The Power of Five Oblivion

strangely shaped hollows, knotted outcrops and bending pillars that seemed unable to support the weight of the rock and the ice up above. From a distance it almost seemed to be writhing in pain, but apart from the waves and flurries of snow, nothing moved. The seabirds, whales, penguins and seals had long gone, as if some instinct had warned them to keep away from this place.
    The fortress was situated above the sea, at the other end, two kilometres inland, standing in front of the mountains … part of them, in fact, as it was impossible to say if the structure had been built or if it had grown out of the rocks. No two walls were alike. Some were straight and some were curved; some cut out of ice and some out of stone, the two fused into each other, stark white and iron grey.
    A massive gatehouse and barbican stood at the very front. This was the first line of defence, with ramparts and battlements slanting back on both sides. Then came two circular towers, one to the west and one to the east. These were the far edges of the fortress. The walls then turned towards each other, meeting in front of the vertical face of the mountain behind which loomed over the entire place.
    Two more towers stood at the back of the fortress, but they hadn’t been built separately. They were also carved out of the mountain, with caverns and corridors running far underground. A narrow bridge led from one to the other, forming an arch behind – and slightly higher than – the barbican. There was an open area, a courtyard or perhaps a parade ground, with a few very ugly buildings, like Second World War bunkers, placed almost haphazardly. These were kitchens, dormitories, storage huts and prisons.
    This was Oblivion. This was where Chaos, the King of the Old Ones, had chosen to make his last stand against humanity.
    He had brought the greater part of his army here and it was monstrous, all-powerful, running into thousands. Some of them had chosen to be here, selling themselves to the Old Ones’ cause in the belief that when the struggle was over, they would be allowed to live in comfort. But as they had quickly discovered, Chaos didn’t care if they lived or died. They slept in freezing rooms and ate what scraps they were given. They marched or stood guard in the cold for such long hours that most of them were being eaten away by frostbite, their fingers and noses turning black and rotting away. They looked hideous. They carried weapons that they had been forced to manufacture themselves and wore scraps of rags, patches of fur and odd pieces of armour. Anyone who complained was whipped or hanged. There was no such thing as an easy death in Oblivion. And yet even so they were glad to be here. They had persuaded themselves that whatever happened, they were on the winning side.
    They were commanded by the wretches who had been “adjusted”, mutilated to make them more frightening and less human. Among them were the politicians and businessmen who had attended the Endgame conference in New York. They were unrecognizable now. Some of them had had their arms or hands sawn off and replaced with metal rods and spikes. Some had been put into iron masks, which completely enclosed their heads and which could never be removed. Some had jagged iron teeth or horns welded into their skulls. A few had lost their legs and had been put on wheels, turning them into half-machines. Those that could be seen had faces distorted with pain … grimacing mouths, bulging eyes. They had long ago gone mad and were prepared to fight more savagely than anyone because they no longer had any fear of death.
    Shape-changers moved among them, keeping order. Half man and half alligator, half man and half snake, pigs with human heads, humans with wings … every sick and nightmarish combination seemed to be there, armed with swords, arrows, clubs and whips. They could kill anyone they wanted to and often did, just to set an example, lashing out without warning. A man or a woman might be walking past and would cry out, falling face down with blood spraying across the ice. And everyone else would continue what they were doing but more quickly, more attentively, not wanting to be next.
    There were knights on horseback, both man and beast covered in poison-tipped needles that seemed to ripple as they moved. Fly-soldiers, thick clouds of buzzing black insects, had descended and taken solid form. Just once, a giant monster had appeared. A hummingbird the size of a plane had