An Extract from Lore Bringer

Prologue

Tall he was, blue-eyed like the Fine from the southern lands. To see him in battle was to rejoice in the spirit of the Fine - Duncan Talisker, named Worldwalker by the Sidhe. With him came a new Seanachaidh for the land, Alessandro Chaplin. Together, they sewed the seeds of hope and pride in a place which had been reduced to darkness and fear...

The Corannyeid had moved across the land of Sutra like a plague. At first as un-remarked as those few blemishes that might stain the skin of a doomed victim, and then, as the people travelled through the forests of Or Coille for the Gathering, killing in such numbers as to be no longer denied. Dark shadows whose method of murder was to assimilate themselves into their victim's form and then, rend it apart from the inside.

And even the Gods had abandoned the Fine although it was one of their own number who had raised this hellish army. Corvus, the Raven King it was whose black malice almost destroyed us all.

It has been told that Talisker had another ally - when he fought in battle he was taken by a red tide of berserker rage and then, some say his soul would split apart, although scholars disagree on this, others would say it was his shadow - whichever, this other being would fight beside Talisker, never leave him unguarded for a moment. None knew from whence they came but both Fine and Sidhe are in agreement that they saved the land of Sutra, first from Corvus' dark hordes and - years after - from the machinations of Jahl, he who would be Thane and God at the expense of all else...

And none can tell where they went, for what use are heroes any more when there are no battles left to fight? Perhaps Talisker died in his bed, an old, lonely man un-remarked and unloved or perhaps, the ether claimed him and he rides again in other worlds beyond our ken. Perhaps. There are those amongst the Fine who believe the time will come again when our need and our wishes bring Talisker and his cohorts alive...

...and he will come back to us once more.

Extracted from 'History and Legends of the Fine'
by Lachlan 'Whitesnake' Donall

Chapter One

The stars were the same. Weren't they?

Yiska stared upwards but the stars failed to comfort him, obscured as they were by the colourless bulk of clouds heavy with snow. Snowflakes touched on his cheeks and lashes but failed to melt as the temperature of his skin had fallen, stung into freezing numbness. He could no longer feel his feet and his fingers were passing through the same recognisable state of tingling, he gripped his blanket more tightly around himself glancing back towards the road where he knew the comfort of his hire-car awaited him.

No one would know if he didn't do this thing - this crazy, senseless thing - which defied all his rational instincts. No, that wasn't quite true; he would know and he would have to look Rodney in the eye and lie to him.

As if to confirm this thought, Yiska realised he had begun the dance; his lips were moving, reluctant words dropping into the silence, hot beads of instinctive defiance from deep within his throat. His feet were moving also as if some puppet-master had taken hold of him, possessed him already with the spirit of his ancestors. The steps were tiny, shuffling, making a small hollow in the snow where his feet compressed the frozen whiteness. Realising the stupidity of doing a Ghost Dance in such a petty, reluctant manner - after glancing around once more to check on the emptiness of the landscape - Yiska raised his voice which drifted and danced like warm smoke amongst the snowflakes, suitably haunting.

As soon as he committed himself to the act Yiska knew it was the right thing to do. He knew that nothing would happen - the dance would be merely symbolic, satisfying his uncle that the spirits which were troubling him would be laid to rest. The likelihood of lying successfully to Rodney would have been as likely as achieving any end result here in the middle of a snow-swept Scottish field in the dead of night...

...and it seemed clear to him why people referred to this time as 'the dead of night.' At this time, the earth had lost its heat, the air was still and cold, the cicadas had stopped singing. It would be three hours before the questing fingers of the sunrise would touch the low slopes of the Chuska Mountains to the west. Before that, the desert floor would already be ablaze with heat and light. Now though, the distant mountains were a dark, jagged outline against the night sky, the stars, a sharp brilliance, like diamonds.

In the tiny cluster of houses behind where Michael walked, a few portable generators hummed, the only thing to break the silence apart from the distant 'yip yip' noises of a family of coyotes. 'Sicheii.' He called out when he saw the dark outline of his uncle against the brilliance of the stars - although he used an affectionate term of 'Grandfather.' 'What are you doing out here? It's cold. You haven't even brought a blanket.'

'Stop fussing, Mike. I'm old - my blood is thin...'

'Yeah, so that means you have to keep warm Sicheii, not colder.' Michael stood beside him now, having climbed the small hillock where Rodney had gone to admire the view. He lit a cigarette, the orange flare of his lighter suffusing his tired features in warmth. After taking a deep puff he offered the cigarette to his uncle who shook his head disdainfully.

'I thought they would have persuaded you to give those things up in med school,' he sniffed.

There was peaceful silence as both men surveyed the view, or rather, the lack of it. In the desert there were few lights. From this vantage point the only sign of habitation was far off to the north-west where a dim orange glow amongst the foothills of the mountain marked the location of the mill which was lit up at night. The 'view' was really the sky.

'See there,' Michael muttered, 'I can see the Pipe - Pleiades...'

'The whites call it 'The Plough' you know...'

'Yeah, I know... So, what are you doing out here Sicheii?'

Rodney sighed. I have been dreaming Mike. Strange dreams... When I was younger, I used to set great store by my dreams as the Elders taught me - but now, I sleep the sleep of an old man. Usually what I dream, I forget by morning. But these, are different.' Rodney sat down on the edge of the hill, so Michael followed suite.

'Why?'

'They are so clear. So vivid.' 'The things I am seeing... they don't even relate to the DinŽh. Even if they mean something to someone, why would they be sent to me - what do I know about Scottish warriors, swords or battles... what do...'

'Whoa, back-up! Scottish warriors?' Mike was grinning, his voice incredulous. You're right, how could you dream about this stuff if you know nothing about it?'

Rodney shrugged. 'I know plenty now. The dreams are not short-lived, they stay in my mind. Do you know they used long fighting spears just like the Apache? But they don't carry them on horseback, the foot soldiers use them from the back of their battle-lines. I have seen many things in my long life - but men being impaled...'

Michael was still fascinated by the mere idea that his uncle should be having such dreams. He laughed. 'Are they all wearing tartan?'

The older man ignored his flippant question. 'There is possibly only one thing I recognised,' he muttered almost to himself. 'One of the warriors changed shape into a huge eagle - right there at the edge of the battle - he soared above them but I lost sight of him in the clouds.'

Michael's tone became serious, understanding that his uncle was deeply troubled by this. 'It doesn't necessarily mean anything Sicheii,' he said quietly.

'Yes it does Mike. I have dreamt of a Skinwalker. I will die soon.'

And so the dreams of an old man had brought him here; with a new given name and the Ghost Dance shirt which had belonged to his great-grandfather on his mother's side, who had been a Shoshone. Sicheii had been uncharacteristically laconic about the suitability of both the shirt and the dance, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands in a vague gesture. The Dineh had never commonly practiced the Ghost Dance but, as Rodney pointed out, it was difficult to know what else to do at this stage as the intent of the spirits was unknown. Either a blessing or a curse might be inappropriate and anyway, if the dance proved true, Yiska would be immediately in touch with the spirits... Yiska knew the old man was prevaricating, unwilling to get the local Medicine Man or Hand Trembler involved least word spread that he was loosing his mind, but he had offered to come as he was planning to visit friends in Europe after his brief Scottish sojourn.

There was nothing in the field which at first glance might distinguish it from any other except, in one corner, almost covered by the snow, a squat stone marker of black granite. It said one word; 'McLeod.' When he found it and squatted to rub the snow aside, a dark unease had gripped Yiska's stomach. He had no idea if the stone marked a grave site or not but as soon as he had read the single word the moorland and the fields seemed less empty, more ... sentient.

Time passed. Bands of snow ridden clouds shuffled across the night sky, the elusive stars peering from between them. He had been dancing for hours. The dance had possessed him in the truest sense, pulling and twisting at the passage of time so that Yiska moved as if contained within his dreamstate. His voice was tired, his lips frozen and cracked where the warm air of his breath passing over them had burned the skin away. Towards the east the first uneasy light of a snow-packed dawn touched the sky...

He realised he did not feel as if he could stop dancing. Panic sized him deep within his chest, his breathing became tighter, hotter even as he turned his palms upwards to greet the dawn and turned around in a slow circle. The dance was slow - inexorable - surely he could stop. He could just stop. Right?

Okay, okay I'm stopping... now.

But his lips still moved - although his chanting was merely an incoherent whisper - and his feet still shuffled in tired, tiny movements. Maybe he would somehow know when to stop. Rodney had not warned him of this; of the hypnotic power of the dance. He was beyond cold now and he knew hypothermia was a likely occurrence.

This is ridiculous. Are you waiting for permission from the spirits? Ridiculous.

Although his mind was unaware of planning a deliberate act of sabotage Yiska tripped over his own feet and crumpled onto the ground. For long moments he lay there, his thoughts as blank and formless as the landscape around him. Eventually, a quiet realisation came to him that his position was more precarious than when he had at least been upright, dancing. He had to move while he still had the strength.

'Hey. Hey you...'

The voice came from behind him cutting through the muffling thickness of the snow. Groaning quietly Yiska tried to rise and managed to raise himself up onto his elbows.

'Hey... you alright laddie?'

It's gonna be good explaining this to the locals, he thought wryly. 'Yeah, I...' He managed to flip himself over, which was difficult as his legs were completely numb and he had to rely on his upper body strength. He peered into the gloom and his frozen features managed to contort into an expression of dumb amazement. 'What the...'

Only a few feet away stood - what had Rodney called them? - a Highlander, a Scottish clansman.

Everything Yiska knew about such men he had learned from Hollywood, but he was sure they were meant to be more, well, tidy. The man's kilt was a dull green with only a single stripe woven through it - not tartan at all - and it hung in chaotic swathes of fabric, weighted down by divots of mud and snarls of twigs. He had long red hair which looked like it had never, ever seen a comb. Most worryingly, Yiska's cold-blasted mind belatedly realised, the man was translucent - he could see the snowflakes drifting through his form.

'Ah dunno what yer lookin so surprised fer,' the man scowled. 'It's no like you've been tryin' tae attract mah attention fer the last five hours or anything.'

Yiska must have looked blank as the ghost leant in towards him and said almost companionably. 'Ah wouldne sit in the snow like that if I were you laddie... freeze the arse of ye...' he grinned. 'So, what d'you want? I canny do like three wishes or anything mind.'

Yiska stood up, his eyes fixated on the ghost the whole time. This hadn't been the plan; do the dance, sprinkle the herbs, go home... For a long moment he simply stared until the stranger flinched uncomfortably.

'Kin ye speak?' he frowned.

'Yes, I...' Yiska gathered his thoughts. 'I am Yiska Talloak - I come from the Navajo Nation in Arizona.'

'Arizona?' The ghost frowned.

'It's in America.'

'Ah, the New World.'

'...sure. Look, can you come and sit in the car? I think I'm in danger of hypothermia - freezing my ass off...'

'Car?' the ghost looked confused for a moment then nodded, 'yeah, I remember cars.'

It was Yiska's turn to look confused. 'You do?'

'Oh aye. Ah've been back before ye ken.' He began to walk across the snow towards the perimeter of the field. Yiska watched for a moment, noting that the ghost left no indentation or mark on the pristine white blanket. 'You comin' then?'

Once in the car it all seemed so much worse. Yiska was dizzy and he wrapped himself in the tartan travel rug from the back seat and fought to control his shivering which became uncontrollable as his body fought to generate heat. When he glanced at the passenger seat the ghost was sitting there, staring around with a kind of benign fascination on its craggy features. There was a faint sickly smell wafting from the direction of his new acquaintance and Yiska wondered dimly if it would get worse when the car heated up - not that he cared really - he started the engine and switched on the heater.

'So, are ye goin' tae tell me what it is ye want?'

'I'm not sure really,' Yiska muttered through gritted teeth. 'It's to do with my uncle Rodney - he's been having these strange dreams and he's troubled by them. He saw this field and the marker in his dreams also...' Yiska explained the whole thing to the ghost as if it were the most normal, rational conversation in the whole world, his voice sounding flat and muffled within the confines of the car whilst outside, the snow continued unabated.

By the time he had finished recounting Rodney's dreams the ghost was looking extremely agitated although Yiska was too tired to care. As the warmth eased back into his limbs he felt the pull of tiredness and the reassuring thought occurred that perhaps his companion was the result of his fevered imagination. He knew he was safe and warm in the car and his blankets and sleep seemed to call him like an undeniable siren.

As he drifted into a warm doze he heard the ghost say. 'We'll need some help on this ... sounds like big trouble...' and then, 'By the way, mah name's Malcolm McLeod. But folk caw me Malky...'

24th, 2nd Trine, 1265
What can I tell you? My hands are trembling as I write this journal, and I am not given to fear. I am an intelligent man, and perhaps my intelligence is the source of my fear. For I have the wit to realize that what has transpired this night bodes ill for many but perhaps most of all for me. And yet, I cannot quell my excitement and I know that, despite my trepidation I will make the journey to power as if it were my one true destiny...

But I am getting ahead of myself; let me try and make order from the chaos of the night's events... I was sitting in my quarters in the luxurious southern tower of Durghanti. We were still making changes from when the Fine had control of the city and many of the furnishings were on the grand, somewhat vulgar style of the Fine - but I must admit, it was a cosy place, a fire burned in the massive grate and my cheeks were already flushed, whether from the warmth or the wine, I do not know. It could equally have been tiredness; the Fine were planning an uprising soon, we knew from our spies and I had spent most of the day with the Emperor trying - completely in vain - to persuade the vapid old fool into a pre-emptive strike on Ruannoch Were.

Now, I was relaxing, resigned to the stupidity of my Emperor but still confident that any uprising would be easily dealt with. The superiority of the Shoreth forces were beyond question... Anyway, I was reading; in my quarters there were piles of books left by the previous occupant, they covered many subjects and ranged in size from mere pamphlets to massive tomes. Most were tattered, their pages eaten away by dampness or worms, but a few were still readable. The one I was pouring over with such interest told of the history of the Fine - it seemed bizarre to me that their so-called history should contain much that was obviously apocryphal - their Gods for example, seemed to figure in their history as if they were... well, real. Their heroes appeared from nowhere and effected the course of the nation before disappearing into obscurity again. Perhaps what intrigued me most was that the Fine did not appear to know who had built their greatest cities - Soulis Mor in the north - so far impregnable but ultimately to be a target in the Shoreth conquest - and Ruannoch Were. The cites we had already taken, Durghanti and Kamala Sev had been built by the Fine but the former two were a mystery. Indeed, the writer asserted that they could not be built again because the techniques used to build them was unknown to the Fine craftsman. Let me say, I have never seen Soulis Mor but Ruannoch Were is indeed a marvel of engineering - it is built on the bed of a lake to start with and...

...but I digress. I was tired and so the wine was making me unusually giddy. Perhaps I started to doze, I'm not sure... anyway, I dropped the book and of course the sound brought me to myself again with a start. I cursed as I picked it up, the spine was broken and a clump of pages had broken away from the binding. Then I noticed something had fallen from the back cover - had it simply been tucked in there or more deliberately concealed? I know not, but given the nature of that paper I am inclined to think it was hidden.

I was stupid. I'm not ashamed to admit it; I am a warrior not a cleric or some sorcerer. I possess the most brilliant military mind of my generation but I do not think in any mystical way... When I saw that there was a pattern drawn on the page which had been beautifully decorated and embossed with thick gold lettering, I held it up to better catch the light and began to trace the shape with my finger as I read aloud - struggling with an obviously archaic version of the Fine language.

I know, I know, stupid. But there we are... The symbol was similar to a snake, twisted into an unlikely contortion, at the end of the complex twist it held its tail in its own mouth - I believe I have seen similar symbols before representing eternity, but I cannot remember where... With fateful synchronicity, I finished reading at the same moment my finger reached the end of the shape. It began to glow. For a mere second I thought perhaps it was just a reflection of the firelight against the golden ink but then there could be little doubt as the thing caught fire in my hands. I dropped it to the floor with a curse and, standing up, began to stamp on it to kill the flames before they caught on the rug. When I stopped my zealous little dance, it had gone. Not burnt up - I was sure of that - there were no ashes of charred pieces to be seen, just a blackened outline singed into the rug.

I was annoyed I must confess; the rug had been given to me by the Emperor after the fall of Kamala Sev - originally it had been in the Great Hall there. I had no water to hand so I tipped the remains of my wine into the pile least there were any smouldering remains.

That's when I heard the laughter, cruel, mocking, capricious. In that moment, an astute man might learn all he needed to know about the person - thing - making the sound. It was certainly enough to put me on my guard so, just before I turned, I drew my blade which was hanging on the back of my chair.

The laughter continued, as if the idea that I might attack was risible indeed. And when I saw the source of the laughter absolute astonishment stayed my hand for precious seconds when I should have simply dispatched the creature.

It was a... a creature. Small, no more than two feet high, a strange, mottled mixture of brown and green, its wizened little body resembled a man only in that it had its limbs in the same location. It's face was equally wrinkled and, even contorted as it was by supposed merriment was easily the most hideous visage I'd ever seen; the mouth full of tiny, pointed teeth, its nose sunken, almost vestigial like a bat's but, worst of all were the eyes - motes of coal dark light which showed no fear at the tip of my blade. Oh, perhaps I should also mention the smell - the stench was almost overpowering, a heavy, fecundity like rotting flesh which filled the room to the very rafters. My eyes were watering.

'What - what manner of creature are you?' I asked. It was a rather pointless, rhetorical question, it could only be a demon or an imp of some kind.

The being ignored my question anyway and began to regard its own horrible body with the kind of fascination which suggested he was unfamiliar with it himself. He held his skinny, claw-like fingers in front of his face and flexed them experimentally. I don't think he liked what he was seeing. Finally, it spoke. 'Oh, joy,' he said. the voice was nauseating, a rasping, unpleasant sound. He glared at me as if I was to blame for something heinous. Then, 'you not...' a pause as if struggling to remember something. 'You not a Fine are you? What world is?'

'Sutra,' I replied. 'And I am a Shoreth. We have conquered most of the Fine cities.'

'Con-kerd?' He began to laugh again and capered up and down with glee. He was obviously no lover of what could only have been his creators given the nature and language of the spell. 'Killing many?'

'Yes, many,' I agreed, somewhat bemused.

'More left?'

'Yes. They still have possession of two cities,' I began to explain - although I must confess the smell was beginning to make me feel sick and light-headed. I sat back down in my chair my eyes still fixed on the creature. There was a pause as he watched me closely but when he spoke again, I was surprised at his choice of subject.

'Murderer you.'

'What? I am a warrior - I have killed many in battle, yes.'

'No. Not just in battle. Blood on hands.' He nodded towards my hands as he spoke so I looked also. There was indeed blood on my hands although it could only have been some sorcerous trick of the imp. I let out a low cry of amazement.

'Eda,' he said. The word came out of his foul mouth as if it was a meaningless sound but he looked at me intensely.

'Yes.' There seemed little point in denying it; my mouth was dry as ashes and my mysteriously bloodied hands shook. 'She was my wife.'

Eda had married me for political reasons, ambitious as she was beautiful. Our short marriage was tempestuous and vile - she despised me and, the more effort I made to win her, the harder her contempt became. She could not forgive the fact that I was a career soldier, had imagined I would resign my position and become a politician, one of the Emperor's rich, indolent councilors...

All my reminiscences were over in an instant of course; I met the imp's gaze as steadily as I could. 'It does not grieve me to kill,' I said. 'People's souls are their own responsibility. Death can come for any of us at any time. Their readiness is not my problem.'

'Sometimes souls are...' again, the slight pause as he searched for the words. '...broken. Shattered.' Before I could think of a suitable reply to this somewhat philosophical remark, the imp began to behave in a disconcerting manner; it flung its hands up before it and started to mutter some bizarre words. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck standing up and I decided within a split second - relying on my warrior's instincts - that the time for discourse with the creature was at an appropriate end. Tightening my grip once more on my sword I stood up again and ran the vile thing through where I hoped its heart might be.

It looked at me in confusion and I, not understanding why my thrust was not fatal, lifted it up on my sword like a spit pig. It slid down the blade making a strange gibbering noise as I walked towards the fire. But it was by no means dead.

'Wait, wait... Zarrus. I can give power. Much power.'

I must confess that what actually stopped me from flinging into the flames in that instant was the fact that the thing knew my name. I realize that seems irrelevant in the face of what it had already observed about the murder of Eda, but to hear ones name spoken by the creature was even more unnerving. Instead of dropping it in the fire, I stood it on a chest next to my chair. 'Speak,' I commanded.

He looked darkly at my sword, still impaled in his chest and I obliged and withdrew it. There was no sign of any blood or injury.

'We. We can kill many. Become ruler, Emperor... God.'

'That's treason,' I said without thinking. Then I stared at the creature more closely. 'God?'

'Hmm. True'

'H-how?'

'First, we raise a special... army. But, must trust me. Must help me.' The last word came out worryingly solicitous; 'meeee.'

'How?' I repeated.

'Say yes.' He appeared rather excited; his ears, which I had hardly noted before, were moving up and down in a slightly repulsive manner.

'Huh?'

'SAY YES!'

'Yes.'

Letting out what must have been a whoop of joy, the creature stood upright on its spindly little legs. I sensed I was in danger but there was no time to do anything about it and anyway, my weapon had already proven useless. Launching himself forward, he leapt towards me - the horrific vision of his scaly slimy wasted body and the rows of glinting teeth will be imprinted on my memory forever - instinctively I raised my arms to fend off his attack but nothing happened. Or rather, there seemed to be no impact. One moment he was there and the next...

There was a sound, I later realized on reflection; a wetness sound. At first though I gazed around the room somewhat stupefied, and for a few moments at least I was willing to put my weird little visitor down to being a dream; a side effect of the tiredness and the wine. I sat back down in my chair rather heavily and, as I did so, my night-robe fell open to the waist. I let out an involuntary wail of terror.

I was just in time to see the tip of a scaly, pointed brown tail disappear into the skin of my belly.

I knew him now. Sensed his power, his directionless hatred and his searing ambition. He was in me.

By dusk, over seven hundred Fine lay dead in the field. Smoke and sparks drifted lazily across the valley from the north as the smell of burning wood and flesh mingled in the still air. No wind blew to clear the fug, so the smoke gathered in pockets along the lea of the hillside and clung close to the ground as if to blanket the dying.

The General surveyed the scene with little emotion. It was a victory of sorts he supposed, but when the opposition was so pitiably disorganised it meant little; and he had lost over two hundred, perhaps as many as three hundred men himself. The Fine may have been unequal in battle but they fought with a passion that the Shoreth would be hard pressed to find within themselves. He had watched as they charged his horsemen on foot with massive pikes held before them - surely they must have known that once the wood splintered, they would be defenceless against the second wave of riders, on foot against mounted foe. Yes, they must have known, surely someone had thought things through... but there was precious little evidence of this.

The uprising must be crushed, he thought. He turned his horse around, back towards the encampment. General Vezul found himself anticipating some warmed wine and perhaps some small morsel of food when he arrived back. Although he had not eaten since the previous night, the smells of battle always turned his stomach for a couple of days.

He rode back towards Durghanti, his eyes slitted against the glare of the setting sun. Along the path his men were crucifying as many of the dead and wounded as they could manage. It was the only way Onrir would receive their souls into the afterlife as they were Godless creatures as far as Vezul could tell. He had given orders to only release the souls of those who appeared in command or carried weapons of status. Making this distinction was difficult for his men he knew, the Fine were strangely without much sign of rank or leadership.

A strangled cry rang out into the still air, swiftly followed by a curse. Vezul did not look at the prostrate man whose agonies were being further exacerbated by iron nails. He does not understand the honour I do him.

Behind him, the rays of the sunset tinged the smoke with red and a hush began to descend on the carnage which had been the battlefield as the wounded succumbed to their plight or were dispatched by his soldiers. It was a strange quiet, one which he recognised from many previous battles; later, there would be celebration perhaps, but now, only a crushing soul weariness was felt by the survivors. Vezul knew he was lucky to be able to rest. Already, his limbs felt heavy and his eyes tired as adrenaline drained from his system. The thought of his own rooms in Durghanti seemed the luxury of kings but only served to remind him how close the Fine had come to reclaiming their lost city.

He was woken just before dawn. His footman, Jorrd was shaking his arm in a frantic motion. 'General... General... Sir...'

'Alright Jorrd,' he snapped. 'What's wrong?' The room was still in darkness although a faint, pre-dawn light was filtering beneath the shutters.

'I don't know Sir. They've sent a horse for you. To take you back to the field Sir...'

Vezul frowned. 'Who? Who ordered this?'

'It's just some soldier Sir. I don't...'

'Alright Jorrd. I'll see to it. Just pass me my cloak.'

It had begun to rain. Outside the air was fresh and earthy, few people were moving around. Vezul sourly acknowledged the salute of the nervous looking young soldier who had obviously galloped up the hill to find him - the flanks of his roan were steaming in the chill.

'Who sent you lad?'

'Lieutenant Dirark, Sir.'

Vezul said nothing else. It didn't surprise him - bright young officer though he was, Dirark seemed incapable of decision making in the field. He spurred his horse forward, whilst silently cursing his junior for disturbing him but knowing it was merely a consequence of command.

It took only a short time to reach the ridge where a few of the officers were gathered in a strangely vulnerable looking huddle. The rain was deceptive; Vezul's cloak and breeches had already soaked through and his mood had not improved any. He reined in his horse and snapped down at Dirark without dismounting.

'What's going on Dirark?' He almost bit back the words when the younger man raised his face to look up at him. The expression there was one of stark fear and while he may have been indecisive, Dirark was no coward.

'L - look Sir.' He pointed back toward the battlefield and Vezul walked his horse forward to survey the scene once more. The gloom was lifting as a reluctant dawn painted the valley in forgiving silver light. The smoke had cleared away and...

'I don't see... what...'

His Lieutenant had come to stand by his horse but even as he spoke, the realisation hit home to Vezul and he muttered a whispered curse.

'It's the bodies Sir,' Dirark said. 'They've vanished. All of them.'

It was coming again. Nausea. It hit the pit of her stomach like a brick wrapped in fun fur. Effie bunched her legs into a tighter foetal position and opened her mouth instinctively to vomit without opening her eyes. Realization of what she'd done was instant as the warm rush spread across her pillow and into her hair. No words seemed adequate for her misery so Effie groaned, an equally sick, heartfelt sound.

She tried to open her eyes but they were sticky, crusted with sleep; the chaotic mess of her apartment, filtered through her lashes, appeared as bright flashes and bars of colour, reminding her of her own paintings.

'I could be dying,' she thought. The pain made the thought seem prosaic, un-dramatic. 'It was a bad 'e'. I could die... Still, she felt unable to move even though the sick was stinking and seeping into the pillow. She remembered the club, the thrumming of the music, the endless, mindless noise; and the boy. Some smiling arrogant boy giving her the tiny pill as if it were a breath mint, as if it were nothing, no big deal. What else had he given her? That stuff - that date rape stuff? She had no idea, but the slow realisation was dawning that if she didn't move soon, she would be in real bad trouble. She was really cold.

Again, his face flashed across her thoughts; a pleasant face, attractive in a rather feminine sense, but there had been something... something about the curl of his lips and the assurance in his gaze... A dull wave of anger flooded through her and the boy at least did her one favour, as the anger motivated her to move. Snapping her eyes open she pitched herself deliberately off the side of the futon.

She landed in cold pool of yet more vomit and her arm slipped out from beneath her sending her crashing into further indignity on the carpet. 'Ah, yuck...' she wrinkled her nose, her eyes watering again in disgust and fear. How much could one person vomit for chrissakes? A pain surged up through her stomach as she struggled to get onto her hands and knees. In the calm, distant part of her consciousness which was watching with some bemusement, she noted that she was wearing a camisole and knickers so at least she had managed to undress and get into the bed in the first place. The question of whether or not she had been alone and accomplished the task unaided still nagged her but she had more pressing things to consider.

'Ahhh,' she heard herself making the sound as she arched her torso into a cat-like stretch. It must be bad she thought, expressions of pain in an empty room were like unsolicited laughter; it had to be very bad or very funny.

Her vision was still swimming as she moved toward the orange blur of the easy-chair - the phone was just there, on the table, she should phone an ambulance. But what then? She could get into trouble. They would accuse her of... stuff. She stopped her slow-motion crawl and retched again but there was nothing left to vomit so it was just sore and dry. How long was it taking her to reach the chair? 'Fuck,' she said quietly. Her voice sounded frightened. There was a sound then. She couldn't quite identify it at first; it was quite sweet, repetitive...

'Miss Morgan? Miss Morgan?'

Police! Oh god!

'Go away,' she quavered, vaguely aware of the stupidity of calling out. She was nearly at the phone now. Grabbing hold of the edge of the seat, Effie attempted to haul herself upright. She failed as the leather cushion slid towards her and, losing her momentum, she fell back into a sitting position on the floor. Making a desperate attempt she grabbed for the phone and managed to knock the handset to the ground. Picking it up she cradled the cold plastic against her forehead as she tried to collect her thoughts.

'Are you in there? Effie Morgan? I can hear...' There was a pause as if the person was considering giving up. Maybe it's not the police.

'Look I need to talk to you urgently...' He had a funny voice, an accent she couldn't quite place...

'Go away.' The nausea came again - this time her gut had found some reserves of liquid. She stared down at the newly wet handset distantly wondering if she could still dial through the vomit. It seemed funny. Messy. She giggled weakly.

'Are you alright?' The voice again. Accompanied by banging on the door.

'No,' she said it too quietly. He wouldn't hear her. The banging came again and she watched in slo-mo the way the wood of the door flinched against the hinges with each bang. 'No...' Darkness bloomed in the centre of her vision; a poisoned but not unwelcome flower. She was blacking out. 'NO!' She tried to say it loudly but the sound... the sound was taken from her as her breath failed.

As she woke, chill air played against the skin of her forearm; the kind of chill which presages snow, wet cleanness. Someone had opened the window - Effie sniffed - good idea, the flat stank of sick. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she opened her eyes.

A tall, extremely good-looking man was standing at the sink in the corner of her little bed-sit staring somewhat incongruously at the floral pillowcase he was washing. He's... Effie frowned, trying to gather her thoughts - she felt somewhat cheated to still be so vague - thought she was better. But she was still seeing things... surely. He was an Indian, an American Indian... no, get it right Euphemia, a Native American. He was wearing really dinky gold rimmed glasses which seem to glow against the warm pallor of his skin.

He turned towards her, sensing her scrutiny, and smiled a broad white smile. God, he's gorgeous. Suddenly aware and vulnerable, she shrank further into the quilt, bending her knees in front of her. 'You're a very lucky young woman Miss Morgan,' he said. His voice was warm deepness but she detected a note of accusation there. Did he know about the drugs? She glanced around the room which this complete stranger was in the midst of clearing up; it was wrecked. Worse, she wasn't sure if she was the guilty party, maybe it had been... the boy. She groaned. 'So. What? You're my father now?'

Ha. That's funny. He'd never care enough to wash my... she glanced at the soapy fabric in the strangers hands. Oh no. Not those. The Native American pulled a prim expression. Strange. You'd think a gorgeous hallucination would be more fun...

'Gee, I believe the word you're grasping for is 'thanks,' he said. 'It's possible I just saved your life.

'Yeah. Right. Let's not get carried away here...' she shifted uncomfortably in the bed. Someone's taken the pillow away. Oh yeah... she remembered.

'Studied chemistry have we?'

'What?'

'Do you know what those trashy little pills can do to your liver?' He strode over to the futon and handed her a mug of hot, black tea. 'Here, drink something.'

She scowled but took the mug from him. 'What's going on here? Who the hell are you?'

'My name's Yiska. And the way I see it, Effie Morgan, you owe me a favour.'

***

'Look... thanks... but I'm fine now. Honestly. You can go.' Effie smiled her sweetest most confident smile at Yiska. Oh no. A favour? We all know what that'll be...

Anyway, I'm... expecting someone.' She fidgeted with the lapels of her bathrobe fighting the desire to pull it tight across her chest, to hold it close and closed.

'Yes,' he seemed unperturbed. 'The police apparently. Or your dealer.'

'I'm not an addict if that's what you think,' she fumed.

'No. Of course not.' He said it with no inflection in his beautiful, rich-brown voice but she sensed his careful implication. Still, he made no move towards her and she was warily grateful for that. He sat down on the orange leather chair.

Back up. Back up... Effie's head was beginning to clear as the tea delivered a little kick of caffeine. Whoa. 'Shit. How do you know my name? What is this?'

Yiska sighed. 'Well, it's difficult to know where to begin...'

'Could you speak faster - could you get to the effing point?'

'We're not all on amphetamines Miss Morgan.'

Ouch.

'Just hear me out and then, if you think I'm insane, I'll go. I promise.'

'Okay.'

Right. My paternal uncle has had a series of dreams. Scottish type of dreams. Battles, people in kilts, Braveheart kinda stuff. He was worried, felt that someone needed his help. Someone sent those dreams to him.' He paused infuriatingly and sipped his own tea. 'We Navaho set great store by our dreams... Anyway, he sent me to Scotland, thought he could identify a place - which came in one of the dreams - by its landmarks. He asked me to do a Ghost Dance there, thinking that the spirit of one of our ancestors was trying to reach us...'

Jeez... 'And what happened? Did your ancestors contact you?' Effie tried to look interested.

'Not exactly, no...'

'Fer chrissakes! This is takin' far too long an' she disnae believe you anyhow. Jist look at her face!'

Effie felt herself go cold; completely cold down to her toes. Then hot. Her face was flushed, felt like it was on fire. Sweat instantaneously pooled in the hollows of the clavicle bones of her neck. A man had appeared... yes, 'appeared' was the only word... beside Yiska's chair. He was wearing a long green kilt - not a fancy dress kilt, but a real functional garment - he had red, kind of ropey, hair and was carrying a massive sword. Oh yeah, and she could see through him because he was a...

'...ghost? Nonononono... this can't be right. This is not good. This is ungood.' Her voice wavered slightly and she looked pointedly at Yiska, hoping that the ghost will simply vanish again once removed from her line of vision. 'You were right,' she garbled, 'I'm sorry... about the drugs I mean... make it go away.'

Yiska looked annoyed. It seemed he could see the ghost too because he frowned towards it. 'Now look what you've done. You've frightened her.'

'Look hen' the ghost tried to smile encouragingly, showing a nasty expanse of gum, 'ah'm sorry like. But we've no got time tae mess around. We're looking fer Duncan. Duncan Talisker.'

'What?' The request threw her. It must be some weird paranoid shit. Oh god, damage has been done to my brain...

'You are Effie Morgan right? Daughter of Shula Morgan who was killed by a de... serial killer?'

Effie was losing it completely now. Tears flooded down her cheeks and she felt a strangled sob trapped in her throat. 'No... yes, I mean. My mum...' she wiped her face on the sleeve of her dressing gown, 'my mum was killed in a car crash when I was young.'

The ghost narrowed his eyes. 'Is that what they telt ye? Well, ah'm no surprised.'

'M-make it go away!' The sob escaped her, making her voice a thin, pathetic wail but she didn't care.

'Oh very good Malky,' Yiska frowned. 'Yeah, very smooth.'

'Ah'm sorry like. I thought they'd tell her when she was old enough.'

'It's not like being told you're adopted or anything is it?'

'Do you know where Duncan is hen? If no, what aboot Sandro? Alessandro Chaplin.'

'Uncle Sandro? He's not here.' She rubbed her eyes which were hot and itchy from the tears and looked back hopefully, but the ghost was still there.

'Oh.' He looked deflated. 'Well. I dinnae ken what tae do Yiska. They're the only two folk who'd be able tae shed any light on yer premonitions.'

She was calming down a bit now. Granted, it was a bizarre kind of calm; a ghost and a Native American were in her living room and she was still mostly convinced that she was hallucinating. She realised then that the real burden of hallucinations might be deciding what was part of the hallucination and what was real. For instance, Yiska might have been real or he might be part of the whole thing. She might be entirely alone. In fact - and she felt her heart quicken at this thought - she might be unconscious in a pool of vomit still, lying over there by the leather chair. Maybe if she sank down under the duvet and closed her eyes it would all be gone when she really, really did wake up. 'Uncle Sandro's in Sicily with Aunty Bea,' she murmured. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the pillow, wiping her tears away as she did so.

There was a plastic sound in the background and then the purring of a dial tone near her face. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes again to look into Yiska's face. He didn't say anything though, just held the receiver of the phone demandingly. She groaned - the ghost was still there, she could see him behind Yiska's shoulder.

'Call 'im. Telly... telephone him, whatever it's called. Say Malky's here and he needs to find Duncan. It's urgent.'