Chapter One

"Spirits that dwell within this chamber, heed my request!"

Chanting echoed through the underground cavern like an angry swarm of bees. The light of the guttering blood-red candles cast shadows on the grim altar, onto the skull and the blood-filled chalice, the weathered stone effigy of the Goddess, the figure in the black robe, eyes closed in concentration just visible under the cowl, his mouth moving as he incanted the summoning rites over and over again. Somewhere, water dripped from the craggy black-rock ceiling.

Ulrich the Mad was aware of the small army that mustered into the cavern. It wasn't that their army was too small, it was that the cavern was absolutely huge, at least the same size as the town, formed naturally in the side of the mountain their settlement was built at the base of. The mountain spirit was said to protect the town and the unusually large cavern, filled with rather pretty geodes, was a sacred place. A combination of a lifetime of intense Shamanic training, terror at the thought of what squamous horrors could be unleashed at the slightest mispronunciation of a syllable, even at a half-second's pause too long in the dramatic tension, and the chance that someone would get bored and kill him if they all had to go back to the beginning of the ceremony again made him able to concentrate on the ritual and ignore the clanking of swords and armour, the whispered voices and the occasional raucous snore.

"Spirit of the Great Goddess, I implore thee to answer my call!" his cries grew louder and more frantic as the atmosphere in the room grew to fever pitch. The candle flames looked like wild spirits leaping and dancing in time to the chanting.

The nation's finest warriors were gathered there to observe the ritual, in the hope that they would all receive the blessings of the Lady of Victory once she had been called out from her icon. Under normal circumstances, a shaman of Ulrich's power and experience would never be allowed to lead such an important ritual. His master, Vargas the Unhinged, had fallen ill over the winter and hadn't survived to see the spring return, leaving his most gifted acolyte in charge of his duties. Not long after the old man's funeral rites had been completed, he had been ordered to perform the Rite of Battle. Tension was brewing in the South, the dragons on the peaks were getting restless and it was looking more and more likely that the army would need the blessing of the Goddess in the immediate future. It was an even more opportune time to do so as they had recently acquired a new statue of the Goddess, discovered by a wandering treasure hunter in the lower caves. It was a little tatty, the tips of the wings and half the sword blade had been broken off, the facial expression not quite right, the writing on the plinth facing the wrong way, but it had clearly never been used before. It was brimming with untapped divine energy, so much so that standing next to it was making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Ulrich wasn't sure he was quite ready yet to take on the spiritual burdens of an entire nation but he had been given no choice. As his master was fond of saying, 'the Spirit of Death does what it damn well pleases and gives not a shit what we mortals think about it'.

"Spirit of the Goddess, I surrender my will unto thee! Speak through me!" he intoned in an unearthly voice, more like a beast than a man. Convulsions began to rack his body as he felt his consciousness ascend to the spirit plane. The flames were brighter, their colours more pronounced, their warmth tangible as his fingertips began to buzz with life, an energy that flowed through his entire body like electricity. He was no longer himself, he was just one more instance of the world's dream, lost in the enormity of the thoughts of beings beyond his comprehension and the limits of his fragile human sanity. He had his link with the Spirit – now the summoning could begin in earnest.

"AWAKEN, GREAT AND TERRIBLE LADY OF BATTLE!" he screamed, spreading his arms wide.

The candles went out.

He heard the sound of something breaking, then somebody screaming and running. He fumbled around for the candle while reaching into his robes for a flint and tinder to light it again, but he was thrown backwards by what felt like a herd of charging elephants. He landed in a pool of water. Spitting blood out of his mouth, he shook himself dry and stood up. His heart lurched as the realisation dawned upon him that he had done something very, very wrong.

The candles flickered back into life. Hovering above the altar on bloodstained wings, regarding them all with a slightly confused look on her face, like someone emerging from a deep sleep, was a naked woman. She was tall and slim, with flowing raven hair, eyes that blazed like two furnaces fuelled by condemned souls and alabaster pale skin. If she hadn't exuded an aura of abject suicidal despair and her nose hadn't looked a bit like a pig's, she would have been beautiful.

So entranced was Ulrich by the sudden appearance of the Goddess before him, the soul-destroying terror of her visage morbidly fascinating him, he didn't notice the mass panic erupting all around him. Most of the soldiers had fled the chamber, some had fainted, some were cowering on the floor, screaming something about the Apocalypse. All their weapons and shields lay broken on the floor, spears snapped in half, sword blades shattered instantly by an unearthly force, bow strings snapped. Even Sir Oswald the Impenetrable, Captain of the Ludicrously Heavy Armour Division, developed a slight dent in his breastplate, a ringing headache and a bad temper from being woken up so suddenly.

"FREE AT LAST!" pronounced the pale Goddess, stretching her arms and yawning. She gave her semi-broken wings a couple of experimental flaps, then tripped over the altar and fell flat on her face.