Extract from “The Witch Queen of He’Anor”

Anastacia knew that this part was a dream. She was living those last moments all over again. Perhaps she was in Hell and condemned to repeat her failure for eternity.

She dreamt it all so clearly: the thick plumes of smoke that rose from the burning wreckage of Thorntown; the yells of the few guards that remained and the occasional gurgling scream as one was clawed down by the many hands of the walking dead.

In this dream she was floating above her body, watching herself leap from the back of the hired horse. As soon as the horse was free of her, it bolted away from the city of flames and screaming.

Anastacia wished that she could call down to her past self and warn her but it was futile. Dreams and hopes were all futile.

She watched herself charge through the broken gates of the town, dodging pieces of charred wood that fell from the burning guard towers. The walking dead had no love for flames but they had followed the Witch Queen’s commands to eat the town. The dead devoured the living and the fire devoured the timber and plaster homes.

A few stone buildings still stood amongst the shadows, flames and blood of Thorntown. There was the Garrison Tower of the Arcaster Guards, a tall column of grey stone with fires flickering from every tiny window and arrow-slit. The ancient and elegant Tower of Magi was conspicuously unharmed by the fires and the unhallowed dead. Enchantments held the doors fast and a circle of peace surrounded the place. Perhaps there were wizards still studying within, oblivious to the destruction outside. It was doubtful. Any wizard with even the most limited foresight would have left the town long ago.

The walls of Thorntown Cemetery and the stone tombs were unbroken but they were now a fortress for the hungry corpses and howling ghouls that shambled and crept through the acrid air. The tallest stone edifice that stood, apparently untouched by the destruction, was the Church of Thorntown.

She wondered in her dream how that Church had allowed itself to be so desecrated. A holy place had opened its doors to something so foul that the stone angels above the doors should have wept or shouted out their horror.

She watched her dream-self stalking through the chaos, the cobble stones under its feet were slick with blood. Blood that collected into pools and reflected the leaping sparks that rose into a black sky.

From the narrow alleys between the shells of buildings, the dead came crawling, leaping or stumbling. Maggots larger than dogs wriggled their swollen bodies, bloated with fresh flesh, towards the woman in the red cloak. Emaciated ghouls, their thin black lips pulled back from their cracked and filthy teeth, rasped sly insults as they sprang like cats.

The dream-self drew its long, broad sword and spun like a dancer to meet each ravenous creature. The sword was white hot with its own fury and it cut, steaming and bubbling, through the unclean flesh that dared to oppose it.

The face of the woman in the red cloak and the scarlet, enamelled armour, was a cold grimace of distaste. Black blood occasionally splattered her pale skin and her tight ponytail of blond hair.

Anastacia watched her dream-self’s face and was struck by how young she still looked. It seemed wrong to have failed at such a young age. She had seen only twenty summers and now she would see no more. She would be forever in this dream.

Gentle wisps of white light emanated from the ground at the feet of the warrior woman. This was the holy power that had been granted to her in He’Anor: the strength to repel infernal magic. The wisps rose in delicate curls and spread softly, like morning mist. Where the dead touched the clouds of sparkling light, they withered, screaming wretchedly at the touch of something sacred.

The dream-self, hacking away the gibbering atrocities that reached for her, continued to make her way to the Church.

It would be of no use.

She did not stop to try the doors to the Church, she merely lashed out one booted foot and the doors were smashed inwards. No woman should have been so strong but the Elfar had put great magic into her. She was the Anastacia, the holy and strong willed protector.

The Church was as she had always known it. The stone building had always been too grand for such an insignificant town. There were vaulted ceilings, high arches, windows of stained glass and bright murals. All had been changed, though. The dark magic of the Witch Queen had twisted the place. Angelic faces now leered, murals depicted savage horrors torturing the innocent and the crosses had been replaced with the speared-skulls that the Witch Queen favoured. Each spear was a long black thorn from some secret grove unknown to any sane soul. The skulls were doubtless those of the people that the Witch Queen had murdered for their power, their wealth or for the sheer joy of taking life.

The Witch Queen stood behind the stone altar. It had been swept of any holy object and all that rested upon it now was the Key. The Key itself was hidden in the midst of a ball of coruscating forces. Jagged arcs of lightning burst from the orb of energy, illuminating the Witch Queen’s pale, hideous beauty. Her golden hair floated about her like a halo and her black eyes stared unblinking at the Anastacia.

She knew she should try something different but it was pointless to know that now. She should have attacked without words. She should have thrown her magic. She did not. She had not done so. She was about to watch herself fail.

“Anastacia, I had not expected you to arrive so soon,” called the Witch Queen. Her voice was beautiful and showed only a faint sign of irritation. She was like a hostess, surprised to find that her guests are early. “I had hoped to have opened the way to Elt sa Cwen so that you might be greeted by many old friends.”

“Where is Fin?” asked Anastacia, her voice steady. She would not let herself plead.

“Look closely, little sister,” said the Witch Queen, giving a smile that seemed full of sweetness. That smile looked out of place against the Witch Queen’s black armour with its tattered cloak of human skin and the thorns which sprouted from her shoulders and back.

The dream-self noticed the empty clothes that lay before the altar. Boots, breeches and a shirt of mail. A grey cloak that she knew well. A talisman here, an amulet there. A sword, undrawn, the scabbard still on the belt. The sad pile of garments showed no sign that they had contained a living being. They were a discarded shell.

The Witch Queen gave a friendly laugh.

The face of the dream-self had begun to lose its composure. There were tears welling in the eyes.

“You were terribly fond of him, weren’t you?” asked the Witch Queen, her voice full of sympathy. “He refused me, even before the end,” she added, her voice hardening a little.

The dream-self rushed towards the altar.

The Witch Queen shrieked, all humanity fleeing from her face. She spread her arms, as though to welcome the warrior woman, and screamed a curse.

Lightning crackled out of the Key and into the Queen as the curse struck the dream-self.

Anastacia watched her dream-self dissolve and her armour crash to the ground.

The last thing she recalled was a look of terror on the face of the Witch Queen.