Prologue
The world is strangely calm today, the waters so empty, so still; even the currents that are usually so strong in the deepest parts feel subdued, lethargic for some reason. At least it’s warmer though; a bitter chill has been carried down from the snowy peaks these past few moons, but now the first rays of the springtime sun are heating the surface again; and less disturbance on a day such as this means the light penetrates deeper. It warms the icy blood, invigorates the muscles and gets the old stiff limbs moving. Creeping out from the shade of the river bank, and into the shifting golden rays, there is an odd smell, a thick, rich, mouth-watering, meaty aroma. It’s good, so good, and irresistible like the urge to follow it to its source. The feeling is strong, similar to when the dark shapes appear on the surface and we just have to go to them. Maybe that’s why it’s so empty now? Too many of us give into the urge and disappear into the light outside. But this feeling is slightly different, the smell, the urge, they are one. They are food.
Following the scent, it seems to be coming from up river where the falls make the water rough and difficult to see through. Moving slowly upstream, the smell gets stronger and sets all of the senses tingling. The hunger burns as the scent intensifies, and there it is... the source. Two huge lumps of meat wrapped around one another, still wriggling. Worms. Big, fat, lovely, juicy worms! Drifting in the current, tantalisingly close now, they smell so good they’re impossible to resist. Blinded by hunger, excitement and the churning foam from the waterfall, it is easy to miss the shiny steel hook impaled through the two worms, or the dark, fine line that rises and vanishes into the blurry brightness above the surface. There’s no pain, not really. There is just the “pop” as the hook sticks into the side of the mouth, then a sharp tug, then the lack of control as the dark shapes on the surface draw swiftly closer. Then the panic sets in, when we realise that we cannot let go, cannot escape. The line pulls slowly and relentlessly, and the real struggle begins. Have to fight, have to get away, can’t give in and disappear like the others. Fight! But it’s no use; the water parts and blinding light and cold air engulf and disorientate us, and all the weight of the world seems to be suspended on that tiny steel hook. The end is coming, somewhere from behind there will come a sharp thump, and then...nothingness. Waiting. Waiting is the worst part...
***
“Bloody ‘ell lad, that’s a big’n!” yelled Jeremiah, impressed, “feed yer sisters for a week that will!” The old man stood with a groan, feeling the all too familiar cracking in his joints and back as he stretched before ambling over to his grandson, Brandon.
“How much d’ya think it weighs, granddad?” he asked excitedly, holding the trout in front of his face on the line, admiring it with a broad grin.
“Ooh, at least 7lb that one, sunshine. C’mon, let’s un’ook ‘im and put ‘im out ‘is misery.” Jeremiah slipped the hook from the fish’s mouth and reached for his mallet. A quick thump on the head from behind was always the kindest way to go, poor thing wouldn’t have a clue what happened until it was too late. Brandon leaned in, intrigued to watch the fish die. There was always something about death that fed on his attention ever since his uncle, Cornelius, had died in the Seven Hour War. But before Jeremiah could land the fatal blow, a shadow on the surface of the river caught his eye; something akin to a bird, but not, seemed to be moving swiftly in tight circles above the cliffs to the west. Holding his mallet steadily in the air, he looked up across the river towards the cliffs that towered above him over 500 feet high, but he saw nothing vaguely resembling a bird in the early morning sky. He returned his gaze to the fish and tightened his grip on the mallet, and his breath tightened with it when he saw the same dark shape in the reflection on the water, circling above the slabs. It must have been one large bird to be so visible at such a height! He scanned across the river a second time, but again saw nothing. He straightened unsteadily and looked at his grandson with an expression that appealed for some reassurance that he was still sane.
“What’s wrong granddad? D’ya feel funny again? Should I go ‘n tell ma’?” Brandon asked, jumping to his feet and dropping the struggling trout which flopped and thrashed its way back into the water. Jeremiah shook his head and held up a hand to silence the boy’s worry. The shape still adorned the water’s face, and yet there was still nothing in the sky above.
“Come away from ‘water, lad” he said, eyeing the apparition with suspicion and concern. As he pulled Brandon away from the water’s edge he noted that the shape had increased in size dramatically, and rather than moving in tight concentric circles, it appeared to be spiralling downwards in wide arcs…straight towards them! With mounting anxiety, Jeremiah scanned the skies one more time and again saw nothing; and yet the shape continued to spiral, growing in size, though there were no details to be discerned in its silhouetted form on the river. Jeremiah dropped his mallet and began to back away hurriedly, fearing that some dark magick was at work, nymphs perhaps? There had been rumours among the villages, children seen wandering by the rivers and lakes, people disappearing in the night. Now Brandon seemed to notice the strange apparition and backed away also, his eyes fixed on what he believed to be a monstrous fish in the river. The two retreated behind a nearby tree and crouched in the undergrowth, waiting. For what, they didn’t know, but wait they did.
“What is it granddad?” Brandon asked, the fear now evident in his voice.
“I don’t know, lad. But whatever ‘tis, I don’t like it.” He paused in an attempt to steady his nerves. “We should ‘ead back, don’t worry ‘bout the gear. Let’s just get outta dodge.” He was ready to move and head for the bridge that would take them back to the village; but as he took his first step, the surface of the river became tumultuous and began to ripple and heave as if caught in high wind. The air fell still and heavy as if enclosed in a glass dome, and a deep rumbling vibration made the small rocks on the ground tremble and dance. Within seconds all light on the river was blacked out as the shadow seemed to descend and squeeze all other images out of the reflection. The pressure in the air increased, keeping pace with the quaking of the ground until it was too much to bare, forcing Jeremiah and Brandon to their knees and covering their ears in vain efforts to alleviate the pain. It all came to an abrupt end as the surface of the river exploded, sending spray and sediment flying 200 feet into the air. The stillness was shattered by a thunderous scream, and as the spray settled it revealed the gargantuan hulking form of a winged serpent, mottled slate grey and sandy brown, over forty feet long with a wingspan to match. It had no legs, but hauled itself onto the riverbank with talon-tipped claws on the central joints of its wings, its body winding from side to side, slithering out from the muddy creek. Jeremiah and Brandon watched in horror, the former with his hand clasped tightly over the latter’s mouth, still crouched in the scrub behind the tree. The beast raised its head, slim and narrow with a short snout, it’s crown adorned with short blunt horns like those of a young ram. This monster was not yet fully grown! It surveyed its surroundings through sharp, slit-like pupils set into almond shaped, golden-green eyes, then parted its maw to allow a long, thin tongue to whip out and taste the dewy air. Jeremiah’s blood froze in his veins as the beast turned its gaze in their direction, still tasting the air with apparent satisfaction before turning its body and lowering its head to the ground. It had found them. Jeremiah knew it was hopeless trying to run at this point; he would tell Brandon to head for the bridge while he attempted to distract the creature’s attention for as long as he possibly could. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on Brandon’s shoulder, steadying himself; but something occurred to him in that moment, a strange and unfamiliar feeling that caught him off guard. It was as if the fear that burned through his body and set him shaking like a leaf in a gale was not his own. He was terrified to be certain, but his was a fear for his life and that of his grandson. This was a different type of fear, one that was alien to him, for it was more similar to the fear one feels when lost in a deep forest at nightfall, the longing to be back home, safe by an open fire surrounded by those you love; fear, mixed with the agony of separation. Somehow he knew that the creature before him felt the same way as he did, or that he felt as it did. And as quickly as it had come the feeling passed, and the creature’s attention passed with it. Turning away from the pair’s hiding place, the beast spread its immense wings, coiling itself into an upright position like an adder ready to strike its prey, and with a mighty thrust and a rush of wind it took flight, following the river for some quarter of a mile before spiralling upwards and banking in the direction of a valley to the South West into which it vanished from view. It was over ten minute before anyone spoke or dared to move. Brandon was shaking and weeping silently, and Jeremiah felt that familiar stabbing sensation in his chest which urged him to make a move.
“Now lad, no need fer them tears. What d’ya think yer mam’ll say if she saw ya like that, eh?” he tried to comfort the boy as best he could, “You need to head back to the village ‘n let folks know what’s just ‘appened. ‘N tell yer mam to bring my ‘erbs will ye!” He pushed Brandon to his feet and slumped against the trunk of the tree. The shade was nice, relaxing, and he felt calmness wash over him as he watched the sunlight dancing on the emerald grass. Brandon recognised the signs, and with assurance that he would return shortly, he sprinted at full speed towards the bridge and made all haste for home.
***
Miles away to the North, a dark figure stooped low over a shallow pool of water in a forest clearing, rinsing the still warm blood from shaking hands. The sacrificial offering lay arranged as described in the ancient tome which sat open on a tree stump; the girl’s torso, pale and shapeless in its pre-pubescent purity, lay in the centre of the clearing. Etched into the previously flawless skin were the glyphs of the desert language of the birds, an invocation to the one true God. The vital organs were spread evenly from the bottom end of the torso in a Westerly direction. The arms were nailed to a tree to the South, the legs were nailed to one to the North, and the head with its flowing golden hair, now think with black drying blood, sat in a raven’s nest in a tree to the East. The eyes and tongue had been cut out and burned in the brazier by the side of the pool, while the offering was alive of course; the suffering emits an energy powerful enough to resonate through the planetary spheres. The water in the pool was crimson by the time those wretched hands were clean. The monk straightened and sighed. It was impossible to stop the satisfied smile from creeping from one side of the face to the other. Scrying was a useful art to master, for it had shown the monk that the offering had been accepted. After years of devotion and prayer, years of searching for the sacred texts, all the deception, torture and death had finally culminated in this historic moment, a moment that would be remembered by none, but one that would re-write history and shape all that was to come. The Void Mother had answered the call and opened the first door; the arrival of the dragon was proof of that. There were more doors to be opened, more signs to stitch into the fabric of reality, and this would be the first sign of many to herald their dominion over a new world.
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