Lost Eden

by Jayme F. Midorikawa

A dead Empress released from purgatory is now on a quest for vengeance. A slave woman is crucified for scandalizing her overseer. A gladiator chained by honor and loyalty to his father's imperial crown becomes a weapon in a religious war. The Fiddler of Green has chosen, his bard song already composed of their futures.

Disclaimer:

George R.R. Martin's Game of Thrones, Joe Abercrombie' First Law, and Philip Pullman's Dark Materials stand as some of the most influential works of modern fantasy literature. From these volumes, my friend, Marius Voinescu, has found the inspiration to create "Lost Eden", a series of interwoven stories in an original setting. As a collaborative partner, my responsibility has been to publish these work-in-progress chapters. The overarching narrative borrows from the myths and folklore of Roman, Germanic and Scandinavian culture, and while not representative of the final release, readers can expect good plot structure and quality storytelling.

Sharing and critical feedback will be much appreciated.

Chapter 1

Ophelia

Blood stained the gravel where Ophelia scraped her palms. Her knees too would have collapsed, were it not for the strong arm that arrested her fall. She was lifted to her feet and pushed back into a sprint. The mountainside was now a blur of white-capped rock and black-smudged sky, the sound of Gustav's voice rasping in her ear, "Keep running, we're almost there." It was easy to focus on his words, they meant life. The howling of the hellhounds behind them promised death.

The path through the canyons was obscured by a curtain of ash that stung her eyes red. Each sharp breath brought with it sulphurous gas, leaving burning rashes on her tongue and throat. A paralyzing chill traveled down her spine as a devilish snarl echoed far too close for comfort. Then Gustav shoved her forward again.

"Highfather, protect us," she muttered through clenched teeth. Better that she met her demise standing, she pushed away her desire to run. With no chance of going back to recover her lost spear, a jagged stone would have to do. Miraculously, even under the blindness of partially shut lids, her throw found its mark. A wolf yelped in pain; then a shout quickly turned to a frothing gurgle as singing steel met flesh and bone.

With feeling and sense alone, she found the edge of Gustav's wolf-hide cloak. Grasping his waist, she removed the dagger fastened to his boot before opening one weeping eye, then another. A few feet away a black wolf trembled, limping painfully on one paw. Closer still lay the convulsing body of the pack's alpha, the top half of his muzzle hanging on by threadbare sinew.

Gustav tightly held the handle of his longsword, his weathered features dripping with sweat. "Save yourself, I won't have you risk your life for me as you did with Christian."

"I will not abandon you!" she shouted, and now it was her turn to pull him forward. The remaining predators were already making their cautious, steady approach.

Looking over her shoulder, Ophelia reassured herself that they hadn't lost their two companions. Sabina, the dark-skinned woman from Caliban, and Natalie, the youngest, whose pale features and small frame had acclimatized poorly to the conditions in purgatory.

Sabina's otherwise emerald eyes gave off a bluish glow, while her hands danced through the air. Over the din of beasts growling, the poetry of rhythmic chanting could be heard. A sonorous eruption cut through the air. Like the boom of a powderkeg blast, it was followed by a shower of blood, and tissue, and shattered bone.

Gustav pulled his hood and cloak about him, shielding himself from the debris. If she'd not been holding on to him, Ophelia might have lost her balance, as well as the contents of her stomach. As the air cleared, she realized the dead wolf's corpse had exploded. His remaining pack members, now drenched in gore, wobbled on their legs in a daze.

Sabina took off like a shot. Ophelia cursed, realizing she was abandoning them again. The others followed in her wake and found themselves over the threshold of a large plateau. The open plain of dry grass and thorn bushes would offer little cover. Here they had no chance of outrunning the wolves who were still chasing them. Natalie had almost caught up to Sabina before a wave of pressure came down on them. A hurricane wind threw her back; she would surely have collapsed if Ophelia's arms hadn't caught her.

Curtains of dust and ash billowed, then parted as the clouds released a torrential downpour. Through the mist, they saw what Sabina was running toward: a tall tower covered in clinging vines on the peak of a rugged cliff. A bolt of lightning struck the husk of a withered tree behind them, the wolves yelping away in fear as it burst into flames. When the group had climbed the short flight of stairs to the tower's entrance, Natalie, Ophelia, and Gustav found the door already closed. Sabina had passed through and left them outside.

"Let us in, let us in!" Natalie shouted, banging on the door with her closed fists.

Gustav shoved her aside. Taking a firm grip of the blade of his sword he used it as a hammer, smashing the pommel into the door's lock. Although worn and pitted with rust, the mechanism didn't break. Just as he drew a stiff breath and raised his arms for a third attempt, the door handle slowly turned. Natalie huddled behind the old warrior, his sword still raised as they slipped through the opened door before it closed again, the bolts sliding into place as if by magic.

A few oil lamps set in niches revealed Sabina standing next to the staircase. Her hands covering her ears, her mouth open wide as though a horrified scream emerged from her throat. But there was no sound. What was more curious was that nothing could be heard from outside. Not the wolves, the rain, or the crack of thunder. The room vibrated with the soft, dark melody of a violinist expressively touching the strings of his instrument.

"Ya mangle headed fucking bitch! What were you thinking of, locking us out for?" Gustav shouted at Sabina. When he'd realized no reaction was forthcoming, Gustav adjusted the grip on his sword and took a step forward, stopping only when Ophelia tugged on the sleeve of his gambeson.

When he looked at her, the old warrior's eyes went wide and his mouth hung open. A sizable piece of skin was peeling from her cheek. She quivered like a leaf, and drew in mouthfuls of breath as quickly as she blew them back out. "I need my morphine, I need my morphine," Ophelia muttered. Was this another of her agonizing moments of rejecting death? No, this was different, as Natalie also seemed curiously changed by the place.

Gustav took Ophelia into his arms, his head coming close to hers. His lips almost touched her forehead before he realized what he was doing and stopped himself. "There, there, it's fine. You don't need any of that today," he said as he began gently stroking her head. "No need to be afraid of an old spirit playing a fiddle."

"No, you don't understand. I am not in pain, all I can feel is joy. We are in the house of The Fiddler, the angel of death." Natalie looked as though she were in a trance, her movements were as slow and graceful as those of a dancer. Her words too were calm and melodious. "Yes, his music is absolutely divine."

A loud scream escaped Sabina's lips. She picked herself back up only to trip on the moth-eaten carpet. After taking it off the floor she wrapped it around herself as though wanting to steal it, rushed for the door, and began pulling on the latches. None of them opened. "We must leave, we must leave."

The music abruptly halted in the middle of a rising crescendo. A voice with the pitch and resonance of a gong took its place. It moved with such force that it pushed the lamp flames into flickering flashes. "You are wanted upstairs." Gustav turned to look at Natalie. She was trembling, her breath coming out like wisps of smoke, and her features looked as though she'd awakened from a dream. Sucking in a deep breath, she straightened her back and appeared to be at ease. The old warrior gave her a curt nod. He let Ophelia wrap herself around his right arm before pointing towards Sabina with his left hand. "Bring the damned viper with you and follow us. We need to get to the bottom of this," he said before turning to walk up the stairs with his partner.

They had only come halfway up before a slap and a shout broke the silence. "Do not dare touch me, you stupid inbred peasant girl!" Natalie shielded her face and sniffed as she looked up. All Gustav could do, however, was shake his head and yell over the railing. "Then move on your own damn feet and get up here. We're obviously not leaving through the front door."

When all four had gathered in the hall above, they had a moment to gaze around it in amazement. While most of the white plaster was flaking and decaying, the room's furnishings contrasted sharply. The massive, richly sculpted fireplace, the elegant baroque tapestries, the disorganized and empty violin cases all contrived to give it a character of divine absurdity. "Never seen a place like this in all of purgatory," Gustav murmured, the others nodded in agreement.

Apart from the crackling of embers, and rain falling against the room's solitary window, all was quiet. The tower's owner spoke again. "There is a basin of clean water in the center. Wash, and I shall be with you later." The voice was closer and clearly belonged to an aged gentleman; it was strong, yet sweet, like well-matured brandy. "Water for cleaning dirt? I'm sick and tired of looking for enough of the stuff that's fresh enough to drink." Gustav scoffed. He tugged on the top section of his gambeson to ventilate his chest, but as he did so, his nostrils flared and he grimaced. It was obvious that he smelled, and he probably thought his companions stank even worse, yet he was never rude enough to mention it.

Ophelia hesitantly approached the bronze fountain bowl, lightly dipping her hands in the crystal clear liquid. She lowered her head, the long dirty brown hair falling like a curtain over her face. When she looked up, her melancholic gaze found Gustav. "Does, does it look bad?" she said, pointing a wet finger at her cheek. He marched up and took a firm grip on her shoulders. "No, no, it doesn't look bad. We can clean it up nicely." Without warning, he tilted her face upwards and leaned in. Ophelia squealed in surprise as she realized he was kissing her scar with his cracked lips. "Does it still hurt?"

Placing both her hands against his chest, she gently shoved him back. "If things were different, I would accept and enjoy this. But I have to stop you before you commit a sin."

He let out a sigh as his shoulders slumped and sat down on the floor. "I won't push you, but you must have realized there's no salvation for any of us?" They took turns soaking off the grime, the ash, and the congealed blood off their skin.

For a while, they were left alone and remained isolated in that room. Sleep would not take them, and soon paranoid thoughts began to prey on them. They felt like a herd of sheep waiting either to return to green pastures, or greet the butcher's knife. Huddled together on the floor, they stared into the fire, imagining they were bathing in the warmth of the sun during clear summer days; though that memory was as distant as a fleeting dream. And yet the image remained, it strengthened their resolve and helped them relax. Without realizing it, they dozed off.

When Ophelia awoke, she saw Gustav by the window. He was absently playing with one of the dried paws of his wolfskin pelt while drawing runes on the foggy glass. Outside, it was still raining. Natalie was next to her, pouring water into a cup that she offered with a smile. She took it and responded with a smirk of her own. Unsurprisingly, she noticed that Sabina was sitting apart, staring at a wall with her back turned towards them.

Ophelia heard her whispering, but had to strain her ears to catch the words. "Why can't I sleep, why can't I hear you? It must be the damned Fiddler, his cursed music is keeping me awake." Was Sabina actually saying these words, or was it her skill? After all, she had a talent for speaking in two voices. One that was heard, and one that was not. Ophelia was curious and envious of how Sabina's flesh did not decay as did her own or that of the other spirits she'd met in purgatory.

As she listened, however, she realized there was still music playing. It softly reverberated through the walls as though a concert group was now in session right above their heads. But how could that be? The Fiddler of Green was one being. Were there other angels who worked with him in transporting the dead to this forsaken place? No answer was forthcoming. Instead, she heard Gustav speaking to himself, although he clearly wanted to be heard.

"Rest in peace, brother Christian. I wish we could have saved you. But I will keep the flame burning, I will not rest until we bring Magnus back to our clan."

"Gustav, I am sorry," said the older woman, shaking her head, "but you saw how badly he was bleeding. If we had carried him with us the beasts would have followed his trail. You know we can't keep a dying person with us, not unless someone gets... ideas." Her breath hitched as though the thought was more damnable than uttering heresies in a place of communion. Her bowels were tight, breath still reeked of wild onions and nettles, but she could never forget the fates of those who took to eating human flesh. At least tonight she's not been woken from her sleep by ghoulish nightmares.

He turned on her with a scowl. That frown and the look in his eyes accused her. In truth, she felt like she deserved to be blamed, and all that was missing was for him to say it. But he didn't get the chance. Before he could utter another word, Sabina jumped to her feet and shouted at them. "Finally, you are all awake. We have to leave this damned place, my head is about to split with that cursed music."

Gustav turned his glare on her and spat, "You are in no position to command us to do anything, viper." At once her face twisted and she was shouting back. "You arrogant, uneducated commoner. I will have your tongue the next time you call me that."

"They're quarrelling again," Natalie said while unconsciously feeling the dark welts around her neck.

For a moment, Ophelia ignored the argument. She turned to look at the mahogany door, the one she assumed led to the tower's upper levels. Was it now ajar, or just a trick of the light? Perhaps she'd imagined hearing a noise behind it, although it was not unlikely that their host was studying them from behind it.

Rising to her feet, she walked towards the door, not stopping to think why. She was about to knock when a loud noise jolted her. A bronze jug had crashed into the wall next to the fireplace and was now rolling on its intact side. Sabina was still screaming, her dark eyes shimmering with the malice of a cobra. Her brown lips, chin, and the scarf covering her neck looked wet. Perhaps she'd spilled water over herself, and then thrown the decanter in exasperation that there wasn't more for her to drink.

"Safe, how dare you claim we are safe? We are in the house of the demons' gate keeper. And for God's sakes, does he never stop playing his violins? I think I shall go mad listening to them! Even in my sleep I still hear them!" Her scarf nearly fell off, exposing her throat, but she quickly pulled it back up and secured it properly.

"You should not insult him, he is a composer of immeasurable talent." Natalie was crying. Poor girl probably only wanted to stop Sabina and Gustav from coming to blows, but failed to realize she'd put herself in harm's way. Her eyes went wide as Sabina raised a fist at her. Seeing her friend was about to be attacked, Ophelia hurried over. Gustav, however, was closer, and no more inclined to allow the young girl to be harmed. He pulled her away and removed his sword from its sheath, pointing it at the viper. "You harm one hair on this innocent girl's head, and I will slice off your coal-stained hands, you hear me? I'm not afraid of your sorcery, heretic!"

Sabina raised her arms in a placating gesture, her angered look replaced with one of fear. She took a few steps back, reaching out with one hand so that her back wouldn't hit the wall. "Fine, I will leave on my own. To hell with all of you, especially the Fiddler, I hate him!"

She reached out to seize the nearest moth-eaten tapestry, but just as she was about to pull it down, a voice resonated from below, above, and behind her. It was the Master. He had glided into the room as quietly as a specter, his bare soles hardly touching the stone floor.

"Sit down!" the Fiddler commanded. A new layer of ice crystallized over Sabina's frozen heart. She obeyed the command without the slightest protest, resting her bottom on the place she once stood: a pile of dust, and dead moths.

The Fiddler of Green, as the Master called himself, sat down in his richly carved oak chair. Though he had more than two arms, six to be exact, two of them carried a cello painted obsidian, cradled as gently as a father might hold a cherished newborn. The arms flowing out from the many sleeves of his purple robes, were like the limbs of a spider. But this was not his most distinguishing feature. His face seemed non-existent, hardly visible in the darkness of his long hood.

With slender fingers holding the bow, he touched the strings of his instrument. The notes that emerged were harmonious, entrancing, and mellow. The Fiddler seemed to have spent centuries practicing and would likely never stop until the world was consumed in flames, and the stars went cold. When one pair of arms grew tired of playing, another would take their turn. In this fashion the tune could continue forever, until slumbering maggots awoke in the bodies of the guests, devouring them until only tainted bones remained, their ghosts still trapped listening to the music echoing through eternity and into oblivion.

Ophelia and her companions shivered, smiled, and cried at the enchanting concert, their hearts restored to a rhythmic pulse as though the breath of life had been returned to them. However, a new set of sounds intruded on those produced by the cello. Grating metal noises: iron chains rattling, rusty blades on a grindstone, keys jingling. Another noise, fingernails scratching glass, freed Ophelia from her reveries.

She turned her head to see where it had come from. Sabina was by the window, slowly dragging one clawed hand against its surface. As before, her mouth hung open in a silent scream. Both her ears were covered, one against her shoulder, the other by a hand that was pulling on the ear as well as pressing it flat. Looking out the window, she could see bolts of lightning cracking the sky, but the sound of rumbling thunder never came. What the light did reveal, however, was the Fiddler's face.

Ophelia realized she was looking at him, gasping as she realized her frozen heart had thawed. The face staring at her must have belonged to an angel. Everything, from the complexion of his skin, to the angle of his jaw, to the shape of his nose and chin, even the tiny creases in his forehead were perfect. Those emerald green eyes, however, stared at Sabina with a look of intense displeasure.

When his gaze caught Ophelia's, he raised an eyebrow, his lip curling into a snarl. She blinked as a curtain of darkness fell over the room. Inhaling a breath, she nearly vomited from the overpowering stench of blood, and urine, and mildew. The screams and locked cells told her she was in a nightmare, but this was clearly not her own. In front of her lay an ebony-skinned woman tied to a rack. Her naked body crisscrossed by bleeding cuts. A man, wearing the golden robes of the Caliban priesthood stood over her, a whip in his hand. "Confess, confess," he shouted, "in the name of the Holy Covenant, what loyalties have you sworn to devils and heretics?" Ophelia made to run at him. To strangle him and take the lash away. One more step and she realized her foot dragged, and she'd bumped into something hard.

She blinked again, realizing she was back in the Fiddler's guesthall. Their host ignored Gustav and Natalie's clapping as he set his instrument down on the throne's cushion. With some trepidation, Ophelia's trembling hands released the front of his robe. He gave her an annoyed look as he shoved her back and marched up to Sabina.

He assaulted her with kicks and slaps. But she did not open her eyes, did not stop screaming. "I will not repent. I am innocent, I am innocent."

Ophelia's knees stung as she threw herself over Sabina, the back of her head aching as he received a slap of her own, before the Fiddler's paid her pleading any mind. "Stop, please stop! She's suffered no less than the rest of us.

"I will not tolerate such rudeness. Rouse her from the hallucination immediately."

Ophelia whispered something in Sabina's ear as she pulled her to a sitting position. Her eyes fluttered open and she sighed as she looked about the room. When her eyes met the Fiddler's, however, her mouth hung open.

"That instrument," he said, pointing back at the cello now resting on the throne "was given to me by a king, a man who has justly earned the respect and love of an entire nation. And if I were to cast aside my admiration for him, I would use it as a bludgeon. I would smash every bone in your worthless body. If for any reason my anger would dissipate before your spirit vanished into oblivion, I would use the splinters to nail you to the floor and leave you for the rats."

The Fiddler adjusted his posture, his tone lowering an octave, but the barbed bite of his words remaining no less jagged. "I have performed to the fleeting, yet immeasurable delight of Gods, but here you are, a small-minded child, ignorant, and not for the first time of my mastery. Shame."

Sabina whimpered and nodded her head. The Fiddler raised his hands, this time in a wide theatrical gesture before addressing them all. "Do you know why you are here?"

Sabina stood, her thoughts clearing. Perhaps his eyes had tricked her, creating an absence of fear and an illusion of sorts, that he was a mortal human creature just like her. "So you can take us past the gates of hell, to offer us as due sacrifice to the demon warlords and their kings?"

The Fiddler's lips sketched a smile, then parted to reveal a toothy grin, afterward he emitted a chorus of amused giggling. And while there was no need for him to proclaim her a daft simpleton, he did it anyway.

"My naïve little girl; you have never even come close to the gates of Hell to know what they look like. The towns and ruins you have seen, lorded over by minor devils, are nothing compared to the castles of black that the demon warlords call home. Haven't you noticed? The demons own this purgatory, and it is nothing but a ghetto where they keep their mongrel pets. In short, they do not need me to bring you to them. So why then, do I keep you as my guests?"

The companions turned to look at eachother. The trouble with purgatory was that it was a daily battle just to survive. Attempting to understand the complex web of intrigue between demons and spirits was far less important. Ophelia had her suspicions and heard Gustav muttering something as he stroked his moustaches: "Perhaps it was more than just a rumour."

Feeling the heavy weight of the Fiddler's gaze upon him, Gustav shrank beneath it. "Speak it!"

He paused for a moment, then explained the matter slowly as though it was a closely guarded secret: "Well, it was a long time ago, years in fact. And given the state of the witnesses I didn't put much faith in the credibility of their stories. Some folks described a fellow like yourself who offered them shelter, entertainment, and for a chosen few a passage back to the other side, the lost Eden."

"Horse shit," said Sabina.

What madness prompted Sabina to test the Fiddler's already thin patience was unclear. It was hardly surprising when he glowered at her, hoisted her up by her arms and reminded her that he could be both the rack and the torturer. He raised an arm to slap her again. The frightened look in her eyes reminded him that for all her insolence, she was just a naive, and ultimately flawed human.

With a gentle motion, he set her back down on her feet and patted her head, but curiosity still dwelled within him, and he removed her scarf. There, like a collar around her neck, was a circular cut, leaking congealed blood and pus. It was not pretty; the axe must have been blunt. Only the ethereal energies of this unholy place kept her head from falling off her shoulders, or maybe she was the product of a necromancer's designs.

"It is true. But first I shall test you."

"Test me first, test me first, please. I would do anything to escape this maddeningly twisted place."

The Fiddler raised an arm, but this time the hand held a large pouch. "The tests are but a precursor to the true contest: luck of the draw. Within this cloth sack are four marble stones, all perfectly circular, all the same size, but not the same color. Three are black, and one is white. Whoever draws the white stone shall return to the land where the sun still shines."

The group drew a collective breath. In this place where the dead gathered like moths around a flame, was there really the chance of new life? The Master looked at Sabina again and called her by name. "You were the daughter of a fur trader, a rich woman. Tell me, what are the highest virtues?"

"Patience and bravery?"

"You are wrong!" the Fiddler intoned in an inhuman voice, "Not because the answer is false but because you never displayed these virtues. And now pray tell us, how did you die?"

Sabina shut her eyes and ground her teeth. When she returned her gaze to him it was full of spite.

"You have a sick sense of justice."

"Answer the question!"

"I was accused of witchcraft."

"And not for the wrong reason. The priests who executed you were correct. Your husband was possessed. You still lusted after him even as he was transforming into a fiendish abomination. You ignored your conscience's call to betray him, and after he was gone you continued singing praises to him in the night."

"I loved him."

"You loved him for his wealth!" The Fiddler shouted before continuing in a gentler tone, "You deserve to be here, wretched soul that you are. But perhaps fate may yet smile down on you."

Sabina sat back down, the Fiddler turning his attention to Ophelia. Her gaze was unwaveringly fixed to his, chest rising and falling with steady breath, she felt it, and so did he. But with a slight shake of his head he whispered, "Not yet," and turned from her. Perhaps it was better she did not win; those left behind would need her. She was already plotting her next moves in this treacherous game of survival. There were two places nearby where they could find fresh water, where the insects could be eaten.

The Fiddler shifted his gaze between the old warrior and the young woman in turn. Strangely, he knelt in front of the girl. He placed two hands on her shoulders, while another pair graciously held hers. The look he gave her as she stared into his eyes was a sad one. He remembered her well, an industrious woman from the countryside, plain but not ugly, she could have lived well and yet was buried in a pauper's grave. An apostate magus might have performed a clean resurrection. But it was too late for that now, her lungs were too choked with dirt.

"Natalie Alfsdotter," he said in a gentle hush, "shrug off the pain of the memory and tell us, how did you die?"

"Because… because I was murdered. Strangled." She replied meekly while restraining her tears.

"This miscreant who took your life to steal what little money you had, did he rape you as you lay dying?"

She shook her head, "I do not know, I don't remember."

"And if you would have had the strength, would you have struck the man down in defense of your person?"

Natalie thought a moment, after all it could be a trick question, like the kind the Fiddler offered Sabina. But she couldn't lie to save her life, or her soul.

"There is no shame in avoiding conflicts you cannot win. If you would like to know, I have seen the murderer. He is here; bound in eternal torment, swinging under the same tree where they'd executed him. He rambles in total lunacy about false memories and things he'd never done. You may take solace in the knowledge, that you were his last victim."

Natalie nodded, the smile on her face was faint, but it was there.

"One last question, if you would have life again, be it human or loyal animal, what would you do with the gift?"

"I don't know. Who could I help, or who would look after me? After my mother died, my brother abandoned us to work in a nearby town. My father was sick and probably died from grief. If my brother did return, it was probably because he wanted to seize whatever meager inheritance he could get his hands on. I doubt he even bothered to put a flower on my grave."

Perhaps the Fiddler has humanity, and this girl had brought it out of him. He embraced her just as her father would have done, and then whispered in her ear: "That is not true. He left you many, and deeply regrets your passing."

Natalie gasped, and then broke down into tears, but the Fiddler patted her back and comforted her. When he detached himself from her to stand tall, she wiped her eyes and smiled at him; the smile was much broader than before. "Thank you."

The host nodded, and then looked at the old warrior.

"Sir."

"Gustav Scott Varanger. You were a soldier in the third company of the Hailstone Clan. Tell me, why did you come here? And how is it that after all this time, we have never met, until now?"

Natalie and Sabina both stared at him, but their shock was not shared by Ophelia. Gustav laughed and tried to be smug. "Don't know. Why don't you ask my enemies?" He grinned, but the joke was on him. He had only one rotten tooth left in his mouth, his wooden scabbard doubled as a crutch and both his eyes were developing cataracts. Soon enough he would be demon food. "And to answer your first question, we were looking for the bones of Forge Master Magnus, High Father and true heir of the mountain clans."

"Curious, did you ever consider that this Magnus fellow was perhaps a legendary character. That the stories about him were…"

"False, untrue, never!" Gustav shouted, spittle raining from his gums through unkempt moustaches. "And forgive me for saying so, but if you claimed that he was, I'd spit you in the face. Let the demons eat me, throw me into oblivion if you like, you won't make an unbeliever out of me."

The Master bent down and stared at him, upper lip curled in disgust, eyebrows raised. "Watch your tone with me, human."

It was at this moment that another lightning bolt flashed outside the window, its light shone across the Fiddlers face, revealing to Gustav what lay behind his angelic mask. Still, he did not flinch, and perhaps the Fiddler admired his bravado because he straightened and said: "Maybe I shouldn't be too surprised by your reaction. You are living proof in fact, that even a man who has nothing, can still have faith."

"Tell us, what would you do if your spirit left this place and reincarnated?"

"I would find my son, or if he is dead I would find his son. I would guide them."

"To take up arms and swear fealty to his lord, to follow the path your ancestors paved for you, one of violence and bloodshed?"

"What, are you going to say you wouldn't enjoy that?"

The Fiddler's voice took on a deeply sarcastic tone. "Oh, no, I greatly prefer plagues and natural disasters, thank you very much. Stop pretending that you know me," he said with a harrumph.

When at last her turn had come, Ophelia was already standing. Spine as straight as she could make it, emotions well guarded. With the years she had collected in life and on the plains of torment, she was now close to a century old. And yet her face was almost as pristine as the moment she died, her frozen skin still firm. She had obeyed the laws, and in so doing, ensured that she would never become a ghoul.

"Ophelia Valerius, daughter of…" she said before the Fiddler cut her off.

"Thank you for reminding me of your name, I had forgotten. Do forgive me but I don't care who your parents were. Tell me, how many sword blows was it, seven?"

Ophelia grimaced, placing a hand on her abdomen, her mind surging with the recollection of that pain. When she pulled her hand away she saw that it was stained crimson. It came from the memory. It flashed before her mind's eye with the faces of the leering men who held her down, their gladius blades puncturing her womb, over and over. Though she did not dwell on the vision, it made her angry.

"Eleven, in fact, the sick bastards made me count. But now that you mention it, I saw you after the seventh stab, you were standing behind them. Did you tell them how to torture me; did you want to kill my bastard child before me?"

With a swift motion the Fiddler reached out a hand, grabbing her chin, squeezing her cheeks between fingers and thumb. "Are you going to be as rude and impertinent as him?"

As though pierced by needles, Ophelia's heart jolted. She shook her head. "Please forgive me; I forgot that you do not kill people. You simply bring them here. And I really appreciated your music."

He released her and nodded. "Apology accepted. Tell me, what do you think is the highest virtue?"

She blinked and sighed. "Mercy. If you are unwilling to show mercy, even to an enemy, you should expect none yourself."

"An honest answer," the Fiddler said before leaning to whisper, "but is that not what led you to this fate?"

His eyes were still on her, but the arms holding the open pouch held it towards Natalie. Her hand hovered over sack a moment, but when he looked at her his lips turned to a frown and he appeared to change his mind. Both women looked confused as he pointed it in Ophelia's direction, but then he turned to look in Gustav's direction. "Would the old warrior like to play the gentleman and let the women choose first?"

Gustav instinctively glared at Sabina, his nostrils flaring like a restrained bull as he let out a particularly harsh breath of air, as though wanting her to hear the utter contempt he had for her in such a simple act. Then he spat his dose of poison. "Just as long as you don't let that traitorous, Calibany witch pick first!"

"I do not care for your petty squabbling, nor do you have the power to influence me." The Fiddler answered, holding the bag up to Ophelia.

"Were you not going to let Natalie pick first?

"Choose!" The Fiddler commanded.

Ophelia nearly bit her tongue; she had no choice but to obey. Rummaging through the sack, she thought about grabbing the first stone that landed in her palm. However, a touch from the Fiddler's own hand against her elbow jolted her, and she dropped it. He tilted his head and looked at all of them in turn.

"Do not show me your stone immediately after taking it from the bag. You will reveal them together."

Her hand plunged back deep into the bag, but this time something felt different. The distinctly cold, almost numb feeling on Ophelia's fingers and palm was gone, and although she couldn't explain it, she knew a better tactile sense was worthless in this game. The stones were perfect after all.

She plucked one from the bag, and then waited for the others to take theirs. Sabina took her turn after Natalie, and true to her exaggerated sense of self importance spent a good deal of time probing the insides of the bag, seeming to sense, measure, and weigh each stone in turn. The Fiddler, however, soon put a stop to it. He grabbed one of her ears with the hooked points of his nails and pulled.

"My dear, we might be supernatural beings for the most part, but that doesn't mean time has lost its value or ceased to exist. Make a choice and let the dice fall where they may."

"Alright, alright, fine!" Sabina shouted; wishing, probably not for the first time, that the spiritual pain she was experiencing hurt less than what she'd felt in life.

Gustav's choice was a formality at this point, but he didn't complain. After that they all stood up and formed a line, standing almost shoulder to shoulder.

Ophelia's eyes were closed as her palms opened. Crack! The noise of the stone smacking against the wooden floorboards startled her. It was impossible to think someone had dropped their stone by mistake. No, it was Sabina. Her black stone was still rolling in front of her feet, while her expression was absolutely livid. Natalie also looked disappointed, but made a better show of remaining calm under the circumstances. Ophelia had still not looked down at her hands. She thought perhaps, perhaps Gustav had been the lucky one. Yes, out of all of them, he had worked the hardest; he deserved the much needed respite from the senseless nightmare.

When she felt the soft pressure of his hand on her shoulder, his words almost reassured her of this fact. "I shall miss you," he said.

But when she looked, she noticed the smile on his face betrayed sadness, the ball in his hand was black. No use in further denying the obvious. Hers was the marble of immaculate, ivory white.

"The Fates have decided," the Fiddler said, in a firm voice. The decision was final. "You will now come with me." The Fiddler took her by the hand, and led her away from the group.

They walked a few paces together towards the back door. Before turning the handle, however, the Fiddler looked over his shoulder. "The rest of you will remain here until I return. The front door is locked, but if you are in a rush to leave, the window is open."

Walking up the winding staircase, the Fiddler welcomed his charge to the tower's attic. It was a large room with a high, domed ceiling; the roof made from bronze plates was supported by steel girders that ran to a central pillar. Judging by the infrequent drumming of raindrops against its surface, it appeared the storm was nearing an end. Only a few steps past the threshold into the attic, however, Ophelia stopped, and stared up to the Fiddler with a scowl.

"You have something to say to me?"

"Only that you cheated me, you lied to us." She shouted, throwing her stone against the nearest wall. So she had noticed then. Walking up the stairs while playing with it in her hand, she'd seen the ball had a small jagged crack.

"People try to cheat Death all the time, it is only natural that I do it to you in return."

"Sabina was right; you have a twisted sense of justice. What makes you think you have a right to rob my friends of their chance at redemption?"

"I have not, you did. Likely because you don't always believe what you preach. You broke the rules and had no remorse of keeping the prize when it landed in your lap. I don't blame you for that, however, but I do wonder. What, by all that is still holy, had you convinced that those people were your friends? What did you honestly see in them? A viper of a woman who literally slept with the devil, a sheepish girl who couldn't protect herself from a drunken halfwit, and a man too afraid of a godlike caricature to abandon a fool's errand."

"You are wrong, you are terribly wrong, especially about Gustav. He is a good man."

"Then why didn't you give him the stone and ask for me to release him instead?"

Ophelia gasped, she simply stared in disbelief. "You, you never told us that we could."

"Even if the choice had been presented, you wouldn't have done it, even if you'd thought about it. And they certainly would not have sacrificed their chance; even the innocent one could have betrayed you. A starved dog will still bite the hand that feeds."

"So now that you're going to send me back, you expect me to be a good guardian? I am worthless, a woman on the verge of insanity and dementia, I have…"

The Fiddler rolled his eyes, shaking his head, "Oh, spare me your self-loathing. Do you think I don't know what you have done? That you've injected morphine and arsenic into your flesh to stop yourself from looking like a corpse, that you've stolen bread from struggling survivors, that you had your friends stop you from oversleeping so your heart and lungs wouldn't completely freeze over. This place has twisted far better people into worse shapes, and yet after five decades, you are still human.

"If you still don't believe me, I'll tell you the same thing I told the last person I set free. If you spent seven years with me, I still couldn't tell you all the truly terrible things I have witnessed. Angels who betrayed their brothers to torment and death, devils who devoured the fires keeping children warm at night, Dark Gods who purged entire towns to prevent one zealous follower from being caught and lynched."

Ophelia, however, was still in denial, but some part of her had to admit it was true. When she stared at her hands, all she could remember was the knife she'd used to slice her own frostbitten nails off, careful not to cut too deep. Gustav at least had helped with that; she'd forgotten how many times he'd stopped her from eating pieces of herself. And that was only one of the little things he did to keep her sane. Now that she was leaving, she couldn't decide what was worse: the fact that they'd never consummated their love, him being a living man and she no more than a corpse? Or the knowledge that even if Death had let them run away together, they would still have been parted on the other side.

This tormented thought was followed only by tears. To hell with dehydration and germs, she would be carrion soon enough. Maybe she was indeed mad, or maybe even in this wasteland of sin and depravity, there were still things worth cherishing. The Fiddler did not interrupt her as she fell to her knees, lamenting her situation and her loss.

He went to a nearby wardrobe and collected a few items before returning to her side. He handed her a discolored handkerchief which she readily accepted. When she finally looked up, the Fiddler had placed a falconer's glove on one hand, and from atop one of the steel girders, a dark shape swooped down. Only now did she notice the bird droppings and stripped sheep bones to realize this was the Fiddler's aviary.

The black eagle that landed on his wrist was more majestic than many she'd seen in life. Out on the plains, he would have been a predatory prince next to the downtrodden vultures. His Master affectionately patted his head and whispered to him: "Hector, go fetch the keys."

As the bird took off to a spot high above in the rafters, Ophelia went to recover her flawed stone. She came back as the eagle returned.

"I have one last question."

"So many, many questions," he said, scowling. "Do you pretend you can learn everything, or that knowing everything is all that really matters in life; or in your case, death?"

Ophelia did her best to ignore his jab, but another tear slid down her cheek. "If you had chosen me from the very beginning, why did you stage this elaborate theatre? Was it just to entertain yourself?"

"I did not choose you, someone else did, but I approved of the choice. And if you're going to ask, I can't tell you."

The Fiddler's unreadable expression only made the chill snaking its way up Ophelia's spine that much worse. Was this how she remembered that most unbearable of irrational fears: the knowledge that no matter who you were, there were hidden powers that pulled you like a puppet on a string. No, this was fear on an even higher level. It manifested in the form of a single word, muttered in a breath of mist: "Zaebos."

Her host shook his head, and sensing her hesitation, pulled her to an iron door at the far side of the room. While corroded, the door opened smoothly on well oiled hinges, revealing a cage suspended by ropes and pulleys; an elevator.

Taking the key ring from the bird's beak, the Fiddler removed one plated in silver, placing it in Ophelia's palm. In response she extended her arm, offering him the white stone.

"Please give this to Gustav, and tell him I shall miss him dearly."

"No, I cannot," he answered flatly.

"Please, if you have any honest sympathy for us, just tell him I love him." She couldn't mask the pleading in her voice if she tried.

"I won't do it, because I am sympathetic. Take my advice, it is best he forgets about you. If there's anything I've learned about love, it is that it's like a puzzle; you shouldn't force the pieces to fit together, if they're not made to."

She shut her eyes and sighed, but internally she agreed with the Fiddler's wisdom. Her first husband had taught her that lesson, but she didn't spare another thought for that spineless coward. After nodding to her host, he handed her two more items: a woolen cloak and a hunting dagger.

The knife appeared quite mundane, just another forged and sharpened piece of iron. It might have served no better purpose than warding off the vultures, and she already had a more keenly edged blade. Still, she was not about to refuse his kindness. For all she knew, the powers he served may have forbidden him from giving her any weapons at all.

"Where am I meant to go? I don't know the terrain around here."

"Do not worry, your destination is not very far. Travel North-West over the salt flats of the dried up sea. If you follow the line of wrecked ships, you will arrive at a small peninsula. Hector will follow you from the sky and make sure you don't get lost. Beware of the guardian at the gates."

"Guardian? What guardian?"

With a swift motion of his Master's arm, the eagle took flight, landing on an open window in the loft high above. Ophelia was shoved into the elevator, her host taking hold of the door latch and a nearby lever.

"No more questions," said the Fiddler with a scowl, "time for you to leave. But if you want to give a last farewell to one of your friends, Sabina will be waiting for you, at the bottom of the cliff."

With that, the door was slammed in her face. The pulleys screeched and the cage began its slow descent. Through the bars, she could see the tainted sun rising. Its distant, emerald glow was hardly welcome, and most days its diffuse rays piercing the clouds of ash and dust gave the sky a sickening appearance.

Ophelia, however, appeared to be in luck. With the rain over the clouds dispersed, the large pale moon was high in the sky, almost eclipsing the sun. Ideal weather, in an otherwise inhospitable place. When the elevator landed, she was at the top of a pier overlooking the dead sea.

After opening the door, she placed her palms against the sides of her face, hardening her will to look at nothing that wasn't directly in front of her. Only two steps away from the threshold, however, she heard a noise; a gurgling, like someone choking underwater. She shivered, her resolve broke, and she looked.

The sight made her gasp. One hand clenched tight around her stomach, preventing her from throwing up bile. Sabina was indeed there, her body swimming in a puddle of filthy water. Although, that description wasn't particularly accurate. Her dismembered head lay a small distance away from the body. Rust colored fluid leaked from her neck, her eyes were staring up into nothingness, and there was a gaping wound in her forehead, like she'd been struck by a blunt object. The most disturbing thing was the body itself. It was still moving, like watching a dead insect trying to stand on broken legs.

Ophelia shut her eyes, rejecting the vision before it became yet another scar in her memory. She ran as fast as she could for the dock. When she arrived, she jumped aboard the only ship at anchor that looked intact. The ancient boards, worn by time and woodworm, creaked under her weight, but they didn't snap beneath her. As soon as she was over the guardrail and onto the salt flats below, she continued running.

Almost halfway there, only a few more steps. Or so she kept telling herself. The mantra did help, and right now, every grain of strength, stamina and bravery was vital. The youthful energy of her old life was long past, however, so she found herself stopping to rest more often than she had hoped.

During one of her rest stops, she looked up. Even under the bright moonlight, she didn't see the Fiddler's eagle, but there were birds flying up there, and a lot of them. The vultures. Why were they here, she wondered? This place looked more dead and wasted than any other part of purgatory she'd ever seen. Indeed there were corpses here, fish, sea birds, some whales. But those bones had long since been picked clean, and now looked as bleached and white as the salt they were buried in.

Then some distance away, she discovered the answer. In a fetid pool less shallow than the rest, she saw a school of half decaying fish. The smell coming off them made Ophelia grateful she'd lost much of the feeling in her nose. This reminded her of the first rule of this place: all wasted dead things in the real world eventually found their way here.

She wasn't here to pick through any bones; unfortunately, however, the bones had other plans for her. A short leap had carried her over a small rise, and as she made her way down, her feet crashed through the half buried ribcage of a large fish. It was easily the worst fall she'd ever experienced, and at the worst possible time, too. A roaring scream of agony rumbled through her throat as a jagged bone pierced through her calf.

Thrashing this way and that on her back, she shouted and cried and wracked her nerves trying to overcome and restrain the hurt. Finally she stood still, gritted her teeth and pulled out the calcified shard that had injured her. The blood leaking from the wound was already turning to that color of rusty metal, and given her state, if she didn't stop it quickly she might pass out, or expire right there.

After taking a clump of salt in her hand, she rubbed it against the injury. It was terrible, but necessary. For a bandage she used the handkerchief her hosts had given her. Miraculously, the bleeding stopped, the pain almost becoming intangible. That was, of course, until she stood upright.

She almost dropped to her knees again, but managed to redress her balance just in time. While sluggish at first, Ophelia managed to find a steady enough rhythm to her walking, good foot forward, sore one limping behind. In one of the scuttled rowboats, she found an intact oar and used that as a crutch.

The pain surged over her and left like a tide, waves washing in and out, but her steps did not waver. Then came the carrion feeders, two ahead of her, one behind. Ophelia momentarily took her eyes off the one skulking at her back, it was further away, and the ones straight ahead were hopping closer and closer.

Her knife was at the ready, but they were still too far. They mocked her with their vicious squawking, fanning wings and pecking beaks. When her knife was close enough to slash at their ugly heads, they simply retreated back and looked for another opening. Though her head began to spin with the effort of concentrating, she focused enough to knick one of the birds. That made both of them retreat to the skies.

For a moment she let out a sigh of relief, before realizing with painful certainty that there was still one behind her. The vulture pecked with its pointed bill into her leg. On its own, this aggression wouldn't have been particularly bad, but with her recent injury, the nerves shot fresh pulses of agony into her brain.

The knife dropped from her hand as she screamed. Hobbling forward, she only barely managed to save herself from falling at the last moment. Her miserable lamentation was now merged with her ragged breathing. Then she heard another dreadful shriek. Was this to be her last curtain? Crushed under a swarm of scavengers before she finally perished?

With a firm grip of her improvised crutch, she turned her head. Hector had finally come. An elegant curtain of black swooped down, racked his talons at her attacker, and flew in pursuit when it tried to escape. Her vision was still blurry from weeping, but she could see that high above, the two birds were locked in an aerial duel. It didn't last very long, however.

A dirty brown shape plummeted to the earth, crashing with a low thud. The vulture tried to get back up, but one of its wings was sluggish and splattered with droplets of blood. Ophelia had picked up her knife and was already behind it. She put one arm around its long neck, crushing its windpipe like a vice, then went in with her blade. One slash, two slashes, followed by a third; each accompanied by an angered, vindictive roar. The head came off and she threw it away in disgust.

She planted her knee on the bird's remains and panted, then gently lowered herself to sit. Hector made a soft landing next to her. With a pounding heart thundering in her chest, she had never felt this drained and spent. But still she had a few ounces of energy left, and so she put out her hand and graciously stroked her saviour's head. The friendly animal gave off a soft call that delighted her.

After a few moments' rest, she began to pluck the dead vulture, tearing off great clumps of feathers and casting them to the wind. The meat was worthless, far too tough for her worn out teeth. But a few of the organs, the liver, heart and lungs could give her some energy. Ripping out the heart first, she almost threw it straight into her mouth, but then hesitated. Hector was slowly bobbing his head up and down, calling softly as if to beg. But he didn't need to, she reached out her arm, opened her palm and offered him the reward.

She devoured the other edible organs and pulled herself up on her stick. Looking around, she realized she didn't know anymore which way was east or west. "Which way?" she asked.

Hector stretched his neck forward, his beak pointing to her left. He took a few leaps forward, catapulted himself off the ground and was flying in that direction. Ophelia kept her eyes on him as she tried to follow. Time ticked on by, and out on the horizon, a sandy hill came into focus. Was it the peninsula, or just her mind playing tricks?

Just as she began to smile, she put her bad leg forward and heard an audible pop in her knee. This time neither her awareness nor her crutch stopped her from taking a fall.

As she lay on her side crying, Ophelia railed against the futility. What was the point of all this? Why bother returning to life when all that meant was more pain, suffering and anguish? Hector returned, landing behind her. He grasped the hood of her cloak in his talons and pulled, as though trying to hoist her up. When that failed, he leapt forward, pulling on the hem of her old shirt.

She looked at him a moment, for that was all that she could do. She watched as something changed in the bird's gaze, and an overwhelming presence engulfed her. Then came the voice. There was little doubt that it was the Fiddler on the Green. The memory of seeing him play in a lush meadow stirred within her. He spoke with the calm yet authoritative confidence of a parent.

"Come child, do not give up. Pull yourself together and get back on your feet. I will help you with the guardian."

Ophelia trembled, she touched her cloak, her belt, and the pouch on her waist. Then a thought struck her, and she remembered. Yes, there was still one, one last vial of morphine in her bag. She took it out, removed the stopper with her teeth and swallowed it down. Within a few moments, the drug took effect, her mind cleared and her senses sharpened. She rose.

The oar remained behind. All she needed, all she wanted, was iron will and determination pushing her forward. Steadily climbing the ridge, she found herself on the peninsula. Everything about this place smelled, felt and looked different. Was it the medicine in her veins or a trick of the light?

The sand on the island was a soft hazel color, the wind light and delicate, and better still, with each step she took, her eyes truly opened. Looking at her hands, the blackened stumps on her fingers vanished, the skin looked wrinkled and old, but the touch on her cheek was heaven. The decay, she realized, was stopping. She was healing. Whatever enchantment started at the Fiddler's tower, it was culminating here.

When she started laughing, she told herself she'd finally gone stark raving mad. She had to be sure she wasn't hallucinating. Removing the bandage on her leg, the truth half shocked, half relieved her. The wound was gone, replaced by a pink mark. Her skin was still dirty of course, but among the wrinkles, healthy, intact veins showed beneath a smooth surface.

She was growing old, her stolen years were returning one by one. In a day or two, she might look a hundred years old and die old, but she decided to make the most of what little time was left.

Dashing forward with renewed vigor, she followed the low flying eagle to the center of the island. Over a foundation of ruined charcoal bricks were several standing structures. To the left was a wall, a massive, shapeless old thing pitted with holes through which the sand blew, mortar crumbling here and there. A short road emerged from the blanket of sand up to a colossal circular building. It comprised of a series of archways set between shaped columns with still life statues. The structure reminded her of the gladiator coliseum in Portus Gratianae, but on a much larger scale.

Beyond the walls of the building, in the courtyard, she saw what she'd smelled on the wind: grass, tree resin, leaves. The interior was a sprawling park of oak and poplar trees reaching higher to claim their place under the sun. Not the tainted orb of purgatory, but the real sun. A few intrepid specimens of forest growth reached their roots beyond one of the archways, their trunks supporting the cracking masonry on either side.

Ophelia could have happily stared at the structure for hours, but then she realized she was being watched. The statues were blinking. The shapeless rocks pointed their stony hands in her direction, low stuttering voices rustling with the wind.

"Someone is here, she is in front of you. There, look there," they said.

The creature emerged. It dipped its large horned head under the main archway, long forked tongue tasting the air, jaws opened wide enough to swallow a young bovine. Light reflected on skin layered in gold and amber scales, but there was no luster in its cold, dead eyes. Ophelia noticed lengthy sinuous coils twisting through the trees, but the monster's reptilian body did have two muscular limbs ending in clawed fingers.

"Sacrament slayer," she murmured, knowing this was indeed a lindwurm, the snake of legend.

A bubbling hiss left the creature' parting lips as its head turned to face her. The lindwurm was blind, but could smell and hear her. Ophelia grit her teeth as she grasped the Fiddler's dagger. For what little good the sharp metal could do, she still prayed she wouldn't need it. Her legs sprang into motion, a fearless hope overflowing that she could be fast enough to evade the creature.