'Once, a long time ago, man understood the nature of spirit. His deeds caused it to flower, and he lived in harmony with the creatures of earth and spirit. Then came more and more men like the Cold Killer and his masters, Banouin. Selfish, greedy, small men who drank of the spirit but did not replenish it. And the creatures of spirit began to pass away, drifting across the multitudes of universes in search of more pleasant habitations. With immeasurable lack of speed this earth began to die. Oh, it will take many thousands of years, but it will die when the last whisper of spirit passes.
'The men of Stone are the latest parasites. They hack down the forests, gouge the earth for precious metals, and kill and conquer, breeding hatred and malice that will last for a hundred lifetimes. They believe in nothing save themselves. That is why you are drawn to them. They are like you, Banouin, utterly selfish. Yes, Bane is violent, and some of his deeds do him no credit. But when he risked himself to save the horse he added to the spirit of the world. He fed the earth. And when he came into this house to save the innocent he fed it again – this time with his blood. You did not remember my warning, did you, Banouin? No man conquers fear by running away from it. Now go away from here. Enter the rats' nest that is Stone. Become a part of the death of the world.'
She turned away from him and returned to the bedside.
Banouin stumbled from the room, and ran out into the night.
The man had no idea where he was, save that the sky was grey and gloomy, and there were no trees, no flowers, no grass. All around him the hillside was covered with grey dust, and tall, jutting boulders the colour of smoke. He felt pain and glanced down at his chest. A flame was burning on his skin, turning the flesh black around it. He slapped at it with his hand, but the flame burned on.
Something moved to his right. He swung round, sword in hand, and saw a huge serpent slither into view. It was colourless, and as it moved it left a white slime upon the grey dust. The man backed away from the creature. Suddenly it reared up, its head flashing towards him. For a moment only he was shocked into immobility. The head of the serpent was human, though its fangs were long as knives.
At the last possible moment the man snapped into action, his sword cleaving through the thick neck of the snake. The creature disappeared in an instant. More and more strange creatures appeared from behind the rocks, and the man felt his skin crawl as he heard their moans. He stood, sword in hand, and watched as the creatures edged towards him. Some slithered on their bellies, others crawled, their talons pulling them forward. Still more crept on all fours, bright yellow eyes staring at him with open malevolence. A scaled beast darted forward, then leapt. He stepped in to meet it, sending his sword slashing through its chest. It too disappeared in an instant.
He backed away, further up the slope. There were scores of the creatures now, and more were coming. Each one of them was demonic in appearance, and yet all carried aspects of humanity, some in the eyes, others in the features or limbs. The flames were still burning on his chest, but he felt no weakness. Only pain. The ground below his feet was corpse grey, and thick with dust, which eddied up like smoke around his ankles. He had no recollection of coming to this place, no memory of a life before it. All he knew was that here, on this dark mountainside beneath a grey sky with no stars or moon, he was in deadly peril.
The beasts edged closer. He moved back. Soon, he knew, they would come at him in a rush, and there was no way he could kill them all. Their hatred enveloped him like an invisible mist, cold and unrelenting. The man moved ever up the mountainside until his back touched a wall of dark, dagger-sharp, shining glass. There was nowhere left to retreat. Within the mist of pulsing hatred he felt their unholy joy. They gathered themselves, moving around him in a semicircle, ever closer.
Then they swept forward.
In that moment a bright light burst upon the scene, and, as the man hacked and cut with his blade, he felt a presence beside him, guarding his back. From the edge of his vision he saw a sword of bright light slashing through the gloom. Once more the beasts fell back. The man's saviour strode after them, then plunged his sword into the grey earth, cutting a long curving line into the dust. Bright fire leapt up along the line, rearing high in the air, a golden half circle of flame, through which the beasts could not pass. Then the shining warrior turned back towards him. He saw that the warrior was completely human, a big man, wide-shouldered and yellow-haired, with friendly blue eyes.
'You should not be here, young Falcon,' he said. 'This is no place for the living.' Gently he laid his hand on the flames scorching the man's chest. The fires died down instantly, the pain vanishing, the skin instantly healed.
Weariness swept over the young man and he sank to the ground, laying aside his sword, and sitting with his back to the rearing cliff of black glass. 'I don't know how I came to be here,' he said. 'Where is this place? Why do you call me Falcon?'
'I call you Falcon because this is your soul-name,' said the other, sitting beside him. 'As to this evil land, it is the Vale of the Lost, a place of the damned. Your enemies were once men. Now they wander here, cursed and forlorn.'
'Why did they attack me?'
'You drew them to you, boy. You are alive. Your spirit burns them, reminding them of all they have lost. They must destroy you to end their pain.'
He looked into the face of the big man. 'And what of you? Why are you in this place?'
The yellow-haired warrior smiled. 'You drew me here, Bane. It was I who gave you your soul-name, and when your soul was in peril I sensed it. Do you know who you are?'
'You called me Falcon – and now Bane. The names are familiar, but I cannot get a grasp on where I have heard them before.'
'That happens here sometimes,' said the man. 'Sit quietly for a while. Let your mind relax. Think of a mountain, with green flanks, a cloak of woods, and peaks of white snow, like an old man's hair. Can you picture it?'
'Aye, I can.'
'Give it a name.'
'Caer Druagh,' said Bane. It was as if sunlight had suddenly pierced the darkest corners of his memory. 'I am Bane of the Rigante,' he said. 'I was with Banouin and we were travelling. Then… then…' He gave a groan. The big man placed his hand on Bane's shoulder.
'Aye, then you tried to save them.'
'I could not defeat him.'
'But you tried, boy. You almost gave your life for it. I'm proud of you.'
'Proud of failure?' Bane gave a harsh laugh.
'Aye, proud,' said the man again. 'An heroic action should never be judged on the basis of its success or failure, but on the heart, passion and courage that inspired it.'
'You are the Big Man,' said Bane.
'I am Ruathain.'
'I know of you,' Bane told him. 'You treated my mother with kindness.' He smiled suddenly. 'I always wanted to know you, Big Man.'
Ruathain clapped him on the shoulder. 'I would like nothing better than to sit and talk with you, Grandson, but the sword-flame will not last much longer, and you must make a choice. You can stay, and I will lead your soul to the Haven, or you can try to return to the world of the living.'
'Then I am not dead?'
'Not yet.'
'How do I return?'
Ruathain gestured up at the glass cliff. 'You must climb it, Bane, to the very top. It will be mercilessly hard. Agonizing. The sharp glass will cut away at you, tearing your flesh. Most men would fail. But you will not fail. Your courage and your fighting spirit will carry you on, through all the agony. Do you believe me?'