Spiralling into Chaos

Chapter One

1

Stuart Macevey gazed fixedly through the window of his seventh-floor office as the city beyond slowly made its nightly descent into darkness. This was promising to be a typical Seattle evening…overcast and forbidding.

At least it’s stopped raining, Stuart whispered and willed his gaze away from the window and instead tried to focus his attention on the file and assorted photographs that lay scattered across his desk. He swept up the photos with a weary sigh and slowly shuffled them into a roughly chronological order. They were stills of yet another in an endless series of tawdry betrayals that constituted a large part of his stock in trade. In this particular case, it was a wife who spent her spare hours staking her own claims while her insurance adjuster husband ran himself ragged in a futile attempt to keep her happy. Stuart and two of his associates had tailed the woman for the better part of two weeks, snapping endless rolls of film while she filled whatever void drove her with four different men. Now, sitting alone in his small office as the clock inched its way toward midnight, Macevey was left with the distasteful task of deciding which of the photographs to turn over to his client tomorrow afternoon. Out of some sense of compassion, Stuart tried to cull out the most humiliating of the pictures, leaving in just enough to drive the point home with emphatic finality…the person you thought you knew and loved was really a total stranger.

Stuart shook his head in dismay and let the photographs slip through his fingers, where they spilled over the glass blotter like dirty snow.

He rose from his desk and paced around the dimly lit room, before stopping to gaze out of the window that afforded him a stilted view of Seattle at night. The muted glow of the few streetlights provided very little reassurance against the predators that moved under the cover of darkness.

‘Be thankful there are streetlights at all,’ Stuart thought with only a residual trace of the bitterness that this observation would have provoked six years ago.

Then, this section of Seattle had been one of the lawless enclaves that dotted the urban landscape of 21st century America. Known as the dead zones, these city sections were areas of decay and rampant criminal infestation. Having neither the will nor the resources to confront the plethora of problems that plagued these parts of major American cities, Civil Authorities had instead decided to simply wall them off and abandon them to the human monsters that lived there.

He had been Lt. Stuart Macevey then, a twenty-one-year veteran of the Seattle police force and one of the few who seemed to realize that the concept was an unconscionable abdication of moral responsibility. When a gang of teenage psychopaths began burning derelicts to death for warped amusement, Macevey succeeded in convincing his superiors that they were obligated to intervene. The National Guard and the Seattle Police Department had essentially invaded the area and reclaimed the hellish section of the city…the first of many such reclamation projects that would sweep the country over the next five years.

And Stuart Macevey’s reward for his unwavering pursuit of a higher moral ideal? He had been banished from the police force he loved and relegated to the role of second-rate gumshoe, warily rummaging through the sordid dirt of other people’s pathetic little lives. His glance strayed back to the photographs on his desk and he winced.

The reoccupation had been a disaster from the outset, and only later did Stuart learn that Alain Joubert, his former partner, was the initial cause of the debacle. That Joubert’s utter corruption had escaped Macevey’s notice in the years that they were partners was an unforgivable indictment against Stuart’s police instinct.

Ah, but he was a clever one, Stuart whispered and that was inarguably true as evinced by the totality of his disappearance once the dust had settled in the zone. Six years of searching, official and otherwise, and there was still no trace of Alain Joubert. It was almost as though he had vanished from the face of the planet.

An internal affairs investigation had revealed that Joubert had been filtering information to the different gangs that held sway in the zone, alerting them to the various police initiatives that had been meant to target their activities. In hindsight, Macevey recalled how virulently Joubert had opposed his planned reclamation of the zone. When the concept was accepted, it had been Alain who had alerted the gangs to the authorities’ intention. Well-equipped and fiercely determined to protect their hard-won enclaves, the usually hostile rivals had united to ambush the lead elements of the National Guard and the Seattle Police force. The first hours of the operation had seen the advance elements suffer massive casualties.

After two days of intense urban warfare, the authorities had succeeded in gaining control over most of the zone, but then a massive explosion had leveled much of the Seattle waterfront in a blast that remained one of the great mysteries of the 21st century. The scope of the debacle was such that a public sacrifice, however symbolic, was demanded and Stuart had been deemed well-suited for the role. He supposed that he could take some consolation that he had been granted a partial pension and a license to practice as a private investigator, but these were scant compensations for the loss of the one thing that he truly loved.

The accursed walls had eventually come down and the poor and downtrodden had gradually drifted back into what was once again an urban ghetto while the days wound down around them with utter indifference to their plight.

And, of course, the predators also resurfaced, commencing the slow, yet inexorable process of reclaiming their territory. The rubble had been cleared and new buildings erected as the area struggle back towards some manner of normalcy. Still, this was far and away the most dangerous area of the city and Macevey could not help but wonder if the lessons of the recent past would be all too soon forgotten.

It seemed somehow fitting that Stuart finally selected the fringe of the zone as the place where he would attempt to pick up the pieces of his shattered life. Many of his clients had expressed their concerns over venturing down to his office, but something that he did not entirely understand prevented him from relocating his office to a less inimical environment.

Now, he found himself sitting on the edge of his desk and attempting to unravel the mystery of his refusal (inability) to cut himself free from the area where his life had effectively fallen to ruin. The bleakness of the night and a pervasive sense of total isolation set a perfect mood for an exercise in dark introspection.

‘By all means then, let’s dive into this pool and see what’s at the bottom,’ he thought with a blitheness that he did not really feel. Upon reflection, Stu realized that the only thing that prevented him from falling into a consuming despair after he had turned in his detective’s shield had been the mysterious Elizabeth Simpson. Stuart suspected that it was Simpson who lay at the heart of the conflagration that destroyed much of the zone. In the months that followed his dismissal, he had resisted the black allure of depression by focusing his energies on the enigmatic woman and the path that led her to the heart of the zone during the turbulent days of its reoccupation.

He had spent innumerable hours searching through countless archives, trying to assemble a paper portrait of Elizabeth Simpson. What he discovered both intrigued and troubled Macevey, while giving him the wherewithal to survive the grim monotony of his everyday vocation. In the end, the information he accrued led Stuart to one of two astonishing conclusions…Elizabeth Simpson was either a ghost or an immortal of some sort. This amazing revelation rekindled a spark in the pit of his soul and a new perspective on the world about him and its tangible limits. Stuart came to believe that there was a greater depth and resonance to the world than the endless stream of sordid and petty cruelties had led him to believe.

He recalled the one occasion that he had met this extraordinary creature, and how the hair on his arms and neck literally stood on end in response to the power and majesty she radiated. She had been in the dead zone when the lethal blast had ignited, but instinct informed Stuart that she had survived the cataclysm. He had spent endless hours trying to substantiate that belief, though his efforts proved fruitless. Like Alain Joubert, she had simply vanished.

Stuart had always been a pragmatist, ruled by reason and the reality of his five senses. Thus, he was astounded by his burgeoning fixation with all things supernatural. He reasoned that, if Elizabeth Simpson was indeed a super-human entity of some sort, it followed that there must be others of her ilk…some benevolent and some malevolent.

It was four years after his strange encounter with Elizabeth Simpson that Stuart Macevey finally unearthed concrete proof that this world held wonders that science and reason could not explain. From the first instant that Marika Chambers had stepped into his office, Stuart realized that he was venturing into dark and uncharted territory. Accomplished and beautiful, Marika was generally regarded as the most gifted African American Sociologist that this country had ever produced. Yet, she entered his office like a frightened child seeking refuge from some abstract night terror. As events would have it, the analogy would prove incredibly fitting.

Marika had told her story and at first, Stuart had been privately skeptical. She tearfully insisted that she had somehow opened up a psychic conduit to a serial killer who was terrorizing east Los Angeles. If this was not bizarre enough, she went on to disclose her suspicion that her subconscious had actually created this monster and was directing its actions. Only the expression of absolute desperation writhing in her limpid brown eyes had prevented Macevey from gently but firmly sending her on her way.

He had agreed to help her, and that acquiescence led the pair to embark on a nightmarish cross-country ordeal from Los Angeles to a rural Georgia that may or may not have ever existed. In the end, he had managed to help Marika Chambers exorcise her demons, though he was still uncertain just what it was that they had managed to vanquish.

They had become lovers during the ordeal, driven together perhaps by the need to feel grounded in the reality of the flesh and its warm comforts. When her nemesis was driven off, he recalled that she expected that theirs might be a common future and yet some inner imperative had prompted him to hold her at arm’s length until she finally gave up the effort. Eventually, she moved back to New York to take up the threads of her old life and though she still called him on occasion, the calls came with less frequency. In light of the experience that they had shared, he supposed he couldn’t really blame her for wanting to distance herself from the dark memory.

And yet, as he sat in the dim solitude of his office, Stuart was forced to ask himself what had prompted him to banish this exquisite creature from his life. He had skirted around this question on numerous occasions but had never given the matter deep and honest consideration. For that matter, how had it come to be that he had made it through nearly fifty years of living and developed no real emotional attachments to anything other than his twenty-one-year love affair with his police career? There had been no romances or close friendships, only a series of brief infatuations and acquaintances.

As the rain outside began to fall in earnest, Macevey was forced to concede that his life was emotionally sterile. He had never felt the need for companionship and attachment. During his career, he had used the dangerous nature of his job as a justification for his reticence, but the banal existence of these last six years had forced him to abandon that deception. Other than the odd irate spouse, the most perilous aspect of his life was the nightly trek from his office to the parking lot.

Then why did he take such great pains to disentangle himself from the attachments of everyday life? There was a time when Marika might have helped him explore the subject, but they were separated…physically by a continent and emotionally by an immeasurable void. He found himself wanting for courage to pick up the telephone and simply call her.

As his eyes strayed back to his desk, it occurred to him in a moment of absolute clarity, that his life was every bit as empty as the sham of a marriage that he would soon help bring to an end. In a further astounding revelatory flash, Stuart Macevey saw that he had outlived his usefulness.

At least, in this world, he suddenly added and then wondered where this qualifier had come from. Yet, it was indisputably true that he had constructed his life in such a way that he now had little or no meaningful connection with anyone or anything around him. There were moments…more and more of late…he could feel some indistinct, nascent force pulling at him, though towards what and for what purpose, he could not say.

You’re talking utter rubbish, he chastised himself in a voice that was quavering and nervous. Still, alone and forced to confront the truth of his situation, Stuart could not deny that this feeling of being drawn towards…something was undeniably real.

On the heels of this came another revelation that filled him with a profound dread…he was going crazy. Insanity was not a precipice from which one simply plummeted. Rather, it could be likened to a steep slope down which he might slide with increasing momentum. His obsession with supernatural phenomena, combined with his increasing sense of isolation, was pushing him into the cold embrace of lunacy.

He glanced down at his hands, which were shaking slightly, and fetched a deep sigh. Alone in the dull seclusion of his office, Stuart Macevey saw with crystalline clarity that he had come to a critical juncture in his life. If he was to preserve his mental health, Macevey deduced that he would have to jettison the nonsense that had led him to this sorry state and make an attempt to finally construct a normal life for himself. The first thing that he would have to do would be to clean house of anything connected to his obsession with Elizabeth Simpson. Burn it. Shred it. Trash it…whatever. It would simply have to disappear from his filing cabinet and his thoughts.

‘And then there’s this place,’ he thought. His continued presence in the dead zone was a symbol of his refusal to come to terms with the end of his police career and the inherent failure that had signaled that end. In the instant of perfect comprehension, Stuart Macevey resolved himself to exorcising three of the demons who plagued his life: the zone, Elizabeth Simpson and Alain Joubert.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, a malicious voice chuckled sardonically at the notion, but Stuart pointedly ignored it. He could see his future all too clearly if he allowed himself to languish in his present state. Alain Joubert was part of his past history. Elizabeth Simpson was a long-departed specter, while the dead zone was the physical embodiment of everything that was dysfunctional in his world.

Tonight, here and now, was the time to start the process of putting the lot behind him and salvaging whatever time he had left.

He exhaled deeply, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief as though he had narrowly avoided some subtle, yet terrible calamity. Tomorrow, he would clean out the filing cabinet that contained his research into Joubert and Simpson. Once that was accomplished, Stuart would set about looking for an uptown home for his business. If things went particularly well, he might even call Marika Chambers and suggest that they get together sometime in the very near future.

Feeling jubilant, Stuart Macevey retrieved his coat and headed for the parking lot.

2

That feeling of jubilation had dissipated somewhat by the time that Stuart reached the street, replaced by a steadfast resolve to bring some much-needed normalcy to his life. He exited via the rear service door, which opened directly onto the small parking lot. A single light standard illuminated the parking lot but was rendered useless by the dark night and the relentless rain. Stuart’s car was parked close to the light perhaps a hundred feet from where he stood.

The entire lot and its surroundings were steeped in deep and ominous shadow that would provide excellent cover for the predators who stalked this area of the city. Macevey experienced an unusual moment of anxiety and was grateful for the reassuring weight of the handgun in its holster beneath his coat. It took a tremendous exertion of will not to draw the gun as he started across the lot, but he did nimbly undo the top two buttons if only for easier access to the weapon.

A low, furtive noise came from somewhere off to his left. His trained ear identified it as the scuff of a soft sole on wet pavement, barely audible, but there, nonetheless. He stopped and listened carefully, his hand disappearing into his coat as he did. As he gripped the butt of his revolver, Stuart’s gaze swept the shadows on the west end of the lot but found that they were impenetrable. If there was someone there, they had him at a distinct disadvantage and Macevey correctly deduced that his best course of action would be to make it to his car as quickly as possible. He listened carefully for another second and when the sound did not come again, he hurried across the lot to his vehicle.

As he fumbled for his keys, Stuart heard another sound and slowly pivoted in place. The wind was blowing the rain directly into his face and he was forced to squint to try to detect the source of the sound. Thinking that he might dissuade any potential attacker with the sight of a gun, Macevey drew his weapon.

In his state of adrenaline-induced awareness, the next sound reached his ears with an incredible clarity; distinct twang that caused the hair on the nape of his neck to rise.

His eyes detected the flash of luminescent blue light the instant before the arrow struck the left side of his chest. There followed a dull metallic thunk as the head of the arrow impacted against the side of his car.

‘Holy shit, it passed right through me,’ he marveled dazedly and then his legs unhinged, and he collapsed onto the wet pavement beside his car. When he hit the ground, the shaft of the arrow snapped off, causing Stuart to bellow in agony.

Someone was approaching quickly, and he raised his head to see a tall figure sprinting towards him out of the darkness. Though his vision was blurry, he could see that his assailant was clad in a tightly fitting black outfit. To his surprised, he discerned that the form was distinctly feminine, though the attacker’s face was veiled and hooded. Even as she approached, the mysterious attacker nocked another arrow and raised her short bow to fire again.

Not necessary, he croaked, judging that the first arrow had pierced his heart. When she was within twenty feet, the attacker loosed the second arrow, which struck him less than an inch to the right of the first shot. Stuart uttered a groan and his head fell back to the pavement with an audible thud. In the next moment she was towering over him, gazing down on him with luminous blue eyes. Through eyes that were blurry with pain, Stuart could see the sharp ridges of her cheekbones above the material of her veil.

I’m sorry. I miscalculated the force of the first shot, she intoned softly. Macevey struggled to raise his head as she reached one leather-clad hand out and gently stroked his cheek.

Why? he managed through gritted teeth. The assassin (he had come to think of her in these terms) delicately ran her thumb and index fingers along the shaft of the second arrow. When they came upon two small protrusions, she bent forward and instructed, Your passage shall be swift and painless. When you reach the other side, you must make your way to Nalosan and seek out the Sisters of Esotaria.

He shook his head in confusion, baffled by the unfathomable references and believing that he was surely about to die.

The pain will go now, she remarked and then depressed the two protrusions. As she promised, the pain immediately vanished, replaced by a warmth that suffused his entire body. In the next instant, the dreary landscape of the zone dissolved into a soft blue light that wrapped Stuart Macevey in its embrace and carried him into the void.

The woman watched anxiously as the light enveloped the good man. In the next moment, he was gone without a trace. She collected the two arrows, silently castigating herself for the clumsiness of her first shot. She faded back into the security of the shadows where she would await her own recall, glad that her work in this wretched and alien world was done.

Chapter Two

The grating sound of studded iron on paving stones was unusually loud in the stillness of the moonlit night. It jangled Prion’s already frazzled nerves as he watched the huge supply wagons slowly rumble along this deserted section of highway. The night was warm and close, and he could smell the ocean not too distant from where the ponderous caravan was presently laboring its way through the forest.

A palpable tension hung over the supply train…one that affected both man and beast as though the oxen and horses could discern their masters’ anxiety. The beasts were forever gazing about as though they fully expected the creatures of the otherworld to explode from the deep shadows that lined the highway and tear them to bloody pieces.

Prion could certainly empathize with their disquiet.

He reined his horse to a halt and allowed a number of the heavy wooden carts to trundle by, making certain that the drivers were alert. After twenty or so wagons went past, he spurred his mount to the front of the long procession, knowing that they were coming to a stretch of highway that was especially vulnerable to ambush.

Prion had been a Captain of the Imperial Escort Troop for more than twenty years. The Troop was charged with the task of ensuring that merchant convoys (such as the one he and his men were escorting tonight) traveled safely between destinations inside Emercia. By and large, this duty was mostly symbolic in nature as the roadways and highways of Emercia were perhaps the safest on the Eastern Continent. The escort troops had earned the contempt of their fellow soldiers in the Imperial army for their tame and often cozy assignments. Even Prion had to admit that there were times when the duty was almost intolerably boring, if not totally pointless. How many times had he complained to his wife, Mika, that the monotony of his job was driving him toward premature senility?

Over the course of the last six months he had certainly come to rue those complaints and longed for a return to the tranquility and boredom of the old days. From his narrow perspective, even the bleak years of evil Myrhia’s reign were preferable to the uncertainty and terror that had enveloped the highways of Emercia since the thieving guilds had taken root like rampant weeds.

In the six years since the Dark Lady’s defeat and the return of Artumas to the throne, the once peaceful and relatively lawful country had been beset by vicious and increasingly aggressive criminals who seemed determined to strangle the flow of commerce throughout Emercia. At first, Prion had been of the opinion that this brazen campaign of pilferage and ambush was motivated by simple greed on the part of the Guilds. Lately, however, he had been forced to re-assess this position, coming to the disturbing conclusion that these attacks were motivated by something far more sinister than simple avarice.

This particular route was the most dangerous in the Country, running along the coastal highway between the Emercian Capital of Nalosan and the southern port City of Skyram. In the last six months alone, eight convoys had failed to make it to their destinations. This section of the highway was assigned to Prion’s detachment and every shipment that did not arrive safely struck a blow against his personal and professional pride.

Redrick, the King’s military Consul, had taken to assigning detachments of the Emercian Cavalry to the escort details and thus far, their imposing presence had seemed to dissuade the guilds from striking against these particular convoys. On this occasion, the Consul had seen fit to dispatch the Cavalry to accompany a much-needed shipment of weapons to the outposts along Emercia’s northern border, leaving the escort troops to fend for themselves on this particular run.

You might consider accompanying this run personally, Prion, Redrick had suggested, in a tone that clearly implied his presence was expected. As the convoy passed through the city gates, heading south, the Captain of the Escort had been assailed by a sense of deep anxiety. Now, surrounded by fifty competent horseman, all adept at both sword and bow combat, Prion could not shake that sense of mounting trepidation.

‘How can you be so terrified by a band of simple thieves?’ an inner voice demanded indignantly.

Because these are no simple bands of brigands, he murmured to himself and shivered. It was the first time that he had given voice to the notion, however timidly, that something more than bloodthirsty greed might be behind this campaign of highway terror. Prion was certainly not privy to the inner workings of the King’s Court, but he was astute enough to guess that even Artumas’ inner circle was beginning to suspect that these attacks were part of a nefarious plan to undermine the aging king’s authority and control in the eyes of the Emercian citizenry. The raids of the last six months certainly gave every indication that the once great king could well be losing his grip on power. If this were the case, then it was not just Emercia that stood to lose its foundation and stability. This was the most affluent country on the Eastern Continent and if it was to fall into anarchy, it was likely that the other countries would follow hard on its heels. This would signify a return to darkness that would resemble the bleakest days of Myrhia’s reign over the lands of the east.

‘But who would benefit from such a dire eventuality?’ Prion pondered and he could not think of a single beneficiary who would somehow profit from the chaos that Emercia’s collapse would inspire. Brigands and thieves were leeches who needed a healthy host to prosper, but if Emercia would collapse they would be like parasites that no longer had a source of nourishment. If not the thieves, then who?

He was contemplating this precise question when a cry of warning pierced the darkness from somewhere near the head of the column.

Archers to the ready! Prion bellowed as he spurred his horse along the east side of the Highway towards the front of the supply caravan. He had gone no further than fifty yards when a huge ball of orange flame erupted into the night sky, sending the animals into a frenzy. He managed to control his mount and pushed through the screams and chaos to find a twelve-foot-high pile of branches and tinder burning across the entire width of the highway.

The supply caravan had blundered into an ambush.

‘Where were the damnable rangers?’ he thought, knowing that a quartet of riders had been dispatched to constantly move ahead of the main body of the convoy, moving back and forth in an effort to detect any possible threat. He was considering the grave implications of this failure when the night came alive with the strident hiss of hundreds of launched arrows.

Fire arrows, someone cried, as Prion wheeled his horse about to see a wave of flaming projectiles converging on the caravan. It took only a moment to discern that the arrows’ prime targets were the oxen and horses that were pulling the massive carts. In the same instant, the entire western side of the highway erupted in a wall of flame that further exacerbated the anarchy that engulfed the supply caravan.

Prion’s horse reared and this time he failed to calm the beast. Instead, he found himself being thrown to the ground where he landed heavily on the fore slope of the ditch, before rolling down into the reeds. When he was able to regain his senses, he scrambled to his feet, where he beheld a tableau of terror stretched out along the highway. It seemed as though every cart had been set ablaze. The screams of man and beast tore the night sky even as the stench of burning flesh and hair assailed Prion’s nostrils. The escort guard was attempting to form a skirmish line along the east side of the highway, correctly reasoning that, if three sides of the box-like trap were alive with curtains of flame, the attack must surely come from the east. Even as they attempted to mount a defensive perimeter, the captain understood that the issue was already decided.

Spurred by both horrible pain and absolute terror, the oxen bolted for the trees, crushing many of the fifty guardsmen beneath the massive burning carts. Seeing that the battle was lost, the remaining guards threw down their weapons and fled towards the trees, where they were cut down by another volley of arrows.

Dazed and incredulous, Prion staggered up onto the roadway, surveying the carnage. He grimaced as a wagon driver ran blindly about through the maze of burning wagons, beating at his head and shoulders in a futile effort to extinguish the flames that had found purchase on his hair and clothing. An arrow sliced through the night sky and brought his pitiful wailing to an abrupt and merciful end.

The scope of the destruction was a brutal and vivid confirmation of Prion’s earlier supposition; the attacks on the convoys were motivated by something other than greed and thievery. Of the huge cache of goods, there was nothing left to pillage. Clearly the intention of this attack had been the utter demolition of the caravan. Peering through the smoke and flames at the dead bodies and the burning carts, the captain of the escort guard realized that this objective had been achieved with a totality that was as bewildering as it was horrifying.

It then occurred to him that he was possibly the only person or beast left alive on the bloody stretch of Highway. As a natural order of progression, it became clear that his survival was no mere coincidence. He was the ranking officer of this ill-fated expedition and had been left alive for a very specific reason.

He began to wander back along the length of the charred column. Despite the ubiquitous heat and flames, an icy chill descended upon Prion. The scope and swiftness of the destruction was nearly inconceivable.

Captain Prion, Someone declared jovially from somewhere in the trees beyond the highway. He considered drawing his sword, but in light of the carnage around him, decided that this would be not only futile, but downright silly. Instead, he scanned the impenetrable shadows for some sign of the person who had hailed him.

There was a whisper of movement and then perhaps a hundred figures slid smoothly from the darkness. To a one, each was dressed in black, cloaked and hooded. As they drew closer, the Captain of the Escort realized that each figure wore a full-face mask. At the edge of the highway, the attackers stopped and stood with their arms crossed in front of them and their legs spread slightly.

Finally, a tall figure stepped onto the paving stones and crossed over to where a bemused Prion stood. His step was unhurried, and his posture hinted at both litheness and supreme confidence. He came to a halt not two paces from the Captain. Like the others, he was attired in black, though his mask was made of pewter. Beneath his black robe, Prion could see a heavy leather cuirass, but it was the emerald intaglio adorning the leather that caused him to utter a gasp of shock and take an involuntary step backwards.

His eyes shifted from the intaglio to the unnerving mask, though the eyes were hidden in the recesses of the hood. Who are you?

If a name is of consequence, then you may call me Xhendyn, the man responded lightly. Prion found his almost jovial manner terrifying, considering that the man had just engineered the slaughter of over a hundred men. Now we are on equal footing, Prion, as we both know each other by name. I see that you recognized this symbol. As well you should, as you had the honor of serving her for many years.

I…I don’t know what you mean? Prion stammered, feigning ignorance.

Perhaps this will serve to clarify the situation, Xhendyn intoned menacingly. In the next instant, Prion’s right leather boot erupted into flames. He began to hop about the paving stones, frantically stamping his feet to extinguish the flames. In his anxiety, he failed to notice that the flames did not actually consume his leather boot, nor did they spread to his trousers. The hooded figure watched in amusement for several seconds and then made a barely perceptible gesture with his right thumb and index finger.

As quickly as they had appeared, the ghostly flames vanished, leaving a bewildered Prion gazing wide-eyed at his unscathed boot.

I trust that I now have your attention and so I will ask you again; do you recognize this symbol? Xhendyn demanded, gesturing towards his chest.

Yes. Prion stammered weakly. It was the symbol of the High Queen.

The Goddess, actually, Xhendyn amended blithely. Though the imbeciles who you serve lacked the courage to see this.

Prion blinked at the notion that Myrhia could be described by any term other than vile monster. Still, he had the good sense not to argue the point. Xhendyn swept his gaze over the length of death drenched highway. I’m certain that you are wondering why you have not joined your comrades in the journey to the land of shades. You have a small, yet significant role to play in the drama that is about to unfold in this sorry country of yours…you will be my messenger.

He leaned closer to Prion, who recoiled when he first saw that Xhendyn’s eyes were the burning red of embers. I entrust you with this responsibility because my informants promise me that you are a servile dog. You will return to Nalosan and carry news of what has transpired here to Artumas along with this message…everything that he holds sacred will soon be taken from him. On this, he has my personal oath. When he has lost all that he cherishes, we will then erase him from this world as though he had never been. Now, dog, repeat what I have told you.

Slowly, haltingly, Prion repeated Xhendyn’s words. The mysterious figure raised his arm and pointed along the highway to the north. Now go!

Prion pivoted in place and stumbled away on legs made wooden by apprehension. After a few moments he began to run.

Chapter Three

1

He came awake with a start, his heart skidding painfully in his chest and his breathing thunderously loud in his ears. The room was dark save for the luminous numbers which seemed to float like holograms, informing him that it was just after two o’clock in the morning. There had been a sound, he was utterly certain of that. It had been sly and subtle, but he had no doubt that it had been there.

Alain Joubert had learned to trust his instincts; a trust to which he attributed his continuing presence amongst the living in a business where so many of his peers found themselves interred in unmarked graves all over the countryside.

Lying absolutely motionless, Alain listened carefully for a moment, trying to detect even the slightest whisper of unusual sound. When none came, he carefully reached for the handgun that he kept in a pocket on his side of the bed. He deftly fingered the safety into the off position, and only then did he reach for the lamp. It might have amused his acquaintances to learn that Joubert frequently practiced this exact drill when he was alone, along with several others that he considered essential exercises in self-preservation.

He pulled the ornate chain and a muted yellow glow cast a small circle of light around the king-sized sleigh bed where he lay. Though the room was steeped in deep shadow, Alain could still see that he was alone.

‘No, not quite alone,’ he reminded himself with a quick grin as his glance happened upon the woman sleeping next to him, totally oblivious to the bit of nocturnal drama that had just transpired. He reached out and gently traced the delectable curve of her hips and ass with his fingertips, causing her to roll over onto her back with an audible sigh. Her full breasts lolled on her chest as Joubert delicately fingered one of her erect pink nipples, eliciting an even deeper sigh from the blond beauty with whom he was sharing his bed on this particular night. He briefly contemplated kissing one of those enticing nipples and indulging in the lush and pliable body, but something prevented him from indulging that urge. Besides, she had vacuumed up a lion’s share of coke and would probably need a good eight more hours of sleep coming down off the rush.

He swung his feet onto the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering if she ever noticed how he would never join her in even a single line of the party powder. Being the self-absorbed bitch that she was (and the latest in a long line of self-absorbed bitches), Joubert sincerely doubted that she did. She was just another bloodsucking leech who was content to ride the party train until he lost patience, or her abused flesh lost its luster.

There had been a time when Alain had been perfectly content to ride that train right along with his circle of friends, but Joubert had undergone a slow, yet radical transformation over the last nine months or so. He had given up both the coke and even alcohol. Now, he would have nothing more than the occasional beer or glass of wine. If someone would have inquired as to why the sudden turn to sobriety, he would have responded that he had to be alert…ready.

He shook his head in bemusement. Ready? Ready for what? He had no idea, but this ignorance did nothing to attenuate the sense that it was imperative that he remained lucid and prepared for…whatever was to come.

2

It might have struck Joubert as both amusing and ironic to discover that both he and his former partner, Stuart Macevey, had spent many a contemplative hour attempting to fathom the mysterious changes that had swept through their lives in the past few months. Furthermore, it would have startled both men in turn to learn how much time each expended thinking about the other.

Alain Joubert had lived the first thirty-five years of his life in the city of Seattle, watching with indifference as the city slowly sank into decay in the early part of the twenty-first century. His old man had been an immense waste of humanity, but he had imparted one bit of advice that served his son well over the years…if you wanna succeed at being crooked become a cop.

Joubert had done precisely that and discovered that the old man had been correct in this one supposition. Alain had been extremely cautious in building a network of contacts that had helped him exploit his position of authority. He had watched many a corrupt cop and government official be brought down by both avarice and carelessness and was determined to avoid a similar fate. He had succeeded by tempering his greed and by not including his fellow officers in his extracurricular activities no matter how willing they seemed to bend or break the law. He also had the good sense not to flaunt the trappings of his ill-begotten gains. As far as his coworkers and superiors were concerned, Alain Joubert was a stolid, if uninspired detective who did his job and kept his nose clean. In the meantime, he had quietly exploited the opportunities that came his way, while amassing a virtually untraceable fortune.

By the time that the department partnered him with Stuart Macevey, Alain Joubert had accrued over a million dollars, mostly from providing valuable information to the various drug gangs that held sway in the Pacific Northwest.

Stuart Macevey. He whispered the name as though it was some magical incantation. It had been Macevey and his damnable idealism that had laid all of Joubert’s lucrative schemes to waste. When Macevey decided that it was his fate to right the great social wrong that the zone represented, Joubert quickly deduced that his conduit to illegal wealth was about to be pinched dry. When the righteous Stuart had actually managed to convince the brass to liberate the dead zone, Joubert quietly began to make preparations to decamp. Out of spite, he had leaked news of the impending invasion to the two main gangs, who had laid down a particularly nasty welcome for the vanguard teams.

And then he had vanished.

The recollection made him smile, knowing that he had baffled his former employers with the thoroughness of his disappearing act. No doubt they would have been further infuriated and embarrassed to know that he had settled less than a hundred miles away from his home precinct. Ever cognizant of a need for an escape route, Joubert had purchased a home in British Columbia, Canada, along with a new set of identity papers on the thriving Vancouver black market. As the smoke settled in the aftermath of the reoccupation debacle, Alain had simply driven away with a suitcase and his new identity papers, crossing the border into Canada and the promise of whatever future it might hold.

Over the next few years, Alain had worked quietly to explore the opportunities that his new home could provide for an ambitious and morally unencumbered fellow such as himself. To his delight, Vancouver was a thriving center for both drug distribution and prostitution and it was not long before Joubert found himself a niche in that distribution chain. Ever cautious, he had established an elaborate contact and supply structure in which no individual component had any knowledge of any contact beyond either side of his own position in the hierarchy. Those who displayed more inquisitiveness than was strictly necessary found themselves floating face down in the Pacific. The others quickly got the fundamental message…don’t ask questions, just make money.

Alain Joubert became known in drug circles as the shadow man, more of a myth than an actual living person. This pleased him immensely and the resulting flow of wealth made his efforts in Seattle look like childish dabbling.

‘And yet, here you are jumping at shadows in the middle of the night?’ he thought with no small degree of consternation. The question was certainly valid. His was a profession where a certain sense of paranoia was inevitable, if not essential. However, lately he could not escape the unnerving impression of direct scrutiny as though he was under constant observation. That was absurd of course. He knew that on an intellectual level, but viscerally, Alain could feel an unseen gaze track his every move. If this was not enough, he found himself pondering the noble Stuart Macevey with increasing frequency.

In the context of this reflection, Joubert began to feel that he and Macevey had unfinished business. A particularly bizarre incident from just last week came to mind. Joubert found himself driving toward the border with no clear recollection of having set off on the trip. He had pulled over to the side of the highway and gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, coming to the unsettling realization that he had been heading to Seattle with the intention of killing his former partner. Jittery, Alain had turned around and driven home, terrified not only by what had nearly happened, but also by the fact that he had been acting like a mindless windup toy. More precisely, his actions gave him the distinct impression that he was being directed.

Even as he recalled the bizarre events of that afternoon, Alain began to tremble. More than anything else, Joubert feared and abhorred the loss of control over any aspect of his life, however small. He stood up and stumbled across the room on unsteady legs, intending to pour himself a finger of Scotch to calm his nerves. He was about to reach for the crystal decanter, when someone spoke from the shadows in the far corner of the room.

No need for alcohol, friend. Where you’re going, you will need your wits about you. The voice was low and heavily inflected in an accent that Joubert did not recognize, though the words were clear enough. He stole a brief glance at the bed and the gun, trying to gauge his chances of making a successful dive for the weapon.

Don’t bother. There is no reason for hostility…my intentions are strictly benevolent, the intruder remarked lightly. After a moment, he added, Also, I am immune to your weaponry.

Seeing little alternative, Joubert turned slowly to face the speaker, trying hard to display no outward sign of apprehension. At first, it seemed that there was no one in the shadows as if he had been spoken to by a phantom, but as his eyes adjusted to the different textures of light, Alain realized that the person speaking was clad entirely in black.

Who are you? he demanded, making a less than convincing effort to sound forceful. The figure uttered a low sigh and took two steps into the room. Joubert was cognizant of his breathing hitching in his chest. The intruder’s features were concealed behind a hood and cape and his face was hidden by what appeared to be a pewter mask.

Alain could not decide if he found the man’s outfit comical or terrifying, though his eyes were drawn to the intaglio on the intruder’s leather cuirass. Something about the esoteric symbol filled Joubert with a deep and primordial dread. When the caped figure had come within three paces, he came to a halt and replied, I am called Xhendyn.

Why are you here…in my house? Alain asked, unable to drag his gaze away from the intaglio. Despite the raw nerve it touched, he still found something incredibly compelling about the design….it spoke of phenomenal power and unlimited potential. Xhendyn tracked Joubert’s gaze and smiled, privately delighted by the dawning lust that he gleaned in the other man’s eyes. In that moment of empathy, he knew that his years of searching would be rewarded. He raised a leather clad finger and pointed it at Alain’s chest. I have come for you, of course. There is something that I would have you do.

And why would you think that I would do anything for you…without knowing who you are or for that matter, even what you are? Alain challenged. He sensed that this man posed no immediate threat and so he relaxed slightly. Though there was a definite air of malice about the intruder, Joubert intuited that it would not be directed at him. His intuition further informed him that he now found himself at a critical, though decidedly bizarre juncture in his life and he would do well to listen carefully to what this stranger had to tell him.

I’ve been watching carefully, Alain. I know that you’re an intelligent man who gives careful consideration to all that he does. It is why you’ve been so…successful in your chosen field of endeavor. Still, you have only scratched the surface of your potential. I am going to give you the opportunity to realize that potential. I can assure you; the rewards will prove to be beyond your wildest imaginings.

Joubert’s eyes narrowed and he began to wonder if this was all a particularly vivid dream.

I’m not sure that I’m really interested, he heard himself say distantly.

Xhendyn merely shook his head. Actually, I’m not offering you a choice in the matter. In my world, there is an item of limitless value that I must have. As fate would have it, you are the only one who can retrieve it for me. As I’ve said, your reward will be wealth beyond measure…and power that you could never achieve here.

Alain’s glance strayed back to the beguiling intaglio. His mind insisted that he was immersed in some kind of waking dream or hallucination, but that glowing emerald symbol belied such trite dismissals. Why me? What makes you think that I can retrieve whatever it is that you want. I’m a shrewd…businessman, but I’m certainly no master thief.

Xhendyn abruptly stepped forward and placed his hand on Alain’s bare shoulder. His touch was cold and vaguely repulsive, causing Joubert to shiver involuntarily. What you are in this world is merely a…pale shadow of what you will be in mine.

With this rather cryptic declaration, the intruder began to laugh, though the irony of his metaphor was lost on Joubert who was still convinced that he was in the midst of a dream. Xhendyn’s laughter ended as abruptly as it began. For the first time, Alain saw that the man’s eyes were a deep, burning red and suddenly his dream assumed a more menacing nuance. What if this thing standing before him was not a man, but something far more sinister? The thing with the horrible red eyes was speaking again. When you pass through, it is impossible to predict where you will end up. This should cause you no undue concern. In my world, you will be to its inhabitants as a gentle breeze to a blind man…something barely perceived and never seen. You will make your way to the grafter’s quarter in the city of Nalosan. There you will find the path that leads to me and your new purpose. The travel will allow you time to become acclimatized to your new world and the staggering depths of your new powers.

Joubert regarded Xhendyn with a quizzical expression that clearly conveyed his skepticism. I would advise that you select some warm clothing and a sturdy pair of boots, my friend. It would not be wise to be wondering about the wilds like a half-naked savage.

To his eternal amazement, Alain felt himself nod and then move toward his closet, where he selected a pair of black tracks, a tee shirt and a black hoody. Even as he rummaged for a pair of heavy hiking boots and thick socks, his mind kept trying to maintain the pretext that this was all a bizarre dream. When he was fully dressed, Joubert drifted back over to Xhendyn, who gave his choice of attire an approving nod. If there was more time, I would attempt to explain the road that destiny has charted for you, but when a portal is opened in the fabric of reality without a keeper, its life is precariously short. When you find me, all will become clear. For now, you must be effectively culled from this world.

Alain blinked as Xhendyn raised his arms, holding his hands about two feet apart. A bluish-white spark erupted in the cusp of either palm and then leapt towards each other to form a solid arc of hissing flame. The intensity of the flame was near blinding in magnitude and Alain could feel its palpable heat on his skin.

In the moment before Alain Joubert was expelled from the reality of his own world, he came to accept the terrifying truth of his present predicament. On the bed, the hissing flame roused the nameless blond, who sat up and gazed blearily about the room, her beautiful face still distorted by the fading coke buzz. Alain’s eyes swept over her flawless bronze skin and exquisite breasts. Her sudden entrance into this nocturnal drama decried the notion that this was a simple dream.

Alain, what…what’s going on? she inquired, her voice growing shrill at the sight of the cloaked intruder. With lethal speed, Xhendyn turned toward the woman, turning the flats of his palms toward her as he spun. A geyser of blue flame spewed from the arc and enveloped the woman before she could even digest the threat. Though there would be unimaginable horrors to follow (many of which he, himself, would author) Alain Joubert would never forget the harrowing shrieks that tore from her lips as the flames consumed her flesh. The acrid stench of burning flesh would permeate his nightmares and threatened to push him over the edge into gibbering insanity.

Mercifully, as quickly as the immolation began, it was over, leaving a small pile of cinders on the sheets which were miraculously unscathed.

‘That isn’t possible!’ Joubert thought with a mixture of awe and dread. In a voice that he scarcely recognized, he asked, Was that really necessary?

Xhendyn uttered a chuckle that reminded Alain of dead leaves rasping over tomb stones. Like you, I am a creature who regards procedure as sacrosanct. I despise loose ends even if they pose no real threat to my machinations. This wretched creature was a loose end that has now been tied.

The air of utter indifference in the intruder’s voice caused Joubert to shudder. Though he should have been immobilized by fear, the survivor in his mind simply switched his mind to autopilot, prompting him to act and observe until he grasped the dynamics of the situation into which he had been thrust. Instinct informed him that he was in no immediate danger and he decided to let the current of events simply pull him along for the time being.

Xhendyn seized Joubert’s wrist and began to usher him toward the far wall of the bedroom. As they approached, the wall began to lose its solidity. The paint peeled back and the sheet rock beneath simply sloughed to the floor. In its place there opened a curtain of what appeared to be translucent blue jelly.

‘I don’t want to go there,’ Joubert thought anxiously, but even as the thought took shape in his mind, he felt Xhendyn plant his hands in the small of his back and propel him roughly into the roiling curtain. It washed over him in a repulsive wave that filled his mouth and nose, abruptly cutting off his scream of negation.

Within thirty seconds, Alain Joubert passed out of existence in this world and into the new reality of whatever world awaited him.

Xhendyn watched his passage with a sense of deep satisfaction, knowing that a crucial step in his plan had unfolded successfully. Turning back to the room, he spread his arms in a grand gesture and searing blue flame spread out in a fan, where it quickly found purchase on the walls and ceiling.

He watched it feast on the tangible remains of Alain Joubert’s life and then turned to follow the ShadowCaster through the portal.

Chapter Four

1

She ran smoothly down the path, oblivious to the occasional branch that snapped at her face with something that might have been conscious malice. The air was alive with a thousand rich fragrances and the full moon lit her way with a ghostly silver and blue light. She sprinted effortlessly without even a hint of weariness. Somewhere behind, she could hear the labored breathing of her pursuer and she allowed herself a smile. He was clearly beginning to flag and now the most entertaining phase of the night’s game could begin.

She came to an abrupt stop and stood with her head bowed, listening to the sound of his heavy approach.

When she judged that he was just around the slight bend in the path, she darted swiftly into the foliage and knelt behind a tree, waiting for him to come into view. He came to a staggering halt in the center of the path, bending forward with his hands on his knees. She heard him utter a vile curse as he gasped for breath, informing her that, after an hour of intense pursuit, he was ready to quit the chase.

A satisfied grin spread over Lorio’s exquisite face. She had successfully broken another of her people’s proud young lions and all that remained to do was to put the finishing touches on her conquest.

2

It had been six years since Islena Doraux had vanquished Myrhia and shattered the enchantress’ web of evil. In that time, Lorio and her people…the Lamish…had experienced an age of prosperity the likes of which they had never known. In the years before Myrhia’s darkness had descended upon the Eastern Continent, the Lamish were an itinerant lot, who drifted from country to country. In many of these countries, they were regarded as sordid, shiftless and generally unwelcome interlopers. In a few of these kingdoms, they had been chased down like rabid dogs and forced to flee for their very survival.

Myrhia had been determined to extirpate the Lamish, driving them to near extinction during her reign of terror. As fate would provide, in the grimmest moments sprouts the seed of deliverance. In her consuming desire to possess Islena Doraux, Myrhia had invested Lorio with virtual immortality. For her part in defeating the enchantress, Lorio had been granted one boon from the victors; a sovereign country for her people.

The cartographers drew the new map of the Eastern Continent that showed a two-league wide sliver of land that ran from the icy barrens in the north to the great ocean at the Continent’s southern tip…and thus Lamia was born.

Gradually, the scattered remnants of her people made their way to their new home, though many were wary of the notion, fearing that it was yet another new device to humiliate the long-suffering Lamish. Eventually, they had returned and unanimously selected Lorio to be their Queen, though it might have been more appropriate to think of her as their Goddess, given her immortality.

In the time since the birth of her fledgling nation, she had wandered up and down the length of her Country, resolving petty disputes, engaging in contests of strength and skill and toying with those arrogant enough to believe themselves worthy of her bed. In her rare moments of quiet introspection, Lorio realized that time would stretch out before her like a river and that everyone she had ever known or cared about would be left in the shallows behind her. Loss would be her only one constant companion.

Islena Doraux, her Father, the unborn child that she had sacrificed so that Islena could have her moment of triumph: these were but a few of the millstones of loss that she was already forced