Okay, so, I know I said there was a big post coming today but it looks like I may have jumped the gun a little.

The big post will now be going up on November 16th.

To forment hype and speculation, here is a picture of Kylo Ren.

What does the post have to do with Star Wars? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Or does it?

No.

Get hyped anyway.

While you enjoy your “candy” and chortle at hokey horror movies and generally have a grand old time spare a thought, won’t you, for us here in Ireland as we cower in UTTER TERROR as the Dagda withdraws his protection and every foul dead and demonic thing swarms through the open sidhe to prey on our terrified populace as happens every Samhain. No. No. Enjoy your “trick or treats” (for us, there is only “trick”. Only ever “trick”.) Listen to “The Monster Mash” as we cover our ears from the mind-shattering screams of the banshee. Have fun carving your pumpkin Jack O’Lanterns.

See this? It’s a medieval Irish Jack O’Lantern. It’s carved from a turnip. Lower your ear to its mouth, and it will tell you the hour of your death.

But anyway, I have briefly left the safety of the Samhain bunker to let you know that there is a BIG update coming on the 8th of November. Something really cool. Something I can’t talk about yet. But it’s big. Or it will be, if I survive. OH CRAP I’VE BEEN SEEN!

“THERE YOU ARE! OH MAN, I LOVE THIS TIME OF YEAR!”

“Please! Let me live! Take one of the continents!”

“”ONE OF”? SORRY BUDDY, I ALREADY FUSED THEM INTO ONE MASSIVE CONTINENT FOR MY OWN TWISTED AMUSEMENT!”

“MOOOUSSE…HELP…US…”

“God I hate Halloween.”

CHAPTER 5: THE BLACK SCORPION

I am not weak, thought Mabus.

I am strong, and Hell has made me so.

As he stood on the balcony of the Chamber gazing out at his city he gripped the railing and felt the solid stones beneath his feet. I am solid, he thought. I am durable. I am not a wet lump of tissue and nerve endings bottled in a glass womb, I am free. I am whole. I am strong.

And Hell has made me so.

“Master?”

Mabus turned to Groethuis.

“Forgive me Doctor.” he said “I was somewhere else.”

“Where, if I might be so bold to ask?”

“Out there.” he said, stretching a spindle-like finger out to where the line of the storm broke and blurred the red horizon. “He’s out there waiting for us. Out there is Dis, the infernal city. Pandaemonium, where the devils hold council in golden chambers. Out there is Caina, Antenora, Ptolomea…Out there is Judecca. Out there is the Black Throne. And out there…”

He paused.

“Out there is a little girl looking for her father.”

He fell silent.

(more…)

CHAPTER 4: IN THE ETERNAL HURRICANE

He wondered where she was now.

Often he would hear the men talking, telling that they had seen her, a red-haired girl far in the distance struggling against the raging wind.

Last night as he had lain in his tent he had heard a lone voice singing in the darkness, low and clear through the never-ending wolf howl of the storm.

“Marie most innocent”

“Hear my song.”

“Watch over me.”

“And lead me through the night.”

Already they were singing hymns to her. And often when watches were changed in the night the standard salute of “Ave Mabus” was answered with “Et Ave Marie.”

Cole wondered if Mabus knew that he was now sharing his divinity with her in the minds of his soldiers. He wondered what it was about her that appealed to them.

He supposed that it was the idea of a girl descending into Hell out of love for her father, someone who didn’t have to be here but chose to be. But he knew his men, and he would not have thought them prone to sentiment. Devotion to her had sprung up almost overnight and had taken him completely by surprise.

Where would it end? Two days before a Hussar had been knifed in the mess for telling a rather gruesome joke about her death.

Maybe it was because they needed more than Mabus could give them. Mabus could inspire them, rally them, threaten them, terrify them. But he could not love them. Mabus could send them out into the desert. But only Marie could care whether they lived or died. At least, so it was in their heads.

Cole opened his eyes and watched the darkness. For tradition’s sake he pulled at the chains but they held as firm as ever. He remembered the first thing he always told a squad before he took them out on a sortie. “Die before you let them take you prisoner. Always. Do not let these things take you alive.”

Great advice Cole, he thought to himself. If only you weren’t the only one in the squad who hadn’t followed it.

“Your move.”

“Do I even have a chance of beating you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Way I was trained. I have to be able to predict any possible outcome. So if I’m in a fight and there’s more than one guy, I have to be able to out-think any plan they might come up with and I have to do it quickly. War is like chess, that’s why it was invented, to train princes and generals to think tactically. So just like I can see any outcome of a fight, I can see any outcome of a chess game.”

“So I can’t beat you?”

“No. Your move.”

Isabella blew a clump of black hair out of her eyes with a grumpy huff and moved a bishop three squares diagonally.

“Check.” she said, without much enthusiasm.

“Good move.” he said kindly and moved a pawn forward, trapping her bishop. Isabella swore under her breath.

“Where did you learn to play?” he asked, lining up the pieces he had conquered in neat little formations.

“Mariana.” she muttered, her hand covering her mouth as she tried desperately to rescue the board.

Cole didn’t say anything. Mariana was a taboo subject.

She had been foster mother to Marie and Isabella and had perished along with all the other Temporal Adepts when Mabus had bombed their council. Marie and Isabella had been spirited away by Mabus, and had ended up in the Scorpion’s unlikely care. Now Marie was gone, traded by Mabus to the demon Rashgiel, and Isabella was left alone, with only Cole for company. Their relationship was complex. On the one hand, Isabella was very grateful to have Cole. On the other, she could never forget that he worked for the man who had taken everything away from her.

“Cole, what did you do?” Isabella asked him.

“What?”

“Well, you were going to Hell, weren’t you? That’s why you joined with Mabus.”

Her dark eyes seemed to be probing him. He wondered how someone so young could look so sick of life.

“What did you do?” she asked him.

“I killed a lot of people.” he said simply “That’s the long and short of it.”

(more…)

CHAPTER 3: A MAN RETURNS TO A BAR

In a cell so small that the walls pressed in on his shoulders, back and chest Thomas Hieronimo squatted in perfect stillness like a fly caught in amber.

He had been here so long he had begun to forget what he looked like, and now when he thought of himself, he saw himself as sensations, four points of pain in blackness. And yet, he knew that he was not hungry or thirsty. And that terrified him, because if he had not been here long enough to become hungry or thirsty, if he had really only been here hours, or maybe even minutes…

He screamed suddenly and he felt his scream shiver along the walls like rippling water.

If he had only been here for minutes, then what would the years feel like?

Then suddenly, there was a creaking and Thomas was bathed in yellow light and his darkness-gorged eyes became pinpoints of agony.

Through streaming tears he could see two figures silhouetted against the light, black as death

Minutes later he was being marched through the hallways of the Combat Tower with two Red Scorpions behind him. Every joint in his body was screaming in pain but he refused to let it show. If these goons were marching him to a firing squad he’d be damned if he’d give them the entertainment value of a silly walk.

The walked what seemed like a mile of grey floor and wall before reaching a tiny green door.

One of the Reds opened it, roughly shoved Thomas inside.

In the elevator, crushed between the two Reds, Thomas came dangerously close to panicking.

Just when he felt his last nerve about to snap the door opened and they were out in hallway.

Another mile of grey floor and wall was walked.

Another door, larger this time, black.

The Red pressed a button.

Thomas watched the door swing open and felt hands grip either shoulder.

This is it, he thought.

He was quite surprised therefore to find himself flung roughly through the air and onto the street.

He leaped to his feet, ignoring his protesting muscles, and proceeded to brush the sand off his clothes.

Sand?

That wasn’t right.

He turned to face the two Reds.

“Go on.” said one “Beat it.”

(more…)

CHAPTER 2: THE SANDSTORM

It had come from nowhere, a great brawling, howling, sucking monster of a sandstorm that tore at her face with granite claws and seared her ears with it’s wail. She felt like she was in a storm of razors as they struggled blindly over dune and down crevice. Finally she felt Angela’s strong, bony hand clasp her by the elbow and her mouth at her ear screaming “We have to stop! It’s getting too bad.”

Unable to answer without getting a mouthful of sand, Marie simply nodded. She dropped to the ground and pulled her dress over her head. She was now in a tiny little sunless world, the storm a dull roar around her head. Then she felt Angela’s cloak being thrown over her, and the world expanded as she pulled the dress down and looked around. The cloak was barely big enough to cover her shoulders. She held the fabric close to her and hunkered down. She could make out the huddled outlines of Angela, Geoff, Hannah and…where was Tristan?

Angela and Marie peered out from under the cloak and looked desperately around.

“There!” Angela called out and pointed to a tiny figure in the distance, stumbling pathetically and screaming in pain as the sand tore at his face.

“Get back under!” Marie called “I’ll get him.”

Without waiting for a reply, she closed her eyes and concentrated.

She was in a meadow, watching a rabbit amble softly over a grassy knoll, green and dashed with yellow cowslips.

She opened her eyes. All was still.

The roar of the storm was now a gentle, deep, loving croon. The grains of sand hung in the air, turning ever so slowly, softly, softly. The sky was in need of a good dusting.

The distant figure of Tristan, infinitely clearer in the frozen storm, stood out stark and rigid.

Marie ran towards it.

Behind her, the statue like figure of Angela began to slowly change, as a look of shock and amazement spread over it’s glacial face. The eyes widened, the jaw slowly grew slack with the wonder of seeing this young girl seemingly run like the wind.

Marie was not really running any faster than she normally could. She had simply slowed down time around her, so that she could cover the distance before Tristan could wander even further away.

Her feet lightly touched the sand, the footprints only forming several seconds after she had run on.

She loved this. Once, she had only been able to do it unconsciously, and had associated it with danger, fear and death.

Now, it was something she could do at will. Just stop the noise and the chaos, and everything would become still and beautiful.

She reached out and touched Tristan, releasing the slow time bubble around her.

And reeled as he punched her full in the face.

She lay on the sand , her head swimming. The pain ground her skull beneath it’s iron thumb.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She had come up behind him too quickly. Most likely she had scared the life out of him and he had responded with instinct.

Shielding her eyes against the hissing sand, she got shakily to her feet. Her face was on fire but, oddly, there was no blood.

Tristan had run off, and had vanished into the maelstrom.

Marie suddenly realised that she had no idea how to get back to Angela.

She heard a roaring in the distance. And something told her it was not the storm.

She felt for her blade. It was there.

She felt for her comb. It was not.

Her hands plunged into the sand, desperately clawing through the grains hoping to feel a thin sliver of bone. It was gone.

No, no, no, no, no…

She was now blind, the storm had become so bad, and still she scraped and dug, hoping against all odds that she’d find the one and only thing that gave her a link to her father. When she felt it’s coolness in her hand, she felt his hand on her shoulder. It’s scent was the musky aroma of his beard. It was a wand that could conjure her father’s spirit from beyond the grave.

(more…)