Part One
The Culling


Prologue
Her Last Request

‘Now, you must listen carefully for there isn’t much time… The Worlds are fragile; I know you may not agree with such a statement, but I have come to believe it to be entirely true. We are constantly plagued by acts of war that seek to harm us or prevent us from living freely; constantly battling with ourselves and each other just to stir enough passion in us to prove to ourselves that we’re still alive, that we can feel.
‘We have been living in the Age of Ascension; an era that is quickly coming to an end. It has been an age of enlightenment, and of suffering, and of natural progression towards a point in time that means to change the way we live forever. Earthquakes, storms, hurricanes and war, throughout the Worlds they have been a sign of what is to come, a natural escalation into a New Dawn.
‘Such instances have been documented throughout history, and in the years of my life and those centuries that have followed, bound to the dark plains of the afterlife, I have heard countless tales of doom and destruction that were destined for the Worlds. In all honesty, I had never been able to divulge enough evidence from these twisted stories to allow myself to believe such an occurrence could come to be. That was, until now, and dire news of an impending Apocalypse rung in my ears like the cry of a banshee.
‘The Mayans were the first civilisation to know of this terrible fate; I took no notice of their counsel even though they were so convinced by it’s magnitude that they forged their calendar to come to an end on the very day that they believed to signify this grave event. Since then, myriad prophets and psychics have only added to the hysteria, reaffirming the notion that the Mayans came to discover; that one day, the delicate balance of Good and Evil that governs the World will crack, and all of civilisation will fall into ruin.
‘This day of reckoning is fast approaching, I can feel it even now, swelling through my lifeless veins and on the 21st day of December of this year, 2012 AD, the Worlds as we know them will come to an end. You may think me bold for announcing such a thing, that I have no grounds to suggest such an extreme vision of the future but you see, I know the man who will bring about this Apocalypse. I am ashamed to say… He is my brother.
‘But all is not forsaken; a single woman holds the key to our salvation.
‘She came here not long ago, disorientated and lost and I told her of the part she must play in ending this terror if I failed. I’m sad to say that that day has come; I have failed, dear friend, and now the fate of the Worlds lies on her shoulders. Someone must go to her, to guide and protect her on her perilous quest and it must be you whom I send. I’m sorry to have to do this to you… to burden you with this task but I see no other alternative. You are the only one I can trust to keep her safe and even though I cannot see whether the fates will allow you to succeed, I cannot lie here and do nothing. Too much is at stake.
‘Go…. now… find Akar; he will gain you safe passage so that you might find her and sway the balance… with this. You must hurry though, do not rest for she is in grave danger and with only six days left until the end of the Worlds you… you…’

Chapter One
The Emissary

It was never in her nature to ride her horse at such a pace, but that day Kayla Redford thought it imperative when she discovered she was being chased. The sun was setting over the rolling woodland of Beedelup National Park in Western Australia; the light flickering through the swaying canopy of leaves like a natural strobe, blinding the young woman as she galloped beneath on her chestnut horse. Her breaths were short and hot as she pulled herself down into Whistler’s mane, shifting her rhythm to match his and for a moment they were as one, linked in perfect synchronicity on their escape.
A fine mist swathed the woodland, giving the place an ethereal, mythical ambience, and blurred her vision of the path that lay ahead of her. The lush undergrowth that enveloped the base of the looming trees was dotted with wayward patches of chorilaena and hibbertia, bringing colour to the dismal scene and an unforgettable scent as she hurtled past. The beauty of the forest was lost on her however, all she could do was stifle the tears that threatened her eyes and maintain a firm grip on the reins, her body shaking in the saddle.
The trees dispersed around her and she found that a small brook meandered across her path, the crisp water rippling like liquid glass and shimmering with the golden light that flooded the glade. Her grip on the reins tightened further as she forced Whistler into the stream, glancing over her shoulder to see that the man on the black horse was gaining ground. Whistler bucked wildly as he fought her way through the thrashing water, whinnying uncontrollably as the icy water churned around his rampant legs.
As the horse staggered up the sodden bank, a deafening boom shook the air and the trunk of a nearby karri exploded in a barrage of smoking pink bark. She and Whistler were showered with chunks of the smouldering husk, causing him to rear up as he let out a deafening screech of panic. He bolted from the stream and was back galloping through the trees in a second; the sound of his hooves pounding the earth was so loud it was all Kayla could hear, along with the gunshots that echoed through the forest. The trees grew closer together the further they galloped into the undergrowth; the branches low and ragged and they thrashed her across the face, toying with her strength and desperation.
The man’s next shot forced Whistler off the path and into the brush; he leapt recklessly over thickets of brambles, the thorns scratching at his legs and belly as he soared over. Another shot sent him careering to the right, to find that a huge karri had been uprooted across their path; it lay before them like a fallen giant and the area around it was desecrated by its sheer size. Kayla dug her heals into Whistler’s sides, trying to force a little more speed on their approach, but the horse leapt too early, caught his back legs on the trunk and fell clumsily over, whinnying as he went. She was flung from the saddle and was sent rolling across the forest floor until she slammed into a rock, the wind knocked out of her. Grimacing from the pain, she watched as Whistler scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide and hoarse whinnies resonating from his gut.
Their pursuer had stopped on the other side of the fallen tree, his black mount fidgeting under his relentless control. The man leapt down and, with the rifle still in one hand, he climbed elegantly over the trunk, watching Kayla as she struggled to stand, badly bruised and bleeding from a deep graze on her arm. He walked over, securing the rifle in his hands and as the harsh light of the setting sun illuminated him a whimpered gasp escaped Kayla’s lips.
He was dressed in a long black coat, entirely plain of all decoration or design; it was fitted taut around his thick neck all the way down to his shins, glossy buttons lining the front. His pallid face was gaunt; his features haggard and painted onto the skin of his face were a number of symbols. On his forehead there was a large black circle with thick lines streaming from it to make it look like a sunburst, slowly rising over his brow. Three small dots were beneath each eye, which were so dark it seemed as though the sockets were empty and instead two bottomless black holes were staring at her. His long, black hair was shaved back to the top of his head, the rest pulled back into a ponytail that billowed down onto his shoulders.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ she begged through onerous breaths. Her hands scraped at the dirt as she scrambled backwards, her auburn hair shimmering in the sunset.
The man’s baleful expression remained. ‘Do not worry,’ he replied, his voice eerily deep and rasped like the rustling of leaves. ‘Yours is a great sacrifice towards the Culling.’
And with that, he lifted the rifle to her face and fired.


At that moment, across the other side of the World in Hampshire, England, Amelia Valmont winced as a sudden throbbing swelled in her head. Vibrant flashes of colour swarmed her vision and she closed her eyes, reeling as the pain ripened like a thousand needles had been rammed into her face, each screaming and burning as it went. She grew faint, so placed a hand out in front of her to steady herself and felt a cool surface beneath her palm.
Slowly, the throbbing began to subside and so too did the pain she felt and when she opened her eyes she looked ahead to see that her hand was placed upon a door. The light was erratic, and she glanced around to find that every strip light down the corridor was flashing wildly. Her hand dropped from the door and the moment it did, the lights resumed their usual glow and all sense of pain was gone.
She’d lost count of the number of times she had found herself here; it had become such a frequent occurrence that she suspected, without being entirely sure, that she came to this place on every break and lunch hour throughout her day. She couldn’t explain what enticed her back time and again because she got no real satisfaction from being there; no feeling of happiness because the memories associated with the small private room in the west wing of the Mayfield Memorial Hospital were ones of pain and loss, but for some reason she found solace there.
Her hands were trembling, as they always did as she stood outside the door, sucking in deep breaths in an attempt to settle her nerves. She found herself doing the same each time her eyes fell upon its small white plaque; glossy in the light, with black numbers engraved into the plastic. 216. She traced the thick digits with her finger.
Her other hand faltered and she reached for the handle, allowing the faint scar on her wrist to gleam in the stark light. She pushed open the door to find the room was dreary; the pale sunlight streaked through the Venetian blind at the window and illuminated the sterile furniture in strips of light and shadow. Her eyes fell upon the neatly made bed, and a restrained sigh escaped her lips.
It seemed it was only a moment of reflection she was destined for today, because before she could even lift her foot to step into the room, the pager attached to her belt beeped and vibrated. She looked down at the screen; she was needed back on the ward. She leant into the room, took hold of the handle and with a grudging reluctance, she pulled the door shut.
The corridors she trailed in her journey to the ward were empty; not a soul passed her in either direction and it seemed as though she was the only person alive in the entire World. She glanced down at the watch pinned to the front of her uniform to see it was a little after 11am; there was no reason for the hospital to be so deserted and the notion brought a fluttering to her stomach. The overhead lights were dimmer than usual, buzzing incessantly as she passed beneath them and it was just that subtle noise and the creak of her shoes against the linoleum that brought the corridor to life. As she reached the ward, the door to the office opposite swung open and another nurse in white uniform stepped out, engrossed in the file in her hands.
‘What’s going on, Vanessa?’ Amelia asked, her hand outstretched for the file.
Vanessa handed it to her and she opened it straight away, flicking through the few pages. ‘A man was left in the lobby about ten minutes ago,’ she replied, the unease evident in her voice. ‘I called security to check the CCTV and Austin said the camera in the lobby went fuzzy for a few seconds and when the picture came back this odd looking man was sitting there.’
Amelia didn’t look up; her eyes still skimmed the pages. ‘Is he hurt?’
She shrugged half-heartedly. ‘He won’t let me check him over, but as far as I can see there’s nothing causing him a great amount of pain,’ she stepped in closer, her voice lowering. ‘He’s not really that coherent though; he doesn’t seem to know who he is, where he is. Newberry said to keep him here for the time being, keep an eye on him and send him to the psychiatric ward if he gets too much.’
‘No problem; is he in there now?’ She gestured towards the ward.
Vanessa nodded and started off down the corridor. ‘You should know,’ she said, looking back. She bit her bottom lip, clearly unsure as to pursue what she was about to say. ‘He asked for you.’
The hair on the back of her neck twitched as Amelia watched her walk away, an unusual feeling of intrigue and apprehension coiling around her stomach. She swallowed back the feeling of unease and turned to the ward.
The sky outside was overcast, and because of that the room was dismal and oddly cold. With just a few patients awake; the only source of light came from the small wall-lights above their headboards, and long shadows from those lights streaked across the floor, joining the darkness that had nestled beneath the beds. She looked straight ahead and saw the man sitting hunched in a wheelchair at the window.
She ambled towards him, glancing at each bed as she passed and smiling at every patient who wasn’t asleep or too immersed in a crossword or book. She looked at them long enough to see if they needed anything; normally a slight hand would beckon her over, but that morning nothing deterred her from her path to the back of the ward and the elderly gentleman waiting patiently for her.
As she grew nearer, she could hear him muttering to himself and there was something about his quiet whispers that unsettled her, so much so that as her hand graced the wheelchair’s handle her pulse quickened. She paused for a moment, following his lead and stared out of the large window at the bleak morning. Rain started to speckle the glass as she walked around the chair to face him and she gasped at what she saw.
The subtle sunlight caught in the wrinkles on the man’s face, making them seem more profound and his gleaming face all the more haunting. He was pale and emaciated, with his long black hair shaved to the crown, the rest scraped back to accentuate the harshness of his features. His face was painted black with strange markings; a single eye in the midst of his wrinkled forehead, the tips of which curled down to encompass his eyes. Along his receded hairline, was a line of scarred triangles, their points directed downwards and looked almost like the weathered fangs of a fierce beast. Beneath his lower lip, there was a barbed piercing of ebony that protruded through the skin and glistened like decorated bone. He sat there in a hospital gown, one a little large for his tall but skeletal frame and in a way he looked childlike.
‘Hi,’ she said, looking down at him. She waited for a response, but didn’t get one. The old man’s cracked, shrivelled lips moved, but no words slipped past them. Amelia edged closer, slipping the file under her arm. ‘Can I get you anything?’
Again, he didn’t answer so she knelt before him, examining his tired face, trying to gain his attention. She noticed that his hands were shaking as they gripped the arms of the wheelchair and as she looked down at them, she saw that tattooed on the back of his frail right hand was a sequence of symbols. They looked as though they could have been plucked from a piece of Egyptian hieroglyphics; they seemed ancient and cracked beneath his gnarled skin. There were five symbols, spaced at equal distances apart, from left to right. The first was what looked like a reed, the second a curl of fine black ink, the third, a semi-circle above a striped full circle, the fourth a jackal, and the fifth was a sitting man.
The tattoos distracted her for a moment; she felt a great energy radiate from them and her unease grew as a feeling of foreboding settled upon her. She was mesmerised and it wasn’t until she heard him wheeze and draw in a long breath that she looked up at him again to find that he was already looking at her, his dark eyes like chasms filled with astonishment.
‘Y-You?’ His voice was aged and weak. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘How do you know me?’ she asked in reply, forcing a polite smile onto her face to try and hide her nerves.
‘I have seen you before; many times. Even my Brothers tell me stories of you now.’ He lifted his head to look at her. ‘Nasty birds, always sticking their noses in where they’re not wanted.’
‘What have they been telling you?’ She took hold of the handles to the wheelchair and as she did, she heard him draw in another deep breath.
‘News of others like you; countless tales of atrocity.’ She let the wheelchair rest at the foot of the bed, and tossed the file onto the nightstand. She pulled back the blankets, not entirely listening to what he was saying, but when she heard the wheelchair creak behind her and the grunting that followed, she looked round to see the old man had pushed himself to his feet and now staggered towards her, his hands outstretched towards her face. ‘But they don’t see,’ he said in a cracked, low voice. ‘How can one so beautiful be harmed?’ He was in front of her, his hands almost on her cheeks.
‘Easy now.’ She took his hands and pushed them back to his side. ‘Why don’t you get some rest?’
He lay down slowly, his eyes still lingering on her face. She pulled the blankets up around his chest, only to hear him gasp and before she knew it he snatched her wrist, gripping it so tightly her hand grew numb in an instant. ‘It has begun,’ he whispered in delight, his wrinkled face caught in shock.
She grabbed his hand and tried to prise open his stalwart grip. ‘Let go of me.’
He pulled her in closer to him. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ His breathing became rough, snarling as he threw his head back and let out a shrill, screech that sounded like a thousand fingernails dragging down a blackboard. ‘The Bleeding of Worlds has begun!’ He began to fit, and it was only then that Amelia was able to escape from his grasp and she scrambled away from the bed. She looked at him, enthralled as she watched him writhe and twist beneath the sheets that grew tangled around his body, his skin gleaming with sweat. He clawed at his head, panting and gasping and in a flash he sat upright, his back arched as if in great pain. His tortured expression turned from anger and pain, to one of sheer astonishment as a mist of ebony cloud enveloped his glaring eyes.
‘I can see the First Thunder,’ he whispered, and collapsed back onto the bed.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 15.10.2009

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