The Burning Man

5

The Grim Lands, where there is no sleep and no dreams.

Mists blanket the rocky, depressing landscape. Through the folds of grey, the dead move slowly, their whispering tread converging on a subterranean temple as desolate and heartless as anything in that place, but filled with a deep, tidal power.

Why is there a temple in the Land of the Dead? What could they worship there?

The dead do not enter, but instead gather at the entrance to the long, stone-lined tunnel that leads to the heart of the complex, in their tens and twenties, hundreds and thousands, all of the dead, from all over the Grim Lands, converging on that one place, where they wait, as silent as ever.

Why do they wait?

At the far end of the stone-lined tunnel is a great hall, carved from bedrock and lined with stone blocks. The ceiling is lost in the shadows. Wall paintings soar up into the gloom, their inhuman scale as disturbing as the images they depict. Grotesque effigies without any human characteristics stand grimly. Everywhere is still.

In the centre of the hall, on a stone plinth, lies a long marble box. Standing around it at the four cardinal points are the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders — Etain, Owein, Tannis and Branwen — as silent as their true brothers and sisters beyond the temple.

They wait, though time has no meaning to them, for an alignment of ritual and word long since put into effect. They watch the box. They listen. And as the vast army of the dead draws to a halt, the atmosphere becomes infused with dread. A hiss of sparks heralds a discharge of black energy.

In the lull that follows, a moan rises up, becoming a chant, low and somnolent. It is the dead cheering. There may be words hidden in the unearthly sound, and if there are they would be these: He is risen.

The stone lid of the box slides aside and crashes to the floor. It is the loudest noise ever heard in this hall, and its echoes reverberate for almost a minute. A hand rises from the box, followed by another, but this one is silver and mechanical. Heavily tattooed and muscular, Ryan Veitch levers himself up. He is pleased that his plan has worked and that he has not yet joined the ranks of the Grim Lands, and pleased at the response from his vast army of followers outside the temple. He is pleased also that more subtle strands are now creeping out from the spell to which he had reluctantly committed himself.

He looks around at the faces of the Brothers and Sisters of Spiders and finally settles on Etain. Her gaze is as empty as her companions’, but Veitch sees something.

‘Come on, darlin’,’ he says with a grin. ‘Did you really doubt that I’d be back?’