The holy war between the inhabitants of the planet Garus and their heretical colonies on the neighbouring planet of Salemia had been raging for over two hundred years when the Gods finally gave them a sign that it was time for peace to return.

     True, the war weary inhabitants of the two worlds would probably have jumped at anything that could be interpreted by any stretch of the imagination as a holy sign, but the sign they finally received was better than anything they could possibly have hoped for. A new sun shining in the sky, after all, could not possibly be anything other than a divine sending, saving the Children of Mekk from having to stretch anyone’s imagination by even the slightest amount, and the people of the two worlds were dancing in the rubble strewn streets even before the First Children could make their historic pronouncements from the balconies of the houses of Mekk the Father.

     The new sun faded after a few weeks, but the Mage Lords turned their instruments on the place where it had been and declared that something had been left behind. Some kind of portal or gateway into another realm of existence. The Children excitedly declared that the portal must lead to Paradise, and that they were clearly meant to send a delegation to meet and confer with Mekk Himself. Parallax measurements taken from Garus and Salemia determined its exact distance from the two worlds, but even before the measurements were made they knew that reaching it would be no problem since nowhere in creation was out of range of their strike ships. No ordinary ship could undertake a voyage of this importance, though. This was a mission that could only be undertaken by a ship specially built for the purpose. A ship larger and more magnificent that anything that either world had ever built before. A ship whose very existence would symbolise the healing of the ancient schism. The dawning of a new era of peace, equality and tolerance.

     The ship of peace was built by a team of engineers and workmen picked from the best that the two worlds had to offer, and because it had to be perfect in every way it took nearly two years to complete. The crew was also hand picked from the best people of both worlds and consisted of the holiest clerics, the most brilliant artists, the greatest poets and the cleverest thinkers. The very cream of humanity. They wanted to make the best possible impression on their Creator, after all. Wanted to show Him the very finest facets of their civilization. The ship was launched on the second anniversary of the coming of the second sun, and the people of both worlds cheered as it rose into the sky, heading upwards into the emptiness between the planets, certain that a new age of peace and prosperity was about to dawn.

     It took just two days for the Ship of Peace to reach the vicinity of the portal, during which the crew kept in constant touch with their homeworlds by means of the communications apparatus with which it was equipped. As the ship approached its destination, everything on Garus and Salemia came to a halt as the entire population crowded outside the Houses of Mekk, listening avidly to the continuous commentary relayed by the Low-Children from the high balconies. Many brought food and blankets to sleep on, ensuring that they could remain there for the entire duration, a show of devotion that they hoped would be noted by their holy masters. Others made small fortunes threading their way through the crowd selling food to the less foresighted pilgrims. Towards the centre of the crowds, people were pressed so tightly that there were several deaths, unnoticed by their fellows who stepped unmindfully over the corpses, and as the ship paused on the very threshold of the Portal many more collapsed from sheer religious rapture. So blessed was the occasion, though, that their souls were ushered straight to Heaven and they were remembered as saints by those left behind.

     The Ship of Peace slowed to a gentle stop beside the gateway to Heaven. The two High Children, one from each of the two worlds, sent messages back to their homes, assuring their countrymen that they would do their very best to gain the sympathy and goodwill of Mekk, and the First Children sent messages back, wishing them the strength and courage they would need for this historic meeting. The crew of the Ship of Peace then spent a few minutes in prayer and meditation before edging it slowly forward, into the portal. Neither the ship nor any member of her crew was ever heard from again.

     The people of Garus and Salemia waited patiently for the first few weeks, but as the weeks turned into months and nothing was heard from the expedition their patience began to wear thin, and when the anniversary of the ship’s entry into the portal had come and gone all the old divisions were beginning to open again. The Children of Garus declared that Mekk must have been offended by the heretical beliefs of the Salemians, while the Salemians retorted that it was more likely to have been the rigid intolerance of the Garusians that had angered Him. As more time passed and the ship still did not return the arguments grew more heated, eventually erupting into violence, and it was only a few weeks longer before full scale war had broken out once more between the two worlds.

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     High Child Althor, the commander of the Garusian members of the ship's crew, was never to know any of this, though, and neither was High Child Storf, commanding the Salemian crew members. So far as they knew, war was a thing of the past on their two worlds, and it was all because of this expedition. The expedition they were leading. Their chests swelled with pride as they imagined the fame and glory that would be theirs upon their return, no doubt to be swiftly followed by riches and positions of power on their respective worlds, and Althor fingered the gold braid richly adorning his uniform in pleasant anticipation.

     High Child Storf stood proudly on the bridge with his hands on his hips as he surveyed the faintly shimmering orb of the portal, glowing a dull red in the sky ahead of the huge ship, and he imagined Mekk on the other side, impatiently awaiting their arrival. “What are we waiting for?” he demanded with a sharp glance at Althor, standing a short distance away beside him. “Let us go.”

     “Yes, we have prayed and meditated long enough,” agreed Althor, still fingering his gold braid. “We must be worthy to meet Him, or He would not have sent us this sign. Let us proceed.”

     There were both Garusian and Salemian officers around him, but it was to one of the Salemians that he gave the order, delighted to have a former enemy forced to obey him and frowning only slightly at the way the man glanced at Storf for confirmation before passing on the order to the helmsman in the chamber below.

     The Helm was a huge throne occupying a huge and otherwise empty domed chamber in the heart of the ship and it was currently occupied by the most powerful wizard in the crew. It had a core of iron but was covered with gold and other precious metals in the shape of flowers and climbing vines making it a throne that would have befitted a king. Above it rose two crossed gardening hoes, the symbol of Mekk, so highly stylized as to make them almost unrecognizable. It glowed and hummed with magic, making the wizard’s hair stand on end and crackle with tiny electric discharges which grew in intensity as he spoke the words of command that activated the ship’s propulsion magic. Power radiated from the throne into the space surrounding the Ship of Peace causing winds to blow, filling the sails as the crew scampered around in the rigging, and the ship began to gradually move forward through space, the portal blotting out the stars as it swelled in the sky ahead of them.

     “I can almost feel the eyes of posterity upon us at this historic moment,” said Storf, pacing across the bridge, his hands clasped behind his back. He lifted his chin and imagined an actor in some future generation re-enacting the moment on stage in front of an audience of thousands. Only the greatest actors of the age would be privileged to play such an outstanding role, of course. No ordinary actor could be expected to portray the complex mix of emotions he was experiencing at this moment. The burden of responsibility, the loneliness of command. The weight of an entire civilization resting upon his broad shoulders...

     The ship lurched, and Storf was thrown in an undignified heap against the wooden railing. “What the...” he spluttered, shaken and angry.

     Althor raised a diplomatic hand to his face to hide the smile. “We appear to have crossed the threshold,” he said. “Just a few moments longer and I, sorry I mean we,” he said the word with heavy sarcasm “will be in the presence of...”

     The dull red mist that now filled the sky suddenly vanished, leaving a field of stars in its place, and the ship lurched again, much harder this time. Even Althor was thrown off balance, landing beside Storf with the crunch of breaking bones, and a bolt of agony shot along his right side. Sounds of pain and suffering came from all parts of the bridge, a bridge that was the size of some entire ships. There were cries of surprise and demands for explanation and Storf seized the opportunity to assert his authority, sparing the other High Child only a brief sardonic smile as he left him writhing in pain on the deck.

     “Everybody calm down!” he demanded, again imagining how an actor in the future would portray this scene. “Return to your stations. There is no need to be alarmed.”

     “What’s going on?” demanded the Chief in alarm. “Is this the realm of Mekk?”

     “Of course it is!” replied Storf, annoyed at the man’s stupidity. Well, he was a Garusian. What else could you expect? “Naturally, a ship full of sinners is to be expected to suffer a little turbulence when it enters the realm of perfection, but there is nothing to be afraid of. We are in the hands of Mekk now, and He will not allow any harm to come to those of pure faith.”

     Althor, being helped back to his feet by a pair of Garusian officers, reddened angrily at the obvious reference to his own injuries. “Fetch the healers!” he snapped. “There are people here needing medical treatment.”

     “Including yourself, I see,” said Storf with a smirk.

     Althor pointedly ignored him. “I want a full report from all decks,” he snapped. “Casualties and damage reports. Tharna, activate the scanning spells. Let’s see what in the name of the Prophets is going on out there.”

     Storf scowled, wishing he’d thought of that, but then he turned to look at the image that formed in the air in front of him. In the centre was a tiny representation of the ship, and around it was nothing. Nothing at all.

     A crewman handed Althor a potion of healing which he gulped down, gasping as the holy power of Mekk flowed through him, healing his broken body. Then he spoke a word of command to increase the scale of the image. Nothing changed, though, so he increased it to its maximum, to a range so extensive that it should have shown planets no matter where in space they were. Every man on the bridge stared in disbelief as it continued to show nothing.

     "But..." began Storf, staring in horror. "But that's not possible..."

     "But there are stars!" cried Althor, equally confused. He waved a hand at the sky above them. "Stars! You see?"

     "There's the sun!" shouted a crewman. They turned to look at him, then followed his pointing finger to see a dull red orb squatting to starboard, just below the level of the railing. "Except... What's happened to it?"

     "That's not our sun, fool!" snapped Althor. "It is only to be expected that things in Paradise will not be the same, that they'll be... be..."

     There was nothing the least bit holy about the red sun, though. It was horrible. The kind of sun that would shine in Hell. What was it doing here, in Paradise? Or rather, in the space that contained Paradise? "Mekk knows we're here," he said, trying hard to sound certain and confident. "It is only a matter of time before He sends His emissaries to greet us. No doubt this is just some kind of test, to determine whether we are truly worthy of this great honour."

     Storf gave a command to the scanning spells to show the deck of their ship and the image floating in front of them changed to show the sails hanging limp, as if becalmed. Something broke away from one of the masts to drift across their field of vision. It was a man, clearly dead. His skin a dull grey, his eyes staring. They suddenly noticed that the sky was full of dead men, every crewman who'd been on deck as they passed through the portal. One man was drifting in their direction, his eyes bulging and staring as if he were gazing into Hell.

     “Gods, no!” cried Pendrin, the Garusian Co-Exec. “They’re all dead! All dead!”

     “The air bubble is maintained by immutable natural laws!” cried Storf in disbelief. “Any object that rises from a planet with an atmosphere holds a bubble of that atmosphere around itself as it rises into space. Atmospheric surface tension.”

     “It would seem that this place is ruled by different natural laws,” replied Althor, simmering with barely suppressed fury as he strove to maintain his dignity. “Mekk may even have thrown us into a completely different...”

     He was interrupted by a long, low groaning sound, the sound of the ship’s hull being placed under some kind of intolerable stress. The sound growled on, rising and falling for several moments while the survivors of the ship’s crew stared at each other in wide eyed terror. It rose to a peak and culminated in a loud bang as something finally gave way. The ship lurched again, shuddering and vibrating, and then the sound came again as the stress was concentrated somewhere else. "Close the airtight doors!" screamed Althor, scrambling for the hatch. "Seal off the bridge!"

     “Take us back!” cried Storf as he followed the Garusian. “Find the portal and take us back!”

     "We can't go back," pointed out the navigator, though. "There're no men on deck. No living men. There's no-one in the rigging, and even if there were, there's nothing in the sails. The wind spells aren't working."

     “This is all your fault!” Althor accused the other High Child, clutching at his ornately decorated uniform. “It was your filthy heretical beliefs that caused all this! Mekk refused to allow the likes of you into paradise and cast us out here instead!”

     “More likely it was your damned intolerance He couldn’t stand!” replied Storf, his face crimson with rage.

     “Our intolerance!” cried Althor in disbelief. “In Clorinos it was you Salemians who...”

     “Don’t talk to me of Clorinos!” screamed Storf, flinging himself at the Garusian and grabbing him by the throat. Althor grabbed his hands in an attempt to break his grip and the two men struggled furiously with each other while the other crewmembers stared in terror. They stopped as they became aware that it was becoming harder to breathe, and that sounds in the chamber were becoming strange.

     “What…?” began Althor.

     “It’s the air!” screamed one of the crewmen. “The air’s escaping through gaps in the hull planking! Like water from a rusty bucket!”

     “But air doesn’t behave that way!” screamed Storf again. “It clings to material objects! We must be… Must be…”

     Then there was no longer enough air to breathe, though, and they could only stare at each other in terror and confusion as they slumped, one by one, to the ground, clawing at their throats. Their mouths gaping like goldfish, their eyes staring…

     The ship, now a true Ship of Peace, drifted on through space for a timeless eternity, engulfed by a silence more profound than any living man could imagine. Gradually, though, it began to drift towards a nearby yellow star. There, after several long, cometary orbits, it fell through the atmosphere of the beautiful green planet that circled it and flared as it was burned up by atmospheric friction. Only the largest fragments of metal survived to reach the ground, warped and melted almost beyond recognition.

     A farmer, driving a small herd of long haired goats across an ice covered stream in the hilly country north of the Black Mountains, paused in mid stride as a series of fireballs streaked past overhead, screaming like banshees before plunging into the permafrost with loud explosions and showers of frozen earth. The farmer watched the display with interest but not too much alarm, such events being only mildly uncommon on Tharia, and then he strolled over to the nearest smoking crater for a closer look. Fallen stars sometimes contained iron of unusual purity and durability, and smiths had been known to pay a pretty penny for it.

     Reaching the crater, though, he was disappointed. The meteorite had drilled itself deep into the earth, at least ten feet down. He grumbled to himself and headed back to his farm, intending to come back with digging tools.