IT was an impossible landscape, changing from darkened forest to marshy bog to lush field in the space of mere moments. The time too seemed to change of its own accord, from morning to evening then to bright midday heat, with little regard for the natural order of things.
She followed the woman Hera as best she could, stumbling over rocks and through craggy mountain passes, where the woman seemed to bound, sure-footed and confident. She felt like a newborn foal trying to follow a mountain lion.
It was impossible to tell how long their journey lasted with the environment constantly shifting, but still she trailed Hera until they came to the foot of a mountain range. As soon as they reached the rocky rise the temperature dropped. Looking up, she saw a thick white cloud crest the mountain peaks, blotting out the previously clear blue skies and instantly depositing a thick fall of snow, as though to welcome their arrival at the mountain. The wind whipped up, lashing the snow into a painful flurry.
‘We’re almost there,’ Hera shouted through the downpour, before forging on up the mountainside. All the hag could do was follow, hoping that Hera was right and they would find shelter soon.
The climb was hard, the mountain surface sheer and slick. More than once she found herself slipping, not daring to look down in case she panic at how high they had climbed. Each time she faltered, though, Hera was there, pulling her up. Just as she began to fear her energy might be all but sapped, she spied a cave entrance hewn into the side of the mountain.
Still stumbling, she followed Hera inside. At first they were plunged into darkness, the quiet of the tunnel striking an unnatural contrast to the howling wind outside. They didn’t have to travel far through the shadows before she heard Hera knocking against a wooden barrier. A firm shove and a grunt of effort and the barrier moved aside revealing… the warmly lit interior of a homely dwelling.
Sunlight shone in through little round windows, the glass panes framed in dark wood. A fire burned in the hearth and bookshelves lined every wall. Something bubbled on the stove, filling the room with a warm, meaty aroma that made her stomach spring to life with gurgling anticipation. This place was impossible. Not moments before they had been climbing the side of a mountain. Now they were in some idyllic cottage in the countryside. But, despite appearances, there was an unnerving sense about the place that none of this was real.
Hera walked in, unstrapping her sword and casting it aside. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Make yourself at home.’
As she entered, a man walked in from an adjoining room at the back of the cottage.
‘Ah, you’re here,’ he said.
He was small, just under five feet, his hair tousled and thick, cheeks full and teeth whiter than any she’d ever seen. His clothes were simple but well-tailored and his shoes shone, winking in the firelight.
‘How is he?’ Hera asked the man.
‘Go and see for yourself.’ He gestured to the room he had entered from, and Hera walked past, leaving the two of them alone.
‘Please, sit down,’ said the man, waving to a chair by the fire.
As uncomfortable as she was, she did as he asked, still too cold to argue. He took the seat opposite, beaming at her all the while.
‘You must have many questions,’ he said as she rubbed some life into her wrinkled fingers.
‘Who are you?’ was all she could think of.
‘Ah, of course. How rude of me. You can call me the Hermit. That’s one of my names, it’ll do for now. But I think the better question is: who are you?’
She stopped rubbing her fingers, stunned at the prospect. ‘Do you know?’
‘Of course. You’re Livia Harrow.’
The name brought a rush of thoughts and memories to her.
An old man in the fields. His face agape, throat opened, lifeblood gushing down his chest. Her captors, so many of them. Brutal, hateful… kind. A journey north. A child speaking like a priest. A battle.
She shook her head, the memories coming fast, solidifying, forming a life she had led. One that had ended atop a ziggurat. One that had ended with her murdering a child.
‘What is this?’ She stood, sending the chair she had been sitting on toppling back to the floor with a loud clatter.
As the curtain was ripped away and her memory returned, the hag’s shell covering her body sloughed away. Her skin began to smooth, brittle hair growing thicker. Meat began to fill out the bony frame of her hips and shoulders. Lifting a hand to her face she felt the flesh of her face become youthful again.
‘Be calm,’ said the Hermit. ‘The rush will pass.’
He was right. Already her mind was steadying. Already she knew with dread certainty that she was Livia Harrow. Born on a farm in Canbria. Taken from her home and forced miles to the north. It was all a mass of confusion but she knew one thing – she was no longer in the Ramadi Wastes.
‘What is this place?’ she asked, picking up the chair and sitting back down beside the fire.
‘Safe,’ the Hermit replied. ‘I am sorry I didn’t find you sooner, but—’
‘This land?’ said Livia, raising her voice. ‘Am I dead? Am I in Hell?’
The Hermit smiled, his teeth almost gleaming. ‘This place has many names to many people. Hell is as good as any, but this is not the afterlife, Livia. You’re not dead.’
‘So where am I?’
‘Lost between two worlds. The mortal realm, as you know it, and here. A plane ruled by the gods, as you might call them.’
‘The Archons,’ said Livia.
‘Very good,’ said the Hermit. ‘It seems your connection with Innellan is still strong. You hold much of her knowledge, as she holds much of yours.’
With every one of her questions, more sprang up. ‘Who is Innellan?’
‘She is one of the Twelve… or the Thirteen if you’re picky. But perhaps I should start at the beginning. The Archons were born when your world was young—’
‘Wait,’ said Livia. ‘Is this going to be a history lesson?’
‘If that makes it easier for you,’ said the Hermit. ‘May I carry on?’ When she nodded, he continued. ‘The gods were born in your world, summoned by the first priests. They grew in power as the centuries passed, gleaning their strength from the worship of mortals and in return bestowing the power you know as magic upon those they deemed worthy. But the gods are a jealous breed, and they coveted their worship like misers, each one seeking more and more mortals to raise their voices in praise. War was inevitable – a conflict that almost destroyed your world. Some of the gods saw where they were heading, predicting the conflict would ultimately end in their mutual destruction. And so they came to an accord. The Archons would banish themselves to an alternate plane, an alternate realm of existence they could neither control nor destroy. This realm.’
Livia shook her head. ‘But how am I here? How did I—’
The Hermit raised a finger and smiled. ‘In good time. Despite their self-imposed exile the gods still yearned to be worshipped, and so they needed a conduit between the worlds. One that would allow them to glean power from mortals and in turn reward them for their benefaction. For that they created the Heartstone – an artefact of supreme power that would act as a channel between worlds. All seemed well for a time, and the realm of mortals was safe, but for one thing… the Heartstone could also allow the gods to travel between worlds. To inhabit the body of a mortal avatar and become more powerful still.’
‘Then, that is what…’
‘Yes. A hundred years ago, by the reckoning of your world, the Archon Siff split the Heartstone asunder so that the gods could no longer meddle in the affairs of mortals. All twelve Archons agreed that it should remain broken, placing it atop the Blue Tower and pledging a cohort of their own followers to guard it. But Innellan tricked the Archon Durius into repairing the artefact, once more opening a pathway between worlds.’
‘The Blue Tower.’ Livia thought back to the dreams she had of a terrible battle. Thousands slain on an open field, their lives wasted. ‘I have seen it.’
‘Thinking that Durius had repaired the Heartstone and would use it for his own ends, Siff, Innellan and Armadon slaughtered the armies guarding the Blue Tower and raced to stop him. When they reached the summit…’
‘Siff realised she had been betrayed.’ Livia remembered now as though she had witnessed it with her own eyes.
A noise from the back of the cottage made Livia start. Hera appeared from the adjoining room. With her was a man, hugely muscled, his face handsome but marred by a troubled frown.
‘Ah,’ said the Hermit, standing. ‘You’ve met Hera. And this is Mandrake.’ The man stared back at the Hermit as though he didn’t recognise his own name.
Realisation dawned on Livia. ‘They’re… like me,’ she said. ‘Lost in this world.’
‘Indeed,’ the Hermit replied. ‘Souls from the mortal realm.’
‘But why is he…’
‘Ah yes. That is an unfortunate side effect of Armadon’s possession. The Archon of War ripped his host’s soul from his body. Forcing himself upon unfortunate Mandrake here. The result is… tragic. As you can see.’
‘But why did Innellan not do the same to me?’ Livia asked.
The Hermit walked towards Hera and Mandrake, laying a comforting hand on the huge warrior’s arm.
‘Hera and Mandrake were offered as sacrifices. The rites performed and worship offered by the Set of Katamaru’s Faithful meant they were like fresh shells to be prised open. Armadon chose to rip Mandrake’s soul free and cast it aside, whereas Siff lived within her host for many weeks. When eventually Siff took control, Hera’s soul was already halfway across the realms and she managed to hold onto her sanity.’
‘And me?’
The Hermit looked at Livia, a strange sadness in his eyes. ‘Innellan chose you as her avatar because of the raw power your mortal form possesses. But after inhabiting her host even she was not powerful enough to simply tear your soul free. So she waited until the time was right. Until you—’
‘Until I killed the boy.’ Livia remembered tearing out the Blood Regent’s throat with her teeth and she felt suddenly light-headed.
‘Yes,’ said the Hermit. ‘I’m afraid once a host has tasted the blood of a mortal, has taken a life with their own hands, then there is nothing they can do to halt the possession.’
Livia was surprised at how much of this made sense. It should have been confusing, but she understood every word the Hermit had told her. Only one question remained.
‘How do we get back home?’
Livia stared at the Hermit but he looked away, eyes gleaming in the firelight, before he shook his head.
‘There is no way back,’ said Hera. ‘Is there?’ She looked at the Hermit, who remained silent.
Livia could not accept that. ‘Well? Is there?’ she said.
‘It has never been done before,’ he said.
‘That doesn’t mean it can’t be done,’ she said.
The Hermit considered her, and then showed that gleaming white smile. ‘I see now why she chose you. But it would be impossible.’
‘Impossible?’ Livia said. ‘This whole place is impossible. Since I’ve arrived I’ve been chased through portals, some lizard men tried to eat my soul and I’ve been threatened by a warrior king with a burning crown for a head.’
‘Ah, Ekemon. He always did have a penchant for theatrics.’
‘I don’t give a shit who he was. What I want is to go to the Blue Tower. If the Archons can make their way through it to the mortal realm then maybe that’s how we get home.’
The Hermit thought on her suggestion. ‘Perhaps it could be done, but—’
‘No buts,’ said Livia. ‘We have to try, and you have to help. Otherwise why save me in the first place?’
‘Well I—’
‘No, really? Why did you save me?’
Hera stepped forward. ‘He saved all of us. He is the Hermit. That’s what he does.’
Livia shrugged. ‘Well thanks, that explains absolutely nothing. Either way… we’re going. All of us.’
The Hermit shook his head in exasperation. ‘I suppose I had nothing else planned.’
Livia felt herself for the first time in a long time.
‘Just what I wanted to hear.’