West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
4 November 1898, 03:04 hrs.

Dr Benjamin Archer slept fitfully. He turned from side to side, the bedspread folded wildly around his legs and had already slipped down to his waist through his restlessness. Since he had been in the war and returned from Sudan, he often had bad dreams. Traumatic consequences after the war were not uncommon, as he knew too well as a doctor, but it still gnawed at him. And yet, compared to other poor souls, he had gotten off lightly. Sometimes all that tormented him was a little restful sleep and the next morning he didn't even know what kind of dreams had given him that restless night.

On other nights it was worse. Then he dreamed again of the endless hills of sand. Dust and desolation as far as the eye could see. Of the dunes or the sandstorms that could easily engulf people and the gunshots in the icy night. On the worst nights, he dreamed of the day he died and the sound of beating wings. The war had certainly left its mark on him. Wounds of scars, some visible, others not. Today, however, it was not thunderous gunshots or the feeling of bird claws on his chest that robbed him of sleep. Nor the feeling of suffocating amid the sand. Today, the events in the bog and at the ritual kept him awake.

It was true: he had thought Mr Crowford an arrogant, self-important phoney. One of those gentlemen who thought they were better than others just because they had more money in their pockets. He seemed to him like a rooster who fluffed up his colourful feathers and strutted around as if he owned the world. He reminded him of his father. All in all, the kind of man he couldn't get along with and never had.

As the rooster stood at the station with three pieces of luggage, wrinkling his nose because his pretty little suitcase might get dents or scrapes, Ben wanted to roll his eyes. At the same time, however, he secretly knew that he had once been no different. He too had grown up with a golden spoon in his mouth, his pockets stuffed with his father's money and a title that opened doors for him. He received special treatment everywhere. He got what he wanted, when he wanted it, without worrying about anything like cost or value.

But then the father of his best friend and fellow student, Lord Richmond, had wanted to teach his spoilt son a "lesson about responsibility and the value of life". So he sent him to join a stationed regiment in Egypt. Because of the Lord's influence, to a quiet, harmless spot far from the seething theatres of war. But Ben, of course, could not accept Percy going without him. Ben had been foolish and unworldly. Today he knew better. Heroic thoughts and patriotic, empty slogans lost their value between death and sleepless nights. His war service had changed him and made a new man out of him. Percy was not so fortunate, for he did not return home. In fact, it was not a bullet that took him out of life, but an illness. No amount of clever planning and no safe corner away from explosions could cheat death. But the loss of his childhood friend fuelled Ben's desire to become a doctor and save others from such doom.

The cruel Mahdi uprising in Sudan had taught him that rank, title and especially money did not make one a good person. Sometimes things were not what they seemed at first glance. He not only believed Crowford was hiding something, he knew it. There was just one crucial difference: until that moment in the woods on Dartmoor, he hadn't been sure he wanted to know.

There on the moor, the young mage had shown a sudden change of attitude, which was revealed much earlier during the occult investigation in Ben's room. Ben had seen the elaborate circle that the other seeker had drawn on the floor without the aid of a template. This was not a matter of course and even in the Order of Seekers, most new members usually needed countless books, notes and aids.

Kyle Crowford had spun this spell as if he did this every day. Crowford hid something that he blurred with thick curtains behind his blue eyes, but sometimes it flashed out. It revealed itself in the way the magician looked at the birds, spoke of the possibilities of the occult, and how he later unabashedly took the bird's heart in his fingers to place it in the circle. A few moments before, the latter had been disgusted by the dead animal's innards. Crowford's usually arrogant chin and impenetrable manner had been wiped away, revealing something new. A deeper secret that Kyle Crowford was trying to hide behind that sometimes downright ridiculous demeanour. Something that began to interest Ben. A strange man, with strange secrets.

Just as obscure as Crowford was this assignment. What had they stumbled upon here? What evil was hiding in this place, killing all these animals? Could it be that it also had the people of this village on its conscience? If so, for what reason? All these things held him in a firm grip until he lay down, tossing and turning on the cushion of the worn mattress until he finally fell asleep...

He dreamt of the place in the forest. Of the animals scattered on the forest floor, but in his dream, greedy beasts were devouring the carcasses. All around him was endless fog and darkness, he was alone and felt like panic was crushing him. His heart beat violently, drumming against his ribcage in panic as if it wanted to leap out.

Faster, faster and faster.

Brave Benjamin Archer wanted to get away from this place and run. But no matter where he ran, no matter which way he turned, he always found his way back to that ungodly place. Powerless and out of breath, he sank to his knees, far from being able to take another step. Then black shadows fell from the sky, and twitching bodies of ravens crashed to the ground all around him. Ben crouched down, trying to cover his face. The stench of decay and death was everywhere. The sound of frantic wings flapped feathers all over his face, against his ears and hands. Claws scratched him. Blackness. All-pervading blackness...

The pitch-black darkness of the nightmare was pulled away like a sheet and gave way to dim light and shadowy silhouettes. Ben roused himself from sleep, straightened up straight in bed and almost fell out of the narrow bed. The wild fear-distorted beating of his heart still resonated in his chest as he stared into the dull darkness of the room. Only slowly did his mind manages to free itself from the sticky swamp of dreams. A dull sound rang out. A rumbling or rumbling from another part of the house. Then it was quiet again. Cold sweat stood on his forehead, his nightgown clung to his chest and in the first few moments, his gaze flew searchingly and restlessly around the room.

Ben breathed in and out deeply. He tried to calm himself, felt the rough blanket under his cramped fingers with awakening awareness and finally released it from his grip. He was no longer in Sudan, no longer in Egypt. Nor was he in the forest anymore.

"A nightmare, that's all." his inner voice told itself to calm down. Only then did something slowly seep back into his mind, like a wave that had taken time to roll anew onto the beach: the strange noise in the house. Hadn't there been something just now?

The doctor reached into the rumpled blanket and freed his legs from the tight grip of the folds before setting them on the wooden floor. In the little light, he fumbled for the oil lamp and matches on the bedside table. With a hiss, the small flame danced on the match, then reached for the wick and more light illuminated the room. As he rose, a floorboard groaned under his weight like a long, agonised moan. It faded into the darkness and Ben listened into the silence. Soft, distant creaking, just a murmur in the wood of the house. Downstairs in the parlour, it was already quiet, not a sound could be heard. Had he made a mistake?

His fingers slid around the tarnished brass of the doorknob. It clicked softly and Ben made an effort to pull it open slowly and carefully. For a moment he considered going to his jacket for a sip from his flask. Instead, he pulled carefully on the door. The rusty hinges squeaked, interrupted and then screamed again treacherously into the silence. Normally the sound would be barely audible, but now it seemed indescribably loud to him. He could not rid himself of the cold shiver that crept down his spine. The light fumbled its way into the narrow hallway. A second door to his left led into Kyle's room. Only a chest of drawers adorned the narrow hallway. On it stood a vase of evergreens and an extinguished oil lamp. A lone landscape painting of St George's Chapel on a green, flowering hill in summer adorned the barren wall, otherwise crisscrossed only by the wood of the trusses.

Opposite him, the lamp cast light on the closed doors to other rooms. That was where Ms. and formerly Mr Andrews lived and slept, Elly had told them when she showed them the rooms. Elly had also confided in them that she was an orphan. Her parents died of the White Plague when she was a child. The Andrews had taken her in and let her stay with them. Her room was in the attic of the house. A narrow ladder made of thick wood led up to it. The hallway had only one window at the top of the stairs, through which a sparse glow of light shone in. Without additional light, the rest was in darkness, so that the cone of the flickering flame pushed forward with its shadow. The corridor lay empty before him.

With a soft, suppressed gasp, the doctor's fingers traced his chin, felt the rough beard, and then stroked his eyes. Had he been mistaken? Ben reached into his hair. Curls nestled in his hand, ruffling and pushing between his fingers. Then he turned on his heel. A soft crunch accompanied his next step. He felt something give under the sole of his foot and Ben staggered back. Immediately he lowered the lantern light and bent down.

His fingers felt across the wooden floorboards, then picked up what he had stepped on. Concentrating, he squinted his eyes and then put down the lamp to look more closely at his strange find. Golden-yellow light groped over it, as if just as curious to find out what it was. It broke into small chunks of...

"Dirt?" he spoke softly. No more than a murmur. His hand ran over the ground and found small chunks of damp earth. It crumbled in his fingers and on his palm and fell back from there. Had they carried this much dirt before, when they had come up? Not likely. But there was nothing else. He shook his head, then reached for the lantern and rose again. The lantern swayed, letting the light trundle, and silently the earth trickled back to the ground as he patted his hand on his hip. Whatever it was, it would have to wait until morning.

As he lifted his gaze, his heart leapt straight into his throat. He took a step back and almost dropped the lamp. Barely, the strong fingers took hold before the curved round handle slipped from his hand.

A silhouette stood out in one of the doorways. The shadows of the lantern cast sinister shadows, an eerie grimace in the features of a man. The eyes lay under the hair in the shadows and looked so black as if someone had put endless darkness into them. A new shiver ran down Ben's spine and froze his blood. Only then did he recognise the figure. He took a breath and slowly the rushed pounding in his chest calmed.

"Kyle." he groaned out and only after a further second did he finally break free of his rigidity. "You scared the hell out of me," he whispered into the darkness, but the other Seeker didn't move. "Did I wake you?" he asked in a murmuring tone. He had tried hard to be quiet, but the door and creaking floorboards had not been on his side.

There was no reply from the other, however. He just stood there in his dressing gown, bare feet on the cool wooden floor, staring in his direction. Then, all at once, the magician's hands reached to his side and abruptly closed the door.

Dr Archer stood there, fixed on the closed door, trying to understand what had just happened. Had he disturbed the conceited rooster in his beauty sleep and now he was offended? Shaking his head, he returned to his room and his bed. Clinking softly, he placed the oil lamp on the surface of the bedside table and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. The little wheel squeaked as he screwed back the wick, extinguishing the dancing little light. The cloak of night descended over the room once more, laying its darkly woven veil over it and allowing uneasy silence to take hold once more.

Ben let himself sink to the side and fell back into the bed. The frame creaked under his weight as he lay back on the thin mattress. Small springs pressed against his body and yet it was not the most uncomfortable thing he had ever slept on. The scratchy sheets welcomed him as he pulled the rough blanket back up to his chest and stared at a spot above him. Wooden beams lay there, supporting the ceiling and white-grey cobwebs clung to the dark corners. Next door he heard the footsteps of his room neighbour. 

Then it was silent again, just as before. Only his own breathing could still be heard and Ben felt the dawning tiredness. It dulled his senses. He fought the drowsiness that made his eyelids heavier and heavier. But eventually, he lost the battle. He sank into a deep slumber and the trackless sands of the Egyptian desert...