Days, perhaps months, passed in this Other World while our own went on living. His ankle may have healed, but Joshua’s situation had only worsened.

  A monstrous tower of smoke, illuminated in a ferocious orange, clawed at the sky as if it were the arm of a hungry god. The plume rose from the bowels of a rugged hill rimmed with stone. At its base, a tunnel had been dug, forming a red eye that beamed into the night.

  Figures, some gigantic with long, trailing arms, others, nothing more than children, ambled in and out of the tunnel. Their long shadows danced into the night, turning their forms into grotesque monsters.

  Shuffling his feet with his head down, for he was too weary to raise it, was Joshua Stone, the boy who had been stolen from his own world by nothing more than a knife. He wore almost no clothes; all that remained were jeans that had been so frayed that they were now no more than shorts. His skin was stained with dirt and bloody scabs. Long scars on his back were reminders of his masters’ punishments.

  Inside, he was numb. In the initial days, fear had overwhelmed him, almost driving him mad. He had seen terrible creatures, living nightmares that he had believed to be reserved to the boundaries of books. But here, in this awful place, with a sky he did not recognise, they breathed, and screamed and whipped, and fed upon those that fell. Yet, he was numb. He ambled as a zombie, unaware of his actions, unaware of the splinters that scraped his arms, drawing blood. They, the Manashe, had driven him to be no more than a drone, like the rest of the slaves that toiled here.

  His back crackled as he picked up another pile of wood, leaving him a little winded. The wood itself was strange. It was almost black and aggravated the skin regardless of its abrasive texture. After adjusting the load, he began his long march back toward the tunnel that delved deep into the hill.

  Heat hit his face as he turned, as though it were the sun shining at him through this night. It took his breath away and he was forced to look down to catch his breath. His feet crunched through a thick layer of ash, which had reminded him of days spent playing in the snow. It fell from the sky in a constant torrent, sometimes in a blizzard, but never could it blot out the intensity of that heat.

  Beside him, one of the giant slaves, like a wall of grey skin, let out a groan that rumbled the ground as it hefted a tree trunk onto its shoulder. Joshua jumped out of the way as one of its feet came crashing down, trying to balance its mighty load. After a moment the great beast began to amble on, its feet sending tremors through the ground.

  He had managed to gleam from the screaming squawk of his masters, that these huge beasts were called Fremani. They spoke in a deep and rolling tongue that vibrated his bones as if they were tuning forks. He guessed that they must have been almost 12 feet high and five feet wide. Their arms, with muscles as big as boulders, would hang at their sides with hands that curved like the buckets from a digger.

  But it was their eyes that had surprised Joshua, for they had none. Instead, their grey lids had sealed shut over many millennia of evolution, for where they came from, deep under some distant mountain range, they had no use for them. Beneath the skin, the eyeballs rolled, searching for a light that they would never see.

  Joshua made his way to the tunnel entrance, on either side stood two of the Manashe, the guards and masters of the immense fire that burned beyond the tunnel’s length. Their hooked beaks protruded from beneath their black hoods. From their nostrils dribbled a black, oily liquid that occasionally bubbled as they breathed. Thick whips were coiled in their hands, ready for one of the slaves to trip or dawdle. Their long claws tapped with impatience as their eyes searched ceaselessly amongst the struggling slaves.

  The Manashe to the right yawned, its black tongue lolling in its mouth, and then let out a terrible shrilling sound. It cracked the whip at one of the Fremani, with the ferocity of a thunderclap.

  In response, the great beast merely growled with anger and side-stepped away slightly. Before the master could unleash its frustration upon any more of them, they passed into the tunnel, being drawn in by the breath of the fire as it stole air from the outside world.

  A latticework of rope walkways looped above their heads. Manashe patrolled the length of the tunnel from their vantage point, occasionally cracking their whips and squawking commands down at their slaves.

  The floor of the tunnel was a mixture of ash brought in from the outside and the bones of those who had fallen, now crushed into the smallest of pieces. It took five minutes to walk the length of the tunnel, made all the worse by the weight of the wood in his hands. Constantly, the heat of the fire increased until it was unbearable.

  The tunnel opened onto a vast mezzanine of stone. Below the Guyren roared, its flames hungrily clawing at the air, buffeting the stone around it. It’s plume of smoke towered through a wide opening in the roof of the chamber. Heat radiated from the walls turning the entire hill into a great oven.

  The slaves moved in a wide circle, edging their way to the edge before retreating through the tunnel only to repeat their journey.

  Joshua’s head swam as the heat made him nauseous, sapping his body of what little energy he had left, as though the fire itself fed from his very life. He resolved himself to keep moving, knowing that he would be whipped for stalling, for holding up the line.

  The edge of the mezzanine appeared beneath his feet, the strength of the fire rumbled in the stone. He peered over the edge. The heat of the flames kicked his hair back. Almost losing his balance, he tossed the wood over the edge and pulled himself away. For a moment he believed that he had seen the flames reaching for him, forming hands that would grab him and pull him onto the mighty pyre. But then the thought was gone, he had moved on. The numbness overtook him.

  The chill of the night was a relief, if only for a moment. Behind him, one of the Fremani sighed; whisps of steam vented from his nostrils and its shoulders seemed to relax a little. Joshua, busy looking at the Fremani, walked straight into one of the masters. He bounced back and hit the floor, as if the creature had been made of iron.

  Joshua looked up at the Manashe, fear filling his body. The creature merely looked down at him, hate radiating from its golden-rimmed eyes. The creature opened its beak and spat at him. Quickly, Joshua got to his feet and trotted out of range of that terrible whip. For a moment, the Manashe maintained its hateful glare from within the darkness of its hood, and then went on looking over the rest of the slaves.

  A horn sounded and the slaves stopped in unison. A little distance from the huge stockpiles of wood and trees, a series of stone tables had been set with large cauldrons heated with wood fires.

  Whipped into another line, the slaves slowly ambled toward the food, with Joshua between two of the Fremani. Crouching on the rim of the cauldrons, their ash-caked claws gripping the hot metal, the masters served them their gruel.

  The gruel was thin, almost more water than actual food, and it sloshed over the edge of the bowl as the master flung it from the ladle, caking the floor. Two slices of mould-ridden bread were thrust into Joshua’s hand by another of the Manashe, one hand tightening around the whip in its hand, clearly disgusted with being so close to any of the slaves.

  Joshua sat a little way from the others, his buttocks sinking deep into the ash. He ate quickly, almost tipping the gruel down himself as he tried to gulp the food down. The bread he dropped onto the ground, where it would continue to rot or be carried away by one of this land’s horrid insects.

  Joshua faced the Guyren, its orange glow grew into the sky and blotted out many of the stars.

  For a moment, memories came back to him, and he remembered the sky of his home, of South Fairbridge. Many of the stars were hidden behind an orange veil of cloud and haze, only occasionally interrupted with the blink of a plane’s lights. They were similar these two skies, yet here in this place the stars were different, wrong, his mind told him.

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  In every direction, the silhouette of a range of razor-like mountains framed the sky, punctuating the difference between his home and this distant world.

  He wept, for home was so far away, and he could think of no way to return, no way to escape the masters and their whips.

  No way to see his family again.

  ...

  Joshua threw up, as he always did. It was a harsh repulsion that stretched his diaphragm enough to threaten with snapping. A fine stream of sputum and gruel dribbled from his lips, Joshua could not have cared for how it ran down his chest. He barely realised that he had vomited over the wood in his arms. The gruel hardly nourished his body, causing him to grow ever thinner with each passing day that he toiled for his masters.

  Every day, by the rising of the sun, he felt weaker. His strides became smaller and smaller, and the pile of wood he could carry became lighter and lighter. Soon, he knew, the Manashe would realise that he could no longer serve them. He knew that they would throw him into the fire.

  He shuffled, almost wading his way through the ash. Joshua’s eyes were raw with sleep deprivation and the effects of the Guyren’s fumes. He was a boy on the verge of collapse, and soon the Manashe would pounce on him like vultures to a rotting carcass. He could see them watching him as he passed, their hungry eyes staring at him from beneath their hoods waiting for him to slip up or stumble.

  Once again, he passed through the tunnel, though this time the heat physically knocked him backward. Sweat and life evaporated from his skin, drawing yet more energy from his limbs. This is it, he thought. I can’t go on.

  Joshua looked upward on the walkway the Manashe began to group together, each of them yearning for him to stall or collapse. Somehow, they knew that he was failing. Ahead of him, just beyond the exit of the tunnel, another of the masters tightened its grip on its whip.

  Again, a blast of heat was thrown from the Guyren, baring its force down on him. His knees struggled with the fundamental job of keeping him upright, but with little energy left they faced an almost impossible task.

  And yet, almost against all odds, he moved. He leaned into the heat, now like a blizzard in his current condition, and fought onwards. Above him, the Manashe were taught with anticipation, even hunger.

  The mezzanine had never seemed so hellish. Fumes spiralled upward, forming the plume of smoke into a noxious tornado. Below, roaring with a fierce intensity, the Guyren burned with a deadly purpose.

  At the edge, Joshua held the wood precariously in his arms. A bombardment of flames, fumes and gases threatened him. As he leaned forward, attempting to release the wood, he was hit by the tremendous ferocity the Guyren had taken on. The skin on his face almost boiled. Reactively, he threw himself back. He landed unceremoniously on his back, the ash not only bared the brunt of his fall, but may as well have sucked the very life out of him.

  Instead of struggling to right himself, his limbs merely lolled in their sockets, hardly registering the commands that his brain was firing at them. Get up! Get up! Come on!

  But he couldn’t move, there was nothing left. The world around him began to fade; he heard the rumble of the fire and the ecstatic glee of the Manashe’s caws in a muffled cacophony of sound.

  A blurred, hunched figure walked towards him. Something uncoiled from its hand, dropping to the ground. Joshua blinked and the world came back into focus, and an explosion of sound bombarded his ears.

  One of the Manashe stalked towards him, pulling back its whip and dribbling from its long orange beak. Its golden eyes shone with the light of the Guyren’s fire; two orbs filled with murderous intent. Its arm tensed, ready to whirl the whip about itself and bring its punishment down on Joshua.

  The master was cut short. A sharp, shrilling call cut through the air. Panic filled the tones of that call, something had the Manashe spooked. The master left Joshua alone, quickly hobbling away along the tunnel, cawing in reply. Above, the rope walkways emptied as the Manashe dropped to the ground and hurried to exit the tunnel.

  Joshua managed to struggle to his feet. Looking around him, he saw the Fremani had been thrown into confusion. They called to each other in their rumbling language, causing the ground to thrum. Curiosity drove him forward and he found the energy to trot past the other slaves.

  As he ran along the length of the tunnel, children and Fremani alike cowered from the sound of his rushing footsteps as they would from the crack of a whip. But Joshua did not care for this; it was the Manashes’ fear that compelled him, that drove his body beyond its exertion.

  Outside, just beyond the light the tunnel cast into the night, the Manashe had huddled together on their knees. They muttered what may have been incantations into the ground, occasionally cawing into the night.

  Without warning the air began to buzz. In fright, the Manashe jumped backward and began feverishly looking into the sky, their heads darting from one direction to the other. Soon the air rumbled and the sound of an approaching hurricane overpowered the roar of the Guyren’s fire.

  From the sky, the clouds twisted and began to drop down, igniting with bolts of lightning. From the forming funnel, a dark unnatural object fell and raced towards them impossibly fast.

  It crashed into the ground with such a force that it sent the Manashe reeling to the ground. Even Joshua was knocked over by the following shockwave. The object exploded into a black cloud of vapour that swirled in the air before twisting about itself and collapsing inward, becoming ever denser.

  As the cloud twisted tighter and tighter it took the form of a being some twenty feet high. At its peak a hood took form and inside, with a burst of argent, two eyes ignited into the night, burning its glare onto Joshua’s retina.

  ‘You have failed me!’ came the Deceiver’s voice, pounding the ground with its power and causing Joshua’s ears to ring.

  The Deceiver that towered before him was more powerful than that which he had seen before. Every twist of its black form seemed to radiate rage, and the air hummed with the weight of unseen power, like the charged atmosphere on an approaching thunderstorm.

  ‘The fires have dimmed in recent days. The great war machine of Jendor Dár has slowed!’ A clawed hand uncurled a rotting finger and pointed at one of the Manashe. A golden feather clasped its cloak; a symbol that Joshua realised denoted it as the lead master. ‘You!’ the Deceiver’s voice exploded. ‘You have disgraced me.’

  The Deceiver lifted the master by its neck, in protest the creature tried to caw, but its voice was suddenly silenced as the air was stolen from its chest. The argent eyes of the Deceiver flashed with anger and its grip tightened about the master’s neck.

  The Manashe’s body began to collapse in on itself; its arms and legs broke and twisted into its torso. Its beak cracked as its head disappeared into its neck. The Deceiver’s hand seemed to swallow the torso and the remains of the Manashe’s cloak until all that was left was the golden leaf.

  Bending unnaturally, the Deceiver brought its face down to the level of another of the Manashe. It nearly tried to cower away, but, instead, a stream of urine gushed down its legs, staining the ash.

  ‘You shall be the new Guyren-dralnala. Build me a fire worthy of Jendor Dár!’

  In response the master bowed low into the ground, almost eating the ash.

  ‘My patience for your race is nearly spent, prove to me that I can be wrong. Justify your existence to me!’ The Deceiver’s rotting hand caressed the Manashe. ‘Do not fail me again.

  ‘What is the name of your lord?’ The Deceiver roared.

  ‘Raaj Desemedon,’ the newly appointed Guyren-dralnala croaked.

  ‘Yes, now serve me!’

  As those words reverberated from the stone about Joshua, the Deceiver’s eyes came upon him. That gaze stabbed into him like a cold blade, freezing him to the ground. ‘Foolish boy!’ its voice boomed.

  Twisting through the air, with a mane of darkness, the Deceiver dove at him and lifted him into the air. With the purpose of a missile, they raced from the ground, over the heads of the slaves and along the length of the tunnel. The Deceiver’s grip was relentless, locking his chest shut and freezing his bones until his flesh began to burn with pain.

  They came to a halt before the edge of the mezzanine. The Deceivers darkness whirled about them, excited by the hunger of the Guyren.

  Buffeted between the two extremes of the Guyren’s unbearable heat, and the Deceiver’s unstoppable cold, Joshua thrashed and bolted with pain.

  ‘You shall fuel the Guyren, and learn to hate the world as I do, boy! You shall watch as the Great Forest burns and cheer as the Man Born of the Earth shall fall.’ The Deceiver’s voice was clear above the roar of the Guyren’s reaching flames, filling Joshua’s mind with its poison.

  The Deceiver released him. In an explosion of darkness it vanished, leaving Joshua to fall. As he fell, accelerating into the heat of the Guyren, his skin began to burn. He would have screamed, but he could not breath – the Deceiver, Raaj Desemedon, had not allowed him to – all he could do was plummet downward.

  Again, Joshua saw the flames manifest into clawing hands, hungry to delve into his flesh. Before his eyes could melt, he closed them shut, locking out the terrible sight of those hands reaching for him.

  The face of Joshua’s mother flashed before him, he had almost forgotten her, burying her away in the numbness that had overtaken him. She smiled and reached out a hand to him, but the hand was wreathed in flames.

  Joshua’s body crashed onto a stone ledge, pain exploded into his right leg. It caused him to take a deep breath and he screamed. His hands instinctively clutched at his leg, knocking his shin bone which had thrust through his skin. Again, he screamed, burning his lungs on the rising fumes.

  Shock overcame him and he fell unconscious. The roar of the fire was snuffed out of existence and for once his body rested. His muscles did not ache, they merely melted, losing their tension. The sensation of movement passed through his mind gently, but not enough to stir him to wakefulness. In the distance he heard the stuttering sound of voices, but his mind could not bring itself to decipher their meaning. Instead, Joshua fell into a sleep so deep only the Fremani would understand.