by Stuart Hill
Silently he took her hand and allowed himself to be led to a rock that rose out of the plain. In the distance he could see a gathering of figures, and closing his eyes he felt himself being taken closer. When he opened them again, he gasped aloud in awe and fear. He was looking on the Goddess herself.
Thirrin looked on in mental agony as Oskan squirmed in his chair, but there was nothing she could do other than watch and wait. Dragging her chair closer, she sat and gently took her husband’s hand, taking care not to disturb the trance.
Meanwhile, deep within his vision, Oskan noticed movement. A group of fifty or so figures were being brought to stand before the Mother of All, and realising the huge importance of the vision, he steeled himself to watch.
“Who are these who stand before Me?” a voice of polished clarity asked.
“You know well who we are, and you know even better who I am,” a voice answered. “We are the spirits and angels who were brave enough to stand against the tyranny of the Goddess. We are they who challenged your power and right to rule; we are they who made the very foundations of Heaven itself tremble.”
“I stand not in judgement over you, but offer instead forgiveness,” the gentle tone continued. “Come back to Me, accept My love, return to the perfection of unity, and all dissent will be forgotten.”
The mild good reason of the voice flowed like cool wine slaking a raging thirst, and Oskan waited, confident that its offer would be accepted. Then, as he watched, almost all the rebel angels and spirits moved forward to be welcomed and embraced by the light and benevolence of the Goddess.
But seven figures still stood in defiance, outfacing the Goddess. Then at last the leader of the rebels spoke.
“You have destroyed my army, and reduced my allies to broken-spirited cravens. But I will not give you the pleasure of seeing me beg for mercy. I defy you still! I will defy you forever! Victory may be yours today, but tomorrows will dawn when you will know the bitter savour of defeat. Look to your walls and ramparts, and arm your angels and sanctified dead, for one day you will see the banners of Cronus riding against you again!”
The Goddess remained silent for a long time after that, and when she replied it was with actions rather than words. With a deep cracking sound, the ground beneath the feet of the seven figures gaped open and they fell.
Wails of despair and rage rose up to fill the ether, and suddenly the scene disappeared as Oskan too began to fall. Once more his senses were overwhelmed as the wind of his speed filled his ears with a roaring sound, and he seemed to be tumbling and rolling through endless miles of air.
He was filled with a deep, unending agony of despair as he felt the emotions of the defiant spirits. The Goddess had rejected them! Despite her promise to forgive, she’d withdrawn her love and compassion and now the rebels were falling through aeons into a black and empty exile. Oskan could feel their rage and sense of betrayal as it burned their souls with a livid fire. But then, out of the pain, a towering hatred grew, and a ravening need for revenge.
Thirrin watched as her husband writhed and struggled in his chair, and, unable to help herself, she gathered him up in a restraining hug as she tried to calm him.
But Oskan was aware of nothing other than the Fall he’d just witnessed. The spirit who had openly defied the Goddess in his vision had been Cronus himself. The mighty one whose power was only just a little less than that of the Mother of All; he was the Evil One; the maker of wars and hatreds, the enemy of Heaven.
Oskan opened his eyes and found that he was lying on the hillside again beneath the glowing sky, and nearby the messenger stood watching him with concern. “So, Oskan Witchfather, now you too have experienced the Fall, and know of the rebellion against the love and judgement of the Goddess. What have you to say?”
For a moment he could say nothing, and simply shook his head. But then he looked up. “They were fools,” he answered simply. “The greatest of all fools. Who else could have rejected such unconditional forgiveness?”
The messenger smiled as though relieved. Stepping closer, she sank down to sit beside him. “Yes, they were fools, but even so, they were powerful and a threat to all Creation, and they remain so to this day.” She fell silent and Oskan waited, knowing more was to come.
“And now I must give you a warning, Oskan Witchfather: you must know that a time of terrible danger is approaching, a time when the very fabric of all Creation itself could be ripped apart and made again into something hideous and corrupt. And you must also know that only you can stop it.”
The terrible burden of her words settled over him with a crushing dread. “Why me?” he asked at last. “Why can’t the Goddess destroy them?”
“Because the Goddess is the Mother and Creator of All; she doesn’t destroy her own children! But she recognises that unless the evil ones are stopped, all of the Cosmos is endangered. Therefore she has appointed you, Oskan Witchfather, to stand against this threat, and to stop it before all that is good and beautiful is ended.”
Panic engulfed him as a sense of such hideous, boundless responsibility ripped aside all semblance of self-control. “But . . . but how can I stop them?” he asked in despair.
The messenger took his hand and gripped it firmly. “I am to tell you that the Goddess will give you a weapon: a means of breaking the power of this enemy and defeating it once and for all. But you must also know that this weapon has no physical form; it is neither blade nor gun, fire nor explosion. It is a weapon of knowledge alone, and you will find it within yourself. But before I give you this knowledge, you must also know that it can cut both ways. The biter can be bitten, and a terrible sacrifice will be asked of the one who uses it.”
Oskan shuddered, but after a time of silence he looked up and said, “Tell me.”
The messenger said not a word, but placed the knowledge within his mind, and immediately he collapsed as all the terrible implications hit him.
“But how can I use such a thing?” he whispered, appalled.
“To stop the evil ones and their allies, you must. But the Goddess, even now, does not command you to use it. When the time comes, you must make your choice.”
Oskan nodded, accepting that he could never truly understand the reasons behind the decisions of the Goddess. She had chosen him and he must make of it what he could. But when the battle began, he would have to choose what to do.
“There is one thing more you need to know,” the messenger said, interrupting his thoughts. “All knowledge of this weapon must be kept secret. No one must know, not even your closest and most beloved; not even Queen Thirrin. Its power lies in the fact that no Adept, whether evil or not, has ever known of it. In this way the wicked have been kept under some control down the millennia. But if ever its secret is revealed then all of its power will be lost; it will be rendered useless. Know too, Oskan Witchfather, that only you, of all Adepts who have ever lived, have been given this knowledge, such are the times that we live in. The final confrontation is almost upon us, and the Warrior of Light must stand forth.”
Oskan was rendered speechless; the responsibility was too great. If he could have, he would have run away, far from the Goddess and Her messenger, and far from what was being asked of him. But before he could think or act further, the world suddenly shifted and swirled around him and he felt himself falling again. On and on he fell, until at last he shuddered to a halt as his spirit entered his body again, and he drew a deep breath. His head whirled as he opened his eyes and saw Thirrin anxiously watching him.
“Oskan, are you back; are you with us again?”
He nodded, and immediately regretted it as a deep pain drove through his forehead.
“Here, drink this,” Thirrin commanded, and held a flask of some burning spirit to his lips. He coughed and spluttered, but then everything seemed to swing back into place and he was able to look around without feeling dizzy.
“Well, was it the Sight? What did you see?”
Oskan nodded weakly. “Yes, it was the Sight
.”
“And . . .?”
“And? And I witnessed my father being banished from Heaven,” he said almost lightly, hiding the thoughts that clamoured in his head.
Thirrin looked at him sharply, but knew she’d get nothing more from him until he was ready. “Well, sit still until your head clears properly and I’ll see if I can get one of your witches to make up a draught to help.”
He watched silently as she left the room, and breathed a sigh of relief as he was finally left alone with his thoughts.
In many ways he’d learned very little that was new, but often the quality of information was more important than the quantity.
CHAPTER 2
Medea, Sorceress and Adept, had spent more than two years in the Darkness, so she was used to the endless night of glittering stars and frozen skies. The constellations were completely different to those of the Physical Realms; here, monsters and devilish faces could be seen in the patterns of countless stars glimmering in the perpetual night.
The moon was different too. It was larger, and always full. And the shadowy ‘seas’ and craters on its surface made it look like a grinning skull that leered over the frozen land of snow-fields and sheets of ice. But unlike the natural tundra that lay far to the north of the Icemark in the Physical Realms, here in the Darkness each flake of snow and tiny crystal of ice was all that remained of the soul of one of those stupid enough to travel to this most evil of domains. Only the very strongest could withstand the malevolence that haunted its wastes, and of those who couldn’t, their spirits were drained and reduced to glittering shards of ice that would fall in a blizzard, together with countless other lost souls, to become part of the frozen wilderness of the Darkness.
“They’ve come to witness my victory, Orla,” Medea said, nodding at the constellations of stars, and smiling coldly at the hunched figure dressed in black rags that stood in attendance on her.
“Yes, mistress,” the figure replied in a voice of rusty creaks and groans. “And then you can take your rightful place amongst the greatest Adepts of the Darkness.”
“Yes! Just think, Orla, I only have to fight one small battle and I’ll have proved my right to be accepted as a citizen at last.”
“Just one small battle, mistress,” the figure answered, but Medea’s sharp ears detected a tiny note of uncertainty and she whirled on her companion.
“Do you dare doubt me, you piece of black rag? Only one other Adept in the entirety of the Darkness is greater than me! Who else can revive frozen souls and restore them to sentient life, as I did with you, and who else can then create a body for the vulnerable spirit to live in?”
“Only you, mistress,” Orla replied. “Only you, and one other.”
Medea nodded. “Don’t ever forget that I rescued you from the torment of the tundra, you ingrate. It’s thanks only to me that you have life and a body again. Always remember, Orla, that unlike you and millions of others, I was strong enough to survive my arrival in the Darkness, even though I was badly injured and exhausted after fighting a battle with my beloved father!”
“I do not forget it, mistress. You’re good enough to remind me every day,” Orla, Witch of the Dark Power, answered.
But Medea didn’t seem to hear. “Even in my weakened state I was still powerful enough to blast the hideous Ice Demons to smoking skeletons when they tried to kill me! And then I managed to fight my way to the shelter of a cave, from which I fought off everything sent against me!”
She fell into silent thought. For months she’d been forced to fight for her life, but eventually she was left in peace, and she’d begun to realise that the evil realm had become a home to her; its malevolence suited her perfectly, and as the weeks had passed she’d eventually understood that this was where she belonged. Truly belonged.
In all the hatred and fury, in all the evil and the hideous death, she’d at last found a sort of family, one that loathed as she loathed, thought and acted as she did, and which expected nothing from her in return but violence and rage. Here nobody would be disappointed in her. Here her ability as an Adept could bring her power without limit. So what need did she have of the Lindenshields? What need did she have of parental love and acceptance?
All she wanted now was to sever all links with her hated family, and to mark the occasion she would kill her hated brother, Charlemagne. What black joy such an act would bring. The final snuffing out of the life that had filled her parents’ very existence with love. Perhaps then they’d find it in their hearts to share out their care a little more evenly!
But why should she worry about such things? She had her power. Nothing else mattered. All she needed was to be accepted by the Darkness, and now before her lay the test that would finally allow her to become part of the realm. She faced battle with her fellow Adepts; she faced possible death and degradation, but she was willing to sacrifice all to secure her place within the power that she felt sure would one day challenge the Goddess herself.
She drew a deep breath and looked out over the land. From her position standing high on a peak of rock and ice that towered into the frigid sky, she had an unimpeded view of the frozen plain that lay before her. Far off in the distance, she could see the range of broken peaks and pinnacles where the enemy stood, and she nodded calmly.
Opposing her were the six Adepts who for countless thousands of years had helped to rule the realm. It was their task to prove she wasn’t worthy of her position as Sorceress of the Darkness, and this they would try to do by destroying her, and reducing her soul to one more frozen crystal of ice amongst the endless millions that formed the tundra.
And standing in judgement over them all, making sure that strict protocol was observed in the ritual of battle, was her grandfather himself: the Arc-Adept and King of all that lay beneath the grinning skull of the moon.
She turned to the east and bowed towards the single towering pinnacle of rock where she knew he stood watching. She applied her far-seeing ability, unable to resist focusing her psychic eye and looking at the mysterious figure of pure evil that stood in unmoving silence. His form was wrapped in a swirling mist of ice crystals, but every now and then a random breeze would tear a hole in the enveloping vapour and she would catch a glimpse of a figure, pale as moonlit mist, white as time-bleached bone.
Aware of Medea’s scrutiny, Cronus turned his head and the black, endless depths of his eyes held her for a moment. She flinched as the malevolent power of his gaze seized her.
“He’s watching us, Orla!” she said to her servant, her voice edged with fear.
Immediately the Witch of the Dark Power collapsed into a heap of black rags and grovelled in the ice crystals at their feet. But Medea grabbed her and hauled her upright.
“Stand up, you spineless wretch! I won’t have Cronus judging me by my handmaid! Show a proper respect, but hide your fear. Remember you serve the greatest sorceress in the Darkness, an Adept whose power is second only to his!”
Orla managed to control her terror enough to stay on her feet, but she continued to cringe, feeling the malevolence of his gaze. “Perhaps, mistress, I’d need to be as powerful as you to stand in the presence of the Arc-Adept. But my Abilities are weak. There’s nothing to protect me, and little to give me the right to be here in the Darkness. Perhaps all I have is a long memory, that might be interesting to those who’d otherwise blast my soul to the tundra again.”
Medea regarded her handmaid quietly. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Orla was one of the oldest souls in the Darkness. She’d been one of the first mortals to be drawn to its evil power, and she’d also been one of the first to be destroyed by it and have her spirit reduced to a tiny crystal of ice. Only Medea’s need for a companion in the vastness of the domain had caused her to use her powers to bring the witch back from oblivion. And even Orla didn’t know exactly how old she was.
There were other elements to be considered too. Medea may have accepted the Darkness as a substitute family, but the links between Cronus and hersel
f were even stronger. She trembled as she remembered the day she’d discovered exactly who the Arc-Adept was.
It had been the end of her first year in the Darkness, and she’d just fought off yet another attack by the hideous Ice Demons, when she’d become aware of a mind probing her. The force and evil of it had made her gasp aloud, and she’d fallen to her knees in horror as it ripped open her soul and gazed at leisure within. But then, as quickly as it had arrived, it withdrew and she was left sprawled in the ice of the tundra.
Trembling and shocked, she’d withdrawn to her cave, but her journey back to safety was made easier by the knowledge she carried with her. A probing mind, no matter how well shielded, reveals something of itself when it enters a soul, and Medea had noted a familiar ‘tone’ as Cronus had examined her. It was a tone which had sounded like that of another, one she had once loved and now hated. It sounded like the tone of the one who had guided her magical development, and had then opposed her in a battle that had almost killed her. In fact it sounded very like Oskan Witchfather! As alike, in fact, as a father’s face can be to his son’s!
In fact, looking into the mind of Cronus was almost like looking at a mirror image of Oskan. It was reversed, of course, like all reflections, and it was dark and deeply corrupted, but otherwise their minds were almost identical.
She’d slept for two days as the awful, wonderful knowledge she’d acquired had overwhelmed her and sent her into a protective state of dormancy. At last! At last she’d discovered who Oskan’s mysterious father was! The venerated and revered Oskan Witchfather, saviour of the Icemark and champion against evil, was the son of Cronus the mighty, the fallen Immortal who’d made war on the Goddess herself!
“I will stay here, Orla,” Medea said, emerging from her memories. “The Darkness is my home, and the Arc-Adept himself is my grandfather.”
But she was under no illusions. She may have been related to Cronus, but here in his domain, the concept of family had little influence; only strength and ruthlessness could guarantee safety and acceptance. Hastily she bowed to the mysterious figure on its pinnacle of ice, and her thoughts returned to the urgency of the moment.