not be brought further into the land of the living than they have already trespassed. They come, these unholy messengers with eyes of fire; they take what they need and what they do not and heed only their given task. This single-minded focus is a terrible thing to behold; to bear the brunt of their attention is to be cut to the bone by the burden of their intent.'
She bolts, flees for her life through the silent streets of the city. Frantically she searches for a way out, a way to escape from this prison of Dreams back to her body, abandoned lifetimes ago.