 
Loss and Sacrifice

By Andrew Day

Copyright 2014 Andrew Day

Smashwords Edition

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**Contents** :

Loyalty

Of Memories Lost

To Die in the Spring

Also by the Author

Loyalty

The sky overhead was grey and cloudy as Zachery looked grimly at the soil of his field. It was rich and fertile, yet for some reason refused to yield any crop of any kind. If nothing grew soon, he didn't know what he was to do. Even his daughter Danniella was losing her normally optimistic demeanour.

The past few years had not been good for them. The long winter had finally claimed his wife of many years. Both he and Danniella had taken the blow hard, and had little time in which to mourn their loss. The fields needed to be tended and the crops to be taken care of. Only now, the ground refused to grow anything but worms and lice.

Zachery sighed and turned back to the house where Danniella stood waiting expectantly. She was only fourteen, but Zachery feared the hardships they had endured were already draining her beyond recovery. He would have no choice but to try his luck and begin planting again.

As the day wore on, Zachery ploughed his field for what seemed like the hundredth time. In his eyes even Galahad the trusty plough horse had grown tired of such menial tasks. Over the drone of flies and mosquitoes, Zachery heard the far off clip clop of hooves and sighed.

Lord Guyye, the Lich Lord of Zachery's farm, always had the habit of turning up unexpectedly. Zachery went to the gate to meet him and found Danniella already there.

"And the planting? Does it go well?" Guyye was asking. His expensive clothes and pompous expression gave no false impressions of his heritage.

"Of course," Danniella lied, and Zachery swelled with pride.

"Danniella, go tend to Galahad," Zachery told her.

"I can plough the field. I know how."

"All right," Zachery said with a smile. "But don't be too rough. Galahad doesn't like that."

"I know, father."

Zachery and Guyye watched her walk off.

"She has grown quite a bit," said Guyye.

"Yes," replied Zachery.

"She is becoming quite a young woman."

Zachery didn't like the way he had said that. "What brings you down here at this time, My Lord?" he asked.

"I have heard that you were having trouble getting your fields to grow," Guyye answered. "I wanted to know if such vicious rumours had any merit. I do not wish to believe my best farmer has been having trouble, not when he has the most rich and fertile land for miles."

Zachery did not know how to answer. "I'm afraid things aren't as well as they would seem."

Guyye raised an eyebrow. "Your daughter insisted everything is growing perfectly," he said accusingly.

"My daughter has inherited her mother's gift of exaggeration," Zachery replied.

"Then you have not yet succeeded in growing crops as I have ordered?"

"No, My Lord. For some reason the ground won't grow anything," Zachery said.

"That is not acceptable," snapped Guyye. "You are already late with your tithes."

"There isn't much else I can do but plant and wait, My Lord," Zachery argued. "If there is anything else I can do..."

He regretted saying that the moment the words came from his mouth.

"Really?" said Guyye interested. "Anything."

Zachery did not answer.

"Well, then," Guyye began. "As you know, my eldest son has recently come of age."

"My congratulations."

"Yes," Guyye said dismissively. "At any rate, if he is too someday inherit my estate, he will need to be married. If your daughter were to agree to become his wife, I am sure we could come to some arrangement on the matter of your... _reluctant_ fields."

Zachery did not even have to think of his reply. "I am sorry my lord, but my daughter will not be marrying anyone."

"Oh no?" Guyye said angrily. "Well, I do not think you have properly acknowledged the situation you are in. Because I was so abrupt in my offer, I will allow you some time to reconsider your choices. However, if you have not come to your senses, or in the least, manage to coax some form of life from this pitiful strip of dirt, then I will find a farmer who will."

"I will grow my harvest, and there will be more than enough to go around. Leave my daughter out of this."

"We shall see," snorted Guyye. "Good day, farmer." And with that he turned and stormed back to his carriage.

Zachery stood and watched his lord depart, wondering to himself why the Gods wished to impart onto him so much loss. First they had taken his wife, now they wished to take his daughter. Was there to be no end to the suffering?

Solemnly he turned and walked back to the field, where Danniella was neatly ploughing the earth. She looked up in worry at his approach.

"Is something wrong?" she asked in concern.

"No," Zachery replied quickly. He did not wish to worry her more than was necessary. "Everything will be all right. I promise."

Almost a week passed, and still the crops refused to grow. Zachery was at his wits end. What else was there to do?

Danniella was busy feeding the pigs when the Hooded Man first arrived, appearing as if from nowhere. Danniella had turned and jumped in surprised as she found herself facing a enormous black horse reined to a grubby wagon constructed from rotten, foul smelling wood.

The man who sat atop the wagon wore a long, black cloak, the hood pulled upwards to hide his features. The hands that held the reigns of the wagon were thin and skeletal, fingers unnaturally long and the nails sharp and black.

As Danniella cried out in surprise, the man turned and regarded her thoughtfully. He held a finger to the front of his face. "Shh," he said softly. "Hush child. I did not mean to frighten you."

His face was nothing but a shadow, but his gaze chilled her to the bone. Summing up all her courage, Danniella demanded, "What do you want?"

"I am here to speak to the owner of this farm," the man said slowly, his voice low and gentle. "Your father I believe."

"What do you wish to speak to him about?" asked Danniella. The man held up a hand to silence her.

"Such impatience," he tutted. "That would give away the surprise. Run along and fetch your father. I will not wait here forever."

Danneilla rushed to the fields and told Zachery of the Hooded Man. When they both arrived back, the man had dismounted and was feeding his horse.

"Who are you and what are you doing on my land?" Zachery demanded.

The man turned and stared at him. "There is no need to be aggressive," he said. "I have come only to help you from your current predicament."

Zachery looked at the wagon that was heavily laden with goods. A thick cloth covered the contents from view. "We aren't in need of a salesman, thank you," he explained.

"Of course not," said the man, taking something from his cloak and feeding it to his horse. "But I am not a salesman. Rather, I feel that I will become a close friend to you in this time of need."

"Whatever it is that you're selling, we don't need it. Please leave."

"What I have is not for sale. I offer it in a simple exchange." In the dark recesses of his hood, Danniella thought she saw the man smile.

Zachery looked at the man in annoyance. "In exchange for what?"

Danniella tried to object. "Father..." she started.

The man held up one weathered hand to silence her. "As I have said, there is no need to fear me. I offer nothing but assistance." Suddenly he bent double and was racked by a fit of foul coughing, as though his lungs were rotting to pieces. "Can I at least count on the kindness that one offers an old man weary from his journey?" he asked painfully.

"Of course," Zachery said. Despite his appearance, he could not help but feel pity for the man.

Danniella did not share her father's feelings. She did not trust the man in the least. "Father, we shouldn't invite strangers into our home."

"Danniella, we may be poor but we still have our sense of courtesy," Zachery chided his daughter. He turned to the man. "Please follow us."

Again Danniella swore the man smiled. "Your kindness to me will not be forgotten," he said.

The man sat at their old table, his face still obscured by his thick hood. Danniella poured him a cup of weak tea as her father talked.

"Who are you, stranger, and why have you come here?" Zachery asked.

"As I have explained, I have come to seek the owner of this farm and offer him an exchange," the man answered.

"Then surely you seek Lord Guyye, the owner of all the land in these parts..."

The man snorted loudly. "If I wanted to deal with some self-titled lord I would have become a pig farmer myself," he snapped and spat unceremoniously on the floor. Danniella held her tongue. "You and I both know," he continued, "that the true owner of the land is the one who works it. The man who puts his sweat and blood into the earth and cultivates life from the otherwise worthless dirt. The ground respects men like you, not some fat, would-be nobleman living of the hard work of others. No, I came to see you, for I know you would be someone who would understand and respect what I have to offer."

"And what would that be?" asked Zachery.

The man reached into his cloak and pulled out a closed fist. He held his hand out and let the contents fall onto the table into a small, ominous pile for all to see.

They were seeds. Large, black corn kernels, seemingly dead and worthless to the naked eye.

"Seeds?" Danniella almost laughed.

"I'm sorry, stranger," Zachery said with a sombre face. "But you've been misinformed. I have all the seeds I need to plant a crop."

"I know," the man said menacingly. "But have you managed to grow them yet? Has anything grown in this god forsaken hole in the past month?"

"Of course it has!" Danniella spoke in her father's defence. "The ground we're standing on is the richest in the land!"

"Oh, do not delude yourself, girl," the man snapped. He looked back to Zachery. "Nothing grows! Only insects and vermin will grow in your fields! And now the lord wishes to marry off your only daughter and to take the land from you, and there is nothing you can do about it."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Danniella.

"Danniella, go outside and tend to the pigs," Zachery said suddenly.

His daughter looked up in surprise. "But, Father..."

"Go! Now!"

With a wounded expression, Danniella left in silence.

Zachery glared at the man. "Who are you really?"

"Who I am," the man said, "is of no importance."

"How do you know so much?" asked Zachery.

"Oh, come now, farmer! I know many things, and I am ignorant of many things. But none of this is of any relevance," he leaned across the table. Beneath the hood, Zachery could just discern the shape of the man's face, hollow and gaunt. "What I give to you, farmer," the man said, "is salvation."

He rose from the table. "Follow me," he said. "I will show you."

With Zachery in tow, he walked to the middle of the nearest field. "The earth is fertile here, yes?"

"Why shouldn't it be?" asked Zachery.

"Why indeed," the man said. He again reached into his cloak, and this time pulled out a flower. A red rose that seemed no worse for wear despite being kept in the man's clothes. Zachery watched as the man allowed the flower to fall from his grasp and onto the ground.

Before his eyes the rose began to shrivel and die. The moisture evaporated from its petals until it was nothing but a dry husk. The man chuckled to himself as Zachery gasped in horror.

"What manner of devilry is this?" he demanded.

"The blackest kind," the man replied. "It would seem that someone has placed a curse on your land. A powerful one."

"I don't believe in curses," said Zachery.

"That matters not," the man snapped. "The powers of darkness clearly believe in _you_."

"But why? Why would someone want to curse my land?"

"I do not know, and I do not care," the man said dismissively. "Even if you did, it would make no difference. Curses such as this are hard to break, and do not expire for some time. I can, however, offer an easy solution." Again he took out the black seeds. "This crop that I offer you goes by many names. The one that I prefer is Loyalty."

He handed the seeds to Zachery, who took them with a disgusted look. Zachery stared at them. To him they felt... wrong somehow. They were not the same as his normal corn.

"This crop will grow anywhere," explained the man. "But it will thrive in a land such as this. The plant will grow, wherever you want and as quick as you want. No one other than you and possibly those you allow can care for it. But as long as you take care of it, the plant will take care of you..."

"And what do you want in exchange?"

The man looked offended. "Nothing serious," he said. "The crop will grow tall and strong in this earth. And when the time comes, there will be more than enough to pay off your precious lord. All I ask for is for a small percentage of the final harvest when the time comes."

Zachery hesitated. Then slowly he asked, "And how much will you give me?"

The man smiled. "As much as you need."

They went back to his wagon, where Zachery found his daughter timidly trying to pet the man's ugly, black horse.

"Please do not touch him!" the man called out, surprising her. "I am afraid my horse does not like little girls... not like that anyway."

Danniella backed away as the man approached. "What did he do?" she asked her father.

"Nothing, don't worry," Zachery replied.

"Of course not," the man called out as he pulled five large sacks from the top of his wagon and dumped them onto the ground. "For your father has only assured your freedom from marriage into the loud and boorish aristocracy."

As Zachery went to examine the sacks of seeds, the man went to his horse and pulled another treat from his cloak. Danniella had only a quick glimpse, but she managed to make out the small, furry body of a field mouse before it disappeared into the mouth of the foul horse. She shuddered as the horse began chewing.

"How do I know that these seeds are real?" Zachery asked.

The man climbed onto his wagon and took the reins. "You do not," he answered. "But, you lose nothing in that case. And I will never come here again. However, I can guarantee you that it will grow."

"How will I find you once we have harvested?"

"You will not. I shall return, when the time comes," the man replied. He whipped the reins and the horse moved off with a slow gait.

Zachery looked at the sacks anxiously, as did his daughter. Inside, if this horrible man was to be believed, they held the answer to all of their troubles. But out of the corner of her eye, Danniella thought they seemed to twitch and throb of their own accord. She looked upward to the departing wagon, but it had already disappeared, just as quickly as it had come.

"Do you really think that crazy old man could help us?" she asked her father.

Zachery stared at the sacks for a long time, trying to ignore the barely discernable movements that took place within. "I don't know," he answered finally. "But what choice do we have?"

They planted the seeds that same day.

They were all identical to the ones the man had shown them before, black and desiccated. As Zachery sowed the seeds into the deep furrows he ploughed into his field, he swore he could see them digging themselves in deeper.

Overhead came a loud cry, the caw of a crow as it watched the scene below. Zachery knew that where there was one, there would be others, all of them eager to feast upon the fresh seeds. He was glad that he had already put up Sydney, his trusty old scarecrow.

"Will the crows eat the seeds?" Danniella asked. "They don't look very appetising."

"I'm sure a hungry crow won't be as picky as you," Zachery joked. "But don't worry. Sydney always takes good care of our fields."

Danniella realised she was worried, but not about the crows. They planted their new crop and as the sun began to set, retired for the night.

At first light the next day Zachery went to his fields. At first glance there appeared to be no change in the ground at all, but as he looked closer, he saw tiny sprouts of green stems and leaves that had sprung upwards from the soil.

His heart rose in excitement. Quickly he travelled to all of his fields, and realised that the seeds had sprouted everywhere. The man had been right. Overnight Zachery's luck had returned and with it, his sense of self worth.

Strangely, however, Zachery found Sydney the scarecrow had somehow fallen off of his stand during the night. The rope that had held him bound with several thick knots had been skilfully undone. It was a mystery as to who or what would have done such a thing, but Zachery was too excited to care.

As he returned to the house, he found his daughter in the middle of the field examining the small sprouts carefully.

"Is the whole field like this?" she asked, just as excited as her father.

"Yes. Our luck's finally returned!" Zachery replied, barely able to contain his happiness. "Now we must be careful. We don't know if this strange crop requires any special needs, so we need to take care when we tend to the fields."

His warnings were needless, however, as they soon realised that the crop took care of itself. Every morning Zachery rushed out to check the progress of the plants and found that they had grown significantly during the night. All he needed to do was ensure that the crop was well irrigated and remove any individuals that would disrupt the growth of others. Menial tasks that Danniella seemed content enough to take care of.

Zachery was happy to note that the successful planting had done endless good to his daughter. Once again she was back to her old self, often smiling and sometimes singing to herself when she worked. So happy was her demeanour that Zachery did not tell her of the initial strangeness of the crop.

It was the small things that he noticed first. Every day he would put the scarecrow back on its post and everyday he would wake up and find it lying on the ground. When he tried to pick it up, he was met with force, as if something on the ground was holding it from beneath, but when he checked, he saw nothing but bare earth.

Of the ground, he was happy to note that the earth was damp and rich with moisture in the mornings, which he assumed was due to dew. But as the days went by and the weather grew hotter, dew was not supposed to be of such great occurrence, and yet his ground was always damp with moisture. Not all of the ground, he discovered. Where one section was practically bogged down, another would be dry as a bone. Illogical, until Zachery picked up a handful of moist dirt in his hand and squeezed it. The dirt stained his hand red. Zachery told himself that the discolouration was simply a side effect of growing such a strange and bizarre crop, and went about his work without so much of a second thought.

Two weeks after the initial planting, Zachery's closest neighbour, another farmer named Nathaniel, came by. Unfortunately his visit was not to bear good news.

Zachery first spotted him by the gate. Nathaniel had run all the way from his own land to deliver news of great importance and even declined the drink that he was offered.

"What's so terrible that you would decline a mug of ale?" Zachery asked him.

"I've heard news from the farmlands to the north," explained Nathaniel between gasps of breath. "A great plague of rats, unlike anything anyone has seen in decades, sweeping across the land, devouring all in its path."

"Surely you're exaggerating."

"I am not, Zachery," Nathaniel replied solemnly. "I've come to warn you because I know you've had a rough start to the season. I need to go and prepare my farm. I suggest you do the same."

With that he left, leaving Zachery to his own miserable thoughts.

The spring had come late that year, and the rats, unable to find any food, had joined into one large mass that ran across the land from farm to farm, consuming everything they could find that was edible and leaving all in their path in ruins. Passersby spread stories of men and women who were eaten alive by the ravenous rodents as they slept, and though Zachery refused to believe such farfetched stories, he knew that the rats would do serious damage to his livelihood.

Then came the day that Nathaniel's farm was attacked, and reports came down to Zachery that the plague was moving towards his farm, and would arrive within the next few days. There was nothing that he could do, the crop could not be uprooted, and despite Danniella's insistence on killing every rat she saw wander into the fields, they could not stop the plague in any way.

"There has to be something we can do," said Danniella as they ate supper.

"If there was, I'm sure the lords of the lands would have done something by now," said Zachery.

Danniella was not happy by the answer. "The lords!" she scoffed. "They take our food and stuff their faces all year long. But when we need them, all they do is pack their bags and run away! They don't care about us."

Zachery sighed. "There are times, Danniella, when all we can do is hope for the best," he said gently. "Sleep easy tonight, and tomorrow we'll worry about the future."

"If we have a future."

Despite his own advice, Zachery could not rest at all that night. He lay in his bed wondering if the powers that be intended for him to always be miserable. He thought he could hear the sound of squeaking, and of tiny jaws quickly feasting upon his hard work drifting up from his fields, but he dismissed it as his imagination. Eventually he fell asleep, and did not heed the loud shrieks of pain that only a rodent could make.

For the next few days, Zachery and Danniella waited anxiously. But the plague never came. Instead, the whole crop was suddenly imbued with a growth spurt and doubled in size dramatically. The ground was somewhat wetter than usual, but Zachery assumed that was part of how the plants grew.

A week passed, and still the plague never showed. All around the farmlands, men and women waited for the terrible stream of destruction to arrive, but it never appeared. No one knew where it had gone. The plague had just... disappeared.

And on Zachery's farm the crops grew better than ever.

As the time for harvest grew near, Zachery and his daughter spent as much time as possible making sure the crop grew perfectly.

Zachery had been walking through the field, admiring the rich green stems of corn that were now taller than he was, when he discovered the skeleton. He had stooped over to once again pick up Sydney the scarecrow when he noticed something white sticking from the ground.

Curious, he dug into the earth with his hands, noting that it was again wet and left red streaks on his skin. The thing in the ground was long and pale, and as he pulled it upwards he felt something below move awkwardly.

He gave a shallow gasp as he realised he was holding a long bone, and dug deeper. As if to heed his actions, the earth began to shift unnaturally, allowing him to pull out the rest of the skeleton.

At one time it had been a fox, a large one. Now all that was left were bleached bones, completely devoid of all flesh. Its lifeless skull stared upwards, almost accusingly, at Zachery.

Zachery tried to tell himself that the animal had died in his field naturally, but at the back of his mind he knew he was only fooling himself. Suddenly he saw everything with clarity: the wet earth, the scarecrow...

On a whim, he dug deeper into the hole he had made and found what he was dreading. More bones. He could identify some: dogs, birds, and of course rats.

It made sense to him in a sick way. The crop was not natural, he had always known that. But he had not realised just how unnatural. Though it looked like corn, the plant was nothing like its normal kin. It needed live flesh to sustain itself. That was why it had always pulled down the scarecrow, because it had wanted the birds to come down. And the plague of rats had arrived, ironically instead of feasting on the plants, they had been eaten themselves.

The ground was wet because it was saturated with blood.

Zachery stood up in disgust. Everywhere he looked he thought he could see bones. The plants would let him see now, because that was what he wanted, and because they were loyal to him...

He turned and ran back to the house wondering what foul thing he had allowed to grow on his land.

At once he told Danniella not to go into the fields anymore, at least, not alone. He did not know just how far the crop's "loyalty" would spread.

"Why?" Danniella was confused. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Zachery replied too quickly. "But the crop is becoming very temperamental."

"I've helped with the harvest before, I know how to..." The expression on her father's face silenced her.

"Please, just do it," he told her.

Naturally, Danniella was concerned for her father's behaviour, and against her better judgement followed his wishes. She only went to the fields whenever Zachery would allow, and even then he would not allow her far from his side. Soon her initial misgivings about the crop returned.

She watched her father's behaviour closely. He began to act recklessly, not bothering to care for his crop the way a wary farmer would. Often he would leave the crops unwatered for days, and the scarecrow had long since been abandoned and left unnoticed on the ground, lost amidst the tall corn. Though she was worried, Danniella held her tongue, trusting that her father knew what he was doing.

When harvest was only a week away, Danniella could no longer control her curiosity, and went to the field alone to see what her father was so alarmed at. She walked through the fields, listening to the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. It was so peaceful. The corn towered well over her head, and she thought to herself that if she were to get lost in such a maze, no one would find her.

The crop seemed strong and tall, despite the neglect Zachery had bestowed onto it. Carefully, Danniella took a hold of one giant stem and bent the crop downwards for examination. She gently pulled away the leaves, taking care as to not damage them, and inspected the ear of the corn closely.

To her surprise, the corn was not a rich yellow. Instead, it was a dark, blood red. The plant appeared healthy, but never had she seen a type of corn like this. Were the other plants the same?

Danniella released the plant and made a careful survey of the surrounding ones. The next three were the same, blood red. The fourth was red, but she could easily see that it was slowly changing colour, lightening into a shade of yellow.

She let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps the crop would all change in time. She decided to take one more examination, and pulled down another plant. As she parted the leaves surrounding the ear, her blood ran cold.

Inside the plant, where normally a bulbous ear of corn would grow, there was foetus. It was large, obviously near birth, and curled into a ball. An umbilical cord ran from its navel and attached to the stem of the plant, and its skin was slick with clear, reddish fluid that ran out onto her hands. Danniella looked down in horror and disgust. The thing was obviously not human, its head was overly large and its hands ended with small pointed claws. Its face seemed almost... rodent like.

Suddenly the thing squirmed uncomfortably, and Danniella released the plant with a cry. She felt trapped, surrounded by nearly endless walls of green. She wondered how many more plants held creatures waiting to be born, and decided to herself that even one was too many.

She pulled the stalk of the corn downwards so that the ear containing the creature was on the ground. There were no stones or other weapons in sight, so Danniella stamped on the plant with her foot and crushed it. There was a sickening crunching sound, and blood spurted out of the plant like an open wound. Then Danniella heard a shrill scream of pain and anguish, and fled from the field.

She did not tell her father of what had happened, but from the wordless glances they exchanged they both knew that something was not right.

That night, Danniella dreamt that while she slept, a figure stood by her window and stared in at her. At first she thought it was Sydney, but soon the figure became that of the creature in the corn, only now fully grown. It snarled, and when she saw its inhuman teeth dripping with blood she awoke with a cry of horror to find nothing but darkness beyond her window.

Finally the day of the harvest had arrived.

Zachery and Danniella stood side by side, gazing at the tall stalks of corn swaying gently in the breeze. He examined an individual plant carefully: its stem and leaves were a healthy green, and its ear was a perfect yellow, with no trace of red to be seen.

He sighed and lifted his scythe to begin the reaping. He brought it down in an arc that sliced the first lot of corn skilfully. Danniella came forward to collect the fallen crop, and Zachery moved to cut the next lot.

Harvesting was usually long and hard, especially since they could no longer afford to hire any farmhands to help them. But as Zachery lifted his scythe again, the wall of corn before him suddenly fell down, as if their roots had just released their grip in the earth. As they watched in surprise, the entire field tumbled onto the ground like a stream of dominoes, and lay on the ground where it could be easily collected.

Zachery and his daughter stared in awe at the sight of the field, completely flattened as if by a raging storm. But they both knew the truth. The crop somehow sensed it was to be harvested, and in its devotion decided to make Zachery's job easier.

Danniella stood with a shocked expression. "What do we do now?" she asked in an unsteady voice.

"We collect the crops. Just like we are supposed to," Zachery replied as he put down his scythe.

They gathered the entire crop in less than a day. There was more corn than they could have possibly hoped for, enough to pay off Lord Guyye and the Hooded man and still have plenty left to sell. The next day they loaded their old wagon with as much corn as they could and took it to Lord Guyye's manor.

The lord did not seem as pleased as he should have been. He watched as his farmhands helped Zachery unload the corn from the wagon, wearing an expression of disappointment.

"This is my tithe," Zachery explained. "There is enough for several seasons, so there is no reason for you to come to my land anymore."

Guyye snorted. "We'll see, farmer," he said.

Besides the small percentage that they saved for the hooded man, the rest of the crop they took to town and sold. Zachery did not wish any of the plant to be consumed by him or his family. The peasants of town, however, had been hit hard by the previous plague of rats and were more than happy to purchase corn for the cheap price Zachery offered.

One man in particular decided to sample the product before he purchased it. Zachery and Danniella watched anxiously as he took a bite out of one corn and chewed thoughtfully.

"Very nice," he decided eventually. "A strange, meaty aftertaste though."

Danniella let out a sigh of relief and gave him a sack full.

When they arrived back on the farm, they found the hooded man already waiting for them.

"It seems your crop grew even better than I could have expected," he said. "So now I must collect my end of the bargain."

Zachery loaded the man's wagon with many large sacks of corn. When he finished, the man looked over his produce happily. "Much, much better than I could have expected," he said. "Tell me, farmer, have you spared much thought for your future harvests? I think you and I-"

"The business between us is now finished," snapped Zachery. "Now get off my land, and do not return."

The man shook his head, disappointed. "How rude," he said in a hurt tone. "And to think I have helped you far more than you could possibly repay me for." He turned and stared at Zachery, and for the first time the farmer could see the man's eyes. They were completely black and lifeless. "You see, my friend, the harvest is not yet finished."

With that, the man whipped the reins and his horse set off with a quick pace. Danniella watched him go with a sick feeling in her stomach.

"What did he mean by that?" she asked.

"I don't know," replied Zachery. "I'm sure he was just bitter. As far as I'm concerned, this madness is over."

That night they had the most relaxing meal in months. The dark feeling of uneasiness that Zachery had felt hard pressed to shake had finally lifted, and he ate his meal in peace.

As they decided to turn in for the night, a loud braying noise came from outside.

"Is that Galahad?" Danniella asked in concern.

"I think so," said Zachery. "But what would frighten him like that?"

They went out to their small stable, where Galahad was backed into a corner, braying loudly in fear. Danniella went to the horse and tried to calm him down. For some reason he would not go anywhere near the doorway.

"What has gotten into him?" wondered Zachery. He listened, and above the sound of the horse's cries he could just make out another sound, like someone digging through dirt. "Stay here," he ordered Danniella, and went out to investigate unsure as to what to expect.

He walked through his empty field in the dark, his steps muffled by the soft ground. He had worked this land his entire life, but now he felt as though it no longer belonged to him. In the blackness he finally made out the cause of Galahad's distress.

In the centre of the field, a large mound of dirt was growing upwards. It throbbed and pulsed, as though something below was struggling to escape. As he watched in horror, a hand finally broke through the ground and clawed madly at the air.

Zachery rushed back to the stable and grabbed the first thing he could use as a weapon. He took a pitchfork and ran back out to the field, ignoring Danniella's questions. When he returned, he found that the thing in the ground was already half out. Even in the dark he could make out its features: its face was like a cruel parody of a man's. Its eyes were black, and a single lock of mangy, black hair ran from its scalp down its back.

The creature snarled in irritation as it struggled from the earth. Finally it broke free, and fell on its hands and knees panting for breath. Zachery snapped from his trance, and summing all of his courage approached the creature with his pitchfork held out menacingly.

He was barely two paces away when the creature finally noticed him and sat up snarling. Zachery stopped dead and pointed the pitchfork at the foul creature.

"I don't know what you are, or from what hell you spawned," he spat. "But if you don't leave this place I will send you back!"

The creature growled and stood up. It was taller than Zachery was, its long arms hung down to its knees, and its claws and sharp fangs glinted in the moonlight. It spoke, its raspy voice driving deep into Zachery's heart. "Is... that... so?" it asked, laboured as though it struggled with the words.

To his growing sense of dread, Zachery realised the ground around him was again throbbing upwards. He could make out four more bulges forming in the earth.

The creature noticed his momentary distraction and stepped forward snarling. Then it stopped as it saw his face in the moonlight. "The... Harvester..." it cried out. It expression changed from one of hate to one of fear, and it dropped its gaze to the ground. "I... did not... recognise..." it said meekly. "Forgive..."

"What devilry is this?" Zachery snapped. "What in God's name are you?"

From the ground crawled out four more forms, each was different in shape but all were as foul and inhuman as the first. They stopped at the sight of Zachery and bowed their heads, averting his eyes.

"Answer me!" shouted Zachery.

The first creature looked up, almost shamefully. "We... are yours..." it said slowly. "You... grew us. You are our... creator. Our... Harvester..."

"Stop calling me that!" snapped Zachery. "I should kill you all."

The creatures around him fell to their knees, still looking to the ground. "If that... is what you must do..." hissed the first creature. "We are yours.... To do with as you wish..."

Zachery raised his pitchfork up, ready to bring it down onto the creature and end its life. But he could not. For all of its foulness, the creature was so pitiful.

"Leave," he commanded. "Go, and never return!"

"Freedom?" whispered one of the others.

"If that is thy wish... Harvester," said the first. "But... we are yours... to do with as you want. And we... could help you..."

"I don't want your help," said Zachery.

"But... Harvester..." it begged. It dug its hand into the dirt and held up a handful. "The ground is foul... but we can help, Harvester..." It looked up at him with pleading eyes. Then it smiled, its fangs showing. "We can help... and you need us..."

All this time, Zachery had believed he was growing crops. What he was really growing was something unimaginable.

_"We are yours..._ "

That was why the plant was called Loyalty. It was always growing exactly as he had wished. And the end product was just the same, his to do with as he wished.

Suddenly the five creatures stood upwards, their mouths shaped into a mockery of a man's smile.

"Harvester... you need us..."

The five years that followed were hard for all of the land. Many perished as the winters grew longer and colder, and after the plague, food for all was in short supply. All except for Zachery and his daughter.

As those around them struggled vainly to get the land to grow more than just weeds and vermin, Zachery and Danniella managed to grow the largest and richest produce to be found anywhere. They were successful to the point where they could extend the boundary of their land over that of Nathaniel's after he died during a particular cold winter.

That same winter, Zachery's health took a turn for the worse. He was struck by the same sickness as his wife had, and could barely find the strength to rise from his bed. They had not hired farmhands for the past five years, and it fell to Danniella to tend to the farm by herself. Somehow, to the amazement of others, the farm fared just as well under her care.

It was a beautiful spring day, when she found herself out in the fields examining the earth as her father had done. The ground had thawed, and was now ready for the first plantings.

Then came the sound of hooves approached from down the road. With a sigh, Danniella went to the gate to meet her visitor. Over five years, she had grown from a naive girl into a young woman, and naturally - with a male's mind being what it was - she was not short for suitors.

Her visitor was Elias Guyye, son of the late Lord Guyye who had died the year before while out fox hunting. His body had been found with its neck twisted at an obscene angle next to the mutilated carcass of his horse. No one knew what had caused his death, but his son Elias had inherited all of his lands and was thrust into the role of liege lord much against his will.

"Good afternoon, fair Danniella," Elias said in greeting. "It is a fine day today, is it not?"

"Yes, My Lord," said Danniella. She had to respect his attempts, after all. "A fine day."

"And how fares your father?"

She sighed. "No change, my lord," she replied. "I'm afraid he won't last the year."

"Then you will grow the land by yourself?" Elias asked.

"It has thawed, and I'll begin soon," she said. "But as you may recall, My Lord, I have paid my tithes in advance."

"Yes, I remember," Elias said quickly. "If only others were as skilful with their land. But, I did not come to discuss the tithe."

_Of course not_ , thought Danniella.

"Excusing my bluntness," continued Elias, "but what I wished to know is: what will become of you once your father... passes away."

Danniella shrugged. "I'll continue to tend to our land."

"By yourself? Are you sure you would not rather..."

"I thank you for your offer, my lord," Danniella said as politely as possible. "But this farm has been with my family for generations. My place is here."

Elias shook his head sadly. "If that is your choice. If you change your mind... well, you know where I will be."

"Yes," said Danniella, hoping he would leave now.

Elias tipped his hat and left.

When the sun finally began to set, and her father had fallen into a dreamless sleep, Danniella sat on the steps of her house and waited. A few hours after night had fallen, they returned. After spending the winter hibernating beneath her land, the creatures had awakened and were coming to the house as they did every year.

They came and stood before her, five of them. They held the features of the animals they had fed upon when they were growing beneath the soil. Two were covered in a black down and had the same crow-like features as the birds they had devoured. One was furry, and rat-like, while another was large and had a snout like a pig. He was the largest, and had replaced Galahad by pulling the plough by himself.

And there was the leader. He was the most human-like and was the only one of the five who could speak clearly enough for proper communication. Danniella often wondered why the creature was this way. What poor fool had walked into their field unaware and had been devoured?

"Harvest Sister..." spoke the leader. "Is it time?"

"The ground is ready for the planting, yes," replied Danniella as she stood up. She had long since stopped being afraid of the creatures. They were loyal to her father, and would not dream of hurting her.

"How is the Harvester?" the leader asked.

"He grows weaker," she replied.

The creatures all bowed their heads. In their own way, Danniella realised, they would lament the loss of Zachery. He was, in a twisted way, their father as well.

"It is sad that he should die," said the leader. "You should know... if the Harvester dies... our ties to him will end."

"I know," Danniella replied. "What will happen then?"

"If you fear for your safety... do not worry. Our loyalty extends beyond his death," said the leader in the closest tone that could be called reassuring. "But there are things that we must do... and we must leave when our time here is up. Can we see the Harvester?"

"No," Danniella said quickly. "My father does not wish to see you."

The creature looked hurt, but only briefly. "If that is his wish. What does he bid for us to do?"

Danniella gestured to the several large sacks that she had stacked in front of the door. "Since our time together will be short," she said. "My father wishes for you to plant some more Loyalty."

"Of course. How many others do you wish to grow?"

Danniella thought about that. "I will need at least ten. And one will need to be... like you. Able to speak."

A cruel smile crept across the creatures face. "Anything that the Harvester wishes." He grunted and pointed to the sacks. The two crow creatures came forward and took them. "They will be planted by morning."

The five creatures retreated into the darkness. Danniella stood by the door and stared into the night. She could just make out the five inhuman shapes moving about in her fields, ploughing the earth and sowing the seeds of Loyalty with great care. This would undoubtedly be the last season that the creatures would be there to help, they would leave as soon as their Harvester passed away, for what business Danniella could not fathom a guess. The creatures were evil, that much she was sure of, born from her father's own cursed and lifeless land. Who knew what devilish pilgrimage they were brought to the world for?

But the more she thought about it, the more Danniella realised she did not care. Her only concern was for the future of the farm, and without the creatures there to help, the task of tending the fields would be next to impossible.

In the dark, the leader stopped and stared at the ground. From the earth came the few small movements of Loyalty, its seeds sprouting already. First came the tiny leaves and stems, probing the air for threats, followed closely by a small black pod that opened and closed like a gasping mouth, revealing rows of minute, needle like teeth. The pods would feed on anything that came near, but would hide back in the soil when day came, waiting in the earth for the inevitable crows to come feeding.

It did not matter what the creatures did, nor did where they chose to go. With any luck Danniella would soon have more, and then the task would become easier. And next season she could grow more, and they would work the land until it was the richest to be found anywhere. The days of hard work and toil for the pockets of some lazy aristocrat were over. The creatures were evil, but with them lay salvation.

And in all honesty, Danniella did not know how they had managed without them for so long.

Of Memories Lost

The robot had been walking for a long time. Exactly how long, it was unsure, as its internal clock had long ago run to its limit and reset. But the environment around it had slowly changed. First it had been lush forests, before the temperature had dropped and the ground had risen. Back then the surrounding world had been mountainous and steep, a hard journey for the robot's already well worn mechanics.

But once the earth had begun to slope back downwards, the temperature had risen again, and the way became less demanding. And before the robot had realised it, it had left the mountains.

It found itself on the ridge, overlooking the seemingly never ending grass lands of a place the robot vaguely recalled as Raimia. The vast prairie was a sea of undulating grass, tall as the robot's chest. Long strands of yellow that washed back and forth, ebbing and flowing in the gentle breeze.

The robot considered making a recording of the view. It was quite a sight, and many other travellers were astounded by the things the robot had recalled to them during his long sojourn. But there seemed very little point. The robot's long term memory was not what it once was. Many sectors of its ROM had been corrupted beyond repair, and much of what it once knew and remembered was forgotten.

Still, on a whim the robot took a mental image, just on the off chance that it would run into someone close by. But that seemed unlikely. Besides the cries of birds floating on updrafts high in the air and the creak of insects buzzing in the long grass, there seemed little other in the way of life. At least, nothing of interest or of use to the robot.

The robot re-orientated itself, and went on its way. It walked with a noticeable limp, the joints in its left knee having long since worn themselves out, and the ones in its right were not far off either. It learnt heavily on a thick wooden staff it had fashioned for itself from a hardwood branch it had taken from the forest before it had left. Its eyes, protected by a pair of heavy goggles with thick polarised lenses, scanned the horizon for the object it had seen earlier.

It was not long before it reappeared, a series of huge metal blades twisting quickly in the stiff breeze. Had it been capable, the robot might have sighed in relief. Its batteries were running low. The trek through the mountains had taken more energy than the robot would have liked, and it was a miracle that they were not empty already. He needed recharging. Badly.

His makeshift solar panels needed repairing, and hardly supplied enough amps to make the effort of raising them worthwhile anyway. He could trickle charge his batteries from the Iltorium core that powered his higher system functions but, again, but that took too much effort. The Iltorium core had a half life of at least quarter of a century, and the robot had a sinking feeling that that time frame had passed by, and more than once. Without the core, the robot was dead. It was barely living as it was, down to auxiliary systems. But the thing ahead, at least, could have been salvation.

Up ahead, the object came into view. A giant windmill. It giant blades spun energetically above the now rusted and worn steel structure. Who knew how long it had stood there, but it did not take an artificial intelligence to work out that it was not going to be standing for very much longer. The scaffolding was barely capable of keeping up its own weight.

The robot shifted the large rucksack it carried, but did not increase its pace. It could reach the windmill easily, but still had much work to do once it got there.

But it seemed luck was with it on this day. As the robot neared, it saw the large machine placed underneath the scaffolding, and the many long cables that snaked down from the spinning blades and coiled down the scaffold into the machine. Someone not too long ago had made use of the windmill. The robot scanned the area around it. There were no signs of settlement, or of any travellers.

The robot presumed that organics had refit the windmill to pump up water from some long forgotten source below the ground. But much to its surprise, the robot discovered its upgrade was something far more useful. The machine below was some type of archaic transformer, plugged into the earth by even thicker cables. The windmill was now a miniature power station, tapping the kinetic energy from the winds and storing it into capacitors underground. The design was very rugged, and the robot wondered if it would still be functional.

There was a large metal plate riveted to the scaffold. It was not as rusted as the girder it was stuck too, so obviously placed by whoever, or whatever had fixed the windmill. Scrawled on the plate in faded red ink were the words:

"To my metal friends,

For whom time flies.

Drink long and drink deep,

_For soon we all die_."

The words were perplexing to the robot, and suggested the sort of madness that could only come from an organic of dubious mental health. But this was still an opportunity too good to pass. If the machine still worked.

The robot examined the machine, noting the faint hum it made, and located a small output socket. Then it rummaged through its belongings and pulled from its bag a short length of cable. It plugged one end into the recharge socket on its side, and the other end, capped with a universal adaptor of the robot's own design, into the machine. There was a bang, and a shower of sparks as the plug made contact. The robot was jolted. Then came the flow of electricity, gentle but fierce like a raging stream, pouring into every pore of the robot's being, and filling its batteries.

It was as pleasurable an experience as the robot was capable of having. But its batteries were old, the length they held charge was short and the recharge time long. The robot was going to be stuck there for a period.

On the upside, it was now evening. The sun was slinking down towards the western horizon, casting orange light across the immense sea of flowing grass. A beautiful sight. The robot ran out a length of cable and sat down on the western side of the scaffold, its back pressed against the rusted metal. It pulled off its goggles and sat as it recharged, unmoving and for once unthinking, watching a marvel of the universe unfold before it.

Not long later, the robot had company. There was an odd rustling sound, and a large animal came into view. It was as large as the robot, covered with long black fur, shuffling forward on thick stumpy legs. Its long nose stretched out like a trunk and sniffed the ground energetically. Yellow eyes were cast down, in deep concentration.

When the animal came to the robots leg, it stopped in surprise, as though it had travelled through this spot often and had never noticed this odd thing in its way before. Its trunk sniffed the robots leg tentatively, and made its way upwards. Unafraid, the robot watched in amusement, not moving.

"Hello," the robot said kindly.

The animal let out a bark and jumped backwards. It stared at the robot in shock.

"Oh," it said unexpectedly. "Hullo. I thought something was odd. I knew there was nothing here yesterday, and yet, there you are. How silly of me not to have noticed, only you weren't moving, and anything not moving is pretty much fair game around here, you understand. Not that you could be of much use to me, no offense..."

"None taken. Sorry to have alarmed you," replied the robot.

"Not at all," said the animal as it composed itself. It sat down on its haunches and regarded the robot with interest. "My fault, as I said. You are an odd one though, I'll give you that. Been a while since I've seen one like you. Sorry if I seem to be talking a lot, but it has been a while since I've met anything remotely capable of having a conversation with. Not much to talk with out here. The bushes are nice, but they don't have much of a vocabulary. And they're more interested in things like water and air, and after a while those subjects can get so boring..."

The robot nodded. The animal's mouth was hidden under the huge girth of its trunk, but its voice was clear and it spoke almost perfect English.

"I'm Cor, by the way," the animal said. "As in "Cor, blimey, does that thing ever shut up?". Who are you?"

"I don't have a name," the robot replied. It thought of the two intersecting scratches in its head casing that made a malformed "X" on its skull. "Some people use to call me Lawless."

"Lawless? Now that's a human name if ever I heard one. Stupid humans. Now Cor, that's a proper, respectable name. Can't go wrong with a name like Cor. Says everything it needs to. Oh, no offense."

"None taken. What are you?"

"I'm a Sniffler. Cor the Sniffler, that's me."

"I did not know Snifflers could talk."

"Why not? You can talk. Humans can talk. And really, if a human can talk, anything can."

The Lawless Robot considered this, and figured it was one of the more profounder things it had heard in its life.

"You're one of those mechanical humans aren't you?" Cor went on.

"In a way," Lawless said. "But I doubt you could ever confuse me for a human."

"Of course not. What a thought. I've seen plenty of your lot though. They all come through here. All types. All shapes and sizes, walking, rolling, sometimes even crawling, poor things."

"From which direction?" asked the robot.

"Oh, that way," said Cor, pointing his trunk north. "Sometimes that way," he pointed east. "All ways really. None of them ever stopped to talk though. Always seemed to be in a hurry. Which way did you come from?"

Lawless pointed to the mountains in the east. "That way."

"Nice. I like the mountains. Wouldn't go there myself, though. Too steep. I prefer level ground."

"Me too."

"Must have been nice, though."

"Quite nice."

"You seemed to have travelled quite a bit," Cor noted. "You seemed quite... well, weathered. No offense."

"None taken. I have travelled quite far across the world."

"And seen quite a lot, I'd imagine."

"Yes."

"Is the rest of the world as nice as this."

"Some parts. Others are not as nice. Some are better."

Cor gave an bemused whistle. "Better than this? Never."

"No really. Whereabouts is this anyway? Am I in Raimia yet?"

"Raimia?" Cor laughed. "Another human name."

"What do you call it?"

"Dirtland. Though I think I may have heard some human at some point call it Raimia. Raimia..." Cor chuckled at the absurdity of it.

"Are there any human settlements around here?"

"Not here. But over that way," Cor pointed South west, "there are quite a lot of humans. Buildings, farmers, that sort of thing."

"A lot of buildings?"

"We-ell," Cor said in thought. "Quite a lot by today's standards, but I've seen more."

"What are the people there like?"

"Like humans. What do you mean?"

"Are they advanced? Do they accept strangers?" Lawless asked.

"I wouldn't know. I try to avoid the place. Humans aren't the most encouraging of people. They'd sooner stick me than talk to me. And the last thing I need at the moment is to be cut up, cooked, and served with a side of lettuce."

"I understand."

"You don't want to go there. Much nicer out here. Less humans."

Lawless nodded. Out here in Raimia, it wasn't expecting any form of civility, especially not to robots. But its batteries needed replacing, and its knee joints. And more or less every other part of its body.

"I would not normally," said the robot. "But I am in need of repairs before I continue on my way. Is there any where else?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," replied Cor. "Apart from the human place, there's a mutant camp a fair distance thataway." He gestured vaguely to the north with his trunk.

"What sort of mutants?"

"The mutated kind," Cor said, as though that were obvious. "You know, should be human, but not. That sort of thing. They stay in their own places, and the humans stay in theirs. I don't think they get along. Not surprising really. Mutants are much nicer than humans. One came down here once, a while ago. Not a bad chap. More conversational than most. And he didn't try to eat me, which is always a plus. Respected me as a sniffler, rather than a source of food, which is more than most humans have ever done... Whereabouts _are_ you headed anyway?"

"Nowhere," Lawless said simply.

Cor waited for it to elaborate. When the robot remained silent, he said, "I used to like travelling in my youth. But eventually, time comes when you've got to settle down, start a litter. And the wife was nagging me you see. I guess you don't have a wife or family. No little metal cubs running about?"

"No."

"Not possible, really is it? Not unless you have all the... you know. Bits. Underneath all that metal. Uh, this is going to sound like a stupid question, but I don't suppose you have anything to eat? Obviously, with all the cables evident you don't actually need any sustenance in the way of food, but..."

"My bag," Lawless nodded to the spot where he left his rucksack.

Cor brought the frayed bag to Lawless, carrying it with his trunk. The robot rummage about, and removed an old aluminium can devoid of any label. It kept any such foodstuffs that it found for trade, since it did not need any for itself. In some parts of the world, food was worth its weight in gold, and Lawless had collected quite a supply.

With such an excessive power supply present, Lawless casually used a small amount to charge the tiny laser in its forearm and cut open the unidentifiable can. Inside was perfectly preserved salted meat. Lawless poured the contents onto a spare sheet of metal it found in its pack and placed it before its companion.

Under his trunk, Cor smiled brightly. "Thanks. You really are too kind." He picked up a piece of meat with his trunk and wolfed it down hungrily. "Not bad," Cor said with his mouth full. "Sure you don't want some?"

"No thank you."

"You know I can't actually repay you for this."

"You have helped me enough as it is. I do not ask anything in return."

"Aw, it was nothing," said Cor, not exactly sure how he had helped.

The sun had long since set, and the stars had come out. As they wheeled overhead in the sky, the robot and the talking animal sat by the now slowly turning windmill and talked. They talked idly about the area around them, about humans and mutants. Eventually, Cor convinced the robot to regale him with stories of his travels, and though much of its life was forgotten, or at least hazy, it gave in.

Lawless told Cor of what little of its life it could still accurately recall. Mostly it told him about its trek through the forests on the other side of the mountains, where the trees were giants that blocked out the sky, and the animals were a mixture of mutants and normals that happily coexisted. It told him of his journey over the mountain, and into the land of Ramia. Even though the robot recounted its tale in a most uninteresting and mechanical tone, even in the most exciting moments, such as when it had been attacked by a pack of savage dog mutants in the forests at night, or when, while crossing the mountains, the ground had given way and the robot had ended up clinging by its fingertips to the rocky ledge several hundred above the ground, Cor did not lose interest for a moment. Not even when the robot went into a lengthy description of how it had acquired its walking staff - picking the right length of branch and whittling it down - the sniffler never turned away or lost concentration.

As the night drew on, the robot even took out its old and broken holo-projector, and showed Cor images from its memory of the world it had seen. Cor breathed in awe at the sight of majestic redwoods that reached up to the heavens, and of the glorious expanse of Raimia as it was seen from the peak of the mountains. A few older images found their way to the surface of the robot's memory: Images of long empty beaches with blinding white sand washed upon by clear, blue water, and of immense sand dunes in a desert of unfathomable size on the other side of the planet. Images of cities, ruined and broken, half swallowed by seas or covered in green forests.

Later, as the robot searched its memory and dragged out half corrupted images, the sniffler saw bits and pieces of those same cities as they were long before he had ever been born, with buildings towering high in the sky, glittering like jewelled mountains, and humans, thousands of humans everywhere. And then there were the images of other robots, some similar to Lawless itself, others taking all manner of shapes and sizes, all of them whole and unbroken, not yet worn out and dying from the passage of time. And there were humans, smiling, laughing beneath artefacts from the robot's slowly corrupting long term memory.

Lawless thought that maybe, once long ago, it had known these people, and all these strange places. But that was before the world had changed, and long before it had started its journey. Now they were fractured images, mere pulses of electrons through weary electronic synapses, nameless and unmourned.

By the time the robot had finished talking, the stars were fading, and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to crest the range of mountains. For the first time since they had met, Cor was speechless.

"Wow," Cor said finally. "That's quite... Wow."

Lawless was silent as he packed away his belongings. He batteries were once again fully charged, and now it was time for him to go on his way.

"Going then, are you?" Cor asked, with slight sadness.

"I should conclude my business with the humans as soon as possible."

"And after that?"

"I shall continue on my way."

"Where to?"

Lawless looked around. "I do not know." It looked to the west. "Possibly... that way."

"I suppose there are worse ways to go." Cor looked about him, yawned and blinked his eyes. "Well, would you look at that. It's day already. Well, I'm going to be in a right mess when I get back. My wife's going to have a fit. She'd be worried sick. Well, that's just like me isn't it. Yabbering on and on like a... well like me. Sorry to have caused any annoyance."

"You were not. It was nice to have company," Lawless replied truthfully.

"Really?"

"I never say anything I do not mean." It handed Cor another can of food.

"No I couldn't," Cor said, taking the can.

"I do not need it. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Aw, think nothing of it. Take care now, Lawless. Especially around those humans."

"I will."

"And if your ever in the neighbourhood," Cor called back as he ambled away, his trunk wrapped around the can. "Don't be a stranger now."

"I won't," said Lawless, even though the chances were it would never cross through the area again. "Take care."

The robot glanced down to adjust the straps of its pack, and when it next looked up, there was no sign of the animal. If it were not for the open can, devoid of its contents, lying on the ground, the robot might have thought the creature did not exist, that it was merely an artefact in its already well decayed mind.

But insanity was for the organics.

The robot unplugged itself from the windmill machine, packed away the cable and went on its way, to continue the journey it had started centuries ago.

To Die in the Spring

A famous warrior was once reputed to have said, "If I had a choice, I would rather die in the spring."

At the time he had heard this, Altian thought it was a rather idiotic saying. Something that would-be warriors quoted to sound tough. But as he stood on the hill, his back to the vast encampment of the Lok'Chang in the valley below him, he reflected grimly that he too would have preferred death in the spring. Or the winter. Any season at all.

But not here.

There were no seasons in the Hae'Darak. No warmth of summer, nor chill of winter came to pass in the wastelands of the Otherworld. Altian was told it was physically impossible. The world itself was in a state of lifelessness, where nothing moved. The world did not turn, the sun did not orbit. There was no day, and no night. Just the blood red sky overhead, for every second of every waking moment. Time was meaningless, and some of the men were going crazy from it.

Altian stared across the vast empty landscape. The whole world was nothing but darkened ash as far as the eye could see. An empty plain stretched before him. To his right, was the barren land that led to equally barren mountains. To his left, the land rose sharply to the cone of an all too active volcano.

But there was no life. No plants, no insects, definitely no animals. When the army passed into the Otherworld they had needed to bring all of their food and water supplies with them. There no such things in the Hae'Darak. Supplies were now running out, though. And once gone, the army was all but dead.

It was small consolation that after so much hardship, the men were almost upon their destination. Perhaps there would be food and supplies to scavenge after the ensuing battle. But somehow Altian doubted it. He knew deep down that there was little to look forward to. He had long since abandoned any hope of living to see the blue sky again. A few others shared his sentiments, but most still clung to what little hope there was.

There were footsteps behind him. Altian turned to see Likon running up the hill to him. The man was Altian's age, with the same red mark on his face. A single red streak that ran from his left temple to his cheek. Everyone in the army had it. It was the mark of the damned.

"Altian," Likon panted. "The generals wish to hold another meeting."

"I will be there," Altian replied.

He waited for Likon to turn around and go, but the other man stayed, clearly intent on making sure Altian did not just ignore him as he usually did. Altian sighed, and followed Likon back to camp.

The smell of the camp was bad, as any camp of several thousand unwashed men would be. But at the same time it was comforting, reminding Altian of the prisons back home. He missed his small enclosed cell.

The men around him were in fairly high spirits. None of the elected guards bothered to keep check on their posts. What was the point? All around there was fighting, gambling, and other far more unwholesome activities. In the very least, the men were giving the illusion of hope, rather than fear of what lay ahead.

Likon led Altian into a tent, identical to any other tent in the camp. Ten men stood around a small table, upon which lay a cloth map. The General, as the leader of the rag tag army was called, looked up and nodded at Altian's arrival.

"Thank you, Likon," he told the other man. "You may go." When Likon lingered for just a single moment too long, the General turned and snarled, "Piss off, runt."

Likon fled like a chastised child, much to the amusement of the other men. Altian did not share their laughter. He looked at the map and sighed.

"What now?" he asked.

"We just want to go over the plan one last time," the General said.

"What's there to go over?" asked another officer in irritation. "We just go to the castle and bang on the doors until they let us in."

No one laughed at that.

"That sort of smartarse reply is why we need to go over the plan," replied the General angrily.

The officer sulked, but remained silent. He remembered what happened to the twelfth member of their group.

The General explained the strategy they were planning for the battle the next day, pointing to the map and illustrating the finer points of every action that each man would have to take with his division. Charges, pincer movements, everything was planned out meticulously by the General. Altian absorbed it all, particularly his own part commanding the division on the right wing. He had an important part to play in driving a wedge though their enemy's ranks, and cutting off any support they might have. The Lok'Chang itself had no reinforcements or support planned. Every force was being deployed. There was no plan in case of retreat. That would have been pointless. If the army failed tomorrow, they were dead anyway. Better to die in battle than to slowly rot in the endless wastes of the Hae'Darak.

Which brought another question to Altian's mind.

"What of our enemy? Have they made any move?"

"Our scouts have returned," one of the officers replied. "They say the fortress is still lifeless. No sign of any armies. Not even any guards."

"Could it be that the fortress has been abandoned?" ventured another hopefully.

"Do not think for a moment that it would be that easy," snapped the General. "They will not allow us to simply walk up to the ramparts and take what is not rightfully ours."

"It is rightfully ours," whispered one man. "The Emperor demands it. And his will is the will of the heavens."

No one replied this. Then the General snorted.

"And do not think for a moment that God is going to come down here and save us," he said. "We are on our own. Either we succeed or we perish. No divine intervention will save us, and certainly not the _Emperor._ "

"Do you doubt the validity of our charge?" asked the true believer with absolute disdain.

The officer in charge of the infantry shook his head in disbelief. "Do you believe this fool?" he asked the others. "He still believes we are here for a good reason, to do God's will. What utter bullshit! Face it, Alchung, we were sent here to die!"

"Shut up, the pair of you!" the General snapped. He did not want any talk of that. Not now when the end was so near.

"What good is this..." the commander of the archer division said anyway. "One way or another we are all going to die..."

"Every man dies. If it's our time, so be it. But if there is even the remotest chance that we can get out of this godforsaken place then I will take it. Even if I have to storm that bloody castle myself, I will fight to the end to go home."

"Home to what?" the archer commander asked despairingly. "You really believe the Emperor will hold up his end of the bargain? We are worth nothing to him. If by some remote chance we live past tomorrow, do you really believe we will be exonerated?"

"What would you have us do? Stay here? Run off into the wastelands? Already our food and water are running low. We will survive another two, maybe three days. Then what? Our only chance is that tomorrow, after we have stormed that fortress and taken the Shen-Xin, that the portal will again open."

"And if it does not?"

"Then it does not."

There was silence. To change the subject, Altian asked another question.

"What of the bridge? Is it as bad as we thought?"

The General looked to him, and nodded solemnly. "It is narrow. Barely ten men could probably stand abreast if our scouts are right. It's a bottleneck. We need to get through, and we need to get through fast. We cannot get caught on it. If the chance arises, your division will be in the best position," he nodded to the Believer. "Altian, can you drive a gap large enough to let his section through?"

"I can, if that is what I must do," replied Altian.

The General opened his mouth to say more, but what else was there to say that he had not already said many times before.

"We know what must be done," he told the others. "There is no point talking all night. Go. Enjoy yourselves. Have your men save enough rations for tomorrow, the rest... Well, we may as well feast as little as we can tonight."

The officers nodded, and one by one left. Altian waited behind, taking the chance to look over the map one last time.

"You may as well go," the General told him.

"I do not want to celebrate my upcoming death," Altian replied.

"Suit yourself." With that the General left Altian alone.

Altian stared at the map, trying to visualise the area it depicted, but he thought it foolish to trust the map at all. It had been made by men who had died before his grandfather's grandfather's grandfather had been born.

The area itself was a terrible battlefield. They would be undoubtedly outnumbered by a force none alive or dead had ever seen. A force that would not be even remotely human.

Altian studied the map for as long as he could. In his mind he formulated his actions, visualising his men charging through the ranks of his enemy, cutting a swathe through which another division could pass and enter the castle.

But what of the fortress itself? None could tell what was inside it, of what evil waited for them within. That was if they did not get lost in its sprawling ruin first. All they knew was that inside the forgotten place in this inhuman realm there was something the Emperor wanted. Something he was willing to sacrifice thousands of men for.

The Shen-Xin. The God's Heart.

Altian had doubted that the thing had even existed. But when he had seen the empty wastes of Hae'Darak, he changed his mind. Suddenly all of the old stories he had dismissed in his youth as fairy tales held a little validity. If a place such as the Hae'Darak could exist, what other horrors and evils could also, banished away into the world beyond his own?

But the emperor, in his _divine wisdom_ , did not heed the old tales. He wanted the Shen-Xin. He wanted to kill for it. His rule was one bathed in blood. In the beginning it was just the blood of his enemies, but soon it became the blood of the people. For once all of the Emperor's human enemies were dead and mutilated, there was one he could never conquer.

His own death.

And what a travesty that would be. That his divine entity should perish into the dust like a commoner. Like a mere mortal. Gods should live forever, and the emperor thought himself a god. And so, he sought a god's own heart, and vowed to make it his own. Not for himself, obviously, since such things as vanity were above an Emperor. But for the people. After all, what anarchy would befall the world if their greatest ruler passed away? He wanted his immortality purely for the people's benefit. And was he not the fairest and kindest man to do so?

He knew stories of the Shen-Xin, a magical object that could grant its owner eternal life. Stories that were long forgotten by the sane. He sought the Shen-Xin with all of his power, his armies scouring the entire world for the mythical object that could lengthen his life. He started wars with neighbouring countries, believing in his madness that his long held allies had the object that he desired most, and truly believed belonged to him alone.

When armies returned empty handed, he delved deep into the forgotten legends. Legends of the world where the Shen-Xin had been banished forever by the magic wielders of the lost ages.

And he found it. The Hae'Darak. The Otherworld. Wherein lay the prison of the Shen-Xin.

And against the beliefs of his peoples' religions, against the laws of the land, and the laws of physics, he found a way in. He found the way to punch a hole in reality, through which he could send the hand to take up his gift of immortality.

The people called them the Lok'Chang, the Army of the Damned. Their numbers were made up from the most expendable men of the lands, the poor and the convicted. It was an excellent solution to dispose of the two most abundant excesses in the Empire: The poor, hungry, and homeless masses, and the many prisoners working slave labour or rotting in cells.

Altian had been in a prison cell when the Emperor's guards had come for him. He was serving an unofficial life sentence for a heinous crime he did not commit, spending the long days in his cramped cell thinking about the terrible fate of his lost loved one, when he was unceremoniously dragged away to a secret garrison on the far northern borders of the Empire. There, like all the other poor souls dragged from prisons, street corners or from their homes, he was branded like livestock. The red mark was tattooed on his face to alert all that he was a member of the Lok'Chang.

It was only after the painful procedure involving a red hot needle and an acidic red dye that he and the others had learned just what was expected of them. A steward of the Emperor told the group of the importance of their mission, and dispelled any doubts they had by having them herded one and all through the giant portal that had been made in the old ruins of an ancient city.

Perhaps had they resisted, or at least put up some sort of fight at the time their whole dire situation could have been avoided. They had easily outnumbered the Emperor's men who had stood about them, armed with bows and spears, ready to pick off any possible dissenters. But then they had been too disorganised, a rabble of the most denounced men of the Empire barely capable of sharing a civil word with one another, let alone uniting against the might of the Emperor.

So, unresisting, they allowed themselves to be herded through the gaping portal into the Hae'Darak. Altian remembered little of the actual trip through time and space. He could recall the throng of men around him, all of them dirty and smelling of filth, and the occasional loud and shocking twang of a bow string as someone attempted escape and was shot down in his tracks. Then the portal loomed before him, a deep empty blackness that cut into the very fabric of reality. He had hesitated, but the men behind had pushed him violently, and he had stumbled into the tear's gaping maw.

There had been pain inside the portal. A searing pain through his whole body as if he had been dropped in boiling oil. Then may have been others, screaming in the darkness around him, but he could not tell for sure, nor cared, lost as he was in his own agony. He finally passed out, and when he once again awoke he was lying on the cold, ash covered ground of the Hae'Darak. Men were strewn everywhere, gasping, crying. Some had gone mad beyond reason from the journey.

When the last of the men had come through, there followed a long train of wagons pushed across from the other side, containing food, water, weapons, and scrolls containing all known records of the Otherworld and the Shen-Xin. Lastly came a herd of many unlucky horses.

The portal remained opened for a long time. Many of the men, driven to madness by the journey and the bleak landscape around them threw themselves back into the portal, only to be repelled and flung painfully to the ground. There was an unseen force, like an invisible raging current emanating from the portal, and though it was clearly evident that the path between worlds was purely one way, more men than Altian could count hurled themselves at the portal again and again until, as mysteriously as it was created, the portal shrunk and vanished into thin air.

After that, with the portal gone and only the prospect of a slow death left in the minds of the men, anarchy threatened to overrun the army. Angry, ravenous men formed gangs and fought each other over the meagre supplies. The Lok'Chang came within a hair's breadth of destruction, and would have fallen had it not been for the appearance of the General.

No one had even the faintest idea just who the General was, though Altian had few suspicions. Whatever his past was, however, it was now irrelevant, just like all of their past histories. While the men were fighting over the wagons of food, Altian watched calmly as the General found the weapon stores, took out a bow and arrow, and promptly slew the first gang leader he saw.

He told them all the plain, honest truth as he saw it. They were stuck there, in the Hae'Darak. There was no other way back that any of them knew of. The only food and water they had was the supplies in the wagons, and with such large numbers, even this would only last a short while. But if they turned on each other, their chances of surviving a single day in the Otherworld were more or less non-existent.

But there had to be another portal. How else, he reasoned, would the Emperor, may he reign forever, get his greedy hands on the Shen-Xin? The next portal, the one back to their world would be undoubtedly opened once they had the Shen-Xin in their possession. Now all they had to do was get it. And the only way to do that was to organise themselves into an army, not a rabble.

The vast majority of the Lok'Chang agreed with the General. And the first thing they did was take control of the weapons store and remove any dissenters from their ranks. Even to Altian, who cared so little for his own fate at this point and remained more or less aloof of the resulting turmoil, this course of action made sense. If they were to have any chance of survival, they needed to be united, and they needed insurrectionists like they needed a plague.

So the Lok'Chang began its quest, baptised with the blood of the stubborn, the weak, and the mad who had been driven empty of reason from their unnatural journey. The army set off, in the rough direction that the ancient scrolls supplied to them suggested the Shen-Xin would be found. A few of their number lagged behind, taking the time to cut the flesh from their fallen brethren. It was meat after all, and the General saw the sick logic in their minds and allowed it. No one knew how long they would be in the Otherworld, and they would need all of the sustenance they could get.

Exactly how long they had travelled, Altian could only give a rough guess. The sky never changed, staying the same morbid red for every second of every moment. As they went, the General set about organising his force with brutal efficiency. He picked out archers, spear men, light infantry, and from the many ranks, recognised those suitable for leadership. None argued his choices. His word became law.

The first officer he selected was Altian. The General told him he knew him well by reputation, though how, Altian could not guess. What battles he had fought, and won seemed to him at the time quite insignificant compared to the travesty that resulted in his incarceration. But the General was insistent, and Altian, too weary to argue, threw himself into his allotted task with single mindedness.

Along the way, the Lok'Chang practised marching in ranks, performing battlefield manoeuvres and trained with weapons. They took to their posts easily, since there was nought else to occupy their attention. And as the non-existent days passed by, it became apparent to all that they were nearing their destination. The Shen-Xin, it was written, was kept guarded in a fortress built far up in the crater of an active volcano. What manner of guardian dwelt in the fortress the scriptures failed to say. But now the volcano loomed over the Lok'Chang like a malicious giant. Their food supplies were running out, and in the hearts of all there was only acceptance of the fate which awaited them. There would be no turning back.

So now for one last time, the last hours almost all of the men would spend as living beings, the Lok'Chang did as best they could to celebrate the past years that they had lived. As bad as they had been, they had been a gift compared to the future they now faced.

Except for Altian.

He sat alone in the tent, reading through the scriptures, searching fruitlessly for some unseen section he knew did not exist, trying to forget the past. He did not want to die in the horror of the Hae'Darak, but for the life of him he could not decide if returning to the world of his birth would be a worse fate. Nothing awaited him there but more pain. But like any good officer, he put his own well being beneath that of his men. If there was a slight chance they that could return, he would fight for them. At least they could have something to live for.

And so he read through old scrolls and parchments, trying to blank his mind from anything but the upcoming battle and failing, until the sounds of mock revelry died down outside. Only then did he leave, and retire to his own tent to sleep for what he hoped, deep down, would be the last time.

He awoke to the General's call. How the man knew the time to arise, no one could fathom. But when he called for arms, the Lok'Chang answered.

Every man had had his own ritual to perform before he went to battle. Altian's had not changed since he was a boy. He found the most isolated spot he could, away from the loud masses of the army. There, he knelt in the ashen ground facing the direction they would travel to the battlefield, lighting three joss sticks he had found in the supplies and sticking them into the earth. He bowed three times, and prayed, but not for himself.

Then he dressed, pulling armour over his clothes and tying the leather laces tight. He wore a light but tough leather cuirass over his torso, with bracers to protect his arms and guards to protect his legs. The leather armour gave only minimal protection but allowed him full movement, and Altian fought quickly, preferring to remain in motion. Over the top of his armour, he pulled on a robe of strong silk tied with a red sash. The robe was bright white, but would soon be blackened with ash and filth, and then most likely soiled with blood. Finally he bound up his long hair with a piece of cloth, picked up his sword, and went to join the others on the last day of their lives.

Most of the horses had been killed for food. The few that remained were now used by the eleven officers and the small group of thirty horsemen. Altian went to his horse, a large brown mare, and mounted it. He sat in the high saddle and looked over his division of brave men as they stood in perfect formation before him. In their eyes was nothing but grim determination.

"I am not one for speeches," Altian told them. "But I will say this. If we are to die, let us die fighting for those we love, and let their faces carry us to a better world. We have a task to perform. Let us perform it well and be done with this accursed place."

The men gave a single united cry, many of them knowing that they would soon all be dead.

The General approached Altian on horseback.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then let us get under way."

The General rode to the front of the army, and with a brief cry set them forward. The masses of the Lok'Chang set off briskly, headed for the huge dark volcano.

There had been a path at one time that had led from the volcano's base and up to its crater. But centuries had passed, and now it was worn, and untrustworthy. Any normal army would have thought twice before taking such a road, but the Lok'Chang mounted the weathered path without hesitation. They marched upwards as it wound higher and higher up the volcano. The drop on their left side became steeper and more deadly as they progressed, but it was not the great height that struck horror into Altian. It was the great emptiness of the Hae'Darak stretched out before him to the horizon and beyond. At least it was the last time he would ever have to look upon it.

There was one casualty on the climb. A young man, Altian thought it was Likon, the young man who had annoyed everyone with his eagerness to please. He had misplaced one step and plummeted over the edge. His scream echoed down the ranks, but none stopped, or barely even slowed their pace.

At last, tired from the climb they emerged at the wide rim of the volcano. The land around them sloped downwards to the crater, where they could now see the red glow of lava as it was continually spewed upwards by unseen forces. The slope was not steep, and now their final target was in sight.

The fortress stood in the crater, balanced on a tall pinnacle of rock that stuck out unnaturally from the immense lake of molten rock below, connected to the volcano's rim by a crumbling bridge of stone. It took Altian's breath away. At one time, it may have been grand in a dark, foreboding way. Its towers and spires were of an alien construction, so tall and pointed like the heads of spears. But it was in ruin, crumbling and falling into disrepair. Only one thing kept it from falling down into destruction: the Shen-Xin within.

But the fortress did not hold his attention for long. An army lay before the fortress's bridge, one far larger than the Lok'Chang. It was a dark stain on the already black landscape. Altian could not make out any shapes, but as the Lok'Chang marched closer, the enemy came into horrible clarity.

Some were shaped like men, clad in huge armour that had the look of stone and matched the style of the fortress they guarded, covered with sharp protrusions. The helms they wore were topped with two huge curving horns. But where there should have been a face, there was just blackness, as if complete nothingness lay within the animated suit of stone armour.

Others held the features of animals, again clad in the same stone-like armour and devoid of faces. Some stood on tall bird like legs and flexed long sharp pincers. Others were more dog like, standing on all fours, digging up the earth with long stone claws.

And before the great, dark army sat a single figure upon a black horse, its features completely obscured by a thick black cloak and hood. The figure seemed to regard them coldly as they approached.

Finally the General gave a hand signal and the Lok'Chang halted a safe distance away. Quickly, the army spread out, taking up their positions in the much practised formations. Altian's division took its place on the right wing of the main body and waited. Behind him, he could hear some of the men panting, already exhausted. Others were praying. But all stared at the enemy fearlessly.

The general rode forward slowly. The hooded figure did the same. They approached one another cautiously, and stopped within calling distance. The two leaders regarded one another. The General spoke first.

"We are the Lok'Chang!" he called to the hooded figure. "The army sent by the great Emperor to procure the item known as the Shen-Xin. Stand aside so that we might complete our task."

When the figure replied, it was too all of the Lok'Chang. The voice was a whisper that drifted across to every man.

"You have come a long way, Army of the Damned," the thing whispered. "A long journey across time and space. You have suffered much, and lost much more. But here your journey ends. You cannot be allowed to take the thing that lies within these walls. This is its resting place. Its sanctuary. Its prison. None shall pass us, and none shall take it."

"If we could leave the cursed thing," the General replied, "we would. But we have, as you have stated, travelled far and suffered much. We cannot turn back. And we will proceed. If you do not wish a conflict then I beseech you, let us pass."

"Do you not know what it is you seek?" the figure asked. Altian thought there was a hint of surprise in its voice. "The evil in this place is guarded for a reason. To protect those of your realm from a great and terrible end. I implore you, brave men, turn away now. The Shen-Xin cannot be taken."

The General stared at the figure coldly. "We cannot," he told it in a low voice.

The figure slumped slightly in the saddle. "So be it," it sighed in defeat. "If you do not turn from this endeavour, then I shall have no option but to destroy you all. But know this, petty rabble of the damned..." The figure reached up with one gloved hand and cast aside its cloak. From where the figure sat there came a light so blinding Altian dropped the reins of his horse and threw his hands before his eyes. When it died down, Altian looked up at the figure and gasped.

Before them the figure glowed brightly, its luminous skin clean and white despite the land around it. Its features were androgynous, above gender and discriminations of sex, and were beautiful beyond imagining. And most shocking, white wings stretched out from its back.

_"Know this_ ," it repeated, its eyes burning with the fury of Heaven. " _I am the archangel Illociah, keeper of the Shen-Xin, warrior and protector of mankind. And I will not be turned._ " The angel grasped its sword and drew it. The blade erupted in burning red flame as the angel held it overhead. " _The evil shall not be taken. Not by you. Not by anyone. As much as it shall pain me, I will destroy you all before you can so much as lay your hands on it. So for one last time, I will ask you... I will beg you. Turn now. Turn now and save your souls_."

The General lowered his head in shame. "Our souls," he told Heaven's warrior, "are beyond saving."

He spurred his horse and returned to the ranks. The men were shaken, he could see it plainly.

"Heed me well!" he yelled. "We have not come this far to turn away now and die in this shithole of a world. And neither Heaven nor Hell is going to stop me from getting back to my wife and family. _So who here will stay and fight?_ "

The Lok'Chang cried out assent in one voice. _No one_ was backing down.

The General drew his sword and raised it. "Take arms! Prepare for battle! Archers, take aim!"

The archer division, set one column behind the front row of spear men, drew back their arrows. They raised their bows to the blood red sky and pulled backwards, until the flexible wood of the bow was bent double and the men's arms quivered with the strain.

The General turned back towards the enemy. He saw the archangel, body aglow and sword blazing, sitting astride its horse, reins in one hand and blade in the other. It watched them unmoving, issuing no orders. The enemy was not attacking, yet not making a move to defend itself.

Altian waited anxiously. He could feel the blood pumping hard through his body, his hand becoming clammy with sweat. His stomach was queasy, and for a moment he thought he would be sick. He was now used to such feelings. It was simply the condition warriors called battle sickness. It passed quickly, and in its place would be cold, unfeeling emptiness. Soon there would be no feeling but that of his beating heart, his swinging blade, and the spilt blood of his defeated enemy.

He gathered up the dropped reins of his horse, and waited.

Seconds passed, and seemed to last a century. The General regarded his opponent with pity, and regret. He muttered one final prayer under his breath which no one else heard, and then he dropped his sword.

_"Fire_!"

The archers let loose their arrows. Two hundred spinning shafts of wood launched into the heavens. They flew high, slowing at the pinnacle of their ascent, and then fell back down to earth. Like a huge black storm cloud, the arrows descended down upon the archangel's forces.

And still the inhuman army did not respond.

The swarm of arrows impacted on their targets. Only one missed, the rest penetrated deep into the armoured creatures undeterred. Most of those hit fell to the ground. A few stood, swaying as though mortally wounded, but did not attempt to administer any aid to their injuries.

The angel never lost its cold, determined expression.

The archers drew back their bows, and at the General's command, fired again. The second volley took out even more of the enemy. One arrow, however, fell short of its goal, and descended in a direct line towards the archangel.

The angel looked upwards, watching the single deadly missile on its path. At the last moment, it unfurled one great wing and stretched it over its head like a shield. The arrow struck... and bounced off harmlessly, its shaft snapped in two from the impact. The angel lowered its wing, and glared at the Lok'Chang with pity.

Then it made the tiniest of gestures with its free hand, and the army behind it surged silently forwards like a giant, black wave.

The officers of the Lok'Chang barked out commands briskly. The row of spear men in the front most rank stepped forwards and lowered themselves into position, the sharp points of their weapons raised upwards to chest height. Behind them, the archers fired repeatedly, but could barely make a dent in the charging mass of armoured creatures. When one fell, the others behind it simply crushed the body underfoot and kept coming.

Altian's division stirred behind him. All of the sickness he had felt was long gone. Now a eerie calm descended upon him. He drew his sword and held it tightly in his hand, pointed towards the earth. His eyes scanned the charging enemy relentlessly. They seemed disorganised, a giant and furious rabble devoid of reason and tactics. Altian had fought against such foes before. Against the ordered forces of the Empire, such chaotic hordes proved a far from worthy foe.

The enemy drew closer, so close that Altian could see the dark shadows where the creatures faces should have been, their bizarrely crafted armour of spikes, and their almost ridiculous body structures moulded from parts of men and beasts. Dog like beasts pounded on all fours alongside the odd bird legged creatures with crab-like pincers. The most human shaped ones wielded all manner of weapons; swords, clubs, axes, and spears, all appearing to be made from the same stony substance as their armour.

But there was no order in their charge, no carefully planned ranks or divisions. The different creatures all intermingled recklessly. At such disarray, some of the men breathed easy, and confidently. No matter how terrifying the force, the army would fall beneath the Lok'Chang's meticulously plotted strategy.

The army drew near. The ground began to shake with the heavy footfalls of the charging monstrosities. Altian studied the line, searching for a weak spot in the surging mass. When the enemy collided with the Lok'Chang's main body, his division and the division of the far left would charge forward in a combined pincer movement that would allow their force to envelope the opposing group. But when the fighting grew heaviest, Altian needed to bore a hole through their ranks, to divide the force and created a passage for the division behind to pass through. The division could, firstly, out-flank the angel's force, and secondly, make a line for the bridge and seize control before any reserves could be called from within the fortress.

Altian, waited. And waited.

The spearmen in the front line stood unwavering as the enemy came closer and closer. Running in front of the main body of creatures was a long line of identical human armours. Up close, they stood well over six feet tall, and had bodies the width of two men. And they ran at the spearmen without hesitation.

Mindlessly the creatures threw themselves straight at the points of the spears, and pierced themselves through the chest with such force that the spear blades penetrated deep through their armour and emerged from their backs. And with the last ounce of will they had, they threw their hefty bulks forward onto the spear men, and crushed them beneath themselves.

The creatures following behind leapt the broken line and with terrifying ferocity broke upon the main body of the Lok'Chang like an immense black wave upon rocks.

At once, Altian gave a cry and kicked his horse forwards.

The General, still sitting upon his horse on the front line, took up his sword and began hacking indiscriminately at the creatures that now surged around him. From the corner of his eye he suddenly picked out a line of bird legged creatures charging towards him. He turned his horse to meet them, and watched with shock and surprise as they suddenly leapt straight into the air, over the heads of the first division, and landed gracefully amongst, and a few upon, the men in the second division behind them. They opened their huge pincers and set upon the men before any could react, slashing, cutting and tearing at flesh until a fine red mist coated all in the vicinity.

Finally the numbers of men overwhelmed the freakish creatures, and they fell under a rain of sword blades. The General did not slow. He screamed an order to the men and returned to the fray.

Altian's division swept upon the left flank of the enemy, and cut a deep abscess into their main body. He leaned over the side of his horse, sweeping his sword left and right and taking the heads of every creature he saw. His men came behind him, rolling through the mass and dropping all before them. Surprisingly the enemy fell easily enough, despite their fearsome appearance. Their armour, strong though it appeared, was brittle, and no match for the strong steel of the Lok'Chang's Imperial blades. Any sizable break in the creatures armour was enough to release whatever malicious spirit was controlling it, and the empty husk of armour would fall into a useless pile.

But the creatures were fierce fighters. The human armours wielded swords like the most battle hardened of veterans, and the dog beasts, though incapable of holding weapons, could tear at flesh with long claws and hard stony teeth. But it was the bird legged ones that Altian was the most wary of. They dodged back and forth on their disjointed lower limbs, and snipped their pincers through bone like a hot knife through butter.

Three of these types sudden converged on Altian. He leant down and cut his blade cleanly through the neck of the first, as the next ducked and removed the front legs of his horse. The mare gave a pained whine, and fell forward. It landed on its head, breaking its neck, and Altian was flung forward from his saddle.

He went limp, hit the ground and rolled. He climbed to his feet as the next bird leg charged at him, pincers snapping. He ducked the first attack, the sharp blades closing uselessly over his head, and swept his sword through the creature's ankles. The creature fell, separated from its feet, and landed in its back. Without pause, he flipped his sword around in his hand, and stabbed down at the empty black of the creature's face. The blade disappeared into the darkness, and the creature went rigid. Then its armour collapsed in on itself, and it was gone.

Now he was amongst his men and the enemy, in the midst of the real fighting, where he should be. Around him, his men were all fighting, killing and dying. Blood splattered over the ashen ground, and painted every man's features red. Everywhere he looked, there were empty armours of the dead creatures, and torn limbs of dead men. With every step he took, Altian's feet sunk into the sodden ground. His white silk robe was stained beyond recovery.

But they were winning. That much was clear. The main body of the enemy was slowly being forced backwards, back towards the fortress and the lake of burning lava. As fierce as they were, the Lok'Chang fought with the vigour of men with nothing to lose. Soon the enemy's rearmost ranks had their backs to the bubbling lava.

Between kills, Altian glanced about and found the flying banner of the cavalry division that was behind his, led by the officer he thought of as the Believer.

On horseback, the cavalry charged forward through the ranks weakened by Altian's men. As the enemy was forced against the very rim of the volcano's crater, to the bridge that spanned the lake of lava, a horse pulled alongside Altian, and a sword deftly decapitated the bird leg he had been fighting.

"Where is the General?" the Believer asked.

"I don't know," Altian yelled back. "Go for the bridge! We need to take the bridge!"

The Believer gave a cold smile. "The Emperor's will cannot be denied!" he said with determination. He yelled to his men, "Charge! Take the bridge!" Then he kicked his horse, and rode fearlessly through the enemy towards his goal.

None of the creatures had the desire to retreat. They fought mindlessly, without thought of themselves. As the Lok'Chang pushed forwards, some of the enemy fell backwards and went over the edge into the crater, plummeting down to the boiling inferno below.

The cavalry fought through, and galloped victoriously onto the bridge. The Believer was smiling. His men rode together along its length towards the fortress, packed too tightly together. Then his smile vanished.

From out of the shadows of the fortress's ruined gate slithered two figures. They had long bodies, and walked upon a multitude of legs, like millipedes. The top half of their bodies was held erect, and was covered in a dark robe, with a thick hood obscuring their faces.

The believer lifted his sword, and approached. As they came within ten metres of the creatures, the hooded monsters lifted their arms up, as if reaching forward to their opponents. The sleeves of their robes hung baggy and empty. The black opening gaped like a mouth.

Then to the astonishment of all, a blinding light erupted from the sleeves of the creatures. Five long tendrils of white light shot from each of the openings, whipping through the air with ferocity. They seemed to float weightlessly through the air, like ribbons, or streamers that children often twirled overhead at parades and celebrations. The Believer stared mesmerised as the glowing ribbons whipped over and through his body, and the bodies of his first five men, and then snapped back into the hidden shadows within the creatures' robes.

For a few seconds, the Believer sat in the saddle, staring blankly. Then his body fell into several neatly cut pieces, the edges of which were all neatly cauterised, still smoking.

The hoods slithered forward into range of their next targets, and lashed out a second time, slicing up the men behind with lethal precision. The men and their mounts dropped into pieces upon the stone bridge. The others attempted to turn their horse to retreat and regroup, but the width of the bridge was too narrow, and the men too close together. In their panic, they drove their horses too close to the edge. The horses slipped and went over, taking the men upon their backs on a final ride down to the lava, as the hoods advanced, striking out again and again. The twenty white ribbons rippled through the air continuously, cutting apart anything that came too close.

Finally the men at the rear turned their horses and rode off the bridge and back into the midst of the fighting. Behind them, the bridge was littered with the butchered remains of men and horses, and its two guardians waited motionless in the middle of its span.

Altian saw what had happened and swore under his breath. It was clear that he was now the closest one to the bridge. Without hesitation, he called out to rally his men, just as a large shadow fell over him. Something large and powerful slammed into him and sent him to the ground.

He quickly clambered to his feet, and then immediately threw himself back down again, narrowly dodging the huge flaming blade that swung wildly over his head. Altian looked up, and saw the archangel Illociah sitting upon its black stone horse with sword in hand.

The angel swung again, and a nearby soldier fell to the ground, his body in flames. A nearby spearman saw the angel, and without thinking, thrust the point of his weapon at the creature. The angel's horse shifted at the last minute, and the point plunged undeterred into its throat.

There was a loud crack, and the entire stone horse unexpectedly imploded in on itself, fast and violently as its spirit was removed. The angel made one furious beat of its wings, and launched itself off of its collapsing mount and into the air. It made a quick circle overhead, and then landed behind the spearman who had killed its mount, already swinging its great sword sideways to take the poor man's head from his shoulders. Then it turned its fury onto Altian.

Sparks flew as Altian lifted his blade and parried the first blow. He was quicker than the angel, and danced speedily around it, dodging and blocking the flaming sword with his own. But the angel attacked tirelessly, each blow sending a long vibrating wave through Altian's blade and up his arm.

Suddenly, a mounted swordsman rode past and leapt from the saddle, flying at the angel. It was the General. The angel lifted one wing and battered the man away without a second thought. The General hit the ground and rolled to Altian's feet, as ten men remaining from the General's lead division charged at the angel, swarming over it in a cloud of swinging, hacking sword blades.

The angel defended itself with ease, using its wings as shields, and swinging its flaming sword through the air with surgical precision. With one stroke, it cut through three of the men, barely grazing their skins, yet the flames from its blade leapt onto their clothes and set them alight. Seeing an opening, one man darted forwards, and stabbed the angel in the side. The angel grunted, and smashed in the man's skull with the hilt of its sword before knocking away the body with a sweep of its wing.

Altian tried to help the General to his feet, and was roughly pushed away.

"Take the bridge," the General spat at him. "Before any reinforcements come. Go _now_!"

He lifted his sword, and charged off to join the fight against the angel. Altian called to his men, and ran to the bridge, not looking back when someone else began to scream and burn.

With what little force remained of his men, Altian stepped onto the bridge, and stopped. In the middle of its span, the two hooded creatures seemed to stare at him, waiting for him to draw closer. He noticed a disembodied arm lying on the ground, amidst the ruin of several dozen other men, and pulled the sword from the lifeless grasp of its hand.

"Do not charge until you see an opening," he told the men behind him without turning. Already, a brief plan began to formulate in his mind. He lifted the two swords, and walked slowly towards the bridge's guardians.

He had gotten to within ten metres when the first slithered forward on its many legs, lifted its arms, and whipped out its ten long, glowing fingers towards him. The white ribbons snaked through the air towards him, and like lightening, he threw up his swords, and battered them away.

There was a shower of sparks, but neither the ribbon nor the blade broke. The guardian flicked its wrist, and thrashed the ribbons at Altian, over and over, and each time Altian knocked them away with his sword. His arms began to ache, and the blades began to glow orange with heat. It would not be long before they shattered. From the corner of his vision, he saw the second hood moving forward to join its companion. It lifted its arms, and Altian took a chance.

He pushed all ten ribbons aside with the blade of his right sword, and threw his left sword at the second hood. The sword flew through the air, turning end over end, until finally it impacted blade first into the creature's chest. The force of the blow twisted it to the left, just as its weapons shot out from its sleeves. The five ribbons whipped about as the creature pivoted, and sliced across its companion.

The ten ribbons of light whipping at Altian went limp, and fell to the ground, their light extinguished. The first creature dropped in six neat pieces, and shattered on the ground. The other stared at its fallen brethren stupidly, perhaps in shock, the sword still sticking from its chest. Then, from the damage the heated blade inflicted, it collapsed and broke upon the bridge.

Altian did not stop for a moment, not even to catch his breath. He cast his heated and now useless sword over the side of the bridge, and plucked one from the wrecked bodies on the ground. Then with his men behind him, many in awe, he charged over the bridge and into the fortress.

A bird legged creature appeared at the entrance, and was cut down by the men before it could react. Altian ran through the long ruined gate, and emerged in the courtyard of the fortress. He gaped at what he saw.

Sitting upon a raised platform in the centre of the courtyard was a portal. This one was different from the one that had taken them to the Otherworld. It was bright blue, glowing and rippling like the surface of a lake that had been taken and placed against all reason to stand vertically. It seemed to Altian that this one led somewhere that was not in his world. Heaven perhaps?

He had no time to ponder. As he watched, the portal rippled, and a human shaped armour stepped through its shimmering surface, and joined the ranks of the very large group now forming in the courtyard.

The two opposing groups faced each other, then raised their weapons, and charged. As he fought, Altian saw that for every creature they killed, another seemed to emerge from the portal. In fact, the portal seemed to start spewing out creatures at a faster rate, perhaps spurred by the fighting before it.

Then came a loud defiant cry, and the General, bloodied and wounded, came charging through the gate, sword held high, with the remaining numbers of the Lok'Chang quickly behind him. The new arrivals washed into the courtyard, and soon the fight became more fierce and violent. The portal shot out new creatures at a fantastic speed.

The General appeared beside him. His clothes were drenched with blood, but he showed no signs of letting up.

"Altian!" he screamed. "Take your men into the fortress! Find that god damned Shen-Xin!"

"There are too many," Altian replied.

"There will always be too many! We can hold them, but you have to find it. You looked at those damned scrolls more than anyone. Where would it be?"

"The tower," Altian said. He cut through a dog beast, and pointed up at the tallest tower of the fortress.

"Can you find your way up there?"

There had been numerous scriptures that each gave a fairly poor description of the fortress's interior. Altian had memorised them all. Separate, they were useless, but perhaps when read together...

"Yes," he answered with confidence.

"Then go, damn you. GO!"

Altian turned, dropped and rolled beneath a pouncing dog beast, and ran as fast as he could towards the keep of the fortress. Along the way, he gathered up any of his men that he could find, but the numbers of his division that remained were now horribly low. He rallied six others, and ran for the tall stone stairs that led along the wall of the keep to one of the higher levels.

He leapt up the stairs two at a time, his men pounding up after him. Behind them, a group of creatures broke off from the main body and charged after them in pursuit. Up ahead, Altian spotted the dark doorway that led into the fortress. He increased his pace. Just before he entered, he paused and shot one final glance back.

The last remaining Lok'Chang were fighting furiously for their lives. Enemy creatures flew from the portal in a never ending torrent. They were losing more fighters then the enemy were.

With grim determination, Altian turned back and disappeared into the fortress, just as a hooded creature slithered from the portal into the courtyard, and the terrible glowing ribbons shot from its arms and began cutting through the writhing, fighting mass indiscriminately.

He ran through the dark tunnels and corridors, using what little knowledge he had to guide his steps. But the fortress was so dark, and in such disrepair that his journey moved far slower than he would have liked. With his companions dying outside, Altian did not want to waste a second, and the heavy footsteps of the pursuing creatures seemed to be drawing nearer and nearer.

The directions came into his head of their own accord. Left. Right. Right again. Whenever he came to a set of internal stairs, he ran up them without pause. He needed to get higher and higher, to the highest tower of the fortress. That was where the Shen-Xin would be, protected, Altian feared, by its final guardian.

Behind him the last of his men started panting, and struggled to keep up. After such exertions, Altian was surprised that he was still able to function as well as he was. He figured that if they slowed, or stopped, none of them would be capable of getting up again.

And the creatures footsteps hammering through the dark corridors grew louder.

Finally, they came to a long winding staircase, and ran up it. The stairs were narrow, and steep. They seemed to go upwards, on and on, for all of eternity. One of the men collapsed halfway, and they left him to his own fate.

Then, as Altian thought he was soon to fall down himself, the stairs ended, and they came to a simple, wooden door. Unlike the rest of the fortress, the door showed no signs of decay. It seemed to have been very well cared for.

Altian allowed himself a second to catch his breath. As he reached for the door, the sounds of footsteps echoed loudly up the tunnel.

The soldiers drew their swords.

"Go on, my lord," the nearest told him. "You go and find it. We will hold them for you, for as long as we can."

Altian was about to protest, but thought better of it. He lifted his own sword, and pushed the door open. It gave without protest, and he dived through and slammed it shut, as the sounds of swordplay and death began to drift towards him.

There was light. After the dark journey through the fortress, it was blinding, even as dim as it was.

Altian stood in the chamber at the top of the tower. It was round, and bare of any furnishings, save for a small round alter in the exact centre. There was a large window occupying one quarter of the unending wall. it looked out onto the tall, dark walls of the volcano's crater, and the immense lake of molten rock below. Illumination came from this window, the glow of the lava casting an eerie orange light into the room.

With his sword held high, Altian walked around the chamber trying to remain alert. His eyes were fixed on the altar, where he had expected the Shen-Xin to have been.

But it was empty.

The floor was coated with a thick layer of ash. Altian left a long line of footprints in it as he made a circuit around the room. He found nothing else. No other doors, no other rooms, or secret passages. The chamber was empty.

How could that be?

A gentle breeze blew through the room. It was cold, and made Altian shiver. But this close to the volcano, the air should have been hot. Stifling even. There was something wrong. And Altian could feel there was something else in the room, watching him.

"Who is there?" he called.

The breeze blew harder. Carried on it was a voice. It was soft, and full of sorrow.

"Do not fear, my friend. I mean you no harm."

Altian gripped his sword tighter. "Where are you? Tell me!"

"I am everywhere. All around you. I am in the air, in the earth, in the sky. I am everything." It fell silent, then added. "And at the same time, I am nothing."

"You are the final guardian of the Shen-Xin?"

"The Shen-Xin? Oh, of course. That is what your kind call it. I take it you have come to remove the object from its prison?"

"I have," Altian replied. "Many have died needlessly for it. I will not return empty handed to make their deaths in vain."

"Good for you. You are an interesting one. What is your name?"

"I am not here to trade words with a witless spectre," Altian said angrily.

"There is no need to be rude," the voice replied wistfully. "I only wish to have a polite conversation. I have been here for so long, and I have had no one to talk to. All I ask is that you spare just a few moments to converse with me. After that, I will show you what you wish."

"I do not have the time. Where is the Shen-Xin?"

"So hasty. There is no need to be. Once you spend a few millennia wasting away in this place as I have, you will come to realise that time is irrelevant."

"Answer me!"

The spirit sighed. "Very well. The Shen-Xin is here. It is everywhere. It is with me."

"So you are its guardian."

"Guardian," the voice said wistfully. "I used to think that. I was once its keeper. Its warden. I was to keep it safe, protect it from anyone who would wish to take it for themselves. What a _joke_. Three times in the past have armies come. Twice were they banished by the angel Illociah before they could even enter the gates. Only once before has anyone ever ventured this far, and he was most... unworthy. But you. You are different. Tell me, why is it that you seek this thing, this evil? Is it for yourself?"

"No," said Altian. "I have heard the stories. I would have nothing do with such a thing."

"Then why do you want it?"

"I do not want it. I need it, so that we may escape this cursed place, and return to our world."

"Is that all? Why bother coming in the first place?"

Altian grew inpatient. "My men are dying. I do not have time for this. Either give me the Shen-Xin, so that we might leave, or show yourself, so that I can take it from you."

The air around him stirred, swirling though the room, faster and faster, until it was moving with the force of a gale. The ash was blown from the ground, and blacked the air. Altian backed against the wall and watched as the ash spun into a huge cloud, and then formed into a tall featureless mass on the other side of the chamber. It writhed, and quivered like a swarm of insects, then slowly, shapes began to form within its ebbing mass. A large face, a copy of Altian's. It smiled at him, and laughed.

"Perfect," the voice said. "You are the one I have been waiting for."

"What are you?" Altian breathed.

"The gods themselves no longer know. Once, I was Archangel Amnon, one of the divine protectors of mankind. Now I am this, a shapeless, powerless form, meant only to linger and rot in this dark, dead world with only my prisoner for comfort. And what a dreadful, and terrifying companion it makes. Once I was light. Now I am nothing. Blackness, emptiness. The abyss itself." The face looked angry. "They tricked me! Misled me. I believed I was doing right, that I would save millions. Now look what has become of me!"

"What?" Altian asked with unease. "What happened?"

"Can you not guess? The Shen-Xin. It corrupts everything it touches. Turns it to black. They knew this, and they did not tell me. Not until..." the voice trailed off. "It was your kind's fault," it said finally. "You took the heart, and almost destroyed yourselves with it. So we had to hide it from you. From everyone. We used it to create this place, the Hae'Darak as you would call it, to contain it forever. There is nothing here that it can destroy, corrupt or pervert with its maliciousness. No life, no light. Nothing.

"Nothing except _me_. Illociah and the others can come and go as they wish, but not me. I am trapped here, as much as a prisoner as the Shen-Xin. You see that was the greatest trick of them all. No one could risk leaving the Shen-Xin in its physical form, so that it could sit here for the aeons and lure others with its power. So they destroyed it, and bound its essence... into me." The face looked close to tears. "Into my soul. It is my heart. My lungs. Filling me with its vile depravity. And its power." It grinned. "Do not think for a second that I cannot feel its energy, filling me with vigour and eternal life. Flowing out of me and into this place, giving it form and function. All that power, so close, and yet I cannot touch it! The others... somehow they do not let me..." Altian's face in the dark cloud laughed. "But I suppose that is all right in the end. The power would probably be too much, even for one such as me. It would only corrupt me in the end. It always does. It would take a will far more powerful than mine to control the Shen-Xin. Do you think that _you_ could control it?"

"I have no wish to," Altian repeated. "I would rather it stayed here, forever and ever, until the universe itself decayed."

"Hmmfff," the voice breathed sulkily. "Alas, I cannot wait that long. I tire of this place. Surely you can understand. You've seen the world outside. Who would be master of this horrible, little world? None would want it. Let it fall. Let it disappear with Shen-Xin's final breath."

"What do you mean?"

"This whole world is only made real by the Shen-Xin. If you were to take it away, back to your world, it would disappear. And good riddance, I say. Of course, therein lies the problem. You see, the Shen-Xin is no longer a physical object you could just snatch up and flee with. It is... metaphysical. It is everywhere at once, and nowhere. You see? It is in me. It _is_ _me_ , as I am it."

"Then... you can give it to me," Altian said hopefully. "Give it to me, and you will be rid of it."

"Oh, that I would. But have you not been listening? I cannot simply hand it to you. It is in my soul. You must take it." The Guardian's borrowed face looked grim. "With your own immortal soul."

Altian let his sword drop. He regarded the black cloud with pity. The divine creature had given its own life and soul to contain the Shen-Xin, and look what had happened to it. Twisted and broken beyond reason. He felt sorry for it, and had he thought it possible he would have ended its suffering then and there. But how was it possible to destroy something empowered by the Shen-Xin? If this half mad Guardian was to be believed, Altian would have to destroy his own soul in the process. That thought came to Altian, and he realised coldly that it no longer mattered what happened to his soul.

"How do I take it?" he asked.

The Guardian looked surprised. "This is not something to be taken lightly, especially for someone who claims not to want the Shen-Xin to begin with. What would you do with it, if it were yours?"

"Return home, with the rest of the Lok'Chang."

"And then? Once you had returned back to your world with the Shen-Xin within you and its power at your disposal, what would you do? Give it to someone else? Use it for yourself?"

"What do you care? It would no longer be your concern."

The face faltered. It seemed to be divided by some internal struggle. It wanted to be rid of the Shen-Xin, separated from it forever and perhaps by that separation, given the peace of death it so richly desired and deserved. But part of it, perhaps the remnant of its angelic self, had no deep wish to allow such an evil power to be taken from its prison and let loose in the hands of the easily corrupted.

"Tell me," the Guardian said. "Why are you so eager to take this thing within you?"

"I am not eager," Altian replied. "I simply have nothing to lose. That is why I am here. I have already lost everything that meant anything to me."

The Guardian looked interested. To Altian, it seemed to twist his copied features into a somewhat cruel look.

"Would you tell me your tale?" it implored. "After all, I told you mine."

"No."

"If you tell me, then I will help you to take the Shen-Xin."

Altian pursed his lips, and then sighed.

"Start with your name," the Guardian said with childish excitement. "And go from there."

Altian looked at the face coldly, and told him.

"My name was Lung Tian Tse. I was a lord of much land, which I had inherited from my father when I was young. I was a warrior, and commanded many men in many successful campaigns. And I was deeply in love with a girl I had known since my childhood. She was the daughter of another lord, a friend of the family, and we were to be married after my next campaign." He clenched his sword tightly at the memories as he spoke, angered by his own confession. "During the battle, my division was ambushed. Someone had betrayed us and told the enemy our exact position. My men were all slaughtered. I alone survived, though it seems, not through my own skill. They had orders to spare me. Because I was the only survivor the emperor, _wise and all knowing as he is_ ," Altian added sarcastically, "determined that I was the traitor who had given information to the enemy. I was charged with treason, and locked away without trial. My lands were taken by the Emperor and given away, and my betrothed..." He faltered. "She... She was instead married to a member of the Emperor's council, a man well known for his depravity and brutality. So I have nothing. I am a traitor to my people, without a home, or family. I resigned myself to death when the Emperor began his fruitless search for immortality and sent us here to find the Shen-Xin. And now that I am here... well, I suppose I can in the very least help those with lives get back to their homes. And if I need to give up my soul to do it, then so be it. I no longer need it anyway."

He glared at the Guardian, at his own face. "Does my tale fascinate you?" he asked in disgust.

"Immensely," the Guardian smiled. "Despite all that you have said... Do you still feel no urge to take the Shen-Xin as your own? Can you not imagine the wrongs you could right, the peace you could bring to your world of unbridled chaos?"

"Yes," Altian said truthfully. "But I can also envision the innocent blood that would be spilt by my hand in the name of justice. So no, I will not wield this thing as my own. Ever."

"Excellent," it beamed. "You are perfect. Truly the most perfect one to take the Shen-Xin from me. Very well, let us begin."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well," the Guardian said happily. "I am going to kill you."

The wind picked up in an instant, and the cloud of black ash swarmed around him. Only it no longer seemed to be ash. It sliced over his skin, and cut open his robe with the keenness of a thousand blades. It was as though he were being attacked by a swarm of thousands of minuscule knives.

Blindly he twisted and fought, thrashing his arms and swinging his sword. Before him the cloud opened, taking the shape of a giant gaping mouth, complete with teeth. Instinctively, he lifted his sword and thrust down into it. The mouth closed over his arm, up to the elbow, and then there was pain.

The particles began to spin in a vortex over his arm, tearing away first the sleeve of his robe, then the leather bracer he wore and the shirt sleeve below, and then finally, its flayed away his flesh.

Altian screamed, and tried to pull away, but something powerful held his arm in its vice-like grip. The buzzing cloud stripped away the skin, then the flesh, leaving only bone which was in seconds finally reduced to dust.

With his last ounce of strength, Altian pulled himself free, and collapsed against the wall. There was no longer anything below his right elbow. His sword arm was gone.

"You bastard," he spat.

"Come now," the voice said in a hurt tone.

The face appeared once more in the cloud as it hovered malevolently before him. Behind it, Altian saw flashes of metal. His sword was held aloft in the cloud, spinning end over end, faster and faster. The face smiled, and there was more than a hint of insanity in its expression.

"There is no need to be insulting," the Guardian chided. "If I was going to destroy you outright, you would already be dead."

The sword was now spinning behind it so fast, it was a blur.

"The last one who came here," the voice continued thoughtfully, "I flayed alive before he could even raise his staff. He was a wizard of some sort, you know," it added helpfully.

The sword blade exploded into hundreds of tiny shards. They rained down on Altian, some cutting into him, and some embedding in his robe and armour.

"You are insane," Altian told the Guardian.

"You would be too," it replied in irritation. "Stuck in this hell for so long. Nothing to look at but the endless plains of black ash. I am _so_ _sick of ash_! And that bloody volcano..." the voice fell silent, and the face managed to recompose itself. "You are lucky. At least you get to leave. All I have to look forward to, is death. And you are going to help me with that, are you not, Lung Tian Tse? Because if you do not, you are going to suffer eternally."

"You forget," Altian replied fearlessly. "I already suffer. I am not afraid to die."

"Well, then. Let us see how true that is..."

The face exploded outwards, transforming into a long black tendril that shot through the air and struck into Altian's chest. The buzzing began again, and the cloud began to cut its way through his armour, to his heart. Altian punched at the cloud with his left hand, but his blows passed impotently through the intangible mass.

His robe was cut away, and his leather armour worn to nothing. The cloud held him in place as he struggled, and finally began cutting through his flesh and bone. He could feel it removing his skin, grinding away his ribcage. Then it felt like an icy hand had gripped his heart.

And he could feel it. The Shen-Xin. Its energy and power flowing through the disillusioned Guardian and into him. He could feel its wants and desires, to be free of the Otherworld, to be taken in by someone worthy. To be gone from its prison and its insane warder.

It showed him the things it could do. Immortality was nothing. This was the heart of a greater being, a greater creature. A god. It could level whole lands with a sweep of a hand. It could send the heavens tumbling. It could open portals to other worlds, better worlds.

And it showed him other things. The Lok'Chang in the courtyard, fighting and now losing, decimated and dying. Altian could see the General lying fallen by the portal, his sword still gripped tight in his fist, his mouth opened as if he had died in the middle of issuing an order.

Then it showed him visions from another world. His world. The throne room of the Emperor appeared, and before him the Emperor gave the orders for the destruction of an entire village who refused to build a monument to him. He gave the order dismissively, as he was far more interested in the dancing girls he would have perform and then killed for his pleasure.

Finally came the vision of a lavish bed chamber. A beautiful young woman stared longingly out of the window, as heavy footsteps of her husband drew closer.

The Shen-Xin could help him. It could undo all of the injustices and set right the world. All it needed was the proper hand to wield it. A worthy hand. A righteous hand. Altian's hand. And if he no longer had one, that was unimportant, the Shen-Xin could give him a new one, a better one. It was a god after all. A god could create _anything_.

The vision disappeared, and the face reformed in the cloud over his own.

"Take it!" the Guardian screamed, mad and shrill. " _Take it, you fool! TAKE IT!_ "

Altian felt the cold touch of the Shen-Xin against his heart, and saw the long, empty black abyss that beckoned him.

And he took it.

The guardian screamed, and tore Altian's heart to mush. He felt the coldness fill the now empty cavity in his chest, and then there was only darkness.

Time was irrelevant in the Otherworld. No day, and no night. No concept to mark its passing, and nothing to note its presence.

But now, something was happening. The blood red sky was going dark, and for the first time ever, small pin pricks of light began to appear. Night had finally arrived in the Hae'Darak, for the first and last time ever.

The volcano began to rumble. Quietly at first, then with enough force to cause the fortress to crumble. Lava spewed higher and higher, threatening to envelope the ruined building above.

In the tallest tower, Altian pushed on the door. It fell into splinters at his touch. He emerged from the chamber and stood at the top of the long winding stairs. The ragged remains of his robe were pulled like a makeshift cloak over his right side, to hide his arm. The hole in his armour revealed sore red flesh over his heart, but even now that was beginning to heal and return to its natural colour.

Altian walked down slowly, noting remorsefully the five bodies of his men lying slain on the steps. About them were the crumbled remains of the creatures that had chased them.

"Thank you," he whispered, and respectfully stepped around them.

He made his way slowly through the fortress, ignoring the tremors and the shaking walls, the tumbling bricks and falling stones of masonry. The fortress would fall, but he would be long gone when it did.

He emerged back out into the courtyard, and looked at the dark sky and the stars that came out. It was just like the sky he remembered from his youth. He gave a small smile, and made his way to where the Lok'Chang had made its greatest stand.

The portal was gone, but evidence of its existence was littered all about. The bodies of the enemy, and of the Lok'Chang were everywhere. Altian recognised many of them. The General was exactly as his vision had shown him, with his mouth wide and his sword in hand. A warrior and leader even in death.

"I am sorry," he told the dead.

"Altian?"

He turned, and saw ten men approaching, all with the red mark of the damned on their faces. He smiled for the first time in a long time. The men were wounded, but they would survive. Altian would see to that.

"Thank the gods," one of the men exclaimed. "We thought you were dead."

"Are you all that is left?"

The man nodded solemnly. "The enemy left little wounded."

Altian breathed out deeply. If he could not do right by all, then he could do right by these men.

"Did you find it?" another man asked.

Altian nodded. Under his robe, something shifted unnaturally.

"Can we go home?"

Without reply, Altian walked to the raised platform, being careful to avoid stepping on the bodies of his lost companions. He stepped onto the platform and held up his left hand to the open air. The air before him contorted as unseen forces pulled space into itself. Reality was sucked inward, and a black portal was torn open.

"This will take you home," he told them.

The men grinned at one another. And jumped up onto the platform as fast as their wounds would allow.

_"Stop_!"

The men halted in their tracks before the portal, and spun around in fear. Altian looked back calmly and regarded the speaker with interest. The Archangel Illociah limped painfully into the courtyard. Its left wing hung limp from its back, and dragged across the ground behind it. One of its eyes lolled uselessly in its socket. Glowing blood dripped from the many wounds inflicted on it, and left a bright trail of light in its wake.

"Stop," the angel said again. "You cannot leave this place."

Altian turned back to the men. "Ignore him. Go."

The men exchange glances, and then one by one stepped into the portal and disappeared. The last one paused and thanked him, and then was gone.

Altian and the angel faced each other as another tremor rocked the fortress.

"You should leave too," Altian told it.

"You should not leave at all," the angel spat angrily. "You know what it is you have. How can you allow it escape?"

"Look about you, angel. This world is about to end. It will disappear into the dark from which it was born. And I have made a promise that if possible I would avoid dying in this place."

"But to take it with you..." the angel looked desperate. "Do you not know what it is?"

"Yes. It is the heart of a god, cut from his body when he plagued the earth aeons ago. It harbours his power, and his spirit."

"Not a god," the angel replied. "A demon. A monster."

"What is the difference?" Altian replied. "To an ant hill, the farmer who stands above with a raised shovel is a god, with the power to spare, or to destroy. It was a creature of great power. Its species makes no difference. But now it is diminished, its form lost, its twisted soul melded with mine. I can only hope that I can contain its power better than my predecessor."

"You still do not understand," the angel shook his head. "There are others, buried beneath the earth of your world. They sleep, and they wait. They wait for their master to return so that he might lead them again."

"The Shen-Xin?"

"Yes. It belonged to the master of all monsters."

"Well," Altian said. "I promise I will try not to destroy the world. After all, there are parts of it I quite like." He paused. To his own ears, his voice sounded too much like that of the Guardian for comfort. Under his robe, the thing that was his new arm stirred violently, almost in excitement. "I will control it," he said with conviction. The movement stopped.

"No one can control it. Not even an angel." Illociah lowered its head. "What will you do with it then? Will you give it to the Emperor?"

"I was never, even before, planning to do that."

"Then you will keep it for yourself?"

"Only for the rest of my life," Altian replied. He turned away, but paused before he went through the portal. He looked to the horizon, and the sky began to brighten once more. The stars disappeared, and the dark night vanished with the coming of day.

"One last dawn," Altian explained to the confused angel. "For those that did survive." Then he turned, and stepped into the portal, to return to the world that was no longer his.

And behind him the world ended.

Also by Andrew Day

The Hollow

Everyone has their reasons for joining the Imperial Legion. Some seek fame. Some are just running from something. You sign the scroll, take the Legion bronze, then you learn to hit things with a sword.

But when Serrel Hawthorne joined the Imperial Legion, the last thing he was expecting was to be selected for battlemage training. Now he and seven other misfits are going to have to learn how to weave the magical ether, and preferably not kill each other in the process. Of course, their gruff sergeant might just do that anyway, if they keep annoying him.

And the biggest threat any of them will have to face, is always going to be the one within themselves.

Mages call it the Hollow. It is there, inside everyone, waiting to swallow them whole. It will kill you if you let it. But you have to climb out of it yourself.

The Hollow: At The Edge

" _Well, Fresh Meat, welcome to the Hounds. Don't get comfortable. I expect your stay to be short and messy, with a bloody end_."

In the continuation of "The Hollow", a rebellion has broken out in the mysterious and magical land of Elsbareth, known by most as the Faelands. Serrel Hawthorne, newly trained battlemage in the Imperial Legion, finds himself separated from his fellow trainees and on the way to a war with a group of battle hardened soldiers who mildly detest him, a sergeant who hates him, and two dogs that just might eat him. And the least said about the man called Dogbreath, the better.

The Faelands were always known as the home of elves and strange beasts. But no one is prepared for what's waiting for the Legion across the sea. Surviving his squadmates is only the start. Here there are real monsters, things that should not be. And soon Serrel has to face up to what he must do, and what he must become to not only survive the coming battles, but save the people he cares about. It will take all his skill at spellcasting, and that might not be enough.

And through it all, the Hollow waits within.
