Prologue

Dance on the wind,
Through space and time I swirl,
The lady of the worlds,
Don't hold me down…
- Ailin Kennedy/Gavin Dunne, 'Lady of Worlds'

Only the dead have seen the end of war. – George Santayana

Inkerman, the Crimea, 1854

Soldiers in red wrestled desperately with soldiers in green on the bleak, windswept plain, and nobody quite knew why.

Private Wyndham clutched his rifle, trying to bite down his terror as he stood in the earthworks defending his regiment's camp. He had never wanted to be here, although he doubted any sane man ever would. As far as he had been concerned, the army was just a way out of seven years in prison, not a chance for his sentence to be upgraded to execution courtesy of a Russian bullet. Sweat caked his hands and face, terrible pains and aches wracked every part of his body and fear underlined his bloodshot eyes.

Whoever said war was glorious had obviously never been there.

"Hold fire!" he heard an officer bellow, "Wait for the right moment!"

Wyndham ground his teeth and waited. Just yards away, the Russians were charging, bayonets fixed. They were so close that the British soldier could make out their faces. Many of them looked far too young to be frontline soldiers – he supposed he'd looked like that, once upon a time.

Christ, this was never supposed to happen.

"Two hundred yards!" bellowed the officer, "First rank, fire!"

There was a terrible cacophony, and the Russians vanished behind a massive plume of smoke. Wyndham heard their cries.

"Second rank, take aim!"

Now it was his turn.

He lifted and aimed his rifle, whispering a quick prayer to whatever divinities could hear that they'd stop the enemy advance, that he'd be safe. Kill or be killed. Him or me.

"Second rank, fire!"

Wyndham pulled the trigger. The rifle recoiled painfully into his shoulder – saltpetre and sparks flew into his face. He winced.

Bursting out of the smoke came the Russian line – clad in greatcoats and spiked helmets that gave the impression that they were taller than they actually were. A Russian soldier lunged for him, musket raised and ready to stab – brown hair, blue eyes, freckles, my god he's not even an adult yet…

Training kicked in. Stab. Twist. Pull. Kill or be killed.

The Russian boy fell into the dust and mud, landing at Wyndham's feet. The British soldier had no time to react, entering back into the melee. A swing of the rifle butt, a soldier goes down. Another thrust and stab, another man dies. An errant shot, and somebody's son is gone.

What the hell was this war being fought for again? Wyndham had no idea.

Something heavy collided with the back of Wyndham's head. He fell – his shako flew off and landed in the mud, quickly trampled into ruin. Wyndham rolled over in an attempt to recover – he found himself staring down the barrel of one of those new-fangled American pistols, a Russian officer standing over him. A bodyguard of four Russians stood next to him, their comrades fanning out to keep the melee away from their commander.

"I will ask you once," said the officer – his accent marked him as a German, or perhaps an Austrian – "Where is the Warrior of the Red Mare?"

Wyndham tilted his head.

"The what?"

The German cocked the revolver, scowling.

"Don't play dumb with me, boy," he snapped, "She's been sighted around here, in this camp. The von Streichmann family have been hunting her for a long time, and there are dues we want her to pay."

"I don't have a bloody clue what you're talking about!" said Wyndham.

Von Streichmann grimaced.

"Shame," he said.

He began to squeeze the trigger.

There was a bang, and the pistol was thrown off target, von Streichmann clutching his shoulder and yowling. A pistol was hurled from somewhere in the melee, slamming into the officer's face and knocking him off his feet. His four guards turned their muskets at the assailant.

Wyndham couldn't quite make out the figure. The man – and it had to be a man, as there weren't a lot of women around Sevastopol, save for nurses – was dressed in a cloak that concealed his face. He carried a lumberjack's axe in one hand and what looked like a baton in the other. Wyndham could just about see strands of red hair emerging from his hood.

A Russian soldier – a sergeant – bellowed a command in Russian and raised his musket. The cloaked figure immediately darted forwards, grabbing the musket at twisting it upwards just as it was fired, the bullet flying harmlessly off into the air. He then snatched the musket and swung it around, striking the sergeant in the face and sending him spiralling to the ground.

The other three Russians charged with their bayonets, aiming to overpower their strange enemy. The figure ducked – a bayonet nicked the top of her cloak and pulled it off.

Oh, thought Wyndham. It was, in fact, a woman.

A girl – she couldn't have been more than a teenager – gazed fiercely at her three opponents with green eyes, grinding her teeth. She quickly jumped to her feet, swinging the button up into the chin of one of the Russians. Before his comrades could respond, she swung the handle of the axe around the second soldier's leg, quickly tripping him up and flipping him over.

The third soldier roared in frustration and made a second attempt at a bayonet strike. She dodged nimbly to the side, dropping her axe in the process. She curled her now free arm into a fist and swung it into the soldier's chest, winding him and preventing him from blocking her baton swing into his face. He too fell.

And yet she had killed none of them.

The mysterious figure turned around, brushing herself off.

"You alright, man?" she asked – her accent clearly American – as she offered a hand.

"…yeah, alright," nodded Wyndham, swallowing as best he could with his dry throat, "What the hell just happened?"

"We've got 'em on the run!"

A cheer rang out through the British line as the Russians began to fall back. Several of the redcoats immediately reloaded their rifles, aiming at the retreating mass. One of them came over, bayonet fixed.

"I'll see you in hell, Ruskie," he snarled, raising his rifle and preparing to bayonet one of the unconscious Russians.

The girl grabbed his rifle, shooting him a fierce glare.

"Not on my watch," she snapped.

"Oh yeah?" demanded the soldier, "And who the hell are you to…"

He trailed off as he looked the girl in the face.

"Good God, y-you're the Warrior of…yes ma'am, absolutely ma'am, I'll get back to it!"

The soldier quickly moved away.

"Who are you?" asked Wyndham, narrowing his eyes, "Why's everyone so interested in you?"

The woman smiled humourlessly. Thunder seemed to be building up around her and she began to glow blue.

"Me?" replied the girl, "My name is Wendy, and I'm just trying to get home."

There was a rumble, and the glow became brighter.

"That's all," she shrugged.

There was a crack and Wyndham was thrown back. When he recovered, Wendy was gone.

Wyndham shook his head, rubbing his eyes and trying to process what he'd seen.

"Wyndham! Get on your feet! We've still got a trench to hold!" bellowed a sergeant, gesturing animatedly towards him.

Wyndham shook his head, climbing to his feet. He'd just have to think later. Perhaps he'd have to write it down, if he lived.

He did, in the end, survive. He did, in the end, write it down – just one of hundreds, soldiers and civilians, who had encountered the Warrior of the Red Mare.

Her story began months ago, in the far future…

AN: Well, it's great to be back! My holiday is over, my college schedule has slowed down significantly and I actually have time to write. Fantastic! Hopefully I can update Over the Hills and Far Away soon as well, but for now, here's a totally new story!

So if you like action, drama, time travel, me torturing characters I like and dodgy temporal science, please stay on this line. Let's get this show on the road!