Interlude

Silvery sand whirls in expectant dance, shimmering spirals and hurtling helices twirling in the semi-light of a morning about to break. Spinning and dipping, encircling, enclosing... circles upon curtains of looming sand... crashing and booming like waves upon a not-so-distant shore.

And all is sand...

...until sand stands still and the air is clear once again.

Cool yet calm, the scent of morning dew lingers on the lips of the air, applied in caressing kisses to the crystals about to be touched by shimmering rays. Already the unwinking eye of night is beginning to fade and the rosy-tinged horizon beckons an imminent arrival. Had we but worlds enough and time... But there is time enough for what lies ahead.

The fringes of the desert of shifting silver lie in front, changing lustre as the moon sets behind over... over... over the unknown. The sand slowly peters out, giving way to an expansive savannah that flows as an electrum plain almost - but not quite - to the near horizon. Flows to the base of an edificeer's delight that rests in the semi-shadow of a rather imposing mountain.

From this distance, it is hardly likely that any details of this structure could be espied, apart from its general shape. It stands erect and proud, a shining spire, nay, a beacon in the rising dawn.

And lo and behold, there is a discernable trail picked out across the thinning sands and the vastness of the soon-to-be arid grasslands. For there is life, albeit in the form of struggling scrub and floundering flora. Wispy grasses, brittle, bone-dry reeds that snap at the merest tremble and asthenic bushes coexist unhappily to create a sparse coverlet that could be shredded ever so easily to tip the equilibrium of nature from sub-desert to the full-blown reality. It would appear that the days, should such a time span exist, here are quite tortuous. At least to any foliage.

But at the moment, the air is cool and the light is lambent. Eos' refreshing perfume is borne on a gentle breeze that fairly inspires a body to action. And the air is now filled with a faint sound that cuts through to the core. A tune... a haunting melody... a dirge. It is calling... singing a song of compulsion that cannot be resisted. It is only a matter of time.

The trail is straight and true. Destination: Destiny direct.

The desert's edge swiftly passes as the path is tread. Leaving dunes behind to swirl and shift under whatever eddies such formations are subjected to. The texture of the ground underfoot gradually changes, progressing from the soft and silky sand to the dry dust of this plain that seems to stretch to eternity and back.

The going is easy. There are no distractions. Only the track in front.

And the music. Mellifluous music. It soothes and calm; evokes desire. It is bipartite sensuality and enticing in multiplicity of tone. In and out; over and under; along and in between, through and through and through. Every preposition under the electrum dawn.

And then it is there. It simply is. There is no question of it not being. All impression, all imagination is dwarfed by its immensity.

The path ends in faded dust about twenty metres from the base of the spire. Only from this distance can its size truly be appreciated, any closer and sensory overload could precipitate demise.

Placed against the imposing silhouette of the mountain behind, the very top of this stone spire is shrouded, fairly lost, in the darkness that the rising shafts of light have, as yet, failed to pierce. It is a spire of some speckled stone, grains of shining crystal blazing a glittering spiral around and around its grey-black exterior. And at the same time, it is an obelisk of obsidian, shiny and glassy, glistening with all the myriad shades of black to create an ethereal pillar of octiron, a pillar the colour of magic. It shimmers, as if phasing continuously between these two aspects. If it were not such an awe-inspiring spectacle, it could be mildly disconcerting.

And still the music plays, the harmony swelling and building with each passing moment. There are no words, simply insistence.

'Compelling isn't it?'

And there is a figure, a figure in sable robes, a cowl concealing the face. It skulks languidly in the shadows of a nearby boulder, some ways behind the pillar. Gazing around, it is seen that there are numerous boulders. Innumerable positions in which to conceal oneself.

'It pulls and tugs at you, doesn't it?' he, for the voice and the poise are characteristically masculine, asks in knowing rhetoric. 'It always does, to those few who have stood there before.' He pauses. 'You can stop it so easily, you know. End it and return whence you come.'

He moves to stand more erect but seems loathe to move away from the rocks where he reclines. Something on the floor near his legs gleams dully but the form is indistinct in the shadows.

Out of the sunlight, it is now quite chilly. A breeze is picking up, whistling through the crevices and passes of the mountain. It scatters fine grit and dust from the plains; a minor irritant. The covered character shrinks back as the gusts tug playfully at his concealments; blowing the cape up voluminously, sweeping the bottom of the robes off the ground fractionally. Something in the gloom rattles and chinks.

'I would suggest you hurry. The conditions hereabouts are liable to get much, much worse.' There is a distinct sense of urgency perceivable in the tone of his voice. He wants something. But it is a lot stronger than 'want'. He needs something. Something he cannot get himself. But what?

'I really do think you ought to heed my words.' Another pause. 'Explanation is quite unnecessary,' he fairly snaps, vehement but with a veneer of civility.

Attention is drawn back to the spire in the middle ground. It continues to shift across perceptions, as if jumping the boundaries of reality or realities. But there are differences. The obsidian aspect is no longer unflawed. A network of red tracery now adorns its vitreous surface, pulsing like capillaries in time with the sounds that maintain their assault upon the mind, the body and the soul. The stone aspect is now covered with engravings and carved reliefs, strange symbols faintly observable due to the semblance of weathering they have suffered. But they have sufficient clarity to stimulate the imagination and couple curiosity to sweet incessancy as visual cues. Mysterious beasts and haunting sigils conjure up secondary images of fantasy and fabulous reward. But what is to be gained from all of this? Who is the shadowy figure? What is the hurry?

'You individuals are always so inquisitorial. Who I am is unimportant. Where we are is, for the most part, unimportant. The only thing that is important is getting us both away from here.' His voice and speech have descended into a harsh snarl. He is angry, resentful - much like the caged beast. 'Your simile is most apt, dear fellow,' he growled. 'Incarceration sits most heavily with me. But you can change all that.' He turns away, as if despairing at actions not taken or decisions regretted. 'By the seven circles, you haven't even looked at the manner of your exit.'

Looking now to the foreground, an additional feature is observable, unseen for its shadowy proximity until this most directed of speeches. For on a small plinth of what appears to be a granite-like stone, rests a small wooden box. But its setting is rather disturbing. For both the stone and the ground around it are stained, heavily so for it to have penetrated the stone to such a rich incarnadine hue. Its nature can only be hazarded to without much closer examination. The box itself is the colour of polished mahogany with a wrought iron lock and similar dull grey hinges. The lid is inlaid with faded marquetry, a design both indistinguishable and incomprehensible, but some writing remains faintly legible.

One step brings it within touching distance. And the robed figure can be clearly seen to lean forward as if in fervent expectation. There is something amiss here. The desire to know is strong, practically preternaturally so. No curiosity is this intense, holding personal safety in such blatant disregard.

For there is fear. Almost overwhelming fear. It competes with the music which by now is a tumultuous crescendo of sound.

A step backwards. Withdrawing from the brink of...

And over all of this comes one harsh word, as if issued from between clenched teeth. 'Onward!'

The obelisk has taken to shifting, pulsing, with increasing rapidity.

'Open the damn box!'

Nothing should be this forceful. Something wants this far too much. But what exactly is 'this'?

'Freedom awaits us both in there!' But now his voice takes on a smug timbre. 'Face it. You cannot get out of this without freeing me as well. You have your choice. Now decide. Open the box and we will both have what we want. Shrink from your destiny, and you will die here. Here and now; here and then; here and always!'

The pain is nearly unbearable. The desire to succumb to the fear and withdraw is nearly drowning that to find out what awaits.

A tentative, wavering, step forward.

'That's it, my boy. You know what to do. Unlock this cage!'

The clasp is locked upon touch. Now unlocked. But the lid remains firmly shut. What are the words?

The amalgam of conflicting pain is nigh on blinding, blurring vision, blurring all perception. Concentration attempts to focus what acuity remains. The words...

"A sword employ'd is perilous..." they say. And there is a soft click that reverberates through the now-silent air. The lid rises up to fall back on noiseless hinges.

The single sound of a metallic snap rings out, followed by a most chilling laugh. 'Demonic' would be a most benign of attributes. 'I'm free!' is the exuberant cheer that comes forth from the man in black. His stance has shifted dramatically, from relaxed to imperious in an instant. From this new angle, the edge of a ruby coronet is visible. He bows with an extravagant, almost insouciant, flourish. 'I thank you,' he drawls. 'But I daresay that mere words will not exactly cover what transpires here. There is a clue, a key if you will, in that box. Understand it, for it shall be potency exemplified. Provided it is correctly wielded, of course. I have other matters to attend to. We shall meet again. You can count on that. Fare thee well, my lord.' And with a final chuckle, he is gone. There and then not there.

And all is quiet. Peace now permits closer inspection of the wooden receptacle's contents. Peering in, causes the single item therein to rise slowly, solemnly, into the air - to hang motionless in the glowing light of dawn. A plain, white piece of card with the rather striking depiction of a warrior's sword, with the searing steel blade surmounted by quillons of gleaming gold, a handle wrapped in scarlet with gold filigree and a pommel of glittering gold set with a finely-cut ruby. Its magnificence stirs the fires of the imagination. And above this stunning artwork, three words flow in gentle cursive script. "Ace of Swords".

Fade to black.