PROLOGUE – PART 1

Death stalked the field. As the last of the sun's rays winked out of the sky, a heavy shroud settled over the fields beyond Byora. It was followed by an unnatural hush that rolled in like sea-fog. Bird calls became distant before gradually fading into nothing, but as the gloom deepened there came other sounds: whispers and low, mournful cries from the torpid fens. Uncertain lights winked in the misty distance in cold imitation of life, but then even the voices of spirits and daemons quietened in the presence of something more terrifying yet. In the broken silence the darkness on the edge of the fens slowly deepened and took form.

A hooded head surveyed the still battlefield. The scarce fauna of the fens kept quieter than ever while the baleful creatures that roamed it nightly fled. The newcomer did not notice. They were not what He sought.

The night-robed figure strode forward, pausing a while to look left and right, as though scenting the air. The stink of decay was unmistakable: the rot of butchery that lingers on a killing ground long after the last corpse is buried. He saw the freshly dug heaps all around, unmarked barrows that would soon be beaten from the Land's memory by wind and rain. Around them hung pale shapes, the shades of those robbed of life and senses, unaware of everything but the emptiness within. In a fit of generosity He gestured towards them and watched the handful of lost fade to nothing, ushered towards the Herald's Hall and their Last Judgment.

In the centre of the mounds was a crude monument: upraised spears set in a circle, within which fresh skulls were piled. Above them all flapped a flag of black and red depicting a stylised skull with long, curved canines.

Buried beneath was a corpse, a young man killed before his time, but that was not why He lingered. There was a scent on the air, one unsuited to a cold, muddy field where the promise of rain hung in the air. It spoke of fire and pain: an echo of horror etched into the earth.